Science Fiction

Series: Tales of the Other Earth Tale: Halloween Story part 9 M/F Story

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

             “Here’s the one.”  The Wizard suddenly announced.  He was standing in front of Barten-Cur.  “But, oh.”  The Wizard looked up from his crystal.  “It isn’t the girl or the Princess Arosa.”

            The Queen stepped forward.  “Well?  Explain yourself.”

            “Barten-Cur, Majesty.”  Barten-Cur said with a genuine bow.  “Family retainer to the house of Nova for many generations.”

            “Barten-Cur.”  The Wizard said with some surprise, a life coming into his eyes which had not previously been present.  He stroked his beard.  “I have heard of you.”

            “And where is Lila?  Where is Arosa?”  The Queen came straight to the point.

            Barten-Cur shrugged.  “Alas, her highness is not present at this time.  As for the young girl, I cannot say.”

            The Queen looked around the room.  She was sure Lila was there among the children, but there was no way of singling her out by sight, even if there were no masks and make-up in the way.  “Wizard?”  She asked.

            The Wizard simply shook his head.  “There is too much lingering magic in the air, and with the interference in this world, I could not guarantee to find her even if each young girl presented themselves for personal examination, and that would take all night.”

            “Some wizard.”  The Count scoffed.

            “Quiet.”  The Queen was thinking.

            “If I may suggest.”  Barten-Cur raised his voice, humbly.  “My Lady has promised to come before the party is over.  That would be in a mere two hours.  Perhaps you would care to wait?”  He knew enough to want the soldiers away from the children, or at least settled in to wait, but after that he would have to think of what to do.

            The Queen nodded.  “Captain Tor.  I want all doors guarded.  No one must leave this building, and to be sure we have the cooperation of the children, we will be taking some hostages.”

            “Now wait a minute.”  Principal Barlow stepped forward.  “The children are innocent here.  Who are you to come barging in here threatening children.  I have never heard of anything so despicable.”

            Count Severas winced at the words, and the Wizard ducked a little expecting the Queen’s explosion.  They were genuinely surprised at her response.  “Quite right.”  She said.  “We did not come here to frighten children or to hurt them.”  She turned to her people.  “Take the adults hostage, and Captain Tor, be sure none of the children leave the building.  When Princess Arosa arrives, I want her brought to me.”  She turned and looked around the crowd.  “Children.  You may have your masquerade ball, only for your own safety, please do not try to leave the building or my soldiers may have to hurt you after all.”  The curious way she smiled as she said those words made even the least among them understand that she was not joking.  She spun around and headed back toward the door by which she had entered.  The Wizard and Barten-Cur followed.  The teachers were less inclined.

            “Now wait a minute.”  Principal Barlow began again, but Count Severas stepped up and slapped the man with enough strength to knock him to the ground.  Even as swords came out to force the issue, Coach Beemer wanted to punch the Count’s lights out; but with a look at old Ms Finster and young Ms Addams, he kept his fist to himself.  The teachers got escorted out between soldiers, and when the door closed there was a moment of panic among some of the children.

            “Lila?”

            “Grandpa!”  Lila shouted and threw her arms around the man.  Wendel Carter straightened up as well as he could.  He had gotten stiff standing still for some time.

            “I hid in the corner with the other scarecrow.”  He said.  “It will be all right.”

            “I’m scared.”  Lila admitted.  “They are here for me and Mama.”

            Wendel understood and could not help nodding.  “But everything will be fine.”  He insisted.

            “But what can we do, sir?”  Chris, the knight asked.

            “Ninja.”  Peter suggested, but it was not funny.  What could a bunch of twelve and thirteen year olds do against trained soldiers?

            “First we do this.”  Wendel Carter said, and he led his granddaughter to the microphone, and all of her friends followed.  He told Lila what to say, but he let her speak to the crowd, imagining that his adult voice might be picked up by the Queen or her troops.

            “Attention please.  Gather round.”  Lila spoke, and most of the kids readily responded; glad that someone was taking charge.  Lila saw Brittany and her witches to one side.  Jessica and her ladies in waiting were on the far other side, and she briefly wondered what Jessica would say if she knew that Lila was a real Princess.  Tyler Hamm and his football players took up the middle.  To their right, beside Brittany’s witches, the ROTC crowd was dressed in marine and navy uniforms except for Aaron, who came dressed like an old sea captain, and the seventh graders, Warren and Kate, who were dressed like black belt karate champions.  On the other side of the football team, beside Jessica and her ladies in waiting, there were the Gangstas, the enemies of ROTC.  Owen was actually dressed like a gangster and Terry was dressed like his moll.  There was Rapper Bob, and Celeste, dressed like a rock star.  There was also Kyle, the sex fiend, dressed appropriately as a pimp.  Far in the back, and last of all, there were the eighth grade geeks.  George was a doctor and Shirley a nurse.  Ethan looked to be dressed like a dentist, though perhaps a mad one.  And Lucy, the class clown was with them, dressed most appropriately of all, as a clown.  Beyond that, there were a few more eighth graders and a whole host of seventh graders, most of whom Lila did not know by name.

            Once they were gathered and quiet, though the whispers in the little groups never really stopped, Lila began.  “The question has been asked.  What can we do in this crisis?  Is there anything we can do to warn Mrs. Carter or help the teachers?”  Lila deliberately did not say, “warn my mom.”

            “Who wants to help teachers?”  Someone asked as a joke.  Only a few people thought it was funny.

            “Or would it be best for us to just stay here and do as we are told.  I don’t want, I mean, the superintendent doesn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

            “I can’t see how these poor kids won’t be changed by this experience, though.”  Wendel Carter mumbled to himself and then the most remarkable thing happened.

