The real heart of “Beauty and the Beast”

©Disney

I’ve always loved “Beauty and the Beast.”

It was an obvious choice for my favorite Disney movie growing up, since I had brown hair and a serious reading habit. I, too, was the girl with the “dreamy far off look” and “my nose stuck in a book,” and if I ever starred in a musical there would absolutely have to be a song where everyone talked about how weird they thought I was. I was also insanely curious, and just like Belle would have immediately investigated the creepy, shut-up part of the house I had been forbidden from going anywhere near.

I identified with the Beast just a much. No, I wasn’t extremely tall and furry, but I was angry and brooding and almost completely lacking in social skills. It was hard to see him as a monster when I could sympathize so completely with him, and it wasn’t like Belle needed the defense – when he roared at her, she yelled right back at him. And he was so eager to learn how to be a nicer person, even though he stumbled sometimes.

The only part of the movie that really tripped me up was the end. As much as I loved the Beast, I had zero interested in the human he turned into at the very end. I didn’t see anything that connected him with the guy I loved – he had a pretty face, and a soft voice, and he was never onscreen long enough for us to see any sign of the anger and awkwardness that had been so much a part of the Beast. Even though he’d been working hard to become a better person, things like that don’t just disappear the moment you get a makeover.

A lot of people see the transformation as the entire point of “Beauty and the Beast.” For them, the moral of the story is that love “fixed” the Beast, making him the metaphorical handsome prince instead of the supposedly scary monster. In its more dangerous aspect, it’s the idea that a good woman is enough to “save” a man (“Fifty Shades of Grey” is really just “Beauty and the Beast” in its most annoying form).

For me, however, I wish the transformation never happened. Or if it did, that the movie made it clear we were getting the same angry, awkward man in a slightly different body. The change that mattered had already happened, the slow transformation of an isolated man into someone who cares enough about others to put their needs before his own. That was the man Belle had already fallen in love with, the man that the weird, awkward dreamer inside her had recognized and responded to. She had been just as alone as he was, surrounded by people who couldn’t see past how different she was.

They were both beasts, in their own way, just like they were both beautiful where it mattered. What they looked like didn’t matter – the fact that they had found each other at all was the real happy ending.

So You Want to Rule the World: : Writing the Perfect Villainous Note

At some point in whatever evil plot you have brewing at the moment, you may be tempted to compose some sort of threatening missive for either your heroic arch-nemesis or a government of some kind. Done correctly, these notes can be particularly chilling, and will help spread the word about your evil. 

Done wrong, however, they can make you a laughing stock of everyone from nearby villains to the local news media. A misspelled threat can turn you from a credible enemy to an Internet meme in moments, at which point the only solution is a complete costume/theme change and a year-long hiatus so that everyone can forget who you are.

In order to make certain that doesn’t happen to you, it’s imperative you follow these handy guidelines.

1. Examine your reasoning

First, be honest with yourself. Do you really need to write the note at all? I understand wanting to, of course – part of the reason we got into this business in the first place is because we love an audience – but in some cases your crimes should speak for themselves. Which will the media take more seriously – a written taunt, or freezing an entire bank (after you’ve made off with everything of value inside, of course)?

Be particularly careful when writing notes to heroes. Yes, threatening them can be entertaining, but saying too much can also give away vital details of your plan. A villainous monologue can be dangerous, whether on paper or out loud, and you don’t want the authorities to get wind of your plan until it’s too late for them to stop it. Remember, signing your work is just as much fun after it’s already happened.

The one exception where you should always write a note is if you’ve captured their family member/sidekick/love interest/friend. The entire reason you kidnapped that person in particular is to watch the hero’s pain, and the entire thing will be pointless if he or she is too busy fumbling around somewhere else looking for clues. There’s nothing that kills a villainous buzz more than a clueless hero.

2. Consider your medium

The key to a successful villainous note is drama. Handwriting is for shopping lists, not villainy, and letters cut out of magazines are meant for criminals far more common than you are. The only time paper should be involved at all is if the note is written in blood, and even then it would be more effective scaled up to a wall in the target’s home or private sanctum. It doesn’t even have to be the blood of someone particularly special – unless they have a forensic lab, or have special super-sniffing powers, they won’t be able to tell.

Unless blood is involved, scale up even further whenever possible. Outside walls are better than inner walls, so more people can see the note, and surfaces that are harder to clean/paint over are preferable. Burning can be fun, whether it’s fire or a laser beam of some kind, though more traditional kinds of carving can often take too long to be efficient.

Note: Don’t scale up too high unless your target/nemesis can fly or has regular access to some sort of jet. There’s no point in burning letters big enough to be seen from space if the person who’s meant to read them can’t make it up that high.

3. Spellcheck, spellcheck, spellcheck

In some ways, this is the most important thing you can do. There’s nothing that robs a threatening note of all its horror than spelling a word wrong, or using a word that’s technically spelled correctly but is used in the wrong context. Since spellcheck and grammar check aren’t an option on your final work – why type when you can carve the words into the side of a mountain with a laser – write it out in advance and copy from there. If you make a mistake in the transfer, turn whatever you were writing on to rubble and start over again on another building or landmark.

New Short Story: Sleeping Potion

www.carnivalheaven.com

Rita didn’t understand why anyone bothered to wear hooded cloaks to hide their appearance. In the middle of a perfectly nice day like this, having your hood up pretty much shouted “I am up to something nefarious!”

She refrained from actually saying any of this, however, as the customer slipped into the shop and threw back the hood of her cloak. Once the young woman made eye contact, she practically raced to the counter. “I need a sleeping potion. I’ll pay anything!”

Rita gave the woman an evaluating look. “I take it you’re not talking about an insomnia cure.”

“That’s not enough.” The young woman laid her hands flat on the counter as she leaned forward, desperation in her eyes. “Anything less than six months won’t be enough. I’ll take a year if you have it.”

“I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place.” Rita kept her voice even as she reached under the counter, wrapping her hand around the wand she kept on hand for emergencies. The young woman looked harmless, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. “I sell healing potions, stuff to help you around the house. You’ll want to go to a licensed Evil Witch for the potion you’re looking for.”

The customer’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t trust them! And if I go home….” She pressed a hand against her mouth, fighting back tears. “I won’t survive.”

