Image via WikipediaHer head lies on my lap, my eyes watering realizing that these might be the last moments I will ever spend with her. I stroke her hair as her chest staggers and fights for breath. “Why did you have to do that? Why?” Tears start to flow freely now, it’s uncontrollable. The fleeting thoughts of hope wander in and out of my mind as her eyes close. ‘Maybe she is just resting,’ I think, trying desperately to fool myself that this is not happening. Exhaling her final breath, her chest stops moving. “No, NO, no, no, no, no, no!” I lift her body to me. Her short hair scratches my cheek as they soak up my tears. “You can’t do this to me. I need you,” my voice quivers as the words drop from my lips. “You’ve been with me for so long. I don’t know how I can do this without you.”
A hand rest on my shoulder, it is heavy with remorse. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean – I mean I didn’t see her.” It is a man’s voice: soft and respectful. I sniffle as my arms wrap around her neck, this is my only friend. She had been with me for so long that time has faded into just a spinning reel of memories. Joyful memories filled with laughter and long days; memories of perfect sunsets growing up under the large oak tree in the front yard. Some days she would be my pillow, and other days I would be hers.
Cheeks pink: mad bumps dot my face as I turn up to the man— which in my eyes is a murder. “You didn’t see her? That’s all you have to say?” My eyes burn with anger they don’t look at him, but they burrow through him like the sun through the atmosphere: unrelenting. I turn to her once more stroking her head like a lover.
“I’m sorry; I don’t know what else I can say. I’m just so, so sorry.” His voice drops. His head drops. There is nothing he can say that will make the situation any better and he knows that.
My breath quickens heart heavy and full of grief but I know these things happen. I just didn’t think it would happen to her. Turning to the man, the accidental murderer I tell him, “It was my fault, I should have held her leash tighter. She’s never darted into traffic before. I thought she would be fine. We are still new to the city. I, I, thought,” my eyes close as I stand up. Letting my lifelong friend, my companion, my Labrador lay motionless on the pavement. She didn’t look hurt; there was no blood, no mangled body, just the breathless form that was my dog. “I thought as long as she was with me, she would be okay.”
© 2010 Jeannie Hart
You can thank Daniel for this prompt. I thought a brief dialog creation would be awesome for this prompt.
Space Goats
"Intergalactic planetary, planetary intergalactic."
"Seriously Steve, quit singing that song.” Todd said as he looked at Steve. “Every time we are launched from the space port you start singing. You can’t sing you know you can’t sing right?"
"You’re just jealous you don’t have my mad rapping skills." Steve rolled his eyes.
"Really? Really? That’s what I’m jealous about? Not for the fact that you’re sitting in the captain’s chair while I’m back here dealing with your back draft? Yes, I’m jealous of your rapping skills. That’s what I’m jealous of."
"Wow Todd, you really need to calm down. You remember what they did to you the last time you got all worked up about my rapping."
"And yet-- you STILL SING THAT SONG! You know what it does to me! I think you do it just so when we get there they have no choice but to tranq me!"
"Todd, cool it. Fine, I’ll stop. I didn’t know that I annoyed you so much."
"Of course you annoy me! Everyone in this place annoys me. I have no say over where I go what I do! All I want is to be on some slope somewhere eating grass and soaking up the sunshine, but no. I’m here. With you, with a rocket strapped to our tails and being hurled across space like a gigantic game of intergalactic ping pong. Why the heck are you laughing?"
"Intergalactic." Steve holds his breath trying not to laugh.
"Crap."
"INTERGALACTIC PLANETARY, PLANETARY INTERGALACTIC!"
"I swear, I WILL END YOU!"
©Jeannie Hart 2009
The restaurant is busy. Hustle and bustle all around as the aging couple sit. Drinking coffee – they sip as he reads the times. She glances through a novel that would pass as a beach read. Fiddling with his round, gold rimmed glasses as the waitress taps her foot. She is impatient. She has no time for the slowness of a bygone era. There are mouths to feed at home. The more mouths to feed at home, the more people she needs to get in and out of this booth.
