Love Letters Post #3

 

Notes: A longer than normal notes section for a longer than normal post.  Here’s the thing.  As I write this story, I’m realizing that this is going to take me some time.  I mean, generally I try to make the stories on my blog long and fulsome, but this one in particular is going to be a doozy, simply because I cannot bring myself to rush any of it.  I don’t write (or read) contemporary often, I don’t have a good sense of where the perfect scene break is, or how much is too much, and I find myself unable to hurry up to get to the physical side of things.  There will be a physical side, never fear, but it could be a while before I start in on it.  So I’m going to try to make this as satisfying in every way as possible, and ask that you stick with me.

 

*One more note, concerning this part in particular: there are a lot of religious, specifically Christian references in here.  It’s a funeral.  I’m not trying to be preachy or condescending to anyone or their beliefs.  I just needed to write a funeral and this is what happened.  So, there you have it.  On with the funeral!

 

Title: Love Letters

 

Part Three:  In Which David Foster Wallace Brings Us Together

 

***

 

               

Ben was late to the funeral service.  Not by much, but by the time he got to the church the vestibule was empty and the doors to the nave were shut.  When he tried to open one, he found it locked.  Locked.  What the hell?  Who locked people in for a funeral?

There was no one else in the vestibule.  The parking lot of the Central United Methodist Church was packed with vehicles, a lot of them police cars, but apart from a few officers stationed out in the lot, there was just Ben.  The slightly-wheezy strains of an old organ drifted through the walls, and Ben sighed.  Well, now entering would just be awkward, even if he could figure out how to get in.

He hadn’t meant to be late.  He really hadn’t, no matter what his brain was telling him about subconscious desires and avoidance tactics.  It had taken way too long to get out of the airport and onto I-85 last night, and by the time he’d pulled into the Hampton Inn, in his cheap red rental Kia, Ben had been dead on his feet.  He’d fallen into bed until noon, not even bothering to take off more than his shoes and coat, and by the time he woke up and realized he’d just fallen asleep in the suit he had to wear to the funeral (because Ben hadn’t been thinking very clearly when he’d packed, and had brought five pairs of underwear and no socks) it was too wrinkled to salvage without help.  That meant hauling out the ironing board and burning his hand twice in his hurry to press his shirt, pants and jacket.  He’d even managed to wrinkle his tie; how did someone do that?  He had to look up on his phone whether it was even advisable to iron a tie, and by the time he was done, dressed and had a cup of coffee, it was fifteen minutes to 2.  The church wasn’t that far, but the Kia didn’t have GPS and Ben got lost once on the way there.  Needless to say, the morning hadn’t gone well.

And now the afternoon was shaping up to be just as stellar.  Ben sighed and leaned his forehead against the locked doors, shutting his eyes and letting his mind drift.  The organ music had died down, and muffled words were now being spoken.  Ben’s whole body was prickly with fatigue and unquantifiable grief, hitting him all the harder because he had no idea how to deal with it.  How did you mourn someone you had never met, yet who had been such a part of your life?  How did you deal with the absence of a person in the abstract, knowing that you’d never write their address out again, never email them, never get funny, random texts to your phone?  How did you deal with the fact that you’d deleted so many of those messages, and now wanted nothing more than to have them back?  Hundreds, thousands of words that you wished you could hold and smell and taste, words that had given you the shape of a man, the meanings of his mind and the bounty of his heart.  Words were usually Ben’s solace, but right now he felt bereft of even their small comfort.

“Excuse me, son.”

His head felt like an almost immeasurably heavy weight, but Ben managed to lift it off of the worn wooden doors.  He looked to the left and saw an older man in a simply black suit and white shirt, inexplicably paired with a sweater vest, approaching him.

The man looked him over with slightly pursed lips.  “Not a reporter, are you?”

“No,” Ben managed, obscurely happy that his voice sounded normal, not hoarse and sore like it felt.  “I’m not a reporter, I’m a friend, but…it looks like I’m a little late for the service.”

“A friend?”  The man looked a little suspicious.  “I’ve never met you before, and I’ve known the Kuzniars my whole life.”

“Long-distance friend,” Ben admitted.  “I just flew in from Denver.”

“Oh.  Army buddy, huh?”

“No, I was never in the army,” Ben said.

“Well, there are a lot of people here from the university, too, so I suppose it’s not surprising that I don’t recognize everyone.”  Ben let that assumption lie as the man continued, “I’m Gregory Dalloway, I head the bible study operations here.”  He held out his hand to shake.

“Benjamin DeWitt,” Ben replied, returning the gesture.  Gregory’s hand was warm and dry and solid, rather comforting after the stale coldness of the wooden door.  “But please call me Ben.”

