Friday, November 27, 2015

CREED --Hell, Yes


My whole life I've lived with the assumption that some people were made for athletics and some weren't born with that particular gene. I am one of the latter.
I was never picked first, EVER, for any kind of sport at school--due in large part to the fact that I hid behind everyone else and probably because while everyone was being chosen, I was praying to be left out. The fear of embarrassment far outweighed my desire to be chosen to play any kind of sport.
Though I enjoy the occasional football or basketball game, (preferably while I'm watching it up close) I have to say that I DO have a favorite...BOXING.
I can't tell you how many times my husband has turned to me while we are watching a fight and asked me to keep my voice down because his parents are listening. It's funny because when it comes to this sport, I lose my sense of decorum and begin screaming at the screen obscenities that might make a sailor blush. The 'f' word is a prevalent part of my vocabulary while a fight--especially a great one--is bright and shiny on my television screen.
For the most part, it is the thrill of the action, the smooth way they work against each other but always seem to come together like magnets that thrills me. I love watching their footwork and the way their muscles tense as they deliver a blow. It is a game of strategy, power, skill and tenacity intermingled with patience.
Now, while I love watching actual fights, I am not opposed to watching movies about them.
Before I begin--and to be fair--I am not an expert. I am not paid to review movies and I don't give them any kind of ratings. Directors and movie studios execs do not look me up the moment their movies premieres to read what my thoughts were on their latest investments.
Here is what I am...I am YOU.
I am a person who just enjoys going to a damn movie to laugh, to cry, to feel inspired or hopeful or for it to stay with me as I head home and continue on with my life while I remember a particular scene so that I can replay it in my head before the day takes its toll and I go completely bat shit. With that out of the way...
Of course I've watched every ROCKY there is--with the exception of BALBOA--and recently I had a chance to watch SOUTHPAW and I loved it.
But, let's get back to ROCKY for a moment. There was something about a guy that comes from nothing and manages to make the entire world root for him that made it sacred to so many. The beauty of the movie, especially when I was a kid, was that it inspired us, made us believe that the underdog had a snowball's chance in hell of winning and hell, that even if you don't, you will get the recognition you deserve for giving it your all.
I know, I know, it isn't real. Life doesn't work that way, but that doesn't mean we don't all need this kind of motivation every now and then.
Today, my husband and I took our two sons, daughter and nephew and niece to the movies. We settled on CREED, since my husband has yet to catch up on THE HUNGER GAMES: -MOCKINGJAY, in order for us to watch the sequel. A problem which will be rectified shortly.
In all honesty, I was expecting a bit of cheesy, perhaps a perfect rendition of the original Rocky, only using Apollo Creed's son. But instead I found myself leaving the theater with an enormous smile on my face and a daughter who had her heart set on the new cartoon out to tell me that she thought it was going to be boring and was surprised how much she loved it.
W.O.W. Just...wow.

 CREED was worth my money, the long line at the concession and the kid behind me who rocked my seat and nearly pulled out a few hairs. It made me say out loud, "Put your hands up! Protect yourself!" Yes, I probably embarrassed my husband when I said it loudly enough for others to hear, but ask me if I care?
There are plenty of movies I loved that others looked their nose down on and truthfully, I don't really look at what many of the critics say, because sometimes I just need a great laugh or a good cry, cheesy be damned!
But, though it did have a few scenes of cheesy, it puts us in the moment with this young man and when Sylvester Stallone made his appearance, it wasn't a huge fanfare, it was more like a humble acceptance. It was like walking into a room and seeing an old friend for the first time in years and finding him aged, but still the same. I loved Rocky in this movie.
Creed’ Movie Will Not Feature Paulie Or Duke, And Will Rocky Live Or ...
I loved Michael B. Jordan in this movie and I thought it was worth mentioning that my husband and I left the theater both saying how much we enjoyed it.
In short, if you are looking for a movie this holiday season, I suggest you look into CREED. Rated PG-13, so if you are opposed to any profanity then this isn't the movie for you. But if you don't mind an occasional 'bullshit', then you're totally good.
Hope you had a great holiday!

-C.

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

MY CHILDREN STILL BELIEVE IN SANTA

It happens to every parent. That one question around December when our children reach the age of maturity that they begin to ask: Is Santa Claus real? It happened for me about five years ago and the question keeps coming up like a rash that won't go away.
My stock answer: What do you believe?
I wish I could say that I came clean with it, that I explained the dynamic behind St. Nick and what he stood for, but I didn't. Some people may believe me foolish, but it isn't about lying to my children that I am desperate to keep their faith in St. Nick alive. It is what follows the truth that makes me wary.
Children have an unwavering faith in almost everything they believe in, be it the tooth fairy, the Easter bunny, Santa or even the boogie man. But that faith stems from a place deep inside where magic still inhabits the earth and they don't question whether or not something they love is real. It just is.
My children attend Catholic school and learn about God everyday. My reasoning for answering their question with a question is that once they realize WE buy their gifts, once they realize WE place them under the tree carefully marked with Santa's name, they lose that faith and innocence. Cynicism quickly takes root and gone are the rose colored glasses they use to view the world.
I am not a fool. I tell my children everyday that the world isn't always fair, that there are real dangers out their lurking in the shadows AND the daylight. Yet, I can't see to find it in me to come clean and kill the magic that is Santa. They know why we celebrate Christmas, they understand that it is the birth of Christ, but having the jolly guy in the red suit to look forward to is a bonus.
Santa is a symbol of hope and belief. He is an ethereal figure that brings to joy to the hearts of so many children...including mine.
It is my job to prepare my children for the world--to make them ready for the realities every adult faces. It is all of our jobs, as parents, to place the realization in their hands that the world is their oyster and that they are strong enough to achieve any goal they set out to accomplish.
But, I will keep their cynicism at bay for as long as possible, because in the end the joy they feel at the belief in Santa Claus is the same joy I see in their eyes when they speak of God.
My faith wavered the day I removed my rose colored glasses. It began to gnaw at my reasoning and ate at my beliefs until I was nothing more than a lost child, hoping to make sense of the world. It wasn't until I gave up my search for truth--which some might find childish and idiotic--that I found myself in a place where I was truly happy with my faith and my love for God.
My parents never told me about Santa, I learned for myself. I wasn't angry at them, nor did I begrudge then in any way for not telling me. Instead, I felt humbled that they tried to keep my faith alive as long as possible.
I am not going to say that it works for everyone, but it did work for me. I hope my children will understand one day why we kept this alive for them.
Have a wonderful holiday season everyone.
Santa Claus:

Friday, October 19, 2012

Final rewrite and first two chapters of JUDAS

It's been a while since I've written and during this time, I was finally able to finish the last rewrite on my manuscript, JUDAS. So, may I present:


 

Judas

 

Chandra Montemayor-Garza
 
 
 

 

 
 

 

“Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul.”

