Sorry I haven’t been posting recently…I will try to use some of my down time this summer to do more writing.

Some news: I have joined up with a bunch of really great folks to found a new website, Scriptic. It’s a collective of writers and artists brought together through the desire to improve their work. Sound interesting? Check them out here.

Today is their launch day, and they have a quickie 24-hour challenge to anyone who is interested. You’re supposed to submit anything you want (artwork, photography, or writing) on the subject of “new beginnings.” Here’s my submission:

They also have a writing challenge called Prompt Exchange, which is very much like the writing challenges I’ve been participating in for the last year. You should sign up. Seriously, what are you waiting for?

I’ll make this quick.

Last week, I went over to the house of my friend, Becky Oehlers (some know her from her design blog, Hemidemisemiquaver), who took a bunch of photos for me, since I needed new headshots.

What I got back was stunning.

I cannot recommend her enough. Not only was the entire process easy and stress-free, but she was very good at making me feel incredibly comfortable. Okay, so it helps that she is a friend. But she’s like that with everyone.

Check out the entire gallery here. And look at the rest of her portfolio here.

There is a general misconception in today’s society that opera is only for old, rich, and snobby people. And though some Jackie Evancho fans might consider me in the last category, I must protest! I think opera can and should be accessible to everybody. You just have to discard the stereotypes of an overbearing soprano wearing horns or a tenor singing for hours and open your mind.

Right now, I’m in the middle of rehearsals for Puccini’s Manon Lescaut, and since I co-host the Opera Company of Philadelphia’s podcast, I did a little research into what might make this story appealing to audiences today. I read L’Histoire du chevalier des Grieux et de Manon Lescaut by Abbé Prévost (the book Puccini’s opera is based on), and boy, was it juicy! The story centers around a beautiful young woman and her dysfunctional relationship with her first real boyfriend.

Reading the book, I felt like I could have been watching one of the Real Housewives shows or looking at a tabloid at the supermarket checkout. I stopped counting the number of times I wanted to bash my head against the wall because Des Grieux was being stupid — again — for love of this woman.

And that’s when I started thinking of Britney Spears.

How is Britney like Manon? Both are beautiful and charismatic young women who have made many bad choices. Manon enjoys the riches and attention her new lifestyle affords her, and she (in the novel, at least) chooses wealth over love time and time again. Britney, too, has enjoyed her superstar lifestyle rather publicly, too…as chronicled in her one-season reality show, Britney & Kevin: Chaotic.

(I may or may not have watched one episode of that show. I hope you don’t think less of me because of it.)

And the lyrics in Britney’s Gimme More sounds quite a bit like something Manon would say. Check it out:

So there’s my comparison, for what it’s worth. If you want to find out more about the Opera Company of Philadelphia’s production, listen to the podcast below (I’m co-hosting).

If you are in Philadelphia, come see me in it! I’m one of the fruit sellers in the first act (and a very snooty townswoman in the third act). It’s a fabulous cast and an amazing production.

Manon Lescaut by Puccini
at the Academy of Music
Friday, April 20, 2012 at 8:00 pm
Sunday, April 22, 2012 at 2:30 pm
Wednesday, April 25, 2012 at 7:30 pm
Friday, April 27, 2012 at 8:00 pm
Sunday, April 29, 2012 at 2:30 pm
CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE TICKETS

Long ago, in the land of gold and fog, there lived a young girl named Tamalpais. She was the daughter of the chief of her tribe, and she was so beautiful that warriors from up and down the coast would travel for miles and miles to try to win her hand in marriage.

Every month, the chief would hold a contest for the suitors, and every month, they would leave empty-handed, for no mortal could accomplish the impossible tasks he had set for these men. The chief did these things because he knew that she did not love any of the warriors who strode into camp. He heard his daughter scoff at their swagger, with puffed-out chests and flashing eyes. He heard his daughter laugh, and he laughed along with her, because he loved his daughter too much to let her go with anyone who was not extraordinary.

Years passed, and Tamalpais grew older. She watched her friends marry, and she rejoiced when they bore children, new warriors for her tribe. Her father still doted on her, but there came fewer and fewer suitors for her hand, and he fretted that she would never marry and give him grandchildren. He began to press her to be more reasonable.

One day, a man appeared from the east, walking towards them with with the sun at his back so that nobody could see his face. The entire tribe paused in their work and gaped at the man with golden hair as he entered camp. Though they had no idea if he was friend or foe, not one warrior stopped him as he made his way directly towards the chief.

