Short story + NaNoWriMo

 

“Honestly, Simon.  Sometimes I wonder whether the fairies switched you out at birth.  How else could we have such a perfect child?”

            Simon beamed up at their parents, all guileless blue eyes and soft golden curls.

            “You’ve got it wrong, Bet,” said their father.  “He’s the one the fairies tried to make away with but failed.”

            “Of course, dear—they’d never let him go if they’d had him.  Ha, ha!”

            “Ha, ha!”

            Jim clutched his fork and kept his head down.  He had tried, in the first few days after their mother had come home from the hospital with Simon, to privately ask his parents whether the boy wasn’t maturing too quickly.  But the more he pressed his point, the more his parents either patted him on the head or became angry and started accusing him of being a jealous ingrate. 

            In their calmest moments, the moments they were most like themselves, they explained, “We don’t love you any less or Simon any more because he’s our natural-born son.  We’ve never regretted letting you make your home with us, and we never will.”

            Jim believed them: they were that sort of people.  Loving, overly generous, and fair.  Under normal circumstances, circumstances in which they stayed in their right minds—

            He clutched his spoon and kept his eyes down.

            “Aren’t you going to try some, Brother?” Simon asked charmingly—Simon, who had been born a month before.  Simon, who had just served them the four-course meal he’d made himself.  Jim had been wondering when he’d make his move.

            “My stomach’s upset,” Jim said.  “Maybe later.”

            “Don’t be offended, Simon dear,” their mother said; “he’s never been a big eater.”

            “I understand,” Simon said, tears pricking his eyes.

            “Really, Jim, I’d think you could try some!” said their father.

            “Please,” said Jim, “may I go lie down?  I’m not well.”  He got up, deathly pale—but he’d always been pale; iron deficiency, the doctor said—and made his way to his low-ceiling attic bedroom.  He lay down on his bed and waited, certain Simon would come.

            He was right.  Simon came to his room just before midnight, perhaps thinking to wake him, and began poking around Jim’s belongings—the gifts lavished upon him by the people who let him call them Dad and Mom.  His family.

            “I wasn’t sure before,” Simon said—so perhaps he did know Jim was awake.  Adult flatness had replaced the sweetness of his voice.  “It isn’t unusual for human children to be jealous of us.  But you really can see through my glamour.  Can’t you.”

            “Earthworms and dirt water,” Jim said, sitting up.  “How dare you feed them that, how dare you treat them like that when they’ve taken you in and giving you their love!  Don’t your kind have laws about guests and hosts?”

            “There’s no virtue in their caring for me,” Simon said comfortably; “I didn’t give them a choice.  Besides, they think I’m their spawn.  They think I’m perfect.  I don’t notice them calling you that.”

            “Because I choose to honor the integrity of their minds!”

            “Because you aren’t good enough.”

            “They invited me into their home,” Jim shot back.  “You kidnapped their child and put yourself in his place.  What have you done with the real Simon?”

            Simon shrugged, picking up a picture of their parents.  There were no pictures with Jim—he didn’t photograph well—but the room was full of candid shots of friends and family.  “How should I know?” he asked.

            Fury flashed Jim’s vision red, and he flew across the room.  He caught Simon’s neck, fingernails drawing blood.  “Let’s try again,” he snarled.  “This is MY family, and I will rip out your throat and drink your blood before I let you abuse them.”

            Simon struggled and squeaked, but Jim’s grip was like iron.

            “Where.  Is.  The real.  Simon.”

            “I don’t know!” the boy gasped.  “I wasn’t in charge of that!”

            “Then you will help me find him.”

            “I won’t.”

            “You will,” Jim said, slowing down his words and forcing Simon to look deep into his eyes.  “You will help me find Simon and restore him to my family.  And then you will leave us alone until and unless I call for you.”

            “Yes,” Simon whispered, face slack, “master.”

 

----

 

What on Earth was that nonsense?  Let me explain . . .

 I’m doing NaNoWriMo this year.  For those of you who don’t know, November is NationalNovelWritingMonth.  Basically, writers around the world write 50,000 words in a month.  Doing NaNoWriMo “properly” means writing this as a new novel.  I have done it this way, but I’ve also used it for rewrites. 

 I mean, I’m an 11-time participant.  I’ve done it a lot of ways.  If you’d like to be my buddy on the site, I’m eversearchingtraveler.

 Anyway, this year I’m writing not a novel but a series of short stories.  I’m also counting total words written, not final words written.  So for example, this morning I wrote a short story in my notebook and they typed it up, rewriting and editing.  The handwritten version was 600 words; the typed version 700, so my total count was 1300. 

 The reason I’m writing short stories is I felt my brain getting clogged up and I was having trouble writing.  I needed to clear it out.  I work with prompts, but I have trouble finding prompts until they’re assigned to me.  So I am using a system.  It goes like this: my prompt for each story is the first two or three books by different authors that I own in each letter of the alphabet.  Like this:

 

A: Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams and The Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison.  (from which I took “hitchhiker” and “goblin”)

 B: (I skipped this one, actually.  I’m rarely allowed to skip one and only one.  I wrote an unrelated 6,000-word story that I'm rather excited about)

 C: Keeper of Dreams by Orson Scott Card, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (omnibus) by Lewis Carroll, and The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman (“dream keeper” “Lewis” “five languages”)

 D: Boy by Road Dahl, The Secret Country by Pamela Dean, and Revenge of the Witch by Joseph Delaney (“dahl/doll,” “Dean,” “Witch.”  I messed up here; Tigerheart by Peter David was misfiled).

 E: The Knight’s Castle by Edgar Eager and The Worm Ouroboros by E.R. Eddison, The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles by Julie Andrews Edwards (“knight/castle,” “worm = dragon”; "eager",  "Edwards").

 F: The Sea of Trolls by Nancy Farmer, Darkhenge by Catherine Fisher (“troll,” “henge,” dark tone)

 G: The Changeling War by Peter Garrison (a penname of Craig Shaw Gardner) and Prisoner of Vampires by Nancy Gardner (“changeling,” “prisoner,” “vampire”).

 

That’s the one I just wrote.  Some turn out better, some worse; some longer and some shorter, but never under 500 words.  Tomorrow is Those Who Hunt the Night by Barbara Hambly + Scottish Myth’s and Legends by Judy Hamilton.