When She Fell

by Bruce Carroll

I will never forget where I was the moment Akiko fell in love. She was in the school library with Tommy. The two of them always went there after lunch, before their next class. Tommy would read to her.

Akiko had been rescued from a fire, which had left her blind. That had only been a few months ago. She was learning Braille, but still had a way to go before anyone could call her “fluent.” The fire had not only left her blind: it had left her illiterate.

Tommy had been reading Karen Vance Hammond’s Shoe Marks. Akiko’s friend Sarah had told her Tommy liked her. Akiko had been skeptical, but Sarah pointed out how much time Tommy spent with her. That day, as Tommy read, Akiko had reached out and found his shoulder. She rested her hand there as he read.

When the bell rang for the next class, they both stood. Akiko thanked Tommy for reading to her yet again. That was when Tommy suggested they go out. He had tried to sound casual, but Akiko clearly heard the nervous quaver in his voice. She smiled and told him she would like that. She resisted the urge to jump up and down excitedly and squeal.

And where was I when this all happened? Why is it so indelibly burned into my memory? I was at the Graham Public Library, right across the street from the Lutheran church, seated at a little round wooden table typing away on my laptop. A wall of books silently watched as I created; books with titles like “Get a Literary Agent,” “In the Shadow of Edgar Allen Poe,” and “Teenagers 101.”

For me, it was the first time I had experienced the joy of having one of my characters fall in love.

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Fears and Aspirations

by Bruce Carroll

As I write my novel, what do I fear?I fear nothing! I know my story is awesome, or at least worth telling. Even though I may struggle with the middle from time to time (okay, most of the time), I will persevere and my story will be told in the end!

Except that’s not exactly true.

Of course I fear that I am over-confident. After all, I like a lot of things most of my friends and acquaintances don’t. And many of the things they think are very compelling I find lackluster. It seems my tastes, whether in music, movies, books, authors, games, or whatever, are...discriminating.

But that fear is (relatively) easily overcome. I write what I write. Those who appreciate it will. Those who don’t will move on and find something else to read. And if I am the only one who appreciates my work, I will not have failed. At least I’ll have a good story to go back and re-read.

No, what I most fear is wasting time. Sometimes while reading writing how-to articles, I feel my time would be better spent writing. Planning a story and research both take time, and I sometimes wonder if it would be better spent somewhere else. My writing practice can seem like a waste of time. Even writing my work-in-progrss can seem like a waste of time; so much goes unused. Of course I file it, but would I have been a “better” writer if I hadn’t wasted that time in the first place?

There is a strange disconnect here: I know (intellectually) that these things are important, but I often feel they are a waste.

But there is a greater fear, one I hardly admit even to myself: what if I don’t have anything to say? What if instead of a compelling resolution to a particular piece, it simply...

...ends?

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Stream-of-Consciousness

I have been participating in The Write Practice, an online group which provides training and practice opportunities to writers. I wrote the piece below as a practice exercise and was quite pleased with the results. Please let me know what you think in the comments.

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Exhausted, nose and sinuses clogged. Like a drain. Weather’s nice today. Summer cold. What a dumb thing, summer colds. Daughter wants to go to the library. We do. It’s a fine day, not too hot like it has been. At the library I check out Ray Bradbury’s “I Sing The Body Electric.” We go to the park after. Maybe I’ll try out this new Pokemon game. I do. It’s silly. More fun to watch the young people playing it than to actually play it myself. I have Bradbury to read.

My daughter wants to climb a tree. I set aside smart phone and Bradbury and we climb into the only suitable climbing tree in the park. We sit together on a branch. There is bird poop up here. We can see all around. People playing on the playground. Playing Pokemon GO. Enjoying the sunshine or the shade, each as he or she prefers.

My daughter wants to get down. She wants to jump down, but she is nervous. I point out the ground isn’t that far below her feet. It doesn’t help her relax. I jump down myself, show her it isn’t so hard. She follows. The experience was about as disappointing for her as the Pokemon game was for me.

