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BlogBattle, Writing

Scattered Wealth

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I’m a little (or a lot) late to the BlogBattle party, but I wanted to continue with what I started last month in The Precious Maiden. Here’s another episode of Grant & Teagan, a series about treasure-hunting adventurers aiming for the over-the-top feeling of a radio serial set in the ’30s,  with October’s theme of “scattered.”

There are many quality writers who participate regularly (and turn in their work on time). Check out their stories too!

From the Adventures of Grant McSwain — Herculean Hero, Finder of the Fantastic, and Accomplished Acquirer of Astounding Artifacts!
Accompanied as always by his hapless assistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway.

 

Taken by treacherous treasure-seekers, and possibly pursued by putrid pirates of the past, Grant and Teagan will learn that not every long-sought prize has monetary value, and not every apparent enemy is a truly a threat. But is this lesson too late in coming? Find out, in this week’s episode: “The Scattered Wealth of the Sunken Wights”

—

Once again, Grant strained against his bonds and shouted curses at their captors, but all his rage went unheeded. One of the Kaiser’s men laughed and spat in the grass, then shooed away the persistent black goat who seemed to think the ruins were his territory. The German soldier went back to scouring the moss-covered stones for any hidden secrets or remnants of the promised treasure.

The goat hopped into the trees but quickly reappeared, meandering around the site chewing on thick leaves and watching Grant from a distance.

Teagan ignored Grant’s thrashing and closed her eyes to concentrate. How had this happened?

No Krauts had been among the treasure seekers and grave robbers who pursued the pair to Saint Kitts days ago. A little mischief at the docks had prevented the competition from setting sail, even if any would have followed Grant’s admittedly ill-advised venture into the wrath of a hurricane.

So how did the Germans arrive just hours after Grant and Teagan found this site? Hauptmann Graebel, one of the Germany’s most effective — and brutal — collectors of antiquities and curiosities, had followed the clues to Saint Croix and the ruins of Vallarte’s final resting place.

The realization hit like a slap across the face. “They have a U-boat,” Teagan whispered. “You don’t have to worry about a storm when you’re deep under the waves.”

Grant paused his futile attempt and considered the declaration. “Hmm. Should’ve guessed that not having them on our trail was too good to be true.” He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and pulled against the ropes with his whole body’s weight and strength.

Judging by the changing colors in the patches of sky visible between the thick branches of the trees, the sun had almost set.

It didn’t slow the work; Graebel had torches enough to light the whole site.

“You’re wasting effort, Grant,” Teagan muttered, sitting slumped against the tree to which she was tied, her long red hair draping her face in shadows.

Her partner turned, the shame and anger plain on both his face and tongue. “Oh? And what are you doing to help us escape? Other than figuring things out after the fact.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she replied, “because I can’t do anything. We’re going to have to trust what Vallarte’s daughter promised.”

Grant scoffed – a weak, defeated laugh of a man with no options except for the word of a long-dead spirit. “She said they’re coming…” Grant stated. “That they’ll know someone is digging up whatever’s left of Vallarte’s gold, and that they’ll spare no one they find here.”

“Burning greed,” Teagan said, recalling the ghost’s words. “She said it like it held special meaning.” The verse echoed in Teagan’s mind with the spirit’s haunting tone.

Burning with greed and vile misdeeds, your death guaranteed, your judgment decreed: no rest or relief for the bloodthirsty thief.

Even with Allhallowtide and All Soul’s Day fast approaching, Teagan shuddered at the thought. It was one thing to sit in a Mass and pray for the souls of those who had passed on. Quite another to encounter a soul in person.

The spirit of Guadalupe Maria Eledora Vallarte had lingered in this place for nearly three hundred years, since the death of her father and family at the hands of his mutinous crew. She had appeared to Grant and Teagan as well, ready to pronounce the same curse she had supposedly placed upon all those who dared claim her father’s gold.

And when the Kaiser’s thugs barged in, machine guns at the ready, she spent several minutes following Graebel, uttering similar words of doom and destruction… until he produced holy water and burned her repeatedly with mere droplets sprinkled her way.

The ethereal screams seemed to linger in the air, like an invisible finger of ice stroking Teagan’s spine. If the Germans felt fear at the sights and sounds, they hid it well. Or perhaps they feared Graebel more than anything the spirit could do.

Grant sighed, dripping sweat, and sagged against the tree. He met Teagan’s gaze, and she saw the weary acceptance in his eyes. “She said a great many things, Teag. How many of them have helped us get free so far?”

Teagan tried to come up with a witty response, but no words worth saying came to mind. All they’d sought here had come to nothing. No treasure, and more questions than answers. The ghost claimed sailors from many ships had plundered the treasure over the years, and all of them had fallen prey to her curse. Charred vessels lay submerged around Saint Croix, supposedly crewed by the unliving sailors who had fallen victim to their own greed.

But how would that help her and Grant?

She turned her attention to the goat who, for the fifth time since their capture, nosed about in their scattered supplies. The Germans didn’t seem to care that the creature had made a mess of Teagan’s belongings, though at one point Teagan heard some discussion about fresh roasted meat.

Why only my gear?

The goat suddenly looked her in the eyes, and Teagan thought she saw a flash of something red in the animal’s teeth before it disappeared into the lengthening shadows among the trees.

Teagan peered into the growing darkness, but the goat was gone on whatever errand had occupied its mind.

Some soldiers celebrated as they emerged from the largest building, showing off coins that glinted gold in the torch light. Graebel gave them an encouraging nod with a hint of a smile, but his eyes held no mirth behind his spectacles. It seemed he sought more than Spanish doubloons.

Teagan grimaced as the man turned toward her and Grant. Now he grinned under his hawkish nose, his bared teeth predatory. The men wore no uniforms, but Graebel made his khaki shorts and thick shirt look like full ceremonial attire, nonetheless. He approached with a crisp gait despite the uneven ground. “You know more of this place than you have let on,” he said, his English almost devoid of any accent. “What have you learned in your brief time here?”

“Learned to remember you lot have submarines,” Teagan muttered.

“Hmph. Yes. I applaud your… ‘creativity’ in Saint Kitts, delaying your peers. Setting out into the gale was foolish, but fortune favors the bold. Had you not, we would have uncovered every secret of this wretched island before you set one foot on the sand.”

Teagan held back her surprise at what Graebel revealed. The Germans had a contact at Saint Kitts who passed on information, just like so many previous times and places on their travels where their paths had crossed. How widespread were the Kaiser’s efforts? They seemed to span the globe.

Grant looked over at the soldiers celebrating their find. “Gee,” he said, “I guess we missed a spot.” He wouldn’t reveal anything intentionally, but his bluster and bravado had landed them in plenty of trouble before.

Graebel sneered at his soldiers. “The men are easily entertained by thoughts of treasure troves. I seek something greater… something far more useful for the rise of the Third Reich than mere precious metal. Something that can free our armies from such frivolities and weakness.”

He eyed Grant, then sized up Teagan.

She raised her chin in defiance, holding his gaze despite the nauseating feeling stirring in her stomach. This one truly believed in his cause.

Graebel smiled and leaned in close. “What do you know,” he asked in a slow, too-calm tone, “of the curse of Guadalupe Vallarte?”

Teagan felt her eyes widen before she could force a nonchalant expression. “It seems like she was murdered here as a prisoner of pirates. That seems like a pretty terrible way to go.”

“Not that,” Graebel hissed. “Not her death.”

He drew closer, and she felt the heat of his breath on her cheek as he whispered, “What do you know of the strange undeath which she afflicts upon others? I have read a most interesting account of her victims—skeletal sailors now locked into single-minded purpose.”

The holy water, Teagan realized. He came prepared for a spirit. He came to find her, not gold.

Teagan cocked her head at the sight of the goat, standing in the shadows, staring at them. It wasn’t chewing, just watching with otherworldly concentration. Watching her, specifically.

