As I Meandered

  • by Kentthat’s my butt
  • he was ready to try again
  • unnaturally taxing their bodily energies
  • to create a delicious new flavor
  • depositing his hat on the floor

Tune in next time part 154                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

As I meandered through the tacky, sappy, garish, and depressing realm of Valentine Village, I kept my eyes peeled for Tessa. Would it really be her? Or a robotic simulacrum? Or Tallulah?

“Hey, where’s your tray?” The nasal voice behind me was as grating and sour as my surroundings were pillowy and sweet. I turned to find a scrawny man in an argyle vest and a green visor, consulting the clipboard in his hand. He shook his head and then looked at me. “Wait here.”

My new supervisor stepped into a small shed and popped right back out with a silver platter covered with pastel hearts. “Get moving, a bus just pulled in.” I took the tray.

As soon as he turned away, I started examining the words on the tiny candies. I quickly determined that this was not the message I was looking for. They said things like, “that’s my butt,” and “now you wear the collar.”

I quickly discovered that carrying this platter attracted the park’s guests to me. An elderly couple stepped up, the man reaching for the treats I carried. He picked one up and squinted at it, leaving his wife bewildered when he didn’t give the candy to her. After pocketing the first one, he was ready to try again. And again. On the seventh try he decided the inscription was appropriate, which judging by his wife’s reaction it truly was. They scampered away, no doubt toward pursuits unnaturally taxing their bodily energies. Well, his pocketful of sugar would revive them.

To avoid being confronted by more customers, I entered the small building behind one of the numerous stands selling obscene balloon animals. Once inside, I glanced at another heart, which said, “eat me.” “Call me Alice,” I muttered and popped the candy heart into my mouth. It tasted like lime, not at all what I’d been expecting. Finding another one with the same words, I ate it too, finding it was an unidentifiable blend of spices. The two candies’ essences mixed to create a delicious new flavor. I hunted through the rest of my inventory, but there were no more that said “eat me.”

I hadn’t meant to remain in one spot for so long. Looking around, I expected Tessa to be right behind me, smirking at my shorty toga. But the person standing there wasn’t Tessa, it was a man with a Tyrolean hat and a thick mustache waxed into large, looping curls. He bowed like a horse, with one leg kept stiff in front of himself, a single sharp nod depositing his hat on the floor.

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I Was Still Reeling

  • by jen“That’s enough.”
  • violating curfew
  • a commotion and a scream
  • his fellow student of death
  • by promptitude and dexterity

Tune in next time part 153                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

I was still reeling from the shock of learning that the man I had always known as my great uncle was instead my mother’s step-father. It was a baffling state of affairs that did nothing to explain why he was now holding me at gunpoint and refusing to let me go to Valentine Village to find Tessa, or at the very least a message from her.

The tree we stood under had many branches that reached toward the sky, and a single branch that dipped toward the ground. I did a quick calculation in my head, and then, by promptitude and dexterity, timed my move.

In the split-second when Jinx blinked, I sprang up, grabbed the branch, and wrapped my legs around the old man’s neck. It was a move I learned from John when I was his fellow student of death at the Academy.

Jinx dropped his gun amid a commotion and a scream that I silenced by squeezing my thighs and cutting off his air. When he crumpled and sagged, I released him and dropped down from the tree. I was now glad I’d allowed John to talk me into violating curfew so many times to hone our fighting skills in the fields outside the Academy.

In the distance I saw the Rainbow Connection, that most colorful of locomotives, still getting back up to speed. The violet caboose was just visible. I sprinted for it, my thighs shrieking and my lungs burning with the effort. I caught the rear railing just before my legs gave out, and I hauled myself up onto the platform.

I laid there, gasping, for the rest of the ride to Barbershoppe. Outside the station, I caught a cab to Valentine Village.

The amusement park was the gaudiest thing I’ve ever seen, all red and pink and frilly lace. Insipid love songs played over the sound system as I waited in line to buy a ticket. My teeth ached from the saccharinity of it all.

At the heart-shaped ticket window, the chubby man dressed like Cupid took one look at me and said, “Tessa’s waiting for you, Jason.” He let me in through a side door marked Employees Only. “She wants you to wear this.” He handed me a toga and a pair of feathery white wings that matched his own, and then stood watching as I changed into them.