“Are you ready?” she asks.
“You know give us two more seconds.” He says with a smile. He peeps over the rims of his glasses, batting his blue eyes. It used to work. However, now most people—-like the waitress—-roll their eyes and walk away.
©Jeannie Hart
Her laugh broke the silence. Head lifting back in a roar – unexpected, uncontainable laughter burst forth. Everyone turned their head looking at her like she was insane. The dark movie theater, filled to capacity was staring at her. A black and white, French movie droned on behind them. Light from the projector booth shined down on each face looking up at the bellowing voice. Her face turned red. If the lights were up, they would see several different shades of crimson wash over her. She smacked her boyfriend in the arm who just sat – grinning; Cheshire cat looking off into the sea of people. One by one the audience started refocusing on the art film noir that flickered in front of them. She recoiled back into her chair, burying her face into her hands— whispering to her boyfriend, "next time, wait to tell me that this movie stinks more than the fart you just let out."
©Jeannie Hart 2009
I sit at the light, singing at the top of my lungs—top down in my just washed, red mustang convertible. Looking to the left I smile at the driver. It’s a beautiful warm day; perfect for cruising. The sunshine warms my cheeks as only the Californian sun can. Eyes pressed close as I feel the rejuvenation take place—this moment, so sweet, so intoxicating, so brilliant.
I’m flying across the intersection. My hands holding my neck— keeping it from snapping back – I brace myself. ‘Oh God, what the hell,’ I think as the car spins once, twice, three times. Somehow I manage to pull the car over to the right. It’s really just a blur. Getting out I hear crying, I’m looking at my car: mangled, twisted, and abused. The driver I smiled at is helping me to the curb. My words can’t come out, they are so angry but they won’t come out. All I hear is crying. Looking down I see my leg is cut. Blood is running down my bruised skin. The cries are mine.
©Jeannie Hart
©2009 Jeannie Hart
Her eyes wide open as she lays motionless in the bed – knees to her chest, the world around her just background noise. The old, rotary style clock flips in front of her as the minutes pass by. She listens to the noises from the kitchen— they make her pull the white duvet closer to her chest. She realizes he is still here. Tears start dripping from the corners of her eyes as the wet spot on the crisp white pillow grows.
He stands in front of the stove. Moving quickly as he beats eggs, pours just a bit of milk, and moves them over to the hot pan. The messy, dirty blond hair that she always loved about him—flops in his face as he cooks. Silver pendent lamps shine down over the dark granite countertops, it’s still early. The sun not up yet. Looking out over the loft as he adds in onions and bell peppers, he realizes how cold the apartment is. Modern design has its price. The only warmth the kitchen, which is rarely used: unless he is there. Pulling out dishes from under the counter he moves the eggs to a plate. He pours orange juice into a small glass as he arranges a flower in another. Smiling he takes the small tray up the loft stairs and sets it down— next to her curled up body. Sitting on the edge of the bed he puts on his shoes. Reaching out to touch her shoulder only to recoil quickly and grab his watch and wallet that sits on the mirrored side table. His head dips as his words drop from his mouth; they are heavy and thud into the silence like a gunshot on a foggy day. “You don’t have to act like this.” His torso twists as he faces her, “be an adult. We’ve both seen this coming for a long time.” He exhales a sigh as he gets up and returns down the stairs.
Her hand wipes her cheek as he walks down the stairs. She can’t turn to face him, not like this. She can’t call out to him to tell him that she loves the way the room dissolves around him, how life fades when around him. Not with tears in her eyes and emotion on her lips. So she lays there listening, straining to hear his every move. The soft shuffle of his feet; he gathers his things, the door opening and closing behind him as her gut wrenches.
She blinks. The clock flipping forward through time and yet she stays still. Propping herself up on her elbows she can feel the sun dancing on her feet. Glancing over—her eggs cold—she realizes, he walked out. The plate flies across the room. She yells as she throws the tray against the wall. Tears stream down her face as the perfect bed that they bought together is ripped apart. Pulling covers, throwing pillows, trashing the things they cared about. Her back against the wall, she slides down – pooling into the emotions that all women have but cannot show.
