Chapter 8

Chapter 8 is the longest one so far. It took a while to develop; story is getting more complex.

I found that it's interesting and hard to describe the worlds the hero is visiting. It's also worth mentioning that there are several new characters that are taking a life on their own.

First draft progress bar:

Chapters 5-7

Chapter 5, oh boy, was a tough one.
I got stuck and hated it.
Fortunately, I found my way out and now I sorta like it--I'll rewrite it in draft 2.

I'm now in the "meaty" part of the story, the characters have entered the new and mysterious worlds.

First draft progress bar:

Chapters 2-4

It was a very productive week, things are coming along nicely.

Chapters 2, 3, and, 4 are done!

I have some loose ends here and there. I'll address them in draft 2.

I'm about 20% progress, 80% to go.
Things look promising. However, I'm getting to the difficult stuff. I don't expect to write as much as I did last week.

One of the things I'm wondering about is the use of certain words.
I know middle grade kids use these words but, I'm hesitant, I don't know if they would be appropriate.

Here they are:
  - Butt (butt-naked spanking--bully punishment or butt burning scene).
  - Crap (holly crap expression).
  - Sissy (don't be a sissy).
  - Ansole (word game, rhymes with asshole, making fun of main character) .

THE CHALLENGE - CHAPTER 1

OK. This is my first non-fictional post.

I decided to use this blog to keep me motivated about my new project.

Here's the deal: It's been several weeks since I decided to write a middle-grade fiction novel.

After ten story ideas, several pseudo plots, research, and a little fine tunning, I picked one story. I wrote a first chapter and came out bad--very bad. But, it was a good start. I re-wrote the whole stuff and now looks promising.

Time to give Chapter 1 a rest and start with the second one.

Will I finish the first draft in less than a year?

It depends

The bag of doughnuts disappeared from the break room. It was time to perform a deep investigation and ask the  suspects:
John yawn, "Wassup?"
"Somebody stole the donuts."
John yawn, "What donuts?"
It was time to ask someone else, Elsa looked at me, her hands trembled a bit, "I didn't do it."
"Did you steal the donuts?"
She looked away, and then gave me her I-hate-you-a-litlle-more look, "What do you think I am? A thief?"
No luck here either, last suspect. Peter cleaned his mouth with a napkin.
I asked him, "Do you know where the donuts are?"
He replied, "Whaaat dun-nus? Hooow manny?" and then gulped whatever he had on his mouth.
"What did you say?" This time I stared at him.
His blurted, "I didn't," then he looked at the floor and sighed, "I was hungry and they were there... you know..."

Case solved!

DJ

My brother bought a new gizmo: it’s a small wooden box with a metallic silver plate on top. The cover has some sliders, a couple of buttons, and a small red light. The back has some connectors and a power cable. It looks modern, a design proper for this space age. It’s 1976!

I stare at the device and can’t figure out what’s for, “Cool! What are these sliders for?”

Bert plays with them, up and down they go, “Sound level, that’s what they are for.”

Sound level? “Ah…  and this button?”

Bert pushes the button, nothing happens—it’s unplugged, “Power.”

What does it do? “Is it a radio?”

Bert laughs, “Not a radio, it’s a mixer.”

“Mix-what?”

He grabs the box with both hands and rotates it until the back is in front of him. He points two set of connectors labeled “Input”. Each one has two plugs, one red the other white. They are marked “L” and “R” respectively. “Here’s where you plug the turntables.”

He rotates the box slightly and touches another set of red and white plugs,  “The amplifier cable goes here.”

Turntables? Amplifier? Mixer? “What do you mix?”

He gives me “the look.” The one he uses when he sees a puppy—I hate it. I’m no puppy, “It’s a sound mixer. DJs use them at the discos.”

He stares at me waiting for an answer. What’s a DJ? A disco? I heard of them but never been to one as they only allow 18 an older and I’m only 16. Should I grow a mustache?

He nods his head, “Let’s go upstairs.”

I follow him to his room. He puts the device on top of his sound system and moves some cables. He first plugs the turntable, then the amplifier. He scratches his head and sighs, “We need another turntable.” He then looks around. Did he loose something? Finally his eyes stop at the cassette player, he tilts it and checks the back, “Aha! Let’s use this instead.”

He turns on the amplifier, turntable, and cassette player. The speakers hum, it’s kinda’ loud. Bert tightens the plugs and the hum goes away. He gets an LP, it has a girl with curly hair, she’s cute, skinny but sorta’ old, she must be 25 or so. I look at the cover. Donna Summer. I’ve never heard of her. Is she good? He takes the record out and puts it on the turntable. I wait a bit but there’s no sound. Bert plays with the amplifier, he turns a giant knob but nothing happens. He crosses his arms and looks at the ceiling. I look. There’s nothing there. What’s he staring at? He snaps his fingers, walks to the mixer and moves one slider up. I cover my hears as loud music comes out the speakers. He then turns the amplifier giant knob and music plays at listenable levels.

