New Hope Cover Page

Hey Hey!

Here's a pic of Christina one of the characters in the comic I'm writing.

Stay tuned for more previews!

This drawing was penned and painted by my friend Melanie Rose.

Heres her blog

takinglifeapageatatime

Monthly Short Story: May

Story Prompt:

Write a story that takes place at a funeral college.

~~~~~~

04/19/2015

Dear Grandma Elma,

Hi there! Stacy here. Remember when I was whining about my retail job you told me I’d be better off working for the dead? Well turns out you were right lol. I’ll be graduating High School this semester and the pressure to pick a college just keeps mounting. It’s all my parents can talk about. One day, they threatened to pick for me if I didn’t take college seriously. I was fed up. To prove to them I could be serious, I picked the most serious and depressing profession I could find, funeral director.

I know what your thinking, but yes, Funeral College is a thing that exists.

You should have seen the looks on their faces when they heard their spunky little cheerleader wanted to service the dead. Ha! I’ll probably regret this 4 years from now. But I can always go back to change careers if I’m unhappy, right? I don’t have a clear passion anyway.

The website was eerily normal. In the video, the college president went on about their low student to professor ratio, high job placement rate, and “hands-on experience.” No goths in sight. Just older men sitting in offices with casket designs on their wall. I’m not sure if that is any less unsettling.

Anywho, just writing to let you know not to worry. Despite what Mom says, I can find fun in anything, even a stuffy funeral home.

Love your granddaughter,

Stacy <3

08/12/2015

Dear Granny E,

Hello again! Guess who...it’s Stace, soon to be a funeral director! Yep, I’m still sticking to this. We took a tour of the college last month. For a tiny college, the architecture was pretty cool. The brick walls and iron gates gave it an old-timey feel.

After driving for five hours in a silent car, the tour guide’s warm greeting was refreshing. There were only two other families there, which was more than what I expected. Mom later said she liked how ‘intimate’ it felt. Translation: she was unimpressed.

We saw the classrooms, the bookstore, and the cremation lab. You almost forget you're at a funeral college until you pass the embalming demonstration.

I could feel Dad glaring at me the whole time. He was just waiting for me to chicken out. The dress code almost did me in. We’re talking formal wear to all my classes. No t-shirts, no tennis shoes, no tank tops. I nearly quit then and there. Then I saw my folks exchange a knowing glance. No way was I going to prove them right! So I bit my tongue.

Near the end of the tour, our guide shared the school's philosophy with us. “The goal of this institution is  to equip students with the skills they’ll need to treat the dead, comfort the living, and make the planning process as smooth as possible.”

Sounds doable to me.

Love you lots!

Stacy

06/03/2016

Dear Grandma,

Wow! it's been a while. Sorry, I haven’t written more but so much has been happening. I don’t know where to start. Well, my first class was Thanatology (the study of the dead). It was a lot more involved than I thought. We learn forensics and how different societies treat death. My favorite class is the Floral Arrangements class. I’m also taking World Religion, Psychology, and Stress Management. I was confused by the Stress Management class at first. Whose stress am I learning to manage, my own or my customers? I didn’t fully understand until I started the funeral home internship.

On my first day, I worked at the desk answering the phone and scheduling guests. At first, I approached it like my retail job, service with a smile. It worked with older families who were expecting the death, but my chipper attitude seemed wrong when a young couple came in. The wife could barely speak. The husband spoke with no emotion. While inputting the measurements for the casket, I understood why. It was the size of a child. I wanted to embrace them or offer some form of comfort, but I was dumbfounded. Smiling in front of them felt wrong.

Thankfully, Mr. Riverstone, the funeral director, came out and greeted the couple. I watched as they went over the details and paperwork. He waited patiently every time the couple broke into tears. The couple’s longest breakdown lasted 30 minutes. He only repeated himself when they asked, and he had answers for all their questions. The whole time, Mr. Riverstone had a sobering stillness about him. He had probably seen cases like these hundreds of times. Still, he was steady as an anchor and as warm as summer.

It isn’t just him either. Everyone, from the tour guide to the professors to my classmates, has a quiet optimism about them. They spend every day planning the celebration of people’s lives. Meanwhile, I was just there to spite my parents.

I think...I want what they have.

I want to learn how to be there for those who are neck deep in tears.

I want to offer relief to them in perhaps the darkest times of their lives.

I want...to be a funeral director.

Love Stacy

Monthly Short Story: April

Story Prompt:

You develop a sixth sense. Every person who has ever killed someone now has a bright crimson aura that only you can see.

