Field Trip: Pine Hill Cemetery

If you were at Discovering SHR a few weeks ago, you might have heard author Hannah Dela Cruz Abrams talk about the ways in which our own brains can keep giving us the same images, syntax, characters, sabotaging our creative impulses.

Author Cristina Garcia gives a talk called "Cultivating Chaos," in which she praises chaos as a fresh path to creativity. What she means, which is similar to Dela Cruz Abrams' idea, is that as writers we grow stagnant when we write in the same places, about the same things. There is a "randomness and  mystery that enlivens are best work," Garcia explains.

And that's what our field trips this semester aim to do.

So, with that in mind...

Instead of class on February 12th, make time to visit either Pine Hill Cemetery on Armstrong Street, or Baptist Hill on Dean and Thatch. Take an hour to walk around the grounds. These places have stories to tell. Open wide your faculties of perception.

Then, go somewhere quiet to write. You can either write at the cemetery, or somewhere nearby (the public library is across from the Pine Hill Cemetery, and it's a great place!). Don't let too much time go by between your field trip and your writing time.

Now, write a 3-4 page story, or scene, inspired by your visit. Perhaps you use one of the names you read on a headstone. Or you observed someone else at the cemetery mowing the lawn. Or you found yourself spending time wondering about the houses whose backyards are basically IN THE CEMETERY (this is true at Baptist Hill), or want to know why there are BROKEN TOMBS THAT YOU CAN LOOK INTO (also true at Baptist Hill).

Let chaos rule the day in your imagination. Strive for a story, an image, a line of dialogue, that is totally unlike what you've ever done before.

We will share these on February 17th, and you will turn them in for a grade. So please, type and double space these pieces.

Flightless, CHP 1: The Reckoning

Flightless

  

By

Steven Winters

Author’s Note:

Hello there, So I have several questions concerning the first chapter/scene. For me, the most glaring is if the combination of third person limited omniscient is working. I feel like I might be telling more than I am showing with it, but I’m not entirely sure if that’s the case or if I am just paranoid. If you know any short stories or books that utilize this POV please tell me, because I want the immediacy of the present but the looseness of the third person. Secondly, I want to make sure that the characters’ dialogue is unique enough. I want Will to be shy/sensitive and to show that he is basically pacifistic. Evelyn should be like a typical teenage girl. Abram, the serious father who is disappointed with his son. And lastly, do you like the fact that Belle speaks in musical notes? Also, is it fine giving backstory at the beginning of the chapter as a small blurb? And is Flightless too farfetched a title? Cause I am struggling with coming up with a good title. Lastly, I like the dinner scene, but I want to like the first time Will meets Belle because I think it’s the most important part of the chapter (and book) Does it seem forced? Because I want it as close to perfection as I can. Do I need to make the fight last longer? Have them talk more? Do I need to lengthen that scene?

Chapter I: The Reckoning

Only after Timar slaughtered a hundred of the foul creatures, did he gain his wings. The Gods cursed the Angels, taking away their feathers and casting them down towards the earth, to be broken and defiled. The Fallen are a plague, an animal to be hunted and killed.

-3^rd Tome of Timar: The Revelations

Somber, grey clouds coalesce on the outskirts of the small town, an impending sign that the Reckoning is about to occur. From the branch of an iron oak, Will waits for the first sign. As the melancholy clouds envelope the thatched roofs of the town in their shadow, Will spots a white feather. It floats to earth, bereft by the slight breeze that fills the empty streets of Brill. He looks down at the white-washed avenues, envisioning the excited murmurs behind the metal studded doors and slatted windows. He sits in absolute silence as the feather drifts towards the ground, and the chirruping birds fly from the branches. The snowy feather graces the cobblestone street; Will’s pale fingers let go of the coarse branch and he falls from the tree. Grass and dirt meet bare feet as the scene before him unfolds. The first door creaks open. Mr. Cottager, the medicine man, walks out into the street with an axe over his broad shoulders. The new arrival looks up into the grey clouds. Waiting.

More feathers follow the first. Some are gold, others silver, but they only accent the white feathers which pour from the sky. The flurry continues until the ground is completely covered with beautiful down. An opaque plume flutters and settles onto Will’s rough, burlap shirt. Picking it up, and twirling it between his fingers, he gazes upwards as the first slim body falls from the sky.

Even from this distance, he can see the long, brittle bones that protrude from the body’s shoulders, as a white robe, ruffling through the air, wraps around the Fallen’s frame. Will walks to the outer gates as the watchtower bell tolls. He isn’t the only one to spot the body. A mirthless laugh echoes in his ears as Mr. Cottager runs down the street, pushing Will aside in his haste to meet the first Fallen.

Will looks at the man then back towards the falling body. “It’ll survive the fall,” he mutters, “they always do.” Pushing himself off the ground, he brushes the dirt off his patched pants and turns around and continues to the outer gates.

Will hears the soft thump of the body hitting the ground and glances over his shoulder. The creature had fallen close to the oak, standing stalwart on an island of grass in the small square, where he was perched. Its manic eyes glare into the axe wielder’s own. Before Mr. Cottager could lift the axe from his shoulder, it lunges towards him with a shriek, like the peal of a funeral bell, trying to grab at the man’s midriff. Will, turning around, places his hands over his ears and hastens his pace, the musical screaming had bothered him for as long as he could remember. The scream is dulled as he looks down at the street, one foot methodically placed in front of the other. A few seconds later, the screech is silenced as the axe head buries itself into the Fallen’s neck. Blood trickles into a gutter. More doors open, but Will keeps walking.