Rita hesitated. She wasn’t interested in breaking the law, but if the girl was using it in self-defense…. “Your father? Or your husband?”

She waved a hand. “Oh, he’ll be fine. He just loves her, and thinks it’s all a big misunderstanding.” She wiped her eyes. “Of course, he’ll be horrified that I was arrested for homicide, but I’m sure she’ll keep him busy telling him how right she’s been this whole time….”

Now Rita was lost. “Wait.” She held up her other hand to stop the ramble. “Who are you talking about?”

The young woman clunked her forehead on the counter. “My mother-in-law. Her house got destroyed in an ogre attack and she’s moving in with us.”

Rita turned the startled chuckle into a cough. “And you think dosing her will keep her out of your hair for awhile?”

The young woman’s head shot up. “No!” she said, horrified. “That would be rude.”

Rita let go of her wand. “Then who were you planning on using it on?”

The young woman’s shoulders sagged, and she dropped her head into her hands. “Me.”

This time, Rita couldn’t stop the chuckle. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Getting to Know You: Beauty (the Kat Dennings edition, not the Emma Watson one)

Photo from katdennings.com

Because I like to torture my characters in small ways as well as large ones, I will occasionally make them fill out those “getting to know you” questionnaires (this one came from http://www.signupgenius.com/groups/getting-to-know-you-questions.cfm).  This one is from Beauty, one of the lead characters in my new book “Beast Charming.”

1. Who is your hero? 

My older sister, Grace. She pretty much raised me, and is definitely the reason I haven’t been arrested yet.

2. What was your favorite family vacation?

Technically, being abandoned in the woods probably doesn’t count as a family vacation, but the ogre that found us was incredibly nice. He had some absolutely hilarious stories about his grandchildren, and was really good at making cookies.

3. If you could choose to do anything for the day, what would it be?

Read. Drop me in the middle of a well-stocked library with snacks, and you won’t see me for a week.

4. What did you want to be when you were small? 

A dragon. The idea of having teeth and claws, as well as being able to fly, all appealed to me even when I was a kid.

5. Do you like or dislike surprises? Why? 

Strongly dislike, because when you work with dragons, knights, witches and sorceresses on a regular basis there’s at least a 30 percent chance the surprise will kill you. And even if it doesn’t, it usually does something like turning you green for a week. I definitely don’t recommend the experience.

6. What’s your biggest complaint about your job? 

Well, like I said – the potential for death is annoying. But not quite as annoying as getting locked in a tower with this one particular shut-in who keeps coming up with fake jobs so she can tell us all about the sweaters she knits (with her own hair, apparently – don’t ask).

7. What’s your favorite thing about your job?

It’s hard to get bored when you’re picking armor out of a dragon’s teeth one week and helping a group of dwarves baby-proof their home the next week (they’d decided to adopt a human girl. I’m hoping for everyone’s sake that she grows up short).

8. Who would you want to be stranded with on a desert island?

For company, I’d have to say Beast (I’ll admit, I’m a little prejudiced). But for practicality, I really should say Waverly – he’d figure out a way to get us both back to civilization before nightfall hit.

9. What was your first job?

Technically, it wasn’t a job, but Father would dress Grace and I in rags and sneak us into the palace to pretend we were serving girls. I’m not exactly sure what the next step was supposed to be – no matter how much he likes to think otherwise, Father really isn’t that great at planning.

10. Who is your favorite author? 

Jenniffer thinks that she’s being so clever by putting this one in here, but I’m not about to let her get away with it so easily. So I’ll say Terry Pratchett. 

Disney’s “Cinderella,” “Beast Charming,” and “good” girls

Copyright 2015 Disney

There’s such a thing as being too nice.

Mainstream fairy tales, I’ve found, almost entirely disagree with me on this point. The latest example can be found in Disney’s upcoming live-action adaptation of “Cinderella,” where Lily James’s Ella is so good and sweet that she never even raises her voice to her cruel, manipulative stepmother. She’s pretty much sweetness personified, and the local animal life is literally drawn to the goodness radiating out of her. She keeps reminding herself to be kind – one of her mother’s last admonitions before she dies tragically – but doing so never seems to be at all hard for her. She also doesn’t seem to do much, with the fairy godmother and freakishly intelligent mice pretty much doing all the heavy lifting.

The heroines of a lot of fairy tales seem to be like this, with the author always making sure to highlight the character’s gentleness and purity of thought at every opportunity. Even more than being beautiful – though that’s always quite a factor, too – being nice seems to be the vital element in what distinguishes fairy tale heroines from the random background characters. You’ll get the happily ever after, but only if you’re so sweet and gentle sugar wouldn’t melt in your mouth.
Basically, only if you’re perfect.

I, on the other hand, am about as far away from perfect as a person can possibly be. My friends insist that I’m a nice person – though “can be” a nice person is probably more accurate – but I can also be as crabby as a nap-deprived toddler and have so little patience sometimes that it can’t be found using modern scientific instruments. I can get almost psychotically competitive in certain circumstances – I’ve actually been forbidden from playing a particular video game out of fear that I’ll injure human life or property – and I will think insulting things about people who probably have no idea how much I dislike them.

Characters like Ella should probably try to make me aspire to be a better person, but mostly they just drive me nuts. I love nice people in real life – even though they make me feel guilty – but even the best people have a flaw of some kind. The “classic” fairy tale heroine, on the other hand, is more like a beautifully carved marble statue than a living, breathing human being, and the world she lives in has no place for someone like me. If only those kind of people get happily-ever-afters, then I’m in deep trouble.

Which is why I decided to change that. In “Beast Charming,” Beauty is a basically good person who loves her sister, wants to help people, and always tries to do the best job she can. She also has a temper – her shouting fights with her father are epic enough to draw crowds – and a tendency towards sarcasm and insisting she get the last word. She’s had to fight for every drop of self-esteem she has, and she’s secretly afraid that she’ll never be quite enough for anyone. Still, she doesn’t let any of that stop her.

In short, Beauty is nowhere near perfect. And if someone like her can fight her way to a happily-ever-after, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us. 

Sneak Peek at new novel

This is the first chapter of a potential new novel I've gotten a bit stalled on. What do you guys think - is it worth continuing? 

