Bartleby Snipes

Another Narration and Description piece specifically for character development. I quite like Bartleby, and I hope he'll be able to find a place in Dreamwalker's Path, or another of the books in the Archives. 

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            Every morning, before he went down stairs to man his corner-store book shop, Bartleby Snipes made himself a ham and mayonnaise sandwich. He did not particularly like mayonnaise, nor was he fond of ham, as a general rule, but Bartleby was, above all, a creature of habit. He’d eaten ham and mayonnaise sandwiches for lunch every day since his first day of primary school, when his mother had packed him a sandwich and a note, and a thermos of orange juice. Bartleby was now years passed primary school age, but the ham sandwich had been a constant in his life for so long that it was almost unthinkable that he should change now.

            So it was that when Bartleby reached for the place where the ham should have sat waiting for him, and grasped nothing but air, a sense of dread crept over him.

            “Oh dear…” he scratched an ear and frowned, deep lines outlining his muzzle and creasing his forehead.

Briefly Bartleby entertained the notion that he should go down to the store and buy more ham for his sandwich, but he dismissed it almost immediately. The shop had to be open in twenty minutes, and he would never get to the other side of town, beat the rush at the butchers, come home, make his sandwich, and still be able to open the shop on time. Likewise, the idea that he should not have a ham sandwich for lunch was so distressing that he was certain he could feel his heart propelling itself from one side of his ribcage to the other with little palpitations.

“Well…well, well, well,” he lifted his glasses off the bridge of his nose, the world teeter-tottering out of focus on the other side of the very thick glass. “I just don’t know what to do with myself. This has never happened before…” And it hadn’t. Bartleby kept strict inventory of everything that was in his refrigerator, and the one thing that he made sure he always had—other than mayonnaise—was ham. How did he run out? What had he been occupied with that had been so important that he’d forgotten to go to the butchers?

And then he remembered. It was the new project that Mr. Jaeger had him working on. Very important, very fascinating stuff that sucked him right in and caused him to forget that he’d run out of ham and needed to go get more.

Shakespeare couldn’t have written a better tragedy!

The old clock above the stairs co-cooed its way to the half hour. He had only a short time to decide what to do before he had to go downstairs and open the shop.

He had one option, as he saw it, and he dreaded it with all his being.

Carrying the weight of a routine he’d followed for over three decades, Bartleby picked up his phone and dialed.

“Mr. Jaeger? Y-yes, hello, it’s Bartleby. About the work you’ve given me…yes, I’ve decided a method of payment...” 

And then I built a harp...

Yesterday I spent the entire day reading while sitting by my front door glaring suspiciously at the road any time a UPS-like truck sounded like it was trundling down the road. I wasn't exactly sure that the UPS truck was going to get to the house at all, yesterday because of the rain, but arrive it did with a very large box with my name on it.

Despite my initial excitement, I very quickly realized that I still didn't know how I wanted to go about decorating my harp. I'd specifically looked for a harp kit so that I could personalize my harp before I started playing it, and since the harp kit that I chose had a cardboard soundbox (which made the kit substantially less expensive), decorating the harp wasn't so much an option as it was the difference between having a decent looking instrument and feeling like a toddler with a shoe box and some rubber bands. Originally I was going to paint some really intricate Celtic leaves and vines on the side, but I realized that most harps have Celtic leaves and knots along the side of the soundboard--which was fine for other harps, but this is my harp, and I wanted it to be special.

Having nixed the Celtic vines and/or knots idea, I came to the conclusion that I had NO IDEA what to paint. I did know that I wanted green paint, which I didn't have, so I dragged my sister and our friend out into the rain, to Michael's Arts and Crafts, to stare at a big shelf of paints where I worried for twenty minutes over what colour green I liked best. Except that all of the greens that they had either looked like it belonged on an army uniform, in a jar of Gerber's baby food, or, well, in the toilet. So green didn't happen. Instead, my friend found a great "berry wine" red, so I grabbed a couple of tubes of that and we headed back home.

Halfway into The Hobbit, I had the outside of my soundbox painted. I think that eventually I'll design a sort of floral stencil and paint that in white on the side. Maybe. Right now I'm pretty fond of it as it stands.

I let the box dry overnight, and today I finished constructing the rest of the harp. Originally, I was going to stain the wood, but it was quite a few shades darker than I thought it would be, and frankly, I was way too excited about putting it together to take the time to stain the wood properly, so I decided to skip that step. I did take a few minutes to burn a bardic symbol on the head of the harp. Then I use some of the lacquer that was left over from when my dad made the mantle over the fireplace. It was just my luck that the lacquer actually darkened the wood a fair bit, so it ended up exactly the colour I wanted as well as giving the wood a nice glossy look.

