Being Thankful for Writing: A Twisty Short Story In Honor of Vicarious by Paula Stokes and US giveaway of signed copy

Dear Readers:
The month of November is amazing for writing. First, it reminds me to be thankful for the wonderful writing, reading, and blogging community that I am a part of (thank you for being part of the family and continuing to be a part of this great journey with me!) and second, it is National Writing Month and while I don't have time this year to do the Nanowrimo, write a book in a month, I've done it in the past and it is a fantastic experience. If anyone is in doubt or doesn't know if this is for them, I highly recommend it. I hope to have a chance to do it again sometime.

Instead, I took yesterday evening to write a short story for The Writer's Cramp on writing.com, a website I also highly recommend to stimulate those creative juices. Every day at noon EDC, a new writing prompt is posted and you have to write a short story 1000 words or less OR a poem in 24 hours, post it on the community forum, and wait for the results, as there are judges who judge daily, give some quick feedback if they have time, and then pick a winner for that day. Entries vary, but the best prompts combined with good traffic give a really steep competition with some fabulous writers. I love to see what people will come up with.

In particular, I love a twisty story, and I love prompts that allow for that aspect.

Today's prompt was:
Someone offers you a cheap rate for a remodeling job.

You eagerly agree, but, then. . .

What goes wrong?

This is my entry, entitled "Perfect." Enjoy!

“Unless you finish remodeling my kitchen for half of the price that you originally stated,” I pause dramatically, “I will make sure that everyone in our neighborhood as well as everyone on my calling list blacklists you and your company forever.”

After a few panicked moments of the woman on the other end of the line sputtering and pleading, the conversation goes my way. It always does.

“You have a deal,” I purr.

I hang up the phone with a smile on my face, glancing up at the large vanity mirror to make sure my coiffed golden hair is still perfectly in place. My glistening lips turn down when I see a flyaway strand on the left side of my hair. With one ruby red lacquered finger, I paste it back down into submission.

“Perfect,” I say.

I hate having all the construction in the house, but it’s a necessary evil. Everyone looks up to me. I am the President of the Cooking Club, and I lead the neighborhood watch. The kitchen is the center hub of activity when we hold meetings at our place, and it has to be exactly right.

Bradley, my husband, bless him, tried to put up a little resistance, but I said, “No hanky panky, until I get what I want.” He knew what was best for him.

The floors have been ripped up and the old cabinets already taken out. It looks like a war zone. In the living room, I pour over the designs again. Polished granite has to go everywhere. Large kitchen island. Finish knocking out a wall into Brad’s study and make it part of the kitchen. Highest grade appliances. Detailed backsplash. Double oven. The list goes on and on, but it has to. This is what it takes.

A few hours later, Brad comes home. Even though he is in his late thirties, he can still turn heads. Dark brown hair, startling green eyes, and a wicked smile. Unfortunately, a furrow is starting to grow on his forehead. I think I should bring up plastic surgery in the future to smooth that out for him. It’s important.

“Hello, darling,” I say. “I have wonderful news.”

He is ruffling through the mail. “What’s that, Lynette?”

I saunter up to him, and then his eyes rove up my body. His warm hand slides on my hip. “Just got the company to cut the price in half for the kitchen. Yes, I’m amazing,” I say, kissing him on the cheek.

“Ah,” he murmurs, hugging me to his body. “I think this calls for a glass of wine.”

I don’t usually drink wine this early in the evening, it can give me a headache. But for once, I decide to relax my strict rules.

“All right,” I say, as I push him away, and he disappears for a moment.

He comes back with two wine glasses, a dark cabernet undulating in the center. His tie is loosened and in disarray. I resist the urge to fix it for him.

My fingers curl around the cool stem of the glass and we clink the edges together.

I take a sip and a heady buzz starts deep in my belly. The wine is perfect, I’m perfect, the kitchen is going to be perfect. The wine disappears sooner than I expect. Brad tops me off.

“Why don’t we do this more often?” Brad says, giving his wine an expert swirl before he takes a sip. If I didn’t know better, there’s a note of wistfulness there.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Brad,” I say airily. “We talk on a regular basis. And if you play your cards right, you might get lucky one of these days.”

His eyes narrow. “Lynn, why does everything have to be a bargain with you? Why can’t we just be a team?”

I laugh. “Brad, there’s no team. You get to make 7 figures under Daddy, and in return, you have to make me happy.”

His mouth purses in a narrow line. “Guess I should have thought longer about what I really wanted.”

My hackles go up. “What did you say?” My voice is shriller than I want it to be.