“Well Ben, then you can call me Greg.  These doors were locked just in case reporters tried to sneak in and get illicit photos—the local rags have been all over this tragedy since it happen, of course—but there’s a side entrance I can take you to where we can slip in nice and easy.”

“I don’t want to make you go out of your way—”

“Everyone should be able to pay their respects,” Greg said firmly.  “And it’s no trouble, son, I was heading that way anyhow.  Come right this way.”  He led Ben back outside and around the front of the tall, red brick building to a smaller door, with another police officer stationed outside of it.  The officer and Greg exchanged a solemn nod before Greg opened the door.

The sound was suddenly much clearer, the pastor speaking in a stentorian voice from the pulpit, which augmented by the microphone was almost too loud.  The church was long and tall, and the sound echoed a little.  Ben suppressed a wince at the renewed ache in his head and followed Greg into a nearby pew, where the black-garbed mourners barely gave them a glance.

The front few rows of the church had garlands of flowers draped over the backrests and down the sides, and Ben assumed that those seats had been saved for the family.  They were all full, as were most of the pews in this place.  Up front next to the preacher was an easel holding a large picture of Brody in his police uniform, looking unsmiling and resolute.  The man had never been particularly photogenic when it came to formal pictures, Ben recalled; the candid ones he occasionally sent along were much better representations of what Ben knew of his warmth and liveliness. 

Ben shook his head a little and tried to focus.  Once he got over the sheer volume of the words, he was actually able to appreciate some of what the pastor was saying.  “For although the Lord took Brody back into his heavenly kingdom far too soon for those of us left behind, we must remember that God has promised us all that the last enemy to be defeated shall be death itself, and that those of us who believe in him shall find everlasting life in His embrace.  For as in Adam all die, so in Christ will all be made alive.”  The pastor directed his gaze slightly upward and held out his arms. 

“Dear God, we ask you to heal the broken in heart and bind up their wounds; mercifully look upon those who are at this time bereaved. Be near them in their sorrow, and let their sorrow draw them nearer unto you. Now that earthly joys and comfort fail, may the things unseen and eternal grow more real, more present, more full of meaning and power. Let your strength sustain their weakness; and your peace fill their minds with perfect trust in you; through Jesus Christ our Savior. Amen.”

“Amen,” the congregation murmured.  Ben didn’t say anything; he had never been a religious person, but he enjoyed an articulate speaker, and the pastor was certainly that. 

The pulpit was ceded to a man in uniform who turned out to be Brody’s police chief.  His introduction was awkward, and a lot of the things he said were clearly in-jokes with the rest of the force, who were the only ones who chuckled.  Then he got down to the meat of it.

“When Brody and Max went on patrol on New Year’s, none of us expected this.  We could never have known that a simple traffic stop would turn into such a horrible accident; we could never have known that that young woman would lose control of her car exactly there, while driving drunk, and run straight into our officers’ parked car.  I spoke with Max this morning at the hospital, and he wishes he could be here, but the doctors won’t let him leave yet.  But he sends all his love and support to Brody’s wife and children, to his mother and sister and brother,” there was a moment’s hesitation before the word “brother” that Ben would have wondered more about if he hadn’t been reeling from finding out how Brody died, “and rest assured, your husband, your son, your brother will get justice.  It might be cold comfort at this point, but I’m afraid,” the man had to stop to clear his throat, “I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.  That and let you know that we’re all here for you.  All of us.  Brody was family to the force, and you’re still family.”

Muffled sniffles and sobs drifted up from the crowd, and Ben wanted to join them.  Hit by a car?  Brody had been hit by a car?  He had survived wars, one tour in Iraq and another in Afghanistan, only to be run into by a drunken reveler?  It was almost inconceivable, and clearly Ben wasn’t the only one who thought so.

More people got up and spoke about Brody: police officers, neighbors, old friends from high school and college.  They all said the same thing, what a wonderful man he was, a devoted father and husband, a great athlete, a good cop.  They all said the same sweet, empty things.  Where were the real memories, though?  Where were the stories about his beliefs, his dreams?  Brody had been more than a paper doll, more than a boy scout, squared-off, All American and pure like the driven snow.  He had been intricate, intimate, arrogant, afraid.  He had loved his son more than life itself, and had learned ballet with his daughter.  He had a Blue Devils tattoo on one shoulder and Cheryl’s name on the other, but he’d only been sober for one of them.

Fuck.  These were things Ben wanted to share, things he felt like these people, all so sad, should know.  The knowledge might not help some of them, but at least it would give them some perspective.  But it wasn’t Ben’s place to speak, and he wasn’t brave enough to get up and just do it, not when he was so far on the outside of everything here.

