I read a lot of literary agent interviews. Inevitably, the question of "What do you hate to see on an opening page?" comes up, and one of the most common answers is "waking up". They are quick to explain that it can be done well, and it can have significance, but if you're just starting at waking up ... well, just because ... you're probably better off starting somewhere else.
So, my challenge this week is: Write a "waking up" opening scene that has something unique or significant about it, something that would justify its use as an opening scene, not just another kid waking up and climbing out of bed.
Enjoy!
*****************************************************************************
My response:
(I'd like to take a moment to say that I do usually come up with these prompts on the spot. There is sometimes that tickle, somewhere between the thrill of a roller coaster with my stomach dropping out from under me and the turning of my gut before I lose my lunch. In that moment, I doubt my capabilities as a writer, and I worry about what kind of drivel I'm about to write and post to the internet. Then I swallow, let my mind go, and pray it won't be too terribly bad. Yep. That feeling right there. Well, here goes!)
There was too much light. Even with my eyes closed, I squinted against the brightness piercing my lids. It was as if I'd been in a cave for a year, then sought out the sunlight, only to find I was blinded by the sun. I had no idea then how close that thought came to the truth.
The sounds came next. The incessant beeping. It was like something out of my mother's daytime dramas, the heart monitor and the whirring of a blood pressure machine. Except there was no TV, or at least, if there was, it wasn't on. And the next thing I felt was the tightening of the band on my arm and the pulling of tape at certain spots on my skin.
I wanted to open my eyes and look around, but they refused. Instead, I stretched, rolling my shoulders and taking inventory of all my limbs.
Whispered curses, and I heard the clang of metal on metal. "Are you awake?!" Then footsteps, retreating.
I breathed in, filling my lungs. No pain. Only the ache of having slept too long in one position. Why was there no pain? If I'd been in a car accident, if I'd been sick ... anything that would have landed me in a hospital ought to have left me in pain, but as far as I could tell, I was whole.
Footsteps, more than one set of them, came back into the room. I managed to force my lids apart, just a slit, and three forms moved between me and the light.
"Kimber?" Yes, that was my name. Kimber. "Kimber. This is Dr. Marx. Can you open your eyes, sweetheart?"
I did. Dr. Marx had skin that hung from his neck, like a starving vulture, and a beak to match it, with beady little eyes. His voice, though, was deep and rolling, like the far off rumble of thunder.
I opened my mouth to speak, but found my tongue and mouth too dry. My lips stuck together awkwardly.
"Nurse ..." A blue figure bent over me, and I felt a swab moving across my lips, drops seeping into my mouth.
"That's better, now," Dr. Marx went on. "Go ahead Amber, try again."
My lips moved, but no sound came out. I remembered there was more to speaking than just my lips. My sound box quacked like a dying seagull. I tried again.
"What ... what ... happened?"
"Don't you worry about that now, Kimber, you are tired." I felt the calming stroke of a hand on my arm and let my eyes drop closed again. "Rest now. We'll talk soon."
I felt my mind dropping away, drifting off to sleep, but I heard the nurse's question.
"Have you ever seen someone come out of a coma after five years, Dr.?"
Monday, September 29, 2014
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Mean Girls
I recently bought THE LIST, by Siobhan Vivian. I'd seen it on the shelf in Target a few times, but I get most of my reading material from my local library, so it took a few times walking past (and that 20% off sticker) to finally pick it up*.
Just after the title page, we're given a list of eight girls who won the rank of either prettiest or ugliest in their high school class that year. I'll admit, it was a little overwhelming at first, but it was easy enough to refer back to so I could put the characters together in my mind. Then I got sucked in and didn't need to refer to the list anymore to know who was doing what. Vivian put together a heartbreaking look at how the list affects both the girls on the ugly list and the girls on the pretty list.
Then yesterday, I made a new friend. As we walked the halls of the school, pulling kids out of class for the annual hearing and vision screening, she spilled much of her life story to me, and I thought how sad it is that we all have stories about the "mean girls" in our lives.