“Sir,” the man said with a warm smile and a bow, “I have come for your daughter.”

The chief kept his face straight, but inside he was humming a happy tune. This was the one he had been waiting for, he was sure of it. “I see you have heard of my daughter’s beauty. However, you are not the first to seek her hand in marriage. There are tests you must pass.”

“Unnecessary,” the stranger interrupted. He settled his gaze on Tamalpais.

“Who is this man, that he dares speak to the chief, my father, this way?” Her heart was racing, and every part of her was becoming warm, but she maintained a haughty look as she spoke to him.

The stranger bowed again, this time more deeply. “Forgive me, my heart. I have loved you from afar and watched every day as you have become more and more beautiful. I see how you yearn for something more, some adventure and excitement, and I know you deserve more than what any man could give you. But I cannot take you away from the people you love without your consent. If your consent is contingent upon the completion of these tasks,” he took a step closer and she could feel his breath on her cheek, “I shall do whatever you ask.”

Tamalpais nodded. “Sort that pile of seeds.” She pointed at a mountain of seeds, taller than two men, leftover from the last suitor’s task.

The stranger simply smiled, and the seeds began to move by themselves. Within minutes, the mountain became ten manageable piles, each a different kind of seed.

Tamalpais raised her eyebrows. “Make me a cloak that exactly matches the sky.”

The stranger reached into his pocket and drew out a bright blue cloth. He settled it around her shoulders, making adjustments here and there, until a hood emerged from the top. When he pulled the hood over her head, she seemed to disappear from sight, leaving only a deep, lingering fog around where her legs should be.

The medicine-woman approached the chief, saying, “This man is not mortal. I believe he is the Sun-God, who has smiled on your daughter every day of her life. If he wishes to marry your daughter, you cannot have a better son-in-law than him!”

Tamalpais took the cloak off, her icy demeanor melting. “One more task, and I am yours,” she said. “Bring me the finest jewel from the Hall of the Sun.”

Once more, the stranger bowed. “My heart, that is the easiest task of all, for you are the finest jewel, finer than any in the Hall of the Sun. And if you come with me, you shall live there as my queen and be able to watch over your people forever.”

Tamalpais reached out her arms to the golden-haired man, and the two were engaged that day.

When word spread that the beautiful chief’s daughter was to be married to the Sun-God, the hearts of all her rejected suitors were filled with envy and hate. “Let us build a mountain for her,” they said to each other, “One that rivals any of the mountains of seeds she would have us sort.” And so the suitors used rocks and sand and clay to build the highest mountain they could imagine so that they could block her from visiting the Hall of the Sun.

One month later, the chief married his daughter to the Sun-God. The wedding festivities were filled with much drinking and singing and dancing. At the end of the day, the Sun-God picked up his bride in his arms as they both said farewell to the chief. He strode quickly to the Hall of the Sun in the west, for he wished to show her all the wonders of her new home before the sun set. So intent was he that he did not watch where he was going or how fast he was walking, and he tripped over the mountain that the suitors had built, falling face first into the ocean, and dropping Tamalpais on the edge of the coast, killing her instantly.

The Sun-God was inconsolable. He immediately laid her body to rest on the cliffs by the sea, so that she would be the last thing he would see before the Hall of the Sun disappeared into the ocean for the night. He clothed her in the sky-cloak, and every evening he would wrap her in fog to protect her from harm.

Even to this day, she lies there, at the edge of the sea and the earth, in the land of gold and fog. Even though her father and her tribes are gone, she still watches over the people who make their home in her shadow. She plays with the children who run up and down her side. And she whispers words of encouragement to all the young men and women who are just figuring out what love is.

I know. I’ve heard her.

---

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Brad MacDonald challenged me with “A deep, lingering fog.” and I challenged Lance with “An awkward conversation between acquaintances.”

This is my embellishment of one of many variations about the legend of Mount Tamalpais in the San Francisco Bay Area, where I grew up. Technically, this legend is not an authentic Indian legend, but it’s a good story. My dad used to work at a restaurant in Fairfax called The Sleeping Lady, which had a huge mural along one wall of the profile of Mount Tam as a sleeping woman. I’ve been fascinated with the story ever since.

The tavern door swung open with a bang. Most of the men in the room blinked and recoiled from the bright sunlight streaming in. Some even got up from their seats and went upstairs, shooting nasty looks at the newcomer.

