You’re the BEST!
If you’re reading this blog, you may be interested in witnessing the perils and pleasures of writing toward authorship. Well, that’s what I’m here for! This whole thing documents the concentrated effort of storying (WordPress doesn’t like this word, but I DO!) and will include the process toward publication after the blood has dried, along with some other adventures on the way!
Acting on the desire to write for publication is the coolest and hardest thing I’ve ever tried to do for myself. It’s so easy to put off one’s personal aspirations to deal with life’s necessities, and at times, I even forget that I’m allowed to dream. Then, the haze of fatigue rises, I’m clear-headed and spry, and I nudge this Want awake with shaky fingers.
To my surprise, the more often I wake the Want, the more it demands companionship. Forget this hibernation thing. Even cat naps are for suckers. Its preference (and mine) is full awareness, and I’ve got to say, I’m really enjoying the constant coaxing of Something More.
That paragraph makes writing sound all good-fairies-in-a-mossy-wood, but–Real Talk–perseverance is hard, y’all. Self discovery through writing eats all the leftovers from your emotional Tupperware. And we’ll talk about that, too. The good, the bad, and the dirty, dirty dishes.
I’ve promised on Facebook and Instagram a spooky short story for Halloween, but what I DIDN’T say is that the short story I’m sharing with you today is extended from a piece of flash fiction that was CHOSEN TO BE SHARED ON A PODCAST!
Holly’s teaching style resonates with me, and as a fangirl, it was so exciting get the email that I’d be included in this Halloween special.
So, BEFORE you read the extended version, you should really listen to the flash fiction performance on Alone in a Room with Invisible People, Episode 16. Mine starts at 1 hour 10 minutes, but so many wonderful stories are there! It’s a Halloween treat!
. . . . .
Did you do it?
What did you think about the how they made the intro suuuuuuuper creepy?
So, without further ado, a spooky short story….
. . . . .
Bloodline: The Cautionary Tale of Corazón Rose
Corazón Rose and her mother shared a nomadic existence for 15 years. In all that time, it never crossed Cora’s thoughts that they might be on the run. Her mother never told her the truth about her grandmother. Lavender Rose would look into Cora’s innocent, clear eyes and fall into the black memory when she’d found out and all the running began. One more day of waiting turned into one-more-year, all for one more of the carefree smiles and terror-free night’s sleep ignorance gifts. But, the fact remained that Cora’s mother didn’t have a last will and testament and Cora didn’t know to keep running.
On the seventh week and the third move of Cora’s new life traveling with her grandmother and the carnival, Cora awoke with a wet t-shirt on her face. The dry, New Mexico air cracked the inside of her nose causing a week’s worth of nosebleeds. Two days ago, Cora risked a food ration to slip to the library for an explanation. It surprised her to find out she wasn’t dying. It surprised her more that the results disappointed her.
Cora never had much with her mother, but she remembered having more than this. Or maybe she filled her belly with her mother’s raspy laugh, so she never felt hungry.
Today, Cora felt hungry.
An outsider’s belief might be that carnival workers are happy creatures, since they doled out fun for a living, but she hadn’t seen much happiness here. All personnel lived in tents completing Ringmaster Bernard’s gimmick of a vintage carnival. Cora’s red and brown striped tent butted up to the horses again. Since Cora’s arrival, Bernard amused himself with the sounds of Cora’s retching after he realized she couldn’t handle the morning manure smell. So, this morning Cora decided to amuse herself by throwing up inside Sandalwood’s stall, coating the leads Bernard would hold tonight with last night’s meager meal.
After washing up, she walked past crates coughing up props onto the dirt. Grandmother rifled through each one until she raised a jeweled box the size of a carburetor in the air careful to check each setting.
“What’s that?” Cora asked, hoping she didn’t smell of puke. Her grandmother was sensitive with smells. Sights, too. Cora had counted 29 times Grandmother had told her she’d been offensive and sent her away. Today, she’d taken extra care to make her hair bigger than normal, her clothes wacky, and her teeth clean to affect her breath. She had a big question to ask this morning and she wanted a particular answer.
“Nothing concerning you now.” Grandmother’s attention remained on the box, irritating Cora’s calm.
“Can I see your show tonight?” Cora rung her hands behind her back.
“No.” Grandmother dusted the box with her sleeve. “You’re not ready.”
“I’ve helped prepare every show for two months, cleaned every place an animal has been, and… Did you know it was Halloween? I thought I could dress up and cheer you on, you know, like a fangirl.”
