Jenn's Short Story Recommendations

Hey all. This is going to be a change of pace for me since life is a bit crazed, so I'm not able to post a new story. Since Fiction Femme Fatale is shorts based figured I'd share some of my favorite short stories that have inspired me. (This list originally posted on my blog on Mar. 7, 2014.)

• “Brokeback Mountain” by Annie Proulx – If you compare the story to the movie (or vice versa) you’ll feel like you’ve gotten a full glimpse of the life of Ennis Del Mar and Jack Twist. Proulx’s story is a bit long at 30 or more pages (typeset) but it spans a whole romance/lifetime. In as much as a paragraph Proulx manages to capture the physical details, emotions, the entirety of a meeting with Ennis and Jack so that you as reader feel as though you’ve watched a drawn out scene. To me, this story is one of the pinnacle showcases of a beginning, middle, and end. It encapsulates both men’s struggles. Proulx succinctly describes people and actions with details like “indian burn” to a moment of strife and that’s all you need. Silence is a powerful component as is brutality and “Brokeback Mountain” explains so much without being overdrawn. In the acknowledgments of her collection Wyoming Stories, Proulx notes that short fiction is hard for her, yet looking at this story in particular it seems as though she’s a master of the form barely breaking a sweat.
• “Cry, Cry, Cry” by Sherman Alexie – This story is hilarious with heart. The narrator reflects on his drug addicted cousin, watching the steady decline of a family member, and how he may have betrayed him. Alexie is great with brevity as well, providing snapshots as unique as “Shit, we got fake Bloods fake-fighting fake Crips. But they aren’t brave or crazy enough to shoot at one another with real guns. No, they mostly yell out car windows. Fuckers are drive-by cursing.” Mixed with the wit and wavering of a man not knowing what to do because he’s expected to stand by his family out of obligation even when he knows it’s bad for him and his soul. There’s a connection to the voice and to the cousin from the first line and the pacing is perfect speedy yet languorous in the way you move through this world.
• “Hurt People” by Cote Smith (One Story Magazine) – This was one of the stories that stuck out to me when I subscribed to One Story and I still have it to this day. Surprisingly this was Cote’s first publication. To me this was a perfect story, a dark story, and a well-told story of two young boys left to their own devices. The title itself elicits not-so-good thoughts and from the first lines of seeing the dank living circumstances of these boys and what type of person their mother is has you clinging to the hope that they’ll be okay. Smith makes you care for these characters from the start which is immediately effective and masterful for an emerging writer. I’d urge you to look up this story and read it because it’s a testament of how you can find your voice.
• “The Things They Carried” by Tim O’Brien – Whether you’re an English major or not you’ve more than likely read this story or the entire collection by award-winning writer Tim O’Brien. The reason for this is because of the tie-in. The description of each character by what they take with them in a time of battle, what represents them and what doesn’t. What keeps each character going and how it can weigh each man down in various ways of what they may lose, have lost, or are scared of losing. The clipped illustrations are the most powerful part of the anthology by O’Brien, being in the muck and crap of these men and knowing that some won’t make it. It’s a story that has so many brilliant pieces you can’t just choose one. To me, “The Things They Carried” is like a crash course in short story writing. Each line necessary, each one providing so much weight and promise. It’s freaking brilliant.
• “Good Country People” by Flannery O’Connor – O’Connor is considered one of the best writers of short stories. And it’s understandable why. Her stories tend to be bleak, but real. Her characters are always alive and what I love most is her first lines, especially in this story of noting how a character had two methods of operation “forward and reverse.” The briefest of descriptions that gives a reader everything they need to know about a person straight off the bat. I’d encourage you to read all of O’Connor’s fiction because her stories rarely go where you expect them to, and while characters may surprise you it’s never out of context of the world she’s built.
• “The Pura Principle” by Junot Diaz – It’s things like “The Four Horsefaces of the Apocalypse” that stick with you in a story like this one. Looking at the last months of his older brother’s life the narrator notes a relationship of his brother and a woman who is downright toxic while also doing a balancing act of the brothers relationship and the mother/son relationship as people disappoint, just downright hurt one another, and deal with forgiveness knowing that time is short. Diaz’s voice is distinct and confident and clear in all his prose and to me he just gets better and better.
• “You Never Knew How the Waters Ran So Cruel So Deep” by Roxane Gay – I noted that Gay’s debut was one of my fave reads of last year. And one of the stories I pinpoint is this one, that is a list. With 3 columns titled Date, Item(s), and Price, Gay reflects on the lengths a man will go to find freedom and take his wife there and how much he loses. It starts off hopeful and as the reader sees the price and items the list keeper tracks it becomes more and more realistic of how hard this voyage for freedom will be and whether the relationships that seemed tight initial will hold by the time you reach the last row.
• “Great Rock and Roll Pauses” by Jennifer Egan – Another visual story that breaks the mold of story telling is short and really relies on a brevity of text and the graphics of a PowerPoint presentation to fully convey the relationships in a family that is troubled but not in trouble. The PPT is created by the teenage daughter who is witnessing it all and providing a journalistic play-by-play of her autistic brother, overworked father, and doting mother as they navigate how to get through a cruel world and the narrator sees how much weighs on her parents, her father specifically as a medical professional.
• “Speaking in Tongues” by ZZ Packer – “Brownies” is the Packer story often found on BEST lists but I think this one is a standout from her debut Drinking Coffee Elsewhere. It’s one of the longer stories in the collection and to me the most roundabout. In it a teen girl named Tia in search of her mother believing the grass is greener on the other side. Of course some stuff ensues and she gets entrusted with prostitutes and older men and her own sexuality (and ignorance of it) before realizing that she was better off in a world dictated for her than the one she thought she could navigate. This is a story with a journey that the character goes on that is rough at times and realistic and would also have some tsk at Tia’s actions yet understand them all the same. This piece feels utterly complete.

