#NaNoWriMo2018 Day 20: Splendiferous

Lester Ranovich hated working the custodial dayshift — not based on the work, which was easier than nightshift cleaning, but because of the way the fancy people at the fancy 111 East building would either be over-friendly or pretend he didn’t exist. The latter was what he preferred, honestly. He knew that none of these designer suit-clad desk jockeys were remotely interested in how his weekend was or how he was doing.  

Sometimes he liked to play a game to see if they were paying attention. “How are you?” he’d ask. “Fine, you?” they would always fire back. Always replying to a question with the same question and hoping they’d get the same answer back, “Fine,” and then move on. But this was when he’d get tricky. His granddaughter had just gotten a dictionary for her birthday, and every night after dinner they’d pore over it looking for a word for the next day that they would each have to use in conversation. She was 10. He was nearing 63. Both took immense joy from the challenge.

Today’s word: “Splendiferous: extraordinarily or showily impressive.” 

So whenever anyone asked how he was doing, he would answer with “Splendiferous.” Depending on the word, he either came off as the harbinger of morbidity or just a crazy old loon.  

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#NaNoWriMo2018 Day 19: An artist known as Epsom

The sculpture garden had exactly seven lifesize clay statues, donated to the gala by a nephew of one of the board of directors. His name was Matthew Gimley Solomon IV — a curse of a name handed down from grandfather to father to son to grandson — but the underground art world knew him better as Epsom. It was a little science joke he had created when he learned his initials, MgSO4, were also the formula for magnesium sulfate, better known as epsom salts.

It wasn’t that his work for the Gladstone Gala sculpture garden was particularly good. All seven statues were of humanoid creatures — an angel, a demon, a little girl, a little boy, a sorcerer, an archer, and an oracle carved from stone and each possessing a single rusted-metal feature — and while they demonstrated his talent for sculpture, they didn’t showcase any of the creative spirit he put into his other work, which was too avant-garde for this crowd. The board wanted to show open-mindedness by spotlighting the work of a one-name artist but not alienate their more traditional — and generous — donors, so while they allowed Epsom to go by his art name, they asked that he refrain from his usual melting-wax statues of screaming refugee children or towering spires made of tarnished wristwatches with broken glass faces.  

Matthew Gimley Solomon IV had put up a fight for appearances sake before publicly acknowledging that in the spirit of hope and healing, he would be creating something “new and fresh for the gala that aligned with the foundation’s values and hope for a better world.” What he really did was go into the old storage unit he rented for unwanted work and taken a feather duster to a seven-piece collection he completed in his second year at art school. Some repairs should have been made to the metal embellishments, as a couple pieces had submitted to time and rust to loosen from their clay holds, but Epsom couldn’t be bothered. A bitter taste flooded his mouth as he remembered how the professor had given him a passing grade with a neon yellow post-it note that read “Great technique, but no heart.” On the upside, those five words had inspired him to make his work all heart, with very little technique. On the downside, that approach had gotten him kicked out of the school. 

Epsom had refused to attend the gala, insisting that he had another appearance priorly arranged. He was present for the installation of his seven clay-and-metal creatures but left under the cover of a hoodie and jogging pants before the guests had arrived. The only appearance he had to make that night was a date with a former Calvin Klein underwear model at his penthouse where there was always a bottle of Moet in the fridge and box of condoms in the nightstand drawer. 

So he had no idea that his mediocre art school project was about to become the focal point of a vigilante-villain showdown.  

#NaNoWriMo2018 Day 18: “Arsonist’s Lullaby” by Hozier

When your book’s hero goes by the monacre “Nightfire” and can spark flames using the flint in the heel of her shoe, “Arsonist’s Lullaby” becomes a must-have on the writing playlist. 

Then again, all of Hozier’s work is writing-appropriate. Try “Nina Cried Power” if you need an uplifting cry later before penning your pledge to the resistance. 

#NaNoWriMo2018 Day 17: Ipsento

I’m writing this on top of a door that’s now a table wrapped around a pillar. 

There’s a metal plate with a spot for a doorknob and keyhole to my right, a couple nasty scratches to my left, and a latte with honey and cayenne pepper just behind my tablet. Someone with my name just ordered a slow-drip coffee, and I could hear the barista call out for them, even from back here. I started thinking how the first thing I’d do with telepathic powers would be to transmit a drink order from my spot here at the door-table so I don’t have to stand in the long line at the front.

A woman behind me just explained the show Friends to her friend, who kept insisting she knows the show but just didn’t ever like it (I can relate). There are two students studying for an exam on Marriage and Family Therapy — at least, that’s the textbook sandwiched between the coffee table and a blue mug while they scroll through each other’s Instagram accounts (I can also relate).

A woman in a stained ivory coat sits on the same bench as them, styrofoam cup on the table next to her and white plastic bag of belongings on the floor. Her New Balances are clean white, I notice, as she gets up to leave after having sat, either contemplating the room or getting lost in her thoughts of what could have been.

#NaNoWriMo2018 Day 16: The origins of Handel

When Anne woke up the morning after meeting Handel, she had two questions: how many tequila shots had she done, and why had she told the bartender she had a nice rack?

She hoped the answers would somehow explain exactly how she had fallen so hard for the Boy with the Blue Tie.

Anne first saw him from across the packed room, his face, neck and torso appearing in quick flashes between the legs of the pole dancers on top of the bar. At first she thought the abnormally well-dressed guy was watching the same cutoff-clad dancer as she was — then she realized he was watching her. While debating whether to shimmy through the crowd and introduce herself like the fresh-out-of-college adult she was, he made the choice for her and parted the sea of tees and jeans with his oxford shirt and silk necktie. And there she stood, feeling dumb and underdressed in her shorts and sweater.

