YAFF Muse: Every Opportunity
Welcome again to YAFF Muse: blog rounds. The ladies of YA Fiction Fanatics have come together for YAFF Muse. To have a little fun, explore different styles of writing and to give you some kick-butt shorts to read. Enjoy!
Foggy sunlight by walyir
Every Opportunity
by: Rachel Marie Pratt
“Mackenzie, get up.” Trae nudged me in the leg with the tip of his steel toed boot. A solid reminder, last night hadn’t gone at all how I’d planned. On my way down to Peterson’s barn, I played over and over in my mind how perfect we would be together. But reality was nothing like I imagined. Laying on a haystack opposite him for five-long-hours, listening to the torrential rains pummel the sides of the barn, the trees splintering as the wind wrestled the branches to the ground. I didn’t get a bit of sleep.
Through squinty eyelids I peeked up at him and stretched as if I was just waking. Lord, he was beautiful in the morning. Even in torn jeans and a filthy shirt, he looked good. Of course, it helped that under his dirty clothes were the lean muscles of a bull rider. I pushed from the scratchy straw to stand. Pieces of last night’s bedding poked my hands as I combed my hair with my fingers.
“I’m sorry about coming here. It’s just I thought—”
“I know what you were thinking, Mac.” His head shook and he walked toward the barn door.
Of course he knew, I didn’t exactly leave much to his imagination coming there wearing nothing but high heels and a trench coat.
Slowly, I crossed the barn to stand beside him. The minutes past while I mustered up the nerve to whisper, “The truth is I like you. A lot.”
“I like you too.” He continued to stare straight ahead.
“Yeah.” I lowered my voice, pulling the trench closer. “Just not enough to be with me.”
“Christ. You’re oblivious, you know that?”
My chest tightened at the frustration in his voice. He really must hate me. The thought turned my stomach sour. What was I thinking coming here? We’d been friends for as long as my dad stabled our horses at Peterson Farms. From day one, I talked to Trae without feeling self conscience. At least until the day I realized I wanted him more than anything else in the world.
Tears burned my eyes.
“I’d better go.” I went to move around him.
The shock of his hand sieving my arm, halting my retreat, was nothing compared to his mouth suddenly capturing mine. Like an electric current coursed through me, my body tingled. His lips crushed mine with feverish demand. I ran my hands up the front of his shirt, bringing them to rest at the nape of his neck. When I tugged him closer, deepening our kiss. He groaned and pulled back.
“What?” I asked, breathless.
His hesitation stirred my fear. “Mac, last night…I wanted you. I still want you. But not like this. Not here. Don’t you see?”
He waved his hands through the air at our surroundings, at him and me.
“See what?”
“I’m nineteen.” He began to pace. “I muck out stables for a living. Dammit. You’re not even seventeen.”
“I will be in a week.”
“You’re dad talks about you and Harvard.” His pacing stopped and he turned to face me. “Harvard, Mac. Not community college or working in a factory.”
“So you can’t like me because of some college?”
“That’s not it at all. I love you enough not to get in the way.”
“Love?” The word hung there, a web of admissions spun between us. He loves me. I love him. “What if I don’t go—”
“No.” Trae bowed his head. When his chin lifted the pain in his eyes is unbearable. “Can’t you see I don’t want you to give up your dreams?”
“Then don’t push me away.”
His mouth parted, but no words came. For the longest time we watched one another. Neither of us moved. My mind was made up a long time ago. And by the way he looked at me I could see his was too. It looked as though it might come down to whoever was more determined, when the barn door burst open.
“Daddy?” I gasped. My gaze shifted to Trae then back to my father, who grabbed me by the forearm and yanked me outside.
In wake of the storm the sky hazed over with a thick fog, but it didn’t hide the anger that drew hard lines across Dad’s face. “You’ve got some explaining to do young lady.”
“But—”
He twisted around to Trae. “I’ll be talking to your boss.”
“Dad, please.” I begged as he rushed me to the car.
“You think I’ve given you every opportunity so you could blow it all on some cowboy and a romp in the hay?”
“We didn’t do anything.”
“You expect me to believe that boy didn’t take advantage of you?”
I stopped walking. Dad halted too.
“His name is Trae. And he didn’t take advantage of me.” Tears flowed warm on my checks. “I came here because I thought he might like me. But he didn’t want anything to do with me, except to say, we could be friends.”
Relief softened Dad’s features. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, Mac. You can’t go around offering yourself to every guy you think you like.”
I stayed quiet. It was better to let him believe that than to admit that I’d fallen for Trae years ago, and that he loved me too, especially if I wanted to save Trae’s job.
“Lucky for you that boy’s got morals.” He pointed at me.
Dad was right. Trae never once crossed the line. He wanted what was best for me and now, more than ever, I knew he was it.
I settled into the passenger seat then glanced at Trae in the side mirror. As the car pulled away, Trae disappeared into the fog. A smile tugged the corners of my mouth. We’d be together again. Just not today.
© 2010, December 15, rmg.
Thanks for coming by. Please be sure to drop by my fellow YAFFers blogs and don’t forget to leave a comment. This will be our last Muse until after the holidays! But make sure you check back after the first of the year for more YAFF MUSE!
YAFF Muse: Such a Thing as Perfect
Welcome again to YAFF Muse: blog rounds. The ladies of YA Fiction Fanatics have come together for YAFF Muse. To have a little fun, explore different styles of writing and to give you some kick-butt shorts to read. Enjoy!
Photo Credit:keithcr at MorgueFile.com
Such a Thing as Perfect
By: R.M.Gilbert
“Welcome to Dairy Cone, what can I get you?” I asked Darcy Flick, knowing full well what she wanted.
“Don’t screw with me, you know I’m here to see Ryan,” she said. The redhead chomped her gum like a cow and leaned over the counter. “Ryan Bradley!”
“He’s in the cooler.” I scowled.
“Don’t tell me you’re keeping tabs on my boyfriend?”
“No,” I said, but if I was honest I would have said yes and been done with it. Of course, I secretly adored Ryan. What girl wouldn’t? Heck, I’d bet my life that some of the guys at school crushed on him too.
