fiction

If You Gave Your Mom a Snake Party: A Flash Fiction Piece

I don’t know about you, but my mom is super-grossed out by snakes. She has freaked out around them every time.

            A few memorable times include my brother’s eighth birthday party, when he got his picture taken with a snake around his neck. My mother ran away, saying, “Ew, ew, gross,” several times.

            Another moment that stands out to me is when we were buying food and supplies for our dog. The cashier had a tiny snake around his fingers. My mom asked if it was fake or real. The guy said, “It’s real.” My mother freaked out.

            The event that stands out to me the most is when we watched the news and they announced a snake massage at a zoo in Australia. My mom sent me the link to my email. Her personal message was, “Ewwww! Gross!” It cracked me up so much that I almost lost my breath.

            Anyway, last year, I thought it would be funny to throw my mom a snake-themed party for her birthday. I decorated the house with snake streamers, snake-balloons, jungle trees with fake snakes, and a game called pin the rattle tail on the rattlesnake.

            So, I invited some friends and family to our house. When my mom came, we all yelled, “Surprise!” My mother was speechless when she saw the snake decorations. She said to me, “Rayna, you know I don’t like snakes.”

            But the funniest part of all was when we sang “Happy Birthday” and I carried a cake—that resembled a live snake—literally. My mom deepened her frown, making the inside of her bottom lip come out. My brother videoed the whole moment. Everyone kept singing as my mother looked more grossed out than ever. After we sang, I told my mom to make a wish. But she was too grossed out to blow out the candles. My brother laughed. He blew them out instead.

            The inside of the cake was red velvet filled with cream cheese. My mom wouldn’t eat the cake.

            While I planned to consider the party a silly prank, my mom banned us from hosting her surprise parties ever again. She then gave us a lecture on how a snake-themed party was very inconsiderate. From that point on, I learned to respect her dislikes, including snakes.

            My mom is fine with turtles. But I will not buy her a turtle gift for her next birthday, Christmas, or any other occasion. I promise to treat her birthdays with respect and consideration from now on.

fiction

Mice and Rats: A Flash Fiction Piece

I sat at the train station. Something moved on the tracks. It was nighttime, so I couldn’t see what it was. It might have been a rat.

            Unlike most people, I’ve always found mice and rats fascinating. I stood up and stared at the movement. Yup—it was a rat.

            I wished I could take a picture of the critter. But everyone would’ve consider me crazy. While I still didn’t mind mice and rats, I couldn’t pull my phone out of my purse.

            Just a few weeks ago, my husband had called an exterminator for a rat. He had fit in with the majority, who disliked mice and rats.

            Anyway, the exterminator had come. He’d been about to put out rat poison when I’d seen the rat and had said, “Before you put out that rat poison, I’d like to take a picture of the rat.”

            The exterminator had looked at me like I’d had five noses. He’d put out the poison before I could even photograph the rodent. And I hadn’t wanted to take a picture of it after it’d died.

            Not only had the exterminator considered me crazy, but so did my husband. I was aware that mice and rats carried disease. Nevertheless, I’d still considered them interesting.

            If I were ever alone, and I saw a mouse or rat far away from me, I would love to photograph it. But I was never alone in Queens, not even in my home. I lived in an apartment. While the others were in their own sections, I could still hear their voices, TV’s, music, and more.

            I hoped to move out and live on Long Island at some point—in a place of my own. Purely for me.

fiction

The Spelling Assignment: A Flash Fiction Piece

I stood in the classroom and observed the second graders as they presented different stories. It was my first time student-teaching. I was a college sophomore, which is the youngest you can observe classrooms in schools.

A familiar little girl stood up and presented her story. I looked at her as her bangs covered her eyes and her thick bobbed hair covered her cheeks. She reminded me of someone I’d babysat from four years ago. It couldn’t be Emma Da Silva, who used to play with a stuffed polar bear she’d called Spike.

The child faced the class and read the story. “For our spelling homework, I wrote about a polar bear named Spike.”

I gazed at her.

“Once upon a time, there was a polar bear named Spike. Spike wanted to play with the otters and the elephant seal on the glacier. There was a rainbow in the sky, which made Spike happy. But the other animals said no when he asked if he could play. Spike was sad and cried. His mommy came and gave him company. She walked with him back to the other animals and made them say sorry. Spike ran toward them and they accepted him. They lived happily ever after. The end.”

The class applauded. Mrs. Jackson, the teacher, stood up. “Wait to go, Emma. But you missed some of the spelling words.”

“No, I didn’t,” Emma said.

