This new review venue completes the cycle (and big gap) created when Tami Brady closed her TCM-CA review site where I reviewed regularly for years and it feels so right. It fills in a gap and soothes the disquiet that rises on days when I realize how long it's been since I did any creative writing on my own. We just returned from a weekend at my sister's cottage in Harpswell where I sat with ocean breezes buffeting me ever so softly as I went back and worked on Dubstep and Wheelie, the short story that, like Statue of Limitations last year, refuses to remain a short story and is morphing into a teen novella. I re-read it from the beginning to do a second edit (and get back in the storyline). I was really happy at how little I needed to prune. Sometimes when I'm in the middle of something, I worry about losing sight of where things are going and why. This time, I had no such disquiet when I reached the point where I needed to start again.
Quick summary of the story: Cece, starting her senior year at Sawtelle (Maine) High, is in the darkest of moods. Shortly after summer began, she had a riding accident when her horse was spooked by a partridge. Now paralyzed from the waist down, her dreams of theater and improv dancing are receding on the horizon. When she retreats to the school library and types in the first word that comes to mind (magic), an awesome looking guy appears and begins talking to her. Dios is an under god, one of a couple hundred recruited by Greek gods when the population grew to a point where ministering to them began cramping their partying lifestyle. In his travels, working on assignments related to his specialty (Not revealing that here), he discovers Cece, her beyond-sad mood and falls in love with her. He can heal her, but at what cost? Part love story, part fantasy, part spiritual coming of age, it's turning out to be great fun to write.
Below is something that wrote itself while I was looking for sea glass and thinking about people I've known over the years. Not sure it is connected to any one person, it's more a synthesis of sadness and missed opportunities I think.
I lean against the rail, looking down
through fog as thick and gray as my dread
She looks up.
Not meeting my eyes.
“It's complicated,” she says softly.
“Like teaching a giraffe to play tennis?”
Her sad eyes flare.
“Funny stopped working a long time ago, know why?.”
I cringe, not wanting to hear myself speak the truth.
“No!” her scream feels like a dirty razor splitting my soul in half.
“It's what could have been if you stopped hiding behind words.”
I wait for her to add the part we've both been dancing around for weeks.
Her eyes meet mine.
The effect hurts more than anything else has ever done.
I bend, reaching desperately.
The knife cuts through the rope in a heartbeat