Above are just some of my suggestions. I have a few more story collections to read on my shelf (and many in my to-read queue) and even more lit mags to delve into so that I can find and learn from more to come. If you have any short fiction that you enjoy please share! I love to read as much as possible, if you couldn't already tell.

Remote Destination

Remote Destination

“Screw it,” Kevin says, after the first couple of drops of water do nothing to wake his sister. He dumps a whole glass on Celine’s face causing her to shoot upright from the floor.

    “What the--!” she screams.

    Kevin smiles. He reaches out to touch her face, concerned about the purple mark on her cheek from when she went down in the cafeteria earlier.

She knows I care, he thinks to himself, no need to get all mushy about it.

    Celine runs her fingers through her hair and grins at him. Kevin stares at her; still unable to get used to her hair being as short as his.

Celine laughed at his reaction when she showed off her shorn head. Said his jaw practically hit the ground.

“So, you’re trying to copy me again,” he said trying to hide the fact that he missed her long red locks, a trademark of their mother.

In all ways the Middleton twins look alike. But the hair was what made Celine less rigid with her sharp chin and cheeks. Though, Kevin considered that with the new look fewer guys would be interested in her. Now that his sister was sixteen he noticed the courageous or just plain stupid boys at Holyoke glance her way. He noticed that even though every student at Holyoke Reformatory wore the same shapeless gray shirts and pants that the boys seemed to take note of how Celine filled hers out. Kevin would punch his fist against his palm to ruin any kind of thoughts these guys had. And as soon as they caught Kevin’s line of vision their faces went white.

    Celine looks around and realizes they’re not in the Pit or their rooms.

    She sighs. “Damn. The Matron?”

“I’d appreciate no profanity, Ms. Middleton,” The Matron says.

    It was realized by the unidentifiable powers-that-be that the Middleton twins weren’t afraid of the Pit nor were they the type to think things over in their rooms and come to better decisions. It was decided that after any incident Kevin and Celine would go and speak with The Matron, Holyoke’s only religious/spiritual guidance counselor of sorts. When she first met the two she stated she preferred to treat people from the inside/out. The twins found it hilarious, especially considering their experience of the reformers and AG going about discipline.

After a handful of visits they found they didn’t mind The Matron so much. They would sit, listen, and nod their heads as though her words were sinking in. As far as they were concerned it was better than practicing how to block out the unnerving sounds and darkness of the Pit.

    Celine and Kevin take their seats on the opposite side of The Matron’s desk. Each time they enter this room Kevin stares at the pictures along her walls. Images of gods from every religion known to man, old and new. The animal-like gods of Hinduism and the volcanoes of Scientology, and even some of the newer ones like Cantology with pictures of famous poets and New Wave Christianity that has an image of someone shrouded in dark purple shadow on a horse, maybe even a unicorn. The pictures flash over the posters like cartoons, showing scenes from the old books.

    Knowing protocol Celine and Kevin put their hands in their laps and await The Matron’s speech. The Matron scrunches up her face at them causing Kevin and Celine to share a glance. They’re used to her shaking her head as she mutters a few “tsk tsks” by now.  

    “Why the constant fighting? Why do I have to see you two so often?”

    “I’m not trying to be unruly or whatever. Edgar got in my face and I don’t back down,” Kevin states as though she should’ve realized this by now.

    “I was there for support,” Celine adds. She blinks her eyes to convey an innocence everyone in the room knows she doesn’t have.

    “Do you realize that with your growing record things will not be easy for you two? Do you realize that with the plans set in motion you could be ruining your chances to start over?”

    “Plans? What plans?” Celine asks.

    “It hasn’t been announced yet. But you two are smart. I see it. You are hard workers.” She stares at Kevin, “And yes I know you don’t take any…crap.” She seems to stumble on the last word causing Kevin to stifle a laugh at her attempt to curse.

