Chapter 1 - No More Flushing Toilets, Please

Sydney Cohen stifled a yawn, watching as Frodo Baggins climbed up the mountain and held up the infamous ring. The wind blew in his hair, he had this grim look of determination in his eyes, and looked more than ready to save the world. The screen flashed black and the credits started rolling. Sydney pressed pause on Lord of the Rings, stretching her arms high up in the air with a smile on her face because yay! She had finished it. She had been up since five just for Gimli (yes, of course he was her favourite character), and it was her third time rewatching the movies. Usually, Sydney would watch the whole credit scene roll through just to appreciate how much work had gone into creating one movie, but she decided against it today as she pulled the covers off her body, slipping down onto the ground as she made her way to the toilet.

Today, things were going to be different, she could feel it. She had started the day off with Lord of the Rings (which, what better way to start, honestly?), but that wasn't the most important part. Today was going to be different because it was the day Sydney Cohen's report card comes out. The turning point. The game changer. Sydney slipped on her leggings and tugged on her blue sweater.

Of course, it wasn’t like the last---how many were there, again? Oh, right, sixteen report cards since first grade mattered much to her grandparents, because every time Sydney came up to her grandmother and showed her the report, she would only give her a tired sigh, a light nod, and an empty “good job” that Sydney knew she did not mean. Her grandfather was no different, either. Except, Sydney had already completely given up on the guy since second grade. The old man in silky robe pyjamas would not talk, would not even lay down to go to sleep, and always had his eyes closed in meditation, or something. Sydney didn’t know what he was doing. Well, how would she know, anyway, what her grandfather was doing? He didn’t talk anymore, not after what happened, remember?

She couldn’t even begin to count how many times she had tried tickling him back in first grade, trying to get him to crack even a slight smile, and she couldn’t even remember how many times she showed him her proudest artworks and stories, because it didn’t matter; none of that got him to show even the slightest bit of emotion. Her grandfather was always still and same, never bothering her back, so she stopped bothering him in return.

This little townhouse down the street was also still and same; it was one she had lived in for her whole life, and honestly, she was proud of it. She could remember every little thing about it; the way the third step down the stairs would always creak, the way the front door knob shook because it had been loose since she was nine, and the tiny hole in the kitchen cupboard where she usually found herself pretending it was a keyhole to a magical world, like something from Narnia. Or Wonderland. Something like her own, little secret.

Sydney braided her hair into two plaits, secured it with rubber bands, and slipped on her socks. She closed her laptop screen, stuffed her school supplies into her worn and torn (but trusty) tote bag, and hopped down the stairs. The third step down greeted her with a creak and she grinned---her oldest friend of them all. She thought she would've figured out a name for him by now, but none of them really seemed to match the stair’s significance. Okay, was she being weird? Nevermind that. Sydney slowed down her pace as she stepped into the living room, her gaze falling onto the one dark corner directly opposite of their couch. Her grandfather sat alone there, with the three living room lights closed, like always. She turned and headed for the kitchen, where her grandmother stood before the stove, pouring some sauces and seasoning some food as per usual. Judging by the amount of food-filled plates already stacking up on the kitchen counter, Sydney would guess that grandma was already cooking her third dish of the day. She didn’t know what else to do except peer at the uneaten dishes set aside on the dining table.

“Grandma, is this your third dish today?”

Her grandmother looked back at her and stared blankly at the plates on the counter. Her hands never left the spatula and the pot handle as she said softly, “Yes, I think. I’m making stew, do you want some, Sydney?”

Sydney shook her head and headed for the taller cupboards, reaching for the homemade bread her grandmother had baked the other day. From the knife rack she took the bread knife, and sliced two pieces for herself. Her grandmother went back to her stew and silence filled the room once more. Usually, of course, Sydney would take her grandmother’s food for lunch since there was no way anyone would be able to finish it all by themself, but today she wanted something simple. She wanted it to be different from all the rest. She could feel it in her bones that something was bound to happen, so a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich it was. Sydney placed her lunch in a brown paper bag she found sitting on the counter and headed for the front door, slipping on her shoes and glancing back at her house one more time. The sound of rushing tap water and bubbling stew was the only thing making noise. There was no and they never had any merry humming or even the tapping of feet on the floor, and Sydney looked away abruptly, squaring her shoulders as she promised herself that today will be different.

