Workshop Piece 1: Images. Show, Don’t Tell

Text from Mr. E___: “Why is Dylan missing and when’s he coming back? Where are the files I asked for? I thought you had something unbelievable to show me. Something that, ‘goes beyond science.’ Are you going to return my messages? What do I do with this picture you sent me?”

Dear Mr. E___,

            I told you that I had some strange files uploaded online and I’ll show them to you. If you have any “logical explanations” then you can write me back. If science can explain what happened to Dylan, I’ll owe you one hundred dollars. Didn’t I warn you that you didn’t want to be a paranormal spy? What I can tell you is that Dylan’s texts indicate that he planned to visit his crush’s apartment. You’ll see that’s not what happened. Attached are my credentials so you can view the video.

            From,

            Detective Orson

            PS. Ignore the static and technicolor glitches. I’m an investigator, not a video editor.

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Spontaneous Evaporation.mp4

00:00:00 – 00:27:03

Start of Video

            A fountain bubbled and gurgled nearby. The sun blinded and burned overhead, scorching the road beneath it. Car horns blared as drivers screeched by, cursing the red stoplights. Children skipped and sang rhymes. How many snakes had bitten Cinderella before she died? Dylan laid on the grass, using his jacket as a pillow. He nodded his head to the music. He tilted his head to the side, his eyes glazed over as he stared into the vacant space. Whoever or whatever filled his thoughts had blinded him from the park around him. The oak did a great job of hiding Dylan, too; after every other song, a stranger tripped over him.

            “Sorry,” one child said.

            “Freak. I thought the park banned people like you.”

            Dylan groaned and clenched his fingers, that jock scuffed his books. He shook his watch near his ear and listened to the gears. Time ticked slower than he thought. He plucked at the grass and stared off again. Dylan banged his head against the tree.

            “What track meet takes over an hour?” Dylan said. “Anekka was supposed to meet me here.”

            On his left was the high school.

            Dylan glanced at a picture on his phone.

            On his right was the train station. If he ran now, he could meet Zia at work.

            “She kissed me. It meant something, right?”

            Dylan scrabbled to his feet. He scratched his hands on the ground. He skidded forward and ran. Skateboarders swerved out of his way. Kids splattered popsicles at him. Each gasp prickled and pierced his lungs as he ran. Dylan spun around the crosswalk pole. He jumped over the stairwell railing. He didn’t notice he had left his jacket at the park.

            “How does Anekka do this every week?” Dylan bent over, panted, and clutched at his knees. “What’s that blue light?”

            It glimmered and hummed. The light was a halo calling out to Dylan. It burned his fingers when he touched it. The light became flames spreading across his arm. Its humming buzzed and echoed in his ears. Dylan winced at the pain when the sound sang in his mind. The light captured him. It swallowed him. It slammed him a century into the past. Suddenly, Dylan was covered in mud.

00:27:03 – 00:27:03

End of Video

Workshop Piece 2: Dialogue and Tension

Zita hunched over the kitchen counter as she chewed on her glasses’ stem. Her rent increased and the other bills towered beside her. The afternoon sun drifted through the curtains, worsening her headache. Her phone buzzed itself off the counter and clattered on the floor, yet her father’s face kept flashing on the screen. How did he get my phone number? She stared at the postcard in front of her, her father’s scrawled handwriting stared back. How did get my address? Zita clutched her stomach, tasting breakfast in her mouth again. Connor deserves a sister who can protect him. A sister who could afford his tuition. Her head ached with thoughts that spun around like a carousel. If this stress didn’t leave, she would give herself another ulcer. She knelt and picked up her phone, saw her father’s text, then read the postcard he gave her. It read:

            Dear Felicitas,

            I know you’re angry that I left you and Connor, but how was I supposed to stay when he wasn’t my son? Your mother’s the one that cheated. I am sorry who had to raise him though. Besides, you should understand you’re like me since you go after younger men, and I chase after younger women. How do you think Connor will feel that you kissed his best friend? How do you think Dylan’s parents will feel that a twenty-seven-year-old woman kissed their teenage son? I can solve that problem. At least phone me or write me back for an answer.

