Fragment Friday – The Flappers

Happy Friday Firefans,

I wrote this piece  a couple Octobers ago, in response to a writing prompt Lori gave me. I pulled it out of the dusty archives of my computer and read it again, (forced myself not to edit or think about how much better I could write it now) and had a snicker at my original idea for a surprise ending.- which later I decided I didn’t like and changed. The ending isn’t here,  because I thought I would let you tell me how you think it should end! I’m still open for suggestions.

In any case I hope it gets you in a spooky mood just in time for a lovely October weekend.

Till next time,

~C

The Pink Flappers

Rain pelted down in sheets and rolling thunder boomed as I peered out the small, diamond-shaped sections of clear glass framed in the wooden front door. There was no hope of getting Mamie to come and pick me up in her Coup Deville with weather like this going on out there. She was skittish of driving even in sunshine, in daylight wearing her flat soled shoes and her Daddy’s blessing.  I sighed sorrowfully. Ella Fitzgerald’s sweet voice rang through the kitchen, across the foyer and down into my soul “I’m growing so tired of living alone, I lie awake all night and cry. Nobody loves me, that’s why. “

“Now what’ve I done with my pink flappers?” I yelled into the sitting room, to no-one in particular. My flappers, my favorite high-heeled pink shoes with wispy, sparklingPink flappers fur around the toes, I knew would boost my spirits and pull me out of my stormy day gloom. My mother had coined their nickname when she’d said I looked like a cheap flapper when I pulled them out of the bag I’d brought home from the consignment store. In defiance, I wore them every day after that.  What they lacked in class they made up for in confidence. I liked them a little more every time I slid the pink tufts of fur over my feet.  Besides the heels made my legs look longer, curvier, and somehow, they miraculously made me an amazing dancer. Boys were even starting to fight for me as their partner on Saturday nights at the Metro, the public dance hall on the edge of town. My mother thought my pink fluffy flappers made me look cheap- but when I wore them I felt like a modern-day Cinderella.

I pushed aside a dusty curtain hanging from the arch of the living room window. Not there. I bent down and stretched my neck sideways to peek underneath the oval glass inside the coffee table. Not there. Hadn’t I kicked them off here, last night, in the foyer? It had been dark, it was after 2 a.m. when I crept in like a thief in the night, hoping no-one was up waiting with listening ears.  I knew I’d catch hell if Dorie heard me come in and ratted me out. I could have taken them up to my room in a sleepy, party-dazed stupor and forgotten. So I crept up one flight of creaky wooden stairs to have a look. As I rounded the second story corner to my room, I noticed my sister’s door slightly open and I’ll be damned if those pink shoes weren’t lying right there at the end of her bed.

“Dorie!” I screamed. A stoic silence came from her room. So I blasted open the door hoping she’d be there on her bed and I’d startle her, reading her silly teen magazines.  But her room was empty, no trace of her except for her pale pink raincoat lying in a sad, dripping heap on the upholstered chair in the corner. The sight of it, for some reason made me glum, and my anger dwindled. I swiped my shoes from the floor and went out quietly, closing the door behind me. I stood in the hallway outside the second-story bedrooms balancing on one foot, then the other as I pulled on my beloved shoes. I continued down the hall to the small bathroom I shared with my sister, my flappers clicking cheerfully on the wood floor. My mood lightened a little. I pulled open the bottom vanity drawer and searched for my new tube of bright red lipstick I’d hidden last week. I dug for what seemed like forever through the drawer, but all I found were discarded plastic eye-shadow containers and lids from lost tubes of lip liner.

“Darn it all,” I said reaching one more time into the furthest reaches of the drawer. What could be more annoying than losing two of my favorite things in less than 10 minutes? But I was determined to force myself into a better mood so I found a tube of rose-colored lipstick instead and leaned in close to the mirror, slowly tracing the outline of my lips. I smacked my lips in satisfaction. Pink lipstick couldn’t hurt. Suddenly, as I stood there studying myself in the mirror, a noiseless shadow passed in the hall. I peeked out, hoping to catch Dorie sneaking into her room and give her a piece of my mind about stealing my shoes.  But she wasn’t there. I stretched my neck to see her bedroom doorway, still half open.  As I straightened my back and turned to face the mirror, suddenly a figure appeared behind me: A little creep a head shorter than me with her back to the mirror, her long, black hair hanging in damp clumps against her back. I jumped a little and shrieked, still looking at the creepy, faceless reflection of stringy black hair.

“Good hell, Dorie! That’s just plain not funny!” My sister said nothing, but slowly turned toward the mirror. Black streams of mascara dripped down her pale face, streaking her delicate cheekbones. Her wet clothes clung to her shivering body. She stared stoically into the mirror. I shuddered involuntarily at her wraithlike image.

“What’s wrong love?” I said, gathering my wits, and turned to face her. And for a moment I thought I had lost my mind, or was in the midst of a fervid dream, or had one too many margaritas at the dance hall last night…because she was gone.

A shiver of fear passed through my bones. What on earth? I glanced around the bathroom one more time and out into the hall to make sure no one had been trying to play a trick on me. All I heard were a few notes of jazz drifting up from the kitchen radio. How had she disappeared from my sight so quickly? Or had I imagined it? Maybe this moody October storm was getting to me a little more than I thought.

I looked back into the mirror with some trepidation, and saw that the color had drained from my face. My ashen skin and the bewildered look on my face reminded me of the uncanny appearance of my sister, and it forced me to look away. Suddenly I felt very alone. I decided to go down to the kitchen, where I knew Mama was pressing dough for pot pies or brewing a giant pot of beef stew. The kitchen windows would be all steamed up and dripping with condensation. The warmth and homey aroma of dinner cooking would seep into my cold soul and then I’d feel better. I flipped off the bathroom light and clicked downstairs without looking over my shoulder.

In the kitchen, all the lights were on; the white one hanging over the kitchen table, the small Stove-and-windowone over the stove, even the lamp in the corner where Dad had spent most evenings reading the newspaper before he died. A pot of cold unboiled, water sat on the stove. A single silver spoon rested on the counter nearby.  But there was nothing in the oven, no ingredients had been strewn out over the counter, and my Mother was nowhere to be seen. The only sign of life was the radio, playing a spirited trumpet player’s version of “It had to be you.”

