Baubles, a character intro

Note: The following is a character sketch/opening sequence I wrote for a project I’ve been occasionally working on. It’s a contemporary YA fantasy very very loosely based on “The Princess and the Frog” (the fairy tale, not the Disney version), and I’m calling it Baubles at the moment. As always, with works in progress, pretty much everything is subject to change.

Shiny is bad. This is my mantra—I don’t like shiny, shiny is bad—but even as I lie to myself, I know it won’t work. I can feel the pressure building. It’s been coming on for the past few days, and while I try to convince myself that this time I can ignore it, my control is slipping.

Everywhere I look, things sparkle. It’s like the hallways of my high school were made to torture me, and not just in the usual school sort of way. Huge windows let in sunlight that seems to reflect off every single surface. There’s Lisa Emerson’s new diamond earrings, the latest gift from her richy-rich parents. There’s a guy with a Texas-sized belt buckle that screams, “Stare at me!” There’s even Boozy Benny sneaking his metallic “water bottle” into his locker with a furtive glance.

Of course, it’s not just shiny that’s the problem. Other objects catch my eye—the bright red scarf hanging from a girl’s coat pocket, the occasional paperback peeping out of a partially zipped backpack. But it’s the glisten, the shimmer, the gleam that’s hardest to resist.

“Hey, Si-Wai,” a voice calls. I turn my head. I know my mom would be annoyed at the ultra-Americanized way he says my name, “See Why,” without a whiff of what Mom calls “the melody of Mandarin.” But honestly, Dad was born in the States, Mom is about as white as they come, and the only time I feel Chinese is when I eat with chopsticks. Dad and I even joke that we don’t see why Mom cares so much when neither of us—the ones with the actual Chinese blood—do.

Plus, right now I’m just grateful for anything to distract me.

“Hey, Kent. How’s it going?”

He’s walking next to me now down the hall toward our next classes. He’s also fishing through the junk in his backpack. I try to ignore the luster of the fancy Cross pen he’s carrying. “Did you get the math homework last night?”

Good old Kent, no small talk for him. “Yup. You have problems?”

He pulls out a paper and thrusts it at me. “I don’t get how we were supposed to do number five.”

I glance at it. I resist calling him a moron. I also resist the pull of that pen. We spend the next minute or two with him trying to wheedle an answer out of me while I explain the problem.

“But what’s the answer?” he finally begs.

“Figure it out yourself.”

He scowls and flips me off as he runs down the hall to catch his next class on time. But just like clockwork, he’ll be back tomorrow.

Now that he’s gone, there’s nothing to distract me—not that math and Kent were sufficiently distracting in the first place. Not even the knowledge that the bell’s going to ring soon is enough to keep me from scanning the students ahead of me as I walk. Just as I’m hoping nothing will catch my eye, I see it.

A little dangling keychain, no keys attached, about the size and shape of a golf ball. It’s hanging from the zipper pull of a girl’s faded blue backpack. It’s clear, with faceted sides, and the facets catch the light from the windows. I can’t even blink, I’m so mesmerized by it. It is perfect, right down to the convenient carabiner latch that hooks it to the zipper.

This will be ridiculously easy.

I speed up, just enough to pull even with her back, then stumble a bit and brush against her. She turns, and I mumble a “sorry” but don’t make eye contact. The classic klutz-in-a-hurry posture. My hand curls around the ball as I pass her. By the time she notices the keychain is missing, she will have forgotten me. She’ll probably assume the latch was faulty.

I turn down the final corridor to my class, no longer caring if I’m a little bit late. A feeling of release floods through me, and I close my eyes for a moment, reveling in the rush of pleasure.

The guilt will come soon enough.

I sneak a glance at the ball in my possession. Even in the hollow of my hand, it feels like it gives off rainbows. Shiny is bad, I remind myself, and it begins to sink in. At least this bauble is clearly cheap, probably some dollar store purchase, hopefully without any sentimental value. Regardless, I’ll make sure it gets to the Lost and Found box in the school office later today, so if the girl thinks to look, she might even get it back. No harm done. At least that’s what I tell myself.

