Justin Briggs

Below is an excerpt from the short story I'm working on now. Thoughts, feedback, or suggestions are appreciated. Is he too unlikeable? I'm a fan of imperfect characters, but I want him to be somewhat appealing so that people will care enough to see if he makes it out of the bottle in the end.

Houston, TX

October 31, 1983

One o’clock in the morning and wide-awake.

Justin Briggs rolled out of his bed and stumbled over his sneakers. Keeping them beside the bed was supposed to encourage him to run in the mornings with his fiancée Stacey.

Stacey’s absence from the bed reminded him of the epic argument they’d had three days ago. No communication since then. She’d gone to stay with her parents and he wasn’t sure how they’d patch things up.

He staggered to the kitchen and prepared himself a drink: rum and Coke, actually rum with a splash of Coke. He consumed it like anyone else would drink water and then he made another one.

Work called to him. The typewriter on the kitchen table appeared to say, “Deadline, you bastard.”  The profile on Tom Delay, an up and coming politician from Sugar Land, wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. In college, he could crank out a paper the night before it was due, usually aided by a steady supply of No-Doz. His level of give a shit was now at an all time low.

He picked up the phone and dialed. It rang five times before his best friend Travis picked it up and muttered an indecipherable greeting.

“It’s me. Can you come over?”

Travis groaned. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“It’s one-thirty. I really need to talk. Aren’t you off tomorrow?”

“What is so fucking important that it can’t wait until daylight?”

“Stacey’s gone. She’s at her parents.”

“You guys have a fight?”

“What do you think?”

“Alright,” Travis muttered. “You do owe me for this.”

Justin hung up the phone and threw himself on the couch. He’d picked up the phone to call her at least three times since she departed with a door slam that shook the walls and sent their five-year anniversary picture crashing to the floor.

Wine, he thought.  A trip to the wine rack yielded a bottle of Beringer cabernet. He pulled the junk drawer open and cursed himself for not being organized enough to keep up with a corkscrew. He slammed the drawer shut and selected a cheap white zinfandel with a screw on top.

He’d finished off two glasses by the time Travis arrived.

“Damn dude. Things must be really bad if you’re drinking chick wine.”

“Fuck off. I can’t find the corkscrew.”

Travis chuckled. “You drink too much.”

Justin took a sip of the wine. It really was awful, but he wasn’t fazed. “Does Stacey seem much different to you?”

Travis sat down on a barstool and said, “I haven’t really seen her enough lately to know.”

“We fight about everything lately.”

“Give me some examples.”

“If I bring up anything to do with the wedding, she goes ballistic.”

“Girls pull their hair out about shit like that. I wouldn’t worry about that too much.”

“You don’t understand. We can’t have a normal conversation like this without her screaming at me about something. I don’t know how much more I can take.”

“Are you guys going to Craig’s party tomorrow?”

“That’s another problem. We fought about what to dress up as. When I gave my suggestion, she went completely ape-shit.”

“Hugh Hefner and one of his bunnies.”

“What was her idea?”

“Barbie and Ken.”

“I see why you revolted. One gets nothing but ass. The other couldn’t get ass if he tried.”

“What would you suggest?”

“Indiana Jones. She could be Marion. I don’t mean the grungy barfly Marion. Sexy low-cut, white dress Marion.”

“That’s brilliant. I already have a leather jacket and khaki pants. I’m pretty sure I have a shirt that would work. I don’t have a hat or a bullwhip though.”

“Or a horse.”

“He didn’t have a horse.”

“He rode one, remember?”

“Only cause he didn’t have a choice.”

Travis shook his head. No point in arguing with a functional alcoholic who would never seek therapy for his screwed up existence.

“Do you want me to talk to her? I’ll throw the Indiana Jones idea out there and see what she says. She might love it.”

“You’d do that?”

“Sure. I’m off work tomorrow, I mean today.”

“I’m not. Curtis will murder me if I call in but show up at the party.”

“Alright, I’ll take Stacey to the costume shop. We’ll find everything ya’ll need.”