-W. E. Henley, from INVICTUS

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Prologue

 

   It’s getting harder to breathe now.

   My lungs burn like they are embedded in a vat of smoldering hot coals. My lids are like shutters, heavy and pulling down over my eyes. All around the winds begin to grow still and I know they grow still for me.

   As my heart begins to stutter, I think of the innards of a clock and how each and every lever and wheel works in synchronization to move the hands around and around until the batteries finally fail and it comes to a grinding halt.

   Each of my organs is like the innards of a clock; each means something to the others and as the battery inside my body loses steam, the others begin to jump ship and I know that soon, it will all be over.

   Across the way, a pair of stark blue eyes gazes at me unseeing and I smile as my heart begins its descent into the strangely alluring abyss of blackness.

   I promised I wouldn’t leave her…I’m keeping that promise.

 

  



Forward

 

   I watched the sun dance off the delicate strands of Shanda's hair as she stood with the driver's side door open to her red Toyota Camry. I thought to myself how much it reminded me of sunshine; how each strand shined gold on any given day no matter how opaque or luminous the skies. Her cobalt blue eyes sparkled, her teeth gleamed bright and her small nose wrinkled as she squinted away the light.

   “See you tomorrow, Sally,” she said.

   “Of course you will.”

   I waved goodbye and waited for the bus at the entrance to our school.

 

   Thunder tore through the sky and woke me out of a deep sleep. I was dreaming of my mother again. It had been so long since I'd dreamed of her—so young and vibrant—I knew something was wrong. Momma only visits me when a significant change is forthcoming; a change that usually brings with it pain.

   Lightening pierced the darkness and lit up my entire room. My chest heaved and goose bumps broke over my skin. Behind the eyelet curtains, perched on a branch of the old pine tree just beyond my window, was a crow. I watched its silhouette in the dark and then its eyes when lightening flashed again. They were tiny golden orbs in a small, intelligent face. Those eyes spoke to me; sent shivers down my spine.

   A change is on its way, they said.

   Suddenly, my blood went cold.

 

 

  

One

Day 1:

   The morning was what one might expect of a town that borders the Smoky Mountains in March; cold and wet, though it isn’t the reality of our climate. I find that most believe in winter’s icy touch the closer you live to a crag. The temperatures dropped significantly over night and when I headed out of our old farm house and stepped into the frigid air, my breath was clearly visible in the misty puffs that escaped my mouth. I blew out a lungful of air, played with my lips to try and coax the mist into shapes it was too stubborn to form as I waited for the bus to take me to school.

   A sound broke through the eerie morning chill. It came from the trees just above my head. I followed it to a branch on one of many cottonwoods that filled our farm. Two jeweled eyes peered through the new, sprouting leaves. The familiar gaze was too clever, too aware to be ordinary.

   My skin pimpled.

   If I'd been raised in a world where everything was blissfully normal, the crow might not be so frightening. But, for me, the truth always lay in the multifaceted world of the abnormal.

   The bus pulled up the road and I ran toward it, avoiding the warning that the bird's presence offered.

   Every seat on the yellow school bus is green and torn. Most of the Willow Creek population is made up of families that can afford to buy their children a way to get to and from school so there's no need to spend tax dollars on a new bus or to fix the seats of the old ones.

   My father isn't one of those people.

   Our farm sits on the outskirts of Willow Creek. We come from a long line of farmers and ranchers who lived and died on our North Carolina land. Our farm was once a thriving business with cattle, horses and sheep that, at one time, roamed twelve hundred acres. My grandfather took over after his father died and taught his children how to tend to the barn animals and mend broken fences; how to use their hands to earn what they needed.

   Granddaddy passed six years ago. He left the land to my Nana who then left it to their children. My father, Caleb, took over after she died and all that was left were about two hundred acres of unused land with one broken down old horse, two cows and a handful of chickens.

   We barely made ends meet.

   The bus driver pulled to a stop at the Johnson farm. Nadine Johnson boarded, looked around at all the empty seats. Her eyes meet mine for a moment before she quickly looked away and took the very first seat in front.

   I chuckled quietly to myself, shaking my head, and gazed out the small square window. The crow was still there, watching, flying along the tree line, keeping pace with the bus. I smiled wanly, frustrated. Nadine Johnson wasn't the only one who avoided eye contact. And she was one of the many that used to sing that wretched nursery rhyme when we were children.

   The song goes like this:

Sally Sue Judas prances around town/

Up the street and down the street in her ugly nightgown/

She wraps upon the table and stares up at the clock/

And deals the devil a dollar to rest her head upon.

 

   Everyone knew the rhyme and every day of elementary school was torture. The indecency of the other children came from their parents. Hate breeds hate, simple as that.

   The entire town of Willow Creek thinks there is something different about me. They don't know how right they are.

   Begrudgingly, I turned to the crow again, my eyes narrowed into slits. It is his fault I'm a freak and an outcast and that my life isn’t blissfully normal. I turned and frowned at the fading hunter green vinyl of the empty seat ahead.

   The black-winged aviator wasn't the entire reason people avoided me. He wasn't the only reason people tried not to bump me in the halls or why some were brave enough to taunt me with that despicable rhyme or appalling names. But, if I allowed myself to accept the true reason behind it all, I'd have to accept that in the eyes of many the town’s folk, my grandmother was a witch.

   Of course nothing is ever really that simple.