“You’re in here early.” Moll, owner of the Lissome Lady, stood at one of the tables with a rag and bucket, shooting a crooked smile to the figure in the doorway.

He scowled. “Mornings suck at our house. Between the noise from the forge and the smell coming out of the dragon pens, we’re all grumpy and nauseous before we finish breaking our fast.” He strode to the bar and sat down. “I just needed to get away.”

Moll put down her cleaning supplies and made her way to him. “Did you eat at all?”

When he didn’t respond, she clucked concernedly. “I think I can fix something for you, if you don’t mind stale leftovers from last night’s supper. Stay there.” She ruffled his hair and skipped into the kitchen, humming quietly.

Lief, son of Lief, firstborn of the clan Baldragon, blushed and straightened his hair. If Moll only knew who he was, she wouldn’t treat him like a boy. He knew he was younger than most of the patrons of the Lissome Lady, but he was still a man, and an important one, at that.

Moll returned with a plate piled high with food. She set it on the bar. “It’s not fancy fare, but it’ll get you through the day,” she said. She pointed to the different items in front of him. “Yak cheese, homemade goat sausage, and a little bit of snake jerky.” She leaned in closely, wisps of auburn hair falling across her face. “If I tell people it’s dragon meat, I can charge three times as much for it.” She laughed and ruffled his hair again.

He jerked away from her. Her words offended him more than her touch did, but there was no way he could tell her why. From the corner of his eye, he saw her hurt and confused expression, so he avoided speaking at all by stuffing his mouth full of anything and everything on the plate.

After a few minutes, Moll shrugged and returned to her cleaning, but she brought the bucket and rag to the bar so she could talk to Lief as she worked. “Did you hear? Priests of the Golden Eye are coming to Dragonfall tomorrow.”

Lief almost choked. He had come to this dusty, forgotten town in the middle of nowhere six months ago because he was trying to get as far away from the Golden Eye as possible. And now they were coming here? He doubted it was a coincidence. “The Golden Eye?” he said between mouthfuls. “All our dragons are domesticated. Have been for generations. What do they want with us?”

“They come around here every few years to recruit.”

Lief’s heart was racing. Recruitment meant the priests of the Golden Eye would be looking for young, strong men like him. But they would also be testing the men for signs of magic, poking and prodding them with staffs and wands, instruments of torture to anyone without the gift to withstand it.

Moll stopped working and looked directly at Lief. “Don’t get any ideas. Not many around here take kindly to their ‘recruitment’ techniques, mind you…but the priests are only looking for the brightest and strongest. Besides, there’s not much we can do to stop it. The Eye sees everything.” She gestured to the gilded relief depicting the Ever-Watchful Eye above the door, folded her hands in prayer, and dipped her rag back in the bucket.

Lief folded his hands in prayer as well, looking at Moll out of the corner of his eye. She seemed to have lost her earlier liveliness, now going through the motions of cleaning with slow, robotic movements.

What most people didn’t know is that magic-users were resistant to the hypnotic power of the Eye. Those people, when found, were tried publicly as witches and executed.

And Lief was one of them. He was a dragonsinger, like his father before him, one of only a handful still living. And if he didn’t want to meet the same fate as his father, he needed to find a way to leave town before the Priests of the Golden Eye arrived.

“Moll?”

“Yes, Lief?”

He wanted so badly to tell her his secret, but if he did, he could be endangering both their lives. He looked back up at the relief above the door and shivered.

“I…I think I’m done with my food. Thank you.”

When Moll came close to clear his plates, he reached out and kissed her. Not a lingering kiss, but one that conveyed his dreams of a future with her. Dreams that could be shattered by the Golden Eye.

Moll stepped back, her mouth agape.

“Thank you for everything, Moll.” He strode quickly out the door into the sunlight. He paused briefly outside the tavern, willing himself not to look back. It was time to look forward, to make plans, to buy provisions.

He would be leaving Dragonfall before dark.

---

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Jester Queen challenged me with “Mornings suck at our house. Between the noise from the forge and the smell coming out of the dragon pens, we’re all grumpy and nauseous before we finish breaking our fast.” and I challenged Lance with “struck by lighting”

Ukobach sat at his desk, staring blankly at the endless pile of papers in front of him. He was going cross-eyed with all this paperwork, but he also knew that if he didn’t start working now, his boss would come buzzing in from nowhere and make him regret it. No, he thought with a sigh, better to get started now.

