#52weeks52stories “Whose Right is it Anyway?”

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#52weeks52stories: Week 31

Word prompt: saw

Word count – 2581

Reading time – 4 min, 10 sec

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The paramedics burst through the bay doors rushing the gurney down the hall while firing off details to the ER team.

“Male, white, 59 years-of-age. He was using a rotary saw with a frayed cord in his garage. The saw overheated, the frayed wires arced and shocked him. His son said he tried to drop the saw as he was falling but he didn’t let go in time. His left arm is almost completely severed at the elbow. His eyes are open but he’s unresponsive. His wife, Carol, is on the way and,” he tilted his head toward a young man entering behind them, “that’s his son, Will, twenty-two. Watch out for the attitude.”

Shouts from ER staff filled the area as the wounded man was pushed into the trauma area and transferred to the treatment table.

“BP’s 70 over 40, thready pulse.”

“Breathing is rapid and shallow. Respiratory is on the way.”

“Sir? Sir? Can you hear me, sir? What is the patient’s name?”

“Dan Henderson.”

“Mr. Henderson? Can you hear me? Do you know the date?”

“Get him typed.”

“Lab is on the way.”

“IV’s are placed.”

Trauma doctor Tim Koskins tried to assess the wound without removing too much of the pressure dressing. “Do we have a history?”

The paramedic held up his clipboard. “No hypertension, diabetes, asthma or known allergies. That’s all we got.”

“Thanks. Start a norepinephrine push and page Dr. Cole, stat.”

“What are you doing to my father?”

Without raising his head, Dr. Koskins spoke to the nurse at his side. “Would you mind? Please?”

RN Rayanne Downes stepped away from the table. “I’m on it.”

She approached the frowning young man.

“It’s Will, right? I’m Rayanne and we’re trying to assess and stabilize your dad to get him into surgery. They may be able to save his arm, but the clock is ticking. Let me show you where you can wait -”

“I’m not leaving my dad.”

“Will, sometimes it’s easier on family -”

I’m not leaving my dad.” He glanced over her shoulder. “What’s he doing?”

Rayanne turned around to see vascular surgeon Aric Cole had arrived and was examining Dan Henderson’s arm. She turned back to Will.

“Dr. Cole will lead the team who reattaches your father’s arm.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“No. He’s not touching my dad. Tell him to step away.”

“Will, what is the prob -”

“No blacks, none. Or Mexicans or Muslims. And only Asians from Japan or China… none of those shit-hole countries.”

Rayanne Downes had dealt with hundreds of people who refused treatment for a variety of reasons during her twenty-four years in nursing. However, this arrogant young man was going on her short list of most outrageous.

She backed away, unable to mask the contempt in her eyes.

Rayanne walked over to the doctors and murmured something the rest of the staff couldn’t hear. However, they all knew it wasn’t good when both men stopped examining Dan Henderson to stare at his son.

Aric Cole and Tim Koskins exchanged smirks before Aric left the table and washed his hands in the corner basin.

Tim worked to control the rage building inside his head, knowing to lash out at the young man would only make the situation worse.

Instead, he gave instructions to Rayanne for Mr. Henderson, then approached the man’s son.

Will Henderson smirked as he puffed out his chest.

“I suppose you’re gonna give me a lecture on tolerance and loving my neighbor now, right?”

“No. I wanted you to know that other than the injury he sustained, your father appears healthy, which works in his favor.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“The type of injury is the problem. He’s in danger of not only losing his arm but his life. His blood pressure is too low, his pulse and heartbeat too fast. He’s in shock and has lost a lot of blood and -”

“Yeah, he’s in bad shape. So, why aren’t you over there helping him?”

“Because the doctor you don’t want to treat your father is his best chance to come through this alive and with his arm intact.”

Will Henderson scoffed. “You doctors all stick together, good or bad. I don’t want some affirmative action scholarship darkie anywhere near my dad. So, you get him stable and into surgery – “

“I’m not a surgeon.”

“This is a hospital! I’m sure there are surgeons all over – “

Koskins’ patience ran out. He turned with clenched fists and walked away from the belligerent fool before he decked him.

“Hey. Hey!”

Not trusting himself enough to get close to the kid again, the doctor looked over his shoulder.

Will pointed at a nurse next to his dad hanging units of blood from the IV pole.

“What’s she doing?”

“Your father has lost a lot of blood. Lauren is preparing a transfusion for him.”

“She needs to step away too, and where did that blood come from?”

Tim glanced over at Lauren, but the pretty young African-American RN was already walking away from the table.

“Lauren, wait. Please.”

She stopped near the door and exhaled roughly. She folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the wall, her angry glare focused on Will Henderson.

Dr. Koskins addressed Rayanne. “Is Mr. Henderson responsive yet.”

“No, doctor. He’s still foggy and confused.”

“How’s his BP?”

“Not much improvement, doctor.”

“Increase the norepinephrine.” He turned to Will. “Your father needs blood… now.”

“You still haven’t told me where it comes from.”

The doctor threw his arms out at his sides. “The hospital blood bank.”

“No, I mean are you sure you’re giving him blood from his own kind?”

“His own kind?”

“You know. White.”