The next person to get up and speak came out of the very front row.  He was young, younger than Ben, and looked washed-out in his black suit, his skin too pale and his enormous blue eyes ringed with dark circles.  His hair was black as well, and unnaturally tidy, just a little too long to be combed over the way it was.  He wasn’t tall and he wasn’t wide, and his heart-shaped face was drawn and tired.  In spite of all of that, he was still the most physically arresting person Ben had seen in a long time.  Maybe it was the tilt of his eyebrows, lifted mischievously at the outer edges, or maybe it was the wide fullness of his lips, a little chapped but still sensuous by simple virtue of their perfect shape.  Maybe it was how he stood, a little diffident, a little bowed with the weight of his grief but still upright, still trying.

Then he spoke, and Ben knew if there was a Hell he was going there for enjoying the sound at a time like this, but this was not a voice that belonged in such a slip of a man.  No high tenor, this was a firm baritone, with just a hint of roughness underlying it that probably came from exhaustion, and Ben found himself leaning forward to listen to what came out of this man’s mouth.

“There isn’t much I can say that you haven’t already heard,” the young man said, his huge, haunting eyes scanning the room, seemingly searching for something.  “But I wanted to share one of Brody’s favorite quotes with you.  I think it gives us some insight into his attitude towards life.”  He glanced down at the piece of paper between his hands.

“’ You can be shaped, or you can be broken. There is not much in between. Try to learn. Be coachable. Try to learn from everybody, especially those who fail. This is hard. ... How promising you are as a Student of the Game is a function of what you can pay attention to without running away.’”  The young man cleared his throat, then said, “It’s from—”

Infinite Jest, Ben thought, reeling a little.  He knew because he and Brody had read the book at the same time, while he was on his first deployment.  They did nothing but throw quotes at each other for three months while getting through the massive tome.  Ben had liked it; Brody had loved it.  How did this guy know?  Ben refocused on the pulpit.

“My brother lived these words, every day.  He was always ready to learn, and he wasn’t afraid of failure if it meant he would eventually improve as a result.  He shared that philosophy with his family, and I know that I, at least, benefitted from it.”  He smiled, and Ben went a little limp in his seat at the sight of Ryan Kuzniar—because that was who this had to be, Brody only had one brother and now that Ben was paying attention, he could see the strong resemblance they shared—smiling that perfect smile.  It wasn’t broad, but it was still bright.

“Another of his favorites from that book was the saying that no single, individual moment is in and of itself unendurable, and I think that’s something we could all stand to remember today.”  Ryan’s eyes were shiny, and new tears fell into old tracks already on his face, but he kept his smile.  “It’s hard,” he said, more softly now.  “It’s hard not to give up and scream and swear and make other people be strong for you, but Brody would never have put that burden onto someone else if the roles were reversed, and he’s always been my role model, so…” Ryan inhaled deeply.  “So I’m doing my best.”  He shrugged a little.  “That’s all any of us can do.”

He stepped down from the pulpit, and losing sight of him was almost painful to Ben.  He didn’t have time to dwell on it; the pastor was back at the helm, and his voice rang to the rafters.

“The family has decided to hold their reception here in the Fellowship Hall instead of at their home.  After they’ve exited first, please feel free to head downstairs and join them in remembering our brother in Christ, Brody.  There’s plenty of food too, thanks to all you ladies, so don’t stint.”  He smiled briefly, then said, “Now, if you would all follow me in the Lord’s Prayer…”

Ben let the murmured words of the congregation flow around him, focusing instead on the calm he felt following Ryan’s brief, genuine speech.  That, those words had been exactly what Ben had needed.  They grounded him; they gave him the sense of connection that he, not a member of this church, not a member of this community, had been sorely lacking.

After the final amen, the organ began playing again and the front two rows of people stood up, turned and began to file down the center aisle.  Ben watched them avidly, hoping for another glimpse of Ryan, but he was sandwiched in the middle of the crowd, and the only bit of him that Ben saw was the top of his head, slicked down and shiny.  Once they were gone, the rest of the people began to get up and leave.

Ben sighed.  That was it, really.  He could go now, if he wanted to.  It might be better if he did; the family was going to be swamped with sympathy, he probably wouldn’t get closer than five feet to any of them.  He could leave, take his invitation with him and never know who had sent it, and that would be…

Unacceptable.  It was a mystery, and Ben hated an unsolved mystery.

Greg turned and looked at him.  “Are you coming to the reception, son?” he asked kindly.

“Yes,” Ben replied.  “Yes, I think I am.”

 

Coming Soon!

Hi darlins!

I know, you're waiting for more Love Letters; never fear, it's coming tomorrow.  I just want to remind you about a few other things in the works.



First, The Captain as an ebook.  I've contacted a cover artist about doing work for it and am waiting to hear back.  I have never wished so bad that I had more than a passing acquaintance with Photoshop.  New goal for this year: learn how to make my own damn covers.  I'm also considering getting it professionally edited, because, well, if you're going to pay for it it should be the best it can be.  Once I have more success with this, I'll let you know.