“Nothing,” he says, pushing his wine across the coffee table. “I’m tired, I’m going to bed.”

“Sounds nice, sweetie,” I say, already turning my mind to more important things. As I hear his footsteps fade up the stairs, I realize I’m becoming dizzy. I probably should have eaten something before drinking that much wine. My eyes become heavy and the room becomes dark.

****
 
The noise of scraping wakes me out of my stupor.

“You know, if she had just treated you right in the first place, none of this would have happened,” a familiar female voice says.

I can’t feel or move any of my limbs. I blink. I see two hazy shapes and some bricks being placed in front of me.

“I almost didn’t go through with it tonight.” It’s Brad this time. “But she is such a terrible person.”

The woman laughs. “Did she really think that she could cut the budget in half? She was such a jerk to me on the phone this morning.”

I am starting to feel really cold, and I’m realizing that they are cementing down a brick wall and it’s almost finished.

“Lynn, I don’t know if you can hear me, but your dad got an email from you yesterday saying that you were going on an extended trip to the Cayman Islands as you tend to do this time of year. Plus, you wanted to get away from the rehab of the kitchen, which has been beyond stressful for you,” Brad says. “When you don’t come back, the search will start there. Little will they know you never left your precious kitchen at all.” He laughs. “You’ll forever be part of the study that you so rudely took away from me.”

The last brick is placed, leaving me in inky blackness.

“Perfect,” Brad says.

*******************************************
Thanks for reading, everyone! By the way, I tied for first place! And to celebrate twisty stories, Left Bank Books is partnering up with me again to promote one of my all time favorite authors Paula Stokes and her amazing, dark, and twisty novel, VICARIOUS, which is a beyond terrific read. US only, sorry! Happy Thanksgiving!

Goodreads Book Description: Winter Kim and her sister, Rose, have always been inseparable. Together, the two of them survived growing up in a Korean orphanage and being trafficked into the United States. But they’ve escaped the past and started over in a new place where no one knows who they used to be.

Now they work as digital stunt girls for Rose’s ex-boyfriend, Gideon, engaging in dangerous and enticing activities while recording their neural impulses for his Vicarious Sensory Experiences, or ViSEs. Whether it’s bungee jumping, shark diving, or grinding up against celebrities at the city’s hottest dance clubs, Gideon can make it happen for you—for a price.

When Rose disappears and a ViSE recording of her murder is delivered to Gideon, Winter is devastated. She won’t rest until she finds her sister’s killer. But when the clues she uncovers conflict with the digital recordings her sister made, Winter isn’t sure what to believe. To find out what happened to Rose, she’ll have to untangle what’s real from what only seems real, risking her life in the process.

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Another Short Story: A Different Kind of Sword, my "stab" at what advertising might be like in the past

Dear All:
Because I'm competitive and I like a challenge, I decided to enter another Writer's Cramp on writing.com, a really fun website for those of you who want a writer's community.

Prompt: Write about advertisements or advertising in 1000 words or less.

I thought I'd do science fiction, since this prompt is asking for it, but then another wonderful writer in the community did an amazing job in the genre that I knew I couldn't beat. At first, I thought there was no point in entering the contest because she would win, hands down. Then I thought to myself, what about the opposite of what I had been planning on writing? What if I wrote a story set in a time before advertising was a thing? What would it be like? And because I think swords are cool, I started to hunt around for the history of swords. One thing led to another and I was hooked. I researched for an hour to make the story come together, and then wrote it. It was a blast. This is the first time I've ever written historical fiction. And to my surprise, I ended up in a tie for the win with the aforementioned writer! Hope you enjoy!

A Different Kind of Sword

The length of iron glows bright in the flame. I bring my hammer down steadily against the metal.

“Do not forget the four key factors in making a sword, my son,” my father said. “First, hardness, which comes from the iron.” He paces around me and the fire pit in the center of our working station. We are in open air, but it is as if Hell has opened its fiery gates.

Ching! Sparks fly as I hit the sword again.

“Strength comes from the specific dimensions of the sword and the requirements desired by the owner. Do you remember the other two?”

Sweat is beading on my brow, and I huff in annoyance. “Flexibility as the sword requires some give to slice through objects, and the perfect balance in the right hands. I am not a novice, Father.”

My father was taught by his father and his father before him. Sword making is an art, but one that has not changed for centuries. I crave more.