Ryan was that guy. The one who’s nice to everyone: geeks, stoners, jocks, rich, poor, it didn’t matter. And never—not even once—had I heard a single person say a bad word about him. Considering I have lived in Vanilla Beach since birth, that was saying something. Yep, Ryan Bradley was the greatest guy I knew.
“Hey, Brainfart.” Darcy waved her hand in front of my face. “I asked for an orange float.”
Darcy, on the other hand was a high class bitch. And the daughter of a Senator who bought a summer home on the beach this past year. It seemed to me, she thought it was her God given right to trample on those she deemed ‘beneath her’. Which was pretty much everyone.
Moving to make her float, I spotted Ryan knelt down in the back, helping Mrs. Dairy Cone herself pick up a stack of napkins off the floor. The old woman must have knocked them from the shelf again. That made three times this week.
I grabbed a foam cup and scooped ice cream into it, thinking maybe her eyes were getting worse. Her current glasses magnified her pupils to the size of Ping-Pong balls, and I wondered if there was prescription strong enough to help. I shook my head, sad that I couldn’t do anything more for her, and finished filling the cup with ice cream, then moved toward the soda fountain.
“Justice,” Ryan said, coming from the back.
“Yeah?” I tried to focus on the pop machine and ignore the fact that he smelled like ocean salt. But he stood so close it was impossible to do anything but look at him.
“Mrs. Moore wants to meet with us after our shift today.” He smiled, and as it always did it reflected in his eyes.
My breath caught in my throat for a second before I nodded and handed him Darcy’s order. “Your girlfriend’s here.”
His and my hands roped around the orange float, sending a sensation of tingles surging over me like the waters wake and I trembled. His gaze locked on mine, the corners of his mouth faltered to uphold his smile.
“So-sorry.” I released the cup and stepped back.
“You’re fine.”
Something changed in his eyes as he moved past. Leaving me to wonder if in this one instant I gave myself away? For the longest time I had managed to hide how I felt. Since the second grade, it had been my greatest secret and now…
A customer stepped to the counter and rang the service bell. I cleared the knot from my throat, apologized for being distracted, and asked for his order. The entire time my attention divided between the man’s indecision and Ryan and Darcy’s conversation.
“But you said you’d go,” Darcy whined. “We’re leaving for Washington tomorrow. It’s my last night at the beach.”
“I can’t, Mrs. Moore asked to meet with me after we close,” Ryan explained.
“Can’t Justine fill in for you, for just a little while?”
As sure as I was standing there, Ryan’s eyes burned into me, but I stared straight ahead. He didn’t need to know I was eavesdropping.
“Her name is Justice,” he muttered. “And I’m not going to ask her to cover for me on the busiest night of the season. Everyone’s getting in ‘one last night’ before they leave, Darcy.”
“Fine.” She pouted some more, but then her voice turned sweet. “Meet me later? At Daddy’s. A bunch of us are throwing together a bonfire on the beach after the sun sets. You’ll be done by then, won’t you?”
“Sure.”
After encouraging Ryan to bring his friends as well, Darcy flounced off.
Heavy on my chest were the feelings I fought to ignore, and I held back my foolish tears. What else had I expected? This was Ryan Bradley.
By the time our shift ended and clean up finished, Mrs. Moore had called twice to remind us of our meeting.
“You want to ride over together?” Ryan asked, nearing his car.
“If you don’t mind,” I said. “Otherwise I’ll have to walk and I don’t want you to have to wait for me.”
Ryan didn’t say anything, he rounded the side of the car to open the passenger door.
“Thanks.” I slid into the seat. For a second, it sounded as though he’d said, “my pleasure”, but I was confident my ears played tricks on me.
Riding in silence, I watched Vanilla Beach stretch out beside us. The water glistened under the last moments of sun as though it wanted to suck up as much of its beauty as possible before nightfall. And the fragrant scent of ocean spilled through the car windows. I closed my eyes to enjoy every second of its aroma.
“We’re here.” Ryan slowed the car to a stop in front of a modest beach house. Smaller than those surrounding it, but still well kept.
Not giving him a second chance to prove his chivalry, I pushed out of the vehicle.
“Come in, come in, come in,” Mrs. Moore prompted us inside. Then, with the door closed behind her, she turned to Ryan. “Have you asked her yet?”
“Not yet.” He smiled, taking the older woman by the hands and leading her to sit down.
“Asked me what?”
“She wants you and me to take over the Dairy Cone.” Ryan said.
“Us? Why?”
“Because you belong there, together,” said a straight faced Mrs. Moore.
One glance at Ryan and I knew I couldn’t survive another summer with him. Thoughts of him consumed me and if I wanted to maintain my sanity I’d have to keep my distance as much as possible.
I folded my hands and kept my voice soft. “I can’t Mrs. Moore. I’m sorry.”
“And why not, my dear?” She reached for me with one hand and Ryan with another. “This is a union I’ve been planning since you both came to work with me years ago.”
If only there was such a union to be made.
“I appreciate that, truly I do, but—” Tears pressed against the rim of my eyes and I squeezed her hand, wishing with all my heart she could read my mind and know what she asked for was impossible.
“Oh, you poor girl,” Mrs. Moore tugged my hand closer and placed it in Ryan’s. “You two are more alike than you know.”
The warmth of him spread throughout my body. No matter how much I told myself to pull away, I drew closer.
“I’ll say what should have been said years ago,” Mrs. Moore spoke quietly, “You’re perfect.”
“He is.” “She is.” We whispered simultaneously.
“What?” I asked, looking at him confused.
All the color floods from his face as we stepped nearer to each other. “I’ve always thought you were perfect Justice, ever since I met you in the second grade.”
He leaned in and at moment his mouth lingered over mine, I knew Ryan Bradley was the greatest guy, and he was mine.
© 2010, September 28, rmg.
This weeks muse was inspired by a number of things: first loves, mean girls, boys who don’t disappoint. But really it’s about love and how sometimes we don’t realize when someone right under our noses loves us so deeply, it hurts. This was probably my favorite YAFF Muse to write, I hope you enjoyed it.
Thanks for coming by. Please be sure to drop by my fellow YAFFers blogs and don’t forget to leave a comment.