Second, I got permission from one of the people who bought a fic from me for the Hurricane Sandy auction that I could post what I wrote for other people to read.  It's a little interlude set in the Changing Worlds universe, just before Jason and Ferran leave Perelan to start their new mission.  I'll be offering it up for your reading pleasure soon:)



Third, speaking of the Sandy Auction, the two authors (MJ O'Shea and Piper Vaughn) who organized it are running a contest on their blog right now.  It's the easiest contest in the world to enter, just leave a comment, and there are a huge number of prizes on offer.  Huge.  Like, astonishingly so, you should go and look just to see the enormouse pile of swag.  There are ways to get multiple entries too, and the contest doesn't end until Valentine's Day, so check it out here: 2nd Annual Valentine's Day Lovefest.



Last, the first episode of my serial novel with Storm Moon Press will be available this Friday.  Yay!  Quick blurb for Cambion: Devon Harper has struggled his entire life to control his incubus powers. Now that control faces its ultimate test when a demon sets his sights on escaping Hell using Devon as the doorway!

If you think it's the sort of thing you're going to want to read all of, you can get a season pass at a discount right now; that includes around 90k words in the actual book and extras in the form of deleted scenes, side character stories, etc.  If you're not sure, then you can just wait until Friday and get the first episode for just 99 cents, which, for 15k words, is pretty freaking affordable.  Here's the link to buy or find out more: Cambion Season One: Dark Around The Edges.

Now to finish Love Letters, which I'm really enjoying, but have to plan out before writing.  Wasn't an issue with Pandora or Paradise.  Sci fi is my brain's natural resting state:)

Palliative Care

Me to husband: Ugh, I've got a cold.

Husband to me: I will fix you! *draws a hot bath, makes me homemade ginger, licorice and elderflower tea (which I hate but drink for him) gets me decongestants, fluffs up my pillows*  There you go!  Feel better?

Me to husband:  Kind of.  Not really.  But thank you.

Husband to me: ...okay then, I'm going to go play video games.

I've got to give him credit: he doesn't hover once he's done all he thinks he can do.  When I'm laid up in bed-- well, as long as I'm as comfy as possible, he's got a date with StarCraft.  See you later, honey.  Try not to breathe on my pillow.  I love him, he's awesome, and his penchant for fixing things--whatever they may be--doesn't quite rise to the level of kink, so.  That's me right now.  How's your evening?

Love Letters Post #2

Notes: And here we go, with...more description!  Well, no, there's other stuff, but we're not quite at the funeral yet.  That will come with the next post.  I hope this one answers some questions and brings up some new ones.  Thanks so much for your responses so far, darlins:)

Title: Love Letters

Part Two: The Unexpected Admirer

***

 

                It took two and a half hours to fly from Denver, Colorado to Charlotte, North Carolina.  Two and a half hours was more than enough time for Ben to doubt the wisdom of his decision to drop everything and fly to the other side of the country for the funeral of a man he’d never met before—hell, he had never even seen Brody before, apart from catching the tail end of a Blue Devils game once on TV and the occasional family photo included in a letter.  No contact beyond the written word, that was the rule they had put in place for themselves when they were still kids, and Ben had abided by that rule, even when he was making himself sick crushing over Brody in high school.  In retrospect, keeping it as impersonal as they had had been a brilliant decision.  It let them be absolutely honest with each other in a way you simply couldn’t be with someone you saw face to face.

Ben had grown up cherishing the written word, thanks in part to the fact that his family owned a considerable number of Benjamin Franklin’s personal correspondence. Letters were the highest value thing he owned.  When his third grade teacher orchestrated a pen pal project with another class in Concord, Ben had been excited beyond belief.  The other class had had two more students than theirs, but Ben had volunteered to write to anyone who was left.  In the end he got three names: Piper Digby, his original assigned pen pal, Jennifer Schroeder and Brody Kuzniar.  He wrote to each of them, painstakingly careful with his penmanship, and included a sticker at the bottom next to his name.  Piper got a dog, Jennifer got a flower and Brody got a football.

He sent each of them the same letter, telling them his name and why he had it (his mother had insisted), what his favorite things to do were (reading and playing Nintendo) and that he had a cat named Roanoke (after the original colony—his mother had obsessed about making everything, even a pet’s name, of some sort of significance). 

The only person who wrote him back was Brody.  Ben had been over the moon for that letter, avidly rereading it dozens of times before he wrote again.  He’d kept every letter Brody had ever written him, but this one was special because it was the first.

 

Dear Ben

Thank you for your nice letter.  I liked the football sticker. I play football with my dad every Sunday. My favrite team is the Blue Devils and the Tar Heels but I also like the Broncos which is your favrite football team becoz they are from Denver.

