Glue, Glitter, and Writing

Over the past week I’ve been thinking about ways to amp up my writing. Voodoo Dolls is just not moving forward at a pace I’m satisfied with. So… I’ve decided to turn my entire back bedroom into The French Quarter Room. I know, I know. I can’t do anything small. Yeah, I could just go to a writers’ conference or something, but this will be way cooler. Besides, it gives me an excuse to play with glitter. Lots and lots of glitter!

I spent the day a t Michael’s, which is essentially the West Coast version of Hoppy Lobby, picking out beads, candles, glitter, anything that reminded me of New Orleans. I found some cool stuff, but it was hard not to get distracted by all of the ghosts and goblins out for Halloween. Somehow I managed to stay focused, for the most part. I did pick up a couple of All Hallows Eve decorations for my yard. What can I say? I love the holidays. Any holiday.

So, the room has a long way to go before it will remind anyone of the famed Vieux Carré, but I’ll post pictures as soon as things start coming together- hopefully by the end of the week. I still have a lot of other things on my plate, and I can’t put actual writing on the backburner to decorate the room. Anyway, I think it will look pretty cool by the time I’m finished! If nothing else, I’ll at least think about the Quarter as I’m decorating, and that will definitely help my writing.

A word of warning for those attempting to do something of this magnitude: Don’t purchase paper mache masks, glitter, a skull candle, and underwear all at the same time. It will elicit many unfriendly, suspicious stares.

For Now,

PK Dawning

Dead and Buried Part 3

So... I was thinking this would just be a short story thing that I did throughout the month of September. Looks like it might run into October now. Stick with me, kay? I promise it will be good. Enjoy!

Dead and Buried

Part 3

Hannah screamed, and it sounded a million miles away to Paley as the man in the mask lunged for her, connecting a shoulder with her ribs. She felt something crack as she stumbled backward, the world spinning clumsily beneath her feet. She hit the ground hard, cobwebs bursting behind her eyes as her face hit concrete.  She tried to move, but he was on her in an instant, pinning her to the ground with his knees.  

Paley blinked hard, struggling for air, trying to bring the world back into focus. She could see her attacker silhouetted against the night, his identity obscured behind the ski mask. He raised his arm and for the first time Paley noticed the knife in his hand, its razor-sharp blade glinting in the beam of Brody’s flashlight. She tried to scream, couldn’t catch her breath. He plunged the blade toward her chest, and she reached for the ski mask. If she was going to die, she wanted to see her killer’s face.  

Paley plucked the mask off just as the knife hit her side. She bit back a scream, waited for the pain, felt nothing. Confusion knit her brow as she stared into her attacker’s pale green eyes.  He howled with laughter and she scowled, zeroing in on the zit sprouting hairs in the center of his cleft chin. Little gremlin looking freak.  “You’re an ass, Brighton,” she said, shoving him in the chest. “Get off me.” She scrapped herself off the pavement and examined herself for injuries.

“You should’ve seen your face,” he laughed, doubling over. “That was priceless.”

Brighton poked at her again with the rubber knife and she swatted it away, surveying the rip in her jeans. Great! Because she had, like, a thousand pairs of those. The scrape on her knee wasn’t too bad, though it stung like hell. Her cheek throbbed and would probably bruise. She still couldn’t get a full breath. The jerk had probably cracked her ribs. At least she wasn’t bleeding.

                “I had you so scared. You seriously need to grow a pair of balls,” Brighton said, his laughter ebbing.

                “I guess that makes two of us,” she spat, dusting off the back of her clothes.

                 Hannah rushed over, her heels clicking like shotgun blasts against the pavement. She wrapped an arm around Paley’s waist and gave her a plastic smile. “Ignore him. Everyone else does.”

                “C’mon,” Brighton moaned, an inane grin still plastered across his dumb face. “It was just a joke.”

                “Yeah, we know, Brighton. You’re hilarious,” Hannah said with unmasked sarcasm. “You okay, Paley?”

