Oh, Nancy

I don't entirely know what this is.  But I like it.  228 words.

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She folded her arms over her chest and one hand twitched, missing something.  She put all her weight on her bad hip before she could remember the years of falling down followed by surgery, winced, and immediately hid the pain.  No weakness – no mercy.  The picture would have been complete with a magnifying glass, a little more titan sheen to her graying hair.

“So,” she said.  “That’s it then.”

I shifted from foot to foot, like I was twenty again and being told off by my girlfriend.  Old habits die hard.  “That’s it,” I agreed, unsure what else she wanted to hear.  I wouldn’t look at her.

“Seventy years, Ned?  Seventy?  And you don’t have a word to say about any of it?”

“I guess we’re just…”  I took a breath, let it out.  “I guess we’re just going our separate ways.”

Her hand clenched around the imaginary handle and she raised the fist, as if about to strike me down with her wrath.  I left in a hurry, unable to say another word to assuage her.  There were no words.  There was nothing I could say or do to sum up our years together, nor to explain why it was time we part ways.

I could only thank my good Nickerson family fortune that I hadn’t had the guts to tangle with Nancy Drew in her prime.

These Feet

To be published in the Castle's literary magazine, The Black Swan!

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These feet have been blistered, burned, frozen, and beaten, but they have never let me down.  These feet are calloused and scared, cracked and worn, and I wear them as a badge for my bravery.  These feet have scraped the bottom of too many pools to count and been thrown into the air by the angry surge of the Atlantic Ocean.  These feet have been bullied and bloodied, but they have endured enough and they know that they deserve a real pedicure every now and again.  These feet have climbed to the tops of towers and belfries, pressed the gas pedal to the floor, and stood in Lac Léman in Geneva.  These feet itch and stink – itch for movement, stink of victorious sweat in sensible shoes.  These feet have irregularly cut toenails and bumps and scars and aches and pains that tell the story of my travels and survivals.  These feet have braved hot sand and rain puddles.  These feet stretch and bend, kneaded under tired fingers, before the throbbing in the darkness of another dreamless night.  These feet carry me on walking tours and through museums; they’ve touched marble and stone and grass the world over.  These feet have carried me to my dreams, screaming in agony but never backing down.  These feet are ugly and tough and ruined, and they have never faltered.  These feet luxuriate in damp boots and wool blankets alike.  These feet will never let me stop moving.

For You

If I can just be social for the next three years, I can get my degree and then go live in my cabin in the middle of the woods.  And I'll never make another social faux pas or ruin another friendship again.  I'll write, and I'll run into the city (in disguise) to get my fill of the hustle and bustle and midsummer humidity I once so loved.  I'll answer my fan mail and sometimes see the people who matter, the ones that still care, the few I managed not to alienate.  There aren't many.  There will be no more arguments, no more pressure, no more personal conversations, in your face, when I make everything worse or let someone down.  I'll answer only to myself (and a publisher).  And I won't ever have to hear that tone in your voice again, the one that says I've failed, tells me how I've hurt you, recounts every one of my missteps.  The phone will never ring and you, you will never be on the other end of the line, waiting for me to redeem myself.  I'll live alone - perhaps a possum and some mix tapes - and I'll live without fear.  I won't suffer lose or pain, because I love to lose myself and I'll never again be near the people I hurt, unable to hurt myself be reliving their pain.  I'll remove myself to save them, to save you, mostly to save myself, because I'm selfish and cold and what have I done?  I won't ever see your face again, which should count as punishment enough for me, for all I've done.  I'll spend a lifetime in nothing, which is better than despair.  Better than the look on your face when I said, "I'm sorry," and all you heard was goodbye.

A Long, Lonely Time

Still trying to decide if this should be expanded to include some of the other little glimpses into a doomed relationship, or if there's enough here to let it stand on its own.  Read and debate for yourself, then fill me in. 

The title is also tentative; it's a line from the song "Unchained Melody" :]

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A Long, Lonely Time

When they separate in 1966, she won’t be able to cry.  She won’t allow her self-pity to swallow her whole, nor will she allow the open stares of her friends and neighbors to anger or shame her.  She won’t look at their baby boy, the one she’d brought into the world just three months before the inevitable end of their relationship.  She won’t think back on the good times, the romance, the months and months and months of bliss that should have really warned her of the incomparable heartache to come.

