The project is now live on Kickstarter.com. Check it out here:
http://www.kickstarter.com/e/7F2rW/projects/dawnleger/launch-eagle-scouting-project.
I'm very pleased to say that pledges are already coming in and this is really exciting! Thanks to everyone for checking it out and doing what you can to support the work. I truly appreciate it!
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
It's been a while
Life intrudes: How to keep the focus on writing something so intense when there's a job to go to, a book to edit, a committee to meet? So things get slowed down.
I'm working on posting a project on Kickstarter.com, which should be up and running very soon. It's an effort to raise money so that the aforementioned interruptions can be lessened a bit, if not totally, by obtaining some financial support for the writing.
Part of this has been forcing me to think about marketing well in advance of when I should be considering it. But the Kickstarter.com project requires one to summarize your project and present it in a short but inspiring way. I hooked up with a wonderful graphic designer who created a "morphing man" animation that demonstrates how your average Joe can be transformed into Jose and then Jihad. Her name is Karin Samatis and you'll be able to check this out when the project goes live. Which I will, naturally, announce here.
I'm writing much more about Raoul lately, getting deeper into his character and the minds of the terrorists. It's not an easy place to go, believe me. It was much more fun having Clara cavort through Jerome and New York City!
I'm working on posting a project on Kickstarter.com, which should be up and running very soon. It's an effort to raise money so that the aforementioned interruptions can be lessened a bit, if not totally, by obtaining some financial support for the writing.
Part of this has been forcing me to think about marketing well in advance of when I should be considering it. But the Kickstarter.com project requires one to summarize your project and present it in a short but inspiring way. I hooked up with a wonderful graphic designer who created a "morphing man" animation that demonstrates how your average Joe can be transformed into Jose and then Jihad. Her name is Karin Samatis and you'll be able to check this out when the project goes live. Which I will, naturally, announce here.
I'm writing much more about Raoul lately, getting deeper into his character and the minds of the terrorists. It's not an easy place to go, believe me. It was much more fun having Clara cavort through Jerome and New York City!
Monday, July 26, 2010
Raoul
He knew this town, its hidey-holes and back trails, like the roadmap of lines on the palm of his hand. Even after being away for years, the familiar feeling of the gravel and sand, the scrubby woods and the poorly maintained neighborhoods, came back to him with ease. Raoul had been in Jerome for several months now, no one the wiser about his nightly comings and goings. Certainly no one in his family knew he was in town, and only the man he reported to was certain where he was.
The day had been warm, a clear and crisp fall day that made a person remember all the Septembers past when school meant a new beginning and the opportunity to make money – and fun – raking leaves all over town. It was too early for the foliage, but with nightfall coming earlier, Raoul’s meanderings around town were easier to accomplish. A brilliant half moon lit up the sky as he slipped onto a pier and clambered aboard an old boat that he’d equipped with a powerful, strong, and well-camouflaged engine.
Once the anchor was up and the boat was safely out of sight, Raoul pulled off his ‘rican boy uniform (slouchy jeans, bad-ass tee, and black Puma cap). Rolling the clothes into a garbage bag for use on the return trip, he slipped back into the all-black ensemble of the new urban terrorist. With the addition of a woolen pakol, a smudge of kohl under each eye, his Ismail persona was back in business. He pulled the boat close to the shore on the outskirts of town, where a buoy had been placed to hold a rubber raft. With night vision glasses, Raoul scanned to make sure the coast was clear, slipped into the raft and paddled quietly to the dark side of a hulking warehouse on the water. The final run-through meeting was scheduled, where he hoped to gather enough details to make a report that would stop whatever was being planned here. After months of laying low, training in hand-to-hand maneuvers, the group was approaching d-day.
Several new faces were among the familiar gathering. Apparently many separate cells had been training in other locations and some had now come now together for the last briefing. The men had been selected for their nerves and dedication to the mission – expressed as “teaching a lesson” to the American devil. Raoul kept his eyes low and grunted when someone pushed against his arm.
“Ismail, hey.” Mohammed smiled.
“No names,” Ismail said quietly. “Remember? No names.”
“Oh, yes, yes. I keep forgetting.” Mohammed chuckled. “But we’re among friends here, right? I mean, in public, yes, but here? No problem.”