000

Chapter 1: Inauspicious Stars

            The one problem with being the mysterious answer to everyone’s prayers is that you had to dress the part.

            Jess nodded at the assembled townspeople, annoyed at every chilled breeze that snuck in and around the weak protection of her cloak. A coat would have been far more effective, but those were much harder to sweep aside dramatically at key moments.

            Like right now.

            Flinging the fabric back in a bold, theatrical gesture she’d spent a week practicing, she opened the instrument case strapped to her chest and pulled out a slender, wooden pipe polished to a high, attention-grabbing sheen. Then she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and swept her gaze over the small group of civic leaders who had been kept from their beds to make sure she did the job properly. “Ready?”

            Her audience sized her up, much as they had done in the council meeting earlier where she'd made her initial offer. She was undoubtedly younger than they'd like – though she was certain they were estimating at least a few years older than her real age of 17 – but her cap of dark hair was well-ordered and her features just exotic enough to give her an air of mystery.

            To top it off, she was wearing a purple velvet top and leggings edged in silver piping. It was a ridiculous outfit – she kept it solely for jobs like this – but it looked far more expensive than anything they were wearing.

            People paid far more attention to that than they did her face. 
            One of the council members, a portly woman with her collar buttoned all the way to her chin, raised a hand. “We’ll be able to see if this is actually working, right?”

            Jess resisted the urge to sigh. This was why she did it this way in the first place, rather than the much more sensible route of simply standing on the opposite side of the trench currently waiting on the other end of town. The people needed the show. “Oh, you’ll definitely be able to see it.” She began walking, hoping to forestall any more stupid questions. “Follow me, ladies and gentlemen. Remember, I will not be able to stop or speak until all the rats are dead.”

            Then she put the pipe to her lips and blew the first clean, clear note.

            Despite the impression she liked to give people, this wasn’t the moment when the magic started to happen. She still played pubs and street corners during the lean months and calling rats in the middle of every song would put a damper on tips.

            Jess transitioned the note into a simple pub tune that she could play in her sleep by this point, then let her gaze go glassy as she shifted her focus to deep inside herself. She’d gotten good at pretending this was easy, but it took far more concentration than even the most complicated, demanding song she’d ever played.

            Almost … almost….

            There.

            She could practically feel the click as her power kicked in, felt the notes spilling out of her little pipe vibrate with a frequency that refused to sit still so it could be properly heard. As far as she could tell, no one without this particular talent could tell there’d been any change at all, though she’d had a musician or two give her narrow-eyed looks as if they knew something was escaping them.

            Behind her, a few of the less patient souls were getting restless. “What if this is all just a trick?” one man muttered, apparently assuming that she’d gone deaf the moment she’d put the pipe to her lips. "She told us we could see it work, but so far the only thing that's happened...."

            The man's voice trailed off as he finally noticed the faint scrabbling sound behind them.

            Then came the gasps, the sound blending in with the notes she was playing. She'd segued into a more complicated song by this point, the grand entrance music used by a theater troupe she'd worked with as a child, and she turned around and risked walking backwards for a few steps so she could properly appreciate the effect.

            Rats. Only 20 or so at this point – the night was young – with more hurrying to join the parade with every step they took. They'd climbed out of kitchens and larders and holes in the wall, lips silent and eyes glassy with the need to follow Jess wherever she went. By the time they'd made it through the city, there might be a hundred or more.

            "Magic," the mayor breathed, awe and just a little bit of fear in his voice. For the rest of the walk, there wasn't another peep from the town leaders.

            It didn't feel like a very long walk before they'd made it to the other end of town, an empty field with a trench on the other side. As soon as they got into view, a farmer ignited the trench and set the dry brush inside it ablaze.

            Here, the mayor and his council were no longer so interested in following her, hanging back while she and her rats headed for the trench. There was a thin bridge across it, always made of something suitably non-flammable, and after she crossed it she'd kick it into the trench and keep playing. The rats always followed.

            Jess was halfway across when she heard the crack, somehow a thousand times louder than the notes she was playing. Her stomach dropped as she felt the bridge give way, the fire blazing under her feet, but all she had to do was take a few more steps and she'd be—

            A huge, shadowy figure loomed in front of her, cutting off her exit. The music faltered for the first time as she stared at it, a patch of darkness with a few faint hints that might have been a bony face. She took a step away from it without realizing she'd done it, back toward the fire and the crumbling bridge some idiot had made out of wood, she hadn't checked because she'd just assumed no one was that stupid, and her last thought was horror that her subconscious had picked such a clichéd image to come to terms with the fact that she was about to d—

            Someone grabbed her, and she fell forward onto the dirt on the opposite side of the trench.

            But no, it wasn't dirt, because as they hit the empty space she'd been about to land on transformed into a teenage boy, the thick glasses he was wearing making his eyes look huge. They stared at each other for a few breathless seconds, both of them clearly clueless about what to do next, then there was the sound of running feet in the distance and what definitely sounded like a curse word coming from the empty space above her head.

            There was a swishing sound, then they were gone.

000

            They reappeared in a grove of trees, and Jess and the boy immediately scrambled away from each other. A third person appeared a moment later, a middle-aged man with a nametag pinned to his shirt and the pained expression of someone who can’t understand the incompetence going on around him. He turned a fierce glare on the teenager. “What did you think you were doing?”

            The boy hurriedly got to his feet, pushing his sandy-colored hair out of his eyes as he shoved his glasses back up his nose. Jess noticed that he, too, was wearing a nametag, though she couldn't quite make out the words on it from here. “She was right there." Frustration flashed in his eyes. “She probably would have just walked off the bridge if you hadn’t been standing where you were.”

Jess winced internally as she saw the older man’s face go red. Even though the kid had been absolutely right, no one in charge liked to be told something was their fault. Unless you were offering a way to make the problem go away, it was always best to lay the blame on a third party somewhere conveniently far away.          "If she hadn't been about to die, she wouldn't have shown up on my monitor!" the older man snapped. "Your only duty, Mr.—" a quick glance at the younger man's nametag "—Abernathy, is to focus on your job. You are there for one reason and one reason only, to reap the souls of the dead so they can properly move onto the afterlife."

