Excerpt: The Gladstone Gala

The Mornays knew how to show up in style, with Darin in bespoke Tom Ford and Lilah in a crimson Dior evening gown that strategically hugged in some places and flowed in others. Around her neck glistened a spectacular diamond necklace that was so heavy it had once bruised her collarbone. Lilah contended the twice-weekly Pilates and calcium supplements she was taking had solved that problem.

They walked the red carpet, which was attended by a cadre of camera-wielding local press, and smiled and waved like they told all their clients to do at these kinds of things. Pru suspected that’s why they loved the Gala so much: It was their turn to be the show. Pru didn’t care as much, but this evening was different. She was going to be the show whether she wanted to be or not, so she might as well lean into it.

When she stepped out of the black town car she had hired, she heard a gasp from Amy Charles, the fashion columnist for Centropolis Weekly.

“Pru, who are you wearing?” she yelled.

“The last person who asked me that,” Pru snapped back.

In truth, she was wearing Foster Updike’s first red carpet fashion, and if the crowd reaction and her own style sense told her anything, he could have a fallback career if engineering for a vigilante was no longer an option. Using the long black train of her gala dress from three years previous, he had created a hostess coat that fanned out behind her and showed off the stunning metallic black leggings underneath. It magnetically snapped together in the front to hide her chest plate, and its sleeves covered the utility arm-guards she knew she’d need.

But when she turned around, everyone got the real show. On the back of the coat’s skirt was the brilliant turquoise Nightfire flame that seemed to glow in the light. In reality, it sort of did — Foster had coated the blue fabric (sourced from another year’s dress) with a flexible phosphorescent finish that created a holographic effect. If anyone was still unclear who she was in the PR world, this would set them straight.

When she got to the entrance of the gala hall, Lilah raised an eyebrow, made a comment about not knowing 1950s fashion was back in vogue, and eventually threw her hands up with an admission that “It’s your money and your body, so dress how you want.” Her father said nothing but at least acknowledged her with a nod before escorting her mother toward their other guests.

Dinner at the gala always seemed to take forever, and this year was no exception. It especially didn’t help that the Gladstone Foundation’s event planning team received a barrage of complaints from attendees after last year when it decided the salade nicoise would already be plated and waiting for each guest when they entered the dining room. The logic was sound — Pru had seen how so many of the guests had stumbled in from the cocktail reception in search of bread baskets and more booze — but their donors, many of whom distrusted any kind of produce they couldn’t ensure was organic-grown, weren’t pleased at the prospect of eating anything they suspected of being room temperature (unless it was a draught of scotch).

So this year, each course came out in the hands of white-jacketed waiters, and at what seemed like a glacial pace. Pru kept glancing at her phone to check the time, at one point incurring her mother’s hand pushing it down into her lap.

“The work is here, Pru,” she whispered.

He wasn’t yet, but he would be in three hours, Pru thought.

Darin still hadn’t spoken, though smiling for the cameras and cordially offering one arm to his wife and the other to his daughter hadn’t taken much verbal commitment. Throughout dinner he pushed his salad around his plate, hoping no one — meaning everyone — would notice that for the fourth year in a row, the Gladstone Gala planning team had forgotten his biological intolerance for eggs and psychological intolerance for olives that weren’t soaked in gin or vodka.

Once the little sandcastles of chocolate mouse and raspberry sauce had been delivered to the tables, the dancing started and, more importantly, the open bar resumed operation. Knowing his audience was mostly older donors wealthy enough to pay people to make them feel young, the DJ stuck to playing electro-swing that balanced swelling horns and deep base. A few overly tan, freshly Touch-of-Grayed men entrenched in mid- to late-life crises swung their 20- and 30-something wives around the dance floor, pulling foxtrot and bossanova moves while their partners peppered in body rolls and a bit of grinding here and there. Darin and Lilah Mornay avoided the dancing entirely, preferring Tanqueray to the tango.

Pru, meanwhile, had excused herself to the ladies’ room, where she knew there was a couch she could crash on to reset her mind in the moments before Flashbang was due to arrive. Unfortunately, the pink velvet settee she remembered from galas before was already claimed by an unconscious woman with what looked to be a Cosmopolitan soaking the front of her dress.

