Tall, Dark Streak of Lightning

Anyone interested in reading the first 1200 words of the novel I've been working on for the last seven years or so???   This is what I'm submitting to the next level of weBook's page-to-fame contest, where people vote on whether what you have written makes you want it elevated, so you can read more...maybe even see it get published. I'd love to know what you think, so I can gauge whether or not I'm getting (& keeping!) a reader's attention.

You might have even read an early draft (or two or three...) but I'm always revising, so this might be a little different.  Here goes:

I knew right away that Davin Kowalski was different.  For one thing, he was kind of impossible to miss: a tall, scruffy guy in a long black trench coat, often seen sprinting to his next class.  He wasn’t known for saying much; but then, he wasn’t really known at all.  If anyone could have guessed what was going on in that brain of his underneath his unruly mop of hair, I think we all would have looked at him differently.

            As it was, he took great pains to isolate himself and keep his thoughts a mystery.  In class—when he made it on time—he sat in the corner, hunched over his desk, always reading or writing something.  He was a loner and kept to himself.  He was so good at it that most people passed by him without a second glance—unless it was to whisper about him.  Most people thought he was sort of scary and went out of their way to avoid him, and he certainly was intimidating.  Always dressed in dark clothes and wearing combat boots, he seemed a generally disheveled mess towering over the rest of us. 

            At first I was no different, no more privy to his thoughts than anyone else.  I was a bit on the shy side myself so we’d never actually had a conversation, even though we’d been in a study group once or twice.  We had World Civilizations together, one of those liberal arts prerequisites they assign half the freshman class to attend, and our study group was easily a third of that.  Even for a small school like Dubsy, that was too many to get to know anyone well right away. 

            I don’t know exactly what it was about the way he’d come stumbling in late and looking half-asleep that caught my interest.  There were cuter—and probably saner—guys in my class that would have been a whole lot easier to get to know.  And it wasn’t like I made a habit of trying to salvage hopeless causes.  I’d given that up ages ago.  But there was just something in his expression that reminded me of my own loneliness and homesickness.  Whatever it was, my heart went out to him.  Of course, I should have known right then that I was in for a world of trouble.

            We were walking out of class one day, and I was by myself.  Tiffany, a girl who lived down the hall from me, usually walked to class and lunch with me but had skipped that day.  I didn’t really care.  I’d eaten plenty of lunches by myself in high school. 

            It was just an ordinary, crisp fall day and students were milling around, walking over to Phelps Dining Hall.  I was not particularly in a hurry; I knew that by the time I got there, the line would already be out the door.  Just steps away from reaching the parking lot, I began digging through my bag for my ID card.  I rifled through its murky depths and irritably pulled out the folders and notebooks I’d so neatly tucked away just moments earlier.  I heard footsteps behind me, but I wasn’t really paying attention.  Then I was jostled: an elbow bumped my own and sent my books flying all over the sidewalk.  “Hey!”  I yelled after the culprit, but he was still moving—running—past. 

            “Sorry,” he called over his shoulder, his black trench coat flapping behind him like a cape.

            Then I saw what he was running to.

            Across the street, on the lawn next to the cafeteria, a group of students were playing Frisbee.  I watched as a long throw sent one of the guys running backwards into the street after it, oblivious to the car that was backing out toward him.  From where I stood, I could see what was about to happen, but it was obvious neither party was aware of the other—a large van was blocking the view. 

            That was when Davin caught the Frisbee, threw it back to the group, and pushed the guy out of the way just in time.  He himself didn’t quite make it out of harm’s way; the car had a bike rack that snagged his forearm and tore his sleeve.

            “Hey, keep your game out of the parking lot, morons!” I heard the driver yell as she drove away. 

            The Frisbee guy, too, was yelling at him.  “What was that for?” 

            By that time, I’d crossed the street as well.  “Are you blind?  That car would have hit you,” I snapped.  “He did you a favor.”

            The Frisbee guy frowned and backed away.  “Whatever.  Just...keep your hands off me, man.”

            “You’re welcome,” Davin called after him mildly.  He shook his head.

            “Jerk,” I muttered; he seemed to suddenly notice me.  “Not you.  Him,” I clarified.

            “You…saw all that, did you?”