Human Invasion has been in revision for almost a full year. However, as the revisions close and the novel starts to become more of a realization. It’s time for it to see some light. So this is just a glimpse at my hard work from the last year. Enjoy!
©Jeannie Hart 2008
Economic Crash of 2008
Fallout from the stock market crash was far worse than anyone anticipated. The housing market slowly pushed to a rupture point, which there was no return. The Nation, the great United States of America, thought that greed coupled with an apparent abundance of the American Dream could allow for a bigger and better slice to be taken from the people. Each piece carved out from this diminishing pie cracked the foundation – those whom strived to keep up with the everyday – to the brink. Until finally it was impossible to ignore the realization; the United States as everyone knew, loved, and remembered was about to change for the worse. The table many leaned so heavily on was breaking.
The Nation’s Quiet Fall
The market continued to plummet. A gain here, losses there, but the market kept falling. Newscasters claimed stock markets go through ‘these sort of cycles.’ Blank, rehearsed stares as they talk to the camera. Crack. The President stepped forth - a calm voice amidst the storm - assuring the nervous population that this recession would go no further. Crack. The recession spiraled downward, each crack becoming wider, deeper and more unstable. But it was only after the President’s 3rd inauguration, did the people realize how far they had fallen. Somewhere the power of democracy vanished. They did not view the bailouts for what they were – a ploy to beg, buy and borrow confidence. Democracy died to the sound of an increasingly desperate chant, ‘yes we can.’ Crack.
Universal Healthcare
It took several years for people to understand how universal health care crippled the nation. Though, there were those who saw it coming. They tried their best to warn the nation about the unknown effects of daily mandatory ‘vitamins’ – what were these vitamins for - they questioned.
The President stood, gathered around by bright-eyed, naive young adults with hope and change dangling off their lips. All eyes upon him: as he danced around the Town Hall. He explained in a calm, soothing voice that was almost hypnotic. “If we,” he paused as he walked around the room. “If we are healthier, if we exercise the way we should, if we eat right and get the appropriate vitamins, universal healthcare is not only a benefit to us as a nation – it is a benefit to the future of our nation. Our children and their children's children will reclaim this country through the science of preventative medicine.” Smiling, he held up a simple oval pill; a ready-made image for a glossy print advertisement.”
There were always protesters on street corners when these meetings were held, not many, but enough to grab the passerby’s attention. Signs, which read, ‘Universal Health Care is Death,’ or ‘Drugs – What affect?’ However, there were no horn honks, just dirty looks from drivers as they pretended to look the other way. People wanted to be healthier. They couldn’t be richer, at least in days like this, so a compromise was struck: their health guaranteed. They wanted that miracle pill which would increase their lifespan; making them happier, and hopefully better. That, unfortunately, was not what they received.
T7 was the artificial protein, which bonded the mandatory vitamin components together. It was brand new, created by the MBI Corporation. Put into production with limited but successful testing. Three years later, a daily dose of T7 was found to cause stillbirths, miscarriages, and abnormal growths resulting in the vast majority becoming sterile.
The people were outraged.
The nation unwittingly played into the President’s hand – handing more power to him, as they’d now lost wealth and health. He was the only one who could right the wrongs of the MBI Corporation. Focus could no longer be shifted away from the fractured and failing foundation. The people had to be appeased; a nation had to be renewed. The announcement was quick and concise. No pomp and circumstance as genocide took place.
“Change is in the air.” He said with a solemn tone as the address was televised nationally. “The only way we can move forward – to address these challenging times is to focus on our foundation, you – the people. Starting tomorrow we are withdrawing all troops from abroad, saving billions in operating costs and bringing our nation’s greatest resources back to us. Yes, we are bringing our troops home.” The President walked off stage and returned behind his curtain. Minions scurried about making preparations for the public relations blitz surrounding the pomp and circumstance of bringing home so many men and women from abroad. Appearances would be deceiving. These heroes were coming home for only one purpose, to help clean the nation and save it from us.