“It’s not even nine o’clock,” Pru said in disbelief.

“She saw her ex-husband making out with his new girlfriend in the back hall and decided to drown her sorrows,” said a tall woman reapplying her lipstick in the mirror. “Don’t worry: We already called a medic.”

The Gladstone Gala wasn’t the Gladstone Gala without at least four people needing medical attention. The first time Pru had attended, Portia Abrams and Kaitlyn Ducker’s rivalry hit a fever pitch and resulted in acrylic-nailed slaps being thrown, blood spattering on Yves Saint Laurent gowns, and a clump of hair extensions flying into Lilah Mornay’s martini glass. Portia still had a scar on her wrist that she covered with a thick diamond bracelet purchased with the settlement money.

On cue, two women wearing navy blue t-shirts and carrying medical bags entered the bathroom and immediately started taking the unconscious woman’s vitals. They lifted her up and she groaned, muttering something about a dirty bastard who could never get it up.

“Ma’am, we’re going to get you some help,” one of the medics said. “Can you stand?”

As they started to leave the bathroom, the drunk woman starting to talk louder now about her limp-dick ex-husband and his Playboy Bunny bitch. Pru and the tall woman with fresh lipstick could hear her shouting through the door and both started laughing.

“And to think this thing is a charity event,” Pru muttered, mostly to herself.

“Lifestyles of the rich and generous,” the woman said. “Maybe they think being philanthropists is enough to excuse the rest of their behavior.”

“You should have been here last year,” Pru said, inspecting the couch for potential vomit. It was clean, so she plopped down and swung her feet out, stretching her legs. “Paulie Ferguson literally pushed the DJ off the stage and did a 20-minute set of deep-cut B-52 tracks.”

“Sounds entertaining.”

“Truth be told, it was better than what the DJ was playing,” Pru shrugged. “If they had let him get to ‘Love Shack,’ it might actually have been a fun party.”

“That’s saying something,” the woman said, taking a seat in one of the straight-backed armchairs across from the couch. Something about the woman seemed so familiar to Pru, but she couldn’t place it—then again, upscale fashion, professionally applied makeup, and hairspray-shellacked updos made it hard to recognize pretty much anyone in the room. “You don’t seem the type to be at these kinds of things,” she continued. “Is it the people watching that brings you here?”

“I prefer the term ‘social observation,’ and it’s more a survival tactic than my idea of a fun Saturday night out.”

“What, did your husband drag you here or something?”

“Parents,” Pru said. “They come every year because so many of their clients are here. On top of having their own plus-ones, every year they get asked by at least eight people or companies to come as their guests. It’s a whole political strategy meeting for them to decide who’s going with whom. Now that I’m with the firm, they have a third player to throw in the game.”

“Lucky you,” the woman smirked. “Who are your parents?”

“Darin and Lilah Mornay,” Pru said, unsure of why. She didn’t like disclosing her lineage to strangers in case they were disdainful of the Mornays’ work or, worse, big fans.

“How did I not recognize you?!” the woman half-shrieked, throwing a hand dramatically to her forehead. “I can’t believe this coincidence. I’ve been trying to reach you for three weeks!”

Fuck, Pru thought. Instead, she just smiled in a way that said “Fuck.”

“I won’t talk shop tonight,” the woman said. “But my name is Constance Lin, and I’m with the Centropolis Sentinel. They sent me here to cover the gala, but I usually cover the Crime and Vigilante beat.”

Now Pru knew where she had seen this woman before. She was the one who had brought up Flashbang’s memo at the press conference three weeks ago. She had also been the one to ambush her outside the FVA with questions about Opal’s background.

“I want to talk about Flashbang’s last appearance,” Constance said, her voice quickening. Pru tried to detect the smell of alcohol on her breath — her demeanor was so different from when she was in the press pool. “Any chance we could get out of here and talk about it?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be covering the gala?” Pru said, eyeing the large clock hanging on the opposite wall. There were fewer than five minutes before Flashbang was due to meet her in the sculpture garden. “You probably shouldn’t abandon your assignment.”

“This is more important,” Constance said. “The gala is a couple ‘graphs on rich people and how much money they raised as an excuse to guzzle champagne and punch each other out on the dance floor.”