My mom sais it is speshal that you are named after Benjamin Franklin.  I am named after my Grandpa.  I have a big sister who is Pam and a baby brother who is Ryan but he’s just a baby he doesn’t do anything yet.  I like to play football and baseball and I have a dog named Rowsby Woof he is a golden retrever and he plays ball too.

Thank you for writing me.  Please write again.

Your friend, Brody

 

With that simple missive, Brody cemented himself as Ben’s best friend.  It didn’t matter if months went by without Brody replying, Ben always wrote him without fail once a week.  All of the social cues that felt so cumbersome in interpersonal interactions fell away when Ben wrote, and he was able to talk to Brody about anything and everything.  Brody’s letters had a quality of “my mother is making me write back to be polite” for a while, but after the first year, he started to write more frequently, about more than generalities.  He told Ben about how badly he wanted to play football forever, about how his dad got drunk sometimes and his mom got very quiet, about his stupid sister’s boyfriend (so gross!) and about when his dog got hit by a car and had to be put down.  The first year of their correspondence set the course for the rest of their lives, and after that it never faltered.

Ben had never imagined that it would cut short by Brody dying so young.

It had taken all of his willpower not to Google his friend and get the details.  Ben had resisted that sort of snooping for years, and he wasn’t going to break tradition just to look into his oldest friend’s death.  He’d find everything out that anyone needed to know at the funeral.

Yeah, the funeral…shit.  Ben took out the card and looked at it again.  So formal, so strange…he had been to funerals before, obviously, but they hadn’t really been public affairs.  His mother had been cremated by her request, with a polite, impersonal note that she’d written herself sent out to family and friends.  Actually, one of the replies to that note had come from Ben’s own father, the first time he’d heard from the man in close to a decade.  A few lines of awkward sympathy followed up by a half-hearted inquiry about how Ben was getting on, and a few more lines about his father’s life in Canada, his newest family (he was on his third wife and fifth child, apparently) and his work.  Ben hadn’t answered.

His grandfather’s death had been much more broadly publicized, but that was because the man was a renowned author.  The funeral itself had been very small, mostly Franklin descendants, none of them staying for more than a day.  He’d buried his grandfather in a simple pine box up on their cabin’s land.  He could see the headstone from the kitchen window.  It might be a little macabre, but Ben kind of liked that it was there, that he could still have some sort of connection with someone in his family.

And now he was headed to the funeral of a man he’d never physically met, but felt he knew better than anyone else in the world.  Ben had no idea what his role was supposed to be.  Who had sent him the card?  He could believe it was Brody’s mother, if she still remembered him; she took her southern hospitality very seriously, but he hadn’t heard from her since he was ten.  He could still picture her handwriting, elegant, almost like calligraphy.  (It’s so lovely that you and Brody are still writing each other, dear.  It seems he can only be bothered to put pen to paper for you.) 

Brody’s wife Cheryl knew Ben existed, as did his siblings, presumably, but he’d never directly communicated with any of them.  About them, plenty.  Brody had dragged Ben kicking and screaming into the world of immediate communication, and once they started emailing back and forth, Brody restricted his hand-written notes to the end of the yearly Christmas letter.  (Cheryl’s sick of all our family photographs revolving around sports, so this year she bought us matching sweaters and made us wear antlers.  She thinks it’s festive, but one crack about me being Prancer and I’ll end you, man.  I’m Blitzen, anyone can see that.)

Please Come.  Even the handwriting was an enigma, neither blatantly masculine or feminine.  Not that Ben expected curlicues and hearts, but he was used to being able to tell the gender of a writer solely by their style.  This was just…he didn’t know.  Had no idea.  What would he say, when he got there?  How would he explain himself when someone asked him who he was and what he was doing there?  “Hi, I’m Ben DeWitt, I’m Brody’s pen pal.”  He’d be lucky if they didn’t think he was some sort of internet stalker.

Suck it up, he scolded himself.  Nobody forced you to come.  It’ll be fine.  Everything will be fine, as long as you don’t concentrate on the fact that you’re there to say goodbye to your best friend, your sounding board, your soulmate.  Ben had thought that more than once about Brody; it couldn’t be everyone who started with a pen pal and ended up with a true confidant.  There had never been anything romantic between them; Brody was as straight as a nail, and while he’d taken Ben’s coming out with amazing ease he’d never been interested in more than they’d had.  Once Ben had recovered from his crush, he’d realized that he’d felt the same way.  Their relationship was special, and not something that needed the clouding and complication of sexual infatuation.

“Sir.  Sir.  Sir.”  The careful tapping on Ben’s shoulder jerked him out of his reverie, and he looked up at the friendly blonde flight attendant who’d obviously been trying to get his attention for some time.  “Sir, please raise your seat back, we’re beginning our descent into Charlotte.”