“The final touch,” he said, handing me a compact full of blush and a makeup brush. He held a mirror for me as I applied layer after layer of the red stuff to my cheeks. Finally he said, “That’s enough.”

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The Backstory Conundrum

Too much backstory can be a major problem. No argument about that. What might be worth arguing over is the trend toward saying that any backstory is too much backstory.

Here’s the thing about backstories: everyone has one, and most of them aren’t very interesting. By definition, they’re made up of the stuff that went on before the story kicked off. Often the details are things that the author needs to know, but the reader does not. That’s a hard distinction sometimes.

First, go ahead and write out the backstory. As stated above, it’s stuff you need anyway. Get it down, so it’s not buzzing around inside your brain distracting you from the real story, and so you can refer to it.

Okay, now: does it belong in the finished manuscript? There’s a simple test for that.

The first question to answer is, is it relevant? If it is, then move on to the chart.

 this backstory is… Predictable Surprising
Tedious No. No.
Interesting No. Maybe.

 

Be brutally honest about these questions. The reader doesn’t need to know that your criminologist was in a spelling bee in third grade. (Unless she now uses a spelling-based meditation technique to clear her mind and see how the clues connect. In that case, this reader would be curious about where such a trait came from.)

More important, the reader also doesn’t need a detailed overview of your criminologist’s studies in law and forensics at a respected university. Just give us passing mention to confirm that, yes, she went to school. That’s expected. However, if she pulled twenty successful bank heists and was never arrested, which is how she knows so much about crime, well that’s different. Passing mention would feel like cheating. We want to go along on one of those heists.

Even when you can honestly tell yourself that it’s a maybe-means-yes situation, bear in mind that every paragraph of backstory is a paragraph that’s diverting from the main plot. If the writing sizzles your readers will happily follow along — to a point. (Just show the climax of the spelling bee, rather than the whole thing. Definitely skip the training montage.)

It’s great to have a partner to discuss backstory with. Helps keep it in perspective. How do you approach backstory in your writing? How do you feel about it in your reading?

You’re No Son of Mine

  • by KentHot blood, hot blood.
  • My stepdaughter vanishes for two nights and returns with an alleged husband.
  • suggesting that horses had been tied there
  • hitched up, as it were,
  • cheer a little less aggressively

Tune in next time part 152                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

“You’re no son of mine,” Jinx Damocles wheezed.

The one-armed man in front of me was also the one, armed man in front of me. If paternal warmth wasn’t going to keep him from shooting me, then I had to find some other angle so he wouldn’t spill my blood. Hot blood, hot blood.

“That’s not fair,” I said. “I was always told you were my uncle. You were the one who always preferred to spend time with Jason over me. Give me a chance before you disown me.”

“It ain’t like that,” Jinx said. He sighed raspily. He muttered something that sounded like, “My stepdaughter vanishes for two nights and returns with an alleged husband. Knocked up, of course.” He focused on me again and said, “You’re no son of mine because you’re my grandson. Well, step-grandson.”

The train had begun slowing as he spoke, and now I heard the squealing of the brakes as we decelerated more forcefully. “Out,” Jinx said.

We were in a field, no station or other signs of civilization in sight. Jinx marched me away from the tracks and the train started moving again.

“I thought we were going to TinselTown, or, I guess Valentine Village,” I said.

“I won’t ever go there again, and I can’t let you go either.” He crowed loudly, “Bleed the Candy Hearts! Bleed the Candy Hearts!” Then he coughed and spat before shoving me ahead with the gun.

We came to a lone tree among the tall grasses, where there were eight horseshoe imprints within an area of flattened stems, suggesting horses had been tied there, hitched up, as it were, to the tree in anticipation of our arrival.

“I think I scared ’em off,” Jinx said. “Next time I’ll cheer a little less aggressively.”

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With the Tinsel Garrote Out of the Way

  • by jenWhen you owned your own world
  • for I was born in the North Country
  • put those running shoes on the feet of
  • engraved THIS MAN IS A PRICK
  • “Your own son?”