We’re home now, and I’m typing my practice. Word association. Stuffy head. Stuffy-achy-fever-so-you-can-rest medicine, or something like that. Half-remembered slogans. I still remember the product, though, so that’s a win for the advertising agency. Nothing like a memorable ad where I can’t remember what the product or service was. I think of trees. Of childhood. Why does time always escape into the past? Is it lost forever? We only have memories of it. Memory is fragile. I know. As a magician, I count on it. Mandela Effect and all. So many people thinking their version of reality is the only valid one. Or the most valid, anyway. But none of us even perceives reality. Not the REAL reality. If there is such a thing. For our subjective experience, reality is merely a construct, an approximation of what the world is. Then we act on it as if it is real.

Too many distractions. Not from writing, but from everything. Our brains filter out so much of what happens, just so that we can make sense of what’s left. Then we have a memory of sitting in a tree with our daughters and don’t understand quite what happened up there.

Distractions. Pokemon. I’ve been reading about people stepping into traffic while playing that game. Or the teen who nearly ran over a three-year-old while chasing one of the mythical beasts. Not reality at all.

My girl wants to read to me, cutting my practice short. The words she will read are another version of reality. In the end, hearing her voice is worth it all.

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Excited Again

For me, writing is a strange thing. I spend my days writing (or doing something else when I should be writing) and have little enthusiasm for it. Unfortunately, this shows in my work. It becomes the proverbial vicious circle, in which I don't want to write because my writing is uninspired and my writing is uninspired because I don't want to write.
     But recently, I had an idea: What if I created a character who was versatile enough to be in a variety of situations. What if I made this character someone I know well enough to know how he or she would act in any given situation? What if I threw in some surprises, things that might work against me writing for this character, just to make things interesting?
     It was a little like creating a character for a role-playing game (like Dungeons & Dragons) and then throwing in some surprises just to keep the player (me) on his toes. I was both player and gamemaster, creating a character who would (I hoped) be interesting in a variety of settings.
     I am very pleased with the results of that exercise. My newest creation (it's hard to type that without feeling a little like Frankenstein) is Akiko, a teenage Asian-American who was blinded in a fire. She has a mysterious past of which she is unaware. Having spent some time in the hospital, Akiko now lives with her foster parents, the Olsens, while the authorities try to locate her parents or a relative. It might sound like an American Girl story, but I promise it will be full of action and adventure. The whole experience of creating Akiko has made me excited about writing again!
     I'd love to tell you more about Akiko, but I won't. Not here, anyway. You see, I promised a very elite group of people I would share things with them first. In an effort to make good on that promise, I will be sharing a short-short story about Akiko with all those who subscribe to my newsletter, Babbling Brook. But you don't have to miss out! Simply subscribe to Babbling Brook by clicking HERE. Hurry, the newsletter goes out on July 4th!

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Enter and Win!

You can win a FREE COPY of my book! Yes, it is a print copy. Yes, it will be shipped directly to the winner. No, you don't have to buy anything. To enter, CLICK HERE.

Navajo Jems

One of my dearest childhood friends was Cara Zamecki. Though we are no longer children, we are still friends. I recently caught up with her and learned about her business as a jewelry maker. I'll let her tell you about it in her own words.










My childhood home was filled with love, and my mother used to sew my clothes. I always wanted to learn.

I got into making jewelry young from going to summer camp. My first piece was a key chain/necklace.

I have one person who helped me go further into making jewelry. Her name is Mar. I'm inspired by stones and rocks. I find beauty in them. I love creating jewelry because my work is one of a kind. Each piece is made from my mind.

When I'm not making jewelry I'm thinking of what patterns from my mind I can bring to life. My first piece was a necklace made at Camp Singing Waters.

Navajo Jems has a store in Beeville, Texas. We moved this month (January) so I put some pieces online during this time so we might see more online.

Thank you, Bruce, for taking the time to spend with Navajo Jems.

Follow Navajo Jems on Facebook.

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Conceal and Carry

"The only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is with a good guy with a gun."

-Wayne LaPierre

Stephanie Claire Rodriguez smiled. The result of the second test was the same as the first: positive.

She and Juan were going to have a baby!

She called him at work. "What are you doing for lunch?" she asked him.

"Eating!" he replied, chuckling at his little joke. "Why?"

"I thought you might want to have a picnic at Lake Park." She didn't tell him about the tests. She would surprise him at the park.

"Sounds fun," he said in his endearing Latin accent. "I probably won't get there until 12:30."

"Then that's when I'll meet you."