Grandmother finally looked at Cora, still and silent. Similarities between the two were few. Cora asked the night Grandmother’s long, sharp fingernail tapped on the sedan window, waking the grieving girl, how she was to know that they were kin. Grandmother was blonde, pale, and straight where Cora was black, brown, and curvy. She wasn’t convinced until Grandmother unbuttoned her blouse and showed a tattoo of her mother’s face in gorgeous, saddening clarity. It was just as Cora remembered it from days before. Even the slight panic that always seemed to be in her eyes. If this woman wasn’t her kin, how could she have so fully captured her mother’s essence in the tattoo?
That night, as Grandmother breathed, it looked as if her mother breathed, too. Cora rushed out of the car. She needed to press her cheek against her mother’s one more time. Grandmother wouldn’t let her. Cora followed her anyway.
“So you think you’re ready?” Grandmother slinked closer. “What did your mother tell you I do?”
Cora took a deep breath. “I didn’t know about you.”
A flash of sadness deepened the lines on her grandmother’s face.
See, Cora thought. She could love me. She’s capable of it. Something like hope bloomed in Cora, spreading out from her core, but it was sticky and slow. Maybe that’s what you get when reanimated after death, Cora thought, a hope zombie.
Disregard returned home. “No.” Grandmother said, moving the box behind her lean frame. She turned to leave, but hesitated. The zombie stirred. “Cora? Do not, for any reason, come back to my tent today. As you mentioned, it’s Halloween, and I don’t need children bothering me.” With a flick of her hair, she was gone. Cora wouldn’t ask to see Grandmother’s performance again. It was useless.
She made it back to her tent before she cried. The hope that had spread through her body cooled to obsidian. She’d be in trouble for shirking her chores, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t sure she cared about anything anymore, including her grandmother’s permission.
By night fall. Cora had decided she was on her own, and she would make herself fine with that. Being on your own, Cora reasoned, meant doing what you wanted, no matter what anyone says. And tonight, she wanted to dress up and see a creepy show like a normal kid. She snuck back to the piles of crates and gathered items she could fashion into a costume. By the time the show started, dozens of stage hands never guessed that Cora—with her layers of black chiffon, dreaded hair, and charcoaled eyes—was the quite convincing harbinger of death.
Cora snuck through the back of an oversized tent, surrounding herself with a hundred visitors waiting to see what they’d gotten themselves into. She breathed in heavy tension and clammy anticipation until it was her own. Music blared, though Cora couldn’t locate speakers. Grandmother looked like an extreme version of herself. Her clothes fuller, her makeup thicker, and her hair wilder in long, dense sections. Cora shook away the thought that each slice shifted in its own direction, slow and purposeful like snakes in winter. Grandmother even looked taller than she was this morning. The toe of a ballet slipper, rather than a platform shoe, peeked out the hem of her skirt. The allusion had to be Cora’s position in the high-rise.
She had stolen a bag of popcorn and munched on the spoils, while reminding herself she didn’t care what her grandmother looked like or what her bones did. She was her only concern. She was her own comfort. She made her own rules.
Grandmother was an illusionist, and come to find out, an engaging one. Cora’s thoughts, however, wouldn’t let her be entertained. Because Cora hadn’t known. No one would tell her anything about her grandmother, her ancestry, her purpose here, nothing. As much as she loved her mother, Cora always knew she held secrets from her, too. What was it about her that she couldn’t be trusted? Hadn’t she proven herself? Was she not enough? All she wanted was a family, blood or not, someone to share a smile with and maybe a trouble or two. Why did Grandmother come after me in the first place if she didn’t want me in her life? In her gut, Cora believed that if she knew the answer to these questions, if she knew the secrets, she would know herself. She wouldn’t have to figure it all out moment by moment.
Anger filled Cora bottom up, first in her feet. Her toes grew cold and a chill in her veins reached for her heart, stopping the organ cold. Cora wiped an unwanted tear off her cheek, smearing the charcoal she used for her costume. She was tired of crying, tired of feeling every pain, tired of trying so hard. She dipped her head and closed her eyes, blocking out the performance and the people, silently building walls around her soul. She’d closed herself inside, sealing the bottom and the top, and for the first time since her mother died, she felt peaceful.
Sounds of the room came back to Cora, and she lifted her head.
Her grandmother stared straight into her eyes. She would have been afraid a moment ago, but now she felt nothing, even at the sight of a blood red stare. Cora’s hair moved without wind and a hissing tickled her skin.
“Now, you’re ready.” her grandmother’s glare was a startled flame. “It’s time for you to look in the box.”
Copyright © 2018 by Meagan Smith writing as Mea Smith. All Rights Reserved.