The gatekeepers see Will approaching the massive entryway, hands still firmly clasped around his ears. As he walks by the eldest guard, Joel, stands in front of the lad and pulls Will’s hands away from his ears, “You know the rule Will, back before nightfall or you’ll be with the wolves tonight.” His calloused hands let go of Will, and he retreats to underneath the archway in order to lower the gate for the retreating lad.

Will nods at Joel’s back and then to his younger counterpart, Aaron, and walks across the drawbridge. For the past three years, the past three Reckonings, he has left the town in order to evade the bloodlust that fills the very souls of the usually peaceful townspeople.

Halfway across the drawbridge, he stands still. Will can feel the cold, black marbleized eyes of Timar staring at him from the center of town. He turns to face the main street, the clear broad lane that met the gateway and greeted the caravans that occasionally entered town, and the marble statue of a man in plate armor stands fifteen feet tall, gazing in his direction. Pure, white wings curl around his body. The statue’s outstretched arms invite him to join the festivities that would undoubtedly unfold as more bodies rain from the clouds. Will, breaking the statue’s gaze, starts walking. He hears Joel laughing, as his feet touch the dirt road.

Grassy knolls stretch endlessly across the cart tread path that Will follows. Even with the overcast from the clouds, the yellow buttercups are still beautiful, and the knee high, golden wheat stalks sway in the breeze, bowing to the boy as he walks by them. As the stalks fade, shrubs sprout. Will looks up to stare at the forest of cedars that loom over him. To his left he sees the hill that has become his perch during the yearly Reckoning. Even though the hill is dangerously close to the forest, with its hidden dangers, he feels safer here than in the town. Far away from the town and the screaming beings: the Fallen. Turning away from the trodden path he makes his way to the hill, the only thing slowing him are the grasping weeds wrapping around his feet. Upon reaching the top, Will picks a small blade of grass and twirls it between his fingers, the feather he once had was now trapped within the massive, stone walls.  The sickly, sweet scent of wild honeysuckle, which wreathes around the trunks of the cedars, lulls him into complacency. Looking at the wooden wall, which encompasses the town, he envisions the events unfolding within.

His family would be in the cacophony of falling bodies, adding more blood to their hands. His sister, Evelyn, had yet to fell one of the beings. She would be trying her hardest again, he imagines her, each hilt of a jagged dagger pressed firmly in her palm as she searches for a victim. A wolfish smile would be etched on her face as her slim frame stands over an unarmed creature, ready to strike it down. The memory of the first time he saw her blue eyes glow with bloodlust still sends shivers down his spine. Martha, Will’s mother, would be utilizing the hand scythe she uses during harvest season; slicing through flesh as easily as tender stalks of wheat. Not a single person, since Timar, has reached a hundred kills within their lifetime. Yet Will’s father, the high priest, has currently killed ninety-five of the creatures. Every townsperson inwardly knows that “Abram the Hammer” will be the first person in three centuries to gain his wings. They were the perfect family, with the exception of one, small blemish.

Will flicks the worn stalk of grass away, red tinging his pale cheeks. He tears out a clump of grass, dirt falling away from small roots, as his rosy cheeks darken.

Many of his friends had already killed a Fallen. They would come to the single roomed school house the day after their “trial” and tell overly excited schoolchildren how they were nearly killed, and how they were only able to escape death by a single knife thrust. Will would scoff at them. He knew what happened in the streets. None of the creatures had a weapon to defend themselves, but that didn’t stop the school boys from trying to kill them. He stops, mid tear and his jaw slackens.

He gazes at the city, where the screams peal louder as more of the falling throng are cast from the sky. Yet there is one body that doesn’t join the others. The clump of grass falls from his stunned hands. A small body flings itself to earth, outside the monolithic walls. For the first time in three years, Will stands up and reaches for the small hunting dagger attached to his thick, leather belt. He watches as it stands up and scurries from the walls, spurred on by the death cries of its brethren. It runs down the path that leads past Will’s hillock.

Will’s feet refuse to move from the safety of the hill. Instead, he prays to every god under the sun that it will run the other way, but his prayers fall on deaf ears as it continues down the path. A featherless frame slithers across the ground as little feet patter up the road then stop. She looks up to his hillock. She stops seeing him there, then moves towards him. As she reaches the top they stare at each other. She realizing he wasn’t a Fallen, and Will staring at the little white robed girl; both afraid to move. The polished gleam of the dagger catches her eye and she takes a deliberate step back. The knife inches up from Will’s hip. She growls and takes a step forward. The knife moves up in front of him as she runs at him, a shrill clanging sound filling the air as she screams. Her small frame clashes into his as she grasps for the dagger. Will, amazed at the ferocity of someone so small, pushes her back. She leaps at him again, and again he repels her with his free hand. Her sky blue eyes never leave the dagger gripped in his hand. He looks to her and then to the dagger and sheathes it.

She runs once more at him and collides with him. As they fall to the ground Will rolls backwards and lands, crouching. She, sprawled on the ground. “I’m not fighting you,” he says to her, “just go, and leave me alone.” She looks up at him and then down at her now grass stained robes. 

