I have received unbelievably valuable critiques for the first few paragraphs of my WIP. I’m hoping that by posting more, I’ll answer some of the questions posed to me about my MC and the story. I in no way expect the depth of the critique of which I’ve gotten, but if editing is something you enjoy, please bring it on! This next excerpt is pretty long, compared to the first. I feel like I’m asking too much, and if so, forgive me. I don’t know how to categorize the genre. It’s just a story told in “real time”. The only fantasy involved is my own—that I’ll finish it! But that is my goal, to have a manuscript at the query stage.
Someone told me I could fix the font by not indenting, but then wouldn’t there have to be DS between paragraphs? Personally I don’t mind it as, as it sets it off from comments/feedback. I’m obviously new to all this, so any pointers on a better way to do this is welcome.
Chapter One FLIGHT (continued)
For the hundredth time, I pulled out my mother’s cell phone, turned it on and checked to see if Lindy had tried to get in touch yet. Nothing. I called her again and got the same recording—the mailbox was full. I sent her yet another text: 60 miles out of Wichita. WHERE R U??? CALL ME!! I hadn’t talked to her since morning. I could think of a thousand ways to explain it, knowing Lindy the way I did, but still. Come on, chica. Get in the game. Pick up your goddamn phone. To save the battery, I turned off the phone, hoping she’d think to check hers. Lindy the Airhead. Frustrated as I was, I couldn't help but crack half a smile, although it quickly disappeared. This was so like her, classic Lindy. If I could just tell her how I close I was. And tell her about the storm. Maybe she could find somebody to come get me. I did have a little money. I could pay for gas. Lindy didn't have a car, but she had to have friends who did, and maybe someone would be willing to make the trip. Judging from the weather, though, I wasn’t going to hold my breath. The sky was almost black in that direction, with blasts of lightning strobing the clouds. I thought of the rides I’d turned down earlier. The first, a sleazy-looking truck driver in a fancy Western shirt with a greasy comb-over, dirty fingernails and mystery food stuck in a Fu Manchu mustache. The smell of too much cologne and too little personal hygiene immediately set off a gag reflex. Next there was a carload of giggling Hispanic boys whose car belched out marijuana smoke when they’d rolled down the window and hollered at me. They were elbowing and punching each other over whose lap I would sit on. Another fat hell-no. Then there was an older guy in a slick new SUV. He had the face and voice of a sweet old grandpa as he cautioned me about the dangers of hitchhiking. My instincts red-flagged though, when he seemed a little too eager in his offer to take me anywhere I wanted to go, and when I declined, he pulled a billfold out from his breast pocket, showing me it was fat with hundreds. He made the creepiest eye contact ever, raised his bushy gray eyebrows and licked his lips, reminding me of a snake. “I’m thirteen, you asshole!” I shouted and pulled out my phone as if to call someone, and his tires screamed as he punched it and pealed away. Should I have been so picky, I thought? Of course. My instincts, what the social workers called “street smarts” never failed me, but now it was clinch time. Time for Nova to get her shit together I placed my pack strategically near the station’s doorway, conspicuous, but respectfully out of the way. I propped up my sign on top of it and weighed it down with a chunk of concrete separated from the walk. I brushed my hair and tied it back in a ponytail I tucked inside my hood. I had consciously put on extra heavy makeup this morning to help me appear older (but not slutty!) and my height didn’t hurt, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t conceal the fact that I was a teenaged girl traveling alone. In some ways the “lone girl act” had worked in my favor. Most drivers were concerned to see a young female hitchhiker out on her own and were eager to be the safe ride they knew I needed. I heard some great stories along the way and I couldn’t wait to land at Lindy’s and record them in my journal. Everybody wanted to know my story, of course, and I was prepared with a good one I created well before I hit the road, starting with a whopper about my age. I knew it was a stretch saying I was eighteen, but I’d always looked older. With my slender, angled face and tall frame, I liked to think I was pulling it off. My story was perfect, well-rehearsed without sounding stiff. Lying was an art I had learned from my mother. A lot of times it was a matter of survival, and really, now was no different, but I couldn’t escape the shitty feeling that followed my lies. That was only one of the many differences between me and my mom. She had no remorse. She was proud of the way she fooled people and laughed at them behind their backs for being stupid enough to believe her. I was about to head into the store for a break and a Coke when the door opened and the cashier came out, holding up a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?” she called out. I shook my head, but joined her anyway, glad for the company. “It sure is dead tonight,” she said, shrugging. Her long thin hair was dyed with streaks of magenta, and shaved on one side, arcs of metal studs adorning small ears that stuck out like a monkey’s. Her name tag read Cheyanne—Stan’s Is a Blast! She was short and thin, barely looking old enough to work here, not much older than I was. “I’m usually working my ass off. I guess it’s the weather. Makes everybody want to push on.” She took a long drag from her cigarette and blew the smoke away from me. “You better hope you catch a ride pretty quick. We’re right in the middle of a tornado watch. It sure feels like