Chapter One

Someone ruffled my hair. I sat up with a start, to find my father smiling down at me gently. He gestured to my bedside clock with a flick of his head. I saw that it read 6:30 AM. The bus would be coming any moment! I tried to hop out of bed, but he gently pushed me back down onto the bed and pointed to the thermometer I had overlooked.

No, I signed indignantly.

Yes, he signed back quickly. Your temperature was at 101. For today, you’re in bed, and I’m staying home. Open wide! He held up a medicine cup filled to nearly spilling with purple syrup.

I curled my lip up in disgust. Can’t I just knock back a shot of Dayquil? It took me a moment to finger spell the last word. I didn’t enjoy Nyquil because Dad makes me take a double dose to make sure I didn’t sneak out of the window so I could go to school or the woods. (Long story, that.)

No, he signed firmly. Da nodded to the medicine cup. Down the hatch, now.

I made a face as I swallowed the artificially sweet, (yet somehow still bitter), syrup in one go.

Good. Now eat something.

Do I actually get to feed myself? I sassed back.

Not if you keep this up, little bird, he countered.

I nodded. Fair. Can I have a blueberry bagel? I mean, since you won’t let me up. I added the last part snarkily.

Watch it, he warned. I’ll be back. Stay in bed. He kissed my forehead and, I presumed, went off to fix me a blueberry bagel.

The light of the early morning sun bounced off of my yellow blanket, adding a cheery note to my

walls. My father and I lived in an old cottage that he had renovated before I was born. It wasn’t much, but I had what was supposed to be the attic to myself. There was a window that I opened at night that gave an unobstructed view of the woods, situated right above my regular bed. The walls were sky blue and speckled with silver paint. The walls were lined with white colored shelves that held countless books. Mainly, fairytales from my childhood and fantasy novels. There were scattered necklaces, consisting of lockets and small clock lockets. All of them were at least 2 ½ feet chains.

I flopped onto my back and sighed loudly. Not that he could hear me, or anything that I said. Still, we both had the gift of sight, though he had no concept of sound. He could never hear his little bird chirp…

I was snapped out of my reverie by Da setting a plate on my nightstand, right next to my bed. On it was the blueberry bagel I requested, as well as a grapefruit half with a spoon. I raised an eyebrow at him in question.

It helps to fight colds. Hurry up, before you drift off. With that, he kissed my forehead and went through my door. I heard him thump down the stairs, (he’s fairly heavy at 5’11”) and go through the front door. To do what , I didn’t know. Yes, he was deaf, but he could go out in public on his own so long as he wasn’t going anywhere overly crowded, like the mall. I jumped out of bed, peering through my front window curiously, and saw him go to the back. I hurried back to my bed and looked out, waiting for a moment as he ambled to the backyard, After he came into view, he went into the shed. Well, so much for him doing something exciting, or me doing anything exciting, for that matter. From the back, he could garden all day and still keep an eye on me discreetly. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to do anything while I was conked on my bed.

Speaking of, I could feel the drug tugging at my limbs. Within ten minutes, I’d be out colder than a bachelor in Vegas the night after his last as an unmarried man. I settled under the covers, trying to get comfy. I knew I was going to be asleep for more than a little bit.

I was surprised when Dad came back in through my doorway. I hadn’t even heard him come through the front door. I’m surprised you’re still awake, he signed.

I nodded since my hands felt like they were made of warm sand.

He sat by my bed. Well, can I read you a story like old times?

This time, I found a small scrap of energy to reply. Are you sure you’ll be able to speak understandably? It’s been years since you’ve tried.

“How could I forget, Mo grá?” He whispered huskily.

I almost cried. How long had it been since I had heard him speak? Too long, I decided childishly. Normally, I would not be so sentimental, but cold medicine tended to make more emotional. Well, made it harder for me to control them.

Thor’s dress story, I signed sloppily.

He picked it off of the shelf without a word and flipped straight to the page. He had read the story to me countless times when I was younger, and it still reminded me of the days when I went to work with him. The days spent in the summer, gardening for the richest family in town. The winters were spent in the public library, helping him shelve books, then settling down on his lap to read with him.