YAFF Muse: High Temps
Welcome again to YAFF Muse: blog rounds. The ladies of YA Fiction Fanatics have come together for YAFF Muse. To have a little fun, explore different styles of writing and to give you some kick-butt shorts to read. Enjoy!
The Room By:trublueboy
High Temps
A hundred and two degrees and sunny, yesterday. A hundred and five degrees and sunny, today. The heat never dissipates. I shift among the sheets on my bed looking for the spot. You know the one, where it’s still cool, and for a split second you find relief.
Relief is a luxury these days, air conditioning that no one can afford, water that’s untainted, ice. Oh Lord, I remember the days of ice. Summer months spent with the wonderful treasure at my disposal. How many times a day would I sneak to the freezer and grab a cool, slick piece of frozen water from its tray? Each crunch of the cube a tasty treat, wetting my throat and freezing my tongue.
I turn, becoming tangled in the bedding. Someone takes a cloth to my forehead and wipes away the perspiration. I want to thank them but my tongue is like a sand-trap and the words are caught inside. My inhales become raspy and exhales catch in my throat.
And for the first time since the high temperatures began, I give in to the thought that they’ll be death of me.
*****
“The fever has taken hold, Sonny. Her temperatures a hundred and five degrees today,” says Dr. Roth. “I think your sister’s ready to let go. It should be anytime now.”
She nods, allowing the tears to flow. Months of going without heat, so we could eat. Burning our furniture with the exception of this bed, all of it was for nothing. The wind blows its freezing breath through the gapes in the side of the house, she shivers. “Dear God, I pray she doesn’t feel this cold.”
©2010, September 21, rmg.
Pretty sure this weeks muse was inspired by the fact that I was sick most of last week and the weekend with a flu bug. Feeling better now, so it was time to make my characters suffer, I guess.
Thanks for coming by. Please be sure to drop by my fellow YAFFers blogs and don’t forget to leave a comment.
YAFF Muse: Long Ride Home
Welcome again to YAFF Muse: blog rounds. The ladies of YA Fiction Fanatics have come together for YAFF Muse. To have a little fun, explore different styles of writing and to give you some kick-butt shorts to read. Enjoy!
Photo by: phypet
Long Ride Home
By: R.M.Gilbert
Leaning, with my elbows against side the viaduct, I peered out at the old neighborhood. The rundown apartment I shared with Mom. The train tracks below, where I played chicken with the subway. But nothing felt like home more than the maple tree at the far end of the road. My haven whenever Mom had a fight with one of her guys.
I inhaled the stale air, thick with the scent of rust and moldy wood. Who knew one breath would bring back the past?
The clatter of alcohol bottles echoed in my mind. I put my hands over my ears, but the cli-clank of glass got louder. And the neighborhood before me turned fuzzy like an out of focus lens.
Music blared from a boombox on the floor next to the coffee table, competing with the screams of my baby brother. Mom’s by the door. A guy stands next to her. Long greasy hair stringing past his shoulders, a scar on his right cheek and a bum eye.
“I’ll give you a half ounce, for five minutes alone with your daughter,” the man said. He dangled a small bag full of white powder under Mom’s nose. She probably thought I was too busy making the baby a bottle to hear, but I heard everything. And this guy was not going to lay a finger on me. Not one.
I watched the door closely for any signs he might push his way in. Mom’s feet shifted as she twists to glance at me in the kitchen. With the rear of her hand, she wiped her nose. Her nostrils flared and beamed bright red against the pale of her skin. The consideration in her drugged gaze was all the indication I needed to go to my special spot.
Slipping from the kitchen, I edged the wall of the living room. And while they negotiated I sneaked to mine and my brother’s room. His tiny hands reached. Not for me, but for the bottle. I wondered if Mom fed him while I was at school. I pushed the bottle into his mouth, kissed his tear covered cheek then laid him back in the crib.
“Someday I’ll take you from all of this,” I said and turned to the window, knowing that was an awfully big promise for a twelve year old to make.
I sighed, taking one last peek at the crib before I shimmied down a vent pipe. The rusted metal scraped like gravel on the way down. But scratched hands were nothing compared to a mutilated spirit. The tips of my toes touched down and with the earth beneath me, sirens wailing around me, I raced to the end of our road, climbed to the highest spot I dared to climb in my tree and waited.
Waited for the sun to come up.
Waited for Mom to pass out.
Waited for the men to leave.
Waited for the five o’clock train to tell me it was safe to go back to my brother.
I listened for the train now, but instead…
“Are you okay?”
My eyes refocused and I glanced at the hand grasping mine; the fingers aren’t as tiny as they were then. “Yeah,” I whispered.
“Is that the train you took me out on?”
I searched the commuter cars, long deserted on the tracks, their graphitized walls.
“That’s not the one.” I shook my head. “Ours went the other direction. Downtown. To the police station.”
“Hey kids,” Aunt Pauline called from the end of the viaduct. “It’s getting late and you still need to eat and shower.”
Off in the distance I heard a screech on the rails. I squeezed my brother’s hand thankful for the five o’clock train.
©2010, September 15, rmg.
This weeks muse was written last second. My baby girl turned 12 yesterday so I wanted to portray a story of a girl the same age. But a close look at the picture this week and everything in the neighborhood looked broken down, so I put a 12 year old there and asked myself: What would her life be like? How would she survive? Who would be there with her? Where would she find an escape if not in something bad?
In the end, the answers would heartbreaking and yet a relief at the same time. She’s courageous, a survivor, and a savior.
Thanks for coming by. Please be sure to drop by my fellow YAFFers blogs and don’t forget to leave a comment.
YAFF Muse: What They Don't Know
Welcome again to YAFF Muse: blog rounds. The ladies of YA Fiction Fanatics have come together for YAFF Muse. To have a little fun, explore different styles of writing and to give you some kick-butt shorts to read. Enjoy!
What They Don’t Know
By: R.M.Gilbert
Midnight, I rub sleep from my eyes and twist my neck side to side until I hear the crack of adjustment. The Lucky Mart twenty four hour gas station sign buzzes outside the car window and paints the wet pavement and the hood of the Taurus in its golden yellow glow.