While the lacquer dried, my dad and I folded and glued the cardboard soundboard together, and once that dried I was able to go over it with another coat of paint. I realized this morning when handling the soundbox that because the instructions said to use a water-based paint, there was no way that the paint would survive if water got on it, and when the paint dried it was kind of chalky and dull. I ended up painting the soundbox with lacquer as well just to protect the paint.

Once everything was dry, it was time to put together the three-piece wooden frame, add the bridge pins and tuning pins, and then glue the frame to the soundbox (the majority of which my dad did, because he's the one with the power tools).

I am now in the process of waiting for the box and frame to dry, and tomorrow I'll be able to string the harp and start the VERY scary process of tuning this bad boy (oh gosh x_X).

I do have pictures below, and when I string it, I'll take another picture and put it up. :)

Word cout and Harp updates

In the last two days I have written a little over 5,000 words, bringing my total word count for my manuscript up to 35,540 words. I'm very pleased that I seem to have found a decent work stride again. With luck it will continue, though I will be able to hit the 50 thousand mark by the end of the month.

Also: I did cave and buy a harp--or rather, I bought a harp building kit and I'm going to put my own harp together and learn to play it. I've been practicing reading music in between writing. It's loads of fun--except, if I'm not paying attention, I get confused easily.

I should get the harp in the next week or so. I'll have to decide how I want to decorate it (the soundbox is cardboard, so I get to paint it up so that it looks less strange). I'll post updates on its progress occasionally, I'm sure.

Until next time!

I've noticed that one of the things that sucks most about having an idle summer is that it's hard to find a good time for me to write. Between learning how to make wire wrap jewelry and reading Joanne Bertin's Bard's Oath (and subsequently flipping longingly through Amazon and eBay looking at harps because the book really makes me want to play the harp), there just doesn't seem to be a lot of time in the day to sit around getting sucked into imaginary worlds.

Nevertheless I plug on, wishing that it were November, of all times, because Nanowrimo.org has that fantastic little bar visual where you can watch your word count grow. I think I need a visual. One off the things that I love about the program that I use to write is that it keeps me from being distracted by other sections of what I've already written. One of the things that I dislike is that it doesn't give me page numbers. It's hard to see your book fill out if you don't have page numbers to gage it. Maybe that's why I keep looking for some sort of little bar to fill up.

Good news is that my current word count is over 30,000 Words. If I were actually doing NaNoWriMo, I would be golden, as I think I've written well over 5,000 words in the last two days. I may finish the book before the end of the summer yet.

ONLY TIME SHALL TELL!

After a bit of a hiatus

I'm happy to announce that with summer comes the end of most of my time-sucks. I've officially graduated with my BA, and as I'm lucky enough to be a teacher, I have a nice long break for the summer. I expect to be able to work on some writing. My goal is to get a large portion of the next installment of The Historian's Archives, The Dreamwalker's Path, finished so that it can be ready for publication sometime next year.

I am also working on a collection of short stories which may center around Harold Knightly and his friends at Portly Middle, so stay tuned for more information about that as well. In between Harold and The Historian's Archives, I will continue working on the Hundred Themes exercises which I will continue posting as I finish them.

Dismally short update for such a long absence, but I'm hoping that blogging will be a good way to warm up for creative writing, so I expect that I'll be updating soon.

Fox Tails

It’s not easy being a fox.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that it’s not easy to be any sort of animal (and you would be right), but believe me when I tell you that it is particularly hard to be a fox. 

Ever since that dapper English dandy made a name for himself by snacking on poor, innocent virgins, it has been hard for me and mine to get one up in this world. Sloppy work on his part is what it was. You never let your intended know where you live before the wedding night—never mind how special old Fox thought dear Mary was, it simply isn’t something a responsible fox does—unless, of course, he wants to get chopped to a thousand pieces by Mary’s friends and family.

The trick is not to draw attention to yourself--that's where most of us go wrong. We make these great romantic gestures, each more elaborate than the next, and it's easy to get carried away by our excitement and anticipation. And if we do that, and it's all boots and cudgels and sharp metal objects splicing you into a thousand pieces. It's not a pretty picture, and I don't envy old Fox one bit—though I have to say it's his own fault: a bloody trail to your front door doesn't exactly herald good tithing or a blissful marriage.

Of course, we can’t be held entirely responsible for our naughty ways: they’re bred into us. We foxes see a pretty girl and cannot help but to become enthralled by her, to be consumed by our need to have her, possess her (and I dare say eat her). Really, it’s their own faults for being so charming, so easy to smile and laugh, for having dimples and pert little breasts and lovely supple legs...

