YAFF Muse: Don’t

By Cam

YAFF Muse is a new weekly blog series featuring some YA Fiction Fanatics members. In this series, we’ll post original short stories created from an image meant to inspire our Muse. Hope you enjoy! And don’t forget to check out the other *YAFFers participating in this series (links below).

Photo Credit: I Turned Around by Inessa Emilia

Don’t

Don’t.

Such a simple word, really. And not even a full one, but rather two words that meant the exact opposite—do and not—smashed together like they had no choice.

It was a teasing word.

Maybe that was why I licked her tears from my lips again. Why my fingers prodded just a tiny bit harder into the soft flesh of her neck. Just to hear her say the half-assed word one more time:

“Don’t.”

Yes.

Her eyelids fluttered. In between each slowing blink, I saw the whites of her eyes twitch. Like bingo balls settling down after that last, lucky call.

I waited ten seconds. Twenty. After a full minute I heaved myself off of her. I did the pull and tuck, and then zipped my jeans. A grass stain bled onto my knees. I licked my thumb and tried wiping it away but—like her—it was a lost cause.

Twigs cracked behind me. My attention shifted to the campsite a hundred feet away. The glow of the fire flickered and then burst with renewed life, sending a fresh wave of sparks and smoke to billow up into the trees. There were three of them now, their silhouettes ghosted back and forth behind the tree line. They had no idea.

The sound of laughter filled the woods. Then applause.

Why thank you. I bowed to the patch of wild mushrooms a foot away. Would you like an encore? I smiled.

Encores were my specialty.

A bird flew through the canopy, a rustle of leaves so loud I was sure it’d give me away. I held my breath and crouched, steadying my weight on the balls of my feet just in case one of the campers got too nosey. When it seemed no one cared, I sighed and gave one final, appraising look to my latest achievement.

Her name had been Marianne. That’s what the tall, skinny boy had called her. It suited her well. A Trista or a Nikki or a Samantha would’ve fought back. I brushed Marianne’s hair off her forehead. She was beautiful in this kind of slipping light. The shadows made her cheekbones really pop. Given more time, she could’ve been a model.

I smoothed her sweater across her stomach and pulled the knit-cable down over her hips. I thought about pulling her leggings back up, but she looked more fun this way. A real party.

I stood up and loosened my shoulders, then loped around the far side of the camp site toward the water. Everywhere I looked, exposed tree roots suffocated in soggy dirt. It made foot placement crucial. I’d have to remember to wipe down my boots later. Maybe it’d be best to set them—

“Alex!”

—on fire.

“Alex!”

I turned, slowly, so as not to disrupt the woodland critters in their natural habitat. I’d felt their eyes on me earlier and it made me uncomfortable. The tall, skinny boy waved me over. When I didn’t move, he huffed and kicked through the leaves and fallen branches to get to where I stood. He was beyond loud.

He braced his hands on his knees and wheezed. “Hey. Why didn’t you answer me?”

I shrugged.

“Have you seen Marianne? She went to go pee a while ago but hasn’t come back yet.”

I stroked my chin and studied his wide-eyed expression, his red and sweaty face. “I haven’t. But I’ll keep my eyes open.”

He narrowed his gaze on me and I thought maybe he knew. Maybe he saw everything in my eyes. Maybe he saw too much. I wiggled my fingers by my side. There was a flat rock five inches to the left of my foot. It wouldn’t take much. The kid was so skinny he’d likely break in one swing.

But he just nodded. Smart boy. “Okay. Thanks. If you see her, will you let her know her hot dog is ready?”

“Sure thing.” I smiled. “But if she doesn’t eat her hot dog soon, do you mind if I eat it? I’m starving.”

© 2010 Cambria Dillon

(Author’s Note: I love this picture. I love the sadness. I love the muted tones. I also love camping. Or I did, when I was young. Nowadays I’m more likely to spend the night in a fluffy bed than the unknown of the wilderness. And once again, another psycho teen weasels his way into my head.)