Because otherwise all I can tell myself is that I’m a thief. That it’s not shiny that’s bad.

It’s me.

Harps

I believe we should all just come
to accept that my addition of visual content
is always going to be pretty subpar. Hooray,
at least, for wikipedia and morguefile, or
you'd have no pics at all.

It turns out that in one of my many false starts (and middles and ends) for Unsightly (AKA Eye of the Beholder AKA Sight Unseen AKA Beheld AKA Oh-How-I-Hate-Titles), Isabel suddenly developed a desire to play the harp—and absolutely no aptitude for it. Really it became quite a large part of the book for a while until I suddenly found myself thinking, “There is no point to this.” Okay, it wasn’t strictly true. There was sort of a point. It was this whole way of showing that Isabel wasn’t very good at sticking to things, gave up when the going got hard, blah blah blah. But in the final analysis, it was just sort of flat.

However, tragically, I had already written a number of scenes (oh my gosh! the endless numbers of words that I cut from this story! I wrote at least 150K for my 72K novel; argh!) involving the harp.

And I liked at least one of them (originally I liked three, but time will kill delusions of grandeur, and now, a year later, I only like one). So what’s a girl to do with a scene about a harp that never made it to the finished product? Post it on her blog, of course!

 “What shall it be tonight, Isabel?” he asked one evening as we were settling into the library. “A story? Or will you finally play your harp for me?”

“I have not been practicing as I ought,” I told him. “Perhaps next week. I’m sure by then . . . ”

“Your excuses will not work on me tonight. What better time to practice than now? Come, I insist. You have put it off too long and I am nearly expiring from curiosity.”

“I suppose I cannot avoid it forever,” I told him. “But please recall that you were warned.”

I had long since moved my harp from the parlor and its cold formality to the gentle comfort of the library. Now all I had to do was rise and move to the opposite end of the room. As I rose, I attempted to sneak a glance into the shadows. The Beast, as usual, was invisible, seeming to draw even farther into the dark when I looked his way. I sighed. My recent increased efforts to see his face had returned me nothing but frustration.

For the umpteenth time I put it from my mind. Sometimes I felt that’s all I ever did—put from my mind the things I cared about most. But that was my way. So ignoring the mystery again, I sat at the harp and began to play.

I liked the idea of being able to play a harp just as much as I used to. It was such a graceful instrument. But I didn’t seem to have the coordination for it—or the desire to practice. I did not look forward to the embarrassment I was going to suffer tonight.

“Why don’t we wait one more day?” I pleaded. “You sound very tired. I’m sure you need to get to bed.”

“Oh no,” he said with a chuckle. “You are not going to get out of it so easily.”

I sighed my best long-suffering sigh and began to play. It was a beautiful instrument, I had to admit. Graceful and sweet, sound pouring out of it like the songs of birds.

If those birds had no sense of tune and were suffering under torture.

A few moments of almost-music passed and when I stopped and looked down, the Beast applauded politely. I thought I could detect, even in his clap, a hint of amusement.

I began to play again, this time with a bit more gusto. “That, in case you are wondering,” I told him as I played, “was the sound of a flight of angels taking off toward heaven.” Discordant noises floated in the air. “You should by no means mistake it for a herd of hippopotami trudging across shards of broken glass.”

The snort from across the room was loud. It really was a rather apt description. “Of course I had not imagined it anything other than a flight of angels.” Then a pause as I hit more incorrect notes. “And I believe that was the sound of the angels crashing into a tableful of goblets.” He sighed gustily. “Ah, such lovely music.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “I do have a rare talent for it.”

I Spy . . . a Secret

Could you keep a secret from someone you loved? A big one?

A fellow writer (JordanMcCollum) is throwing a blogfest today, and I have joined in. The idea was to write on the topic “I Spy . . . a Secret”—a scene in which a character keeps a secret from someone they love—to support the release of her novel I, Spy.* Feel free to go check out her blog, read other people’s posts, and hey, buy her book!