Ripple Effects
Meanwhile, people did everything they could to keep up the appearance of a good, solid, quality lifestyle. Though, in the light of the fallen stock market, a devalued dollar worth less than the paper it was printed on, a housing market that burst, and a misbegotten implementation of universal health care, hope became just another four-letter word. Some struggled to keep just above the rising tide of desperation; they did not want to see the nation fail. They continued soldiering on as the tide kept rising. The President’s word that things would be okay, that hope – always dangled in front of a populace hungry for the promise of a better day - kept them paddling, seeing refuge just on the horizon. However, one by one people started to sink beneath the dark waters. Their strength alone could only keep them buoyant for so long. So many mass layoffs overtook businesses that entire towns and cities became vacant, ghost towns of suburbia. Families started to migrate into fast-growing shantytowns that popped up seemingly overnight. These were homes to those out of money and out of hope. People watched from the squalor that smelt of despair, disease, and desperation as the President spouted ‘how much they’ve accomplished, although the road ahead was still difficult.’ Yet, people in these makeshift towns all wondered how much more they could endure. Universal health care rendered them sterile from drugs or reproductively challenged through government-manufactured hybrid food – genetically altered to increase yield and have a longer shelf life. It seemed a small price to pay for a cheaper costing food which was not naturally grown, but kept the population fed.
Yet, as terrible as things were, the tide was about to rise, so fast, so overwhelmingly, that those who were already struggling were certainly going to drown. The government, the savior of the people was going to balance an unfavorable and embarrassing balance sheet.
Genocide
The troops came home. There was fanfare, streamers, and bunting. They came off planes, off ships, and out of trucks, and marched through towns – never stopping – waving enthusiastically at the crowds. The fanfare stopped. The parade route finished. The soldiers moved on. Into planes, boats and trucks, from one war to another, from democracy to marshal law overnight.
Communities teeming with life, brought together by the plight of humanity suddenly woke to notices of official condemnation. Leave or be forcibly removed, was the warning posted. A warning to all, that these places of refuge would be destroyed for the betterment of the country. Some fled, though most stayed. A residual sentiment of a bygone era, most people still clung to the belief that the government would never go so far.
They were wrong.
The truth revealed itself in a form as vicious as it was unexpected. It happened in waves. A shantytown surrounded by troops advising people to stay indoors. Those who were on the streets would be shot – no questions asked. Families huddled inside. Gunfire could be heard in the distance. At first it seemed random. An odd pop here and there, but the rate grew more consistent, more rapid and repetitive. Soldiers rushed in, opened each door looking around the room or rooms, gathered the huddled, scared families into a main area and opened fire on the wide-eyed humanity who had nothing more in common than a desire to live. The soldiers around the perimeter laughed and high-fived each other as they heard the screams mix with gunfire. These soldiers did not care who they were killing, just that the job was getting done – and seemed to be enjoying themselves in the execution of their task. As the gunfire turned into a steady stream of popping the people started to understand what was happening. They started to flee, or at least they tried. Squads of troops walked the streets and shot anyone who ran. They kept score with each other as if they were playing some sick twisted game. “42!” One officer yelled to his subordinate who immediately laughed for the accomplished. These soldiers killed with methodical precision. The officer raised his gun and started firing in the air. Others under his command did also, signaling the end of this stage of the operation. Troops around the edges of town stopped their chatter; the next wave was about to begin.
In every shantytown they moved through, the troops all stopped at the same point. 2/3rds of the way in they would pause, they enjoyed pausing. It was a simple pleasure to watch the people peep outside their doors, become afraid and then try to run for their lives. Townspeople who ran towards the soldiers received one bullet to the head; they were the lucky ones. Those who watched -- watched in horror as they were herded deeper into town. Herded by soldiers marching forward shooting their guns in the air randomly shooting at the crowd when they started to slow. It was like a massive feed ball in the middle of the ocean being circled by dolphins. Forcing the fish to become tighter and tighter as they nipped a bite here and there. Hundreds of townspeople pushed together, frightened, praying, and being trampled. Gunfire ceased, the troops smiled, and the ground started to shake.