            Jess listened, hand still tight on her pipe as she filed the information away for future reference. Apparently, her foster mother had been right – there really were employment opportunities everywhere you looked. Though she wasn't really thrilled with the fact that these guys were apparently sneaking around invisible unless you were about to die....

            "But she didn't have to—"

            "That doesn't matter. Besides, I'm quite certain you weren't there for the girl at all. There is no way the main office would authorize someone as young as you to be a human reaper."

            For the first time, something that might have been guilt flashed across young Mr. Abernathy's face. "The rats."

            "The rats! Who, as you well know, are now scuttling around that field as tiny, confused rodent ghosts because someone didn't...."

            The man kept talking, but Jess was no longer paying attention. She had disappeared in the middle of a job – one she was definitely going to make sure she got paid extra for, given the bit where they'd nearly killed her – and she needed to get back there before they decided she was pulling a con. She'd already have to sweet-talk them into not caring that she'd have to go through a second round to re-gather the rest of the rats, and the longer she took to come back the more work it was going to be. People panicked more easily than the rats did, sometimes.

            Jess hurriedly scrambled to her own feet, breathing a sigh of relief when she caught sight of flames through the trees. That was probably the trench, which meant the older man had simply transported them to the patch of forest near the field so he could have privacy to chew out his subordinate. It would be easy to slip away before the other two even noticed....

            She'd slipped into the nearest patch of shadow when her traitorous ears chose to tune back into the older man's litany of complaints. "...rest assured, Mr. Abernathy, I'll have to file a report with your supervisor. It won't be pretty..."

            Jess stopped moving. He saved your life, you know, her mind whispered.

            She tried to force her feet to move forward, cursing the strange tugging sensation inside her chest that kept trying to make her turn around. I seriously don't have time for this.

            You'd have even less time for it if you were dead. Which you're not, thanks to the poor kid who's about to get in trouble for making sure you're still breathing.

            "...I know you think you were a hero, but behavior like that undermines the sacred responsibility of every reaper..."

            Reluctantly, Jess turned around. The teen's shoulders were still square, clearly not caved by anything the older man said, but there was a resigned look in his eyes that meant he'd given up fighting. Like he wasn't surprised that this was his only reward for being a hero.

            If you were over there, you could sweet talk his way out of this in five minutes or less. You wouldn't even break a sweat.

            He might not even want me to. Before she'd even finished the thought, Jess knew it wasn't true. Jess knew the look of someone who was completely alone in the world all too well.

            "...You'll be lucky if you keep your job, which you won’t if I have any say in the matter...."

            "Wait!"

            Both the older man and the young Mr. Abernathy whipped around at the sudden sound of Jess's voice. Before either of them had the chance to speak, she strode back into the clearing as if given a mission vital to the security of a kingdom. "This young man is being a gentleman, but I'm afraid I can't let this misunderstanding continue on any longer." She used the same tone she did for her sales pitches, the one that rang with certainty no matter what nonsense was coming out of her mouth. "He's not the one at fault here."

            Their brows furrowed at the same moment, the usual first reaction of the average mind when told something that so obviously contradicted established reality. The key was to keep talking.

            Jess put on her best "I'm so sorry for the trouble, officer" expression. "A person's instinct for self-preservation is remarkable when they're near death, as I'm sure you both know better than anyone." She nodded as she spoke, a gesture the older man couldn't help but echo. An agreement, even if he didn't consciously realize it. "I don't know where I found the energy, but in that desperate moment as the bridge was collapsing under me I found myself leaping towards the sure safety of the other side. This young man here just happened to be in the way of that leap, which is why I fell on him. I saved my own life, using him as an accidental assistant. He certainly didn't intend to betray the sacred duty of the reapers, sir."

            There was a moment of perfect silence as she let that particular string of nonsense sink in for a few seconds. The teen looked stunned, staring at Jess as if he couldn't quite believe what she was doing. Either he was appalled at the ridiculousness of the lie, or he was completely unprepared to have someone step in and help him for once.

            Either way, she knew exactly how he felt.

            The older man was having more trouble processing. "But I saw—"

            Interrupting him was a calculated risk. "It was a confusing moment, sir. Everything was a blur, fire and limbs everywhere.” She slid into the calm, sure tone of a teacher explaining something to a student who didn’t yet understand. “But when you're the one near death, your mind is clear as a bell."

            He narrowed his eyes at her, a hint of doubt flickering in his eyes. "Do you know Mr. Abernathy, by any chance?"

            "No, sir," she said immediately, completely honest for the first time since she'd opened her mouth. "I've never seen him before in my life."

            The older man swung his gaze to the teenager, wearing the furrowed brow of a man whose certainties were slipping away from him. "If that's what really happened, why didn't you say something?"

            The teen blinked, clearly not having expected to be included in the conversation, but rallied better than Jess expected. "I was confused," he said quickly. "Like she said, everything was a blur."

            The older man sighed, then scrubbed a hand across his face. "Fine. But I'd better never hear your name connected to anything like this again, you understand me?"

            The teen nodded. "Understood."

            The older man gestured back toward the trench. "And I'd better see every single one of those rats properly reaped, you understand me?"

            Telling herself that he could take it from here, Jess hurried through the trees toward the trench and the waiting civic leaders. "I'm back!" she called out as soon as she cleared the tree line, not waiting until they could see her before grabbing their attention. "I've re-channeled my energies after that unfortunate little brush with death, and I'm ready to wrap things up for a very reasonable additional fee of thirty credit slips to compensate me for the fact that you accidentally tried to kill me."

            The assembled group, who had been busy whispering loudly at one another, immediately snapped to attention at the sound of her voice. “We didn’t try to kill you!” one of them called out, sounding genuinely offended by the thought.

            “You put a wood bridge up over a trench full of fire, when I specifically said something non-flammable.” She flashed a bright, humorless smile when she got close enough that they could see her expression. Every one of them winced or looked away. “Though remember, I did say accident. Mistakes happen to the best of us.”

            The buttoned-up woman took a step forward. “How did you survive it?” she asked, notes of something that might have been fear dancing under the surface of her voice.

            Now, this was the tricky bit. The mostly independent villages and towns that were a piper’s bread and butter tended to spook easily. When they were truly afraid of you, being run out of town with pitchforks and torches was the best-case scenario. At the same time, it didn’t do to let the serious, responsible citizenry think they could push you around or deny you your hard-earned payment for services rendered. 