It turns out I didn’t have anything on hand to contribute, so I whipped out a scene that is background to my current WIP, The Second Sight. It’s funny to me that this is the scene I’ve got for you today. It’s probably the most romance-driven scene in the entire novel (which is largely a court intrigue/magical mystery with a very small helping of romance on the side), and it involves a moment in which Tambre (one of the main characters) is quite overwrought, which is definitely out of character for her. In other words, it’s not much like the rest of the book. I actually don’t plan for it to be in the book at all (though that is subject to change, of course). It’s an event that occurs before the book starts.

It’s also a little cheaterpantsy, I must admit. This is not so much the scene in which the secret is kept as the scene in which it is revealed. Also, it’s Lan’s secret, not Tambre’s. Still, I hope you enjoy.

*I keep on typing “Soy.” I think that would turn out to be a very different story.

***

The gentle hum of the bees in the clover mingled with Tambre’s own nervous humming as she sat on the sun-warmed rock, waiting for Lan to come. There across the clearing was the first tree she’d climbed to the top while he watched. Back then she’d been so proud of herself, getting there without his help. At first she’d thought he wanted her to learn to be strong on her own—that was why he never reached down to pull her up a tricky spot, never even swiped a mosquito from her skin. She was good enough without his help.

Now, though, she wasn’t so sure. All that was years ago, and now the other girls in the village giggled over secret meetings and stolen kisses with the boys out behind the inn, where the shadows lay heavy at night. But even though Tambre had been his confidante and his companion, even though he looked at her with eyes that spoke more than friendship, still she had never felt the brush of his skin at all.

It wasn’t her alone, she knew. He touched no one. Gloved hands, long sleeves even when the other men were rolling them up in the summer’s heat—he said that the touch of skin made him feel queasy. She’d heard of something like that before, once, in a cousin on her mother’s side. So she’d believed him, all these years, until last night. She’d come up to his family’s home quietly, sneaking up to see Lan and his sister Alena talking in the yard behind their house. Tambre smiled, feeling smug about finally surprising him after all his years of jumping out to startle her.

But then she’d watched dumbly as he deliberately stripped the glove from his hand and poked his sister’s arm repeatedly, grinning mischievously, needling her as she got angrier and angrier, her face a bright red.

Maybe it’s just his family, Tambre thought. Maybe he can touch them but no one else. But she had seen him with them too much to believe that lie; he’d always avoided them too—at least, whenever she could see.

She looked behind her, back into the forest, listening carefully, hoping he would come soon. She didn’t know how long her courage would hold, and she was determined to confront him. She rose and stretched her arms to the sky, easing the tension from her shoulders. Waiting didn’t suit her, and she was already tired of it. She thought—

“Boo!” he cried out, his voice sounding from the trees just to the right of her.

She jumped and whirled to face him. The silly grin on his face told her he knew he’d caught her. Her natural instinct in this moment of surprise was always to smack him lightly on the arm as payback, and quelling it as usual was the last straw.

“Lan, is there something wrong with me?” she blurted.

His grin faltered. “Everyone gets startled, Tambre. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

She huffed. “Not that. This!” She swept her hand back and forth between the two of them.

“What do you mean?” he asked. He looked genuinely confused, and she couldn’t help but think of the stories her friends told about clueless men. She’d always thought it was an exaggeration.

“I mean the space. Always the space. You said it was with everyone, but . . . I saw you last night, poking Alena like it was nothing.” She looked down. “If you can touch your family, why not me?” she whispered.

A moment passed, and he said nothing, just shoved his gloved hands in his pockets like he did when he got nervous, his face paling. She glanced up, but he wouldn’t look at her.

“Will it never be different with me?” she asked, staring at him, willing him to look up.

He kicked at a twig lying in the clover. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” she asked, her voice rising. “You don’t know?”

He sighed in defeat. “I want it to be.”

She paced now, the anger a form of energy in her begging for release. “Apparently not enough,” she snapped. “What’s wrong with you, Lan? I mean, really wrong? You say it’s that you can’t abide to be touched, but I don’t believe you. Tell me the truth.” She suddenly softened, reaching out to him. “I’ll help you.”

He looked at her miserably. “You would hate me. You do hate me, you just don’t know it yet.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand. I will never hate you.” She took a deep breath, let it out. “I love you, Lan.”

His eyes were sad, but they stared straight into hers as he replied. “I love you too.”

