Out of the Garden part 18

This week's instalment comes from Catherine Leggitt

(To read the story from the beginning click here.)

Callan and I stared out the window at the commotion in the garden, which seemed to have escalated to a cacophony. Peta and Margaret, faces inches apart, gestured and ranted at one another, though I couldn’t make out their words.

The rest of the family resembled circling vultures.

“Looks like they need a referee.” The smirk in Callan’s eyes belied his serious tone.

Dare I leave The Her alone?

“Hurry.” Callan waved me out. “I’ll guard Her.”

From the bed, The Her beseeched. Get rid of them. The chest rattle now a snare drum. There wasn’t much time left.

Leaving Callan with The Her, I headed for the garden, Hector padding close behind. I pushed through the screen door, letting it pop-bang shut, and I spoke above the din. “What’s going on out here?”

Margaret bellowed. “Why should Peta make decisions about my mother?”

Her mother. Me. “What decisions?” My gaze bounced between them.

Margaret squeezed her lips shut.

Peta narrowed her eyes to slits, a familiar trick to keep me from reading her thoughts.

“Come on. Out with it.” The Her’s life depended on haste.

“Peta talked to Dr. Marigold.” Margaret blurted. “Aren’t doctors bound by confidentiality?”

They are, of course, but Peta had her ways, abilities Margaret knew nothing about. “And?” I said. “What did he say?”

“She said… he—,” Margaret teared up.

“Oh for granny’s sake,” Bree interrupted. “Peta wants to have you put into a nursing home.”

Hector hissed, then vaulted onto Peta, claws extended, completely deranged.

“Get this bloody beast off me.” She slapped at Hector with bony hands.

I wrenched Hector off of Peta, though it wasn’t easy. “He’s never done that before.” He relaxed in my arms.

Herb and Greta, my daughter’s in-laws, snatched up their belongings, mumbling about rabid animals. Klaus scurried after them. “Come along, children,” he called to his teenagers.

Margaret lingered to give me a hug. “Never mind, mother. We’ll sort this out later.”

Peta’s beady eyes probed the house. Nose in the air, she sniffed. “She’s inside. Don’t for a moment imagine I won’t find Her.”

Memories of Peta’s temper left me speechless.

With a hard look, my cousin flounced to the kitchen.

Callan stood behind the screen door, face ashen. “She’s gone.”

Catherine Leggitt is the author of the Christine Sterling Mysteries, PAYNE & MISERY, THE DUNN DEAL, and PARRISH THE THOUGHT published by Ellechor Publishing. A native Californian, Catherine raised two daughters, taught school, and cared for aging parents before retirement drove her to the keyboard. These days Catherine crafts suspenseful and convoluted plots—exploring God’s mysteries through fiction.

Monday at the Movies: Stephen King and Ray Bradbury

One of my favorite classes in university had me reading nothing but short stories. More than the longer novels I'd read for my English literature course work, the short stories reigned at evoking emotional responses.

I experienced true terror while reading "Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?" by Joyce Carol Oates. My heart rate rose and my palms got sweaty. "Patriotism" by Yukio Mishima drew me in with beautiful, transcendent language and then horrified me with a graphic depiction of seppuku. I was completely caught unaware by Ambrose Bierce in "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge." Franz Kafka. Stephen Crane. Flannery O'Connor.

I think I have my reading list for the summer! And I think it's time to try my hand at short stories again.

Here are two contemporary short story writers talking about their craft. Yep, it's a double feature on Monday at the Movies.

Pop the popcorn!

I love this personal look into Ray Bradbury's life. Besides, his legs are whiter than mine!

Anyone inspired to write a short story or two or forty-two?

Out of the Garden- Part Five

Read the story from the beginning here


Part five by Bonnie Grove

They swarmed my doorstep, more of them than I’d planned. Margaret, my daughter, her husband, Klaus, a Santa Claus of a man, his parents, Herb and Greta, both sharp angles and corners. My two grandchildren, teenagers now, looking bored. And a surprise, Peta, a cousin on my Mother’s side, all nose, and pursed lips, and elbows in your side as she flew past, a hummingbird among a flock of geese.

            “Long time,” Peta air-kissed both cheeks touching neither my face nor my heart. Where had they picked her up?

            My daughter, Margaret, mouthed the word Sorry and scurried to the kitchen to help. Sandwiches, cakes, and tea. It had sounded so homey when I invited them, so normal. Now, with The Her hidden under my bed, I could barely manage a polite greeting.

            Neachtar.

            Margaret frowned at my confusion but mobilized the troops and in minutes our outdoor party was ready. I lingered in the kitchen pretending to fuss over my lackluster variety of teas. Peta, too, remained in the house, darting eyes sizing up, summing up my solitary life. “Long time,” she said.

            “Too long,” I chirped.

            “You don’t mean that.” A deviled egg disappeared into her mouth.

            “I certainly—”

            “Save it.” A bony wrist waved away my manners. “I’ve heard all the niceties from Margaret already.” She leaned a hip against the counter. “Bet you were surprised, though.”

            “What’s the story?”