                “Fine,” she said, secretly thankful Hannah came to her defense, even if it was just because she was the only other girl there.

                “Okay, enough games,” Brody said, arms crossed, his cool blue eyes skewering each one of them, silencing them with one hard glance. “Are we going in there or what?”

              Brighton and Hannah nodded, ever the obedient minions.

              Paley sighed. “Whatever. Let’s get this joke of a night over with.”

Brody smiled. “After you,” he said, and handed her the flashlight.

“Such a gentleman,” Paley mumbled as she departed the pathway and picked her way through the knee-high grass toward the lone campanile. Clearly the groundskeeper didn’t concern himself with this area of the school. Indeed, this part of Jackson Hill Academy was in ruins. Dirty, moss-covered bricks rotted and crumbled to the ground. Stained glass windows were cracked and shattered. Paley found the door, a giant, wooden structure hidden behind the weeping branches of a willow sapling. She pushed the branches away and pulled on the brass doorknob. Locked tight.

                “Can’t you just pick it?” Brody asked.

                “I don’t have another pin.” Paley swung the flashlight in a slow arc, spying a partially opened window. “Over there,” she said, wending her way through weeds and broken glass to the grimy window. She handed Brody the flashlight and pushed up on the pane. “It’s stuck.”

              “Now what are we gonna do?” Brighton said, throwing his hands up in defeat.

“I think I can fit,” Paley said to no one in particular. She took the flashlight back and without a second thought, pulled herself up and crawled through. The drop on the other side was higher than she’d expected, and she landed with a roll, wafting up the stench of musty rat feces in her wake. Dozens of the filthy rodents scurried back into their hiding places, yellow eyes peering at her in the darkness.

“Are you okay?” Brody called, looking down at her through the window.

“Sure,” Paley said, standing. A slow throb pulsed through her ribs and left ankle, but she dismissed it. She’d definitely have some bruises in the morning. She’d had worse.

“Can you get us in?”

“Uh, let me see.” Paley scanned the room querulously, the darkness closing in as she pushed forward. Dodging an overturned chair, she stepped lightly toward what must have been a storage room at one time. Rusting file cabinets flanked the wall behind a dusty counter covered in boxes. Long shadows danced and flickered as she swept the flashlight’s beam across the room. A vale of cobwebs covered the entrance to a darkened staircase that probably led to the belfry. No way was she going to venture up there alone. Not that she thought the place was haunted.

"Of course it's not haunted," she whispered, and forced an uneasy laugh. Cold fear slid down her spine. It felt like someone was watching her from the darkness. Ridiculous, she knew. The place reeked of disuse and had probably been locked up for years.

“See anything?” someone yelled from outside. It sounded like Brighton, but she couldn’t be sure. Paley didn’t bother with a reply, just shook off the unwarranted sense of dread snaking through her veins and made her way to the other side of the room. She cleared away a stack of books blocking the doorway and turned the lock. A shadow caught her eye and she turned. Something moved in the darkness. She cast the flashlight in the direction of the movement and the shadow-thing swooped from the rafters. “Jesus Christ!” she shrieked as an owl flew past her and out a broken window, its giant wings knocking shards of glass from the frame.

“What’s wrong? What happened” Hannah called, her shrill voice piercing the night.

“Nothing. It was just an owl,” Paley said. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, then pulled hard on the doorhandle. It creaked creaked open, allowing a cold gust of wind into the room.

“Check this place out,” Hannah whispered, stepping over the threshold and into the darkness. The others filtered in behind her. “Totally creepy.”

Paley agreed. It was totally creepy, though, she’d never admit that. “So, what now?” she asked, hoping the others would see the room and have their fill.

“Now,” Brody said, his angular features glowing eerily in the weak light shifting in through the window, “we find the ghost that's haunting Jackson Hill.”

