Tagged: blood

My Nemesis Pulled a Handkerchief From the Pocket

  • by jenbetween forkfuls of pie
  • a good elementary textbook
  • “Those evil pricks
  • rubbing his hands
  • from the pocket of his greasy blue jacket

Tune In Next Time Part 24                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

My nemesis pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his greasy blue jacket and mopped his forehead with it. It did absolutely no good because it was as soaked with seawater as the rest of him.

“Those evil pricks from NSFW took Tessa and you’re just laying there, bleeding?”

“It wasn’t NSFW,” I lied. “It was Ninja Vision.”

In reality it wasn’t ninjas at all. Tessa had run off on her own, but I didn’t want John to know that. I laid there and winced at John rubbing his hands all over me in what I can only assume was an attempt to frisk me. He should brush up on his technique. I could even recommend a good elementary textbook on the topic if there wasn’t so much bad blood between us.

John erroneously concluded I was unarmed and left me laying in the sand to rescue Tessa from the Ninjas that didn’t have her. I pulled myself to my feet and leaned against the craft services table, watching him run slowly across the beach.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten, and there was a whole delicious spread right there on the table that was holding me up, so between forkfuls of pie I dug the bullet out of my thigh with a pair of chopsticks. I used the sterno flame from the chafing dish to cauterize the wound, and then I was ready to find Tessa and the treasure.

My Eyes Were Full of Sand

  • by jenSure, it’s iconic and colorful and mesmerizing
  • impelling the machine uphill
  • it had been about eels
  • she was lost in the city
  • expressing his feelings by serious pantomime

Tune In Next Time Part 23                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

My eyes were full of sand when I opened them. I lay on the beach, blood still oozing from my leg wound. As I tried to get my bearings, I remembered the dream that haunted my childhood. I don’t know why, but it had been about eels, and I’d had it again just now, passed out on the shore by the pier. Sure, it’s iconic and colorful and mesmerizing to have a recurring dream, but those eels man, they haunt me.

I sat up in time to see John emerge from the crashing surf, still alive. Dammit. In his grip was my underwater digging apparatus. It seems that John escaped his sharky fate by impelling the machine uphill instead of down, and letting it drag him along behind it. Not for the first time I cursed my engineering prowess.

When John saw me laying there bleeding all over the empty metal box he began expressing his feelings by serious pantomime, his jutting middle fingers quivering in rage.

“Where is Tessa?” he bellowed, stomping up to where I was sprawled.

I knew Tessa was a terrible navigator. I knew she was lost in the city, hopelessly trying to find her way to whatever rendezvous she and John had arranged. My only chance was to send John the wrong way so that I could get some much-needed medical attention and then find her myself.

“They took her,” I lied through gritted teeth. “The ninjas took her.”

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Whenever She Talked About Dieter

  • by jenwhen she found out he was married
  • exaggerated his size
  • seating configuration woes
  • blue-gray vest with silvery buttons.
  • now have caught up with the Hamburger

Whenever she talked about Dieter, Brittany exaggerated his size, both in the financial and genital departments. She planned an elaborate dinner party to introduce him to her entire family. But when she found out he was married, to some hausfrau in Hamburg, the small apartment’s seating configuration woes seemed hardly worth mentioning, at least not in comparison to her vendetta.

“His lies now have caught up with the Hamburger, as has the woman he scorned,” Brittany growled. “Hell hath no fury, Dieter.”

There were tears on his blue-gray vest with silvery buttons, along with blood and sweat. Brittany had at least never had to exaggerate the size of his wardrobe.

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Mink Jodhpurs?

  • by jenlittle things, like Band-Aids
  • kept the last of my clothes on
  • pissing off PETA
  • something even more sinister
  • ripping my trousers, cutting my leg

“Mink jodhpurs? Twyla! What were you thinking?” cried Octavius as he swung his blade wildly, ripping my trousers, cutting my leg. “Before you know it you’ll be pissing off PETA and they’ll be throwing paint on you, or something even more sinister.”

By then my pants were in ruins on the floor and my legs were bleeding. Before Octavius could destroy it, too, I removed my ermine bolero jacket. I kept the last of my clothes on and watched in fascination as Octavius tended my wounds, spackling my legs with these weird little things, like Band-Aids, only shiny and smelling of opium. Soon enough I didn’t care about my expensive rags anymore. I was ready for my red carpet debut!

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Substance Over Style

r-avatarOur current round of brainstorming is pointing out yet again why having a coauthor is such a marvelous thing. We’ve been kickin’ it old school, writing out notes longhand in a steno pad. It’s a great way to wake up different parts of the brain, but it’s also a great way to get a hand cramp. On those days when your fingers need a break, your collaborator can pry the quill from your gnarled fist and take over the scrivening duties. As long as you both have moderately legible handwriting, you’re saved!

A good writing partner has many uses besides that overly literal interpretation of the term. We know in broad strokes how the plot of our new novel will go, so right now we’re concentrating on fleshing out the major characters, filling in their backstories. Most of what we’ve been talking about won’t appear on the page, but it will inform the characters’ actions. We need to know who these people are and how they got that way. It’s the only way to make them feel real and fully formed. Details from their pasts often prompt plot points when we get to the outline stage.

So we’ve been flitting from character to character, having a grand old time gossiping about their secrets and what-have-you, until last night. That’s when we realized we’d been avoiding talking about the villain. He’s not a total stranger, mind you. We know several very important things about him, like his name, and what he’ll be doing in the novel. We know that he’s a very bad person, we just didn’t know how he got that way.

