Not having the pressure of an “official” book for a little while is nice.  It leaves me able to do other things.  List of things I have cooked today (all for dinner, since everyone wanted different goodies):

• pork fried rice
• light curry soup
• shrimp stir-fry
• loads of rice (Gordon bought me a new huge rice cooker)
• strawberry shortcake

Oliver is providing me with the pleasure of his company

Kid 2 was in a play. She was the thug leader. She was awesome.

This is Paul. He was adopted during a Petsmart fair, because Moom! and It's Not Fair! and I just want a kitten! So far Paul made friends with Oliver and destroyed half of my plants.

Both girls had a birthday, although I can’t post pictures because both parties were at the pool.  Both got Hunger Games cake and additional cakes to have food fights with.  I had a nice Mother’s day and got Sony noise cancelling headphones – I’ve been making shark circles around them in Best Buy, but didn’t buy them because they were expensive -  and Big Trouble in Little China on Blue-Ray.

And that about wraps it up for now. Still here, still carrying on.

A small sample:

Charlotte stepped inside.  Lark sat on the couch, her legs tucked under her, a book spread in front of her.

“I need your help,” Charlotte said.  “We’re going to visit a dangerous part of town.

Lark uncoiled from the couch.  “I’ll get my sword.”

Half an hour later, wrapped in a hooded cloak, Charlotte dropped two gold doubloons on the counter of Palace of Delights.  “Miranda.”

The proprietor, an older woman in a crushed silk gown didn’t even blink.  “Second floor, blue door.”

The blue door opened into a comfortable room with a canopy bed, all in various shades of red.  The sheets were black silk.  A thick red rug hid the floor.  The furnishings were rich but slightly vulgar.

A moment and a woman walked through the door.  She was slender, blond, and doe-eyed.  She saw Lark.

“I don’t do kids.”

Charlotte dropped a stack of coins on the table.  “Let’s talk.”

“Who about?”

“Brennan.”

Miranda shrugged.  “He comes, he fucks, he leaves.  If you’re looking for state secrets, he doesn’t share.”

“Tell me about his kinks.  What does he like?”

Miranda sat on the bed.  “Nothing too twisted.  He likes to feel he owns you.  Sometimes he makes me crawl to him and beg him to fuck me.  I don’t care – as long as he’s paying.  He’s got this thing about all women being secretly whores.  Sometimes he makes me dress up into a nice prim outfit, formal gown, flowers in the hair, the whole thing, and blow him.  He gets off on the perversity of it, I guess.”

“Thank you.  Are you aware that you’re infected witH Dock Rot?”

Miranda grimaced.  “I know.  Damn soldiers.  I already used my poultice.”

After the perfumed air of the Palace of Delights, the cold night breeze felt refreshing.  Charlotte and Lark walked down the street.  Charlotte walked fast.  Regrettably the closest parking lot was a brisk five minute walk away and the neighborhood wasn’t exactly safe.

“Making her crawl to him is sick,” Lark said.

“Brennan likes to debase women.  He also likes to feel powerful.”

“Why did we need to know that?”

“Because he didn’t buy Richard’s story and now it’s my turn.  I need to capture his attention.”

Lark mulled it over.  “Just like that?”

“Brennan is power-hungry and I’m his type: tall and blond.”

They turned into the parking lot.  Two men blocked their way. The taller of the two flashed a knife.  “Money.  Now.”

Nice tactic.  The Palace had to have maintained security, because mugged patrons were bad for business.  Someone either noticed that they left early and surmised they were looking for information rather than pleasure or Miranda had raised an alarm.  Likely the first option – the proprietor had given them a sharp look when they left, and Miranda was paid too well to blab.  Now they were being scared off, just in case they had any thoughts of coming back.

“Money, you cow!” The man raised his knife.

“May I?” Lark asked.  “Please?”

“Leave or she will kill you,” Charlotte said.

“Suit yourself, whore.”  The man lunged and gasped as his arm slid off his body and fell to the pavement.  His mouth gaped open in a horrified beginning of the scream.  He never got to make one.  Lark swept past him and he crumpled to the floor.   The other thug backed away, his hands in the air, and fled into the night.

Lark pulled a cloth from her tunic and cleaned the blood off her blade.

Charlotte looked at the body on the ground. He was beyond her skill.  A child just ended the man’s life and seemed completely untroubled by it.