The trauma staff froze and stared at Will Henderson, incredulous.

Tim Koskins shook with rage. Not looking at any particular staff member, he spoke through gritted teeth.

“Get someone from admin in here. Now.” He took a step toward the defiant man.

“Blood is stored by type, not ethnicity.”

Will threw up his own arms, amazed. “And that’s the problem. That’s why our people are getting so many strange illnesses. You mix our blood with theirs.

Tim was done. “We don’t work in ours and theirs here. Our job is to help everyone anyway we can. If you’re refusing the transfusion, you have to sign a form. But know you’re jeopardizing your father’s life.”

Before Will could respond, the doors behind him opened and the medical receptionist entered, an attractive but harried middle-age woman close at her heels.

“Doctor, the patient’s wife is here.”

Seeing her son first, Carol Henderson stopped and grabbed him.

“William, what’s going on? What happened?” She noticed Tim Koskins and rushed toward him. “Doctor? Are you working on my husband? How is he? What happened?”

Tim reached out and gripped her arm to steady her. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Dr. Koskins. We’re trying to stabilize Mr. Henderson and slow the bleeding.”

“Bleeding…”

“I don’t have all the facts, Mrs. Henderson, but your husband has a partially severed arm.”

Carol drew back in horror, covering her mouth with her hands. She looked past the doctor to her husband lying on the treatment table.

“W-What -”

The doctor gripped her arm again with a firmer hold. “Mrs. Henderson, time is very important right now. May I speak with you in private, please?”

He led her to a small consultation room. Will tried to follow.

“I need to speak with you alone, ma’am.”

Will tried to protest. “Hey, wait a minute. This is my family – “

“Now is not the time, William. For God’s sake, just wait.”

No one missed the glare the distressed woman threw at her son before entering the room.

Time stood still as the ER team continued to work on Dan Henderson while casting looks of worry at the closed consultation room door and looks of contempt at the chastened young man still smarting from his mother’s reprimand.

Four minutes later, the door opened. Tim Koskins took one of Carol’s hands into both of his.

“Thank you, Mrs. Henderson. Wait right here. There are forms for you to sign, and I’ll have a patient advocate come and sit with you.”

Overwhelmed and eyes brimming with tears, Carol Henderson nodded once.

Koskins turned to his team, issuing a flurry of orders.

“Page Dr. Cole back to Trauma. Alert surgery the patient will be there as soon as he’s stable.” He glanced over at Lauren still leaning against the wall.” The transfusion’s not going to start itself.”

He hadn’t finished his sentence before she was at Dan Henderson’s side looking for a vein in his uninjured arm.

Carol watched the team move around her husband, every movement with determined purpose.

She only caught glimpses of Dan’s face, but she didn’t miss the large blood-soaked bandage on his arm.

Or the small puddle of blood on the floor.

She watched a nurse lean over and say something to Dan, but he didn’t respond. The nurse tried again, and Carol saw Dan’s lips move but she didn’t hear anything.

Clutching her bag in one hand and her chest with the other, Carol stepped closer to the table.

Dan was speaking, but it was gibberish and made no sense.

The tears she’d held back fell as her heart broke for the man she’d spent more than half her fifty-two-years with.

Tim Koskins raised his head and saw the poor woman falling apart.

“Folks hang on just a second.”

He reached out his hand, motioning for Carol to come closer.

She stepped around Lauren securing the needle in place with a Tegaderm. Standing at her husband’s head, Carol was grateful to be near him.

The doctor encouraged her. “It’s okay. Go ahead. Talk to him.”

Gripping his shoulder, Carol leaned close to his right ear.

“Danny? I’m here, honey. You’re going to be okay, sweetie. These good people are giving you their best.”

Dan Henderson took a large gulp of air.

Tim Koskins motioned for her to continue.

“They’re taking you to surgery, sweetie and you’ll be back to your old self in no time, and then I want that four-star lunch you promised me.”

Soft chuckles from the staff stopped seconds after they began when Dan Henderson turned his head for the first time since arriving for treatment.

Carol leaned over farther so he could see her face. Her tears flowed faster seeing tears in his eyes.

“You’re going to be fine, baby. And you’re wearing a suit to lunch.” She kissed his cheek and the staff was in awe of the recognition and love in their patient’s eyes.

Rayanne swiped a tear from her face. “There are some things modern medicine will never be able to do.”

Carol squeezed Dan’s shoulder again. “I’ll be here when you get back.” She stepped away from her husband’s side just as Aric Cole rushed back into trauma.

“Surgery is prepping, ortho and anesthesia are ready. We’ll stop at radiology on the way for a couple of scans and x-rays. How is the star of the show?”

“BP and pulse are improving, doctor.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Koskins and Cole stood off to the side talking for several minutes. Tim tilted his head and Aric’s gaze followed to Carol Henderson. He smiled, then looked toward the unit doors. Will Henderson was still there, but his stature had diminished. His shoulders were slumped and his hands were shoved deep into pockets.

Aric approached Carol. “Mrs. Henderson, I’m Dr. Cole. I’ll be leading your husband’s surgical team.”

“Dr. Koskins told me you’re tops in the city and you started in Afghanistan. I know my Danny’s in good hands.”

