Friday Flash—The Boyfriend of Truth

It's been a long time, so I thought I'd take an hour or so to give you some flash fiction. This one's more like half a flash, or maybe half-flashed, because it's just over 500 words, and I wrote it in a hurry. I went to the random title generators (about 4 of them) and collected a pretty good list of titles that might interest me at some point, but weren't right for a fast and barely-edited flash. This one did it. Enjoy the flash fiction, and enjoy your weekend!

The Boyfriend of Truth

It was all due to a simple misunderstanding. If my ears hadn’t been full of water from swimming, I’d have heard her name correctly, and I’d never have gone near her. 

But my ears were blocked, and when Hilary introduced us I thought the girl’s name was Ruth. That’s what I called her the whole time we were going out, and she never corrected me. Which, when I think about it, is kind of weird, because she wasn’t Ruth, which means sorrow or pity. She was Truth, which can be rather pitiless. 

I don’t mean that was just her name, which would have been an affliction to any girl but not the end of the world for her boyfriend. She WAS Truth, and once we got that straightened out, it explained a lot.

Unfortunately, by that time it was too late. I was fathoms deep, because she was beautiful. Come to think of it, that’s odd, too, because the truth may set you free, as they say, but it isn’t always pretty. It wasn’t in my case.

I fell in love hard and fast. When I told “Ruth” that I loved her and asked if she loved me, she said “no,” but I understood. I was moving too fast. I didn’t ask again. I realize now that things went on so long because I didn’t ask much of anything of her. I was too absorbed in my own feelings and desires, and that was what I talked about. If I’d asked her more about herself things mightn’t have gone on so long.

It was later, when I settled down a little and began to think, that I realized her reactions to me weren’t always what I’d hoped. I began to ask questions.

“Am I coming on too strong?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“No.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.” But she didn’t kiss me back.

I didn’t get that one until Hilary pointed out, later, the difference between “can” and “may.” 

I’d been kissing her for a week when I asked the worst question. “Why won’t you let me do more than kiss you once in a while?”

“Because you do it so poorly, and you smell bad.”

“How can you say that?” That really hurt, because I’d spent a lot on a new cologne when I started seeing her. I wanted to impress her with my sophisticated taste, and she thought I stank?

“What do you mean, how can I say it? You asked a question. You get the true answer, because I am Truth.”

“Wait—what? I thought your name was Ruth. I’ve been calling you Ruth.”

“You can call me anything. I’ve told you what I am. I am Truth. If you want to hear only things you like, you should join all the other men hanging around Flattery.”

“Flattery?” I couldn’t remember any girl by that name. I looked where Truth was pointing, and saw a group of men clustered around a gorgeous blonde, whom I vaguely recognized from the same party where I met Truth. “I thought her name was Hattie.”

“You should get your hearing checked.”

It was the truth. Of course.

***

©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2018

As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated.

Flash Fiction Friday: The 13th Keeper

Friday looming ahead of me, I pulled another title from Jemima Pett's flash fiction prompts late Thursday afternoon. That gave me "The Thirteenth Keeper," and I decided that a little romance might be in order. This one's about 950 words.

The 13th Keeper

"He's cute." Jill giggled, a sound disturbing incongruous with the evidence of decades past that marked her eyes, if not her skin.

Sandra nodded. "It's worth investigating. You never know."

"The last one didn't turn out so well."

"You won't know unless you try."

The two women leaned their determinedly dark heads together, whispering, before sitting back and taking long, thoughtful sips from the glasses they held. The gentleman in question, unaware of their scrutiny, continued to sip his own drink, apparently lost in thought.

"So how do you go about it?" Sandra wondered. “You’ve no one to introduce you.”

"It's an art," Jill said with a smirk. She was much better at this than her friend, who hadn't needed to practice for many years. "I'll show you." She touched up her hair, pulled out a compact and tidied her lipstick, then pushed back her chair and stood up. Her stumble as she passed the target's seat was completely convincing.