Helicopters filled the air. Time stood still for the people. When it resumed it resumed with an agonizing slowness that made many loose complete control. Flames shot down like a meteor shower, rows of death that mowed anything that moved. Almost all humanity removed as little cameras controlled these bringers of death, stats on a screen miles away proving that this was only a little more than a game to someone. Those that survived the rain of fire did not survive for long, the ground troops made sure of that. As the day started drawing to a close, the troops started to retreat. Their job was done. The clean up crew was next.
Men in heat resistant suits walked through the town with flamethrowers, burning everything that was dead or dying. Homes, flimsy and failing were awash in flames licking their innards. Behind the flamethrowers were firemen who doused the fires with a ‘cleansing’ bath of water; cooling it down just enough so the bulldozers could carry out their task without being slowed down or damaged. A faint cry from a surviving baby echoed eerily through the winds of the town’s silenced streets, but not for long – as the bulldozers moved in to level everything, debris, mangled bodies, and those unlucky enough to still be breathing. Before the sun set, the once vibrant, but struggling shantytown was a mere bump on a charred, plowed-over landscape. The troops had moved on to the next town. Over and over, across every corner of the United States, this extermination-and-erasure process repeated.
The only people whom survived were those whom left as soon as the condemnation was posted. Those people had instincts about their peril. They spread the word, as the skies grew darker. This was the only forewarning, as those in the shantytowns did not have the luxury of cell phones or Internet access. All they could rely on was the face-to-face communication received from those whom witnessed the beginning, never the aftermath.
Life inside the nation was no longer the glistening, bright beacon of the world. It was now gangrene infested, imploding, and devoid of the hope so generously promised in years past.
Months turned to years as people finally started to adjust to the new realities. The burnt landscape reminded them everyday – if you did not fit in, if you did not comply, you will be swept away. Cars, trucks, buildings, or people, it didn’t matter. Vast swaths of land outside the well-controlled major metropolitan cities were charred and left in the open. A visible expression of what happens to those who voice discontent.
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I was asked by another creative person to create myself as a character. I've never thought about doing this in a literary way. There are always reasons why people write, I write because I enjoy telling other people's stories. So when this proposal was brought to my attention i found it quite intriguing.
The first question asked, "if you were an inanimate object what would you be?"
I would be a piano, classic, stoic, and beautiful in any situation. Through a soundboard taught strings run; like thoughts connecting in the mind - hammers of inspiration tapping in rhythmic, melodic succession until finally gushing forth with an abundance of thoughts, joy, or sadness. Strings that are played, tickled, or caressed, yes I would be a piano.
The next question involved how we described ourselves.
26 the age that makes me think that I am no longer in my early twenties, and sliding ever closer to thirty. I am well adjusted enough, last year I had to come to grips with filing my taxes under a new age box – 25-35. However, I did go to a bar afterwords, not to drown my sorrows but to prove I was still young. Single, but not really worried I have more things I need to do than I have hands to do them with. And just like Peter Parker's uncle said, "With great power comes great responsibility." Do I really want the power of a couple in an economic downturn, the power of two incomes? What if the other loses his job, would I be able to step up my responsibility? No I think its best that for now, single will be the way I describe myself.
At this time of year, summer, I realize how awkward I look in Southern California. While most women walk around semi nude, tan, blond hair blowing in the wind; I sit -- under an umbrella -- worrying whether or not my SPF-70 will be enough to keep my Scottish skin from blistering. My auburn, shoulder length hair blowing in my face, I understand that this attempt at the beach would better be served from the comfort of café. Packing up I head to Urth.
Tan capri pants, that are surprisingly tanner than my legs fit smoothly over my red and white modern halter top bathing suit. A delicate silver necklace with chunks of brown, polished stones interjected in elegantly jingles as I walk through the door. I order my drink, Moroccan Mint – and find my spot on the patio. This is more my atmosphere, nestled in with the ivy sipping my tea and reading through my oversized prescription sunglasses, my blue eyes easily hidden from onlookers. If only they knew that between page turns I would think up stories about how their day had gone so far.