    The Matron folds her hands together and leans on her desk. She lowers her voice making Kevin and Celine pull their chairs closer to hear her.

    “I’m not supposed to say much about this, but we’re going to Earth. Well, some of us are. To repopulate the planet. To start anew. And only a chosen few are going to get this chance. So I wouldn’t screw it up if I were you.”

    “Earth! No way.” Celine waves her arm as though flicking away a bug.

    “I’m not joking, Ms. Middleton. We’re running out of resources here. Have you not noticed?”

    “We’re supposed to notice?” Kevin says with a laugh. “We get crap anyways, so what would less crap be like?” He pulls at his torn shirt for emphasis. Crossing his arms Kevin continues unable to believe what the woman in front of him is saying.

    Kevin remembers hearing about the collapse of civilization. He doesn’t recall exact details since he was often drawing sketches during classes rather than paying attention. What he does recollect is that a thousand years ago something happened, an explosion or chemical or biological warfare or whatever. It spread like dominoes all over the Earth.

    Celine mentioned to him that she heard about rationing more, especially at Holyoke, before the Acting Government applied it to the outside communities. Looking at their protein mush servings get smaller and smaller she said something was up. But Celine was the type to read up on those things and observe her surroundings. His sister understood things in days that it’d take him months or years to.

    Besides the fact that Celine’s female what separates them is that she’s a closet a computer genius. Learned it all from books alone. Given a computer and enough time she could probably hack into any system, Kevin was sure.

    Kevin noticed The Matron look at Celine with sad eyes whenever she brought up the future and the “possibilities being endless.” He doesn’t recall The Matron ever looking at him that way. Of course Kevin couldn’t say what was on The Matron’s mind when she focused on him. He tended to turn away for fear of pity or sympathy.

    She continues, “We’re forging a new world and to do that we have to learn the mistakes of the old one... That being said the plan is to take one hundred Holyoke residents to Earth in the next thirty days. You’ll be paired off and then sent down to start restructuring society. Building things, figuring out how a community will work in your area and so forth.”

    “Hold on. They’re gonna set us free to rebuild Earth. Why us? Like, why me and Celine?”

    “Why not you and Celine? You don’t think highly of yourself, do you Kevin? You really should. I’d recommend you if it weren’t for these stunts you keep pulling.”

    “No stunt Matron. Edgar fuc—messed with Kev first. I saw the whole thing.”

    “And of course you’re not biased in the least are you, Ms. Middleton?”

    Celine grins. “Course not.”

    The Matron points at them both with either hand. “Listen. Get your act together and you two will be part of something amazing. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want to help build the future for your society?”

    Celine and Kevin look at each other. Considering whether or not this is a prank or worse, false hope. 
______________________________________________
Story by: Jenn Baker
Photo by: Carros de Foc

No Place Like Home

 No Place Like Home

 

He arrived first. Weeks later she joined him. When there wasn’t anything else to do, which was often, they sat on the floor and drew. They surmised they were in each others’ age range and that they had both been taken. No words were shared among them, not even their names. They were taken upstairs once a day for schooling and a meal and sun. Once upstairs they saw how much color they were losing, how their skin began to blanch. Their squinted at each other barely getting used to the sunlight from the windows. As soon as their eyesight adjusted to the white paper, the yellow piercing through beige shades, the tattered but muted tones of the rug they were rushed back downstairs where they’d settle back into the gray.

The woman lead them to their room, or as she liked to insist along with them calling her “Angie” that they consider this place “home.” “Home” was a dank basement that was often cool, sometimes freezing, rarely warm. It was dark and it was moist. The dampness in the air settled on their skin as soon as they returned from "school."

After a couple weeks the girl thoroughly searched their surroundings. She found rope but no chains. She surveyed the toilet behind a folded wall and the sink with the faucet that dripped leaving a rusted stain around the drain. She found clothes that were definitely not in fashion now and smelled as stale as the basement.

The only window downstairs was painted shut with glass covered in so much soot it hid the outside world. It was small enough for their heads to fit through but nothing else. Though this didn’t stop her from trying by punching at it with no luck. When the two were next brought upstairs for studies they stood in the kitchen bathed in sunlight. Once the woman locked the basement door behind them the girl screamed her head off. The girl dodged hands attempting to catch her. She ran around the space as though on fire. The girl made it past the living room to the front door when she found what the boy had the first and last time he attempted the same thing. The locks needed keys from within. Still screaming, her cries ringing throughout the house tingling the boy’s inner ear it was so loud, she sped past the woman who hunched herself down attempting to soothe, shush, and capture the girl.