Graebel stared at her with the same unsettling intensity. “You’ve seen many things over the years, have you not, Miss O’Daire? Much that might prove useful to the cause of Germany.”

One of the soldiers burst into the ruins from his post guarding the entrance, panting from sprinting and shouting a warning. “Ein fackelzug!” he cried, pointing toward the sea. Graebel hastened toward the man, who continued calling out, “Ein fackelzug im Meer!”

Teagan replayed the words in her mind. A torchlight procession in the ocean? Corpse-lights, perhaps?

She smiled and shot a glare at Graebel’s back. “Something tells me you’ll be learning more than you wanted to know about that curse.”

Gunfire erupted in the night. Grant turned toward the sound. “That’s coming from the north ridge. Do you see the strange glow in the trees?”

A second burst of machinegun fire resounded to the south, followed by screams and shouting in German. The guns in that direction went silent as suddenly as they had pierced the quiet. Between the trees at the edge of the ruins to the north, a flaming skeleton lumbered toward one of the soldiers, unfazed by the bullets shattering its bones. When it finally crumbled, another stepped over its smoldering remains and clamped an unyielding and searing hand around the throat of the German.

“They’re coming,” Teagan repeated. “Literally burning with greed.”

If Grant doubted before, he showed only resolve now. “And we don’t want to be here when they do.” He shifted around, searching for any means of escape.

The ropes holding Teagan vibrated unexpectedly, and she twisted around to see the black goat, still staring at her with its horizontal pupils as it gnawed on her bonds. “You needed a body,” Teagan realized. “Something physical to protect your incorporeal form from holy water and whatever other resources Graebel brought.”

The Germans ran toward the sounds of firefights, this time from the east, near the coastline.

Grant noted their distraction and started working the ropes back and forth on the bark of the tree. “Maybe if I can build up some friction, I can—”

He froze mid-sentence as Teagan stepped away from her tree, frayed rope dangling from her wrists. “How did you – the goat!”

The animal chewed and tugged at Grant’s restraints, quickly freeing him. Grant stared at it for a moment, then shook his head. “I’ll take what I can get, I guess.”

He dashed over to what remained of their gear, rummaging in Teagan’s pack. “I have a plan,” he declared. “We can leave some nasty surprises for Graebel and make sure there’s nothing left for him to find here. How much dynamite did you have hidden away in your pack?” After a few more seconds of fruitless searching, he added, “And where did you put it?”

Teagan almost answered, then remembered what she had seen in the goat’s mouth. She looked down at the creature in confusion. “Did you take all my dynamite? The red sticks?”

The goat lifted its head in response. “Well, yes,” the wavering voice of Guadalupe Vallarte said, sounding both present and distant at once. “I placed it around the camp and among the buildings where these wicked men are taking shelter. When the burning skeletons come to fight the interlopers, their flames will light the wicks.”

An explosion rocked the site to the south, belching fire and dirt into the night sky. The goat watched, its odd eyes reflecting the glow of the flames. “I like the red sticks.”

German soldiers ran to and fro, mowing down slow-moving skeletons at first, until they depleted their ammunition. Teagan surveyed the chaos and spotted Graebel. He put down a skeleton with two shots from his Luger pistol, shattering the undead creature’s femurs. Then he too scanned the mad spectacle in frustration, until his eyes found Teagan’s.

Head cocked, he stared with obvious confusion at the sight of his captives, now freed, in the company of a goat.

Another blast tore through the camp between them, seemingly engulfing the German officer.

“Lupe,” Teagan said, addressing the goat. The ghost. The ghost goat? Focus. “Do you know a safe way out of here?”

Vallarte’s voice filled the air around the goat. “I can lead you through the conflagration to your vessel. I know now that you are not like these, or the ones who came before.”

Grant stood laughing at the devastation as another stick of dynamite tore a building apart. “I know it’s a little early, but Happy Hallowe’en, Krauts!”

He patted Teagan on the back. “You definitely brought the treats,” he said with a chuckle. “And you—” Grant said, eyeing the goat. “What other tricks do you have up your sleeve?”

BlogBattle, Writing

The Precious Maiden

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It has been too long since I participated in BlogBattle, initiated by the wonderful Rachael Ritchey. When I used to write entries regularly, I loved the idea of writing something like an old radio serial, with intrepid 1930s adventurers and their feats of derring-do as they explored old ruins and sought answers to strange mysteries. It has been a minute — many minutes, really — since the last entry, so I wanted to get back to it.
It always gets me going down historical rabbit trails I find exciting. (Did they have denim shirts in the 30s? What storms happened in the Caribbean that year? Who ruled Spain at the time? What was that island called back then? And so on).


With that in mind, “Precious” as the inspiration, and apologies for going slightly over the word count, here is the latest episode of Grant and Teagan:

From the Adventures of Grant McSwain – Sailor of the Seven Seas, Finder of Forgotten Fortunes, and Savior of Salacious Sweethearts … accompanied as always by his hapless companion, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway.

Last week, we left our intrepid heroes stranded on the high seas as they turned their vessel toward the full strength of a tropical storm off the coast of Saint Kitts. Will they find the lost treasure of Vallarte’s final voyage? Or will they join his ship in the murky ocean depths? Find out, in “Grant McSwain and the Perilous Prize of La Doncella Preciosa!”

Rain smacked the creaking wooden ship with the stinging fury of a hailstorm and swept a yellowed sheet of canvas across the slick deck. “Don’t lose that,” Grant cried, arm outstretched toward the tattered map flapping across the wave-washed planks. “It’s priceless!”

Holding the sloop’s wheel firm, Grant’s muscles strained underneath his wet linen shirt – once white, but stained to beige by the dirt and grime of multiple adventures around the globe. The gusts whipped his clothes, loose but rain-soaked, and he clenched his square jaw as he fought the strength of the storm.

Teagan dove through the rain as the vessel lurched again, tossed in the gale. She hit with a huff and slid across the polished wood, a sopping mess of red hair and limbs, fingers grasping for the centuries-old canvas. Her drenched khaki shorts and denim over-shirt seemed like weights on her body, and her waterlogged hiking boots felt filled with cement.

The winds shifted, buffeting the sails, and the mast groaned in protest. One of the lines securing the foresail snapped with the strain and flew like a snake on the wind, cracking like a whip. Most of the sails held, pushing the ship toward the shoreline at the horizon. As if ye could see the bloody island through all this gale.

Teagan’s fingertips felt rough fabric and pressed down against the deck, pinning the map in place. Priceless, no, but precious—in more ways than one. Vallarte’s ship, La Doncella Preciosa, the Precious Maiden, was presumed lost to the ocean’s depths. What would the last known location of the vessel’s treasure trove be worth on the antiquities market?

Someone could certainly estimate the map’s value. Many had, judging by the resistance and pursuit they faced thus far.

Before Vallarte set out on his final voyage in 1577, the famed conquistador and so-called explorer had infiltrated the royal treasury and stolen Las Esmeraldas de las Princesas –the massive twin emeralds he’d brought a few years earlier as tribute for King Phillip II to honor Princess Isabella and Princess Catherine. That was the real treasure Grant hoped to find.

No wonder so many had hounded them across the Americas and into the path of this hurricane. No Krauts this time, thankfully… but something worse, the finest treasure hunters hired by the fiercest and wealthiest collectors. The race was on—fame and fortune, as always, the reward for those willing to blaze the trail.

Grant scrabbled across the deck as the small ship shuddered, his black hair soaked and disheveled in the storm. He reached out, and Teagan lifted her free hand for assistance … but instead, he snatched up the map. “That was close,” he said, heading back to the stern.

Teagan grunted and rose to her feet, gripping the rail and glaring at Grant through a mop of red. She ran her fingers through her hair to throw it back over her shoulders, but the wind immediately whipped it in all directions at once.

“The storm is getting us there!” Grant shouted, grinning as he squinted into the distance. “This will work, as long as we stay ahead of them.”