“Come.”  Charlotte headed toward their vehicle.  “Do you enjoy killing, Sophie?”

“I enjoy the shadows,” Lark said.

“The shadows?”

They got into the vehicle. Lark started the phaeton and they rolled off into the night.

“I am a warrior poised between light and darkness.  It’s difficult to explain.”

“I would appreciate if you tried anyway.”

Lark frowned, her profile, lit by the golden glow of the instruments panel, etched against the night outside.  “The death isn’t important. The only thing that matters is the moment of decision.  My path is a line.  My opponent’s path is another line.  In the instant we meet, we’re forever altered.  We may walk away or my line or his line may end, but for a brief time we exist in the same space on the verge of action and that space is full of possibilities.  It’s the moment in which I truly live.  It’s short.  It’s always so very short.”

Oh Sweet Mother of Kindness.  An old memory flashed before Charlotte.  She was sixteen, attending a dance during a summit with another College, and as she stood there, chatting with her friends, she saw an older boy looking at her from across the floor.  She saw admiration in his eyes.  In that brief instant, when their gazes met, an array of possibilities flashed before her: he could come over, he could talk to her, there could be a start of something…  It was a sweet kind of thrill, slightly frightening, but exciting.  But Lark found it in battle and she was addicted to it.  How could you even begin to fix something like that?

“Damn!”

The everything drawer jammed, one-third open.  Marina rattled it, trying to shake loose whatever kept it from sliding out.  In less than thirty six hours the entire family would converge on the house.  The kitchen looked like a war zone, the living room was a mess, and she still hadn’t purchased the Zinfandel to marinate the leg of lamb.  The garlic cloves had sprouted too, so she would have to pick up some.

The drawer resisted shaking.  Exasperated, she stepped back, crossed her arms on her chest, and glared at it.

“Open!”

Something snapped with a sharp wooden crack and the drawer flew open, its rollers slamming against the wooden frame with a shudder.  A small object shot out and hit her between the eyes.  “Ow!”

“What did you break?” Gregory asked from the living room.

“Nothing!”

She tossed the splintered wooden spoon into the garbage can and  bent to pick up the thing that hit her off the floor.  A key.  A small blue key, warm to the touch.  She couldn’t recall seeing it before.  How odd…

Her brother’s voice tugged on her attention.  “What are you looking for?”

“A can opener.”

“Just open it the other way.”

No time to investigate it now.  Marina tossed the key back into the drawer and rummaged through its contents.  Screwdriver, Scotch tape…  In her present state of mind, opening the can “the other way” wasn’t a good idea, not unless she planned on cooking the pumpkin pie straight in the can.  A bamboo skewer, a small blue key again…  Her fingertips brushed the key and tingled slightly as spark of power shot into her skin.

The phone rang.  She picked it up.  “Yes?”

“And how’s my favorite niece?”  The sheen of warmth in Lilian’s voice was too thin to fool her.  She had bought into it when she was a little girl.  She used to love to visit Lilian, until she figured out that all her aunt wished to do was to show off her pretty bright niece to her friends.  Like a cute dog that does charming tricks.

“Busy!”  Marina said.  “How are you?”

In the living room Gregory raised his head from a page of nuclear physics equations long enough to roll his eyes.

“I’d like you to know that I’m putting fifty dollars into the birthday account,” Lilian announced.

“Thank you very much.”

“Well, we can’t do it very often, but then grandmother has a birthday only once a year and she doesn’t have that many of them left.”

And you can’t wait.  Words hovered on Marina’s lips and she bit them back.  “We all appreciate your help very much.”

“Yes, well, I meant to tell you that Roger would like Walnut Chicken.  He’s been on about it for a week.”

Marina grimaced.  “I’m making lamb this year…”

“I already promised him you’d make the chicken.  You know how he loves his cousin’s cooking.”

A beep announced an incoming call.  “Would you excuse me for a moment, I have another call…”

A push of a button and grandmother’s shrill voice flooded the phone.  “Marina?  Are you there?”

“Yes, grandmother.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

Lord, no.  “No, I think we’re doing pretty well here.  But I’ll call you if I need help.”

“You don’t have to worry about desert.  I’m making chocolate cake,” grandmother announced.