He said his name was Handel, as in the violin composer. She remembered her best friend in high school playing Handelian concertos on his Stradivarius. Of course, Anne’s Handel wasn’t the Handel, but he did make her as weak at the knees as a Music for the Royal Fireworks. He asked her if she would like another drink, and they retreated to the outdoor patio where the music was softer and the air cooler. There was also a much thinner line at the outdoor bar, which meant the whiskey and cokes flowed freer — as did the tequila.

They talked until Anne’s roommate Lindsey came by with her boyfriend. She was swaying heavily, and Anne knew that meant it was time to go. The Boy in the Blue Tie was just so charming, a welcome change from the panderers and drunkards that usually made a pass at her on a night like this one. Handel treated her with courtesy and let her set the pace of their flirtations.

“Thanks, Mike, but I’ll stick here,” she told Lindsey’s boyfriend. “You take Lindsey home.”

Mike clearly looked concerned and insisted that she come back with them so she wouldn’t walk the three city blocks alone. That was when Handel offered to walk her. Any other man offering the same favor would have been regarded with suspicion, but Mike and Anne alike found themselves trusting the Boy in the Blue Tie. The last thing she recalled was taking a third tequila shot while watching Lindsey and Mike walk out the gate and onto the street. Handel was whispering something in her ear, and she liked the feeling of his hot breath on her skin.

The next morning, all Anne had to remember the rest of the evening by was a phone number sloppily scrawled on her forearm and a headache that split her head in a clean line between her eyes. She was in her own bed, alone, with no sign of anyone else sharing it with her. That was good. Mike and Lindsey were snoring in the room next door. Also good.

Then she saw the cerulean silk tie hanging off the back of her chair.

 

Handel spotted Anne right away. She carried herself with the same faux confidence to cover up the despair of joblessness that every other just-graduated-college adult bore. It wasn’t his intention to get her drunk, but there was little else to do at the bar. And she kept pulling his tie, like she thought it was a cute game of flirtation.

Which it was.

When it became clear that her roommate had abandoned her, he walked her three blocks to her apartment. As they walked in, he could hear the wet smacking sounds and moans coming from behind a closed door at the end of the hall. The only other open room had to be hers, so he quietly led her across the threshold and to her bed. She immediately curled up in a ball on top of the down comforter, the pillows framing half of her face so she looked like a mask upon a satin cushion in a museum. A thing of simplistic prettiness. The moon was low — it was almost 6 a.m. — and the cornflower sky made her fair skin glow with dawn.

Handel didn’t take much time to look at her. From her desk he took a felt-tip pen and wrote his number on her arm. She stirred slightly, giving the last number 2 an oddly angled tail. Before leaving, he left his tie draped on the back of her chair. If he had interested her while at the bar (and if she could remember it), she would want to meet up to at least return his tie. And if he hadn’t or she didn’t? Well, there were other ties in the world.

This was the first time I wrote about a character named Handel, who no longer resembles anything represented in this short vignette.

#NaNoWriMo2018 Day 15: Meet Constance Lin

There are many kinds of reporters, but none are more diametrically opposite than the Conference Room Reporter and the War Zone Reporter. Their stories can be just as critical to a functioning democratic society, but their tolerances are different.

A War Zone Reporter doesn’t flinch at the sound of an F-15 screaming overhead or run for cover when a bomb detonates three neighborhoods over, but will die of boredom sitting across a table from a source and his or her three lawyers. A Conference Room Reporter can weather the monotonous monsoon of picked-and-polished information that talking heads begrudgingly supply, but has no stomach for personal peril other than a potential cease and desist. 

That’s why the Federal Vigilante Agency’s press room — located on the third floor and shrouded from the city with wood panels meant to keep Nightfire’s presence a secret from the courtyard below — had broken into chaos. All of these local news crews and writers whose worst fears were a dying phone battery during an exclusive interview were facing certain death at the hands of a madman who had just made his presence known by splashing his logo in dripping neon green light along the wall behind Nightfire. 

At least, that was Constance Lin’s take on things from where she stood in the back of the room. Being six feet tall helped her see over the melee, but the extra four inches added by her high heels also meant a less stable base when the room is swarming with panicked people.  

The room flashed with light, an abrupt bolt that seared itself into everyone’s eyes as it vanished. Up on the wall, down on the floor, pasted to the back of heads, no matter where Constance looked, there it was: the sun-bright outline of a flaming, falling meteor that made up Flashbang’s calling card. 

Suddenly the heat of embarrassment — no, just awareness at being the outlier, as if that was anything new to her — of mentioning the fax she had received was gone out of her cheeks. Instead, her brain buzzed with the reminder that she needed to survive. She had come too far to be brought down by some asshole with a fancy light show. 

Constance Lin is a crucial supporting character in my NaNoWriMo project, Nobody’s Hero.

#NaNoWriMo2018 Day 14: You don’t deserve the queen

Lieutenant Swift turned the key, and the stereo along with the engine roared to life. The Beatles filled the car with words about a meter maid name dRita.

Lieutenant Baxter looked at his partner, who was nonchalantly putting the Mustang into gear. He chuckled.

“What?” she asked, whipping her head around so fast that one of her braids whipped him across the face.

“Nothing, just expected Beyonce, not Lennon and McCartney.”

“You don’t deserve the queen,” Swift said, peeling out of the parking lot.