So in honor of my new friend and for Siobhan Vivian, the prompt for this week is: Mean Girls.
Enjoy!
*Believe me, as an aspiring author who wants people to buy her books one day, I realize I ought to patronize other authors ... but I also need to feed my kids, y'all. And we have a great local library. I do buy books when I fall in love with them, like THE PALADIN PROPHESY, by Mark Frost, and Jennifer Nielson's Ascendance Trilogy, just to name a few I've picked up lately.
******************************************************************************
My response:
I didn't get a chance to eat after swim practice, so by time I sat down for lunch, my stomach was roaring. I could smell the bacon even before I unwrapped my sandwich, and it was almost to my lips when I heard Skyler's voice.
"You're not going to eat that, are you?" She slipped her lunch cooler onto the table and perched on the edge of the bench.
I froze. My eyes darted up and down the table. Why was Skylar sitting next to me? Sure, we usually sat at the same table, technically ... but she sat at the very end, with the high maintenance girls and football stars. The table stretched the length of the cafeteria, actually a row of tables latched together. It was like a sliding scale of who's who in school. I was usually in earshot of Skylar and her gang, a spot I earned by dominating the girls' swim team, but in four years of high school, she'd never spoken two words to me.
"I'm starving." I didn't put my BLT down, but I couldn't bring myself to take a bite, either, without knowing what she was up to.
She smoothed her pencil skirt and brushed an imagined speck from the table before pulling a bottle of water and an apple out of her cooler. My mouth watered at the sight of the apple. I was so hungry, I could eat anything.
"So much mayo. And the bacon grease will make you break out." Last, she pulled out a plain, greek yogurt, arranging her lunch carefully in front of her without meeting my eyes.
My mind buzzed with responses. Why do you care? or I've never had that problem before. Or, My skin is so fried from the chlorine that the bacon grease will probably do it some good.
I hesitated too long, and she took it as an invitation to offer more.
"I don't mean to put you out, I was just thinking, since Denton asked you to Winter Formal, you'll want to be looking your best. He's such a catch!" She finally met my gaze, eyes sparkling as she giggled, but she wasn't that good of an actress. The twinkling stars fell like daggers, and I knew exactly what she was getting at. Denton was supposed to be hers. I didn't know what her plan was, but I wasn't about to play her game.
I opened my mouth and took a big bite of bread and bacon, then returned her frown. "Ummm. That's good."
Just after the title page, we're given a list of eight girls who won the rank of either prettiest or ugliest in their high school class that year. I'll admit, it was a little overwhelming at first, but it was easy enough to refer back to so I could put the characters together in my mind. Then I got sucked in and didn't need to refer to the list anymore to know who was doing what. Vivian put together a heartbreaking look at how the list affects both the girls on the ugly list and the girls on the pretty list.
Then yesterday, I made a new friend. As we walked the halls of the school, pulling kids out of class for the annual hearing and vision screening, she spilled much of her life story to me, and I thought how sad it is that we all have stories about the "mean girls" in our lives.
So in honor of my new friend and for Siobhan Vivian, the prompt for this week is: Mean Girls.
Enjoy!
*Believe me, as an aspiring author who wants people to buy her books one day, I realize I ought to patronize other authors ... but I also need to feed my kids, y'all. And we have a great local library. I do buy books when I fall in love with them, like THE PALADIN PROPHESY, by Mark Frost, and Jennifer Nielson's Ascendance Trilogy, just to name a few I've picked up lately.
******************************************************************************
My response:
I didn't get a chance to eat after swim practice, so by time I sat down for lunch, my stomach was roaring. I could smell the bacon even before I unwrapped my sandwich, and it was almost to my lips when I heard Skyler's voice.
"You're not going to eat that, are you?" She slipped her lunch cooler onto the table and perched on the edge of the bench.
