Tales from the Ghost Town Writers Retreat

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15493618_10154899107475972_7094799763006043672_oI have had a difficult time writing this past year. I have a novel that I have started and stopped more times than I care to admit and a Christmas project that I decided to postpone from the planned November publish date. I had amazing momentum coming into this year, but it fizzled quickly, and I’m not sure why.

I decided many months ago to attend the Ghost Town Writers Retreat at the beginning of August to see if I could get my groove back, then my Grandma passed away a few weeks ago, and I almost canceled. Losing her hit me harder than I expected and I just wanted to hide out. My darling husband took time off from work to go with me and said it would give us some time away from the kids together, I suspect he knew I needed him to give me an extra push.

The retreat was held in the small mining town of Georgetown, Colorado. I’m a Colorado native but can say I’ve never hung out in Georgetown for anything more than a bathroom break, fill up, or to get to the pass to go to Clear Lake. I remember when I was little my parents looked at buying a piece of property there. The day they went to look at the property they dropped me, my two siblings, and my grandparents off at the little park in town to eat lunch so they could speak to the realtor without distraction. My sister would not play or leave the bench she sat on. It wasn’t until I told her where I was going that she said the park was full of spooks and they demanded to know why she was there. It scared the hell out of her, and that’s why she wouldn’t play. Weird story, I know, but totally normal in my family.

Georgetown is only about an hour from our house on I-70, but the ride up was hairy. The retreat needed to borrow some grills for the Grill and Greet, so I volunteered ours. Since my husband was coming along, we took his truck and loaded our old gas grill into the bed. The day was overcast, and the wind was picking up. Just as I inquired if the grill was safely tethered a huge bang shook us. The grill had fallen over but not out of the bed. Sadly, the handle didn’t survive. After readjusting the bungee cords, we journeyed on. We drove through dense fog, drenching rain, and pounding hail. It didn’t help that I woke up that morning with a nagging headache. Maybe it was a sign to go home, I thought.

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I-70 Westbound

 

When we got to the hotel we discovered that it would be some time before for our room would be ready and we were a little confused about where to check in for the conference, but we did figure out where to take the grill. After an uninvited cloud burst, my husband helped cook up some buffalo hot dogs and burgers, and we had a tasty little dinner with some fascinating folks.

One of the things I really wanted to do was check out the park. I still had a headache, but the next morning I grabbed my camera and off we went. The moment I entered the park through the iron archway my headache was joined by a turbulent stomach. No one demanded to know why I was there, but it felt heavy and strange. My husband asked if it used to be a cemetery because it gave that kind of vibe. As a side note, I got a terrible headache working on this piece, and I kept getting an error message when I tried to upload the photos of the park, it took several tries. Coincidence? Maybe, but my husband says I should quit messing around with this subject!

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The Park Entrance

Even though my head and tummy were very unhappy, I continued to hit up all the sessions I could. Every single session was terrific, and the presenters (some first timers) were great. When we got home and were describing some of the things we learned my daughter laughed and said it sounded like a murders’ convention! Most of the sessions were held in the historic Heritage Center, the old school house. The building restoration was fabulous!

The marketing sessions were beneficial, as that is the area I dislike the most about this author thing and find the most challenging. I’m a quiet, shy, introverted person which is a huge hindrance to my marketing efforts. I made a commitment to myself to move way out of my comfort zone in the coming months regarding this.

I also had an epiphany. I believe my difficulty in writing has come because I know the marketing will come after. Yes. I hate it that much. I think I got some tools and resources at the retreat that will help me, though.

Being the very first Ghost Town Writers Retreat, there were some hiccups and places where there is room for improvement. I thought Georgetown was a great location and I had the best burger ever (after my tummy finally settled down) at Round About Burgers. The waffles at The Happy Cooker were amazing, and the Family Dollar is stocked better than a full sized Walmart! It turned out to be more of a conference than retreat, however. I would have liked more opportunities to meet up and write with other writers. And coffee! Coffee at the venue for morning sessions, please!

I wasn’t sure where or how to sign up for editor/agent sessions, but since I didn’t feel well, I opted not to pursue it. Maybe for next year,  the signup and location information could be available a few days before the event begins.

There was a walking ghost tour that I would have loved to attend, but it happened on Sunday evening, and I was already jonesing for my kids. We opted for the train, mine tour, and of course, the cemetery.

We really didn’t need a ghost tour anyway. I drug my husband around the town late on Saturday night, just to see what we might see. He always warns that I better not get him arrested, but I’ve been doing this to him for years, and so far we are arrest free, knock on wood!

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Haunted Hamill House After Dark

 

Even though I didn’t feel well for the first three days, I feel like I got out of it what I wanted. I have a strategy to push through my writing wall, and I got to spend some time with my husband. He got a better idea of what it is I do and struggle with and ended up getting into it himself! I said we should just write spooky books together and forget everything else!

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My Handsome Husband – It Looks Good on Him!

 

I can only imagine what it takes to organize a thing like this. The speakers and moderators were great. The movie screening of Dead Awake was fun, and I wanted to ask Jeffery Riddick (Dead Awake, Final Destination) what led them to cast Lori Petty (Orange is the New Black), she was great by the way, but my head was killing me.

How you go about contacting all these folks and getting them to come to a retreat in a tiny Colorado mountain town is beyond me. I’m grateful for the opportunity and that I ignored my headache AND did not go back home. I am already looking forward to next year, but I think I’ll stay away from the park…or not!

roy and joy

What a Year

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endof-year

What a year. 2016 had ups and downs, losses and gains, twists and turns. I don’t know about you, but I feel a little sea-sick! I’m hoping 2017 is a little less crazy. A girl can dream, can’t she?

It’s been a good writing year. I finished writing and revising DREAD and published! I’ve sold some copies, and not just to my family, LOL! Some of those readers even left five-star reviews. Weirdly, I miss my characters a little bit. I spent almost every day with them for over two years, after all. I’m sure they don’t miss me but are enjoying new life every time they spring to life in a reader’s imagination. I *heart* you Nate, Garrett, Sophia, and Lindsey!

I stretched out of my writing comfort zone and wrote a short story in the Dystopian Horror genre. Dystopia always felt overwhelming to me. Seriously, how in the world do you create a whole new world…out of your words? I spent a large part of my summer working on Code Yankee Sierra 7 so I could enter it in the  Pandora’s Box of Horrors Challenge. Guess what? It tied for the win. Pretty exciting!

I’ve made amazing writing friends and connections this year. Their stories captivated, spooked, entangled, and encouraged me. Thanks, guys!

I wrote three other short stories. One was originally posted as a Thanksgiving story, but I revised it to a Christmas story (All Through the Night) and popped it up on WattPad for fun. Another one is also a Christmas story (The Kalli-Who) that was published on this blog as a playful holiday share with you, the readers! Lastly, just for grins, I reworked a story I wrote a very long time ago (Best Night Ever) and also shared that on WattPad.

My current WIP Shiver is coming along. I’m still getting to know the characters, and so far, I like them. Too bad I’ll have to terrorize, burden, and maybe knock some of them off *evil giggle*. What?  I’m a writer, it’s what I do.