            “I thought I knew,” she shrugged, her shoulders tents of bone rising to her ears, falling again. “But now that I’m here, I’m not so sure.”

            We were close in age. Raised by sisters, but we couldn’t be more different. As children, I adored Peta. But that was before. I fumbled with the tea, and spilled some on the floor.

            Peta watched my hands, read my posture, the slight tremor that betrayed my nerves. “I’ll get the broom, shall I?”

            “No,” a near shout. “I’ll see to it. Please, join the others in the backyard and I’ll be out in a jiffy.”

            Neachtar.

            Peta stared, eyes locked on mine, searching. It had been years since we’d seen or spoken to each other. Decades. Not nearly long enough. “Something’s up, Cous.” She smiled. “I can feel it.” That grin pulled upwards. “Smell it, too.”

            “Out,” I said, trying for some kind of firmness in my voice.

            “Do you want Margaret? I’ll send her in.” The question felt like a test.

            “No.” I said, too quickly, failing.

            She moved toward the back door, paused, sniffed the air. “Just don’t forget what you are.”

            I waited until the screen door slammed shut before letting myself rest heavy on the counter. What had she meant? But the spinning in my head, the jackhammer rhythm of my heart said some old part of me understood.

            Not who.

            What.




Bonnie Grove is a regular contributor to Novel Matters. 

There is room for you! We are still welcoming contributors. If you'd like to contribute to Out of the Garden, email us at novelmatters@gmail.com and we will slot you in and explain the whole process. Remember, you will have time to write, rewrite, think, edit, and ponder your contribution--the story awaits you.

Why the Novel Matters

Welcome back to Novel Matters! We hope you had a wonderful holiday season and are excited about the possibilities of 2012. We have missed you and the stimulating conversations we have come to enjoy so much. We've been busy bees while you were gone. Here's a taste of what's coming in the new year:

Drumroll please...announcing our theme for this year - why the novel matters. Everything we do in 2012 will circle back to this question, and we'll be looking for your input, so put those thinking caps on.

Soon we'll announce the particulars of a "Why the Novel Matters" essay contest. The essay can address novels in general or one in particular and the grand prize will be a Kindle! Lucky finalists will not go away empty-handed, as we have some delightful parting gifts, so stay tuned.

We've lined up interviews with fabulous authors whose books help us answer our theme question. They'll give us a peek into their methods and madness and maybe even their struggles with publication. Look for these interviews to begin in February and continue on the fourth Monday of each month through November.

We'd love to have a picture of you reading one of our books in an exotic locale (or just around town, but be creative). We'll post your photo on our blog and give you a shout-out on our new Facebook page.

Yes, Novel Matters is now on Facebook, and we'd love for you to 'like' us here. Now it's even easier to stay in touch and keep the conversation going. We'll also post photos of the writer's life and try to make it look more glamorous than it actually is (no pictures in our jammies, we promise).

We've sharpened our Ticonderoga #2 pencils and are tapping into our creative juices to bring some short stories to the blog. Who knows, a story could grow into a living, breathing novel and you will be here at its conception. At the very least, we'll have fun trying.

We'll continue partnering with our sister blog, She Reads, exchanging posts monthly and supporting each others' endeavors to spread the positive message of a loving Creator.

Last, the six of us will post reviews of books we love in the coming months. And of course, we'll explore the question, "Why does this novel matter?" for each one. We'll need your feedback on this, too.

By the end of 2012, we hope to have a pretty good handle on why what we do matters. Is this an important question for you? We'd love to hear.

Short or Long Fiction?

I’ve often told non-fiction writers who want to be published to start by crafting articles. That way they can build up both credibility and credits. Then, when they’ve gained an audience and the trust of editors, they can begin to think about writing a book-length work.

I assumed that one should take the same tack with writing novels: Start with short stories and then write a novel. I must admit that every short story I’ve ever written was literarily flabby and unsatisfying, even (or especially!) to me. I thought I was a failure because if I couldn’t write short fiction, who would ever want me to write something longer?

Imagine my relief and gratitude when I began reading what one of the best short story writers now living said:

“One of the most often asked questions when I’m playing professor is this: Should I start writing short stories and then work my way up to novels? My answer is no. It’s not like starting to ride a tricycle and then graduating to a bike. Forgive my clumsy mixing of metaphors, but short stories and novels aren’t even apples and oranges; they’re apples and potatoes. Novels seek to emotionally engage readers on all levels, and, to achieve that goal, authors must develop characters in depth, create realistic settings, do extensive research and come up with a structured pacing that alternates between the thoughtful and the rip-roaring. . .

“The payoff in the case of short stories isn’t a roller coaster of plot reversals involving characters they’ve spent lots of time learning about and loving or hating, set in places with atmosphere carefully described. Short stories are like a sniper’s bullet. Fast and shocking. In a story, I can make good bad and bad badder and the most fun of all, really bad seem good.”

--Jeffery Deaver, from the introduction to More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II (Pocket Books, 2006.)

How about you, novel writers? Any of you been able to get paid for publishing both short stories and novels?