The boy waited in the kitchen, and he came soon enough. The man emerged in the doorway to the kitchen as the girl, quick like a monkey, had jumped the cabinets and was on the kitchen countertops trying to get through a window. The boy hadn’t thought of that. The girl was almost successful, almost, a window pane shattered from the kick of her sneakers and the force of her will but she was scooped up easy as ice cream. Her limbs fought, wouldn’t remain still. She kicked and flailed all over the place as the man took her upstairs where her screams were replaced with a different type. It was no longer a sound craving attention, this cry was in deep fear and understanding of what was to come. The boy was shooed downstairs by the woman, who insisted everything was going to be okay. They were the same words she said to them every day.

Later, maybe hours, maybe just long minutes, the girl returned, still putting up a fight. The man stumbled down the stairs, her body thrust over his shoulder, her screams muffled with a sock. As soon as he touched ground he thrust her onto the cot beside the boy. She lifted herself up ready to shriek again but the man made a motion for his pants pocket. Even with the one soft bulb the boy saw the cord eeking it's way out of his pocket. One peek at the girl's arms he saw her long sleeves revealed hints of lacerations. The girl sat back, but there was rebellion in her eyes. The man trudged up the stairs and sealed them into their new world. 

They weren’t allowed upstairs for a while after that. Food was brought down, left on the second step, and the door immediately shut leaving them back to their solitude. Drawing became routine. The girl sometimes scratched at her arms. She hid her legs by folding them under herself. He didn’t ask how she felt, he knew the sting of the cord. He wasn’t looking to feel that again.

As they sat on the floor scratching on paper was the only sound. Their fingertips were colored from the wax of the crayons and their hands dotted with the shavings they wiped away. When the girl spoke he had to look up to consider if he’d actually heard something. Her mouth was slightly ajar. Her eyes narrowed like she’d been waiting on his answer for too long.

“What are you drawing?” she asked. He dared a peek at her picture first, it was erratic scribbles but a rainbow of them that came together like a puzzle. He looked at his. His hands framed each side of the image, one he hadn’t even realized he’d been creating in the first place. A house with a chimney, a sun peering over the place like a guardian. To one side of the house were two people, a man and a woman and in the middle of them was a tiny figure that could only be a child, their child, specifically. It was a place he was starting to forget, yet hints of it still pervaded in his memory. The car he was shuttled into to go to and from real school, not a woman making things up while they remained shackled to the table listening but not listening. Before answering he wrote the word under it then held the paper up to the girl.

She mouthed the four letter word and nodded before tearing up her illustration and starting again. “Let me show you my home too,” she said as she reached for a new sheet of paper. 

____________________________________________________________________

Story by: Jenn Baker
Image courtesy of Graur Codrin/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

March Photo and Announcement(s)!

First things first...

 

Happy almost spring everybody! Hope the days are getting warmer, sunnier, and the snow has melted, if you got snow. Us northeasters got a lot of it. 

Here's our March photo and here's hoping it provides some cool stories or inspiration for whatever medium you choose. This image is courtesy of graur codrin from Freedigitalphotos.net.

In addition....

It's been exciting and busy times for the ladies of Fiction Femme Fatale. With good news all around.

If you didn’t already know Amy and Krystalyn both have new, bright & shiny (and fabulous) books coming out later this year!

Last August Amy’s debut YA contemporary thriller GATED published with Random House Books for Young Readers. And just a few weeks ago Amy publicized the paperback cover for it along with the cover for the sequel, ASTRAY where Lyla’s intense story of being raised in a cult continues. This is a thriller you don’t want to miss as Lyla tries to navigate two worlds and finds herself a stranger in both.

In preparation for ASTRAY’s release on August 26th Amy is going on tour with authors Jessica Khoury, Christina Farley, Jessica Brody, and Anna Banks. You can see a teaser trailer here on YouTube. Amy will also continue to do regular video blogs over at YA Rebels on Tuesdays.

You can already preorder copies of ASTRAY on Amazon.com or make sure to request that your local, indie booksellers have it when it comes out.

Krystalyn debuted two YA fantasy novels last year. LEGASEA with Curiosity Quills and SPIRIT WORLD (both are available on Amazon). Her new book is a middle grade fantasy adventure, and frankly the main character is adorable as well as spirited. TRACY TAM: SANTA COMMAND will release with Month9Books in October. We can’t wait to share the cover with you once it’s officially official.

TRACY TAM follows Tracy as she seeks to dispel the myth of Santa in order to win a contest and help her sick cousin. But when she follows Old St. Nick's elves she realizes he may not be a myth after all.

We’re also happy to congratulate Jennifer on being one of the winners of the 2013 SCBWI On-the-Verge Emerging Voices Award for her speculative YA manuscript, THE FACILITY! SCBWI’s executive director Lin Oliver stated, “We were very impressed with The Facility and believe that [it will be] a valuable contribution to children’s literature.” The Emerging Voices Award seeks to foster the emergence of diverse voices in children’s books. As a winner of this award Jennifer will get an all-expense paid trip to attend this summer’s SCBWI conference in L.A. Jennifer was recently featured on the SCBWI blog in an interview with Lee Wind.

