Falling for Ella -- and nearly drowning (From Fall of Knight), new novel excerpt

The banks in my novel are much higher than in this picture

   

  Then, Ella takes off running.  I stare for a second.

     She stops and turns back. “Well, come on!”  Then, she takes off again.

     I follow as best as I can in flip flops. Ella runs as fast as she can toward the river, and I can barely keep up.  Just as I about to catch up to her, she jumps off a fairly high bluff.  Oh, shit, I think and follow.

     Ice water sucks me under and my breath stops.  Panic seizes me until I open my eyes and through the crystal clear water of the river, I see a flash of white and the kick of two beautiful legs.  When my feet touch bottom, I kick back up and head for the surface.

     As soon as my head breaks the surface, Ella cries out, “The water is awesome!”

     She swims to a large flat rock jutting from the water not ten feet from where we dove off the bluff.

     I pause.  She reminds me of the pretty lady.  For a split second, I see my dad and I am six again.  I flounder in the water.

     “Don’t drown on me,” the pretty lady calls out.

     I snort some water and realize where I am.  After I take a moment to catch my breath, I swim to the rock and climb up next to Ella.  It feels as if I am committing some shameful sin.

     “You could have killed me,” I say.

     “It’s perfectly safe if you know where to jump.”

     “I don’t.”

     “You’ll just have to learn to trust me then.”  She takes my arm.  “Isn’t it beautiful here?”

     “Yeah,” I say, once again overwhelming myself with my command of the English language.

     “There are bears in the woods.  And mountain lions.”

     “How boring,” I am desperate to say something intelligent, but I fail miserably, “I’d put monsters in the woods.”

     She gives me a blank stare – as if I’m stupid.

     “I write stories,” I say.

     A half smile crosses her lips, or I guess it could be a sneer, but I’m hoping smile.  “Dee thinks they’re cool stories,” I say.

     “Your sister?”

     “Uh, yeah.  I kind of test them on her.”

     “You’ll have to let me read them.  There they are,” she says after glancing downriver.  Then, she dives into the water.

     “They” are Roger and Dee who have found a flat, sandy place to set down blankets and put the cooler.  I dive in and follow Ella.  I’ve always considered myself a decent swimmer.  After Dad drowned, Mom made us take lessons.  Though I swim well, Ella swims better.  She gets to the beach several seconds before I do.

     “So, you jumped off the bluff,” Roger says to me.  He punches my shoulder a little too violently to call it playfully.

     “It’s not like I wanted to,” I say.  Mistake.  “Your sister made me.”  Mistake two.  Now, I’m more cowardly than a girl – at least that’s what Roger’s look says.

     “Dean writes stories,” Ella says.

     Roger glances at me briefly. “You two will get along great.”

     “Why’s that?” Dee asks.

     “Ella draws pictures,” Roger says. “Maybe you two can collaborate on some kiddie books.”

     “Dean writes some pretty awesome stuff,” Dee says.  I want to kiss her.

     “I don’t read much,” Roger says.

     “Me either,” Dee says.  I want to slap her.

     Then it comes: the challenge.  “I’ll race you to the other side.”  The alpha male has challenged me.  I can refuse –

     “What’s wrong?  You afraid?”

     With my honor at stake, I race him, and of course he beats me handily.  More than once.  He and Dee also manage to beat our asses in chicken, sand volleyball, and some other shit.  I’m ready to go home when Ella, maybe sensing my discomfort, says.  “Follow me.  I have something I want to show you.”

     I look at Dee, not sure if I want to leave her alone with Mr. Jock Itch.

     “Go on,” she says. “We’ll be fine.”

     From the second Ella and I get back in the water, I have the feeling my life will never be the same.

Meandering Mind Part Deux

I have no idea if I have spelled Deux correctly or not.  If anyone in France reads this, he or she can tell me if I spelled 2 correctly.  I don't know why I'm writing for sure, but it seemed like the thing to do.  I need some fairly mindless entertainment since I spent the entire day with the exception of a few hours grading papers for my classes.  I am still not finished but I think I will be able to finish up tomorrow and put this semester to bed and start fresh on 2013.  I'm not going to bore you with all of my resolutions for the New Year.

As I have said before, I don't "resolve" to do anything.  I, the great jelly spine man, avoids commitment by saying,  "I would like to"

In 2013 I would like to finish my current novel and get it published with a formidable company and write my dystopian Young Adult (a la Hunger Games) screenplay and option it.  It's a fantasy and almost all fantasies are done by better known -- known at all -- screenwriters than I.  I originally wrote this screenplay as a novel, but, like me, it was bloated and out of shape and seemed to be bulging in all kinds of directions.  I attempted to girdle it by compressing it into a shorter, more concise form.  It is far from in shape, but it certainly is moving in the right direction.

Tongue Tied, which is the name of the screenplay, is in the simmering stage, meaning I have a very rough draft I'm sitting on and letting my subconscious, and in some cases unconscious, work on.  I have thought of some changes I need to make to it, but I still need to puzzle it out some.

As far as my novel goes, I had to do some school work today, so I didn't work on it.  I am going to work on it later, I think.  We'll see.  Sooner or later, I will post another excerpt from it.  They have been received well.  At least google has not yet taken my blogging license from me as of yet.

I am close to 10,000 hits on this blog, and I really would like to get there if at all possible.  It just might encourage me to continue on with this thing which has been rewarding at times and draining at other times.  The thing is when you come up with a blog, you feel obloged to keep writing in it in hopes that someone will read it and get something out of it.

I'm experimenting with twitter a little.  I have given my protagonist of my novel his own twitter page.  It is @writecrosswords if you want to look Dean up.  I want to drum some support and interest up for him when the time comes for me to publish my novel.  He's a bit crazy, but completely sympathetic.  I think you'd like him, maybe even be fascinated by the inner workings of his schizo-affective mind.  Before you go accusing me of being biased against the mentally ill, let me remind you that I myself suffer from cyclothymia.

