Fiction Friday

Today, I’d like to introduce you to Tim Gallen.

Tim is a Fiction Friday author-in-arms, and has graciously offered to share his space over at The Daily Gallen with me today.  Click on over and check out my short story about Christmas Eve for a guy that thinks he has it all figured out…

Bad enough he had to go along with all of this to keep his mother quiet. Shopping. Spending money he didn’t have on gifts his family didn’t need to celebrate a birthday for a person who wasn’t what people thought and had been dead for two thousand years.

Billions of dollars changing hands.  Millions on decorations and chopping down trees, on plastic deer and lights.

One more day. Just get through one more day and the world will go back to normal.

Will it go back to normal for Blake?  Click here to read the whole story and find out.

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If you’re visiting from Tim’s site, welcome!  I write mainly about adoption/orphancare issues and making a difference in the world.  For a little Friday fun, I share snippets of a fiction project I’m working on, too.

You can learn more about our adoption story here, or see a few other samples of my writing here.

When I was a kid, I was a geek.

I had bushy hair, and I was almost a full year younger than everyone else in my class. And when it came time for recess, I much preferred sitting against the brick wall with a book.

Good writers read a lot.

(OK, bad writers sometimes read a lot, too)

We read to be influenced, we read to be touched, we read to be entertained. We even read to learn what NOT to do.

So when people ask “What’s your favorite book?” I have a hard time answering.

But because it’s Fiction Friday, I thought I’d share some of my all-time favorites with you:

• Ender’s Game: Sci-fi for people who aren’t really into sci-fi. This is the story of a boy specifically bred to save humanity. The pressure of his role is high, but he’s still a kid, struggling to figure out who he is. Excellent characterization and story that just happens to be set in space.
• Lord of the Flies: Survivor without the production crews and medics. This might have been my first foray into the disturbing truth about human nature. (guess that explains a lot, eh?)
• Cold Mountain: I love this one for Frazier’s language, and because, despite my general distaste for historical fiction, I immediately connected with Ada and Inman and was captivated with a world so incredibly different from mine.
• Jonathan Livingston Seagull:  While I haven’t cracked this in 30 years (and honestly don’t even own a copy of it anymore–Christmas gift idea, people…), I remember a roadtrip when I read this cover to cover seven times. I think this is what sparked my passion to be awesome. Or maybe just gave me permission to be different.
• Watership Down: Another one that never gathered dust on my bookshelf. So many different levels to this story…from cute little talking bunnies to allegorical social commentary.

Of course, this list is far from complete. There are a million other amazing books that I have loved, and a million more coming that I will love.

And I’m incredibly thankful that someone smart invented a Kindle that is cheap and fits in my purse, so I can keep a massive pile of books with me at all times! Great Christmas gift idea for the readers on your list!

What are some of your all-time favorites?? Leave a comment…

(disclosure: the links above are affiliate links*)

Welcome to Fiction Friday.

Since Zach the Zombie made his debut last June, I’ve shared with y’all little glimpses into his world and his mind.

I added it up, and Zach has now made 18 appearances here. Each time he’s popped by, he’s shared little bits of himself. (yes, i did that. sorry. couldn’t help it.)

But those bits have been terribly random and out-of-order, so I thought I’d share an outline of the story as it stands right now. Yes, there are some really big gaps that I’ll be asking him to fill in.  Thanks for your grace!

History (posted 6 July)

It was no coincidence that the the rot began immediately after the sun stopped setting, immediately after a whole number of people disappeared behind the City walls, and a bunch of new ones from the City appeared outside, with sores on their bodies.

The Rot (posted 27 July)

“Damn, I thought that finger would hold out for at least another week,” he thought, as the flesh of his left ring finger finally pulled away from the bone and dropped into the dust and gravel.

Zombies Are All The Rage (posted 8 June)

Zach saw the Old One lying in the dust.  She had wriggled her body into the partial shade of her overturned cart, trying to get comfortable while she waited.  Zach knew her wait would be long.  He knew she would probably try to move before it was time.  It gets old waiting for everything to grow back so you can move again.

Zombie Fear (posted 3 August)

Feelings linger longer than the distinct memories.  I remember how I felt, but I don’t remember what I felt like that about.  I don’t remember why I felt it.  But I remember the feeling.

Home (posted 12 Oct)<

The storytellers say that back when there was no Rot, we went to the same shelter every night with the same people. That we stopped when the night stopped and the Rot started. And that something with the Rot made it so we just don’t remember it.