A writer. You’d think I’d feel perfectly fine calling myself a writer by now, wouldn’t you? But it still feels awkward. When I think writer, I think of Anne Rice, Stephen King, Shirley Jackson, and the like. When I say I am a writer, it seems arrogant and like a big overblown fishy tale. Despite the list of accomplishments above, it feels like I am the biggest poser in history, play acting a childhood fantasy and hoping the world buys it. I wonder if the people I mentioned before ever feel that way.

For 2017 my resolution is to own it. To boldly submit works and laugh in the face of rejection letters! To shout, I AM A WRITER! Well, maybe just say it in an inside voice.

Here’s wishing you an adventurous, thrilling, spooky, joyous, own-your-truth new year. I hope you get some of that through reading something I wrote for you.

Until next year, Never Turn Off the Lights!

Pandora’s Box of Horror Challenge

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I like a good challenge. Participating in writing challenges gets my creative juices boiling. The ideas generated during the free-write/brainstorm phase, that aren’t used for the challenge, sometimes spawn into new projects.

This is my second time participating in the Pandora’s Box of Horror Challenge, and it was, well, challenging! Firstly, I have never written anything dystopian, and secondly, it had to have a hopeful ending. Hopeful endings, it turns out, are not my forte. To get started, I did some research on social, economic, and political trends. Imagining all the ways it could go wrong gave me more than a few sleepless nights, but I carried on to the end.

Thank you, Pandora’s Box of Horror for always showing me a good time! A special thanks to my husband and my sister who gave valuable feedback  and more than a little hand-holding.

Here is this year’s entry, enjoy!

