Sunday, September 28, 2014

Challenge revised: Edit!

As promised, here is my official revision: if you'd like to skip ahead, I've underlined the changed parts. I think this works a lot better!

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She walked down the tunnel with great trepidation, casting the beam of light about with quick, nervous gestures, the cold stone floor rough beneath her toes.

The passage culminated in a portal: a pure black oval that swallowed the light from her torch as if she had pointed it up into the night sky. It hung in midair, thin as a pane of glass, not quite touching the wall behind it. Unsure what to do, and not willing to touch it, she probed the darkness with the tip of the machete. From the other side a great force pulled on the blade, and before she could let go she was pulled into the void entirely.

She found herself lying flat on her back, squinting up into a bright sun hanging overhead; a great headache surged through her temples, setting her ears to ringing. Pulling herself to her feet, she was surprised to see she was no longer in the hallway or even the house; she stood in an open field, verdant grass speckled with the bright purples and yellows of wildflowers growing waist-high.

A trail of gore was here, however, matting down the grass; something heavy had been dragged along, and she followed the bloody path to the edge of a thin, trickling stream. On the far side the monster crouched over a great hunk of flesh, tearing off gobbets of meat and shoving them into its mouth. It raised its head up and looked her in the eye as she approached, gore dripping from its fangs; she stepped back, afraid, brandishing the machete.

"You are nothing," it said, disdain tinging its deep baritone. "Run, if you like. The thrill is in the chase, after all."

It smiled before bending its head back over its meal.

A horrible rage possessed her and she rushed across the shallow river, bringing the machete down hard; the blade lodged deep into the creatures shoulder. The monster looked up at her calmly before backhanding her, sending her sprawling onto her backside in a daze.

Images swum before her eyes: thousands of spiders crawling from the shadowy corners of her wardrobe; a child playing innocently in his room as a monster peered out from the shadows; her father’s face, scowling with disapproval; it was a look she recognized, one he'd wear when she'd done something wrong, one that preceded him sending her to her room in terror to await the lash of his belt across her backside. His face transformed back into the monster, and he was biting down into her shoulder, hard, crunching her bones with his teeth. She screamed.

She came to in the boy's bedroom, lying halfway out of his wardrobe closet. Paramedics lifted her up onto a stretcher as a Police officer, seeing her awake, began to read her her Miranda rights. She started to thrash, panicked.

"Don't move," said the Paramedic. "You've been shot, you need to lie still."

"I don't understand."

"Let me clear it up for you," said the Cop. "You broke into this poor family's house and chopped their kid up into pieces with a machete. The Dad found you and shot you before you could murder anyone else in their sleep."

"No! There was a monster! I was following a monster..."

"Get this lunatic out of here," the Cop said to the Paramedic, and they wheeled her out into the waiting ambulance.

"Wake up," she said, fighting against the restraints. "Wake up! None of this is real.”

The doors to the ambulance slammed shut and the Cop sat in the corner watching her, arms folded, wearing the deep, disapproving scowl of her father.

“It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real,” she chanted to herself as the ambulance pulled away, siren wailing.

Friday, September 26, 2014

Three problems with my story.

I've been reflecting a bit on the flash challenge and what I wrote from a critical standpoint. There are three things about my piece that I don't like, which I'll touch on here before I crank out another draft.

First, I tried to change the Monster. No disrespect at all intended to my predecessor, but one of my motivations for subversion was my enormous dislike of that character; while I'm certainly permitted to change what I want, part of the challenge was working within the framework of what came before, and I tried to do too much with the limited space I had.

This leads into the Panther character I introduced, who was essentially a stand in for the Monster. In his scene, I had more dialogue and more of a revelation in regards to his purpose and what he's chewing on, (hint: it's the Monster!) but even after major cuts I was still over the word limit. This led to a stilted interaction and a weak transition to the next scene--her hitting her head on a rock.

The problem with that resolution to the encounter is protagonist agency: Savannah isn't doing something (protag-ing!), something is happening to her. A better approach would be a showdown with the Monster--which I tried intentionally to avoid, since I felt railroaded into it--and trust that the ending is strong enough to support it.


