Month: May 2018

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StoryADay May – Day 3 – 100-Word Story [updated: Samara]

Hi writers! I hope you had fun with yesterday’s story formula. Mine led me, in “Mr. Bubble,” to describe the olfactory adventures of the talented Dr. Yi. I think it is safe to say that the story generator I used took me well outside of my comfort zone. It was fun!

On to today’s prompt:

Day 3 Prompt: Write a “drabble,” a story of only 100 words. Just a little splash of text on the page. This only gives you about 25 words to open, 10 words to wrap things up, and the rest to do all of the heavy lifting. Details must really pull their weight. Editing is your friend.

Wondering how on earth to do this? Me too. Julie at StoryADay recommends these examples. Good luck writers!

[UPDATE]

Here’s my drabble:

Samara

For eighteen years, until Botany 101, Samara did not know that her name was the word for the winged seed pods of maples—helicopters, whirlybirds, spinning jennies. Samara was adopted. Born in Boston, raised in a homogenous Midwestern suburb, she understood her name to be vaguely “ethnic,” had given it little thought. An hour in the library uncovered the following facts: (1) Ari Chaikin, published widely on seed dispersal and the biomechanics of plants, was an MIT professor; (2) eighteen years ago, Chaikin’s pregnant wife died tragically, (3) her baby miraculously survived; (3) in Hebrew, Samara means “protected by God.”

[Day 3: 100 words]

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StoryADay May – Day 2 – Story Formula [updated: Mr. Bubble]

Whew! The Day 1 prompt was fun. Check out my story, “Ms. Rankin’s Untimely Demise.” I hope you had fun with the first prompt too! Now, let’s keep going …

I like today’s prompt because you are basically going to have a finished story within the first five minutes. Then you can expand it as much as you want. But at least you know where it’s going.

Day 2 Prompt: Use this fill-in-the-blanks style “story formula” to get you going: A [adjective] [noun], who [verb] [subject], then [related verb] [resolution].

This prompt reminded me of a book I bought a while back: The Amazing Story Generator. You can turn the pages to create different story combinations. Here’s the one I randomly selected to use for this story:

So then I think my formula would be filled in as follows: A North Korean scientist, who is suffering a crisis of faith, refuses to leave the bathtub. I’m not sure refusing to leave the bathtub qualifies as a “resolution,” but I’m going with it.

If you’d like to try the story generator too, here are some other combinations that might speak to you. Happy writing!

[UPDATE]

Here’s the story I wrote from this prompt:

Mr. Bubble

From an early age, Sung-soo Yi had an extraordinary sense of smell. At family parties, he entertained his relatives by guessing the names of his aunts’ perfumes from across the room. He could tell the difference between his aunt Eun-mi’s authentic Chanel No. 5—which his uncle purchased in Pyonyang from a cash-only shop full of illicit goods from Singapore—and the cheap knockoff that his aunt Hye-jin wore. Due to some mysterious criss-crossing of his neural pathways, Sung-soo experienced scents not only as olfactory phenomena, but as colors and sounds. He once famously prevented his mother from eating spoiled kimchi—which made the rest of the family violently ill—by convincing her that, to him, the little jar of fermented vegetables smelled “all blue and jangly.”

A young professor from a nearby university proclaimed Sung-soo, at the age of seven, to be a genuine synesthete. He was not speaking in poetic metaphor. To him, the smell of spoiled kimchi was genuinely “blue” and really did emit a cacophonous din. And, although Sung-soo’s parents had prepared him from an early age for the two possible futures that awaited him—joining the military or working in a nearby factory—as luck would have it, the same professor went on to play a key role in the new supreme leader’s interest in scientific advancement. Remembering the little boy with the unusual capabilities, the professor sent a handful of official letters that changed the course of Sung-soo’s life. Sung-soo was placed in a prestigious university and, upon graduation, assigned to work at the government’s sleek new science and technology center.

This was a stroke of incredible good fortune, Sung-soo’s family all agreed. The nation’s few scientists received favorable treatment, including increased rations and government-appointed living accommodations. Sung-soo, now Doctor Yi, rose sharply in the ranks. He had no real competition. He was North Korea’s only aromachologist.