Teagan grabbed thick rope to lash the foresail to the rigging. “This won’t work,” she shot back, “if we end up sharing the fate of the Doncella.” Whether at the bottom of the ocean, or smashed along the coast of Saint Croix, the vessel of the wealthy Vallarte did not survive its final voyage.

“We won’t,” Grant called out over the storm’s fury, his grimace belying his confidence. Then he brightened, and he grabbed the line to assist her. “Think of it this way: we’re doing both our countries a favor! Supporting the Monroe Doctrine by keeping European powers from meddling in the Americas and claiming the prize, and supporting Britain by …”

Grant shrugged. “It’ll come to me.”

Teagan scoffed at the assumption of her allegiance to the crown, then caught Grant’s reference and stared dumbfounded at him. Was he making a lucky connection trying to sound intelligent, or was he actually aware of American foreign policy?

Grant must have noticed her gaze. “I do read sometimes,” he protested.

“Spicy pulps and penny dreadfuls don’t count,” she said with a smirk as she checked the other lashings. The vessel had to reach Saint Croix intact for them to have a chance at finding the treasure, and it would be nice to have a means of escape before their competitors arrived.

Most of their pursuers were stranded on Saint Kitts waiting for the storm to pass, or for new ships to arrive. While treasure hunters might maintain a certain level of decorum in a civilized community, some of their rivals would be all too pleased to find Grant and Teagan out on the high seas or stranded on Saint Croix.

Grant clamped his hands on the wheel, steering the sloop through the storm and waves. “The way I see it,” he declared in a self-assured tone, “it’s only been twenty years or so since America paid good gold for these islands. They’ll want to ensure the European powers stay out of their affairs. Maybe we’ll finally get J. Edgar and his goons on our side for a change.”

“Better to avoid them completely,” Teagan answered, but Grant said nothing in reply, his eyes fixed on the turbulent horizon.

Another hour of constant struggle to stay afloat brought them through the worst of the storm’s wrath, and after two more hours of dreary downpour, they spotted a dark shadow of land in the distance, barely noticeable in the limited moonlight. Teagan checked the compass once again — right on course for the northeast coast of Saint Croix. Thankfully, Grant proved reliable in many ways other than the intellectual pursuits.

Once near the shallows, they raised the sails and Teagan grabbed a sounding pole to guide Grant in as close to the shore as they dared. With the sloop at anchor, a short swim brought them to land under a cloudy night sky.

The skies turned soft tones of purple, followed by vibrant patches of gold, while the pair searched up and down the coast of Saint Croix. Shivering and aching, Teagan slogged on through the sand, taking only small comfort in the misery on Grant’s face as they trekked into the morning.

Then, with the first direct sunlight on the coast, they spotted a telltale ridge behind the foliage. A single black goat stood on the slope, chewing on the plants and staring at these new visitors. “That could be the southern embankment,” Teagan offered, picturing the map’s details in her mind rather than fishing it out of her pack yet again. She studied the landscape and pointed her finger. “There’s the northern ridge that forms the enclosure, running parallel to the water.”

Grant surveyed the area with a tired sag in his shoulders. “Everything’s overgrown.”

“True,” Teagan admitted as she stepped forward, toward the treeline. “Then again, assuming some of Vallarte’s crew survived the shipwreck, how much of a three-hundred year-old makeshift shelter could we really expect to find?”

Grant took another look at the sloop, a small white speck to the south. He took a deep breath, stretched, and shrugged. “If anyone does catch up to us, maybe it’ll throw them off, make them think we’re searching down that way—ait for me!”

He crashed through the thick brush Teagan had slipped through, startling a few birds into flight and interrupting their morning songs.

Teagan followed what seemed like an overgrown path, ducking under tree limbs or holding leafy branches aside, working her way into the enclosed area the map had promised. She reached out her hands to sweep some foliage out of her way and froze. “Worked stone?”

Peeking out from vines and centuries of growth, some smoothed rocks caught the morning light. Relatively sharp lines formed unnatural ridges and walls ahead, hidden within a hollow by the thick branches of the surrounding trees. Teagan studied the stones, running her fingers along them, moving from one ridge to another.

“There are proper buildings here, Grant, with mortar and masonry.” She spun about, trying to grasp the size of the site. “Several of them—far more than any castaways could manage in secret.”

The feeling of being watched tightened on her heart like an icy grip, but she knew it was just the shock of finding an ancient community where there should only be the ruins of one or two makeshift structures. She still found herself tensing at every sound, peering into every shadow.

Grant looked over the area, his face grim. “You think someone else found this place years ago, took the treasure, built themselves something substantial?”

Teagan examined another overgrown building, its rock walls covered in moss and lengths of vine. “Possibly… or perhaps this site was never what we were led to believe.”

A chill struck Teagan’s bones even as she wandered in the warm sunlight, but she shrugged it off as the lingering effects of the night in soaked clothes coupled with the unexpected mystery before her.

Grant stepped into the nearest building, ducking his head to enter the small door. He moved with surprising grace for his size, and waved a long thin reed in front of him to look for traps.

Teagan took a ginger step into a half-collapsed structure, looking for clues while searching her mind for an explanation. Could my source have betrayed us? Or could he have been deceived? He wouldn’t have sold us a map to a site already explored by a previous client, for fear of damage to his reputation.

Nothing stood out in the first three buildings Teagan checked, and if Grant found anything noteworthy, he didn’t call for her.

The fourth structure Teagan approached looked squat and sturdy compared to the others, with rusted metal bars in the two narrow windows. The door had rotted away, but the thick walls and slight elevation on which the building stood seemed to protect the interior from centuries of storms.

More than the others, at least, but not entirely. Teagan noted the rust stains and pitted metal bars that fashioned holding cells. A few skeletons lay slumped against the walls, their wrists still held by leather cuffs affixed to what was left of their chains. Two of the remains included tattered and faded fabric in the style and shape of fifteenth century women’s clothing. The others seemed like young boys of varied heights.

“Grant?” Teagan called, then turned and yelled out for him.

Stones rattled and scraped inside the structure… or were those bones?

Father … have you finally come with the ransom?

A shadowy haze coalesced inside one of the cells, like a storm cloud taking shape, with green forks of lightning crackling through the smoky form. Teagan shook at the feminine voice echoing in her mind as well as the strange sight, and backed toward the open doorway. Her left hand shot to the medallion of Saint Nicholas around her neck.

The growing apparition seemed to regard Teagan with eyes alight like emeralds held in the depths of its darkness. Or … it hissed, does another interloper seek the prize?

Teagan bumped into Grant and gasped. He stood in the doorway, hunched down to peer into the ancient prison ruins. The goat from the slope stood beside him now, still chewing. “I was going to tell you I found something interesting,” he muttered, “but of course you’d have the more exciting discovery.”

“I’d be happy to trade places,” Teagan whispered.

The ghostly image turned its glowing verdant eyes upon the pair, and waves of judgment and wrath coursed through Teagan’s mind. A haunting voice rang out, sonorous like a bell, and the figure raised a finger to point at Grant. “I am la doncella preciosa that Vallarte sought… his daughter. Take what remains of his treasure, scoundrels … and join his mutinous crew in eternal unrest.”

Tune in next time for the epic continuation: “Grant McSwain versus the Cantankerous Crew of Corpse-light Corsairs!”

Also, you can read the other BlogBattler entries here.

BlogBattle, Writing

Midnight Chase

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This is a flash-fiction entry based on the word, “Flower,” for Rachael Ritchey’s BlogBattle. Every month, she picks a word as the theme for which a number of us write some kind of short story. For many months now, my entries have been the serialized mishaps of a bumbling macho man explorer in the 1930s and the knowledgeable “sidekick” who actually gets things done. 

The Adventures of Grant McSwain

Daring Explorer of Dangerous Environs and Fearless Discoverer of Fang-Filled Dungeons

…accompanied as always by his hapless assistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway

(992 words)

Grant threw his massive form from the cliffside and ran across the mossy bricks of the ziggurat with no loss of momentum. “I’m telling you, Teag,” he called over his shoulder, “the treasure is within reach.”