I rubbed at the goosebumps on my arms and decided to make myself a cup of tea. I pulled my stash of Lavender chamomile tea bags from the cupboard over the counter and pulled Mama’s teapot from the cupboard beside the stove. I peered through rows of mismatched drinking glasses to find the delicate, fluted teacup painted with violets that Dorie and I always fought over. I sort of wished she was here now, arguing that she had as much right to my Grandmother’s tea set as I did; that I always assumed I had more rights because I was the older sister. As I thought about her, and the strange state I had seen her in earlier, I glanced again around the kitchen and saw something that took my breath away. All of the cupboard doors were open. Had they been that way when I walked in, and if so why hadn’t I noticed?

Again, I looked around for Dorie- who had been known in her younger days for playing practical jokes. She wasn’t there, the kitchen was completely empty. In fact, as I looked around again, something other than the room’s sheer emptiness that struck me. It was cold and…lifeless.  The kitchen seemed completely devoid of human touch- as if no human soul had lingered there for days, weeks even.

I turned on the stove and sunk down into Daddy’s old chair with a sigh. I knew there had to be an explanation for the unusual events of the afternoon, but for some reason my mind just couldn’t conjure up what it might be. In fact, when I tried to remember whether I had even seen Mama that morning, I couldn’t remember. Had I woke up as usual and took the bus to my typing class at the community college? Or was it Saturday? Had my sister, Mama and I eaten our usual wheat-scones and orange-spice tea around the table at breakfast, or maybe I had overslept and crept down in my bathrobe and slippers. I had no recollection of the morning. The last thing I remembered was looking for my shoes in the foyer.’

What was wrong with me? Was I losing my mind? I sat there in my late Daddy’s leather chair for what seemed like an eternity, trying to untangle the murky events in my subconscious.

Mistaken Identity

Hello Fire Fans,

This is a piece which I started so long ago that I barely remember writing it. This is really in a Fragment Friday vein, but I’m part owner of this blog so I’ll go ahead and do what I want.

I like the characters in this piece and I think I’m going to continue on with it one day.

Your writing prompt for today is this. Go through your old folders, find something you wrote, either one that you like and want to continue, or one that you despise that needs adjustment.  Add something, a description, dialogue, a whole scene…anything. Your old pieces deserve attention too.

Mistaken Identitybookstore

Sharon heard a woman’s voice calling “Ann, Ann!” She continued to look through the pages of a novel, killing time until she could pick up her daughter from dance class. “Ann! Ann!” the woman continued to call.

I wonder why Ann doesn’t answer, she thought to herself.

Sharon felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to find at a tiny woman wearing a tattered brown coat over a baggy purple T-shirt and faded jeans.

“Ann, I’ve been calling you and calling you. You always get so wrapped up in your books. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. How have you been?”

Shocked and embarrassed, Sharon opened her mouth to tell her that she must be mistaken, but before she could utter a word, the short, ragged looking woman continued.

“I’ve waited for your phone call. I thought I had done something to make you angry. You know, ever since Hank died it seems I spend a lot of time waiting for that old phone to ring.”

heart coffeeThe woman nervously pulled on her coat, conscious that it was out of style, worn and dirty. She laughed anxiously and said, “What are you doing right now? There’s a coffee shop right here in the store, would you like a cup?”

Shaking her head, Sharon intended, again, to tell her that she was not Ann. She looked into the woman’s gray eyes and was stunned by absolute loneliness. In that moment, she became lost in a stranger’s sorrow.

“I think you bought the coffee last time.” Sharon said, “Why don’t you let me buy this cup?”

 

Fragment Friday: The Song That Set Her Free

As you may recall, Natalie and I participated in a community project to help support the arts in our local schools.

Natalie has shared her play with you, and I thought that I would share part of mine for Fragment Friday. There are a lot of things that I want to change in this 10 minute play. I see a lot of holes, character flaws and it may be a little over dramatic.

But it’s mine.

I took my writing and put it on display for strangers to see. I do that weekly with this blog. However, it is one thing to imagine readers sitting at their computer screen, it is quite another to have your words, actions, and ideas put on display in front of a living, breathing audience.

I sat in anonymity watching the play unfold before the spectators. It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life. The actors were outstanding. The director got to the heart of the matter in the play. And I? I felt as if there were a flashing light above my head, and yet, at the same time, completely invisible as I sat there with a group of people who did not know, that I was the playwright. I saw open, raw reaction. Looking back, I’m still amazed that I did it.

The play was taken from a piece of flash fiction which I wrote for the blog. I’ve since removed the piece because I’d like to work on it without having it…out. (Writers sometimes have strange relationships with their work.)

As always, comments, ideas, and feedback are welcome.

Now, on with the show….

The Song That Set Her Free

By Lori King

Leah: A traditional housewife and mother

Marty: A husband, an up and coming Lawyer

Jessica: Leah and Marty’s oldest daughter (age 11)

Patrick: Their second child (age 6)

Mary: Their third child (age 3)

Anne: Leah’s best friend

The Song That Set Her Free

(Leah, dressed in a full skirt and heels, is standing stage right, at a stove in a modest kitchen, flipping pancakes in the early morning. There is a table center stage fully set for breakfast. Five chairs surround the table. There is a laundry hamper, ironing board and some shelves stage right, down stage from the stove. A notebook and pen sit on the shelf among some other books. There is a sink upstage from the table and a box of laundry detergent sits next to it. Stage left and down stage sits a wooden rocking chair and a bar stool.)

MARTY:

(Enters stage right in a bathrobe and slippers. A towel is draped over his arm. His hair is messy. He yawns.)

Good morning. Are the kids still in bed?

LEAH:

I was just about to call them.

MARTY:

I have to get to work early today. We have a client first thing. Maybe I should just eat…

LEAH:

Marty, we don’t get very much family time because you’re so busy…

MARTY:

Okay, okay….but I’ve got to leave early so you’d better get them up.

(Marty exits stage left and the sound of a shower is heard. He begins to sing.)

LEAH:

Jessica? Jessica? It’s time to get up. Can you get your brother and sister dressed?

JESSICA:

(Enters stage right fully dressed.)

Yeah, mom.

I was already awake. I’ve been reading. Have you ever read Jane Eyre?

LEAH:

Yes! I loved it when I was your age!

JESSICA:

I love it! But Mr. Rochester seems mean.

LEAH:

Just keep reading. You’ll end up loving him. Now, please hurry and get the other kids up. Can you have them wash their face and hands? Daddy will be out of the shower in a minute and we’re going to sit down to breakfast.

JESSICA:

Sure Mom.

(Jessica exits stage right)

LEAH:

(Leah quickly finishes preparing for breakfast and begins to set out all of the food on the table.)

