Tag Archives: prose

By the Light of the Moon (Lost Isle Launch T-38 Days)

12 Friday Feb 2021

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BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON
Emmi Lawrence

“He tells the same bloody story every night to whoever listens. ‘Bout crows in the crow’s nest. Birds normally found in forests taking over the sea, says he. Wouldn’t listen ta a word that comes out of his mouth.”

I thanked the bartender, but ignored the advice and moved to sit next to the young sailor.

“What crows are these?” I asked. “Out in the Serene? In the middle of the ocean?”

The young man snorted into his pint. “Fuck off with ya. I’ve had enough raggin’ for the day.”

But I persisted, opening my satchel and pulling free a crinkled paper with a crude drawing. “Can you tell me how many there were? Did they appear during the night? Did they come down close enough for you to see exactly what they looked like? Anything like this?” I tapped the sketch.

The sailor pulled the mug from his lips. “Ya draw that?”

“Not me. Another who’d been on board a ship that had to skirt a spring storm and saw a few of these birds.”

He dragged the sketch closer, wetting the edges as it landed in a puddle of spilled beer. “Aye, it’s a right likeness, it is. Close enough. There’s that ridge right there along its spine that I’ve never seen on a crow before or since. And it’s got that bright beak and fuzzy gullet. He pushed the paper back and took a large swallow from his mug before continuing. “It’s real, right enough, but what is it?” Continue reading →

Canvas Blues – LV: Present

10 Wednesday Feb 2021

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CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

LV: Present

Because of the larger student body, high school had two art teachers—Mr. Reading and Mrs. Yue—neither of whom seemed interested in the least in their students. Mr. Reading spoke with a slow, nasally voice and forced Art I students through the most mundane projects recycled ad nauseam over the eight years he’d been teaching. His boredom rubbed off on every student, including Brendon, and even when Brendon sought extra advice or critique, Mr. Reading’s response was generally low-effort and dismissive.

“He can’t be bothered, Mom,” explained Brendon over dinner. “Like he’s got a script and doesn’t know how to do anything but follow it.”

“You complained about Mr. Wexlar too and he ended up not being too bad,” his mother countered.

“That was different. Entirely.”

The differences became more and more pronounced, for where Mr. Wexlar had been critical, with eyes that missed absolutely nothing, Mr. Reading couldn’t have been more ambivalent. When Brendon mentioned The Bayscape and his new piece going up in October, Mr. Reading snorted and made a comment that aimed to be derogatory against Mrs. Pierceman in the most subtlest of ways.

Brendon didn’t repeat the comment to Mrs. Pierceman, but he did ask if she knew Mr. Reading. She shook her head with a sad tut-tut of her tongue against her teeth. “Man’s about as bitter as a lemon. Don’t you listen to a word he says. Except when he’s teaching portraits. He’s a fair hand at them. Tried to make a living and failed, but that’s because he doesn’t know how to market, not because he’s a poor artist.”

“Have you showcased any of his work here?” Continue reading →

Canvas Blues – LIV: Yesteryears

03 Wednesday Feb 2021

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CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

LIV: Yesteryears

Aunt Laurel hired him during August to help with renovating a bedroom. Spackle and dust, paint and stain and a broken window screen later, they’d—his dad helped too—managed to fix the water-damaged wall, put in a new window and redo the closet. Place was a mess for weeks though. Weeks filled with new school jitters chomping up Brendon’s spine.

She had him help paint the window jamb—so he learned flowers the way she wanted them—sage and tulips and periwinkles and Queen Anne’s lace and daffodils and tall sunflowers. No roses; she wasn’t a fan of such an abused flower.

And all the while, he picked her brain the same way he picked beads out of the soles of his sneakers in the car on the way home.

“New beginnings, hmm.” She sucked a lip between her teeth, then hummed a melody under her breath. “New beginnings. Starting something fresh. Bright eyes. Brand-new perspective.”

“I keep thinking butterflies batting at my ribcage.”

“Hmm, yes. The nerves. But beginnings have hope too. A lot of hope. Can’t forget that part.”

“How would I draw that though? Hope?” Continue reading →

Wings of the Flightless (Lost Isle Launch T-50 Days)

31 Sunday Jan 2021

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WINGS OF THE FLIGHTLESS
(A Lost Isle Teaser—short story)
(Lost Isle is available for pre-order here)
Emmi Lawrence

I frequented bars and historical sites along the coast line. Went through Port Awadar, then south of the city within the smaller coastal towns, from Evastaur to Nowuldan. Traveling all the way down to Sasu Ilma, though I never took the ferry to Highmore.

Sailors spoke of their travels quickly enough, especially when I bought a round to loosen their tongues. Yet in all those tales, all those high-sea adventures, or doldrums as the case may be, I struggled to find a single man who could give credence to the story that the birds of The Flightless, that doomed menagerie vessel lost at sea, had ever escaped the storm to settle on the mythical Giant’s Whip Isles.