As he started in his deep, comforting voice, I drifted off slowly. Somewhere, in the back of my head, I knew I was too old for him to be tucking me in and reading a story to me as a fell asleep with a cold. The rest of me was too tired to care, even glad to be taken care of.

Author's Note

As before, I'd really appreciate it if you shared my work with your friends! That way, we can all be complete dorks together. :)

Happy reading and your's truly,
Firabelle

Reviews

[JayG]

• Someone ruffled my hair. I sat up with a start, to find my father smiling down at me gently. He gestured to my bedside clock with a flick of his head. I saw that it read 6:30 AM. The bus would be coming any moment! I tried to hop out of bed, but he gently pushed me back down onto the bed and pointed to the thermometer I had overlooked.

Makes no sense. No one takes the temperature of a sleeping person with a thermometer (at either end). Nor would the father have reason to come close and feel their forehead to see if they had a temperature. And if this character did have such a temperature they would have reacted to how they felt first, on waking, or have said, "I feel fine."

You're approaching the telling of the story from the outside in, as someone TELLING a story. No matter if the POV is first, second, or third, the story must be told from the protagonist's viewpoint, as THEY experience it. Pretending to be the protagonist explaining the events does not magically change the narrator to the character,, it only changes the pronouns you use. Viewpoint happens in real time, not synopsis.

Next, you need to stop explaining things to the reader. The reader doesn't care how the character came to live there, or any of their history. They came to you for story, and that takes place in real time. It's what the protagonist is focused on enough to react to. If the history matters to the plot it will become apparent, and such discovery is part of the fun of reading. Then it's necessary. As a lecture it's a history lesson.

That's not how we were taught to write, of course. There we focus on facts, and write reports and essays to build the nonfiction skills our future employers want us to have. But fiction's job is to entertain. So forget the history lesson and the explanations, Like any report they're boring.

Each line of a story must develop character, move the plot, or set the scene meaningfully (hopefully more then one of those at a time). And anything that doesn't is fluff and serves only to slow the narrative.

I know, after all the work you've done on this story, this doesn't come as welcome news, any more than it was when I learned it, after writing five unsold novels. But it is necessary knowledge. The fimple fact is that fiction's goal is to entertain by giving the reader an emotional experience. The writing you've been taught is designed to inform clearly and concisely.

The difference? Nonfiction is author-centric and fact-based. Fiction is character-centric and emotion-based. And that's a style of writing that your teachers never mention. Why? Because most of them, educated in the same classrooms where you are, are no more aware of that then you were.

You have the desire. And that's great. You've demonstrated the perseverance. And that's necessary. What you're missing are a few dozen tricks of the trade to give your writing wings. And they are as near as your local library system's fiction writing section (not the school's). And while you're there, seek the names Dwight Swain, Jack Bickham, or Debra Dixon on the spine.

My personal suggestion is to ask your personal Santa to download (from any online bookseller) or order (from Deb's site) a copy of Debra Dixon's, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict. It's a warm easy read, and will make you slap your forehead and say, "Why didn't I think of them myself, over and over.

For a kind of overview, you might want to look at the articles in the writing section of my blog.

Hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/

[Bear]

Critique: (You’re temperature was at 101) Your - the contraction You're should be a possessive pronoun instead
(Can’t I just knock back a shot of dayquil) Dayquil
(It took me a moment to finger spell) fingerspell
(I didn’t enjoy nyquil) Nyquil
(fairytales from my childhood and fantasy novels) fairy tales
(The walls were lined with white colored shelves) take the word colored out "with white shelves"

Review: Interesting start, the realistic feel and the details of your telling draws us into the story and makes us a part of it, well done my friend Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!

[Coyote Poetry]

A very good chapter. I like the interaction of the father and the son. I like the internal thoughts and the care given to the son. The good description made the scene come alive to the reader. Thank you for sharing the excellent chapter.
Coyote