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Code Yankee-Sierra 7

Black clouds thick with lethal threat were gaining on her, she’d have to sprint the last half-click or be caught out in the storm. Her duty belt slipped down her slim hips, and her baton banged on her knee, but she didn’t slow down. She could make the 500 meters easy, but the storm was moving fast. The severe storm had not been predicted, but Mother Nature could not be held to weather reports. When the birds fell silent, she should have headed for safety.
The winds battered her with loose garbage and debris as if to keep her from getting to shelter. The clouds directly above her head began a slow swirl, and she felt pressure building in her ears. Just ahead in the swell of dust, she could see the heavy doors of the shelter being pulled shut. She picked up her pace, muscles stretching beyond comfort, lungs bursting.
“Hold the doors!” she shouted above the roar of the storm.
A man peered out between the metal doors; his skin pulled tightly over his face giving him the appearance of an animated skeleton. He braced himself with skinny legs to keep the doors open against the gale. She burst through the doors and helped him secure them shut.
“Thanks,” she said to him.
He nodded and shuffled down the darkened stairwell.
She touched her wrist to activate communications.”Yankee-Sierra 7.”
“Go ahead Yankee-Sierra 7,” came the reply to her ear piece.
“10-20 in the storm shelter for Capital Sector 32.”
“10-4. Signal confirmed.”
She peered down the darkened stairwell. You never knew what was waiting in the shelter chamber. A few weeks ago, a fellow Youth Squad member entered a shelter and was jumped by a group of druggers that had wandered off a nearby Medical Resort in the confusion of a storm. She wasn’t worried about a scuffle, in fact, she’d welcome it. It was that he’d been injured and had to be in the infirmary for a few weeks. She’d rather be stuck in one of the Indigent Sectors than the infirmary.
The hefty storm door rattled against the tornado raging outside. The inner shelter door needed to be closed. It was rare, but the outer storm doors had been known to blow open.
She released the snap on her weapon holster. The sound seemed unnaturally loud, and she cringed. Resting her hand on the butt of her weapon she made her way down into the inner area. The emergency lights buzzed on, and she could partially see into the long room. People lined the benches or sat on the floor; no one moved toward her. She turned and bolted the door shut.
“Yankee-Sierra 7, secure your weapon, please,” came the soothing androgynous voice of her Synthetic Intelligence Advocate partner in her ear piece. Her gear, vitals, body cameras, and scanners were continually monitored by the SIA.
She clicked the snap over her weapon, a gun loaded with rubber bullets that administered a high voltage shock. Only SIAs were armed with lethal weaponry but needed a confirmation from the human partner to use it.
“Threat assessment is low.”
“Thank you, Sulu.”
Each SIA had a humanized name to make the partnership as natural as possible. Most had names like Mike or Jill, but this one had an interesting name, and she liked that. The assignment engineer told her the name came from a fictional character from a science fiction television show and movie. He told her the character was extremely intelligent and bad-ass. She didn’t know much about it, but the name was cool.
Every Youth Squad Officer had an SIA assigned to them. Twenty or so years ago, when the country splintered beyond what many thought was the point of no return, the technology that powered the SIAs was revealed. And with it, order.
In 2017, the newly elected president began making statements and policies that further divided an already unstable situation. The will of the people was largely ignored, but even the people could not agree on what their will was. Personal gain by the elected drove most decisions from the capital with little to no regard for common citizens or the global community.
The Earth reflected the chaos of the inhabitants, or perhaps fueled it. Severe drought, flooding, heat waves, super storms, and unnatural freezes affected food production. Store shelves were empty for the first time in a place where it was thought to be impossible. People were angry, hungry, and looking for someone to blame.
Out of frustration or opportunity, loosely organized groups of like-minded people formed from protest groups into armed militias referred to as “crews”. Killing in the streets, riots, looting, and destruction became commonplace that summer. Police were openly attacked and assassinated when they showed up to help. Eventually, they quit showing up.
Regular citizens armed themselves for protection, and entire neighborhoods fenced themselves in, shooting any outsiders that approached. Suicide bombings and other terrorist attacks became a weekly occurrence.
Martial law was enacted in a failed attempt to bring society back. It didn’t matter if you were a White Supremacist, Black Power, Anti-whatever, Pro-nothing, or simply looking for food, all the groups hated the federal government. Troops were more viciously attacked than the civilian cops, and many soldiers defected to a crew that appealed to their particular biases. The rest could not stomach attacking fellow citizens, and the operation failed.
Late in the fall of the following year, a brilliant engineer, computer scientist, and pioneer in artificial intelligence from Mexico made an announcement that changed the world. Mercedes Santiago developed an artificial intelligence that passed the Turing Test, humans questioning the device over audio were convinced it was another human being.  Further testing showed it was a flawless rational agent, always making the optimal decision or action given a data set.
When provided data about the law and objectives, it was the perfect law officer. No biases, no misinterpretations of the law, and no personal agenda. Its physical appearance was created for utilitarian purposes, but the intimidating spider-like mechanics were many times all that was needed to end a riot. Mercedes dubbed her creation, Artificial Intelligence Enforcement Device, or “AID” for short.
With the government’s blessing, Mercedes’ company, Green Scythe Technologies, deployed the machines to hot spots that surveillance intelligence identified. Within three months, order was restored.
The only issue with the AID units was the inability to apply human mercy and empathy to situations; things were black and white. The general public was so worn down by the instability that no objections were raised until much later.
The tech was then placed in less threatening SIA units. The spider appearance and visible weaponry hidden in a smooth white body with four legs that resembled a large dog. The units were then placed with a human partner. Young people between the ages of 14 and 20 were best suited in temperament and physical ability to partner with SIA units. They were comfortable interacting with technology in a way other age groups were not. Youth Squads were formed and tasked with community policing.
The partners were never separated while on duty, except for in the public storm shelters. SIAs were bulky and took up room that humans may need. Instead, the SIAs used their storm protection mode and stayed outside monitoring their human partners. It increased the risk of losing an SIA, but better that than a human to lack of space in the shelter.
Adjusting her duty belt, she took a deep breath and began her sweep through the crowd.
A small girl with dark skin and blue eyes ran to her, holding out a bottle of water. Her body went into self-defense mode.
“Are you thirsty, officer?” she asked.
A woman quickly gathered the girl. “I’m sorry, officer, Garcia,” she said squinting at the badge.
“No worries, Ma’am,” she said, releasing the tension in her body. Then to the little girl,”Thank you very much, but I’m okay for now. I’ll come find you if that changes, okay?”
The girl nodded and her mother escorted her back to their seats. She was thirsty, but she knew better than to accept anything from the public. Order may have been restored, but some crazies still held onto the old ways.
“Yankee-Sierra 7,” came over her earpiece.
“Go for Yankee-Sierra 7,” she answered.
“This is Yankee-Sierra 89. I’m at your 20, but I don’t see you.”
She rolled her eyes. Just her luck she’d get stuck down here with him. Of course, he didn’t see her; he couldn’t find his own butt with a flashlight and a map. Not entirely true, but he did cost them the YS football championship because he dropped the damn ball.
“89, I just locked the inner storm door.”
“Oh. I see you now!”
A tall, slender boy with rich chocolate skin sauntered her way.
“Why didn’t you wait at the inner door? If I hadn’t come down it might not have gotten locked,” she said, not trying to hide her irritation.
“Well, there was something weird going on down at the end when I came in. I thought I heard, I don’t know, like a door shutting.” He gestured behind him to the end of the shelter chamber.
She raised her eyebrows. “And?”
“And I didn’t get very far down when I heard your radio call.”