Tears trace the crease of her nose as they stream down her face. The sound of small bells chiming in the wind come from her trembling lips. Her rounded facial features make her look roughly eight, but for all Will knows she could be eight hundred. Sighing, he holds out his hand, offering to help her stand. She pushes it away. “It’s okay, I won’t hurt you.” He pulls sheathe and knife from his belt, and throws them down the hill. “See, I won’t hurt you. Stop crying. Please, stop crying.”

After a while, the girl’s tears subside and the small, melancholic sounds diminish. She wipes her eyes with a pale arm and blows her nose in a grass stained corner of her white dress. Will returns to his spot. She continues to stand as Will stares off into the distance. He looks over to her, “You’re free to go. You’d better hurry if you don’t want them to come after you. They’ll hunt you down.” She stares at him and opens her mouth, but all Will hears are more musical notes. “Um, sure.” She picks herself up and walks over to him and sits down. Together they stare at the fortified walls of the city.

The dying, orange sun peaks through the grey clouds and over the walls as the last body falls, trying to glimpse at the carnage that lies within. Will stands and stretches his arms over his head. He walks towards the town. Bells sound after him. “You can’t come with me. They’ll kill you.” Small fingers pull at his shirt, begging for him to stay a while longer. He looks down into her blue eyes, and with an audible sigh, begins to formulate a plan. “If you survive the night, I’ll bring you food, okay.” She smiles and nods. “Climb a tree, that way the wolves won’t find you.” She nods again. “Do you understand me?” Another nod. “Shake your head if you do.” She shakes her head. Hesitantly, he pats her on the head, her dark, chestnut hair soft to the touch, and turns toward the town. As he reaches the bottom of the hill he can hear the faint slithering of a bony frame, snaking itself through the grass, running in the opposite direction.

The gates loom before him, casting its black shadow across the ground, as he crosses the drawbridge. Joel waves him down, the spear head is now stained red, “How was the view?” A red drop drips from the pointed tip. Will lowers his head.

“The usual, a lot of grass and a gloomy sky.” He mutters to the ground, as he passes the guards.

 “That sounds about right, but I was able to get two today, and Aaron here got three that tried climbing the gates. Stupid bastards!” He laughs. Even from the spear length between the boy and the elder guard, the sweet scent of wine reaches him. His gait widens, eager to reach home. He hears the clang of the weapon and the clinking of chains as the drawbridge closes. He looks ahead and sees the once pure, white wings are now stained crimson as a pile of bodies lay before Timar. The colossal gates block the last decaying rays of sunlight from falling upon the scene as shadow envelops the town. He heads towards his house, putting as much distance he can between himself and the grinning statue.

The streets are devoid of people as the sound of raucous laughter and drunken singing escape from closed doors and shuttered windows. The pleasant noise, mixed with the alkaline stench of blood, cause him to trot along the path. Avoiding streams and pools of crimson stains, Will makes his way to a small two story house with the family seal, the Tomes of Timar, plastered on the door for visitors to identify it from the other identical houses on the street. The heavy oak doors give way under his push, and the warm smell of baked bread permeates the air. He hears a faint whistle and with a solid thunk, a jagged edged knife imbeds itself into the door frame next to him. His sister, standing at the bottom of the staircase in the small foyer, walks up to Will and places one hand next to the door frame and the other cajolingly slaps against his cheek several times. She reaches for her knife, “Guess what happened today?” A coppery tang reaches his nostrils and he reaches to his wet cheek, clotted blood is smeared on his hands. “Got my first kill.” She smirks at him, white teeth glinting in the firelight, then saunters off, the ends of her long blonde locks also stained red.

“Will, get the dishes and set the table,” his mother, hearing the one-sided conversation, calls from the kitchen, “dinner’s almost ready.” He walks in and sees her bustling over the brick oven, the smell of spiced meat and bread swirl around the room. He walks over to the small cabinet, which stands under an equally small window, and pulls out pewter mugs and plates. He sets them on the roughhewn table in the center of the kitchen and pulls out the knives and forks. His father walks in from the living room, the entire front of his smock in red, interspersed with solid bits of white. Will glances past the gargantuan man and sees the newly cleaned hammer sitting over the hearth of the blazing fire.

“Good, the boy’s back. Set the dishes, Will.” He walks over to his wife and pecks her on the neck. “Just one more, then we’ll have all the power in this town, Martha.”

“So you killed four today?” Will asks, as he scrambles through drawers to find the spoons.

“Yeah. Nearly had the last one too, but that bastard Cottager took it before I could get it. Doesn’t want me to get my wings. Jealous I guess. Don’t forget to pull out the good ale, we have to celebrate your sister’s first kill.” And with another peck on Martha’s neck, Abram leaves the room.

After half an hour, the family of four sits around the table, passing the spiced mutton back and forth. Refills on ale become more commonplace as the conversation turns to the day’s events.

“You should’ve seen when it was trying to run from me. I knew I couldn’t let it get away. After all, if I didn’t get it Susanne, from class, would’ve gotten it and she already has three kills.” Evelyn states, stabbing at the meat in her excitement.

“Can you pass the bread?” asks Will.

“So I knew that I had to do something to show everyone that it was my kill. So I took my knife by the blade…” Will reaches over for the bread, only to have it snatched away by his father who places it on his plate. Will situates himself back in his seat. “And you should’ve seen the look on her face when my knife dug into its back. It was absolutely amazing…”

Will picks at the lamb. Lamb, is his sister’s favorite dish.

