However, if you read the first “exercise” about Cronesboro (or after you read it today), maybe you can help inspire me for the second bit. The first exercise was about foretelling/foreboding. The second, presumably next weekend, might be about “variety in locations for the narrator.” Feel free to add some suggestions in the comments to inspire me.
What do I mean about variety in locations for the narrator? That can be a challenge, particularly in writing first-person narratives. The narrator must witness everything, but as stories go, that can sometimes be next to impossible. I’ve read books (by very famous authors) where the author resorted to having various townspeople drop by the narrator’s house and tell her about events — for most of the story. An author can avoid that tediousness by creating reasons for the narrator to be in various places — or by making sure there are “places” in the first place.
So… my question to you… your chance to participate… is:
What are some potential places, in a small (desert) town where a main character might learn about — or preferrable witness
something story-worthy, like a crime, strange goings-on, or some kind of drama? Inspire me in a comment.
Previous Post
Now, incase you missed it, or as a refresher…
My exercise — and something that you might try for practice yourself, has to do with “foreshadowing” and/or “foreboding.” My own response to this exercise is the kind of storytelling that you have to watch closely, so to speak, for little clues and hints. It wouldn’t hurt to brush up on your supernatural lore too. Now, buckle up! We’re on the road to Cronesboro.
The Dragons of Cronesboro
1: There’s Just One More Thing
Why am I so tense?Shoulders bunched up all the way to my ears, I tried in vain to relax. The urge to look over my shoulder repeatedly assailed me, and for no good reason. It wasn’t as if I had never gone off into the unknown… alone… or mostly alone. I glanced to the seat next to me at the sound of movement. I had not been prepared for that situation either.
Unaccustomed to driving a vehicle that was so different from anything else I’d ever had, I rounded a sharp curve carefully. Abruptly, “dry lightning” cracked the sky, causing me to jump. It was accompanied by thunder that sounded oddly like laughter. A small dark cloud passed overhead.
I looked up curiously at the dark blot. It moved too fast to be a cloud.
Then I nearly screamed when a roadblock immediately followed the curve. My tires screeched as the heavy vehicle slid to a stop an inch away from the barricade.
A loud displeased sound came from the crate in the passenger seat. I squinted at the small — and vague directions on the detour sign.
“Are you okay, Tiamat? A hundred miles of desert in any direction, and there’s a detour?” I muttered. “How is that even possible?”
My sense of unease accelerated along with the gas pedal and I veered onto the seemingly eternal road.***
24 Hours Previously
The conference table wasn’t huge, but it took up most of the room. I stared absently at the woodgrain, my brain numb from all of the “buts” of the transaction. Alone for the moment, I slumped against the tall, padded back of my chair.“Trinity Roy?” a woman stuck her head inside the door and asked. “I’m sorry for the delay. Mrs. Askook’s agent will be back with you in a few more minutes. He’s just, um, ironing out a detail or two.”
If they come back with one more thing — just one more thing… my fatigued brain muttered irritably, but I knew I’d have to stick with it for such an extraordinary deal on a house.
Finally, the estate agent returned to the room, with a tense smile plastered onto his face.
“Thanks for being so patient, Ms. Roy. There are just a few more details.”
Great… now what?He seemed to read my expression. He swallowed and proceeded to reassure me that there was something good. I, of course, smelled a rat. With a flourish, he produced an 8 X 10 photo of a pristine vintage car. I was befuddled.
“This vehicle has to go with the purchase of the house. That’s a firm requirement,” he stated and promised that it was in good running order.
“It’s gorgeous,” I murmured after giving a low whistle. “That’s like one of those ‘too good to be true’ things you see on TV. Why haven’t you snapped up the house or the car yourself?”
“No one in the law firm, or any of our relatives or associations are allowed,” he explained with obvious regret. “There are also conditions regarding who Mrs. Askook would let have the property — mostly the age and gender requirements, which you meet.”
“What kind of name is Askook anyway?” I wanted to know.
“Native American,” he started. “Algonquian to be precise. It means snake.”
Even though I suppressed a shudder at the name meaning, I shook my head in continued astonishment. I reached for the pen, ready to put my signature on the documents.
“There’s just one more thing,” he added, and my lips tightened. “The car cannot be sold for at least ten years, and the purchaser must drive it to the property in New Mexico.”
I nodded. I would have to drive there anyway. I needed a roof over my head, and I had not found good options in my meager price-range anywhere else. However, the agent cleared his throat.
“And you have to take Tiamat,” he added.
“Please, by all that’s holy, tell me that Tiamat is not a snake.”
***
I had been driving since dawn, pulling a little U-Haul attached to the car, and Tiamat complaining most of that time. I realized that my new town was in the back end of the desert. The only recommendation it really had was the fact that property was cheap and it didn’t get snow more than once a year.
The “middle of nowhere” had left my rearview mirror many miles hence when a sickly-sweet metallic scent met my nose. It quickly blossomed to combine with pungent odors of ammonia, manure, and something rotten. It was like roadkill on steroids.
“Ugh!” I cried, hurriedly rolling up the window.
“Meow,” Tiamat commented curiously from crate in the passenger seat.