I froze. My eyes darted up and down the table. Why was Skylar sitting next to me? Sure, we usually sat at the same table, technically ... but she sat at the very end, with the high maintenance girls and football stars. The table stretched the length of the cafeteria, actually a row of tables latched together. It was like a sliding scale of who's who in school. I was usually in earshot of Skylar and her gang, a spot I earned by dominating the girls' swim team, but in four years of high school, she'd never spoken two words to me.
"I'm starving." I didn't put my BLT down, but I couldn't bring myself to take a bite, either, without knowing what she was up to.
She smoothed her pencil skirt and brushed an imagined speck from the table before pulling a bottle of water and an apple out of her cooler. My mouth watered at the sight of the apple. I was so hungry, I could eat anything.
"So much mayo. And the bacon grease will make you break out." Last, she pulled out a plain, greek yogurt, arranging her lunch carefully in front of her without meeting my eyes.
My mind buzzed with responses. Why do you care? or I've never had that problem before. Or, My skin is so fried from the chlorine that the bacon grease will probably do it some good.
I hesitated too long, and she took it as an invitation to offer more.
"I don't mean to put you out, I was just thinking, since Denton asked you to Winter Formal, you'll want to be looking your best. He's such a catch!" She finally met my gaze, eyes sparkling as she giggled, but she wasn't that good of an actress. The twinkling stars fell like daggers, and I knew exactly what she was getting at. Denton was supposed to be hers. I didn't know what her plan was, but I wasn't about to play her game.
I opened my mouth and took a big bite of bread and bacon, then returned her frown. "Ummm. That's good."
Monday, September 15, 2014
Paint Sample Prompt
In April of 2012 I attended my first ever SCBWI Conference. There I had the privilege of hearing Alane Ferguson, an amazing author and inspiring speaker. She taught a few different workshops, one of which was a writing prompt workshop, and I give her full credit for this prompt.
She handed out paint sample cards - you know the kind, with the different shades of the same color that are supposed to help you choose how you'd like to paint your walls, but really leaving you tearing your hair out and buying a snickers on the way out, instead of paint? But I digress.
Next time you happen by a wall of paint samples, pick up a few. Rather than simply naming them Grey 1, Grey 2, ... Grey 156497, etc, they feel the need to grant them all elaborate names. This is where it gets fun. We get things like "Gargoyle Shadow", "Aubusson Vine", and "Weathered Wicker". The description is sometimes questionable, given the color sample, but how can you not be inspired by something like Gargoyle Shadow?
So today, I present your prompt in the form of a paint sample:
(In case you're wondering, these are Dutch Boy paints. I did not get free paint, just the same free sample paper anyone can pick up from a store.)
The prompt is to use these words as inspiration for a short piece. The challenge is to incorporate all 4 descriptions in your response.
Enjoy!
*******************************************************************************
My response:
The Nantucket mist clung to my jacket, swirling around me as if it had a life of its own. I broke out in a sweat, despite the chill of the night, and I felt a bead of moisture work its way down my back. I tucked my jean jacket closer around my shoulders and tucked my chin into my flamingo feather scarf.
I'd been thrilled when Sean pulled me aside after the game and asked me to meet him up by the old, abandoned light house after the party, but standing out in the dark, I didn't feel so special anymore. The lighthouse loomed ahead. I didn't know which side he intended, so I walked carefully around it, dodging shadows. The moon shone dimly through the clouds, and with the mist, everything - trees, bushes, buildings, even the old water wheel down on the creek - looked like it had been twisted out of sheet metal, grey and gleaming with moisture.
I pulled my phone from my pocket. Nearly 2am and if Mom woke up before I got home, I'd be grounded next weekend. It just might be worth it, depending on if Sean showed tonight. He'd only had one beer, so while the rest of the team was wasted, I knew he'd still be able to negotiate his way up the curving, cliff-side road to the lighthouse.
I'd left the moon on the other side of the light house, so the first thing I saw was the shadow. My first thought was that I'd had too much to drink, and my wits had taken their leave. I blinked, hoping the image would disappear, but no such luck. I didn't even have breath to scream. Creeping across the ground towards me was a long gargoyle shadow - pointed wings stretched out on either side and a great, horned head in between.