One Writer’s Writing Secrets 3: Something to Say

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

I am still enjoying Mark Twain.  Love him or hate him, the man could write, and more importantly, in the American tradition, he could tell a good story:  Tom Sawyer at home and abroad with the Tramp and the Innocents (roughing it or otherwise on the equator), Life on the Mississippi, The Prince and the Pauper, Pudd’nhead Wilson, and the great Connecticut Yankee which I believe he named just to see how many times he could find Connecticut misspelled in the reviews.

            Motive for writing in the first place is as difficult as trying to pin down a motive for murder (a close kin in some cases).  I think, though, Twain was on to something with the notice he gave at the beginning of Huckleberry Finn:

NOTICE

Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.

BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR

Per G. G., Chief of Ordnance.

            Writers want to say something – at least most have something to say.  Some do write mainstream drivel in a sort of stream of consciousness (Zzzz); but I believe most want their views about life, liberty and the pursuit to be heard.  (Unlike the Blues Brothers, they may not be on a mission from God, but still…  And whether or not what is said is worth listening to is another debate).  But whenever a writer focuses in on what they are trying to say instead of on the story, the writing is lost, abandon ship!

            Mark Twain was first of all a storyteller.  All the great writers were.  Even a socially conscious writer like Dickens first told a good story. 

 

Writing Tip 3:

I cannot speak for the plot because that might be a handy thing for a story to have; but as for motive and moral, I recommend not thinking about them at all.  Yes, I believe every piece of writing should have something to say, but while in the writing process, I recommend just focusing on telling a good story, and I believe the motive/moral will shine through without help, thank you very much, and maybe some other things not intended will shine through as well, things which may turn out to be pretty good!  (I hadn’t thought of that).  We can call it stream of unconsciousness writing.

Series: Tales of the Other Earth Tale: Halloween Story part 8 M/F Story

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

            “In here, your majesty.”  The grizzled old man said, holding his box with the crystal close to his face and staring hard as if seeing something in the glittering stone that no other eyes could perceive.  “There was much magic present for a moment, and then all at once it was over, like the undoing of a half-woven spell.”

            The Queen nodded and turned to her troops.  “Be on your guard, Captain Tor.”  She said.  “We stumbled innocently into that hedge of warning, so at least someone knows we are coming.  And Count Severas.”  She turned to the man who was dressed like a sixteenth century dandy complete with gold-hilted saber at his side.  “We are not here to fight these people.  We only want the girl.”

            The Count nodded, as if giving a slight bow to his Queen, but his eyes betrayed other thoughts in his mind.

            “Wizard!”  The Queen called and the grizzled old man came to her, showing far more respect in his bow than the Count had shown.  “Are you sure?”  This woman was demanding.

            The Wizard looked around at the Count, Captain Tor and several of the soldiers, but he saw no support in any of them.  “Majesty.”  He hedged.  “I was told there was no magic in this world, but there is much interference in the atmosphere.  The Princess and her daughter should have been easy to locate, sticking out in the midst of the crowd like a goat among sheep, but it has not been so.”  The Queen’s look hardened.  The Wizard winced a little.  “I am reasonably sure there is magic active in this place, but of the source and person, I cannot honestly say.”

            “Are there no other sources?”  The Queen clearly wanted some assurance.

            The Wizard shook his head, slowly.  “I have picked up something, but it is some distance from here, and I am not certain.  There is much interference in the atmosphere, but of this place, I am certain, though who or what may be responsible, I cannot say.”

            The Queen nodded.  She signaled the soldiers and motioned for Captain Tor to precede her while she and the Count and her Wizard brought up the rear.

                                                            ————

            Mister Deal finally got the music turned down.  “Fire Alarm?”  He asked above many voices which were asking the same thing.

            “Hold on.  Hold on.”  The baby Principal was saying.  He stepped over to the music riser.  “Hold on.”  He said to the squeal of feedback as he turned on the microphone.  Mister Deal quickly adjusted the volume.  “That’s not the fire alarm or any other bell I know.”  The class bell in the school was really a loud buzzer.  “Don’t panic.  I am sure it is nothing to be concerned about and there is a simple explanation.”

            With that, the explanation for the bell entered the room.  They were soldiers, dressed in late medieval garb, and they spread themselves around the gym, surrounding the middle school students.  Clearly, the soldiers were surprised to find so many children and even more surprised to find them dressed up in costumes, though they hardly recognized most of the characters they were pretending to be.  An old man with a limp and a young one with gold braid and a swagger entered next, and then came the woman.  She was dressed in a gown that fitted her shapely figure, but her hair was gray, indicating the fact that she was a good bit older than she might have wanted to appear.  The woman had deep-set, but very active eyes.  She was clearly a woman of power, used to being obeyed without question, and she was presently speaking to the soldiers in a tongue that she assumed no one knew.  But Barten-Cur knew the words, and so did Wendel Carter.  Wendel slid up to the scarecrow in the corner and did his best to blend into the decorations.

            Finally, the woman, who was evidently in charge, turned to the slack-jawed crowd and spoke in English.  “All right.  Where is she?”

            Principal Barlow paused a minute before he responded into the microphone.  “Where is who?”

                                                            ————

            Arosa sipped her coffee and looked at David.  David still hardly knew what to say.  He had accepted her story.  He could not reasonably do otherwise; but it was not every day a person had undeniable evidence that there were not only other worlds filled with other, intelligent life in the universe, but your girlfriend, to say the least, was one of those other… People?