            Jess waved a hand, as if discussing something of no consequence. “Magic.”

            They all stared at her for a few beats of silence as both the word and the gesture soaked in, their minds undoubtedly already spinning details to fill in the gaps. Rumors were wonderfully useful in her line of work.

            Finally, the mayor sighed. “Fine. I’ll pay your ‘accident’ fee out of pocket as soon as you finish dealing with the rest of the rats.”

            Jess relaxed the small muscles in her face that let the smile seem much more warm and natural. “Excellent. Let’s get started.”

000

            She stayed on the other side of the trench this time, pouring a little more effort into the playing and letting the rats come to her. When no more appeared Jess played a few more minutes, just to be sure, then followed the mayor to his house and collected her additional fee. When he grumbled, she smiled at him again.

            Once that was done, the next step was to find a stable to bunk down in for the rest of the night. She’d already picked one out on her way into town, small but clean and occupied by a couple of older horses that looked too tired to get uppity about a human sharing their space. She should be there right now, in fact.

            Instead, she was back in the empty field, standing close to the still-smoldering trench and looking for a shadowy figure she already knew she wouldn’t see. She'd already guessed that she'd only seen the teenage boy and his supervisor like that at first because she'd been about to die, exactly the kind of neat little trick that would keep the majority of people from figuring out that the Grim Reaper was probably a guy just trying to make his child support payments.

            For that matter, the younger reaper might not even be here. Jess had no idea how long reaping took, which meant he could have very well finished the job before she'd even left the mayor's house. He was probably home in bed right now, hoping that his next assignment kept him far away from troublemaking pipers.

            I don't have time for this, either, she told herself. He's not even here.

            Hey, I'm not the one who dragged you back out into this field. This was all your idea.

            Jess sighed, remembering the surprise on the teen's face when she'd stepped in to help him. "Thank you for saving my life," she called out to what was undoubtedly empty air. "I'm not used to having someone looking out for me like that."

            The only response was silence. Embarrassed, Jess shrugged her pack higher onto her shoulder and began walking back to the stable. She had to have burned through her allotment of guilt for the year, and if she didn't sleep like a baby she was going to have stern words with—

            "Me, either."

            Jess whirled around at the sound of the younger reaper's voice. He was standing only a few feet away from where she'd been, caution in his eyes and hands half lifted as if he didn't know what to do with them.

            When she didn't say anything, he cleared his throat and clarified. "I mean the way you talked Mr. Garrett around. I'm not that good at lying – there's no way I could have sold a story like that."

            For a second, all she could do was stare at him, caught off guard nearly as badly as she'd been with the bridge.

             Seeing her expression, he looked embarrassed. "Listen, I didn't mean ... It was a good lie, really."

            That surprised a laugh out of Jess. "It was a ludicrous lie. The only reason it worked at all is because I'm an excellent liar."

            His expression relaxed, a smile slowly easing its way into existence. "I noticed."

            Shaking herself back into her usual composure, she held out a hand. "I'm Jess. Please tell me there's something I can call you other than Mr. Abernathy."

            His smile widened. "Thomas." He shook her hand. "Thank you for saving my job."

            "Least I could do." She shifted, not sure what was going to happen next. It was an unusual feeling for her. "I'm glad you were still here. Most people would be home in bed by now."

            "I don't really have a bed." He shrugged. "I usually just find a stable somewhere when I'm on shift."

            Jess smiled back at him without even entirely realizing she was doing it. "I know the perfect place."

Textual Salvation

"Power of Words" by Antonio Litterio

I've kind of been going crazy for the last several days. Something had had been working is suddenly not working anymore, the IT people deep in the heart of a faceless corporation that I desperately need to talk to won't acknowledge my e-mails, and to top it all off I was in a constant tailspin of worry that I wasn't figuring out a way to fix these things immediately. You know, my entire future was on the line, I was blowing my chance, failure was imminent, that sort of thing. It was all I could think about, and because there was nothing I could do to fix it I had absolutely zero interest in doing anything else.

Then I had a realized that I had a metric ton of writing to do, and the deadlines were about to hit me over the head.

It was like a miracle. All of my anxiety about my future and success suddenly narrowed down to the simple fact that if I didn't get these writing assignments finished, I would be screwed in very concrete and practical ways. I'm a journalist by trade, so I respect deadlines in a way I respect few other things in my life, and here was a whole stack of them in front of me.

My worry narrowed down in a wonderful way from things I couldn't control to things I could. Even better, I could control them by writing, which is something I would rather be doing than nearly anything else in my life. I'm terrible at social interaction, marketing, long-term planning or convincing people to respect me, but I am freaking great at putting one word in front of another.

I might not have been able to fix my life, but I could absolutely sit down and wrap up the blog assignment I had finally found the perfect idea for. I couldn't predict the future, but I could definitely start slugging my way through the pile of articles I had been putting off for days that had a very immediate deadline. I had little interest in being inside my own head, but I could happily fulfill my obligation to characters whose company I vastly preferred to my own.

Writing saved me, as it has before and as it undoubtedly will again. I see a purpose in it in a way I can't always see a purpose in myself, and I can give myself over to it wholeheartedly when the inside of my head is just a little more than I can take at the moment. Every time I write an article, a story or a poem, I am validating my own existence one more time. Yes, I may be kind of messed up, but look at this awesome thing I made.

I think ... no, I hope, that Robin Williams's movies saved him for a long time. Like everyone, I wish they'd been enough to hold him here with us even longer. And I wish for you all the inexpressible gift of finding some form of expression that might help save you. 

Fairy Godmothers, Inc. short story: Paperwork

Paperwork    

by Jenniffer Wardell

           

Kate had thought the one creative writing class she’d taken in college would prove completely useless. Then she’d started writing Fairy Godmothers, Inc. assignment reports.

           

She hesitated over the mirror’s keypad, weighing her words.

           

The client, Yvette Longhorn, had not been told of the Fairy Godmothers, Inc. package her parents had purchased. When I informed her, she appeared excited by the prospect of working with the company.

           

Technically, it wasn’t even a lie. One of the definitions of “excite” was to “increase the activity of something.” Throwing a chair was definitely an increase in activity.