“Okay, let’s go. I’ll take the right; you take the left.”
He nodded his head, “Okay, Rachel.”
“Excuse me, Officer Mateo More? It might be Rachel off duty, but on, it’s always Lieutenant Garcia.”
He shrugged, “Okay, Lieutenant.”
Protocol called for Youth Squad officers to patrol the storm shelter, looking for violations of the Citizens’ Code, assisting medical needs, and keeping order. When the storms lasted more than 2 hours, which seemed more and more frequent, people tended to get restless. The two officers began walking the chamber.
Most heads were bent, people passing the time playing games, working, or messaging friends with their devices. Small groups congregated in front of screens where “never before seen footage” of the reality show of colonists trying to survive on Mars was being broadcast.
It was action, suspense, documentary, and soap opera rolled into one that gripped most of the citizenry around the clock. Viewers interacted with the show and cast members with various apps, making it very personal for some. She’d heard rumors of people scheduling their whole life around the show.
A group of three girls a little younger than herself stood in front of a selfie-drone, smiling and laughing. After the flash, the smallest girl scanned her wrist I.D. on the port under the drone. The photos would be added to her cyber media profile.
Rachel caught the eye of one of the girls who dropped her gaze to the floor. Her companions stared wide-eyed. A meeting like this was always tinged with awkwardness.
School was compulsory until the age of 14. Then, as one teacher liked to put it, the wheat and chaff were separated, but everyone knew it was money or lack thereof that determined your future. For reasons Rachel didn’t get, that sometimes made those with money uncomfortable around those without. To her, it was what it was. You had to figure out your spot and make the most of it; there wasn’t an alternative.
Smart kids with money went on for more schooling eventually becoming doctors, teachers, engineers, and such. Smart kids with no money went to the military for similar schooling, but would spend their professional years in service to the government. Poor kids with athletic ability and some smarts went to Youth Squad. When they aged out of Youth Squad, they’d move into a position with the National Police as a trainer or investigator, and sometimes to the military.
Poor kids without brains or brawn went one of three places. If they had a certain look and were born female, they might be able to get service work in an Executive Resort. This was a community for the wealthy of a group that used to be known as Baby Boomers. Male-born could get employment there as well doing manual labor. Otherwise, they did similar jobs in the General Population sectors. If neither of those worked out, they ended up in an Indigent Sector. Youth Squad did not patrol there, no one did. What happened in those areas was anyone’s guess.
Although she missed her, she was glad her younger sister, Melanie, had been able to get into an Executive Resort. She was quiet and liked to draw and paint; Youth Squad would not have suited her. Thanks to the property their parents had owned, they grew up in a General Population orphanage after their parents were killed. It wasn’t the worst place they could have gone and they had each other.
Resources, such as educational opportunities, were not allocated to the young even though their numbers were equal to that of older generations. Older generations had most of the money and as such held the power. Things would not change anytime soon; the Boomers were living longer than ever. It was the middle generations, like her parents would have been, that she felt sorry for. They toiled away managing the young and catering to the old, waiting for a chance that would likely never come to move up in the world. Once they were too old to work and exhausted their resources, they would probably end up in an Indigent Sector along with Baby Boomers that didn’t have financial means.
Rachel nodded at the girls and kept moving.
A woman sitting on the ground with her head bent caught her eye. No personal device, but something clutched in her hands.
“Ma’am?”
The woman looked up, startled. Rachel saw a small figurine in her fist before she could hide it.
“Resin. Nonflammable. Non-explosive. No metal or moving parts,” Sulu reported.
Rachel held out her hand, “May I see?”
Reluctantly the woman placed the small smooth object in her hand. Rachel inspected it. Flat and about the size of an egg the top was worn in a way to fit a thumb. Rachel rubbed her thumb along the surface.
“It’s nothing, officer. Just what old-timers call a worry rock,” the woman said.
“A worry rock?”
“Used to release emotion, possibly for meditation,” Sulu said.
“It was my grandmother’s. I carry it for sentimental reasons.”
Rachel hesitated.
“Yankee-Sierra 7, it could be used for religious purpose,” Sulu said.
“You know all religious iconography and paraphernalia is illegal outside of a Sect Reservation,” Rachel said to the woman.
Her eyes bulged, “Oh no, officer! It’s not anything like that, I swear!”
Sect Reservations were areas allocated for citizens that would not agree to the limitations put on religious practices in the Citizens’ Code. On Reservations, they were free to practice their particular brand of religion to their hearts content, separate from the rest of society. Anyone who decided to go to a Sect Reservation was not allowed to leave, ever. The Citizens’ Code agreed on a completely secular society, fewer divisions and other possible problems brought on by zealots.
“Yankee-Sierra 7, citizen penal code sixty-dash-six states-“
Rachel cut Sulu off. “I know the code.”
She studied the woman. Her head was completely bald on the right side and long bright blue hair cascaded down the left. Like some gender-fluid citizens, tell-tale physical markers of her birth gender were visible to a careful eye. A swirling tattoo of various hues of blues went from under her chin to under her blouse and continued down her left arm. Her right arm was void of any artwork. Although it wasn’t unusual, it gave her an unbalanced look.
Rachel pulled a scanner from her belt and the woman held out her wrist for her implant to be scanned. It beeped and data appeared in front of Rachel’s eyes from her micro-ocular-processor implant. No criminal, citizen, or religious infractions. A survivor of the Times Square New Year’s Eve drone attack in 2018.
An anti-capitalist terrorist group launched a host of drones weaponized with pipe bombs on the reveling crowds. 5,000 people were killed, and close to an additional 3,000 were injured. It was the catalyst that paved the acceptance for the AID units.
Judging by her age, she must have been around six years old when the attack occurred, just a little older than Rachel was when her parents were killed in a food riot.
Rachel handed the rock back to the surprised woman and moved on.
“Yankee-Sierra 7, that was a violation. Item should be confiscated and citizen issued a citation,” Sulu said.
“I’m exercising a compassionate override due to citizen background and vagueness of object’s use for religious purpose.”
“Override confirmed,” Sulu said.
Rachel’s stomach growled, and she began to maneuver her way to the nearest vending area.
A sizable line had formed, and she walked passed it. Youth Squad had a machine designated for their use only, not that anyone else would want what was in it. The machine for citizens was stocked with a variety of chips, pastries, and delicious sweets. The YS machine was stocked with tasteless nutrition bars and water. YS member’s diets and physical fitness routines were strictly regimented, but Rachel didn’t mind. It beat being hungry.
Angry voices from the front of the citizen line drew her attention. Two dark-skinned, well-dressed women were arguing with a pale woman in an unflattering flowered dress that was on the verge of a decency code violation.
“Officer, this woman is budding the line,” one of them said when she saw Rachel headed their way.
“Who let this riffraff in here? Put her out in the storm if she doesn’t want to be civilized. Everyone else is waiting their turn, and she just walked up here and went right to the machine,” the other woman complained.
“Some of these people still think everyone owes them. Disgusting,” her companion said.
“Ladies, take it easy,” Rachel said.
“I just need one thing,” the pale woman said.
“So do all of us!” someone further back in the line shouted.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait like everyone else,” Rachel said.
“Everyone but you,” the woman spat.
“Ma’am, you are in violation of the Citizens’ Code. Let’s not make this a big deal. Move to the back of the line.”
“The Code gives me the right to something to eat! Why should I have to wait? Everything was better before all you darkies took over!” Her graying hair was sticking out in all directions. She pursed her lips together, and her body language changed ever so slightly.
“She’s going to engage,” Sulu said.
The woman took a clumsy swing at Rachel’s head. Rachel shot out her hand and grabbed the woman’s wrist and twisted it, spinning her around. The woman squealed and the citizens in line cheered.