The beat is catchy. She sings super good. Cool!

Bert pops a cassette in the player and presses the play button down, “Look and listen carefully.”

He slowly pushes one slider down while the other hand moves the other one up. For a moment I can listen to two songs, but they sound like one, until there’s only one song, a new song. He says, “Voila!”

I stayed looking at him, then the mixer, and my jaw drops. How did he do that? Magic?

I want to learn. I want to mix. I like the music. I want to know how this works.

Disco rules!

The Feather

As a kid I didn’t understand my parents when they said, “I don’t have time…” I thought they had all the time in the world. I know I did, and that was good enough for me. As I grew up, I realized that I could do whatever I wanted--I still had control of my time. I finished elementary and middle schools all right.

Afraid of High school, I thought the challenging environment would consume all my time—wrong. I owned my time. College came: turn to spend serious time at the library. At the beginning, it proved to be tough, but, again, I could manage my time—great parties!

My first job: would this be it? I put all my energy and, by 5pm, I was as free as a butterfly. Where’s the closest bar?

I met the girl of my dreams. I know… not my high school sweetheart. I felt old at 30. I had to marry and have kids—the whole enchilada. Marriage tested my patient limits. At the end I realized I got angry at unimportant things; I let go. That made me happy. More activities got added to my list, but, I still had all the time in the world.

Kids came along; a lot of work, if you ask me. I started to understand my parents. Just a little bit. I had enough free time.

Another big change arrived: I got promoted--more responsibilities thrown into my bucket, which got close to full. Salary raises came along; added items here and there.

Thirty eight years later, I finally understood the whole meaning of, “I don’t have time…” My head hurt and didn’t have time to slow down. Little by little, my health deteriorated.  I lived on the fast lane.

One day, I sat on a restaurant patio; lunch time. I grabbed my “healthy” hamburger, with mouth open, I saw an object and it caught my attention.  Is it an UFO? I thought.  Nearsighted, I focused. A tiny floating vessel navigated peacefully in front of me.  It seemed to have a life of its own. Hypnotized, I stared at it for several minutes, until it landed on my leg. Afraid of breaking it, I took it for closer inspection. A feather, a simple and ordinary feather.  It made me think. Why not fly slowly and enjoy the view? If I continued living like this I would explode. An insignificant event gave me the key to regain my time.

Like the feather, I slowed down. I stopped and observed. I observed how my kids already grew. I realized how the city stays put—people run. I now enjoy going places and meeting new people.

I have time...

All of this because of a tiny feather.

Space Available

Patience ran thin for Paul, "This is the last place we check, I'm getting sick and tired of this." They looked in many sites, too expensive, far away, or small. Reluctantly they entered the building.

A big guy received them at the entrance, "What do you want?"
"We came to see the space available advertised on the web," said Rita with trembling voice--something intimidating about him.
His black eyes fixated on her, "I wouldn't recommend it."
"Excuse me?"
"It ain't right. Something wrong happened."
Intimidating and scary, what else could she ask for?
Paul asked, "Hi. I'm Paul, we want to check the place out."
Mr. Big swept him with his eyes and said, "PK's the name. You are on your own, I ain't getting inside that poophole."
"Why?" asked Paul.
PK blinked, sighed, and said, "People were killed and stuff."
An uncomfortable silence reigned for a few seconds.
"You better leave," urged PK.
Paul didn't budge, "We want to check it out regardless of your supertisions."
By this time Rita wished to leave but knew they should stick together.
PK said, "Your choice."

Paul looked at Rita, she nodded. They reached another door, opened it, and entered. Purple walls, old office furniture, and dust greeted them. A weak light coming from an old lamp lit the place. Paul glanced behind him: PK was gone. He was right behind us, he thought.

Rita sensed something, the faint wind carried a subtle smell, a decomposing smell, "What's that smell?" she said.
"It's just dust," he said and took a big breath.
"Something's rotten."
"You are right, the stink comes from that desk."
"Be better leave, this place gives me the creeps," she said, this time holding Paul's arm.
"C'mmon, you believe in ghost stories? Everything's fine; most likely we'll find a thousand year old sandwich."

They walked until they reached the desk. It was old, brown, and covered with dust. Sitting on top of it a gigantic CRT monitor sparkled. The monitor displayed some text--green letter on black background. At that point the stink grew to unbearable levels.

