Revising 13

...been revising a particularly troublesome chapter which my editor has deemed, "In need of a lift." (Whatever that means:)

13's been giving me fits. Keeping me up at night. The root cause behind my displaying the personality of a wolverine around Wife-Dearest and the Offspring, (not a music group.)

In any event, I thought I'd toss an excerpt to the wolves and see how it gets chewed upon. Feel free to say your peace...and as always, thanks for reading.


13.


The orange tabby greeted me with an air of indifference as I returned from school, my cheeks numb from the biting wind. Winter was the only time of year when the cat's fur coat resembled something worthy of a pat. Perched on the hood of the Charger, no doubt in hopes of an engine still simmering from recent use, it took on the shape of a Browns's pom-pom, its protective fluff thickened for the season.


He offered me a slight tilt of his head as I stood before him, backpack slung over my shoulder. A pair of amber eyes, beautiful and deceiving at the same time, studied me, unblinking.


I'd tried sneaking him inside several times, but he always refused, turning tail and lumbering into the cold as if to say, "Come on kid, what do you think the coat's for?"


Katie and I had always considered him our cat, but chances are, so did every other kid in the neighborhood. He simply wandered up to Katie one summer afternoon, looking as if he was suffering from mange and in need of some lunch. He tried to purr for better effect, but only resulted in coughing out a balled up clump of grass coated in phlegm.


While we'd never officially named him, he seemed to react to a particular phrase from each of us. For Katie it was, "Aww, pretty kitty." For Dad it was usually, "Get outta my way."


I sensed a savvy intelligence when in his presence and not playing a prank on him. A yank of his striped tail or a snowball to the back of his head. Something in those eyes, bright like fired candlewicks in the dark. It was in the way he often looked at me. Like he knew what was happening to my family.


I reached out and stratched an orange tuft behind his ear. He leaned forward, eyes softening at my touch. If he did know of my family's crises, he wasn't talking about it. Which made him the only one...

"Adventures in Babysit...editing"

...I'm a writer.





...my wife runs a daycare out of our finished basement.





I'm currently trudging through revisions with my editor. A tedious necessity demanding of one's utmost attention.





At any random time of day, there can be as many as ten or twelve children, babies to pubescent foulmouths, conducting various forms of havoc upon my sagging homestead.





Writing and children. Writing with children. Writing...despite children. Confused? Okay...here's a taste.





Mid-morning. My office. Face pushed up against the monitor, analyzing dialogue in chapter 5...in the zone.





I never heard him sneak up behind me, but lurched in my seat when I felt my shirt-tail being yanked through the back of my chair. Three steady tugs, as if reigning in a horse.





I turned with a start, mind reeling, and stared down into the face of a young chap no taller than a yard stick. Thin blonde hair piled atop his head like hay in need of baling. Legs belonging to a munchkin straight out of Oz. Eyes like blue saucers, I couldn't decide whether he was scared out of his wits, or too curious to control his actions.





Troublesome Riley. He'd snuck out of the basement, wandered about through the house, and discovered me sitting at the computer.





Irritated and fighting the urge to show it, I asked, "Why are you up here, Riley?"





He answered by placing a hand over the crotch of his pants, as if prepairing to unzip his fly.





"Hey!" I exclaimed, scooting my chair several inches in the opposite direction. "What the..."





"Mommy says I can call it a pee-wee, or a dingle, but never a wiener."




"Uhhh..." I quickly leaned toward the wall next to my desk, and hollered into the heat register. "Honey! Need some help up here! We got toilet talk!"




The air duct was a direct line into our basement, carrying sound better than the latest and greatest cell phone achievements Verizon could offer.




I waited, eyes on the vented register, envisioning my wife counting tiny heads. Then from out of the square cut into the wall, "Riley? Get down here this instant!"




The youngster's shoulders slumped. He offered me a half-hearted wave, turned and left the room.




I breathed a sigh, returned to my manuscript, started fading back into the drama when the phone rang. I recognized the number on the caller I.D., sighed again, and picked it up.




"Hello David."




"Morning Elliot...working on those revisions we talked about?"




"Tough day for it, so nice outside and all." I glanced out the window and spotted two kids tossing a large rubber ball back and forth. Byron and Eddie. Two more munchkins giggling about in the sunshine.




"Yeah right," my editor countered. "You're looking at it right now. What chapter you on?"



I glanced at my screen and frowned. "Five."



"Five? Geez, man. Think you can get through ten by Friday?"




I shook my head as I answered, "Probably. If I work on it after my shift."