“Ma’am, you have the freedom to move to the back of the line, or I can move you. Or I can detain your dumbass. I really don’t care. Exercise your freedom and decide.” Rachel gave the woman’s arm a hard yank to make her point.
“Fuck you.”
Decision made, Rachel pulled an auto-injector syringe off her duty belt and jammed it into the woman’s neck. She felt the woman go slack and she loosened her grip on her arm. Placing handcuffs on the now docile woman, she led her away to the cheers of the crowd.
“Yankee-Sierra 7 for Yankee-Sierra 89.”
“Go for Yankee-Sierra 89,” Mateo answered back.
“I’ve got a detainee. I’m taking her to holding. What’s your status?”
“I’m ten-ten-six,” Mateo answered, indicating he was fine.
Rachel led the woman to a secure door and scanned her wrist implant to unlock it. The bright lights came up as sensors detected their entrance.
The injection Rachel administered made the subject completely docile and compliant, another Green Scythe Technologies invention. She effortlessly maneuvered the woman to one of ten hospital like beds enclosed in plexiglass. Rachel lifted the enclosure and the bed controls booted up. The medical AI unit beeped to life and rolled to Rachel’s side and began adjusting the settings. The unit was made of the same smooth white body as Sulu but its shape reminded her of a vacuum cleaner.
Rachel scanned the woman’s implant, a long list of Citizens’ Code violations, mostly for unruly or rude conduct.
“Yankee-Sierra 7 for Central.”
“Go ahead Yankee-Sierra 7.”
“Uploading data on detainee.” She uploaded the video of the interaction and the woman’s data.
“Upload confirmed. Secure detainee for transport to detention center.”
“10-4”
“The storm will last another hour and 45 minutes,” Sulu said.
“Better set her up for two and a half hours,” Rachel said to the medical unit. Then to the woman, “Get on the bed.”
The woman did as she was told. She would be kept in a light sedation until the transport team came to get her and the medical AI would monitor her.
Rachel’s stomach growled again.
“Yankee-Sierra 7!” Mateo’s voice gasped into her ear piece.
“Go for Yankee-Sierra-“
“I need backup!”
A map with Mateo’s location appeared from her ocular implant.
“Thanks, Sulu!” She exploded from the room and ran.
As she approached, she saw Mateo pinning a man to the ground with his boot on the back of the man’s neck and his arm twisted high in Mateo’s grasp. People moved quickly away not wanting any part of the action.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“This guy’s I.D. is from an Indigent Sector. He took a swing at me,” Mateo said, his lip trickling blood.
The man’s info appeared before her as Mateo sent it to her. No violations, but Indigent Sectors weren’t policed. It was against the Citizens’ Code for Indigent Sector people to come into the Gen-pop areas without an escort.
Rachel leaned down and put her face in his, “Got an escort?”
The man didn’t respond.
“Stake his ass!” Mateo said.
She unclipped an auto-injector.
“Wait, wait!” he sputtered. “Let me just explain.”
“Explain why you hit my officer,” she spat.
“I-I’m sorry. There’s a good reason why I’m here, let me explain,” he said.
A metallic scraping sound came from directly behind them, the man’s eyes grew wide. Only for a second, but Rachel didn’t miss it.
“1.8 meters,” Sulu said.
An electronic grid filled her vision, and a red pin showed the exact origin of the sound. Rachel stood and moved to the spot; she stood over a grate that led to the service tunnels below. She shined her flashlight down into the gloom but saw no movement.
“What’s going on down there?”
He said nothing.
“Heat signatures of five humans in the tunnel moving north at eight clicks per hour,” Sulu said.
Sulu’s thermal feed appeared before Rachel.
“Yankee-Sierra 7 to Central.”
“Go ahead Yankee-Sierra 7.”
“Code 10-39,” she said.
“No! No! You have no idea what’s going on! No! Run! Ruuuun!” the man on the ground shouted.
“Code 10-39 initiated,” Central said.
Mateo pulled an auto-injector and jabbed it into the side of the man’s neck and handcuffed him in a swift continuous movement. Rachel and Mateo pulled the shield down on the front of their duty helmets, pulled up the neck protector tucked into the front of their uniforms, and connected the two. A light mist began to billow from the ventilation system. The few people visible to her slumped to the floor.
“Yankee-Sierra 7 and 89 in pursuit of five subjects in the service tunnel,” she said, as she motioned for Mateo to help her lift the grate. The lock had been cut.
“10-4 Yankee-Sierra 7. Backup unavailable due to storm,” Central said.
“Sulu, can you make your way to the outlet entrance?” Rachel asked.
“Negative, unable to deactivate storm protection mode,” Sulu said.
“Mike, do you copy?” Mateo called to his SIA unit. No answer.
Rachel and Mateo jumped into the open grate and hit the ground hard, weapons drawn. Pushing the gas shield back up into their helmets, they moved cautiously up the tunnel in the direction of the heat signatures.
The tunnels were dimly lit, and Mateo pulled his night vision shield down from his helmet. He turned his head to Rachel to tell her to do the same.
“Rach-” was all he got out.
A man, the size of a grizzly, shot out from a small indentation in the tunnel wall and barreled at her. He slammed into Rachel’s side, knocking the weapon out of her hand. She never lost her footing, though, and caught him with a roundhouse kick to the gut.
He roared and wrapped her in his massive arms and squeezed. Rachel dropped straight the ground slipping from his grasp. She rocketed her fist directly into his groin. He stooped over. Mateo staked him and the went to the ground. Rachel grabbed her gun and pointed it at the man’s head.
“What the fuck?” she said.
Not necessarily at the man, but herself for not checking the thermal scan when they first got in the tunnel.
Mateo scanned the man’s wrist. “Indigent Sector.”
Something crazy was brewing. Rachel’s pulse picked up.
“Yankee-Sierra 7, what’s your status?” Sulu said.
“I got jumped, but I’m ten-ten-six.”
“You sure?” Mateo asked.
Her shoulder screamed and her knuckles were bleeding, but she nodded.
“Alerting Central,” Sulu said.
Rachel pulled her night vision shield down as Mateo put handcuffs on the man and sat him up against the wall. The juice would take a little longer to have its full effect on him because of his size.
Rachel crouched in front of him, “What are you doing down here?”
“There wasn’t supposed to be a storm today,” the man answered.
Her fists clenched. She tasted blood where she was biting the inside of her lip.
“What are you doing down here?”
He looked at her, his eyes focusing on hers, “We had to save her. We have to save them all.”
“Save who?”
The last of the lighting flickered out.
A slow smile spread across the man’s face. “Jake really did it. He got the lights off.” His eyes glazed over and the drug took him.
“The rest of ’em are just up ahead. It’s a dead end,” Mateo said.
She nodded, and they continued up the tunnel.
“Something’s not right,” Mateo whispered. “The schematics show a dead end, but the heat signatures are continuing on. Like they walked through a wall.”
As they approached, Rachel could clearly see the skinny gap in the smooth concrete wall. Someone had used a laser torch to cut into the adjoining tunnel.
“How’d they do that without being caught on sensor?” Mateo asked.
Rachel shook her head.
“Sulu, are you seeing this?”
“Recording as protocol,” Sulu answered back.
Rachel stepped gingerly through the opening and pressed her back against the wall when she came out the other side, Mateo did the same. Down the tunnel to their right, they heard shuffling and frantic whispering. Rachel’s pulse quickened.
The tunnel ended in a widened area used for maintenance access. In the green sheen of the night vision shield, Rachel saw a group of four figures yanking on a door that would not open.
“Stop! On your knees, hands behind your heads!” Mateo said.
The figures remained standing but motionless.
“Now!” Rachel commanded.
One figure turned toward her, something in its hand. She fired. The figure let out a croak, jerked, and fell to the ground. The other figures gasped and dropped to their knees. The emergency lights kicked on, and the two officers put their night vision shields away.
Rachel went to the man on the ground. He had a screwdriver near his open hand. Drool ran from the corner of his mouth, and a wet spot grew on the front of his pants.
“Vitals steady,” Sulu reported.
Rachel turned her attention to the three on the ground, Mateo was using zip-ties to secure their wrists, his pair of metal cuffs already used. Two women and a girl. The zip tie on the girl’s wrists hung loosely even though it was at its tightest setting.
“Please officer,” one of the women said.
Rachel moved to face them, “Shut up. You only talk to answer me. Got it?”
The three nodded their heads.
“Is Louis going to be okay?” the other woman asked.
Rachel clenched her fists. No wonder police brutality got of hand in the old days. People never listened.
“I said shut up!” Rachel snapped.
Mateo stood up from where he had been scanning their wrist implants.