Also, if you wish to purchase Lancelot and the Tides of Times you can get it for your kindle for 99 cents.  Go to: http://www.buckscountypublishing.com/portal/BookStore/LancelotandtheTidesofTime.aspx

I should go now and see if I can stir up any controversy on Facebook.

Meandering mind

I have a severe case of the meandering mind tonight.  I'm pretty sure it's because I forgot to take my meds this morning. That'll give you something to think about.

I have truly enjoyed the day.  We awoke to about three inches of a very pretty snowfall.  It wasn't the blizzard they predicted which is fine with me.  I don't do well with blizzards.  It made a nice backdrop to the many species of birds and squirrels who were visiting our bird feeder today.  They almost cleaned the whole thing out.  I guess the snow started before midnight so we can say officially that we had a white Christmas this year.

The one thing I did today was work on my novel Fall of Knight.  I did over 2,000 words today.  Now, I know that Stephen King does 2,000 words every day, but with my schedule I am lucky to get 2,000 done in a month.  It's hard to explain but every once in a while even us amateur writers -- those who still have to keep a day job -- get into a zone and the words flow.

Also, I did some reading today.  My second favorite pastime, something I don't get to enjoy as often when classes are in session and I'm grading hundreds of papers.  My book of choice is Beauty Queens by Libba Bray.  She wrote one of my favorite books Going Bovine.  I don't know quite how to deal with Beauty Queens.  It's hard to explain, and it's hard to explain that while I don't love it, I like it very much mostly.

Television like usual has been a wasteland tonight.  We put it on one of the classical music stations on dish and have listened to it while we've read and just enjoyed the evening.  My wife and I both love to read.  It's kind of nice to be able to sit quietly and do that.  Tomorrow, I can start worrying about school again and this upcoming semester.  I think it will be easier.

I don't have much exciting to say, so I will sign off.  I think I'm going to read more of my book.

Another excerpt of Knight -- in the hospital

Sean Connery would be my Dr. King.

          I have a room to myself which is great because I don't want to talk to anyone.  My dad doesn't seem to care about my feelings because he's been hanging around me on and off all day. I have tried to avoid thinking of him.  My mind, they say, is fragile, and if it gets too caught up with thoughts, it will collapse and be sucked down the throat of the beast.  I ignore my father and do not talk to him.  I watch him as he sits silently in the one chair in my small room.

          Did I tell you why I am one of the few with a room to myself when most of the other crazies are jammed two and three to a room like chickens in a cage?  No one says it aloud, but I am sure it will come up in all the counseling I have to endure.  It's because they consider me a danger -- to others for sure -- and to myself too.  I don't think I could off myself.  Like I say, too afraid to live and too afraid to die. As far as hurting others goes, I don't really know what I might do.  That scares the shit out of me.  On the other hand, if I get to kick Jerret's ass, it would be nice to remember and enjoy it.

          "You get that temper from your mother," Dad suddenly says.

          "Just leave me the hell alone," I say before I can stop myself.  Panic- stricken I look around at the door expecting to see two big muscle heads coming in with a straight jacket. When nothing happens, I look toward my dad, but he has obliged me and disappeared to wherever dead people go when they aren't haunting live people.

            I can’t have visitors for at least a week.  I have no computer and no phone.  They do give me a small television and a radio though I am somewhere in the bowels of this hellhole and I don’t get very good reception on the radio.  I have some notebooks in case I want to journal, but unless I am forced to do that, I don’t intend to write a thing.  I’ll be damned if I give them any information to use against me.

            I have an hour to myself though I am sure I will be monitored someway.  I am guessing that every room has hidden cameras and microphones.  Some people think that is paranoid, but I’ve been in these places before.

            Nothing good is on television, and I can’t find anything to listen to on the radio, so I crash in my bed and pick up one of the notebooks.  They are cheaply made, undoubtedly bought for 50 cents at Walmart or Dollar General.  There’s not even a good ink pen in the room, jut a stub of a pencil.  I don’t use pencil stubs to write.  Surely, I can survive this place for two weeks. I decide it can’t really hurt to sketch, so I begin to draw a little.  For a few minutes, I try to get Ella’s face in my head but it’s like looking through fog.  I have to see her.  We have to tell someone about my father.  Maybe, she has … maybe … this line of thinking bothers me so I don’t pursue it.  I finish my sketch of Ella and then I start one on Dee.  I hope there’s nothing weird in my drawing a picture of my sister.  It’s just her face is so much like my face.  If she and mom would admit it, her head is much like mine too.  I focus on my work until time starts slipping away like a stream.

            A little later, an aide steps in.  He’s a big guy.  I almost laugh because I think maybe they sent him because they’re afraid of me.  I feel a little guilty about what I did to Jerret, but not much.  That bastard should have been hanging from a tree, not my friend.

            “Mr. Knight.  I am here to take you to the lab.  We have to take some of your blood to--”

            “I know the drill,” I say.

            He frowns at me and I get that sense that if I screw up the least little bit this guy will be dropping me to the floor and restraining me.

            “And you are?”  I ask.  My tone a little more friendly.  I tell myself that I have to play the game to get out of this place.

            “Call me Marcus.”

            “Lead the way, Marcus,” I say though there’s no way in hell Marcus is going to walk in front of me anywhere in this place.  He motions for the door, so without saying anything further, I step out.

            “Straight down the hall to the door.”

            When we get to the door, the appropriate signals are exchanged and the prison opens.  “To the cross hall and make a right.  Third door on the left,” Marcus says.