Ismail grunted again and slid away from his talkative friend, trying to blend in the background and watch the crowd. His dark eyes flashed and he hunched against the wall when a signal came to be quiet.
“Check with your team leader to get your directions for later. We have one more training exercise, and then we move into place. Any questions, ask your leader. Time is of the essence now, and Inshallah, we will meet again in heaven.” With that, the man turned away and gestured with his left hand. In the right, he held a stubby pistol.
“One more thing – a lesson.” He gestured again. “Bring him here.”
Mohammed was escorted to the front, his feet hardly touching the ground. He had a stupid smile on his face, as if he was expecting some kind of commendation, and that was the expression he took into the afterlife as the leader dispatched him with a single shot to the forehead.
“Anyone else need a lesson? We are in a battle here, and we cannot allow the weakness of one to affect the strength of our mission. Now, go.” He raised the gun and fired a single shot into the roof as the group scattered, looking for others in their squad while avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room. Raoul felt his bowels tighten, as they did whenever he was ready for action.
The day had been warm, a clear and crisp fall day that made a person remember all the Septembers past when school meant a new beginning and the opportunity to make money – and fun – raking leaves all over town. It was too early for the foliage, but with nightfall coming earlier, Raoul’s meanderings around town were easier to accomplish. A brilliant half moon lit up the sky as he slipped onto a pier and clambered aboard an old boat that he’d equipped with a powerful, strong, and well-camouflaged engine.
Once the anchor was up and the boat was safely out of sight, Raoul pulled off his ‘rican boy uniform (slouchy jeans, bad-ass tee, and black Puma cap). Rolling the clothes into a garbage bag for use on the return trip, he slipped back into the all-black ensemble of the new urban terrorist. With the addition of a woolen pakol, a smudge of kohl under each eye, his Ismail persona was back in business. He pulled the boat close to the shore on the outskirts of town, where a buoy had been placed to hold a rubber raft. With night vision glasses, Raoul scanned to make sure the coast was clear, slipped into the raft and paddled quietly to the dark side of a hulking warehouse on the water. The final run-through meeting was scheduled, where he hoped to gather enough details to make a report that would stop whatever was being planned here. After months of laying low, training in hand-to-hand maneuvers, the group was approaching d-day.
Several new faces were among the familiar gathering. Apparently many separate cells had been training in other locations and some had now come now together for the last briefing. The men had been selected for their nerves and dedication to the mission – expressed as “teaching a lesson” to the American devil. Raoul kept his eyes low and grunted when someone pushed against his arm.
“Ismail, hey.” Mohammed smiled.
“No names,” Ismail said quietly. “Remember? No names.”
“Oh, yes, yes. I keep forgetting.” Mohammed chuckled. “But we’re among friends here, right? I mean, in public, yes, but here? No problem.”
Ismail grunted again and slid away from his talkative friend, trying to blend in the background and watch the crowd. His dark eyes flashed and he hunched against the wall when a signal came to be quiet.
“Check with your team leader to get your directions for later. We have one more training exercise, and then we move into place. Any questions, ask your leader. Time is of the essence now, and Inshallah, we will meet again in heaven.” With that, the man turned away and gestured with his left hand. In the right, he held a stubby pistol.
“One more thing – a lesson.” He gestured again. “Bring him here.”
Mohammed was escorted to the front, his feet hardly touching the ground. He had a stupid smile on his face, as if he was expecting some kind of commendation, and that was the expression he took into the afterlife as the leader dispatched him with a single shot to the forehead.
“Anyone else need a lesson? We are in a battle here, and we cannot allow the weakness of one to affect the strength of our mission. Now, go.” He raised the gun and fired a single shot into the roof as the group scattered, looking for others in their squad while avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room. Raoul felt his bowels tighten, as they did whenever he was ready for action.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Pushing the limits
As my writing buddy Dave commented once, "You have a lot of balls to write this stuff. This is great." Tackling an historic, factual event in the context of writing fiction can be challenging. Doing so with an unafraid narrator can be liberating.
