THE EXCITING JOURNEY OF Writing
a Fictional Book
"IT'S A LUXURY BEING A WRITER, BECAUSE ALL YOU EVER THINK ABOUT IS LIFE."
If as a writer there comes a time when you think you have nothing to write about, I am sorry to say you are mistaken. First push the button inside your brain that is your imagination, then read the headlines in the news.
There are a thousand fictional stories mixed in those headlines almost each day.
Case in point, my book Remain Alive is a science fiction story about Artificial Intelligence, its taking over the world and destroying mankind. AI is the future that is without a doubt. I read an article last year that predicted by the year 2035 the world would no longer use hard currency.
I thought about it and wrote the following two paragraphs , which are in Chapter 1.
I know, I know. A bit ominous, but my post continues. You're probably asking what has this to do with price of bananas. Nothing, except today October 15, 2017 I came across this headline and subsequent small article from Yahoo Finance.
Brittany Jones-Cooper Thu, Oct 12 12:59 PM PDT Yahoo Finance
These countries have gone mostly cashless
They say that cash is king, but newer and more convenient payment methods are gunning for the crown.
These days, more and more countries are adopting cashless payments, which includes credit card purchases, contactless payments, mobile banking apps and digital options like Apple Pay. To see which countries were adopting cashless the quickest, Forex, a global travel site, conducted a study comparing 20 of the world’s largest economies.
In the report, Canada was singled out as the country most embracing cashless technology, which could be attributed to its population changing attitudes that began several years ago. A recent survey in May found that 50% of Canadians are ready to get rid of banknotes and coins. While a 2013 MasterCard survey found 90% of the total value of consumer payments in Canada were made through non-cash methods.
My two paragraphs seem to be two decades too late, events may happen sooner than I wrote about.Is it something to be concerned about?
Perfection –the highest degree of proficiency, skill, or excellence. For most of us mortals it is an unattainable goal. Why?
Who amongst us would we trust to tell us what is perfect or what is not?
Why all this gibberish you ask? Because when it comes to writing a novel, most of us flounder looking for the elusive creature known as “Perfectos Maximos.”
This creature is extremely rare and impossible to catch. If you do find one and touch the head of Perfectos Maximos it can and will destroy your creativity. How and why you ask?
Perfectos Maximos does not exist except in our minds.
Writing is an art. It takes time and constant practice. No one ever reaches perfection in their writing. Perfection is a mystery, the Fountain of Youth, Shangri La.
Writing novels are different from "How to," or "Self Help," books. Subjects I know nothing about nor do I care to. I'm a storyteller, plus my whole life I always chose the harder road. Maybe one day I'll change, but I doubt it.
The creativity begins inside of you. "I have a story," you say, but I ask, "Do you have the desire to write that story?"
Will you sabotage that desire by telling yourself, "It's not that good?"
Accept the fact that you are you going to make mistakes. Once you understand that important piece of the map, begin.
But you hesitate and say, "I want it to be perfect."
Do you mean that you want no misspelled words, a clear story line, interesting characters, interesting dialog, a story so compelling the reader could not put it down?" Is that what you are looking for? Those are just the tip of the iceberg. There is so much more to learn.
This post is not to dissuade you from writing but to encourage you to start. I read these few words recently and they say everything you need to remember. Burn these into your psyche and never forget.
Don't over think your craft — simply trust your ability
Every author who has come before has a story about the trials and tribulations of how they became novelists. Read their biographies, but above all read their novels. Two at a time. That way you can compare styles.
Find a couple of good books on, "How to Write a Novel," and read those simultaneously. One I like, "How to Grow a Novel-Sol Stein," is very good.
Write your story as you are reading those books because you will re-write it at least two more times.
Above everything else, you must be patient with yourself. In time the transformation will emerge and your writing will improve.
#writing,#how to write a novel,#how to become a successful writer,#how to author a book,#how to grow a novel
I think Muhammad Ali, the great boxer, said it best: "Friendship is the hardest thing in the world to explain. It’s not something you learn in school. But if you haven’t learned the meaning of friendship, you really haven’t learned anything."