   During World War II and before heading off to Germany, my grandfather was stationed in Pierre, South Dakota. There, he befriended a man by the name of Jesse Running Bull who came from the Lower BrulĂ© Sioux Reservation. Jesse and my grandfather considered each other brothers and on their first leave he invited him to the reservation to meet his family. That is where he met a beautiful young girl with bronze skin and raven hair named Wakanda Black Elk. He used to say that he took one look at her and he was done. They spent the entire week together. He promised he'd come back from the war and marry her.

   He did.

   What Nana brought to the farm was her pension for healing. Wakanda wasn't a name given to her by accident. On the day she was born, the skies opened up and let down the rain after a long and difficult drought. The moniker means 'one who possesses magic'. And she did.

   But, no matter what she did for the people of Willow Creek, nothing protected her from malicious gossip and ridiculous rumors—the worst being that she used sacrificial animals in her healing rituals.

   Though I hated to admit it, her legend earned me a place on the unwanted list. And though I wanted to blame the whole of their hate on the crow, I couldn't. He was something they knew nothing about.

   The doors squeaked open when the bus came to a stop. I waited for the other three students that boarded after Nadine to get off before I made my exit.

   Just like every other day, I waited at the mouth of the entrance to the school for Shanda.

    My friend is this:

   Once upon a time, there was a family from Georgia who moved into our divided little town. They bore children and raised them to be good people. They had a son, John and a daughter, Shanda. Their son grew up and headed off to the West Coast to attend college.

   Their daughter was some years younger than the boy. She was the girl with golden hair and eyes as deep blue as sapphires. She loved riding horses and hiking the mountains. She was raised a Christian and had no reason at all to hate her life.

   This girl wasn't like the others. She was kind and gentle and couldn’t see behind the veil of goodness her parents used to shroud her eyes.

   Her naivetĂ© only made her all the more special to me. Shanda Malaise didn't start life in this town so she knew nothing about my family. If she had heard rumors, she never mentioned them. That's what made what made me want to get up in the mornings and run out the door to be on time for school.

   My backpack is heavy. I repeatedly swung it from one arm to the other when the weight of it started to kink my shoulder. A car rolled into the parking lot. I couldn't see the make from where I stood until it made a right into one of the small rows and found an empty space to park. It wasn't Shanda.

   I sighed heavily, checking the old watch Nana gave me just before she passed. We had five minutes until the bell rang. I filled my cheeks with air, blew it out noisily and tried to ignore the omnipresent sensation of foreboding. Instead, I turned to the skies, which were dull gray and still. The stratus clouds hung low; promised rain.

   A caw ripped my eyes from the sky and onto an eave of the roof where I locked eyes with the crow. A soft whisper began to take shape. It grew until it was a loud ring in my ears. I wasn't positive it was meant for me, so I waited until someone else walked by to be sure. Teddy Acker pulled into the parking lot in his hand-me-down Ford pick-up and ran headlong up the pathway that led to two glass entrance doors. The voice echoed so loud there was no way he could've missed it. But, he simply passed right by me—nodding once in hello—and came to a screeching halt just before he ran face first into the glass. Then, he threw the door open and scurried inside.

   My stomach twisted. The loud, obnoxious voice sang its warning over and over.

   Change is coming, little one.

    I heard the words and didn't want to believe them. But, I could feel it in my bones as surely as the blood that runs through my veins. It’s a chill, like right before a cold comes on and you ache in places you didn’t know you could ache.

   I tried to tune out the noise, tried to focus on the road. But, a memory began to flicker; a story Nana told me when I was a child. She used to say that once the crow was all white and cousin to the buffalo that their tribe hunted. The white crow warned the buffalo of hunters and their approach. Their cousins were able to escape and for that, the tribe went hungry.

   One day the old chief decided to capture the white crow. He used a buffalo hide with head and horns, placing it onto the back of a young brave and sent him into the pasture. When hunters approached, the white crow squawked and called for their retreat. But one buffalo did not listen and when he came down to warn him again, the young brave grabbed his feet and tied him to a rock with string.

   The council held a meeting and one—flushed with hunger and anger—threw the bird into the council fire, singeing the rope and allowing the crow to go free…but not before charring its feathers black. It swore that it—and the rest of the Crow Nation—would never interfere again.

   But another legend surfaced from those blackened feathers. Nana used to say, Sally Sue, when the black crow is near and it ought not to be, it is a telling of death fast approaching.

   My heart seized and my chest began to burn from the cold air that shot in and out of my lungs with each agonizing pant.

   No, I told myself. It can't be.

   I gazed at his black plumes and small claws, terrified to meet his eyes. I knew what would be there; the end of all things good.

   My feet froze where I stood and my pulse raced beneath my skin. It was fire and ice; the burn of denial and the frigid reality of truth.

   Stubbornly, I stayed planted under the eave, expecting my suspicions to be explained away with a simple answer. Shanda had not set her alarm, she was running late, she had to finish up an assignment before school and lost track of time. There were a hundred and one reasons why she hadn't driven into the parking lot yet.

   But, there was only one reason the crow was brave enough to show himself in a school with more than three hundred registered students.

   Tears smarted from my eyes. It took all the strength I had to keep my knees from buckling. With determination, I walked across the street to J&J's Mini Mart, yanked a couple of quarters from my backpack and dialed her cell phone, keeping an eye on the road the entire time.

   It went straight to voice mail.

   I tried her house and then her cell again, losing a bit more faith with every empty ring.

   I jogged back to the school—missing my first class—and continued to wait.

   I waited in vain.

   The little red car never came.

 

   I waited a whole hour before I finally headed for the principal's office and explained that something was amiss. Mr. Godfrey frowned, shook his head and led me out of the office with a 'she's fine'. I wanted to scream at him to call her parents; tell them she never arrived at school. But, there was no way he was going to listen to me. Not Sally Sue Judas, the crazy girl.

   My desperation led me to find Teddy Acker. Even though I hadn't spoken to him since I was a girl, I knew he was friends with Shanda and I was certain he'd want to know that she was okay. I found him in a huddle of jocks with a grim smile on his face. Though I was sure the conversation was interesting to the rest of the group, Teddy didn't look that satisfied. Maybe I was saving him from having to endure another boring story.

   His eyes widened with my approach. Three of the five stepped out of my way when I made it to the circle; my dark hair covered most of my face.