            The phlebotomist – Yeah, I know that word.  It’s kind of a cool word, don’t you think --  takes three vials of my blood.  One will be to test my Depakote level, which they will find to be nonexistent – definitely not at a therapeutic level -- and then I’ll get all kinds of shit about not taking my medicine.  They’ll watch me like a hawk the whole time I’m here to see that I take my bipolar cocktail.  I can play their game.  When I get home, Mom may even watch me like a hawk for a few weeks, but I’m definitely more patient than my mother.

            Marcus comes back in, I think to lead me back to my room, but instead of going right, we go farther down the hall. 

            “Where we going?”  I ask.

            “Dr. King wants to see you.”

            “Is he the head shrink here?”

            Marcus just laughs at me.  That is more than a little unnerving.

            I walk into small office only to find a bear sitting behind a desk.  The chair he’s in, the desk, the room are all too small for Dr. King.  Only, he’s not fat.  He’s massive – like an Olympic wrestler or something.  My heart drops just a little.

            “Sit down, Knight. Thanks, Marcus.”

            I sit across from Dr. King as Marcus smiles at me and exits, chuckling as he goes out.

            “So you’re not taking your medicine,” Dr. King says.

            “Why would you --”

            “Save your bullshit, Dean.  You leave it at the door of any room I’m in.”

            I fall silent.  I have to admit that I’m a little frightened.

            “After the fiasco at the river, the school got the canine units into the building to do a drug sweep.  Your partner David was found with a bunch of prescription pills.  He squealed like a pig about where he got his stash and what he was doing with it.  You’re just pretty fucking lucky you’re not in a juvenile detention center instead of a hospital.  You wouldn’t like juvie, Dean.”

            He stares at me, and I feel myself getting smaller and smaller as if I’m going to disappear.

            “Your sister told us what this Jerret prick said to you.  He deserves to have the shit beat out of him.”  He pauses to let his words sink in, but before I can bask in the victory, he adds, “He doesn’t deserve to be beaten to death though.  The administrators say that if they hadn’t pulled you off, you would have killed him.  What do you say to that?”

            “I don’t remember,” I say before I realize it isn’t the thing I should have said.

            “So you were crazy when it happened.”

            “I’m not sure if--”

            “You can’t have it both ways, Dean.  Either you were out of your mind or you tried to murder him.  What’s it going to be?”

            I don’t answer him.

            “If you’re crazy, we might be able to help.  If you’re a murderer, we’ll lock you up.  Marcus!”

            Marcus pops back in.

            “Take him back to his room.”

            I leave, feeling very much like I have been run over by a truck.

Fall of Knight excerpt: Please read and comment

I don't even know who this teen actress is, but she has the perfect look for Dee in Fall of Knight.

Chapter 3
     My dad is sitting on my bed when I get to my room. Well, my cubicle. Mom and Dee get the bigger room. Dee’s pissed about sharing a room. No more sneaking out for her. Hell, where would she go anyway? If God were going to give the world an enema, he would stick the syringe right where we live.
     "You know that's not true," Dad says.
     "Go away, Dad," I say. I know he is just a figment of my imagination, some extension of my brain. I know that because he always knows what I'm thinking. It's hard to explain, but he’s like the voice of my conscience except I see him. I think I have created him – that's what writers do – in an image of the father I would have liked for him to be had he lived.
     "And don't sell your pills," he says.
     "Leave me alone," I say, and I watch him fade away. He always leaves when I insist. That proves I'm not crazy, doesn't it?
     I glance at my iPad 2 sitting on my desk. I earned the money one summer to buy it. I did all the shit that people don't want to do for themselves. I didn't quite raise enough to get a fancy one with 3G and a data plan, but I have always lived somewhere with Wi-Fi, so it wasn't an issue – until now
     One thing I do have is lots of music. When my head hurts and my demon is pounding on my forehead from behind my eyes, the one thing that usually calms me is music. Tonight is going to be an Enya or Blackmore’s Night kind of night. My headphones go on and later – a long time after my mom and Dee come back in – I go out. Amazingly, once I fall asleep I sleep like one dead the first night in my new home, and I silence the demons.
     It's after 11 when I awaken to Dee shaking my bed. There aren’t many days left before school starts, so I resent her intrusion on my basic right to laziness.
     "Hurry, we're going swimming."
     "I don’t want to," I mumble and roll over.
     This does not have the effect I wish for as Dee simply shakes me again, harder this time.
     "You have to go! I can't go if you don't. Roger can't go if both of us don't go, and Ella can't go if Roger doesn't. Roger is so cute! OMG!"
     I sit up finally because I know it will do no good to argue. Dee’s hyper manic as evidenced by the words tumbling out of her mouth and her vigorous attempts to awaken me. If I ignore her much longer, she will dump the bed over with me in it. While manic, she thinks she can do most anything and will one day likely die trying.
     "Roger? Ella?" I asked, trying to get her to calm.
     "The boy last night. Man, would I like to see him naked. He's hot."
     I'm not quite comprehending yet.
     "He jogs." Dee says. "He stopped by. We're going swimming, all of us. And Ella is going to bring a picnic lunch."
     "Ella?"
     "His sister, dumbass."
     "Now, is it Ella or dumbass?"
     She pauses finally – and then understands my really bad play on words and thumps me on the head.
     "Is Ella hot?" I ask.
     "Roger says she's very pretty."
     "All brothers think their sisters are pretty." It slips out of my mouth before I can stop it. Dammit, I think.
     "Thanks, Dean." She kisses me on the cheek and then yanks the covers off me. It's a good thing I'm not sleeping the way I sometimes do. "Get up, dumbass. Mom has coffee waiting." She darts out of the room and leaves me feeling as if I just survived a hurricane. At least there's coffee. Mom always made my dad coffee every day, and she continued after he died. I picked up the habit.
     I walk into the kitchen and head straight for the coffee pot. Mom watches me carefully and the look on her face reveals that she wants to "discuss" something.
     I tried to divert her, "Where's hurricane Dee?"
     "Upstairs. Trying on bikinis. Some of them make her look like a tramp."
     If mom only knew. "You kids need to take the lifejackets," she says.
     This is it, I think. "No, mom, we are not taking the lifejackets. People already think I am a geek."
     "But–"
     "No, mom. We all swim just fine."
     "I should go to. "
     "No, mom. That is the ultimate geekiness. My mom has to watch us while we swim."
     "I don't like this," she says.
     "You moved us in the middle of bum fuck Egypt," I snap. "At least let us enjoy what we can." I don't want to get mad, and I certainly don't like to curse my mother, but there're times nothing else works. Sadly, mom’s a little afraid of me, and I use that to my advantage. I take a deep breath to calm myself. "I'm sorry, mom. You always say we need to make friends. This is our chance, so please, just let us go swimming."
     "All right," she says. "Promise me you'll be careful."
     "Count on it," Dee says as she comes into the room. "Is this all right?" She says with exasperation.
     "It's fine if you want to be a hooker," I say and laugh
     "It's fine," Mom says.
     "So tell me about this Ella." I say. "What is she, 12?"
     "No, she's our age. She and Roger are twins too, just a few months older than we are."