The shadow brushed my toes, and I staggered away from the building.
There stood Sean, pulling his letterman jacket on. The collar stuck out, and he tucked it down, the sides of the jacket settling to his body.
"Ashley?"
"Sean? Oh my ... " I laughed. "I thought ... well, I ..."
He looked confused, and self-consciousness immediately squelched my giggles.
"Sorry, just your shadow surprised me."
He cocked his head at me, his face blank of expression, a perfect impression of Stonewall Jackson.
Did he not understand? Maybe the rumors were right. Maybe he really was as dumb as dirt.
"Nevermind."
"Okay."
I waited, not wanting to jump ahead of myself again and stick my foot in my mouth. He stared at me. I shifted from foot to foot and looked out over the ocean. He pressed his lips together.
Yep. I'm grounded next weekend for no good reason.
She handed out paint sample cards - you know the kind, with the different shades of the same color that are supposed to help you choose how you'd like to paint your walls, but really leaving you tearing your hair out and buying a snickers on the way out, instead of paint? But I digress.
Next time you happen by a wall of paint samples, pick up a few. Rather than simply naming them Grey 1, Grey 2, ... Grey 156497, etc, they feel the need to grant them all elaborate names. This is where it gets fun. We get things like "Gargoyle Shadow", "Aubusson Vine", and "Weathered Wicker". The description is sometimes questionable, given the color sample, but how can you not be inspired by something like Gargoyle Shadow?
So today, I present your prompt in the form of a paint sample:
(In case you're wondering, these are Dutch Boy paints. I did not get free paint, just the same free sample paper anyone can pick up from a store.)
The prompt is to use these words as inspiration for a short piece. The challenge is to incorporate all 4 descriptions in your response.
Enjoy!
*******************************************************************************
My response:
The Nantucket mist clung to my jacket, swirling around me as if it had a life of its own. I broke out in a sweat, despite the chill of the night, and I felt a bead of moisture work its way down my back. I tucked my jean jacket closer around my shoulders and tucked my chin into my flamingo feather scarf.
I'd been thrilled when Sean pulled me aside after the game and asked me to meet him up by the old, abandoned light house after the party, but standing out in the dark, I didn't feel so special anymore. The lighthouse loomed ahead. I didn't know which side he intended, so I walked carefully around it, dodging shadows. The moon shone dimly through the clouds, and with the mist, everything - trees, bushes, buildings, even the old water wheel down on the creek - looked like it had been twisted out of sheet metal, grey and gleaming with moisture.
I pulled my phone from my pocket. Nearly 2am and if Mom woke up before I got home, I'd be grounded next weekend. It just might be worth it, depending on if Sean showed tonight. He'd only had one beer, so while the rest of the team was wasted, I knew he'd still be able to negotiate his way up the curving, cliff-side road to the lighthouse.
I'd left the moon on the other side of the light house, so the first thing I saw was the shadow. My first thought was that I'd had too much to drink, and my wits had taken their leave. I blinked, hoping the image would disappear, but no such luck. I didn't even have breath to scream. Creeping across the ground towards me was a long gargoyle shadow - pointed wings stretched out on either side and a great, horned head in between.
The shadow brushed my toes, and I staggered away from the building.
There stood Sean, pulling his letterman jacket on. The collar stuck out, and he tucked it down, the sides of the jacket settling to his body.
"Ashley?"
"Sean? Oh my ... " I laughed. "I thought ... well, I ..."
He looked confused, and self-consciousness immediately squelched my giggles.
"Sorry, just your shadow surprised me."
He cocked his head at me, his face blank of expression, a perfect impression of Stonewall Jackson.
Did he not understand? Maybe the rumors were right. Maybe he really was as dumb as dirt.
"Nevermind."
"Okay."
I waited, not wanting to jump ahead of myself again and stick my foot in my mouth. He stared at me. I shifted from foot to foot and looked out over the ocean. He pressed his lips together.