She didn’t think, didn’t give him a moment to think either. In an instant she had closed the distance between them. His eyes widened, but it was too late. Her lips were on his, awkward, uncertain, but with a devotion he could not fail to recognize.

He kissed her back, his arms snaking around her to pull her closer, and for perhaps three seconds there was bliss.

And then.

Then the sensation grew, overwhelmed her. Her head swam, her heart pounded too fast. There was giddiness, joy, adoration, passion she’d never felt before. She clung more tightly to him, but suddenly he pushed her away.

She gasped at the release.

She struggled to reach out to him again, but he held her tightly in place, the gloves and her sleeves forming layers between their skin. Her sight was filled with stars and the brilliant red light that comes of staring into the sun too long. She could barely see or think.

“Tambre, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I tried to stop it.”

“Sorry?” She shook her head to clear it. There was something wrong, but she couldn’t think what it was. The brightness in her mind faded to a dull glow, then with a snap it vanished altogether. She looked up at him in horror.

He shook his head mutely, begging with his eyes, but no words left his mouth as he released her and quickly backed away.

“Magic?” she asked. “You have the touch?”

He nodded, miserable. “It’s why I kept away.”

She looked around her wildly. The little clearing she had always found so cozy for their meetings seemed suddenly too small. “I can’t—I can’t do this, Lan. We can’t do this.” Her voice broke. “Why of all things? Why the touch?” But she wasn’t asking him. It was the whole mad universe, it was the magic at fault. It was wrong, all wrong. Again.

She took another step back from him, moving closer to the fringe of trees. He watched her go with acceptance in his face. Another step back from him, and she turned and ran.

Through the whispering of the leaves beneath her feet, she didn’t hear his whisper: “I’ll miss you.”

Set Thyself

The following excerpt is one of the last mini-tales I wrote for my Beauty and the Beast novel. I love the curious objects of power that so frequently pop up in the fairy tales. They’re so fun and exciting—seriously, who doesn’t wish they had a magic mirror or a bean on some serious growth hormones or a lie-detecting harp? But what I’ve been intrigued about the most lately is how those objects came into existence. Who made them, and how? And at what cost? That’s what one of my earlier stories was about (one that is not a part of this book but may be part of the loose sequel), and that’s what this one is about too. You’ve probably by now noticed an ongoing theme to these stories—the idea of blessings and curses going together. I think this is something true about human nature. We choose what we value, we choose where we focus, and in doing so we also choose whether what we are given is a gift or a curse. We choose how we react, and that makes the difference. But, to quote the Beast, “Enough philosophy. Now the story.” I hope you enjoy. 

***

“Beast,” I asked cautiously, casually fingering the soft fabric of my dress, “What do you think about the old magic? You’ve been around for a long time—”

He coughed, and I rolled my eyes.

“I mean, you tell stories about people from long ago,” I said indulgently. “You must have some thoughts about the old magic. Or perhaps some stories. . . ?”

“Hmm . . . ”

“Yes?”

“I do have one or two, but I should warn you. The stories about the old magic aren’t particularly friendly.”

“What do you mean? Everyone knows a few, and they seem just fine to me.”

“Oh, yes?” He chuckled warmly. “What stories do you know of the old magic?”

“Well, I know about the boots that would carry a man seven leagues in just one step.”

“Yes, that’s a fine story.” His voice was the kind you would use to humor a small child.

I glared. “And I know about the tablecloth that set itself with food for a banquet.”

“Indeed.”

I spoke faster, louder. “And the mirror that could show you the future or a distant place or tell you your heart’s desire.”

He said nothing, and I still felt he was indulging me.

“Or the carpet that could fly you anywhere you want to go.” I stopped suddenly. I had run out of stories I remembered.

The silence now was brooding, and I watched the shadows from the firelight play across my hands.

“Fine,” I said at last. “What’s wrong with those stories?”

“Nothing,” he said. “And yet . . . Did you ever wonder how all those magical objects were created?”

“I . . . ” I looked up, quirking my head to the side in thought. “No, I really never did.” I straightened in my chair. “Can you tell me?”

