Same three pages - back to third.

           I've decided that VESSEL should be told in third-person, but also that I liked the writing of my first-person experiment better. Here's a mash-up of the two (same three pages as before) which I'm really liking. Looks like I'm going to be doing some rewrites, ::cracks knuckles::.

Vessel, First to third sample

           Isaac heaved a sigh as his father’s old Honda station wagon hummed along the village street. He watched the familiar houses and too-short lawns filter past his car window. Every window shutter was painted crisp the same color as in his childhood, and the same neighbors waved as fellow townsfolk walked the sidewalks with their dogs or strollers. There, in Glen Arbor, Michigan, everything was the same. But despite the familiarity, Isaac reeled in worry 

He looked from the corner of his eye at his father in the driver’s seat. Carl Hill sat erect, whistling with the muffled radio as some dads do, and drummed his thumbs against the worn steering wheel. Isaac took in his sunny demeanor, pleated khakis and plaid button down shirt and couldn’t help but be a bit irritated by his obvious enthusiasm to be rid of him. Though he supposed that day would mark the first time in seventeen years that his eternal presence wouldn’t prevent his dad from stopping home on his lunch break to put the moves on his mom. He could tell that was the plan, too. His father’s insistence to keep the car window rolled down, despite it being forty degrees outside, had him sputtering in a surging storm of aftershave for the length of their ride.

            But perhaps he was projecting. He swilled his tongue against his cheeks, trying to wet his mouth, which had been dry as the Sahara since the night before. He blinked his dusty eyes, feeling as though washers had been super-glued to their lids. He hadn’t slept at all that night, and so reasoned perhaps that’s why his dad’s pep seemed so irritating.

            The engine clicking outside Isaac’s car window wasn’t distraction enough from the fact that they’d stopped. The brick building mocked him from across the crowded yard, where groups of students stood in packs, like herded sheep. Only a month had passed since the beginning of the semester, but they were all clearly adjusted. They stood talking, or throwing fistfuls of colorful, fallen leaves at each other with playful screams.

            “Ready, Sport?”

            Isaac’s dad had called him “sport” since the day he was born, funny given that he was six-three and only weighed one hundred and thirty-five pounds. He stared at his unusually pointy knees as he sat. They were poking through the holes in his jeans and had him questioning (again) his father’s choice of nickname, and his decision to wear that particular pair of pants. “I guess.”

He gave Isaac one of those all-knowing, sympathetic “dad smiles” before launching into a pep-talk. “Don’t be nervous. Who wouldn’t want to hang out with such a cool kid?”

He is talking about me, right?

Throughout the years of his sheltered existence, he hadn’t had the opportunity to learn what “cool” was. He began mulling it over in his mind, now fearful, not only over his choice of pants, but whether or not he was, or would be considered “cool.” This was about the point he discovered how close he was to chewing off his bottom lip. “Sure.”

Isaac opened the door, the squeak of which was so loud that he was certain the crowd would stop and stare. His legs felt like rubber as he placed them upon the sidewalk, and closed the door again behind him.

“Hey, Sport?” Isaac craned his neck to view his dad through the still-open window. “Really, you’ll be fine. Remember, this is what you wanted. I’m sure you’re ready. Your mom, well, she may not have been so prepared, but you know her, she’ll be okay.”

Isaac stared, imagining his father’s voice as one of those parodies where the speaker’s drone is replaced by a trombone, or static. He couldn’t understand what he was saying with the school’s evil eyes on his back. “Uh huh. I hear they have a pretty rigid schedule at these places, Dad, I should probably go.”

His dad just hit him me with another of those encouraging grins before igniting the engine and leaving him gaping alone on the sidewalk. He had instantly regretted telling him to leave.

Resilience

Good morning, readers! Below you'll find another short story for your reading pleasure. Enjoy.

ⓒ 2011 Carolynn Staib, All Rights Reserved

Resilience

“You wanna play superheroes?”

Doug sat in the toasted grass, picking a scab upon his arm. “I am a superhero, Todd.”