   “Can I talk to you?”

   “Sure,” he said and excused himself.

   I waited until we were out of earshot. My stomach twisted in odd ways.

   “Do you think you could take me by Shanda's?”

   He stood, dumbfounded, staring at me like I had just got off the short bus. I was desperate to speed things along. That warning kept echoing, reminding me that something was terribly wrong. Besides my father, Shanda was the only person I cared about in the entire world. If something was going to change, it was going to involve her, I was sure of it.

   “What's wrong?” he asked when he found his voice.

   “She didn't come to school.”

   He frowned, just like Mr. Godfrey had. “I'm sure she's just sick, Sally.”

   I glared, my teeth sunk into my lower lip to keep from yelling. “Look, she didn't call and tell me she wasn't coming in today. It’s not like her. There's something wrong. Now, I'd appreciate a ride—mostly because I don't want to hack the three miles it takes to get there. But, if you don't want to help me, then fine. I'll go alone.”

   I turned to walk away. It was the first time I'd ever spoken with that kind of enthusiasm. It made me giddy.

   “Wait!” he called out. I didn't turn around, choosing to head out the doors instead.

   Teddy followed me to the parking lot, grabbed me by the backpack and yanked me to a stop when I continued to ignore him.

   “I'll take you.”

   “Thank you.” It was short and tight and the most I could manage.

   We climbed into his truck and headed for the exit.

   The streets were alive with people, most of them coming in and out of restaurants. It was nearly lunch time and the flow of traffic began to slow.

   “Come on!” Teddy hissed, trying to find another way around.

   The crow was on the wire of the stop light. He peered down at me, cocking his head to the side. I turned my head. I didn't want to look at him.

   Teddy turned left down Washington Avenue and went another half mile before making a right on Brewster Street. The normally cheerful soft white house with light blue shutters sat eerily now on the small hill. Teddy spoke the words before I could register them.

   “Her car is gone.”

   I flew from the truck and ran up the six steps and onto the wrap around porch that ran the entire length of the house. He followed behind me. Suddenly, I was nervous. What was I supposed to say? Besides, what if she was sick and her mom was just using her car to take her to the doctor? I felt like such an idiot. Still, I couldn't rid myself of the feeling something was awry.

   Teddy stood next to me, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

   “Are you going to knock?”

   I shook my head and he sighed.

   His knocks were forceful and nervous. I turned to stare at one of the flower boxes Mrs. Malaise kept on the windowsills until I lost focus and the white peonies were nothing but a blur.

   After a second round of knocks the door finally swung open.

   “Hello, Sally,” Mrs. Malaise said, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. “What brings you here on a school day?”

   “Sorry to bother you, ma'am,” Teddy started when I didn't speak. “We just came by to check on Shanda, since she didn't come to school today.”

   “What?” she asked and my heart sank.

   “Well, we were just wondering if she was alright. We didn't mean to cause her any trouble.”

   Teddy thought she was skipping class. Though he was her friend, he apparently knew nothing about her.

   “We just came home about an hour ago. We were in Raleigh, picking up some new equipment for Henry. Shanda spent last night alone. When we didn't see her car, we figured that's where she was.”

   Small circles of panic flushed her face. It was the look I was dreading.

   “Come in, you two,” she said and opened the door wide enough to let us through. “Let me check her room.”

   We waited in silence, both of us standing in the kitchen, still as statues. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The house, normally bright and colorful, seemed dull and lackluster today. Everything felt wrong, like the entire world had shifted off balance. We heard her footfalls on the stairs.

   “I hadn't had a chance to get to her room yet,” she started, her eyes wide. “Normally, I make her bed. She can be so forgetful,” she chuckled nervously. “It hasn't been slept in.”

   Teddy stiffened. “When was the last time you spoke to her?” he asked.

   “Yesterday, before we left for Raleigh.” She turned to me. “Did you see her yesterday?”

   “Yes, ma'am. I saw her after school. She said 'I'll see you tomorrow'.”

   The room fell silent and seemed to grow darker. “Henry!” she called out, but didn't move.

   “What is it Leila?” Mr. Malaise asked, coming into the kitchen. “Hey, Sally. Theodore.” He turned to his wife whose face had paled. “What's wrong?”

   “Shanda didn't sleep in her bed last night.” Her voice was small, her eyes staring.

   “Did she stay over at your house?” he asked me. I shook my head. He looked at all of us, slowly establishing the crux of the situation without the need for words. “Did she go to school today?”

   “No, sir,” Teddy answered.

   “Henry?” Mrs. Malaise turned to him, tears already collected on her lashes.

   “Call the police,” he said, before grabbing his keys and heading out the door.

 

 

 

 

Two

Day 2

   The day could be summed up in one word: chaos.

   Shanda never came home last night. I waited for word that the police had found her. When her mother didn't call, I reached for the phone and dialed, desperate for some good news. But, she was still gone.

   When the bus pulled to a stop in front of the school this morning, the other four students and I pressed our faces against the windows. Police cars surrounded the building. Students gathered in groups, each separated by class. Principal Godfrey stood tall and lanky in a navy blue suit, speaking to the sheriff.

   My heart twisted. The crow sat on the eave where he had yesterday, looking over the entire school with a wary eye. I was surprised that no one noticed. He stood out like a sore thumb.

   By the time I made it to first period, my hands were shaking. Morning announcements consumed everyone's attention.

   Principal Godfrey's voice echoed through the halls and inside the quiet classroom.

   “Good morning,” he started. “As you may have noticed, the Willow Creek Police Department is at the school today conducting an investigation into the disappearance of Shanda Malaise. Students will be called into the office one at a time. Please answer their questions honestly. They are doing everything they can to bring Shanda home safely.”

   I couldn't swallow. Everyone's eyes were on the brown intercom box above the blackboard. Susan Brink had tears in hers. The sight of them unnerved me. I wanted to jump out of my chair and bring my hand down across her cheek. Susan took pleasure in torturing people like me and constantly berated Shanda for calling me her friend. Each tear she shed only added to my anger. She was completely transparent; made from the same plastic mold used to craft her mother.

   Every one of these girls was made from plastic or rubber. They were perfect reconstructions of the generation before them. They are the reason why there was no room in this town for someone like me. Different isn't a prepackaged product sold in mass markets.