“You missed the words, bitterness, community, social, alligator, and cooperate,” said Mrs. Jackson.

“Aw,” said Emma.

“Sit back down,” said Mrs. Jackson. “We’re going to move on to something else.”

I approached Emma as she returned to her desk.

“What is it, Miss. Whitney?” Emma asked me.

I hesitated. “That was an interesting story you wrote.”

“But I’m going to get a zero,” said Emma.

“Well, I remember a little girl who also had a stuffed polar bear named Spike,” I said.

Emma tilted her head. “Are you talking about me?”

I flushed.

“You used to babysit me?” asked Emma.

“Is your last name Da Silva?” I asked.

Emma nodded.

“I… I did babysit you.”

Emma brightened her eyes.

“Jaylin, get back here,” said Mrs. Jackson.

I returned to the chalkboard but continued to gaze at Emma. That story made me smile.

Writing

Why I Differentiate My Characters from Myself

Image from Pixabay

Many authors base their characters off of people they know. A high percent of people also base their stories off of real-life experiences. However, I am different. I rarely or never do any of those things.

One: I find my life experiences too ordinary and straightforward. Two: I find it more exciting to make them very different from me.

For example, the MC of my novels is Irish Catholic, blonde, and has had a tragic life. I am Indian and Hindu, dark-haired, and has lived a typical life with hardly any tragedies. I lost my paternal grandpa when I was 2, so I don’t remember him. My maternal grandpa died when I was 22 but I didn’t cry. I only experienced shocking pain for a few hours. That’s really it for the sad moments in my life.

I could explain my MC’s tragic life. But that is within the novels. You can find them through reviews, excerpts, or if you choose to purchase the books.

Anyway, I find varying and differentiating things far more fun than making them like me. After all, the world would be a boring place if we all thought the same things, even if that meant little to no conflicts. I could be wrong, though.

Differentiating characters from myself also opens more room for growing knowledge, even if that means extra research. If I wrote about Hindu characters, I probably would not have to do as much research. But I would also get bored. And if it’s boring to write, it’s usually boring to read.

While I rarely make characters similar to myself, I never base them off people I know. But that will be for another post. That being said, I do give some similarities occasionally, such as food tastes. Overall, though, I differ from other writers.

fiction

The Uncontrollable Curse (Alyssa McCarthy’s Magical Missions Book 2): Presenting… an Excerpt

Alyssa inhaled a lavender scent that tickled her nose. She opened her eyes to see lilac-colored vapor enveloping her face. Gasping, she hopped off her bed. But the mist followed her and covered her body.

            It touched her straight, pale-blonde hair and formed droplets that dripped off the strands that fell to the middle of her butt. The mist also sank into her skin through her muted purple T-shirt and leggings. Grunting, Alyssa squeezed her aching, narrow shoulders. The vapor drifted away through the closed window, without staining anything.

            Where did this come from? Alyssa thought.

            Normal mist would have marked a closed window, so the vapor had to have come from… wizardry. Alyssa’s breathing grew faster. Six months had passed since magic had left her life. It was October! Magic should have stayed out, leaving Alyssa to live sorcery-free.

            On April eighteenth, the day after Alyssa’s thirteenth birthday, her wizard mentor, Mathias, had provided two enchanted objects meant to protect her from magical peril. She’d brought them with her to Illinois after her godfather and legal guardian Alex had lost his job in Ohio and had been offered a new one in Cook County, minutes away from their home here in Will County. And yet, somehow, somebody had found a way around the artifacts’ protections today.

            That did it! Alyssa’s eyes drifted to her closet. The door was cracked open. Duct tape hung from a shoebox. Alyssa covered her mouth. Somebody must’ve broken in and opened the door while she had gone to Chicago today. The city was about an hour away from here, Will County, and Alyssa had taken a nap after returning here in the afternoon. Something should’ve woken her up earlier.

            Alyssa crept over, breathing faster. Her hands sweated and trembled as she opened the door. She jumped back. The objects were missing from that shoebox.

            Why hadn’t the magic light stick steered the thief away, especially if he or she were magical? It must have been a sorcerer. Otherwise, the window would’ve broken or Alyssa would’ve noticed other clues. And shouldn’t the warning dome have glowed orange at some point today, even if the criminal had taken hours to prepare to steal it and the stick? They couldn’t have been disabled. There had to be a way to get them back.

            Earlier today, in the morning, Alyssa had left to go shopping with Alex. Perhaps Alex needed to install an alarm system. Couldn’t he have hired someone to set it up and have it ready by now, at around six PM?