When my father leaves for a meeting about the heavy taxation the nobles have imposed on us, I dash to the new kiln I have built. One day in the cool breeze, I fell asleep and left my iron sword in the fire on top of some charcoal. When it cooled, it was harder than the original iron sword. I devised the construction of a small pit with a chimney to create this new metal on purpose.

Suddenly, I go flying with a cuff on my ear. My father has returned early. “Edward, this is a waste of your time! Do your work so we can keep a roof over our heads. With what’s been going on, we are making nothing as it is!”

“Father, let me do this. If I can convince the nearby villages to purchase these new swords, maybe I can help our cause against the nobles and earn extra money to support our family,” I say, rubbing my tender skin.

“Let me see this sword,” he grunts, rolling up his sleeves.

I hand it to him, my brown eyes flashing defiantly. His gaze softens as he touches the blade and slashes a few times in the air.

I hold my breath.

He shakes his head. “Fine. But if you cannot convince them, and you will not, you promise to do as I say and never speak of this again.”

I cannot believe he is giving me a chance. “Yes, Father, I promise.”

Over the next two weeks, I forge several swords of different sizes and weights in the new material that I dub Ironfire. Daggers that the ladies can use and hide in their skirts. Imposing, shining weapons for the hardened soldier. A light, but sharp middle sized sword for the everyman.

Next, I recruit my best friend, Thomas, the son of a tailor.

“What do you want me to do again?” he asks dubiously.

“We have to show them that the Ironfire swords are better than what they already own,” I say. “We need to perform a sort of play. Maybe we can display a miniature swordfight with an Ironfire sword and a regular iron sword.”

Thomas’s eyes widen. “It can cut through iron?”

“Yes, Thomas. Watch.”

After my demonstration, Thomas offers to make costumes.
***
In two more weeks, we are ready. We travel to the first neighboring town with Thomas strumming a lute and I, dragging a small cart containing my precious new swords across the bumpy road, since I cannot afford to take our old horse. I may be faster than he is.

“Hear ye, hear ye! Arm yourself with swords fit for a nobleman,” Thomas calls. We are wearing colorful cloths around our necks. Townspeople stop and stare in the street and start to gather around us. Thomas passes out scraps of leftover cloth from his father’s workbench with a sword handpainted onto it. We cannot write, but I hope the picture will be enough to spread the word.

The staged fight is thrilling at least to me, and I hear several gasps from the audience when the regular iron sword is lopped in two by my Ironfire one.

But no one buys a sword.

The next town is the same. I cannot understand what I am doing wrong. All the townspeople who see the demonstration are interested and even in awe of my presentation.

Finally, one man at the final village speaks to me. “I am sorry, son, these swords seem fine, but we trust our local sword maker, and you are just a stranger.”

How did I ever think that promoting my swords with a ridiculous show, handing out pieces of cloth to spread the word about my new swords would have ever worked? Only an idiot would attempt such a fool’s errand.
***************************************************************************************************************
“Can someone tell me one major reason that the Peasants’ Revolt in England in 1381 failed?” Miss Hornsby asks.

Several hands shoot up in the air.

“John?”

“The peasants didn’t have good enough weapons. Their swords were made of iron, not steel."

“Can someone tell me what steel is? Mary?”

Mary sits up primly. “Steel is an alloy of iron and is created by combining the carbon from charcoal and iron.”

“Correct.” Miss Hornsby peers over her glasses pointedly at each of them. “Take note, class. If they had only understood this steelmaking technique back then, their superior weaponry might have won them the war.”

Would love any comments you all might have!

Happy Boxing Day! And a little short story of mine to celebrate...

Dear Readers:
I hope you all had an amazing Christmas! My little girl enjoyed hers immensely, except for the fact that my whole family visited and got the stomach bug. We still found a way to enjoy all the presents (and I was thankful we did Christmas a week early so that we actually were able to eat Christmas dinner before the virus hit). 

Yesterday, on actual Christmas, after everyone left, I received an email from Writing.com that told me I hadn't logged in for 3 years. THREE YEARS?! How has time gone by so fast? It's terrifying to say the least. So I figured I'd take a look at The Writer's Cramp, a short story/poem contest where a prompt is given and you have 24 hours to respond to the prompt.

The prompt was as follows: Tomorrow is Boxing Day. Having lived my life in the US, where it's not observed, I had no idea what Boxing Day was until Wikipedia came along and I looked it up. For tomorrow, come up with your own interpretation of what Boxing Day is - the more outrageous, the better!