           

Apparently, Yvette already had a boyfriend, a fine, upstanding dwarf who worked as a jeweler a nearby town. Her parents, who apparently had strong views about inter-species dating, did not approve.

           

We had a lively discussion about her personal preferences for the assignment.

           

Translation: there was a lot of shouting, and even more of Yvette flatly refusing to listen to any of the very sympathetic and rational things Kate had to say. She had valiantly restrained herself from either hitting Yvette with her wand or turning her into a fashionable hat.

           

But it had been close.

           

Before a second meeting could be arranged, however, the parents requested an alteration of the original contract. Per Fairy Godmothers, Inc. regulations, they paid an additional 50 percent of the package cost as a change fee. Neither of the Longhorns stated a reason for the alteration.

           

Once Yvette had shouted herself hoarse, Kate had dragged her to her boyfriend’s shop and explained the concept of bribery to both of them. Luckily, the boyfriend was far more sensible than Yvette, and had a grandfather who had done very well for himself in mining before the family moved down to the city.

           

The Longhorn’s compunctions, it seemed, weren’t quite as strong as their desire to have enough jewelry to blind all of their neighbors.

           

The Longhorns and Yvette all report 100 percent satisfaction with the resolution of the assignment. Their client statements are attached below. Yvette also stated that she would recommend the company to all of her friends.

           

Particularly, she would point out that certain Fairy Godmothers were good at handling difficult parents. Kate thought it best not to mention that part.

           

She had, however, been invited to the wedding. 

"Fairy Godmothers, Inc." extended scene: The Statue Incident

Welcome to the “Fairy Godmothers, Inc.” special edition! Under this tag I’m going to roll out some extended/alternate scenes that didn’t make it into the book. When we get to the longer scenes, I’ll even give you guys the option to experience the scene with or without author commentary.

For this one, however, I can get the commentary out of the way before the scene starts. This is an extension of the scene that starts out chapter 5, specifically between pages 56 and 57. I snipped this bit due to protest that Kate is more emotional here than she usually is, and I will admit that it’s probably not necessary for the scene. But I think it gives a glimpse of Kate that I’m not sure we see anywhere else, and I still mourn it a little.

OOO

“Possibly, though that depends on how much emphasis you’re placing on the ‘you.’” John hesitated. “I might have some vague chance in getting the Queen to ask for one, but with this little lead time I’m not even sure she’d be enough to persuade Madame Stewart to marshal her forces and get everything pulled together. For something like this you’d have to go straight to the Madame herself, the Queen’s personal entertainment organizer, and she won’t even give me the time of day after that unfortunate incident with the ice archer.”

           

Rellie stared at John for a second, then giggled. “You’re really weird.”

           

“He is not weird,” Kate snapped instantly, whipping around to glare at Rellie. “Those ice sculptures are absolute menaces anyway, and you don’t even have any idea what happened in the first place.”

           

You could have heard a wand drop in the resulting silence. Horrified, Kate barely resisted the urge to clap a hand over her mouth as she saw Rellie’s eyes widen in surprise. Slowly, she slid her gaze over to John, who was staring straight ahead and looked like he was fighting the urge not to … what, she didn’t know. But knowing the way her life usually went, it probably wasn’t going to be something she wanted to hear.

           

Kate took a deep breath, making herself ignore the lead weight that had suddenly dropped into the pit of her stomach. “So,” she began, not quite meeting John’s eyes. “You were telling us about the possibility of a fancy dress ball?”

           

“Yes.” John very deliberately cleared his throat, still not quite willing to look at Kate. “What I was trying to say is that I doubt I’ll be able to convince the woman of anything on my own. But she loves Rupert, both because he’s pretty enough that he matches the statuary and he actually enjoys eating those disgusting canapés she makes. If I can convince him to persuade her we need a last-minute ball, we should be fine.”

000

And later, on page 59….

000

She felt a tug on her skirt from Rellie. “I’m not sure about this whole dancing thing, but if I trip I might tear the skirt of the really neat dress you made me.” The girl made her eyes go big and plaintive as she batted her lashes up at Kate. “Do you really want to have to go through all the yelling it took to make it all over again?”

           

“Besides,” John said quietly. “It’s not every day I find someone willing to defend my honor.”

           

Kate stared hard at John for a long moment, feeling something inside her chest catch. “Thursday night, then? Ten o’clock?” she asked finally, still waiting for him to say no. It was absolutely ludicrous to expect someone to have their schedule open with only two nights advance notice. “Just across the street?”

High School “Fairy Godmothers, Inc.,” volume 2

Unfortunately for me, there is a good deal more of my original, “high school” version of “Fairy Godmothers, Inc’ than what I had previously posted. Because you are kind and I abandoned shame a long time ago (there was no longer any room for it in my apartment), here’s another excerpt.

000

Now that we had dealt with the dress, on to step two. I had to find out if she could dance. Since it was more important in this society for girls to be taught how to dance than how to read, I thought that I would have no problem. I had no idea how I could have still thought that, given the rest of the night. I was probably in denial.

So I asked the question, and got the answer I should have expected. She broke down sobbing (an act that she would continue on and off for the rest of the night). Then I proceeded to ask the very stupid question, “Didn’t your father teach you?” That only made her bawl harder.

When she finally calmed down, she managed to get out, “He died in a terrible cliché.”

“Don’t you mean accident?” I responded, unwilling to believe that bad writing could kill someone (though there have been cases of William Shatler’s books making people ill.)

*** Note from the author: Clearly, I meant William Shatner – yes, he also writes – and I like to tell myself it was simply a typo. If it was a genuine attempt to alter his name in some sort of parodic sense, I am embarrassed for myself.***

“No, cliché,” she barely managed to respond. “He died in a carriage accident while rushing home from his office, in the pouring rain, trying to make it home for my eighth birthday party,” she responded, which started a fresh round of tears. How does someone respond to that?

***It wasn’t until college, at least, that I realized how inelegant it was to use the same word so close together. Three times in one paragraph, though, is a little much even for high school me.***

***Though I have to admit, I do love the cliché line. I may have to figure out a way to use it later.***

Friday Chat: Lehua Parker, author of "One Shark, No Swim."