Luckily, we tods have learned from the mistakes of those like Mr. Fox; we have become more clever and cleaner in this modern world. We set our alarms to ward off our uninvited girlfriends. The changes that come with said modern world also do their part to make our lives a little safer. Since even the earliest years of my kithood—oh, somewhere around the turn of last century, I expect—the modern world has slowly begun to push away the notion of fairies and goblins and foxes who talk, and I dare say that this is a marvelous thing, for the less that people remember their bedtime stories, the easier it becomes to be what I am: that is a fox. After all, it might be true that we foxes do have a keen fondness for the succulent flesh of young ladies, but in a world like this, our modern era, a phrase like that can have so many meanings.

But I can understand…I can understand why those that were found out were discovered in the process of attaining their lady loves. Knowing your meal inside and out is a singular feeling one can easily become addicted to. We all have our weaknesses, our Marys.

My own Mary is sitting beside me: the jean skirt that she wears show more of her strong thighs than it hides, the light of the street lights emphasize the gentle curve of her calves; her dainty bare feet which rest on the dashboard are pretty things with red polished toes; the black halter top that she wears cup her breast in a way that I’m pretty sure is an invitation; that’s not even touching on her long brown curls, or the sharp, sweet scent that blows my way as she rolls her window down for a breath of fresh air after our shared cigarette. It’s definitely not counting her throaty laugh, her sweet voice as she sings along to a song on the radio or the sweet come-hither look she’s been giving me the past hour and a half as we drive from club to club to show each other off. But, like the original, she too has a tendency to pry and skulk about to satisfy her curiosity, and I must be very careful not to end my trial of blood at the wrong door.

And this is where it gets difficult: she wants to come home with me. She’s been asking for weeks—a month, actually—and I am running out of excuses. My roommate (which I do not have), my parents (who are now long dead), my dog (don’t even ask…)

Et cetera

Et cetera

Et cetera

And with each excuse I can feel her slipping from my grasp and you cannot possibly understand how much the thought of losing her kills me. 

I thought about giving in once or twice, but like every Mary, she has friends and family that would see me chopped up and fed to dogs; it’s better to lose a meal than your head.

She must also be contemplating my unwillingness to take her home with me, for her face goes grave for several long moments despite the fact that she likes the song that’s playing. I glance at her from the corner of my eye as my car rolls to a stop at the three way intersection that turns into her street.

“You should come inside with me,” she suggests as she retracts her legs and fishes about in front of her seat for her strappy heels. “We could make some popcorn, watch a movie: you know I just got a new batch of DVDs from the video store the other day. I betcha there’s something you’ll like.”

Her green eyes brighten as she regards me.  Be bold, they say.

But a voice in my own head whispers the reply: but not too bold.

I don’t say anything as I cross the intersection and follow the road around the bend. Her expression deflates. I don’t see it, but I hear it in the way that she shifts uncomfortably—disappointedly—in her seat as I ease along the road.

“Sure,” I find myself saying as the car turns into her driveway. “Sure, I would like that.” And I smile at her as I put the car into park. After all, her house is not my house.

She brightens again, and in that moment I am breathless. Nothing is more beautiful than her smile, the flush of her cheeks, the way she scrunches her shoulders before she rewards my agreement with a kiss on my own scruffy cheek.

I chuckle as she fumbles with the handle of the car door and eventually pulls herself from her seat to a semi-standing position in her driveway.

“C’mon then!” she chirrups, peeking from beneath the top of the car before disappearing behind the slammed door.

I detangle myself from my seatbelt as she skips up to the red wooden door. Her house is almost as cute as she is. It’s small with white walls and windows with flowerboxes: oddly suiting, I think.

She is flipping through her key ring as I approach, and she exclaims a tiny “a-ha!” and produces the correct key for the lock. As she fits the key into place, a breeze ruffles her hair and carries her scent to me. My mouth waters in anticipation and I move to brush her hair away so I can kiss a bare shoulder

Be bold be bold, her scent urges.

And again, the now incredibly sulky voice from my own mind answers: But not too bold.

I lower my hand as she turns to look at me, and I smile instead of kissing her. She smiles back as she disappears into the house.

“Come on in,” she calls from the darkness, “let me change and I’ll pop us some popcorn.”

I step into what appears to be a front entry. A light waxes in some other room of the house—not enough to illuminate the hall, but enough that I catch a glimpse of her shadow on the wall.

Licking my lips, I start toward the light. So eager am I in my pursuit that my foot catches on a loose corner of the rug and—much to my chagrin—I take a tumble to the floor.

To ease my embarrassment, I turn, my every design focused upon kicking the rug back into its proper place, only to find that it was not the rug which I had tripped over.

