"False Alarm": A Power Club Short Story (Part 2)

Click here for Part 1. 

 [I'm not quite sure this section is as strong as it needs to be. Feedback is appreciated.]

 

            A police officer boarded the school bus and casually walked up and down the aisle, smiling at each child.  Denise was well used to this practice by now, but it still unnerved her.  It was a daily routine for officers to make sure no children with powers had snuck aboard the bus before it left the district.  Denise didn’t know what would happen if they actually caught a kid with powers, but the idea had never bothered her until now.

            Sheila Torvald, who sat in the seat next to Denise, whispered, “How can they tell if one of us has a power?”

            “Maybe they can’t,” Denise whispered back.  “Maybe they just want us to think they can.”

            “Or maybe they look for kids who have moles in the center of their foreheads," piped Billy Underwood from the seat behind Denise. "That's how you can tell a kid's getting powers."

            “That’s stupid!” Denise shot back.

            “What are you kids whispering about?” said the policeman.  He was now at the front of the bus.  There was no way he could have heard them.  Denise figured he probably had a power, too, like some district police officers did.

            “Nothing!” Sheila, who liked to be in charge, answered for them all.

            The policeman—a handsome man with grey eyes and straight eyebrows—approached them. 

            Denise looked away and pretended she was thinking of something else.

            The policeman turned around, headed back to the front of the bus and announced, “All clear!” to the other border guards outside.  After he left, the bus resumed its trip into the city.

            After the bus passed the border gate, Denise raised a hand to feel her forehead.

            “What are you doing?” Sheila chided her.

            “I think I'm getting a cold,” Denise lied, and quickly rubbed her nose.

***

            “What are you looking at?” Vee said with great annoyance as he looked up from the checker board.

            Denise had been studying her brother’s face, looking for a mole anywhere—between his eyes, on his cheek, under his chin—but she could see no mole, unless it was hidden underneath his bangs.

            “Do me a favor,” she said.  “Do this.”  She shook her head.

            “Why?”

            “Just do it.”

            “MOM!  Denise is telling me what to do again!”

             “Denise, stop telling your brother what to do,” her mother called without looking up from the futon, where she sat pouring over research from work.

            Denise glared at her brother.  He always did what Denise told him to do when Mom wasn’t present. But when she was, he did whatever he pleased.  Denise hated that.

            Vee’s hand blurred over the checkerboard.  The rapid sound of his black checker hitting the board in several spots sounded like tiny guns firing.  When the blurring stopped, three of Denise’s red checkers had been removed from the board.

            “I bet you didn’t see THAT coming!” Vee crowed.

            Denise smiled.  No, she hadn’t.    

***

            “Kids with powers do NOT have moles on their foreheads,” she told Billy Underwood the next day.  “My brother doesn’t.”

            “Neither does my sister,” echoed Sheila Torvald.

            “I didn’t say every kid with a power has a mole,” Billy replied, nonplussed.  “It’s only when they’re getting powers.  My dad says the mole goes away after awhile.” Billy's dad, a dermatologist, should know, he asserted.

            For the second time since yesterday, Denise felt the desire to feel her forehead for a mole.  She had meant to check in the mirror last night or this morning when she was brushing her teeth, but she forgot.  Her failure to predict Vee’s checkers move had put her mind at ease.

            It was silly.  She didn’t have a power and didn’t want one.  As for the mole—Billy was just plain wrong, no matter what his dad had said.

            The bus paused at a stoplight. Denise took the chance to study people the nearby buildings.  One was older than the other buildings, yet it seemed majestic.  Huge, rectangular windows held court over the street,  and the paint of the building—once pristine white, she imagined—had faded to the color of dirty chalk.  It wasn't a good looking building, but Denise found herself drawn to it.

            Suddenly, flames came from nowhere and engulfed the building. The huge picture windows burst, sending glass everywhere.

            Denise jumped as the smell of smoke surrounded her and filtered into the night sky.  Night?  But it’s still morning.  A surge of panic overcame her as she turned to Sheila and Billy, but they continued to chat away, oblivious to what was going on.  No one on the bus acted as if anything was wrong. 

            Denise turned back to the building, but its unbroken picture windows stood there in the morning sun, glaring at her as if she had seen something she wasn’t supposed to see.  There were no flames.

"False Alarm": A Power Club Short Story

It's been awhile since I've posted anything, but I want to thank everyone for stopping by and checking out the blog. Here's the first part of a Power Club™ prequel I wrote about a year ago. Enjoy.

            The tiny spider inched its way across the bathroom sink, up the faucet, down the faucet.  It circled the drain twice before it must have realized it was being watched.

            Denise laid her hand in front of the spider, as much to block its path as to say hello.  “Don’t be afraid,” she said softly.  “I won’t hurt you.”  She hoped the spider would crawl into her hand.  She could almost feel its tiny legs crawling into her palm, like little mechanical arms, working together.

            “Who are you talking to?” came her brother’s voice from outside the open bathroom door.  “OOH, SICK!”