Todd was skeptical. Even at the young and gullible age of seven, he knew demigods like the Hulk and Spiderman probably didn’t exist. He peered through the slits of his eyelids and scrunched his nose in protest of the dazzling sun. “Are not,” he disputed.

“Am so!” Doug succeeded in removing the bothersome clot, and flicked it across the yard. It disappeared somewhere among the blades of browning grass to be consumed by some bug or another.

“Then why are you bleeding?” Todd crossed his arms with pride, clearly on the winning end of the argument.

“I’m not,” Doug spat, “it’s acid! It’ll melt the skin off of all of my nemesisesez’…” He brought the freshly opened wound to his mouth, and sucked the blood from his arm.

Todd watched, letting his posture slacken and scratched at a mosquito bite on his shin. “Nuh uh,” he said with wavering confidence. He diverted his gaze to study the tiny ants marching in a perfect line through the lawn, which scattered when he cut a stripe in the earth through their path. He watched them scramble, avoiding the line he’d drawn as though it were a force field. It made him feel like a bit of a superhero himself. “Then what powers do you have?” he demanded.

Doug stretched out upon his stomach, ripping clumps of grass from the ground and tossing them to his sides. “I’m not supposta’ tell. I wasn’t even supposta tell ya that I am one.”

Todd scrunched his face in thought; that was typically the way of the superhero. “I promise I won’t tell.”

Doug sat back up, brushing the larger bits of the lawn from the front of his shirt, and began biting his nails. He scrutinized his friend, could he be trusted, or was he to be an unexpected foe like Lex Luther to Superman? After all, they had been close, too. But then, Todd had split his lunch with him the time he forgot to pack one, and he couldn’t imagine Lex Luther doing something as nice as that. “You swear?” he asked.

Todd sat rigid, nodding with eyes the size of saucers. “I swear!”

He looked sincere. “Good!” Doug glanced around the yard, searching for any intruders or spies. The grass was barren but for the bugs, and the sidewalk was clear. “I’m invisible.”

Todd didn’t respond. He released the breath he’d been holding, and felt disappointment smack him in the face like the baseball his brother had thrown the week before. He probed at the area, sore from the memory, and shot a nasty glare Doug’s way. “You are not! I can see you.”

“It only works for bad guys,” Doug said with a roll of his eyes. He stood, grabbing a stick from the lawn and tossed it toward a tree. “And grownups,” he concluded.

Todd stood, too, still resentful from the fresh letdown. “Nuh uh,” he began, “Miss Collins at school talks to you all the time. She can see you and she’s a grownup.”

“It doesn’t work for all grownups. Besides Miss Collins is old, and I don’t think it works for old people neither. My grampa’ and gramma’ can see me all the time, too.”

Todd dug the toe of his shoe into the dirt. “Fibber,” he accused.

Doug frowned, wiping his nose along the length of his arm. He hadn’t expected his friend’s disbelief. “Fine!” he snapped, turning his back and marching toward his house. The grass crunched beneath his feet as he left Todd behind, and he could feel his blood boiling as he stomped up the steps to his front door.

The room beyond was sterile. Its white walls enveloped tidy furniture, which matched too well the pillows and decorative vases on the coffee table. The air hosted an artificial, fragrant stench, which if smelled too closely or too long would make one’s eyes water. There was no sound in the room besides the muffled sounds of his mother’s phone conversation in the kitchen, and a bubbling pot on the stove.

Doug slammed the front door behind him, making the vases in the living room jingle. He waited a moment for any reaction, and then removed his shoes upon the tiny rug by the door. His socks were dirt-stained from the ankles up and were the only thing within the house that displayed any signs of use. They muted his steps upon the hardwood on his journey to the kitchen, where he entered unnoticed. Only the top of his head was visible above the kitchen island where his mother was preparing dinner. She held the phone to her ear with her shoulder as she worked.

“Hi, mom.” Doug scaled one of the barstools and sat without response. “Todd thinks I’m a fibber.”