MARTY:

(Enters stage left, clean cut and shaved, dressed in a business suit.)

What’s for breakfast?

LEAH:

Pancakes, eggs, bacon and some fresh berries.

MARTY:

The pancakes are going to be cold before we eat. You should have gotten the kids up earlier.

LEAH:

(Sighs)

 I know. They’ll be here in a minute.

(She pours milk into glasses as they wait for the children to join them.)

(The children enter stage right noisily arguing about where to sit. A glass of milk gets spilled as they sit.)

MARTY:

Leah…

(He gestures to the mess on the table in disgust.)

LEAH:

(Hurries to wipe up the mess and calmly gets the children seated and the children begin to eat.)

MARTY:

Can I get some coffee?

(He shakes a coffee cup in Leah’s direction.)

LEAH:

(Hurries to fill the coffee cup, and speaks to the children periodically. Coaxing them to eat, to stay clean, to mind their manners as she cuts pancakes into bite size pieces for her youngest.)

Do you know what time you’ll be home from work?

MARTY:

Leah. It just depends on how long it takes. If I have a client come in late, I’ll be home late.

LEAH:

Will you call if you’re going to be late?

MARTY:

I will if I remember.

LEAH:

Does Kathleen stay with you when you stay late?

MARTY:

Of course she does, she’s my assistant.

LEAH:

I don’t like the way she talks to you.

MARTY:

This again, Leah? It’s nothing. It’s just the way she IS. She’s like that with everyone.

LEAH:

Well, ‘everyone’ isn’t my husband. You are.

MARTY:

What do you want me to do? She’s a valuable asset to the firm. I’m not going to fire her. You worry too much. We’re a busy firm; we need an assistant. That’s all there is to it. Speaking of, I’d better get out the door. I need to get to work.

(He wipes his mouth on a napkin, kisses the kids and begins to walk stage right. Before he exits he turns back.)

Tomorrow I’m going bowling with Hank. Can you make sure my bowling shirt is clean?

LEAH:

I’ll wash it right after breakfast.

MARTY:

Don’t forget. Last week I smelled like old socks.

(He grins at her and exits stage right.)

LEAH: (sighs) Okay kiddos. Let’s get breakfast cleaned up so that we can get to the park, okay?

(The children begin to assemble their dishes and carry them to the kitchen sink. Leah takes a shirt from the hamper, goes to the sink and begins to scrub laundry detergent into a stain.)

 THE SCENE ENDS

(Leah is sitting at the table with her best friend Anne. Two cups of coffee sit on the table. Several children play quietly stage left.)

LEAH:

I don’t know Anne. It’s just a feeling I get. He’ll never support me doing anything outside the house.

ANNE:

Leah, you put him through school, you gave him three kids, you fix his meals, you clean his clothes. He will be alright if you take some time to yourself. He can take care of the kids for one or two nights a week.

LEAH:

But he’s never done it before and he has such a short temper with the younger ones. He’ll put a lot of pressure on Jessica if I’m gone.

ANNE:

Give him a chance. Just tell him what you want.

LEAH:

I don’t think he’ll care.

ANNE:

Why don’t you tell me what you want? Maybe it will help you clarify it with Marty.

LEAH:

(takes a deep breath)

When I was in high school, Mr. Hammond, my English teacher, told me I should write. He loved my stories and encouraged me to submit some of my work to magazines. I published a few short stories and won a few competitions. It felt wonderful! When I was writing, I felt like I was fulfilling a purpose, like I was communicating from my soul. I want to do it again. I want to start writing!

ANNE:

Leah, you deserve to do this! When you tell Marty, he’s going to ask you how you’re going to do it because you’re both so busy.

LEAH:

If he can watch the kids for two nights a week, I’d be able to get a lot of writing done. I could get dinner on the table and then go to the library for a couple hours. It wouldn’t take long before I had a few stories to send in, or even a book. I just need two nights a week.

ANNE:

That doesn’t sound like a lot to ask.

LEAH:

He’d have to clean up dinner.

ANNE:

It wouldn’t hurt him. He’s a grown man. He can clean up after himself and his children a couple of nights a week.

LEAH:

But what about Jessica?

ANNE:

She’ll be okay. Just make sure Marty knows that HE needs to be the one who takes care of things. He can’t just sit and read his paper. He needs to help her. If you set up a schedule, the rest of the family can pitch in to help.

LEAH:

I don’t know. It’s time for my children to begin to pursue their dreams. The time to pursue mine has already passed. Jessica loves to sing. I want her to keep doing that if her heart tells her she should. The time for me to make the decision to write a novel was made when I said ‘I do’ to Marty. He will never support me in this. Some decisions we make are permanent.

ANNE:

(thinks for a moment and then replies)

Leah, how are you going to teach your children to go after their dreams if you don’t go after yours?

LEAH:

(Looking over at the children as they play.)

I can’t, can I.

ANNE:

Just tell him. He’ll hear you out.

LEAH:

I hope so.

END SCENE

Fragment Friday – Cats and Dogs

Happy Friday Firefans!

In the spirit of a late summer weekend…

Today I decided to share something that I wrote simply because…are you ready? It makes me happy. Yes. Writers can be happy too.

I don’t think this story is epic. I don’t think have any delusions that the writing here is stellar. The plot is light and probably predictable. And I haven’t spent hours obsessing over it or become an existential train wreck because of it or its origins.

I started it as part of a prompt for a short story contest. I ended up missing the deadline, but was so in love with the premise that I decided I’d keep it on file and go back to it someday.  I love the characters and the possible scenarios of what might happen between them. I love the setting and the story and the animals and the slightly askew yet amiable small-town ideals.

This story is something that I often forget writing is supposed to be: FUN. Yes! Did you know, our group has lots and lots and lots of fun? We do! Even though of late, we haven’t shown that side of ourselves here.

And yes, you called it. You know me well. There is, of course, music that goes with this scene. See? More fun!  Unfortunately this artist is so up-and-coming you can’t find the song on YouTube. So you’ll need Spotify to play it. (Emerging writers supporting emerging artists. That’s how we roll here at WTF.)

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. As always, I welcome your thoughts.

Thanks for reading.

~C

(here’s the song)

* * *

Cats and Dogs ~ Chapter One, Opening Scene

Lizzie sat on the window ledge, pulled back the lace curtain and peered outside. Squinting, she surveyed the contents of the black convertible in the driveway next door: A camera, a map, and several brown boxes filled with books. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that satisfied any suspicions of either normalcy or scandal.

