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
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: Kozarevet's Story 2 by P. Stoev
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
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: Autostop by Criswey
Sweet Louise
She slipped me a note after Wayne Shaw left class with his daily nosebleed.
I need a ride after school.
When I rumpled the paper into a ball, she dropped another note onto my desk.
I’ll owe you BIG TIME.
Normally I would’ve ignored her because nothing was this easy in Chickadee, Texas. But her ass looked like two giant cupcakes smooshed in jean shorts every time she sat in front of me. So, hell yeah I wanted in on that.
* * *
The drive she promised would only take five minutes really took forty-five. My poor car, Sweet Louise, sputtered and hissed the whole way. Sweet Louise was a three-stoplight-maximum girl, a safety-is-a-luxury girl, a steady-supply-of-water-jugs-in-the-trunk kind of girl. She wasn’t built for spontaneity. She wasn’t built for a road like Chickadee Lane. Or a girl like Noxie.
* * *
The first time I ever saw Noxie Ramsey I’d been pretending to sleep in Mr. Hermill’s geometry class. Something about isosceles triangles and acute angles or—I don’t know, anything with three sides is about as queer as a graceful stripper around here, so before I knew it, I had the bill of my hat pulled down until I only saw a one-millimeter band of light. I remembered someone had just farted. It rippled through the air, like a motorboat treading on bubble wrap. The other kids giggled. Freaking immature inbreds. But they shut the hell up as soon as the door opened.
When Noxie sat in the chair in front of me, my one-millimeter band of empty space filled up with the most beautiful derriere this side of Austin. Her jeans dipped just a bit in the back. And while everyone else protracted how many degrees this angle or that angle was, I spent the rest of the class period with my chin on my forearms so I could drool over that little peek-a-boo flash of hot pink silk.
* * *
“This isn’t happening.” Noxie paced between the border of old man Seymour’s wheat field and my car. “Are you sure you can’t fix it?” she asked.
I shook the empty water jug. “Sorry to break it to you, sugar, but I don’t think Sweet Louise is making it anywhere.”
She frowned. “Do you have a cell phone? Maybe I can call a tow truck or something.”
“Who? Fat Ted? It’s Friday. He’s off,” I said, tossing the jug into my trunk.
“What about a cab?”
I laughed. “Nearest cab company’s in Sonora. You’d be looking at a good hundred bucks or so. You have that kind of cash on you?”
“9-1-1?”
“You mean Martha Plantusky? She takes Fridays off, too.”
Noxie threw her hands into the air and screamed. “What kind of crap town is this?” Little clouds of dust rose from her feet as she kicked a pebble across the dirt road.
A fly buzzed by my ear. I slammed my trunk closed and ambled toward her. “Where were you making me take you anyway?” I asked, wiping my hands on the backs of my jeans. “There’s nothing out this way.”
She rolled her eyes and leaned against the driver’s door. “Please. I wasn’t making you do anything,” she said. “You practically drooled all over my shoe when I showed up at your car.”
Fair enough.
Thick black smudges lined her eyes, making them appear small and large at the same time. She glared at me as if I were nothing more than a ride on four wheels for her. I picked up a strand of strawberry-blonde hair that had escaped the ponytail she wore high on her head. Sifting the satiny tendril between my fingers, I said, “Okaaaay. Where was I voluntarily taking you on this fine Friday afternoon?”
She swatted at my hand. “Bus stop.” No need to tell her the bus didn’t run on Fridays either. “I need to get the hell out of this place. There’s a Greyhound that comes through every other week. It’s supposed to be coming today. I checked online. Figure I can hop off in Little Rock, then make my way to the East Coast by train,” she said.
I cocked my head and squinted. “Well, it’ll probably take some time before I make it back into town and get the parts I need for my car to start up again.” I rolled the hem of her collar, right where her carotid flickered under her skin. Her breath hitched. “So why don’t you start thumbing your way toward the bus stop now? Someone’s bound to drive along and pick you up,” I said.
Noxie would’ve taken a step back, but she had nowhere to go. Trapped between me and Sweet Louise. She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes, maybe to see if I was serious. City girls always acted surprised with me. “You think someone will really drive by? No one’s passed us yet.”
“Pshaw. Of course. Chickadee’s the only road leading out of town.” Leaning closer, I lowered my voice until it was as low and smooth as Sweet Louise on fresh oil. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there ain’t nothing to do in town. Especially on a Friday night.”
She tucked the loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, no kidding. Everyone’s either showing off their shitty cars or tipping cows.” The muscle under my eye ticked and I thought maybe she noticed it. But then she laughed and dipped all the way through my open window—God have mercy on me—and snatched up her bag. When she whipped around, I acted real noble, like I was admiring Seymour’s wheat field. “But promise me something,” she said, getting close to my face.
Her breath smelled like oranges. It was real nice. And despite what I always told myself, I bottled it up in my memory to save for a summer drive. “Sure, Noxie. Anything.”
“Once you fix your car, do you think you could drive up the road just to make sure I’m not still stranded here?”
I exhaled. “Of course. But I don’t think you’ll have any trouble. Not in these parts.”
Noxie Ramsey smiled, raised up on her toes, and planted a kiss right on my cheek. I stood there, catching flies with my mouth wide open, as her round ass swished down Chickadee Lane, a cloud of dust hugging Every. Single. Curve.
Once she disappeared, I wiped my hand down my face and pulled out my pay-as-you-go mobile phone. Only one number was in the call log. When I heard the line pick up, I said, “Mile marker eight. ETA in two.”
The voice on the other end rattled and coughed. “Good.”
“When will I get my new engine? You said last time—”
The line went dead before I finished.
As I walked around my car to screw the distributor cap back on, I stroked Sweet Louise’s roof. “You’ll get your V8 soon, pretty baby. And then you’ll be purring like the big girls in no time.” She didn’t answer back—how could she? She was just a car—but I was real gentle when I closed her hood because she hated it when I was too rough.
After I lowered myself into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition, a high-pitched scream shrieked down Chickadee and revved across the wheat field. It lasted two-point-six seconds before falling silent.
I nuzzled the steering wheel and sighed. “Soon, my Sweet Louise. Soon.”
© 2010 Cambria Dillon
(Author’s Note: When I look at this picture, I think of cows, muscle cars, and chainsaw-wielding serial killers. (I mean, who doesn’t, right?) And for some reason, Texas seemed the perfect backdrop even though I’ve never been there. Sorry to all you Lone Star residents!)
*Don’t forget to check out other stories from YAFF Muse participants:
RM Gilbert
Rebekah Purdy
Traci Kenworth
Cambria Dillon - YA Writer