Today, she was going to change things. The same way Aragorn stepped up for Frodo in the council, the same way Voldemort changed Harry Potter’s life. Today was her day. She had waited for so long, hoped for so long, and today it will all end. Everything depended on that eighth grade report card coming out, and all she had to do was go to school, receive the report, and come back home to show her grandparents, because even though she has tried so many times already, she couldn’t stop. Not now, not ever. Hope was the only thing she knew how to cling onto; hope and effort, and those two things always always pay off.

At least, she would like to believe they do.

Sydney pushed the front door open, the knob shaking under her grip as she let out a slight giggle---another old friend of hers---and breathed in the fresh air. Oh sweet, fresh air, slightly tinted with a ball of black fur.

Wait.
Black fur?

Sydney looked down. A little black kitten with eyes one blue one green (just like hers!) clawed at her shoes affectionately. She bent down, laughing as the wind blew her front door closed for her. She picked the little kitten up and bumped its nose with hers, then stared into those two, gorgeous eyes. “What are you doing here, Kitty?”

Kitty meowed and Sydney laughed, carrying her in the nook of her arms as she stood up and started for her school. Kitty was the little black kitten she found on the streets not long ago, and what intrigued her the most was her two coloured eyes. It was like finding a long lost friend, because they were alike in so many ways. Kitty didn’t live with any other cats, and Sydney technically lived by herself too, so of course she took the cat in and fed it milk. Bonding over milk quickly turned into bingeing movies on Sydney’s bed; a friendship so close to her heart she could never ask for more. Sydney ruffled the back of Kitty’s ears and the little kitten purred.

“You come meet me at my house tonight, I’ll let you in and feed you some snacks. Grandma’s cooking some stew, maybe I could heat some up for you later.”

Kitty meowed approvingly and Sydney smiled, walking across the street as she passed her beloved library, the place of so many memories.

“Then, after that, I’ll put on the latest episode of Friends and we can just chill.” Sydney perked up and added, “With a cup of hot chocolate, of course!”

Kitty licked Sydney’s cheek and she brushed the little kitten away. “Hey! Are you even listening?” The street light turned green and she walked across the striped pavement. Sydney continued to ramble on.

“Now, of course we’ll also have to celebrate, because today’s the day my report card comes out, did you know that, Kitty?” Then she crossed another street, passed the local bakery, and shook her head, “Of course you didn't, what am I thinking? I’ve never told you before.” At this, Kitty stuck out her tongue and Sydney frowned. She stared into the black kitten’s eyes, seeing her own reflection in it, and her face softened as she nuzzled her face into Kitty’s, who hissed in protest. Sydney laughed, glad that no matter how stupid she acted, Kitty always came back the next morning (for her or for the bowl of milk, she had no idea, but would like to think that it was not the latter), and remained the same gentle, kind, and of course, sometimes sassy little black kitten she was. Kitty was the best thing that has ever happened to her, and she---

“AH!” Sydney yelped, almost dropping Kitty onto the ground. She looked at the little kitten and knitted her eyebrows together, “Why did you do that, Kitty?”

“Meow?”

Sydney winced. “Yeah, that. You don’t have to scream, Kitty. I’m right here.”

The little kitten pursed its lips, squinting at Sydney as if trying to tell her that she did not, in fact, scream at her. Sydney gave her a suspicious look, not quite buying what the kitten was trying to tell her. She heard Kitty screech, there was no doubt about it, but she brushed it off, patted Kitty’s head, and continued.

“Anyways, we’re at the part where Chandler and Joey lose Ross’s son, if I remember correctly,” she went on, “I’m really scared for them because---Ow!” Sydney turned the kitten over to look her in the face. “Kitty, I told you. No need to scream, I’m right here.” She rubbed at her ears and tried to press the pain away.

And at that, Kitty screeched. Sydney jumped, accidentally dropping Kitty on the side of the street as she herself dropped to the ground, crouched down with her hands over her ears, letting out a strained, high-pitched groan as she tried to ease her throbbing head. The ring of Kitty’s shriek echoed around uselessly in her mind and she had to bite her lip to be able to draw her gaze back up from the ground again. Kitty had a panicked look in her eyes, pawing at Sydney’s feet and meowing gently, trying to coax her. Her meows were not helping, though, for it only added to the ring in her ears and the echoes in her mind. Sydney quickly gave Kitty a pat on the head and got up, trying to blink away the pain.