Gracie, with her little orange tail pointed straight up, jumped onto the window ledge and boldly nosed her way through the curtain. Lizzie took the kitten into her lap and pulled back the lace. She didn’t want to be accused of spying. And anyway she wasn’t spying, really. That would be perfectly ridiculous.lace curtains

Mary, the librarian was the first in town to spread the news: Nathan McDaniel, the famous and recently divorced romance novelist was moving to the seaside town of Trinity Cove. Lizzie couldn’t have cared less about it, until she heard Mary casually mention that he was buying the house next door.

She’d had to sell literally hundreds of her murals to save for the down payment on her 1906 Victorian cottage, and in the three years she’d lived there, she’d been working her fingers to the bone to restore and maintain its charm.  She was near certain a celebrity author was not going to appreciate the historic character of the neighborhood. Nor was she sure that she wanted an egotistical, overpaid, overindulged, celebrity romance writer living next door.

She had read a few of Nate McDaniel’s books, or she’d tried anyway, and she couldn’t help finding his writing bland and overly cliché. She’d rolled her eyes at the way his books followed such a formulaic plot, young Caucasians in love and separated or unrequited in mind-numbingly stereotypical ways. She was sure he hadn’t a clue the way people really felt, or talked, or acted when they were smitten over someone. And maybe she was no expert, but she was pretty sure that real people didn’t act like the cardboard cutouts he seemed to use as inspiration for his characters.

moving truckShe straightened her spine and watched cautiously as a slender man with tousled, walnut-colored hair appeared behind the truck with a handcart, wearing a dress shirt rolled to the elbows and loose-fitting jeans. He pulled a few medium-sized boxes down and stacked them on the cart, then put his hands behind his head, stretched and gazed with a warm smile around neighborhood. Lizzie ducked behind the curtain.

That’s Nathan McDaniel?” She said out loud without meaning to. Gracie mewed in response, butting her head against Lizzie’s arm. She stroked the kitten’s soft fur absentmindedly and peeked out again. The man was effortlessly lifting giant boxes down and stacking them in neat rows. Strange. She had pictured him older, heavier, messier, more… bookish: Sweater cardigan, squishy abdomen, double chin, withered cigar hanging over a five-o-clock shadow. Not that she’d spent any time thinking about it, but wasn’t that what middle-aged romance novelists usually looked like? She pulled back the lace again and leaned forward slightly to get a better view.

After a long bout of silent staring, a horrible thud, followed by a clawing, scratching noise brought Lizzie back into focus and painfully aware that she’d been resting her forehead against the glass. Damn. She was caught. The man in the driveway jerked his head in the direction of Lizzie’s front window.

Gracie dug her claws into Lizzie’s thighs and before she had a chance to cry out in pain, a giant, jet-black, slobbery face appeared at the window. The horrible creature barked so loud, Lizzie felt the window vibrate. Gracie clawed her way across Lizzie’s right arm and dashed under the sofa.

“What on earth was that awful thing?” Lizzie whimpered, rubbing the tiny scratches on her thigh.The doorbell chimed.

She froze, thinking briefly of her ripped shorts, paint-splattered shirt, and the dirty-blonde strands of hair falling out of the messy bun on top of her head.  She closed her eyes and hoped that the quiet meant whomever was at the door had gone. But a friendly knock- with a little more-than-the-usual enthusiasm broke into the silence.

Lizzie took a deep breath and made her way to the door, opening it with slow trepidation.

Fragment Friday – The Yellow Balloon

“It’s okay, baby. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Through the rear-view mirror, Julie could just see a corner of Lily’s tiny red face. The baby’s hands trembled, irate at being trapped in the confines of her car seatbaby crying rear view.  Julie inhaled slowly and made a soft, rhythmic shushing sound at her daughter’s cries. She slowly turned up the volume on the car’s CD player.  The deep, lilting voice of a cello sent notes of Bach’s Prelude in G Major over the beige leather seats.  Julie rolled her neck around slowly and it snapped back at her with angry tension.  She’d never expected her first day back at work to have gone so terribly wrong. She’d walked into a raging wildfire- one that had been going on without her for months, one that Jason Hunt fully expected her to have solved in the first few hours of her return. And then on the phone, in tears, in the parking lot she’d snapped at Gabe, for not understanding the absurdity of it all. Thirty minutes later she’d walked into the sitter’s to find her baby crying furious, and hungry.  She’s been like this all day, the young blonde had said, trying to disguise the potency of impatience in her voice. Julie rubbed at her temples as she slowed the car to a stop at the intersection. Lily’s screams had subsided and were replaced by intermittent, exhausted sobs.

“It’s okay, Lil,” she made her voice low, intentional and calm, mimicking the cello. “Everything’s going to be okay.”  Did she keep saying that for Lily, or for herself?  She gazed at the faded red of the stoplight. Filtered sunlight beamed across the gray asphalt and reached across the sidewalk, toward a row of red-brick, 1920’s bungalows. Drifting above the delicate leaf patterns on the street, a wraith-like shape drifted into the scene. A small yellow balloon floated into the intersection, pulling a tattered white string behind it like an unwilling captive.

Julie stared, entranced by the movement of the balloon- the way it swayed and dipped serendipitously. It moved across the street in almost deliberate motion. The stoplight changed. Julie did not move her foot from the brake. She kept staring. Somewhere in her mind an alarm 1920s bungalows live oakswas going off.  Something inside her was urging her to take action.  But the movement of the balloon had become so intensely clear that she could scarcely realize any of her other senses. Having seen the balloon float across half of the intersection, her eyes drifted to the far corner on the opposite side. A young Hispanic man and a tiny, brunette toddler girl stood at the street sign. Julie studied the pink and white pinstripes on the girls dress. The child’s cropped brunette hair swept across her chin when she turned her head.  Julie noticed the soft smile that moved over the father’s lips as the child pointed to the balloon. And the blank absoluteness of the change that came over his face when the child dashed into the street. She wanted to scream out. But as if trapped inside a dream, when she opened her mouth she had no voice. She watched, struck motionless in disbelief. A giant, white moving truck moved under the stoplight opposite her. Blurred streaks of white, red, silver and black flashed into the faded sunlight. The smoking rubber of tires smeared a horrible, black streak across the asphalt. A fringe of brown hair swept across a heart-shaped face. A red hand jutted into the center of the chaos. The demon screeching of metal into metal. The eerie, rain-like shattering of broken glass. Julie stared, frozen into the disaster, frozen into time. She felt a surging heaviness in the atmosphere- time being heaved to a stop. Like when Lily was born.