     “What are the odds of two sets of fraternal twins living next to each other?” I ask.

      Mom, considerably calmer now, says, “I wonder if twins run in their family too.”

      Dee says, “What’s even weirder is that their dad is dead too.”

     “It’s almost like we’re destined to meet and be friends,” I say.  I know my eyes are tilted upward because whenever the first stirrings of a story begin, it’s like I’m looking to the heavens trying to contact my muse.  Psychologists will say that I’m getting in touch with that part of my brain where imagination rests.  Unfortunately, I think my demon rests there too.

     “Don’t make up some perverted story about us,” Dee says.

     I don’t like the way we can read each other, especially when she’s reading me.  She excels in making me feel guilty or stupid.  What I say to her slides off her like eggs in a no-stick pan.

     “If I write something perverted about you, it won’t be fiction.  It’ll be biography,” I say just as the doorbell rings.  Temporarily diverted, Dee doesn’t take the time to smack me.

     “They’re here,” she giggles like a vapid southern belle expecting company.  She’s off to the door.

     “Be careful,” Mom says, “and don’t get too hot.”

excerpt from new novel

This is an excerpt from my young adult novel.  Warning:  I don't believe in sugarcoating things.  This has explicit language and themes in it.  Please read and comment if you so choose.

I start to leave, but something outside the window catches my eye.  I look out, my heart thudding.

            I stare for a long time before I can face the reality.

            Lou swings from a tree outside the window; he’s hanged himself with an electrical cord.

            I don’t remember much of the rest of that day.  I got him down, but he was already dead.  I found a note on him that said.  Don’t worry.  I’m not going to hell.  I’m leaving it.  I think I called 911because an ambulance and some cops got there.  I think I mentioned something about a video, but I don’t remember for sure.  I don’t really come back to myself fully until awakening in a cold sweat in the middle of the night after I dream that the beast had snared me with electrical cords and was dragging me into its wet, sucking mouth.

            I lie in bed in the total blackness and stillness of the night and stare at the ceiling.  I wonder if I would have been in that video if I had not gone off with Ella.  I wonder if I could have stopped it if I had stayed there.  I wonder if Roger’s protection order has been called off.  I wonder if it worth it for me to go on living too.  I’m just another Lou in a world full of Lou’s that no one gives a shit about except for tormenting us.  It bothers me that the only thing I can remember about Lou is sitting at the cafeteria and telling him to shut the fuck up.

            Mom expects me to go to school tomorrow.  I am already in trouble because I skipped to go check on Lou.  I may get ISS for that.  Mom just looks at me, and whenever she starts to reach out to touch me, she stops because she doesn’t know how to be loving anymore, and she doesn’t want to be cruel.  So, the only thing you can see and feel in my house is the silence.  Even Dee doesn’t talk to me.  I guess she doesn’t know what to say.  Maybe, she realizes how close she is to being one of the Lou’s of the world too.  Maybe she knows that both of us are just the kind of thing that the beast likes to eat.  I am sure that it will do the best it can to get me, and before I fall off back to sleep, I decide that is the one reason I am not going to kill myself.  The fucking beast is not going to get me.

Chapter 19

            On Tuesday, I find myself at my usual place, sitting at a cafeteria table.  I’m alone.  I don’t know where Ella is.  Everyone looks at me but no one talks to me; it’s as if I am a leper.  I am hearing rumors that heads are going to roll at the school.  Schools have been brought down by scandals, and suicide caused by cyber bullying is one of the worst kinds of scandal.  Never mind that it happened off school grounds.  It affects everyone.

            Then, again, everyone was drunk or stoned, and technically, you couldn’t identify anyone on the video, but everyone knows everything about the incident, including the guilty parties.  I look up to see Jerret elbow one of the lesser flunkies in the jocks’clique.  As he whispers something in his ear, he looks straight at me.  Then, Jerret walks in my direction.  Despite what everyone in this school knows happened, no one stands up to stop Jerret from walking toward me.  In fact, they’re all watching in fascination.

            Jerret gets up to my table and smiles.  “Dude,” he says.

            Every muscle in my body tenses.

            “I heard you skipped school yesterday to hang with one of your friends.”

            For the second time in two days, my mind goes blank.  When I come to again, two male teachers have me on the cafeteria floor and they’re smashing my face into the tile.  With my head twisted sideways, I can make out Jerret lying on the floor a short distance away.  His eyes are closed, and he’s not moving.  Blood pools under his head.