Aric Cole looked over at Koskins then leaned closer to his patient’s wife. “I’m putting him in charge of my PR team.”

Carol smiled. “Dr. Cole, about earlier, about you treating my husband – “

“Ma’am, it’s forgotten. Your husband’s health and full-recovery is the focus and always will be. The procedure will be long, but we’ll keep you updated. I’ve called in a special patient advocate to stay with you. Daria Melrose. We worked together in the middle-east and she’ll take care of you and can answer some of your questions.”

“Y-You did that… and arranged all those things I heard you mention even after my son – “

He cut her off. “Mrs. Henderson, the procedure is the most important part, but it’s not the only part. We have to have everything in place to give your husband, or any patient, the best opportunity for a full recovery. And we have to take care of family because you’re the first level of support.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

“You’re welcome. We’ll talk again soon.”

He returned to the charts and monitors surrounding Dan Henderson. His vitals were improving.

A young nurse appeared with a clipboard and an electronic tablet for Carol’s signature in several places.

After signing, Carol glanced at her son. He still looked like a sullen child upset over not getting his way. Gone was the shy, introverted child who had trouble making friends. So desperate for acceptance, Will latched on to the first group which welcomed him—an alt-right group of hate-mongering racists who weren’t above using violence to deliver their warped messages. Carol was disgusted but she walked over to him.

“Mom, you don’t understand.”

“What, William? What don’t I understand? That you were taking advantage of a situation and exerting your authority over something you know your father wouldn’t want? Is that what I don’t understand?”

“You and dad won’t take the time to listen. If you did, you’d understand it’s past time we took a stand and stop letting these liberals walk all over us – “

“Stop it.”

“No, mom, Mr. Milner said – “

“Stop it, William.”

“But mom, Mr. Milner said -”

“Shut up! Mr. Milner said this, Mr. Milner said that… I’m sick of it. Your dad and I raised you and told you the right things, and this hateful jackass erased it all from your head in less than a year.”

“Mom, you’ve missed the big picture – “

Carol’s soul shattered. He was lost to her.

“William, the big picture is you had no right to overrule your father’s rights. He was unable to speak for himself and it was your duty as his son to act on his behalf, not your own twisted agenda.”

He tried to respond, but she continued.

“All that garbage propaganda you spout talking about rights miss one key point—your rights are no more important or come before anyone else’s. I-I…  could have l-lost my husband today because of your selfishness. What has – “

“Mrs. Henderson, I’ll show you to the surgery lounge. Daria Melrose is there waiting for you.”

Carol smiled at the receptionist. “Thank you, I’ll be right there.”

“It’s going to take some time for me to find forgiveness in my heart for you, William, and I can’t be around you right now.”

She reached up, took his face in both her hands and pulled him close, kissing his forehead.

“I love you. But I miss the bright-eyed, compassionate kid I raised with the easy smile. You? I don’t know who you are, so easily swayed by words and believing in whatever you’re told. But if that is the case, please believe me when I tell you-you’re an idiot.”

Carol Henderson walked away, leaving her only child standing there in confused disbelief… and alone.

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©2018 Felicia Denise, All Rights Reserved

#52weeks52stories “The Sweetest Days, Conclusion”

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This story vexes with me. It’s another that has more to say, but I’m on WIP-overload right now and have to go with the HFN (Happy For Now) ending.

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#52weeks52stories: Week 30

Word prompt: gray

Word count – 1791

Reading time – 2 min, 10 sec

Part 1     |     Part 2

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“I hope you’re remembering how hot Kiefer Sutherland was as a vampire.”

Pulled from her thoughts and The Lost Boys movie poster by her best friend’s voice, Moira whirled around.

“Josephine Octavia Jacobs-Broadnax!”

Josie guffawed, embracing her friend. “Woman, if I wasn’t so happy to see you, I’d have to deck you for going full name on me, Moira Suzanne Jennings-Lambert!”

They both laughed aloud as the years melted.

Moira leaned back, appraising her classmate. “Geeze, Josie, you look amazing.”

The self-professed diva spun in a circle and struck a runway pose. “Of course, I do. And it’s just Jacobs now. Divorce is final and Clarence is free to ruin another woman’s life.”

Moira laughed but heart swelled with love for her oldest and dearest friend.

Unapologetic and brash, Josie Jacobs had always been the pretty, chubby girl. No amount of teasing and taunts could break her spirit.

Josie was a force of nature.

She was also the rock-solid pillar of support Moira needed after Kevin committed suicide.

Moira could do little more than breathe when police showed up at the Jennings’ home with notification of Kevin’s death.

Just a few short hours after arguing with their father and after kissing her goodbye, her brother put a gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Moira’s pain bottomed out when neither of her parents reacted to the news.

All these years later and Moira still believes she saw a short, cursory nod shared between Abraham and Genova Jennings.

The familial bond between daughter and parent snapped that night. Moira became an occupant in the Jennings home. The honor student seldom spoke to them and kept her head down, studying.

She smirked at the irony of her estrangement with her parents being the catalyst for her edging out Don Thompson for the number one spot in their class.

Most teenagers would experiment with drugs, sex, alcohol, or join a band in an act of rebellion. But Moira Jennings’ act of anarchy was to become class valedictorian. What a troublemaker.