So before I give you my entry to the Cramp, what is Boxing day actually? Well, I had to go to the Wiki source to be sure :-)

Boxing Day is a holiday traditionally celebrated the day following Christmas Day, when servants and tradesmen would receive gifts, known as a "Christmas box", from their masters, employers or customers,^[1] in the United Kingdom, The Bahamas, Barbados, Canada, Hong Kong, Australia, Bermuda, New Zealand, Kenya, South Africa, Guyana, Trinidad and Tobago, Jamaica and other former British colonies. Today, Boxing Day is a public holiday usually falling on 26 December.

All right. So I didn't win. While it was a bit disappointing, the entry that won was beautiful, heartwarming and perfect for the Christmas holidays. Mine was a bit more Grinchy... edgy... not so heartwarming. So I knew I was making a risky move from the get go. I don't regret it though because I had a blast writing it. Let me know what you guys think. And if anyone can find the set of Easter eggs I put in it, you get mad props, and maybe something else if you post your answer!

The Box

Tomorrow is Boxing Day, and this year, I’m going to win first place.

I finger the glistening wood of the box that I have just completed. Each whirl and curve is perfect and the polish only enhances the delicate finishes. The piece of wood I selected has more warm tones of golden brown than I can count. I found it three years ago, by the lake next to our house. Pietra, my sister, laughed when she saw the expression on my face as I stroked the piece in reverence.

“Grazia, you shouldn’t dream of being a bird when you’re a fish,” she said then, handing me a rock to polish. “Father wouldn’t approve.”

I sigh, but pick up the piece anyway and tuck it in my skirts. “Just promise me you won’t tell him,” I said. I can’t help that I dream of spreading my wings.

I am the daughter of a stone craftsman, and while we have enough business to put food on the table and clothes on our backs, we are not considered even middle class. I don’t need the beautiful dresses that Malizia, the woodcutter’s daughter, wears, but what I wouldn’t give for medicine for my ailing mother, who can barely get out of bed from the early arthritis in her joints. She hasn’t smiled in over a year, and some days, she decides not to get out of bed at all.

The first morning Mother stayed in bed from pain, I devised a plan to give my family everything they deserved. Every year in our kingdom of Artigiano, which is known for its unparalleled skill in woodworking, the day after Christmas, known as Boxing Day, a woodcrafting competition is held. Everyone is eligible to turn in a handcrafted wooden box to the kingdom’s master artisans who rule our kingdom and reside in the castle. The boxes are all labeled with numbers prior to the judging so it doesn’t matter if you are old or young, fat or skinny, rich or poor, male or female; only the box is judged. The family of the winner is showered with gold, and the winner is trained by the master woodworkers in the castle to eventually become one of them, never to return home. I would grieve to never again see the tender look on my father’s face, the warmth of my mother’s gentle touch on my hair, or peals of unrestrained laughter from my sister, Pietra, but it’s a price I am willing to pay. And for all my talk of doing this for others, my heart quickens at the thought of training with the masters and seeing a look of jealousy on Malizia’s face.

The rules are minimal; the box must be crafted from a single piece of wood with only a single embellishment—but gold, silver, gems, or any other precious materials that cannot be afforded by the masses is not allowed, to keep it as fair as possible. But there’s no such thing as fair in this world. The rich hire tutors to train their young in woodworking techniques; Malizia has had personal tutors her whole life. I have no tutors; I just have quick hands and a love of a challenge.

My box is the result of 6 months of labor and love. It has an intricate maze built into the surface that is the perfect map of our city Artigiano from the skies; the only way to open the box is to guide a small sphere of obsidian snowflake granite through the maze to the castle. It’s a work of art. My work of art.

“What is that?”

The box is suddenly plucked from my hands. It is Malizia, her golden curls swinging, her green eyes flashing at me.

“A stonecutter’s daughter made a box?” She fingers it slightly, eyes narrowed, looking between me and the box with an increasing sense of disbelief.

“Please, Malizia,” I plead. “Give it back to me, I need to present it tomorrow.”

A slight smile curls on her lips. “No. I know this wood. This is from wood that my father cut.”

“I found the wood,” I start, but as I say the words, I already know I’ve lost.

“This is my box,” she declares. “I can’t believe you were about to present it as yours. Be off, stone girl.” She flounces off with my most precious possession, and my heart breaks in a million pieces as I see her go.

I suppose there’s always next year, but I know deep down I'll never enter again.

********************
The guard turns the key, as the girl screams and pounds on the cell door.

“Those poor villagers,” he chuckles to his partner, clipping the set of keys to his belt. “They don’t realize this little contest is held so that the master artisans can make sure no one can outdo their work, and they can stay in power.”