These people make up my sweet family!
My oldest kiddo started kindergarten today. He’s sweet and funny, careful and brave, a learner and a thinker… He’s going to be great! So cheers to my boy as he ventures this unknown! 🥛✨🥛
Mama LOVES you!
SOMEONE ELSE’S FAIRYTALE by E.M. Tippetts was a surprise of a story. I thought I’d be getting something fluffy by judging the cover, but looks were mildly deceiving on this one. This book has depth in a far-fetched plot, and I like that kind of combination.
Confession: Roman Holiday is one of my all-time favorite movies. I adore everything about it right down to ending even though it makes me weepy. If you seen it… YOU KNOW. If you haven’t, get working on that. Gregory Peck, Audrey Hepburn, and Eddie Albert will charm you in ways you didn’t know existed.
Anyway, when I saw the Vespa on the cover of ALEX, APPROXIMATELY by Jenn Bennett, I had to read it. It was a compulsion. I thought, “This may potentially give you similar feels as your Fav, Mea.”
It started with the Vespa, sure, but then the whole mistaken identity, movie references, vintage style, and witty Katharine Hepburn/Cary Grant back-and-forth kept me engrossed the rest of the way. Who says contemporary YA can’t be classic? No one writing this post. That’s who’s…not…saying it…
(I. Writer. Good. Words.)
This book made me lol, so it gets all the sizzling lightning bolts. ⚡⚡⚡⚡⚡
Are you reading something worth sharing? I’d love to put a few of your tried-and-true stories on my TBR!
Hellloooo Friends! I’m back from the dredges of recovery. Thanks for the patience during my radio silence. I’m happy to be back in society! Happy Monday!
Clay and I were walking in the backyard, and we spotted this beauty. I wish mushrooms had a more whimsical name because some of them are really quite magical. But if you say, “Come look at this mushroom!” no one expects to see something gorgeous. Maybe that the trick of it all. I wonder if the namer thought the surprise of the sight was worth the sound of the title.
I don’t normally talk about politics and legislation here. I like to consider this a “clean” space. But today, I am broken.
This issue breaks me.
Separating children from their parents is not the answer, nor is it right. In fact, it’s so far past wrong, there’s no word for the moral ineptitude that is this situation.
Who are we? What have we become? The identity of this country and its citizens is under attack. It’s been changing for a while now. Can you feel it? The tension quietly layering our skin like tar? It’s the actions we take today, this moment, that will inevitably answer this question: Who do we WANT to be?
I don’t care about political parties and games. I don’t care which way your pendulum swings. I care about the innocent children and their lives being destroyed in the name of Policy.
This is a MORAL issue, and our administration got this wrong wrong wrong.
I’m spreading the word and looking for MY Senators names on actions AGAINST this. I’m praying for the children and the parents alike. As much as these children don’t deserve to be taken from their parents, these parents should not have to go through the torture of having their children taken from them.
Because that’s what this is–unmitigated, undeserved torture.
And what will this gain?… I take this question back. Even if it profited something as keenly sought after as world peace, this cost is too great.
Reposted from Melanie Tanner Parish:
“There are around 2,000 kids going to sleep tonight in repurposed warehouses, shelters, and now *tent camps in Texas summer weather* because the Trump administration decided to punish their parents and their children for 1) a misdemeanor – illegal border crossings, 2) seeking asylum, which is NOT ILLEGAL. Plans for reunification are disorganized at best, and parents have been and are being deported without their children.
“The Trump administration has been rightly criticized from both the right and left and various professional and religious organizations, etc. They’re holding firm. They really think they’re on the right side of history on this one.
“I don’t much care about what your stance on immigration is, THIS is morally wrong. There’s an 8 month old staying in an old Wal-Mart and no one can tell us if someone is coming to him at night when he cries. He skypes with his parents once or twice a week. He was taken from his father when he was four months old.
“Or consider the 2 year old who was sobbing uncontrollably in another facility in Texas. Workers are not allowed to hold her. I have a two year old. This would crush his soul, as it would any child’s.
“And if you’ve ever met my seven year old, try to imagine how she would do in this situation. Answer: NOT WELL. No kid would do well. Even teenagers would understandably struggle.
“This is child abuse. These children do not deserve this. The parents don’t deserve this. This trauma is going to follow them for the rest of their lives.
“There but for the grace of God, go I. You and I sleep in our warm beds, in our safe houses, in our relatively safe communities, not having to worry about fleeing violence and oppression and remember – that is 100% luck and circumstance.
If you want to do something:
or contact your senators/representatives: