New Story Up at Grievous Angel!

My flash horror story, I FORGOT TO LOCK THE DOOR, is now live over at the marvelous Grievous Angel Magazine!

This story was written towards the end of the summer in 2015, just a few months after we moved from Brooklyn to the suburbs. We knew nothing about our new town before moving here, except that the few people we met who'd heard of it said it was great for families. Low crime rate, excellent schools, people moved here just to raise their kids. Sounds good, right?

But we didn't really know anyone in the town when we moved. The kids were not going to camp. We didn't have a babysitter. No daycare. Because our former landlord screwed us over, we could not afford to join the town's community pool. So that meant a summer of just me and the kids finding things to do for nine weeks. We discovered a nearby skate park and my older son picked up skate boarding. We joined the nearby science center. I let the kids ride their bikes in the street. I set up kiddie pools in the backyard. None of this kept my kids amused for very long, and by the time the first day of school arrived in September I wept with relief.

I had this idea that when we moved in, suddenly families with kids would pour out of their houses on our street and my kids would be outside playing all day every day all summer long, but instead we met almost no one.

Things have changed, certainly. We have friends in town, the kids have plenty of play dates, we have babysitters, we've joined the community pool in the summer, and we know which camps the kids like. Our summers are now full of friends, camp, vacations, and spending long afternoons socializing poolside. But that first summer is burned into our psyches: long, empty days full of quiet and boredom. And that's where this story comes from.

Domestic Horror

Don't you hate it when people let months, even entire years go by without updating their blogs?

Me, too.

*ahem*

When I moved to New York City in 1996, I never intended to leave. About a year and a half ago, the fam and I moved to a small town in New Jersey. Most New Jersey small towns within a one-hour drive of New York City are considered suburbs, and ours is no exception. With housing prices in Brooklyn showing no sign of coming down any time soon, and with my husband working in Secaucus, moving seemed like a resigned evil.

So here we are.

That first summer in our new house -- like, a real house with a backyard and basement and a mailbox that doesn't require a key -- the kids were not in any kind of camp or daycare, I was working from home part time, and blogging seemed like one more chore to drag down my mood.

Then the kids started school and things got really hectic. There were issues. There was drama. There were problems. Getting us all through each day felt like a marathon. I kept waiting for that moment when everything would click into place and I'd finally feel like this was home, this was our life, and this was fine. Everyone kept telling me how happy I should be. So I kept waiting.

I also picked up a Shirley Jackson book.

Every once in a while I go on a book-buying freeze because I find that my to-read pile has grown out of control. Whether they were given to me, I won them, or bought them and forgot, when I find I have more than two dozen unread books in my house, I force myself to read those before I buy any more.

Years ago I had attended Book Expo America and since it was the last day of the convention people were giving away free books. I picked up "Come Along With Me," a collection of Jackson's short stories and lectures. And then I forgot about it.

Reading this book at the exact moment when living in small town suburbia felt more like the American Nightmare than the American Dream tapped into something deep down in my psyche that I couldn't put my finger on. Of course stories like "The Summer People" and "The Lottery" resonated with me, but what really piqued my interest were the details of Jackson's life and her personal essays. I followed "Come Along With Me" by reading "The Haunting of Hill House" and "We Have Always Lived in the Castle," and I felt like, "Where have these stories been my whole life?" It was like finding my literary True Love.

After "We Have Always Lived in the Castle," I bought and read "Life Among the Savages" and "Raising Demons," both collections of Jackson's personally essays on raising children in small-town America. And though those stories happened over five decades ago, they resonate with me today with their timeless themes of stubborn children, household chaos, and small town weirdness.

Now we've settled in to our "quaint" little piece of the suburbs just fine: the kids have friends and get invited to birthday parties; my husband and I have game nights with other couples; we've been to enough restaurants to have favorites; we all have library cards. Sometimes I don't hate it here, and I'm no longer scared to drive. The summer camps are much cheaper, the schools are amazing, and I know where to find NYC-worthy bagels. But it still feels weird to me and probably always will. I'm a city girl. I feel safe in cities, with their crowds and anonymity. Growing up in Miami and living my entire adult life in New York City, I've never felt out of place as a Jew; here, I'm definitely a minority. My kids went from a school in Brooklyn where at least a dozen other children had their same Hispanic last name, to being the only ones with that name here. And though our town is known for its enormous, fancy houses, we live in a smallish house on the less-desirable end of town and on my really good days I don't feel self-conscious about that.

I've written three new stories in the past three months, and one flash piece before that, all with the same theme: the horror within our own families. I call it "domestic horror," and I fully admit I am inspired by the Shirley Jackson. My flash piece, "I Forgot to Lock the Door," was written during that first summer here when I kept waiting for the "good for families!" part of our new town to show itself and felt, instead, like we had made a huge mistake in moving here.

So yes, it's been tough at times but it's getting easier. And yes, blogging seemed like the last thing I wanted to do for a while. At least now I feel less alone, both in my real life thanks to the friends I've made, and in my inner life, thanks to Shirley Jackson.

Knightly Tales for a Rainy Day

I finally know what to do with my Arthurian flash fiction stories.

I'm putting them together into a collection called KNIGHTLY TALES FOR A RAINY DAY. (I just like the way that sounds.) It'll be a 5-6K story when complete. One of my critique partners gave me the idea of finishing off the stories with one that loosely ties all the others together, and I think that's a fantastic idea. So right now I'm working on the fourth story, Galahad's, and then will write Mordred's, and wrap things up with Arthur's own story which will make mention of all the others.

And then I'll submit them.

For something that started off as a fun project just for my own entertainment, it's turning into something really...great. If I do say so myself, that is. My critiquers all seem to really like the stories, and I'm having a lot of fun writing in these different voices and creating small, 1,000 word slices from the points of view of the periphery characters (and, in the case of Lancelot's story, an entirely made-up character) from Arthuriana.

KNIGHTLY TALES FOR A RAINY DAY. Coming soon!

Tirra Lira

For my Lancelot-based Arthurian flash fiction I'm going in a slightly different direction; instead of picking an obscure corner of the medieval texts I'm going with inspiration from Alfred, Lord Tennyson's "Lady of Shalott."

I have a special connection to this poem. My senior year of high school some friends and I performed this poem for our AP English class. I played Lancelot, with aluminum foil helmet and sword, and my friend Peijman played the Lady of Shalott while wearing one of my dresses. It was fun, and afterwords Peijman did an interpretive dance to Madonna's "Vogue." Somehow we thought that went with the poem.

As with my other Arthurian flash fiction so far, my story is born out of the question of what happens to everyone else in the poem. What of the Lady's family? How do they handle news of her death and Lancelot's role in it?

In case you've never read the poem:

Part I.


On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
   To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
   The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
   Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
   The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil'd
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
   Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
   The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
   Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
   Lady of Shalott."


      Part II.

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
   To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
   The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
   Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
   Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
   Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
   The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
   And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half-sick of shadows," said
   The Lady of Shalott.


      Part III.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
   Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A redcross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
   Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle-bells rang merrily
   As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
   Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
   As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
   Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
   As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
   Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
   She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
   The Lady of Shalott.


      Part IV.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale-yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
   Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
   The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse--
Like some bold seër in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
   Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
   The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
   She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
   The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
   Turn'd to tower'd Camelot;
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
   The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
A corse between the houses high,
   Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
   The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
   All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
   The Lady of Shalott."

Arthuriana

I recently wrote -- in a flurry of re-reading the classics -- two flash fiction pieces based on old Arthurian romances. The first, "Lament of the Fisher King," based on the Percival story by Chretien de Troyes, is out for submission to a market. The second, "The Green Knight's Wife," based on the story of Gawain and the Green Knight, is still waiting patiently to be sent to my critique partners.

The problem, as the aforementioned wise critique partners explained, is that something so specific could have trouble finding a market home. In my personal experience, anyone interested in genre fiction -- sci-fi/fantasy and all their many, many subgenres -- is probably a fan, on some level and to some degree, of Arthuriana, ranging from a passing familiarity and general like of Arthur-based movies and mini-series, to a certain friend of mine, Sir Brit, who wrote a whole thesis paper on the possible source material for Chretien de Troyes. (A very good paper, I might add. I read it.)

Then again, the specifics of Percival and the Fisher King, and of Gawain and the Green Knight, tend to be relegated to the more obscure corners of modern Arthuriana. I'm not writing flash fiction about the Arthur-Guenevere-Lancelot love triangle (barf. And, boring.) or extolling the virtues of the old pagan ways versus those oppressive Christians. I'm writing very quick fiction, 1000 words a piece, from the points of view of characters who appear only briefly in the medieval texts, if at all, and barely have any actual speaking parts. The Percival story was inspired by the question: What happened to the Fisher King and his household after they disappeared when Percival left?

While I'm really enjoying this project, I'm conflicted about whether or not to continue. I want to get these stories out, and they are lots of fun to write, but my writing time is precious and I don't want to waste it doing things no one will want to read because they are too obscure. I might do many more and combine them into one long piece.

Here's an excerpt from "Lament of the Fisher King," followed by an excerpt from my first draft of "The Green Knight's Wife."

"Lament of the Fisher King" (Percival)

     No, I cannot curse Percival for things he could not help.

     And so my thoughts turn, as they must, to whom I must blame for my situation. For sending me and my household to this non-existence that stretches before us like a wasteland.

     On this ship my people sink into despair before my very eyes. No one speaks anymore.              Words are lost in the fog, they have no meaning.

To speak is to hope. 

To hope is to go mad.

"The Green Knight's Wife" (Gawain)

With every clod of earth trampled by the hooves of Gawain's horse, my husband spins further into an anxious frenzy. It is only a matter of time before he turns his sharp tongue on me.

"You know what is expected of you?" His brows furrow, his lips turn down. Spittle flies from his mouth as he speaks.

I nod and lower my gaze. But he will not let me off so easily.

Enormous green fingers grab my jaw in a steel vice and force my chin up. Over the years I have mastered the ability to look at my husband in the submissive way he prefers even while he holds my face upwards. Wet flecks hit my face when he speaks. "Tell me what you will do with Gawain."

"I will seduce him, my lord."