In France, a man with Dr. Yi’s talents might have gone to work in Paris, for an elite perfumier. In America, he surely would have been snatched up by one of the giant packaged food companies. But in his country, there was really only one outlet for Dr. Yi’s talents. He was charged with developing “behavioral fragrances.” Essentially, crowd control through aromatherapy. Dr. Yi was good at his job. He could tell you precisely which scents triggered the release of neurotransmitters inducing docility in the limbic brain. It was Dr. Yi who discovered that pumping factories full of the scent of jasmine increased workers’ problem-solving skills and motivation. Eucalyptus, rubbed under the noses of schoolchildren, increased their performances on standardized tests. Athletes recovered at a much higher rate when exposed to lemon and peppermint (in that order) after bouts of intense activity.

Dr. Yi’s extraordinary nose eventually caught the attention of the supreme leader himself, who saw impressive results from a high-blood-pressure-reducing concoction of Dr. Yi has developed specially for him, from nutmeg and maize extract, several rare oils, and a mysterious  ingredient secreted from the larvae of bees.

Dr. Yi proved so beneficial to the preeminence and prosperity of his country that he was granted certain unheard-of privileges. For example, he was allowed to attend—with appropriate government escorts—the International Symposium on Essential Oils. This marked a turning point in Dr. Yi’s career. While his olfactory prowess had certainly been appreciated by his comrades back at home, none of them really understood how he did what he did. To them, he was like a conjurer, whispering spells and stirring potions. But at the annual symposium, Dr. Yi was surrounded by academic and industry heavyweights, renowned scientists on the cutting edge of phytochemical and aromachological advancements. Though chock-full of heady lectures, the symposium also doubled as a sort of Olympics of the nose. Official and unofficial “smell-offs” abounded. And it soon became clear that no one could beat Dr. Yi.

This unexpected chance to upstage the world’s scientific elite was the reason that the supreme leader had allowed Dr. Yi to return to the symposium each year. Someone had slipped Kim Jong Un a copy of an article in the French paper Le Monde extolling the virtues of the mysterious Dr. Yi, who could distinguish between twelve different varieties of wild and domesticated roses, who could identify the terroir of lavender blossoms to within five miles of where they were grown, and who could tell you the very mountain peak from which a pebble of frankincense had been harvested. That article proclaimed Dr. Yi “Le Roi Des Nez,” the King of Noses. Dr. Yi had done his country proud.

As a result of his newfound status, however, certain things became apparent to Dr. Yi, which might not have occurred to him otherwise. The first year, Dr. Yi was just another scientist attending the symposium. He submitted his paper—read and edited in advance by a team of sensors—sat quietly in the back of a crowded auditorium, and found his way, with the help of his two handlers, back to his hotel room each night, where WiFi jammers and Bluetooth blockers were employed to ensure that his rest was not disturbed by the intrusions of the western world.

But by the second year, as Dr. Yi began beating out the aromachologists of the world in challenge after challenge, a buzz arose among the other symposium attendees. Dr. Yi was suddenly offered the best seats, invited to post-lecture cocktail parties and exclusive dinners, even asked to give a little talk at the closing session about the nature of his unique sense of smell. Dr. Yi’s handlers were in a quandary. They dared not hamper the position of prestige that Dr. Yi was claiming for his country. But this made it difficult to properly protect him from corrupting influences.

By the end of his second symposium, a few things were unavoidably clear to Dr. Yi. Scientists in other countries did not travel with handlers, were free to come and go as they pleased, and published their work free from suggestions. They were certainly not urged to inject propaganda into their public statements. Having occupied a relatively privileged position within his country’s scientific elite, Dr. Yi was a bit naïve. He questioned his handlers, at first, but grew tired of their standard reply: “That is a difficult question, comrade.” He grew to accept that the less he spoke to them, the better.

In the final session, Dr. Yi was asked to briefly address the symposium on the subject of his synesthesia. He explained that, when mixing scents, he closed his eyes, experiencing them as a swirl of dancing colors and sounds—from the tinkle of tiny bells to the roar and crackle of a bonfire. For Dr. Yi, creating a new scent was not unlike layering paint on a canvas, or choreographing a symphony. Dr. Yi left the stage to deafening applause.