Lehua Parker

Today we welcome Lehua Parker, author of the exciting Niuhi Shark Saga. The latest book in the series, “One Shark, No Swim,” continues the adventures of a young man named Zader and his mysterious connection to the water. Lehua sits down with me to talk about her new book, which is out now.

How is Zader different than the last time we saw him in One Boy, No Water, the first book in the Niuhi Shark Saga?

After his experience standing in seawater during the fight and after what he sees when Leia dives into the ocean at the end of One Boy, No Water, Zader begins to question things he always took for granted. He begins to test Uncle Kahana, and when Uncle Kahana isn’t forthcoming, Zader starts to hide things he’s feeling and doing. In One Shark, No Swim Zader is restless, more aggressive, and hungry like a shark.

Have you found it’s easier or more challenging to get deeper into the series? Why?

In my head, the whole series is one long story. Book 1 introduced all the characters and explained how things began. Now that the readers are on board, we’re paddling out into the deep water of how things change. It’s a lot more fun to write.

Do you feel any differently about Zader’s world now that you’ve had more experience with it? Have you discovered more about it?

 Zader’s world is part of a larger writing universe I think of as Lauele Town. There are other stories about characters we’ve met in the Niuhi Shark Saga that I’d like to write one day. Most of them are not for MG/YA readers. When I write a novel, I have the major beats in my head, but nothing remotely like a detailed outline. At the computer I think, “Okay. In this next scene Zader needs to meet his art teacher. What’s he doing?” And like magic I see the scene unfold with Zader walking up to the beach pavilion where Char Siu and some girls are mimicking the newest dance craze. And then Zader says he hates K-Pop. Those kinds of discoveries keep me writing.

What are the challenges of writing for a MG/YA audience?

Through the series I’ve realized that for my audience a lot of the tension and conflict that I felt was in the story wasn’t on the page yet. Middle grade readers are just beginning to understand symbolism, metaphor, and allegory. They don’t make connections between things that older, more experienced readers do. I’ve learned to write in neon and hold up big signs saying, “Pay attention to this. You may be quizzed on it later.”

The new book, One Shark, No Swim, has less Hawaiian Pidgin English in it than the first edition of One Boy, No Water, which is also being released in a second edition with less Pidgin. How did that decision come about? 

There were a couple of assumptions in my marketing plan that didn’t work out the way I planned.

I had the idea that the series would gain readers in Hawaii first, then move across the Pacific to California, Nevada, Washington, Utah—places where a lot of ex-pat islanders live. If I lived in Hawaii or had gone with an islander publisher, this probably would’ve been the way it worked. But living in Utah with a publisher based in Utah as well, it was tough to get books on Hawaiian bookstore shelves. With middle grade readers and their parents it’s all about being able to pick up a book before buying it. I learned eBook services aren’t the best distribution system for an audience without smart phones, iPads, or Kindles yet.

When I first conceived of the series, I wanted to write books that I would’ve loved as a kid growing up in Hawaii. In literature, there are almost no characters that looked, talked, and acted like the people I knew. I also wanted to write something that would appeal to island boys who didn’t like reading. I chose to write a lot of the dialogue in a kind of Pidgin-lite thinking non-native speakers could still follow the action and that islanders would automatically switch Anglicized words to their proper Pidgin ones.

Adult readers have no problem getting into the Pidgin groove. New or reluctant readers—the very audience I was aiming for—struggle with what looks like broken English to them. Mainland schools throw their hands up. They like it, but don’t know what to do with it. So I basically had a series written using unconventional language for an audience that didn’t read books and a distribution system that couldn’t get it in their hands—even if they decided to look.

Something had to change.

That’s when I realized the series needed a Pidgin-ectomy and wrote One Shark, No Swim with far less Pidgin and Hawaiian words. It needed to appeal to readers who liked to read first and island kids second. When I was writing One Shark, No Swim I approached  Jolly Fish Press with the idea of doing a second edition of One Boy, No Water. When JFP inked a new distribution deal with IPG, they came back and said the time was right. Since all of their titles would have to be re-formatted, it made sense to do the second edition now.

What’s next for Zader and his ‘ohana?

In book 3, tentatively titled One Fight, No Fist, Zader’s human world begins to collapse. He meets his sister and biological mother and begins to understand what’s at risk and why he was hidden with his adopted family. Readers will get to know the Niuhi side of the story.

If you could say one thing to everyone who picks up one of the books in the Niuhi Shark Saga, what would it be?

Thank you! Mahalo for picking it up. Between the covers you’ll find adventure, a loving and supportive family, danger, excitement, and all the trials and tribulations of growing up different. You’ll meet Zader, a boy who’s allergic to water, see how islanders live, and maybe take a little piece of Hawaii home with you.

Lehua Parker’s Biography

Lehua Parker is originally from Hawaii and a graduate of The Kamehameha Schools and Brigham Young University. In addition to writing award-winning short fiction, poetry, and plays, she is the author of the Pacific literature MG/YA series the Niuhi Shark Saga published by Jolly Fish Press. One Boy, No Water and One Shark, No Swim are available now. Book 3, One Fight, No Fist will be published in 2014.

So far Lehua has been a live television director, a school teacher, a courseware manager, an instructional designer, a sports coach, a theater critic, a SCUBA instructor, a playwright, a web designer, a book editor, a mother, and a wife. She currently lives in Utah with her husband, two children, three cats, two dogs, six horses, and assorted chickens. During the snowy Utah winters she dreams about the beach.

Connect with Lehua Parker

Blog & Free Short Stories: http://www.lehuaparker.com/

All things Niuhi Shark Saga: http://www.niuhisharksaga.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LehuaParker

Twitter: @LehuaParker

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6426317.Lehua_Parker

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/lehuaparker/

Email: AuntyLehua@LehuaParker.com

One Boy, No Water

11 year old Alexander Kaonakai Westin—Zader for short—is allergic to water. One drop on his skin sears like white-hot lava. Too bad a lifetime of carrying an umbrella and staying away from the beach isn’t the answer, especially when his popular almost twin brother Jay looks destined to become the next Hawaiian surfing sensation.

But avoiding water is just the tip of Zader’s troubles. Eating raw seafood and rare meat gives him strange dreams about a young girl in a red cape and nightmares about a man with too many teeth. There’s also the school bullies who want to make Zader their personal punching bag, the pressure of getting into Ridgemont Academy, and the mysterious yearly presents from his birth family that nobody talks about.