~~~~~~

There it is again! That rising crimson mist that radiates from any soul who has killed another. Somehow my heartbeat pounds louder than the clacking subway. I try to tear my gaze away, but it is so much easier to stare while hidden in a sea of people.

Picture By Andrea L

 I have lived with this vision for three months now. Cops, doctors, veterans, and everyday people involved in accidents are haunted by it. Some seemed weighted down, others numb, while a few were at peace. Most of the auras I had seen were a dull fog.

But this was different. This aura flickered like a flame, engulfing the killer. The middle-aged man leaned motionless against a pillar, eyes closed. His off-white shirt is untucked and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His tie and jacket hang over his broad shoulders as if he just came from a business meeting. How many lives had he taken? Were they all deliberate?

Without warning, Mr. Executive’s eyes open and he begins to turn towards me. Desperately, I try to look as preoccupied with my phone as possible. The mesmerizing red light still dancing at my side, I moved back only my eyes. To my relief, the Mr. E is only answering a phone call. I breathe again.

The man hangs up, his every movement steady and calculating. Before he returns to rest, he scans the area as if looking for something. His next target maybe? This time I maintain my gaze. If he follows someone, perhaps I can save them. But if he follows me… such a thought sends my pulse into overdrive. I dial 911, thumb hovering over the send button.

Mr. E stops before his eyes meet mine. His expression turns tense. Suddenly, here reaches for something at his side. A GUN? Here? Now?!! I cover my ears and move to duck behind a trash can. From the pit of my stomach, I yell...nothing. My nerves betray me. My dry throat can’t even manage a scream.

“Get Down!”

Confused commuters freeze.

BANG!

Screams ring out and everyone finally obeys the anonymous command. Behind cover, I am finally able to pinpoint the gunshot. For the first time since I entered the subway station, I completely forgot about Mr. E’s blazing aura. Ten feet away from me, a teen steps over a body. Goosebumps prick up my arms as a deep red mist seeps from a human who was normal seconds ago. Twitching mercilessly the teen swings his rifle around like a toy.

“Drop the gun kid!”

The sight of Mr. E lost in red and pointing a pistol twists my gut.

The young shooter smiles. “Make me.”

With the eyes of a man drunk with power, the teen sways the barrel of his rifle to his objector, Mr. E. His aura snaps to a brighter red as his finger reaches for the trigger.  BANG! BANG! BANG! Blood drips from the teen shooter and his mighty gun. The mist fades with his soul as his body thuds onto the floor.

Everyone in the station is now as mesmerized by that middle-aged man as I was. Steadily, he tucks his pistol into its holster. As he returns to his post against the pillar, his aura rises higher and grows a deeper crimson.

My New Goals

Greetings from Beyond :)

This year I have made a Resolution!

I, Nightingale, pledge to write one short story a month for a whole year.

Don't roll your eyes just yet.

If I'm successful, this goal will increase my output. I might even make a couple gems💎

Here are da rules:

1. Find a random writing prompt (I'm using Reedsy a Medium blog)

2. The story must be 500 words minimum

3. Have FUN!!!

I'll be posting the stories I don't submit. I'll try to post on the last Friday of every month.

PS: I'm also writing a webcomic so stay tuned for that.

Wish me luck :)

Dialogue Exersise

Hello again, :)

I love my characters. I could spend hours in their heads, nurturing their motivations, personalities, and quirks. But when I reread the dialogue, something seems off. Everything seemed so perfect in my head. Yet on paper, their long whinnied questions and explanations seem fake.