Here's the secret about writing: You hire a narrator to tell the story and let him or her do the work. Maybe you can't write about sex, because your mother (or friend, or husband, or boss) might read it and be upset. But your narrator, that free-wheeling hussy you've entrusted with the story, can do it. Some of the best narrators are unreliable, slanting things to put themselves in the best light or to obscure their own participation in an event. That can be loads of fun for the reader - and the writer - as you try to figure out what really happened, as opposed to what appears to have happened.
Doing exercises is part of this process, the way to get into the story. So, I may want to write about a murdered brother and a flawed sister who's trying to figure out what happened. And I may write it in a very distant, almost God-like, third person. Can be very formal this way, can be a camera swooping down from great heights and zeroing in on a scene or conversation. Or alternatively, a first-person narrator can tell the story, but his or her perspective is limited and has its own agenda. So the sister telling the story is different from the police detective, is different from the newspaper reporter, is different from the mother. And each one of those has a very interesting thing to offer the writer, a very different take on the story. Using these exercises to arrive at a "complete" story is one way in which you decide what is the best way to tell it (you usually have to pick just one), and yet knowing about all the other stories provides a multi-layered perspective that deepens the telling - no matter who is chosen as the narrator.
So, in conclusion, when I write "I" in a story, rest assured that it is not me but my narrator whose voice and experience colors the manner in which she tells the tale.
Here's the secret about writing: You hire a narrator to tell the story and let him or her do the work. Maybe you can't write about sex, because your mother (or friend, or husband, or boss) might read it and be upset. But your narrator, that free-wheeling hussy you've entrusted with the story, can do it. Some of the best narrators are unreliable, slanting things to put themselves in the best light or to obscure their own participation in an event. That can be loads of fun for the reader - and the writer - as you try to figure out what really happened, as opposed to what appears to have happened.
Doing exercises is part of this process, the way to get into the story. So, I may want to write about a murdered brother and a flawed sister who's trying to figure out what happened. And I may write it in a very distant, almost God-like, third person. Can be very formal this way, can be a camera swooping down from great heights and zeroing in on a scene or conversation. Or alternatively, a first-person narrator can tell the story, but his or her perspective is limited and has its own agenda. So the sister telling the story is different from the police detective, is different from the newspaper reporter, is different from the mother. And each one of those has a very interesting thing to offer the writer, a very different take on the story. Using these exercises to arrive at a "complete" story is one way in which you decide what is the best way to tell it (you usually have to pick just one), and yet knowing about all the other stories provides a multi-layered perspective that deepens the telling - no matter who is chosen as the narrator.
So, in conclusion, when I write "I" in a story, rest assured that it is not me but my narrator whose voice and experience colors the manner in which she tells the tale.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Another Chapter One
This may actually be the first chapter, and yesterday's post may be renamed "prologue." Whatever. Enjoy.
-Clara-
There’s something about death that brings out the urge for people to have sex, almost a necessity to bond with another human being in the most primal way to affirm that, yes, I’m still alive. In my case, since almost the first time I put on a bra, sex had been a way for me to make connections, although as I got older it was less about that and more about control. Here was one place I could get what I wanted from the world. Today, especially, I needed a human touch with no agenda except orgasm.
I promised myself, sitting on the barstool the afternoon after my brother’s funeral, that it would be only once, that all I wanted from Guy was just a taste – at first, it seemed that just a kiss, a test to see if the electricity that had flashed between us was real, the heat I’d felt ever since the first moment I saw him across the room and then the obligatory conversation – don’t I know you from somewhere, where did you go to school, what year? – was just a mating dance leading to the actual moment when he touched me and we really danced, right there in the Eagle’s Club under the gaze of the old drunks and guys dressed in blue shirts with names like “Joe” and “Carlos” embroidered over filthy pockets bulging with cigarettes and pencil stubs, holding up the bar with their leaning potbellies and unfocused eyes, and I knew that a kiss would be absolutely necessary, just that and nothing more than a taste, although when I closed my eyes and felt his hand on my lower back, and imagined him naked, the red hairs flowing smoothly over that impossibly flat stomach, erupting in a glorious chorus of thick pubic hair that must herald the presence of what had to be a thick, red cock and then, interrupting my wet revelry, the question – circumcised or not? – that always came up, so to speak, at these moments, and Oh how I wanted to see, actually to taste and experience, the uncut penis of my imagination, pulling the skin away to reveal the glistening red head whose very ripeness was a quivering piece of fruit I must nibble cautiously and then suck upon and finally encompass with my entire being, and then he looked at me, the slow lazy look of a man who knows you want him, and I felt it then, no, not the bulge I’d been expecting or the muscle flexed with the tension of our chemistry, no, I realized there was a ring on his left hand and I felt my stomach lurch with the absolute certainty that I could not have this man and the realization that I would, in fact, fuck him. The ring actually sealed the deal as I felt my breathing quicken in anticipation.