            Something blurred past Denise, creating a gust of wind that blew her golden hair into her face.  There was a loud SLAM! against the counter.  When Denise looked for the spider again, all she saw was an ugly black mark.

            “VEE!” she screamed.  “How could you?”

            Vee, who had already left the bathroom, reappeared in the doorway.  “It was just a spider,”  he said with a shrug.

            Denise rolled her eyes and brushed past her brother.  If she had to explain it to him, he would never understand.

            Vee, never one to let matters drop, not even for a nine-year-old, followed her into the kitchen.  “I was doing you a favor.  How come you’re not scared of spiders like normal girls?”

            Denise turned to face him.  At eleven, she towered over her brother.  Her height gave her a sense of superiority, even though Vee could be on the other side of the house as soon as she uttered a syllable.  Mostly, though, she bristled at the phrase “normal girls.”

            “Vee, you’re so ignorant,” she said, using a word she’d recently learned in school—the normal school she went to, not the special school Vee had to go to.  “Mom’s not afraid of spiders.”

            “Mom’s not a girl.  She’s a scientist,” he said, plopping down in his favorite chair at the breakfast table.  “When are we going to eat?  I’m hungry!”

            Denise checked her watch—the new one with the pink band and glittering hands, a gift from her father for getting an A on a science quiz.  She had just enough time to fix Vee breakfast before her school bus arrived.  Vee would loiter for awhile and then run to his special school, which was only two blocks away. He could be there in a few seconds.  Denise didn't mind waiting on the bus though. She could talk to her friends on the ride to school, which took her through the old downtown, past shops and office buildings that stood several stories high. She got to see things her brother couldn't, because he wasn't allowed to leave the district.

            She pulled the breakfast cereal out of the pantry and the milk out of the fridge.  It wasn’t her job, Denise’s mother had told her, to feed Vee.  He was old enough to take care of himself.  But Denise loved the ordinary tasks of taking care of the house and making food.  They gave her the feeling of being normal while living in the district among kids who had special powers.

            “Are you going to clean up that mess?” she said as she sat down at the head of the table, a spot normally reserved for her father.

            “What mess?”

            “The mess you left in the bathroom.  The spider?”

            Vee looked as if it were already a distant memory.  “You’re the one who likes to clean house.  You do it.”

            “Vee,” she said in her strongest mother-voice, the voice Mom would surely use if she didn’t have to go to work so early.

            “Oh, all right.”  Vee blurred, vanished, and then reappeared a split second later.  “Done!”

            Denise thought she should check to make sure Vee had disposed of the spider’s remains, but decided against it.  Mom and Dad wouldn’t check.  They had told Denise they trusted her and Vee to do as they were told.  Denise thought they should be stricter, especially with Vee. 

            “No, you can’t go to Taylor Gardner’s house after school,” she said absently.  “You have to come home and do chores.”

            Vee, stuffing a spoonful of Raisin Bran into his mouth, hadn’t said a word.

            “How’d you know I was going to ask if I could go to Taylor’s?”

            Denise felt uncertain.  It was like she’d heard the conversation before it had happened.  She could hear it all, from Vee’s high pitched first request to his whining in protest and her ultimate refusal.         

            “I just knew,” she said, refusing to look him in the eye.  “Finish your cereal.”

Click here for Part 2. 

2013: A Semi-Great Year in Review

Cartoon showing baby representing New Year 1905 chasing old man 1904 into history. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I detest the sort of “my year in review” columns in which the writer looks back and praises himself for his accomplishments or wallows in self pity for the things that didn’t work out. 

 

Like most writers, I have a propensity to do both and so I don’t like to reflect overmuch on my writing career. I’d rather let others do that if they are so inclined.

If writing is a form of communication (and it is), then it becomes more meaningful to the writer if it is shared—that is, if it comes back to me in some form (sales, feedback, reviews, and did I mention sales?).  

Nevertheless, something needs to be said about 2013 because it was a year in which I met two very important writing goals: publishing my first novel and taking a full-time teaching position. 

Both goals were realized after several years of hard work, learning, and faith. And both experiences have turned out far better than I could have hoped. 

But whenever one attains a goal (let alone two), there’s a need to sit back on that lofty perch and ask, “What’s next?”   

Well, what is next?

Fortunately (?), I don’t have the time to luxuriate in much indecision. My teaching job keeps me very busy, which is good: I have the privilege of teaching online English courses to students who otherwise might not get to go to college at all, as well as members of our armed forces, many of whom do their assignments while being deployed. 

If writing is communication, then teaching is service. I get to communicate and serve, passing on subjects I’m passionate about and which may help others find their passion.

However, some things have fallen by the wayside due to my busyness, including my next novel. I had begun work on a sequel to The Power Club™, but put it on the back burner after members of my writer’s group pointed out, rightly so, that it read too much like the first novel.

I'm simply not ready to tell the next step in Damon's story—or perhaps he's not ready to tell me.