“I only know some of them. And as I said, they are not always pretty.”

He had told me dark tales before, though, and I wondered why he would warn me this time. I stared into the red, living light of the fire until I could see nothing else in the dimness surrounding me. “Tell me,” I said.

“You say you know about that tablecloth,” he began, “the one that always had food.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Do you know what it is to give up something you want?”

I huffed. “Of course I do. I lost my brothers, so much of my family—”

“Of course,” he interrupted. “But you did not give them up on purpose. You did not say to fate, ‘Please, take my brothers. I will give them away.’”

I thought for a moment. “I gave up my sisters and my father to come here,” I said more quietly.

“Yes. You did. So you do know something of sacrifice. And what you were really sacrificing was yourself to protect your family, so maybe you will relate better to this story than I had realized.” I could feel his eyes on me. “But you didn’t think you were giving up something of much value, did you?”

His words were not truly a question, but they stung, far too close to truth. I spoke through gritted teeth. “I asked for a story, not a philosophical discussion of my choices and worth.”

His voice softened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to injure you. You made a hard choice and a worthy sacrifice. I wish, though, that you had not felt so meaningless personally. You certainly have not been meaningless to me.”

I looked away, blushing.

He grunted. “So, as I was saying, sacrifice. There is much I don’t understand about the old magic, things that no one ever understood really. But one thing is certain: the sacrifice. And rarely the sacrifice that you expect.”

I prodded. “So. . . . The tablecloth.”

He chuckled. “Fine. Enough philosophy. Now the story.”

#

Once upon a time there was a young farmer’s son. He had grown up during a time of great hardship, and many in the kingdom went hungry. His father’s crops had failed several times in a row, and they struggled. The young boy remembered many, many days without meals. He watched the fat slowly melt from his brothers and sisters, and he could do nothing to stop it.

But time passed, and another year came. That year the rain fell enough to quench the earth’s thirst but never enough to drown it. The sun beat gently upon the crops, and they burst out of the soil. That year there was plenty, and the next year and the next, until the days of hunger were forgotten.

But not for the boy. He had grown into a man by now and had settled down with a family of his own. He was a farmer like his father, producing enough to support his family, but little more.

And he remembered. He remembered those days of wasting away, of the hollowness in his sisters’ eyes. He looked on his own children now, his toddler with chubby rolls of baby fat still clinging to him, his older daughter with the sweet dimples in her cheeks. He could not allow them to ever suffer what his brothers and sisters had suffered. He thought on it day and night until the thought consumed him.

Now, this man had power. Not unusual in those days to have it, but many could not—or would not—wield it. But he would. He asked his wife to sew him a fine tablecloth, covered with images of glorious foods. Just to look on it would make your mouth water. When she was finished, the man cast a spell—no, Isabel, I don’t know exactly how he did it—

I grimaced and pretended I had not meant to ask.

—A spell to keep his family from ever going hungry.

Whenever they needed food, all they had to do was unfold the cloth and say, “Tablecloth, set thyself.” Food in great abundance, great quality, foods of all sorts would appear on the tablecloth. Enough to feed all who sat before it.

It was wonderful thing, a marvel! Amazing to behold, and a great gift to the family—though I suspect they had to be very careful to hide it from thieves. The man’s family always had plenty, and he slept well knowing that they would never see starvation.

“But what of the sacrifice?” I interrupted.

“What of the sacrifice, indeed,” he said.

The man’s family was safe, it is true. But the man himself, ah, that is another matter. He sat down before the tablecloth with the others, delighted to partake of the fine meal before him. But when he brought a turnip to his lips, it tasted of garbage, rot. He tried a fluffy, warm roll. The same. Roast lamb, steamed carrots, a beautiful, juicy chunk of roast beef. All torture to his tongue. He could eat, but it was a difficult enterprise, fraught with disgust and displeasure.

The man knew, somehow, that if he were to destroy the tablecloth, he would receive back to him all he had lost. But he did not do it. The years passed, and he ate only what was required to barely sustain life. The gaunt hollowness he kept from his children fell upon him instead. And the only enjoyment he received from food was the expressions on the face of his wife and children as they ate it.

For him, it was enough.