            “After the rebellion failed, my Mother-in-law made overtures of peace with the Empire.  I do not blame her.  It was what she had to do in the lost cause, and I suppose it was wise, after all, that she stayed away from any hint of rebellion from the beginning.  The Emperor was willing to allow for that, because he was so preoccupied in the North and West.  That much was true.”

            “Politics.”  David said.  “Bad as the school system.”

            “Oh, not that bad.”  Arosa said with a smile.  “But bad enough.”

            “But it was not safe for you and your baby.”  David understood.

            Arosa confirmed and shook her head.  “Who knows if we will ever be able to go home again?”  She looked sad for a moment before she shouted.  “Ouch!”

            “Umph.”  The fat man grunted at her as he got off her wing and headed back to his seat.

            A tear came to Arosa’s eye as she reached back and pulled her wing forward.  It was completely resilient and flexible and not easily broken, but the foot and shoe of the clumsy fat man was painful.  A few more tears came as Arosa stroked her wing like a wounded bird.

            “Hey!”  David shouted at the man.  “At least apologize you klutz.”  He was angry, partly because he knew the wings were real, and partly because he was really feeling for the unfairness of Arosa, and Lila’s exile.

            The fat man looked at his little wife and pulled out a wad of money.  “Here.”  He said, throwing a five-dollar bill in David’s direction.  “Buy your woman a new costume.”  He laughed, thinking he was funny.  David hardly clenched his fist before striking the fat man in the jaw, knocking him right out of the chair.

            The man got up screaming mad, but he was a stranger in town while David was the High School Principal and Arosa was the Middle School Librarian.  There were three farmers and two merchants from town who grabbed the fat man and showed him the door.  The man’s poor wife got up and she did lean over to Arosa to quietly apologize.

            “I’ll be all right.”  Arosa said, and since no one else was looking, their eyes all being focused on the struggle at the front door, she spread her wing and fluttered it a minute.  “He didn’t break anything.”

            The woman’s eyes got big.  She screamed and ran after her husband.

Series: Tales of the Other Earth Tale: Halloween Story part 7 M/F Story

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

 

            Lila and her friends sat at MacDonald’s and talked about nothing in particular, but with hardly a breath between them.  They were all feeling a little curious and somewhat self-conscious.  Apart from the occasional private parties, there were not many chances in Middle School for these kinds of social interactions between boys and girls.  It was all still new enough to embarrass, intrigue, and touch a sense of secret desire, which for the most part was still deeply hidden inside.  Of course, they were all too cool to admit that they did not know everything about it all.

            Jennifer, who was dressed like an elf from Lord of the Rings or some on-line video game, pointed ears and all, nodded toward the door.  Bobby and Donna actually came together to the restaurant, though they got out of separate cars.  Bobby even asked if he could sit at Donna’s table before he sat.  Ginger, who was dressed like a cat which she claimed was a panther, shook her head and pointed in the opposite direction where Tom and Rachel, a couple of vampires, were sitting touching hands.

            “Where are the boys?”  Morgan the pirate wondered, but even as she spoke, Mary and Eddie, alias Red and the Princess, came in and got in line.  Red Rayder got a number one, but the Princess only wanted a few french fries.  And the rest of the boys were not far behind.  Chris was dressed like a medieval knight.  Peter was dressed like a ninja, and just like in the library, they came over and sat near Jennifer and Lila, but not too near.  Nelson came in his Max Man costume, a little rubber Maxamillian in his hands, and Jordan came also as a pirate and sat beside Morgan the pirate with a smile.  Things were heating up there nicely, Lila thought, with a smile of her own.

            Chris and Peter were all eyes as Lila shifted to cross her legs in the other direction.  She had chosen the fairy costume in part because it allowed her to show off her nice, long legs by wearing a skirt that was normally much too short for school.

            “I don’t know what it is, but ever since I got dressed, all I can think about is food.”  Nelson joked as he sat with two orders of nuggets.  “Isn’t that right, Max?”

            “Indubitably!”  Nelson finished, giving voice to his rubberized sidekick.

            Everyone enjoyed the show, even if no one laughed.  Then every one was quiet, especially the girls, curiously enough.  Perhaps they had already talked themselves out earlier.  More likely, they were watching, wondering, considering things to which the boys were oblivious.  Chris finally spoke up.

            “We better get going.”  Peter stood up with him and this prompted everyone to move.  They were going to the dance together, not like dating couples, but sort of all in a group.  It was safer that way.

                                                            ————                                                                                

            When Barten-Cur got back to the school, he walked the whole perimeter, around the playground, the football field, the back of the baseball diamond and to the front door.  He set a simple magical hedge the whole way around so that anyone with a weapon, a sword, a knife or a real bow, would set off a bell inside the school loud enough to be heard, wherever he was.  Then he returned to the gym to find it decorated and deserted.  It was no trouble adding his potion to the punch bowl, but a little harder to stir it in without disturbing the slices of orange that floated on top.  He felt he was as ready as he could be.  If they came, he could act.  If they did not come, no one would be the wiser.

            While he waited, Barten had another thought.  Some of these children would come as all sorts of devils, evil creatures, monsters and even dead people.  He would have to siphon them off at the start.  They would not do at all.  He would have to be careful, he thought, imagining that Arosa still might yell at him even if he was following the rules, so he set a spell by the entrance designed like a spider’s web to catch any such evil arrivals.  He wondered briefly why any parents would allow their children to dress in such a manner – representing evil things; but then he never had a wife or children so he really did not know.