The memory of last year’s grandma-made Napoleon thrust herself before Marina and she nearly gagged.

“Cake?” she croaked.  “That’s so nice.  But it’s your birthday.  Why don’t you take it easy and I’ll make the cake.”

“No, you don’t know how to make it right.”

“Yeah, grandma, she doesn’t put rancid sour cream into hers!” Gregory yelled.

She hated when he amplified the sound to eavesdrop.  She slapped her hand over the receiver and hissed in sharp whisper, “Stop it!”

“Marina?” grandmother’s voice came alarmed.  “Marina?”

“I wish you’d rest, grandma,” she said.  I have Lilian on the other line…”

“How is she?”

“I’m sure she’s well.  Why don’t you call her in a minute?  I really have to go now, grandma.”

She pushed the button and was greeted by the disconnect signal.  Once again, Lilian had outmaneuvered her.  Now she would have to make the chicken.   And she still hadn’t found the can opener.

Gregory wandered into the kitchen and picked up the can of pumpkin mix.  She felt him concentrate on the seal.  A thin invisible tendril of force stretched between her brother’s eyes and the can like a taut fishing line.  The can turned slowly on the tip of his finger and the seal peeled itself from its top.

“She hung up on you, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Now you’ll have to make the chicken.”

“Yes.”

She took the can from him and dumped its contents into a metal bowl.  Something clanked.

“Why do you do this every year?”  Gregory leaned against the cabinet.  “They’ll come and expect to be fed and want their asses kissed for contributing a measly fifty bucks so we can buy grandma a present she’ll complain about.  Nobody ever helps you.”

“You do.”  She thrust the can of evaporated milk at him.  He peeled off the lid and she dumped it into the pumpkin mix.

“You know what I mean.  When was the last time Lilian or Svetlana offered to wash the dishes after?  Or come early to help set the table.  We have four cousins and how many of them went to help grandma with the apples?  None.  But they all got some of the jam you made.  They come, they eat, they posture, and they leave.  Like Mongols.”

“I don’t do it for them.  I do it for grandmother,” she said.

“Why?  It’s not like she cares for us all that much.”

“She loves us in her own way.”

“If she loved us all that much, she’d leave us Granddad’s house.”

The mention of the house never failed to irritate her.  She put the key on the counter and got a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator.  “It’s not about that house.  I don’t do it for a handout.  I do it because she is our grandmother.”

“She’s shrewish and manipulative.”

“She’s old and insecure, Gregory.”  Marina snapped the carton’s lid open.

“Age isn’t an excuse for being an asshole.”

“That was disrespectful to your grandma and to me.”

He crossed his arms.  “Respect has to be earned.  You let everyone walk over you.  They did it to Mom and now they do it to you.”

She glared at him.  Hairline cracks crisscrossed the egg tops.

“Don’t you have an exam to get ready for?”

He went into the living room.  She picked two eggs from the carton and cracked them into a large bowl.  The worst part was that Gregory was right.  It was about the house.  She loved that house.  Grandad built it from the ground up.  They played in it as children.  From spring to mid-fall, she spent most of her weekends out there maintaining the garden and the two dozen fruit trees.  And now Lilian, who couldn’t tell an apple tree from a walnut, was going to get it all.

She had seen it coming and could do nothing about it.  It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion.  First, grandma let everyone know she was making her will.  Then every time she’d visited to pick strawberries, to plant tomatoes, to snip extra shoots from the grape wines, grandmother would be on the phone with Lilian.  In the end, she heard the announcement from Aunt Ashley.  “Oh, by the way, have you heard?  Mom’s leaving her house to my sister.”

Then grandmother called, her voice tinny over the phone, “You’re not mad at me, are you?  I take care of you kids for all the time.”  Marina barked a short laugh, added evaporated milk to the eggs, and scraped the pumpkin mix into the bowl.  Take care of us.  Since when? The most she’d ever do was sweep the porch once in a while and she wanted a celebration to commemorate it.  When Granddad was alive, he was the one…

Marina took a deep breath.  It wasn’t any use to get herself worked up.  Yes, she could’ve sucked up to Grandma and gotten the house, but in the end, it wouldn’t be worth it.  She plugged the mixer in and turned it on.

Metal rang as the blades caught something.  She shut the mixer off and fished in the pie mix with a spoon.  The blue key.