            “You fuckhead,” I say.

            The teacher grabs my hair, raises my head, and smashes my face back into the tile.  I gray out for a split second, but I refuse to black out.

            He asks me if I’m calm, and I tell him I am.  I’m also exhausted and more than a little scared because I can’t remember what I’ve done.  I wonder if I have killed Jerret.  I don’t think it will bother me if I have.  The two teachers lift me to my feet.  I hear sirens outside the school.  Cops or an ambulance.  Multiple sirens.  Both.

            I take one last look at Jerret before they lead me away.  He groans a little, so at least I know I’ve not killed him.  It doesn’t matter though.  Apparently, I have seriously assaulted him.

            “Danger to himself and others!”  The words echo from one of the voices in my head.  I don’t think I’ll go to prison.  I’m a juvenile, and I’m also crazy – Doctors will line up to tell them that.  They’ll talk about how they’ve always suspected I’m dangerous, capable of violence.  They might even try to use EST on me again.  I’ll kill myself or someone else before that ever happens again.

            Dee steps from a crowd of kids.  “Dean, are you okay?”

            I nod.  I expect her to follow up with something like:  “How could you be such an idiot?”  But she doesn’t.

            “Lou was my brother’s friend,” Dee says.  “You should have heard what Jerret said to him.  I’d beat the shit – crap – out of him too.”

            I’m amazed that she’s sticking up for me.  Blood is actually thicker than Aeropostale and American Eagle Outfitters. 

            “Don’t let them zap me, Dee.”

            “All right,” she says.

            “Promise!”

            “I promise.”

            “We’ll want to talk to you, Dee.”

            Within seconds, all the office brass is there, followed closely by two ambulance attendants with a crash cart and two police with cuffs.  As far as I can tell, the only mark I have on me is the tile imprint, so I’m guessing you can figure out which one is for me.  I’m cuffed and taken to the office.  Everyone stares at me and whispers as I walk past them.  I’m sure that visions of Columbine dance through their head.  I can almost hear them thinking. I knew he was crazy.

            I’ll spare you all the details, but the school called my mom and my shrink.  I have been suspended indefinitely from school, and I am going to endure a two week placement at the neighborhood psychiatric facility and then be reevaluated.  The second time in one school year; that is a record even for me.  My brain is not to be fried; but I am going to be heavily medicated and go to several kinds of therapy and counseling. If I am cleared, I will come back to alternative school.  No more regular classroom for me – at least not until further notice.

For what it's worth -- another page or two of my WIP

Here's the first part of chapter 2 of my wip. Again, if you wish, go ahead and comment.

Fall of Knight, Chapter 2 (Look in the past blogs for chapter 1).

     "I don't think so," Mom says – amazingly calm.
     "Why not? You can't–"
     "Dee. Let me finish." Mom is still calm. I don't know if that's good or bad. "We have to unpack and arrange the cabin. Tonight, we can have a bonfire and make s'mores. "
     "Mom, I – "
     "I think that's great, "I say and try to give Dee a withering look that usually doesn't work, but this time Dee quiets.
     We spend hours jamming things in every cabinet and drawer and every nook and cranny we can find until I feel like I'm in the middle of a reality TV show about those OCD people who can't throw away anything.  In a way I can relate.
     For weeks and months and yes, even a year or  two at a time, I save every little scrap of paper I write or draw on. Then, when I get into one of my down phases, I read something I've written and realize how much it sucks and I burn it all.  I never just throw it away; there's no satisfaction in that. Fire is kind of a release. I don't ever keep much of my stuff for long. Apparently, the characters who live their lives in my head have lives that suck too.
     "I think I've had enough," Mom says suddenly and stands.  "I can't take anymore, but…" She pauses as a comedian does right before he gives the punch line, "I can make s'mores." She chuckles like a little girl, something she doesn't do very often.
     We use some of the old newspapers, and gather some twigs and branches and soon have a good fire going.  It's dark out, so, of course mom says it's too late to swim, but in the moonlight and starlight we can make out the river – and the sound.  It's like white noise to me, calming my nerves. Maybe this place isn't so bad.
     Dee is absolutely bubbly tonight. Mom cannot understand how she can be so happy and so friendly one minute and be an absolute witch with a b the next. Mom never could grasp the concept of mania. In my own attempts to understand why I'm so nuts I've done a lot of research on bipolar. I think Dee has cyclothymia, which is a cousin to the crap I have. It's characterized by rapid cycling. Anyway, we both have been prescribed psychotropic drugs. I take mine mostly.
     The marshmallow bursts into orange flames, and I remove the stick from the fire. I watch the flame melt away the white into a light brown, and then black before I blow it out. Mom insists we make our s'mores from dark chocolate. Dee thinks it's just stupid, but she goes along with it.
    I bite into the S’more and as its flavor spreads over my taste buds, a memory – which seems real anyway – spreads over my brain.
     The pretty lady.
     Dad and I sit on the bank of the river. It's late. Mom and Dee are back at the campsite playing scrabble in the light of a Coleman lantern. They think our idea of making s'mores at midnight is ridiculous.  I'm hoping I can talk dad into midnight swim.
      I bite into the S’more – milk chocolate not dark.
     "Clifford!"
     My dad whirls around and sees a pretty lady.
     "Oh my! I haven’t seen you in ages!"

