Productivity

My schedule doesn't give me a lot of play time. Fortunately, some of the things I do and call 'work' I also regard as play. This allows me to go off and "play" while still feeling productive. Which isn't to say that I don't occasionally goof off and waste time, too.

Yesterday was one of the most productive, creative days I have had in a while. It may not happen again soon, but I'm pleased with myself this morning. I wrote over three thousand words on the work in progress, a snarky little story about a pixie with a chip on his shoulder, and a very reluctant fairy princess. What I thought was going to be a short story is rapidly headed for novel status. Not that I mind too much, I am enjoying these characters.

When I finally shut that file down, (which doesn't have the same impact as firmly closing a notebook and slamming one's pen down, saying "enough! I'm tired, already!" to your characters), I moved on to my artwork. I've been learning how to paint on paper, which is a change for me, as I normally paint on skin. Watercolors behave totally different on paper, and I really enjoy seeing what I can make them do, how I can take the picture in my head and bring it to life. It is exciting, and I was so pleased to be able to do the art for the cover of Snow Angel. If you scroll down a bit in the blog, you will find the first parts of the story for free... and the rest of it will be available for purchase soon.

There it is, the cover for my short story about an innocent child, his discovery, and the mother who would fiercely protect her family against even the most unknowable dangers. 

I finished out my evening by editing the story one last time, and sending it out to beta readers. Just before I fell asleep last night, I got a message from one of them, telling me he'd done a first read through and found it "Sweet, and powerful." 

Snow Angel Snippet 3

“You're hypothermic.” Sarah informed her. “Your core temperature is so low all the blood has left your extremities, that is why you have no dexterity.” 

She gently moved the child's hands away and finished unbuttoning the coat. It was oilskin over what seemed to be a down lining, and her torso was dry. That must be what had saved her, lying in the snow. Her boots had kept her slender feet dry, too. Sarah decided to leave the dry inner layers, but the jeans had to come off, they were wet from calf to thigh.

“Josh.” She looked at him, standing there with a pile of blankets up to his eyes. His gray eyes, so like her husband's, were solemn and she suddenly saw the man he would be, so like his father. Her heart throbbed. “Get my big orange kit.”

“The one I'm not allowed to touch?” His eyes were wide.

“Yes, honey. Right now, please.” She knew he'd needed to know it was ok, but she could still feel how fast this life was slipping away.

Sarah lifted the slight body away from the clothing. The duster was cut oddly, with slits for the wings, but it still took a little work to get it off her. By the time Sarah had the girl off the floor out of her wet things and onto the couch, Josh was standing next to them with the kit. Sarah quickly flipped it open and pulled out the trauma shears. By this time the angel was slowly becoming aware, and she tried to push Sarah away.

“You cannot stay in the jeans, and wet jeans are almost impossible to pull off.” Sarah told her firmly. The girl shook her head weakly.

The older woman sighed. “All right. I'll try it.”

She undid the jeans and started to peel them off inside out. The angel wriggled a little, but couldn't help. 

“You know, if you wore looser jeans this would be easier. Why does an angel need to look sexy, anyway?”

She grabbed the shear and was half way up one leg before the girl could protest. The angel went limp, which Sarah took as consent.

“Josh, go run a bath, honey.” The little boy had been crouched by the couch, having taken one of the angel's hand in both of his. Now he nodded silently and trotted off.

“I don't know how I'm going to get you in the tub with those wings...” Sarah sighed. “Wet feathers are part of your problem.”

The angel's deep brown eyes had closed again. Sarah felt for her pulse, which might be a little faster, but not a lot. Her top was tied on, it turned out, almost a corset with lacing up the sides. Sarah cut those, too, whispering an apology to the non-responsive girl. She'd done enough of this as a medic over the years that skin was skin, but this still seemed invasive every time.

Once the girl was down to her underwear and pale skin that was almost blue with the cold, Sarah lifted her off the couch and into a fireman's carry. The angel's wings were hanging limply, and Sarah bit back a curse as she tangled in them and stumbled. She really did try not to curse in front of Josh. Bad habits from years of working with rough men. Fortunately, that had also taught her to persist and endure. Which got her into the bathroom with her awkward burden.

Josh was sitting on the closed toilet, his feet dangling. The water was still running into the tub. Sarah slowly lowered the girl into the tub.

“Hold this wing.” She told her son. She didn't want to get the feathers any wetter. It was a weird situation. Normally, with a case of hypothermia this bad, she would have immediately called 911. Not with this girl, though. The lukewarm water would bring her core temperature up slowly.

The wingsoff to one side, Sarah crouched below them, holding the angel's face out of the water. With the girl on her side like this, drowning was the new danger. Now, arms trembling with fatigue, she finally had time to think. She'd never read anything about angels dying. Falling, yes, as in fallen angels from heaven. This one didn't strike her as that sort, though. So how had a very young looking angel wound up lying in her backyard?

Josh was patiently holding one wingtip, so Sarah risked letting go of part of her burden momentarily. The girl's pulse was much stronger.

“Hey... Hello, angel.” She felt awkward addressing the being. Was there a proper form of address for one? She'd read and giggled her way through Emily Post as a girl with her sister, but this situation wasn't covered.