Creating interesting characters for stories takes practice. All writers, even the best, look for ways to improve.
Stop and think about what makes an interesting character. Consider the people you have met or know. A favorite uncle and his boring wife, your aunt. Are there people you envy, and why? People you despise, why?
Look at those around you as characters in a book and embellish their personalities. Mom is a good cook. She is meticulous about the ingredients of each dish she makes, the preparation, the cooking utensils she uses.
Create a character who is a struggling chef in a restaurant.
The chef is too busy to go to the farmers market for tonight's patrons, one a famous person, but sends his trusted assistant. The food and the assistant never arrive back at the restaurant. The night is a disaster.
How would the chef act? What would he or she say? What happened to the assistant and would the chef's meticulous mannerisms be important to the rest of the story? Do you introduce another character to help or hinder the main character?
Would one build a house without a foundation? Of course not. Could you build a story based on the example of the chef? Without the chef's particular characteristics what good would the plot or story be?
The writer Graham Greene once wrote.
I agree, once the character takes hold you become an observer.
If you need help on how to build and create characters there are hundreds of books and articles about the subject, which I have several.
One I found was quite simple and helpful, and it's free. Here is the link creating a character.
Writing fiction takes practice. Developing interesting and believable characters is part of the process.
We're Writers-We See the World Differently
A pedestrian walks down a busy street with one thought. "I must arrive at my destination."
A writer walks down the same busy street with many thoughts.
"Who lives and works behind those doors.
Fifty years ago. Fifty years from now.
What monsters lurk in the shadows.
An unnoticed nickle on the ground.
A window, a table, two chairs, a couple falling in love.
A lone soul, hands in pocket, head down, shoulders bent, everything lost.
A boy and his scruffy dog running down an alleyway. Bumper to bumper traffic, anger, happiness, laughing, yelling."
To a writer, every thing they observe is a prop for their stories.
#writers,#imagination,#stories,#character development,#building a character,#character,#plot
I remember as a child what friendship meant. It was special, irritating, fun, and crazy. The smallest events were big adventures.
Our imaginations ran unchecked. We were living life. As a child, friendship seemed so simple and authentic. Do you ever think back and remember your childhood and that special friend? Children have a magical way of often teaching us the importance and meaning of friendship.
I personally believe these two stories treat true friendship with the love and caring it deserves.
My next book, due out late October is actually two short stories.
They both deal with young friendship. The first story, "Jamison and Joey", two ten year old boys, takes place on a farm in Wyoming.
Bored with the final weeks of summer the two of them set out to have an adventure. What awaits them at Lightning Lake will test their friendship far more than either bargained for.
The other story is called "Three Strikes." It is about selflessness and sacrifice. It reminds us what a true friend is.
#friendship,#short story,#writing,#children,#sacrifice,#true friendship
Hours, days, weeks, and months have been spent creating your latest piece of fiction. It has been edited, the cover has been designed, and you are now ready to publish.
Off you you go! To great personal fanfare your book is now on the virtual shelf of one or many ebook platforms. You have told your friends and relatives and they have been supportive, but what about the public? You know, the stranger, the potential fan of your work.
They are the ones that you have written for. Someone sitting in a cafe or at the beach reading your work. But how did they find you? What did you do that out of the millions of fictional works in the marketplace they bought your book?
I don't know about you, but after spending well over a year on writing the last book I was exhausted. Physically drained.
It doesn't stop there, in fact it never stops. After you have published one needs to go into the other room and put on their marketing hat.
No longer the dreamer you are now the business maven. You sit at your desk with a cigar hanging from your mouth. Your job- make your book a star!
There are only so many customers out there and you want your fare share. After all the work you have put into it don't you think you deserve it? You need a plan.
Today I came across this article written by Diana Urban that I believe is very helpful in the marketing department. This part of the process can be overwhelming, and often is.
After writing the outline of your book and once you are confident that it is a story worth writing take some time and also outline your marketing plan right then and there.
