Notes from Underground Anthology

The Literary Lab presents Notes from Underground Anthology!

This is particularly exciting for me because it contains my first published work, entitled Four Words, and puts me in very good company with 23 other accomplished writers.

Four Words is a short story based upon a scene from one of my novels.

Thanks LitLab for this opportunity, and all the hard work that went into putting together such a beautiful publication!

 Purchase a printed copy through CreateSpace or Amazon, or for your Kindle through Amazon.

Daydreams...

Now for something completely different...

I painted this when we lived near Kansas City, where it seemed the humidity was as thick as chiggers in August. I titled it August Afternoon, and here's a little story I wrote for it, though I must give Glenn, at Differences with the Same Likeness, credit for the last line.

Daydreams

She sure doesn’t look the way she did last summer, when everyone was at the water hole and all she did was sit there with her knees to her chest. Yeah, I used to tease her, but everyone did. She made it so easy, being that odd sort of quiet. Always to herself at the edge of the group, or her face in a book or drawing something. I didn’t mean to make her cry, with that bucket of frogs, and I sure didn’t think it would take a whole ‘nother year before she’d even talk to me again.

When Mickey Pritchard called her the boobless wonder, I should have punched his lights out. And I should have whispered her the right answer when Miss Whimbley called on her in front of everyone in math. Maybe I should’ve left a note with the valentine candy I put in her desk, or signed the picture I drew of her, with her pretty, long hair—the one she folded and stuck in her book.

I think she smiled at me during lunch, today, even though she wouldn’t show me what she was reading when I asked. Maybe if I happen to be hanging around the old hickory tree she always walks past on her way home, she won’t mind if I ride my bike beside her…

“Boy! Stop day dreaming, and get out and open the gate.”

My Consolation

Shriveled peas roll from my plate, into the pail where several crusts from morning toast await. Three escape into the sink and I chase them around the basin like piglets in a pen. I have trouble locating them as a shard of light pierces the tattered curtain, yet I can feel them, cornered. My fingers are still nimble enough to pinch and so they join the others.

On my way out, I pass her chair, pushed snug against the table. I stroke its back the way I used to caress the handrail as I stepped onto the porch of her parents’ house, my stomach twisting and turning with new love. Her barn coat still hangs from the old iron hook like dainties slung over the shower rod. Although the sight of it burns my eyes each time I come in or go out, I would die but for the yearning.

Then, the screen door slams behind me, echoing off every corner of the barnyard. On cue, they call to me like eager hatchlings waiting for their share.

Whites

Hanging a load of whites should have been a safe task, in spite of the accumulated heap awaiting the first bit of sun I had seen in days. I counted off each clothespin as I clipped consecutive washcloths, end-to-end; eleven in all. And then dish towels; still stained but clean to me. Bath towels next, trying to keep them from wrapping around me as a stiff breeze took control of three corners. Next row: cotton panties and a series of socks; anklets first and then knee-hi’s, each beside its mate. Finally, one last peculiar wad of cloth.

Distracted by the swoop of a barn swallow, I followed its ascent to the telephone wire overhead, amused at how the string of them, perched evenly between posts, resembled my weatherworn clothespins. I smiled, glad that I remembered how, and reached for that last bit of laundry. I didn’t recognize the T-shirt until I shook it out.

Damp. Clean—no, sterile. Not a trace of the man who wore it, and would never wear it again. I had desecrated the last bit of him, bleached out his scent, traded his sweat—the odor of wood shavings and freshly cut grass—for the smell of sunshine and warm breezes and I could not catch my breath over what I had done.

(I asked my husband if he thought I should change this from first person to third so that readers wouldn't think he died or something, and he said, "Nah—leave it as it is. Third person would ruin the intensity, doncha think?")

A Brief Update & A Very Short Story

I thought I should probably post something so the blogosphere wouldn’t think I’ve abandoned ship. First, a few excuses and a brief update: I haven’t been ignoring your blogs, but after 2 three-week-long trips to NH (since my last post) and the current craziness of putting our house on the market, I’m a little distracted.

As far as Story for a Shipwright goes—I’ve had 2 requests for the full manuscript, and 2 subsequent declines. I’m just so tickled that someone found the premise interesting enough to ask for that much, but a little disappointed that I didn’t receive some sort of feedback with it…Oh well, that’s okay—we all know that’s the biz. So, rather than second-guess the entire project and assume it’s my writing that sucks, I’m getting ready to send out another round of queries.