Alyssa searched the closet, but she saw no signs of her objects. She groaned.

            Whoever had started that mist either must have taken her objects or had sent somebody to do so. She looked around her room.

            The walls remained their mauve color. The furniture stayed where it had always been. Her poster of celebrity, Sapphire Silver Button, hung next to her bed. An airbrushed picture of her name hung across her closet. Everything on her desk and dresser stayed still. But no clues suggested any sign of somebody else here.

            A swish sounded, suggesting a wizard had appeared here. But he or she made no sounds.

            Alyssa picked up her Android phone and contacted her previous mentors – from when a magician named Master Beau had kidnapped her and taken her to Fiji in late March, so that she could’ve helped him rule France.

            First, she searched for Mathias’s in her email. No results came up. The same thing occurred with her other helper, Isabelle. That left Simon, the English marble figure, the third mentor. Nothing.

            Alyssa exhaled. Simon should know better. If he hadn’t warned Alyssa about Master Beau or had asked Isabelle and Mathias to guide her in Fiji, would she have made it today? Because he knew a lot about different subjects, especially technology, Simon should’ve emailed her. As a marble figure, even if he resembled a mini angel, he could gather information from people’s minds and signal people, as well as animals, as quickly as the speed of sound. Even when he’d frozen in Fiji, he hadn’t lost that skill.

            Even if Simon had too much to do now, he would have found Alyssa another mentor. Alyssa sighed and put her phone down.

                Something tickled her palms. She gasped and swung them back. White light glowed from within her hands. Her jaw dropped, and the rays shot out and landed on the floor by the door. The beams vanished, revealing bouncing tiles.

            Alyssa’s chest constricted and her skin tightened. She gaped at the leaping pieces, her mouth still open. Shallow breaths came out of her mouth. This had to be a dream. She couldn’t have performed magic. Ordinary people without sorcery in their blood couldn’t do that.

            Alyssa kept her eyes open and focused her attention on the tiles. Her heartbeat sped up. Without any magic in her blood, she could never become a sorceress. Everyone who’d ever been related to her had zero supernatural powers. She would’ve found out by the age of nine, when wizard children learned to control their sorcery, that she was an enchantress. But—magic did advance like technology over time and gained new possibilities.

If you enjoyed this excerpt, please be sure to check out the book here. Thanks!

Writing

How I Wish I Could Write Several Novels at Once

Image from Pixabay

I’m an author and authors constantly write. However, I am weak at multi-tasking, even with writing. For years, I could only work on one novel at a time. But that meant only one publication every few years. And that is not very fair to fans or readers.

I’ve been doing research on writing more than one story at a time. Many writers can do it. Some do it because they have too many ideas floating in their heads. Others do it because they want to meet deadlines sooner, especially if they have agents.

I’ve tried many times but have failed… until now. I am working on two works at this time. Well, technically three as I am having one project edited. But this is a huge milestone for me. It’s not easy. I am glad that I started with a small step of only adding one extra project. There is a technique I read about somewhere called drafting. That is when you work on one story draft at a time with different projects. For example, you write a draft of story a. After you finish that draft, you do a draft for story b. Basically, you work on one story at a time, but go to another one after finishing a certain draft rather than spending a long time on just one story.

I am not really doing that, though. I have been working on my third novel for over three years, although the first two years were spent trying to figure out the story. I am now working on the third book and the first draft of my fourth book at the same time. Sometimes I am designating certain days for one story. Other times I am working on whichever I feel like.

If you want to work on more than one story at a time, I would definitely recommend you go for it. In fact, many big authors work on more than one book at a time. If you’re serious about publishing, then I would emphasize on this even more. If it’s traditional publishing, depending on the contract you have with an agent or publisher, it may work. However, traditional publishing takes longer, and you have no control over the process or time. If you’re self-publishing, you have total control over your projects, when you publish them, and the time it takes to publish. If you do Amazon KDP, you can choose a release date up to three months (I think) ahead if you choose the pre-order option.

The reason I want to work on more than one novel at a time and write faster is because I don’t want to keep people waiting. Plus, I don’t want my final installment to be ready when I’m, like, 40. Not that I have anything against publishing at that age (many authors are, at least, that age). Plus, my writing will likely be more mature by then. I just don’t know where I will be in life then. I’m only 25 after all.

My goal is to have my entire series published by my 30th birthday. No, I am not looking to become the youngest author with a full series. I just want to keep readers up to date more often. Plus, I have a better idea of where I’ll be in five years versus fifteen. I know I can make this work.