His mother continued to talk about grownup things on the phone. Not even her eyes greeted her son, who allowed his dirt-caked chin to rest upon the counter until he heard another entrance at the front door. The heavy footsteps and jingling keys identified his father before he entered the kitchen, where the suit-clad man set a briefcase upon the counter. Immediately he loosened his tie and greeted his wife with a kiss, and she stumbled upon an excuse to end her conversation. Hanging up the phone she embraced her husband, asking smiley, redundant questions about his day at the office. “So how was work, honey? Did the meeting have a catered lunch? Who catered?”

Doug watched the interaction with a moment’s disdain before smirking to himself, and clung to the feeling until he’d tucked himself into bed that night. “Goodnight, Mom!” he called down the hall. He listened to the pause in her conversation with his dad, too smart to think he’d be receiving a response. The muffled pop of a bottle of wine echoed through his room as he settled upon his bed in thought.

He knew his life was lonely, but that was a battle every superhero must face. And while parents are expected to tell their children how special they are, Doug didn’t need to hear it – for what other kid in the world could claim to be a real invisible boy?

A life of poetic irony

It's kind of funny. Those who know me well know that I was (well, let's not kid ourselves, am) an incredibly impatient person. I'm a very goal oriented and driven worker bee, who becomes even more so when circumstances don't immediately bend to my will. Looking back over the course of my life, the paths I've taken and the choices I've made have to make me chuckle - because it's so painfully apparent just how hard my subconscious has been trying to teach me patience.

When I was fourteen, I officially met my (now) husband, Jeffrey. He had been our paper boy for years before, but at that age, I "caught up" to him. For the first time we attended the same school, and sang in the same choir. He was quiet, awkward, and three years older than me, and for reasons my adolescent mind couldn't yet understand, I was unconditionally smitten with him. So smitten, in fact, that I paid him to teach me to play the guitar despite having already been taught by my father. This only lasted a few months, but it's a testament to how baldy I wanted to spend time with him. Over time we became close friends. We never dated, never had any form of physical contact until one day, seven years later, he proposed. That's a whole other story that should be saved for another time. But isn't it strange? Did I choose someone, without even realizing it myself, who would challenge my impatience and make me a better person?

Another example is my career path. I love writing; it's a drug with no adverse effects. But pursuing the life of a published author demands quite a lot of patience as well. I finished my first novel in October of 2010, and have been actively querying and seeking representation since. And according to every article I've read on the subject, this is absolutely to be expected. I would always love writing, there's no escaping it, but did I subconsciously choose to pursue publication, not only to share my work, but to further learn how to wait?

Even before I took the plunge, and committed to pursuing what I really wanted in life, I was studying to become a doctor. I had chosen a program that would take at minimum eight years to complete, not including internships. And I wasn't content to become just any doctor, I wanted to be a neurosurgeon. Granted, I didn't submerge myself for terribly long into this world, but it's still curious. Was I forming goals that, though I wasn't terribly passionate about, would still teach me patience?

Or perhaps great things in life require patience of us all. I suppose such things are worth waiting for, in fact, I'm certain they are. Maybe I've learned something after all.

Fork In The Road

Friends, fans, and cherished readers,

I must woefully inform you that further chapters of VESSEL will no longer be released on this forum. Tragic, I know ::wipes tear::. For those who have read since the beginning, which wasn't all that long ago (all your support and "likes" on facebook had me releasing chapters quicker than I had first anticipated, thank you again for that), you have now read the first seventy pages of my manuscript. This is the average number of pages offered in a preview of most purchasable digital books. And as any concerned mother across this fair land might say, "no one's gonna' wanna' buy the cow if you're handin' out the milk for free..." or what have you. So I'm afraid we must now bid adieu to our new friends, Isaac, Theo, and Spencer, and hope for a time (not so far in the future) when their full story is available for you all to read to your hearts' content!

Until then, I will do what I can to continue to keep you entertained. I like to think I'm a creative gal, so stay tuned! There will surely be more ramblings, antics, and perhaps some short stories for your reading pleasure.

(All you need is) Love,
Carolynn Staib