“What the hell is taking him so long?” I mutter and reach between my legs for my purse. Opening the clasp, I push aside the cigs and lighter, grab the pack of spearmint gum and sit upright. A single stick of gum isn’t going to do it tonight. So I chew on two. Anything to get the taste of him out of my mouth. Whatever the deal is with guys and oral—
The door creaks open. He settles into the driver’s seat, sets a paper sack in my lap, and laughs. “The guy didn’t even card me.”
“That’s great,” I say, then blow a bubble as I peek in the bag. “Whiskey?”
He smiles.
“You know this shit makes me sick.”
“More for me.” He dips his fingers in the bag and pulls out the pint. His hands come off the wheel and the car swerves as he opens the bottle. I reach for the wheel to correct the car, but he slaps my hand away. “I’ve got it.”
“Yeah, try to keep it between the lines.”
He grins, tips his head back and takes a long swig. Air bubbles float through the amber liquid with each gulp.
My stomach tightens and I cringe, reminded of my last affair with whiskey at Susie Wheelers party. How it burned the back of my throat, and gave me the worst hangover in after prom party history. I should have stayed at the dance like I told my parents I would, but I couldn’t resist an invitation from Susie’s brother then, just like I can’t resist him now.
I glance over at him. Bottle stuffed between his legs. Black tufts of stringy hair falling over one eye. A goatee, strong cheekbones, and a hard jaw. The local badass. And he is all mine.
“Look what else is in there,” he says.
Reaching in the bag, I fumble around its bottom until my fingers wrap around a small figurine. I pull it out. A little man, carved out of wood, wearing a wooden sombrero. “What is it?” I ask.
He guzzles down more of the whiskey, then says, “I thought we should make your trip to Mexico more believable.”
“God, you think of everything.” I hug the figurine to my chest. Mom and Dad think I’ve taken a road trip with Susie. What they don’t know won’t hurt them, I think and glance out the window as we near the road for home.
The car whizzes through a stop sign. Bright lights blind me and I slam sideways. My screams are deadened by the scrape of twisting metal and the shatter of glass. Mom and Dad’s bloody, expressionless faces in the other vehicle.
What they don’t know can kill them.
©2010, September 8, rmg.
There are times we make decisions and don’t fully understand the consequences. In this weeks YAFF Muse I wanted to show this to the extreme. Sad thing is, this happens. If I had written a lengthier piece the reader would have found out that the girl in this story survives only to find out her parents discovered she wasn’t in Mexico and she’s the reason they were out searching for her that night. I guess you could say the moral of this story is that every action has a consequence.
Thanks for stopping by. Please drop by my fellow YAFFers blogs and don’t forget to leave a comment.
YAFF Muse: Your Biggest Fan
Welcome again to YAFF Muse: blog rounds. The ladies of YA Fiction Fanatics have come together for YAFF Muse. To have a little fun, explore different styles of writing and to give you some kick-butt shorts to read. Enjoy!
Photo by: trublueboy
Your Biggest Fan
By: R.M.Gilbert
“If you can’t get him to meet me, you can forget our little deal,” Carrie yells over the noise of the crowd.
“What if—”
“Nope.” A smile curls her cherry chapsticked lips. “We agreed. You land me some time with Phin or I go to the Dean—”
“Okay, I get it,” I say.
She disappears among the thousands and waits on Phin to take the stage. A hush falls over the crowd. Blinding flashes of strobe lights explode overhead. With each blaze of light a member of the band begins to play until finally beams flicker around Phin, drenching him in literal lime light and a mix of shadows and stage fog.
The crowd erupts. Bouncing up and down, arms pounding the air above their heads while they sing along, as if they know his songs better than he does. At the end of his first set he struts offstage. The place reeks of sweat and alcohol. Girls tug their shirts off, happily exposed. The guys enjoy the flesh show as much as the concert.
I circle the outer edge of the crowd, flash my all access pass at the stage manager then head to Phin’s dressing room. The faces behind the scenes are as familiar as my own. Cameron, his stylist, empties half a can hairspray on Phin’s hair as I slip into the room. He spots me in the mirror.
“Lara, darling,” Cameron coos.
“Hey Cam.” I force a smile. “Can I get a minute with Phin.”
Cameron looks disappointed, but after another couple squirts of hairspray, he leaves.
“What’s up?” Phin swivels in his chair and puts his baseball cap on. If Cameron were here he’d have a beautician conniption.
I ignore the waste of Cam’s effort, and say, “I need a favor.”
“Yeah?” His brows joggle.
“Not that kind of favor, perv.”
“One of these days you’re going to change your mind.”
I shake my head. He forgets I know how many girls he’s seduced, or rather, how many girls he hasn’t needed to seduce, since so many of them try to reach him through me. So I start how I always start, “There’s this girl—”
“Sure Lara, I’ll meet her.” He usually makes me beg for it, but this time he lets me off easy. “Just tell me what this one’s holding over your head.”
“The thing is…” I fidget. “I’ve been seeing someone.”
His brows furrow. “Since when?”
“About a month now.”
“But—”
“Carrie saw me sneaking out of the dorms and threatened to tell the dean and my parents.” The rules are clear with both the school and my parents: No boys and no going out after curfew.
“So you met someone?” He leans back in his seat.
“Try to keep up, Phin. If Carrie tells them, I’m screwed. Mom and Dad will hit the roof and Dean Sanders…” I lift my hands in exasperation.
“Do you like this guy?”
“What?” I cock my head. Phin’s never cared who I’ve dated. Of course, maybe that’s because I’ve never really dated before.
“Have you done him?”
“Are you kidding me?” My arms link over my chest. “This isn’t one of those, I’m gonna be your macho best friend and protect your honor things, is it?”
He removes his hat, giving me full view of his eyes, they remind me of the lime stage lights, only they’re a calmer shade of green. “What if it is?”
“Trust me, I’m fully intact. I can’t seem to get any, even if I want to.”
“Do you?” He pushes from his chair.
I stare up at him. He’s a whole foot taller than me and on all accounts looks like a sex god. I swallow hard. “I’m going to be eighteen soon.”
“That doesn’t really answer my question, does it?”
“Phin, come on.” My face heats. It’s almost painful to admit what I think he already knows. “I’ve never gotten to second base with a guy.”