“MJ? Where’d you go? You zone out on me again.”

Flushed, Moira looked away. “Sorry, Josie. Guess it’s just a night for memories.”

Always the schemer, Josie grabbed Moira by both arms, glaring. “You know what else it’s a night for? Across the dance floor, in fifteen minutes… the Walk Like an Egyptian dance contest.”

“Aw, Josie, no way am -”

“C’mon, Moira. This is our night. This could be our last hurrah. Think about it. Ten years from now our knees could be shot or we’ve had hip replacements.”

Moira couldn’t hold in her cackles. “Ok, ok, fine. We’ll dance but -”

“Who’s dancing? I hope you know you’re not dancing without me.”

The two women turned and rushed toward the new voice, already screaming.

“Melanie! YAAY! You’re here.

“So good to see you, Mel.”

With an arm around each of her lifelong friends, Melanie Yankama hugged them close.

The Asian-American wife, mother of five, and middle-school science teacher pulled back, her eyes brimming with tears. “Why do we wait so long to get together? I love my life and everything about it, but, damn, I miss my girls.” She turned to Moira. “It still bugs me I couldn’t be with you after Alexander… well, it was just frustrating. Louis’ dad’s Alzheimer’s advanced so fast and then we lost his mom. She was healthy as an Olympic swimmer and one morning, she just didn’t wake up.”

Josie didn’t respond, recognizing her friend’s need to talk.

Moira touched Melanie’s arm. “Don’t, Mel. No one knows better than me… life doesn’t wait for the right time, it will take its due. Your daily calls meant the world to me and helped me get through some bad days.”

Moira blinked, fighting to hold back her own tears.

“So, are we dancing or dissolving into a messy heap of old ladies?”

“Oh, hush!” Melanie chided Josie. “Of course, we’re dancing, but I’m the only old lady in this conversation. You two look amazing. Do you have portraits in your attics? I feel like one of the Golden Girls standing next to you two.”

“Woman, you are stunning and you know it. Your gray hair looks like professional highlights. Mine look like I lost a battle with life.”

The trio shared a laugh at Josie’s expense.

“Now let’s go dance and watch out for the Conway Twins. Word is they’re on the prowl.”

Moira giggled. “Oh, no! Rick and Dick are here?”

“Yup! And they’re still identical. Even their comb-overs match!”

Howling with laughter, the friends made their across the ballroom, greeting classmates, posing for quick photos, and avoiding Rick and Dick Conway.

Moira Lambert was still well aware of the heaviness on her heart but the despair was gone.

As she danced, shared toasts and reconnected with friends, she was reminded of the fun of high school.

For thirty years, her one focal point was the day her brother died and her parents’ lack of concern. Moira spent so much time hating and avoiding them, she blocked out all the happy times in her young life, even the ones shared with Kevin.

The evening passed faster than anyone wanted, and the pre-dawn hours found the hotel’s efficient wait staff replacing centerpieces and empty snack trays with large bowls of fresh fruit and pots of strong hot coffee.

The early breakfast was such a hit at the last reunion, die-hard class members voted for another and now sat around the ballroom minus shoes, jackets, and a few wigs, in small group conversations making plans for family visits and cookouts.

Moira, Josie, and Melanie each claimed a lounger behind the bandstand. Melanie was on her cell giving husband, Louis, a quick rundown of their evening, while Josie was exchanging texts with someone.

Reclined with her eyes closed, Moira wasn’t asleep or even tired.

Montages of her past played in her mind, along with her late husband’s words.

“Baby, we get one life. Don’t spend it focused on your pain or the people who caused it. We have our kids and careers. We have each other. Days like these are the sweetest. Don’t focus on the pain, honey-bunny. God knows we’d never smile if we only remembered the bad times.”

He was right. Alexander Lambert was always right and as long as he was the center of her universe, she knew the truth.

When Moira returned for her sophomore year, she rented a bungalow from a former professor who recently married and moved all her things out of her parents’ home. Again Abraham and Genova were emotion-free and their daughter was glad to be rid of them.

Until the phone calls began.

When Moira moved out, karma moved in. Excessive drinking, extra-marital affairs, and empty bank accounts were just a few of the things one of her parents would call to complain about.

Moira never took sides or gave advice, and after one too many emotional outbursts from her mother calling her an uncaring daughter, she stopped taking their calls.

But Alexander refused to let her turn her back—he knew regret would catch up to her one day.

He held her hand when they invited her then-divorced parents to dinner to announce their engagement.

Alexander’s wink from the altar made Moira grin as she held her father’s arm all the way up the aisle.

When her parents became ill two years apart, Alexander was at her side, helping to move them each in turn to Indianapolis and manage their affairs in life and after their deaths.

Moira never again had a daughter’s love for Abraham and Genova. She could never mine deep enough in her soul to find forgiveness and her parents made it easy by refusing to talk about Kevin. However, her husband made her understand turning her back on them would only make the memories worse for her.

How could one person be right all the time?

Well, not all the time. There was the one time Alexander was wrong.

Home just three days after corrective knee surgery, her husband waved off chest pains as indigestion. When antacids didn’t help, Moira wanted to take him to the ER but Alexander refused, saying he’d had enough of hospitals and would prefer to try resting for a couple of hours first.