            The teachers began to arrive by quarter of six.  Principal Barlow was dressed as a baby and his secretary, like the Wicked Witch.  Tom Deal said he was Mozart, and Ms Gloria Finster came as a sixties hippie child.  She had a flower painted on her aged cheek.  Coach Beemer trotted to the door in red tights, a red mask and a red cape.  “The Masked Marvel,” he called himself.  He was supposed to be a professional wrestler, and Barten-Cur at least knew what that was.  He watched wrestling when he could, but he did not recall any Masked Marvel.

            The children started arriving after that, but Barten-Cur stayed up front with his eyes open, in case his spider web missed anyone.  To be sure, he did not understand what some of the costumes were supposed to be and so he could not be sure he got all that he should.  But then, he could undo the magic easily enough if needed.  Still, he took the obvious ones so it would not be needed for them.

            Ms Addams came in a long dress and claimed she was Jane Austin, whoever that was, and Mister Johnson came in a suit.  “I’m dressed as a social studies teacher.”  He told the custodian.  “That is scary enough for these kids.”  Barten-Cur shrugged. 

            Lila and her gang came together.  Barten was afraid, with so many at once, one might slip passed his net.  He looked carefully, but he did not see anything worth catching.  Lila said, “Hi.”  And then she got whispers from a cat and a girl with pointed ears and a fake bow and arrows.

            Ms Ramirez came as a flamenco dancer, her seventh graders trailing after her like so many baby ducks.  Mister Gross in a white suit and Ms Duncan in her dancing dress were the last teachers to arrive.  They were the disco couple, whatever disco was.  Barten-Cur did not even know they were a couple, but that was what they said.

            When it looked like nearly everyone had arrived, it was about six-thirty by then, Barten-Cur went up to room 204.  There were two ghosts, one skeleton, a couple of movie monstrosities that he did not recognize well enough to name, a Grim Reaper, a thing that called itself “Scream,” a Devil boy and a Devil girl and two Zombies, one with an axe in his head and the other in a suit with an arrow through his head who claimed he was a dead lawyer.  They believed there was going to be a contest and prizes for the scariest costume.  They were arguing about who might win when Barten-Cur locked them in.

                                                            ————        

            The music was just loud enough to prevent talking without shouting.  There was not much dancing going on for a dance.  Lila and her friends sat on some chairs beside a table while the boys walked around the room, presumably looking at the decorations.  They all had punch.  Ms Finster was very good about making sure that everyone, absolutely everyone, got some.  It was really very good, and for most it was also something to do.

            Lila’s Grandpa came over, but only to say hi and then leave them alone.  He was the Scarecrow, and Jennifer the elf complimented the outfit, and Ginger the panther agreed that it was very well done.

            “I should have had more time to work on the make-up.”  Wendel Carter mused, but he thanked the girls for the kind words and moved on, pausing only to examine the real scarecrow set up in the corner of the gym.

            Coach Beemer was getting another tray of cookies from the cafeteria when he heard a knock on the cafeteria window.  There were two students outside.  He reluctantly opened the door for them.

            “You should have come in the front.”  Coach Beemer said.

            “Long walk.”  Tom the vampire responded.

            “Thanks.”  Rachel the vampire thought some gratitude was appropriate,

            The Masked Marvel frowned beneath his mask, but he went for the cookies.  Tom and Rachel went for some of the last of the punch.  It was not much after that when the bell went off and Barten-Cur gasped.  “God help us.  They’re here.”  In a moment, a soft violet light filled the gym and beyond, seeping out like a mist beneath the doors and through the walls.  It filled the cafeteria behind the gym and the auditorium in the front of the school, swept around the books in the library and the files in the office.  It even filled room 204, though it would have no effect in that place for lack of punch, and when it was done, it disappeared as if it had never been.

One Writer’s Writing Secrets 2: Finding your Voice

M G Kizzia 2 Comments

            I just finished rereading Huckleberry Finn, so if I break out in a twang, please bear with me.  (I ain’t agwyne do’t if I can hep it).  Dialect is a bear, and not recommended – unless it is who you are, and you know the dialect like the proverbial back of your hand (and your spelling is consistent).

            Allow me to share a bit of family folklore that floated down to me from my writer brother in Alaska.  It concerns a person named Tom (not Sawyer, but of the same type as I hear tell), though how true the story is, I cannot say.

            Tom went to the University of Michigan for one semester where he had a Freshman English professor who said something like this:

            “Tom.  You have a wonderful voice when you speak.  It is lively and very different from the dry papers you have been turning in.  You know, I believe you have the potential to be a good writer, but you have to stop trying to write the way you think it is supposed to be written.  Instead, I want you to try writing in a way that is most natural to you.  That is the secret to good writing.  Try writing the way you talk and it will be much better.”

            Now, Tom decided that was good advice; but if his best writing was simply writing the way he talked, and since he already knew how to talk, he also decided there was no more to be learned from that institution; so he dropped out and wandered his way up to Alaska where he took a job hosting a national radio show for NPR and writing just the way he talked, and though I don’t want to give everything away, the end of the story is if you ever go traveling across this country, I am sure he will “leave a light on for ya.”

Writing Tip 2: 

For most of us our talk can get pretty sloppy and might not be a good guide, but on principle, don’t worry about the way good writing is supposed to be writ!  Write the way that is most natural and comfortable for you.  That is your voice, and it will invariably be much better than imitating someone else.

Series: Tales of the Other Earth Tale: Halloween Story part 6 M/F Story

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

            Arosa sat still for the long ride to Wallace’s Fish Camp.  David seemed speechless, but that was fine for the moment.  Arosa had her own thoughts to contend with, and they were quite enough.  Apparently, the theme for the day had not yet finished.

            Presently, Arosa was remembering the plots and plans they had made.