            Love,

            Your Father,

Harvey Eld

As if it proved his point, her dad sent a photo of her with Dylan. Zita knew whoever took the photo didn’t care about her. Most people who met Mr. Eld avoided him afterward. Who would be so thoughtless to send him anything to him, let alone a picture of her kissing Dylan? If anyone questioned her, they likely wouldn’t listen to her story or what led up to it.

            Very few people had given Zita a flower; Connor had for International Sisters’ Day, but that was a year ago. The canaries sang from the trees, the grass rustled in the breeze, and pink leaves welcomed spring into the city. Dogs caught frisbees for their owners, and kids skateboarded by, scattering pebbles behind them. Months passed since Zita had lunch with her coworkers and it was by chance that Dylan walked by her work on Saturday. There wasn’t harm in going to a café with him. After all, she wouldn’t allow Connor to befriend anyone that she didn’t trust herself. Plus, she could use a break from all the crunching numbers and undoing her bosses’ mistakes. There wasn’t harm in walking back to her building with Dylan.

            Tears stung her eyes when Dylan made her laugh. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so lightheaded with relief. Dylan asked how she felt and how she was doing. Not even her coworkers did that.  He said he didn’t know what he wanted after high school. Zita confided that she “wanted her childhood back.” Still, what Zita remembered the most about that day was the aster.

            I’m supposed to be Connor’s sister, not his mom.” She said, “But I’m used to being an afterthought.”

            It was the technicolor garden that caught Dylan’s attention, the sun was a spotlight on the small garden. The flower he plucked was violent violet, fading to blue at the edges. He spun the flower between his fingers and walked back over to Zita. He slid into the seat beside her and clutched both of her hands into his. Dylan shuffled the aster into her hands.

            “You’re not an afterthought, Zita,” he said as he handed her the flower.

            Maybe it was how Dylan’s lips jutted out when he spoke and that he showed her kindness. Maybe spring sprites cause strangers to fall in love. Either way, Zita took Dylan’s face in her hands and kissed him. She felt warmth burning inside her. She felt the chapped lines across his lips. Zita pressed her body against Dylan. Her heartbeat thudded along with his. His body curved with hers. She bit his lip. Hunger and heat rose and spread throughout her. He sparked her childhood dreams and wishes in her. Dylan’s hand clutched at her waist as she felt herself topple forward. For once she wanted to feel reckless and thoughtless.

            She felt the cold glass as she bumped against the window, it forced the two of them apart. Zita’s shoulders slumped, she covered and rubbed her eyes. Although Dylan stared at her like his eyes were melting with kindness. Her lips tingled from their kiss, and she wanted his mouth on her again. Zita’s stomach started aching, her head spun with scribbled thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

            Connor slammed open the door, taking Zita out of her own thoughts. Connor threw his backpack onto the sofa, pushed his hair back, and slid his phone over to his sister. The top notification was a missed call from their father.

            “Why’s dad calling us? You said he couldn’t find us here.” Connor said. “You said you fixed everything.”

            Zita scrolled through the rest of the messages as she massaged her throbbing head. Finally, she handed her brother back his phone.

            “I didn’t know that he could find us here, Connor,” Zita said, her voice rose and rose until it cracked. “I didn’t know that Dad had friends who would track us for him. I just found out he got my new number. I don’t have any answers for you!”

            “But he called you first! You have to know something.”

            “I don’t understand him, though. Why would any dad leave their kids?”

            Connor hung his head and held his hands together. “I wish it was Mom that was calling us. Don’t you?”

            Zita froze.