Arthur (posted 15 June)

“Boy, boy, boy.” Arthur shook his head.  ”Boy, you are missing the point of every story I’ve told you, and every story I haven’t.  The point is that it is what it is.  We are what we are.  Nothing will change that.  We’re here because of what we didn’t do back then.  We all were like the people in the City.  How many times have I told that one?  Six?  Sixty?  I don’t know, but I know you’ve heard it.”

“Boy, if we had believed, we’d be there now.”  He sighed again.  He seemed to be doing that a lot today.

The Last Night (posted 17 August)

“The City lay in ruins. Half its people had been taken slave by invaders, taken to foreign lands, worked like animals. Those that remained threw lifeless bodies onto the burning heaps every night.

“Then the ground shook.”

Reunion (posted 10 August)

She takes a deep breath.

“I’ve been to the City.”  She sips the coffee and smiles like she’s home again.

I missed that.

This could be worth forgiving.

What does coffee have to do with anything? (posted 9 Nov)

…she feels nice wrapped in my arms.  Can’t say this happens all too often. We are not an affectionate bunch. We pretty much try to stay out of each other’s way. We help each other when we need to, we listen to the Storytellers, we gamble together. But on an ordinary day, most of us keep to ourselves. So I don’t spend too much time holding other people.

Forgiven (posted 16 Nov)

Her fingers find the cuff of my shirt, and worry the edges as she starts to come back to me. Something happened in the City. I don’t think she’ll ever tell me. She can’t know that it doesn’t matter to me. Nothing matters except that she’s back here.

The Bad Seeds (posted 29 June)

Most of us have rot somewhere you can see.  Them?  They look fine.  That’s the first sign of it, actually.  Everyone rots somewhere.  That’s just how it is.  It usually starts in the extremities, so people can see it.  So if you can’t see the rot, you can pretty well guess it’s in the brain.

Stay clear of those guys.  Trust me.

The City (posted 7 Sept)

Something was different about the City.  Truly different.  The City glowed in the sunlight.  Especially when the sun was low, the city’s walls glowed a stunning orange and [I] heard music and laughter drifting over the wall.

Reconnaissance (posted 14 Sept)

There has to be a way in…I sit down with Arthur and we review today’s trip. It’s a quick review. Nothing new. Just like yesterday. And the day before.

The Climb (posted 21 Sept)

I think of the Old Ones, confined to carts. I think of Arthur, sitting back at camp, his Rot spreading toward his tongue. I remember that I have to do this.

I hang, frozen, on the side of the stone wall. I can’t let myself go down. They need me to do this. But I can’t go up.

If At First You Don’t Succeed (posted 28 Sept)

“We each have our part in this. Yours is, well, the physical part.” Arthur looks down at his own rotting body and shrugs at me. I guess he’s right. there’s no way he can climb a wall, and there’s no way he’s going through the main gates. So it’s up to me.

Third Time’s a Charm (posted 5 Oct)

I still have the half-smile on my lips as I stand up from the tree and drift back toward the wall.  As I get closer, something catches my eye.  Movement.  A few feet down the wall.

The stones aren’t the same as when I sat down.

Inside (posted 31 August)

As I creep through the city, I learn to be quiet. I practice. I catch myself making the little sounds we all make all the time. Sounds that say “we don’t really care anymore.” The sound of perpetual loss.

Zach Needs Help (posted 22 June)

“Look, I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.  How did you get in here?  You can’t be here.”  Her eyes locked on his arm.

Which gaping holes do you want to see filled in first??  Leave a comment…

Welcome to Fiction Friday.  Each Friday, I’ve shared with y’all a glimpse into the mind of Zach the Zombie and some of his friends.  If you remember, an old friend returned last week, and fell apart in Zach’s arms.

You know the drill–this is only very minimally edited.  I still appreciate grace and forgiveness, please…no red pens!  :-)

“Zach?” She says it so quietly, I almost miss it. My mind was not here with us.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry.” I feel her body shift, and I pull her in tighter and rest my cheek on her head. She relaxes and mutters “I’m sorry” again. And it’s not just for falling apart. It’s for everything. I can feel her sadness, her regret. It seeps from every muscle, every bit of her perfect skin. She won’t have to say it again. I know. And I forgave her long before she asked for it.

Her fingers find the cuff of my shirt, and worry the edges as she starts to come back to me. Something happened in the City. I don’t think she’ll ever tell me. She can’t know that it doesn’t matter to me. Nothing matters except that she’s back here.