The first indication I had of the possibility of the Giant’s Whip truly existing came from a long retired sailor who had repurposed a fishmonger’s stall into an ale slanthouse. He had a rippling scar along his arm where a fire had caught within his prime years. A tattoo covered the scarring, but not well, the artist a hack and the ink long faded over the years after the man had ceased bothering to touch it up.

He had a garrulous nature, talking over his patrons and teasing his bar girl who laughed to cover her discomfort. The canvas-edged rooftop snapped in the wind above my head and my stool rocked against the stony ground. But the ale was decent and the mugs at least had the look of cleanliness, which was more than could be said for some such places.

On the other side of the repurposed stall stood a plethora of young dockworkers obviously taking a short break from their duties to mill about the slanthouse just out of the summer sun. Flies buzzed near the street gutter and a few mutts hovered behind me where the ale stall just about butted up against a fish-on-a-stick vendor.

“They come and run,” said the retired sailor. A man who’d professed himself to be Steppan Fares, once a rigging climber with a sharp weather eye and a cruel left hook. He’d rattled that intro off in a practiced manner, with a wink and a rippling of his arm as he flipped a mug and pushed up the spigot with one hand. “Ya hears all the news that way. Don’t have ta see the sails ta know which ship has put in or which captain is lookin’ to flesh out their crew. Ya see ‘em all. Stop by for a quick drain ta quench the thirst that salty air gives and ta uncork the news that’s been bursting for release.”

“Do you prefer it then, seeing the brunt of the crews ever passing rather than taking the risk of the high seas yourself?” Continue reading →

Canvas Blues – LIII: Present

27 Wednesday Jan 2021

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CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

LIII: Present

The warblers and finches sang praises to the rising sun on Brendon’s drive to his studio. Branched shadows shivered in a welcome breeze that promised to linger through the heat of midday. Brendon did a quick circle around downtown, checking the parking for any sign of a BMW or a crisp suit.

Seeing no sign of Orion, Brendon parked, sprinted up two flights of stairs to his studio and did a runaround, gathering up supplies. His collapsible easel, a couple of small canvases, some flat, some fat and a couple stretches of calfskin. A tub of paint tubes that had once been blue and now looked like an LGBT flag all out of sorts. A handful of mid-quality brushes and one normal number two pencil.

And he was done.

Back down the steps with his arms laden, out the thick metal door and popping his trunk to store his gear. He’d have to stop by the local gas station, nab a couple of waters, then drive around deciding on which park might hide his car best so he could spend the day in peace and q—

“Good morning, Brendon.”

He sagged against the open trunk door. “Not today, Orion. I’m busy.”

“I’ll come with you then.” Continue reading →

Coffee & Conversation: Do you believe characters should kiss on the first date?

25 Monday Jan 2021

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For starters, most of my characters don’t generally have anything resembling a “first date.” I tend to put them in harrowing or stressful situations first that force them into working together. (Sorry, my beloved characters, for the many layers of hell I put you through!) (Not sorry!)

Which means a part of this question is a little more abstract for many of my stories. Maybe it should be “Do my characters kiss within the first day?” or “Do my characters kiss the first chance they get alone?” or “Do my characters think more about kissing than they do about whatever dangerous situation I’ve put them in?”

I actually had an editor once tell me that I needed more sexy thoughts in one of my novels. Like, there’s a WHOLE FEW CHAPTERS HE DOESN’T THINK ABOUT SEX! Must change that… In my defense, the poor guy was beat-up and suffering from a poisoning, so I didn’t think it was fair to ask me to put more sexy in that part of the story. [I did my best though.]

In general though, during my romances, I will often look at the story and find where and when makes sense for my characters to get together, which usually puts them needing to do all their kissing before and after the climactic scenes. Since my longer stories tend to have a strong adventure, action or mystery arc, that means that the resolution to those arcs happen first using a fast-paced climax.

It’s about opening and closing arcs in the proper order. For example:

{open romance arc [open mystery arc (open/close action arc) close mystery arc] close romance arc}

Or: Continue reading →

Canvas Blues – LII: Yesteryears

20 Wednesday Jan 2021

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CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

LII: Yesteryears

The races grew dull that summer, at least in Brendon’s eyes. Same roaring engines. Same pisswater beers. Same booming music. He spent the time drawing cars, peeking in at engines Casey could identify by sound alone.

They would linger far into the warm nights, creeping through tall grass, scratching at mosquito bites for days and days after. Casey got to sit in Taylor L.’s car—black leather seat sticking to the underside of his knees—and press that pedal like he owned it, blowing smoke and cooking oil like butter in a pan, but sweeter. Least that’s how Casey described it, all tingling from the tips of his fingers to the bottom of his soles.

Taylor L. would nudge and chuckle and sit a little too close, always with that swagger that made him seem like a God with a capital. Magnanimous and easy with his blessings, though Brendon always got the impression that Taylor L. would have been just as happy to forget Brendon existed, especially when he spoke in a foreign language—spouting torque and horsepower while Brendon’s pencil focused on the glint of light off the studded belt one of the other boys wore.