            “With the Emperor so preoccupied in Gwarhor and in the West, now is the time to strike for freedom.”  That was Arosa’s own father who said that.  Her mother was quiet, but in full accord.  Her Great Uncle Festus, as Captain-General of the ships of Nova, Admiral as Arosa translated in her mind, he shouted “Here!  Here!” or the equivalent in the tongue of Nova.  Dunovan was more thoughtful.

            “With our combined fleets we can rule in the Southern Sea.”  He said.  “But on land, we must all hang together or we will surely all hang separately.”

            Arosa shook her head.  That was from the American Revolution, but the sentiment was the same.  Poor, brave, sweet, senseless Dunovan. 

            A tear came to Arosa’s eye.

            She remembered that last time she saw Dunovan, all dressed for war in glittering chain and shining bronze.  Such a glorious knight he was, and what devotion he had from every man who followed him to their doom.  She cried for days when word came.  Poor Lila was almost neglected, and would have been if not for the nurse and the faithful, loving servants that surrounded her.  Arosa tried to turn her mind from her memory of Dunovan, thinking that her serious thoughts about David was bringing it all to the surface; but apparently the vision-like moment was not done.

            She remembered the messenger, every speck of dirt on the man’s clothes, every drop of sweat on the man’s broad forehead; how he had ridden all night with the news and run up the great castle steps with tears in his own eyes.  Her Mother and Father were poisoned.  Her great uncle was ruined at sea and would not be coming back.  The Empire was in Nova and her unremarkable second cousin Verko, a sixteen-year-old boy with no ambition whatsoever, had been installed on the throne.  The boy would do as he was told and he was closest to the throne, after her.  Apparently, the Emperor Kzurga had no intention of having her return to Nova, and she dared not stay in Truscas.  It would be her death, certain.

            She remembered all of the hints her mother-in-law Callista dropped into everyday conversation.  She should go away.  She was not of the right blood to rule in Truscas, even if her daughter was.  She should find another home to spend her days.  Of course, none of it was said in so many words, but it was the sentiment.   Arosa would have to have been an ignorant fool not to know this.

            But it was not for Callista’s sake that she found this world and came to this place of exile.  It was for the people.  Arosa was part of the rebellion, even if only a little part.  The Emperor might have forgiven her for her part in the conspiracy, but she could not count on that.  Truscas was in danger of invasion as long as she stayed the Queen.  Barten-Cur came from the house of Nova, sought her out, and together, they ran.  She said nothing, though, because Callista would have certainly tried to kidnap Lila and keep her in hiding.

            They arrived at the fish camp and Arosa stepped out of the car almost before David turned off the engine.  She did not want him to see her cry.  Not just yet. 

            “Are you all right?”  David asked kindly.

            “David.”  Arosa hesitated for one last moment, and then she made up her mind.  Before we go any further in this relationship, there is something you need to know.”  He was about to say something stupid so she spoke first.  “I’m not from this world.”

            David paused.  He looked at her closely.  “From the way you are dressed.”  He started to make a joke, but then he pulled himself up as tall as he could stand.  “I think I can almost believe you.  You are much too beautiful for a small Georgia town.”

            Arosa smiled.  That was not exactly true, but she did not mind hearing it.  Still, she felt she had to tell him and that feeling came with an urgency she did not understand.  She took his hand and walked him to the side of the parking lot where no one would go.  She stopped there and raised her hands, the magic flowing from her fingers.  A bubble-like structure surrounded them, which would muffle any sounds they made and make them all but invisible to any eyes that were not on top of them.  Then she turned to David and let her wings out, pushing them slowly against the air until she was hovering about three feet from the ground.  David looked scared for a moment, but he calmed a little when she spoke.  “I have a story to tell you, over dinner if you don’t mind.  I’m starving.”  She landed, burst the bubble with a thought, took David’s arm and led him to the door before he could raise a protest.

                                                ————

            Barten-Cur imagined there was a kind of orchestrated madness going on in the gym.  It had been used during the day, of course, so it could not be decorated for the dance until after school.  Jessica and her eighth grade “in-crowd,” Mindy, Savannah and Shakira were putting up streamers.  The wannabes, Brittany, Nichole and Molly were plastering the walls with Halloween motifs.  Coach Beemer had the four prime members of the eighth grade football team setting up chairs and a few tables.  There was Tyler Hamm, the quarterback, Alex the center, Brad the linebacker, and Colin the defensive end.  They were in practice uniforms, and Barten-Cur guessed those uniforms would be doubling for their Halloween costumes at the dance.

            Barten-Cur held his ears for a minute.  “Sorry.  Sorry.”  Mister Deal, the music teacher was setting the volume for the music and testing the equipment. 

            “I should think so!”  Ms Gloria Finster, the art teacher, shouted from the refreshment table.  “I almost dropped the punch.”  She was emptying orange soda and fruit punch into a big bowl.  It was supposed to end up pumpkin color, but in truth it was more the color of Georgia red clay-mud.

            Ms Addams, Language Arts and Mister Johnson, Social Studies, chose that moment to enter from the Cafeteria side, carrying trays of cookies.

            “I don’t dress.”  Mister Johnson was saying.

            Barten stared for a minute at Ms Addams.  She was maybe twenty-five, and by far the prettiest woman at the school, after the Princess, to be sure.

            “But you have so many good choices to choose from.”  She was arguing with the older man.

            “Dead white men.”  Mister Johnson complained.

            “All right, then.  Fredrick Douglass, Martin Luther King.  Someone!”

            “I don’t do Halloween.  I don’t dress.”  Mister Johnson insisted.