He took a sip from his coffee and grimaced. Damn, that was terrible. And it had gotten cold, to boot. He set the mug back down on the legal pad to his right, placing it just a few centimeters beside the stain from yesterday’s brew. The once-yellow legal pad was almost completely brown with coffee stains, but the desk beneath looked even worse.

It never ceased to amaze him how many souls managed to get damned in just one day. His pen made a quiet scratching noise as he filled in the name, soul number, and transgression in the appropriate lines. Joe Smith, 644351807876724355, drug dealer. Aaron Bordoni, 948714994554876190, adulterer. Michele Bachmann, 902326232648400786, politician. He paused, cocked his head to the side as he gnawed on his pen, then added a note to the last entry: special treatment for furthering our cause on earth.

Ukobach had been at this job forever…literally. He remembered a time when things were simpler, when all he had to do was maintain the oil in the boilers with the blood of the damned. There weren’t as many people on earth back then, and demons had more free time to themselves. He had learned how to cook on the job, and all hell would rave about his little culinary experiments: deep fried butter, french fries, and — his favorite — bacon cheddar cheeseburgers with donuts for buns.

But that was before the invention of the printing press, much less the internet. Once there was a mechanism to disseminate ideas more efficiently on earth, Management realized that they would need to upgrade the system for processing souls. Ukobach’s boiler room was transformed into an office full of demons just like him, and the blood of the damned became the ink in all the fine print they used to damn even more souls. In essence, it was nothing new, just a different name for the same thing.

As he worked, Ukobach reached over to his coffee mug and picked it up, absently heating the drink with his fiery tail. The mountains of paper never combusted around him, despite his inner core temperature of 450°C; this was partly because of the odd physics of hell, but mostly due to the frigid air conditioning unit that had been installed directly above his station. The down side of this arrangement was that his coffee was always cold before it even touched his lips. He sipped again and nearly spit it back out. Damn, but that’s awful.

Back in the days before bureaucracy and hell had become synonymous, Ukobach would take long breaks to go drink the clear, fresh water in the pool where thirsty Tantalus stood. One day he’d found a goldfish there, and he had placed it in a bowl to bring back to work…but the fish was almost instantly boiled alive when he took the shortcut over the lava fields.

He missed that goldfish. It would have brightened up this cubicle a bit.

A fly circled slowly around the cubicle, coming to rest on the edge of Ukobach’s coffee mug. “Don’t drink that stuff,” he warned. “It’s not good for your health.”

The fly buzzed angrily, and Ukobach shrugged. He knew that he had taken too many breaks already, but he also knew that if Belzebuth were truly displeased, he would have come himself, instead of sending one of his flies to pass on the message. “You know,” he said, lifting his mug to get a better look at the fly, “this why our side keeps losing. We are so mired in our own processes that we can’t think creatively. So many people think that heaven has all these rules and regulations, but we’ve got just as many, don’t we? Maybe more.”

He stood up, mug still in hand. The fly looked at him warily, but did not move.

“I want to go back to cooking,” he announced to the fly.

The fly buzzed, but it was so cold in the cubicle that it had a hard time moving off the mug.

“I can tell you right now that Charlie Sheen’s tiger blood will make a fantastic sauce for my next recipe,” he continued.

The fly buzzed again, trying to get away, but falling instead into the muddy brown liquid in the cup.

“What’s that? I’m sorry, I can’t chat with you; I have to get back to work!” Ukobach raised his mug in mock salute to Management, and the frosty air from the vent froze the coffee solid, trapping the fly within.

Ukobach tilted the mug to look at the icy concoction. He sighed, placed the mug back on the legal pad, and picked up another pile of papers.

Maybe when I get home tonight, he thought, I’ll make some fried ice cream. Coffee flavored.

---

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, femmefauxpas challenged me with “Nothing new. Just a different name for the same thing.” and I challenged Kurt with “pulverized.”

The store had been on Main Street for as long as anyone could remember. Signs proclaiming “Love Potions for Sale” and “Greatest Wishes Fulfilled” always got a chuckle from passers-by, but nobody ever admitted to actually going inside. Still, in good economies or bad, it has remained open for business.

