Joined: 22 May 2006 Posts: 4030 Location: Albany, NY
Posted: Thu Sep 06, 2007 4:24 am Post subject: The Writing Thread (Non-Fanfic)
So what are you guys working on? I'm currently trying to get myself into gear to write something else in the universe of the fantasy novel I wrote at twenty. Sadly, that one will not be published as it has some derivative elements, but I did like the world, and I'm trying to get back into it.
I also have something that's about three chapters in that is a modern-day retelling (a la Charles de Lint, except with a bit more violence, because those of you that read any of my fanfic know I'm not a "soft" writer) of the Faithful John fairytale, involving the mythological Island of California, a girl fleeing her thieving past on the East Coast, and the servant from the Island who picks her up and transports her into another world.
I also want to get out a few more pieces for my campus' literary magazine. This is what I have in there so far.
-----
Citizen's Army (short story, action - behind the spoiler tag - language warning)
Spoiler:
"Shoot the bastard! He's almost down - shoot him!"
"I'm trying. It's hard to get a bead on him at night, Liam. Like a rabbit, he is. You ever tried shooting a rabbit at night? Can't be done. Wait - there!"
"He's still moving. We missed. Liam! Liam, are you all right?"
"Shoot him again! Don't worry about me."
"I'm bloody well trying. He was in the fields. Where'd he go?"
"My shoulder! Shite! Danny!"
"Liam - Liam, I'll call in the medics. Keep up, yeah? We'll find him tomorrow, or whenever he comes out of whatever barn he's gone to ground inside. It's Armagh, not Londonderry or Belfast. He can't hide forever."
*****
"We're on the same side, missus. You just don't know it yet."
"Bollocks."
"Don't talk that way. Doesn't suit you."
"It doesn't suit you either. You were raised in a good home, weren't you?"
"Home? Rossville Flats. Oh yeah, cracking. El Dorado."
"And you think that I liked living here all my life?"
"Close enough. You've nice things. You've led a nice life."
"Until you came along and pointed a gun at me and told me to not say a word, that the paratroops were after you."
"Sure you're losin' your wits now, with the bold way you're goin' on. I've the gun. You've nothin'."
"Except this house, which you broke into. Don't you think the police will come, sooner or later?"
"Why? Living all the way out here at this poxy farm, they wouldn't know you was in trouble. And you think they'd care about some past-it old spinster?"
"If they found out that there was a Provo here, they would."
"They won't find out."
"Don't be so sure."
"Listen, missus - all I ask is to spend the night at your house. You can be generous enough for that and to spare a little bit of food and a place to sleep, yeah? You aren't gonna call the Garda. They won't arrest me. So let's play nice, love, and I'll be gone in the morning, and sure you'll only be out a sandwich and some crisps, and maybe a pint. That's less you'd be out than if you'd met me in the bars fifteen years ago and taken me home. Count your blessings."
"Do you always talk like this to people whose houses you break into?"
"Only the ones who want to have it out with me."
"How do you know I won't poison the sandwich? I'd be doing a service."
"Hah! Use your brain if you have one. You poison the sandwich, and as soon as I start to feel it, you'll have a hole in your head. You wouldn't dare. You're not that brave, or that stupid. Were you either, you'd have done it already."
"Thank you for the compliment."
"Wasn't meant as a fecking compliment."
"I'll take it as one. And as long as you're in my house, you can do the decency of telling me your name."
"So you can grass on me."
"Maybe. But I'll find out sooner or later, when the police come and I tell them about you."
"I'll be long gone. What'll a name do for you?"
"I'd ask any visitor to my house their name."
"Fine, fine. Wind your neck in, missus. It's Connolly. Sean Connolly."
"Like James?"
"Níl ar chor ar bith. Because unlike him, I won't be shot in jail. But full marks for the knowledge of history. I wasn't aware Unionists cared."
"You said that we were on the same side."
"Stop your jawin' and go make me a sandwich."
"Great man, you are. And a hard one, too. No relation to James, I'm sure."
"If I was a hard man, you'd be dead already."
*****
"I thought you said you were leaving in the morning. I gave you a place to sleep. I made you a sandwich. Now, you should be leaving - before I grass on you, right? Wasn't that the story you told me before?"
"I'll leave when I want to leave. Can't right now. Went out last night, and saw the law in town. They're after me."
"You're paranoid."