“Right.  Sorry,” Ben muttered, fumbling for the button that would straighten his seat.

“It’s fine,” she murmured, her voice a soft southern drawl.  All around them people were in the process of waking up; it was nearly midnight out here on the east coast.  She blushed a little.  “Actually…I was wondering, ‘cause you look just like…are you the man who wrote Liberty or Death?”

How did she…oh, that damn book jacket.  Ben had tried to get away with not using a picture for his bio, but his publisher had been adamant.  It wasn’t the first time Ben had been recognized that way, and every time made him uncomfortable.  But now she was beginning to look uncomfortable too, and he didn’t want that.

“That’s me,” Ben answered easily enough, his voice not letting out his discomfort.  She grinned at him, her pearly whites two perfect, shining rows.

“I love your book!  We’re readin’ it for my book club right now.  I’ve got the hardback and the Kindle version, I pick it up every time I have a layover of more than a couple hours.  I just started the chapter on Thomas Payne today, and y’know, it’s just so inspiring!  Thank you for writing it!”

“Thank you for reading it,” Ben said with a smile.  It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy being appreciated, he just didn’t do well publicizing himself.  But then, that was why he had Linda.

“I’ve actually got my paper copy with me.  I was hoping, maybe after we touch down, you could just take a moment and sign it for me.  Please?”

“I’d be happy to.”

“Great!”  Her smile got impossibly wider.  “Thank you!  You won’t even have to move, I’ll bring it right over to you. The girls aren’t going to believe this, that I met you on a flight!  I’m so excited!”

“It’s my pleasure,” Ben assured her.  And it was.  At least someone was getting something good out of his presence.  Tomorrow…well, today at this point, he’d find out if it his being here really meant anything to anyone else.

Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters

So, this is the movie I went to see tonight:

Thin plot vaguely based on the fairy tale?  Check.

Gratuitous violence that is practically hilarious it's so out there?  Check.

Regrets about seeing Jeremy Renner handling a weapon of any kind?  Zero.

 

 

And in sexy black leather.  Ooh yes, more leather, Mr. Renner.  Wait, what?  Ludicrous weapons and costumes given the time period?  Shut up, inner history spoilsport!  I don't need you raining on my pretty person parade!

 

 

Was this movie absolutely ridiculous?  Yes.  That's kind of a major selling point.  Did I enjoy seeing it?  For sure.  I actually liked it a lot more than some of the other recent fantasy/fairy tale/bizarro movies I've seen, like that terrible new rendition of Snow White...I can't even remember it's name...the one with a suicidal cavalry charge that, no matter how I tried, I couldn't get my inner history spoilsport to tune out.  I couldn't stop thinking about Twilight all the way through it, which was the one book I had access to in Africa that I couldn't bring myself to read twice.  Hardly anything written in English for hundreds of kilometers, and I thought watching dust devils was more entertaining.  But I digress.

 

 

Yeah, silly movie, fun costumes, much violence, pretty people (and some not-so-pretty people, way to work it, makeup and special effects folks!).  If you don't want to ponder deeper meanings for a while, this is a good choice for you.

 

Hansel and Gretel say, Grr!  Don't take life so seriously!

 

 

More Love Letters on Tuesday, darlins.  Have an awesome weekend!

Love Letters Post #1

Notes: New story!  This one is, as I mentioned before, a contemporary m/m romance, but a few little things to be aware of...there's going to be mention of a lot of history in this.  American history.  For those of you who aren't American and have no idea what I'm talking about when certain things come up, just shoot me a comment or wait for me to post clarification on my own.  All you need to know for starters is that Benjamin Franklin was a founder of our nation, a respected scientist and philosopher, and a dirty old man.  He's on our money.  We love him that much:)

Title: Love Letters

Part One:  The Question In The Card

***

Two and a half minutes after his pre-recorded interview on NPR ended, the Psycho theme began playing on Ben DeWitt’s phone.  He stared at the device from across the room, only surprised by his agent’s rapid response and not the fact that she was calling.  Ben wondered for a moment if the call was really worth getting out of his chair to go and get, then remembered the exhaustive voicemail Linda had left for him last time and decided that, yes, it was probably for the best.  He could refill his cup of coffee and grab the mail while he was at it.

Ben rolled away from his computer and stood, then grabbed his phone as he passed from the sitting room into the narrow hallway that led to his kitchen.  Skinny wooden floorboards, warped from over a century of traffic, squeaked and groaned under his feet.  He answered the phone while he headed for the coffeepot.  “Good morning, Linda.”

“Good mooooorning,” she purred, stretching the poor vowel for so long it should have been considered abuse.  “How’s my favorite author today?”