This familiar exercise had never taken place in the town I used to call home, and that ratcheted up my interest in this red-haired, freckle-faced Frenchman. That and the fact that, since September 11 and the chaos of lower Manhattan, since the murder of my brother, I had lost my bearings. The best way I knew how to ground myself was against the foreign and familiar pelvis of a man.
-Clara-
There’s something about death that brings out the urge for people to have sex, almost a necessity to bond with another human being in the most primal way to affirm that, yes, I’m still alive. In my case, since almost the first time I put on a bra, sex had been a way for me to make connections, although as I got older it was less about that and more about control. Here was one place I could get what I wanted from the world. Today, especially, I needed a human touch with no agenda except orgasm.
I promised myself, sitting on the barstool the afternoon after my brother’s funeral, that it would be only once, that all I wanted from Guy was just a taste – at first, it seemed that just a kiss, a test to see if the electricity that had flashed between us was real, the heat I’d felt ever since the first moment I saw him across the room and then the obligatory conversation – don’t I know you from somewhere, where did you go to school, what year? – was just a mating dance leading to the actual moment when he touched me and we really danced, right there in the Eagle’s Club under the gaze of the old drunks and guys dressed in blue shirts with names like “Joe” and “Carlos” embroidered over filthy pockets bulging with cigarettes and pencil stubs, holding up the bar with their leaning potbellies and unfocused eyes, and I knew that a kiss would be absolutely necessary, just that and nothing more than a taste, although when I closed my eyes and felt his hand on my lower back, and imagined him naked, the red hairs flowing smoothly over that impossibly flat stomach, erupting in a glorious chorus of thick pubic hair that must herald the presence of what had to be a thick, red cock and then, interrupting my wet revelry, the question – circumcised or not? – that always came up, so to speak, at these moments, and Oh how I wanted to see, actually to taste and experience, the uncut penis of my imagination, pulling the skin away to reveal the glistening red head whose very ripeness was a quivering piece of fruit I must nibble cautiously and then suck upon and finally encompass with my entire being, and then he looked at me, the slow lazy look of a man who knows you want him, and I felt it then, no, not the bulge I’d been expecting or the muscle flexed with the tension of our chemistry, no, I realized there was a ring on his left hand and I felt my stomach lurch with the absolute certainty that I could not have this man and the realization that I would, in fact, fuck him. The ring actually sealed the deal as I felt my breathing quicken in anticipation.
This familiar exercise had never taken place in the town I used to call home, and that ratcheted up my interest in this red-haired, freckle-faced Frenchman. That and the fact that, since September 11 and the chaos of lower Manhattan, since the murder of my brother, I had lost my bearings. The best way I knew how to ground myself was against the foreign and familiar pelvis of a man.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
And so we begin: Chapter One
-Raoul-
When he regained consciousness, the man called Ismail found that he could not move his limbs. His head was covered in black fabric, a grimy piece of cloth taped in his mouth. He strained at the restraints, checking at the same time that his legs and arms were still attached and working. His ears roared, and then – suddenly – everything was quiet. He lifted his head a bit, straining to hear something, anything, but only caught the creak of a floorboard. No one else seemed to be in the room. Once he calmed his quaking heart and slowed the blood pulsing against his ear drums, Ismail could tell there was no one nearby…but muted voices carried into the room through the heating vents.
More tugging, and then the distinct sound of a door opening. Window shades dropping. His two captors wore hair grease that he could identify by its distinct smell, a favorite of some of the local Arab men. He pulled away when he felt cold metal touch his leg, and he clenched his muscles against the expected pain. Roughly his clothes were scissored off and the men could see the chill travel through his naked body. A hand untied his left foot and as pressure was applied to his right ankle, Ismail prepared to scissor his legs and fight for release. A loud laugh erupted from the other side of the room, then a gruff voice – did he recognize it? – grunted, “Knock him out before he gets the best of you.” There was a quick flash of light, the sting of a needle and Ismail fell into darkness again.