Less than an hour later, he woke in distress. His breathing was rapid and shallow and he coughed up blood. Moira’s 911 call brought paramedics to her home in six minutes, but it was too late for Alexander. He’d suffered a pulmonary embolism and never made it to the hospital.

Moira sat up, in awe that the memory which caused so many of her tears for over a year wasn’t breaking her down now. Losing the love of her life still hurt, witnessed by the dull ache in her chest, but at last, she knew she’d go on not in spite of her loss but because of it.

“What are you smiling about, MJ?”

Glancing over at Josie, Moira’s smile grew. “Nothing, just memories.”

Melanie ended her call and sat up. “Louis said if you two leave town without coming by to say hello and give him a hug, he’s going to put an ancient Asian curse on you both which will cause your hips to spread.”

“Too late!” Moira chirped.

“Yeah, your hubs is a little late to the party on that front. How did he come up with that idea? A supernatural message from his ancestors?

“Nah. An old episode of Tales from the Crypt.”

They all dissolved into giggles, then Josie looked at Moira with a wicked glint in her eyes.

“You know, we could grab my things from my room, stop by your hotel and get your bags, then spend a few hours at Mel’s, making Louis sorry he ever met us.”

Melanie leaped to her feet clapping her hands. “I like that idea.”

Moira agreed. “Sounds like fun. I’m in.”

The clatter of dishes made Josie peek around the bandstand.

“They’re bringing out the grills and steam tables. First, breakfast, then Operation Annoy Louis.”

Moira chuckled as Josie dragged Melanie toward the breakfast buffet wondering about her chances of getting a six-egg omelet.

Before joining them, Moira paused, resting her hand over her heart.

Alexander Lambert loved her and saved her from every bad thing in her life. Though he was gone forever, his words were still with her, urging her on. Moira closed her eyes, grateful for the time they had together and the life they’d shared. She said a silent thank you to the memory of the man who worked to see the good in everything and everyone… and brought out the best in her.