Pain in the Neck

So, earlier today I went to the chiropractor. My first cervical vertebra was out of place, and has been for quite a while. I’ve been dealing with major headaches for the last two months. After several excruciating attempts to adjust the vertebra (on a device called a drop table) my chiropractor was finally able to reset it. Now, however, my head and neck are hurting like crazy. I took some painkillers, but they’ve yet to set in.

I owe a blog post, plus at least 1k to the book. I’m super tired, though, so I’ve decided to take the easy route on the blog post and do a video slide show of my New Orleans adventures past. Hope y’all can forgive me for being human. Enjoy the show!

Until Thursday,

P.K. Dawning

Happy Birthday!

Happy Birthday, Marie!

The winner of the blog contest is: Moe!

Unfortunately, I’m having trouble with the sound on the video I made. Once I get it fixed, I promise to post.

Thanks to all who entered. Be sure it check out next month’s blog contest. I’ll be posting the rules October 1^st.

Dead and Buried Part II

Better late than never, I suppose. My apologies for the late night post, but to be fair, it is still Thursday in California. I'll try to do better next week. Enjoy!

 Dead and Buried

Part II

                Brody pulled to a stop in front of an enormous stone structure and killed the headlights. “We’re here,” he said, turning in his seat to look at Paley. “Welcome to Jackson Hill.”

                “Most haunted place in New Orleans,” Hannah echoed, a ghost of an accent slipping through her perfectly enunciated words.  

“Right,” Paley said, and didn’t wait for an invitation. She pushed open her door and stepped into the starlit night. A cold breeze whispered against the back of her neck, rattling the skeletal branches of nearby oaks and sending a ripple of goose bumps across her skin. She pulled her jacket closer and stared up at the Cathedral turned prep school. On the ride over Hannah had told her the whole story behind Jackson Hill, or at least her version of it. Paley didn’t know how much she believed.

“So let me get this straight,” Paley said as the others filed out of the car. “Nun falls in love with priest. Priest impregnates nun. Nun jumps from the campanile out of shame. Church covers up death to protect priest.”

“Pretty much,” Hannah said with a nod.

“And now the spirit of this suicidal nun haunts the place?”

“So the story goes.”

Paley stared up at the grand edifice and sixteen truculent gargoyles stared back, their stone eyes cold and unblinking. The white terra cotta cathedral towered over the Garden District, its twin bell minarets rising over two-hundred feet into the air. It would have been the oldest church in the state, had it not been turned into a high school for over privileged teenagers in the late seventies.

“Which tower did she jump from?” Paley asked unconvinced. “There’re two.”

“Neither of those. The campanile is a separate structure from the church. It’s closer to what used to be the convent. It’s all classrooms now, though,” Brody explained, as he dug around in the trunk of his BMW. He came up holding two flashlights, a broad smile stretched across his face. “So, who’s ready to go ghost hunting?”

“Gimme a break,” Paley said, trying to ignore the tremor of unease skittering down her spine.

                “Just because you don’t believe in ghosts doesn’t mean they’re not real,” Hannah singsonged, dancing past her to stand beside Brody. She looped her hand in his and cast a smile over her shoulder at Paley who, despite her better judgment, followed them toward the empty school. Brighton brought up the rear, shining a weak ray of illumination along the bricked pathway. The place looked eerie with the watery blue floodlights casting milky rays of light across the silent, manicured grounds. Eerie, but not haunted, Paley told herself as she fell in step with Hannah.

The path stopped just in front of a rusted chain link fence that separated the tower from the rest of the campus. A faded NO TRESPASSING sign hung crooked on the fence and a padlock held the gate tight.

                “Great. How are we supposed to get in there?” Brighton groaned, shining his flashlight on the padlock.

                “You mean you’ve never been in there?” Paley asked. Dread sunk in her stomach like a stone. What the heck was she getting herself into?

                Brody lifted one shoulder. “Never had a reason to,” he said, an easy smile splitting his handsome features.  

                “Can’t we just climb over?” Brighton suggested, his voice thin, tight.