*Don’t forget to check out other stories from YAFF Muse participants:

RM Gilbert
Min Buchanan
Rebekah Purdy
Traci Kenworth
Vanessa Barger

NEWS, Goals, and Stay Away from the ER Waiting Room!

By Cam

First order of business — I promise I’ll be posting a recap of RWA Orlando. I’ve written half of it but admit I sort of just want to post pictures of all the fabulousness. But I realize posting pics isn’t really all that informative, so you might have to wait a few more days because…

I have NEWS! And it needs my undivided attention! I won’t go into specifics except to say that if there was ever an incentive to finish the spit-polish on my MS, it’s this.

Which brings me to my Two Week Goal. I’m giving myself two weeks — 14 days/336 hours/20,160 minutes — to REVISE and QUERY. Why two weeks? Well, I’m almost there. All I need is a little push, a reasonable deadline (that I can be accountable for), to get me closer to the next step. But there’s always a bit of a risk when you’re about to send out that first batch of queries. What if *gasp* you think it’s ready but it’s really not? For me, that means my MS runs the risk of fatal Too-Soon-itis. And we all know how that goes.

So let me take you on a little journey to illustrate how querying too soon is like taking a trip to the ER:

• You make the obvious decision to go to the hospital because you have a broken arm/volatile stomach/third eye/no eye/other grotesque injury.

• You see a sign on the hospital door that says STOP! FALLING BRICKS ABOVE!

• You shrug because it’s a HOSPITAL and you’re SICK and no bricks are falling on your head. Stupid sign.

• You check in with the gum-smacking receptionist and take a seat in the germ-infested waiting area.

• You realize how bad waiting is going to suck because all you want to do is get through Triage and see a dang doctor for your broken arm/volatile stomach/third eye/no eye/other grotesque injury. But you’re stuck waiting it out in an area that’s too small, too packed, and too smelly for comfort.

• To pass the time until someone calls out your name, you decide to: read a magazine/suck at Sudoku/moan/cry for your Momma/play Hangman without the paper or pencil/plant your ass at the reception desk and tap your finger on the counter until someone pays attention to you. (I don’t suggest this last option because chances are good the guard standing by the sliding glass door is bored out of his mind and is itching–ITCHING–to throw a sucker to the curb.)

• FINALLY your name is called (and with minimal butchering of your last name) after just ten hours of waiting!

• You drag your tired and cranky and now-smelly body to Registration where you give every pertinent detail of your life and promise your first-born child/cat/dog/cupcake to a woman who eyes the small-hand on the clock like she’s getting paid to do that instead of processing your info.

• You wait again.

• Twenty-one hours later and a nurse with a glowing halo above her head and a parade of silky white doves following her every step, calls you back.

• You say a silent prayer and hope it’s really you she’s talking to.

• You gleefully tell the ER Doctor (who’s none too pleased at having drawn the short straw) all about your broken arm/volatile stomach/third eye/no eye/other grotesque injury. No detail is too small to leave out. This is your LIFE we’re talking about here.

• ER Doctor jabs you in parts you didn’t think you could get jabbed.

• After thirty seconds, she tells you your ailment was all in your head and if you just take this discharge sheet and follow the security guard outside, he’ll make sure you get to your car alright (and put you on the Never Allowed Back To The Hospital Again list).

• You drive  home, stare at the wall for a few days/weeks/months, then Eureeka! You realize maybe that ER Doctor was onto something. Maybe you just had a case of the Too-Soons and a good scour or ten in the shower was all you needed to bypass the ER waiting room in the first place.

Obviously, I’ve taken some liberties with this analogy. I mean c’mon — a third eye??? Regardless of how many orbital outlets someone does or doesn’t have, the point is that if you query too soon, your subconscious probably already knows this but you’ll most likely ignore it anyway and submit. And you know what? You might even get a request from Dream Agent’s assistant. Take that stupid subconscious! But if you queried too soon and are lucky enough to get past the slush reader, chances are pretty dang good you’ll get a big, fat “Not for me” from your Dream Agent. And when that happens, you’re pretty much SOL on querying that particular MS to Dream Agent again.