He leapt to his feet, putting out a hand to steady her, and Jill smiled at him with all the dazzling power her dentist and plastic surgeon could impart upon her.

"Oh, thank you!" Jill's eyelashes, the full unbelievable inch of them, flew up and down as she clutched the stabilizing arm. "I might have hurt myself if you hadn't been there, so strong and gallant!"

The gentleman made a small bow, smiled, and said, "Oh, not at all. I'm sure such a graceful lady could never stumble and fall."

Jill beamed at him. "You are too kind, my dear Mr., ah?" She let the question hang, the eyelashes hard at work.

Again the gentleman bowed. "Smith. James Smith." He patted her hand and made to let go, but Jill clutched the tighter.

"And I am Jillian Cartwright. You must let me buy you a drink to thank you for saving my life."

Mr. Smith allowed himself a slight smile at this exaggeration, but he also allowed Jill to buy the drink, gracefully ensconcing herself at his table.

When she left the restaurant an hour later, Jill picked up Sandra, who was reading a book in her own corner of the bar, and linked arms gaily as they went out, pausing only to give a flirtatious little wave in the direction of Mr. James Smith.

"So," Sandra asked, amused, "is he a keeper?"

"Oh, very definitely." Jill winked. "A most eligible gentleman. We will be dining on Tuesday, and I most certainly intend to keep him."

"What does that make?" Sandra inquired idly. "An even dozen?"

Jill paused to count on her fingers. "He's the thirteenth. The Thirteenth Keeper, and I've kept them all."

"For a little while," Sandra noted dryly.

"For a little while," Jill echoed, satisfied.

*
The flirtation developed nicely over the weeks that followed. Jill made sure that the dinner on Tuesday led to a sunset walk on Friday, and that to more time spent together over the weekend. Before the month was out, she was able to tell Sandra with confidence that “he’s in the net, dear. You see how it’s done? Just dangle the goods in front of a man and he’ll fall right in line.” The seductive smile wasn’t in use now; they were private, enjoying coffee at Jill’s apartment. Neither woman had put on her war paint, and the years were more obvious in the harsh light of morning than they needed to be.

“Do you ever worry you’re pushing your luck?” Sandra asked.

Jill shrugged. “Numbers one through twelve went quietly, and never a sniff of worry. I just need James Smith, and my retirement portfolio will be complete. I can quit, then.”

*
The wedding took place two months later. The previous twelve husbands had found that Jill’s attractions wore them out faster than expected, and each had died in a different manner, except two. Those two she had divorced without fanfare, claiming infidelity and accepting generous payments to keep the matter out of the courts and the press.

Mr. Smith seemed to be of a stronger fiber. Not only had he written the pre-nup himself, in a manner that made Jill vaguely uneasy in the moments she allowed herself to think of it, but he seemed to be disgustingly healthy.

Too healthy. Her best efforts had no effect, and she was beginning to worry.

The end came when she prepared his morning coffee, carefully stirring a spoonful of sugar into the cup, just as he liked it. She turned to get the second cup. She took her coffee black.

“What are you doing this morning, Darling?” Appearances had to be maintained until she was done with him, after all. “Will you be going to the office?”

“No, I believe I’ll be staying in. I have business here, my dear.”

It wasn’t until she had taken a hearty swig of the coffee that Jill realized it was sweet. Somehow, she had gotten hold of his cup? How could that have happened?! In a panic, she ran to the bathroom, willing herself to vomit, but nothing came up. Her new husband, the 13th, followed her, but he seemed to lack the concern she expected.

“You needn’t worry, my dear. You’ll be sick enough soon.”

Jill paled, and cursed. “How did--?”

“It really wasn’t hard. You should have made sure the cups didn’t match. In a little while, I’ll call the doctor, terribly worried over your illness. It will, of course, be too late.”

James Smith shut and locked the bathroom door, and walked away as Jill began to vomit.

Thirteen, he mused, had always been his lucky number.

***

©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2018
As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated!

Mystery Review: The Book Club Murders

Today we are fortunate not only to have a great read to review, but author Leslie Nagel has stopped by with a guest post! Read on for my review and her post.