  He’s scared, Paley thought and smiled. At least she wasn’t the only one who thought this was a bad idea.

                Hannah scoffed. “In these shoes? You’ve got to be kidding.”

                “Of course he is, sweetheart,” Brody said, squeezing Hannah’s hand. “We’ll find another way in.”

                “Wow. Y’all really planned this out,” Paley said, pulling a bobby pin from her hair. She slid it into the lock and began working it. She couldn’t believe she was doing this. Breaking and entering. Less than a minute and the lock clicked open. At least she hadn’t lost her touch.

                “Whoa. Where’d you learn how to do that?” Brighton asked, unable to hide the awe in his voice.

                “Charm school,” Paley said sarcastically. She pushed open the gate, fighting back a triumphant smile. No one looked eager to go in first, so she swallowed back the lump in her throat and took the lead. One by one, the others followed.

                “Hey, wait a sec.” Brighton stopped short and patted his pockets gingerly. “I must have left my cell in the car. I’ll be right back,” Brighton said and trotted off into the darkness.

               Brody groaned, checked his watch. “We’ll give him three minutes. If he’s not back by then, I say we go in without him.”

“Isn’t that how all the horror movies start?”

“This isn’t a horror movie, Han,” Brody said laughing, and plastered a sloppy kiss on her lips.

Paley ignored them, her eyes drawn to a movement in the tower. She squinted, not certain she’d even seen it, then a shadow slid past one of the broken stained glass windows. It’s probably full of bats, she told herself, but the fear spilling through her veins didn’t ebb. “Did y’all see that?” she whispered, but they were too caught up in their makeout session to notice.

                Paley scanned the unkempt grounds. Naked trees cast long shadows across the empty campus and bushes and weeds rustled in the wind. She took a deep breath, trying to tamp down on the unwarranted fear snaking through her gut. Because it was unwarranted, she told herself. Jackson Hill wasn’t haunted, and whatever she thought she saw in the window was gone. She let out an uneasy laugh. “It was just a shadow,” she whispered.

              “What’s that, Paley?” Hannah asked, apparently through locking lips with Brody.

“Nothing,” Paley mumbled, keeping her eyes on the fickle shadows beyond. “Shouldn’t Brighton be back by now?”

Brody consulted his watch again. “Yeah. I’ll go find him.”

“No!” Hannah shrieked, clinging to him. “You can’t leave us here alone.”

He laughed. “Okay, okay. Chill.”

Something moved in the bushes behind them and for a second they all froze. Footsteps rang out in the darkness, but the noise wasn’t coming from the path. It was too close. Paley jerked around, a scream trapped in her lungs as air rushed out of them. A pair of eyes glared at her from the darkness. “What the he-” The word died in her throat as someone rushed from the darkness, identity obscured by a ski mask. Paley turned to run, but it was too late. In a second he was on her.

P.K. Dawning

September Blog Contest

Okay, so most of you probably don’t know it, but Saturday is a pretty huge day in the world of New Orleans Voodoo. September 10th is Marie Laveau’s birthday and to celebrate, I will be giving away a really cool gift basket from Café Du Monde.

To enter, just leave a birthday message in the comment section (of this blog post) below. Again, the winner will be selected at random, but you can get bonus entries by follow me on here, liking my fan page on Facebook, or tweeting me on Twitter. I will announce the winner this Saturday at 6 p.m. PST.

Due to shipping rates, the contest is open to US residence only. Sorry.

And… for those of you wondering, here’s a quick update on Voodoo Dolls: I’ve reached a very pivotal point in the story, 30k words. I’m halfway there! Also, look for this week’s update on my blog novelette, Dead and Buried on Thursday. Good luck everyone!

Until Next time,

P.K. Dawning

Blog Novelette- Chapter One

Dead and Buried

“She’s going with you and that’s final!”

“She doesn’t even want to go. But, you know… whatever.” Vance Brody’s voice sounded muffled through the door, unlike his father’s, which always seemed calm, clear, authoritative.