Marina plucked it from the mix and rinsed it under the water.  She could’ve sworn she had put it back in the drawer.  “Now how did you get in there?” The key glistened with indigo highlights.  When she was a little girl, she used to watch the stars, wishing for one to fall into her bedroom.   That’s what it would feel like – warm and comforting, kind of lit from within.

Later, with the pie in the oven and the sweet scent of pumpkin spice permeating the house, she went to see her brother.  He made a show of not noticing her standing next to him.

“You’re right,” she said.  “I did want the house.  And you’re right about the family – they’ll come, they’ll eat, and they’ll leave.  But if I don’t do it for her, nobody will.  And she’ll be left all alone on her birthday.”

He shrugged.  “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have said… stuff.”

She dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand.  “Tell me about this key and we’ll call it even.”

He balanced the key on his index finger.  “Odd.”

“That’s what I thought too.”

He licked the edge of the key blade.  “Attic,” he said.

“Are you sure?  Because the last time you said basement, and it turned out to be the attic.  I spent two hours looking in the basement.”

“That was a legitimate mistake,” he said.  “That hook was kept in a box full of dirt.  It had soil signature all over it.”

“Okay.”  She took the key from his finger.  “I’ve set the timer for the pie.  If it buzzes, turn the oven off and get me.  I still have a load of stuff to make, but I can’t finish until the pie is cooked.”

“You don’t want me to take the pie out?” Little devilish sparks danced in his eyes.

“No, because you’ll eat it.  Promise to not touch the pie, Gregory.”

He held up his hand.  “I promise.”

“There is a chocolate one in the refrigerator.  Promise not to touch that one also.”

“I will touch, eat, or approach no pies while you’re treasure hunting.”

“Good.”

She took herself to the narrow staircase and climbed it to the attic.

#

Marina pushed the trapdoor open and hoisted herself onto the dusty boards.  An odd mishmash of items surrounded her.  A triangular window spilled sunlight on the narrow strip of the floor, the only space that had been spared from being filled.

She sat on the floor, not caring about dust clinging to her jeans, and watched the dust bunnies dance in the light.  She had once asked Mom about the attic.  “It’s a place where you put non-essential things,” she had said.  Now their entire history sat crammed into this attic.  The first year after Mom died, she used to come and cry here, where Gregory couldn’t hear her.  The ache came to her now, familiar and merciless, like an old vicious enemy.  She pushed herself from the floor, in a hurry to get busy before the pain could sink her teeth into her and rip open a healed-over wound.

The key was too small for the dozen trunks in plain view.  It had to go to something small.  Like a jewelry box.

She crawled over a large box and stumbled onto the wooden trunk which she knew held her college papers.  She flipped open the lid and ruffled through the stack of printed paper.  “The Role of Retrosynthetic Analysis in the Design of Heterocyclic Synthesis.”  “The Role of Women in Early Plantagenet Dynasty.”  Why do I keep those, she wondered, touching the red mark of 96% in corner.  The answer came to her from the faded ink of half-forgotten formulas.  As long as I have them, I might go back.

But that would be later.  After Gregory graduates.

Marina opened her hand and looked at the key.  It lay in her palm like a ray of blue light.  She touched it with the tip of her left index finger and felt the force pulse from her.  A dozen white pinpoints of light appeared and danced in the metal, illuminating the key from the inside out.  They shimmered and shifted, and finally aggregated in the tip of the blade.

“Let’s play the game.” Marina smiled and leaned forward.  The lights shifted to the left.  She turned until they were again in the tip.  Forward, right, lean over, a little more to the left…  There it was, under a box, a thick volume bound in leather.  She pulled it free and blew the dust from the cover.  A small lock held the book closed.

No title.  How odd.  Oh, well, there’s one way to find out what it is.

She eased the key into the lock and it turned on its own.  The flap of leather holding the volume closed fell aside; the pages rustled like birds locked in a cage, fighting to get out.  Gently she opened the cover and gasped as familiar warmth cloaked her.  Old power swirled from the pages, comforting and overwhelming her, and breathless, she sat in its whirlpool.   A photograph graced the first page – a man larger than life, grey hair stark in contrast to black bushy eyebrows, shoulders spread wide.  So much looked at her from that photograph – strength, and pride, and kindness. Her eyes filled with tears.  “Grandpa,” she whispered softly.

