National Book Awards

Didja hear about the results of this year's National Book Award? One of the winners was Jaimy Gordon.

Yeah. That's my Fiction Workshop teacher. :) I'm surprised more people aren't all over this because her novel was picked as the underdog, but look. It won. It's like every nerd's fairy tale.

Just saying.

Another piece for Fiction Workshop.

I have been horrible on catching up with the blogs I'm following lately because of all this HOMEWORK. And outside stress. Stupid stress-inducers. Errrgh. Just ten weeks left... ten weeks.

So for Fiction Workshop this week, we had to write a fragmentary flash fiction, and I've been in a Halloweeny mood, plus I told my friend that I would write something along those lines for her local TV show event thing. So what came out was "A Ghastly Tale of Horrifying Horror. Or Something." That's honestly the whole title.

--

One Thing The Neighbor Said
“Stupid kids with their crazy rock music.”

Two Things The Kid (Who Isn’t As Funny As He Thinks) Said
“Huh indeed. The ghosts are totally jamming to Still Alive. The cake is a lie, anyone?”
“That is the worst possible thing you could do. Now I’m going home because the funny guy is always the second to die. Peace!”

Three Things The Natural Leader Said
“Don’t give me that crap about the suicide. Since when are you superstitious?”
“Hey, uh, if any ghosts are gonna show up, might as well do it now! Haha, lighten up, dude. Nothing is… huh.”
“I’ll be right back; I’m just gonna see where that’s coming from.”

Four Things The Genre-Savvy One Said
“This is a good idea. This is totally not dangerous or stupid at all. I mean, forget other-worldly happenings. There are noooo such things as, oh, trespassing laws. Let’s do this.”
“It was a dark and stormy night when the spirits beat Portal… it really writes itself.”
“That’s a super good way to get yourself murdered in the most appalling way ever. Or the most hilarious. But I’m talking closed casket here.”
“That was definitely the ghosts dragging Cal into Hell. Time to leave.”

Five Things The Homeowner Said
“What the hell?!”
“OK, stop screaming! Kid, kid, stop frickin’ screaming!”
“How did you get in?”
“Ugh. You’re the ninth person who thought this place was haunted. You’re looking for the house next door.”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey, can you toss over the Cheetos? Thanks.”

--

Completely not scary at all. But Halloweeny! :D So sad...

And now for something that's sure to put a smile on your face: The Yodeling Veterinarian of the Alps.



This blog really doesn't make much sense at times, does it?

Third time's a charm?

Hey there. Blog's been quiet. GothNo is going... pretty well. I'm trying to focus a little bit more on my story for Fiction Workshop right now because it's due in a few weeks. I think I finally have a good story. It was inspired by this quiz called "What are the Keys to Your Heart?" or something like that. Right now, the title is "Key to Nat's Soul". It's verging on magical realism. Fun stuff. :) Here's the boring first part that hasn't been edited at all.

--

Zeke and Siobhan Grey gave their daughter the key to her soul when she was twelve years old, like most parents. Maggie Grey already knew she had one because everybody did. She had also heard all the stories that surrounded the things. Those were mainly cautionary tales about gremlins who sneaked in at night and stole the key, leaving the victim soulless. She also knew that her parents wore each other’s keys around their necks, but she couldn’t fathom why. Every time she asked, they would just say, “You’ll understand when you’re older,” and send her off.

For the first couple years, she kept the key hidden in the wintery socks she never wore. When she was a little older and moths started eating the wintery socks, she tied it around her wrist because that’s what all the kids in ninth grade did with them. It was best that she did anyway. Kids who didn’t were labeled as soulless and shunned.

--

I think the idea is kinda neat, even if it isn't completely original. It's fun. Hope you weren't completely bored by it.

Because I'm too tired to write an actual post...

...here's a flash fiction I wrote for Workshop. It's called "Distance", but a better title for it would be "On Getting Your Neighbor to Come Out of His Freaking House". But that one's long. :)

--

Gabe sits in front of me. Pissed. It’s too early for this, he thinks. Too early to be five feet within another human being. The crabapple lines he’s sporting around his eyes spell that out. You would never believe that he’s only been alive for twenty-something years. More like ninety. His joints even creak. What twenty-something is as rusty as the Tin Man?

He’s going to help anyways. We got walkie talkies and a flare gun. Thank you, Internet. Now we’re going to kill the point of you.

The only things missing from this scene are the tinfoil hats. Across the street, the lights betray the neighbor’s worry. Or his jealousy. Weird kids, sitting on the roof. With a flare gun. Don’t forget the flare gun.

“Niner-niner. Come in, niner. Or tener. Whatever. Are we on the radio yet?” Gabe doesn’t think I’m funny. He’s lame. “Someone’s gonna call the police on us. We’ve got a flare gun, world, and we’re sitting on a roof. Ah- haha.”

Gabe rolls his eyes. Too tired to comment.

The neighbor reappears in the doorway. A cat slips out, but the door doesn’t close. “Hey you! With the door!” I grab the gun and hold it up in the air. Showing off a bit. “Whaddya think of this?”

Gabe punches me in the arm. What are you doing, you idiot, he’s saying. Ever hear of safety first? He’s the one who agreed to come up on a roof with the thing. And me. That’s not exactly safe. And what’s he doing hitting me when I’m holding the beast?

The door stays open. Right now the neighbor’s thinking, What is that? What are they doing? They’re not doing anything weird up there, are they?

Well….

“It’s a flare gun!” I wave it like a flag. “If you come over, we’ll let you shoot it!” It’s a good offer. Get to hang out on the roof. Shoot at nothing. He can’t refuse that.

But he’s not coming. He’s just standing there, watching. He probably doesn’t believe me. Maybe he thinks the gun’s broken. Maybe he thinks it’s a real one, not a flare.

Can’t have that.

The blaze breaks the air. Gabe can’t believe I just did that. Neither can my fingers. I don’t think hearts are supposed to beat this fast. Just saying.

The neighbor closes the door. He’s probably calling the police now. In about twenty minutes we’ll know for sure.
--

We were supposed to be imitating Michael Davis. I think I failed, but the class laughed, which was kinda the point. It was funny because the teacher was trying so hard to find some deeper meaning and, as one of my classmates aptly put it, "It's about two stupid kids with a flare gun."

Still working on that book trailer. People have been looking at me funny while I film it. Whatever. :)

Chat later.