A tiny bell jingled cheerily as the door swung open. A girl wearing a nose ring and too much eyeliner sat on a stool behind the counter, chewing gum and leafing through a well-worn chemistry textbook. She stared at the newcomer with the kind of sarcastic glare only teenagers know how to produce.

“I’m here–”

She put a finger up to silence him. She slid off her stool and came around the counter to get a better look at him.

His tweed jacket was a little bit too small for him, and his shaggy hair was in desperate need of a trim. He self-consciously tried to smooth it down with his free hand.

The smell of artificial strawberries and bananas wafted towards his nose. She was blowing a bubble with her gum, almost the size of her own face, but her gaze never wavered from his.

When it popped, she stuffed the gum back into her mouth and yelled, “Grandma! It’s for you.”

He frowned. “I’m just–”

“Don’t tell me,” she interrupted. “Tell her.” She gestured with her thumb to an old woman entering from the back of the shop. “She’ll be able to help you, guaranteed.” She grabbed her book and walked towards the front door. She opened it, paused, and turned back to face him. “I suppose I don’t have to warn you to be careful what you wish for?”

“But I–”

The bell jingled again as she shut the door behind her.

Confused, the man turned back towards the counter. The old woman was now sitting on the stool her granddaughter had previously occupied. She was knitting something — a scarf or a sweater, perhaps — and she had laid it out on the counter to check her work. The design was intricate, and the detail mesmerizing.

“May I help you?” she asked.

He cleared his throat and put his briefcase on the counter. “Ma’am, I’m here from the Bureau of Buildings. The new City Ordinance 278.23, also known as ‘Beautification of Main Street,’ states that every business that has a storefront must have…” his voice trailed off as he looked back at the knitting. Did one of the designs just move?

The woman reached across the counter to gently touch his hand. Her skin felt warm and dry. “You didn’t really come in here for that, did you?” He knew she was staring intently at him, but he avoided making eye contact.

“I can assure you, ma’am, I did.” He cleared his throat again and tried to pull his hand away to open his briefcase.

Her grip tightened. “Oh no,” she said. “You can’t lie to me.” She reached up and put her other hand on his cheek. “Look at me, Walter.”

As she spoke his name, he raised his eyes in surprise. As their eyes locked, his mind was flooded with memories and feelings, dreams and fantasies. Carol. All he could think about these days was Carol, even though he had only met her a few weeks ago. Even though she didn’t know that he existed. Image after image of her played through his mind like a silent film: there she was in the park, now at her desk, now walking her dog. Her smile melted his heart. He would do anything to get her to love him.

She released his wrist, and the images faded away. He looked again at the old woman, but now there was nothing more than a wrinkled face staring back at him. “Poor boy,” she murmured. “You’re not her type, you know.”

He fiddled with the lock on his briefcase. What had he come into the shop for, anyway?

“I can help you, though.” She turned away from him and began to root through drawers behind the counter. “I have just the thing.”

She was all business now, bustling about the shop and humming a gypsy tune. “Here we go, dear.” She placed a bottle of blue liquid on the counter in front of him.

The sunlight from the outside shone through the glass bottle and cast a small rectangle of blue onto the old woman’s knitting. The designs on the yarnwork seemed to shift in response. He leaned in to take a better look.

The old lady quickly gathered up her project and set it under the counter. She touched the back of his hand again. “Tell me, Walter, do you like your life? Or do you think you could stand a change?”

His life? What a joke. Nobody would like it. He was a lonely bureaucrat with no family and very few friends. Thoughts of Carol flitted through his mind again. “I could use a change,” he admitted quietly.

“Here’s the deal, Walter. What’s in this bottle is guaranteed to transform you into the kind of person who Carol can be with. I give you this — I give you true love — and you forget about silly things like ordinances and the Bureau of Buildings. Sound good?”

Walter looked at the woman thoughtfully. Her wrinkled face belied years of laughter and happiness. Maybe when I’m old, my wrinkles will be like that, he thought. Maybe. I could walk away from this dead end life and start again. Maybe that’s what she’s offering me.

His hand wavered above the bottle. Or maybe this is all a crock. He sighed. The sunlight glinted off the glass neck, making it look like the bottle was winking at him. But if it’s nothing, I could come back tomorrow with a couple of cops and shut the place down. “What have I got to lose?” he asked. With that, he opened the bottle and poured its contents down his throat.