"They're still after me. I didn't tell you the whole story. I had to come all the way out here. If I went anywhere closer to Derry or God-forbid-Belfast, they'd put me straight into Long Kesh."
"You're a murderer."
"So are they. And I only killed a few policemen. I didn't kill any real people. Their bastard red berets did. All unarmed, too, what they killed. They shot 'em in the back, too. Jackie Duddy. He was runnin' away from them when he was killed. One of 'em took aim at him, plain intentional. Michael McDaid. They'd built up a barricade by my flat, and he was standing by it, and some soldiers on the walls shot him. Paddy Doherty. They got him at the car park of my flat. He was crawling to safety, too. Another fellow goes to help him, Bernie McGuigan. He waves a white handkerchief at the paras to tell them what he's doin', and they shoot him in the back of the head for that. Some others, too. Young kids. Only teens, five of 'em. Want to know their names too? Billy Nash. Michael Kel - "
"I watch the news. I heard about it. And I'm sorry your friends had to die."
"Friends? I didn't know 'em. Christ, missus, there's thousands of us. You make me want to boke my sandwich right back up."
"You chose to break in. You asked me for my hospitality. I gave it to you. Nothing's keeping you here, Sean."
"Believe me, if I'd a choice, I'd have stayed away from your farm. Feckin' witch's castle, it is."
"Then go away - and stay away."
"Nothing would make you happier, right? Maybe I'll stay here. Take you as my wife. Your husband, you probably killed him off. You been married before, right?"
"Once. He died soon after."
"That's a right surprise."
*****
"They're still out there, then?"
"Arsing around in town, yeah. Actin' less like the law than like college lads on their da's money. Except Faulkner's their da, and he's given 'em guns, not money."
"If they're behaving so foolishly, you could probably slip out tonight, from the back door, and run. You'd probably cross over the border into County Louth before too long, and they'd be too drunk to notice."
"Keep talkin' like that and I'll get to thinking you're tryin' to help me out."
"I just want you gone."
"Tell me another."
"You'll have to leave sooner or later, and I don't want them thinking that I had anything to do with it. I'd rather you just left without them knowing you came, honestly."
"Change in the tide, here. Earlier you was saying that you'd have me poisoned, and now you're saying you just want me to leave with no trouble. If I stay here a few more days, you'd probably be givin' me money and nail bombs if I needed 'em."
"So this is how the Provos get their weapons."
"You don't let up, do you? Look, I promise you - I'll be gone tonight, and then you won't have anything to worry about. As long as you don't remember the name Sean Connolly, that is. You do, and it's none of mine what happens."
"You'd let me die for your stupidity."
"You'd let yourself die. And it's not stupidity. It's guts. Something you haven't much of, sitting out here in this farmhouse, waiting to die. You could come with me, you know. You're not that old. What are you, forty?"
"A few years past."
"Still, as long as you can move fair enough. Why don't you leave the house, anyway?"
"Because of Paul."
"Ah, right. Your husband. The one you poisoned."
"The one that died. He died on those steps, you know. Right outside the door you smashed to get in last night. There was blood all over him, all over the steps. He said, 'Agnes, you have to stay here. You have to keep up the farm. You have to make sure things are set straight.' So I stayed, and I've made sure. And I will yet."
"But his ghost, it stays too."
"What do you know about his ghost?"
"You think I haven't ghosts of my own? You aren't as old as you look. I'm older than I look. There're plenty of them, and I see them just the same. Like I said, we're on the same side, missus. Only difference is that yours is named Paul, and mine, she's the woman they killed, my girl Morna. Other than that, we're the same, Aghna."
"Agnes."
"Same thing. It's just the language that's different."
"Sean, I want - to ask something of you."
"No."
"Enough of your lip. Listen. When you leave, whenever that is, I don't want you to speak ill of me to your friends. I don't agree with you, but I've treated you civilly enough, and there's no cause for further ill will. Paul wouldn't like that. I don't care what you think of me, and I know you don't care what I think of you. But we needn't be enemies through and through."
"That's a load of bollocks."
"Things are bad enough for the both of us. I see no cause to make them worse."
"Should've thought of that before. But I'll keep mum about it, and if you don't believe me, you can go f - "
"I believe you. Listen then, and quick. Leave here. If the police are stationed in town, they'll need a few hours to sleep off the drink. Another twenty minutes to get down here. Don't go out by the front steps; there's only one road into town from here. The one you took to get out here. But if you leave by the side door, there's a path out, and you can cut through there and go along the shore to Louth. It's winter. You'll at least have a chance of getting clear."