            “Bob and Emily are coming as a disco couple.”  Ms Finster spoke up from the punch bowl.  She was talking about the math and science teachers.  “Isn’t that cute?”

            “I don’t do cute, either.”  Mister Johnson said, but he almost smiled by accident as he said it.

            “Excuse me.”  Barten-Cur heard a voice behind him and he had to step aside.  He had been blocking the door and Ms Ramirez the Spanish teacher wanted in.  She was followed by a half-dozen seventh graders, Nate and Karen, fat Brian, and Maria who could hardly speak any English.  Coach Beemer had his eyes open, though, and he immediately came up to Adam, a rather large young man for the seventh grade.

            “So Adam.”  The coach said.  “Thought any more about football?”  He was a direct kind of person.  Adam was not in the mood.

            “I don’t know.”  He hedged.

            Shakira came up looking for her cousin.  “Where’s Tasha?”  She asked.  Tasha had it bad for big Adam.

            “I don’t know.”  Adam repeated himself.

            Ms Finster shouted out from the refreshment table.  “Come to help?”

            “No.”  Adam answered for them all.  “We’re just passing through.”  He tried to hide among his fellow seventh graders, but his head towered over the others, as they all waited on Ms Ramirez.

            “We’re about done anyway.”  Ms Finster admitted.

            “Who let the peons in here?”  Jessica asked in a superior tone, referring to the seventh graders in general.  She was halfway up a ladder and turned for a good look.

            “Don’t touch them.”  Mindy said.  “You might catch something.”

            “No telling where they’ve been.”  Savannah added.

            The seventh graders looked at each other, but that just made the girls laugh.  Brittany stepped forward from the window, however, and just had to say something.

            “Come on, Jessica.  Get off your high horse.”

            “Is pickle face talking to me?”  Jessica responded.  Brittany’s mom had the bad sense to dress her daughter as a pickle in the first grade.  It was a cute costume at the time; but now that Brittany was of an age where things were beginning to break out on her face for real, Jessica thought it was a good time to remind everyone of that costume.  Brittany fumed, but she said nothing knowing that it would have only made matters worse.  She left, red angry, and Nichole and Molly followed.

            “See you at six.”  Ms Finster shouted after them, hoping to turn everyone’s thoughts from Jessica’s cruel words, but it did not really help.   Jessica laughed and climbed the rest of the ladder.

            “Tyler!”  Jessica called sweetly to the quarterback.  “Hand me the streamer.”  Barten-Cur noticed the streamer extended to the foot of the ladder, but Tyler was not paying attention.  He moved when Ms Ramirez left with the seventh graders in her train.  He reached the streamer and handed it up.  Jessica took one look down at that ugly, wart-face and screamed.  She kept on screaming, too, until everyone came and Barten-Cur finally put down the streamer and walked away.  Of course, Jessica claimed that she had merely been startled by the custodian’s face, but if that was true, one scream would have been enough.

            “Sorry Mister Cur.”  Tom Deal, the music teacher, took in on himself to speak for everyone; but then they all had to focus on Jessica, which was all Jessica really wanted.

                                                ————

            Barten-Cur went over to the window, not giving the attitude of the girl a second thought.  Because of his appearance, he had been treated that way his whole life; even back in the old world.  Then, he remembered!  He rushed out of the gym and shot for his pick-up.  The drive was short, but by the time he arrived at the house, everyone was gone.

            Barten locked the front door, Lila having forgotten again, and he stood on the front porch for a long time pondering what to do.  All he could envision was Truscan soldiers invading the school, and people getting hurt.  Seventh and Eighth graders were in no position to defend themselves, he thought.  To be sure, there were only a dozen places in town to eat out, and half of them were fast food restaurants.  Barten-Cur could have found his Princess easily enough, but he did not think of that.  He was worried about Lila, if the soldiers came.  He guessed they would be looking for her, and Arosa, but Lila especially had no one else to look after her.  He made up his mind.

            He went to his apartment and retrieved a potion he had made some time ago.  “To keep in practice.”  He told himself.  He had intended it for the Wallabys’ dogs, thinking they would do less damage to the property as squirrels, but he never used it.  Lady Arosa said he was not to do magic except in extreme emergency, like if Lila’s life was in danger.  Well, this counted, but he would have to be careful about it so as not to get in trouble.

One Writer’s mid-week Writing Secrets 1: Tell a Story.

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Sorry, I don’t have a link but I would recommend reading the Wall Street Journal, Saturday/Sunday, August 29-30, page W3 in the culture section.  The article is by Lev Grossman, and it is titled:  Storytelling.  Good Books Don’t Have to Be Hard.  And it is subtitled:  A novelist on the pleasure of reading stories that don’t bore… My response is:  Amen.  Whether you are writing fiction or embarked on some journalistic enterprise (or writing journalistic-fiction which is all too common these days) it helps to have a story! 

Grossman blames our view of what constitutes “great writing” (literature) on the modernists in the 1920s who objected to the Victorian novels that tied everything up in a nice, neat ending.  Faced with all of the changes that came with modern life, these authors said, (recognized) that life did not work out in nice and neat ways, and so they produced such works as “Lady Chatterley’s Lover,” “The Age of Innocence,” “Ulysses,” “A Passage to India,” “The Sun Also Rises,” “A Farewell to Arms,” “The Sound and the Fury,” and so on.  These all may be great books in their way, but the truth is (and Grossman says it well) they are too hard on the reader.  As he points out, “imagine what it felt like the first time somebody opened up “The Waste Land” and saw that it came with footnotes.” 