Instead, I wrote a book which departs drastically from the concept of teenagers with super-powers. It is very different than anything I’ve written before, and, as of right now, it exists in one complete and very rough draft. I’m getting feedback from my writer’s group and revising it at a snail’s pace. It's been slow going as I take stock of what I have and decide what to do with it.

Living the writing life

Writing does not happen in a vacuum.Writers live lives—or they should if they hope to write stories that resonate with readers who also have lives. I’ve pretty much avoided discussing my personal life in this blog as I prefer to keep the focus on writing and the journey of writing. 

But writing and living are intertwined; when one suffers, the other usually suffers, as well. While I wouldn’t describe my personal life as “suffering” this year, it has be tumultuous. I won’t go into details; let’s just say that I enter this Advent season in sort of a lull, and that’s okay. Advent is a time when Christians look forward to the coming of Christ, metaphorically or literally (or both)—a time when new things can happen in our lives.

So, as I enter 2014, I have no idea what my life or my writing holds in store. I’ve never really had a plan for my writing career, just an ever-changing dream. Someone recently told me that the difference between a goal and a dream is that, with a dream you have no idea how you’re going to get there but that’s what makes the dream worthwhile.

My writing journey in 2013 has proven this to be true.

Happy 2014 to all my readers! Thank you for stopping by, and may your own dreams be worth dreaming.

What Writers Can Learn about Inspiration from Lorde’s “Royals”

I don't keep up with popular music these days, so it takes something unusual for me to take notice. One of the most popular songs in the country is “Royals” by Lorde—a song which qualifies as unusual for several reasons. First, the song was written and sung by a 17-year-old girl from New Zealand, a remote country not known as a hotbed of musical activity. Second, its lush vocal arrangement makes "Royals" an energetic confection with a timeless quality.

What made me take notice, however, were the enigmatic and somewhat pointed lyrics:

                And we’ll never be royals

                It don't run in our blood

                That kind of lux just ain’t for us

                We crave a different kind of buzz

Such lyrics made me think the song was an intentional jab at Britain’s Royal Family and/or the media’s obsession with them. The last thing I expected was for the song to have any connection with Kansas City’s hometown baseball team, the Royals.

Yet a Kansas City Star article today revealed otherwise. 

It turns out that the song was inspired by a National Geographic photo of the Royals’ celebrated third baseman, George Brett, signing baseballs for fans during the 1976 season. The team logo was, of course, emblazoned on Brett’s jersey.

“It was just that word [Royals],” Lorde is quoted in the article.  “It was really cool.”

Leaving aside the notion that the song may be a jab at anyone, this story illustrates how writers can find inspiration in the unlikeliest of sources. It also illustrates how new creative works can be made by drawing connections from seemingly unrelated ideas across the globe.

Inspiration is a tricky thing. It is often compared to a muse—the mythological beings (usually female) who inspired men to do great things. On the other hand, inspiration can be compared to genius, which, in the words of Thomas Edison, involves 10 percent inspiration and 90 percent perspiration. The first attitude treats inspiration as a magical quality over which writers have no control. The second attitude treats it as nothing special.

To me, inspiration is indeed special. It often comes unbidden when I’m not ready for it (usually when I’m driving), and yet it also comes from hard work. Lack of inspiration, in other words, is not an excuse to stop writing. Inspiration, I’ve found, often returns when I’ve made it clear that I intend to plow on ahead with or without its assistance. Perhaps inspiration doesn’t want to get left behind.

But, returning to “Royals,” the story of its beginnings reveals three important points about inspiration for writers:

1. Don’t dismiss any idea, no matter how trivial it may seem.

According to Lorde, it was the word “Royals” itself which got her creative wheels spinning. Words can be enormous sources for inspiration—they carry meanings which are both denotative and connotative. Words suggest other words. Words suggest ideas and connections. Go with it.

2. Be receptive to inspiration from unusual sources.

How a teenager from New Zealand got hold of a 37-year-old National Geographic is still a mystery, according the Star article, but it doesn’t matter. Creative inspiration can be found in anything. The legendary ‘60s band Buffalo Springfield took their name from a sign on a steamroller. Starbucks, the coffee chain, took its name from the first mate in Moby-Dick. Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry drew inspiration from his own experiences in World War II and as a police officer, and from the TV series Wagon Train. 

Finding connections between seemingly unrelated ideas is what creativity is all about.

3. When inspiration comes calling, roll up your sleeves and get to work.

“Royals” may have begun with a photograph, but it didn’t end there. At some point, the song had to be written, rehearsed, recorded, sold and marketed.

This is where many would-be writers run out of steam. The initial feelings of wonder and excitement generated by inspiration disappear, leaving them with the cold reality of hard work. The sad truth for some is that inspiration alone does not make dreams come true. 

Anyone can be “inspired.” Perhaps the ultimate lesson of “Royals” is that ideas are not enough. It’s what you do with an idea that counts.

Work Cited:

Liu, Kathy. "Yup, George Brett is Her Inspiration." The Kansas City Star 7 Dec. 2013: C3.