It was true, though, she didn’t want to go. Not that it mattered now. Victor Brody had spoken. She was going to Horrorville with Vance Brody and his stupid friends, and that was final.

Paley groaned as she scraped herself off the hardwood floor and moved away from the door where she’d been listening to her new foster family argue for the past ten minutes. She’d only lived with the Brodys for two days, and already she was screwing things up. Story of her life. Paley Conrad, problem child. She’d been to four foster homes in the past nine months. A personal record- not that she was proud of it or anything.

In fact, she hated it. Hated the look Mrs. Fletcher, her case worker, gave her every time another family sent her back like she was defective or something. What’s wrong with you? That was the kind of look Mrs. Fletcher gave her. The revolting blob of a woman never said it, but Paley could see it in the odious glint of her beady, brown eyes.

“Don’t you want to get adopted?” is what the social worker actually had said when she’d had to pick Paley up from the last family in the middle of a tornado warning.

Yeah, like that was ever going to happen. Paley hadn’t bothered to say it. They both knew it was true. She’d given up on that pipedream a long time ago. No one wanted a teenager with a troubled past. But it wasn’t like she was trying to beat the system, either. She just wanted to bide her time, keep her head down and her nose clean until her eighteenth birthday. Then, she could start fresh. A new life. A new town. Anywhere she wanted. But for now, that didn’t matter. She had to make this situation work, despite how much she hated it.

“You got lucky this time, kid,” Mrs. Fletcher had said as they drove off into the sheeting rain. “I found a family who’s willing to take you. A good family in New Orleans. A wealthy family. Why they’re offering to take you in, I have no earthly idea. Just be thankful that they are. Lord knows I am. You’re all out of options.”

As much as Paley hated to admit it, Mrs. Fletcher was right. She’d foisted herself into a raw deal. A three strikes and you’re out kind of deal, and the State was pitching a no-hitter. This was her last chance. If she couldn’t make it work here, who knew where she’d end up? Maybe juvie or something. Living with the Brodys was certainly better than that, and better than the last home she’d been at. At least she had her own room. She didn’t have to worry about anyone barging in on…

Vance Brody opened her bedroom door without knocking. So much for privacy. “Dad said you have to go,” Brody told her, not bothering to feign excitement.

“Yeah, I heard,” Paley said, just as unenthusiastically. “I’ll get ready.”

“Ten minutes and I’m out. Got that?”

“Yeah,” Paley said, walking over to her closet. She frowned as she stared into the gigantic walk-in. The closet was probably twice the size of her last bedroom. Her clothes didn’t even take up a tenth of the space.

“I’m not kidding,” he said, following her into the closet. He flipped the light switch she’d been searching for. She still hadn’t learned her way around the house yet. “I don’t care what Dad said. Brighton’s already downstairs waiting.”

She stopped rummaging through the pitiful selection of garments and turned to look at him. “Okay. I said I’ll be ready, Brody.” That’s what everyone called him, Brody. Not Vance, never Vance. Like he was too avant-garde for a first name or something. Whatever.

He plucked a black lace top from its hanger, one of the nicer things she owned. “Here. Wear this. It’ll make you look less,” his gaze moved down her body and stopped at the grubby pair of Doc Martins on her feet, “homeless.”

She pushed a wayward curl from her face and sighed. “Fine,” she said, and snatched the shirt from him. “I’ll be downstairs in a minute.”

It took her more like seven by the time she changed clothes, pulled her hair back, and applied some lip gloss. Brody and his friend were waiting for her in the foyer. Paley eyed Brighton as she descended the stairs. Witless green eyes, flame red hair, and matching freckles. Ouch! For the first time ever, Paley was thankful for her own auburn locks, and as much as she disliked her pale skin, at least it wasn’t paper-white and covered with liver spots. Next to Brody, with his midnight eyes, square jaw, and black-as-night hair, Brighton looked like a troll.