Smiling, she went to join her friends, looking forward to the sweetest days still to come.

~~~

 

©2018 Felicia Denise, All Rights Reserved

Camp NaNo Update Day #14

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I have nothing against deadlines.

They are necessary for organization, to accomplish tasks on time, and to move forward.

I’m a fan of deadlines and don’t believe life works well without them.

I have nothing against writing. How could I? I’ve been jotting down poetry and prose since I was nine.

Writing and deadlines work well together.

Most of the time.

Writing and deadlines disconnect for me when I add in another factor… chronic illness.

Missed Deadlines

It’s difficult to make plans and schedules when you have no idea what each day will hold. Will the pain level be tolerable? How much mobility will I have? Will my thinking be slowed due to brain fog?

So, I’ve stopped trying to make plans.

Now I make game plans and strategies.

If I can’t write, I can read. If I can’t read, I can edit. If I can’t edit, I can outline. If I can’t outline, I can search out art and images, check out new tools for writing and publishing, or work on my blogs.

I’ve taken my obstacles and made them challenges. No one likes to lose a challenge, but sometimes I do and a loss makes me push harder through the next challenge.

So while I still may not be able to say Sins of the Mother will release on April 3, 2019, I keep moving forward, closer to the time when I can publish dates.

Working through illness is my challenge. For others, it could be varying job obligations, multiple jobs, or having to travel frequently. I have several friends who are in school and try to set writing deadlines after midterms and exams. They’re still perfecting their systems.

But without a doubt, writers struggle most with meeting familial obligations, whether it’s spouses and children, elderly parents, or fur babies. It’s easy to get overwhelmed… and do nothing.

It doesn’t have to be that way.

Make obstacles and disadvantages positive challenges and accomplishments and meeting deadlines will become less daunting and effortless.

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Day 14 word count – 26,986

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©2018 Felicia Denise, All rights Reserved

Camp NaNo Update Day #10

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I come across a good post about writing schedules almost daily. Many authors and bloggers have unique and precise methods of ensuring time is allotted daily for writing.

My writing schedule looks like a casual suggestion.

Don’t get me wrong, I write something every day… at some point. The schedule part? That’s tricky.

I’m not disciplined enough to say, “I must write,” then sit down and do it.

If it’s editing or revising—words already written—I’m all in.

New dialogues and scenes? It’s complicated.

My stories are character-driven and if characters aren’t talking, I’m not writing.

However, that is not the case during NaNoWriMo/Camp NaNoWriMo, or any writing challenge.

For thirty days I write at the same time everyday, almost always exceeding my word count goal, then move on to something else.

First day after the challenge ends, I’m back to pencil-tapping and scrolling through Twitter.

It’s obvious I need supervision.

Writing challenges have deadlines not imposed by me.

To succeed, I have to play by guidelines not imposed by me.

See a pattern forming here?

I need accountability… and not to myself. I’ll blow me off faster than anyone.

Guess it’s a good thing for folks like me NaNoWriMo recently announced they’re launching an updated website later this year which includes YEAR-ROUND writing support.

This is a good thing. Perhaps I’ll actually adapt to a writing schedule which lasts longer than thirty days.

Anything is possible.

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Day 10 word count – 17,281

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©2018 Felicia Denise, All Rights Reserved

Camp NaNo Update Day #9

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NaNoWriMo/Camp NaNoWriMo has very few rules.

The goal is to write, write, write and get that book, blog project, or screenplay out of your head and on to paper. It doesn’t have to be perfect because the first draft never is.

That being said, NaNo’s most famous rule is no editing.

Editing takes time and patience. Time can be lost while a writer searches for the perfect phasing or a different way to describe bad breath.

The focus on the writing is gone. Frustration levels are high. Goals are not met.

That’s why NaNo encourages writers to turn off their inner editor. Bound and gag them and toss them in the proverbial closet. Send them on a virtual vacation…. whatever it takes to not edit during the writing challenge.

It’s difficult in the beginning. When writers see those read squiggly or double blue lines, our brain tells us to fix it. But the minute we get involved in editing, we’ve abandoned the writing.

Example: The word that is misspelled as thst. You go back to correct it but then get confused. Should it be that or which? Which is it? By the time you find the definitions you’re looking for in your jumbled writing notes, you’re tired and annoyed and walk away from your WIP.

Writing time gone.

By my second challenge, I’d gotten quite skilled at not editing during the month. I remember my April 2017 Camp Nano WIP was a hot mess as far as errors go. There were so many red squiggly and double blue lines on the white background, my smart-ass son would peer over my shoulder and salute it. (He’s no longer allowed to visit during writing challenges)

So as much as I believe in the no editing rule during Camp NaNo I am actually editing while writing this time.

Calm down.

I am adding to an existing WIP, right? Meaning I am cutting some scenes and extending others.

How could I not edit as I go?

Because another Nano rule-of-thumb I follow is to put the WIP away at the end of the challenge for at least a month. If I didn’t edit and make changes NOW once I go back to the WIP it would take me another year to figure out what the heck was going on.

And I don’t need that kind of stress in my life. I’m married and I have a dog. Isn’t that enough?

😀

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Day 9 word count – 17341

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Want to see where this WIP came from?

The Devil You Know

©2018 Felicia Denise, All Rights Reserved

Camp NaNo Update #8

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Reading time – 1 min, 10 sec.

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Character development—or lack of—can make or break any story.

And just as the protagonist must be fleshed out so does the antagonist.

We may or may not like the antagonist.

They could be truly evil, intent on destroying the very fiber of goodness.

Or their actions could be a defense mechanism in place because of a tortured past or traumatic event.

It doesn’t matter. They’re standing in the way of the protagonist’s HEA or causing them harm, so someone must deal them with.

But shouldn’t we know at least some of what is driving them?

No one wants to destroy good just for the hell of it. I mean… it’s good! Doesn’t everyone like good? What happened to our character to make good bad for them? What was the trauma that built a wall around them? Were they betrayed by some they trusted? Loved?

