For the past 3-4 years, I have published a story on Halloween and posted an excerpt here. Unfortunately, I will not be doing that this year. If I’m being honest, this year was really difficult for me to be creative. At the beginning of the year, my family put in a pool. That turned out to be a huge headache. (I know! Aren’t first world problems the worst!) It was worth it for the increased family time, but the financial and operational pressure just pushed my creativity out. That ended in April. Over the summer, I actually had a bit of brain space and my creativity started to work again. I researched and outlined my next story. I was/am really excited about it. I made it through the first scene and that is when I got the news that I needed to put my energy into finding a new job so my family was not at risk of loosing what we had worked for over the last 14+ years. Talk about pressure. That has been a constant stress, strangling my creativity. I also needed to take the time I would have normally used for writing and dedicate it to applying for jobs, which is a miserable process.
So, here I am. It’s Halloween as I write this and I have no story to share with you. That makes me a little sad. I love writing and I love sharing stories with people. I have to fulfill my primary vocation first though, and that is providing for my family.
I’ve decided to share what I have written so far. It isn’t much, maybe 2/3 of the first act. It is shaping up to be a little longer than the last one, but I want to really dig into the world and the characters a bit more. I love the dynamic between Deuce and Genviève. I want to do this story justice and I think I will as soon as I can get the time to really focus on it. Any who, here’s 2800 words or so. The formatting doesn’t translate to a blog very well, so I apologize for the spacing. I hope you enjoy it.
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Shink!
Sunlight beat on his eyelids through the window. Deuce’s sleep may have ended but his rest had continued for a few years. Didn’t mean he wanted to get out of bed though. He rolled over and covered his head with the pillow.
“Get up. I’m ready to go.” Genviève stepped away from the curtains and over to the book shelf. She ran her fingers across the books on the little bookshelf across from his bed. The little house gifted him by Monsignor was little more than a studio. There was a bed, a kitchen, and a place to hang his knucks. He didn’t need anything more. Plus, it kept him close to Genviève. She had grown tremendously in the last few years.
“Where are we going?” He sat up and watched as she found the book she was looking for. She pulled it from the shelf and slid it into her satchel, the Christmas gift he gave her.
“I can make coffee here.” Deuce stood, yawning as he stretched. The official proclamation of wakefulness.
“I want a good cup of coffee.” Deuce glanced at her. She hid her face. She wouldn’t last long in a poker game.
“What I’m not a good enough barista for you?” She laughed and looked at him. There was nothing sweeter in all the world than that girl’s joy. “I could get a knit cap, even though it’s ninety degrees, maybe a little mini pony tail and mope around complaining about how oppressive modern consumerism is.”
“No, I wouldn’t believe it.”“Why not?”
“You’d be missing the yoga tattoo on your hands.” Deuce burst into laughter.
“Alright, let me get ready.”
“You need a shower.”
“What? No, I’m good. I’ll be ready in just a few.”
“I’ve waited here since sunrise. I can wait a little longer.”
“That bad, huh?” She smiled her all knowing smile, turned and sat in her reading chair across from his bed. Deuce didn’t read much, but Genviève was constantly studying Monsignor’s old books. He saw someone setting out a perfectly good chair for bulk garbage pick up, he waited until they went inside then rushed over to scavenge it. People wasted so much. Genviève didn’t care where it came from. She just loved having a spot that was hers.
Deuce left her to her reading and gathered up a change of clothes for the day. He started the hot water warming up. Forty Squats followed by forty push ups got his heart pumping. He stepped into the shower and felt the comfort of warm water. This was a luxury he would never tire of.
The coffee shop they frequented was in Southtown. It was an eclectic part of the city. A place where an aging shark collector and miniature nun didn’t look out of place. It had its dark spots though, so it was best to dress unassuming. He wore looser dark blue jeans, so his knucks could remain accessible in his pockets without being conspicuous. The white long sleeve shirt allowed him to move well and cover the early spring chill. He pushed his old leather boots aside and pulled on the new ones. They were still stiff and needed to be broken in more. He didn’t complain though, he’d never had two pairs of shoes before. A thoughtful gift from Genviève. He saw her notice the cracks and holes in the sole of his old boots. He tried to hide them, but it was too late. That girl noticed everything.
Deuce walked out ready to go. Genviève sat reading with an intense focus. She wasn’t so miniature anymore, and he’d received the sass to prove it. He stepped over and gauged the thickness of her book, she had a thumbs width left. That meant he was going to be at the shop for a while. He opened his satchel and put his leather-bound journal and a few pencils in to help pass the time.
“Come on, kiddo.” Genviève stood, keeping her eyes fixed on the page and made her way through the door. Deuce stepped through and closed the door behind him. He turned the key to lock the door knob, then the dead bolt. He gave it a good twist and shake to make sure. Genviève was already making her way down the sidewalk. He let her go. She’d look up when she got to a stopping point. Deuce caught up with her at the corner.
