Author’s notes: If you have read the 5k excerpt, Jack is mentioned there. If you have not, he is one of Pax’s professors who later becomes relevant. This piece is pure dialogue, a phone call that has no place in the main story. If you like, note who says names where. Please enjoy. Additionally, the title change relates to ‘where there’s smoke, there’s fire,’ a personal subtitle for the narrative.
Title: 264 Miles
“Hello? Who’s this?”
“Jack? Jack! Oh, Jack, I haven’t heard from you in so long! How are you, what have I missed, oh, it’s so good to hear your voice.”
“I miss you, too, ma, and I just talked to you Monday.” Continue reading
The first 5000 words (plus a few) of the first draft, largely unedited. Please read to answer this question, despite it’s raw state: would it be worth continuing to read?
Achieved NaNoWriMo 2013 today.
Title: Smoke On My Lips
Five things to know about Pax Lebeau:
She has a habit of shoving things out of the way—clothes, books, general clutter—and stuff them out of sight—closet, drawers, boxes—until the mess overwhelms its confinement. Then she cleans out.
Lavender is special to her, but she has never exactly said why.
Dream catchers hang all about her room, which is decorated with wolf-themed material goods. This makes it easy to buy gifts for her.
The radio stations in her car and are all programed to country channels.
Pax absolutely hates peanut butter; taste, scent and texture. There is no hope for reconciliation. Continue reading
Title: London Bridge is [Excerpted from Smoke On My Lips]
Author’s note: At least a part of this will likely remain in the narrative.
It wasn’t until she visited Ian’s home that summer that he found out Pax could play the piano. She watched him plunk playfully at the keys, listening to him talk. At first, she leaned on his shoulder, but then she put her arms on either side of him and started dancing her fingers over the keys. Ian immediately stopped, and stayed still, leaving her uninterrupted.
“You never said you could play,” he murmured when the instrument fell silent.
“That’s all it is, though,” she answered, pressing her nose to the crown of his dark hair. “Just playing.”
Ian patted the piano bench. “Show me?” Continue reading
Another excerpt from my NaNoWriMo. Also unedited.
Title: Smoke On My Lips
There were nine years between Pax and Evander. There had always been nine years between them. Up until he graduated high school, it had never seemed to matter very much. He would play any role for her in the little stories she made up and narrated, wrapping t-shirts or scarves around his head to sport a different hairstyle, taking up props and planning secret excursions with her. He was perfectly tall enough to reach the snacks on the topmost shelf, but was equally willing to build a staircase of furniture and boxes for her to climb herself.
A part of her knew Evander did this because he was tasked with babysitting her after school. The rest of her little being did not care about this part. Continue reading
Title: What’s Inside
Rated Adult: Consider all boxes checked for mature content.
Author’s Note: Voyeurism and deconstruction.
Update 11/11/2013: Based on continued writing, this sequence is no longer in the narrative proper. Consider it a slight AU oneshot.
He watched, leaning on the frame of the window, the room behind him dark, its proprietary residents unaware that he could steal into their bedroom when they were gone and leave no evidence of his presence.
He watched, pressing the viewfinder of the camera close to his eye, hurting the brow bone, leaning further out to zoom in that little bit more.
Ian had placed the bed so perfectly, because she loves open air, so the wind could come in and touch her skin, tease her hair, just as Ian put his fingers in her hair, and put his lips to her skin. And Doyle’s eyes took in the feast. His shutter catches an awkward attempt, a stumble, the movement of sound. Continue reading
Hot off of NaNoWriMo press, unedited. No context.
Title: Smoke on My Lips
At the end of almost every day, Pax goes home, taking the longest route by lightless roads where the sign says 50 but the needle taps 70, 75…
The cul-de-sac is dark and so is the house, she’s the last one in and creeps for the sake of futility. Careful with the key, with the door, and with the lock. Nothing changes, so she needs no light to navigate.
There’s a single muffled thump against the floor as she light-foots across the kitchen. Sighing, she goes to the refrigerator, finding leftovers to heat up and there is another knock, louder. It won’t stop, she knows, and if it hasn’t yet it will eventually rouse her mother.
As she opens the basement door, the light from electronic screens spill up the wall. Pax tries to be quiet on the thin-carpeted stairs and only goes down far enough to see him.
I have decided that I am the writer that I am, and all the dirtier tales and glimpses that come with that. For the delicate disposition, I have created the tag and category ‘Rated Adult’ for any exceptional instance of violence or sexuality, though I will not differentiate the two.
Title: Second Circumstance of Thought
First a plum, then a peach. Smooth, shiny globe, or soft, fuzzy flesh. I would run my fingertips over them, careful not to bruise, careful not to drop. They’re like little hearts. Purple or pink, both sweet and tart. Continue reading
Written for class; it doesn’t actually fit the assignment demands. I like it better this way.
Ambition in 8 Chords
Herein I find red passion waits not far—
A bold woman reclines, long gates ajar,
Sweet caramel smooth and soft leather hide; Continue reading
Written during a break between classes. Vague idea of the direction, but very little forethought went into this.
Cold, damp, and the roughness of stone wore at his flesh. A low, vibrating hum brought nausea, but he didn’t dare let his gorge rise or he would choke under the gag wedged between his teeth. It wasn’t too bad if he didn’t think about it, turned his attention outward, but little had changed since the last time he had drifted to sleep and woken still in the darkness. A thin beam, like uncertain moonlight, filtered through a rag over the high, narrow window, the only thing breaking the grip of complete blindness. It illuminated nothing but the shackles on his ankles.
The hum worked its way back to his awareness with little effort. His stomach cramped with need, both for food and sickness. His chest felt hollow from hunger. There was no way to track time here, but it had to have been less than three days, less than two even, though it felt so much longer. He’d be dead in the first, and there was hope in the second. His allies might yet find him. Continue reading
For the last three mornings as I drive east I am facing directly into the brightest, lowest part of sunrise, where the red intensity is combined with the familiar gold, and it’s only just over the tree tops and buildings and bridges, so you can’t put the visor down low enough without blocking your vision entirely. This morning, waiting at a traffic light, the roof of the truck in front of me blocked the sun from blinding me, but then, as we sat waiting, it slowly came up over his truck to strike my eyes again.
Is it not interesting that something so vital to our existence, we spend so much time shutting out?