“…And when I got to drag it over to the alter and smear the wings with its blood. It was like some kind of transformation,” she continues.

As she takes another breath to expound more on her supposed transformation Will interrupts, “Well I don’t see any wings on you, so I guess it wasn’t that much of a transformation.” She glares at him. He continues to pick at his lamb. Silence fills the air.

“I’m proud of you, Evelyn. Hearing that tale reminds me of the first kill I ever had,” says Abram, flushed in the cheeks. Will, who hears this story at least three times a week, decides to ask the inevitable question.

“How did you kill your first, Father?”

Abram looks to Will and gives him a rare smile, “I’m glad you asked, Will. Well it started when I was around ten seasons old, five seasons younger than yourself…” as his father talks Will spears a piece of meat onto the end of his fork and takes a bite. He looks out the window to see if the moon has made its circuit over the wall. He wonders to himself, in between bites, if the little girl has been able to find anything to eat in the forest.

 “And when I had it cornered in the alley I swung down…” It must be lonely out in the forest with no family, Will muses. He swallows, wondering if she has any family. That is if they aren’t piled outside underneath the statue of Timar.

“But now all we have to do is wait for the next Reckoning and we will be the first family since Timar to have their wings…” Will stares at his plate, trying to figure out how he should hide her wings, after all she won’t last out in the forest for long. Even the most grizzled townsperson could die in that thicket. It would be better to be safe in the town than out in the wilderness.

“But enough with the stories, it’s getting late and I will need to prepare for the Gathering at the temple. Martha, let’s turn in,” and pushing himself away from the table, Abram and Martha leave the kitchen. The clinking of forks and knifes echo as Will and Evelyn finish their meal.

“How did it feel?” he asks her.

“Well, it felt pretty good actually,” She picks up a hunk of lamb and tears into it.
            “Does it not bother you?”

“What? Killing it? No, not really. When you get in and see everyone else claiming their kill, it becomes a sort of sport I guess. Make sure you’re not the one that didn’t get a kill. Like hunting.”

“But isn’t it different than hunting animals?” Will asks, picking the empty plates and mugs and bringing them to the basin, where he begins to pump the spigot.

He hears the bench squeal against the stone floor as his sister gathers her dishware. She walks over and they both begin to clean the dishes. Will hands her the first plate and she sets to drying, “I think it’s the same concept,” she whispers to him. She stares into the sink as Will scrubs the dirty plates, “But enough about me, killer, how was your day?” she says in a more confident tone. Will stares at the water.

“You know, the usual. Lots of grass and a gloomy sky.” He hands her the next plate. They work together in silence together, swept up by the mechanical process, “I’m happy for you though, Evelyn.”

She finishes drying the last plate, “Thanks, killer, you’ll get there some day. It just takes time is all. Don’t stress about Dad all that much. I know you’ll get your first kill soon. Hey, maybe next year.” She pats him on the shoulder and leaves the room.

He stands at the basin and stares out the window, a pale tendril of glowing moonlight peaks through the frame. “I met an angel today,” he mutters to the empty room, “she might not’ve had wings, but I know she’s an angel.” After the dishes were put away, he walks upstairs to his bedroom. He stairs outside the window as the patter of rain bounces off the roof. As he lay in bed, tossing and turning, the rain cleanses the streets of blood and strips the crimson stains from the set of white marble wings.  He restlessly falls asleep, envisioning the grey pelts of hungry wolves and a torn, blood splattered white robe.

Caroline: Just a Taste Ch.1

                                                                        

Author's Note: I think I've done a good job getting the inciting incident of Ellena being offered and then taking the shift at the food truck across along with the necessary back story for the character relationships, Ellena's dad's death, and the cooking aspect.  I worry that the last half feels heavy since I don't really have any dialogue breaking it up, just scene changes. I'm also concerned I haven't given enough details either - like description and setting - as I'm so bad at being too concise or too in my head to realize what's not on the page that needs to be.  

       The food truck is a breakfast/brunch food truck, which is why I named it Quichey Keen, but I'd love to hear feedback on the name! I just wonder if it's working/funny/cute/makes sense to y'all, because it was surprisingly hard to come up with a catchy food truck name. 

                                                                            Chapter 1 

  Mable sat on the worn oriental rug in my bedroom, cutting out pictures and lines of bold font from the magazine pages I had ripped out and tossed down to her from my perch on the bed.  We were determined to finish our “inspiration board” before Mable left to work her shift at Quichey Keen – something she insisted was of vital importance to ensure a successful start to our summer vacation.  

       “Hey, stop tearing out so many shoes and perfume ads. Try finding a hot Calvin Klein model, this board needs some testosterone.” Mable did a little shimmy with her shoulders. 

“Oh, stop, how is a picture of a guy’s abs inspiring?” I laughed and Mable rolled her eyes. 

“This is exactly why we’re making this board. Clearly, your mind needs to be opened to new and exciting ideas.” She fanned her hands out to emphasize the new and exciting, following up with another shimmy. I threw a torn apart magazine at her.

“Be thankful I didn’t throw the September Vogue.” 

“You forget I’m the one with the scissors.” She lifted the lifted the pair of scissors above her head with frantic clipping motions, as if about to pounce, before cracking a smile. “Just hand me the thumb tacks before I’m legit late for work.” 