Crouched under the leafy branches near the ledge, Teagan hissed at her companion and listened to the nocturnal song of the Peruvian jungle. Were those voices in the distance? Could the Kaiser’s thugs be closer than before? Or had she imagined those lantern lights among the trees after sundown?

Grant paused, peering in the darkness. At least the oaf whispered this time. “Are you coming?”

Even though Grant made the leap without injury, Teagan still checked the distance before springing across the gap. Her boots clung to the stone well, despite the overgrowth, and she jogged along the structure’s heights toward Grant. “I’m coming, but I think I’m not the only one.”

Grant surveyed the jungle, though he had no chance of spotting anything through the thick foliage. “Those Germans after us again?”

“Not us so much as the treasure.”

“Coming through the river valley, unless I miss my guess.” He chuckled and gave a dismissive shrug. “They might find the entrance to the ziggurat, but they won’t be able to move all the rubble we left.”

Teagan’s eyes narrowed despite the dim moonlight. “About that… was dynamiting the entry hall really necessary?”

“I wasn’t sure a trap would stop them, so I figured an obstacle might.”

Teagan laid a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Laugh all you want. But if they learn to exploit Ixthacan relics or, God forbid, unlock the secret of these portal chambers, their militaristic ambitions in Europe could stretch across the globe in an instant.”

He flashed a devilish grin. “Let ‘em come. Maybe FDR will finally get our boys in the mix.” He hustled to the other side of the Ixthacan temple, where some previous explorer or tribesman had stretched a flimsy rope ladder like a bridge to the opposite cliff. Grant tested the thick ropes with his weight, shaking the cords to see how much they might withstand before trusting it fully.

Teagan eyed the ropes with suspicion and mounting fear. “Are you certain no one has found this ritual site before? Maybe someone already claimed whatever this ruin has to offer.”

“I doubt it,” Grant said as he took a step. The rope bridge swayed and dipped under his bulk but held him aloft. “This feels flimsy, Teag,” he added, his knuckles white as he gripped the cords. “We should go one at a time.”

Teagan crossed her arms and shuffled her feet as Grant inched his way across the gap. “What next,” she wondered, recalling the winding path that led them to the temple. A rickety flight skimming the treetops from Caracas, then a showdown in a seedy cantina with guerrilla rebels, followed by rafting through crocodile-infested waters, and finally trudging through treacherous jungles full of pythons, all with enemies nipping at their heels.

“Some anniversary,” she muttered. They had set out three years to the day since their first excursion, and only a month since Grant had professed his love. Seeing him suspended over the chasm between the cliff and the ziggurat, Teagan felt an all-too familiar mix of adoration and frustration.

Grant strained as he worked his way across. “Talk to me, Teag,” he said through gritted teeth. “Tell me something useless about the Ixthacans and the ceremonies.”

Teagan bristled, then recognized the touch of panic in Grant’s voice. He wasn’t mocking her studious nature or detailed note-taking. He needed a distraction.

The thought of pythons sparked a memory, a legend surrounding the ritual site. “Locals claimed spirits would come from the heavens at night to bless the Ixthacan chieftains. Beings of snake-like appearance, much like the Naga of Buddhist and Hindu mythology.”

Grant grunted an acknowledgment.

“Prior to our discoveries with the portals,” Teagan added, “I found the similarities fascinating, given that the Ixthacans and Buddhists lived on opposite sides of the world. Scholars assume Chinese seafarers spread the stories across the Pacific. After all, certain rare flora from the Orient also flourish here, and—”

“Made it,” Grant said, tossing her a rope. He acted unfazed by the brush with danger. “Tie this around your waist, and I’ll hang onto it just in case you slip.”

In short order, Teagan joined Grant on the far side. Had it seemed easier for her because of her comparatively light weight? Was Grant hiding some injury, as he often did?

“Which way?” he asked, checking the stars. Unexpected urgency filled his voice. Had he suddenly believed her concerns?

“It’s supposed to be northwest. We’re very close.”

He crouched and tromped through the brush in the direction she indicated. Teagan watched in confusion, then followed, inspecting plants as she passed. Someone had been this way recently.

Before she could warn Grant, they burst into a wide clearing, surrounded by thick trees with forked limbs reaching into the sky. Large reddish bulbs grew in the joints where branches of tree trunk met. A weathered stone with faded runes marked the Ixthacan site, though much of the jungle’s growth had been cleared away.

“You’ve already been here,” Teagan gasped.

Grant nodded and hushed her. “Last night. Just watch.”

As one, the bulbs spread with lazy movements under the stars, thin red leaves stretching into a sunburst around two rings of ivory petals circling the pistils clustered in the center. While Teagan stood in awe, a dozen blooms of silver-white opened in the moonlight.

Grant slipped his arms around her. “Your treasure, my dear. One of the rarest flowers in the world. Queens of the night for my queen.” He gave her a peck and whispered, “Happy anniversary.”

“What about the Germans following us?”

“Oh, them?” He laughed. “Just some guys I paid off in the market. I knew you wouldn’t have half as much fun if you weren’t being chased.”

Night-blooming cereus.jpg by Aswin KP from Wikimedia Commons. Used under Creative Commons license.
Writing

In Transition

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This is something I prepared for our local writing group in case planned lessons didn’t use up the whole time we set aside for our meeting. One of the participants suggested talking about transitions between scenes and how to end scenes, and that’s an interesting part of how we craft stories.

I want to look at transitions and hooks between scenes and chapters, but in order to do that, I need to think through the groundwork of what scenes accomplish for the writer and reader.

What makes a scene?

Usually, we put two characters in conflict about goals. Character 1 wants a particular thing X, and Character 2 wants something else – a different objective, perhaps, a thing Y, or even simply opposing thing X. They enter into dialogue or action that expresses this, and by the end of the scene, something has changed, moving the characters toward their original goals or towards the new ones established as a result of the action of the scene.

Color study for Brandon Sanderson’s “Words of Radiance” by Michael Whelan.

A chapter might be made up of one or more scenes, and a book is made up of multiple chapters… so these scene dynamics create a song of sorts, a rhythm or an emotional effect similar to a roller coaster. We do well to pay attention to that dynamic throughout our book. You want variation. You want to create ebbs and flows, to have some chapters that lead toward increased conflict and tension, while other chapters resolve into peaceful transitions to the next part of the story. You want some moments that are exciting, with break-neck fast-paced action that pulls the reader into the next page or next chapter… and some moments that make for easy shifts into a different tone or state.

It strikes me this is more of a revision topic than necessarily a “while you’re writing” topic. In the first draft, your goal is to get all the important stuff onto the page or screen so you have something to play with… to put sand in the sandbox so you can build your castle. So if you’re writing and it feels like scenes die off or chapters seem disjointed, that’s okay–leave yourself a note to fix it later, and come back once you have a clearer perspective on the overall work. However, like many other techniques and tips about writing, having this bouncing around in your head might help the subconscious input come through stronger and make a better first draft that takes these things into account.

In music, a composer can put any notes together or into a sequence. However, it’s obvious that some flow together smoothly while others are jarring. Sometimes you want that dissonance. Sometimes you want a shift in music to pop in the listener’s ears… but more often than not, you want everything to flow, to build into bigger emotions, to swell and to fade in expected ways.

Similarly, you could have a sharp break between scenes, or end a scene on a calming note and dive into a gunfight in the next chapter. You can do whatever you want, just like a piano player can hit any key. The trick is understanding what effect different chords or keys will have on the music… and what effect different transitions will have on the emotional map of your book.

So what are you trying to do with transitions?

At the end of an argument or once the dust settles after some exciting action, everyone can’t just stare at each other before the scene “fades to black.” That’s going to read like a very awkward pause.

A transition finishes the previous thought or conflict and sets up the next one. All these conflicts, whether in dialogue or action, have consequences that carry over into the next scene.