“Really?”
“Just forget it,” I say and turn to go.
“Wait up.” He follows me. “Bring this Clara—”
“Carrie.”
“Whatever. Bring her by after the show.”
“Thanks.” I smile.
“But you come too?”
“Okay.”
Tonight, when he finishes his set. His people inform me that he only wants to see Carrie and me. Everyone else is turned away as I knock twice on the dressing room door. It swings open and he stands there with his button-down shirt open, bare chest exposed, pants riding low on his hips. Suddenly his dressing room feels hotter than the mass of fans I pushed through to get in here. It’s not like I’ve never seen his chest before, but it catches me off guard when I do, I can’t help it. It’s like an animal that jumps in front of your car and all you can do is react. But he’s way hotter than any squirrel I’ve ever seen.
Carrie nudges me.
“Sorry.” I clear my throat, hating introductions the most. “Phin, this is Carrie Solet.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says giving her one of his performance smiles.
“You too.” She giggles. “I’m one of your biggest fans.”
It’s at this point I usually leave, but Phin shuts the door and gestures for us to sit down. I stand in case I need to make a quick getaway when Carrie throws herself at him.
I listen as they talk a while, then he hands her a signed photo, in which, she asks for him to write that he had a great night with her, and he signs it with his signature, P. Afterwards he shows her out and when he comes back, I watch his every step. Until I finally get the nerve up to ask, “So that’s it?”
“Yep.”
“No kissing, or fondling, or sex,” I whisper.
He laughs and takes a snapshot of the two of us off his dressing room mirror. He scribbles something on the back then hands it to me.
I flip the photo over in my hand.
To the only girl I want to cover all the bases with!
Your biggest fan,
Phin
©2010, August 30, rmg.
Thanks for coming by. Please be sure to drop by my fellow YAFFers blogs and don’t forget to leave a comment.
YAFF Muse: Sunkiss
Welcome again to YAFF Muse: blog rounds. The ladies of YA Fiction Fanatics have come together for YAFF Muse. To have a little fun, explore different styles of writing and to give you some kick-butt shorts to read. Enjoy!
Photo title: Wooden Gate
Sunkiss
By: R.M.Gilbert
Seven hundred twenty-five days, I’ve been confined to the upper level of the white chalet. Suffocating, in my bedroom—my five-by-seven foot personal prison. I toss my book aside on the desk and watch as groups of kids pass by. School let out for the weekend, so I won’t see them until they walk by again on Monday.
I pick my book up for the second time and glance at the vampire donning the cover of my newest purchase. “At least you turn to dust in the sun,” I say. Not me, I break out in a rash and my throat closes in, choking off my air supply. Turning to dust and blowing away in the wind would be welcome, compared to this hell.
“Allergic to the sun,” I mutter and turn to the chapter where Tristan McGregor swears he’ll always love Juliet Rodea. When something tinks against my window sill and collides with the curtain.
A tiny pebble lands on the floor, near my feet. I stand, leaning forward to peek out the window. Below, a boy, about fifteen, stands there. From here he looks cute. Not pretty boy cute either, but scruffy. Like he’d stopped on his way home from work, instead of school like the rest of the kids. And for a second I think he’ll toss another stone, but he just stares up at my window until eventually he fists his hands in his jacket pockets and leaves. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. Not in all the days I’ve spent at this window, peering out beyond our gate. If only he could take me away from this place. If only he didn’t go away…
What am I saying? Mom would have a fit if she saw him here, which makes me glad she’s gone to the market.
With a sigh, I lift my book:
Tristan watched as sweet Juliet took her final breaths. He had promised he’d never take her as his own without her consent.
He whispered softly, “As your blood courses through the generations, I will find you. I promise my beautiful Juliet, as your children grow and their children after that, I’ll always remember it is your blood that courses through their veins.” He paused to kiss her cheek, tempted to take her blood and keep her forever. But instead he made his oath, unmarred by time or circumstance. “One day you will need me so that you may live. For this reason, I will stay with you until the end of time. I will follow your bloodline until you give me a sign that you are prepared to live a life at my side.”
Juliet drew her last breath.
Tristan leaned and spoke into her ear. “Place un caillou sur votre seuil.”
~~
I stare at the final words in the book. Of course they’re in French, which is Tristan’s native tongue. I flip to the very last pages, where thankfully the publisher has thought to add a French glossary, defining the forty or so phrases Tristan spoke in the book.
“Let’s see.” I flip through the pages, repeating “Place un caillou sur votre seuil,” over and over as I slide my finger down the page. When I spot the phrase, I trace my finger over to the translation. “Place a pebble on your sill,” I read.
Wait. What?
I glance at the pebble on the floor. Then turn to the final page of the story once again.
“One day you will need me so that you may live. For this reason, I will stay with you until the end of time. I will follow your bloodline until you give me sign that you are prepared to live a life at my side.”
Juliet drew her last breath.
Tristan leaned and spoke into her ear. “Place un caillou sur votre seuil.”
I close the book and pick the pebble up off the floor, grasping it tight in my palm.
©2010, August 25, rmg.
This weeks YAFF story was, in part, inspired by my daughter. I was going to write looking from the outside-vs-the inside, but she suggested going inside the gate…so I took it a step farther. The other bit of inspiration came from a program I saw a few years ago about people who have sun allergies. I remember being surprised that there was such a thing as being allergic to sunlight. And for one reason or another this program came to mind. (to learn more about sun allergies visit: MayoClinic.com)
Thanks for coming by. Please drop by my fellow YAFFers blogs and don’t forget to leave a comment.
YAFF Muse: This Girls Life:The Perfect Kiss
Welcome again to YAFF Muse: blog rounds. The ladies of YA Fiction Fanatics have come together for YAFF Muse. To have a little fun, explore different styles of writing and to give you some kick-butt shorts to read. Enjoy!
Grass Kiss 2 By: Criswey
This Girls Life: Episode 63: The Perfect Kiss
By: R.M.Gilbert
“And cut!” The director calls out.
I push off the ground.