“Fair enough,” Pru said, unable to argue with the reporter’s assessment after she herself had just confirmed most of it through sardonic nostalgia. “But I can’t leave yet, so let’s plan on talking next week sometime. I’ll give you my card.”

Her fingers reflexively slipped a card out of one of her hostess coat’s pockets and handed it to Constance.

“Call me when you get out of here and leave me a message,” she said. “We’ll set something up for Tuesday or Wednesday, Candace.”

“It’s Constance,” the reporter called after her as Pru bolted from the bathroom and went to blend in with the drinking, dancing, check-signing throng.

#NaNoWriMo2019 Excerpt: Bennett and the Halos

Bennett smeared the purple paint across her lips, filling in where yesterday’s application had flaked away or rubbed off. She was due for a breakout any day, having gone almost a week without washing the makeup off her face. That would change tonight, now that she had found soap.

“Are we ready to roll, or what?” Christa called from her brother’s Hummer. Its transmission had seen better days. Bennett could tell from the whine underlying the engine’s glubba-glubba.

She tossed the tube of blue eyeshadow back in her knapsack and straightened up from where she’d been bending over to look into the shard of broken mirror on the pavement. Someone had already raided this Sephora, and Christa was irritable because she couldn’t find her usual brand of toner.

Bennett swung her bag into the back of the Hummer and followed along with it, slamming the door shut just in time for Christa to peel around the parking lot and onto the road. There was nothing else in this shopping mall of interest to them. The Sephora had been cleaned out; the Target was too dangerous for a simple group of three to search alone; the Dress Barn was still immaculately intact due to the lack of interest in styles for middle-aged women. And besides all that, they could hear the roaring engines of multiple vehicles roaring up the street. Maybe if they had more Halos with them, they would stand their ground. But between being outnumbered and not having any reason to defend the Green Valley Shopping Center as their own, it simply wasn’t worth the effort.

Christa took a sharp right on County Farm Road, and Bennett and Imogene twisted around in their seats to see four dazzlingly bright muscle cars glint in the sunlight.

“Fucking Bowies,” Christa shouted from the front seat. “How many?”

“Four cars, so at least twelve people,” Imogene reported.

No one traveled in groups fewer than three, with four being the optimal number. The handful of survivors who had been Girl Scouts taught everyone that: Always go in threes, so if someone gets injured, one person can stay with them while the other goes for help.

“But what if the person going for help gets injured?” Bennett had asked.

“OK, so maybe go in fours whenever possible,” Felicity revised her statement with a toss of her brown-black hair, the sun drenching her blond roots.

From then on, Bennett, Felicity, Christa, and Imogene were inseparable. Not because they particularly liked each other — Felicity and Christa were best friends, and Imogene was desperate for their approval, while Bennett just needed to find someone who didn’t mind her tagging along — but because it had helped them survive for three months since the world came to a crashing halt on June 25.

Excerpt from “Nobody’s Hero:” “Do you realize?”

Pru pressed the top of her head to the air-conditioner-cooled glass and gazed out and down the window at the ant-sized people 12 stories below. As they boarded and disembarked the 3184 bus, she could identify a woman in the red standard-issue polo for Target employees. A man in nurse scrubs. Two workmates in matching Centropolis Transit Authority jackets.

It must be nice, she thought, to have a job that didn’t follow you home on the bus. The two-for-one mop heads and $10 earrings would stay at the store. The allergist’s patients would go to their own homes to sneeze and cough and hack around the dog they insisted on keeping. The trains and buses would run with someone else behind the wheel. None of them would have their work phone tucked into bed with them like a teddy bear.

The song pumping through Pru’s earbuds changed to “Do You Realize” by The Flaming Lips. A breathy countdown started in her ear: “1…2…3…4” before a drum downbeat and acoustic guitars kicked in at full volume.

High school economics had been the bane of Pru’s 17-year-old existence — the sure end to her short life, and the highest hurdle she was sure she’d ever have to conquer — and she had coped with it by lying flat on her back on the carpet and playing this song through bulky noise-canceling headphones so loud that the supply vs. demand charts wallpapering her brain vibrated right off the walls and crashed to the floor.