Title: The Book Club Murders
Author: Leslie Nagel
Publisher: Alibi, 2016. 256 pages.
Source: Great Escapes Tours electronic review copy

Publisher's Summary: 

In a charming cozy mystery series debut, Leslie Nagel’s irrepressible small-town heroine finds that her fellow mystery book club members may be taking their Agatha Christie a bit too literally—and murder a bit too lightly.

Charley Carpenter has poured heart and soul into her clothing store, Old Hat Vintage Fashions. She’ll do anything to make it a success—even join the stuffy Agathas Book Club in order to cultivate customers among the wealthy elite of Oakwood, Ohio.

Although mixing with the most influential women in town has its advantages, Charley finds the endless gossip a high price to pay. But after two women with close ties to the Agathas are brutally murdered, everyone falls under threat—and suspicion. When key evidence indicates that both murders are the work of the same hand, Charley realizes that the killer has arranged each corpse in perfect imitation of crime scenes from the Club’s murder mystery reading list. She uses her membership in the Club to convince Detective Marcus Trenault to use her as an inside informant. Not that he could stop her anyway.

Intelligent, fearless, and every bit as stubborn as Marc is, Charley soon learns the Agathas aren’t the only ones with secrets to protect. Passions explode as she and Marc must race against time to prevent another murder. And if Charley’s not careful, she may find herself becoming the killer’s next plot twist.

My Review:

The Book Club Murders is a good mystery with a solid dose of romance. Charley is an engaging heroine, neither too perfect nor too flawed, and I found myself liking her. I could sympathize with her attempts not only to engage with the "wealthy elite" (which whom she is not comfortable), but actually to like them, not just use them.

The romance element of the book teeters on the brink for me--I'm not a fan of romance-novel predictability, and there is some of that in Charley's relationship with Marc (they start out with an apparent strong dislike of each other, and Charley matches this dislike with a powerful physical attraction, another romance trope that kind of bugs me). In the end, I'm okay with how it plays out, as it works well in the story. Certain moments teeter on the brink of too graphic for a cozy, but again are brought up just in time.

The mystery itself is very well put together. I was aware that Charley and the police were going astray, but didn't figure out whodunnit until too late, being distracted (as no doubt intended) by another good candidate. The most dubious part of the mystery is the way in which Charley is allowed to work with the police. It is made to seem inevitable--she has something to offer that they can't do themselves--but I'm still a little skeptical. [As an aside, why is it easier to believe in a total loose-cannon amateur sleuth than in one who works with the police?]  I do like that this cooperation allows the author to avoid the bumbling-police (or nasty-cop) meme all too common in cozy mysteries. I prefer to treat law-and-order with a bit more respect, and she does.

The book is well-edited, and I was not aware of any issues of proofing or formatting.

Recommendation:

Recommend for fans of the not-too-cute cozy mystery. Charley's business (her vintage clothing shop) plays into the mystery, but the book isn't bogged down in cute crafty things. So this reads well even if, like me, you aren't interested much in clothes. The Ninja Librarian says check it out.

About The Author

Leslie Nagel is a writer and teacher of writing at a local community college. Her debut novel, “The Book Club Murders”, is the first in the Oakwood Mystery Series. Leslie lives in the all too real city of Oakwood, Ohio, where murders are rare but great stories lie thick on the ground. After the written word, her passions include her husband, her son and daughter, hiking, tennis and strong black coffee, not necessarily in that order.

And now, here's Leslie Nagel with a discussion of what it takes to bring a book like The Book Club Murders to happy readers like me.

By the Numbers: A Beginner’s Guide to Getting Published 

As a debut author, the question I hear most often is: “How did you get your book published? Is it hard to do?” Great question. With the explosion of digitally downloadable books and the shift away from brick and mortar book stores, getting that first publishing deal is tougher than ever.