While I was on a road trip with my cousin, he shared a game with me his English teacher had taught him. The game ate hours off our trip. Anyone with a great imagination and a friend can play. 

All you need is a pen and paper.

The Rules:

1. Both of you pick a character. It can be a celebrity, or a superhero, or your own creation.

2. Pick a location or a scenario, like a coffee shop or an amusement park.

3. Take turns writing dialogue (don't peek until the other person is done with their turn). 

The game is a lot like role playing.

Here is a sample of what my cousin and I wrote. See if you can pick up on the character's personalities.

Location: Coffee Shop

Characters: 

Flare-me

 Sam-my cousin

Sam: I love coffee with a flaring passion. Get it?

Flare: Hmmph

Sam: You don't like coffee? It's like an American addiction, isn't it?

Flare: I'm Japanese

Sam: Oh...well, do you not like coffee? Why are you here then? I mean, this isn't the best coffee shop, but I do like it, especially the frappe. My goodness, the mint is strong...woah!

Flare: Your drinking caffeine?

Sam: It's decaf...

Flare: Wait...Why is this cafe empty?

Sam: I dunno, maybe that guy can tell us.

Suddenly a dark silhouette of a man wearing a large hat and a trench coat burst through the cafe entrance.

Flare: Sam, down!

We wrote more, but I think you get the idea. The advantage to this game is having someone else react to everything you say. Each person is trying to guess what will happen next and move the story forward through their character's actions.

Why not try it? Was the dialogue any different? Did you get any character insight?

My Kind of Mermaid

My little mermaid

She whispers of land
My sweet mermaid
Reefs glow by her hand

Adorned with pearls
Her soft hair is never cut
Her gaze flows like the current
Yet her ears stay shut

Lucky little mermaid
Singing "Why must I have gills?"
Naive hopeless mermaid
Shallow coasts never fill

My kind of mermaid
Swims deeper with care
My brave mermaid
Searches for truth not air

 Under the water pressure
Her strong bones never break

Her scales lock like chainmail
Beauty no longer fake

My kind of mermaid 
Find what Land doesn't know
My growing mermaid
Love absent truth is shallow

Rewritten Fable

This is an easy exercise most people probably learn in their English class. But I still enjoy the game. 

Just pick one of Aesop's Fables and an author. Then rewrite the Fable in that author's style.

I chose Charles Dickens. His narration is far more conversational. His work is well decorated with adverbs and adjectives--sometimes three in a row. His style was a little easier to emulate since mine is similar.  

The Fox and the Grapes

Charles Dickens Style

            It was a pleasant day. One in which someone might have a picnic or wander about enjoying the fresh air. I'm not sure which one the fox was doing but it hardly matters. Whatever the case, the birds were singing, the sun was shining, and a clump of grapes were hanging from a vine—content in it's state of being. It was on this wonderful day that the fox caught a glimpse of the juicy grapes hanging high over his head. Oh! How he wanted those grapes. The fox stared longingly at them, licking his lips, scheming the best plan that might reward him with what he most desired. The branch that held the grapes was to weak to hold his weight and he did not wish to request help for fear of the obligation to share.

            That left him with only one option. With all his might he leaped up to the grapes and snapped his jaw shut when he reached maximum height. But the determined fox was rewarded with nothing but a mouthful of air. The fox eyed the grapes with suspicion and tried again with the same result. Up and down the fox went putting all his energy into a goal that was so close he could barely touch with his nose and yet so far away. With each jump the fox convinced himself he was getting closer and could picture himself in triumph with the cluster of grapes in his jaw. 

            All day the fox leaped and bounded and reached for the taunting grapes until the sun was low.  The fox, depleted of all energy and incentive, fell on his face in exhaustion and surrendered.

             He sourly groaned, “What a waste. I should never had tried to jump so high; I'm sure those grapes were sour anyway.”

Have you ever done this exercise before? What was the result? Did a little bit of your own style creep in anyway?