"How can I trust you?"
"I swear it on Paul's grave - and by the Bible."
"But you're Protestant. I wouldn't swear you a thing on Morna's grave, or on your Orange book."
"And you're wasting time. Go! Guid forder."
"Ulster for a curse, innit?"
"Good luck. You already knew that. We're on the same side, as you said."
"... right."
*****
"Jesus, that lady sure was a turn-up. Be good to have her on our side, yeah? Better 'n a good lot of the Provos we know, eh, Morna? She stood up all right to me; she'd stand up fine to the screws. I'd take her in, any day. She held up better than I expected her to. You were right about her, mo chara. I was wrong. I didn't believe you when you said, and I'm sor - "
"Right! Stop right there, and not another bloody word! Don't take another step! Hands on your head. Spread your feet out. Now! Danny, get over there and search him. He's bound to be carrying something, if he hasn't already eaten it or burnt it or the like. Now, pay attention, you little shite. You're going to Kesh for a long stretch for that shooting in Londonderry. Connolly, isn't it? Caught, just like your namesake. A lot of progress you lot have made in fifty years! What the hell were you talkin' about anyway, gobshite?"
"Nothin' you'd appreciate, you fuckin' - "
"Shut it or I'll knock your teeth out. And listen well. I'm Liam. This is my mate Danny. Danny's not happy, because he was trying to shoot you and he missed. I'm less happy, because you shot me. See this? Your fault. You'd better not give us further trouble, Provo, or you'll regret it. On the double. Where were you hiding, anyway?"
"Everywhere. Nowhere you'd care about."
"We'll find out. If there was anyone helping you, they'd better be bloody worried right now, because once we find out - "
"Nobody was helpin' me, you bastard. And you won't know otherwise."
"He means it, Liam."
"I know he means it, Danny. There was someone, though. Connolly knows it, and he knows I know it. Listen to me, Connolly. They'd better be strong enough not to talk, boyo, because your time is up. Theirs is just beginning."
Aleksandr
The chimney-sweeper king returns today.
His head is wholly wreathed like saints', they say,
in soot and clay, in mortar-dust, as smoke
ribbons behind his work-suit. Can you see?
Over the streets, in paces strangers' feet
have traveled before, many years ago.
How things have changed! Of course the children can't
remember what he looked like when he went.
There are no photographs to mark the growth
from boyish, striking, hardly captain's looks,
now chiseled by the chips that prison took.
Was it from Murmansk, or Mariinsk, or both?
"I have been with it twenty years," he said,
and "What do we know of our lives?" - but death
is what we children knew of years ago,
in mortar, bullets, Black Maria trains
that shipped us each month to Siberian plains
to vanish with the locomotives' smoke.
King of Beers (short story, comedy - behind the spoiler tag)
Spoiler:
"They never found the heads! And they told us last year to use rocket widgets in our bottles, and we did, and those were real nice, too. They didn't even try the frickin' special draft, either." I'd never seen Jamie that upset. It takes a lot for a short guy like him to loom, but he was definitely trying his best. "That's because they didn't look at the damn glasses while they were drinking. What sort of Octoberfest judges are they, Tina?"
He looked like he was about to burst out crying. I wondered if I ought to get him a Kleenex. "S'all right, Jamie."
" 'Needs more hops,' they said. 'Not flavorful enough.' Stuff we put out wasn't bad, but I swear, the way they kept talking..."
He trailed off, sweeping a hand through his curly blond hair, and glared at the judges' table. I did my best to look for somewhere to hide while he was putting on this scene. It was bad enough that Crispus Attucks Beer had gotten balled out at the judging. We didn't need our owner dragged out of the convention hall as well.
Sometimes, I wonder how Jamie keeps the business afloat. Yeah, his parents are rich, so it wasn't like we were off to a bad start, but I would be hard-pressed to think of him as a real employer. He freaks out way too much. A small brewery isn't a place where you can afford to make mistakes, and he's been lucky so far. One bad batch would no doubt ruin the whole beer plant. Octoberfest is always a risky venture, but Jamie had insisted on doing it for three years in a row, since we started Crispus Attucks. Shlocktoberfest, I call it, and I would have had us not even bother with it, but Jamie had ignored me. He usually does, even though I'm right.