She shifts and this time, I know she’s ready to talk. She pulls away from my chest, leaving a chill in the shape of her head. She stays in my lap, though, my arms still draped around her waist.

“It’s beautiful.”

I nod.

“It’s warm. Even near the walls, in the shadows.” She must be cold if that’s the part she remembers first. I notice that even though we’ve been sitting here for hours, her clothes are still wet. I’d offer her some dry ones, but then I’d have to let go of her.

“Yeah?”

She shivers a little. “Yeah. And everyone wears white and doesn’t look dirty. Really, it was a little weird.” She sits up a little more and I know it’s time.

“Can I get you some dry clothes?” I whisper in her ear, and she smiles a little and nods.

She comes around the corner with a pile of wet clothes in her arms, climbs up on a couple of crates and spreads them out on my roof to dry. This is the girl I remember. Self–sufficient. Confident. But I know the girl I held last night, too. The cold, scared, beautiful girl. The one I love.

I wonder when I’ll get to see that one again.

“You’ll need to clean yourself up. You’ll never pass in there like this.” She waved her hand up and down at me. Like this. I grimaced.

“But that means I can pass. Right?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “Cleaned up, if you keep your hand hidden, yes, you’ll be ok.”

Something seemed off deep behind her eyes, though. Like she wasn’t as sure as she sounded. Like she wasn’t sure she wanted me to go.

“OK, so where’s the Book?”

She laughs. “Not that easy, Rotter!” she winks as she says it, and somehow that makes it ok.

Why doesn’t she want Zach to go to the City?  Leave a comment…

Welcome to Fiction Friday.  Each Friday, I’ve shared with y’all a glimpse into the mind of Zach the Zombie and some of his friends.  If you remember, an old friend returned a while back.

You know the drill–this is only very minimally edited.  I still appreciate grace and forgiveness, please…no red pens!  :-)

She sits down and peers at me over the edge of the coffee cup. Like she’s been here the whole time.

Wow.

Not really sure how she thinks this is ok.  But she knows.  She knows I’ll forgive her. Eventually.

“I’ve been to the City,” she repeats.

I try to not care. But she knows I do.

I try to glare at her. I scrunch my eyebrows together and drop my chin.

She’s not buying it.

She just waits. She takes a sip of the coffee, makes a little face.

“You don’t remember the coffee from before, do you?”

“Um. Not really, no. What does that have to do with anything?” I’m about to explode.

“Everything.” She looks back down into her cup and swirls the coffee around.  She watches like it’s the most fascinating thing ever. Like it’s Olivier performing Shakespeare. Callas singing M. Butterfly.  I don’t remember any of those things, so that simile is pretty stupid, right?  Just something people say to make people think they remember.

She sets the cup down on the dirt floor next to her and stands. She examines everything in my small shelter.  I don’t have much.  I don’t need much.

She shivers.  I sometimes forget how cold she gets, and I find a clean shirt to drape over her shoulders. As I pull my arm away, she leans her head on my shoulder. She feels soft. Vulnerable. Maybe even a little scared.  Definitely tired. I wrap my arm back around her shoulders and feel her start to let go.  She reaches around my waist, and I get my other arm around her and just hold her as she sobs.

I’m not sure where this came from.  She looked so sure of herself. She was back from an adventure.  She had information that she knew I wanted. She had the power. And here she is.

But she feels nice wrapped in my arms.  Can’t say this happens all too often.  We are not an affectionate bunch. We pretty much try to stay out of each other’s way.  We help each other when we need to, we listen to the Storytellers, we gamble together.  But on an ordinary day, most of us keep to ourselves. So I don’t spend too much time holding other people. In fact, I can’t remember a time when I ever did, yet she feels so familiar. So comfortable. Like she belongs in my arms.

Just not sobbing.

She’s not showing any signs of stopping, so I inch us over to the corner and sit down.  She curls up in my lap, and I hold her and wait.  I stroke her hair and I think how glad I am that I have most of my fingers right now.  It’s painful when they are growing back, but at least I’m not leaving fleshy bits in between the strands of blonde, wet from the rain.

She shivers again, that shaking feels different from the heavy heaving of her sobs. I pull her close. I don’t offer a lot of warmth, but it seems to help, so that makes me keep doing it. Plus, despite the rain and the dirt, she smells familiar. I can’t name it. But it’s something I know. Something good. I smile a little at the scent, but her tears are soaking through my shirt, and showing no signs of stopping.

I hold her and rock her gently until the clouds break up and the sun shines high over us again.

Why did she come back? Leave a comment…