Geneva Wren will only be able to think of the rain.

Driving in the Dark

I have no idea what's going on here.  Inspired by watching The Matrix and then driving my dad to the train station on a foggy night.

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Happily Ever After

Happily Ever After  

Lou dragged James out to the courtyard to shake some sense into him.  He trailed along behind like a puppet on broken strings, stumbling almost drunkenly to keep up with her and seemingly unaware of the damage he’d done.  Once in the shadows of her favorite poplar trees, far from the prying eyes of the other party guests, Lou paused to take hold of James’ shoulders and literally shook him.

“Are you insane?” she demanded to know, though she obviously had her own ideas on the subject.  “You’re throwing your life away!”

“So getting married ruins your life?” James shot back.  He shrugged her off.  “Then why the hell are you doing it?”

“Your brother and I – ”

“You and my brother are bloody idiots, same as everyone else here.”

Lou reached out to him again, only to be rebuked, none too gently.  “You don’t mean that.  You’re not thinking clearly, Jamsey.”

“Don’t call me that!” he barked, shoving her so roughly she stumbled in her fancy ball gown.  He felt sorry the minute he did it – God, she looked beautiful – but there was no turning back after this night.  He fought to reach some semblance of calm, then exhaled slowly.  “Adi’s good enough for me.  We work well enough.  Why shouldn’t she be my wife?”

“I…I just…”  Lou pursed her lips, willing him to look at her.  He wouldn’t.  There was a laundry list of reasons, the same reasons his father would be throwing at him soon enough.  Adrienne was tawdry.  Adrienne was loose.  Adrienne was a bad influence.  But Lou could almost overlook all that, if she thought James actually loved her enough to make that kind of commitment.  She sat heavily on a nearby stone bench, the cold seeping through the taffeta princess gown, and decided upon, “Adi was just never the kind of girl I pictured you marrying.”

“Oh, yeah?  Me neither,” he replied, snide.  “I always thought – always hoped – I’d find someone…”  He shook his head and turned back towards the party lights, letting the meaning linger between them.  He’d made it clear enough over the last few years, after he’d broken free of his awkward teen years, after he’d come to realize what a jerk his brother had been and how wonderful Louisa always was and certainly always would be.

“James,” she sighed, and she could say no more.  They both shivered at the sound of his name on her lips.

You May Kiss the Bride?

For fun and laughs.  Inspired by a real conversation (unfortunately).  This one's for you, Roomie!


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You May Kiss the Bride?

There came a time in my life when I found myself married to my roommate.  He wasn’t an immigrant trying to keep his green card.  He wasn’t running from the law.  He wasn’t the love of my life.  In all truth, he wasn’t a “he” at all.  Her name was Kelsey, and we’d been friends since ninth grade AP Biology.

I wasn’t in love with her and, as far as I know, she hid no secret passions for me.  We had gotten close over panicked phone calls about chemistry homework, over food runs and the school musical and shared friends.  When the time came for all of us to go our separate ways, Kelsey and I didn’t.  We both went to a small liberal arts college in the middle of Boston, pursuing our dreams and pledging to keep each other motivated along the way.

It was just at the end of the spring semester of our freshmen year when, unceremoniously, Kelsey and I decided we would wed.  Our school only allowed seniors to move into off-campus housing, but we were both already fed up with dorm life.  Underclassmen could move into their own apartments if they fit one of only a few exceptions.  One was to join the military.  Another was to have a psychiatrist declare you unfit to live in the dorms anymore.  Another was to be married.

Smack

Rated mature for drug use, language, and adult situations.  If "adult situations" means arguing with your on-again, off-again significant other about who's the worse drug user.

Marleybone is my tiny, fictional, New Mexico town that will probably be the center of either a series of short stories and vignettes or a novel (I'm leaning towards the latter at the moment, but we'll see).  Shauna's the same that shows up in the flash fiction piece "Fantasies"; you can get the gist of her relationship with Beau from "Love Songs."

I love constructive criticism - so do your worst!

Mama

I've been neglecting you, Sparks + Splinters Fly!  Forgive me!  And please accept this tiny vignette as a token of my affections :]


More stories to come, as I quit being lazy and start being a writer again.