She was rewarded for her efforts with a flutter of eyelids. She tried again. “What happened to you? What's your name?”

The girl jerked suddenly, and Sarah got a face full of wet feathers. Spluttering, she maintained her hold on the girl's face so she didn't submerge. Josh let go and retreated to the doorway.

“Hey! Calm down, it's ok...” Sarah couldn't see, but as the girl was thrashing now, she felt it would be safe to let go, and did so. She leaned back out of the way and wound up with her butt on the floor, looking at the angel. The being had managed to sit up, and her wings made an umbrella over both of them as she held them out of the water.

Her eyes were ice blue, and wide with what Sarah read as consternation. She clutched her arms over her chest and her knees were drawn up. Sarah held out her hands, palms up.

“Can you understand me?” the older woman asked softly.

Sarah glanced over at Josh, still standing poised in the doorway. His eyes were wide again. The angel looked at him as well, then back at Sarah. Slowly, she nodded.

Sarah left out the breath she didn't know she had been holding. “All right. You're safe. You had hypothermia, and I was helping you get warm. You understand?”

The angel nodded again. She looked at Josh. “I... remember you.” She whispered.

The little boy smiled, like the sun coming out from behind clouds. He ventured back into the room, putting his hands behind him shyly.

Sarah watched him. “This is my son, Joshua.” She looked at the being. “My name is Sarah.”

“You can call me... Sera.” the other whispered back.  

Winter Story

A snippet of my work in progress, which I think will be a Christmas gift to my children.

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Snow Angel 

Sarah was standing at the sink with her hands in hot soapy dishwater when her son came in the sliding glass door in a small swirl of frosty air and rapidly melting snow. She turned around to see him bouncing up and down on the mat. He knew he wasn't allowed to bring his wet boots any further inside. 

 “Mama, Mama!”

Sarah felt the smile starting. Josh always made her happy, no matter how the day had been going. “What, Little Man?”

She walked over to him, drying her hands on the dishtowel that had been hanging over her shoulder.

“There's a snow angel in the backyard!” he announced.

“Do you want me to come see?” She knew he did, that's why he had come inside. He nodded vigorously, pulling open the door and plunging back out into the snowy yard. There had been close to a foot of snow the night before, and it was still coming down, although lightly, now.

Sarah put her feet into her husband's boots. Oversized on her, they were easy to just pull on and go. He teased her that she wore them more than he, some winters. She stepped out the door without a jacket. It wasn't that cold, and she would only be out for a moment. Josh's little foot prints disappeared beneath hers as she followed them around the corner and into the backyard.

She was puzzled as they led down toward the pasture. Their backyard wasn't well defined, as it merged into the forty-acre hayfield that gently rolled away toward the creek a quarter of a mile from the house. Josh usually played close to home, though. He was out of sight, his little woodland camo jacket helping as his footsteps led her toward a patch of hedgerow that she kept for the blackberries. Rounding that, she found him standing still and looking at the ground. The snow was lumpy, but unmarred.

“Did you make a snow angel?” Sarah prompted.

He looked up at her, his face angelic, a snowflake clinging to one of his lashes for a second. “No, Mama, I found her here.” He pointed, and Sarah stepped closer to see what he was looking at.

The Magician's Assistant - Flash Fiction Fantasy

I am on in the second act, but already I wait in the dark, eyes open although I know from long experience that I will see nothing yet. I am as relaxed as I can be in the cramped space, thankful for once for my scanty clothing, as it is too warm in this theatre. I can hear the babble of the crowd in the distance, and the occasional murmur of the soundman, who must be right next to where I am parked for the moment. 

I listen for the cues, intent as always on what the show is doing so as not to lose my place, or sense of the crowd’s mood, although I cannot see them. The audience tonight sounds almost aggressively happy, roaring with laughter at the slightest of jokes. It makes me feel jittery, and I try to reassure myself that it would be worse if they were silent. 

Abruptly, I feel motion, and brace myself. It is too early! Who is moving me, and why? Colored smoke seeps in through the cracks, and as I wonder why I can see it in the dark it fills my eyes with tears and my mouth with a strangely heavy, oily flavor. My world reels, and is upside-down, then spinning into oblivion. I do not know how long it has been when I open my eyes to a surreal garden. 

The theatre is gone, the crowd sounds have been replaced by birdsong, and I am standing alone in a formal courtyard, atop a dais of sorts. The colors of the flowers dazzle my eyes, they are so bold and bright. They remind me of a child’s painting with the neon shades and blurred outlines. Now I hear voices, and stand stock still as they approach. 

As water springs up around me I realize I am standing in the middle of a fountain, and through the mist it creates I watch strange creatures fill the courtyard. They aren’t human. I see what I am certain are satyrs, and what might be nymphs, but only if Manet had painted them. Many others are with them, all laughing and talking and drinking from goblets they hold, just like the many cocktail parties I have myself attended. Reeling with confusion, I start to fall and stretch out my hands to catch myself…

And strike a hard surface. My vision darkens, and I hear the music, and applause. The door open, and I rise up into a billowing cocoon of silk and raise my arms, metamorphosis begins.... The stage lights almost blind me, after the dark.