We’d also love to hear news from fellow writers as well. Sharing means caring after all. :-)

Observer

Observer

It’s kinda weird to watch the world unravel. To witness people getting shoved into blankets of snow now dented and dirtied into gray slush. To see those people, men, women, children, babies--no one is safe against the wave--bodies pressed deeper into the wetness, mouths taking in gobs of slush and cries barely heard. What could be thought of as snow angels are in the ground but instead there are lumps of where people fell and struggled to get back up.

A hand squeezes mine, a faint squeeze, unsure, kind of like a dull heartbeat. I squeeze back to let my sister know I’m here. Her face is pressed against my coat. I refuse to let her see the worst parts. She can hear it of course. It’s not like the phone booth we’re in is soundproof. The glass is cold to the touch and the wind thrums against it at a steady percussive rhythm.

My sister says something garbled into my coat but I clench her tighter watching while a man kicks someone in front of him, not prompted or anything. That person goes down into the ivory blanket face first. The man steps atop the body and keeps moving, his next step pushing his victim’s head further into the snow and it’s almost like I can hear the crunch of his shoe on the skull that I need to shut my eyes.

“Mmmpfhh,” my sister says. Maybe my nails are digging deep into her down coat but I see the drops of rust seep into the ivory around the person lying on the ground. The opposite of a snow angel.

The herd moves past us. Not noticing the booth we’re in, how it stands out amidst the streets and trees and snow. Perhaps from yards away no one is thinking about two girls in there scared out of their wits while hoping they’re invisible for the first time ever.

Our parents told us to run. They shouted it at us while zipping up our coats and wrapping our heads in scarves. My sister with tears in her eyes and me trying to hold them back as we were shoved, tripping down stairs in our apartment building and then outside. Snow up to our ankles, more of it falling into the open crevices of my coat. In my father’s brown eyes his fear matched his voice. “Run and don’t look back,” he said. I did as I was told, my sister rarely ever does.

My sister squirms in my hold but manages to speak actual words.

“I’m hot!” she mutters, angry.

“Shush!” I grab her again but she pulls away. There’s not a lot of space in this booth but when she backs away her head hits the telephone and jars it enough to fall on her head. I almost laugh. She doesn’t find it funny and rubs her head with a mashed look on her face willing me to shut up. I do.

“Not funny,” she insists.

“Sorry, moonbug,” I say. And just as her eyes try to focus on the outside I hear the crack in the air, practically splitting it. I hunch down and grab her with me so that we’re on the wet and dirty ground of the booth. I already feel the slush of snow we brought in seep into my jeans and the heat of my sister’s breath on my cheek. When I peek through the windows I see the smoking gun and the white clouds coming out the mouth of a woman holding it. The man who did the kicking before is laid out, arms spread, oozing life, just like the one he did in.

The woman wears a long skirt. She lifts it up revealing boots tied up her calves and takes delicate steps in the snow. She leans down at the man's victim. Her lips move, maybe saying a prayer, maybe a curse. She kisses the top of his head, bows hers, and closes her eyes. After a moment she rises. Other people have scattered from the sound. My sister and I remain crouched, invisible. That is, until her focus lands on us. She squints her eyes our way. I turn my head, cuddle up to my sister hoping the gray wool of our coats make us indistinct inside the booth, but it’s the booth that stands out. Red, tall, and imposing amidst the snow. I wait. Hearing the snow fold under feet, the swish of a skirt slide and bunch up the elements under her. Then there’s the whoosh of a breeze when the door folds in. When I look up she holds the gun, barrel down, and smiles at us.

“Ladies, don’t you know the end of the world is coming?” she asks like it’s the most natural question in the world.

I don’t say anything. My teeth chatter too much for me to even respond. I tremble so much I don’t know if it’s just me or if my sister is adding to it.

“Come on now.” She beckons with the nose of the gun as if it’s her finger and not a weapon. “C’mon. I don’t bite. Enough people out there doing biting for us. Us ladies have to stick together.” She winks at me. I don’t move and don’t allow my sister to move under me. We’re merged together and I’ll be damned if we’re headed anywhere with someone who’s packing.

It’s not until a shadow hovers over her, piercing through darkening the booth inside. It’s when the man lurches for her and, without a glance backwards, she flips the gun under her palm to face behind her and clicks with no hesitation that another body falls. He thumps right onto the ground with white powder spraying up under him. That's when I understand how true her words are.

“I’m Celeste by the way,” she says, tucking the weapon into a holster around her skirt. 

