This MIGHT be it. The day I just throw in the towel. I don't much feel like writing (what else is new?) and I don't have any ideas (I thought it would be cool to sit down and just try to write a flash fiction piece, all in one sitting . . . and I didn't even make it to the sitting before I realized I had nothing going on between my ears), and once again, we're past midnight with zero words in the bank.
But . . . and here's the thing: I'm aware I haven't written, and I'm actively thinking about it, which seems like not the time to break my streak. Instead, it should be on a day that I'm busy or tired or distracted, and I don't even realize I didn't write until the day is gone. To deliberately give up is somehow more of a sin than to accidentally miss my one hundred and eighth day in a row.
So, I'm going to try. That's why I'm typing this, to get my mind leaning toward writing. I got this idea for a Lara and the Witch story yesterday, and I have thought a bit about it. It would be a high school Lara who gets her heart broken by a boy (or girl--yeah, I haven't forgotten about you sweet, sweet lesbians out there. You're number one in my heart, ladies), and then, what does Holcomb do about it? The joy of writing that character is (and I'll keep on saying it) that she's legitimately evil, and if you are loved by someone both powerful and amoral, you're apt to have a very interesting life.
My thought is, a boy breaks poor Lara's heart, and then . . . well, something happens to him. What that something is depends on how horrific I want this story to be, but my attitude is that it's probably going to be pretty awful, considering that Victoria Holcomb cursed a girl with the inability to ever look someone in the eye after making fun of Lara Demming in front of her classmates.* And when something inappropriately ghastly happens to a guy who, say, felt Lara up in a booth of an all-ages discotheque . . . well, Lara's going to suspect this was not just a freak accident.
So, she has some harsh words to say to her new parental figure, and absolutely forbids her to interfere with ANY of her relationships, good or bad, in the future. Holcomb can roll her eyes--it's one of the things she's best at--and Lara, not being based at all on Rish Outfield, can continue her life, both flirting with and being flirted by cute boys (OR girls, you smooth Sapphic angels), and maybe fall in love again.
But . . . what happens when she does? Can she trust it? Will she, metaphorically, look over her shoulder with every kiss, every sweet whisper in her ear, every date that ends with the possibility of more to come? Hell, the scene pretty much writes itself:
Old Widow Holcomb could sense the girl's wariness as she came into the room. She smelled like suspicion, doubt, fear, and misgivings. "Anything I can help you with?" she asked, so sweetly it instantly made Lara upset, which was much preferred to nervousness and worry.
"Hope so." Lara's nostrils were flaring, and this made the old woman amused, which only served to anger Lara more. "I need to ask you something."
"I'm sure you do."
"What do you mean by that?"
Holcomb shrugged slightly. "I mean, you obviously have something weighing on your rapidly-developing little mind, the way you came barging in here, pink-cheeked and hyperventilating."
Lara wasn't sure what hyperventilating was, but she wasn't about to do it in front of the witch. "Yes, I do have something on my little mind. And I want you to answer me truthfully."
"Of course," the witch replied, as though she didn't lie every single day by her very nature.
"Scotty. You know about Scotty."
"Oh, yes. The boy you're always on about with your friends on the phone. Seems you even deigned to bring him up with me once."
"Did you do something to him? Cast a spell or something?"
"I've never even met this junior Adonis, Lara."
Lara ignored whatever obscure devil-related reference the witch had just made. "Never? You've never seen him before?"
"I haven't a clue what he looks like, except when you told Sadly that his blue eyes sparkled."
"Hadlee. My friend's name is Hadlee."
"Oh, right. 'Sadly' would be ridiculous."
"So, you've never met him or seen him? You promise?"
Holcomb shrugged again, a move designed to show the girl just how little she cared. "I may actually have seen him at one of your school functions or around town, but I wouldn't know it. As far as I am aware, though, no, I've never met the man."
"Boy. He's a boy. He's seventeen."
"I stand corrected."
"And you've never cast a spell on him, or one on me, to make him like me, or treat me good, or tell me I'm special?" Lara's eyes were big now, and expressing of just how vulnerable she was at this moment.
Holcomb sighed. "Could it be, young lady, that he likes you naturally? And that you are special, and he's simply noticed it?"