“Finally,” Brody mumbled, as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “Paley, this is Brighton Wilcox. Brighton, Paley Conrad, my dad’s latest charity case.”

Brighton snickered. “Man, your parents take in foster kids like stray dogs.”

Brody lifted one lazy shoulder, too cool to comment, as Paley struggled to bite back a retort. So what if Troll Boy equated her to a stray dog? She didn’t care what he or Brody thought. Jerks.

Brody watched her for a long moment, like he expected her to say something. When she didn’t, he finally said, “Let’s get going. I’ve gotta pick up Hannah.”

Paley slid into the backseat of Brody’s BMW and tried to force back the uneasy feeling of being set up.

Fifteen minutes later Hannah Fontenette, Brody’s bimbo of a girlfriend, took the seat beside her. Tan, petite, blonde. Typical cheerleader type. How pathetic. Didn’t these girls have any originality?

“You have no idea how glad I am to see another girl!” Hannah said, staring at herself in a compact mirror. She dabbed a layer of powder on her pert, slightly upturned nose.

“You’re right, I don’t,” Paley said, turning to look out the window. She watched the last lavender streaks of twilight dip below the horizon and the cloudless, black night take over.

“Last year,” Hannah said, grabbing Paley’s arm in an attempt to wrestle back her attention, “I was the only girl in our group. Talk about painful.”

“Last year sucked. I don’t even know why we go anymore. I swear, Horrorville gets lamer every year,” Brighton said, turning in his seat to face them. Paley considered kicking the back of his seat so he’d turn around and she wouldn’t have to look at his big, dumb face. An image of metal bars and handcuffs flashed through her mind, and she thought better of it. Third strike.

“It’s tradition,” Brody replied, keeping his eyes on the black ribbon of asphalt that stretched out before them. He pulled a pack of Pall Malls from the glove box, wiggled one out and lit it. “Can’t break tradition,” he said, slowly exhaling a puff of gray smoke. No one challenged that. It was obvious Brody was the voice of authority among the group. He turned down a dirt road that lead to an open field full of cars and parked.

Paley turned back to her window and squinted, trying to make out the place called Horrorville in the moonless night. A corn maze, pumpkin patch, and rickety old shed. That’s what she saw. More like Snoozeville. She really should have stayed at the Brodys.

“Dude, it’s not even scary. This place is for kids,” Brighton said. He was right. The only people around were kids dressed as ghosts, witches, or cheesy superheroes, and their parents.

Brody took a long pull on his dwindling cigarette, and watched as one poor woman chased a knee-high Spiderman through the parking lot. “I didn’t come here to be scared. Did you?”

“Naw, man,” Brighton said, trying to sound macho, like he’d never been afraid in his entire life. “I’m just sayin’.”

“Are we going in or what?” Paley finally asked. She was tired of being trapped in the backseat of a gas chamber. Even if the place was lame, she wanted fresh air.

“No!” Hannah squealed, and bounced in her seat excitedly. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we show Paley what New Orleans is all about? You know, something really haunted.”

Brody eyed her through the rearview mirror, his expression bored. “We’re supposed to meet Quinn and his girlfriend inside.”

“So call him. Tell him we’ll meet up later. Or, better yet, ask them to join us.” Hannah smiled, still bouncing. “You know, the more the merrier.”

Paley rolled her eyes. Probably not the first time she’s said that.

Brody shrugged. “Okay, where were you thinking, Hannah?”

“Jackson Hill.”

Paley laughed. “The high school? That’s the most haunted place in New Orleans?” Paley hadn’t been there yet, but it seemed the least likely place to be haunted.

Hannah gave her a sly smile. “You’ll see.”

Ok, so I hope you enjoyed the begining of my story. Now, here's where the fun comes in. Remember those Chose Your Own Adventure books that were big in the 90s? Well, that's kind of the idea here. That's right; I want you to chose the fate of the characters. Use the voter poll below to decide what Paley does next.