“One from this sector, one from a Religious Sect, and the little one is from the Capital Executive Resort,” he said.
The girl scoffed.
“There a problem?” Mateo said to her.
“Resort? They try to make it sound so good. If you only knew what happened in there,” she said.
“Lia, be quiet,” the first woman said.
“No, Mary. They have to know,” Lia said.
“What are you talking about? It’s the place everyone wants to go,” Mateo said.
The girl said nothing.
“You can tell me what’s going on here or I’ll stake you,” Rachel said.
The three looked at each other.
“We were trying to get her out of there. Executive Resorts are not what you’ve been told,” Mary said.
“You people are nuts,” Mateo said.
“No. It’s true,” Lia said. “Lift the front of my shirt to see for yourself.”
Rachel paused for a moment, then lifted the girl’s shirt. A fresh incision closed with staples stretched up her abdomen.
“What the…” Rachel’s voice trailed off.
“Ever wonder why the Baby Boomers live so long nowadays? They use us for parts, stem cells, and whatever else they want. We are slaves in there,” she said, tears welling in her eyes.
“No way. You live in the Executive Resort with people from the Ruling Court. Mercedes Santiago lives there for fuck’s sake,” Mateo said.
He moved around to see what Rachel was looking at. His eyes grew wide.
“Mercedes Santiago?” Lia let out a bitter laugh. “She is absolutely not who or what you think she is.”
“What do you mean?” Rachel asked.
“Are you going to listen to this bullshit?” Mateo said.
“I want to hear what she has to say. Tell me,” Rachel said.
“Ever wonder how she just rose up out of nowhere with this awesome technology to supposedly save us all? She got help from something or someone that I don’t understand. But whatever it is, it controls her and all of us.”
“Most of us,” one of the women said.
Rachel checked her status. Mary Little from sector Capital 32. No priors. Employed as a liaison for the Capital Executive Resort.
“You work for them,” Rachel said.
“Yes,” Mary hung her head. “I recruit girls like Lia to come to the resorts. I didn’t know what was happening until a few months ago.”
“How did you find out?” Rachel asked.
“We sent in a spy. The biological harvesting isn’t all that’s going on,” the other woman said.
Martina Porres from Jewish Reservation Sect 7.
“A spy?” Rachel said.
Martina nodded. “A girl from my sect. She was able to send back video before she disappeared.”
“How are you able to receive video in a sect?” Mateo asked.
“We have some tech people on our side,” Mary answered.
Rachel thought back to what the man in the tunnel said about someone named Jake getting the lights off.
“What else is going on?” Rachel asked.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I’ll have to show you,” Lia said.
“Sulu, advise,” Rachel said. No answer. “Can you raise Mike?” she said to Mateo.
He shook his head.
“Central, do you read?” Rachel said. No answer.
“Communications are blocked. We didn’t expect a storm; we thought the storm shelter would be empty. The power grid blockade was to be a distraction,” Mary said.
“I’ll give you one chance to prove what you say,” Rachel said, and she staked the two women.
“What the hell, Rachel?” Mateo said.
Rachel pulled the girl up by her armpit. She was so thin; Rachel thought she might pull her arm out of its socket. Lia let out a soft groan.
“She said she needed to show us. So let’s go.”
“Rachel, this is all kinds of fucked up,” Mateo said.
“Look, my sister is in an Executive Resort. I have to know,” Rachel said.
Mateo didn’t move for a second then began to nod his head slowly, “Fine, let’s go.”
Lia led them through several tunnels to a security door that hung limply open, the locks cut with a laser torch. Mateo slowly pulled the door open onto a stairwell leading up. He led the way, followed by Lia, and Rachel took up the rear. Lia had to stop several times to catch her breath. At the top of the stairs was another blown security door. Mateo pushed it open with the nose of his gun.
The room beyond was a gleaming white stretch of counters and bio-workstations. The room was unoccupied and silent except for a massive 3D printer in the center of the room that hummed away at its task. They cautiously approached and peered at the partially completed object. Line by shiny wet line, a human liver was being printed.
“How is that possible?” Rachel said.
“That’s what they need the stem cells for, for ink. It’s easier and cleaner than harvesting us for parts. If they take too much of you, they lose a slave,” Lia said.
“I’m not the smartest person, but even I know adult stem cells wouldn’t be the best unless they came directly from the person this liver was going back into. They don’t need you for that,” Mateo said.
“You’re right. Fetal stem cells are best. They use us for that.”
Rachel felt a rush of blood to her gut, and her hands went cold.
“You mean they…” Rachel searched for the right words.
“Yes. Impregnate us artificially or by rape and then harvest the fetus.”
“What the hell?” Mateo said.
Moving further through the lab, they passed an area where it appeared protein bars were being tested.
“Been a while since you ate? Have a headache, yet?” Lia asked.
Rachel and Mateo nodded.
“Why do you think your diet is so strict? To keep you healthy? They juice it just enough to keep you in a slight docile state, making you more willing to follow orders, making you perfect weapons ready to act on their commands.”
“I don’t believe it,” Mateo said defiantly.
“No wonder they monitor our vitals on duty,” Rachel said.
They moved through the sterile bio-lab and out into a corridor of high ceilings, warm stone flooring, and lavish furnishings. This is what everyone pictured when they thought of an Executive Resort. The trio pressed their bodies against the wall and Lia directed them to a courtyard of flowering plants and a gurgling water fountain. Lighting coming from an unseen source replicated sunshine and butterflies flitted in the air.
“The generators are keeping everything going. Jake wasn’t sure how long his blockade would last. We have to hurry,” Lia said.
They approached a set of doors and Lia put her palms flat on each panel.
“Promise me that no matter what, you will tell everyone what you see in here,” she said to Rachel.
Rachel nodded.
“Try not to freak out,” Lia said.
A cold breeze hit the back of Rachel’s neck. She spun, weapon poised. The courtyard was empty.
“What was that?” Mateo asked.
An empty bench in front of the water fountain scraped across the floor and flung itself at them. They ducked, and it crashed against the doors. A fluttering of leaves rose to a roar as the plants inexplicably began to tremble and sway.
“Hurry!” Lia said, and she threw the doors open.
The face of death welcomed them. In the dimly lit room, candlelight bounced feebly off the dark red walls. A heavy wooden altar commanded the room and it overflowed with every type of item. Among some of the things, Rachel could see candles, wallets, locks of hair, clothing, food and jewelry. Towering above the gifts in the center was a statue. A skeleton dressed in a black lacy shawl, red roses adorning its head. In its hands, it held a green scythe.
“This is how they hold power. They give it gifts, it gives them knowledge or whatever they desire, and we pay the price,” Lia said.
“What do you mean, It?” Mateo breathed.
“I don’t know what it is. She brought it from Mexico,” Lia said.
“Who brought it?” Rachel asked.
“I did,” a voice came from behind them.
Rachel and Mateo spun, weapons ready.
“Lower your weapons, officers,” Mercedes Santiago said.
“I know this. It’s Saint Death!” Mateo said.
“Yes. I’ve been a practitioner all my life. Look at all the good it has done for us,” she said, her eyes sparkling with gratitude.
“It’s illegal,” Rachel said.
“Oh, Lieutenant Garcia. Always the consummate Youth Squad member. I applaud you,” she said.
“We regulated religion to unify the Gen-pop. What you’re doing is-“
“Wrong?” she cut Rachel off. “It was necessary. Santa Muerte’s power is more complete without other spiritual interference. Without this, the country would have imploded. I saved it from becoming a third-world cesspool.”
“And made into what? Your own personal kingdom?” Mateo said.
“The Goddess is what made Mexico the world power it has become over these last twenty years. I just brought her favor to you.”
“The girls. You’re abusing them,” Rachel said.
Mercedes sighed. “They make a necessary sacrifice. My Goddess requires blood after all.”
“I haven’t seen my brother for five years! You sent him to a Reservation for wanting to carry a string of beads, and you’re here doing this religion? Shit, you’re crazy,” Mateo said. “Rachel?”
“This is not religion. Religion is as empty and as useless as the beads you speak of. This,” she swept her arms around the room, “is power.”
“Get on your knees!” Rachel said, her training vanquishing her confusion.
“No. I think not,” Mercedes said.
Sulu and Mike came from behind and stood by her side. She placed her hands affectionately on their snouts.
“Sulu!” Rachel gushed, relief flooding her body.
“Stand down Yankee-Sierra 7,” Sulu said.
She shook her head, “No, Sulu! Help me!”