_________________________________________________________________________

Story by: Jenn Baker 

Photo by: wintersixfour

First Look

First Look

I need to see his face. This whole time I’ve seen the back of his head. Lumps of flesh packed together. Hands that seem older from afar, wrinkled, pockmarked, shaking if you look at them long enough. He favors one side when he walks, even as he stands his left side seems to sink into the sod.

He won’t turn around. Or maybe it’s the angles I’m watching him from. Never face on but from behind. Even when I feel like I catch up. My body speeding up to try and even get a profile view but in those moments he’s too quick. His head jerks away and I get a glimpse of a nose that may have been broken in a fight or two with a dent in the middle looking like a ridge in a mountain.

Wisps of white hair not even noting what was. So many parts I get to see but not the whole and I need to see his face.

He stands on the edge of the land with a jacket above his head. It’s not even raining so I don’t quite get it but he’s covering his face again. I can’t be sure. I can’t leave until I’m certain.

“We have to go,” she whispers behind me. I plant my feet down daring her to move me. She could, she could get the reserves to really but it’ll have to come to that.

I don’t turn to look at her. I feel the wind whip through me and see it push past him. His jacket waving like a flag beckoning the boats passing in the water. He stares ahead and I stare at him waiting, knowing he’ll have to make the slightest movement at some point and face me so I can see.

“You’ll have to trust me on this.”

That’s when I whip around to her and stare her right in those judgmental orbs she calls eyes trying to stare me down. “Why should I?”

“Because this is your—”

“Bullshit,” I spit at her and spit at the ground by her. She jumps back shocked. 

“You want us to stay in line and tell us and show us what you think we need to see. But I need to know for sure. I don’t trust you.”

Her eyes go thin. “You should. We know what’s best.”

I turn around. Refusing to get absorbed in those eyes in any way.

He heaves. His whole body seems to lift and lower on itself, as if adjusting for a better fit. He takes one step to the edge, another, and another shuffling as he goes, leaving tracks in the ground. With every inch he moves towards the edge I move closer to him.

“You can’t,” she says but I don’t listen. I keep sliding forward. My body light, airy, translucent to him but I refuse to let him go any further without confirmation.

“You can’t get involved!” her voice rises bordering on a yell until it’s a shriek of “You can’t!”

His head is down, the blazer completely covering him as a shell does a turtle. He moves like one, looks like one, is going to join the sea as if it’s his natural habitat but the bastard cannot end it before I get a look.

I rush on him reaching out as one foot hovers out like there’s an invisible step the other still planted on the ground. My hand goes through him but I keep trying. I’m swiping at air trying to keep his body from tipping forward and going into the sea. When he goes down it’s face first still. I throw myself off the edge along with him, my body floating than falling faster than his. I go through him, feel a sudden charge in myself as our bodies merge briefly during the fall and then turn around so that I can finally, finally view him face on.

Once again, it’s the eyes that get me. Not just the eyeballs but the skin around it. The scar above the eyebrow from the fight with one kid afterschool. The one gray/blue eye and the other green from the transplant after losing it but having given way worse than I got. There are more scratches, wounds, marks of a guy whose fights didn’t end in adolescence but carried over into adulthood.

It hits me how much things will have to change once the water pushes against my back, he and I hitting it with a smack at the same time. 
____________________________________________________
Photo by: Kostas Kitsos
Story by: Jenn Baker

Happy New Year! Picture for January

Happy New Year! You may still be hibernating after NYE or not ready to start saying 2014 yet. We're with you. We completely understand. But, new year, new month, new photo prompt!

Maybe you have a resolution to write more? If so, this would be a prime opportunity to do so. This month's photo is from Kostas Kitsos (Thanks, Kostas!). And you can find more of his work (in Greece) at his website: http://tzibis.blogspot.com/.

Hope this picture inspires you for whatever medium you choose.

Past Favorite 2013 (Jenn)

Hey all!

Now is the time of year where we reflect, no? In our sense here we're reflecting on some of our fave stories each of the Fiction Femme Fatale(rs) have written. This year I get to choose a story from my buddy Amy who's had quite the whirlwind year with her debut GATED being published. So not only have you seen her work in snippets on this site over the past two years, but you also got to see her full-fledged work and see in print and on the screen how super talented she is.

Of course choosing one story is never easy. But I settled on "Digging," which coincidentally pubbed a week or so after GATED. Coincidence? Perhaps. I think this is a great character study story into a person's deep want to feel and how far they may go to get there. It's a fantastic piece that I think could be a longer story. I think a lot of things. I fell all in for the narrator and just wanted more, more, more. So enjoy a refresher of "Digging" by Amy. 

 

He's late.