If you are like most independent authors you will be doing it all. Think of yourself as business, your products are the stories you write. As time goes by the more product you have to sell the more profitable your business becomes.
Check this article out it's time well spent.
119 Book Marketing Ideas That Can Help Authors Increase SalesSEPTEMBER 6, 2017 by DIANA URBAN
#marketing your book, #book marketing,#diana urban,#writing a novel,#find your audience, #build your fan base
FROM AUGUST 25TH - AUGUST 28TH
THE MOUSE THAT BECAME THE CAT WILL BE .99 CENTS ON AMAZON Here is the link: The Mouse That Became the Cat BUY NOW
#the mouse that became the cat,#crime thriller,#chilling,#suspenseful,#robert stephen
Early next morning George stood in a narrow vacant lot across the street from Locke's Ford. In his right hand, a pillowcase full of rocks. Still seething from the events three days ago, he stood, holding an average size rock and glared at the showroom windows. There were nine large panes of glass, but at this distance, George distrusted his throwing skill.
He turned around and hurled the stone with as much strength as he could muster, but it scarcely reached midway to the back fence. George realized it would be essential to stand in the center of Hollywood Boulevard, but with morning traffic bustling in both directions he had doubts about his plan of revenge.
A black and white police car drove past with two policemen who paid no attention to the boy with the rock-filled pillowcase. If they had, they would have questioned him. George envisioned both he and his father on their hands and knees picking up thousands of fragments of glass. Worse, Sam and David Locke were standing over them laughing.
He poured out the rocks and concluded his plan was foolish, "What am I thinking," he mumbled. Disgusted with himself he biked towards school. Pedaling down the street, he recognized Charlie the young frail boy from school walking at a brisk pace. The boy did not see George, he was looking at the ground, but George could see Charlie's right hand clutching something in his coat pocket.
"Hey Charlie," said George approaching.
Charlie avoiding eye contact said, "Hi."
George stopped his bike but Charlie kept moving hurriedly away.
"Hey Charlie, it's George, remember me?"
Charlie stopped, "I know it's you George I don't have time."
"Time for what, where are you going?"
"To school, I have to get there first."
"Why, what's at school and what's that in your pocket?"
"Nothing, leave me alone."
Sensing something wrong, he pedaled and blocked the younger boy's path.
"Get out of my way George"
"Why are you angry, what's wrong?"
"Nothing, I said get out of my way," but George did not move.
"Why do you have to be at school first?"
"I have to be there before Sam Locke. I'm going to kill him."
Hearing Charlie's words George thought how foolish he must have sounded the last several days. His gaze followed the boy's right arm.
"What's in your pocket, let me see."
"Nothing, leave me alone I don't want to hurt you."
"Why would you hurt me? I thought we were friends, remember?"
"I don't have friends George, I don't like anybody, and nobody likes me. Get out of my way."
George felt he was listening to a younger self as Charlie kept staring at the ground.
"Let me see what's in your pocket."
George carefully slipped his hand into Charlie's pocket. Feeling cold metal, he quickly withdrew. His eyes darted around to see if any passersby were paying attention to the two of them. He despised nosy people. Feeling ashamed, Charlie put up no struggle as George reached into his pocket again. He felt the butt of a pistol and withdrew his hand. He pushed Charlie into the entrance of a vacant storefront.
"Charlie, what are you doing with a gun? Whose gun is it?"
"It's my father's, and I'm going to kill Sam."
"Stop talking like that. I want to kill Sam too, but I don't want to go to jail."
Removing the gun from Charlie's jacket George held the weapon in his hand. He had never held a gun before. He felt strong and powerful. Straightening his stance, George closed his eyes and envisioned himself walking up to Sam Locke and pulling the trigger.
"If something bad were to happen to Sam Locke it would be because of him," he thought. He felt invincible. When George opened his eyes, Charlie stared at him nodding his head as though sharing George's thoughts.