            “Yeah.”  I faced him, looking stern.  “Are you crazy? You could have been killed!  Or at the very least, seriously injured.”
            He glanced over at me.  “Well, luckily, no one was. You’re all right, aren’t you?”
            “Yes.  But if I hadn’t stopped to pick up my books...”  I looked at him, curiously.  Surely he hadn’t knocked them out of my arms on purpose.
            He was looking at my folders.  “Star Wars and Spider-Man, huh?  Your boyfriend got you carrying his stuff, now?”
            “What?  These are mine,” I exclaimed indignantly.
            “Oh.  That’s cool.”
            “No, it’s geeky,” I contradicted.  “But I don’t care.  Anyway, I don’t have a boyfriend.”  I shoved them back in my bag, feeling flustered and self-conscious; for an awkward moment we just stood there.  “Your arm is bleeding,” I frowned, suddenly noticing.
            He glanced down.  “Oh.”  He shrugged.  “It’s just a scratch.”
            “That’s what they all say.  You know, even little scratches need to be taken care of, or they’ll get infected,” I said.
            “What, are you pre-med or something?”  He sounded annoyed.  “Is that like, Minor Wounds 101?”
            “No.  Mom Lectures 101.”  I reached back into my bag and pulled out my travel first aid kit.
            “You carry around a first aid kit?”
            “Believe it or not, it comes in handy.”  I ripped open an alcohol pad, pushed up his sleeve, and began cleaning his scrape, even though he clearly didn’t want me to.  He didn’t exactly stop me, either.  “You never know when you might need a band-aid here, some Tylenol there.  I like to be prepared.”
            “You don’t really strike me as the hypochondriac type.”
            I looked up at him, about to apply a band-aid.  “I’m not.  It’s everyone else I worry about.”

            “So...you’re a Boy Scout and a nurse.”

            I laughed.  “Nope.  Neither.  Just a concerned citizen.”  I crumpled the band-aid wrapper.  “All done.”

            He inspected my handiwork and flexed his arm.  “Good as new.  Thank you, Doctor...”  He looked at me curiously.  “I know I should know your name.”

            “Anna.  Fisher.”

            “Right.  You’re in Howard’s class, right?”

            “Yeah.  World Civ.”

            “I’m Davin.  Kowalski.” 

            Of course I was aware of that, but I wasn’t about to let him know it.  Even if he was conscious of how his looming presence made an impression on his classmates, it might come off creepy and stalker-ish.  And he clearly already thought I was weird.  Best to just keep things polite and friendly.  “Well, Davin Kowalski, are you headed to lunch?”

So, what do you think?  Would YOU want to read more? (If so, you can now click the "Tall, Dark Streak of Lightning" tab at the top of my blog to read the whole first chapter.  Feedback is ALWAYS appreciated!!)


Thanks!!

Redemption, Reformation, and a Revolution

Dear American Church:

If you want to know why your attendance is dropping, I’d love to tell you, at least from my own personal experience.  Because I’m pretty close to walking out on you myself.

Here’s the thing.  I’ve been a Christian since I was very young.  I’ve been going to church all my life.  And now here I am in my early thirties, and I’m about to throw in the towel.  If I hadn’t had an extremely good experience with a wonderful church in Austin last year, I think today would be the day I broke up with church.  And how did I get here, you ask?

Thirty years of seeing the ugly underside of church politics, in a nutshell.

I could tell story after story of how I’ve seen churches abuse their power and shuffle people out of their country-club-type community over the most ridiculous things.  I could talk about how working in a church exposes you to some of the nastiest, pettiest work place politics you will ever see.  I could even give evidence that this is not limited to a particular region, denomination, or creed.  But those kinds of stories—even just the ones from my own personal experience—could fill a book, so I’m not going to tell them all here.

The point is, church is broken.  I don’t care how you slice it, what arguments you make or positive spin you try to put on things, something is not working.  It had a good long run, it served its purpose for many, many years, but the church as an institution is largely failing.  My dad hates when I make sweeping statements like this about the church.  But I cannot find it in me to be less cynical about an institution that has allowed people to insult and slander—him in particular and others in general—time after time without ever making things right.  And today for me was the last straw.

I am so sick of all the petty arguments and politics in the average congregation.  I’m sick of the general attitude Christianity has toward outsiders, and those that don’t agree 100% with all their precious doctrines.  Someone recently asked me if I was “super religious” and I was like, “Hell, no!”  I have been that person; I have looked down my nose at the world for not being as Christian as I was.  And I've been on the other side of it and seen how nasty and un-Christlike that attitude is.  I never want to be that way again.  Because the truth is, attitudes like that have a way of chipping at my soul and my faith.  Honestly, some days I’m not even sure how to be a Christian anymore, and after almost thirty years in, you’d think I’d be coasting right now. 