"You still got the day job?" he asked, incredulous.




"Uhh...if you guys woulda signed me for a little more...I've got three kids to feed, you know."




"Sorry El, but you're new to the show. Best we could do was a high royalty deal, we talked about this..."




Just then the back door flew open, Riley stumbling over the threshold, large rubber ball hugged to his chest, towing Byron upon his back. Byron had one arm wrapped around Riley's throat, another clutching a handful of Riley's scalp, a pair of screams, one in pain, the other a maddening howl, as the pair plummeted onto the floor in a heap of miniature legs and grimy fingernails bent like claws.



"Was that a cat?" David asked, concern in his voice.




"No, fighting kids," I answered. "Hang on a minute."




I turned to the pair of lightweight combatants. "What's going on?"




"He took my ball!" Byron screamed. "I'm gonna pound him!"




Back to the register. "Honey!"




A minute passed, then, "Boys, get down here! Outside time is over!"




More shoulder slumping. Alone again. I turned back to my phone. "Sorry David."




"Do you need me to call somebody? EMS or something?"




"No. We're good. Listen, I'll get through ten this week. Ten chapters a week...four weeks and on to the galley. Won't be a problem."




From around the corner stumbled baby Emily. Eleven months old, still teetering on legs with confidence issues. A red-head in piggy-tails. A trailing booger peeking out of one nostril. She looked at me and showed off a toothy grin. I smiled back, and she waddled over, hands outstretched.



I lifted her into my lap as David said, "Okay El. Good to hear. And oh, by the way. Sounds like they're going with the baseball theme for the cover. The one with the kid."




"Excellent," I said. "That one's my favorite."




I felt something warm on my thigh, like a bowl of hot soup had just been placed upon my lap. I was fairly certain it wasn't soup though. A moment later, a sound similar to that of a massive zipper being worked on, ripped through the air.




David paused in mid-sentence, hesitated, then quietly asked, "Hey El, did you just fart?"




Another sigh. "No David. I got this kid on my lap and she..." The smell floated to my nostrils, began clearing my sinuses, watering my eyes. "Hang on."




A leaned toward the register, throat feeling raw. "Honey! Got major poo!"




A moment later, "Awww man. Okay, I'll be up."




Fearing nausea, I gingerly placed Emily onto the floor, returned the phone to my ear. "David, still there?"




Through the receiver I could hear a collection of giggles, someone hollering in the background, something about a stressed out writer with gas. Then David said, "Hey El, sounds like all's well over there. Give me a ring when you're through ten, okay?"




"Yeah yeah."



I hung up, tried to ignore the lingering stench of infant sewage, turned back to the monitor, stared at words on a screen.




Writing and children. Writing with children. Laugh all laugh at Elliot's woes:)

Katnisssss...

...I penned the following a few months ago. For obvious reasons, it'll never find its way to my pile of outgoing submissions. Its made a few rounds on Facebook, perhaps led to a squabble or three, but all in literary fun. So as I currently find myself wallowing in "edit-hell," I thought I'd re-post my short about a chilly day in the woods when a pale-ish girl named Bella,(perhaps you've heard of her,) happens upon a "firey" deviant from District 12. No, Stephenie Meyer would not approve...but I'll take my chances. Enjoy...



Okay, so what if...



An icy breeze, carrying with it the season's first snowflakes, a shimmering dust visible in glimpses only, darting about like hovering insects, left the air gun-metal cold.



What little warmth remained, was held within the blanketing pine grove on the forest floor. A nearly impassable thicket of brush stretching from one trunk to another, and growing upward sometimes ten feet or more through a soft cloak of moss. Like a natural barrier from the outside world, teams of wildlife used the pine grove as a safe haven from both predators and the falling temperature, as winter's hostile embrace slowly tightened.



In this thicket, where even the solemn gray skies failed to penetrate, where cloved hooves and various forms of paws could pad across the forest floor atop millions of scattered pine needles without making a sound, an abundance of wildlife felt assured of their safety. They were mistaken...



Walking hand in hand under the shaded canopy of evergreens, their movements seen as a fluid blur of motion, their footsteps as silent as the early morning air itself, Bella and Edward Cullen glided through the dense undergrowth with the stealth of a falcon slicing through an updraft at high altitudes.



Bella's hair had thickened since being turned. Appearing soft, like woven yarn the color of mocha, long strands trailed along behind her as she glided lithely through the forest. At her side, Edward's golden pelt of wavy curls bounced upon his neckline with each measured step. Together they resembled a pair of shimmering ghosts, fingers entwined, their souls skimming the forest floor without disturbing the fallen pine needles under foot.