Tune in next time part 151                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

With the tinsel garrote out of the way, I recognized the man. It was my great uncle, Jinx Damocles! He groaned again, but in not quite the same way he had with Lyudmila in that Rhode Island church basement.

“Never mind me, Jason,” Jinxy said, fixing me with his one good eye. “Don’t let Hildegard escape!”

“She’s long gone,” I lisped, imitating my twin. “How did she manage to overpower you?”

He looked down at his missing left arm and then glared at me.

“Sorry.”

I tried to think. What could Jason and Uncle Jinx be doing in Harmonia? When Jinx was presumed dead, I had inherited TinselTown from him. Was he perhaps here to reclaim it? Could he be the one who had rebranded it Valentine Village, in all likelihood destroying whatever message I was meant to find there?

Grabbing his right (and only) hand, I hauled him to a standing position. “When you owned your own world, your own amusement park, why on Earth did you give it a Christmas theme?” I asked.

The old man stared hard at me. “It reminded me of home, for I was born in the North Country.”

That struck a chord with me. My mother chose to deliver Jason and me at the North Pole. She said it was a family tradition, but both she and Father were born at military facilities in the States, as were the majority of my siblings. My head was swimming. I found my mental Nikes and put those running shoes on the feet of my dark thoughts, and let them race. They ran laps around all the inconsistencies I’d heard through the years about “Uncle” Jinx. They reminded me of how Mother was unusually close to her alleged uncle, and how no one else in the family had the surname Damocles, and how Father refused to ever be in the same room with him. They finally came to rest in front of a sign that was engraved THIS MAN IS A PRICK BUT MOST LIKELY YOUR REAL FATHER.

“You’re not my uncle at all, are you?” I asked.

“And you’re not Jason.” He pulled a gun from his waistband and pointed it at me.

“You’re going to shoot me?” I asked. “Your own son?”

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The Best Kind of Busy

The Writing Cave has been a buzzing hive of activity lately, and it keeps getting busier. So busy, in fact, that some of our operations spilled over into the Auxiliary Writing Cave.

We’re in the midst of writing Son of Science Novel while actively editing Tenpenny Zen (sequel to Miss Brandymoon’s Device), and planning the edits for the third book in that series. When we’re not doing any of that, we’re in early discussions for the third Music Novel and the big scary question of Whatever Comes Next And Probably Will Be Kind Of Supernatural. (Wow! We’re going to have to come up with a more concise name for that!)

As if all of that wasn’t enough, there’s a new demand on our time, and it’s one we weren’t entirely prepared for. Fan mail.

Woe is us, right?

A few months ago we went to see David Sedaris, and we were very impressed with how available he makes himself to his fans. He’s there before the show signing books, and he stays after until everyone in line has had their turn. He talks to everyone and it’s a very friendly interaction.

We decided that that’s how we want to engage with fans of our writing. Right now the flow of emails is just a trickle, but we have little doubt it will eventually become a tsunami. It’s important that we work it into our schedule now so that it becomes a habit.

If you want to fawn all over us, or berate us, or just say Hi, email us at HeyRune@runeskelley.com or just hit up the comments. We’d love to engage with you!

John’s Connection To All This

  • by KentThe man on the toilet groaned
  • “If this don’t beat cock-fighting!”
  • one of her more diaphanous outfits
  • using only one hand
  • like clandestine love affairs

Tune in next time part 150                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

John’s connection to all this shouldn’t have surprised me. He was certainly prone to things like clandestine love affairs, and evidently he could make them happen using only one hand.

“What do you know about Tessa?” I asked the woman. “And do you really think your husband’s name is Maurice?”

“I know it is,” she said. “Did you really think his name was John? As for Tessa, my only interest in her is what pertains to Maurice’s dalliances. This pretty well sums it up.” She shoved her phone at me again, and this time I saw John (Maurice, allegedly) dancing with Tessa, who wore one of her more diaphanous outfits. It was a gown of dragonfly wings I stole for her from the Bulgarian embassy in Thailand. Watching John leer at Tessa, and Tessa’s coy smile in return, I understood my companion’s sense of betrayal.