It was then that he met Allegra Clarkson. Flashy, with a short hemline and tall hair, Ms. Clarkson gave Dr. Yi’s handlers heart palpitations. She insinuated herself between them and him as Dr. Yi walked from the stage, pumping his hand vigorously with her manicured fingers and leaning in close to introduce herself her in a throaty, lipgloss-scented whisper: “I see them too, Dr. Yi. I hear them, just like you.” Their eyes met, as he took in her meaning. “I’m sure we will meet again,” she continued. “You will attend next year, of course?” She did not wait for an answer but disappeared into the crowd of attendees just getting up from their seats. Just as she turned away, however, she added, “In your pocket, Dr. Yi. Try it in a hot bath.”

Dr. Yi knew better than to bring his hands anywhere near his pockets. But that night, in his hotel room, he discovered what she had placed there. A small vial of pink liquid. He shook it, once or twice, and a few bubbles appeared on the surface. Dr. Yi walked to the center of the little bathroom in his hotel suite and unscrewed the top. He waived it gently under his nose. His jaw slackened. His hand shook slightly. Fruit notes, at first: coconut, banana, peach. They danced about him in a chirping explosion of citrusy hues. But then, underneath, he could detect the heavy sweetness of vanilla, earthy tang of balsamic, and, all the way down, a powdery raspberry base. These appeared to him as infinite humming layers, wrapping him in alternating shades of translucent emerald, copper, and a rich, fulvous orange. Like a man in a dream, Dr. Yi turned on the water in the tub and poured the vial in.

Dr. Yi had always enjoyed a good bath. Even as a child, bathing in an old metal bucket his mother filled with soapy water, he would close his eyes and drift off, reluctant to get out even long after the water had cooled. For a true synesthete, a hot, scented bath was the closest to a super-sensorial experience as one could get. And as a man of some privilege in a country of almost none, Dr. Yi had access to black-market luxury products from around the world. He soon learned, however, that he needn’t pony up the cash to acquire such things. They would be provided for him, delivered directly to his laboratory, in fact, if he indicated that they were necessary to his research. In this way, Dr. Yi had filled his small government-issue bathtub with artisanal lathers from Paris, Dead Sea salt concoctions, distillations of ylang-ylang, bergamot, and sage. He had soaked for hours beneath blankets of bubbles courtesy of Penhaligons, Jo Malone, Nivea, and Aqua de Parma.

But this! This was something else entirely. The bubbles were so abundant, soft but not too slippery, the scent was incredibly enhanced by the steam from the water. It was somehow both synthetic and natural at the same time. For Dr. Yi, the next hour was an otherworldly experience.

It was only later, wrapped in towels, as he bent to pull the stopper in the tub, that Dr. Yi observed a tiny roll of paper. The precise circumference of the little glass vial, it must have been rolled tightly inside the stopper. With some hesitation, Dr. Yi unfolded it. “There is more where this came from. I can get you out. -A.C.” Dr. Yi stared at the paper for quite a long time. He cleaned his teeth at the sink, rinsed, and, with a gulp of water, swallowed the message down.

For a full year, the little message remained foremost in Dr. Yi’s mind. For a few terrifying moments it seemed as though he might not receive permission to attend the annual symposium for a third time. But then an official letter arrived. He opened it, trembling, and breathed a sigh of relief. He was going. And Dr. Yi had made up his mind.

* * *

Dr. Yi stepped from the taxi and stared up at the building in front of him, checking the address twice. He paid the driver, fumbling with the unfamiliar bills, and pushed his way through the revolving doors. In the elevator, his ears popped. The gleaming metal doors parted to reveal a carpeted hallway. At the end, a door with his new apartment number: 49C. Dr. Yi pulled a key from his pocket and, not daring to breathe, slid it into the lock. The bolt turned over and the door creaked open. The apartment was larger than he had expected, sparely furnished. The view from the window, out over the park below, was dizzying. Dr. Yi set down his satchel and walked, with some trepidation, to the spacious bathroom.