They said their goodbyes and Stephanie hung up the phone. She would fix the sandwiches closer to when she had to leave. Meanwhile she thought about their home office. They would have to convert it into a nursery. She wondered if they would need pink paint or blue....

~ ~ ~

It was a gorgeous day, the first truly nice spring day of the year. Sandra Hook decided to enjoy her lunch break at Lake Park. It was a short walk from Livingston Health and Nutrition, where she worked. She grabbed her lunch out of the employee 'fridge and headed out.

Sandra hadn't considered that others might have had the same idea. The park was crowded. Many were on their own lunch breaks, but there were plenty of parents with kids, too. A group of about two dozen in matching T-shirts must have been from a daycare. Leaves had barely begun to sprout on the trees, so the sunlight fell more harshly than it would in later months. But it sparkled on the nearby lake which gave the park its name.

The first shot didn't register in Sandra's mind, and while she was aware of the second, it was the mass of suddenly screaming people that got her attention. Someone had opened fire on the crowd in the park. Gunfire sounded nothing like it did in the movies. The simplicity of an outdoor lunch or some playtime on the swing set had suddenly turned grim.

Instinctively, Sandra ducked down. There was really nothing behind which she could hide. The closest thing she had to cover were some picnic tables several feet away. People were panicked, screaming, trying to run away from danger and getting into one another's way.

Quickly, she opened her purse. Sandra had a conceal-and-carry permit and a loaded Glock 22 in her purse. (The irony of a woman named Sandy Hook having a licensed gun was not lost on her.) She pulled the Glock out, her heart racing. There was no "safety" on the Glock in the traditional sense. The Glock used a safe action trigger system. Around her people were still scrambling for whatever cover they could find. Time seemed slower, drawn out. Though her heart hammered in her chest, her hand was steady. She felt confident. The two hours a week she put in at the firing range had her ready for this moment.

She stood to a half-crouch, just high enough to see over the fleeing crowd. There he was, wearing a red windbreaker and firing into the crowd with a large handgun She took aim, her finger resting lightly on the trigger. People were still scattering as the man strode through the crowd. In the back of her mind, she remembered something about checking the target. But she had a clear shot. If she hesitated, she might not get another chance!

Aiming for the red windbreaker, Sandra squeezed the trigger.

~ ~ ~

Stephanie had just arrived at the park when the shooting started. The horror in her soul was palpable. Was this the sort of world her child would be born into?

Whoever was shooting was off to her left someplace. Nearby she saw a middle-aged man draw a gun from beneath his red windbreaker. She saw him take aim, and realized he was trying to take down the gunman.

The man fired. Stephanie dropped her picnic basket, pressed her hands to her ears and screamed. Then a bullet tore into her midsection, the force throwing her to the ground.

Stephanie was unaware of the copious amount of blood. She was aware only of searing pain, and of a single, two-word thought: My baby! Then she neither breathed nor thought any more.

~ ~ ~

The bullet Sandra fired had missed. Behind the shooter, a woman hit the ground. For a brief instant, Sandra wondered if she had hit her. But the man still stood, waving his gun and shouting. She couldn't make out the words. He was the problem. This was all his fault.

She took aim and fired again.

The man went down. Dead or wounded, he had stopped firing.

Somewhere to her right, she heard a popping sound that sounded exactly like a gun in a movie does not.

~ ~ ~

Officer O'Malley had arrived with the others at the scene. Lake Park. Shots fired. Those two words had filled him with dread.

When they had arrived it became quickly apparent there were three separate shooters. At least three, O'Malley reminded himself. There was always the possibility another gunman had not been spotted.

O'Malley took up position behind the female suspect, his own weapon drawn and ready. He had already seen her fire into the crowd. He shouted a warning to her, unable to determine if she could hear him or not.

The suspect turned, looking to her right, her gun raised. O'Malley had only an instant in which to consider that she might be searching for another target. He shouted a warning again and, getting no response, took her down with a single shot.

~ ~ ~

Juan Rodriguez drove his silver Elantra to the park. He was later than he had hoped, but he knew Stephanie would be waiting for him.

There were flashing red and blue lights. Police cars. People were scattered about. Some were weeping. Some hugging. Some shaking. Some just lay motionless on the ground.

Madre de Dios, Juan thought. His eyes swept the unsettled crowd, searching for Stephanie.

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