Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Don't Cry Over Spilt Milk


   A Betsy screech is alarming, but at six am it’s downright diabolical. I wait for my nerve endings to settle before I give her my best trust me smile. “I thought I’d clean the hall closet because …”
   “My closets are clean and …”
   “I thought I saw a spider.” I trot out her biggest fear and hide a feral grin as she backs into her room.
   “Good idea,” she says, “I’ll help you after I’ve taken a shower.”
   By help she means supervise.
   On borrowed time I scan the junk and sigh. How will I ever get through an entire house of crap, on the sly, let alone this closet? By the time the water shuts off in her bathroom, I have run up and down the stairs, and out to the garbage cans in the alley and back no less than fourteen times. My legs are numb and the muscles in my right arm quiver when I lift the old 1940’s Singer. Portable my ass.
   “What are you doing with my sewing machine?”
   Betsy’s hands are planted on her hips as water drips off her shower cap and onto her blue paisley robe. “Shit.” I drop the machine and slap a hand over my heart. “You scared the crap out of me.”
   “Watch your language young lady.”
   “Yes ma’am.” For a minute I think she’s going to get all hot and bothered with the call-me-Betsy routine but she tightens her robe and flicks a glance to the sewing machine, then back to me.”
   “Tensions off,” I duck my chin and head for the stairs, “I thought I’d have it fixed.”
   “You always were a good girl.” She says to my retreating back and I wonder if Hell ever has a good season.

Chasing Betsy

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Boarding School


 "Lillian, you will take your spoiled daughter to that damned boarding school in Los Angeles or I will ship her so far away you will only see her once a year. I will not lose another child."
   "You haven't lost a child Henry, Virginia is a married woman."
   I'm sure father would have found favor with Ginny's marriage if she hadn't up and eloped with a military man. He's always carrying on that he would be better off without her nonsense, but why should I have to pay for my older sister's disobedience? 
   "Lillian." 
   Father's tone has a sharp edge and, when he paces out of view, I inch my nose around the top rung of the bannister to study mother's expression. Her mouth pinches into a tight vee but she stays silent. She doesn't defend me and when father doesn't come back she bows her head.

Betsy's POV memories     
Chasing Betsy - fiction   

Thursday, July 4, 2013

Never Say Die.


“Sign it,” I whisper, handing Pops a pen, “If you want to.” Pain burns behind my eyes and answering tears track down Pops cheeks. I try to contort my mouth into a sympathetic smile but it’s impossible. This situation is impossible and even though Pops can’t escape the reality of his situation he shouldn’t have an order of cremation shoved under his nose. What was Betsy thinking making me do this?
What was I thinking when I agreed? “You don’t have to do this.”


From my WIP, Chasing Betsy. Fiction.






Tuesday, July 2, 2013

This is My Last Trip to the House of Crazy.

Mom & Betsy
So it's been awhile, and I can't quite get back into the blogging groove so I've decided to post short snippets from Chasing Betsy.

Chasing Betsy has legs, or so I was told by a lovely agent at a recent workshop. She also mentioned punctuation problems. Lots and lots of renegade commas, and ... okay, okay, stop nodding, I promise to take an English for Dummies course, but in the meantime, it's just bits of truth twisted into fiction.

Be brutal, if Rob can't make me cry, neither can you. Big hugs for even looking.



                                               CHASING BETSY

        

This is my last trip to the house of crazy. I can't bring myself to use the front door, which annoys my grandmother and entertains me. I wouldn't come home but Pops is ill and I need to be with him. Standing alone, in the dark alley behind the house, it hits me. This might be the last time I’ll ever see my grandfather, Pops, the only family member who loves me, who gets me. I wait a minute and then fumble along the fence until my fingers slide over the latch and what feels like a padlock. I’ve been locked out. Well crap, what did I expect? Four years is a long time.