Actually, I am coasting.  I’m not engaged.  I’m not challenged.  I don’t have people (outside my family and closest friends) who help me figure out where I should be and what I should be doing in life to be a part of God’s restorative, redemptive work.  And that’s something I could really use right about now.  Once again I’m drifting, trying to figure out my next move, and even when I hear encouraging things from the pulpit, I don’t have a body around me that enables me to take the right steps.  So instead I flounder, often surrounded by people who reinforce the notion that knowing God is all about following seven simple steps and a checklist of do’s and don’t’s. 

I had kind of a heart to heart with God today, out in the beautiful Pacific Northwest woods.  I don’t really want to give up; I don’t want to be a cynic.  Maybe it was naïve of me to think that things would get clearer and more certain the older I got.  Maybe I’m foolish to expect the body of Christ to actually emulate Christ.  I have been hurt too many times by the church; my family has been wounded, my friends have been mistreated.  To be fair, we have also, at times, been blessed, encouraged, uplifted, and served by the church.  I’m really not trying to write off every individual in America who attends church.  But something happens when we gather as an institution, an organization.  We’re supposed to be a community, a family—well, families have their problems, too, I suppose. Somehow we end up acting more like a clique, standing in a circle with our backs to the world.

So the thing is, if I’m going to keep believing in and following Jesus, it’s going to have to look radically different for me.  I’m not entirely sure what that means, I don’t have it all worked out yet.  But something has to change.  A lot of things have to change, actually.  And one of the things that bothers me about the American church is how resistant it is to change.  It’s like we’re afraid of losing something vital in the process—but I think we’ve already lost some vital things, and it’s high time we began to recover them.  Things like: loving your neighbor, loving your enemy, and helping the poor. 

So right here, right now, this is my version of 95 theses, nailed to the virtual door of the collective American church.  I can’t keep going this way.  I would rather walk away than continue to be a part of a body that would treat people so poorly.  But as much as I sometimes do want to just walk away, a deeper and better part of me wants to help reform things.  A NEW reformation.  And the thing is, I know I’m not alone in this.  I know older and wiser and younger and more passionate people are struggling just like I am to find their place in the church.  I know of them, and I know them personally.  Together, we can and will enact change on the church.  Because it is time.  The foundations for a renewed way of following Christ are already being laid. 

We are passionate, we are disillusioned, we are ready, we are afraid, we are in love with Jesus, and we love humanity, too.  We want to see the world redeemed and restored through Christ.  We want to be part of his redemptive story.  We want others to see that we are in love with God, which is sometimes hard to show when we are being attacked by our brothers and sisters in Christ.  This is part of the reason we need to stand together.  We need to encourage one another, even when we disagree.  You and I may never agree 100% on all the different theological questions.  But if we can agree on the centrality of Jesus, His divinity, life, death, and resurrection, shouldn’t that be enough to be going on with for now?  We are never going to attract more people to Christ by bickering amongst ourselves and engaging in much of the mud-slinging, fear-mongering, us vs. them rhetoric that has become so popular recently.  Indeed, it is that kind of petty behavior that turns people away from God, and even burns out long-time Christians.

Maybe I’m just a crazy heretic.  Maybe I’m preaching to the choir.  Maybe no one will ever read this and my impassioned words will fall on deaf urls.  But if you are reading this, and you do agree that the time for change is long past due, won’t you stand with me?  Viva la revolution!

The Last Job

I know I haven't written anything in a while...I've been working on some other novelish projects as well as watching copious amounts of television and finally, getting a new job.


But that is not what I'm writing to tell you about.  I'm having a bit of a geek-out moment because last night I found out I won this little writing contest.  It's just a little competition on an author's website, but my bff Brianne told me about it & how the theme was "Twisted Fairy Tales."  I doubted I could write anything under 1000 words (you know me, ever the long-winded one!) but I gave it a shot anyway.


So here is my winning submission, voted on by the other participants; I thought I'd share it with you if you're interested.  Remember, this may be the shortest thing I've EVER written, at 999 words.  I'd love to hear your thoughts!!

"The Last Job"

                “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

                “One last job,” I told him.  “I promise.  This is the very last one.”

                He looked at me skeptically.  “That’s what you said last time.  It’s what we all say.”

                “You quit,” I reminded him.  I touched up my pale makeup in the mirror, careful not to smudge my blood-red lipstick.  “And the world hasn’t come to an end.  Maybe there’s hope for us yet.”  Time for the wig—long, raven black tresses fit snugly over my own auburn braids.  I swiveled to face him.  “What do you think?”  I held up a portrait for comparison.