As Wayne Coyne asked her if she realized that happiness made her cry, she closed her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried, from happiness or otherwise. Maybe it was when Joseph — or was it Jordan? She couldn’t remember any more — Holmes had ditched her at prom for his ex. She was clearly overdue: It was time to stoke up Field of Dreams or Finding Neverland and let five or six years worth of emotions come pouring out of her tear ducts, uncorked like a fine aged wine.

Now Wayne Coyne was reminding her that everyone she knew someday would die, and she caught a laugh in her throat before it could escape. Yes, that much was clear, as indicated from what she had just witnessed: Her boss, her friend-turned-tormentor, dead on the lab floor, surrounded by baby carrots and unresolved, origin-unknown animosity.

And that made it even harder to grasp why tears weren’t coming to her eyes — happy, or sad. Rather than waiting around to be told to recognize mortality and acknowledge that sunsets were just an illusion caused by the Earth’s rotation, she ripped the earbuds out of her ears and tossed them to the desk before returning to the article she had just pulled up onto her computer on how to chill a body at the right temperature to throw off a coroner’s report.

Excerpt from Nobody’s Hero: Niku the Nuke

I saw a tweet today asking writers “If your novel were made into a movie, which scene would you hope readers should demand to see on the big screen?” I’m a third done with Nobody’s Hero, and so far this is my answer:

Niku the Nuke blasted through the rooftop door off its hinges, armed with his usual set of knives and grenades. But Nightfire had deterrents that didn’t need to be thrown to work. One tap of her wrists together, and a blinding shock of light made him stagger backward and almost tumble down the stairs he had just ascended.

Nightfire grabbed him by the front of his white button-down shirt — Niku was known for donning a bullet- and fireproof suit lined with his weapons — and dragged him through the gap in the copper chloride line she had drawn. At the center of the roof was an air conditioning unit that she leaned his groaning body against. Aiming her knuckles at his throat, she squeezed her fist, and a collar sprung from her gauntlet and snapped around his neck, fusing to the metal unit.

“Are you going to kill me?” he coughed, yanking at the collar. 

“Nah,” she said. “Not my style.” She started to walk away, stepping over the thick stripe of copper chloride grains. 

“Not from what I heard,” he yelled after her. 

Pru shrugged — these high-stakes villains were always trying to get in a good last line. If it wasn’t Quartz telling her she’d regret this, it was Flashbang telling her they needed to talk. He hadn’t contacted her again, but she kept using that as the thread along which to string Foster’s curiosity. 

Anyway, she didn’t need to speak to have the last word tonight. One scrape of her heel along the roof’s rough concrete, and sparks landed among the copper chloride. She watched gleefully as blue flames sprung up, coiling themselves around one of the most wanted criminals in Centropolis now strapped helplessly to an A/C unit. 

Kurt Warren had been flying helicopters for the Centropolis Broadcast Network’s news team for almost twenty years, starting when he got back on his feet after a decade in the Air Force. He didn’t know how else to use his best skill, and according to his doctor, he needed to find an outlet. Truthfully, his pension and his wife’s family’s money were enough for them to live on comfortably, but he needed something to do with his time. Volunteering at the American Legion was no longer an option after he had belted that protestor who came in trying to get people to come help him fight “a real battle” against the murderous Planned Parenthood facility across the street. So he signed on to fly the pretty redheaded traffic reporter from Channel 5 above the major highways.  

He saw plenty of car crashes, jack-knifed semis and tire fires in the morning, but nothing like what he saw flying over mountainous deserts in the middle of Operation Desert Storm. Which made the job a perfect fit — skill-oriented, but relatively peaceful. 

Until tonight, that was.  

The night-shift chopper pilot, Sameer, was in an operating room with his wife at that moment while their fourth child was being born. So Kurt was behind the controls, bobbing above Centropolis City College’s campus while a reporter he had never met angled her own smartphone camera out the window. He tried to remind her that they had a real camera loaded onto the chopper and that it was probably getting better footage for the broadcast station’s internet and TV feeds. 

“Yeah, but this is for my ’gram,” she said. “Four thousand people are watching my personal feed right now. That’s more than all of my last month’s work combined.” 

Kurt shook his head, flying around to give her a better angle. All these young reporters were the same, trying to prove that they personally were there when something like this happened. Though to be fair, this was truly an eight-in-six-billion chance to see what was below with your own eyes instead of on some screen.  