   I gripped the edges of the desk until my fingers were white and numb. I didn't want to be here, but I didn't want to be home either. If I had stayed home, I would only be driving myself insane with worry. At least here, if anyone had word about Shanda, I'd know.

   When the buzz of the intercom went silent, Ms. Rosas, the principal's secretary, came through the door and up to Mr. Jefferies. They spoke in hushed whispers and my stomach knotted when they both turned to me.

   “Sally,” he said and nodded.

   Slowly, I piled my books back into my backpack and followed the portly woman out the door.

   The hall was quiet and barren until we reached the end where we turned left toward the office. We passed her locker. Police officers dressed in khaki, starched uniforms were piling her belongings into a box they had set out on the floor. I glared at them as we passed, feeling violated. Most lockers contained pieces of someone's life. Every picture, every note or mirror stuck to their metal doors proved that someone inhabited the small space and it made me angry to see them rummaging through her things.

   I recognized one of the cops. Timothy Jackson, a former 'client' of Nana's. Tim was in his teens when he took to heroin. His parents were at their wits end when they finally brought him to Judas Farm; strung out and thin as a reed.

    As I passed him, his entire story played out in the empty space between us. Like a movie, small snippets of his memory flashed across my mind; as if those painful reminders of a past he'd rather forget were mine as well.

   Certain attributes make me different, like the fact that I can sometimes hear thoughts or taste flavors of emotion. Only recently has it become more refined. But now, with a pair of eyes gazing at me through a pudgy face, I could see the agony he paid for the price of his freedom. I could see my grandmother taking his arms into her hands and the thick, yellow liquid as it oozed out of old puncture wounds as he screamed for her to stop. He screamed a lot that night. He never touched the stuff again.

   Tim's eyes told me he believed everything the town thought about Nana, even after she saved his life.

   I was the first to break eye contact.

   The principal’s office reeked of coffee, printer ink and paper. The smell twisted the knot in my gut. People were lined up against the walls, sitting on desks with white cups in their hands. Every eye in the room turned to look at me.

   “In here,” Ms. Rosas said and led me into a room made of cinder blocks, covered in beige paint.

   Mr. Godfrey and Sheriff Holcomb both turned to the door as it opened. The sheriff eyed me pensively. The sickly sweet flavor of suspicion filled my mouth. It was thick, almost tangible and turned my stomach.

   “I'll be outside,” Mr. Godfrey said and walked out without a backward glance.

   “Have a seat.”

   The old, blue plastic chair squeaked under my weight. The sheriff walked around the long conference table with a contemptible smirk.

   “Sally Sue Judas,” he said in his thick, North Carolinian accent. “I hear you is friends with Shanda Malaise.” Slowly, he moved closer until he pressed his meaty hands on the table—fingers splayed—and leaned toward me. “That true?”

   I nodded, still trying to dispel the horrid flavor that seemed to get stronger with every passing second.

   “When was the last time ya seen her?” He pulled a chair from under the table. It screeched across the plastic linoleum like fingernails against a chalkboard.

   When he sat, he pressed his ashy elbows into his knees; his black pants so tight they cut the circulation to his thighs.

   I gazed at the floor, focused on a scuff mark to find my courage. The sheriff frightened me more than most. Not because of the badge he wore or the false authority in his voice, but because of what he was capable of. What terrified me most was the man behind the tightly creased beige cotton shirt; the man that lay beneath the polished exterior. He screamed at me through icy blue eyes, gray hair and chubby, pockmarked cheeks.

   “Day before yesterday,” I whispered.

   “What was she doin'?”

   “Going home.” My muscles were as tight as piano wire. I worried he'd read the fear in my posture and misconstrue it for something it wasn't.

   “That what she said?”  

   “Yes, sir.”

   “No stops along the way that ya know of?”

   “No, sir.” I turned to him with sincerity. “Shanda is a good girl. She would never get herself into any kind of trouble. It’s not like her to do anything foolish.”

   He nodded and another burst of flavor slathered my tongue.

   My family was no stranger to the law. My cousins, Billy Joe and Mack, have had their run-ins with the sheriff. So has my father when he takes to the bottle too much in one sitting. But I avoided these suits like the plague.

   Unfortunately, I was cursed by name and by relation.

    The good sheriff's thinking is this: the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

   But, your tree isn't full of apples...it's full of maple syrup, Shanda once told me after I explained my aversion for all things law enforcement.

   Though I couldn't know for certain, I had a feeling most people were frightened of my family. When Nana was alive, she used to hold her healing ceremonies on our land. She'd speak in languages most had never heard before. Sometimes, when the moon was full, her fires would glow blue with magic. And though they wrote her healing powers off as witchcraft, many still ended up at our farm at one time or another. My grandmother used the fruit of the Hawthorn tree to alleviate female troubles and stomach aches. She was known to cure things from addiction to the flu; once, even cancer.

   Sheriff Holcomb knows this. The story goes that his momma used to take him down to the farm when he was a boy. Back when his legs were in braces and Nana helped him walk without them.

   But, afterwards he tried very hard to fit in with the rest of the town and forgot about the good that was done for him.

   Like most of them did.

   The room was cold. Goosebumps broke over my arms. There was nothing to do to alleviate the terrible chill.

   A can of pop sat on the table, along with a half-eaten doughnut. My stomach growled. Suddenly, I realized I hadn't eaten a thing since breakfast yesterday. The day my friend didn't show up for school.

   “Alright, Sally Sue,” he said with a creepy, crooked smile. “That'll be all. But, keep yerself handy, ya hear?”

   “Yes, sir.”

   He hefted himself out of the chair, breathing heavily as he did. I rose, wrapped my arms around my chest to keep myself together.

   I walked out of the room with my head down. For the first time, I hoped that everyone kept to their ritual and avoided looking at me.

   The bell rang and a hundred of my peers filed into the hallways. No one said a word, only stared.

   So much for hoping.

   I walked quickly to my locker, tasting the different emotions that filtered through walls it took years to build; walls that kept every emotion at bay. The walk was long and the flavors continued to burst over my tongue until finally, I headed into the restrooms to rid my mouth of the horrid mixture.