Character 1 gets thing X. Now what? Is that good? Can it be “good but” – in other words, can there be an unexpected consequence that creates a new conflict or imposes some new problem on the character? (Indiana Jones gets the golden idol but that sets off the trap in the temple, and the chapter ends with him staring at the giant rock rolling his way.)

Character 1 finds out that they actually don’t want thing X, or maybe Character 2 successfully convinces or deters them. Now what? Are they persuaded that Thing Y, which Character 2 wants, is actually more important? (Indiana Jones says we have to go after the grail, but his dad convinces him that his diary is the fastest way to get there… which means going back to Nazi-infested Berlin, instead of forward toward the hidden city where they know the grail lies waiting.)

Transitions ask, “In light of what happened in this chapter or scene, what will happen next?” and they don’t answer that question. It lingers. It’s the curling finger beckoning the reader to read on, a gentle whisper of what’s to come. Answering the question is the job of the next scene or a later chapter. Transitions are a hint at the future, but they’re also a little touch in the tone or the dynamics that prepare the reader for that next portion. Transitions are a place for foreshadowing or for forecasting the consequence of the now-resolved scene.

Consider these three options: Character 1 knows that she got Character 2 on her side, so they’re going to pursue Goal X together…

…so they make a plan of attack (which you don’t reveal yet–that’s the purpose of the next scene or conflict)

…but Character 1 has a premonition or feeling she can’t shake, and knows she better keep her eyes on Character 2.

…and Character 2 declares, “I have an idea about how we can get this done… but you’re not going to like it.” (And you don’t lay it out, because it creates that lingering question in the reader.)

You may even want the tension and drama to temporarily resolve, like a pause in a song before it picks up again. Character 1 may know that she has to figure out three more mysteries as a result of whatever happened this chapter, but for now, they’re in a good place, and tomorrow can worry about its own troubles. That’s a fine closer and still has a sense of transition – I know what is coming next, but I’m gonna catch my breath a minute before I start sprinting after that next goal. Not every chapter can end with a high-stakes “tune into the next episode” moment, or those exciting events lose their power.

Heck, maybe you DO want that jarring, awkward pause where the battle ends and silence descends on the field, in order to create the right feeling for your book. So long as it’s planned and intentional, great.

My Paint skills are so lit. It's ok to stare at this image in wonder.
*Generally speaking* these are the flawed extremes and the happy medium of pacing, which grows from your transitions and conflicts.

Whether you create a pause or try to keep things moving at a steady pace, transitions are about a resolution to what just happened, and a gentle nudge forward.

What about hooks?

Hooks serve to pull the roller coaster along. Instead of a beckoning finger, this is grabbing the reader by the collar and tugging with all your might. There’s no steady pace or pause here. These are the moments where you’re trying to make sure your reader refuses to put the book down at 2 AM when they should be going to sleep. Maybe it’s the rising tension of conflicts and consequences that you’ve built up over a few chapters or scenes until the current scene ends with a clear “it’s going down.” Maybe it’s a cliffhanger or “to be continued” in the middle of the book where the reader has to know what happens next. Maybe it’s the plot twist that spins everything around for both the characters and the readers.

Hooks are about inescapable reactions – hinting at the choice the characters MUST make, a situation they MUST respond to. This may come in action or in conversation – the promise of unexpected revelations or emotional conflicts about to break out. Hooks might also be an obvious threat or impending doom.

Hooks might be about the consequences of the resolved scene or conflict, OR they might be the appearance of a game-changing shift as the result of other people’s actions.

Imagine a political thriller where the CIA agents are arguing on the steps of the Capitol building, trying to determine the best way to go after the terrorists….

…when the hero catches something the partner unintentionally reveals, proving they’re working for the villain (big increase in the stakes, WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN?)

…when the hero’s partner suddenly draws her weapon and takes aim at the hero (obvious threat, WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN?)

…when suddenly the Washington Monument goes up in a roiling fireball. (Plot twist! WHAT IS HAPPENING?!)

It bears repeating – not every chapter can end with a hook. That might work in some kind of campy serialized episodic adventure where Cliff Hanger always ends up dangling over the precipice or staring down the barrel of a gun. However, in meaningful writing, you can’t manhandle the reader and drag them through the entire book, or it feels like a breathless, emotional minefield. A song doesn’t just start at crazy complex overpowering dynamics and stay there the whole time. The Washington Monument can only blow up so many times.

The last thing you want is for your reader to stop caring, either because of boredom or because everything is a constant crisis. Mixing the different options for transitions and hooks will create the ebb and flow of an emotional “song” throughout your work. Considering the highs and lows of tension can help you create and even emphasize the emotional beats you want to stand out.

Your characters, your setting, your plot, and your take on the world can all be powerful and meaningful. Keep your end goal in mind (creating a satisfying, compelling, entertaining work), and then let all those conflicts and consequences sing.

What did I miss? What great plot hooks have you seen in print? Let’s share some perspectives! Leave a comment below. 

Writing

NaNoWriMo is coming

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There’s one month left before the most hectic month of the year!

No, I don’t mean the Holidays and the present-purchasing shopping sprees. (I just don’t buy things for people. Pro-tip: that makes December really easy, as well as your social life year-round.)

I mean National Novel Writing Month, a.k.a. NaNoWriMo.

NaNo is all about writing your story and sharing it with the world. It’s a commitment in the month of November to write a 50,000 word novel, and it’s a community of fellow writers or would-be wordsmiths to cheer you on when you’re staring at the screen wondering what the heck you signed up for.

It’s a writer’s version of a marathon, a challenge to yourself to put your butt in the seat and crank out an average of 1,667 words a day for the whole month in order to take your story from the spark of an idea to a (very) rough draft.

Have you ever thought about a story you knew would make a great book? NaNo is your chance to commit to yourself and the world that you’ll take that huge first step.

Do you have writer friends, to whom you’ve said, “Wow, I’ve always wanted to write a book…”? What’s stopping you, other than life, responsibilities, college, Netflix, video games, Pinterest, and maybe a lack of willpower? Pssh! That’s nothing! You can beat all those obstacles down! NaNo is the perfect opportunity to dive in and get it done.

NaNo is also a non-profit organization that works with schools and libraries to encourage young writers to put pen to paper or, more likely, fingers to keyboard in order to build their creativity and focus.

Between now and November 1st, they’ll be posting all sorts of discussions and resources on their site to help writers new and seasoned navigate the rocky course from concept to completion. During November, they send encouraging messages and interviews with successful authors sharing insights on how to keep going. On top of that, you’ll get information from your regional Municipal Liaison on meet-ups and write-ins that are taking place near you.

It’s a wild, albeit difficult, ride, and worth the effort. Want to know more? Check out the NaNo site or hit me up with a question in the comments.

The clock is ticking, counting down to your explosion of creativity. What’s your novel going to be about?

General, Tabletop RPG, Worship, Writing

Toward a New Normal

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To those who faithfully or even occasionally visit this page, thank you.

This is less a “Why I haven’t been posting” blog and more of an update on my personal life for those who value that sort of thing.

I’ve spent some time juggling and reevaluating where all my efforts are going, so I thought I should post an update to projects I’m involved in and commitments I am pursuing, as so much of my life is currently in flux. Most of these changes come from one primary cause:

In the next three months, I will retire from active duty in the United States Air Force after 24 years of service. 

All the chaos of the ever-changing flight schedule with my squadron won’t be a factor anymore. I’ll have a relative stability to my future planning that I haven’t known for a long time. My wife jokes that every appointment or get-together we plan has an asterisk next to it, with the caveat “unless the flight schedule changes.” That will be a thing of the past… and I don’t think I’ll miss that part at all.

We finally get to focus more on family matters. While I’ve had it pretty good as far as not having to deploy repeatedly for months or years, I’m excited to think I can be around more for the time and activities my wife and children desire.