I reached for the tacks on my bedside table and slipped off the bed to join Mable on the floor. As we started pinning the random photos of pretty things into the corkboard, I caught her glancing nervously at me from under her bangs. 

“I seriously want you to look at this every day, Ellena.  Looking at fun, pretty things will cheer you up, even if just a little.  I know mine did when Parker and I broke up last spring.” Mable quickly looked down at the board, knowing her breakup couldn’t really compare to what I had been through. But, everything about what she said was sincere. I knew she was just doing what best friends do – whatever she could to keep me from slipping back into the tough grey months of quiet lunches and blank expression.  I smiled with my lips closed and poked her knee with the sharp end of a tack. 

“Thanks, Mabe.  I promise to look at it. I mean, you’re totally right, staring at a hot male models is definitely the key to happiness.” I tried to mimic her earlier shimmy, but only managed to spastically shrug my shoulders.

Mable laughed, “God, please never do that again – that’s the key to my happiness.” She stood from her cross-legged position and went to the mirror hanging on the back of my door. “Ugh. I’m so over this job. Do you know how hot a food truck is in the summer? It’s hot,” she said as she re-braided her long blonde hair.  “Can’t you take my shift this weekend?” Mable begged with her eyes in the mirror, but I couldn’t imagine working outside during a Virginia summer, let alone in a kitchen again.  It was too soon. 

“So sorry, truly,” I gestured a dramatic apology, “but there’s no way that will ever happen. Love ya.” I blew her a kiss into the mirror, which she received with a scrunched up nose. 

“I just think you’d really like it! You know, cooking and all…” Mable trailed off knowing she was stepping into a tense subject. I held her eyes in the mirror for a second before answering.

“Nope.  You just want to go on your step-dad’s boat and lay out.  No ma’am, you are not leaving me stranded ashore.” Mable shook her head in unconvincing defiance before scooping her braid up into a faded navy Alexandria Yacht Club baseball cap.  She grabbed her purse and keys from the foot of the bed, flicking the top of my head as she started to leave. 

“Just give it a thought. You know he’d want you to.” I focused on the shoelaces of her tennis shoes, not looking up and admit she was right. “Well, hey, text me a picture when you get the board up on the wall.  I gotta go.” Mable flicked my head again before leaving the room.  Sometimes it was hard being friends with a person that knew you better than you knew yourself. 

Mable and I had been inseparable since the day she moved into the house next door.  While our mothers chatted at the end of the driveway about moving hassles and book clubs, I clung to mine and hid behind her legs, peering between the gap in her thighs at the girl wearing head-to-toe neon orange.  My mom laughed and asked about her bright ensemble, to which Mable’s mother relayed how Mable had been concerned the movers would overlook her and accidently crush her with a sofa if she wasn’t wearing the proper safety wear.  I stepped out from behind my mother and lifted the hem of my right jean leg, revealing a pair of neon orange socks. Mable beamed. We were 6 years old that summer, and 11 years later we were starting the last real high school summer before our senior year. We even sometimes still wore neon orange. 

I tacked the last magazine cut-out – a artsy bouquet of pastel ice cream cones – and leaned back against the side of my bed.  What Mable had said kept looping my thoughts. She was right, my dad would have wanted me to keep cooking.  More so, he would have thrown a full-on fit at the absurd idea that I could ever stop cooking.  But, even thinking about it now struck a chord of dull anxiety in my stomach that ached through me. 

I turned my head, still resting it against the side of my bed, to look at my open closet across the room.  I could just barely see the bottom 6 inches of the light blue dollhouse façade peeking out from behind my winter sweaters, a relic of my childhood shoved to the back. I scooted across the rug and hardwood floors to reach the closet, tugging the dollhouse out from the barrier of clothing.  I clicked open the plastic latch on the side and swung open the entire front of the house, revealing my stash.            Inside, wedged into the rectangular rooms of the Barbies of yore, were a couple of 2-year-old Food & Wine magazines and a thick spiraled journal with worn corners and tens of papers sticking out from almost every side.  My dad’s recipes. 

         My dad died in his restaurant.  He was prepping the wait-staff on the changes to the lunch menu when he was suddenly just gone.  Gone even before anyone reached for a phone to call an ambulance.  The doctor at the hospital said it was a blood clot in the leg that moved to his brain, that no one could have known and he didn’t feel a thing.  Which never felt right to me, because my dad embraced pain.  As a chef, he had more burn and knife scars on his hands than I could count, and I would try when I was little.  Each time he’d grab a hot pan without thinking or nick his finger on a shattered plate, he’d bellow, practically sing, “Love is pain, and so is cooking!”  So I wish he’d felt something in the end, even pain. 

         I flipped open the tattered recipe book and ran my right index finger over the scrawled handwriting I was so familiar with.  Each page was like a piece of him.  They were only recipes, some passed down in the family, some borrowed from friends or colleagues, many created by my father.  He was always working on The Best Thing You’ve Ever Tasted, always sure he could beat himself at his own mad scientist game.  And he always did, at least almost always.  I turned to the last several pages of recipes, the ones he was working on when he died.  Grits.  Grits were his kryptonite.  For some reason he had never been able to find or come up with a recipe that fit The Best Thing You’ve Ever Tasted criteria.  Three Cheese Pepper Grits. Shrimp and Garlic Grits.  Spinach and Egg Baked Grits.  Balsamic Honey Grits.  Beer-Soaked Bacon Grits.  Adouille Sausage and Asiago Grits. Each recipe was marked with aggressive symbols of varying extremes of failure.  Red exclamation points in the top corner meant a near miss.  A thick black ‘X’ across the page meant disaster.  The last recipe, Spiced Chai Grits, didn’t have any markings at all.  