Yep. I'm grounded next weekend for no good reason.
Monday, September 8, 2014
Death appeared inevitable ...
I'm going to keep this short and sweet this week. (Okay, so maybe not sweet, but definitely short.)
The prompt: Death appeared inevitable ...
Whether you choose to kill off your character or not ... Enjoy!
*****************************************************************************
My response:
Maybe I was too naïve. All I'd ever done was try to serve my people. It was surprising how quickly they turned against me.
I stumbled as I crossed the platform, my hobbled feet tangling and making me lurch forward. My hands flew up, but tied as they were, they only scraped against the weathered wood, picking up splinters, as I crashed to the ground.
Before I managed to reorient myself, a painful vice clamped around my arm and lifted me up, setting me roughly back on my feet. Rotten vegetables splattered where I had just been, the juice spattering my skirt. It was so dirty already, the extra spots didn't make a difference. I stumbled along, stopping beneath the noose meant for me. The man behind me kept walking, pushing up against me. It wasn't a mistake. I caught the look in his eyes just before the soldier wrenched him away, towards his own noose. A chill ran down my back.
I'd fought against the King's orders, against his demand for higher taxes, against his draft of able bodied young men to fight his wars ... and in the end, this was all I gained for it. A noose between a murderer and a rapist.
I didn't want to lift my eyes. I'd seen this kind of crowd before. But I knew my place. I had done no wrong, and I would not hang my head in shame. I lifted my chin.
To my great relief, I didn't see anyone I recognized. I knew quite a few of the local villagers, and they knew me. Before me was a group of lowlifes and vagrants, their clothing ragged and torn. They came to the execution only for the alms the Sherriff would distribute after. Blood money.
There was no grand ceremony, no reading of sentences or last chances to repent. The executioner just started at one end of the gallows and worked his way down. He patiently helped the accused to stand on the tall stood, fastened the noose, kicked the stool away, and made sure they were dead before he moved on. And now he was standing beside me.
I stepped up, careful of my dirt-caked skirts. My head spun, a result of not having eaten in two days, but I clenched my teeth, determined to face my end with all the pride of my family. The last remaining heir of the lands of Cavenah, and we bow only to the rightful King.
The noose dropped over my head, and the executioner pulled it tight. The fraying rope poked and tore my skin. I bit my tongue and tasted blood. One moment passed. Two. Then three.
I heard the scrape of sword against scabbard behind me, then the executioner lay at my feet, his neck sliced neatly through. Then the rope hanging above me dropped from the beam and fell down my back.
In my ear, I heard his voice, like a song of redemption.
Today would not be my day to die.
The prompt: Death appeared inevitable ...
Whether you choose to kill off your character or not ... Enjoy!
*****************************************************************************
My response:
Maybe I was too naïve. All I'd ever done was try to serve my people. It was surprising how quickly they turned against me.
I stumbled as I crossed the platform, my hobbled feet tangling and making me lurch forward. My hands flew up, but tied as they were, they only scraped against the weathered wood, picking up splinters, as I crashed to the ground.
Before I managed to reorient myself, a painful vice clamped around my arm and lifted me up, setting me roughly back on my feet. Rotten vegetables splattered where I had just been, the juice spattering my skirt. It was so dirty already, the extra spots didn't make a difference. I stumbled along, stopping beneath the noose meant for me. The man behind me kept walking, pushing up against me. It wasn't a mistake. I caught the look in his eyes just before the soldier wrenched him away, towards his own noose. A chill ran down my back.
I'd fought against the King's orders, against his demand for higher taxes, against his draft of able bodied young men to fight his wars ... and in the end, this was all I gained for it. A noose between a murderer and a rapist.
I didn't want to lift my eyes. I'd seen this kind of crowd before. But I knew my place. I had done no wrong, and I would not hang my head in shame. I lifted my chin.
To my great relief, I didn't see anyone I recognized. I knew quite a few of the local villagers, and they knew me. Before me was a group of lowlifes and vagrants, their clothing ragged and torn. They came to the execution only for the alms the Sherriff would distribute after. Blood money.