It’s enough to drive Zader crazy, especially when he suspects old Uncle Kahana and ‘Ilima know a secret that explains his unusual biological quirks. After all, they were the ones who found him newborn and abandoned on a reef and brought him to the Westins to adopt. Uncle Kahana swears Zader is ‘ohana—family—by blood as well as adoption.  Too bad he’s not saying more.

When Jay quits surfing after a shark scare, Zader decides it’s time to stop hiding in the shadows and start searching for answers.

Growing up adopted in Hawai‘i just got a little weirder.

One Boy, No Water               

Amazon

http://www.amazon.com/One-Boy-Water-Lehua-Parker/dp/0984880127/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1379789539&sr=8-1&keywords=lehua+parker

Barnes & Noble

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/one-boy-no-water-lehua-parker/1112184898?ean=9780984880171

Goodreads

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/15713351-one-boy-no-water?from_search=true

One Shark, No Swim

There’s something bugging adopted Zader Westin, something more troubling than his water allergies where one drop on his skin burns like hot lava. It’s bigger than his new obsession with knives, designing the new murals for the pavilion with Mr. Halpert, or dealing with Char Siu’s Lauele Girlz scotch tape makeover. Zader can’t stop thinking about a dream, the dream that might not have been a dream where Lē‘ia called him brother then jumped into the ocean and turned into a shark.

Zader’s got a lot of questions, not the least being why he’s hungry all the time, restless at night, and why he feels a constant itch on the back of his neck. It’s making him feel like teri chicken on a pūpū platter, but Zader doesn’t want to think about chicken, not with his growing compulsion to slip it down his throat—raw.

With Jay busy at surf camp and Uncle Kahana pretending nothing’s happening, Zader’s left alone to figure things out, including why someone—something—is stalking him before it’s too late.

Summer in Lauele Town, Hawaii just got a little more interesting.

One Shark, No Swim:           

Amazon

http://www.amazon.com/One-Shark-Swim-Lehua-Parker/dp/1939967104/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1379752439&sr=8-1&keywords=one+shark+no+swim 

Barnes & Noble

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/one-shark-no-swim-lehua-parker/1114940697?ean=9781939967107

Goodreads

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18114896-one-shark-no-swim

Getting to Know You: Lawton, the Rogue with a Heart of Gold (played by Gabriel Mann)

He also employs spies. They make
life less boring.

This questionnaire is for Lawton, Jon’s best friend and a man who’s lethal with a witticism at 50 paces.  As always, I stuck to the same questions for the sake of fairness (which I borrowed from http://www.humorthatworks.com/how-to/50-questions-to-get-to-know-someone/).

*Minor spoilers*

What was your favorite food when you were a child?

I was never a child. I sprang into being fully grown and magnificent in every way (and  if you hear otherwise, it’s nothing more than a vicious rumor.)

What is one of your favorite quotes?

Well, I’m quite fond of several of my own bon mots, but I suspect that’s not what you mean. Barring that, I’ll have to throw my lot in with Oscar Wilde. “Always forgive your enemies – nothing annoys them so much.”

What’s your favorite indoor/outdoor activity?

I was under the impression that this was a family-friendly blog, darling. I will say, however, that my second favorite activity is watching noblewomen knock their husbands  over with their ridiculous skirts. It’s far more soothing than bird watching.

What chore do you absolutely hate doing?

Chores are for people not clever enough to avoid doing them. Admittedly, some things are unavoidable, but that’s the reason we pay servants.

What is your favorite form of exercise?

Staying one step ahead of everyone else. Unfortunately, that’s often as challenging as  trying to outrun a turtle, so I’ll sometimes have to give them hints simply to maintain a respectable level of challenge.

What is your favorite time of day/day of the week/month of the year?

Winter. The majority of nobility fear the cold, so they spend the season cooped up indoors making one another’s lives miserable. It’s like living in the middle of a constant theatrical production. I’m hardly ever bored.

What’s your least favorite mode of transportation?

The company and conversation can make any form of transportation at least tolerable.  Jon, however, is the only person I will deign to go walking for.

What is your favorite body part?

My mouth. It can be used for so many lovely things.

What sound do you love?              

Suitably passionate classical music performed by a truly talented musician. It’s a sound I hear rarely, but I cherish those moments when I do.

Fairy Godmothers, Inc.: High School Edition

Yes, this is my creation as well. 

So, I was digging through my old papers one day, and discovered that my darling Kate is a bit older than I originally thought. It turns out that I wrote my first (albeit short-story version) of “Fairy Godmothers, Inc.” in high school, though it was only called “Fairy Godmother” at the time because my ability to come up with clever titles had apparently not grown in yet. Kate’s original name was Maeve, apparently (why, I couldn’t tell you), and the proto-Bubbles was named Glenda (okay, so she probably would have preferred I keep that).

            

The entire short story no longer survives, thankfully, but I thought you might be amused by an excerpt (the urge to edit while I typed it in was nearly overwhelming, but I resisted). It’s an interesting look at some of my early concepts, the way my style has refined over the years, and the fact that I am apparently a great deal funnier today than I was in high school.

           

000

           

First off, we had to deal with the dress. I conjured up Fairy Tale Confection #317 and held it out to her. She was just about to take it when she started sneezing violently. Not only sneezing, but coughing, shaking and in general acting as though she had been exposed to New York air. Yet another reaction I’ve never gotten before. This girl could set a record before the night’s out.

            

After some major scientific study (a wild guess) we found out the cause of her trauma. It was the dress. Okay, pick number two.

            

Soon, pick number two turned into pick number 52, all with the same response. Finally, Miss Cinderella over here finally decided to inform me of the little fact that she was allergic to silk, cotton, velvet, satin, all fabric dyes, lace, and roses. Of course, all Fairy Godmother brand dresses contain at least one of these items.

           

Then a horrible thought struck me. There was, way in the back, one dress that didn’t, but no self-respecting Fairy Godmother would dare use it. It was a natural colored polyester (is there a natural color for polyester?) A-line dress. The very thought made me shudder, but I had no other choice. With a heavy heart, I conjured it up.

            

000

           

I have more, if your courage hasn’t failed you yet.