Julie loosened her hands from the steering wheel and stepped, trembling into the street. Her heart pounded loud in her ears. The back end of the truck had completely taken out the front end of a blue sedan. The driver sat motionless in his seat.  She couldn’t remember getting out of the car,  but felt herself moving toward the collision. She stared at the space where she’d last seen the balloon. And then…a sudden movement came from beneath it. An arm reached out onto the street. Life. Limbs. Hope. Love. Noise. A cry.  A child’s cry. Suddenly Julie could feel herself breathing, her heart pulsing out blood to her fingers and toes, the tightness of skin around her cheeks, the way her tongue felt against the back of her teeth. It was the first time in 34 years she had ever been aware of being inside of her life.yellow balloon in trees

The yellow balloon bumped across the rounded curb and upward into the low crooks of a towering live oak, tangling its captive string into the reaching arc of branches.

Fragment Friday um yeah its late sorry.

Well hey Y’all I know its Saturday and not Friday and that fragment and Saturday do not begin with the same letter. I am sorry I did not get this done yesterday. I have been working on this story for a while and it is well special for a lot of reasons. Despite the lateness of it I hope you enjoy it. And yes although I have been working on it forever it is still a little rough. Until next time peace out homies.

Emily pushed open the sun bleached wooden door of the bookstore, the delicious musty scent enveloped her immediately. She loved the smell, it reminded her of her grandma’s house. Her grandma had a room that had been floor to ceiling books and Emily had spent many happy days of her childhood in the center of that floor surrounded by a mountain of books. Drinking in the details of every adventure and savoring the flavor of every character. Then cancer came and stole her grandma from her.

Since then Emily had kept reading to escape the harsh reality of her life. Mr. Lindon’s bookstore had allowed her a small amount of happiness amid the chaos.

At 15 her life was hectic her mother and father were too caught up in their own issues to Mr Lindon's be parents to her or her younger siblings. Emily had become a surrogate mother to the children. Making sure that they were fed, dressed in clean clothes, and in bed at a decent hour. Her mother did give her an allowance weekly and she spent most of that at Mr. Lindon’s.

She had developed a friendship with the kind, man and he had become an adopted grandfather to her. She began wandering through the aisles stopping at this book or that, perusing the covers, titles, and first few pages.

“Is that you Em?” Mr Lindon called out from his tiny office.

“Hey Mr. Lindon yep it’s me. Did anything new come in?”

“Oh yes I have been waiting for you,” he said his bright green eyes twinkling with excitement. He shuffled out of his office and along the ornate mahogany counter, past the antique cash register, to the bookshelf on the far end. “There are a few I set aside for you, but one in particular.”

fairy adventuresEmily made her way to join him and there in his hands was the most beautiful book she had ever seen. The cover was made of dark purple velvet there was silver writing on the front and spine and a silver braided book mark hung between pages that had yellowed with age. Upon closer inspection she saw that the writing on the cover said Fairy Adventures. Emily grew even more excited as she carefully took the book from Mr. Lindon.

“I found this while going through some of my wife’s old things” he said. ”It was her journal of all the adventures she had when she was young. It was never published but I thought you might enjoy it.”

“That would be great Mr. Lindon. I would be honored to read it.” Emily said, carefully fingering the delicate pages.

“Just a warning there are some rules you must follow when reading this book. It can be dangerous.”

“Dangerous?! How so?” She asked.

“Well, it changes things, not just things, everything.”

Conversations With a Muse

Awakened…

It’s midnight, pitch black and humid inside my bedroom. I have finally found the solace of deep, dreamless sleep when I’m pulled into consciousness by a faint whispering. I stir.

“What are you doing up, baby,” I say, assuming it’s one of my girls. “Bad dream?” With my eyes still closed, I reach out my hand to pat a little blonde head.  There’s no one there, so I force my eyelids open. It’s dark, but I can see a tall, thin figure perched on the end of my bed. He’s wearing…a top hat?

“It’s me,” the figure says. “But you can call me baby, sweetie.”

“Ahhh. Chris… I might have known. Hold on.” Careful not to wake my husband, I open my nightstand drawer and pull out a small notebook and a book light.

“Not Chris, Christopher,” he says, enunciating all the consonants. “Remember?”

“Right. Sorry. Christopher. Whadya got?”

“Saint Christopher, actually,” he says casually.

Saint?” I laugh. “Okay…you…your kind are beautiful creatures. And I guess it’s possible someone might mistake you for an angel, in the dark, having had something serious poured in her drink. But I’d hardly call you a saint. Anyway, do you even know who Saint Christopher is?”

“Of course dear,” he says, buffing his nails against his chest. “It’s me.”

“You know I think if you did a little research you’d find the irony…You know what, forget it. I’m not going to argue this at…” I glance at my digital clock on the nightstand “12:02 am. You can pretend you’re a saint if you want. But I am not calling you Saint Christopher.”

Finally my eyes adjust to the dim light and I see that Chris—er, Christopher is dressed in turn of the century equestrian clothes: tight, forest-green pants, a derby, leather riding boots that come to just above the knee. I raise an eyebrow. He smirks at me.

“You love it, right?” he says, lifting his hat from his head and grinning. I squint and shake my head.

“I don’t—“

“Mmm hmm,” he interrupts, pursing his lips. “Don’t think I don’t know about your love of horses. Not to mention your secret obsession for ridiculously tight boots. It’s just too bad it doesn’t work on them.”

“What? What doesn’t work?”

“Whispering,” he says, rolling his eyes. I shake my head at him in confusion. He sighs and clicks his tongue impatiently. “You can’t muse a horse.” He slides off the foot board and leans against it. I tilt my head and survey him. Somehow, even ridiculous in 18th century equestrian gear, Chris manages to look fashionable. “It works on dogs sometimes,” he says. “Cats yield varied and erratic results. But horses are like stubborn old men. They always think they know better.”

”You tried to…give a horse an idea?” I can’t stop the corner of my mouth from turning up into a half smile. I snicker.

“Listen, Miss Judgmental in ripped yoga pants and….my good Hell, is that your husband’s old t-shirt?” I glance down at my pajama selection and shrug. He cringes and goes on. “The point is, don’t judge me. I had a vision: A majestic black horse cantering  in the wind at night. A poem, or a story beginning, whatever…figuring that out is your forte. Anyway it sounded simply fabulous. So I wanted to try it out before I whispered it.”