     He jumps up and hugs her, but I notice it's kind of like the hugs I get from aunts and uncles and other relatives I don't want hugs from. The pretty lady is stiff like the sticks we’re using to roast marshmallows.
     "We need to talk. "
     "Sure," Dad says.
     "Not here." She nods toward me. I know what that means. "Swim with me to the rocks."
     I want to go, but I know I can’t.
     Dad and the pretty lady swim to the rock.  Though I can't see them really, I hear a word or two over the murmur of the river, but I stop straining to hear and concentrate on my s'mores.
     Soon, they're back.
     "Where is he? "
    "Passed out," the pretty lady says, "as usual. "
     "I have to think," Dad says.
     "Think fast." The pretty lady looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. Then, she pats my cheek, gentle but kind of sad, and kisses me on the forehead. "You're a handsome young man, "she says. She glances at dad one more time and then walks away, the night silently swallowing her up.
     "Here's your s’more." I hold it up for dad.
      "We need to get back," he says. "I feel sick."
      The next morning we go back home. I see the pretty lady and even her two kids just one more time before Dad drowns, and we stop going to the river.

Another page or so of my work in progress

http://stevecrosswords.blogspot.com/2012/09/hes-flippin-crazy.html

This is the link to the first page of my new novel.  I want to feature another page or so in this blog.  If anyone wishes to comment on it, please do so.  Anyway, these few pages are the last two pages of chapter 1, which is a very short chapter.

    We turn onto a dirt road that looks if it goes on forever. From what I’ve heard, it dead-ends at a house which is no more than a cabin by the river. I can't believe my mom is living by a river – the same river – just a different part of it. There is one house near the end of the road where we turn. None down our road. Just what I need, more isolation.
     Woods are everywhere. Plenty of imaginary monsters lurking about, I'm sure. I catch a glimpse of the cabin as we go around the curve. It's more like a cottage to me. I'm sure its size will do wonders when my occasional bouts of claustrophobia close in on me. If it gets too bad, I can take a walk in the woods and get eaten by the monsters or fling myself in the river. A sad, rusty antenna rises above the roof of the cabin. Then it hits me.
     "Do we have Internet?" I ask.
     Dee chuckles under her breath and then says, "Yeah, they bundled it with dish network and cell phone coverage."
     "That's good," I say.

     "Idiot," she says under her breath, so quietly only I can hear it.
     "Maybe when we settle in… When I get my raise…" Mom's voice trails off like her thoughts; then, she says brightly as she stops the car, "Welcome to your new home kids."

     "This hellhole isn’t going to be my home," I say under my breath, thinking only Dee can hear.
     "I do my best!" Mom lashes out and then starts crying. She jumps out of the car and slams the door shut.
     "And she says we have mood swings," Dee says.
     "How come she only hears me?" I asked, but Dee is already out of the car. I reluctantly follow.
     "It's cute, mom," Dee Dee says and hugs mom.  Once again, I'm the sinner and she's the saint. Dee Dee cuts her eyes to me and smiles.  I glower, my signal that I'll get even.
     “As soon as we unpack the boxes, I want to go swimming, "Dee says.
     My breath catches, and I freeze as I wait for Mount mom's eruption.

I think I am in the mood to blog again.  For some reason, it's good therapy for me.  I don't know if anyone actually reads what I write, but I guess that doesn't really matter.  I would write just for myself if no one else ever read me, and so would any other writer.  We can't just not write -- if we are writers.

Excerpt from Lancelot and the Tides of Time

I've decided I want to push my novel some more and try to convince people to buy it.  I have posted an excerpt below to give you a little taste of the story.  In it, Princess Lesa runs away from her arranged marriage into the city of lost ones.  Oliver was one of her trusted advisors, but in this scene, she realizes that even he has betrayed her.  I have the little teaser about Arthur at the end because the story of Lesa and Rittlock merges with the story of Arthur and Lancelot in what I think is an exciting way.  It would also help if someone reviewed it for me on Amazon.

If you purchase a paperback copy or ebook version, I will send you a sneak peak of my novel in progress called: Fall of Knight.  It's about a teenager who has a severe mental illness.  It tackles the subject of bullying and harassment. I think it's a good book and will be a success once I finish it. Buy Lancelot and message me on facebook with an email, and I'll send you the first ten pages of my new novel.

Anyway enjoy the excerpt, and order the book on Amazon or at this address:

http://www.buckscountypublishing.com/portal/BookStore/LancelotandtheTidesofTime.aspx

Lesa and Peter slid out into the night air and landed safely on the ground.

“I didn’t do anything, Peter.”

“I know you didn’t but I think I do know who did.”

Lesa heard three short popping noises in rapid succession. Peter flew back against a wall then fell to the ground.

A light dispersed the darkness. Lesa saw blood all over the wall and saw Peter lying motionless with blood seeping from his wounds.

“Princess.” A man stepped from the shadow. He held a rifle with a light attached to it. “It’s time for you to go back to your husband.”

Though she trembled from fright, Lesa tried to act rationally. She held her hands behind her back and opened up the leather pouch.

“It’s going to be quite an honor to escort you back to the castle. I’m sure Rittlock will reward me.”

Her hand closed on the handle of the jeweled dagger.

The man stepped closer and lowered his weapon.

“You ought to know better than to go out into the city of the lost ones by yourself.”

He stopped, just out of reach.  “You’re a pretty little thing. A virgin too. All kinds

of things could happen to you out here.” He smiled at her. “I could always tell Rittlock I never found you.”

“He would kill you.”

“Or else I could just never go back. I have plenty of friends in the city. Lots of places to dispose of your body after I get finished with you.”

“You don’t have to kill me.” A certain cool, detached attitude filled her.

“Nervous without the almighty Rittlock here to protect you?”

Lesa could hear the hatred in his voice, but she didn’t know if it were for Rittlock or her or both of them.

“I think I’ll say I found you dead, ravished by the lost ones. No one would know any different.”

Lesa swallowed down her fear. Her mind worked feverishly.