No sooner had the sweet licorice-ginger taste of the liquid touched his tongue than he felt a change coming over him. Things in his body were shifting; his ill-fitting clothes felt looser, except around the hips. His fingers became more slender. His hair was still shaggy, but slightly longer. But his legs — there was something incredibly different about his legs. Horrified, he reached down to his crotch and felt a distinct absence of what made him male. Instead, he found–

“I’m a woman?!” Walter cried accusingly.

But the old woman was nowhere to be found.

The store had been on Main Street for as long as anyone could remember. Nobody ever admits to going inside, but somehow, even in this economy, it remains open for business.

---

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Chaos Mandy challenged me with “Transforming for good or ill,” and I challenged Bewildered Bug with “why the dung beetle dances.”

Suzette had never been a risk-taker. She had spent the past 27 years of her life meticulously calculating the safest route through every predicament, from her six-hour, perfectly-timed, and virtually painless entrance into the world (or so her mother said) to her nearly impeccable school record. She had followed all the right paths to lead her to this moment, but she could never have predicted the events of last night.

Standing at the edge of the balcony, she gazed out at the city. The skyscrapers cast long shadows over the streets, but the reflection of the rising sun illuminated even the darkest corners as New Yorkers hurried along the streets to work. She was one of them yesterday. Now she was…not one of them at all.

Victoria was Suzette’s best friend; they had been best friends since the third grade. Suzette knew even at the tender age of eight that she would need a best friend to get her through some of the tough times of her life, and she had chosen very carefully from among the available children in her neighborhood. They were perfect foils for each other: Victoria’s impulsiveness provided opportunities for them when Suzette’s cautiousness might have closed them off, and Suzette provided security when Victoria needed it.

When Victoria had arrived at her apartment unannounced last night, Suzette took it in stride. They’d shared wine as Victoria told the story of her most recent tragic romance, then decided to go out on the town to drive away Victoria’s sorrows. It was a weekend, and Suzette was fine with moderate recreational activities on the weekend.

A car below honked, and Suzette was startled out of her reverie. Last night was last night, she told herself. Just forget about it and move on. But her well-manicured hands were still shaking, and the scent of blood and bleach still lingered in her nostrils.

They had come back here, she and Victoria and “Noodles,” the guy they’d picked up at the club. Victoria had given him that moniker when he refused to give them his real name. She had said she hoped he didn’t have a wet noodle in his pants, and he had responded with a slow smile. The three of them had stumbled in, a tangle of drunken kissing and groping, leaving articles of clothing on the floor as they made their way through the apartment.

Suzette had made a pit stop to the bathroom to pee and freshen up as Victoria and Noodles continued to the bedroom. Even in her inebriated state, Suzette was making sure she took as few risks as possible. She had grabbed a few condoms from a drawer and looked at herself in the mirror.

Her reflection had smiled at her knowingly.

The sounds in the apartment had gone silent. Instead of muffled laughter, she’d heard nothing at all. She had opened the bedroom door and found Victoria on the bed, straddling Noodles, her hands around his neck. “He said he likes this,” Victoria explained. “He says it makes the experience more intense.”

This was not a part of the plan, she had protested, but then got lost in the rush, the anticipation, and the feeling of power. Oh, God, that power of holding a person’s life in your hands. “There’s nothing like it, is there?” Victoria had whispered, watching Suzette’s irises dilate with pleasure.

When it was over, they both knew they had taken it too far. Noodles was dead, but strangely enough, neither of them had reacted with shock or dismay.

“We’ll have to clean this up,” Suzette heard herself say. Her voice had sounded cold, calculating. Is that what she really sounded like? “Nobody can find out.”

Victoria had nodded and pulled out her phone. She spoke a few words in Russian to the person on the other line, then gazed out the window. “Someone will be by in a couple hours,” she’d said. “I’d help, but I need to get out of here soon. You know, just in case…”

“I get it.”

“I…had fun.”

“So did I.”

“I know.” Victoria had smiled that same lazy smile Noodles had given them. She hugged Suzette tightly. “We’re in this together, okay?”

Together. That’s why she had chosen Victoria all those years ago. She had somehow known that they shared this…darkness, even when they were children.

A sharp knock sounded on the door, and Suzette shivered involuntarily. From the balcony, she called out, “Who’s there?”

“A friend.”

She let him in and showed him the body. He was very efficient. Watching him, she realized that this kind of thing would probably happen again. Her pulse pounded in her ears. It must happen again.

And it was important to be prepared.

“Sir?”

The man paused and looked at her with annoyance.