I'll take this back to the lab and cook up a rewrite before the weekend is out.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Challenge! The Wardrobe Monster

From Chuck Wendig’s Flash fiction challenge:
In which Mozette’s story from the previous challenge was begun:
and continued by the delightful John Freeter:
Which I present to you, in its entirety, now concluded:
The Wardrobe Monster
Part 1 (by Mozette):
The power had gone out soon after the storm started up, and pretty soon after, her e-reader died too.  She looked outside and noticed the whole neighborhood was in darkness. Sighing, Savannah showered by torchlight and went off to bed.
But not for long… only a few minutes after she switched off her torch, she started hearing noises coming from her wardrobe – noises she had never heard before.

Unnatural noises.

Her folks had told her there was no such thing as monsters when she was a kid.

That was crap.

She knew it.

But then, she had seen this thing destroy people’s lives in a split second, and now she was sitting up in her bed terrified of it.
Savannah knew it was crap, and closed her eyes, “It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real…” she kept chanting to herself to see if it would make the noise in her wardrobe stop.

To make her mind from going crazy…

To make her nerves from being on edge…

…to make her relax again.

She pulled the covers of her bed up to her chin and watched the door handle of the wardrobe as the shadow of the trees moved across it, “Crap, I’m in my twenties and …” she swallowed dryly, “I’m too fucking old for this shit!” kicking off her covers, she pulled on her Ugg boots, dressing gown and grabbed the waterproof torch she kept by her bed when storms like this hit and switched it back on.  Walking toward the wardrobe, she followed the large circle of light.

Five feet out, the noise started to sound like a grunting pig.  She thought it was cute – but weird – seeing it came from where her clothes were stored.

Three feet out, her gut cooled as she heard scratching coming from inside… along with screams.  The grunting was gone.

One foot, and Savannah noticed smoke was seeping from underneath the doors as she reached forward to open the door…

The door handle suddenly rattled loudly… clearly… and…
The whole door shuddered as though somebody bashed against it!


Savannah shuffled back, tripped over her glory box at the end of her bed, and sat on the end of her bed as the two wardrobe doors opened…

Part 2 (by John Freeter):
A large gray hoof emerged from inside, and landed on the carpet with a heavy thud. Two large hands—a man’s hairy hands—grasped the edges of the open wardrobe as the monster poked its head into the room. The monster turned towards Savannah, still frozen at the end of her bed.
It stood upon its back hoofs, staring her down. It had Savannah’s favorite green dress draped upon its vaguely human shoulders. Two long yellow tusks stuck from the sides of its thick snout. Its small black eye gleamed as the flash of distant thunder flooded into Savannah’s bedroom.
A beat later, the blast of the thunderbolt crashing to the ground reached them. Savannah dove towards her glory box, flipped the lid open and grasped the plastic handle of the machete stored inside. She swung the heavy blade at the monster, but only slashed the hem of her green dress as the monster leapt towards the window. Shards of broken glass sailed into the night as the noise of the storm outside entered Savannah’s bedroom.
She raced down the stairs and bolted out of the front door. She picked up her bicycle, left carelessly on the lawn, and chased the monster through her neighborhood.
The freezing rain pelted her body as she pedaled through the empty streets. With the lights out, she couldn’t see beyond a few feet in front of her, but the strident clacking of the monster’s hoofs as it raced down the street led her way. She chased after it one block after the other for almost ten minutes, steering the bike with one hand while gripping the machete with the other, when the road ahead of her fell silent. She braked. The bike’s tires skidded over the wet pavement. Savannah squinted, trying to spot the monster through the thick rain. Nothing.
Just as she had given up and turned to go back home, a massive thunderbolt tore through the sky, illuminating her surroundings. She spotted a broken window on one of the suburban houses lining the road, its wooden frame shattered. She knew it must’ve been the monster, and ran towards the house, letting her bike fall on the pavement with a muted clang.
She twisted the entrance’s golden doorknob. It twisted without difficulty. People rarely locked their doors in that peaceful bit of the world. Savannah tiptoed into the living room. Her soaked Ugg boots squished with every step, so she tossed them aside. As the boots landed on the floor, she heard grunting coming from upstairs. She followed the noise.
Savannah’s nightgown clung to her body, soaked in cold rainwater which dripped on the stairs—tap, tap, tap—as she slowly made her way towards the monster. Her heart raced and her lips trembled from the cold, but the machete’s long blade remained steady in her hand.
She finally reached the end of the stairs. Everything seemed undisturbed. Only the grunting coming from one of the upstairs bedrooms gave the monster’s presence away. Savannah gripped the doorknob, holding her machete over her head. She burst inside.
“Oh my god…”
Blood. Blood everywhere. Soaked into the carpet, dripping from the ceilings, splashed on the walls. A boy’s tiny foot poked from under the bed. It wasn’t attached to the rest of the body. In fact, the rest of the body was nowhere to be seen.
Savannah entered the room, the warm blood on the carpet sticking to her bare soles. The boy’s wardrobe was open. A faint smoky haze rose from inside, smelling of rotten eggs. A thick blood trail led from the boy’s bed to the wardrobe. Savannah peeked inside. Instead of the boy’s clothes, she found a long rock tunnel stretching from the wardrobe’s entrance—some kind of portal. She took her torch from her nightgown’s pocket and switched it on as she went inside.
Savannah knew it was too late to save the boy, but not to stop that monster.

