Part 2 of the Story You Wrote.

From the corner of my vision, I catch movement inside the restaurant.  The woman at the table is on her feet, shoving the large book into a tote bag.  She is following me, I'm sure of it.  I don't know how I know this for certain after the nonsense with the cashier, but I know it.  Before I step off the curb and cross the street, I shoot one more glance over my shoulder towards her.  Our eyes meet through the glass, clear, despite the bubbled layer of window tinting.  The blood in my veins chills at the hardness of her expression and the hurried way she slings the bag over her shoulder.  I run.

Unfortunately, I run right into traffic, breaking the cardinal rule of kidhood.

The white sports car--the one about to take me out at the knees--squeals to a stop.  The bumper pushes my calf hard enough to knock me off my feet and onto its scorching hood.

"Hey, jerk!  Get off my car!"  The driver yells, and he fumbles with his seatbelt like he's going to get out of the car and finish the job the car didn't.

Despite the heat from the engine on my bare arms, all I can do is stare at the young man through the windshield.  I recognize him, I recognize that ridiculous pompadour hairstyle, but the shock from near-death has erased his name from my memory.  

"GET. OFF. OF. MY. CAR!"  His eyes are deadly.  The dark-haired girl in the passenger seat looks frightened and embarrassed, her pink lips pressed together in an apologetic smile.  The pieces click together too slowly.  I raise myself from the hood and slide off the side.

Finally, it comes to me, and my heart drops into my shoes.  "I'm so, so sorry, Mr. Bieber.  I didn't mean to--"

The look on his face as I scrape across the hood is one of pure malice.  I cringe and drop to my feet on the asphalt, unwilling to acknowledge any damage I'd done to the sports car.  Somehow I'd scraped up just enough for a dumb taco filled with meat of questionable origin.  There was no chance I'd ever be able to afford a new paint job for The Biebs.

He clenches his jaw and slams his aviator sunglasses across his face.  "I don't need this publicity.  Leave me alone."  Without another word, without promise to make my life miserable, he speeds away.

The dark-haired girl turns to watch me, and all I can think is, "Why, Selena?  Of all people... Why him?"

My very next thought is to keep running.

TO BE CONTINUED...

What Happens When Friends Give Me Random Words To Write About...

I wanted to write, but I didn't know what to write about, so I asked you.  The list of words you so, uh, graciously offered are as follows:

Where's Waldo?
soup tendinitis
gun
cigar
beer
pink smile
Bieber & Gomez
dogs/monkeys riding horses
fragulous
Jaws
Godzilla
shark/dino porn
Taco Bell
Moon
South Park Chef
Jedi squirrels

So, without further ado, here is your story

***

"They're coming, you know."  The cashier hisses then pauses to shoot an anxious look left, then right, like we're being watched.  Judging by the thickness of his round glasses, I imagine all that movement of his beady black eyes must be dizzying.  He doesn't seem to be the least bit bothered, though, and instead leans closer toward me over the counter separating us.  "The government doesn't want us to know--they're in on it, too!"

A line of perspiration beads on his forehead at the edge of his red-and-white striped knit hat.  He's crazy, I'm sure of it.  You'd have to be crazy to work behind the counter of a Taco Bell in a long-sleeved shirt and a winter hat.  It must be a billion degrees in here!  Lucky for me he's not the one handling the food, because the thought of him sweating in my Hard Taco Supreme makes me gag a little.

Sure enough, a couple over at one of the tables in the corner of the restaurant is watching us.  They consult a big book in front of them like it's a field guide or something, then point and stare like they've spotted a Dodo bird or a unicorn.  I'm neither of those things, just a hungry girl with not enough money to buy anything at a burger place.  Kind of pathetic, really, and not the kind of thing that would earn me any kind of notoriety.  Still, the couple keeps looking our way.  Now they're not even trying to pretend they are interested in something else.

The couple's attention, paired with the cashier's conspiracy theories, make my stomach roll.  Before things get any more weird, I take my change from the counter and snatch the paper bag from his outstretched hand.

"Uh, thanks for the... tip."  I mumble as I turn away.

"Repent, for the Kingdom of God is at--"  The door seals behind me, cutting off his words.

TO BE CONTINUED...

The Creek

I couldn't tell you what it is about the forest that calms me.  Maybe it isn't the forest, at all, but the murmur of the river against the time-worn pebbles.  Or maybe the melody of the birds flitting from branch to bank, the cicadas joining in with their staccato rhythm.  Perhaps, even, the aroma of pine sap, damp earth, and moss drew me here--especially on days like today.  Mostly, I liked the quiet.  No one offered me advice or asked for my help out here.  No one spoke at all unless you counted the babble of the water, and I didn't.

Tally snorted and took a tentative step from the shore and into the edge of the creek.  I patted her shoulder as she took another swishing step, thankful for the distraction. I'd fought so hard to keep him from leaving, but, in the end, none of it mattered.

The End of the Middle

7/31/13.  In the middle of the night, I typed the last sentence of my Young Adult novel "In the Middle".  I celebrated and felt free and easy for approximately half a day, then I flipped back open my laptop and fixed a section that didn't feel exactly right.  Because that's what writers do--they always feel like something could be fixed or rearranged for more impact.  It's a sickness.  A strange and wonderful sickness.

The beginning of August marks the end of July's Camp NaNoWriMo, 31 days of writers worldwide creating.  Campers are encouraged to pick their own word count goal (mine was 26,364 words, oddly specific because that magical number brought my novel to 50k words) and go for it.  I rounded out July with 38,406 words (62028 words in total), 12k above my goal.  I'll take it.

In March I began this journey with Lucy, an orphaned teenager burdened by the weight of her parents' deaths.  Lucy was angry and unpleasant, scarred and in pain.  She wasn't the only one in the little town of Mitte who struggled with loss and regret.  In the Middle forced me to look at death and remorse from a handful of angles, mourn with each person, and then offer a bit of hope.  Perhaps it will never be published, let alone read and understood by an audience, but recording their story took me on a journey I will always remember.

To Lucy, Oliver, Jasper, Perdita, Letty, Duke, Magnolia, Tessa, Johanna, Norman, Millie, Sadie, Angus, Sal, Bud, Vera--even Derek and Tanya...  Thank you for waking me up.