“Please,” Ben scoffed, “Jared Diamond is your favorite author.  I’m a distant second at best.”

“You’re my favorite right now, Benjamin,” she assured him.  “That was a great interview with Terry.  Wonderful synopsis of your work, great questions, this was all very good publicity.”

Ben poured the last of his coffee into the cup.  The Harvard logo had almost worn away, it had been washed so many times.  This had been his mother’s favorite mug.  Ben kept it around more out of a sense of duty than anything else.  “I’m glad you liked it, Linda.”

“Yes, oh, it was loooovely, just lovely.  Almost all of it was perfect.”

Ah, here came the reason she’d called.  “What part didn’t you like?” he asked as he sipped slowly.

“The part at the end.  When she asked about your next project.  And you said…” Linda paused expectantly like she expected Ben to finish her sentence.  He just took another sip, and after a moment she continued.  “You said you were thinking of doing a book on Benedict Arnold.  Benedict Arnold!  Benjamin, what are you thinking?”

He frowned at the phone.  “I sent you that proposal a week ago, you didn’t say no.”

“That’s because I didn’t know what to say!  Benjamin!  The man who has just spent seven months on the bestseller lists for writing Liberty Or Death: The Inflammatory Rhetoric of the American Revolution does not go on from his amaaaazing debut to write a modern-day exposé on a historical figure whose very name is synonymous with treachery!  And you certainly don’t announce your intention during an interview with a prestigious nationally-broadcast radio program!  Not before I clear it!”

“I repeat: you didn’t say no.”

“I didn’t say yes either.  Benjamin,” Linda heaved a heavy sigh, sounding exactly like his mother when he’d brought home a report card with a B on it.  “You’re establishing your brand, okay, and consistency is very important.  You turned what should have been a dry, scholarly analysis of the literature that helped get the Revolution going into an absolute blockbuster.  You make things accessible to people, you redefine them in ways that are exciting and bold.  But no one wants to read about a redefined Benedict Arnold.  They just don’t, okay?  The man is one of America’s greatest scoundrels.”

“He was an interesting man,” Ben said, wanting to fight her on this but not really having the energy for it right now.  It was cold outside, cloudy and gray, and he hadn’t slept well for the past week, his mind running itself ragged with too many ideas.  Benedict Arnold was only the latest one.  “Did you know that he and his second wife wrote encoded letters to the—”

“Benjamin!  No!  This is not a blockbuster idea.  Drop it.”

Ben scowled at his wall as he slipped his shoes on and wrapped a blanket over his shoulders.  It wasn’t far to the mailbox.  He could get out there and get back in and still have plenty of time to listen to Linda bitch him out.  “Do you have any other suggestions?” he asked as he opened his front door and stepped outside.

It had been a fairly mild winter up to now, but apparently January marked the end of that.  There was no more snow on the ground, but the air was bitterly cold.  He walked down his front steps, past the carved stone lions that lounged at the base of his walkway, and down to his mailbox.  The contents looked like mostly junk but he grabbed it all anyway, only listening with half an ear as Linda babbled on about hip, trendy, within your realm of expertise.  By the time he got back inside she had thrown all sorts of ideas his way, each one more ridiculous than the last.

“I am not doing a recipe book,” he interrupted her, toeing his shoes off and heading back into the kitchen.  “I might as well do a gimmick like one of those ‘year’ books if I’m going to sell out that badly.  Like, A Year In The Life of a Founding Father: Syphilis and Head Lice For All.”  The sudden, speculative silence on the other end of the line didn’t bode well.  “I was kidding, Linda.  I’m not doing that.”

“Why not?  You have a cabin up in the mountains, don’t you?”

“Yes, but it’s still got things like electricity and running water.”

“You could turn those off for the duration of the year!”

“No, Linda.”

“But you’re a direct descendant of Benjamin Franklin!  People would actually read a book like that if you wrote it.”

“Can we think of a project for me that doesn’t cash in on my name, if possible?” Ben requested tiredly.  There was another long silence.  He groaned.  “What?”

“Well…it’s just that, W. W. Norton wants to put out a 50^th anniversary edition of your grandfather’s book next year, and the publisher would like for you to write a new foreword for it.”

Oh right, his grandfather’s book.  The one that started it all, the labor of love that had led Ben’s particular branch of the extended Franklin descendants to fame and fortune, relatively speaking.  It was a good book, that was for sure, a look at the more personal side of Benjamin Franklin’s life and work that Grandpa had spent years putting together, in part using a notebook that documented Franklin’s scientific experiments that he’d inherited from his own father, right on down the line from the big guy himself.  Yes, An Educated American was a huge success, but Ben hadn’t had anything to do with that.  He didn’t feel right stepping into his grandfather’s shoes and commenting on it either, but…

“I’ll think about it,” he said, flipping through the mail.  Bill, advertisement, advertisement, advertisement…wasn’t print supposed to be dying?  It didn’t seem that way given the amount of junk mail he got.  Advertisement, bill…

“Eeeeexcellent,” Linda beamed—Ben could hear it in her voice—beamed her happiness through the phone.  “That’s great news, Benjamin.  Now, let’s talk about what the publicists have cooked up next for you.”