On their feet were matching tennis shoes. White Nikes. A lightly fitting, ivory dress hugged itself to Bella's slim form, while Edward challenged the wooded thicket in khakis and a simple cotton t-shirt. The inclimate weather didn't bother them. Their pale bodies were already cold like stone. In fact, only one condition drove them to the pine grove with such urgency. Hunger.



Their eyes were dilated to the size of black pearls. The telltale sign of a vampire in need of sustenance. The couple moved about within the thicket unnoticed. Together, they breathed in the scents of their surroundings. Hardened pine sap sweetening the frigid air. A tinge of mildew from the moistened needles underfoot. The sour taste of decaying leaves scattered about and rustling in the breeze. And blood. Pulsing through the veins of a crouched puma nearly hidden in a stand of creaking hardwoods. Sloshing under the thick coat of an elk, head bent low, sipping water from a trickling stream across the valley. And a rogue buck. Its antlered head tilted awkwardly to the side, small teeth knawing on the back of a towering evergreen. Completely unaware of their presence. So close Bella could practically taste it.



"Mine," she breathed.



Edward released her hand and nodded his approval.



As Bella dropped to a crouch, her attention focused entirely upon the deer, Edward closed his eyes and leaned his head back, listening to the sounds of the forest, and enjoying her musky scents.



It was then, as a gentle current sifted under his nose, and merely an instant before Bella launched herself into the air, when he detected another presence in the area. An alarming essence. And worse, one he recognized.



Startled, he sucked in a breath as Bella lifted herself from the ground.



Edward could only watch helplessly as she spread her arms wide, fingers curved into talons, her sleek form dropping silently upon the unsuspecting buck, when an arrow streaked by his face, leaving a whisper of death in its wake.



The arrow pierced the deer's heart the very moment Bella's fingertips managed to brush a handful of coarse fir along the animal's back. Caught off-guard, she tumbled over the deer and landed with a thud in a nearby pile of leaves and debris.



In a motion every bit as fluid as the stream's current down in the valley, Bella rolled upright, ignoring the dried leaves tangled in her hair, and crouched defensively, her eyes scouring the treetops.



She spotted her almost immediately. Hoisted roughly thirty feet up a massive elm, a girl not unlike Bella herself in size and shape, was nestled comfortably upon 0ne of the tree's limbs.



Very much human, the girl of nearly the same theoretical age as Bella, was balanced on her knees, her back resting against the elm's trunk. Hair a shade lighter than Bella's, fell upon her shoulders in thin waves. She remained as still as the tree itself, her body poised behind an armed bow, her arm bent at the elbow, a sheathed arrow targeted upon Bella herself.



From where he stood, Edward took in the dramatic standoff with an air of apprehension. Both females remained poised for attack. He watched as Bella's mouth slowly opened, releasing an irritable snarl. From the tree, the girl was a statue, seemingly frozen in place behind her weapon. Now all but forgotten, the dead buck remained on its cloven feet. The arrow had struck so perfectly, instantaneous death caused the deer to simply lean into the pine who's bark it had been feasting. Dead before even realizing it. Limbs now supporting a carcass.



Deciding that he'd better intervene with haste, a thought entered Edward's mind. One that didn't belong to him.



"Hello Edward."



His gaze traveled back to the girl in the tree. While her focus remained on Bella, her thoughts had apparently strayed. A thin smile creased his upper lip.



"Hello Katniss," he whispered. "Nice shot."



The words, "Thank you," formed in his mind. The grin widened.



"I suppose it's safe to assume that your repaired hearing from the Capitol is functioning well."



"It was the least they could do."



Edward turned to Bella, still crouched and hissing.



"Bella...sweetheart, it's her kill. She earned it."



"Little showoff," Bella growled. "That arrow wouldn't work so well on me."



"You mind putting a leash on your pet?" The words entered Edward's mind as if sent through a bolt of lightning. He offered a quick nod of his head.



"Bella please," he said. "Let's take the elk down at the stream. It'll be plenty for both of us."



With a huff, Bella finally straightened, but defiantly refused to turn away from the arrow, which remained targeted at her throat. Still smiling, Edward walked into the firing range, wrapping an arm around Bella's shoulder and guiding her out of harm's way. Bella grudgingly turned toward the valley and the awaiting stream.



As the pair dropped below the quiet hillside, Edward glanced over his shoulder to the giant elm, now only its upper limbs visible above the knoll. The girl was gone.



A moment later, the words, "Thank you Edward," floated through his mind. He again nodded, unable to keep from smiling.