"This is bad, really bad. Something's dead, let's get out of here," implored Rita with cold, sweaty and trembling hands.

Suddenly they saw him. Right there, on the other side of the monitor, with his hands on top of the keyboard. Rita gasped and couldn't say a thing. Paul stared at him prettified. After a few moments, they looked at each other in disbelief.

Paul said, "It's, it's... not possible. We just--I mean--"

They ran towards the entrance. Paul turned the knob with no luck: the door was locked.

He got up and approached them; the stink followed him, "I told you not to get in," said PK, dead PK, decomposing PK, falling apart PK.

Without thinking Paul picked up a chair a threw it to PK.

Infuriated, PK grabbed his own arm, pulled out a chunk of rotten flesh, and said, "You want a piece of me?" and then threw the putrid muscle to them, "Now you'll join the club... you can use the computer to advertise the space available."

A day in a blink

"Old George," that's how they call him. He doesn't care, sounds affectionate. As years pass by he notices days shorten, to a point where they seem to last a few minutes. "Days are now dreamy. Is the dream of life," he asserts. Events that were certain to be real are not anymore, like living in a cloud, everything's foggy and mysterious.

"Life comes and goes. Some things are sticky, others not," George says. When asked about what's sticky he just burbles one word, "People." No more, no less. It's all about people.

"I used to think I was immortal and that I'd never die--made of steel or some indestructible material," he says, "but I realized I'll die someday and we are very fragile--made of crystal." The winter of his life,  days come and go, like a wave hitting the beach. "Same old, same old," he adds, "nothing changes. I see days folding faster and faster. If I blink, another day passes by; that's the way it is."

Maybe he's right, maybe life is made of dreams: life is an eternal dream. Maybe we are just dreaming; when we wake up a totally different world will appear--like being born again--and then life will start over and everything will be new and exciting.

We shouldn't forget that life is actually new and exciting--age doesn't matter...

Life is what we make of it...

Toast vs Toaster

Once upon a time there was a man who decided to burn a thin bread slice and, voila, he invented toast.

Who in their right mind decided to eat a burned piece of bread? Have you ever wondered how the toaster got invented? It's not like somebody decided to burn bread and make a bread burning machine. For that matter:
  Why is it called toaster and not burner?
  Why is it called toast and not burn?
  Why is it called toast and not toasted bread?

The most wonderful inventions are discovered by mistake--the inventor is usually forgotten in the archives of time.

Challenge:
  Invent a toaster that does not consume gigawatts of energy.
Suggestions:
  Hydrogen Toaster: fuel cells?
  Crank Toaster: people can exercise early in the morning.
  Match Toaster: phosphor tasting toast, yuck.
  Texas Toaster: only works on summer when temperature is 100+ degrees.

Toast anyone?

Red is red

Is red really red?
We all acknowledge that red is indeed red; we have red in traffic lights to confirm it.

What if one person's red is another's orange?
What if we could see other people's colors?
Would red be green?
Would green be red?
Is black and white really white and black?
Are colors gray levels?
Would you say, "You have pretty eyes: your pupils are magenta and the eye whites are... well, red. Er, why do the call them whites if they are red?"
Would cars look ugly if they are pink with green tires?
Would roads be white, black or purple?
Would rainbows be gray?
Would water be transparent or not?
Would the sea be green with red sky?
Would you say, "This is so romantic, the night is bright orange and the purple moon illuminates your blue face. I love your green tanned skin."

Red is red, isn't it?

2K+

"Monday to Sunday," said Rob with tired eyes, brain dead and almost falling asleep. He desperately needed to sleep.
Intrigued, Susan asked, "Less than a week. What happened?"
"Monday to Sunday," repeated Rob like a robot.
"I know. What happened?"
"Driving, noises, dirty windows, fog, and snow."
"Where?"
"Lots of snow, low visibility, and then something weird... the roads, dogs and rabbits."
"What are you talking about?"
"Dead dogs, ran over by cars, blood on the road, dog blood," Rob paused for a second and looked at the sky like if looking for a secret answer, "The rabbits ran, they were the lucky ones. Dogs were unlucky."
"You are freaking me out."
"The fog, no visibility, I ran my car over five dogs that were crossing the street. The rabbits were faster and saved themselves," his eyes saddened, "Poor dogs, too much driving, too much coffee."
She stayed there looking at him, paralyzed.
Rob continued, "I, I didn't want to. It was an accident. 2K plus."
"2K what?"
"I drove more than two thousand miles. I need to rest."

Rob closed his eyes and started dreaming. The ambulance closed its doors and started its journey to the closest hospital. Susan the paramedic worked hard to avoid Rob fall in the never ending dream.