“You’re pretty handsome yourself,” she said, hoping her voice did not shake. “Like I said, you don’t have to kill me if all you want is a little fun. I always enjoy a little fun.”  One more step, she thought. “Come here and kiss me. A little taste now, and later when we get off the streets, a full dinner.”

He slung his rifle over his shoulder, reached out for her, and grabbed her in his arms. Lesa drilled the knife into his side; his eyes opened wide and his mouth dropped. His knees buckled and Lesa let him fall. For a minute, she watched him and made sure he didn’t move. Then, she pulled the dagger free. As she began to kneel over Peter, she heard voices close by.

“She has to be near.”

She recognized Oliver and started to go toward him.

“I had a guard waiting for her. Peter won’t even know what hit him,” Oliver said.

Lesa ducked in shadows and ran down a street.

***

Arthur looked over the field. Bodies littered the ground. Mordred’s siege continued. So far Camelot had not fallen, but he didn’t know how much longer they could last.

He's flippin' crazy!

I grew my beard back, but I'm going to keep it short and neat I think.  It's so gray, but it does help to hide my double chin just a little.

Now, let me mention my post title.  I'm in the process of writing a novel as many of you know.  It's a YA novel about a teenager with a mental illness.  I stumbled upon the mental illness that I wanted him to have by doing a little research.  I originally thought I would have him be suffering from bipolar I, and I knew that in severe cases of bipolar I, that people suffered from hallucinations.  My character sees his dead father, and every now and then, the characters in the stories that he writes come to visit him.

So, I was doing some research and started reading about schizo-affective disorder which is actually a mix of bipolar disorder and schizophrenia with characteristics of each.  There are times when my character has bouts of mania or depression, and there are times when he is relatively stable.  One of the criteria for having schizo-affective disorder is having schizophrenic effects such as hallucinations when one's mood is fairly stable.

Let me state here that I am doing some serious research on my book, and I'm finding out about this illness.  I'm not throwing out a character who is your stereotypical insane lunatic.  My character is a 16 year old boy.  I have deepest sympathies for anyone who suffers from mental illness.  I can even empathize because I have cyclothymia which is a distant cousin to bipolar II, the milder of the  forms of bipolar disorder.  In some ways the story that I am writing has bits that are autobiographical.  Isn't it time that someone wrote a YA novel about a teenager with a mental illness, and wrote it in a compassionate way?  I'm trying.  I'm only a third of the way through it, but  I  think it's really a good novel.  I'll even give you a sneak peak of page one.  See below:

     I put the facemask on – it's a rubber thing that fits into my nostrils – and I tighten the straps to my head. I flip the on switch and a burst of fresh oxygen hits me, so I suck in it sweetness.
My mama would kill me if she ever knew I was using her CPAP machine, but my mom doesn't really notice me much anymore. Now, Dee, on the other hand –
     "Dean, you are an idiot!"
     Speaking of the devil and his imps will appear. I turn to see Dee standing in the doorway looking at me.
     "I am not an idiot," I say through the mask. My voice is muffled by the hiss of the air and nasally – because, of course, my nostrils have two rubber plugs, one up each side.
     "Putting a CPAP on your face every day is not going to make you smarter," Dee says.
     "It provides oxygen." I pause and keep my mouth open. The air escapes and whistles like a storm ripping through trees. This is so cool, I think.
     "Well, you certainly could use a little more oxygen in your brain," she says and laughs. I laugh too. Something about my twin’s laugh makes everyone around her laugh too.  It's a shame she doesn't do it more often.

     Dee walks to me and shoves me down on the bed and then turns the CPAP machine off.
     "You better clean the snot off it. Mom just called. She's coming home early and we're leaving as soon as she gets here."
     She looks around the room, checking to see if there's anything left in here to be put in boxes. "I am not touching that thing after it's been up your nose," she says indicating the CPAP. "Clean it up and put it back in its case. Then clean up your room. You got paper scattered everywhere."

     "You didn't read them!" I jump up, not really mad, just a little nervous.
     “Don't worry; I didn't read your precious stories."
     I know Dee, and I know better. "Yes, you did."
     "Okay, I did. Very weird, brother, but kind of cool too. "
     She turns and walks away. If Dee likes my stories, I know they're cool because Dee’s cool. I quickly pack mom's machine and then go to my room. If dad were here, he'd like my stories too. He’d think they were cool too. I get my creativity from him, but I also get my bipolar disorder. I look at the first paragraph of this new story I'm working on, and I think how stupid it sounds now. I also think about how stupid it is that my dad's dead and how stupid it is that we have to downsize. The depression starts in the middle of my forehead where it always does and then spreads. Within minutes, my body, heart and soul are leaden with sadness. At times like this, I understand how it's possible that my dad's drowning was not an accident as my mom has told us.

I'm Baaaackkkkk.

At least for now.  And I'm not going to say anything political because, frankly, I'm getting sick of it.  I intend to vote my conscience when the time comes, and I will live guilt free.

School is back under way.  We have two and a half weeks under our belts.  My classes are crowded, but I like my students.  It's been a trip teaching drama again.  It's been about ten years.  These kids should really have someone more qualified to teach it than I am.  I'm just plugging the hole and doing the best I can.  One of our new teachers will actually do the play, but I am going to help her.  And, of course, Mrs. Douglas will also help.  I minored in speech and drama to make myself more employable, and I have enjoyed my forays into teaching drama and directing plays, but I am just not any good at it.  I don't have the fanaticism that true theater lovers have.  I like it.  Those kids that love it deserve better than, "I like it."

In my writing.  I finished the rough draft of a T.V. pilot and am in the process of revising it.  I added a new opening scene that I think will really prove to be dramatic.  It's a scene where a young man gets hanged because he was found guilty of storytelling.  Does that arouse your curiosity?  I hope so.  Imagine a world without stories.  Not pretty.