He pictured himself pulling the trigger, watching the bullet enter Sam's forehead. Sam would fall in slow motion and he would stand back. He would lean against the lockers and observe other students talking and going about their business. Occasionally somebody would kick the carcass and laugh; just liked they kicked his books. Everything turned dark. George saw himself led away in handcuffs, spending the rest of his life in jail with people he disliked. He knew the gun was a chess piece, but did not understand what to do with it.
"Charlie, I'll hold onto this until after school then we'll take it back to your house and put it back where it belongs."
"What about Sam Locke."
"We'll come up with a plan."
"I just remembered we can't take it back today. My mom's picking me up, I have a dentist appointment. We'll put it back tomorrow."
While in his classes, George's hand brushed against the gun in his pocket. A surge of energy coursed through his body and he wanted to stand up and shout. No one was going to bother him including Sam Locke.
Biking briskly towards home, George remembered Angelina, how she laughed at him and made fun of him. He decided she would never laugh at him again; he would make certain.George laid his bike on the front lawn of the plain looking apartment building and stepped up to the door, his hand in his right pocket. His fingers folded securely around the butt of the gun. It was not clear to George what he would do when she answered, but knew Angelina would be sorry.
Tapping on the door George took two steps backward and waited. He knocked again, stronger this time, but still no response. He peered through the front window to see if Angelina was inside and heard muted noises around the side of the building. No one was there. About to knock a third time George heard voices again. Angelina screamed.
Hurrying to the rear of the apartment house George saw Angelina with a tall boy. The older teenage boy had his body pressed up and pinned against the young girl. She struggled attempting to push the boy away but he was too strong. One hand was forcefully over Angelina's mouth while the other attempted to raise up her skirt.
"Quiet bitch, you know this is what you want. Vinnie said you liked it and that you were easy. Stop pushing."
The boy, taller and several years older outweighed George by at least fifty pounds. George had never seen him before. The attacker continued pressing his body against Angelina's, kissing her to stifle her cries as she fought back. Her eyes wide with disbelief saw George standing there. She tried screaming, pushing back, but the older boy's large body stymied her attempt. She would have given in to save George from witnessing what was going to happen. Angelina prayed he would leave.
George picked up a metal cover from a nearby trashcan and slammed it across the back of the teenager's skull causing the boy to release Angelina. The teenager glared wildly at the younger boy. His nostrils flaring as he rubbed the back of his head.
"What the fuck. I don't know who you are kid, but I'm going to kill you."
He struggled to seize George but Angelina grabbed him holding him back.
"That's right George, run," said the angry teenager.
George ran as the older boy pushed Angelina away. The boy's long arm reached out and caught hold of George's jacket pulling him backward. He swung George around causing him to fall against the wall bumping his head. Lunging forward the larger boy abruptly stopped short. George, standing his ground, pointed the gun directly at the older boy's face.
"Wait kid, don't shoot. I don't want trouble."
George advanced the revolver steady in his hand as the teenager retreated. He glared into the boy's eyes and saw fear, which only strengthened him.
In a calm angry tone, George said, "If you ever show up here again, or tell anybody about this, you'll be dead. Do you hear me?"
"Yeah, okay just don't shoot. I won't say anything."
Angelina added, "I'm going to tell my uncle about you and Vinnie."
"Don't tell him, please, I won't say anything I promise."
The teenager pleaded with Angelina not to tell Roy Capelli while George pointed the gun. He ran away leaving George and Angelina standing in the backyard and after they were sure the boy left, George put the gun back into his pocket. Angelina tried to hug him but he pushed her away.
"Don't do that, I don't like that. I don't want you to laugh at me."
"George, I'm not going to laugh at you. You saved me from that fuck."
"You did George, thank you."
Angelina stopped, "Why do you have a gun?"
She held her breath when she realized George was not there by chance.
"George, were you going to— kill me?"
“Why are you here? What were you going to do?"
"I was going to scare you and make you swear never to laugh at me again, and not touch me."
"I'm sorry George, I just thought—"
"Stop, I didn't like kissing, or what you did and I don't like you laughing at me."
He put his hand in his pocket.
"Stop George you're right. I was wrong, I'm sorry. Please don't hurt me," she said tears in her eyes.