“That does sound lovely,” I say, scrawling notes across an empty line in my notebook.

“Wait,” he says, moving next to the bed and pushing my notebook down. “Close your eyes.” He kneels in front of me in the dim light and for a small moment we look at one another. I see sparks of color erupting inside the sapphire blue rings of his eyes. Tiny torrents of light, gold, pink, and yellow and I wonder if this is what ideas look like. I wonder if he can feel them. I wonder what it means to be a Muse, and if that strange sadness I sense in him has anything to do with his career choice. Or if it was a choice at all…

“I said, close your eyes.”

“Sorry.” I lower my eyelids and I’m met with a rush of cool night air. The pounding of hooves on earth drowns out the beating of my own heart. I’m riding without a saddle, barefoot and clutching fistfuls of the creature’s jet-black mane, strands of which are whipping against my forearms. The horse slows to a canter and I slide off, stand beside him and run my hands along his muscular neck. His silken hair shines almost blue in the moonlight.

I’m drawn to the creature, Ilh_040Goliath can’t stop touching him. I’m beckoned by the diamonds sparkling in the velvet, black sky and the way the grass casts snakelike shadows onto my bare feet. I want to stay. I want to live here, fall into this world and never look back. But reality lies in waiting. I know it will call for me once it realizes I am gone. And eventually, I will call for it too. I open my eyes.

“Wow…that was—“

“Acceptable,” he sighs.  “Adequate. But it could have been brilliant. Sadly this getup was wasted on the likes of His Majesty in the manure pile out in the back field. Some creatures simply weren’t made to appreciate artistic inspiration.”

“I know why she goes riding,” I say quietly, picking up my notebook and pen.

“Oh? There’s a she?” Chris smiles knowingly and backs away from my bedside, leans against my desk.

“Yes, a young girl. She sneaks out of her house at night and rides because it’s the only way she can’t hear her heart pounding. She’s haunted by…something. I don’t know yet.”

“I’ll work on it for you,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say, and smile. He smiles back. We have a mutual, unspoken understanding. The magic of being mused doesn’t stop at one suggestion. It’s the merging of enchanting ideas with familiar emotion, the melding of imagination and truth. I close the notebook and lay it on the nightstand.

“What are you doing?” Chris says. “We aren’t done.”

“Listen, Chris. Christopher. I really appreciate all of this effort, but it’s after midnight. My kids are going to get me up early. And anyway I think I got the gist of what—“

“What…the horse in the field? That wasn’t it. What do you take me for, a dolt?”

“I don’t—“

“Get comfortable sweetie, I have the story idea of a lifetime for you.” He sinks to the floor and leans comfortably against the pillows I’ve tossed from my bed.

“I’m already writing the story idea of a lifetime, rememb—“

“It starts like this…He’s a man with a gypsy soul who trains horses, and he’s a ghost. But not in the usual way…

hand writing darkish

Fragment Friday- Contradictions

Hey readers!

I am very excited about this post.

Its Music Week, AND Fragment Friday, AND its my turn to share some fiction! 

I decided to write something new, just for this post. I’ve been in a bit of a writing funk lately, and this was just the ticket to bring me out of it.This piece is from my (very distant future) book, The Lyrics. This scene, combined with Ed Sheeran’s Give Me Love is a good example of when I hear a song, and it moves me, speaks to the Muse, and fits my characters so perfectly I decide to actually write the song into the story.

One more thing before you dive in. This piece is a little long (Read; it needs editing.) It’s rough, it rambles a little, and it’s probably not the best representation of my writing style. (Read: I finished it last night at 11:39pm.) But it’s fresh, its pure and raw, and that’s what we’re shooting for here on WTF.

If you have comments, questions, complaints, I’d love to hear it all. Help me make it better. We’re all about the feedback!

Hope you enjoy.  ~Cindy

The Lyrics  Chapter 22 – Contradictions

The droning voices and incessant, cacophonic noise of the Karaoke machine finally ceased, and now a 50’s style song pulsed over the bar with a purposeful beat.

Stacey wasn’t on the stage anymore, and she hadn’t gone back to the crowded table of women—Sam could only assume they were dancers, covered in makeup and casting sparks of light around the room with their sequin-covered breasts. When he’d first caught sight of her, bare-faced and wearing a soft-pink hooded sweatshirt and jeans, he was grateful. Rising fame and palpable heartbreak hadn’t changed her yet. That’s it, keep fighting it, baby.

He wandered through the club, trying not to breathe in the scent of alcohol, trying to shut out the sound of ice clinking in thick glasses. He maneuvered around a crowd of women chatting on the dance floor, averted his eyes away from the bartender and made his way toward the back door, propped open. He somehow knew he’d find her there. He drew in a breath.

He could only see the silhouette of her, and she wasn’t facing him. But there was no doubt it was Stacey. She was leaning against the railing and dangling a half-empty thoughtful silhouettebeer bottle over the edge. He hesitated in the doorway, watching the way the flat lamplight bounced off her hair, casting an amber glow onto her nose and cheeks. It was possible, with every subsequent heartbreak she grew a little sadder, a little less sure of herself, and a little more beautiful. She leaned her head back and took a gulp from the bottle. He half smiled, watching her try not to cringe as she swallowed it.

“Hey,” he said, still inside the open door. She whipped her head around but didn’t move in any other way, so that a length of her brown hair swept under her chin, like a fine silk scarf. He could see her throat muscles move as she swallowed so she could speak.

“Sam?” Her eyes widened. “What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since…I thought you were still in London.”

“I thought you didn’t drink beer,” he said, ignoring her question.

“I don’t.” She swirled the bottle around, looking through the hole at the liquid inside instead of him. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough,” he said, When he saw her swallow hard and close her eyes, he wished he’d found another way to say it. She laughed sardonically and shook her head.

“That figures. It’s like I’m always finding new ways to humiliate myself.” He started to shake his head but she went on before he could think of what to say. “Cry about my dipshit ex in front of a famous director, a room full of theater critics. Come to find out it was in front of my best friend too. Typical.” Her words stung at him, and he wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t like being referred to as her best friend, or because he didn’t feel like he’d been any sort of friend, to her or anyone. Not for the past six months anyway.

“Hey,” he said, placing his hand on her arm. “You didn’t do anything except not sing Karaoke. I’m not saying you’re bad, but that’s no crime.” He grinned, but she didn’t smile back. “Ok…so you watched Jake make an ass of himself on national television.  So what? Anyway, you have to know it isn’t true. All that chatter about his broken heart and making babies. It’s bloody nonsense.”