He slid the pocket door aside to reveal a temple of gleaming white surfaces. In the center, a huge claw-footed bathtub with antique copper fittings. Dr. Yi grasped the handle of the little linen closet beside the mirror. Drawing it back, he was momentarily blinded by a wall of garish pink bottles. On the front of each, the maniacal grinning face of a caricatured bubble, surrounded by stylized blue foam. Dr. Yi’s English was getting better. He read the labels: “Original Bubble. Mr. Bubble. America’s Favorite Bubble Bath. Bubblin’ fun for over 55 years!” Grasping a pink bottle with shaking hands, Dr. Yi twisted off the white cap and, closing his eyes, inhaled.

[Day 2: 2040 words]

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StoryADay May – Day 1 – Points of View [updated: Ms. Rankin’s Untimely Demise]

It’s the first of the month, writers. Time to begin a new challenge! If you don’t already know all about StoryADay May, check out the challenge description here at Write Words Now. And you can find lots of additional information and resources at the official StoryADay website. What kind of story can you write in only one day? A short one, probably. But I think we will surprise ourselves. I was surprised by how much I was able to write in just 30 minutes when I did the warm-up story prompt last week.

And check out the three tips for success from the most recent StoryADay podcast:

1. Keep a list of “story sparks,” and commit to writing down three new ones each day. These are not fully fleshed out plots, just the sparks of ideas. Here are a few from my list: a dog named Venkman; the safe in the beach house basement; the appointment of Britain’s first loneliness minister; a love story in travel posters.

2. Even if you don’t have time to write in the morning, think about the prompt and launch your idea first thing. Your brain will start working on the problem in the background, giving you insight throughout the day. And if you can write at least a few sentences, you have a solid start that you can pull out in the elevator, on the train, or in line at the store. Those scrawled sentences add up!

3. Finally, since this month is all about training our brains to write stories on demand, let’s conduct a little experiment. Remember Pavlov’s dog? Scientists rang the bell every time they fed the dog and, eventually, the dog would just start salivating when it heard the bell, even if there was no food around. So think of a sensorial trigger, a scent, a sound, a color (something portable so that you don’t have to be at your desk to make it work) and begin each of your writing sessions with that thing. Maybe your notebook is bright red. Maybe you have a little soundtrack that you listen to each time you start to write. Maybe you light a scented candle, chant three ohms, and bow to your creator (this might also clear you some space at that crowded coffee shop).

So, how will this work? I am going to follow the StoryADay prompts, at least at first. My plan is to share the prompt in the morning and then post an update with my story later in the day or the following morning. Good luck writers!

Day 1 Prompt: “Write a story about someone who leaves the house for work, and on the way has some kind of accident.” Write the story in three parts, of about 300 words each. Part 1: from the point of view of someone close to the main character; Part 2: from the point of view of someone who sees the main character only occasionally; Part 3: from the point of view of someone who has only just met the main character.”

[UPDATE]

Ms. Rankins Untimely Demise

Eleanor

I told her those shoes were trouble. Black suede Louboutins with a five-inch heel. You know the ones I’m talking about, with the flash of red soles. Just vulgar. Like a gaping wound. Like giving everyone a look up your dress. Susan loved those shoes. She thought they made her seem formidable. Susan was formidable. But it was important to her that she look the part.

You have to understand how it started, when she made partner at that big wall street firm—you know, the one with six names? Can you imagine answering the phone there? Poor girls. I guess when your former partners include supreme court justices and a vice president, you’re not in a big hurry to change your letterhead. Susan was the first woman to make equity partner at that firm. And, naturally, the guys gave her a hard time. She had to always be one step ahead of them. To start with, Susan was no den mother; she gave her associates hell. And the men respected that. I mean, she’d have you bring her a knife so she could stab you in the back with it. They called her Cutthroat. Behind her back, sure, but then later to her face. She loved that.

But Susan had another side too. Because they were men, after all. Don’t get me wrong. She didn’t lead anyone on. No, but the way she presented herself, the way she came to see herself, was as this perfectly desirable being. Perfectly desirable and perfectly unattainable. They respected her, like some beautiful, poisonous snake. You know the ones I’m talking about? On the Discovery Channel or something? Susan was a black mamba. Slender, powerful, with those big staring eyes. And fast. She would strike at a distance, never content to lie in wait.