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Mama

Mama hadn’t risen from her spot in the wingback chair in the living room in – dear God, had it been days?  She sat in the darkness, the curtains drawn on the front window to block out any of the cheery afternoon light, the same Edith Piaf record playing to its end over and over again.  Sometimes, she’d listen to the same song over and over, always the same song, if she so chose to repeat it – “Non, je ne regrette rien.”  Did she have something she had thought was worth regretting?  What had Mama been keeping from them, all these long years?

Did Papa know?

Thieves

“The human body is capable of taking a lot more than the mind will let it attempt.”

All the World's a Stage

Inspired by an idea I've had bouncing around in my head for probably two years now.  Finally written out for class, then revised (this is the revised version) to be presented as my final in my Intro to Fiction class on Wednesday (esh).  I'm also thinking of submitting it to a contest, if I find the time to edit again, print it, and send it off in between all the send of semester nonsense.  Enjoy it ;]


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All the World’s a Stage

Juliet sat up on the prop couch and pulled her shirt on over her head.  She tugged the hem down and smoothed her hair, looking around for signs of life.  She was almost sure they were alone – it was way past quitting time, after all – but the silent theater could be filled with peeping toms and eavesdropping gossips, for all she knew.  It didn’t help that she was jittery, after spending part of the evening pinned to sagging cushions by one of the best known Broadway-turned-film stars in America.

In the flickering glow of the ghost light, the stage looked shadowed and forbidding.  “This shouldn’t have happened,” she said, leaning over and groping on the floor for her jeans and socks.  She wouldn’t look at Cal.

Sense & Sensibility

Laura glanced around the visiting area and pulled the nail file with the pink and white paisley pattern from her purse.  She discreetly slid it across the metal table towards her incarcerated boyfriend, Jack.  He was doing one to five at the state penitentiary for armed robbery – but not for much longer, if she had any say in the matter.

Jack picked up the file, studied it, and raised an eyebrow at his girl.  “What the hell is this?”

“Nail file.”  She popped her gum and wiggled her eyebrows.  “You know.”

“So I can be someone’s bitch with great nails?  Really complete the whole package?” Jack laughed, cruel rather than humorous.  “Great, Laur, just great.  Thanks.  It’s really the gift that keeps on giving.”

“Naw, not for your nails.”  She leaned in close, gnawing the fruity gum so Jack could be nauseated by both the sight and smell of it, and said in a stage whisper, “To escape.  Saw the bars, right?”  She grinned.  “You know.”

Jack looked from the flimsy cardboard nail file back to Laura.  His girlfriend had seen one too many old prison movies since he’d gone into the clink.  Jack suddenly realized that without the privilege of conjugal visits, Laura just wasn’t worth his time anymore.

“I think it’s time we started seeing other people.”  Jack flipped the nail file carelessly back at Laura as he rose from his seat, hitting her square in the nose.  He ignored her squealing and called for a guard to take him back to his cell.

(Flash fiction for no particular reason - clocks in at 256 words.)

How to Fall in Love

Inspired by a writing exercise we did in class this morning.  This wasn't the one I actually wrote in class, but it was a close runner-up in the idea category.  I'm also going to try and type up and finish the other one later on, because it's funny.  Eh.  Well.  I think it's funny.  I hope you'll agree.


Onward!


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How to Fall in Love

Take an eight o’clock class, the kind that you always feel bleary-eyed and foggy, no matter how many hours of sleep you got the night before.  Make sure it’s a something that actually interests you; it’ll be easier to meet your soul mate if you share the same interests.  Especially that early in the morning.

                              

It won’t be love at first sight.  You’ll hardly notice him on the first day of the new semester, when the professor insists everyone go around and introduce themselves.  You’ll file his name and face away for future reference, but note, also, that he isn’t your type. 

Wait a week.  Realize you don’t have a type.  Start to notice his eyes, the fall of his hair, the way he reads his writing aloud for the class.  Wrap yourself up in the sound of his voice.  Don’t you dare throw away that note he wrote you on your short story, the one that tells you how ballsy you were to write it and how much he enjoyed it.  He enjoyed it.  Don’t let that thought go for the rest of the semester.  Remember that as the moment you felt your stomach drop and your heart beat fast – remember that as the moment you fell in love with the guy who wasn’t your type.  He’s your only type now; deal with it.