“Most kids have their face glued to a phone these days, my kid is reading a history of witchcraft and wizardry.”
“This isn’t Harry Potter…wait, did you just call me your kid?”
“What?” Deuce looked away. “You know what I mean.” The crosswalk signal glowed green. “What are you reading anyway?”
“It’s Monsignor’s journal from his time spent in the Slavic countries. He had traveled all over the world, seen so many things, done so many things. He…I…miss him.”
“You and me both.” Genviève clutched his hand. Deuce was never good and comforting. He actually specialized in discomfort, especially in the nasal cavity, by punching it.
“Does it ever go away?” Her question sat in the air for a moment.
“I hope not,” Deuce said with a heavy sigh. Genviève looked up at him. “Monsignor’s the only one who ever gave two shi…cents about me. If pain is all I have left of him, then I’ll keep that for as long as I can.” She considered his words for a moment. Thoughts like that didn’t make sense to a kid. Their love didn’t know pain. It was all skipping through rainbows and flowers. Real love though, doesn’t come without suffering.
Perfume lifted them from their melancholy train of thought. There was a fast route to the coffee shop, but they liked to walk past Ms. Chan’s flower store. Deuce couldn’t help but touch the soft petals. Genviève stood with her eyes closed, breathed in through the nose like she was trying to capture all the air around her.
The coffee shop was just around the corner and relatively quiet. Deuce opened the door for Genviève, who made her way to the counter. The barista stood waiting for an order. The shop made good great coffee, but with every teal and purple hair-do the experience got worse.
“What are you brewing today?” The barista pointed to a sign. “Thank you for your valuable insight.”
“That’s an interesting tattoo, what does it say?” Genviève asked.
“It’s Hindi for namaste.”
Deuce turned to her waiting smile.
“All you have is a Kenyan and Peruvian, huh? You want the Kenyan.” Genviève shook her head as she reeled at the suggestion. Deuce turned to the barista, “Ok then, two Peruvian pour overs and a chocolate chip scone.” Deuce elbowed Genviève, “you want a scone?”
“No, thanks, I’ll just take a bit of yours.”
“Yeah…right.” Deuce looked back to the barista. “Two scones please.”
Deuce paid as Genviève found her way to the back corner table. She pulled her satchel off and draped it across the back of the chair. She pulled out her book, sat forward in the chair with straight back posture, and began reading. You could take the girl out of the convent, but can’t take the years of being whacked with rulers by strict nuns out of the girl.
Deuce had a reputation of monitoring the barista’s brewing method. There was audible frustration as deuce timed the pours and craned his neck to see the numbers on the scale. He didn’t make a lot of money doing odd jobs for the Convent, so when he treated Genviève, he wanted it done right. He was handed the coffees in fine ceramic mugs. Deuce could do without a lot of the frills, but he sure liked the mugs. They were rough on the bottom, the smooth glaze covered the rim and handle, and there was some heft to it. He set them at the table and made a second trip for the scones.
Deuce sat and watched Genviève read her book. It was weird, but he felt proud. He didn’t have anything to do with how special she was, but there were little bits he contributed. She would occasionally reach her hand down and feel the temperature of the mug, gauging the right drinking temperature. See…he’d taught her that.
The shop was quiet, so there was not much to watch. Deuce enjoyed watching the operations of the coffee shop. He liked seeing the different people come and go. He liked the sounds and smells. Today, there was just the namaste barista sighing on the bar. Someone must have stolen his knit cap.
Instead of people watching, he pulled out his pencil and paper. He stared at the blank sheet. It was pure, perfect. How could he make it better by scratching on it? How could he take something so good and make it better? He wasn’t sure that he could, but all he could do was his best.
Genviève noticed the sound and glanced sideways at him. It wouldn’t take long. A few more strokes and…
“What are you drawing?” She shifted her book just enough to see Deuce.
“None of your business.” Genviève huffed and Deuce laughed. Giving her a hard time had become something of a hobby. He continued to pull lines across the paper. Not thinking, just trusting his instinct. It was torture to Genviève. She glanced over every few seconds and Deuce would lift the pad of paper so she couldn’t see.
Genviève closed her book and set it on her lap. Oh, boy, there it was.
“Why don’t you want me to see what you are drawing?” Tears welled at the lids of her eyes. He was still getting the hang of all this. She was still just a kid, even if she acted like she’d walked the halls of a convent for the last fifty years. The difficult part was that there seemed no method to the madness. Some cords he could strike like he was playing a stand up base, others snapped with the gentlest pluck.
“I don’t want you to laugh.”
“Why would you think I would do that?” Her chin dropped a little.
“Oh, ease up, I’m just giving you a hard time.” Deuce set the pad of paper on the table. “I haven’t drawn in a long time though.” Genviève twisted to see the picture upright.
“Flowers?” Her hand lingered on her mug, then she lifted it for a noisy sip. He taught her that too.
“I don’t know. Whenever I try to think of good things, I think of flowers.”