No matter how good a writer you are, it’s no longer enough to have an intriguing story, a cast of engaging characters or a unique setting. You’ve also got to have the patience of a saint, the endurance of a long distance runner, and the stubbornness of a wide awake toddler at bedtime. So for those inquiring minds who want to know, here, in brief, is my by-the-numbers journey from that first keystroke to the release of my debut novel, The Book Club Murders.

150,000

I completed my Masters in Education in May 2010, with an eye to pursuing a long deferred dream of changing careers from marketing to teaching middle school. Unfortunately, the economy was sagging and no one could get a school levy passed. Since I couldn’t find a full time job, I began teaching English part time at a local community college. A couple of sections of Comp II kept me off the streets but didn’t fill my calendar. With time on my hands I began the first draft of a story idea I’d been kicking around for years, a mystery about desperate housewives, a dysfunctional book club, and a stubborn redhead with a flair for detection. I began writing during the Thanksgiving holiday break and completed a first draft in late January of 2011.

The problem? I had no idea what I was doing. Sure, I knew the mechanics of plot arcs, exposition and character development. I’ve read thousands of mysteries and thrillers; certainly I was an expert in what makes a good page turner. What I failed to do was a single jot of market research. What was selling? What were the rules defining genres? Most importantly, what were the guidelines for word count?

Adrift in a happy sea of ignorance, I hammered away. Every imagined encounter between any of my characters went onto the page. Every possible dialog, miles of back story, reams of description, away I churned. It felt so damned good. It had been years since I’d experienced the writing rush.

When I was finished, I had produced an opus of 150,000 words, 85 chapters, and over 40 characters. To put it in perspective, the average cozy mystery comes in at about 75,000 words. Ouch.

141                                                                          

I spent the next few months slashing and burning, managing to trim the book down to 110,000 words. Sadder but wiser, I first researched the proper methods for acquiring an agent and then began querying in earnest in March 2011.

Between that first attempt and a joyous day in May 2014, I queried 141 agents. Those were a long 3 years. Most of those letters went unanswered or elicited a form rejection. But lucky for me, a handful of generous spirits responded with reasons why they were rejecting me. I devoured those comments, using every particle of advice to further trim and reorganize my rambling novel. I wish I could buy those lovely people a coffee and tell them how much their few words helped me. After dozens of disappointments, and having found at last the tidy house within my messy mansion, I signed with the amazing Curtis Russell at the even more amazing PS Literary Agency. Success tasted sweet, but my work was just beginning.

21

My agent took me on with the proviso that I be willing to do yet more revision. Seriously? Bring on the constructive critiques, please. His insights helped me clarify and crystallize all the problems still inherent in my book. Another massive overhaul involving the removal of yet more characters and extraneous crap got me down to 80,000 words and 30 chapters.

Curtis began submitting the manuscript to a handful of publishers in October 2014. These rejections were wonderful, because they nearly all came with loads of specific comments about what wasn’t working. The verdict? My book was still floating between genres, part soft boiled, part cozy, with a smattering of police procedural. The answer? Keep it cozy, of course. Another revision down to 78,000 words, more submissions, and FINALLY an offer! We signed a three-book deal with Random House Alibi in December 2015, with a release date of Book One in September 2016.

95%

It’s all about mobile devices these days. Genre fiction—romance, historical novels, fantasy, thrillers, westerns, the many subsets of the mystery world—we all know they’re more popular today than ever before. But did you know that 95% of all genre fiction is purchased digitally, either in ebook or audio format? That breathtaking statistical reality is driving the creation of digital imprints such as Alibi. New books from new authors like me are almost always published digitally now. If we catch on (fingers crossed!), then we might get a paperback release. Catching on depends heavily on social media, like the blog page you’re reading right now. Without the many lovers of books who write about reading and the people who love to read, new authors wouldn’t stand a chance. Thank you, most humbly.

So, let’s sum up. From the time the first word hit my laptop screen in November 2011 until The Book Club Murders release date of September 27, 2016, that’s—Whoa.

4 years 11 months.

So, what’s the hardest part about getting published? Well, the rejections aren’t much fun. But to quote a famous Heartbreaker, the waiting is the hardest part.