"Don't cry I wouldn't hurt you. Just don't laugh at me."
Feeling weak Angelina said, "Can we sit down."
They sat quietly on the back stairs for twenty minutes before either spoke.
"I hate the Locke's, Sam and his father."
George repeated his story with Sam, but included the part about the dealership his father and David Locke.
"Then I saw you, and you did," his voice trailing off.
"Oh George, I'm so sorry I didn't know. Let me help make it up to you."
"How can you help me?"
"My uncle can help."
"Who's your uncle?"
"Roy Capelli," she replied proudly.
"He's not a gangster he's a businessman people are afraid of."
"What can he do?"
"Well for one, I heard my uncle talking to one of his partners. They were arguing about a gun."
"What about a gun?"
"He told the guy to file down the serial numbers, so it can't be traced. I'll show you, let me see your gun."
At first George hesitated, then pulled the weapon out of his pocket and gave it to Angelina. This was not the first time Angelina held a gun in her hand. It was a .38 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver. Flipping open the gun's cylinder she snickered then stopped.
"I'm sorry George," she said smiling. "It's just there are no bullets in the gun, see."
"What? What are you saying?"
"Look for yourself."
George stared at the five empty chambers and shook his head in disbelief, "Damn it Charlie."
"I don't know who Charlie is, but George what were you thinking?"
The two looked at each other and smiled, but George could not help himself, and laughed as well. It was infectious, and soon Angelina was laughing. Each time Angelina pointed at the empty cylinder, they laughed more.
"Do you think we could get a gun from your uncle, one of those without a serial number?"
Angelina's demeanor changed, "Are you kidding?"
"I can't just walk up to my uncle and say, do you have an extra gun I could have, one without serial numbers."
"Because that's not how it's done George."
He got lost in his own private world for a few moments and Angelina saw George's disappointment. "Let me see what I can do, okay?"
As the sun set it was time for George to leave.
"I know you said not to George, but can I hug you for saving me, please.
Glancing away nervously, "Nothing else."
She wrapped her arms around George, but not too tight and whispered, "Thanks."
He tried not to, but he gave Angelina a modest grin, and walked back to the front yard. Retrieving his bike and walking it back home, he realized his plan was visibly clearer.
#chilling story,#suspenseful and compelling,#psychological thriller,#The Mouse That Became The Cat
Turning into the dealership's driveway, George jumped off his bike pushing it rather than placing it against the wall. His anger with Sam Locke continued to chew away at his young mind. When nervous or agitated, George habitually glided his hands into his pockets and balled them into fists. However, today something else grew inside of him, a corrosive malevolence.
Approaching the brick building, he noticed his father speaking to David Locke, Sam's dad and the owner of Locke Ford. George heard an annoyance in David Locke's voice. Stepping off to the side out of view, he listened.
“Blurth I’m not taking this contract. It’s not a good deal, either get more money or forget it.”
“Mr. Locke, we sold the same models last weekend for less money, this is a reasonable contract.”
“Are you telling me my business Blurth?”
"No Mr. Locke, I’m...”
“You're what Blurth? Is that what you’re doing now, you believe you can manage this place? You guys are all the same.”
“That’s not what I’m claiming Mr. Locke, it’s just that...”
“I’m not interested in excuses, I don’t want the deal,” Locke said slapping the papers out of Mark's hand.
The owner marched away leaving George's dad paralyzed in the center of the showroom staring down at the scattered papers. George stood by the doorway, emotionally gutted. It felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach and all of the air inside his body escaped. He desperately wanted to make sense out of the scene between his father and Locke. Yet, instead of screaming, a growing rage set his body on fire. It was clear the Locke's were terrible people, but something else troubled George. A more revolting picture resonated deeper inside his head.
Down on his hands and knees, Mark picked up the papers strewn across the showroom floor while the other two salesman stood off to the side snickering.
It was now obvious to George he and his father were also terrible people, weak and easily bullied. Upset with the quarrel between David and Mark, the young couple who had signed the contract stepped around George's father and slipped out of the showroom.