There was no grand ceremony, no reading of sentences or last chances to repent. The executioner just started at one end of the gallows and worked his way down. He patiently helped the accused to stand on the tall stood, fastened the noose, kicked the stool away, and made sure they were dead before he moved on. And now he was standing beside me.
I stepped up, careful of my dirt-caked skirts. My head spun, a result of not having eaten in two days, but I clenched my teeth, determined to face my end with all the pride of my family. The last remaining heir of the lands of Cavenah, and we bow only to the rightful King.
The noose dropped over my head, and the executioner pulled it tight. The fraying rope poked and tore my skin. I bit my tongue and tasted blood. One moment passed. Two. Then three.
I heard the scrape of sword against scabbard behind me, then the executioner lay at my feet, his neck sliced neatly through. Then the rope hanging above me dropped from the beam and fell down my back.
In my ear, I heard his voice, like a song of redemption.
Today would not be my day to die.
Monday, September 1, 2014
The Blank Page
I hate staring at a blank page. When I have a story, and I'm not sure where to start, I can't just sit there and ponder with a clean slate in front of me. It's too stressful. Instead, I jump in and write something ... anything ... to avoid looking at the blank page. (Much like I'm doing now!)
But here's the thing: You can always go back and change it. If you started in the wrong place, no problem. Go back and cut or add more to fix it. If your voice was a little off because you weren't sure where you wanted to be, you can rewrite it after you've finished, when the voice is more concrete in your head. In the end, having an imperfect piece of writing is infinitely better than being stuck on that blank page.
The prompt this week is twofold. One: Follow my writing prompt and post your comment. Two: Go to your current writing project and add 2000 words to it this week. Don't let that blank page or the question of where to go from here stop your progression as a writer. Anything, no matter how imperfect, is better than a blank page.
This week's writing prompt: "It was past crazy. Like ... playing chicken with a gas tanker crazy."
Enjoy!
******************************************************************************
My response:
The hole was black as Hell, and we were sure to end up there if we kept on with this crazy idea.
Krista let out an adrenaline-fueled giggle, the notes echoing through the black circle at our feet. Sara punched her in the shoulder, jerking her head towards the ritzy hotel sitting at the bottom of the slope. The hot springs pool was open twenty four hours, and while no customers were there, a pair of bored lifeguards lounged outside the snack shack.
Maggie was the only one not hyped up. She held her phone in both hands, scanning it around slowly. I could see her setting up the video in her mind. It would start with a panorama of where we were, explain the stunt, and then, after she'd signaled us, scan over to four girls in ski masks, hair tucked neatly away and only long, tanned limbs to identify us. The first video had gone viral, the third one made international headlines. YouTube fans clamored for more.
And Sara's ideas, reckless from the start, were getting to be downright dangerous.
I eased up to the edge, careful to stay out of Maggie's shot, but I needed to get a look for myself. This hot spring had been blocked off for years, ever since some kid drowned in it. It was in a hollow cave that went straight down into the granite of the mountain. Ninety feet above, a hole allowed sunlight in. The hotel had carved out a second entrance just above water level and built a dock, but that was all boarded up now. It had taken all four of us to pull the manhole cover off the hole at the top... the cover intended to keep people out.
Deb waited until Maggie stepped back, then knelt down next to me. She pulled a handful of light sticks out of her bag. Glancing behind her, she made sure her body was between the lights of the hotel and what she was doing. I maneuvered myself to make sure no one on the road could see. She snapped a stick and tossed it down towards the side where we suspected the dock would be.
The light fell too quickly, faster than my eyes could adjust. All I saw was the glimmering of moist walls before the plop of the light stick into water, then darkness. Three more times we tried before she found the dock. Then we peered down.
"Is that only ninety feet?" Krista whispered, the shock of it squelching her giggles.
"Don't be a baby, Krista." Sara growled, shaking out her hair and pulling it back into a ponytail.