I can tell because the sun is cresting the waves, gilding them on its way into the sky. I kick my foot through the sand and water, sending both flying out in front of me. Just once I'd like to be the last one to show up--for him to have to wait on me. I pull at my jeans...well, not my jeans exactly, but my dad's. I always wear his old pair when I go shelling with Ryan. I like how loose they are on my legs and the swell of my hips when I kneel. Besides, they smell like motor oil and leather and this smell more than anything calms me. I need to be calm. If I seem nervous Ryan'll just laugh when I tell him what I want him to do.

I walk a little farther down the beach and towards Ryan's house. If I'm quiet maybe I can sneak around the side of it and tap on his window, make sure he's up. If he doesn't come soon I won't get to ask him anything at all. The sun'll be up and the beach crowds will slowly start to file in. I tug at the waistband of my jeans. I've got them rolled up past my knees to keep them dry, but pretty soon they'll be wet through. I can never seem to keep my clothes from drowning when I'm out here. Probably because I can't keep my feet from wandering farther and farther into the surf. The tide pulls me the same as it does the waves. I can feel it deep in my stomach, an invisible lead line pulling me out into colder waters.

I'm almost all the way to Ryan's when he trots out onto the sand. His hair is still ruffled from sleep and the skin under his eyes is puffy.

"Sorry," he mumbles in between yawns. "But tell me why it is that we always have to go shelling this early? There are still good ones out here for hours."

"So we can be alone," I say. I try to make my voice soft and sweet--laced with innocence and something quite the opposite. It's not an easy trick and so far this summer I haven't managed it, but today maybe I have because he smiles and the faintest hint of red colors the skin just above his shirt collar.

My stomach flutters a little, but I tamp it down. "So, I saw some cool ones down past the dunes," I say my voice dipping lower on the last word and almost shudder at how awkward the words seem coming out of my mouth. One look at me and anyone can see that I'm no seductress. Even if I'd worn a low necked top or tiny shorts--especially if I'd worn those.

"You want...the dunes, really?" Ryan looks skeptical, but also hopeful. It won't take much to tip him more firmly in the hopeful direction. So I do.

"Yeah, I think we should. You want to right?" I take his hand and pull him towards the dunes. There's no mistaking what I'm asking him to do. No one goes there for anything else.

We sit across from each other in the sand. I look up at him because he's looking at me, but I can't look at his eyes. In a weird way I think I might cry if I do, so I look just past his ear instead, at the thick black curl that hugs the curve of it. Sometimes people describe ears as shell-like. I think I read that in a book somewhere which always sort of made sense to me because the way they spiral inward toward the head...but wait, that doesn't matter right now. I shake my head and try to quiet the stream of random thoughts tumbling around my brain. We don't talk, we just stare each other down, both of us waiting for the other to take the lead. It should probably be me since I asked him over here, but I can't seem to make myself close the distance between us. I swallow and fidget onto my knees and then scootch forward an inch, hope that it's enough.

Ryan's hand goes up to my chin. His thumb strokes my cheek. He inches forward a little too. His hand hovers on my face and for a moment I'm sure that he's going to change his mind, stand up and start searching for the perfect Shark's Eye Moon Shell, but then he surprises me and leans closer instead. Our lips touch. This is not amazing or magical or new. We've kissed plenty of times, but never when we knew for sure it was leading to something more. The something more makes it feel more business-like to me. It's as if this moment is an obstacle we're both determined to conquer.

I like that his lips are soft. I don't like that his mouth always tastes like mint toothpaste. I hate mint. I'm a cinnamon all the way kind of girl. Still, even with the mint the kiss is pleasant enough and it isn't long before he's pulled me closer still until we're pressed together from forehead to thigh. I grip his arms with my hands and then sit back on my heels. Our teeth clack together a little as he comes with me, his hands digging into the sand by my shoulders as we lay down. I shiver, but it isn't nerves or lust. It's cold. The air is nippy and the sun isn't up enough yet to warm us. I open my eyes and stare at Ryan. His eyes are closed. This close, his face is comical, all eyebrows and pores and nose coming at me and I have to really concentrate so I don't laugh. I close my eyes again then wonder if he ever opens his and sees me the way I just saw him. I hope not.

I nestle into the sand and let Ryan's mouth move away from my lips to my neck and then farther down. I stare up at the sky and watch the clouds move across it. I watch as a particularly fat one morphs into different shapes. A rabbit. A dinosaur. I wait to feel...I don't know...the chills? Ripples of desire maybe? (this is how they describe passion in the books I pick up once a week from the rounder at the Quick Mart downtown and although the words always make me shudder, I still can't stop thinking of them as the truest description of what should be happening to me). I try to imagine them--the ripples--and hope that by doing this I will be able to create them inside of me. It doesn't work.

Ryan moans softly, his breath hot on my neck. He seems to have the ripples down pat. He settles more heavily on me and I can't breathe. This makes all my imagining even harder. Now I'm too aware of all the ways I'm uncomfortable--the sand slipping into my shirt and jeans, the gulls screaming so loud above us that my ears hurt and I can't do it.