Part 3 (me!):

She walked down the tunnel with great trepidation, casting the beam of light about using quick, nervous gestures, the cold stone floor rough beneath her toes.
The passage culminated in a portal: a pure black oval that swallowed the light from her torch as if she had pointed it up into the night sky. It hung in midair, thin as a pane of glass, not quite touching the wall behind it. Unsure what to do, and not willing to touch it, she probed the darkness with the tip of the machete. From the other side a great force pulled on the blade, and before she could let go she was pulled into the void entirely.
She found herself lying flat on her back, squinting up into bright sun hanging overhead, a great headache surging in her temples and setting her ears to ringing. Pulling herself to her feet, she was surprised to see she was no longer in the hallway or even the house; she stood in an open field, verdant grass speckled with the bright purples and yellows of wildflowers growing waist-high.
A trail of gore was here, however, matting down the grass; something heavy had been dragged along, and she followed the bloody path to the edge of a thin, trickling stream. On the far side sat a panther, crouched over a great hunk of flesh, worrying it with it’s great jaws. It raised its head up and looked her in the eye as she approached, gore dripping from its fangs. She stepped back, afraid.
"You must not come here," the Panther said. "Go back, now. Go back the way you came."
"Where am I?" she said.
He shook his head, disdain tinging his deep baritone. "No; nevermind, you’re too late. Poor Savannah. Poor, poor, girl.”
He bent his head back over his meal.
Her hesitation vanished when he threw his head back and roared; she turned and ran. Something hit her upper back, hard, and she stumbled and fell, striking her head against a rock hidden in the tall grass.
Faces swum before her eyes: the panther, the evil creature as it emerged from her wardrobe, her father's disapproving scowl; she recognized that look, the one he'd wear when she'd done something wrong, the one that preceded him sending her to her room in terror to await the lash of his belt across her backside. His face transformed back into the monster, and he was biting down into her shoulder, hard, crunching her bones with his teeth. She screamed.
She came to in the boy's bedroom, lying halfway out of his wardrobe closet. Paramedics lifted her up onto a stretcher as a Police officer, seeing her awake, began to read her her Miranda rights. She started to thrash, panicked.
"Don't move," said the Paramedic. "You've been shot, you need to lie still."
"I don't understand."
"Let me clear it up for you," said the Cop. "You broke into this poor family's house and chopped their kid up into pieces with a machete. The Dad found you and shot you before you could murder anyone else in their sleep."
"No! There was a monster! I was following a monster..."
"Get this lunatic out of here," the Cop said to the Paramedic, and they wheeled her out into the waiting ambulance.
"Wake up," she said, fighting against the restraints. "Wake up! None of this is real.”
The doors to the ambulance slammed shut and the Cop sat in the corner watching her, arms folded, wearing the deep, disapproving scowl of her father.
“It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real,” she chanted to herself as the ambulance pulled away, siren wailing.

Thursday, September 11, 2014