“Can you show me how to use that saw?”

---

I have returned to the IndieInk writing challenge, after an almost two-month hiatus! It’s good to be back, folks.

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, DimDom challenged me with “A friend has just offered you a solution to a problem that you have shared, in strictest confidence, with your best friend,” and I challenged Lance with “Alchemy, dinosaur egg, petunia.”

As I write this, I’m 30,000 feet somewhere above the continental United States, making my way home all too quickly. And now that my vacation has ended, perhaps it is time for a few lists of my observations (and rants) of oddities I experienced during the trip.

Things I wish I had known ahead of time:

1. Airlines no longer provide meals with their flights. I think I heard about it when other airlines began adopting the Southwest food model, but I clearly didn’t pay much attention. There’s now an a la carte selection of overpriced, tiny-portion snacks (or as they term them, “tapas,” to make you feel better about spending your money), of which there are very few vegetarian options. If I had known, I would have packed my own meals.

2. In Hawaii, it’s illegal to provide plastic bags at stores. If, as you are shopping, you forget to bring your own, you can buy a bag for 50 cents. I actually think this is really cool, and I didn’t mind forking over the money…but if I had known, I would have packed a couple of canvas bags.

3. If you want to take a tour, book at least a day in advance. It’s better if you book a week in advance. We were kind of surprised (and I was disappointed) by the number of things we couldn’t do on a whim because by the time I called the reservation desk, the tour was completely booked. In hindsight, that shouldn’t have been surprising at all, seeing how much of Maui revolves around the tourist industry, but it was frustrating nevertheless.

Rants:

1. Signs and grammar

Everywhere we drove around the island, we were bound to come across a sign cautioning us to “drive slow,” which slowly drove me up a wall. Doesn’t anyone in Hawaii care that “slowly” is the correct form of the word?Anyone? Bueller?

2. Hana and its food service industry

Okay, look: I know Hana is a remote part of the island, hidden away in miles of jungle and cliffs. I saw the signs on those one-lane bridges, proclaiming, “maximum 12 tons,” then a few miles down, “maximum 8 tons,” and finally, “maximum 5 tons.” We wondered: what would happen to the 8-ton truck that came barreling around the corner only to stop, unable to travel further?

So yeah, I get it: it is hard to get supplies into and out of Hana via road, and with its tiny airport and rough waters, it’s probably really expensive to get stuff delivered by air or sea.

And I knew from reading my guides that there wasn’t much in the way of dining establishments in Hana. One online guide even said, “Just about the only standalone restaurant in Hana is the Hana Ranch House, which is renowned for marginal food and indifferent service. When there are no competitors, what else can you expect?”

So I had low expectations. And I was pleasantly surprised at the food and friendly service at Hana Ranch Restaurant.

There actually are other places to eat, but not many. If you don’t count the numerous fruit stands peppered along the highway every mile or so, there are several sandwich shacks in town, including:

• Uncle Bill’s, which serves only breakfast. From what we could see from the road, Uncle Bill has set up some cheap patio furniture up under a plastic awning, and he serves his guest through a window from his garage. Not the most sanitary-looking setup, but most of the reviews I read were favorable. Still, we didn’t eat breakfast out while we were there on account of the plethora of fruit I still had.
• Tutu’s Sandwich Shack, which serves beach fare, like burgers, hot dogs, and “loco moco,” a local favorite. However, there wasn’t much in the way of vegetarian options, and we wanted a sit-down lunch, so we skipped it.
• Pranee’s, which, according to one of the kids who works on the orchid farm, has “the best effing Thai food on the planet.” Trouble is, Ray doesn’t much like Thai food.
• Cafe Romantica – we passed this vegetarian sandwich stand on our way to Ohe’o Gulch, but we had already eaten.

The only comparable competitor to Hana Ranch Restaurant is Paniolo Lounge, at the Travaasa Hotel and Spa. The grounds, website, and prices all boasted the resort’s “luxury” status, but the food and service were just shy of mediocre. The waitstaff all seemed apathetic and poorly trained (I ordered a tuna niçoise salad, and the waitress never asked me how I would like my tuna cooked), and the food that came out of the kitchen was incredibly disappointing: not only was my tuna well done instead of rare, it was smothered in dressing and olives; Ray’s Margherita pizza was more like a cheese pizza with flecks of basil. This fare was something I might have expected from a tiny establishment not set up to serve this kind of food, but at those prices? I am so. Incredibly. Disappointed.