"Stop that," Bella snapped.



"What?"



"You know what. Reading her mind. Don't think I don't know what you're doing!"



"Sorry sweetheart. It's just...well."



"Well what?"



Edward offered a sheepish grin. "The two of you...at each other's throats back there...that was hot."



"Shut up, Edward."



"Sweetheart, there's a leaf in your hair."



"Shut up, Edward!"

A New Read...

...received a new novel to read this week.


As is common practice, I gave it a look over, checked out the blurb, gave the first paragraph a quick glance, thumbed to the end, spied the page number, cheated and skimmed over the final passage. Then I set it down on my desk and looked at it for a while, the wheels grinding away.


The story carries with it a simple one word title. The author's name is known by few, his work read by even less. I found no accolades smeared across the back cover. No one line blurbs from King or Meyer, urging the general populace of the story's ability to create world peace, or it's guarantee of satisfaction.


Words on paper. At the moment, that's how it's best described. A story. Black and white. To read or not to read. It's a decision left in the hands of the reader him/herself...


The story was originally started more than a decade earlier. More important responsibilities weighed down an already hefty work load, and the story was sacrificed. A few years passed, the urge to continue, to write something, anything, still lingered, but the flames had sizzled down to embers. Still hot to the touch, but gently cooling over time.


One day at work, the writer found himself in a conversation with a good friend. A giddy storyteller himself. At this point in his life, the writer had become the listener.


The story involved an acquaintance, an old school buddy who'd grown weary of his 9 to 5 livelihood, and decided to do something about it. So he packed his bags, sold his replaceables, and took off in search of something better. A year later, the acquaintance had become a model, making more money in a day than he ever dreamed possible. But then again, he actually had dreamed it, which explained why he was there in the first place. A dream.


The writer listened, mouth agape. Then asked the obvious questions. "What about schooling? What about experience? How'd he pull it off?"


The friend's answer threw a spark upon those embers. The ones which were still hot to the touch, but slowly cooling. He leaned toward the writer, both of them oblivious to the rumbling of their own 9 to 5 doldrums hovering about, and said, "You can do anything if you want it bad enough."


For the friend, the conversation ended, his thoughts moving on to whatever else tickled his fancy before heading home. For the writer, something else happened.


He went home. He kissed his wife on the cheek. He went into his office, turned on the computer. He brought up a file. It had been there a while, but that was okay. He could do anything if he wanted it bad enough. And finally...he did.


The flames are so hot these days they appear blue in the distance. Well, in theory at least.


Words on paper. To read or not to read...


I know the story well. I know the writer even better. The dream is that many more will get to know him, and decide to read...


The first proof edit is complete. The subject of a cover design is scheduled for next week. A meeting. Someone else's 9 to 5.


I find it a bit unfair that I've just finished reading Gaiman's "Stardust," only to now turn to my own mess and make it sound somewhat tasteful, with a deadline looming.


But then that's what dreams are all about. Thinking big.


...because we can do anything if we want it bad enough:)

Holding Hands

...while reading Karin Slaughter's "Fractured," I ran across a passage on page 247 that caused me to stop, re-read, and burn the next twenty minutes lost in thought.


"...Will wondered if he was remembering what it felt like to hold his son's hand. Was that the sort of thing father's did? At the park, out in public, fathers and sons were always playing ball or tossing frisbees, the only contact between them a rustle of the hair or a punch on the arm. This seemed to be how dad's taught their boys how to be men, but there had to be a point, maybe early on, when they were able to hold their hands. One tiny one engulfed by one big one. Adam would have needed help crossing the street. In a crowd, you wouldn't want him to wander off. Yes, Will decided. Simon had held his son's hand..."


Earlier this evening, under somber skies threatening of rainfall, my wife and I were in attendance for our oldest son's Spring Concert. A sax enthusiast, he'd been practicing for weeks on what he self-proclaimed as being his biggest show yet. He refused to go into details with us, his obvious goal to allow for the element of surprise as his gift for Mom and Dad.


Okay, so we played along.


The show began without a hitch. As is surely the case with most 7th grade bands, the majority of tunes are for the most part recognizable, with the occaisional hiccup here, a random out of sync toot over there, an errant tweet from the back row, but nothing overly obnoxious, (although I did manage to spot a retiree turning down the volume on his hearing aid,) and every song worthy of applause.


Then the surprise.


