I  just got one of my favorite rings back from the jeweller after having it checked, so in honor of that I Googled jewelry related writing prompts. These two quotes inspired me to try a bit of horror writing for the first time:

"Tentacles pour out from where a head should be" (from greybon.com)
"Nice jewelry and a boy's corpse"


"Nice jewelry."

"And a boy's corpse."

Not a description of the crime scene I was expecting. No matter how many times you hear the cliche "expect the unexpected," you're still always thinking it'll be the same old thing.

As I enter the scene I can tell immediately that those cops hit the nail on the head. The small room is littered with  nice jewelry of all kinds and in the center lies a boy's corpse. It looks like he was about 12 years old, bloody, clothes torn, and twisted in the terror he died in.

I try not to look at him too carefully since it's the bling I'm here for. Normally I wouldn't be anywhere near a murder scene since I specialize in jewelry and art theft. But the accessories around the body told the Chief I'd be an asset on the case.

I start examining the pieces one by one. It's immediately apparent that there's a lot of quality work here. Whoever killed this kid and ditched the jewels is either the biggest moron alive or something happened to make him run and he planned to come back for the treasure. Either way, he's lost out on thousands, probably hundreds of thousands of dollars.

I bag some of the pieces to take back to the lab and make sure that after the body's been dealt with it everything else will be sent to me. Not only will it all be evidence in the case, but it's also probably all stolen and we'll have to try to return what we can.

Something catches my eye as I head to the door- a necklace holder shaped like a dressmaker's dummy with wires coming out the top. I add it to my bag.


To be continued...

There's a cello in your house now*

That's the best line from Rocket Science, which I just watched. I had another post planned for tonight, but now I just have to talk about the obnoxious writing in the film. This is what happens when writers want to impress you with cleverness:


"Suitcases end marriages and farming subsidies launch cataclysms."
"Then on Thursday - it could have been any day, but it wasn't, it was Thursday,"


Honestly, I believe that if you're sitting there trying to be funny and clever and witty then you're going to fail and be annoying. And I could just hear the writer trying. It didn't help that those two lines were delivered by a narrater who disappeared for a chunk of the middle of the film and wasn't missed.


It strikes me as amazingly unfortunate that a story about finding your voice failed miserably because the writer's voice sounded so hollow and contrived. The goal of all that advice floating around about "finding your voice" to write is aimed at avoiding junk like this movie.




P.S. I also found every character in the film really creepy, with only two exceptions, which made the writing come across as even more annoying.




*I've always really liked cellos and have been thinking lately that after I'm satisfied with my piano skills and learn to play D's guitar and can afford to buy one, I might learn to play the cello.

Cooking Evening

In honor of the three dinners and ten lunches I prepared this evening, and the two apple pies I still haven't baked because I'm all cooked out, the prompt from the internet tonight is

How does your family prepare a turkey?*

First we order one from the local butcher so that we get a free-range, organic turkey that costs more than we should spend but makes us feel awesome and superior to people who don't care about their turkey's background. Our turkey last year was Mennonite, but this year we didn't specify that we wanted a religious bird so we got one without beliefs. It honestly didn't taste as delicious.

Once the turkey is home, Elva comes over and rubs secret spices all over it and sometimes stuffs it with things like apples and cinnamon sticks. We boil up a saline solution with chicken broth and bathe the turkey in it overnight.

On Canadian Thanksgiving we put the turkey in the pan, surround it with vegetables or apples or other things Elva knows will be yummy, and bake it.

Lastly, we carve it up and serve it to our friends who come to celebrate with us.


*Apparently, "Some people grill the turkey outside." Who? I'm from Southern California and, although we can comfortably eat the turkey outside on Thanksgiving without jackets, I don't know anyone who's ever grilled it.

Poisonous Bitch

Don't worry, I don't even have a sister (or a gluten intolerance):

My sister poisoned me! That bitch! She swore those cupcakes were gluten-free, but I wouldn’t be sick like this if they were. She must have snuck some wheat in while baking them.

Why would she do this to me? Especially on my birthday! Is she still mad that I was a little late to her birthday dinner last year? She’d only been waiting 15 minutes, even if I was supposed to be there an hour earlier. It’s not my fault my seminar ran late. And why should I have left early if I knew she wouldn’t be on time either? Really, she got mad at me for not waiting for her for 45 minutes, and I apologized for months.

And then she poisoned me! I can feel the nastiness moving through my veins despite my body’s fierce attempts to expel it. I knew she wasn’t the nicest person in the world, but I thought she was better than this. A sister should be safe from the evils she unleashes on the world.

How could I confront her about this? I can’t just accuse my sister of poisoning me, but I can’t let her treat me like this. I won't stoop to her level with revenge. I’ll just have to tell her that I ate gluten somehow and that she’ll need to be more careful in the future because I know she’d never feed it to me on purpose. She’s too good a sister to ever hurt me like that and she must feel so bad about causing me all this pain through no fault of her own. So from now on she’ll just have to bring over only foods that are labelled gluten-free. It’s not my fault they cost two to three times as much as regular food. That’s just the price she’ll have to pay for having a sister who’s stronger than she thinks.