"I can't," I say to the sky and to Ryan. He hesitates, is face over mine, hovering there, blocking out the shape shifting cloud. He waits for me to change my mind and pull him back down and I wait for him to accept that I won't. I want him to be right about what I'll do. I don't want to be this girl, the one who can't seem to feel anything past pleasant. I want to be reckless--like the ocean beside us, not over thinking every moment that we touch, but no matter how much I search or dig inside myself, I come up empty...just like the shells still littering the beach.


Story by: Amy Christine Parker
Picture by: Fadzly @ Shutterhack

Jenn's Book Recommendations (Series)

Once again we're posting favorite and recommended books. This year I'm focusing on series.

Wicked by Gregory Maguire: There's a lot going on here and Maguire takes the reader on a ride in Oz. The larger politics for the arrival and dictatorship by the Wizard. The segregation of so many groups. How Elphaba (the wrongly deemed Wicked Witch of the West) and Glinda (originally Galinda) became best friends despite their differences. There's a world of love and pain in Wicked that comes full circle in the end, even though you may already know how it ends. It's heavy in terms of world-building and Maguire stuffs a good amount of description in this text, yet it is such a spectacularly recreated world I highly recommend. I enjoyed Wicked immensely and the sequel Son of a Witch. The third and fourth/final books in the series were a bit much for me, but I'd still suggest them if you're interested in every character's full arc. If Elphaba is the one you love the most than you may want to stop at Wicked. 

The Apothecary by Maile Meloy with illustrations by Ian Schoenherr: Maile Meloy is a lauded writer of short fiction and novels (primarily for an adult audience) and The Apothecary is her first foray into writing for children/teens. She wrote The Apothecary with the intention for it to be a standalone, but having received so many letters from her new young fans she decided to expand and make it a trilogy. The Apprentices released earlier this year and the final book is due out next year. I'm excited. I've met Maile a handful of times since she's toured in NYC and she is super friendly, really kind, a fantastic writer, and a fan of cupcakes. So what is there not to like? What pulled me into this series were the great balance of illustrations by Ian and the history that Maile weaves into Janie's coming-of-age tale. Janie is an American in England (post World War II) who gets thrust into a world she's not prepared to be in and realizes some of her potential. The series gets a bit darker in the second book and who knows how dark it may go in the finale but I'd highly suggest that readers check it out if they haven't along with Maile's other work because she has a way with characters and tension and especially dialogue. 

The Dream Thieves by Maggie Stiefvater: Everyone here at Fiction Femme Fatale is a huge Maggie Stiefvater fan (as you can see from Krystalyn's post last week & Stefanie's the year before). I became aware of her with the Shiver trilogy. I found the first book in my old company's library several years ago when I needed something to read on the ride home. Since then, hooked. Dream Thieves is the sequel to The Raven Boys series (which will be four books total). Maggie has a literary style and digs deep into her characters. I mean DEEP. It's a multiple POV series and in the sequel you get more of the hard-ass character of Ronan. My God you will adore him after reading this book. I couldn't stop thinking about Dream Thieves a couple of weeks after I read it and even went back to the first book to see the clues that Maggie left there. Woman is masterful in her writing and great to her fans. If you haven't read a Maggie book yet I'd advise you to stop reading this post (okay finish reading and then) head to your nearest bookstore/library and read one of her books. ANY of them, now. 

Days of Blood & Starlight by Laini Taylor: This is also a sequel in the Daughter of Smoke & Bone series and man if I said Apprentices was a bit dark than this book is pitch black! Like Maggie, Laini has a literary and fantastical style that is all her own and quite unique in the humor she weaves in with the drama and more action-packed moments. She can write some of the most heartbreaking scenes you've ever read which means you're invested in her characters and books for the long haul. Karou and Akiva are like Romeo & Juliet as seraphim and demons. The sequel sets off a larger story that is set to end next spring and I am psyched. One of Laini's books was on my recommendations last year and I'm more than happy to recommend her again because this series is a standout. 

The 5th Wave by Rick Yancey: I heard the hype and was refusing to indulge but hey Rick Yancey was at Book Expo, so was I, so why not get a copy? I have since raved about my love for this book. The main characters of Cassie and Zombie are so refreshing. Angry and prideful and flawed but determined and loyal and fighters down deep. From the first moments with Cassie on her own to Zombie's emergence as a soldier and even a couple 3rd-person POVs thrown in Rick takes you through the waves that slowly took down a world and how the rest of it is coming to an end all the while the climax for this first book is: what is the 5th and (final?) wave? I was into it from page one to the end and this is one of those times when I am anxious because I have to wait a year (or less by now) for the next book and then another year for the one after that. Dang.

Happy reading, writing (aka NaNoWriMo), and holidays!