“Dad’s gone, for the whole week. Heading out west—Tennessee to see family and a doctor out there for a second opinion.” Casey threw up a hand and waved in the general direction of west, which also happened to be upstreet, road coursing off, gravel offshoots spitting out like branches from a trunk.

“So you’re staying with your mom?”

“Nah. Becks is still mad at me. Says I wasn’t empathetic enough to her situation.” Continue reading →

Coffee & Conversation: Have you ever written fan fiction?

18 Monday Jan 2021

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When I was a child I absolutely loved Brian Jacques’ Redwall books. For those of you who don’t know what those are, his books detail action adventure stories featuring small European animals, many of whom live in a large abbey called, you guessed it, Redwall.

So there are animals such as mice and badgers and squirrels on the good side and others such as rats and weasels and snakes on the bad side. (Some people talk about how awful it is that there isn’t more distinction, that how dare Jacques divide creatures into “good” and “bad” [even though there are many exceptions to this rule] but I find that obnoxious because it’s a CHILDREN’S SERIES—you want adult-level discussion and nuance, then READ ADULT FICTION. [I would also like to point out that many adult books, including ones touted as being transcendent in some fashion, are incredibly simplistic in their definitions of good and evil as well.]

With that tangent out of the way, my very first forays into writing were fan fiction based on Jacque’s books. Particularly poetry. I would craft snippets about the bits of story that didn’t get full accounting in the books. I would wonder about what happened after the adventure or war ended. I would draw pictures of my favorite characters and sob over the ones who died.

One particular couple in the stories I fell in love with was a mouse pair who, after their story, go out adventuring and exploring rather than settle into a quiet life at Redwall. I LOVED this. I wanted to be like them, specifically the female mouse who used a rope like a whip and took down creatures twice her size.

But we never got a story about them on their adventures after they left, so their future was left ambiguous. So I wrote a poem about them :) Talked about how they were out there, fighting and having adventures together. And, of course, had fallen even more completely in love with one another, because even when I was in elementary school that was part of my happily ever after.

I feel as if we all have those things that we grasped at during our youngest years, even if we didn’t know or understand them then. Things that come back and show us who we were meant to be, what we were meant to do. For me, those old, yellowing pages of mice and their poems are one of mine.

~Emmi

Canvas Blues – LI: Yesteryears

13 Wednesday Jan 2021

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CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

LI: Yesteryears

The summer before high school sped past at a sprint, his mom and Aunt Laurel still gushing about the painting Brendon had at The Bayscape to anyone who would listen. He started ducking his head whenever he heard his name fall off their lips and picked up the habit of throwing something up to cover his face whenever the camera turned his way: a hand, a hood, his sketchbook.

“He’s my quiet one,” his mom would tell people. “The only one of the bunch. Buy him a stack of sketchbooks at Christmas and you won’t see him till Easter and only then to ask for another stack.”

Fair’s fair, he reasoned, though he’d still duck his head and scribble cross-hatches faster.

Donna Pierceman rang him up mid-summer. July 17th. Hot and humid, skin smelling like his mom’s lotion because the unscented had run out. He’d been curled on the cushioned bench on the porch, drinking sugar with ice tea in it and playing on Robbie’s tablet when his mom came out with the phone.

“Ms. Pierceman’s called for you.”

“Who’s that?” asked Robbie as Brendon sat up and reached for the phone.

He made a hushing noise and cleared his throat, scarcely noticing his mom still lingering in the doorway, holding open the screen in the way she’d have yelled at him for.

“Ms. Pierceman, this is Brendon.” Continue reading →

Canvas Blues – L: Present

06 Wednesday Jan 2021

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CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

L: Present

That night, Brendon spent an hour peeling his bedroom walls. Photos and pictures and sketches going in piles in the living room and kitchen. Every single piece of art torn down, until the barrenness became oppressive, the blankness like a canvas daring him to start.

Then he opened the hall closet and flicked through history: Robbie perched on a fence post near the bay, Aunt Laurel in her flowing skirts at her wedding, Mom in the kitchen, flour on her apron and pecan bread dough being beaten within an inch of its life. In the far back, sticking to the old paint on the wall it’d been hidden for so long, Casey grinned, his head thrown back, his hair a wild, wild mess, and the straightaway outside St. Thomas’s soaring into the distance behind him.

Brendon pulled the painting out and held it in two hands, his vision going double, seeing into the past. He’d used pale ivories and peachy tones to capture Casey’s body. Dressed him in a tank and greased him with summer sweat. Like the way he’d look after they’d parked in the field in the growing development, hot hands against one another. Skin sticky, as if the humidity conspired to glue them together in the back seat of Casey’s car.

Their world had been tight and narrow and Casey never had seen the side streets. Brendon hadn’t either, too focused on the car in front of him, uncaring where it might be heading.

He hung Casey’s portrait in his bedroom, a singular point in the barrenness.

“If it’s true,” he whispered to Casey. Continue reading →