When he awakened later, the room appeared silent and dark again. He was chilled, dizzy from whatever they’d shot him up with, and tied down at all four points again. The air conditioner blew a soft coolness across the room, and goose bumps dimpled his bare chest. The door creaked open.
There was a scuffle of fabric against the floor – they were in stocking feet – and then Ismail’s blindfold was abruptly removed. The three men surrounding the bed looked familiar to him, but since all that was visible was their eyes, it was purely a guess. Based on their sizes, the closeness of the eyes and the quality of redness and wrinkling there, he tried to make an estimate of age…but, his brain was not functioning at its peak and he found it necessary to stay focused on breathing. The thinnest man, possibly the youngest, stepped forward when another pushed his arm. He was wearing a long plastic apron and a welder’s mask, which Ismail noted with interest rather than alarm. He reached down and slipped a silky fabric below Ismail’s knees, exposing the cold joint of his manhood. The men could see his balls contract under their scrutiny.
The youngster looked back over his shoulder, hesitating. There was another glint of metal, and then the rubber-covered hand pulled the exposed penis taut. The boy grunted when he sawed the scalpel through the flesh, moving aside when a spurt of blood obscured his work. Ismail’s body, a bit slow to react to the assault, arched upwards in distress. He felt no pain, not yet, just the throbbing warmth of the blood flowing across his legs and pelvis. The kid held up the prize.
Sweat flowed into Ismail’s eyes – perhaps mixed with tears – as the third man held his hair and roughly removed the tape and cloth from his mouth. Before he could swallow properly, however, the man roughly stuffed the flaccid member between Ismail’s gasping lips and slapped the tape back on. Ismail heaved and bucked and fought against the taste of blood and then vomit, the three men standing cross-armed around the bed as if witnessing an ordinary and somewhat boring event. The young one, without his bloody apron and mask, looked greenish as he worked his face muscles into a stolid pose.
“Calm yourself,” Ismail thought as he tried to focus. “Calm, calm, calm.” He frowned, concentrated hard on the word, calling upon his military training to push down the rising tide of panic. Struggling to breathe through the nose, Ismail could sense the slowing beat of his heart – not because of his efforts to calm it, but apparently because there was a rapidly decreasing amount of blood left to pump out.
Sparkling white streamers danced across his field of vision, and at first he was afraid of another slash of the silver blade. There was no more cutting, however. In a moment, he relaxed into the cool blackness that lapped at the edges of his consciousness.
“Take it off,” the leader instructed, and duct tape stripped the dry skin from Ismail’s lips. He wanted to spit but there was nothing left, just the slow inhalation of one last breath. The severed penis flopped in his mouth like an extra tongue, lolling out the corner. He had neither the strength nor even the will to spit it out.
Ismail was able to turn his head an inch and caught the older man’s smile as he removed his mask and turned away. Who was he? The question fluttered across the last synapses of Ismail’s brain. He was familiar…
“Everything clean? Roll up that prayer rug; he won’t be needing it anymore.” the leader said, slapping his gloved hands together. It was cold in the room, the air conditioning humming in the corner. “Let’s go.”
He winked at the body splayed on the bed, the pallid skin against the crimson mess of the sheets. Ismail’s eye fluttered one last time, just at the edge of the clean white shimmer overtaking his vision.
“See you in hell, Ra-oul.” The door closed. It was early in the morning of September 8, 2001, and the men had work to do.
When he regained consciousness, the man called Ismail found that he could not move his limbs. His head was covered in black fabric, a grimy piece of cloth taped in his mouth. He strained at the restraints, checking at the same time that his legs and arms were still attached and working. His ears roared, and then – suddenly – everything was quiet. He lifted his head a bit, straining to hear something, anything, but only caught the creak of a floorboard. No one else seemed to be in the room. Once he calmed his quaking heart and slowed the blood pulsing against his ear drums, Ismail could tell there was no one nearby…but muted voices carried into the room through the heating vents.