                He looked at it, then me.  “Not bad.  I’d say you’re giving the Fairest in the Land a run for her money.”

                I took it back, my pale skin blushing pink.  “I really don’t look anything like her, but all people notice are the details.  They’ll fill in the rest, and Snow White will never be missed.”

                “But you will.”

                I turned to him.  “I’ll be back before you know it.”

                He put his arm around my waist.  “And then you’re done?”

                “And then I’m done,” I agreed.  “And we open Dot’s Dinner in Manhattan, where no one has ever heard of Witch-Killers and Giant-Slayers.”

                “It’s a good dream,” he said.

                “It’s going to be a reality, Jack,” I said.  “Our own Happily Ever After.”

                “Do you really think we deserve it, after all we’ve done?” he asked quietly as I packed my trunk.

                I wrapped my silver slippers in the invisible cloak Jack had given me.  “I think…we did what had to be done.  And now it’s time for us to retire and live like normal people.”  I closed the trunk and locked it.  Jack kissed me goodbye, helped me into the carriage, and stood looking after me as I hastened to my last job.

                The long journey gave me time to reflect on how far I’d come from my simple Midwestern farm girl roots.  Innocent and naïve, I’d never have dreamed of killing anyone.  The crash landing and bucket of water were accidents, not the weapons of a trained assassin.  I remembered well the wave of fear and revulsion that swept over me when I’d seen those two feet sticking out from under my displaced house; the idea of wearing the deceased woman’s shoes, no matter how shiny and alluring they were, repulsed me.  But my encounter with the second witch had sealed my fate.  Even as I’d looked at the steaming remains of the Witch of the West, even as my stomach had heaved and hands had trembled, I had felt suddenly powerful.  I’d done what others could not: freed a land from oppression, fear, and tyranny. 

                The silver slippers of the first witch also allowed me to go home—but home was no longer enough for me.  I found that I could travel to other worlds in my shoes, and in these worlds I was a hero.  I was Dorothy Gale, Witch-Killer, and such a talent was in high demand.  Messengers often traveled many weeks to find me and request my assistance.  Imprisoned princesses in peril.  Little old ladies and pigs alike besieged by wolves.  Enchanted animals of all kinds.  Slowly I had warmed to my profession, learning how to watch and wait, to slip into someone else’s place and strike.  I’d even become quite adept at devising crafty punishments for the wicked.  Red-hot, searing iron shoes.  Trained attack birds.  Barrels lined with nails.  It wasn’t that I enjoyed the killing; I was simply good at it.  And how could I refuse a cry for help?  It just seemed natural that I should put my talent to use.  And so the tales about me spread: Dorothy Gale, Witch-Killer eventually became Dorothy Gale, Assassin.

                The castle came into view and I tried to focus on the job.  Snow White was certain her stepmother was trying to kill her; well, I’d soon put a stop to that.  It bothered me, though, that all my years of work hadn’t seemed to make a lasting difference.  There were always evil queens or wicked wizards somewhere, scheming.  I was weary of killing them.  Like Jack, I’d even begun to wonder if it was the right thing to do. 

                It took me less than two days to discover that Snow’s stepmom was a lunatic.  Crazy with jealousy, and schizophrenic, to boot.  Snow wasn’t being paranoid, either—her stepmom had made a batch of poisoned apples to literally knock out her competition for fairest in the land.  But was she evil, or did she just need therapy and medication?  I pushed my doubts away and reminded myself what I’d been hired for.  One last job.  I pilfered the apples and baked a pie with them.  Normally my pies are to die for, but this one would actually kill you.  Sure enough, after three bites the queen was asphyxiated.  Snow White was safe and could live happily with her prince, but I felt hollow and exhausted. 

                I collected my reward—blood money—and packed up my things once more, leaving my silver shoes out to wear back.  I thought of Jack, waiting for me in New York.  I wondered if death haunted him, too; Jack the Giant-Slayer was no innocent himself.  He could be cocky and arrogant; when we first met I hated him.  But he’d taught me there was more to life than the job; he’d seen past my warrior façade, he’d saved my life, and I loved him.  He was no slouch in the kitchen, either—he could do things with a can of beans that were pure magic.  Dot’s Diner would need more than pies and beans on the menu, but we’d make it work.

                No more yellow brick roads, I told myself.  Or witches.  Or killing.  I clicked my silver heels together and murmured, “There’s no place like Happily Ever After;” and hoped fervently it was something a witch-killer and giant-slayer could attain, after all.