I addressed some of these things with the villain in Sins of the Mother. I didn’t have the time or opportunity to go too deep with him, but I found out about his history. While I may not understand why he commits the crimes he does, I believe I understand how he got that way.

And I want to save him.

But much like Quasimodo in The Hunchback of Notre Dame and Erik in The Phantom of the Opera, the fate of my antagonist is sealed from birth. While he doesn’t have a physical or facial deformity, his soul is deformed and his mind, fractured. By the time I meet him, he is unredeemable.

I have to let go and allow him to play his part in my protagonist’s journey.

But I don’t have to like it.

 

©2018 Felicia Denise, All Rights Reserved

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Day 8 word count – 16101

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Camp NaNo Update #7

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Camp NaNoWriMo’s week one is done and gone!

How did you do?

I’m happy with where I’ve landed, just still in shock I’m writing suspense. Wasn’t I supposed to be writing romance? Well, that never happened.

Check out the board! I’ve got Act 2:1 completed!

SOTM Outline Acts

Act 2:1 is the most difficult because that’s where all the mystery and unknown elements leave everyone scratching their heads. (Me, included!)

That’s not saying Act 2:2 will be a piece of cake but thank goodness for revisions!

Remember, this began as a piece of flash fiction back in March, And, YES, I know… 41K is not considered flash fiction anywhere in the cosmos. The story kept growing and growing, and when I said, “I don’t want to do this anymore,” the characters grabbed me and said, “Oh, you’re doing it!”

What? Your characters don’t talk to you?

Weird.

Okay! Last Sunday I posted the working cover for Sins of the Mother—this week, the synopsis!

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A serial rapist is terrorizing Marbury, his victims all elderly women over seventy.

With her husband off on a business trip, fifty-three-year-old Sally Bennett is home alone, making plans for their wedding anniversary bash.

That is until the former Army medic has to fill in for a coworker at Angels Assist Care Agency and spend the night with a seventy-year-old client, Graciela Ramirez.

Gary Sievers is seething with rage—fifty years’ worth.

At last free of the monster who kept him imprisoned since birth, Gary sets out into a world he’s seen only through the Internet, allowing his anger to spill free a little at a time.

He’s invisible to the world, his existence known about by only a handful and most of them are long since dead. But his crimes are growing… and making headlines.

Gary wants the life stolen from him, he wants to find the twin brother he never knew existed, and he wants revenge on the woman responsible for it all.

The captive has become the monster looking for his own twisted brand of justice.

©2018 Felicia Denise, All Rights Reserved.

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FYI—I wrote the synopsis about ten days before Camp Nano began and it has since changed but I’m not rewriting it… yet.

Next week, an excerpt!

Have a great week two! Happy writing!

Day 7 word count – 14461

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Camp NaNo Update #3

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WriMos have more in common than, well… just being WriMos.

Regardless of whether writing goals are met in the first ten days; metered out over the month, or never met, challenge participants have to do more than simply write.

We have lives to live.

Work or school, spouses, partners, and children, health issues and caregiver responsibilities, and yes, even pets require our time and attention. As much as we may want to bury our heads in our WIPs… it ain’t happening.

NaNo organizers send out the first emails early telling WriMos to get organized and find the best writing tools… and snacks.

We’re told to clear our calendars of all major distractions, send our inner editors on vacation… or lock them in the proverbial closet, and get ready to write, sprint, write!

Because it’s just that easy… only not.

July and November have the distinction of including two major U.S. holidays—Independence Day and Thanksgiving—and even in years when Easter Sunday occurs in March, everyone from pre-schoolers to PhD candidates will celebrate the one-week-to ten-day break from studies in the U.S. known as Spring Break at some point during the month of April.

But NaNoWriMo is a global event.

So while some WriMos may not be concerned with cookouts, roasted turkeys, or trying to get to the nearest beach or amusement park, they’re still living lives which come with a laundry list of things which can pull them away from writing.

Water heaters break. Cars won’t start. Children need their parents. Out-of-town guests show up unexpectedly. Friends extend dinner invites. Writers get sick.

Life will get its time, one way or another.

And don’t we want it to? Isn’t that what being a writer is all about? Doesn’t the total sum of our experiences make us who we are?

True distractions? Maybe. Necessary? Definitely.

What are we writing about if we’re not living? How can we create our best work if our minds are only focused on creating our best work?

There’s a quote which says all a writer needs to do is sit down and write. However, before you can write, you need to live.

Our two oldest are in town for the rest of the week. We’ve already decided no one is standing out in one-hundred-and-five-degree heat just to flip burgers, but their list of movies to watch is massive and full of action movies… my weakness. Thank God I’m already over word count because I’m going to be distracted by family movie time… and the jokes, stories, food and laughter that go along with it.

I hope you’re distracted this month too.

Let’s be clear here—four hours on Twitter or three hours playing Call of Duty is not a distraction, it’s procrastination and you should be writing! 😀

 

Priorities #52weeks52stories


dumpster


Cinna’s designer heels clicked against the pavement as she left the office building.

It had been a long day. A long disappointing day.

After seven weeks of knocking herself out, the promotion she wanted more than anything went to someone else.

Cinna didn’t deny Elsa had more experience and more seniority at Langley, but the woman’s natural bad attitude and inclination to pick a fight over the most trivial office task would only lead to endless headaches for the accounting department.

She wasn’t looking for more headaches, Cinna wanted to buy a home. The increase in pay for department manager would have made that possible.

Clicking the remote on her car fob, Cinna opened the door to the Lexus and dropped into the seat as though she bore the weight of the world on her back.

Selling her condo would still get her the down payment for a house, but she’d planned on hanging on to it as an investment and lease it out.

Dammit! Nothing ever worked out for her.

She would be thirty-three-years-old next month and wasn’t where she wanted to be in life. She didn’t have her own home… or a husband and children to share it with.

Cinna sent Art Clarey on his way early last year.  After four years together, Cinna knew the hapless optometrist didn’t hold her happily-ever-after.

In no mood to cook, Cinna stopped at Boston Markets, but after several minutes could only decide on an order of macaroni and cheese.