“It’s a mistake,” Malizia shrieks. “It’s not my box.”

“That’s what they all say, my dear,” says the other guard, as he leaves the prison in total darkness.

 


Hope you enjoyed it! Happy Boxing Day!

Writer's Cramp: A Honky Tonk Life

Prompt: Place anywhere in the story, the sentence- "This was the life of a country star."

Tommy Lee didn't give himself a chance to think too hard; if he did, he might just plumb give up. He set his guitar case down by his feet. The dust on the road swirled around his worn brown boots, and he tilted his hat forward to keep the sand out of his eyes. His hair had been long prior to the apocalypse, but it was longer and dirtier now, some dark strands caked to his face with old sweat.

The last few days didn't go so well. He lost his shotgun two days prior to a zombie girl, who he thought he had recognized from his past-- blond curls and a dress with faded flowers. Maybe an old fan? Maybe, but he couldn't recognize any features when she turned around, with her face half rotten off with visible gums and teeth from the hole in her cheek. She took him by surprise, and when she lurched towards him with gnarled, moldy fingers, he took his guitar and ran... and left the gun sitting where he had been sunning himself. It was obvious what his priorities were. And as he knew from experience, he was good at running away.

He figured playing and singing kept him sane, kept him human. Kept him different than the lumbering ghouls that followed his every step. He was used to followers running after him. But they usually didn't want to eat him. Usually.

He had been an alcoholic—he could admit that now, now that he couldn’t drink booze anymore, since dulling one’s senses increased the likelihood of being caught by a zombie. He hadn’t been the nicest guy either—he cringed when he remembered how he treated some of his most devout fans. He almost fell on one in a drunken stupor, threw up on another, and shouted expletives to yet another. At the time, he had rationalized, telling himself, “This is the life of a country star.” What would he do to get another chance to make up for past mistakes? But now, there were no stadiums of fans chanting his name. There were no chances for him to shine in the spotlight. Now, it was surviving by the edge of his teeth.

He had been on his own for a long time, and was hoping one day to find someone else in this barren wasteland. Plenty of empty houses with cupboards to plunder; plenty of houses with zombies that never escaped. Apparently, they weren’t so good at turning door knobs. He had a nasty surprise when he opened a closet a week ago.

He stuck a blade of grass in the corner of his mouth. There were benefits to the end of the world. Instead of writing songs about dead dogs, pickup trucks, or a wife that left him, he could sing verses about losing a limb, escaping death at every turn, or a relative or ex-wife that became a zombie. He was in the middle of the unfortunate observation that the most obvious rhyme with "zombie" was his own name "Tommy," when he heard an excited little whisper.

"Mister? Mister? Are you him? Are you really the famous Tommy Lee?"

Tommy turned around and saw a young boy wearing tattered rags and no shoes, streaks of soot on his cheeks. At first he was shocked, because he had not seen another human being in days, maybe months. He was losing track of time. “Who are you?” The words came out harsher than he intended.

The boy took a step back. “Artie. I’m a huge fan. My dad--“ he stuttered. “My dad used to play your music all the time on our stereo system. That is, when he was still alive.”

Tommy couldn’t believe this kid had survived this whole time. Who was taking care of him? He was skin and bones. Then he realized. This was his chance. His chance to make up for a lifetime of mistakes and disappointments.

He knelt down in front of the boy. “Do you have a favorite song?”

The boy gave him a shy smile. “I really like It’s a Honky Tonk Life.”

Tommy had to laugh. That was his least original song, but probably his most well-known. And the irony of singing that particular song now was not lost on him.

He flattened the case, popped the latches, and took out his guitar. He would have to break into another music store soon—he only had one set of strings left in his case. “For my biggest fan,” he said to Artie, who was clapping his hands gleefully. “I’ll sing this song.”

He started strumming with his worn pick. Chord after chord swelled from the well-loved instrument. He had been through everything with his guitar—the highs and lows. And now, it was helping him earn his redemption.

Hope you enjoyed it! Now don't forget to enter some great giveaways!

Current Giveaways
1. Interview and Giveaway of dystopian YA novel, There Comes A Prophet by David Litwack, US/Canada giveaway of paperback of his book and INT giveaway of e-copy
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2. Interview with Jennifer Lane, author of Streamline, US giveaway of signed paperback + bookmark and INT giveaway of e-copy, 12/16
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3.  Midwinter's Eve Giveaway Hop Featuring Keary Taylor, author of Eden and What I Didn't Say! (US only), 12/21-27
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