I kept my dad’s recipe book in the dollhouse so my mother wouldn’t know.  After he died the restaurant – La Lena, named for me, the nickname he gave his only daughter – struggled.  It took my mother a month to reopen after the funeral, and by then it seemed the entire population of Alexandria had found new favorite restaurants.  La Lena was forgotten.  My mom tried to keep it alive, tried to replicate every aspect as if that would keep my dad alive, too, and for a while she did.  Last month, eight months after my dad died, we closed La Lena for good.  We sold and auctioned off each table, chair, set of silverware – even the spare microwave we’d kept in the supply closet – it was all priced, boxed, and gone.  

         I found the recipe book as we were packing up the random odds and ends that couldn’t be or didn’t get sold.  I was dumping a heap of stained napkins into a box with menus, a phone book, and several biographies of James Beard when I saw the fray of pages sticking out from under the drink menus.  As I pulled the book out of the box my mother walked past, “Just toss that,” she said fast and sharp in a way I knew meant it was my dad’s, and that she couldn’t bear to see something of his like that. I nodded that I had heard her, but instead of putting it back with the menus I tucked it up under my sweatshirt.  

          A month later, I still can’t seem to tell my mother I kept it.  I wasn’t sure if I was afraid she’d be angry for going against her, or afraid she’d break into a million pieces.  I figured I would tell her when I could actually bear to cook one of the recipes myself.  I’d been my dad’s right hand girl in the kitchen, mostly at home, but also at La Lena on some weekends, but now it wasn’t the same.  I didn’t know how I to make anything taste good without him standing next to me.  I wasn’t sure I could even lift a spoon. 

         Sitting in the doorframe of my closet reading the recipes closely like I’d done dozens of times before, the throng of anxiety in my stomach I got from thinking about cooking twisted into something new.  Something I couldn’t ignore.  I placed my father’s recipes back into the dollhouse, pushing it back to its dusty baseboard, and stood to get my phone. 

       “Hey, Mable.  I know you’re working, so call me back when you get this.  I–I want to take your shift this weekend.” 

Lights> Part One Malena Mann

Author's Note: 

In these first chapters I introduce several key ideas that are central to the plot as well as the characters that will be partaking in the plot. I explain how the world that the characters are in works, which was extremely challenging because I wanted to focus on the characters more than on the weird world that they live in. I also plan on adding to these chapters, I just need some guidance on how to do that and what particular elements to expand on. I'm struggling with the main character's voice since she's temperamental and sassy. I want to keep her strong voice but I need to balance it out so that she's still likable and relatable to the readers. I'm also unsure as to how much backstory I should provide. Lastly, I  struggled with the verb tense that I wrote in. I use a lot of flashbacks but I stick to the past tense throughout the whole thing. I think it might be best to switch to present but I would like to hear what people think bout it first. Thankfully, all of these issues and questions can be addressed during the workshop. 

Chapter 1

We call them lights, those small glowing orbs of the remnants of the people that we once were. At least that’s what I call them. They have many names: angels, ghosts, spirits. I’m not sure whose light I saw first, probably a stranger’s, but I remember the first time I realized what they were. I was eleven and at my grandmother’s passing ceremony. Grandma Linda had died two days ago and ever since we had been celebrating her passing at our house. Her casket had been sitting in the middle of our living room, replacing our coffee table and partially blocking the television. I didn’t quite know what was happening. I thought grandma was napping in a strange box in the living room for no good reason and Capri and I kept trying to wake her up by throwing paper planes at her so that we could regain the quarter of the screen that the top of her casket hid. We had given up on waking her and were trying to watch TV when a sharp cracking sound echoed through the house. Capri and I jumped and screamed and my mother, who had been in the kitchen, ran to us. She told us to be quiet and watch. Grandma Linda’s body began to swell at an alarming rate, like one of the helium balloons that mom used to get me for my birthdays. Grandma Linda continued to grow until the loose cream button-down shirt that she was wearing stretched as far as it would go, old pale skin peeking in-between the buttons. When I was convinced her shirt was going to rip there was a strange high pitched whistling sound as her body began to deflate. I covered my ears in an effort to muffle the sharp sound but it echoed inside my head. By now grandma’s body had folded into itself, the saggy skin covering the bones like a thin tablecloth. I was so busy looking at the skin and bones that I missed the small flickering light that was dancing almost a foot above grandma’s face. In fact I would have missed the glowing orb completely if Grandma hadn’t told me to look at her. That’s when I understood what the lights really are.

Now I would much rather be waiting for Capri’s splintering than sitting on this rickety plastic chair at Blue Ridge’s Memorial Yard. Capri and I used to call it the Junk Yard since the only thing in it are headstones, empty caskets, and plastic foldout chairs for the lost ceremonies. This is my first time attending a lost ceremony and considering its being held for my dead best friend it sucks just as bad as I had initially imagined. All it really is is Mr. Carter delivering a speech in honor of the lost and then burying the empty caskets under the marked headstones. The ceremony should be starting soon. Mr. Carter is standing behind a small wooden podium going over his notes, which is odd since they are likely to be the generic “they left this world too soon” spiel that anyone that watches television is probably familiar with. By now most of the chairs are occupied. This isn’t really surprising since the Thompson family has been a part of Blue Ridge’s community for generations. Even Mayor Neils is here, sitting in the middle section of one of the two columns of chairs.