            Her stomach tightened. Her nausea turned into stabbing pains. Not even splashing water brought back the color to her face. Zita didn’t hear the thud when she hit the floor. She had some memory of the bitter scent of bleach and vomit. Connor’s face blurred when she woke up in her bed. By this point, Zita couldn’t even remember their mother’s face or her voice, but she remembered that Mrs. Eld and something to do with Mr. Eld’s reappearance.

            “So, can you tell me about mom?” Connor said.

            “Did Dylan act any different today?”

Workshop Piece 3

Dear Reader,

Make sure you delete this video from your computer. Even better, wipe this video from your hard drive. We will be watching you.

Suspiciously Yours,

President of the Paranormal Professionals’ Association

P.S. Sorry for the glitches, our video editor is in Aruba.

Sunflowers and Conjurings.mp4

            Crows caw overhead and flew high enough to blot out the moon. Nothing shined in from the window. Leaves fell from the trees. The clock in the attic ticked away the time. Anekka’s feet creaked on the splintered, wooden floorboards. She scattered salt around in a circle, then drew a pentagram in crumbling red chalk. Once or twice, she burnt her fingers on the matches. Her family’s attic smelled of burnt wax and dust. As the clock turned to midnight, Anekka sat cross-legged on the floor and flipped through a spellbook. She kept the sunflower vase next to her for luck. After all, if demons could invade her when she didn’t want them to, they would enjoy her body if she invited them in.

            The spell was difficult to say. She didn’t know Welsh and so didn’t know to chant this ancient runic rhyme. She drummed her fingers along as she chanted the spell. She pricked her finger with the needle and pinched a blood drop on the page.

            The wind howled. Her voice creaked. The flames flickered out, flooding the room in darkness. Something crawled and writhed up her spine. A prickly chill pierced through her skin and spread inside her. Instead of howling, the wind broke through the window with sunflower petals fluttering and falling around her. Anekka screeched. She clawed her fingers into the floor. You’re not running away. You’re not running away. A rusted red voice said, echoing through the room.

            Whatever it was had thrown the girl to the floor. It smelled of ash and dug itself deeper into Anekka’s body.

            It called its friends to him, inviting them to join their game. One was a bloodied, tire-marked man and the other was a Southern belle ghost. He planted himself in Anekka’s heart and the woman made her home inside Anekka’s mind. The main demon controlled everything else.

            Anekka was their marionette. They forced her clobbering feet to the dust-covered mirror. One of them tried choking her with the one remaining sunflower. The other cut her hand again. In a bloody, cursive scrawl, all of them forced Anekka to write on the glass. It read:

                        “We share the same soul. It doesn’t belong to a silly girl like you.”

Workshop 4: Going Cold

            From the Failed Forgotten Memories Club.

            A child doesn’t forget. Memories may bleed into each other. Faces blur until they’re faceless and featureless. Children don’t forget fear or when their father causes it. Mr. Eld was a shadow with a beer bottle. Extra stains were scattered around his seat. His wife had left him. His daughter, Felicitas, would be back home with a friend with her. Connor, his son, trembled and sniffled and coughed beside him. This was the third drink the kindergartener dropped on his way to bed. “Drop it again and your books are next!” Connor scurried away to his bedroom. The door lock clicked. The keyhole turned. The front door was pushed open. Felicitas walked inside first. A shorter girl pulled and stretched Felicitas’ arm, asking where Connor was. Felicitas crinkled her nose when she smelled her father’s beer breath. She shuddered and slid away when her father tried hugging her. She pushed Anekka down the corridor toward the end bedroom.

            Felicitas told Connor to get back into bed. She kissed his forehead and tossed some toy animals his way. She told Connor and Anekka not to speak, she promised him soup and a treat for his new friend. Glass smashed. Speech slurred, rushed, and rewound itself before replaying again. “Take Connor’s little whore home, then he can clean up this mess!” The matchbox cars didn’t stop Mr. Eld; he scooped himself up and thundered down the hall. He banged on the doors. He smiled as Connor and Anekka trembled and hugged each other.