The convention hall was loaded with people, but most of the brewers had already packed up their displays. We were some of the last people to go, and I knew that was intentional. Jamie wanted to talk to the judges, and was already pivoting in their direction. I said a brief prayer, Jesus-Mary-Joseph, that he wouldn't be too angry at them. There was only one thing worse than getting a low score at Octoberfest, and that was getting kicked out and asked not to return.
I reached out to Jamie's arm, putting a hand on his sweater sleeve. It was made of thick, scratchy wool, and I wanted to get a better grip on his arm than I had. If he had to rip the sweater to walk over to the judges, he would, so I stepped closer to him, knowing he wouldn't like that, because we weren't dating, and I had a boyfriend, and Jamie was always overly sensitive about that sort of thing. Despite running a microbrewery, he was careful not to get drunk around me. He thought I didn't notice, but of course I did.
"Jamie," I said, watching as he leaned in towards one of the judges, a ritzy suburban woman who tripped by and trailed strong perfume. He looked up. "C'mon, kid, let's book it." I nodded towards the exit, just in case he was spoiling for a fight with the woman. "We've got to get out of here; they're just about to close. I'll buy ya a sandwich at Cumbie's."
Most times, the enticement of a quickly heated two-buck sandwich at the convenience store would horrify Jamie; he'd never liked them, not even when we were kids. Now, though, he looked like he was seriously considering it, and as he wrenched his arm quickly from my grip, he decided, "Better 'n standing around here and watchin' all this."
"No, sir!" I blinked in shock, but was quick to agree. "All right. And we'll get us a six-pack of Budweiser."
I knew that would get him, and it did. He looked daggers at me. "You'll be the only one drinkin' that, you skeeza! I should fire ya from your job, talking like that!" The last statement made him grin, although part of me couldn't shake the idea that he was grinning in spite of himself - especially as he'd started to glare at the judges again. I wondered if I could drag him out of the place. Skinny little guy like him, I'd probably stand a chance, if only I weren't in high heels.
Any random Cumberland Farms store isn't the best of places in South Boston. Anyone knows that who's bright at all. The parking lot is almost always dark, like they don't want anyone to drive up there. I guess that makes sense, as most people walk, like Jamie and I were walking to the store. Other folks have reason to walk, too: Kids that don't look old enough to drive carry out six-packs like they're old enough to go to keggers. Often you'll see some punks scratching up the manager's car, and they were there that night, some Hispanic kid and a white kid snickering over scrawling their names out on the crappy beater. So it wasn't exactly fine dining that Jamie and I were going to, but we headed in like we owned the place.
Some chick with her hair all done up like it was the Eighties was sitting there, reading one of the magazines that the clerks are supposed to keep hidden with the Playboys. I'll admit, the guy she was staring at was nice-looking, but she was about as far from a potential date for that guy as you can get, so I had to fight hard not to laugh in her face. She glared at me like she could read my mind, but Jamie wasn't paying attention like I was when he wanted to fight the Octoberfest judges, and I had to move on, all on my own.
"What are ya having there, Tina?" Jamie asked, staring into the cooler where the store kept the cold sandwiches. "Gonna heat somethin' up or have it cold?" He reached in for something cheap, wrapped in paper, sealed with a hastily printed sticker that proclaimed 'CHICK SAL SAND - WHT BRD.' I couldn't tell if it was white or wheat, and wondered if I should point that out. "And we ain't getting Budweiser, neither."
I reached out for my own delicacy - an EGG SAL SAND also on that mysterious WHT BRD - and grinned toothily at him. "You wanna go all the way to a packie, start walking, champ." I reached for a Coke instead and offered to get him one too.
He probably nodded. I don't remember anymore. I heard a muffled little squeak from the girl at the counter, like someone had let the air out of that spare tire around her gut, and turned to look at what had caused it.
I should have expected it. The kids that had been outside when we walked in had come in, and the white kid probably had a gun, from the way he held his hand next to his jacket. I wasn't that scared of dying, really, but I was sure afraid of dying in a Cumbie's. There's no place worse to have the cops come to check out your body. At the very least, I want to die at a Bruins game, and Jamie, I guess, probably would love to wind up drowned in a vat of his own microbrew.
"All set with that money there?" the white kid asked the clerk. I thought he looked a little like Billy Bulger in his childhood days; he was short enough and greasy enough, definitely. "Hand it over, ya cow," he told the girl at the counter.