“I’m sorry Kitty,” she said, shooting the little cat an apologetic look, “I, I think I better get to school now.” Then she paced away, before veering back to speak to Kitty one more time. She bent down and bopped her finger on the kitten’s nose, and Kitty’s pupils drew to the middle. “Don’t forget though, we have to finish the episode today, because I’m not watching it without you.”

With that, Sydney dashed away, leaving a confused Kitty on the streets. The kitten cocked its head to the side, then shrugged and walked away, unfazed.

☀️

Five cat meows but no cats, two toilet flushes but when she checked the stalls, there was no one there, people sipping on their morning coffee obnoxiously loudly, and some random girls gossiping about a Timothy who cheated on his girlfriend that Sydney couldn’t care less about. What in the world was going on here?

Sydney sat at her desk in her English classroom, jotting down all the weird occurrences that have been happening to her today to organise her thoughts. Oh yeah, then there was Kitty too. She wouldn’t screech at Sydney for no reason, Sydney realised, because she probably didn’t screech at her at all. It must be something about her ears.

Oh my gosh.

Were they infected? Was that it? Does she need to call a doctor?
“Miss Cohen!”

Sydney startled, dropping her pen on the ground as her knees shot up and hit the table, knocking all her table mates’ pencil cups over too. Everyone flinched at her reaction, and Sydney stared at her notebook, scribbled with random thoughts instead of lesson notes. She swallowed, suddenly aware of the world going on around her. She flipped back a couple pages, praying that maybe she had taken at least some notes from the beginning of class. She had none. Oh man was she doomed. Sydney looked up at her English teacher, who now regarded her with pity after that one hell of a reaction, and answered with an unsure, “Yes?”

Her teacher pushed up her glasses and asked once more, “I asked, Miss Cohen, if you knew what happened to Vladek Spiegelman after he got sent to the concentration camp in Auschwitz?”

Sydney bit her lip. Who was Vladek Spiegelman again? What was it that the teacher said they were going to learn today? Was it---

“In World War One,” her teacher eyed her, and Sydney could feel the pitying looks from her classmates all around.

Right, she thought, she mentioned learning about WWI yesterday. Sydney scanned her notebook page of scribbles and random thoughts aimlessly, trying to find something, anything, really, that could help her answer the question. But deep down, she knew that it would not give her the answer, no matter how hard she stared at it.

“Ummm…” was all she managed to say, before her table mate poked at her hand and whispered her the answer. Sydney did not hesitate to answer her teacher. “He got the registration number tattooed on his arm.”

Her teacher wasn’t only eyeing her now, but also her table mate who tried to act as innocent as possible. “Now, can you tell me, Miss Cohen, why exactly is this simple act so significant to Vladek and the Jews?” Sydney looked helplessly at her table mate, and she was about to tell her the answer again just when her teacher cut in. “Without Miss Clarins’ help this time.”

Her table mate winced and immediately her innocent facade disappeared. Sydney mouthed her a ‘sorry’ and the girl shook her head and smiled.

Then strange things started to happen again. Sydney’s ears rang with the flush of a toilet and her eyes widened. She looked around frantically in her class, but there was nothing out of the blue.

Still, the nearest toilet was five classes down the hall, and even when you were right outside the toilet you could barely hear the flushes. There was no way she could hear them now, all the way in her English classroom.

Am I going crazy? She asked herself, then picked her pen back up and crossed two toilet flushes to three. Then she sensed her table mate peer over at what she was writing and quickly slapped her notebook closed. She winced from the sound.

“Hello? Earth to Miss Sydney Cohen, are you there?” Her teacher tried once more. Sydney stared blankly at the notebook in her hands. It couldn’t have been that loud, could it? It sounded like something had blown up when she closed a mere notebook.

“Miss Cohen?”

Sydney flinched. She didn’t answer, because the tap had just gone off.

Someone was washing their hands and she could hear it.

That wasn’t possible.

Sydney pushed herself up from her seat and tugged on her tote bag, swinging it onto her shoulder as she darted for the door. The door was already opened halfway when her teacher started to panic.

“Hey hey, wait, Sydney, where are you going?”