Sulu’s weaponry whirred and banged into action and sighted on her. Mike did the same to Mateo.
“Sulu, what’s happening? Holster your weapons!” Her heart felt like it would explode inside her chest.
“Put your arms down officers or they will kill you,” Mercedes said.
“No! They’re gonna kill us anyway! Shoot her!” Lia shrieked.
“They can’t fire unless we give the authorization code,” Mateo said, his voice tight.
“Oh, my dear Officer More, I gave them life. I am their authorization code,” she said.
Something shifted in the air. A black mist swirled from the skeleton figure and enveloped the room. A terrible stench choked them. Mercedes threw back her head and cackled.
Time stretched out and everything seemed to be moving in slow motion for Rachel. A flare from Mateo’s gun barrel. Mercedes twitching. Mike’s guns lighting up. Shards of wood and stone flying. Searing pain in her right thigh. Sulu’s guns smoking.
Time sped up again, and her brain went into combat mode. She ran toward her partner and slid into the space under its body. She jammed her gun barrel against the cool smoothness of the belly. Her heart lurched, and she pulled the trigger. Plastic and smoke sprayed her face. Sulu’s bulk shook the floor when it fell to its side.
Mike spun on her. She pressed herself flat against the floor using Sulu’s body for shield. It would take Mike 2.4 seconds to load new rounds. Rachel sprinted to Mike and slid under the machine, repeating the assassination.
An unseen hand pulled her from behind and tossed her against the wall, pain springing from her back. Through the swirling mist, she saw Mateo on the ground, a red swell spreading under his body. Lia lay sprawled next to him. Rachel clawed her way over to her; the girl was barely conscious.
“You have to get your video feed to the tech center! Give it to Jake, he’ll know what to do!”
All Rachel could see was Melanie’s sweet face in Lia. “I can’t leave you!”
“You have to! Now move, officer!”
Invisible hands lifted Lia’s head. Her neck broke with a sickening crack.
Rachel tried to stand, but a scorching pain in her right leg made her scream out and took her to the ground. Blood welled from her thigh, soaking her pant leg. The unseen force yanked her foot, and more blood gushed.
Hands shaking, Rachel tore into her medical pouch on her uniform. She jammed a coagulant auto-injector into the wound. Howling, she inflated a tourniquet bandage. Rachel tried to stand, but the dark force shoved her back down.
Her face pressed to the cool floor; she felt her will begin to seep from her. She blinked tears from her eyes, a vision of her sister smiling appeared before her. Her parents. Faces grave.
“One more food run,” her father said.
Her mother, straightening her hijab, leaning in to kiss her forehead, her lips warm and soft.
Rachel blinked again and saw a door on the floor under the altar. Gathering all that was left in her, she rolled to the altar and pushed. To her surprise, it slid easily. The dark energy swirled around her leaving deep scratches on her face and hands.
Using the edge of the altar, she pulled herself to her feet. Trinkets at the Goddess’ feet tumbled to the ground. The skeleton’s empty sockets glared down at her. Rachel felt a wave of frigid air that chilled her to the bone. She had never felt such hate directed at her.
Candles flickered at the edge of the altar. She grasped one and held its flame to the hem of the black lace. It seemed to take a lifetime for it to catch, but once it did, it went up in a spectacular plume. The white of the skeleton quickly charred black. The room filled with a hideous screech and Rachel realized it was Mercedes.
“No fucking way!”
The round Mateo put in her should have left her unconscious for hours, but she was on her hands and knees crawling toward Rachel. Snot and saliva dripped from Mercedes’ chin, her teeth bared like an animal.
Rachel felt heat rush through her body. She took a wide, low stance and cocked her fist back. Mercedes lunged at her and Rachel smashed her fist into her teeth. Mercedes wailed. Rachel straddled her back before she could recover.
Mercedes tried to bite her, but Rachel firmly placed her right hand on the side of Mercedes’ head, gripping her hair and holding her still. Rachel then reached around with her left arm, securing it under Mercedes’ chin and squeezed. Rachel felt Mercedes buck and writhe. She squeezed harder, gritting her teeth. The unseen force pulled and clawed at her body, but she didn’t stop. Finally, Mercedes fell still, and Rachel felt the life leave her.
She watched as the black mist was furiously sucked into the top of the skull of the Goddess until nothing was left.
Rachel stood. Her legs wavered, and she melted to the floor next to Mercedes’ body. She’d never killed anyone, never used lethal force. She looked at her trembling hands. They looked like they always did. A loud sob escaped her throat.
Smoke rolled across the ceiling and pressed down on her, choking her and making her eyes sting.
Rachel drug herself to the door in the floor. She yanked it open and dropped into the shaft below. Every inch of her body protested. She pulled a knife from her boot and plunged it into her wrist. Blood smeared her fingers making the implant slippery and forcing her to dig deeper. An anguished wail escaped her, giving her the last needed momentum to pull the metal disk out of her. She threw it to the ground and quickly wrapped her wrist.
Smoke began billowing into the shaft from the depraved room above. Using the metal ladder bolted to the nearest wall, she pulled herself to standing and started the excruciating climb up the ladder. At the top, she reached a sewer cover and pushed against it. Wind rushed into the small opening; the storm wasn’t over.
She felt hands on her calves and looked down to nothing, her mind on the verge of becoming shattered. Hooking her arm around a rung of the ladder, she pushed as hard as she could against the cover. The wind caught it and blew it the rest of the way off.
A hand thrust down to her. A real flesh and blood hand, blue swirls delicately covering it. She grasped it and was pulled effortlessly out of the shaft. Like ocean waves, blue hair swirled around a slightly familiar face.
The woman put Rachel’s arm around her neck, and they ran against the dying wind. Rachel mostly being dragged, but doing her best to keep up, trying not to wail in pain.
“How did you-“
“I’ll explain later!” the woman shouted.
“I have to get to the tech center,” Rachel said.
Not far up the deserted road, an all brick building with no windows and a roof of satellite dishes loomed.
“Hurry,” Rachel urged.
The woman banged on the metal door with one hand and tried to hold Rachel up with the other. The door swung open and small bald man with a beard so long and full it covered his torso, stood aside.
“Where’s Lia?” he shouted.
Rachel shook her head. They moved into the building into a secure storm space. The woman sat Rachel in a chair.
“Did you get it? Did you see it?” she asked.
Rachel could not be sure what she had seen. She flipped open a compartment on the front of her body armor and pulled the data card.
“See for yourself. My video feed,” she said. “Are you Jake?”
“Yes. Lia didn’t make it?” His voice shaking.
“I’m sorry.”
“Jake, get it uploaded. You’re badly injured, officer,” the woman said.
“Rachel. My name is Rachel.”
“I’m Joan.”
Rachel’s body shook, and a sob made her suck in her chest. “I have to find my sister. She’s in one of those damn places!” Rachel pulled the baton from her duty belt and made to stand up.
“Whoa! Whoa, honey. We will,” Joan said. “We need to get you patched up first; then you can go kick some more ass, okay?”
Rachel pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, but the tears flowed.
“Broadcasting,” Jake said.
Like all the other storm shelters in the Capital Sector, groans arose from the crowd. The reality show feed lost to blue screen. Suddenly, an image of Lia’s incision from Rachel’s feed took over. Her voice clear and traveling through the entire space.
“Ever wonder why the Baby Boomers live so long nowadays? They use us for parts, stem cells, and whatever else they want. We are slaves in there.”
“What is this?”
“Is it a show?”
“Is it real?”
“Look at the stamp! It’s a real feed from a Youth Squad officer!”
“Hush!”
The crowd grew, and the broadcast played on.
When the storm moved out enough for the shelter doors to be open, people flooded to the streets and streamed to the nearest Executive Resort.
An elderly Indigent Sector man bumped into a Gen-pop man in the rush. “My granddaughter, she’s in there,” he said.
“My daughter,” the other man said.
The men held each other’s gaze, not sure what to expect. Both men’s eyes flooded with emotion. A woman, dressed in garb from a Religious Sect pushed against them in the swell of the crowd.
“I’ll pray for us; my nieces are in there,” she said.
The Gen-pop man grabbed the other man’s arm. The Indigent man tensed, but the other man said, “Come on! All of us! Let’s get our girls!”
A cool breeze stirred the fallen debris from the storm, and gentle sunshine broke as the clouds parted. The birds filled the air with songs celebrating their survival against the tempest.