“Flowers are real beauty.” She held her cup close to her nose and breathed in deep. “It’s hard sometimes,” she said, sipping her coffee. There was a distinct feeling when Genviève spoke from her gift. It felt like the air became a blanket and fell upon the room. “I see what others do not. But others see things like flowers, the painted sunset, the birth of a child and do not see the Creator behind them. I like your flowers.” She broke off a piece of scone, put the bit in her mouth and opened her book again.
“You do?” Deuce sat back in his chair. Genviève nodded confirmation. He had always loved flowers, finding benches in parks beneath flowering trees, the flower stands he walked by in the morning. In his line of work though, he could not afford any signs of weakness. He had a different job now and she liked his flowers.
They sat in the peace of each other’s company, drinking coffee, reading, and drawing flowers.
“Alright, kiddo, let’s get back. The sisters will give me a hard time if you’re late for lessons and I have some things I need to take care of as well.” In one fluid motion, Genviève stood and pulled her satchel over her head without looking up from her book. She paused while Deuce readied himself, checking his pockets, knucks, wallet, keys, coffee, satchel. He was ready. With the last pat to double check that his knucks were in place, Genviève turned and headed towards the door. She waited a moment for Deuce to catch up and open the door for her and they both stepped out into the late morning sun. The city was finally awake. The bums missed the best part of the day.
Deuce walked between Genviève and the street back towards the convent. He checked on her, sensing something was off. She lowered her book, which was never a good sign. She closed it and placed it in her satchel.
“Everything ok?”
“No, but I can’t see what.” Her eyes darted back and forth, searching. Then she stopped and gagged. Deuce gathered her hair and guided her off the sidewalk. She leaned against the wall. “Do you smell that?”
“We’re next to the flower shop…”
“No, it’s like…like…do you remember the witch’s kitchen?”
“Even when I try to forget.”
“It’s like that, but different. With her, I could see the lines, see the connections. I don’t see anything.” She gagged again. Deuce stood, holding her hair just in case, and scanned the horizon. The street looked normal to him. Genviève took some deep breaths and calmed down.
Crash
Genviève looked up to Deuce as another glass vase shattered. Deuce guided Genviève behind him and stepped towards the door of Ms. Chan’s store. He pulled the door open swiftly to make sure the little hanging brass bell would make as much noise as possible. Ms. Chan cowered in the corner of her store. Genviève gagged again. A scrawny man with an oversized jacket stood in the middle of two broken vases. He was trying to look larger than he was. The faux fur collar of his coat pushed up. He held another vase in his hand. His short blond hair stuck to the sweat on his forehead. He was willing to sweat in that huge jacket for the sake of appearance.
“You’ll need to set that vase down and leave.” Deuce said calmly. The man’s eyes darted around checking for an audience, but there was none. He laughed and dropped it.
“Oops.” His smile was like a naughty child, testing the limits. Deuce pulled one of his knucks out and slid it onto his hand. They felt so good in his palm, so natural. The scrawny sweaty man looked nervous. Deuce stepped forward, Genviève just behind him and placed himself between Ms. Chan and the monster who destroyed three bouquets of pink peonies. A subtle nudge sent Genviève to Ms. Chan. She sat next to elderly woman, took her hand and interlaced her fingers. It was a strange site to be comforted by a miniature nun, but Ms. Chan could not deny the sense of calm that she felt holding the child’s hand.
“I’ve hurt a lot of people for a lot less than what you’ve just done. I won’t give you another chance. Get out and don’t ever come by here again.”
“Hahahaha, this is my turf, I own this part of town.” The man was edgy, drugs maybe. “She pays or she’ll pay.” Staring Deuce in the eye, he leaned forward and pressed a vase of roses off the shelf. The crash harmonized with the ringing of St. Patrick’s bell as Deuce smashed them into the man’s mouth. He fell to the ground, blood ran through his fingers as he clenched his face. He rolled and spit.
Click, tick, tick
A tooth danced on the tile floor.
The man stood on wobbling legs and spit a glob of blood on the ground.
“You’ll pay for this.” He turned and shoved the door open and left.
Deuce inspected his knucks. That tooth left a mark, but buffed out with a rub of his thumb. They were otherwise clean. A man’s tools were his livelihood and needed to be cared for.
Genviève helped Ms. Chan to her feet. The woman stood in shock, surveying the damage to her store. Deuce put his knucks back in his pocket.
“I’m sorry about the damage. It’s a shame,” Deuce nudged the bouquet of roses with his foot. Ms. Chan stared at him. “Are you ok?” She nodded.
“Ms. Chan, if you need any help with anything, come see us at The Good Shepherd.” She squeezed the woman’s hand. “I’ll pray for you.” She released her hand and stepped towards Deuce, who followed her towards the door. She gave the puddle of blood a wide berth and plugged her nose as she passed by. She uncovered her nose when she stepped outside, but gagged again. Deuce wrapped an arm around her and ushered her towards the convent and hopefully clean air.
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