My stomach knots as I pick up the half chewed forearm of a man.  “It is not so,” I hear myself whisper as my Mary slips from shadow to shadow, her white teeth and green eyes flashing viciously.

“Nor was it so…” I drop the hand, scramble up to my knees before she has be by the neck, her grip surprisingly strong, her long nails biting into my skin as she brings down a knife “And God forbid it should ever be so!”

And there I see it! Peaking from beneath her skirt, the tuft of a fox’s tail, and I, like a fool, could only shout.

Heart Throb

            The day I gave my heart away was a rainy one—the sort where the wind makes the rain fall sideways, and the drops are small and needle-like on your bare skin because it’s too cold for its own good. I was running late, on top of the rain, and since bad things come in threes, I shouldn’t have been surprised that this was the day that my car’s engine quit on me in the middle of a busy intersection.

            Luck got me safely to the side of the road, or it did if you believe in luck. I suppose that a scientist could chalk it up to a lack of friction on wet roads, and momentum. An object in motion will stay in motion, etc. etc. I hate science, personally. I’m a firm believer in luck and chance. Fate.

            Probably how I got into this mess in the first place.

            Dumbfounded, I sat in the carcass of my car and watched the rain fall in a fine, sharp mist against the windshield. I looked at the "check engine" light, the fuel gauge, then at the oil and the temperature. Everything looked okay to me. It looked the same as it ever did, anyway. 

            Looking at the dash was about the extent of my experience with cars. I’d never opened a hood in my life.

            When my brain finally broke through the bog, I tried my hand at percussive maintenance—because beating the dashboard with one’s fist is just as good as opening the hood when you have no idea what you’re doing.

            “Stupid—stupid—stupid—stupid!” I said the word until it meant nothing, and then I let my head fall against the headrest of my seat and heaved an almighty sigh.

            I turned on my hazard lights. I used my cellphone to call in to work, and then I called a tow truck.

            “It’ll pro’ly be about an hour, you know. With the weather an’ all.”

            Yes, of course it would.

            I stared at the dashboard again, thought about taking a nap, decided against it, turned on the radio, decided against that, reached for my phone and decided that I didn’t want to waste the battery.  All of that took five minutes.

            The pattern may have repeated a dozen times if a pair of headlights didn’t appear in my rear-view, come precariously close to my car and then stop. I watched through the rain as the door opened, as a black umbrella appeared, and a figure made its way to my car.

            I was already rolling my window down when the figure approached me.

            “Looks like you’re in a bit of trouble.”

            “Ah, yeah a bit,” I found myself quickly descending from anger into the low realm of embarrassment. Talk about a perfect specimen of the golden ratio. Green eyes, dark hair, high cheek bones—a face delicately crafted with symmetry in mind. I felt my heart throb. Oi.

            “The whole thing just sort of up and died on me,” I admitted.  “I’m waiting for the tow truck.”

            “Ha! You’ll be here a while. D’you know what’s wrong with it?”

            I shook my head. “I hate cars.”

            That’s when the smile happened. “Well I can look for you, but it might cost ya.”

            It was a stupid thing to do, in retrospect, but with that smile in my face, it was hard to think. I undid the brass buttons of my coat and pulled it open, pulled down the collar of my shirt. It was easier to pull my heart out than I thought it would be, and less painful.

            Gripping it firmly—it was heavy for being so small, dense, I guess would be the word—stuck my hand through the window, and winced when the rain began to wash away the blood. I could feel the raindrops hit it, stinging, but I did not shy away as I held my heart out on offer. “Will this do?”

            Long fingers brushed over my heart, a palm pressed against it, muffling its beat. “Yeah, all right.” And then it was gone from my hand, in the pocket of someone else’s coat. Someone whose name I didn’t even know.

            I popped my hood and watched the figure disappear to look at my engine. A few minutes passed, and then: “Try it now.”

            Like magic, my car came alive.

            “Should do you, at least to get home, or to a proper mechanic.”

            “Thanks,” I ran my hand through my hair and rubbed my empty chest. It was starting to ache now. I almost said, “Can I have your number?” but the words died on my lips. I smiled, but it was a thin, weak smile.

            “Sure thing. Just be careful. No drag racing or anything.”

            “Haha…yeah, no.”

            I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I let my heart be carried away in someone else’s coat pocket.

            I don’t know what happened to it after it left my sight, but I still feel it, occasionally, when it’s jarred suddenly, or if it gets squished between things, wherever it happens to be. I don’t think about it, much, except for on days when the wind makes the rain fall sideways, or when I see two people who made it passed a smile, and I wonder what I might have missed.