Her mind raced as she returned to her car. What would she do now? She didn’t have a plan B. Cinna wanted forward movement in her life. She thought about checking what positions were available in her field when she heard a noise. None of the other customers coming and going didn’t seem to notice, so Cinna continued on to her car.

She heard the noise again.

Something slammed shut, and someone cried out.

Turning, she followed the walkway to the edge of the storefront.

Glancing toward the back of the parking lot, Cinna saw a woman and two young children. One of the children–a boy– was holding his hand and crying as the woman lifted the lid of the trash bin.

A mother and her two children… hungry and looking for food.

A myriad of emotions washed over Cinnamon Hinkley… shock, disgust, anger, pity… and shame.

She didn’t have the things she wanted, but she had everything she needed. She didn’t have to wonder where her next meal would come from or where she would sleep each night.

A mother and her children.

Cinna didn’t know what led them to this moment in their lives rummaging through a trash bin, but it didn’t matter.

She went back into the store and placed a different order… a much larger order. She couldn’t solve all their problems, but they would not eat from a dumpster tonight.

 

©2018 Felicia Denise, All Rights Reserved

 

 

 

Good Morning, Mother

Breakfast Tray

A scene from an ongoing WIP. Much to the horror of her family, Quinn Landon has filed for divorce from her adulterous husband. Her family doesn’t miss an opportunity to bully and berate her for ending a “sacred” union, and the number one bully is her mother.


Rejuvenated after a good night’s sleep, Quinn danced around the kitchen to her favorite playlist while making herself a quick breakfast.

Today was the end of the work-week for Phero’s staff since Friday was a company holiday—the founder’s birthday.

Ronan Gaetan decided if countries could celebrate long-dead presidents, document signings, and wars, why couldn’t the company he started from the ground up celebrate his birthday as a paid holiday? For twenty-four years, Phero’s four sites in the U.S., Italy, and France honored their founder by not working on the date of his birth.

Quinn knew it was a concept American corporations would never embrace.

She planned to spend her day off at the Veteran’s Outreach Center. Quinn found volunteering there for the past five years personally rewarding, and it had given Quinn perspective.

Her current situation was not ideal, but helping others get back into the mainstream of living made Quinn realize how fortunate she was. Work kept her from volunteering for several weeks, and now she was anxious to reconnect with the men and women whose trust she’d earned.

Pouring her first cup of coffee, Quinn headed to her breakfast nook to go over her calendar for the day when her phone rang. Swearing under her breath, she reached for the cell, knowing only one person on the planet would call her before six in the morning.

“Good morning, mother.” She could hear Katherine Clark scoff over the phone.

“You sound awfully pleasant this morning. I’m at a loss at why you’re so chipper when you’re breaking your husband’s heart.”

And there it was… again.

“I’m doing great, mom… thanks for asking. How are you and daddy doing?”

“Don’t be flippant with me, young lady!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, mom. Give me a blindfold and a cigarette at dawn if I’m ever flippant.”

“Where did I go wrong with you? Honestly, I believe you’re being stubborn just to defy me.”

Quinn inhaled slowly… her anger building.

“Yes, mother. This is all about you. I’m divorcing my lying, cheating, low-down snake of a husband just to spite you.”

“Quinn Avery! Do not speak to me in that manner.”

“What do you want, mother? I mean, besides for me to stop the divorce proceedings, which is never going to happen. What do you want?”

“I want you to be reasonable, dear, and think this through. No good can come of a divorce. It will only leave you both bitter and disillusioned.”

“Too late, mom. I got over the bitterness after Oscar’s THIRD affair… you know… FOUR affairs back? But the disillusionment? That’s still hanging around. Mostly because I cannot understand why MY family paints me as the villain when it was Oscar who mocked his wedding vows and disrespected our marriage. You should be standing behind me, not giving aid and comfort to the enemy.”

“You’re still young dear, and learning about the little indiscretions of men.”

Quinn had enough.

“I’ll let you get away with saying one affair is an indiscretion, mom, but seven? That’s just an unfaithful, disrespectful jerk. And I’m three years away from forty, mom, hardly a child. While some women may feel it’s okay for men to stray, I’m not in that club. I hold everyone to the same standards — honesty, fidelity, trust. I no longer have any of those with Oscar and haven’t had them for quite a while. Way past time to end our farce of marriage.”

“Marriage is for a lifetime, dear… and ordained by God.”

Ding, ding, ding! Katherine Clark was hitting all the markers today.

“The union of marriage is ordained by God, mother, but if God didn’t bring two people together, why is He used to keep them together? And, correct me if I’m wrong here, but isn’t adultery the only acceptable reason for divorce in the Bible? And isn’t it listed in the Big Ten?”

Katherine Clark was silent.

“Oscar has been to church only a handful of times since we were married—you don’t get to play the God-card with me, mom. He’s never been a part of this marriage.”

“People in our family do not get divorced, Quinn. You know this.”

Quinn chuckled.

“Yes, I do know, mom. I’ve seen the photos of long dead relatives who would rather have had their tongues cut out than divorce.”

“Quinn-…”

“I watch my brothers and their wives, barely able to be in the same room with each other, but too afraid of upsetting you, so they languish in marriages that should never have been. I do not intend to spend my life that way. I’m not stopping the divorce.”

“Your brothers are all happily married!”

“No, mother. YOU are happy they’re married. Myron and Aaron both never smile anymore. They bring their families for Sunday dinner to appease you and daddy, but always look like they’d rather be somewhere else.”

“You do not know everything, young lady. Aaron and Cecelia are talking about having another baby. They’re very much in love.”

“Oh mother, please! They’re talking about it because you suggested it. Cecelia is just as unhappy as Aaron and wants to be closer to her family back east.”

“Cecelia has loving family right here.”

“No, she has you and daddy, always butting in trying to run their marriage.”

“Quinn Avery! How dare you? I will not tolerate your disrespectful attitude!”

“Then we should end this call, mom, because I’m just being honest. I refuse to live in your fairy tale. Enjoy your day, mom.” Quinn ended the call, gripping the phone tightly. She took a couple of deeps breaths, then gently placed the cell on the counter.

Quinn emptied her now-cold coffee down the drain, and poured a fresh cup. A faint smile graced her lips. She’d endured one of her mother’s self-serving phone calls and was already mentally moving past it—all in less than twenty minutes.

Quinn remembered times when the same phone call would have thrown her off her game and ruined her entire day.

Not this time.

Things were definitely looking up.

©2017 Felicia Denise, All Rights Reserved

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