Sydney snapped from her trance, finally realising what a commotion she had stirred up as her face flushed red. She fumbled for her words before she managed to say, “I’m not feeling very well. May I use the bathroom?”

Baffled, her teacher stared blankly at Sydney, not sure what to do, before she waved a hand at her and dismissed the girl. “Very well, but don’t be too long. And if you’re really not feeling well, visit the nurses, will you?”

“Of course! Thank you,” said Sydney, quickly dipping her head and slipping away, closing the door from her classroom as quietly as possible. She wasn’t about to let her ears suffer again. Sydney scanned the hallways, and upon seeing no one except for the occasional maids mopping the school floors, immediately darted for her hall’s nearest bathroom.

She seemed to only be hearing unimportant things today. A toilet flush over an English lesson? Really, Sydney? And then a running tap? She flung the bathroom door open, revealing...three empty stalls. Empty. Sydney swivelled her head to the other side. No one before the sinks. Not a single trace. Time froze and Sydney felt her knees weaken. She chuckled nervously to herself.

Maybe they had already left. Maybe they were really quick, and had already darted back to their classroom? Yeah, that was possible. Maybe---

“Mrs Parkins, I can’t reach the sink. Can you help me, please?” The voice of a little girl echoed around in her mind.

“Of course, here, let me bring you a stool.” An older woman’s voice spoke, and she could even hear the chink! of metal on tile as the stool got placed on the bathroom floor. Then the sound of running tap water resounded. Blood drained from Sydney’s face as she looked at the empty row of sinks before her, the empty toilet stalls, and the bathroom itself, rid of all human activity. There was no one here except her, and no one had been in here recently, either.

And another thing’s for sure, there was definitely no metal stool to be seen.

Author's Note

written: July 2024

Reviews

[JayG]

I am not going to make you happy, I’m afraid, but there are some things you truly must know, if your goal is to make the reader need to keep turning pages.

It’s not a matter of talent, or plot — which sounds interesting. But like most of us who turn to writing, you’ve missed something critical:

We leave school knowing that we’re not ready to write a stage or screenplay without greater knowledge of those professions. We know that about journalism, too, in all its forms. But, because the pros make it seem so natural and easy, we never apply that idea to the Commercial Fiction Writing profession.

But we must, because while we see the result of using the tools of the profession, as always, art conceals art. So, we can’t know the decision points, or see the tools in use. So, with the best of intentions, we charge ahead, falling into the usual new writer traps...like a prologue that reads like the “what has gone before” of a serialized story.

Every bit of that prologue is what shaped our protagonist before we met her. But not a word of it is necessary. It’s history, not story. And who reads history for fun? Why does the reader care? Who wants to study a report in order to read a novel? In fact, as presented, it’s counterproductive.

Think about it: Her mother dies, and her grandparents turn into what amounts to zombies? They lost their daughter and so, “They haven’t uttered a word to each other since first grade.”? No one said, “Pass the salt?” Not what you meant, of course, but it is what you told the reader.

And that aside, I have four grandchildren, and I adore my own children. But if I lost one of them my focus would, instantly, be on protecting and nurturing THEIR kids. And I suspect that a lot of readers would feel the same, which makes that point of history a negative to the reader who is deciding if they should commit to reading the story. Sol Stein put it well when he said, “A novel is like a car—it won’t go anywhere until you turn on the engine. The “engine” of both fiction and nonfiction is the point at which the reader makes the decision not to put the book down. The engine should start in the first three pages, the closer to the top of page one the better.”

My point is that your story should begin with story, not history. Without doubt, you need to know what shaped her character in order for her to behave consistently, but the reader? Thay want raw meat. They want you to make them feel and care, not nod and say, "Uh-huh."

Look at the opening of chapter 1 as a reader must, without your pre-knowledge:

• Sydney Cohen stifled a yawn, watching as Frodo Baggins climbed up the mountain and held up the infamous ring.

You just told the reader that she’s in Frodo's world, watching it happen. You know she's playing a game, but the reader has only the context that you supply.

• The wind blew in his hair, he had this grim look of determination in his eyes, and looked more than ready to save the world.