The image smiled back at her.  “Hi, sweetheart.  I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“Don’t cry, sweetie.  There is no need.”

“How are you?” she asked, trying to hold back the tears, but they streamed, hot against her cheek.  “How is it wherever you are?”

“No place is good without the two of you,” he said.  “But don’t be in a hurry to join me.”

“It’s grandma’s birthday,” she murmured, not sure what to say.

“Are you making lamb for her?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” he said.  “How is she holding up?

She tried to lie through the tears and couldn’t.  “Not so well.  She is forgetful and…”

“Difficult?” he guessed.

She nodded wordlessly.

“She always was,” Grandfather said.  “She’s very proud.  It hurts her to admit she needed anybody.”

The pages turned.  “Look here,” he said.

A large photograph occupied the page.  Two people laughing.  A woman with hair like honey streaming down her back.  Hot eyes on a lovely face.  A man next to her, skin tanned to bronze, arm wrapped around her shoulders, not possessive but guarding gently.  And above them a griffin diving off a head-dizzying cliff, a streak of gold against the red mountain.  It drew her like a magnet – so much might focused into a single plunge.  Marina touched the golden feathers  and felt the speed, the wind tearing at the wings, the ground rushing at her with terrifying velocity.  And her heart sang with an unbelievable thrill.

“Burgundy Cliffs,” she guessed.

“She loved the griffins,” he said.  “Just like you.”

She sat back stunned.

“Do you remember when I used to take you there?” he said.  “You were so little.”

“Yes, I remember.”  How could she forget?  The power her family had welded was a part of their life, as routine as driving a car or baking a pie.  But the griffins falling from the mountain like a golden waterfall, falling so fast, committed so totally to their plunge only to sweep along the ground and soar above it all – that was magic.

He sighed.  “She always wanted to go, but there was never enough money for the three of us.  There wasn’t even enough for the two of us without my railroad dispatcher discount and that covered only me.”

“She stayed behind so I could go. I never knew…” she whispered.

“She didn’t want you to know.  She always thought that doing favors bred contempt and she didn’t want you feel indebted and learn to resent her.  She loves you so much.”

She bit her lip.

“You don’t resent her, do you, sweetheart?” he asked.

“No, grandfather.  Not at all.”

“Marina!” Gregory’s voice came from the kitchen.  “The pie is done!”

She looked one more time at the couple in the photograph.  “You were so young,” she whispered.

“One can’t stay young forever.  But my namesake is calling you.”

“I better go,” she said, wondering if her heart would break.

“Come see me any time,” he said.  “I will be waiting.”

She closed the book gently.

#

She told Gregory that night over the evening coffee and salami sandwiches.

“There is just enough money in the birthday account.”

“They’ll skin you alive,” he said.

“That’s all right,” she said.  “It will be worth it.  I must do this.”

“Why?”

She shook her head, thinking of the young woman with honey hair and of the griffins perched upon the jagged cliffs.  “For both of us, for me and her.  It’s not something I can explain.  You have to find out for yourself.”

#

In the morning she met them on the porch.  They came at the same time, as if afraid to arrive too early.  She watched as they parked their cars and approached the porch, her aunts, uncles, cousins.  It struck her how put out they looked, as if distressed to be here.

“Are we early?” Lilian asked.

“No.  There will be no party today, but you’re welcome to the dinner.  It’s a modest one.”

“Where is mother?” Ashley asked, her eyes searching the yard.

“She is enjoying her birthday present,” Marina said, crossed her arms on her chest, and smiled.

They declined to stay for dinner.

Marina saw them go and sat down on the porch with a cup of hot cider in her hand.  Above her the sky was gold with sunlight.  She looked at it and thought of golden griffins.  No wonder Gregory didn’t understand.  He never saw them.  He never felt the freedom they brought, but she had, and the memory lived in her, its beauty so sharp it hurt.  It sliced through the fog of time, clear as a crystal shard, and no matter what life brought, that memory was hers to cherish.  A gift beyond measure.  Marina smiled and sipped the cider.  Funny how people you think you know can surprise you.

#

Miles away, Gregory helped his grandmother step off the train.

“We will miss the party,” she said.  “Why did you drag me here?  Where are we anyhow?”

“Just come with me, Grandma.”

“I think we should go back.”