After chatting and throwing out wild ideas we whittled our list down to two possibilities. Option 1 has a really striking visual, and can probably be made to play nicely with the facts we already “know” about this guy and his MO. Option 2 is a bit more mundane, but opens up some really nice avenues for a character arc and some theme elements.

Obviously we chose Option 2, but the striking visual of Option 1 was very enticing. It’s over the top and gross and operatic. It represents a chance to really show off. It’s got style. Repulsive, dangerous style. Jen was having a hard time letting go, but luckily she has a writing partner. Kent was able to stuff his fingers in his ears and ignore the siren song. He argued for Option 2, for boring old plot momentum and character cohesion. And he’s right. The story overall will be much better if we opt for substance over style.

Never fear, Option 2 isn’t actually boring. It’s plenty disturbing and violent and sick. It’s just tame in comparison to the much bloodier Option 1. And we’ve filed Option 1 away for future use.

So maybe fear a little bit.

Pulling Back The Tarp

k-avatar

  • reveals the bloody guts
  • a blond haired woman in a jogging suit
  • a paper cup of hot chocolate
  • the signs were there
  • an overall consensus on what we can all agree on

Pulling back the tarp reveals the bloody guts underneath, reveals them to a blond haired woman in a jogging suit holding a paper cup of hot chocolate. The other detectives swill coffee, but especially on a chilly morning like this Monique Saint Claire preferrs something sweet.

“Detective Saint Claire, this isn’t your case.”

“S’pose not, Detective Jones, but it is my neighbor,” Monique replies. Steve Jones frowns at her over his styrofoam cup.

“Your landlord such a hard-ass that his tenants jump off their balconies if they’re late with the rent?”

“Nah, he’s a peach. The super’s an asshole, though.” Monique frowns at the mess on the sidewalk. “This is Mike. Just moved in. And he didn’t jump.”

“What makes you say that?”

Monique isn’t sure how to explain the obvious to a fellow detective. “You should have already figured it out,” she says, “the signs were there.” Signs that include Mike’s dressy shoes, and the long silver hairs tangled in his fingers.

“Just go finish your morning stroll, or whatever,” Jones says. “Don’t make this suck any worse. We already reached an overall consensus on what we can all agree on, before you showed up.”

 

bonus points for using them in order!

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“Do You Think You Could Let Me Have Some Blood?”

  • k-avatarThis will be a strange and rich experience
  • the cradle’s still soft
  • either snobbery or laziness
  • do you think you could let me have some blood?
  • I feel the better for our little chat
  • Italians often exaggerate such things
  • it bubbled out of him abruptly

“Do you think you could let me have some blood?”

Miguel nodded and shifted his weight in his chair, and then it bubbled out of him abruptly like a sneeze.

Vincenzo hastened to position the cup so none would go to waste. “Mamma Mia!” he shouted. “This is the most generous helping!” Although Italians often exaggerate such things, Vincenzo was being honest. Lifting his glass, Vincenzo breathed, “This will be a strange but rich experience.” And then he tossed it off.

Miguel mumbled at length, his words slurred by either snobbery or laziness. All Vincenzo could catch were the words, “…the cradle’s still soft…” And then Miguel passed out.

“I feel the better for our little chat,” Vincenzo proclaimed.

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Winter Had Been Going On For So Long

  • by jenamid a gush of bright blood
  • into the shepherd’s hut
  • thought snow, felt snow, smelled snow
  • her husband is even more wonderful
  • dreamlike and dim

Winter had been going on for so long, I thought snow, felt snow, smelled snow in my clothes where I usually smelled my husband’s cigarettes. It was depressing. Add to that my hopes of motherhood disappearing amid a gush of bright blood in my underpants this morning and my mood was pretty bleak. That’s when my sister called to brag about her family. Her children are darling little angels, she assures me every time, and just this morning little Sally was playing with her Fisher Price farm set and put the little baby people person into the shepherd’s hut and called him Jesus. Precious. Of course I envy my sister. Her husband is even more wonderful than her children, whereas mine always has this look in his eyes that is both dreamlike and dim.

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The Meeting Was Getting Out of Hand

  • k-avatara variety of lovely agonies
  • being the whore
  • the man with the severed leg
  • an unnatural child born of an unnatural act
  • the cacophony of activity
  • kill him and eat him

The meeting was getting out of hand. The man with the severed leg stood up and waved the bloody thing over his head, screaming. Clay thought the note-taker was likely to kill him and eat him.

Finally the CEO called for order, which somewhat diminished the cacophony of activity. His thunderous voice carried over the tumult. “This is an unnatural child born of an unnatural act, surely in fact from a variety of lovely agonies. In short, a monster.”

Wild cheers met this proclamation. Being the whore he was, the CEO let it wash over him for a full minute. Finally…

“It is my pleasure to announce your promotion, Clay. Don’t ever change.”

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Blood Jets Up To The Ceiling

  • k-avataremptied
  • jets
  • nameplate
  • within the system

Blood jets up to the ceiling from Daggart’s neck-stump, swamping the desk blotter and sweeping the nameplate to the floor, and then, emptied at last, his torso slumps back in the swivel chair as if wearied of exsanguination.

“Well,” thinks Maurice as he wipes his blade, “so much for working within the system.”

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