Lara's eyes--amazingly--got even bigger. "Is he? Am I?"
"Well, I certainly think so. But what do I know? I'm only a century old and smarter than anyone you have ever encountered in that scant lifetime of yours."
Lara's smile was one of relief and bliss, but she squelched it. "Did you promise?"
"Did I promise?"
Lara showed her teeth. "I need you to swear. Swear by . . . your mother's soul, or the life of your only child, or by the devil's pitchfork or something."
"The devil's pitchfork," commented the old woman, "that's the most sacred vow a witch can make, going back through known history all the way to the one killed by that awful Hansel and Gretel."
Lara was surprised she had identified something so deeply significant in the life of her-- Oh. She was being made fun of. Again. "Swear to me that you didn't use magic on Scotty or on me."
"I've used magic on you practically every day since I met you, girl. You'd have died on four occasions without it, and been put on a respiration device for the rest of your life in one other." Lara opened her mouth to say something, but the witch put up her index finger. "But in regards to your oh-so-important lovelife, I have cast no spells, planted no suggestions, hexed or entranced no souls to your benefit. I swear it on my mother's soul."
Lara watched her, looking--ostensibly--for some kind of tell from a woman who could teach deceit to a lifelong politician or hypocrisy to a religious leader. She found none. Because the girl had very little guile in herself, she accepted the woman's word. "Okay."
Holcomb smirked. "Sadly, you seem to have won the heart of blue-eyed Scotty and his burly worm all on your own."
"Burly worm?" Lara repeated, then scrunched up her face in understanding. "Ew, yuck, no. It isn't l . . . we're not there yet."
Now Holcomb looked surprised. "No? I thought your generation traded bodily fluids first, and telephone numbers second." She chuckled, though nothing she'd said had been remotely funny. "Well, get out there, then, start making beasts with two backs. Three, if you're curious."
Lara nodded, happy this conversation hadn't ended with her in tears. But again, she studied the witch. "You wouldn't use magic to help me with boys, right?"
"Bathory's bathtowel, girl," swore the witch, "didn't I just answer that question?"
"But I mean, you won't do it, ever, in the future, will you?"
Holcomb leaned in. "I am starting to doubt you'll believe me when I tell you this, but . . . my whole world does not circumgyrate Lara Demming. I don't concern myself with your dalliances or flirtations. I have better things to do than weave spells to keep you from adolescent malaise."
A lot of big words, only some of which Lara comprehended, but she understood the tone, and the character of her foster mother. Basically, the old lady was saying she didn't care enough to interfere.
And that hurt to hear, while at the same time, reassuring her that her boyfriend was really her boyfriend, and that felt pretty great.
Lara surprised them both by throwing her arms around Old Widow Holcomb's shoulders and hugging her tight. "Thanks," she said, "but I care about you. And your own opposite-of-adolescent mayonnaise."
Holcomb didn't quite hug her back, but one of her hands rose and touched the girl's back. "I think that would be geriatric malaise. Or venerable. I really wish you'd read a book once in a while."
Lara slowly released her from the embrace. "I just read The Crucible for History, remember? It was very funny."
"Agreed." Holcomb gave the girl a smile. A brief one. "Now, get out and do whatever it is you do on Saturday afternoons. But be sure to use protection, you dense, winsome child."
Okay, that's over a thousand words right there. Guess there was gas in the tank after all. Or maybe it's like my dad's old truck (my brother's now, I suppose), where you flip a switch and the engine gets fed by a second gas tank.
As a reward, yep, you guessed it: I'm going to run around the neighborhood. Oh, and I'll do ten more sit-ups, just to make it a record.
Sit-ups Today: 106
Sit-ups Total: 725
Words Today: 1026
Words In May: 17,693
P.S. I am nearly finished posting these.
Day 48. Gonna go with "Shout" by Tears For Fears. Boy, I loved that when it was new, but boy, do I hate it now.
*Look, I know that story wasn't all that wonderful, and that I may actually (there's the word, kids!) not be all that talented of a writer, but I describe "Remember the Future" with those words, and it just seems like a tidy little masterpiece to my ears. And it was that story that got me back in the Lara/Holcomb business, so I'll not naysay it any further.
No comments:
Post a Comment