   The small, confining space was full of girls, all checking their make-up; some with streaks of black that ran down their cheeks. I ran into the first empty stall I found and spit into the toilet. I was desperate to rinse my mouth, but I couldn't bring myself to face anyone. Quietly, I peeked through the small opening between my stall door and dividing wall. Girls were reexamining their touch-ups and quickly left the restroom until it was completely empty.

   I opened the door, turned the faucet on and bent my head to take some of the running water, sloshing it around my mouth and spitting it into the sink. I splashed some on my face; the cold of it helped a little. When I looked in the mirror, I started. The circles under my eyes ran deep and my skin had a sallow look to it. It explained why the sheriff was so suspicious. But, what he didn't understand was the bonds of our friendship. Every minute Shanda is gone is like a lifetime to me. Many don't understand it, not that they have to. Shanda and I are opposites in every way. Still, it doesn't change the fact that we are kindred. Nothing can.

   The sound of voices forced me back into the stall. I closed the door quietly, turning the lock to keep the world out.

   “Do you think she knows?” a familiar voice said. Brynn Thompson, another one of the Willow Creek plastics, molded the same as the rest.

   “I don't know.” Olivia Spencer, Brynn's best friend.

   I sat on the toilet seat, lifting my feet so they wouldn't see them.

   “Well, if you ask me, she had something to do with it.”

   “How can you say that, Brynn? I mean, granted the girl is weird, but Shanda's her best friend.”

   “Come on! Obviously, the girl has serious issues. Why do you think Sheriff Holcomb asked her to the office?”

   “Well, she is her friend. He would've called us in, too, if we were close to her.”

   Through the opening, I could see Brynn applying another layer of lip gloss on her already shiny lips. My fingers curled into fists. Of course, she was talking about me.

   “Anyway, she's probably dead.”

   “Brynn!”

   My heart stopped, just for a moment, before kick-starting at full throttle. My nails dug into the red paint until there were long, rust-colored scratches running down the length of both walls.

   I wanted to put my fist through her face, tear her throat out so she couldn't make another sound. But, instead I took a deep, angry breath. Water dripped down my cheeks. I hadn't had a chance to dry my face and the excess stung my eyes. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and realized it wasn't water, but tears.

   “It's true,” Brynn whispered. “I hate to say it, but it's the truth. That's how these things work. They just never end happily.” She sounded sad now...I hated her for it.

   “We'd better go,” Olivia said, her voice tight.

   “Yeah.” They walked out together and I was alone again.

   My anger drained me, left me lethargic. My limbs felt heavy, like they'd filled with lead instead of porous bone and muscle.

   They all think I'm involved. Brynn actually believes that I had it in me to hurt my best friend. The room began to spin. No matter how much they hated me, I didn't deserve that kind of judgment or those kinds of implications. I wanted to scream my innocence, but what good would it do?  I simply held on to what little dignity I had left and walked out of the Girl's room.

   Another period had passed while I sat in that stall, trying to find the courage to face people like Brynn. The halls were full of students talking in hushed voices. Some clung onto each other for support.

   I turned my eyes away from the hypocrisy. The bond Shanda and I shared didn't require public displays of emotion. For them, her absence meant a reason to leave school; a reason to hang out at the local diner and talk about how awful they felt over a basket full of fries.

   For me, her disappearance meant loneliness, bitterness and the feeling of no direction. Worse, was being in this place that reminded me of her. The walls, the floors, the ceilings all held secrets, all held moments when she'd walked through them with her infectious laughter and brilliant smile. Her hellos clung to the paint and her goodbyes to the floors as she strode out of the building.

   It hurt to be here.

   I pushed through the glass double doors and headed out into the cold, March day. The wind bit at my cheeks and my eyes until they watered. I looked up at the sky, still gray and motionless and one thought filtered through all the rest.

   The sun is gone and wouldn't return until Shanda does.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Circle of Fire review

   Recently, I tweeted about a wonderful YA author by the name of Michelle Zink and her books. First book, The Prophecy of the Sisters. Second book, Guardian of the Gate. And the third and final book Circle of Fire.
  Now, to begin with, I must say that the first two books caught my attention. Yes, they may be a tad bit wordy, but from the get go, I was drawn in like a mouse to cheese. There is such an allure of the fantastic to these books and honestly...they scared me a bit. As I have asked so politely before...don't judge me.
   There are many books about "The End Times" but Zink has these characters down pact. She utilized some of the stories passed down from biblical times unto our generation to make a hell of a great trilogy. (Pun intended : ) )
   The Prophecy of the Sisters is the story of set of twins that come from a long line of doubles decedents. One is the guardian and one the gate. In other words, one is evil and one is good. It goes as it has for years, until there these two twins, Lia and Alice, are born by cesarean and the good one comes out in the bad one's place. So the purposed guardian--who is good--is actually the gate. And the evil one is the guardian.
   With magic, death and the Victorian Era, this is a trilogy spun in pure gold.

   The Circle of Fire was entirely difficult to put down. Don't you just love those books that take you to that place in your head, where you might never have thought to go before? That is what happened with this last installment. With the sisters at odds and Lia--the burdened Gate--already losing the battle to stay on the right path, they are pitted against each other; good vs. evil.
   Although you root for Lia to follow her true calling and close the gate for good, you also sympathize with her struggle to just chuck it all and let evil win.
   But that isn't the worst of her problems...in order to close the gate, she must have the help of her twin sister, Alice, who is betting high on Samael and the souls and is out for blood.
   If you haven't read the story, then I suggest you do. And if you haven't read ANY of them, go, run to your bookstore and buy a copy.

   Happy writing everyone and be sure to check these books out as soon as possible.

-C.

New Book Entry--Judas

   I wanted to post another entry of my book. I was wrong to label the first portion as a book chapter. Truth is that I haven't decided where to break them for chapters yet. I'm just rolling along, trying to tell Sally's story and get to know her myself. In the meantime, here is another glimpse of Willow Tree, North Carolina...and Shanda's disappearance. (If you haven't read the first portion, please look under book chapter or Judas. You'll find it there and will be able to understand where I have left off.)  Enjoy!