Right now, I have a couple job opportunities that will enable me to continue supporting my military friends and squadron family in some capacity, which thrills me. I’ve seen our squadron crush a demanding and ever-changing mission even when we ramped up to more than double our usual workload. The number of operational sorties is never going to decrease, so any way that I can help keep some aspect of squadron life a little more together is exciting to me.

Meanwhile (and starting next week), I will be more involved in music ministry than I have been in the last ten years. While I love filling in and helping out at local church services or gatherings, I haven’t found a reliable, recurring need, until a month ago, when an opportunity dropped into my inbox out of the blue.

I’ll be performing every week as a contracted musician for the Contemporary Worship Service on Kadena, and while I’m excited and passionate about that, it comes with a learning curve as I learn to work with the Choir Director and look for ways to fulfill the chaplain’s vision for a service that is on a restricting schedule (sandwiched between Catholic masses).

I’m excited about this because having an upcoming worship service in mind on a regular basis usually keeps my attention and thoughts on grace and the Gospel more than the garbage and glitz that beckon from everywhere else in life.

Additionally, the band is full of amazing talents both on vocals and on their chosen instruments, so I’m eager to jam with old friends once more.

In the writing world, I have a number of friends who routinely ask me about Book Two of my fantasy novels, and I don’t want to keep letting them down. I also have a number of projects incubating in OneDrive files and Scrivener folders into which I would love to invest time and effort.

The local writing group has really become that critique group I always wanted, with a core group of four writers sharing chapters every other week.

NaNoWriMo 2018 is rapidly approaching, and that has been a fantastic experience for me every year I’ve done it. I will continue working as a Municipal Liaison for Japan – specifically Okinawa. While I don’t know how much of a chance I’ll have at cracking 50,000 words in the month of November, I will be able to facilitate and support regular meetings and ‘Come Write In’ events for those who can pour words onto the page.

Additionally, infrequent but recurring events like BlogBattle give me a chance to write something disconnected from bigger projects, so I’ll probably continue posting Grant & Teagan stories once a month at a minimum.

My experience with tabletop roleplaying games has shown me that it’s a wonderful opportunity to gather friends around a table for laughs, snacks, excitement, and fun. I’ve got a growing list of co-workers and friends who express interest in an ongoing campaign, but I have barely been able to keep the one group I’m running going.  On top of that, I have a few settings and two or three systems I really want to run. (BattleTech… D&D 5E Curse of Strahd… those 5E Lord of the Rings setting books…)

Once my schedule finds smooth air and level flight, I’m looking forward to arranging some gaming groups where I can commit to bringing my best to the table.

Maybe I can finally work out some opportunities to be a player as well. There’s nothing like being a Storyteller or Dungeon Master (or whatever your chosen system calls that role)… but it’s nice to be on the other side of the screen sometimes and react to the game without knowing what’s lurking beyond the next fork in the road.

In other words, all of this mess of conflicting interests and passions will still be simmering in the crock pot of my life, but the sliders for various activities and priorities are going to shift a lot in ways I don’t fully know just yet. All of this adds up to a lot of reasons to say, “No, sorry” to things I might otherwise enjoy or participate in, especially in the short-term.

I appreciate your thoughts, encouragement, friendship, prayers, and any other support you might offer during this period of instability.

BlogBattle, Writing

Fangs and Fury

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Here’s this month’s BlogBattle post, based on the term, “Blaze,” and once again centered around the misadventures of Grant and Teagan, my 1930s “Indiana Jones-meets-Supernatural” duo of explorers.

I took a stab at a sketch of them on a lengthy return flight from a recent mission. I’m not satisfied with this–it’s unfinished and not what I envisioned–but it was a fun effort nonetheless.

Last “episode,” after dealing with a werewolf, Grant fell unconscious from blood loss. Teagan succumbed to lycanthropy and used that unnatural strength to fight back against a double-agent who betrayed her. This time, we join Grant and Teagan two days later, after Grant has sought a cure for Teagan’s condition.

From The Adventures of Grant McSwain, Hunter of Horrors, Destroyer of the Defiled, and Terror of the Treacherous.

Accompanied as always by his hapless assistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway.

Firelight danced around the ruined Army camp nestled in the mountains, and wisps of fragrant smoke twisted through the chilly air as Grant hunkered over Teagan’s quivering form. He turned away from the sweat-soaked bristling hair matted on her arms and torso. Grant almost laid a hand on the furry patch of her forehead–between the pointed canine ears that now sprouted from her misshapen body–then reconsidered the danger. He averted his eyes from her bloodied claws and that makeshift muzzle he’d tied around that maw full of jagged teeth. Teeth that could tear his throat open in an instant, or turn him into a monster like–

It’s still Teagan, he reassured himself. She drank Dah-rey’s vial of silver. She’s going to pull through… once the fever breaks. 

His feeble hopes withered at the sound of her ragged breathing, and he turned toward the aged man kneeling beside the fire. “How long will it take for those herbs to purge her body of…”

Striding Bison crushed more of the dried brown leaves with a mortar and pestle, then sprinkled them into the flames. Another aromatic plume rose on the breeze, far more smoke than a pinch of herbs should produce. Curling tendrils stretched toward Teagan’s afflicted body like the fingers of a mournful spirit. “A while,” he said with a shrug, cryptic as ever, his shaky hands moving with reverence and care. The shaman had helped them when past adventures had gone awry, but those had all been of the mundane snake-bite, gunshot-wound, dehydration in the desert variety.

Howls tore through the night, and Grant peered into the murky blackness on all sides. A wasted gesture–the firelight destroyed his night vision. Even so, instead of the call of another werewolf pack, he recognized the war-whoops of hunting parties from local tribes.

“The Chickasaw know what hunts under the full moon,” Striding Bison intoned. “They hate those the wolf spirits possess. Their braves will come with cleansing fire… not the kind for burning herbs, but bodies.”

Grant put his palm on Teagan’s head and grimaced at the heat radiating through her coat of fur.

“They will kill us too,” the shaman added. “They will consider us tainted by her presence. None of the tribes take lycanthropy lightly.”

If the thought bothered Striding Bison at all, he showed no sign. He poured steaming water from a kettle into a stone bowl, dipped a cloth, and laid it across Teagan’s head.

Helpless, Grant left Teagan to shiver under her blankets. He surveyed the wreckage, noting the makeshift defenses the soldiers had erected. The werewolves left no survivors but also had no interest in equipment or supplies. A broken crate of rifles caught Grant’s eye, their dark metal glinting in the firelight. He pulled one from the container and found another box filled with circular drum magazines. “Do what you can, where you are, with what you’ve got,” Grant mumbled, quoting the President he idolized. Teddy wouldn’t back down from the fight. 

Striding Bison smirked and ground more leaves into powder. “The Chickasaw won’t be impressed by Army guns. They’ll have gangster rifles too–and they can shoot from horseback.”

“I know,” Grant said, his shoulders sagging. “But I have to do something.”

The war-cries echoed louder, closer. Even though the mountains blocked some lines of sight, the light of the fire would be seen for miles from the right viewpoint.

“You are one man, McSwain. They are many. They are trained for war, whereas you…”

Fury flared within Grant’s chest, an explosion of rage at the futility of his situation. All his strength cried for action, something to throw, someone to punch, some means to resist the obvious fate looming over him. His fingers tightened on the grips of the Tommy guns in his hands and he glanced at his companion. A realization washed through him like a lit trail of blasting powder. If I have to die to protect Teagan from butchery, so be it. And if I’m going to die anyway… 

Grant dashed to Teagan’s side and set the Tommy guns in the dirt, then drew out his knife. “Bison, you have more of that coyotesbane?”

“Of course.”

“I’m loosening the bonds on her feet and doubling the ropes around her wrists. In a moment, I want you to lead her to safety while I distract the Chickasaw. She’ll be able to move, but she won’t be able to hurt you. Think you can manage?”

Striding Bison’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Grant’s actions. He said nothing, but his eyes moved to the knife.