“All right, we’ll go.  In just a minute.  First I want to show you something.”

He led her past the station house to the stone trail.  They walked along the curving path, guarded by a metal rail.

“You made me come all the way out here just to show me something?  The tickets must’ve cost a fortune.  All that money wast…”

The path turned and she fell silent.  A great gorge lay before them, a crack in Earth’s armor.  A silver river wound its way along the bottom like a glittering serpent.  Red cliffs cradled the water, scraping the sky with their edges.

Gently he led her onto the tall bridge that sliced across the gorge and found a good spot at the rail.  Wind rushed through the chasm and fanned their faces, and they breathed in the moisture of the river and the heady honey scent of melaleuca that sheathed the valley lapping at the cliffs’ feet.   So ethereal and insignificant was the bridge compared to the colossal vista before them, that it was as if it didn’t even exist and they stood suspended in mid-air.

High atop a red cliff, a golden griffin spread its wings and cried out a hoarse greeting.  Gregory heard her gasp and gently put his arm around his grandmother.  The majestic beast teetered on the edge and took the plunge like a living flame.  It dived and turned at the last moment, defying gravity with its mighty wings, sliding along the ground and then surging up and up to soar, free and unbound.

Art by Jesper Ejsing

Grandma gasped.  Gregory hugged her tighter.

Others followed the first, wings spread wide, amber eyes hot with magic.  The old woman leaned against her grandson and watched as the mountains wept golden tears matching her own.

Originally Posted on February 2, 2009

Manuscript: I awoke instantly

Me: That sucks.  Yawn…

Manuscript: I awoke, because I heard voices

Me: That sucks, too.  I’m so sleepy, I can just go and curl up under the blankets…  Mmm, warm soft blankets…

Manuscript:  My eyes snapped open

Me:  Tomorrow is Sunday, I can nap… yawn…late

Manuscript:  I closed my eyes and went to sleep and slept very soundly on my Order issued cot, completely missing the important plot point, failing to pass go, failing to collect $200, and not waking up even when rocks fell and everyone died.   I woke up refreshed and there was fresh coffee.

I like the last version best.

On April 1, 2009

A new title for Kate 4 has been selected – Magic Kills.

Here is the synopsis:

Recruited into the Order of Merciful Aid, Kate is no stranger to Atlanta’s supernatural problems, but when her best friend, Andrea, is found on the brink of death, even Kate’s resolve will be tested.  Her search for cure leads her deep into the jungle of the Undeground Atlanta, where she meets a mysterious cat and a white rabbit, and discovers that only the blood from the still beating heart of her lover can restore her friend’s life.

Don’t forget to check out Book 5 of Kate Daniels series: Magic Becomes a Nun.

On April 2, 2009

:tears all her hair out:

:throws hairs at the audience:

The entirety of the previous post was an April Fools joke.   Yes the whole thing.  No I don’t know yet what fourth book is called.  Yes, it’s almost done.  No, you can’t have it.

Note to self:  next time you decide to have an April Fools joke, smack self until you regain sanity.

Originally posted January 15, 2009.

So I’m about 13 and it’s New Year. New Year is a big deal in Russia. It kind of replaced Christmas and for school kids it’s the winter break. Usually there is some sort of party, school activities, something is going on.

That particular year our literature teacher decided it would be a lovely idea to have us do a play. Romeo and Juliet, in fact. She was somewhat of a Renaissance woman, and she always tried to “broaden our horizons.” By that point I was wise. A play with no budget and resources meant lots of after school work and much begging of parents. More, exactly a year ago I had the most traumatic experience of my adolescent life, which resulted in my losing all my extra weight, accumulated after quitting swimming, learning to dance, and being a lot more cautious with drawing attention to myself.

I wasn’t trying out for this play no-way no-how. So while everyone squabbled over additions and roles, I quietly congratulated myself on being smart and observed the resulting social drama with superior air of complete immunity.

And then one day our literature teacher cornered me. She was a wonderful woman, very enthusiastic, but unfortunately she was also cross-eyed, which made me terribly uncomfortable. I never knew where to look, so mostly I looked at her nose.

“Everybody is helping with the play, Ilona.”

I promptly snapped into the default Russian teenager expression, which is a dead brick face somewhere between “mathematical Olympiad” serious and “it’s not my fault” injured.