“You mean he made it up? Why?”

“Come on Stace. You’ve gotta know by now— he isn’t above feeding fiction to the press for publicity. It’s part of the game. We do it all the time.”

You don’t,” she said arguably, swirling the beer bottle around so it made a swishing noise. “I don’t.

“Well that’s because you and I—” he paused, wanting those words to slide easily across his tongue and out of his mouth and into the air again. “You and I…” he hesitated.. She turned and looked at him expectantly. “Well. We have a mutual understanding that any publicity is bad publicity.” Her face warmed, she smiled slightly. She was standing next to him now, her arm touching his.

“Tell me why it matters to me Sam,” she said, still swinging the beer bottle and gazing upward. “I wasted five years of my life waiting for Jake. He obviously wants fame more than he wants me. So what do I care if he’s out there, leading someone else on?” Beer on railing

Damn. He’d hoped that things would be different now, that she wouldn’t want to talk about Jake, that she’d no longer regard him as the middle-man. It was that one hope that gave him the courage to walk through the door of that bar. He wanted to pull her into his arms. Even more than he wanted to go to the bar and order a Scotch, even more than he wanted to find that bastard he used to regard as his only confidante and send him through a wall. More than all of it, he wanted to hold her. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“Because,” he said instead, forcing out words. “You gave it your all, and it’s tough to stop that momentum.” He swallowed hard. “Because your heart’s still in it.” He wasn’t saying it: The truth that hovered between them like the smoke in the air. Because you’re still in love with him.

She sighed and tipped her head so it touched his shoulder. He didn’t move. She sniffed a few times. She’s crying, he thought.  Suddenly her arm was moving around his waist. He started to hug her, but she reached into his jacket pocket and thrust a carton of cigarettes into the space between them.

“I thought you quit,” she said, her brown eyes flickering.

“I did,” he said, squinting and scratching behind his ear. She opened the carton. One missing. She eyed him for a few minutes, quiet scrutiny on her brow. He waited for her to ask if he’d been drinking. At least then he could say no, and it would be true, and he could be honest about something. But she didn’t ask. She pushed the cigarettes back into his pocket and gave him a weak smile.

“You and I…” she said, shaking her head and reaching for her beer. “At least we’re mutually ridiculous.” She took another long swallow and balanced the bottle on the railing, then opened her arms to embrace him. He lifted his to let her in, and she tucked her head under his chin. He closed his eyes.

hug “I don’t know why you’re here Sam.” Her voice was muffled by his jacket. “I probably don’t want to know why you’re at a bar, in L.A., at midnight. And this is probably really selfish… but I’m glad. I needed a friendly face.”

He hated the way she’d said it. A friendly face. Those words made it clear that things were not different. Time and distance had not changed anything. Up until now he’d been telling himself he’d changed inside and out since the last time he saw her. And maybe he had. But he was still the man she needed without being the man she wanted.

The smoke and the noise from inside the bar drifted out the back door and into the atmosphere, disappearing into the long, waving fingers of palm fronds. Bouts of laughter from the tables inside rose above the murmurs of flattery and pick-up lines, the publicized beginnings of one-night-stands. The music overhead changed from 50’s-pop into something contemporary; novel, with a softer beat. There was a bit of sorrow in the singer’s voice that rung familiar in Sam’s ears. The voice sounded subtly British, not unlike his own, and the lyrics floated out into the night air.

Give me love like her
Cause lately I’ve been waking up alone
Paint splatted teardrops on my shirt.
I told you I’d let them go…
And that I’ll fight my corner.
Maybe tonight I’ll call you
After my blood turns into alcohol.

A couple came onto the patio holding hands. They kissed. Sam watched them for a long time. They started to dance. Don’t, a voice in his head urged. It’s too much. It’s too soon. 

“You wanta dance?” he said, ignoring it.

“I thought you didn’t dance.” She pulled out of his arms and gave him a weak smile.

“I don’t,” he said. She grinned. The realness, the sweetness of it on her lips made him want to tell her. Everything. That he’d been waiting for her to stop reaching for the unreachable. That all the imperfections Jake saw in her were what made her…so bloody perfect. But he couldn’t find a way to make those words into anything outside his own head. Instead, he managed:

“But it seems to be a night of contradictions.”

She laughed, the breathy, soprano notes of her laughter ringing in his ears, and he tried hard to memorize it. He’d forgotten that laugh, how it made him feel: Unafraid.

“You’re right,” she held out her hand.  “I’d love to.”

**********

Hello, you beautiful reader you. If you made it this far, THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart. If you’re interested, I’ve created a soundtrack for this story on Spotify. Find me there and I’ll share it with you. 🙂

Fragment Friday

We have some exciting news! Each Friday we will be sharing a small portion of our writing with you. We’ll have essays, fiction, articles, poems…everything. We encourage you to provide feedback. Tell us where you think the story is going to go. Let us know what we did right, what we could do together, what you liked and what you didn’t.

Tonight I am sharing with you a short piece of a story I began about 7 months ago.

Yellow

Luke leaned his aging body over a monstrous engine tightening a bolt into place. He sighed, put his hands inside the pockets of his overalls and starred at the machine for a moment before he retrieved a tiny notebook, opened it and checked several figures.

He went to the glass container filled with a clear yellowish liquid and opened a valve. The Lukefluid dripped slowly into the machine. Tiny bubbles floated up through the liquid bursting as they came to the top.

Walking around to a key and a large red button, Luke simultaneously turned the key and pushed the button. The engine coughed and then produced a constant rumbling growl.

Luke yelled with enthusiasm and despite his age leapt into the air.

“I’ve done it!” he said in his thick Irish accent as he turned to his basset hound. “Do you smell that? It’s clean and sweet. We’ve made it, boy! We’ve made it!”

The dog answered by wagging his tail and rolling to his back.

Luke turned off the machine and yelled over to his lounging puppy. “Hey, boy, let’s go make a phone call.” He climbed the creaking stairs which were coated with flaking, waxy residue.

The dog, realizing he wasn’t going to get his belly rubbed followed his master up the stairs.

Luke dialed his nephew’s number, forgetting to check what time it would be on the east coast of the United States.

“Hello?” a groggy female voice came across the phone.

Love at First Read: Breakfast at Tiffany’s

Breakfast at Tiffany's Novel

As part of the “Writing Amidst Life” theme,  today I thought I’d share my thoughts about reading one of my all-time favorite novels.