To be sure, all of these great works by great writers have produced in us a sense that quality writing must be like theirs:  “Mainstream” or “Literary;” yet, like the impressionist painters that revolutionized the art world, they have had their day.  The day of the “Mainstream” or “Literary” novel (so-called) is over.  To put it more succinctly:  modern literature had its time and place, but we are now living in a post modern age.

Thank goodness story is making a comeback.  Clearly, story is what readers want.    As Grossman points out, “Sales of young adult books (where the unblushing embrace of storytelling is allowed) are up 30.7% so far this year (through June)… while adult hardcovers are down 17.8%.  Nam Lee’s “The Boat,” one of the best reviewed books of fiction in 2008 has sold 16,000 copies in hardcover and trade paperback according to Nielsen Bookscan… (while) the author of the “Twilight” series, Stephanie Meyer, sold eight million.”

My point would be that it pays to have a story to tell.  Readers want this.  Writers – Serious Writers are discovering this.  Agents and Publishers are a little slower, but I believe they will follow the money.  My hope is that someday maybe even the reviewers will catch up.

You remember story:  Beginning, middle and End.  Yes, I said end.  True, these days we might not wrap everything up in a neat Victorian ribbon.  (The lessons of the modernists were valid to some extent).  In our day, Scrooge might have a relapse.  (We would call that a sequel).  But still, a story ought to have some resolution, some conclusion; it needs to reach a point where one can honestly type:  THE END.  It should no longer be acceptable to end a story, “because my fingers got tired of typing so I went to bed.”

“But what of Great Literature and true Stream of Consciousness writing, and etc.?”  As Jessica would say, with a snap of her gum, a click of her tongue and a roll of her eyes, “That is so last century!”

 

Writing Tip 1: 

Tell a story.  Tell a good story.  Grab the reader.  Take them through whatever twists or turns exist, and when you are done, let them go.  This can still be great literature, and I believe it will be how the future sees literature.  You can say all you want to say about life, liberty and the pursuit in a story.  You can make great points, Dickens did, but first of all make it a good read, because if it is good enough, along with lasting beyond the lifetime of a blog, someone just might pay you for it.

— Michael

Tales of the Other Earth: Halloween Story 2 M/F Story

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

            Wendel Carter stepped out in the early morning light, his briefcase and laptop securely in one hand and a travel mug of blessed coffee in the other.  Not a week ago it was still dark in the morning when he left the house, but the spring was on, and another school year would be over before he knew it.  He made for the car, but some motion down by the brook caught his eye.  At first he thought the Wallabys let their dogs loose again.  Browning was a small town, but there were leash laws in the town limits, even if the Wallabys did not like it.  Then he heard the arguing.  A man and woman were into it.  He did not understand a word of what they were saying.  It did not sound like English or Spanish, but he knew an argument when he heard one.  “Sounds like the school board.”  He mumbled to himself.  He paused when he got a good look, and the man and woman paused as well when they saw him.  Then Wendel nearly dropped his coffee.

            The woman was dressed in a long gown of green, which set off her brilliant green eyes and rich earth colored hair that fell from the hood of her open, scarlet cloak.  The hood surrounded a very young and pretty face and her hair fell almost to her waist, which was much longer than he was used to seeing.  She hardly looked twenty to judge by her face and hands, but she seemed much older since she was not dressed in the kind of skanky clothes so typical of most twenty-year-old girls.  She also looked older, he decided, because she had a firm grasp on the hand of what looked like a three or four-year-old; a girl who was also dressed in a gown of sorts.  Indeed, they looked like they were on their way to church, and Wendel settled on some such though before he took a closer look at the man.

            The man was about Wendel’s age, but like the girl, he also looked much older in certain ways.  His face was ugly, to put it mildly, with a big wart on his nose and beady little eyes under very bushy, almost Neanderthal brows.  He was not terribly tall, not nearly as tall as the woman, and, in Wendel’s estimation, this made him look more like a dwarf or troll, rather than a man.  The man pulled a long blade, something like a Roman style short sword.  Wendel took a step back while the man waved it at him and let loose some equally sharp words from his thick lips and near toothless mouth.

            The young woman frowned and with her free hand she forced the blade down.  She placed the little girl in the ogre’s hands to keep him occupied, which was a very brave thing to do in Wendel’s estimation, given the man’s appearance, and she stepped forward, speaking soothing words in some unknown tongue.  She held out her hand, and Wendel automatically set down his briefcase and laptop and raised his own hand to shake; but she grabbed the hand, and there was a white flash of light, and Wendel got very, very dizzy.  He needed to sit down to avoid falling down.  The woman also needed to sit down, and she did so, facing him.

            “Master of Library Science.”  The woman said.  “Most wonderful, Superintendent of Schools.”  It was like she was testing the words to see how they fit in her mouth and on her tongue and lips.

            “What hit me?”  Wendel asked, sipping his coffee, which he had miraculously kept upright in his hand.  The miracle liquid helped a little.

            “I am sorry.”  The woman said.  “But I have encountered many strange things in your world.  Ordinarily, I would have only exchanged my language and yours, but in this place I felt I needed some real knowledge of life – in America.”  She sounded so apologetic; Wendel was speechless.  Then he understood something incredible.

            “You mean you picked up English just by touching my hand?  Good God!”  He was speechless again.

            “I am sorry.”  The woman repeated her apology.  “I should not have invaded the privacy of your mind, but Library Science was there, seemingly unused, and I believe it may be enough to help me adjust in short order.”