“Oh, lets,” he said unenthusiastically, pulling an actual letter out of his pile of junk.  No, not a letter—a card.  Ben looked curiously at the outside of it.  It was sent from Concord, North Carolina, but the only person there who wrote him was Brody, and he’d stopped sending actual letters years ago.  Ben wrestled the flap open one-handed and pulled out the card.  Thick stock, plain but expensive, with only a simple gilt cross on the outside.  Ben opened it up with trembling hands.

The family of Officer Brody Alan Kuzniar regrets to inform you…

“Linda,” Ben said slowly, interrupting her again, but there was no way he could keep talking to her right now.  “I have to go, something’s come up.”

“What sort of some—”

Ben cut the call and dropped his phone onto the counter as he kept reading, every line taking away more and more of his breath until suddenly he couldn’t read at all.

 

The family of Officer Brody Alan Kuzniar regrets to inform you of his untimely death in the line of duty January 1^st, 2013.  He was thirty-two years old and had worked for the Concord Police Department for the past six years, after serving four years in the military.  Brody was a loving husband, father, brother and son, and he will be greatly missed by his friends and family.

Funeral services will be held on January 8^th, 2013 at Central United Methodist Church, at 2pm.

In lieu of flowers, please send donations to the Concord Police Department Survivor’s Fund.

 

At the very bottom of the card, written in blue ink, were the words Please Come.  There was no signature, and Ben had never met any of Brody’s family.  Hell, he’d never even met Brody, not in person.  Mechanically, he checked the card again for a return address, but apart from Concord North Carolina and the area code, there was nothing.  Who had sent him this?  Why?

It didn’t matter who had sent it.  Brody was dead.  Ben abruptly sat down on the floor, surrounded by the puddle of his bright red blanket but unable to look away from the black and blue of the card.  Brody was dead...dead. 

"Oh my god,” Ben muttered, truly unable to comprehend it.  Brody was dead.  Dead.  In the line of duty, whatever that translated to.  A shooting, a stabbing, being bludgeoned to death…  “Oh my god…”

He just barely made it to the closest toilet before he threw up.

Ben heaved over the porcelain, the scent of sour coffee and scrambled eggs invading his nose and making the nausea worse.  By the time there was nothing more to come up he was sobbing, a new and different kind of pain, the kind he hadn’t felt since his grandfather had died.  Ben wasn’t close to very many people.  Brody Kuzniar, for more than two decades, had been one of those people, and Ben had counted on him being one of those people for many more years.  Brody wasn’t supposed to die.  He was laughter and heat and forcefulness and decision, he was bright and brilliant.  He was supposed to live forever.

Ben spit one last time into the toilet, then flushed and stood up.  He avoided looking at himself in the mirror, knowing that if he did he’d only see the shock of loss.  He rinsed his mouth, then moved back to the kitchen, shuffling his feet like an old man.  He picked up the dropped card and forced himself to read it again.  Funeral services on the 8^th…that was tomorrow.  And someone, some mysterious member of Brody’s family, wanted him there.

It was noon now.  If Ben was lucky, he could catch a flight today and be in Concord by tonight.  Plenty of time to do…whatever it was he was going to do to prepare for something like this.  He had no idea how to prepare for something like this.

The Psycho theme began ringing on his phone again.  Ben switched it to silent, then headed for his computer.

               

 

 

 

Cambion

Let's talk about an upcoming story, shall we? I just got the cover for by serial novel Cambion: Dark Around The Edges, and it's gorgeous, isn't it?  It's done by Nathie, the same artist at Storm Moon Press who did the cover for Changing Worlds.  The title for each individual episode will appear on the right, in the wing space.

 

I'm still working on the blurb, but give this a try:

 

 In Cambion, Devon is the child of an incubus and a human woman, and his life has been a continual struggle to control the seductive powers he possesses. He thought he was finally safe, but now a demon has Devon in his sights, as Devon is the key that demon needs to leave Hell behind forever.

 

 

 

I mentioned before that this is a spin-off of my LiAW story In All Your Ways, which you can get here for free. Once I've got a finalized release date, and pricing info for people who are interested, I'll post an excerpt of the story and see if I can't whet some appetites:) 

In other news, my readerwife read and heartily approved the first chapter of the next serial story for the blog.  I'm going to primp and polish it and make it as perfect as possible before posting it here next Tuesday.  Yay approbation!