This review is actually a blog post- dating back to 2010 when I first started this blog. At that time, I was the only writer on Writing the Fire, and I was trying to inspire myself back into writing, after a good 10-year sabbatical, by reading a variety of books.

The first time I read Breakfast at Tiffany’s proved to be one of those unforgettable experiences every reader yearns for the moment she opens the cover.

I hope you enjoy. 🙂

-Cindy

Sunday, January 24, 2010

*Sigh*

(Warning- there are a lot of sighs in this post.)

I  just finished reading Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I am proud to announce that it’s made it into my “Top-Ten-Favorites-of-All-Time” list. Let me pause here because that is HUGE.

Those of you who know me well understand what an anomaly that is. Some people like to call people like me a “book snob.” But I prefer to think of myself as a “book flake.” Because if I’m not hooked and in love with at least one of the characters by the end of the first chapter, I’ll totally flake out and either procrastinate finishing it or blow it off completely.

But with Tiffany’s, I was hooked in the first paragraph. The writing drew me in, like love at first sight. Truman Capote is one of the few authors I can say that about.

I do have to admit, I haAudreyd already seen the movie. And a few chapters in- I thought the book was a little strange and sometimes even crude, compared to the images of flawless Audrey Hepburn in her stylish dark sunglasses and sleek black dress from the movie. The novel has more of the gritty, nutty, real-life stuff than I expected.

But, overall? Delicious. Captivating, in-depth characters and absolutely divine writing, filled with feeling and wit. Delicious, juicy sentences I want to carve out and savor like chocolate truffles..like:

“It seemed a dance, Berman performing some fancy footwork to prevent his rivals cutting in. He lost her to a quadrile of partners who gobbled up her stammered jokes like popcorn tossed to pigeons.”

Love it…And:

“Leaves floated on the lake; on the shore, a park-man was fanning a bonfire of them, and the smoke, rising like Indian signals, was the only smudge on the quivering air. Aprils have never meant that much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring; which was how I felt sitting with Holly on the railings of the boathouse porch.”

*Sigh* No one writes like this anymore! Can’t you just smell the mustiness of the smoke, feel the coolness of fall, and the heaviness in his heart? This is the kind of wit, feeling, and realness I want in my writing. It’s true what they say, Capote is an absolute master at creating the perfect sentence.

young-truman-x01

Capote in his late 20s.Young…brooding…kissable, no? 

*As a side note. I’ve decided I am most certainly infatuated with Truman Capote. Yeah, I know he was gay and…no way to say it politely: he’s extremely deceased. I don’t care. Part of me is in love with him…or some version of him in my head, anyway.

Point being, whatever his preferences were, the way he describes scenes makes a girl week in the knees.                            (Besides, did you know he was best friends with Harper Lee, who ironically, is another author on my top 10 list. I think at the very least we could have been hang-out-and-complain-about-writers-block buddies.)*

Yeah I know. I digress. It’s my blog, I get to do what I want.

Anyway here’s the thing about Breakfast at Tiffany’s that I’ve never heard anyone say, and maybe why I love it so much…

It makes me SAD. It’s just one of those stories, after you close the book and wonder if it was possible to actually feel your heart sinking. Heart 1

Let me explain with a quick summary:

Holly Golightly is a beautiful, young (very young) woman living in New York city post WWII. She has no job, skills, or family but lives by means of…well, making men happy. No-she isn’t a prostitute, not by the standard definition anyway. Or at least, I didn’t get that out of the story. Maybe the point is that the reader is left wondering whether she is, or…does, or not. She simply finds rich men in need of companionship and charms them into giving her $50 for the powder room, cab fare, and etc…

Holly insists that she won’t be tied down or connected with any one person, place or thing for any real length of time. Her furniture consists of several wooden crates, a few suitcases and a bed. She has a cat that she adores, but refuses to name because:  “He doesn’t belong to me and I don’t belong to him. we just ran into each other.”

She refers to someone loving her as being in “a cage.” It becomes obvious within the first few chapters that Holly lives this way; in fear, because she is terrified of losing herself. Which is ironic, because Heart 2it’s also obvious that she really has no idea who she is.

Enter narrator, known only as “Fred,” which Holly calls him because he reminds her of her brother, currently in the Army and overseas. “Fred” is a struggling writer and moves into the apartment below Holly’s. He is immediately beguiled by her charms.

His descriptions of her, of their time together completely reveal that he loves her, though he never says so in so many words, at least not to her. He gets sort of caught up in the whirlwind that is Holly’s life and helps her out of trouble a time or two.

I really loved that as the story progresses, Fred goes from looking from the outside in at Holly’s chaotic life, to becoming so enchanted and intrigued and infatuated with her that he becomes the chaos. To me, this is a good interpretation/commentary about what happens to people when they fall in love; Having been lost into someone else’s drama without ever realizing it is so.

The fact that Fred could fall for Holly is ironic as well, because Fred is the very antithesis of her, and willing to put himself completely inside the “cage” that is love. : (

There is a moment near the end of the book when Holly must leave town because of some trouble she’s involved in. She and Fred are riding in a taxi to the airport, and she takes her cat to a strange neighborhood and throws him out, telling him to find a new home. Fred is apalled, and tells her so.

Holly suddenly realizes what she has done, simply tossed away the one thing she has ever truly cared for, the one thing she has come close to giving herself to, and rushes back to find her cat. Which is ironic, because she’s always saying that she can’t even give the cat a name- living the way she does, not even considering that her apartment is home to either of them.

broken_heart-t1


Now you’ve done it, Truman.
Why do girls always love boys who break their hearts?

I won’t give away the end, in hopes that you’ll become inspired by this post and go check it out from the library and into the pages. I won’t even tell you if she finds her cat.

But I will tell you, I always say the really good stories end with one great big and contemplative sigh. For me, this one did.

However sad and ironic, this is a unique and compelling story, written with poetic emotion gracing many of the scenes; sweet and well-timed, like a cameo appearance by the likes of Audrey Hepburn. It’s words were woven carefully by the writer to make the reader become as enchanted as all of Holly’s adoring companions.

Some good lessons learned here: The characters were beautifully written, so much so that I felt I knew them at the end of the book. The plot moved quickly and didn’t dwell on small details but still managed to be seamlessly descriptive. Loved that.

Envy that.

Want that.

I could learn a lot from you, Truman Capote. Why don’t you wander over into my imagination tonight, and we’ll discuss our writing methods over coffee and French pastries outside Tiffany’s windows…

See ya next time,

Cindy