clawing on my sleeve
the grasping fingers of the dead
here come the zombies

Medium: Kinko’s resume cardstock, magic markers

Prompt: In two or three pages rewrite a story you like or a novel or movie in the competing voices of two interrelated characters, ala Oates.

I live in a small cottage outside the woods with my papa and two sisters. Our mama left us for heaven sometime ago, but I like to think that she still watches over us with love. Since mama’s death, our absent-minded papa has been utterly lost, but I have taken it upon myself to look after him. My two sisters, Coraline and Griselda help out sometimes, but since I am the youngest, I’m the one who stays home and takes care of papa. I do not mind this overmuch, for my sisters are so very beautiful and they are much too busy trying to secure an advantageous match with the eligible bachelors in town. You see, we are very, very poor and Coraline and Griselda think a rich husband will solve our financial woes. But just between you and me, I do not really care if Cora and Grizzy find themselves rich husbands. Papa and I are quite happy with our current circumstance. We have a roof over our head, two meals a day… we don’t really need very much.

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As you guys know, my novella Waking Kitty was recently released in the anthology, Boundless. You can read the first chapter here. When I first started writing it, it was going in a completely different direction, more fairytale-ish and dreamlike. Later on, I decided to scrap it and go about it in a different way, this time from the point of view of my male protagonist, Jack. I really had a hard time turning my back on this scene, but I think it revealed too much too soon. Nevertheless, I think this shows a different side of Kitty… a softer side.

Chapter One

The hand stroking Kitty’s hair was kind, though it carried a sense of threat. Sharp nails—talons?—scraped over her scalp with enough pressure to remind her of the danger they pose, but not enough to hurt. Its long, thin fingers combed through her wavy locks as gently as a mother untangling her daughter’s hair before bedtime. She had never felt so protected, so safe. She pressed herself closer to the creature’s warm, sleek belly and rubbed her nose against its scales, inhaling deeply. It smelled like the forest… like pine and dirt.

“Tell me a story,” she murmured sleepily.

“What kind of story do you want to hear, pet?”

Its voice was growly and deep, almost inhumanly so, and yet there was a softness to it that felt like a caress of velvet along her spine. Surely the owner of such a voice would never hurt her. “Any story. I just like hearing you talk.”

It chuckled, its chest rumbling against her body. “So be it, minx.” It placed its free hand on the bare skin of her stomach and drew her closer to its torso. “Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful dragon in a land far, far away. She had a beautiful home, family who loved her—”
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When I was a child I was always running and jumping. Inside the house, outside, on the streets… my little legs always seemed to be on the move. I would run and jump until I couldn’t anymore. At night, I would pass out in my bed in exhaustion and wake up in the morning ready to run and jump again. My teachers had a hard time keeping me in my seat during class. I was always getting up and jumping around, riling all the other children. I was a problem child, my mother was told. I was a hyperactive child, my mother was told. The doctors also told my mother there was medication for it, but she refused it. She told them I was just being a kid and should be allowed to do so. My grandfather said I had grasshoppers living in my kneecaps.

My grandmother said I had the devil in me. Once, while my mother was out, my grandma took me to church where her priest prayed over me in Latin and dunked my head in holy water. I did not like it and didn’t hesitate to let them know. My mother was livid. She yelled that she could take care of her own goddamn child and if her child wanted to jump and run, then by God, she could. I was allowed to run and jump again.

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