More tugging, and then the distinct sound of a door opening. Window shades dropping. His two captors wore hair grease that he could identify by its distinct smell, a favorite of some of the local Arab men. He pulled away when he felt cold metal touch his leg, and he clenched his muscles against the expected pain. Roughly his clothes were scissored off and the men could see the chill travel through his naked body. A hand untied his left foot and as pressure was applied to his right ankle, Ismail prepared to scissor his legs and fight for release. A loud laugh erupted from the other side of the room, then a gruff voice – did he recognize it? – grunted, “Knock him out before he gets the best of you.” There was a quick flash of light, the sting of a needle and Ismail fell into darkness again.
When he awakened later, the room appeared silent and dark again. He was chilled, dizzy from whatever they’d shot him up with, and tied down at all four points again. The air conditioner blew a soft coolness across the room, and goose bumps dimpled his bare chest. The door creaked open.
There was a scuffle of fabric against the floor – they were in stocking feet – and then Ismail’s blindfold was abruptly removed. The three men surrounding the bed looked familiar to him, but since all that was visible was their eyes, it was purely a guess. Based on their sizes, the closeness of the eyes and the quality of redness and wrinkling there, he tried to make an estimate of age…but, his brain was not functioning at its peak and he found it necessary to stay focused on breathing. The thinnest man, possibly the youngest, stepped forward when another pushed his arm. He was wearing a long plastic apron and a welder’s mask, which Ismail noted with interest rather than alarm. He reached down and slipped a silky fabric below Ismail’s knees, exposing the cold joint of his manhood. The men could see his balls contract under their scrutiny.
The youngster looked back over his shoulder, hesitating. There was another glint of metal, and then the rubber-covered hand pulled the exposed penis taut. The boy grunted when he sawed the scalpel through the flesh, moving aside when a spurt of blood obscured his work. Ismail’s body, a bit slow to react to the assault, arched upwards in distress. He felt no pain, not yet, just the throbbing warmth of the blood flowing across his legs and pelvis. The kid held up the prize.
Sweat flowed into Ismail’s eyes – perhaps mixed with tears – as the third man held his hair and roughly removed the tape and cloth from his mouth. Before he could swallow properly, however, the man roughly stuffed the flaccid member between Ismail’s gasping lips and slapped the tape back on. Ismail heaved and bucked and fought against the taste of blood and then vomit, the three men standing cross-armed around the bed as if witnessing an ordinary and somewhat boring event. The young one, without his bloody apron and mask, looked greenish as he worked his face muscles into a stolid pose.
“Calm yourself,” Ismail thought as he tried to focus. “Calm, calm, calm.” He frowned, concentrated hard on the word, calling upon his military training to push down the rising tide of panic. Struggling to breathe through the nose, Ismail could sense the slowing beat of his heart – not because of his efforts to calm it, but apparently because there was a rapidly decreasing amount of blood left to pump out.
Sparkling white streamers danced across his field of vision, and at first he was afraid of another slash of the silver blade. There was no more cutting, however. In a moment, he relaxed into the cool blackness that lapped at the edges of his consciousness.
“Take it off,” the leader instructed, and duct tape stripped the dry skin from Ismail’s lips. He wanted to spit but there was nothing left, just the slow inhalation of one last breath. The severed penis flopped in his mouth like an extra tongue, lolling out the corner. He had neither the strength nor even the will to spit it out.
Ismail was able to turn his head an inch and caught the older man’s smile as he removed his mask and turned away. Who was he? The question fluttered across the last synapses of Ismail’s brain. He was familiar…
“Everything clean? Roll up that prayer rug; he won’t be needing it anymore.” the leader said, slapping his gloved hands together. It was cold in the room, the air conditioning humming in the corner. “Let’s go.”
He winked at the body splayed on the bed, the pallid skin against the crimson mess of the sheets. Ismail’s eye fluttered one last time, just at the edge of the clean white shimmer overtaking his vision.
“See you in hell, Ra-oul.” The door closed. It was early in the morning of September 8, 2001, and the men had work to do.
A warning
The materials that are shared in this blog are adult content only. This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is unintentional. This work is protected by U.S. copyright laws.
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