“I need a backstage menedsher and I think you can do it!”

“What is a menedsher?”

“It’s an English word for the person in charge of props and waving at people. Can I count on you?”

Not sure exactly what happened there but by the end of the day I was waving at people. Not only I had a crapload to do, but because I was usually waving and readily available, random aggrieved parties told me how badly they were treated and how it wasn’t fair.

After much drama and intrigues worthy of the Madrid Court, the role of Juliet went to Katya. I pretty much hated Katya. She was very blond, very pale, and cute. At that point I was large for my age (I am 5’2″ now, because there is no justice in the world) and she made me feel clumsy. She also had taken several year of gymnastics and showed off in the gym, while I mostly couldn’t jump that far, had never been able to do a handstand, and generally viewed the gym as a place to be frustrated and punch things.

The role of Romeo went to the resident basketball star, whose name was Astaltsev, and who was mostly famous for being about 2 meters tall and always wearing a hat so he wouldn’t catch cold and miss practice.

We had managed to acquire some sheets from parents under great warnings that sheets were expensive and nothing was to happen to them. We strung up a rope across gymnasium to hang our sad curtain on and off we went into rehearsals. Because we had no money, we had to get inventive. We used cardboard to make a two meter tall wall with a balcony, and wrestled a ladder from the custodian, which we positioned behind it. The entire backstage crew spent one afternoon making fake bushes out of green tissue paper. But the crown jewel in this collection was a fake plastic knife, which I appropriated from my cousin.
I introduced the knife to Katya and I was pretty sure she would hate it. So we go into rehearsal of the dying scene and out comes Katya.

First, she stabbed herself. Then she staggered about the stage, crying and making wounded dove noises. Then she collapsed dramatically, clawing at the sky, and finally died, slumping over in a close approximation of the infamous ballet “dying swan” pose. The whole affair took approximately two to three minutes, during which the prop crew had to whisper in scary voices at Astaltsev to stop blinking his eyes and breathe less, because he was supposedly dead and shouldn’t be rolling around. I haven’t seen a death scene like that until years later I watched Sheriff of Nottingham die in Kevin Costner’s Robin Hood.

Everything was going swimmingly, aside from Katya making unreasonable demands, which was expected, until two days before the production we were greeted by the director and two zavuchi (senior teachers in charge of specific areas of school education and administration) during a dress rehearsal. We put on our show. Afterward, the director made a speech.

The good news was that we would be putting on our play in a philharmonic hall next door, which meant a real stage with a real curtain.

The bad news was that stabbing was right out. It was too violent. Also, as one of the zavuches pointed out, most adolescents kill themselves with pills so the poison was right out as well. And, no, it wasn’t negotiable.

At this point Astaltsev, who had gotten fed up with the whole thing, offered to hang himself. His generous offer was declined.

The director and zavuchi left and we all had to duck because Katya started throwing things.

We had 48 hours to figure out how to kill Romeo and Juliet in a non-offensive manner. And that’s when I had a brilliant idea. I didn’t really want to have a brilliant idea, but they all kind of stared at me and said, “You’re supposed to smart, think something up!” So I asked my mom, and she came up with a solution.
This brilliant idea consisted of building a cardboard wall, a kind of parapet. We would put the same ladder we used for the balcony behind the wall and first Romeo, then Juliet would dramatically throw themselves off of it behind the wall, imitating leaping to their death. Nobody would actually see the dead bodies, no blood, no moaning, no nothing.

Everyone, including the director, thought it was a lovely idea, except for Katya, who since she “was not talking” to all of us, wrote me a nasty note calling me teacher’s suck-up and generally making a case for me being the scum of the earth. She wanted the knife scene, she worked hard for it, she had to have it and that was that.

The next two days were spent creating the cardboard wall. Having put the wall together and set it up on one of the smaller philharmonic stages, the prop crew of four and me went up to the fourth floor of our school. We got the heavy ass mat, and cussing and screaming and grunting, dragged it down four floors across the parking lot, to philharmonic hall, through it, plopped it under the ladder and congratulated ourselves.

Astaltsev climbed the ladder to test it out, took a dive, and told us that no, he won’t be doing that ever again, because he would hurt himself and not be able to practice.