I've also done about 21,000 words of my YA novel.  It's good.  Plain and simple, it is the absolute best thing I have ever written in my life.  If it doesn't get picked up by a major publisher, I'm going to give up.  After I finish sorting out the script I'm on, I'm going to think about making the novel into a script.  That helps me in the revising practice.  Weird but true.

My mood has been very good lately.  I don't know what's wrong with me, so I'm not even going to gripe tonight.  I'm just touching base.

Every morning on my way to school, I catch the sunrise.  It always inspires me to see it.  On these cool morning, often the fog is lifting off the ground in low places and it gives the entire landscape a ghostly, ethereal look.

Enough for now.  Good bye.

Latest ... more or less.

Tongue Tied: A Dystopian Screenplay that might -- accidentally, one of these days -- wind up in a theater near you.

The summer draws near to an end.  In about three weeks I will be going back to work as an educator at North County.  I looked for a college teaching job, not because I despise North County.  I don't.  The school has been good to me.  I have always felt as if I belonged in a college atmosphere, but apparently, no one else does.  I think I applied at Western Illinois, Southeast Missouri, Full Sail University, St. Louis Community College, and, once again, Mineral Area College but failed to get even an interview.  I guess no one wants a run-down 50 plus, fat guy who writes bits of wisdom on his Facebook and Twitter pages on their staff.  I am grateful to Central Methodist University at Park Hills for hiring me to teach Expository Writing this summer.  I have reached a point where I need to make some decisions about a few things before I get too old and wind up stuck with no alternatives.

So, for this, and some other reasons I won't bother you with, the summer has been a bit of a downer.  The excessive heat does nothing to help either.  Honestly, I don't know if I want to spend the rest of my life in Missouri or not.  Again, nothing against Missouri.  I just don't think there's much opportunity here.

The one thing that I feel was good about the summer was (and still is) some of the writing I'm doing.  I've had trouble staying focused, but generally, I have not lost my ardor for the projects I am currently working on.  I think they have potential, but I don't think that potential will be realized if I don't take some chances -- and I have trouble taking chances.  I am grateful that I have the rest of my screenplay planned out, and I am excited that I have found my genuine voice in the novel I'm working on.  I'll finish the screenplay before Labor Day I think, but it will take several more months for me to finish the novel.  It's still simmering a bit.

Well, that's about all the news I have for now.  Follow me on Twitter @stevecrosswords

I was so excited to see that I had three people from Israel who looked at my blog.  I would love to see Israel.  One day, I'm going to London, Ireland, and Scotland also.  I can dream.

I know nothing about Latvia

I know nothing about Latvia, but apparently, someone from Latvia looked at my blog.  Isn't that amazing?  I have had people from all over the world look at what I write.  I don't know if they land there accidentally, or if they actually want to read it or not.  I get readers from Spain, France, Russia, Germany, France -- and dozens of other countries, and every time I see a new country pop up I realize how little I know about the rest of the world.  It would be nice if those who could would write to me and send me pictures of their country and tell me about their families and their lives.  I would love it.  In fact, I'm asking those of you who read my blog for any reason just drop me an email and maybe a picture or two -- of your family, your historic sights -- anything.  I will never be able to travel the world, but I can visit it through those who already live there.  I'll even be the first to share.

I live in a small town of about 500 people.  It's called Arcadia.  No one knows much about the town but they do know about Johnson Shut Ins, just one of our geographical treasures.

People from all over the country come to Johnson Shut ins.

As far me, I'm married with one daughter who recently got married.  I am a bit biased but she is a princess as far as I am concerned.  Her husband's name is Sean.  He's all right too.

I would love to hear from anyone, anywhere -- inside or outside -- the United States.  If you'd like to share a bit of your world with me, you can email me at stevecrosswords@yahoo.com.

Code Blue

Though not quite dead, my blog is definitely on life support.  I don't want it to die out completely so I'm going to write.  My birthday is coming up, and I always spend some time reflecting and looking forward.  I know; we only have today -- this moment -- guaranteed, so we shouldn't be looking in the past or to the future.  We should be in the moment.  Well, in this moment, I've decided to reflect on the past and future.

I don't think a lot is going to change with me between now and my ultimate demise.  I'm going to be teaching the rest of my career.  I don't think there lurks a best-selling novel or several optioned screenplays in my creative future, but that doesn't mean I will quit trying.  In fact, I'm working on two projects right now.  When I get up some courage I'll post some excerpts.

By the way, Lancelot and the Tides of Time is still available for purchase at www.buckscountypublishing.com  It would help my royalty report if more copies were purchased.

So, let's come back from that little aside.

The most important thing I learned since last summer is that life is fragile.  My mother died the Saturday before Thanksgiving.  Three of my friends who are fellow teachers also had parents who died.  We don't know when our number is going to come up.  My mom died suddenly and unexpectedly.  I still haven't accepted it.

I think, as a result, of her death I have become more introverted and philosophical.  Music has also become very important to me.  I'm reminded of King Saul in the Old Testament who was tormented and could only be calmed by the music of David's harp.  I would go crazy if I didn't have music.  I'm almost like one of those hoarders when it comes to collecting songs.

Today, while my wife was putting in some hours at work, I did some writing.  In four hours or so, I completed about ten or eleven pages.  I wrote some on a screenplay and some on a new novel.  I don't know if either one will be any good at all but I am driven to create even if no one ever buys it.  That's the thing about writers.  If you can quit because you aren't making enough money at it, then you never really were one.

Tonight, I might do some more, or I might watch the Cardinals who are having a mediocre year.  I haven't watched them much because I teach a class that meets on Tuesday and Thursday evening.

Well, I'll work up some courage and do some more writing later.  I wish I could get more followers for my blog.