Again, as the reader views it, this is happening. So their understanding and their intent are disconnected. You’re also assuming that the reader has either read the book, or seen the films. But what about those who haven’t? Would the story change were she watching a different film? No. So every word used to describe what's in the film serves only to slow the pace of events that matter. You talk about how she fixes her hair, for example. Who cares? The reader can't see it and ours isn't a visual medium. And, why talk about her getting dressed? Again, were sh to have different clothing and hair style noting would change. So it's detail, not story.

• The screen flashed black and the credits started rolling.

Minor point: Flash means light, not dark. But again, who cares? Here's the deal. Any line that does not meaningfully set the scene, develop character, or, move the plot, needs to be chopped. The faster the read the more impact. So, make every word count.

See how different what the reader gets is from what you intend? Your pre-knowledge of the setting is causing you to leave out what’s obvious to you, but necessary to the reader.

My point is that as E. L. Doctorow put it: “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” We DON’T tell our reader a story. We DON’T report what happened. Instead, we place the reader into the viewpoint of the protagonist, and make them experience their life, in real-time.

Think of the books you loved because they were so real that you gave advice to the characters, as we do when watching the actors in a film. THAT’S what you want to happen to your reader. But to do that takes an approach that’s very different from the skills we’re given in school and even those of an undergrad semester of Creative Writing. There is no way around that, and no shortcuts. To write fiction you need the skills of fiction.

But that’s okay, because we already know you have the desire and the perseverance. And acquiring the skills of doing something you want to do is never a chore.

And you’ll LOVE the result of using those tools to improve your writing skills, because they make the protagonist your co-writer, who whispers suggestions and warnings in your ear. At times, it may seem as if that character straightens, glares at you and says, “Wait.... You expect me to do THAT in THIS situation? With the personality, background, and resources you’ve given me? Are you out of your MIND?”

And they’ll be right. They’re always right. Now, your characters think, speak, and act as you instruct them to. But, using the skills of the profession, you’ll be forced to shape the situation in a way that will make that person WANT to do that based on their necessities, not yours.

And that’s where the true joy of both writing and reading lies.

So, a few suggestions:

For a sample of only two techniques, Scene and Sequel and Motivation-Reaction Units, try this article on Writing the Perfect Scene It defines a powerful way to pull the reader into the scene:

http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/art/scene.php

For an overview of the major pitfalls that catch the hopeful writer, and the things most of us miss, you might try some of my articles and YouTube Videos. They're meant as an overview.

And for the skills of the pros:

First is the easy one: Debra Dixon’s, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict

https://archive.org/details/goal.motivation.conflictdebradixon/page/n5/mode/2up

It’s a warm easy read, and filled with concepts like the ones in that article.

The second, the one the article was condensed from, is an older book, but it's the best I've found to date at imparting and clarifying the "nuts-and-bolts" issues of creating a scene that will sing to the reader. It goes deep into the whys and hows, though at times it is a bit of a dry read because of that. Still, it’s not only the best I’ve found, it’s the book that got me my first yes from a publisher. The only real drawback is that the scan-in from print isn’t perfect. But free is nice. 😀

https://archive.org/details/TechniquesOfTheSellingWriterCUsersvenkatmGoogleDrive4FilmMakingBsc_ChennaiFilmSchoolPractice_Others

So, given that you were hoping for an all-over, “But it’s a great start.” I know this hasn't made you happy — especially after all the work you’ve done, and the emotional commitment it required. I have, in effect, called a favorite child ugly. I know, that because I’ve been there. But as I said, it’s not a failing in you, because you’re doing exactly what you were taught to do, and you have a LOT of company.

And in the end, every successful author has faced, and overcome, the same problem. So, hang in there and keep on writing. It never gets easier. But with work, we can become confused on a higher level and shift the ratio of gold-to-crap a bit toward gold.

Jay Greenstein
Articles: https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/
Videos: https://www.youtube.com/@jaygreenstein3334

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“It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”
~ Mark Twain

[suuyuwriteyunu]

oh my god thank you so much for your feedback. I honestly did not think anyone would write this much for me hahah. At first I was quite overwhelmed by the sheer amount of words, but it's all honestly really helpful, so I'm thankful for you for writing me a whole review. Since this is only the first draft, and since I'm only fifteen, there is still a lot of room and time for improvement and I will definitely keep your feedback in mind. I'll also look into those articles you provided, and no I'm not unhappy with the feedback you've provided me, because I understand well how it's all for the sake of my story.
Thanks again!
- Rika