“Now we just need to get that same kiss from three other angles and we can call it a day,” Quentin says, still in the grass. I blush. He plays opposite me in This Girls Life. We’ve known each other since the show’s first pilot five years ago, and this is the first time our characters, Gage and Gloria, hook up.
If only life was as simple as our script. For years, I’ve crushed on Quentin and never had the guts to tell him. And kissing like this is anything but romantic.
“Places,” says the director.
I straddle Quentin, or rather, Gage, and lean in. They measure the distance from our mouths to the camera, angle our body’s so they can capture the light just right, and we listen as they instruct us on how to pucker our lips.
“This Girls Life: Episode Sixty-three: The Perfect Kiss. Angle 2. Take 1. And action.”
Fifty people surround us while we kiss. I’m being paid to make it look good and feel ‘real’ for our viewers. But it’s uncomfortable, almost painful.
After another five takes from the final two angles the director calls it quits for the day. Everyone claps because they think they’ve nailed the shots, saying that it really is the most perfect kiss.
I head back to my trailer to take off the pound and a half of make-up, asking my assistant for a minute alone. Tears well as I sit in front of dressing room mirror. For so long I’d imagined my first kiss would be different. Not something in front of a camera crew. Definitely not something scripted. Sighing, I pick up the make-up remover, strip away Gloria and return to plain old me.
“Sam.” My assistant knocks on the door. “Hey, Samantha.”
“One second, Kara,” I say, pushing my dark hair behind my ears before I stand, then open door. “What’s up?”
“Someone to see you,” she says and steps aside.
Quentin slips alongside the trailer. He smiles, his cheeks turn pink. “I thought we could talk.”
Kara glances between us. “I’ll come back later,” she says and strolls toward our last shoot.
“I wondered if…” Quentin rolls back on his heels. “The thing is, I thought maybe—”
“Do you want to come in?” I ask, pushing the trailer door wider.
“Yeah.” He glances over his shoulder before entering and stumbles on the top step, nearly falling on top of me. He uses the wall to steady himself. “Dang-it I wanted to do this differently.”
I close the door and try hiding the disappointment I felt only seconds ago. I turn to face him. “Do what differently?”
“This,” he says, capturing my face between his hands. His mouth brushes delicately over mine. Tingles dance across my body. And when he goes to deepen the kiss, our foreheads bump and tongues intermingle. He tastes like pizza and our teeth scrape, but I don’t care. I circle my arms around him. There’s nothing forced or awkward about this perfect kiss.
©2010, July 27, rmg.
This short came to me last second. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to write about, mostly because I thought “How can you look at this picture and NOT see ‘Twilight’. The thing is, I didn’t think there was enough room for me to write a ‘twilightesque’ <–yes, that’s a word, novel. So, here I am thinking ‘Twilight’ when it hits me. No matter how much we love those movie/TV moments, they’re not real. How would a young actress feel if her first kiss was something scripted? My goal was to capture some of the awkwardness of being a teenager, no matter what your path in life.Thanks so much for reading.
After commenting, be sure to stop by other YAFFER sites to see how the picture inspired them:
Pivotal Moments In Writing
Sometimes it’s difficult reaching those pivotal moments in a manuscript. You know the ones. Where if you screw up the reader will be throwing the book across the room, screaming about how they can’t believe a writer could write such crap after they’ve read over 200 pages, only to be let down?
Yeah, I’m at that moment.
So what’s a writer to do?
For each of us I think this process varies. Mine goes something like this: I let thoughts simmer, then write a little. Let the thoughts simmer some more, reread what I’ve written since pulling into hesitation station, and delete half of it.
Occasionally, I take some time to to enjoy that feeling of wanting to pull my hair out mixed with the urge to bang my head against the wall. After that, comes more thought and then–shock and awe–words. Real ones, and lots of them. All hopefully spectacular, flowing through my fingers as if I never pulled into the station at all.
Wah-lah! Done.
Sort of.
I say sort of, because there are critiques to apply, edits to complete: grammar, punctuation, simple–small rewrites (crossing fingers for that one), identifying areas in the manuscript that need strengthening of descriptions/characters, or sometimes reigning them in. Next comes the first read through, then betas, which hopefully come back clean. More read throughs, getting down a query letter and a synopsis. Until finally the big day, submissions!
Hmm, I guess I’ve a long way to go. I suppose there’s no reason to sit idle at the hesitation station.
What’s your process during pivotal moments in your writing? For readers, what books have the best moments and what are some that fell flat?
YAFF Muse: All Roads Lead Home
Welcome again to YAFF Muse: blog rounds. The ladies of YA Fiction Fanatics have come together for YAFF Muse. To have a little fun, explore different styles of writing and to give you some kick-butt shorts to read.
Without further delay, this weeks YAFF Muse pic was provided by YAFF Member: Cambria. Don’t forget to check out the other ladies stories, I’ve linked their sites at the end the post. Enjoy!
Autostop By:Criswey
All Roads Lead Home
By: R.M. Gilbert
An old pick up slows at the signal of my extended thumb. A haggard man, who sits behind the wheel, leans over the passenger seat. For a second I swear I hear his bones actually creak. His tired eyes settle on mine. “Where you headed?”
“Wherever,” I say.
He pulls himself straight using the steering wheel. “I’m heading there too I suppose, gonna make one more stop before I go, if’en that’s all right.”
“Sounds fine to me, mister.” Pulling open the door I slide onto the bench seat. The torn fabric from years of use scratches my legs. Rust falls off the door as I try for a second time to slam it shut.
Once rolling, the pick-up chugs along at a whopping 50 miles per hour, which seems much to slow, but it’s faster than I can walk and cooler too.
I glance over at the man in the driver’s seat. Hunched up and looking about a hundred years old, he squints between the steering wheel and dash at the road ahead. Of all the people who stop, why did it have to be someone so…ancient?
“What’cha planning to do when you get to wherever?” He asks.
I hadn’t thought that far ahead. There were no big aspirations, like seeing Sally Mae Preston in lights, or anything. The idea is to get away from this no horse town any way I could. And figure out the rest when I get there. “I’ll probably get a job.”
“You got folks that’ll miss ya?”
There was mom, dad, and Billy. But they’d still enjoy a Sunday cone at the local Dip and Split and manage the farm fine without me.