“I just need to buy you both enough time for her to fight off the disease,” Grant said. He drew the knife along his forearm with a wince, and a line of crimson formed. “The Chickasaw don’t know who was afflicted.”

Grant untied the muzzle and held his arm above her elongated face. Though unconscious, Teagan shifted and jerked, emitting sharp sniffs and a low, hungry growl. In a flash, her teeth latched onto his arm, gnawing and lapping at the wound. He screamed but held still, muscles straining in anguish. When he could bear it no more, he tore his arm free then wrestled the muzzle back over Teagan’s maw.

Pain shot up his arm, throbbing and thrumming with his heartbeat. The moon grew brighter and his senses opened to the world around him with such clarity that he felt as if he’d been deaf and blind all his life. His thoughts wavered between lucid concern for Teagan and a sudden thrilling bond with all of nature.

Striding Bison looked on in horror, then came alongside Teagan and helped her to her feet, her bony arm stretched too far over his hunched shoulders.

Even as he watched the thick black hair sprout from every inch of exposed skin, Grant racked the slides on the submachine guns and turned toward the approaching war-cries. “Come face me,” he howled, his voice deep and guttural. “But be warned! This wolf has fangs!”

Writing

Letting Go (Short Story)

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I slip in the back door, and a scented wave of cinnamon and sugar hits me, an intended welcoming warmth that I don’t feel. I head for the stairs, hoping to make it to my room before—

“You’re back!” Mom’s voice sounds strained, her cheerful tone forced. Like always. “How was the mall?”

I shrug. “Boring.”

She pulls a plate of snickerdoodles off the stovetop. “I made some treats for Sunday school, and thought you might like some of the extras. They’re fresh out of the oven.”

“I’m not that hungry, Mom. There’s half a dozen. Dinner’s in an hour.” I feel like she should be the one thinking about that. Still, I’m not about to turn the offer down, not entirely. I snatch one off the plate and let my teeth sink into the soft, sweet cookie.

She watches me with concern, that same disturbed look she’s been giving me every night for the last few years. “Well,” she says, “I thought… maybe Thomas would like some? They’re his favorite.”

I roll my eyes and set the plate on the counter. “I’m not dealing with this again today. I have homework.” Maybe Dad will eat the other ones, or I’ll just snack on them during school tomorrow.

School… yeah right. Sitting at the dining table with a couple workbooks and an iPad is “school” as much as the first aid kit in the bathroom makes it a hospital. Homeschooling is supposed to be close, intimate… but the way my parents run things, it’s about giving me busy work so they can avoid dealing with me. I’m fine with that—I try to avoid them, too.

“Don’t forget,” Mom yells down the hallway as I make my escape, “we have an appointment with Nick tomorrow.”

I whirl and let loose. “Can we stop pretending that calling Doctor Greene by his first name takes away the fact he’s a shrink you’re making me see because you think I’m crazy?”

Mom lets out that defeated sigh of hers, the one that means she will leave me alone. It’s a stalemate, but I’ll take it.

I walk past Thomas’s room—always empty, always immaculate—and slam my door before flopping onto my bed. Tomorrow’s a big day; I know that’s why they made the appointment. Five years ago, Thomas and I took off on our bikes, and only one of us came home.

* * * * *

“Hello! Good to see you,” Nick says, with a too-white smile and “Happy Holidays” disposition. I don’t mind calling him Nick, even though I’ll argue with my parents about it. To them, and to him, it probably seems cool, a way of relating to the kids he sees. Whatever. It’s all part of the show we’re putting on here. Thirty minutes of fun and entertainment, and the clock starts now.

He’s got two folding chairs in front of his desk, and a love seat in the corner where Mom and Dad could sit together, if Dad ever bothered to show up. I take the one on the left and sink into a slouch, arms crossed, hoodie shading my view.

“Mrs. Talbach,” Nick says in his overly chipper tone. He turns to me, glances at the empty seat, and says, “I’m really glad Thomas could be here today.”

I kick the extra chair aside with a huff. “It’s just me, Nick,” I hiss, “just like the last five times. What are we paying you for again?”

As soon as I say it, Mom’s emotional rubber band snaps—I can feel her burning glare on the back of my neck. “Mind your tone and watch your manners. You’re not paying him for anything—”

“Darci,” Nick says, cutting her off. His tone is solid and firm. “Maybe you’d like a mug of cocoa? Someone at the front desk can help you.”

He takes a seat beside his desk, his eyes on her. He watches in silence, removing any doubt about the directive nature of his suggestion.

I try not to smirk, and I keep my back to Mom until the door clicks shut.

“So,” Nick says, elbows on knees, chin resting on his laced fingers. “Still pushing your mother’s buttons?”

“As much as she pushes mine.”

“You realize your parents have been through a lot, too, don’t you? Today, especially. The memory of the accident hits them as hard as it does you.”

Of course I realize that… but they didn’t see what happened.

Nick glances at the empty chair. “You say that Thomas isn’t with you anymore, but I’m afraid you’re telling me what you think I want to hear. It’s easy to put on an act for the doctor every two weeks, and you’re a smart kid, no doubt about it. Smart enough to figure that out.”

I stare at him from beneath my hood. That’s most of what Dad pays for—Nick and me staring at each other in silence. Maybe that’s part of why he stopped coming.

“You can be honest with me,” Nick says. “No sign of Thomas at all?”

“I let him go. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Move on?”

“Yes, well, you’re a… complex case, in my experience,” Nick replies. His fingers stroke the thick file on the edge of the desk. “In any event, after a traumatic episode, you’re right, it’s important to keep moving forward in life. However, we all want to be sure the direction you’re moving in is healthy. That it leads somewhere better than where you were when we first met.”

Same old speech. “Who’s to say what’s better, Nick?”

“Great question. I think that’s when you benefit most from the perspectives of others—the people who love you, the people you love. Those, like me, who want what’s best for you.”

Out the window, I can see a dozen kids scrambling all over a school playground across the street. Climbing, swinging, chasing, laughing. I miss those days.

Nick leans over and twists the stick; the venetian blinds snap shut. “Tell me about Fairmont Junior High.”

“Sucked.”

“I imagine so, given some of these comics and stories you wrote.” He slides a couple yellowed sheets of paper out from the folder. On one of them, a pair of stick figures fight their way through a school infested with zombies. On another, there’s a list of names titled ‘People I Hope Die.’

I sigh and stare at Nick’s wall of degrees in glossy frames.

Nick points at the comic. “‘Timmy and Tommy Versus the Zombies,’ a tale of twin boys, taking on the mindless horde of cold adults and mean classmates that you had to deal with every day. That’s kind of funny. Maybe a little bit like life?”

When I don’t respond, Nick presses his point. “You drew this, what, a year after he passed away? Do you think maybe you were expressing some feelings you weren’t able to process otherwise?”

I shrug.

“Of course,” Nick continues, “Fairmont had a zero-tolerance policy for anything perceived as threats, so when your teacher found this list, you had to—”

“No! That’s not why we homeschool, okay?”

Nick sits back at the outburst, but gestures for me to elaborate. I’m surprised that came out, but I’m so sick of them worrying about problems and phantoms I’ve already outgrown.

“How do you think it felt,” I say, “being the only kid in middle school with an imaginary friend? Being the kid who freaked out if anyone sat next to him in the cafeteria… Teachers had to keep one desk empty rather than put up with me losing it in the middle of class…”

Nick nods, pretending he knows what it’s like. “That’s why I’m glad we’ve made progress,” he says gently, and gestures at the empty seat. “Some, at least.”

“Whatever. If we made so much progress, what the hell am I doing here?”

“Like I said, you’re complex. There’s still more going on, and I don’t know if you’re ready or willing to address it.”

I shake my head, and my lips curl in frustration. “I’m fine with how things are now. I’m finally fine. I’ve moved on. That’s all I wanted, all I needed. I just wish everybody else would back off and stop trying to tell me what’s best for me.”