Today starts like this:
   This morning I woke up to rain. It pounded the tin of the roof and beat against the glass of the windows. When the wind blows, it shakes the house down to its core. It’s Saturday and I know it will be like no other Saturday I’ve ever passed before.
   I feed the pigs, the chickens and check in on the horses. Daddy is passed out on the couch again—another late night out with Felix. Since Momma died, he has taken a shine to whiskey. When he falls asleep, it is always with her picture in his hand.
   I don’t bother him, instead I finish up my chores and dress in my warmest clothes, taking one of his lumberjack shirts from his closet and pull my grey wool hat over my ears.

   Today they are searching the woods for my friend. A team out of Charlotte comes with blood hounds and horses. The animals breathe in the air and it comes out of their noses in pants of billowy clouds. The horses neigh when their owners pull at the reins. The men are dressed in thick jackets, ones I wish I could afford to buy Daddy.
   Cars line the sides of the highway about a mile from my home. I stand among the crowd, my hands stuffed in old work gloves to fight the cold.
   “We’ll take the northern perimeter,” I hear one say, using a map spread on the hood of his truck.   
   Next to him, sitting haphazardly on the hood, is a cup with steam escaping through a small hole on the lid. It makes my mouth water and makes the air feel colder somehow.
   “Your team can take the west. Use your radios if you find anything.”
   The man looks different from the rest of us. He is older, with gray hair along his temples which is nothing new. But the look of him—as if he had his whole life handed to him without asking—is different from the others who stand huddled together to beat the cold.
   When I turn around, Ben Theodore—Shanda’s boyfriend—is standing against one of the hardwoods with his eyes to the sky. Even if he doesn’t speak it, I know he’s praying. They all are. I can see their lips moving with no sound coming from them.
   Shanda’s father is sitting on the bumper of his Ford. His eyes are tired and rimmed red. He’s been crying and I wonder to myself why he bothers to pray at all. No god would take his daughter…not her.
   I think about life and what this will mean for me now. In the end, I can see a white casket and thousands of baby pink roses and white carnations surrounding a mound of turned earth. I close my eyes and shake my head to erase the picture.
   There are so many voices jumbled together here and all I can think of is her…the girl with the golden hair…my friend.

   “Do you wanna come over today?” she asked me and I missed my footing, tripping on the lip of the doorjamb of our English class.
   “What?”
   “Wanna come over to my house today?” I studied her face, the way her skin glowed; her eyes sparkled with sincerity and her pink lips pulled apart—her teeth straight and white. She had a shower of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
   The song comes into my head again. Sally Sue Judas prances around town…
   Had she ever sang it with the others when we were children? Was she asking me to her house because they planned on making a fool of me? Nowhere in her face could I see those signs of cruelty. Those innocent freckles dictated my answer.
   No one with sweet freckles like hers would lie.
   “Alright,” I said.
   That afternoon I skipped the country bus and headed for the parking lot. On our way to her car, I heard the monsters talking. Shanda has a new charity case. I wouldn’t be her friend if you paid me. They said things, but never really looked at us.
   When I looked at my friend, she smiled over the top of her car and nodded so that I would get in. It felt unreal. I gripped the door handle and it didn’t make one sound when I opened it. Not like Daddy’s truck whose seats moved when you didn’t want them to and doors squeaked loudly in protest when you opened them.
    Her car smelled of flowers whereas my father’s reeked of pipe tobacco and week old whiskey.
   We drove through town and onto Brewster Street where her house perched on top of a small hill. The outside was soft white with light blue shutters. The porch wrapped around and a set of six steps that led to the light blue front door. On the three front windows were flower boxes with white peonies.
   The inside smelled like a mother lived there—fresh baked cookies and cinnamon. The walls were the color of wheat and I wondered if they chose the color to match Shanda’s hair. In the kitchen was a small round table with a window that let the sunlight stream inside. It was warm and cozy, just like a home should be.
   “Let’s go up to my room,” she said and we climbed the stairs up to a hallway with four doors, two on the right and two on the left.
   She chose the first door on the left. Her room was light, airy with clean lines and mature taste. There were some pictures on her built-in shelves and I smiled when I saw that she had one of the two of us in a frame.
   “When did you take that picture?” I asked because I couldn’t remember.
   “A couple of months ago,” she said as she hung her purse off the chair at her desk.
   I gazed at all the pretty little things she had on her shelves. Tiny wooden horses and miniature glass blown ballerinas in soft pink tutus. On her walls were pictures of horses and on her desk was a picture of a strong looking steed with chocolate and vanilla spots.
   “Is that your horse?”
   “Yup. That’s Daisy,” she said and I heard the pride in her voice.
   In that moment, I wished I had a horse I felt that way about. I wished I had anything to take pride in so I would sound that way.
   “She’s beautiful,” I said.
   “Thanks. She’s real gentle. You should go riding with me sometime. You gotta horse?”
   “Yeah, I do. But he ain’t this pretty,” I chuckled.
   “Oh, any horse is pretty. If you give ‘em enough love and show them kindness, they’ll be as beautiful as a thoroughbred.”
   How I wanted to see things just the way she saw them. How I wanted to dip my hands in the well of wishful thinking and positivity that she did every day of her life. But I live in the real world. In the real world, things are just that black and white.
   “Have a seat,” she said and patted the empty space on her bed.
   I accepted her offer with a weak smile because I still had no idea why she asked me here.
   “Sally, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”
   I liked the way she left out my middle name. It made me feel all grownup.
   “What did you want to talk to me about?”
   She sat cross legged on her bed and picked at a loose thread on her blanket with her eyes down.
   “I suppose you heard what those girls said on the way out of school.”
   It was my turn to look away.
   “Yeah, I heard.”
   “Does it bother you much?”
   It was an innocent question; one that deserved an honest answer. But I just couldn’t give it to her. How could I admit how weak I really am to the one person who made me feel a little stronger?
   “Not really,” I said and prayed a hole would open in the floor and swallow me up. My voice betrayed me. She read through the cracks.
   “I would venture to guess it does,” she said with a sad smile. “It has to because it bothers me a lot.” She frowned then and looked out her window. “The thing is, Sally, they just don’t see you the way I do.”
   “And how’s that?” It was out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop and count the costs. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know how she saw me.
   “You are like a drop of sunshine,” she said in her sweet voice. “People don’t see how wonderful and smart you really are.” Shanda looked down again. “I know they only see what’s on the outside because it’s easier.”
   I turned my eyes away from her again, my cheeks flaming red from embarrassment. That—at least—she agreed with them on.
   “Not that what’s on the outside is bad,” she said with a firm tone. But that didn’t help. “What they judge you on is not only how you look, but how you carry yourself.”
   She used her finger to lift my chin until I was looking into those startling blue eyes.
   “Sally, you walk around the school with your shoulders hunched and your eyes down. You literally hide behind your hair!” she said, as she playfully mussed my knotted mane. “Don’t you realize how beautiful you are?”
   I stared at her in disbelief and shook my head uncertainly.
   “How do you expect those people to see it, if you can’t see it for yourself?”
   Then, Shanda took me by the hand and led me through the door to the left of her closet. Her bathroom was covered in products I had never seen. Different kinds of make-up and brushes and bows and rubber bands all neatly stacked in clear plastic boxes atop of a granite vanity.
   “Sit down,” she said and I took a seat on a chair fit for a princess.
   The large space was done up in pale lavender colors. The tub was claw footed and bright white.
   Quietly she took a bottle that was scented with something like honeydew melons. I realized it was how her hair always smelled and I was excited that she was using it on me.
   After twenty solid minutes, she brushed away every tangle that I had. The pain was minimal and I would take it any day.
   “Can I see now?”
   “Not yet,” she said with a determined voice. “Let me finish it up and then you can see.”
   I don’t know how long I was in that chair but I would’ve stayed forever if she’d asked me to. When I turned to look in the mirror, I didn’t recognize the girl staring back at me. Her hair, the color of chestnuts, shined under the muted light of her bathroom. And her skin was ivory and her cheeks were rosy with blush; her lips as pink as Shanda’s.
   It couldn’t be me…but it was.
   “Whatta ya think?” she asked and looked nervous.
   “Shanda, I…” There were no words.
   “Do ya like it?” I nodded and tried hard not to cry.
   Sally Sue Judas prances around town/up the street and down the street in her ugly nightgown.
   No one could say that about me anymore. No one could ever make me feel ugly again when I know what is underneath it all. My friend showed me exactly what happens when you find a wildflower in a patch of weeds. And I was grateful to her for finding Sally.
   Daddy wasn’t home when I got back that night and I was glad. I didn’t want him to see me this way. I didn’t want him to see the woman I was when Shanda was through with me. I knew this would only happen once. But once was enough to last me a lifetime.
   Once was enough to show me that deep inside I was just as beautiful if not more than those monsters that lurked about our school. And if I wanted to fool them, all I had to do was comb my hair and dab on some cosmetics.
   It was enough to know I had that option.