the sky’s about to come apart, ya know?” “For sure,” I said. “I just hope it holds off till I’m out of here.” As if on cue, thunder growled in the distance, louder than it had been. “Where ya headed?” “Wichita.” “Look, I’ve gotta close up at ten. If ya don’t catch a ride before then, I could take you towards my house. It’s seven miles closer, but there’s nothin’ out there. Just like here. I wish I could let you crash at our place, but I already asked my old man and he said he’d kill me if I brought you home. We had a baby a couple of months ago, and he’s totally a different person now, ya know?” I agreed like I knew, but I didn’t have a clue. My experience had led me to believe that children were always an afterthought, no matter how old they were. “Ya hungry?” she asked. “I could give you a sandwich. Or some pizza. Anything you want. For free.” Before I could take her up on her offer, a rusted maroon minivan was pulling up to the gas pumps. She flicked her cigarette butt away, its sparks erupting as it struck the concrete. “That must be my ride now,” I kidded, with a fake grin, sounding much more confident than I felt. I leaned against the side of the convenience store, picked up my sign, but the driver didn’t appear to see me. If he paid at the pump, chances are he wouldn’t even come in. I scoped out the vehicle, and saw there was a woman inside. Her window was down and I could see the tip of her cigarette glowing orange from the passenger’s side. A couple. That was good. I lifted my pack and walked toward them, with a casual wave and a smile. “Hey.” “Hey,” he said, smiling back. He was young, bearded, with wire-frame glasses, wearing a Jesus t-shirt, khakis and preppy loafers. Things were looking up. “Headed toward Wichita, by any chance?” I asked, hope rising within me like a buoy. “We are,” he said, “but-- His sentence was cut off as the van door opened and a plump woman in a long denim skirt and sneakers piled out. “Oh, honey!” she said. “I don’t believe this!” “Umm,” I faltered, unsure of which of us was “honey”, and what it was she couldn’t believe. “Honey, you won’t believe this.” Undoubtably, I could tell it was me, I was honey. “We’re going right through Wichita and look. Just look inside our van.” She flicked a long braid over her shoulder and slid open the side door, revealing rows of boxes crammed from floor to ceiling. There was a pair of pet crates wedged in between the seats with an unhappy cat and a bouncing yappy dog. There wasn’t room for a shoebox. I breathed out the hope and inhaled the sour air of disappointment. “I’m so sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I just don’t believe this. This horrible irony. You needin’ a ride and us headin’ right into Wichita. I just hate the thought of you hitchin’ by herself. Too many crazies out there. And this weather!” She dropped her cigarette and crushed the orange glow with the tip of her sneaker. “How old are you, honey?” “I just turned eighteen,” I lied, hoping she’d buy it. I didn’t need a do-gooder up in my business, thinking I was a runaway. I hid my dejection for her sake, as she seriously looked upset about my situation, almost on the verge of tears. She held her fingers up to her mouth, each one with crude tattooed crosses and short nails painted pearly pink with red hearts. “Paul? Isn't there anything we can do for this girl?” “Short of strapping her on top of the van, I don’t know what it would be. Could we get you something to eat, maybe?” he offered, scrubbing bugs off the windshield. My appetite was gone. “I’m good, but thanks.” “Oh, I just hate this,” she said. “My name’s Ruth. Ruthie. And that’s my husband, Paul. Pastor Paul.” She held out her hand in greeting and as I extended mine, she wrapped both of hers around it. “We’re helping one of our parishioners move. I just wish we had some room for ya. I wish so bad, but we could hardly even get the doors closed. What’s your name, honey?” “Mary,” I lied. It was the only religious name I could think of and a holy name seemed to fit. “Mary, it’s nice to meet you.” She looked at me wistfully. “Girl, you remind me of me fifteen years ago.” She shook her head. “We’re going to pray for you. Paul, we aren’t leaving till we’ve said a prayer for Mary,” she said to him, then to me: “I just don’t like this, you all by yourself. You won’t mind if we pray with you, would you, Mary?” “Um, sure, yeah,” I said, awkwardly. She still had a hold of me, but after Paul finished the windshield, she reached out for his wet, Windex-y hand and he took my other hand in his, creating a small circle beneath the brightly-lit canopy of Stan’s Gas N Blast. With a multitude of moths swarming above, I watched Ruthie and Paul close their eyes as Pastor Paul began to pray: “Heavenly Father, we just pray that you look after our new friend, Mary. Please protect her and keep her safe in her travels. We just ask that she finds a safe ride, preferably before the storm hits. Please get her somewhere safe and ever in your care. We ask these things in your most blessed name. Amen.” Ruthie and I both said amen and we dropped our hands, and Ruthie gave me a hug. I couldn’t remember the last time someone hugged me. “Be careful, honey. I used to thumb back in my wild days and you just can’t be too careful. You don’t have to get in the car with just anybody. You check ‘em out. Right, Paul?” “Right,” said Pastor Paul, obviously in a hurry to get down the road, and they got in their rusty, bumper stickers, loaded-to-the-gills minivan. As they drove away, I waved after them, somehow unsettled by Ruthie’s kindness. Religion hadn’t been any part of my upbringing, but I was hoping that their prayer would still do me some good. Surely it wouldn’t matter I hadn’t given my real name.
Submitted January 28, 2019 at 05:13AM by OrganicCatnipple http://bit.ly/2CM3mA8
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