Fantasies

Just a little something short to add to today's post!  This is my February submission to Flash Party, a flash fiction challenge that asks authors to write tiny stories once a month, 250 words or less and based around the month's theme (or not).  You should give it a try, right over here!




Story under the cut . . . 

Excalibur

I'm not so sure on the name or how I feel about the ending, but that's why I'm posting it here!  I'd love some outside feedback :]

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Excalibur

a fairy tale

In the room there sat a marble bust of Caesar, a pile of pirate’s gold, a ruby as big as a prize fighter’s fist, and the sword still stuck in the stone, but Oliver didn’t want any of it.  He just wanted – needed – to find Margot, and to take her home again.

He told the little man in the luscious wingback chair exactly that.  Oliver wouldn’t be swayed by such material things, no matter what their price tag back in reality.  Some said these things were priceless, some said precious, but the only thing Oliver could think of that fit the bill for him was a warm fire and a tummy full of food.  And his Margot.

The little man stood and, small as Oliver was, he was not very much taller than him.  Oliver was almost sure that if he stood on only two legs, he’d tower over the little man – or, at the very least, he’d be able to look him in the eye.  As it was, the little man crossed the room and stood before Oliver, his face hovering somewhere not so far above and his brow knitted in confusion.  “This isn’t enough for you?”

Love Songs

I came up with an idea for a story that I thought would make a really interesting novel.  After some research, I started fleshing out characters and the fictional southwestern small town it would be set in.  And then, of course, as with many things in life, I set the story idea aside when things got hectic, to be contemplated at a later date.

I renewed my interest in the idea recently, mostly by trying to take some of the townsfolk and build short stories around them for my Intro to Fiction class.  I thought about telling the entire story through short stories - arranged in no particular order, giving you snippets of these people's lives.  I'm still playing with the idea, but I'm leaning a little towards a novel format again.

Anyway, I have a few of the stories I've worked on and I'd love some feedback.  I've come to realize that I'm pretty bad at writing endings, so I'll definitely be looking for help with that on most of my short stories.  Also, if you catch anything that isn't clear, or anywhere the basic mechanics are off, please, please, please let me know!

Also...just picture Jeff Bridges as Art, when he pops up in the story.  Trust me.

Welcome to the jungle!

Well, maybe not the jungle.  But, as sole proprietor of Sparks + Splinters Fly, the little writing blog you've just stumbled upon, I'd like to warmly welcome you to my page!  I invite you to take a look around and, especially in these first few weeks, certainly check back often.  I'm not necessarily new to the blogosphere, but I'm still tweaking my template; I'm sure colors and pictures and words will change as soon as I've posted this introduction.


Anyhow, how about something of a mission statement?  I have a blog over on Tumblr that I've linked to and would love to have you click through and enjoy.  But that's blog is full of ranting, raving, and life in general - pictures, videos, questions, quotes, and short manifestos clog my few attempts at posting my more literary endeavors.  Of course, I love the site for that very fact, clogging the Internet with my epiphanies and favorite funny cat pictures.  But, someday, I hope to be paid for my writing.  I want to be a novelist.  And I want people to know and love me as much as I know and love them.  In the meantime, I want to get my writing out there.  Thus, Sparks + Splinters Fly.


Dear reader, I welcome you to the grand opening of my museum of rough drafts, critiques, edits, and whatever else comes up along my road to publication.  I'll be posting poetry, drabbles, scenes, vignettes, flash fiction, story ideas, short stories, novel chapters - anything I want (or so desperately need) some constructive criticism on, in order to improve my writing and better myself.  I want you to read what I have to share and (without stealing it, of course) tell me what you loved, what you hated, and how to make the piece the best it can be.  Constructive criticism is the name of the game, dear friends!  If you comment mine, I'll comment yours - and when I comment yours, I'd absolutely adore you for dropping by to do the same for me.

So, that's the story - just the first of many, trust me.  Welcome, welcome, welcome!  And, wherever you are and whatever you're doing, have a lovely day :]

- Katie ♥