The afternoon grew chilly and damp as dark clouds appeared in the sky bringing rain. George ignored the cold. Inside his body, another disturbance festered. Attempts at pressing back his tears failed as they streamed down George's cheeks unchecked.
Manny, one of the dealership's mechanics wearing blue coveralls stepped out from the service area and observed the young boy leaning against the wall.
"Hey kid, are you okay?"
Without responding, George ran to his bike. Mark while gathering the scattered papers glanced up and saw his son climbing onto his three-speed. At that embarrassing moment any dignity left had disappeared. Pain tore through Mark's flesh and bones like a thousand poison arrows. He hoped George had not seen the disgraceful incident, but knew his boy witnessed everything. Mark twisted the stack of papers in his hands as he watched his son pedal away. He wanted to cry out and say, "I'm sorry."
George was confused. Never had his brain experienced so many conflicting thoughts and feelings. Anger, retaliation, pain, sadness all came crashing down around him like opposing armies converging on a battlefield. He wanted to disappear and simultaneously lash out at the world.
He pedaled as fast as he could on the busy chaotic streets darting carelessly around the onrushing traffic. Ignoring the blaring horns or screaming drivers, George raced to escape. When he turned the corner on the street where he lived George saw Angelina Capelli, an acquaintance, but deliberately avoided her.
A fifteen-year-old girl, with flaming red hair and the hourglass figure of a woman she called out to him, but he did not react. She called out again, this time George stopped.
"What's wrong George, why didn't you stop?"
"I didn't hear you."
"You biked right past me you heard me. Have you been crying?"
"Then what's wrong?"
"Nothing, I don't want to talk about it."
"Because I don't that's why."
"Maybe I can help.”
"What could you do?"
"You never know, people talk to me."
He hesitated at first, but after more coaxing, talked to Angelina. She had a way about her. He told her about the conflict at school with Sam Locke but never discussed his father and David Locke. That pain he kept to himself.
"I wish I could kill that guy."
He paced with his fists hidden in his pockets and talked about killing the older boy without realizing the consequences.
"I want to pay Sam back."
George slammed his hand against the wall, startling Angelina. Quietly she listened to his ramblings. She was good at that. Numerous times Angelina stood and listened to men young and old and their long-winded mumblings, but too often they wanted more than just conversation.
“George, have you ever had a girlfriend?”
“What--, of course not.”
“Have you ever kissed a girl?”
“I’m thirsty. I’m going inside to get something to drink, come with me. I’ve got Coca-Cola; would you like one?”
His mind elsewhere he ignored Angelina.
"Well George, do you want a Coke?"
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Taking his hand, Angelina led George into the apartment where she lived with her mother. It was larger than most places in the area, including where George and his father lived. Following her into the kitchen, the boy stood by the sink overflowing with soiled dishes from previous meals. Glancing over at the kitchen table, a half-open box of Cheerios lay on its side along with a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of Weber's bread. Angelina disregarded the mess as she kicked the refrigerator door closed while holding two bottles of Coke. She toyed with the younger boy.
“Would you like one of these?”
George not paying attention to Angelina's playfulness kept perusing the room.
"George, would you like one of these?"
As he reached for the bottle, Angelina pulled away.
“First, kiss me George.”
“What, stop fooling around let me have a Coke.”
He lurched forward and gripped hold of one bottle, but the young temptress held it tight and pulled George closer placing her tender lips on his. He tried pulling away but Angelina wrapped her arm around his waist holding him close. When she let go George jumped backward.
"Why did you do that, don't!"
“Oh George, that wasn’t so bad was it? Now you’ve kissed a girl.”
“I suppose so, but still.”
“George, kiss me and you can have the Coke. Come here and kiss me. You know you liked it.”
“I don’t want to, stop.”
Nervously he made two fists.
“George I’m not the only girl you'll ever kiss so come here now.”
Reluctantly George obeyed and moved closer.
“Okay, now kiss me.”