In the end, they were scared of her. You notice they didn’t put up much of a fight when she walked out the door one day, taking a third of their clients with her, to some office in an exposed-brick loft in Chelsea. I can hear their little hearts thumping in their chests now. Prey always knows when it’s just escaped by the skin of its teeth.

And the loft! Oh my god Susan loved that old building. She loved how it made her highbrow clients a little uncomfortable. She thought it made them respect her more. She loved how the grit of the old place enhanced her polish. The incongruity of it all; she got off on it.

Even that shitty elevator! Especially that shitty elevator. I’ll never forget this one time, when opposing counsel was late for a deposition—very unlike him—Susan marched down six flights of stairs to the security office to speak to the guy through the intercom. She told him to quit being such a baby, that he would be out in a minute. Then she slipped the security guard a twenty, telling him to take his time calling the fire department.

I always thought the elevator was dangerous. But this … I mean, my god, this was criminal. The news said “severe mutilation.” Those words. A direct quote from one of the first responders. There’s going to be a huge lawsuit over this. Mark my words, Jeffrey and the twins will be set for life. And, I guess now they don’t have to put up with any more of Susan’s shit.

Manny

     THE COURT: Raise your right hand, please.

(Witness sworn.)

MANUEL ORTIZ,

called as a witness herein, having been first duly sworn, was examined and testified as follows:

DIRECT EXAMINATION

BY MS. MESSING:

Q. Mr. Ortiz, could you please introduce yourself and spell your name.

A. I’m Manuel Ortiz—M-A-N-U-E-L—O-R-T-I-Z. You can call me Manny. I work front desk security at The Commons.

Q. Did you know the deceased?

A. Oh yes, everyone knew Ms. Rankin. She had her office on the top floor of the building. I knew her for about three years, ever since I started working there.

Q. And did Ms. Rankin typically take the elevator to her office?

A. Yes.

Q. Manny, were you working the front desk at The Commons on the morning of June 11, 2008?

A. Yes, I was.

Q. Can you tell us, in your own words, what you saw that morning?

A. Sure. Okay, so it was a Monday. A little after nine o’clock. I remember that because it was unusual for Ms. Rankin to arrive at work so late on a Monday. But you know, she had been working day and night on a big case. When she did that, she might work all weekend and then come in late on Monday.

Q. Did Ms. Rankin seem to be in a hurry?

BY MR. CARTER: Objection. Why is that relevant?

THE COURT: Overruled. Ms. Messing, you asked him to tell it in his own words. Are you going to let him?

BY MS. MESSING: I am, your honor.

THE COURT: Mr. Ortiz, you can answer.

A. Yeah, she was in a hurry. But Ms. Rankin was one of those people, she was always in a hurry. She came through the door and said hello—Ms. Rankin always said “Good Morning Manny. She’d ask about my wife, my kids. She was always real nice to us who worked in the building. But that day, she came through the door and she saw that the elevator door was open. There were two people in there already, a man and a woman. And Ms. Rankin …

Q. Manny, can I just interrupt you for a second. The man and woman in the elevator, were they Mark Felter and Elise Paige?

A. Yes. I learned later that’s who they were. I didn’t know their names then.

Q. But you recognized them from the building?

A. Mr. Felter I did. I think the woman was not from the building.

Q. Thank you. Please continue.

A. So Ms. Rankin yells out for them to hold the elevator. And they did. Mr. Felter put his arm across the doors so they wouldn’t shut. After a few seconds the doors would try to shut anyway, but then the sensor opens them again. With that elevator, you could do it three times, I think, before a little buzzer went off.

Q. Then what would happen?

A. Nothing. The doors would still open if something triggered the sensor. The buzzer was just like, telling the people to hurry up, you know, they can’t hold the elevator all day. So the buzzer went off, but Mr. Felter was still holding the door open. Ms. Rankin stepped into the elevator. She had, like, one foot through the door, and Mr. Felter stepped back, to let her in. And then, the elevator, it just shot up, straight up, with no warning.