Why take the chance of ignoring sound advice when all you need is a rigorous scrub or two? Scrubbing is good, peeps. Use whatever you can — loofahs, that body wash with the exfoliating beads, good old-fashioned washcloth — just make sure you wash behind your ears and get between your toes. Your Dream Agent will thank you for it.

YAFF Muse: Mouthful

By Cam

YAFF Muse is a new weekly blog series featuring some YA Fiction Fanatics members. In this series, we’ll post original short stories created from an image meant to inspire our Muse. Hope you enjoy! And don’t forget to check out the other *YAFFers participating in this series (links below).

Photo Credit: My Charm of Luck by Evely Duis

Mouthful

“Alright bitches! Kiss the wall!”

I try not to roll my eyes but—oops. Too late. Veronica Manchester pops her gum and struts toward me. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice so I stare at her necklace. The chain is too long. Her pendant—some plastic, gawdy-looking thing—hits between her bikini-clad boobs. I see waves of heat rise above the pavement behind her. Yeah, it’s hot. My shorts are drenched and sticking to my butt, so I can only imagine the pendant is glued to her cleave-sweat, too.

I’ve heard the stories from past players. I don’t know if they’re true, but if so, this could really suck.

“I said, ‘kiss the wall,’ Stanton. What part of that does your little turd-sized brain not understand?” she asks.

Veronica is so close I can see the chip in the coating of her black-framed sunglasses. At tryouts last week, I overheard her tell the other seniors her fancy shades were Chanel or Christian Dior or some other high-end brand that starts with a ‘C.’ But it’s obvious they’re knock-offs. Just goes to show who really has the turd-sized brain. Of course I’ll never say this out loud. I oohed and ahhed with the rest of the incoming freshman girls.

Veronica huffs. A cotton candy-scented pocket of air wafts in my face.

I forgot she asked me a question. I look at her—a ballsy move for sure—and open my mouth to say what she wants to hear. Except what comes out is: “I don’t know, Veronica. Maybe all of it?” I don’t mean to come off sounding snarky, but it’s too late. I’m at the point of no return.

Veronica mashes her wad of gum to the right side of her mouth. It balloons out of her cheek like a tumor or a ripe zit. I want to pop it. I clench my fists by my sides so I don’t do anything rash.

I’m a freshman. A nobody.

“What did you say?” She drops her chin a little. Above the rim of her glasses I see her brown eyes glare at me like two darts of death.

“All of it?” I ask. A drop of sweat slides down my temple. It’s like Time pulls up a chair and shakes open a bag of popcorn. Off to either side of me I sense five pairs of freshman eyes afraid to blink. A basketball bounces, then rolls off somewhere to the left, maybe by the back court. I see the other senior girls creep closer to me and Veronica, surrounding us like a protective blanket. It’s still up in the air on whether they’re protecting us from each other, or outsider attention. Either way, the best thing for me to do is keep my mouth shut.

“Alright, Stanton,” Veronica says, “I’ll try to make things a little clearer for you.”

* * *

I was right. Her pendant is made out of plastic. It also tastes like rubbing alcohol and salt. I have to swallow hard because it’s more than slightly nauseating to know I’ve ingested Veronica Manchester’s cleave-sweat as I hold the chunky pendant between my teeth.

Veronica leans against the brick wall perpendicular to me. She smiles. “All you have to do is drop it, Stanton.”

I snort. Right, like the alternative is a better choice.

She shrugs and holds out her hand to a senior whose name I can’t remember. Something shiny drops in her palm.

My stomach churns when Veronica glides to me, holding another pendant between her fingers. It’s identical to the one in my mouth, only silver instead of white.

“Open up,” she says. She smiles so big I almost ask to borrow her sunglasses because her teeth are too bright. It hurts my eyes.

But I can’t open my mouth. If I do then her necklace will drop and that’s really not an option at this point. I shake my head as Veronica holds the silver pendant in front of my face.

She shoves it in my mouth anyway.

* * *

There are fifteen seniors on the field hockey team. Apparently there are also fifteen different colors of plastic, gawdy pendants on cheap gold chains. Who knew? I hold fourteen in my mouth. I don’t swallow because I know the first one, Veronica’s white pendant, will slide down my throat if I do.