Thanks for coming by and sharing your story, Leslie!

Author Links
Webpage – http://www.leslienagel.com/
Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/LeslieNagelAuthor/
Twitter – https://twitter.com/@leslie_nagel
Instagram – https://www.instagram.com/leslie_nagel/
Purchase Links
Amazon – B&N – Kobo –  Ibooks

FTC Disclosure: I was given an electronic review copy of The Book Club Murders as a participant in this tour, and received nothing further from the writer or publisher in exchange for my honest review.  The opinions expressed are my own and those of no one else.  I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."  

Book Review: At the Water's Edge, by Sara Gruen

Title: At the Water's Edge
Author: Sara Gruen
Publisher: Spiegel & Grau, 348 pages
Source: Library digital resources

Publisher's Summary: 
After embarrassing themselves at the social event of the year in high society Philadelphia on New Year’s Eve of 1942, Maddie and Ellis Hyde are cut off financially by Ellis’s father, a former army Colonel who is already embarrassed by his son’s inability to serve in WWII due to his being colorblind.

To Maddie’s horror, Ellis decides that the only way to regain his father’s favor is to succeed in a venture his father attempted and very publicly failed at: he will hunt the famous Loch Ness monster and when he finds it he will restore his father’s name and return to his father’s good graces (and pocketbook). Joined by their friend Hank, a wealthy socialite, the three make their way to Scotland in the midst of war.

Each day the two men go off to hunt the monster, while another monster, Hitler, is devastating Europe. And Maddie, now alone in a foreign country, must begin to figure out who she is and what she wants.

The novel tells of Maddie’s social awakening: to the harsh realities of life, to the beauties of nature, to a connection with forces larger than herself, to female friendship, and finally, to love. 

My Review:
I grabbed this book on a whim while loading my Nook before our recent backpacking trip, and it's definitely a step out of my usual reading. I think the author and publisher would deny it, but it really felt most of the time like a romance, not quite the sort of historical fiction I was looking for.

The WWII setting, in a tiny Scottish village on the shores of Loch Ness, is well drawn, though I realize that mostly I ended up visualizing only the lousy weather, not the actual setting. Certainly the people of the village, beyond the pub/inn where Maddie is staying, are pretty vague. The other women, with whom Maddie becomes friends, are a bit set to "type."

That said, the book was certainly an engaging read. While the characters of Ellis and Hank remain pretty static, and everyone else besides Maddie is clearly a minor character meant to reflect her, Maddie does seem to grow and develop. That is, of course, the whole point of the book, aside from bringing her from a loveless and pointless marriage to a discovery of love and friendship. In fact, I wish more effort had been spent on Maddie's development of friendship--and maybe her discovery that doing something productive is satisfying, and that having money doesn't make you a better person than someone who works for a living--and less on finding her a better lover.

As for that lover--he has the potential to be an interesting person, but I very much disliked the "twist" at the end, which felt pat and easy and negated some of the things Maddie was learning. And as usual, I am disappointed when an author implies that monsters and supernatural beings maybe are real and had an impact on the story (beyond the impact of characters' belief in them; characters can believe whatever they want, I just want the author to remain clear on the difference between fantasy and reality).

All in all, I give this one a mixed rating. The writing, as mentioned was sound and engaging, it just remained, in the end, not my kind of book in many ways--though it comes so close at times to being much more than a romance.

Recommendation:
Good for a book-club read or a vacation. There are a couple of sex scenes that are moderately graphic, but they actually serve a narrative purpose (however obvious that purpose may be).

FTC Disclosure: I checked At the Water's Edge out of my library, and received nothing from the writer or publisher in exchange for my honest review.  The opinions expressed are my own and those of no one else.  I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising." 

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The summer sale continues for just 4 more days!

 

Friday Flash: I'm in Love with a Zombie

Last week, Chuck Wendig collected a whole lot of titles from his readers. This week, he presented us with his 10 favorite and told us to pick one and write the story. He gave us the usual 1000 words; I used 918.