The whole world would have to rely on Kurt’s helicopter or one of the other three circling the top of the Chemistry Building to see the beautiful blue flames burning like neon in a 500-square-foot outline of Nightfire’s symbol. 


Character sketch: The Debutante

It felt like yesterday despite being almost 15 years ago when Billie Jean Carusoe walked down the country club’s grand staircase — left standing just for this purpose — in a white satin gown with matching gloves. Head-to-toe in status symbols, from a great-grandmother’s add-a-pearl necklace to her very own diamond tennis bracelet, Billie Jean floated along with ten other girls her age, all competing to outdo each other with the perfect blend of Mommy and Daddy’s dream and teenage rebellion.

Thanks to the full white skirt, no one could see Wendy Jackson’s black lace thong, shoplifted not because she couldn’t afford it but because she couldn’t risk her mother finding the receipt. The white satin bodice hid the diamond stud in Trina Sawyer’s navel (though her mother didn’t mind that, as she had been the one to take her to Spencers for that little 16th birthday gift). Sniff close enough and you might detect the weed Loretta Debs had smoked the night before, if you didn’t suffocate from the smell of Ed Hardy perfume she had bathed in before slipping on her bespoke gown.

And as for Billie Jean? The white gloves hid her knuckles, bruised and swollen from the week’s boxing matches at Arturo’s. Her slight black eye had healed in time, and with an extra coat of makeup expertly applied by her sister, no one was the wiser as to what the tallest of Poppleton Fields Country Club’s debutantes did after school every day.

Now Billie Jean silently guarded an event filled with the same kind of tycoons, socialites and ladder-climbers who politely applauded her ability to be 17 and walk in a glorified Disney princess costume. Her gloves were no longer white satin, but indestructible teflon-coated fibers that firmed up when she made a fist so that every punch landed twice the blow. While the gown decayed in her mother’s closet, her cowled coat fluttered in the night air. But despite leaving that traditional Southern lifestyle behind, Billie Jean refused to forget the feeling of satisfaction she had when her parents beamed all summer after her debut.

Her enemies knew her by the beatings she delivered in dark alleys and on slum rooftops, but she prefered another monicker: The Debutante.

#NaNoWriMo2018 Day 30: An ending for ‘Nobody’s Hero’

The next morning, they packed up the lab and called a local charity that was willing to take the furniture for their resale shop. Foster picked up the U-Haul and drove it into the bay where the Corvette used to be parked, and together they loaded all of the papers, armor, weapons and hard drives.

They drove to the field where Foster and his buddies had experimented with flame color via fireworks and stolen chemicals from the industrial park surrounding their subdivision. Someone had left a Very Best of Cat Stevens CD in the truck’s disc player, so they listened in comfortable silence. Pru had heard it before —Yusuf Islam was a fixture in her childhood as her parents revisited their hippie days whenever the bohemian style came back en vogue — but she had never really heard it. But now “Wild World” patched the silent gap between her and Foster in the passenger seat, and she found herself moved by it. 

“Ooh baby baby, it’s a wild world,” Stevens sang. “It’s hard to get by on just a smile.” 

And yet that’s all she had anymore. She had alienated her parents, destroyed her career and almost burned down half of Centropolis in her pursuit of saving it. The FVA didn’t want her back as Nightfire, and she couldn’t think of who to call about a job now that she had wrecked her parents’ reputation (not that they didn’t deserve it in the end, of course). No PR firm was going to hire a whistleblower who had ratted out her own parents’ unethical practices.  

What irked her the most was that she wasn’t even sure what she wanted for herself next. There was enough money in her account to sustain her for a year, but what she needed sustenance for was the question. She didn’t mind driving this truck while listening to Cat Stevens, who had now gone on to sing “Where Do the Children Play?” Maybe she could get a job driving a rig for a while. Get out of town, see the country. Listen to all the Cat Stevens, Stevie Nicks, Nick Cave she wanted. Wear denim jackets and T-shirts under flannel. Find herself under all the makeup and nail polish that she’d layered on throughout the years. 

This is an excerpt from the ending of my NaNoWriMo project this year, though the book isn’t nearly finished yet. Stay tuned for a post-mortem on the month and lessons learned. For now, I’ve got 2,000 words more to write by midnight!