“You are a godsend.”

Broken Pumpkins

I decided to make the prologue of Miracle at Santa Anita a standalone short story. It's a snapshot of a day in the life of one of the lead characters. It's all backstory, so it could function as a prologue. However, taking it away has no effect on the overall story. I like the idea of publishing it as a self-contained story here. I also welcome feedback, so please let me know of any areas that can be improved (I'm sure there are many).

October 30, 1963

Hannah traced a figure eight in the dust with her black patent shoes as she sat in the swing. People filed in and out of the house, some with food and others with flowers and bottles of liquor. They gave her sympathetic looks from a distance. No one wanted to smother her. Like her mother Carolyn, she possessed a fierce independence. Unlike her mother, she could take a deep breath and pretend those people were stick figures.

The navy blue dress was not her choice. She wanted the cream colored dress her mother bought for her on their trip to Bloomingdales a month ago. The tags were still attached. Her aunt believed navy to be more appropriate for a funeral. She didn’t know how much Carolyn loved the new dress. She stiffened when she recalled her aunt Jane’s hostility.

“Why aren’t you crying?” Jane asked, dabbing her eyes between short sips of wine.

“I’m always crying, whether you can see it or not,” said Hannah.

Jane grabbed the entire bottle of wine and said, “There’s something really wrong with you” before retreating to the patio.

Hannah clenched teeth when she thought about her drunken aunt. A cab arrived and a dark-headed man wearing a suit and aviator sunglasses emerged. He corralled a little girl with auburn tresses over to Hannah. She climbed into the swing next to her. “Daddy, push me,” she pleaded. He pushed her until she was able to propel herself into the sky. Hannah yearned for that kind of innocence.

He looked at Hannah and said, “How are you doing sweetheart?”

It was really the first time that day someone addressed her. Maybe it was her standoffishness or her resemblance to the shattered woman in the casket. They hovered around her father like he was the child.  A speck of dust flew into Hannah’s eye at that moment. She pawed at it as if that would knock it out.

“Blink honey, just blink. It will come out.”

She followed his instructions and everything was fine. She wondered why everything couldn’t be that simple.  

“How long will you be here?” she asked.

He removed his sunglasses as his daughter Marty kept swinging, her auburn hair whipping around in the breeze. His eyes looked sunken in and rimmed with dark circles.

“I told your dad we’d stay for a week. How would you feel about going to Coney Island tomorrow with us?”

She craved normalcy, but she wasn’t sure an amusement park was what she needed.  The high-pitched neigh of a horse reminded her that she needed to tend to the stables. The chaos of the last four days had left them a little neglected and Hannah felt a pang of guilt for it.

“Thank you very much, but I need to stay here and help out. The stables need to be cleaned and I really need to ride Hershey. I haven’t been on her since this whole thing happened.”

Mark inspected his sunglasses and took a handkerchief out of his pocket to polished them until they glistened in the sunlight.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he said.

She hopped off the swing and said, “We can talk at the stables” and before he could object, she took off. Mark cursed to himself and collected his daughter.

Hannah stopped in front of Hershey’s stall. The mare stuck her head out of the stall when Hannah arrived and she lowered it so the girl could feed her the carrots she had in her pocket.  Mark and Marty arrived before the last carrot was gone. Mark steered Hannah over to a bale of hay while Marty made a beeline for the tack room with a coloring book and crayons in hand.

“You might want to sit down honey,” he said.

She knew him well enough to know that he had news and it wasn’t good. He was her godfather, and a good man. Sometimes she wished he was her father.

“Your dad is selling the farm. He just can’t take it. Your mom was the heartbeat of this place and without her. . .”

Hannah’s throat tightened and her numb heart took a shot of disbelief. She never thought he would sell so soon.

“He doesn’t want you to ride anymore.”

“What?” Now she felt nauseous. He couldn’t keep her from something that was integral to her existence. Riding was in her blood. She looked at her chocolate colored mare and it occurred to her that Hershey would be sold out from under her. The tears came and she leaned on Mark until her ducts were fully dried out.

“You’re welcome to ride anytime you come visit us. I offered to buy Hershey, but your dad said your neighbor already offered. Makes more geographical sense anyway. “

“When are you and Marty flying home?

“Probably tomorrow. The Coney Island trip was your father’s idea. You should take the day to spend here.”

Hannah and Marty sat in the swing on the front porch. Despite their three-year age difference, Hannah didn’t mind spending time with her. It was like having a little sister with no strings attached.  Mark joined them even though he should have been in bed. They watched the realtor put the For Sale sign by the road. Hannah shuddered when she thought of living anywhere else.

The flameless pumpkins saddened Hannah. Halloween was her mother’s favorite holiday and she put more effort into it than Christmas or any other holiday. No less than five jack-o-lanterns inhabited the open space of the porch, albeit minus the inner glow that made their features spooky. Halloween was her mother’s favorite holiday and those pumpkins were her masterpieces. She never did anything halfway. One was a witch and another was a pirate.  Even her Jack Kennedy bore enough of a resemblance to the commander-in-chief. A single un-carved pumpkin was for Hannah and her Cinderella obsession. Carolyn devoted hours to sewing the glittery blue gown. Hannah couldn’t look at it without crying, so it stayed in the closet with the Bloomingdales dress.

Hannah turned her eyes towards her pumpkin and wished it would turn into a carriage to take her to a world where a drunken driver hadn’t killed her mother. She closed her eyes as if she could will that to happen.  The creaky sound of the front door opening brought her back to Earth. Her father strode out with a nearly finished bottle of Jim Beam. He took in the remainder and flung the bottle off the side of the porch. His tear-stained face and bloodshot eyes frightened Hannah. She inched herself closer to Mark, who glared at his old friend with a ferocity she had never seen. Mike picked up one of the pumpkins and flung it into the yard.

“No goddamn trick or treaters coming here,” he muttered.

He proceeded to pitch every somber pumpkin off the porch before storming off inside and slamming the door shut.  Marty nudged her father.

“Daddy?”

“Yes honey?”

“What happened?”

“Mr. Mike is having a really hard time.”

Hannah blinked and tried to erase what she had seen. The tears fought their way out and she broke down in sobs. Her magical pumpkin lay in ruin about a foot away from the realtor’s sign. Mark hugged her like she was his own child and let her cry it out.  She took several deep breaths and wiped her eyes with the handkerchief he gave her.

“I think I will go with you all tomorrow. I don’t want to be here.”

Making friends with failure

Okay, technically it isn't failure until you give up. The point is that if one is to succeed with writing or anything, they must keep trying. Setbacks are common as we all figure out how to rise to the top of the self-publishing sea. As Dory from Finding Nemo would say, "Just keep swimming."

Since making the decision to publish a short story, I've received constructive feedback that will help me take it to a higher level. Maybe I'll flesh it out into a novella or maybe a full-length novel. Downloads have nothing to do with my decision. I just want to make it into a better piece of writing than it is. Rather than unpublish, I am making it available as a free download here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/340069

I welcome ideas from anyone who would like to help me craft a better version of this story and thank everyone in advance for their help.

From character bio to short story

I was never a big believer in writing out character biographies until I received feedback from an editor about a character who just popped up in my novel for no apparent reason. This Marty character probably needed to serve some purpose and I just threw her in to see what would stick. My editor was right and that character now has more of a backstory that explains her presence. My biographical experiment turned into a short story about the main female character in the novel. Now Marty has an explanation, even if it's within the context of a primary character's backstory.

You can read the entire short story here for 2.99  http://www.scribd.com/doc/155496659/Hannah-Strong

If you have a Kindle or Kindle app, download it from http://www.amazon.com/Hannah-Strong-ebook/dp/B00DUFQZUG/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1374246861&sr=8-1&keywords=hannah+strong

Both the Prologue and Chapter 1 of the novel Miracle at Santa Anita are available to read for free on scribd.