Q. What did you do?

A. It took me a second to realize what happened. I mean, Ms. Rankin didn’t cry out or anything. There was just this crack, and this horrible grinding noise, as the elevator tried to keep rising up. But then I heard Mr. Felter yelling, he was just saying “Oh my god, Oh my god!” And the woman, Ms. Paige, she started screaming. Screaming and crying and pushing down the emergency call button.

Q. Did you call the fire department?

A. I ran over to the elevator first. Then I radioed my partner to call the fire department, paramedics, all that.

Q. What did you see, Manny?

A. Oh … I don’t even know how to describe it. Ms. Rankin’s leg was … was separated from her body. I don’t know how else to put it. I could see the heel of her shoe was stuck in the little groove that the elevator doors slide back and forth in. There was blood everywhere, and just, well, there were pieces of Ms. Rankin on the doors of the elevator and on the bricks of the elevator shaft going down. The car had gone up almost one floor, and it was stuck there. I could see Mr. Felter and the woman, Ms. Paige, through a little crack though. About six inches.

Q. So the elevator was stopped there?

A. Well, it was still trying to go up. I think Ms. Rankin’s body was stuck in the shaft and was keeping it from going. I really didn’t know what to do. This is not the kind of thing we are trained for, you know? I was trying to talk to Mr. Felter. I could see he was trying to calm Ms. Paige down. And then, pretty soon, everyone arrived, the fire department and everyone. It was just, chaotic after that.

MS. MESSING: Thank you, Manny.

Elise

Even now, let me tell you, not a day goes by that I don’t think abut it. I’m serious. Something like that, it changes you forever. I’ll be in line at the grocery store, and suddenly I’m back there, and its happening all over again. One moment this glamorous woman is storming across the lobby, yelling for us to hold the elevator, and the next … oh God. Do you know it ripped her apart!? Right in front of our eyes. I can see her face now. Shock, then panic, then … nothing. She was gone, just like that. Someone’s wife. Someone’s mother.

“Susan Rankin. Beloved wife of Jeffrey, loving mother of Liam and Connor.” She was a lawyer, I guess. She worked in that building. All of that was in the obituary. But it took them a while to post it. I checked every day. There was an autopsy, naturally, a big investigation.

When they finally let me go home that day, when the paramedics and the police were done—do you know they even made me talk to a shrink?—I came home to my empty apartment and just cried. But at some point, I’m not sure exactly when, I realized that the bag they’d pressed into my hands as I was leaving was not mine. It was hers.

I knew I needed to return it, to get it to her family. I left messages with the police, but I guess recovering dead people’s misplaced belongings is not a high priority for them. So finally, I looked in the bag. I thought probably her wallet would be in there, with an I.D. It was. But there was something else. Just a sheet of paper, folded in half, with the words “I’m sorry” on the front. I remember the handwriting was very neat. Ha, I don’t know why I remember that.

It was a suicide note, dated the same day as the accident. There was hardly anything to it. Don’t blame yourself, this was my fault—really vague stuff. But, you know, I think she really meant to kill herself. There were bottles of prescription pills in the bag too. And on her tablet—yeah, I looked at that eventually too—her e-mails made it sound like she was in some serious trouble. A client had done something illegal and she’d covered for it. I’m not a lawyer, I didn’t really understand all of it, but I could tell she wasn’t just being paranoid. She was going to be disbarred I think, where they tell you you can’t be a lawyer anymore? Maybe arrested too.

Really, I had just one thought. I could not give this to her family. But then I had doubts. I drove by the address on her driver’s license a half a dozen times, having convinced myself that her husband, at the very least, deserved to know. But I chickened out every time. That bag haunted me. I moved it from closet to closet. I couldn’t sleep.

Some time passed, and I read in the paper that the lawsuit, against the elevator company, I guess, had gone to trial. There was a statement on the news, from the husband. He was indignant, was devoting his life to making buildings safer or something. I sort of stopped hearing his words. I was fixated on his face, all that righteous anger. That was how he was coping. I studied his grainy photo in the paper for days, begging him to give me a clue. But in the end, I knew, I just needed to get rid of that bag.

I drove out of town, farther than necessary, I’m sure, and tossed it in a dumpster. I cried all the way home. You have no idea. I was just so glad to be rid of it.

[Day 1: 2097 words]