   “Alright,” the stranger says to the rest of us. “You all got your maps and areas. Now go and use your radios if you find anything. Please be on the lookout for animals and watch your step. Don’t want anyone stepping on bear traps.”
   We all take a position and when he heads forward, we do to.
   My head is so full of thoughts right now I can’t tell which way is up or down. On my right are men with hounds that sniffed some of Shanda’s clothing before heading forward. On my left are another pack of strangers except for Ben whose eyes are down and hands are stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. For a moment, they drift towards me and I look down quickly when he meets my gaze.
   My thoughts are on his heart and how it must be aching worse than mine.
   We walk along the perimeter set for us and search for clues. We are one line of people with no one exactly ahead or behind. We are like one giant comb with corneas and pupils that search the bracken and dead leaves and branches.
   We search the area for hours, all the while I am hoping we find some clue, some ray of hope that my friend is alive and well. That she maybe got lost in the woods on a hike or fell off her horse while riding, even though I know her horse is at the stable where it belongs.
   Hope is heartless. It encourages you to believe in things that cannot exist in the rational world. My whole life I’ve lived with rationality. Now, I am in danger of hoping that she isn’t how my subconscious has already drawn her picture for me.
   A corpse, her body gray with decomposition and hair no longer the color of sunshine.
   “No,” I whisper to myself. No because she can’t be gone. Not if I can still feel her around me.
   When she befriended me, I never noticed the connection. I never felt it because she was always right there next to me. If I’d been paying attention, I would have realized it the moment the black crow sang his warning to me. It was our connection that ached in my bones. It was because of it he came to me in the first place—my warning that soon this connection would be tested and maybe push my sanity as far as it could stretch.
   With a deep breath I trudge forward, looking beyond that picture my head drew of her and listen to the quiet pining voice of hope that nestles into my ears like a whispered lullaby.
   Shanda, where are you?” my heart calls out silently to hers.
   Maybe she’ll hear me and call back. I vow to keep my spirit open for the sound of it.

   The day ends on a somber note. Not one clue, not one ray of hope so far. But tomorrow is another day and we’ll be out there again, searching the woods to the east.
   I climb into the bathtub full of hot water. My toes are still numb from the cold but I’ll do it all over again...and again. It’s the least I can do—the only thing I can do to keep from going insane with worry. How I wish Nana were here to guide me. She’d know what to do; point me in the right direction.
   My bedspread is scratchy on the underside. I pull it up over my head, as if it would help to keep those images out. Images I fight to keep from resurfacing. A light mist showers the window and I watch it gather until it forms droplets that run down the glass, making clear wavy paths all the way to the bottom.
   Frustrated, I turn onto my back and stare up at the ceiling then close my eyes and open my spirit up the way Nana taught me. I relax my legs and arms, fingers and toes and work my way up until my mind is clear of everything except what I want.
   Silently, I call out to her again and wait.
   Where are you my friend? Where are you?
   In the middle of the void, in between the sounds of my thoughts and my labored breaths I hear a small whimper of recognition. My heart thumps wildly in my chest and my eyes stay closed until I can make out a whisper.
   Sally…help me. I need you…
   I gasp—suck in a large gulp of air—and sit up quickly, trying to listen as hard as I can.
   Just as quickly as it began, the connection is broken. When I open my eyes, tears blur my vision and my heart begins to ache uncontrollably when I catch the distinct smell of her perfume in the air.