I had to give the kid kudos for that.
The clerk doggedly handed over the money. The white kid tucked it away and said something in rapid-fire Spanish to his friend, probably because he didn't want to be overheard. By now, Jamie had also realized that we were witnesses to a robbery, and he took a step forward like he could hope to protect me. I'm a head taller than he is, and I'm tough, but he still thinks that, because I'm a girl, he's got to stand up for me.
The Hispanic kid started walking towards us - not just walking, but sauntering, like he was some hot shot politico heading into Fanueil Hall. He waved us to put our hands up, a jerk of a flat palm, and I did so. It took Jamie a few moments to do it, but he did it too, even if the kid looked a little less impressed at his cooperation than at mine. I wondered if Jamie would get punched. I wondered if I should protect him.
"Blondie," the young guy told Jamie, "gimme a beer."
That wasn't what Jamie had expected. I knew he would warm to the task, and looked at him. He was staring at the Hispanic kid with respect, as if he thought to make a fellow connoisseur out of the kid, his eyes alight with the passion for brewing that I knew he wanted to share with the boy. "What kind ya want?" he asked the kid. "There's probably some Crispus Attucks beer in there."
I guess it didn't hurt to be a salesman even in this situation, but I had to fight really hard to not grin again. When the Hispanic kid said, "Budweiser," though, I lost it and I laughed aloud, and motioned Jamie to get the Budweiser. After a horror-struck moment, he finally moved to do so. They didn't ask us for our wallets. They'd already gotten what they needed. The kids got their beer and their cash, and they booked it from the Cumbie's like Cam Neely on a breakaway.
Once they left, I realized I could breathe normally, and retrieved both our sandwiches. The girl was slightly shaken, still, but she managed to ring us up, mumbling, "I gotta call the cops. You folks wanna stick around for that? They're gonna want to know who else's in here, an'..."
Of course we agreed to stay. Jamie lit up a cigarette, ignoring the 'No Smoking' signs, and I leafed through a magazine, but not the one you're thinking of. The cops didn't arrive for a little while, because who cares about a simple convenience store robbery when you've got really bad stuff like murder to deal with? The cops don't care about us Southies that much anyway, because we keep to ourselves more. It's the suburbanites that you've got to worry about. They're the ones that are doing all the bad stuff. Just ask the Winter Hill Gang - they moved out and north once they got in thick with crime.
"Jim," I said to Jamie, settling in the hard plastic booth where he was sitting, "you didn't want the Octoberfest prize anyway, didja?" I waved a hand towards the coolers. "You wanted that kid to drink your beer. Ya think he cares about who got the best-of-show ribbon at the Garden?" I shook my head. "He cares about what tastes best, Jamie, and he thinks Budweiser tastes best for the buck. That's the way you started out once, before you got all high and mighty and wanted us to go to those stupid fairs."
Jamie looked at me, and I knew he understood. I can't say what it was, but I saw his jaw harden as if he was resolved on a decision, and he couldn't look me straight in the eye, so I knew that I was right. I breathed a sigh of relief and unwrapped my EGG SAL SAND. White bread. Good. The Cumbie's hadn't gone all health-foods on us. As I took a bite, Jamie started to speak. "We won't go next year then, Tina. Or the year after that."
"Promise," I said, and I think he nodded. I could have danced for joy at not having to go to that stupid Shlocktoberfest again.
We'll see, though. We're going on the fall season, and it's time to break out the Halloween labels so we can get a bunch of that bottled to sell. We're going to have a bunch of it up in Salem for the tourists, when they come up that way for the holiday and the witch trials. Last of all, we just hired some dorky fellow from Boston U. to do Spanish translations for our labels, and only Jamie and I really know why.
Substantiation
All ill-at-arms and quill-at-hand:
so sat the poet, deep in thought,
until a phrase was dancing there
upon the air (and quickly brought
down, like a gut-shot bird.)
And then the poem had found its bones.
So then the poet scratched a curse
(upon the paper's stylish skin,
on "how things go from bad to verse")
down, to the final word.
All skeletal and spindly thin,
the words slept on, their brains made dumb,
determined not by drink or drug
(not alcohol or laudanum),
down to a little blurred "---."
-----
So, what are you writing? Examples are more than welcomed, since I posted too much of my own stuff already. _________________ I saw a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vic's. His hair was perfect.
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