“You say that, but—”

“Isn’t it time to go?” I grab the small digital clock he has on his desk—turned away from the patients, of course, but always visible from his chair—and check the time. Ten more minutes. Dammit.

“It’s a sign of progress that you no longer require the additional space and consideration you once expected from everyone,” Nick drones, flipping through records of previous visits. “That’s an important step, but as I review your history, I wonder if we are moving in a healthy direction. One significant concern when dealing with delusions related to trauma is that…”

I’m done with this. My mind shuts down and my eyes wander over the decorations around the room: the dream-catcher some kid made in art class, the framed newspaper story with Nick’s picture, the carved African trickster guy hunched over his flute whose name I can never remember.

“—unable to distinguish,” he continues, “between the real and the imaginary in other parts of life, affecting relationships, job performance—or, in your case, academics—and basic social integration.”

Nick leans forward and gives me his oh-so-caring face. I wonder how many times he practiced that in med school. “What I’m saying is, I can’t just ignore these other symptoms.”

“They’re not symptoms,” I growl. I’m so tired of him and everyone else not listening to what I’m saying about me. “Stop treating me like I have a problem. I had a problem. It’s gone now.”

“You have to want to get well before—”

I fly out of the seat and kick it down behind me. “I am well!”

I had a twin. We did everything together. He got into an accident and died, and that sucks, and nothing’s gonna fix that. I did what I could and let go.

Now I wish they would.

Before Nick can give me another one of his touchy-feely speeches, I storm out the door into the lobby, past Mom and her cup of Swiss Miss, past the secretary’s stupid bulging eyes, past some other waiting mom and her teenage daughter. I leave them all stunned and slam the outer door on my way to the parking lot, slipping my earbuds in. I just want to be alone with the fresh air and my music.

Moments later, Nick leads Mom out the door and checks what I’m doing before continuing his conversation with her. I pause the music on my phone so I can hear, and keep pacing around Mom’s car, eyes on the ground, the perfect image of a distracted teen.

“—following the right approach, Mrs. Talbach. There’s more pain deep inside that he doesn’t want to deal with just yet, and this is his way of coping—or rather, ignoring and suppressing that hurt. Keep on pressing him about why he let go of Thomas.”

“But he gets so angry,” Mom says, her voice quivering like she’s going to cry again. “And he just shuts down whenever I say his name.”

“This is important. It’s going to be a hard road; I won’t lie to you, it’s probably going to be almost as bad as…” He glances at me and leaves the rest unsaid.

The kids on the playground are still shrieking with delight, dashing to and fro. I remember recess with my brother, when we challenged each other to ever-higher climbs and ever-farther jumps off the swings. Always one-upping each other, never afraid of the risks. That, and pranking the teachers in grade school, who never could tell us apart.

“Talk to Jared,” Nick says, referring to Dad. “Please, encourage him to come next time. He’s burying his pain, too. Maybe helping his son will draw both of them out of their shells.”

Mom nods. “I’ll try.”

Can’t wait to see the train wreck tonight when she brings that up.

* * * * *

“I’m not going back, Darci,” Dad shouts. “I tried that psycho-babble bull. We’re throwin’ money at that guy every month, and for what?”

They always think their fights are some kind of secret, something I don’t notice because it happens after dark, behind closed doors. Even quiet voices carry through the vents; shouts come through loud and clear. The doors and walls aren’t nearly as soundproof as their minds.

“Honey,” Mom pleads, “there has to be some way to make things better.” I hear the crack in her voice as she adds, “I can’t lose him too.”

“Wasn’t it that quack’s idea to let the imaginary friend crap run its course in the first place? Then all of a sudden, we’re supposed to stop playing along. Where did that get us, huh?”

Like I’m some garbage video game they’re playing… Push A to expose pain; tap B to speed recovery; use right trigger to unlock closer relationship.

“Doctor Greene says we need to keep talking to Thomas,” Mom insists, her voice ragged. That tone—she’s barely holding together. It’s the threshold before the bubbling pot boils over.

“Darci, he keeps saying Thomas isn’t there anymore.” For once I have the tiny spark of hope that maybe someone believes me. “He’s not doing any of that imaginary crap like before. Maybe we’re only going to make things worse if we press the issue.”

“I can’t pretend that—I won’t accept that he—God, Jared, every time he acts like this, I feel like I’m grieving all over again.”

Dad says nothing. I get where Mom’s coming from, but she doesn’t know what Thomas went through, either.

“So… what do we do?” Mom sounds broken.

“Hell if I know.”

* * * * *

“Let’s talk about that day.” Nick isn’t even trying to go slow today.

“Fine. There’s not much to say. We rode our bikes up the steep hill on Hoffman Street, up to the train tracks. Nobody rides down that hill—it’s crazy. I told Thomas he didn’t have to do it, I told him he won the bet. I chickened out.”

“Is that right?”

“He said it wouldn’t be fair if he didn’t go through with it.”

Nick sits back, giving me a suspicious eye. “What did you say to that?”

I look around the room, trying to focus on anything else. Mom didn’t bother coming in this time. Dad called about some last-minute meeting at the office, so Mom stayed in the car fighting with him over the phone while I checked myself in for my appointment.

Against my will, the memories flash through my mind: my brother lurching forward and pedaling like mad, building up speed before the descent, my hand reaching out as if I could pluck him off the bike from ten feet away. “I didn’t have time to say anything.”

For an instant, I feel the onset of tears, the old hurt like a hand wrapped around my heart, squeezing into a fist. It was my fault. I goaded him into it. He lost control—I should’ve known that would happen—and went into traffic on Garfield Avenue at the bottom of the hill…

“Thomas,” Nick says, “it’s not healthy. All that guilt, all that blame, that crushing burden? You’ve been carrying it too long.”

My eyes drop to that folder on the desk, the name “Thomas Talbach” written in thick black Sharpie. Of course that fat secretary had me booked under the wrong name, the same one on Nick’s file. As he waits for me to answer, Nick taps his fingers on the folder almost like he’s pointing out the mistake everyone keeps making.

Just like how the hospital put the wrong name on the death certificate.

Just like the gravestone.

I don’t need any help. I don’t have any burden to put down. My only problem is I don’t know how to get everyone else to see that.

“My name,” I mutter, “is Timothy.”

Nick locks eyes with me, his face stern, his tone hard. “You need to let go, Thomas.”

“That’s the thing, Nick. I already did.”

 

BlogBattle, Writing

Delusions and Adventures – Two Open Submission Opportunities

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Writer friends and followers:

While there are a host of magazines and collections that often solicit submissions, two recent options caught my eye.

ApparitionLit runs a quarterly open solicitation for submissions of poetry and short fiction, with some appropriately thrilling or mysterious theme. This quarter is “delusion,” but unfortunately, the session is about to close (Feb 28th).

They’re accepting works with a theme of vision from May 15-31, and submission guidelines can be found here.

Find a quiet place, listen to the voices in your head, and write out all your inner pain… easy!

 

 

 

 

 

Since I’ve been focused on preparing my own submission, I failed as a blogger and provided those links far too late for anyone else to benefit. To make up for this heinous misdeed, here is another opportunity for short story submissions:

Rachel Ritchey is organizing a short story contest for adventure fantasy and sci-fi pieces as part of an anthology to raise money for charity. The inspiration for this piece is a cover picture provided with the submission details at the link above.

This contest just opened up today (Feb 26th) and runs until March 16th.

Now my guilty conscience is (somewhat) appeased, and I can get back to working on my own pieces.

Writing

I Feel Attacked

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Saw this a while back, after having some conversations with a writer friend from my local group. “Dave,” he said, “one thing I noticed was consistency in spelling. Which things are capitalized and which are not. That sort of thing.”

Guess what’s #1 on Ellen Brock’s list?

D’oh!!

Seriously, though, if you’re self-publishing or working on a manuscript to submit to traditional publishing, here are a lot of pitfalls to avoid.