“Last one, Stanton.” Veronica looks bored as she approaches me. Her shoulders aren’t quite as broad as they were earlier and her smooth swagger has fizzled into a shuffle. And she checks her watch every other minute like she has something better to do than haze freshman girls all day.

I want to flip her off or give her a nasty look but my arms are sore from holding the field hockey stick for so long and my eyes sting because I haven’t blinked since she stuffed the twelfth pendant between my lips. There’s a tickle in my windpipe and I concentrate on clamping the back of my throat closed. This is why I’m not prepared when Veronica shoves the pale pink pendant, the last one, into my mouth.

Fifteen pendants clank onto the pavement like a handful of wet jacks. I drop the stick and barely have time to wretch when both my arms are yanked back.

Veronica’s in my face and amazingly, her breath still smells like cotton candy gum. She sneers and grabs the collar of my shirt with both hands.

At first I think we’re going to kiss and I want to tell her I’m not cool with that. But it’s not softness I feel against my lips. It’s cement—hard and rough—and the taste of blood overwhelms me.

The brick exfoliates my cheek. It stings but I don’t cry because the contrast of sticky hot air against my bare butt is so shocking I stop breathing. I blink and force air into my lungs because breathing trumps crying any day of the week.

* * *

The first whap of the stick across my ass is as bad as I imagined it could be.

The second one isn’t any better.

By the time the fifteenth senior gets her turn, I don’t feel anything.

That’s okay because I understand. This is all part of it—team camaraderie, sisterhood, loyalty, whatever. But I wonder how long it’ll take to get the aftertaste of cleave-sweat out of my mouth.

© 2010 Cambria Dillon

(Author’s Note: The first thing that popped in my head when I sat down to write this story was that hazing scene in Dazed and Confused. You know the one I’m talking about, right? Parker Posey screams “Fry like bacon, piggies!” at the incoming freshman girls and they all begrudgingly flatten themselves onto the scorching pavement and flap around like, well, bacon. Classic scene. Classic movie. This short story is sort of an homage to that scene. )

*Don’t forget to check out other stories from YAFF Muse participants:
Jennifer Fischetto
Vanessa Barger

YAFF Muse: Hey Mister

By Cam

YAFF Muse is a new weekly blog series featuring some YA Fiction Fanatics members. In this series, we’ll post original short stories created from an image meant to inspire our Muse. Hope you enjoy! And don’t forget to check out the other *YAFFers participating in this series (links below).

Hey Mister

“Well, what do you think? I found her by the train tracks.”

I turned in a slow circle and anchored my hand on my hip. “You can’t be serious. This thing wouldn’t scare nobody away.” I clucked my tongue. “And the tracks? You might want to check the seat before you sit in it.” The train tracks were known for two things: Migrants and stop ‘n sticks—otherwise known as pit stops for those needing one last fix before they got too close to border patrol.

Eli hopped off the bench and reached for the pencil he always stashed behind his ear. He frowned.

I pointed by his feet. “There.”

He brushed some rocks away and picked up his No. 2, then scribbled on the notepad he kept in his back pocket. The little journal was worn and curved from all the time spent hugging his butt, but he didn’t seem to notice as his pencil bobbed up and down across the lined pages. He paused, then licked the graphite tip and continued jotting down whatever great stroke of genius he had this time. When he was done, he crooked his finger at me to stand next to him. “This is what I’m talking about,” he said. “All I need is a sheet of aluminum and some nails and I’ll be set. And Rex won’t be bothering you no more. None of them will be bothering you no more.”

I leaned in. And scratched my head. There was a mess of lines and angles and some sort of contraption between the handlebars that looked like a teepee. “Uh. Yeah. It’s nice. I’m sure Rex will be reeaaal scared when he sees that thing coming at him.”

Eli sighed and stuffed his notepad back in his pocket. “Forget it. I’ll just work on it mys—”

A car pulled into the Qwikee-Sip parking lot. The pieces of broken glass and gravel crunched and skipped across the pavement as the car parked in the spot closest to where we stood. I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. As soon as the driver’s door opened, I smelled the smoke and heard the low twang of a country tune streaming across the speakers. The door slammed.