Give me a Fresh Catch Sandwich at Hana Ranch Restaurant any day; it might still be a little pricey, but at least they know how to prepare it.

I guess the long and short of this rather long rant is that Hana is a tourist destination. Perhaps it’s a lack of ambition, passion, or steady supplies that has prevented a large restaurant industry from growing in that town, but I believe someone who has all three of those things might just make a killing there.

The first morning we awakened in our bamboo cottage, we heard the sound of something scurrying across the rooftop.

“I think we have a monkey on our roof,” said Ray.

“There are no monkeys in Hawaii, silly.”

“A velociraptor, then.”

Just then, we heard a strange bird call: something neither of us had quite heard until then.

“Yep,” said Ray. “Definitely a velociraptor.”

Despite his concerns for my safety, I ventured forth on the second day of our stay to explore the grounds.

Our cottage is on a working orchid farm, and although I did not take the official tour, I did find a labyrinth and some sacred looking stones, as well as lots of spiderwebs with large, forbidding spiders.

Ray’s voice echoed in my mind. “If there is one thing that Uncharted has taught us, it’s, ‘Don’t piss off the spiders.’”

I kept on the pathway and made my way back to the cottage.

We decided to go to Wai’anapanapa State Park, where there are supposedly numerous caves and lava tubes. We walked along the black sand beach and followed a path around the cliffs to several more black rock beaches. We assumed the caves and lava tubes were just ahead, but the path just led us further and further down the beach, until we were in the middle of a lava field.

The desolate landscape made us feel we had been dropped into some alternate timeline. Please, I prayed, let us not get dumped into that godawful show, Terra Nova. Anything but that.

We must have hiked for at least a mile before we could go no farther, but I, in my sundress and sandals, was not exactly dressed for a hike. My purse, weighted down with cameras and various other electronics we did not want in the car, was beginning to make me lopsided.

When we returned to our starting point, we saw a sign saying “caves” and pointing uphill.

I sighed and looked at Ray.

“There’s water in the car,” he pointed out.

I nodded, and we headed back to the parking lot, then back to our cottage for a nap.

Our arrival in Hana two days ago coincided with the setting of the sun. On the windward (eastern) side of Haleakala, the sun sets over the mountain a little past 4:30, and the area is quickly plunged into darkness.

Hana is in a subtropical climate; the air is much more humid here than anywhere else on the island, and the vegetation is more lush. At dusk, mosquitoes reign supreme. Every night it rains, and the chorus of myriad birds and other animals assail our ears in the morning. Our new home for the next few days was truly in the rainforest.

Yesterday morning we decided to drive past Hana to Ohe’o Gulch, or the Seven Sacred Pools (named as such in the 1940s to attract visitors, even though they are not considered sacred, nor are there seven of them).

Nine miles of twisty turns and one-lane bridges later, we arrived.

Ohe’o Gulch is a series of waterfalls and pools that lead to the ocean. The view is spectacular, and the water is quite comfortable for swimming. Between the fresh water and the diving rocks (despite the multiple signs forbidding diving), I would have to say it qualifies as a swimming hole, although I never grew up around swimming holes myself.

The first waterfall is fairly small, but I was still pleased to be able to swim up to the falls and dunk my head under for a little shower.

The pool just above, which empties into the one everyone was using, was more difficult to reach, the path made up of precarious rocks and narrow ledges. Only the daredevils ventured that high, and even fewer of those kids swam in the pool above. It was probably colder and more slippery…plus there was the added risk of getting swept over the falls. Most of the kids who climbed that path jumped back into the first pool with a loud scream and splash.

We stayed there for a while, watching the kids climb up and jump down. The breeze from the ocean was warm and salty, and the sun shone merrily on the scene.

We were pretty far east on the island, and I wanted to try to see the Big Island from where we were. After all, we could see Maui when we stayed on the Big Island; why wouldn’t we be able to see the Big Island from Maui?

So after I had sufficiently dried off, we wandered the cliffs, searching the horizon for some land mass.

And there it was! It was hard to see through the veil of vog that usually surrounds the Big Island, but the telltale snowy peaks of Mauna Kea peeked up above the clouds, and the observatories winked in the sun.

After a while, the shadows told us that the sun was getting lower in the sky, and we made our way back to town before the drive became too difficult.

And as night fell, the rainforest took over.