I could spend hours sitting and watching. Making up stories about people and the imaginary lives I can see them in. It’s only in these moments, the uncanny free time when people allow themselves to relax; these are the moments that I can script their lives. Traits that come out only when you are relaxed I see, expand, and abound to my whim - ensuring in my mind whether their day will end up satisfied or glib. As I sit and observe, pretending to read my book I realize that if I ever really grew up, I would want to be a writer.
So there you have it. A brief look into how I would be if I were a character in one of my novels.
Fan fiction is one of those things where when it’s good it’s really awesome but when it’s bad which most is, well it’s really, really, really… bad. However, can be a useful tool to get people writing. It takes out all the really hard stuff, character development, world creation but leaves in the most important part a story. After all Timothy Zahn wrote Fan Fiction technically when he wrote his Star Wars Novels. And those are held in the highest regard by most Star Wars aficionados. The character’s were known, they were beloved by millions and yet Timothy’s stories made the novels unique.
Though, he did write other books and was loved by many people before he undertook the Star Wars project. Which many fan fic writers have not. They write it to have fun. And if it gets people to write there’s no harm. The harm is when you try to publish it. Twilight girl you know who you are.
I also think it’s like what Allie said last week about popcorn novels, if it’s the only thing you read or write then there’s a problem. It is lazy and doesn’t allow you to grow as a writer. However it can be fun and always helps to get your creative juices flowing. Plus if something I write inspires someone else to write, well that’s kind of cool. I would be flattered by it, unless you know, they want to publish it. Then I would probably have to read it and okay it and stuff.
Over at Fivedotnerds there has been a lot of talk about my viewpoint on character naming. Apparently I don't do things that are normal. Who knew! Well as a counterpoint I'm filming today the rebuttal. But I thought I would put up the transcript here for you all to read.
Almost everything I write is character driven. They are the tools that move the story forwards, backwards, sideways – whatever direction that the story needs to go. Bottom line, characters make the story. Though, I personally don’t feel that names in the beginning of crafting a story matters mainly because the writer is creating the individual. Yes in real life people are named usually before birth. We are given a name that is filled with hope, imagination, or nostalgia by our parents. And yes, dependent on how we are raised our brain chemistry we could become either a good or a bad person. However, when we as writers create we have an idea of who the character is. What they are going to do, are those things dependent on the name of a character? Could Miss Parker from the Pretender be Peter Parker’s mother? Would Spiderman be different? As writer’s we have the unique opportunity to change people’s perspective by creating characters that are memorable and well rounded.
In college we had a writing exercise that I loved and really it influenced my thought process now on character building. We would have to write a 500-1000 word description of an individual without using a name. When we used real people, at the end the class had to guess who the person was. It was amazing how by just describing actions, personalities, environment, temperament, all the external factors that influenced the person – the class could guess who our person was.
Take for example the second son born to a Joseph in Brookline, Massachusetts. His mother was the oldest child from a prominent family in Boston. He attended public school continued on to a catholic school, but had to withdraw from catholic school after having an appendectomy. This description could be 100’s of children but once you append the initials JFK, it changes. Would it have made a difference if John F. Kennedy was never president? If he was never shot? The initials JFK are only memorable because of the character he became. Writers are trying to craft characters that are memorable to start with.
I am by no means downplaying the importance of a character’s name in a story. After all without memorable character names there would be no Juliet, no Jane Eyre, no Margo Spiegelman. What I am trying to say is that if a name is blocking you from writing the story that you want to tell, put in a place holder. Once your story is completed, or your description of the character is done – you will have a name. It might be the same as your placeholder, or it might be something completely different. But in the end, you will have a character that is a fundamental tool in your storytelling; a character that is flushed out and complex that really, you couldn’t see them being named as anything else.
Character naming is one of those problems most writers have. Though, as this video brings out, yeah, apparently I'm not the greatest at naming my characters, mainly because to me, it's such a mute point.
Jeannie Hart is a published writer, who works in diverse fields of the industry. She has had pieces published through local and national websites, indie papers, and magazines.