I've been thinking quite a bit about writing and what it means lately. I met a professional writer last week and during the whole conversation about writing and books it was so hard not to be jealous of him. But the great surprise was that I didn't also feel intimidated because I've become confident calling myself a writer. One day other people will work not to be jealous of me.

I've also been thinking a lot because I'm coming across "expert" opinions that are pissing me off. One writer is considered a must-read for writers and other artists and another is someone I know who's coming off pretty cocky for one so young. What bugs me most is being told that I write because I want to communicate with an audience, even if that audience is just myself.

If you ever want to piss me off, just tell me why I'm doing something.

Here is a perfect example of my writing that was not created to communicate, but to sound beautiful to my ear and look lovely on the page:

Sometimes I write just because I enjoy the activity of making letters and words on the page. So there.

It's so hard to blog when the weather's beautiful, because it's hard to do anything at a computer hat's not absolutely necessary when the weather's beautiful. Now that crappy fall/winter is coming on I swear I'll be better.

But not so much tonight because I have to practice piano and write another two letters. So here's another wonderful quote to tide over my eager reader (you'd better read this since you're the only one so far), a wonderful example of simile from an email I received:

"The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00pm instead of 7:30."

Little Did James Know What that Drink Contained

The prompt is that the first words of the story are "Little did James know what that drink contained" and the last word is "caught." I played with the beginning a bit, and it's really rough, but here's what I came up with:

James took a sip from the goblet in his hand, but little did he know what that drink contained. He didn’t know much about anyone or anything at this party. The only reason he’d come was to see the ballroom of the historic Maribelle Hotel.

James had always loved the Maribelle’s grand exterior and dreamed of going inside, but the doormen were quite good at keeping out non-guests, and why pay for a hotel room in your own town? Seeing the sign posted on a streetlight for an open party in the Maribelle Hotel’s ballroom was like a gift. He could make his dream come true and enjoy a party at the same time.

The drink felt funny in his mouth and tasted awful. James quickly ditched the goblet and decided to try the food instead. A long table held dozens of different finger foods, but none were recognizable. After that nasty drink, James decided not to risk trying anything else.

He turned his attention back to the ballroom, which was as stunning as he’d hoped it would be. It looked very different than it had in his imagination - darker, with more red and black velvet than the cream and gold he’d predicted. He also hadn’t dreamed of the mezzanine that wrapped around the room, accessible by a grand staircase at the back of the room.

Almost all of the main floor was set up as a dance floor. Although James was far too shy to ask a stranger to dance and too self-conscious to dance alone, he still enjoyed watching. Even before coming, he’d known he would spend most of this party right on the edge of the action, just like at every other party. He took a spot beside the dance floor where he was close enough to pretend he was dancing with everyone else.

The other party-goers were not exactly what James had expected. Given that this was a flier-advertised party, he thought it would be full of young, loud, wild people, and it was. Everyone was gorgeous and exciting. These people, however, looked like they were dressed for a fantasy ball. He saw quite a few girls in short skirts with wings on their shoulders or back - definitely trying to look like fairies. A few others had flowy medieval gowns that must have cost a fortune at the costume shop. Some men had tall boots, others low-cut loose white shirts (the kind pirates always wear), and at least one guy had a bow and arrows.

This made James feel more out of place, not only because he looked different, but because it meant there had been some code on the flier that he hadn’t been able to understand indicating dress code. That wasn’t a surprise since he’d never really been in-the-know socially. It was probably intentionally cryptic to keep out people like himself who didn’t belong. But he would have felt like more of a loser if he’d walked out right away than he did staying and trying to enjoy himself for a bit.

As he danced James began to feel a bit funny, almost tingly. He’d only had one sip to drink so he couldn’t be buzzed, but it felt slightly like he wasn’t in full control of his body. He stopped dancing and took the grand staircase to the mezzanine for more air.

Up there only a few people were milling about. A couple of shadowy nooks gave a bit of privacy to entwined couples, and even though it was open to the dance floor, it was much quieter.

James leaned over the railing and watched the crowd below. ‘So many beautiful women down there,’ he thought dreamily. After a while he realized that his arms had gone numb and he couldn’t feel his hands anymore. He assumed they’d gone to sleep because he was leaning on them, but when he looked at them he couldn’t see his hands either. The rest of him appeared foggy and insubstantial. What was happening?

“I see a mortal has shared our meal,” said a deep voice from behind.

James whirled around. A tall, dark, regal woman stared at him. “What was that in the drink? What’s happening to me?” he asked her.

“When one who isn’t Fairy eats or drinks our nourishment there is no way to know what will happen.”

“What are you talking about? Who are you?”

“I am Regona. We are the Fairies of the Forest. Sometimes we tire of the forest, however, and when we do this is our home.”

James had trouble understanding this. It didn’t just look like he was an outsider in a room of magic people, he was an outsider in a room of magical people. Plus, something magical was happening to him.

“I believe I can confidently tell you that what is happening to you is that you are becoming invisible,” Regona told James. He looked down at his body again. this time there was no fogginess. There was nothing to see at all.

James turned and ran down the stairs, pushed his way across the dance floor, and slammed into the heavy doors that led out of the ballroom. They wouldn’t budge for him, however, even with all his strength. He’d stumbled upon a fairy realm and he remains there, invisible, caught.