“If this don’t beat cock-fighting!” The conductor had come up the aisle and stood watching the video over my shoulder. The phone’s owner tucked it out of sight and glared at the conductor, who said, “Tickets, please.”

After he left, the woman said, “Excuse me, I must use the facilities. I will be right back.”

The train covered several miles, but she didn’t return. Thinking myself ditched, I went in search of the restroom in case I was wrong.

Behind the door of the first restroom I found was a man. His face was bruised, and wrapped tightly around his throat was a tinsel stole. I loosened it. The man on the toilet groaned.

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Sure, My Family Owns an Inflatable Woman Manufacturing Plant

  • by jena scaled-down version of Las Vegas
  • (who’s also probably looking at porn)
  • bearing a bowl of lather
  • scar on his ring finger
  • She was fair-skinned and red-headed

Tune in next time part 149                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Sure, my family owns an inflatable woman manufacturing plant,” I said defensively, “but we’ve never had a model called Astrid.”

“She was fair-‘skinned’ and red-headed, just like Tessa, so of course Maurice couldn’t resist her,” the woman said.

How did she know about Tessa?

“Here.” She thrust her phone into my face, and hit the play button on a video. “This is what was broadcast all across Harmonia, to my everlasting shame.”

In the video, the man was wearing a leather Zorro mask that hid most of his features, but his smile looked familiar, even with the keys dangling from it. The camera panned down and I could tell from the scar on his ring finger that the man she called Maurice was the man I knew as John.

I had never heard of John having a wife in Harmonia, or anywhere else for that matter, and yet here he was, on video, bearing a bowl of lather in one hand and keeping himself quite busy with the other. Beside him was the inflatable redhead, clearly a substandard model designed by an amateur who’s never seen a naked woman in real life (who’s also probably looking at porn), not the experienced professionals my family employs.

“Where did you and Maurice meet?” I asked, handing the phone back.

“In a scaled-down version of Las Vegas called TinselTown,” she said, staring hard at me. “We were introduced by a man named Jinx Damocles.”

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Seeking New Worlds to Conquer

As we mentioned a few weeks ago, soon all three of the story worlds we’ve been working in for the past mumbletysomething years will have their projects wrapped up. (Soon being a relative and imprecise term, qualities that recommend it for all kinds of occasions.) What then?

Well, we have some thoughts on the subject. We like being prepared, so we’ve already discussed several possible settings and plots and themes in various permutations. There’s an idea that we particularly like, although it raises something of a challenge for us.

To wit: The concept we’re considering brings along some reader expectations, not all of which rest comfortably within the Rune Skelley idiom*.

There are infinite ways to break a given set of rules, such as those defining a literary tradition. Fine, we like having options. But there’s another, self-imposed, set of rules that we want to avoid breaking, those that differentiate our fiction. We need to figure out the Rune Skelley take on this type of story, so there’s no sudden tonal or stylistic shift in our oeuvre. It’s partly a branding thing, but mainly we want to write what makes us happy, what makes us feel proud.

*Character-driven plots with a dark sense of humor, in superficially familiar settings that hide supernatural and technological menace.

As Soon As We Pulled Out

  • by Kentor “skin” in this case
  • to watch your ex-husband get caught masturbating on television
  • that charming smile people had come to expect
  • with several keys dangling from it
  • some accident might befall the pumping apparatus

Tune in next time part 148                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

As soon as we pulled out of the station, I leaned forward to begin interrogating the red-and-tinsel clad woman. But she interrupted me before I could even begin.

“There are hidden cameras everywhere, you know. Nothing is secret anymore, nothing is private. Just after my divorce, Maurice learned that the hard way. He’d taken up with an inflatable girl the moment I threw him out of the house, a saucy minx named Astrid who liked to show a lot of skin, or ‘skin’ in this case. The broadcast ministry claim it was purely random coincidence when Maurice’s turn came up, but, well, to watch your ex-husband get caught masturbating on television, to see him wear that charming smile people had come to expect, but with several keys dangling from it for fetishistic reasons that would take far too long to explain, knowing that Contrarian agents played some role in it all, I tell you, it’s enough to make one hope some accident might befall the pumping apparatus in their capital.”

“Lady, you got me all wrong,” I said.

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