The goal is 90,000 to 100,000 words and today I passed the 30,000 mark. Yay!
I’m behind where I wanted to be at this time, but I’m happy to see that I am persisting.
At this point, however, it’s clear that abundant re-writing and editing will be necessary. So, what I’m doing now is really creating material to re-write. It’s a bunch of clay to shape.
It’s another full moon and time for a new story. This month it’s “The Night Parade.”
You’ve never seen anything like the night parade, and you probably never want to.
The Night Parade
Lily knelt and listened intently. She’d never seen anyone around the building and felt confident it was abandoned, but she’d learned the hard way you can’t be too careful living on the streets.
The police had been hanging around her usual sleeping place under the bridge. She didn’t stick around long enough to find out why. She scoped out this abandoned building weeks ago for just such an emergency. She couldn’t tell exactly what it might have been in the past. Some sort of business, maybe a neighborhood bar or small restaurant. The fact that it wasn’t raining, it was a full moon, that she’d located this place previously, and that she’d seen the cops before they’d seen her was all good fortune. She’d had worse nights. Much worse.
Read the rest here.
It’s another full moon, which means it’s time for a new story.
Ghosts are real and science has discovered a method of revealing their presence. The tourism industry takes advantage of this new discovery and a young tour guide meets a ghost different than the rest. Back at home her mother is dealing with death in her own way.
Ghosts aren’t supposed to know other people’s names, but Ndidi knew mine. She said I “talked different” than the others, but she couldn’t explain how. After giving tours I would look for her on a little ledge overlooking a kelp forest not far from her shipwreck. She said it reminded her of sunset even though the sun didn’t sink this deep into the ocean. The company set up artificial lights so the tourists could see the wreck and the ghosts. Ndidi found a spot where the light source silhouetted the tall swaying cords of artificial kelp. It looked like a permanent underwater sunset wrapped in liquid sapphire.
I called her Dee-Dee, but that wasn’t really her name. I spent days trying to pronounce her name correctly, to learn how to speak with her with the translator off. Every time she’d laugh and say it again. It sounded to me like I was saying exactly the same thing, but she’d laugh and say it again.
I asked her about her life before she died and her life as a ghost. She asked me about the world since she died and wanted me to describe and explain everything. The first thing I had to explain was drones. She said at first it was weird to talk to a little metal animal, but not any weirder than being a ghost. The second thing I explained were ghosts.
She told me about her death.
Read the rest of “The Thanatourists” here.
It’s another full moon, and time for a new story. This entry is a comedic tale about real estate agent Country Rose Wiley and her attempt to sell the only unhaunted house in Miliwata, Florida. Every home in Miliwata is haunted except for the old Miller place, but Country Rose has a plan.
Read An Unhaunted House.
Boyd Fester was a man who loved quiet and cherished the moments when he could find it. Early mornings at the real estate office, before anyone arrived, were his favorite time of the day. He drank his coffee, looked out the window, and listened to the distant thrum of cars on the highway. When he heard the door slam he sighed. Quiet time was over.
Country Rose Wiley marched into her boss’s office without knocking. Boyd could judge her progress precisely by the sound of her heavy walk. Everything about Country Rose was loud, including her clothes, her hair, and her footsteps. And her voice. Especially her voice. “Boyd, I want the Miller house.”
Read the rest here.
It’s another full moon, which means it’s time for a new story. This moon’s story involves a peculiar celestial event as the earth passes through a field of cosmic debris that creates periodic meteor showers. But, really, it’s a story about a little boy that hates his grandmother.
Through his bedroom window Rolando watched the cascade of shimmery lines sparkle on and off across the horizon as the tiny fires lit up the night sky. He knelt on a wicker laundry hamper his mother rescued from a curbside years before, his arms folded on the window ledge, his head pressed against the screen. He was small for his age and the fraying wicker felt sturdy under his knees. The meteor shower sent a literal shiver of delight up his spine.
“Close your window.” He was startled by his abuela’s sudden presence behind him. She reached over him, slammed the window shut, locked it, and let down the blinds. Rolando’s abuela, his grandmother his mother always corrected him, could barely reach the window over the hamper. She wore a threadbare and stained floral nightgown, her parakeet Prettypretty perched on her shoulder.
“It is not safe when the meteors are falling. Go brush your teeth, it is time for bed.” Without a word Rolando carefully slipped from the hamper, then moved quickly to the small bathroom to brush his teeth with a Mickey Mouse toothbrush he’d used as long as he could remember.
Read the rest here.
It’s the first full moon of 2017! That means it’s story time.
The blog goal for this year is to publish a story every full moon. This moon’s story is “The Conscience Switch.”
Ever wonder why humanity’s humanity seems intermittent? It turns out there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.
“The Conscience Switch”
“All morning he watched reports of soldiers abandoning their posts, drone operators walking away from their consoles, billionaires donating substantial sums to charity, pundits recanting their hate speech, criminals turning themselves into the police, high-level politicians resigning their positions, priests and rabbis and pastors and imams admitting they didn’t believe in God. Every moment, someone was clearing their conscience.”