At first I tried keeping up with who was showing up, taking little mental notes like the following: Laura Schneller. 20. Amelia’s best friend. Is wearing a purple polka-dot dress that would have made Capri cringe. Maurice Fink. 18. The Thompson’s neighbor. Collects bird feathers. Weirdo.  Mr. Matthews. Old. High school principal. Dyes his hair but won’t admit to it and has several small cacti decorating his office. I was about to start taking notes on Jeremy Wayne when I felt something on my lap. I looked down to see my mom’s hand on my knee. She gave it a light squeeze and threw me a pity smile. A smile that I had grown uncomfortably familiar with over the last few days.

Doctor Thompson, Mrs. Thompson, Amelia, and Capri were all sleeping in their home when it caught on fire. They’re saying it was an electrical spark that started in the kitchen due to the faulty toaster. That toaster had been broken for weeks, staying on unless you unplugged it from the wall or jammed a fork into the base of the switch that forces the bread tray to pop up. That night, Capri and her family had tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner. She was supposed to spend the night over at my house after eating with her family but Doctor Thompson had a patient with an emergency and ended up working late, so Capri texted me to let me know that she wouldn’t be able to make it to my house. I told her I would see her at school the next day.

We should have thrown that toaster away. Capri and I had talked about tossing it in the trash and forcing Mrs. Thompson to go buy one. Capri’s mom loved toast; she had it every morning for breakfast. No exceptions. Mrs. Thompson said she would go to the store and get a new one, but she never did.       

Mr. Carter cleared his throat, scanned the quieting crowd and began his speech.

“‘Those who are lost are not forgotten.’ Never have these words been truer than with the Thompson family. Kind, loving, and generous, Edward, Lucy, Amelia, and Capri will continue to live in our hearts despite their tragic loss. I remember when Edward…”

I had heard enough. I untangled my headphones, unwrapping them from around my phone. I plugged them in, inserting a small bud into each ear, resigning myself to wait this out.

Chapter 2

It was only after Grandma Linda died that I became interested in the lights. I had seen and heard the lights before, but I had never really cared about what they said. Learning that Grandma Linda was gone but not really made me feel relieved at first. It was like she had never left, she reminded me to brush my teeth before going to bed and she asked me how school went, even though she followed me to school. Those were also the disadvantages of having her as a light. She had the ability to follow me anywhere, exponentially expanding her nagging radius.

After grandma died, mom brought it upon herself to explain the traumatic events that Capri and I had just witnessed. She made us hot chocolate, even though it was three o’clock and the middle of the summer, and had us sit in the kitchen. The remains of Grandma Linda were still in the living room and we weren’t keen on going back there anytime soon.

“Splintering is the final stage of the passing,” said mom. “When a person dies, the soul needs time to condense into its purest form. Depending on how complex your soul is this can take anywhere from hours to days or months. When you splinter, your soul is finally able to break free of your body.”

“Does it hurt?” asked Capri, noisily sipping on hot chocolate.

“No, honey. People don’t even remember it.”   

I wasn’t quite sure I believed her. After all, how would she know if she has never died? Grandma Linda must have sensed my skepticism or read my mind because next thing I new she was talking to me. The weird thing about talking to lights is that it all happens in your head. I had heard other lights in my head before but never someone’s voice that I was particularly interested in listening to, which made it extremely easy to simply shut these voices out or treat them as background noise.

“I don’t remember feeling anything,” said grandma.

“Its so weird that we can still hear her,” I said.

“You will get used to it sweetheart,” said mom. “And you can learn to shut it out if it bothers you too.”

“But what about Ms. Linda?” asked Capri.

“She will continue to be with us. That is the beauty of passing and splintering, we never really have to say goodbye.”

That night I couldn’t go to bed. Grandma Linda’s light kept flickering by the foot of my bed, shadows bouncing around my small room. I tried blocking it out, the way mom said I could. But no matter how hard I tried the light continued to dance behind my closed eyelids. I finally asked grandma if she could leave and she floated through my bedroom door, disappearing. I didn’t see grandma until over a week later.

Chapter 3

            It’s been a week since Capri’s death. I’ve been spending my days talking to Grandma Linda and watching TV. My summer excitement and activities were centered on Capri. We had spent all of spring semester coming up with a list of things that we wanted to do during summer break. We would be seniors in the fall so this would be our last truly enjoyable summer, without having to worry about things such as college, moving away, and making new friends. Her death brought all my plans to a sudden halt. We had only gotten through the first six items on our list on the night she died. We were supposed to go to the beach today. We had begged Amelia to let us tag along with her and her friend Laura and they had surprisingly agreed. Capri tried to convince me that this was entirely an act of kindness from Amelia’s heart, but I have a feeling Capri might have threatened to blackmail her. Capri always got what she wanted no matter the cost, and blackmailing was her specialty.

Instead of spending my summer tanning by Capri’s pool, I had spent this last week painting and repainting my nails and watching bad reality shows. The light grey couch in the living room was slowly but surely getting a permanent dent from my butt cheeks. 