 

Reading to Improve Writing

I feel a little sorry for my kids. I’m a recovering educator and I know how easy it is over the summer months to forget everything that went in the brain all school year.  So, I have an easy “keep it in there” program going. We have Math Mondays where everybody practices math facts, usually with a card game. Each kid gets a math challenge problem on our refrigerator every week to solve to keep those math juices flowing. We have “read aloud to Mama” while I cook dinner and ask questions for understanding. But their most favorite thing is the timed reading frequency game we play. I time them for one minute on a passage to see how many words they read and we chart it to see improvement over time. There’s more to reading frequency evaluation but for our purposes this is fine.

Reading and understanding what you just read is the most important skill I can try to arm them with, academically. It’s also one of the most important things I do as part of being a writer.

In the day-to-day-work-for-a-living I write businessy stuff. It’s a much different style from the fiction that I enjoy writing. It can be a difficult thing to do the brain switch when going from one to the other. Reading fiction and non-fiction of all types helps me with that a bit (so does good editing and beta readers). It also helps me to evaluate my own writing: what works, what doesn’t, why did this author use the word “totally” twelve times in the same paragraph, that kind of stuff. I read or listen to an audio book every day and have at least two to three books going at any one time.

So far this year (since January) I have read:

  • The Shining, Stephen King (re-read, first time I read it I was 11 years old way back in the 70’s)
  • Doctor Sleep, Stephen King
  • Divergent, Veronica Roth
  • Insurgent, Veronica Roth
  • Missing 411: Western United States and Canada, David Paulides
  • Black Magic Rose, Jordan K. Rose
  • Ransom Lake, Brent R. Taylor
  • Looking for Alaska, John Greene
  • Ours, Regina Puckett (short story)
  • Real Vampires, Night Stalkers, and Creatures From the Dark Side, Brad Steiger
  • In the Shadow of the Mountains, M.R. Graham
  • The Body Finder, Kimberly Derting
  • How I Kept My Head When I Lost My Breasts: A Breast Cancer Survivor’s Journey, Sandra Fuentes
  • Four to Score, Janet Evanovich (currently)
  • On Writing, A Memoir of the Craft, Stephen King (currently)

Spurned by my recent stay at the Stanley Hotel, I seem to be on a bit of a Stephen King rant right now. Not such a bad thing, in my opinion.

I write almost every day, too. I get up very early, before my little kids get up, to work on my fiction. Some days the words just flow and my fingers fly across the keyboard and other times it is a flurry of fits and starts. I need to get a better habit down and go from almost to every day. When I write every day things just move better.

My little kids (that’s how we refer to the ones still at home with us) love to write as well. Maybe it’s from watching me, I don’t know. One kid writes hilarious comics in the vein of his favorite author, Dav Pilkey. He’s a pretty good artist and has an excellent sense of humor, granted it is mostly potty humor but that’s what he likes! The twins write about mermaid princesses and hippo-unicorns. Of course these are my girls, so the princesses always know karate or can shoot a bow and arrow or know the secrets of picking berries and save the day (my oldest arrests shoplifters and burglars and the like for a living, that’s the kind of girls I raise).

Plumbing Problems by my kid!

Plumbing Problems by my kid!

Reading does improve my writing but I also really enjoy it. It’s relaxing to get lost in another place or character. I hope I’m not just raising comedians and hero-warriors but readers and writers.

What are you currently reading? What was the last book you read? Can’t answer that? UGH! Pick up a book, will ya! I hope my novels will be on your list when they are released into the wild but for now, thanks for reading this…quiz to follow, just kidding.

Spooky Fun Writing Challenge

I was cleaning up my files this week, a lame exercise that I use to avoid working, and I came across some files that were from a writing challenge I participated in last Halloween. You had to write a scary tale every week in under 500 words for eight weeks leading up to the holiday. Not as easy as it sounds. Some of them were embarrassingly terrible, some may be spun off into something more, and some just need to never see the light of day.

For some Friday fun I thought I would share one that was based on something that really happened to someone I know. Enjoy.

telephone

Long Distance

Her passing had impacted us all, him worst of all. Since our aunt who had raised us died three months ago he had spiraled down with booze and other poisons. I hadn’t spoken to my brother, Jack, for almost two weeks. That, in and of itself, was not that unusual.

The unexpected nature of Auntie’s cardiac aneurism had amplified the blow for everyone and I knew he needed help but I also knew I had to have good boundaries with him. Otherwise, he would suck me down to crazy town with him. My aunt had spent years trying to save him from himself and I truly felt her inability to do so had broken her heart to the point of death.

I thought a little TV would crowd out these thoughts and I was thrilled to see a spy movie marathon was happening. I don’t think I got to see more than 20 minutes of it. I woke with a start to the shrilling of the phone. I reached for it and groggily brought it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Mickey, I’m so worried about your brother.  Please help him.”

“I’m sure he’s fine, Auntie.  Just on a binge…” I sucked my breath in. “You can’t be calling me, you’re dead,” I whispered. I could feel my insides dropping to the floor.

The line became full of static and a hissing sound followed by a screeching that hurt my ear.  I threw the phone down hard and it went silent. I eyeballed it like it was a big poisonous spider looking for a snack.

My head felt a little foggy, maybe I was dreaming. I bit down hard on my lower lip and the bitter taste of blood told me I was wide awake.

My head slowly cleared. There was no way the phone could have rang. After all the funeral expenses I was a little strapped and I had the landline disconnected to save some money.

“What the hell?” I said aloud to the empty room, relieved not to get an answer.

I went into the bathroom to wash my face. I had to be hallucinating. Maybe I was having a waking dream. That’s a thing, right? After all I had been thinking about this stuff before I dozed off.

I was inspecting the injury to my lip when the buzzing of my cell in my front pocket made me jump. I checked the caller ID, unknown. I thought about letting it go to voice mail but instead I slide my finger to answer it and slowly lifted it to my ear.  My heart was pounding so hard my hand was bouncing in rhythm with it.

“Hello?” I croaked.

“Mickey?”

“Jack?”

“Hey. I just wanted to tell you that I’m ok and I’ll be sober from here on out. I was just trying to dull the pain, ya know?”

“Where the hell have you been? Are you in jail?” I demanded.

“Mickey?”

“Ya, Jack, where are you?”

“Auntie says hi.”

And the line went dead.

©Joy Yehle, 2013

Well, I hope this makes you never want to answer your phone and Never Turn Off the Lights. Try your hand at a 500 word or less story and email me at joy@joyyehle.com or post in the comments, I’d love to read them!

Zombie Subdivisions, That’s Actually a Thing

1

My story Dread takes place in a new, well planned, shiny subdivision. I know in my town there a several such developments underway. While I hope this is a good sign for the economy, I find there is something unsettling in the partially built homes and undeveloped lots in these areas.

As I researched and thought about my setting an interesting little phenomena caught my attention and my imagination.

The economic downturn created what has been coined “Zombie subdivisions”. Sorry, no walking dead here but platted vacant land or partially built out plots then abandoned areas. These modern ghost towns look like they could host the undead.

 

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Newly constructed homes in an unfinished subdivision is surrounded by weeds in Coolidge

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Unfinished subdivision

These photos are as interesting as they are depressing. It must be very unsettling to be one of only a handful (or less) residents in this type of neighborhood. I hope the recovering economy makes it possible to rehabilitate these areas away from blight. But for now, the possibilities these spark in my imagination are endless. The poor dear folks in Dread may find their beautiful subdivision a little less perfect (as if it wasn’t scary enough for them) by the time the book is released later this year.

Until next time, Never Turn Off the Lights!

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