“I’ll be in touch after I get settled,” I say.
Minutes later we pull off the road, near a black, wrought iron gate, rusted open on its hinges. Overhead, scrolled in twisted iron are the words Millbrook Cemetery.
“Do you mind helping an old man?” He half says and half coughs.
“Sure.” I push open the door and hurry around to help him from the truck. He limps along pointing me in the direction of a small cluster of headstones.
“My families buried up here,” the old man says, “My wife, Ginny, and little Bill.”
“Oh weird that’s my mom’s name and I have a brother Billy.” I pause. “What happened to them? Your family?”
“An automobile accident the day our youngest disappeared.”
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“She took off a long time ago. Never heard from her again, but I go looking for her wherever,” he says then points to two headstones resting in the ground side-by-side. “Ah, well here we are.”
I look down at the headstones. Ginny Preston. Bill Preston Junior. It can’t be. My gaze finds the old man’s.
“I’ve come up here every week since.” He shakes his head. “And pray for another chance.”
“Can you bring me home?” I ask my father.
© 2010, July 6, rmg.
This weeks post was a quick push. I really didn’t think for more than five minutes on the entire writing. Once I came up with the title the rest fell into place.
Do you ever write based on a simple title and see where it leads?
After commenting, be sure to stop by other YAFFER sites to see how the picture inspired them:
YAFF Muse:She Rains
Welcome again to YAFF Muse: blog rounds. The ladies of YA Fiction Fanatics have come together for YAFF Muse. To have a little fun, explore different styles of writing and to give you some kick-butt shorts to read.
Without further delay, this weeks YAFF Muse pic was provided by YAFF Member: Cambria. Don’t forget to check out the other ladies stories, I’ve linked their sites at the end the post. Enjoy!
Around the Streetmarket by: Plamen Stoev
She Rains
By: R.M. Gilbert
“We’re here to help build a larger medical facility,” the youth pastor explains. “But we’re also here to administer to the people. You’ll be split into two groups and alternate between visits to the current medical station and here.” Pastor Carl gestures to the construction site. “Jason, Marcus, and Sara, will help build today, and Leesa and Kent will go with our translator, Seshawn Rea, to the med center.”
“You ready for this, Leesa?” Kent asks.
“Sure.” I nod.
We follow our translator to a path that leads into a mass of trees. My stomach tightens when a mosquito the size of my fist swarms past my head. Breath, you’ve had your shots, I remind myself. I had too, in order to get the passport to come to this remote community in the middle of the jungle. Heaven, what was I thinking.
“This way, this way,” Seshawn says, waving us forward.
The path narrows and winds. Massive trees, nothing like the ones back home, tower overhead. They grow so tall and so close together it’s like looking at one gigantic green wall. And mud clings to everything. Thankfully, we’ve come at the end of their rainy season.
When we reach the medical facility its little more than large pieces of canvas sewn together, held up by logs. We’re ushered in and instructed to “sit and visit” with the children waiting for treatment. I settle next to a little boy, about seven. He grins, a toothless grin, but then struggles to take a breath.
“What happened to him?” I ask the translator. He rattles on in the native tongue.
The boys face grows serious and he reaches into his tattered pants and pulls out an old, torn piece of newspaper. Instead of showing me an article, he opens his tiny hands as if offering me a gift. There in his palm is a photo. He thrusts his hands toward me.
I smile and take the photograph, examining it—it’s beautiful—a girl running in the pouring rain. It’s dark and mysterious, intriguing and playful all at the same time. “Will you tell him I think it’s very pretty?”
Seshawn nods and speaks to the boy, whose brows crease more than any child’s should. Tears fill his innocent eyes. His head shakes and he mutters.
“What did he say?”
“He says, not pretty. He says, he thinks rain is fun, but she is his death.”
I say a silent prayer for the child and before I’m led away I glance back at this small defeated person. “Do you know what happened to him?”
The translator’s gaze sweeps the room. “Not just him. Them.”
Them? There’s better than a hundred children under the cover of the tent-like room. “How?”
“The acid rain falls on plants and animals. They eat and get sick, here.” He pokes at his kidneys then covers his chest. “And here.”
A week later our mission trip has come to an end. Our youth group boards a plane home.
I glance out the window of the small commuter jet, catching a glimpse of a girl on the runway alongside of us. Black hair, contrasting white, ashy skin, it’s her, the girl from the boy’s picture.
The plane engine roars and we speed forward. I look to see if anyone else notices the girl, but they’re busy talking among themselves.
Twisting back to the window, we’re in the sky. The higher we go, she follows, stalking us. I watch as she evaporates into the air, streams through our jet engine then reappears in a distant cloud. “Wait,” I cry out and turn to our pastor.
“What is it?” he asks, coming to my side.
My finger traces the edge of the window. “Rain,” I say.
“Hmm. You don’t worry about that Leesa, we should be out of the area before it hits.”
©2010, June 28, rmg.
I really loved this picture, a hundred thoughts on what to write came to mind over the course of several days. The idea for ‘She Rains’ came to me at about 5:30 in the morning during a ride with my husband to pick up our car from his bosses house. I liked the idea of writing a short story with a message.
Acid Rain is a reality. It affects our food and water sources and often the consequences go unnoticed. Despite its name, acid rain looks the same as any rain shower, but the harmful pollutants are there. Like those caused by burning fossil fuels. For more faqs on acid rain, please visit: Outside air pollution-faqs.org
What cause(s) do you think deserve more attention and why?
After commenting, be sure to stop by other YAFFER sites to see how the picture inspired them:
YAFF Muse: Breaking Free of the Forum
Well hold onto your pants for our new blog series. The ladies of YA Fiction Fanatics have come together for YAFF Muse. To have a little fun, explore different styles of writing and to give you some kick-butt shorts to read.
Without further delay, this weeks YAFF Muse pic was provided by YAFF Memeber: Cambria. Don’t forget to check out the other ladies stories, I’ve linked their sites at the end the post. Enjoy!