Mom’s friend, Charlotte, told her that it’s normal for me to feel this way and convinced her to buy me a fish. I don’t know how a fish is supposed to help me feel better about losing my friend forever but my mom fell for it. I had gone out for an afternoon jog, the first since Capri died, only to find my mom had come back from work, with a fish. She said that I had to name it and that I had to treat it the way I would treat Capri’s light.

            “So you want me to replace my dead friend with a fish?” I asked.

            “Olivia, you’re being dramatic. I’m just trying to—“

            “No! Don’t try to understand. Just leave me alone.”

            Even though I had just gone on a jog I headed back outside. I walked to the end of our driveway, stopping next to our mailbox. I took a deep breath before putting my headphones in and ran, not bothering paying attention to where I was headed.

            Capri’s house is exactly 1.2 miles away from mine. Or rather it used to be. I was running without paying much attention and I ended up running straight to where the Thompson’s house used to stand. Capri and I have lived in the same neighborhood since I moved here when I was seven years old. Beechwood Grove is an old neighborhood with grand Victorian style homes intermixed with nature trails, creeks, and woods. The developers decided that it was essential for Beechwood Groves to embrace the American right to own land and had provided plenty of space between every home. During those especially hot and humid days that I would walk to Capri’s house I used to curse the patriotic assholes that designed our stupid neighborhood. The route to Capri’s house is particularly beautiful since it requires cutting straight through the beechwood grove that the neighborhood is named after. Capri’s house used to be a beautiful three-story house with a large screened porch, pool, and greenhouse. It was probably one of the largest and most beautiful homes in all of Beechwood Grove. The house was a beautiful robins egg blue and had ornate trimmings in a soft cream color. Capri used to call it The Nest.

            The Nest has changed a lot since I last saw it. Everything was lost in the fire except for the greenhouse, which was placed a little ways behind the house. The once grand structure was now nothing but a heap of burnt wood. Even though the fire had taken place over a week ago the smell of smoke and burnt wood was still strong. I pulled my headphones out and walked up the stone pathway that led straight to where the steps to the bright yellow door to the house used to be. Some wooden stakes had been planted around the scene, yellow police tape running through them like cheerful streamers.  I assumed that whatever was salvageable, if there was anything, had already been removed from the site.

            I don’t know how long I stood there, looking at the charred remains, but I would have probably stayed put a lot longer if it hadn’t been for the sound of steps coming towards me. I turned around to see Maurice Fink and a police officer walking up the stone steps.

            “Olivia?” asked Maurice.

            Even though Maurice and I went to the same school and essentially grew up next to each other we probably never exchanged more than a few words between us. He was a year older than us and never seemed to be one with many friends. In fact, Maurice would have probably managed to live his entire life unnoticed if it weren’t for the wild mop of blonde curls that sat atop his head. His crazy mane attracted many unwanted stares that usually sent the poor guy shuffling in the opposite direction.

            “You can’t be here, Miss,” said the officer, reaching the last stone on which I stood.

            “How come?” I asked

            “Olivia, I’m sure the officer has his reasons. Why don’t you—“

            “Whatever,” I said, interrupting Maurice.     

            I shuffled past the officer and Maurice and began my descent down the stone path. I had reached the mailbox when I heard quick steps behind me.

“Olivia, wait.”   

            I kept walking, deciding it was probably time for me to jog back home when I felt Maurice grab my arm. I turned to yank my arm away but he surprisingly had a firm grip.

            “I’m sorry,” Maurice said as he shook some of the curls away from his eyes.

            “You already called the cops, its fine. I just want to go home.”

            “I didn’t call them, Olivia. Look, I’m really sorry. Not just about right now, but about—“

            “Its fine, Reese. I just want to go home.”

            He threw me one last pity smile before letting go of my arm. I put my headphones back in and jogged home. When I got home the sun was beginning to set and my parents were sitting in the kitchen. Dad was chewing on a sandwich while mom worked on filling out a crossword puzzle. I walked in just in time to hear mom cheating.

            “What is the ‘Asian language in a region famous for tigers?’” she asked.

            “Bengali,” I said as I grabbed an apple from the bowl between them. “Also, that’s cheating, cheater.”

            Mom hurried to fill in the word and smiled at me.

            “Its not cheating if I ask my smart daughter for help,” said mom.

            “You said you wanted to do this on your own!” I said, trying not to spit out apple everywhere.

            “That’s true,” said dad.

            Mom has been saying she’s going to fill out a crossword puzzle by herself without cheating for years. She has been at it everyday for nearly two years and so far hasn’t managed it. I may not agree with her crossword-filling ethics but I admire her determination.

            “Do you want a sandwich or anything to eat, Oli?” asked mom, setting down her pen.

            She’s been filling crosswords out for nearly two years and she still refuses to do it with a pencil.

            “No thanks, I think I’m just going to go to bed,” I said.

            I’m making my way out of the kitchen when I see the pathetic fish sitting in the small circular glass bowl that my mom got for it. Mom set the fish on the small table where we set our keys, gum, and spare change. I walk up to it and bend down to look at it more closely. The fish is floating uninterestedly close to the surface, barely moving. It’s not very big, but the beta fish is beautifully colored in multiple shades of blue going from a metallic teal to a midnight blue and a black tail tip. I smile at it and pick the small bowl, making my way to my room, fish in tow. Capri’s favorite color was blue.