At this point Katya had a her own brilliant idea and in a fit of benevolence (should have been my clue!) explained it to us. We’d get one of the smaller trampolines from the gym. It was just large enough for one person to fall on, if they tucked the legs in.

So, with an hour remaining, we go and get the stupid trampoline, drag it sideways down off the fourth floor, into the philharmonic hall, set it up, Rome and Juliet fall, everything is honky-dory.

The entire school turns out, 1-10th grade. (They canceled a class for it, so everyone was psyched.) We put on the play, everything is lovely. Katya’s hair is so curled with the curling iron, she looks like she sprouted spirals on her head. She is wearing a gown her mom specially made for the occasion, which for some reason, resembled one of those long Russian seventies-style gowns.

Toward the end, I slip away into the audience on the side to watch the final scene. Romeo makes his dive. Then Juliet dramatically makes her declaration, spreads out her arms, and plunges to her death. The trampoline springs creak and up comes the Juliet over the wall, propelled by trampoline into a lovely jump, hair flying, with a knife in her hand, and screeching like a banshee.

The audience is shocked into sudden silence.

The Juliet pops back up again. And again.

The entire philharmonic hall doubles over and starts laughing.

Our lit teacher’s eyes bulge out and she starts hissing at me to go and get Katya down. I told her that I wanted to live and wouldn’t do it.

Yeah. We all got chewed out, threatened with expulsion from Young Pioneers, and Katya’s parents were called into the office. That was pretty much the end of our theatrical activities. We were never allowed to put or mention any plays after that. Ever.

The plan was to whine about having to go out and do things, but I will not.  I was on Twitter yesterday and complained that I felt all powered down.  It’s not really a sad, oh-poor-me state as I just feel like I’m running at half power.  I got a tweet back that said,

*sends hugs* I know what you mean. Still unemployed, now in major pain with no insurance. Every day is a struggle.

Never mind my whining.  It could be way worse.  Dear V, I hope you find something soon.

I do have health insurance and I’m planning to use it this morning, as Kid 2 needs to go to the doctor.  She has a persistent stomach pain and I’m disinclined to fool around with it.

A friend of mine linked to a hatefest on Goodreads yesterday.  There is this odd Stepford Wife climate developing around some authors where any negative review gets piled on by the author’s fans and in some cases, author’s author friends.  In this case an author made fun of someone else’s work and that apparently just created a perfect storm of bullying and outrage and declarations of “How dare you?” and “I will never buy your book ever!”

Look, the easiest strategy is for authors to not review each other, but if we choose to disregard it, nobody gets to shut us up.  We will review whoever the hell we want and deal with the fallout.  We are free to discuss things and state our opinion just like everybody else.   You’re free to hate, but don’t try to shut us up.

It is distressing that Goodreads has become the place for trolls to bully people, but I don’t really see what they can do about it.  As an author, I often feel unwelcome there, because when someone posts a review of  our upcoming book with a photo of a cute orange monkey and I want to comment on the adorable nature of said monkey, Goodreads screams warnings at me, advising me several times that IT IS NOT A GOOD IDEA TO COMMENT ON YOUR REVIEWS.  It makes me feel that I’m not being treated as an adult.  The Goodreads does nothing to police the readers, however, and it’s understandable: either you can have free discussion and all the ugly that comes with it or a controlled let’s-all-be-nice without any real life to it.

If you didn’t win, in May Ace will be running a goodreads giveaway – and they have 10 copies so your chances might be higher.

Congratulations to:

Page 23, Comment 30: T. Garfield

Page 11, Comment 17: ChrissieLinnit

After the contest started, I asked Anne, our editor, for more ARCs and she promised us two more.  Here are the bonus winners.  Please take into consideration that the mailing of these bonus ARC will be slightly delayed due to us not having them in our hands yet.  They are being mailed to us by Ace.

Page 5, Comment 3: Elisa

Page 35, Comment 34: C. Fang

Dear winners, please send an email to use through the contact page including your address  and word WINNER in the subject of your email.  If we don’t here from you by the end of this week, we will pick a different winner.

To enter the contest, you must comment on this blog entry and tell us what ebook you would like us to do next.

If you’re reading this on Goodreads, through your email, or through a reader, please click on this link and comment on the blog. It’s difficult for us to keep track of entries when they are scattered in different places.

The contest is open to all readers.

The contest will run until Saturday, April 28, 2012.

Good luck!