Photo Credit: valyeszter
The Trouble with Tea
–R.M. Gilbert
It’s totally lame when Mom says I have to stay with my grandma over the summer. I’m sixteen for shits sake. Definitely beyond pampers and bottle feeding. Smart enough not to allow some strange door-to-door salesmen in the house while Mom’s at work. And I’ve always hated helping in the kitchen, so I’m not about to burn the house down using the oven. Why then, am I going to be stuck spending my summer with some old lady who I only see at Christmas?
Here’s why:
“She’s starved for company, you know.” Mom parks the car out front of a tiny shoebox house.
“Why don’t you stay with her then, and I’ll pick you up in a few weeks?” I say.
She scowls. “Out of the car, now.”
Okay, not to be a jerk, but really, what a pain. I push out of the car muttering about injustice while Mom heads to the front door.
She sucks air and pulls a note that’s been taped to the window. “Oh shoot?”
“Now what?” I grumble.
“She’s out back for tea.”
“What am I suppose to do?”
Here’s what:
Mom says, “At the back of the house there’s a path, remember? You played there,” she pauses. “Goodness, over ten years ago, I think.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. I was like five and you expect me to remember that? Why don’t you walk me back? She’s your mom.”
“Can’t, I’m wearing Jimmy Choo’s.” She points at her newest pair of heels.
“Fine.” I take off for the side of the house when she calls after me.
“I’ll set your bag inside. See you in a couple weeks.”
Whatever, I think moving on. Mom’s high maintenance. I don’t know if Dad was. He’s gone. He died when I was about six. Mom doesn’t talk about it much.
On the path, I work my way through the winding maze of trees until I come to a small clearing.
“I wondered when you’d come.” Grandma sits on one of two wicker settees, under the cover of a rundown gazebo.
The steps creak under my weight as I join her, a small wooden table between us.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She lifts her thin arm–skin and bones–and gestures at the nearly dried up swamp and dying timbers.
“Are you feeling okay?” I ask.
“Tea?” She offers without responding to my question.
I stare down at the dainty cup about to refuse, but she pours me a drink regardless of what I want.
She says, “Sit. Drink.”
Um, no. I look over my shoulder, back up the path and wonder if I hurry, if I can catch Mom before she leaves. But I sit down, pick up the cup and take a sip of the bitter liquid. Squinting out into the tree line I spot a teacup dangling from a small branch. A pattern of blue flowers delicately painted on its side. Then I spot another. And another. Like ornaments on a Christmas tree.
“Hey, what are all those cups for?”
“Those who’ve come for tea.” Her voice rasps. “The white one with the blue flowers was your fathers. We had a drink years ago, such a sweet man.” She sets her cup down. “You know the trouble with tea? It makes me hungry.”
“What?” I turn. Catching a glimpse of her crimson stained teeth and black eyes.
She lunges at me…
Here’s lunch.
**
©2010, June 21, rmg.
So here’s where I’m suppose to say what gave inspiration to the story. Well, I have to admit at first I was like ‘eh’ over the picture but after about five minutes of staring at the pic I knew exactly what I wanted to write. There were two things that inspired me to write The Trouble with Tea. The first, obviously the picture. The second, my hubby’s grandma.No she’s never eaten anyone who’s come for tea. (At least not that I know of).
Seriously though, Grandma is a blessing and every time we spend a morning chatting she’s put the tea on. A cup, saucer, milk…the whole shi-bang. So it didn’t take long to incorporate Grandma into the story. But then, I needed a twist. Let’s face it, I write Fiction. So while Grandma never lunges over the table to take a bite out of her Grandchildren, the one in my story does.
So tell me, did you see the end coming? How do you take your tea?
After commenting be sure to stop by other YAFFER sites to see how the picture inspired them:
YAFF Muse: Breaking Free Blog Rounds Wednesday!
That’s right, Wednesday is the start of Yaff Muse: Breaking Free of the Forum. The beginning of a weekly installment of blog rounds for your reading pleasure. Some of the women from YA Fiction Fanatics have gotten together and decided to write shorts: (250-500 words –possibly more if their muse is going crazy.)
Each week one of YAFF’s members will post an inspirational picture to the group then we will write something fabulous based on the awesome amount of inspiration we get from the picture. We’ll also link to the other group members so you can read the different perspectives a single picture can trigger. And maybe you can pinpoint some similarities too.
So I hope you’ll join us, starting this Wednesday and enjoy reading the unique writing styles of the woman in our group.
A Full Plate
Busy much? Nowadays, I think, who isn’t. Between work and writing, kids and family, events and get togethers. Busy, busy busy.
But since I haven’t written a post on what I’m writing, in well, forever. I’m gonna start by saying, that’s busy too. So what’s on my plate?
In the adult, I’m-going-to-be-a-romance-writer-world, I’m in the midst of writing a short story for a FREE READ due out in December. The idea, spearheaded by author and critique partner, Stephanie Taylor, has several of the women (published and unpublished) from Passionate Critters, compiling interlinked stories into a two book series.
Also, in the adult romo category, I’ve been endlessly considering what edits/rewrites are needed in my current WIP, Another Day Dawns. My characters are mad at me. :pissedoff: They are begging for a slow simmer to build into a passionate burn and I’ve brought them from ice to fire within a matter of a couple chapters. So I’ve stopped to really consider their needs before they abandon me altogether.
On the YA writing-the-best-breakout-novel-I-can front, I’m half-way through my current WIP and am loving it. The characters are happy, I’m happy. Er…not to say what’s happening to them is rosy, what fun would that be. 😉 But progress is being made and thanks to the women at YA Fiction Fanatics I may be in submissions before the end of summer.
And last, in the YA spectrum–though geared for MG. I’m writing something for my daughter, who’s going to be 12. Capturing a time in her life and the experiences she shares on paper (via computer). Best of all she wants to read it, asks me if I’ve written more and has talked to several of her friends about it. Progress may be slow on this with the other projects I’ve got going, but I’m determined to make this happen so someday she can look back on it and remember that she inspires me.
So that’s my writing plate. Is yours full?
YAFF Muse Participants
Breaking free of the forum. Meet your writers:
Each week these ladies will bring you YAFF MUSE a weekly blog series featuring members of YA Fiction Fanatics. In this series, we’ll post original short stories created from an image meant to inspire our muse. We hope you enjoy!
Andie Russell 