Tiamat was the second strange requirement attached to Mrs. Askook’s estate, a large “traditional,” chocolate point Siamese cat, the kind that didn’t have that wedge-shape head.In the distance on the side of the road, I saw a sprawling metal structure topped by a massive sign that read “Kilgore Meat Processing Plant.”
Well, that’s suitable. And it’s definitely gore, I thought.
Twilight came, the sun lowering on horizon behind me, and I still had not reached my new home. Suddenly something dark loomed up in my rearview mirror. I slowed down, so they could pass. They sped up to my bumper and then quickly slowed down, repeating that close/far stunt a few times. It reminded me of the way some magnets repel each other. Yet they didn’t try to go around me.“The dumbasses don’t even have their headlights on. I can’t make out what kind of car it is,” I grumbled. “Are they just being jerks? There’s no traffic on this road, or streetlights, or anything else for that matter. Why won’t they go around me?”
Tiamat sniffed the air again and started growling.Another look in the rearview mirror showed the vehicle was closer, but not on my bumper, and holding that position. There was something strange about it. Actually, it didn’t look like any car I had ever seen. The shape was… unsteady, undefined. All I could say with any certainty is that it was dark.
Fear washed over me. I slammed my foot down on the gas pedal, the vintage Ford lurching ahead. The thing behind me kept pace. Abruptly it zoomed up, tailgating — and still I couldn’t make out what it was!
My eyes were on the rearview mirror more than the road ahead. The sensation of different pavement under the tires, followed by a hollow hum told me that I was on a bridge. That brought my attention back to where I was headed. Leaning to one side was a road sign that read “Lustral Creek.”
However, most of my brain was focused on whatever had just tried to run me off the road. To my immense relief the other car — because it had to be some kind of car, right? Anyway, it had not gotten close again. Not taking any chances, I kept my foot firmly on the accelerator.
The vintage Ford barreled past a speed limit sign and one of those monument-like town markers. I was going too fast to read either, but I knew I was going faster than whatever the speed limit was. I didn’t care.
I decided that I cared after all, when flashing lights and a siren came up behind me. Shaking like a leaf, I slowed down and pulled over.
The shortest deputy I had ever seen stiffly got out of the police cruiser. She had to be a few inches shy of five feet tall. She was also the oldest deputy I had ever encountered. Her mouth was twisted in what I took for disdain, or maybe it was just pure meanness. I lowered my window. The cat began meowing again.
“Ma’am did you know you were speeding?” she asked through twitching lips.
If I had not been scared out of my wits a few minutes before, I would have been offended, because the deputy looked for all the world like she was mocking me.
“Officer, um deputy… something, or somebody tried to run me off the road back there—” I stopped midsentence as a church bell that must have been quite nearby started tolling.
The bells were loud, and the noise seemed to egg on the complaining cat to louder meows in the backseat.
“Back where? You mean Lustral Creek? Humph… Well, I guess they’re back then, aren’t they,” the deputy muttered to herself.
As if I didn’t already have enough problems, the cat’s meowing became incessant, and Siamese cats can produce an operatic amount of volume.
“Tiamat, please be quiet!” I called over my shoulder, louder than I would have if I had not been so panicked — or needing to be heard above the excessive decibel level of Siamese yowling.
“Tiamat?” the deputy sputtered. “Isn’t that the name of some dragon or other?”
I justified myself by saying that I didn’t name the cat. The deputy looked to the direction from which the bells rang. She straightened to stare down the road, muttering the name “Lustral Creek.”
“You know what ‘lustral’ means,” she remarked, leaning curiously to inspect the paint color of the car. “Is that real silver mixed into the paint?” she added in a near whisper.
Her eyes went from the silver pre-war classic Ford roadster to the little square U-Haul trailer attached to it, then to me, and finally to the Siamese cat. Abruptly, the deputy burst out in a guffaw. She laughed so hard that her eyes watered.“So, Trinity Roy, were you chased by a vampire across the holy water creek, only to be stopped by Smokey? Can’t say I blame you if you ‘can’t drive 55’ during that. You know you’re supposed to be 55 years old if you’re gonna live here?” she remarked, and it didn’t occur to me until later that she had not checked my ID.
“Huh?” I croaked numbly.
Still laughing, she pointed to the stone entry monument. It read “You have entered Cronesboro. Residents must be over 55.”
“Since you drove in ‘over 55’ — miles per hour that is, I won’t check your age. I guess you’ll do. I’m a generous soul, so I’ll let you off with a warning.”
The deputy started back to her cruiser. Its combination of red and blue lights cast flashing strobes that made the shadows of her slight body shift and grow in distorted forms.
Her silhouette moved in the lights as she put a hand toward her head. I supposed she was lighting a cigarette. She let out a long puff of smoke, and then turned grinning, to call over her shoulder.
“Welcome to Cronesboro!”
***
End of Exercise 1
♦ ♣ ♠ ♥
So, as I was saying… now that Trinity is in Cronesboro, where might she go? What might be the smalltown hub for gossip? Where might she get needful things? What about that church — is there more to it? I’m inviting you to come out and play. Friendly comments are welcome. Hugs!♦ ♣ ♠ ♥
Oh, but wait! Here’s the obligatory shameless self-promotion.A Peril in Ectoplasm
Universal Purchase Links
Kindle: relinks.me/B0BJ9N1GBX Paperback: relinks.me/B0BJBXGJ7L♦ ♣ ♠ ♥
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