With eyes wide open George awkwardly pressed his lips together as Angelina placed her mouth against his. She put the Coke bottles down and resumed kissing the inexperienced boy, pressing her body hard against his pinning him up against the wall. Angelina reached down and unbuttoned George’s jeans.
"Stop that," he said. He pulled at her hand but she slapped it away.
“Don’t worry George you will love this, all the boys do.”
He tried pushing Angelina away again, but she was stronger.
“Stop, don’t touch me.”
“Stop it Georgy you’ll like what I do, I promise.”
Angelina's mouth muffled his sounds of anguish as she stuck her hand inside George’s jeans. In a surge of strength, he pushed Angelina away and ran out of the kitchen through the living room, and out the front door. Behind him, George heard Angelina laughing. When he jumped off the front stairs, he fell and rolled down to the sidewalk.
A sharp pain shot through his right leg as he stood up. He had sprained his ankle, but the anger and humiliation were stronger than the throbbing leg. Limping to his bike, George swung his injured leg over the seat and peddled slowly down the street.
Angelina stood by the open window and shouted, “You’ll be back Georgy once you find out what you missed. Until then, it’s our secret."
Limping painfully up the stairs to his apartment, he unlocked the front door and saw Mark sitting at their temporary dining table, nursing a three quarters-empty bottle of whiskey.
“George, where have you been?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Come here I want to, ta, talk.”
“I don’t want to talk to you. He pushed you around and you let him. We're weak, I hate you, and I hate them.”
“Don’t say that. You don’t understand George."
"I do understand. I hate you."
"Stop it; you doonnn, don't hate me. It’s hard to explain. I--I’m sorry you saw what happened,” said Mark, fragile and drunk.
“You love that bottle. Shut-up, I hate you.”
George hobbled down the hall to his bedroom and slammed the door shut. The last shards of daylight died on the windowsill and conceded to nightfall as he cried into his pillow. Today was the worst day of George's young life. Tightness engulfed his chest as the memory of the school incident echoed.
Struggling for solace, he wrapped his arms around his mid section. Tormented and suffering, George paid no attention as his fingers crawled up his body like tarantulas and wrapped themselves around his neck. He gasped for oxygen as they crushed his windpipe. He screamed but there was no sound. Just before blacking out his fingers relaxed.
Anger replaced anxiety. The faces of Sam and David Locke popped like strobe lights in his head as hatred snaked through his body. He squeezed his two fists until his fingernails broke the skin in his palms.
His head throbbed and with each beat. His ankle and head pounding mercilessly as George tried to make the razor sharp pain go away. Rocking from side to side, the abusive incidents in the school hallway and automobile showroom replayed repeatedly in his mind. He thought covering his face would free him but each scene increased with emotion. His humiliation festered.
The images of George and his father on their hands and knees with people standing over them laughing, pointing, and prodding were inescapable. Mysteriously George stopped moving. The visions dissolved like wisps of smoke. The thoughts in his head changed. He opened his eyes and stared at the unlit ceiling letting his mind zero in on a black spot near the light fixture. As he focused, his facial expression changed. Revenge had taken up residence in his head.
"I hate them; I hate them," he mumbled the words repeatedly.
In the mind of a thirteen-year-old, revenge is a fight in the schoolyard beating up the bully. George's mind was not that of a thirteen-year-old, and he was not interested in a schoolyard fight.
Reaching over he turned on the small lamp next to his bed and his eyes wandered around the bedroom then stopped. Over in the corner sat a box full of chess pieces on top of the folded board. At first, the young boy gave it no thought then realized to satisfy his revenge required a strategy. In the game of chess, one thinks several moves in advance of his adversary.
"Anticipate your enemy's moves before they know their moves."
Lying still, George fell into a hypnotic trance as his eyes closed. He dreamt he stood over two people kicking and hitting them with a long stick. Tied down and powerless they screamed in agony with neither escaping the beating. Unmoved by their pleas for mercy George continued punishing Sam and David Locke.
#the mouse that became the cat, #writing a novel, #writing a crime story,#writing,#storytelling