I’ve also started a new WIP, but for now, all I have to post, literarily, is the result of a 7 minute prompt, provided by a fellow writer, (which I couldn’t post without turning into an hour-and-a-half revision).

The Prompt:

Evening sun reflecting off a ripe peach sitting on the porch rail.

(the picture probably gave it away)

It’s not as if I heard the porch boards creak or caught the fleeting shadow of a goldfinch darting from its nest in the corner lilac bush—it may have only been a flash of radiant hue from the setting sun that beckoned me. Whatever the impulse, it drew my attention from the single dish I had just set to drip-dry, and brought me to the front screen door, my damp hands patting my cotton skirt. I certainly didn’t expect to find anyone out there, nor anything for that matter. Why, scarcely anyone but the faceless mailman knew I had taken up residence in the secluded old farm house, with painted clapboards checked from the Southern heat.

I didn’t see it immediately. Not until I sat in my lone rocker did I discover it at eye level, within arm’s reach in front of me, on the railing. Ochre blazed against the viridian and burnt umber background, so perfect and ripe, absorbing and reflecting light as if the sun itself had studied that spot for an eternity before planting itself right there. Rather than scrutinize the bushes for a broken twig, or the dirt walkway for a footprint, I stared in astonishment for an eager moment.

Reaching for it with both hands, my fingertips met its downy texture. Fondling it, brushing it against my upper lip, I breathed in its summertime scent. In seconds, I pierced its skin sending a dribble down my chin, escaping from a smile I could not restrain. Abandoning my self-consciousness, I devoured the peach like an undisciplined child, and sucked any remaining flesh from the pit. The way I used my bare wrist for a napkin and smacked my lips would have earned the scorn of any mother.

At last, I held up the pit for inspection. Who had left such a delectable gift?

Perhaps the college student working a summer job at the paint store, who wouldn’t meet my eyes, but raised his feathered brow with intrigue when I objected to too much yellow: “No,” I had told him, “too apricot. More peach—a fleshier, more succulent tone.”

Or perhaps the old spinster lady with fingers bent at painful angles, tending her fruit stand, holding out the peach that would be past ripe by tomorrow, as I clutched a pint of dark, dew-laden cherries, while counting my very last pennies.

Maybe the John Deere-capped and pepper-chinned farmer on the road, whose mud-caked boots shuffled along, halfway between town and his truck, and declined a lift because, he said, “It’s a beautiful afternoon, and I ain’t as broke down as my ol’ Chevy yet! But you’re a peach for offering.”

Or, I hoped, the azure-eyed gentleman at Stan’s Art Supplies, with crisp white sleeves, twice folded, exposing thick forearms, who asked if I was interested in purchasing the Summer Peach watercolor. When I said, “No—I’m simply studying the technique,” he handed me an enrollment application for an upcoming workshop, which I filled out, even though I loathe classroom settings.

I then placed the naked pit back on the rail, wondering if I ought to plant it, or if it might sprout, right there, overnight, of its own volition.

What I'm Debating

Only a few days left—then I have to decide, one way or the other. I’ve written a few short stories in the past—that is to say, I started a few, but never finished them. It seems strange to me that the idea of writing a novel felt more doable than taking on a short story.

So much riding on so few words. One shot at getting it right.

I suppose I could research ‘How to Write a Short Story,’ the way I researched writing a novel (after the fact, of course), but I have the feeling that would be just as overwhelming.

Then I read a quick post by Scott G.F.Bailey, over at the Literary Lab (sponsor of Contest). He simply said, “Something has to change in a story. You don't need to supply all the formal elements of exposition, rising conflict, inciting incident and reaction, climax and the like, but something has to change or happen or you don't have a story. If there is no event in your story, you likely have a non-story. At least that's my take on it. My minimum standards for a story are that you must have the following elements: 1. An actor 2. An action.”

Sooo, if I just operate on that premise, I won't have to do gobs of research. I’ll just write it. What do I have to loose, right?

Nothing…except that there has also been a lot of talk over there at the Lab about honesty in writing, (in fact, Lady Glamis plans to do another post on that this Thursday), and I realized that my short stories (yes I have 2 candidates) make my stomach do flip-flops when I think of anyone reading them. Oh the dilemma—do I put myself out there? Well, realistically, no one but the Literary Lab Trio will read either of them, so I’ll be safe—relatively. But what if...OOooohhh there goes my stomach again…

Of course, this post is all about talking myself into doing it.
Are there any of you other brave souls who plan to, or have submitted a short to the Genre Wars?