Deb looked up at me, her eyes dark in the moonlight. "Do you think it's possible they drained it?"
I shook my head slowly, trying to think. Could you drain a hot spring? Did it just look bad because we were at the top looking down? Was it me, or did that dock stick out awful close to where we'd be falling?
I caught Sara's eye on me. "If it had been drained, we'd still be able to see the light sticks that fell in the water, right?" I returned her glare. I wasn't afraid. Or at least, I wouldn't give her any reason to call me on it. "I'm sure it's fine." I forced my legs to straighten and strode back over to our stuff, stripping off my t-shirt to reveal my black cami and running shorts, our trademark outfits.
It's go time.
But here's the thing: You can always go back and change it. If you started in the wrong place, no problem. Go back and cut or add more to fix it. If your voice was a little off because you weren't sure where you wanted to be, you can rewrite it after you've finished, when the voice is more concrete in your head. In the end, having an imperfect piece of writing is infinitely better than being stuck on that blank page.
The prompt this week is twofold. One: Follow my writing prompt and post your comment. Two: Go to your current writing project and add 2000 words to it this week. Don't let that blank page or the question of where to go from here stop your progression as a writer. Anything, no matter how imperfect, is better than a blank page.
This week's writing prompt: "It was past crazy. Like ... playing chicken with a gas tanker crazy."
Enjoy!
******************************************************************************
My response:
The hole was black as Hell, and we were sure to end up there if we kept on with this crazy idea.
Krista let out an adrenaline-fueled giggle, the notes echoing through the black circle at our feet. Sara punched her in the shoulder, jerking her head towards the ritzy hotel sitting at the bottom of the slope. The hot springs pool was open twenty four hours, and while no customers were there, a pair of bored lifeguards lounged outside the snack shack.
Maggie was the only one not hyped up. She held her phone in both hands, scanning it around slowly. I could see her setting up the video in her mind. It would start with a panorama of where we were, explain the stunt, and then, after she'd signaled us, scan over to four girls in ski masks, hair tucked neatly away and only long, tanned limbs to identify us. The first video had gone viral, the third one made international headlines. YouTube fans clamored for more.
And Sara's ideas, reckless from the start, were getting to be downright dangerous.
I eased up to the edge, careful to stay out of Maggie's shot, but I needed to get a look for myself. This hot spring had been blocked off for years, ever since some kid drowned in it. It was in a hollow cave that went straight down into the granite of the mountain. Ninety feet above, a hole allowed sunlight in. The hotel had carved out a second entrance just above water level and built a dock, but that was all boarded up now. It had taken all four of us to pull the manhole cover off the hole at the top... the cover intended to keep people out.
Deb waited until Maggie stepped back, then knelt down next to me. She pulled a handful of light sticks out of her bag. Glancing behind her, she made sure her body was between the lights of the hotel and what she was doing. I maneuvered myself to make sure no one on the road could see. She snapped a stick and tossed it down towards the side where we suspected the dock would be.
The light fell too quickly, faster than my eyes could adjust. All I saw was the glimmering of moist walls before the plop of the light stick into water, then darkness. Three more times we tried before she found the dock. Then we peered down.
"Is that only ninety feet?" Krista whispered, the shock of it squelching her giggles.
"Don't be a baby, Krista." Sara growled, shaking out her hair and pulling it back into a ponytail.
Deb looked up at me, her eyes dark in the moonlight. "Do you think it's possible they drained it?"
I shook my head slowly, trying to think. Could you drain a hot spring? Did it just look bad because we were at the top looking down? Was it me, or did that dock stick out awful close to where we'd be falling?
I caught Sara's eye on me. "If it had been drained, we'd still be able to see the light sticks that fell in the water, right?" I returned her glare. I wasn't afraid. Or at least, I wouldn't give her any reason to call me on it. "I'm sure it's fine." I forced my legs to straighten and strode back over to our stuff, stripping off my t-shirt to reveal my black cami and running shorts, our trademark outfits.
It's go time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)