            Wendel checked quickly.  Library Science was still in his mind as well, so she duplicated the knowledge and did not simply take it.  He had a Masters in Library Science, and it was where he was headed to get out of the classroom before he had an opportunity for School Administration.  He had been Principal of the Middle School while he worked on his Doctorate in Administration.  Then the opportunity came up for the Superintendent’s position, and he jumped at it, fool that he was.  “Quite all right.”  He said at last and he held out his hand a second time.  “Wendel Carter.”

            The young woman nodded as if she already knew this; but she shook his hand properly this time.  “Arosa.  Princess of Nova and Queen of Truscas.” 

            Wendel paused in mid shake.  He knew who she was as well, and he also knew something of her story.  Apparently she had willingly shared some of herself with him.  So she isn’t a thief or a whack-o, he assured himself.  But then, he knew that, and he knew one more thing which maybe Arosa did not yet realize.  “We need to get you inside.”  He said firmly, looking at the three strangers with new eyes.  “You must be exhausted.”

            “But you will be late for work.”  Arosa protested a little as if ready to apologize for a third time.

            “Nonsense.”  Wendel countered.  “I’m the boss.  I’ll yell at myself later.”  They stood and Arosa turned to Barten-Cur and Lila.

            “Come.”  She said.  “Now is the time to trust in good fortune.”  It was spoken in a language Wendel Carter never learned, but he understood every word.

            “Remarkable.”  He said in the same language as he helped the young woman up the porch steps.  The old retainer and the little girl followed.

Reflections: The Four Rules of Great Writing

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

1.         Write

2.         Start at the beginning of the Story and End at the End. 

            Don’t start with prologues, introductions or background details.  That isn’t the beginning of the story.

            At the end, characters may have more to say and more to do, but leave that to the reader.  Readers like that.  If there is a lot more to be said and done, perhaps there is a second story; but for the first story: Start at the beginning of the Story and End at the End.

3.         Great writing is not determined by what you put into it, but by knowing what to leave out.

4.         Write your own rules.  What works for you?

— Michael

Tales of the Other Earth: Halloween Story 1 M/F Story

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

            Wendel Carter loved puttering around the garden in the spring, setting down the mulch, planting flowers out front and vegetables in the back, fertilizing and trimming and setting out stones to keep the grass at bay; not that he grew much grass in the middle of nowhere, Georgia.  Still, it was therapy.  It kept him from thinking.  He knew school politics were bad from his years of teaching, but he never imagined how bad they could get until he accepted the position of Superintendent of Schools for the Browning School System, sadly referred to locally as the BS Schools.  That thought made him dig a little deeper.

            Gardening was therapy for another reason as well.  He paused long enough to wipe the sweat from his graying brow and take a long look at the empty house beside the brook.  He tried not to think about it, either.  He noticed that the white picket fence out front needed painting, as did the porch on the side of the house.  He turned his eyes to consider the little apartment above the garage where his mother used to live before she passed.  It needed work as well, but then none of that mattered.  It was the emptiness of the house and the emptiness he felt inside that claimed him and drove him to seek solace among the shrubs and flowers.  Sandra had been a good wife.  He could not have complained on that score, and Missy, his sixteen-year-old daughter had been the beat of his heart.  It still choked his throat and made tears well up into his eyes to think that the drunk, driving on the wrong side of the interstate, not only survived the wreck, but only got slapped on the wrist for killing a family – for destroying Wendel’s life and surely shredding his heart.             Wendel Carter shook his head and drove his spade into the hard red clay that pretended to be soil.  “That was four years ago.”  He told himself.  “Let it go, man.”  He tried to let it go, but he still had a few tears left.

                                                            *****

            Arosa stepped through the little shimmering hole in the air, holding tight to the sleeping three-year-old whose head snuggled into her shoulder  The little scamp was mumbling, but not squirming too badly which was good because Arosa had to hold on to her baby with one hand while her other hand grasped the hand of her faithful retainer, Barten-Cur.  The old man’s eyes were wide; fascinated with the prospect of the completely new and unknown world they were entering.  He noticed it was three hours before dawn in both places and Arosa knew there was not much to be seen in the dark, but she could not help smiling for the child-like innocence and wonder shown on the face of her retainer; because Barten-Cur’s fascination was truly that of a child, and in that respect he was much like Lila, her sleeping baby.  Her father used to say that the man was as loyal as a hunting dog, and almost as smart.  Still, he was a powerful man of magic.  It had taken both of them and some considerable sweat to open the hole between the worlds.

            “My Lady.”  Barten-Cur spoke softly as if afraid to disturb the child, or perhaps afraid to make their presence known in this new world of wonder.  “You must let me look around first.  There is no telling what may be lurking in the shadows.  There may be dragons or wolves or mandibar, or even dragons!”

            Arosa smiled again.  “Look here,” she said, letting go of his hand to place hers on Lila’s back, to comfort the sleeping, dreaming child.  They watched the hole they had made slowly close.  Soon, it was hardly bigger than a child’s ball, and then a woman’s ring and at last it completely disappeared.  “We go together.”  Arosa told her manservant.  “But you may keep your blade ready just in case.”

            Barten-Cur grinned with what teeth he had.  He was not usually permitted to carry sharp weapons.  Arosa, meanwhile, was straining her other senses as well as she could.  To be sure, she was very tired from the ordeal of opening the hole between the worlds, but she was fairly sure she could smell manure, and it smelled like ordinary enough cows.  There was a stream nearby, and she imagined they might do worse than following it.

            “This is farm country, my Lady.”  Barten-Cur confirmed; but Arosa was not sure if that was a good thing.  On the one hand, the closeness of people spoke against the nearness of wolves or other predators, but then men could be the worst predators of all when they wanted to be.  She imagined they would find out soon enough if these people were friendly to strangers, or not.