“Hey, Shanda. Whatcha doin’?”

I pinned my gaze to Eli’s left eye, to the still-healing outline of Rex’s class ring. If I squinted real hard, I saw the ’09 imprinted into the sandy arch of his brow. “Hey Rex. Not much. You?”

Eli bounced on his toes, his fingers playing an invisible keyboard against his thighs. To him, I mouthed, Go. Now. He shook his head. Not a big enough movement for Rex to notice, but mentally I cursed Eli for being such a stubborn little shit.

Rex’s boots ground into the rocks behind me. He was no more than four—maybe five—steps away. That meant it was already too late.

“Well, I figured I’d sit and wait for a ‘Hey Mister.’ I need some beer. Anybody been by yet?” he asked. I heard him pivot in the rocks, probably to scan the store front, then pivot back. He hocked a wad of spit over my left shoulder. It landed on the bench, just missing my school bag.

My fingers curled into my sundress. “No one’s been by yet. But it’s Friday afternoon. So only a matter of time.” I laughed. It sounded odd. Like a too-loud soprano in the church choir who sang off-key compared to everyone else. It made my ears ring.

“Good.” More gravel-crunching. More spitting. “That’s real good.”

I mouthed, Just run, I’ll distract him, to Eli, but he stood there like a Firecracker Popsicle melting all over the sidewalk, not doing anything but looking like a damn fine prize for Rex Tuskergee.

“Why don’t you take your ‘Hey Mister’ somewhere else, Rex?” Eli asked.

I groaned when I heard Rex’s boot dig into the rocks. A second later, the jagged little pebbles pelted the backs of my legs and clanged against the spokes of the bike wheels. It didn’t hurt. Probably looked worse than it felt, but Eli was all heart and no sense. He launched himself toward me. I ducked and turned just in time to see him swat at Rex’s face with his pencil. I cringed. Someone needed to teach that boy how to fight.

Rex laughed and grabbed Eli’s wrists as easy as if they were two chicken legs he’d sopped up with hot sauce and ranch, and twisted. “Boy, I will kill you.” He howled again and dropped Eli to the ground, next to his No. 2 pencil which had broken in half. Then he gave a swift kick into Eli’s belly before stepping over his writhing body. Rex held his arm out to me. “Shanda.”

I placed my hand in the crook of Rex’s elbow and stepped over Eli, who begged for me not to go. But I said, “Hush now, baby brother. I’m going to help Rex with his ‘Hey Mister’ and then we’ll work on that bike of yours. Alright?” I winked but I didn’t think Eli saw it. He was too busy cradling his hands, which jutted out from his wrist bones in weird angles.

I blinked back a tear.

And just in time, too, because a truck pulled up. A battered old thing with a rusty grille and a crooked side mirror, like it was barely holding on and needed more duct tape or tobacco cud to stick things back together. The window rolled down and a man I’d never seen before tipped his cowboy hat at me. “Miss.” He grinned and displayed an impressive lack of teeth. “You look mighty fair tonight.” He swirled his finger at me. “I like that dress you got on.” He nodded and made an indescribable, guttural noise in his throat. It made my stomach turn.

I pressed my lips into a smile and sidled up to his truck. “Hey Mister. I’m awfully thirsty tonight. Wanna buy me some beer? I’d do aannything for a six-pack…” I pressed my boobs against the side of his door, and tried to ignore the smell of Rex’s cigarette burning behind me.

© 2010 Cambria Dillon

(Author’s Note: So when I first saw this picture, I thought of The Wizard of Oz. OBVIOUSLY my story has nothing to do with The Wizard of Oz. Instead it has to do with a boy, his sister, another psycho teen (what IS it with my muse?), and the grand notion of building an aluminum teepee onto a bike as a means of self-defense. Makes perfect sense to me. )

*Don’t forget to check out other stories from YAFF Muse participants:

RM Gilbert
Min Buchanan
Rebekah Purdy
Jennifer Fischetto
Vanessa Barger