Following the second song, a hush settled over the crowd as my son, dressed in khakis, a polo shirt, and those butterscotch wavy locks hovering over his eyes as is the going trend for young men these days, stepped forward, front and center upon the stage. His band teacher, a smile curling his lip upward, slipped behind a piano sitting off in the shadows.


The lights dimmed. I held my breath.


The piano's soft keys began to hum. Then, without any cue or hesitation, my son curled his fingers around his golden alto sax, and began to play.


Teacher and student. A spring melody. His very first solo.


I heard no tweets. No toots or huffs. Every note timely and on cue. Three full pages of music, played without a hitch.


My wife's grip around my arm, which had originally been cutting off circulation, relaxed. I found that I could once again take a breath. And throughout the final chorus, together her and I simply listened to our son and his memorable song.


The melody complete, he lowered the instrument from his mouth, flipped back his curly bangs, and managed a smirk, his gaze finding mine in the crowd. A crowd steadily rising to their feet.


And following the performance, and a gracious and teary-eyed hug from his mother, I approached my son, hand outstretched.


He's grown like an unattended summer weed over the past year, his fingers nearly as long as mine. As I embraced it, the size of his hand reminded me that adulthood was on his doorstep.


And I thought back to when he was young. He earned his share of hair rustles and playful shoulder knocks for a base hit or a first down snag on the forty yard line, but he also got his hugs. And he was allowed to hold his father's hand. A gesture of kindness and support whenever needed.


On this night, my son returned that gesture. His way of saying thanks. And I couldn't imagine a better way of showing it.

Katie's Hope

...she was thirteen and pregnant. Tall for her age, she was a Dinka girl of Sudanese descent. While not her birth name, she responded to the title, Hope, which was ironic considering how small the amount of hope had been spared for her.





At the age of ten, Hope had been kidnapped by her Uncle and taken to Uganda in order to serve as the family's slave. Trapped in a house born of mud and clay, her job was to tend to the needs of the five adults and ten children of whom she shared residency. She cooked and she cleaned. Seven days a week without fail. Like a modern day Cinderella, an ocean away from Happily Ever After.





Miles from home, Hope was unfamiliar to Ugandan culture. She couldn't speak their language. She struggled to adapt. What she could understand was the order given from a pointed index finger. An angry shout. And the endless beatings.





She was repeatedly kicked and punched in the stomach, in hopes of terminating the life she was carrying. Because of the pregnancy, she was considered damaged goods, as useless as a homeless wanderer living under the shaded canopy of a rickety bridge during the rainy season. And she was treated as such.





Neighbors could hear her screams from behind closed doors. They grew concerned for Hope's safety and alerted the police. In time, a standoff took place, in which the adults blocked passage for the authorities to rescue Hope. The police prevailed however, and Hope was taken away.





Weeks later, the Sudanese Embassy ruled on the case, and rewarded custody of Hope back to the Uncle who had originally kidnapped her in the first place.





The beatings resumed.





At last, with the help of a concerned neighbor, Hope managed to escape in the middle of the night with nothing more than the clothes on her back, but freedom standing before her.





She was quietly moved from one home to the next, her exact whereabouts a mystery, and therefore remaining one step ahead of her uncle's search party.





And it was during this time, when her story was heard by the person known as "Auntie Katie." Hope didn't realize it just then, but her life was about to change.





Still in her early twenties, and known to the locals only as Auntie Katie, she is the adoptive mother of 16 African girls. In association with Amazima Ministries, this slim-figured brunette, born in America, now living in Africa, is saving lives and turning heads from across the globe.





Her blog, The Journey, kissesfromkatie, is now read by a multitude of followers worldwide. She is not a writer, and yet her words possess an awe-inspiring sense of urgency for all who treasure the experience. It's been said that if the Bible were still in the process of being written, Katie's name would surely appear in passage in the New Testament. The Book of Katie.





It causes one to think...if a simple twenty-something girl from the states can do so much, what if...





Hope gave birth to a healthy baby boy two weeks prior to her due date. One day after Christmas she was rescued by Auntie Katie and her ministry. Mother and son are currently living under Katie's care while her original family from Southern Sudan are located.





The link to Katie's blog and Hope's entire story are located under "The Journey," on my blog list, or go to kissesfromkatie.blogspot.com.

Back Cover Blurb for "Broken"

We're huddled in the far corner of my bedroom.

Arms wrapped around our knees in the dark.

The approaching footsteps grow louder.

Ominous thuds.

Our mother...but somehow not.

She's standing outside my door.

We listen to the creak of hinges.

My sister clenches my arm.

"She's coming," she whispers.

"She's broken."

"Broken" by Elliot Grace (due out late 2010)