I'm In Love With A Zombie But He Doesn’t Even Know I’m Alive

Look, I’ve been crushing on Armand since the sixth grade. We’re graduating next spring, so that’s pretty much a whole lifetime, in teen years. He’s never liked me back, of course. Why should the cutest guy in the school pay any attention to a geek with pimples? Even if I do have the best brains in our class. Plus I don’t even know if he likes boys.

So I guess I have the best brains except when it comes to crushing on beautiful boys with no brains and 17 girlfriends. I have to admit that’s pretty stupid.

After last month, it’s even more stupid.

You know all about that, of course. There hasn’t been much else on the news besides the virus that spread into every community in North America, turning about ten percent of the people into zombies. Those zombies wander around, looking for the living so they can suck out their brains.

You see now why it’s not so smart for the brainiest kid in the junior class to crush on Armand. Because though I’m pretty sure that being smart doesn’t actually mean I have more brains in a literal sense, what’s a zombie to think? Actually, I’m not sure that Armand recognized the “brainiest” designation as figurative even when he was alive. I’m not in love with him for his brains, just that gorgeous body.

The only thing that’s kept me alive so far is that Armand doesn’t know I am. If you didn’t follow that, it’s like this: I’m pretending to be a zombie. So Armand and the rest of the zombies don’t know I’m alive. Literally.

They shut down the school, of course, after than nasty incident in the AP class. A dozen zombies broke in and went after the top students. Lucky for me, I’d gone to the bathroom and missed the carnage, but they got a couple of my best friends. Anyway, after that the school said they couldn’t be responsible and shut down.

Now most people lock themselves in their houses from sunset to sunrise, and only go out in the day if they have to, because not all the zombies avoid the sun, and cloudy days are always chancy. Everyone sits around watching TV or cat videos on You Tube, which to me is just a long slow way of becoming a zombie. I could only stand it for about a day and half, and then I had to come up with a way to get out.

That was when I realized that zombies only attack the living, not the living dead. They wander around together all the time and never try to suck each others’ brains. If I could learn to look like a zombie, I could go where I liked, night or day. I found my sister’s makeup and practiced for a week before I felt confident, and then I started venturing out.

Of course, the first thing I did was go look for Armand, and I found him with a troop of zombies, wandering around looking for “braiiiiins.”

The movies all show the living dead as half-decayed, hideous things. But the thing is, the virus doesn’t ruin their bodies, only their minds. They’re dead, but the virus keeps the body going. So Armand looks just the way he always did, and I can’t get over that. I started hanging out with his gang just to be close to that gorgeous bod, even though I knew that if they figured out I’m alive I’d be dead.

The hardest part is to remember not to say anything but “Braiiins!” and to fade away discreetly when they find a victim. The first time I saw them attack someone, I barely managed to get out of sight before I puked. That would be a dead giveaway, and I can’t risk it happening again.

I still really, really want to suck face with Armand, but…I’m pretty sure that he only wants to suck brains. And anyway, he doesn’t know I’m alive, which is just what it’s been like since sixth grade. At least I can look at him, and sometimes I manage to rub up against him, pretending it’s just the jostling of the crowd. There don’t seem to be any more zombies forming in our town, but the crowd around Armand keeps getting bigger, which makes it hard to stay close to him, but also gives me an excuse to touch him when I do get close. Zombies seem to like company, even though they’re lousy conversationalists.

My patience finally paid off after a couple of weeks. He spoke to me! Armand turned and looked right at me and said “Brains!” Just to me. I went so weak in the knees I almost forgot to be a zombie. I’ve been waiting for him to see me, really see me, since middle school. I wanted to reach out and hold his hand, but I’ve noticed that zombies don’t do that. I’m trying really hard to fit in, and it’s working better than it did when I tried to join him at the jocks’ table in the lunchroom in 9th grade.

So there I am. I’m spending all my time with the most beautiful boy in the school, and he doesn’t even know I’m alive. And I have to be glad about that.

When you’re in love with a zombie, it really is best if he doesn’t know you’re alive.

###

©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2016