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shalannaJust for fun, here's what I've done to modify the opening scene of _Little Rituals_. The changes are between asterisks a couple of PageDowns from here, but I've included the surrounding text because you probably don't remember. I'm the one who has it memorized from constant exposure. (grin)
LITTLE RITUALS by Shalanna Collins
Revision 2 of opening scene -- the portion between the *s is the addition
There are rules and rites and rituals older than the
sound of bells and snow on mountains.
--James Thurber, THE THIRTEEN CLOCKS
Chapter One
My life is filled with little rituals. I don't know when or how I invented them; I simply know I do them, even if I don't always rationally believe they work. Like blowing a kiss for luck when I see a black cat. Or whistling at every passing yellow VW.
Since childhood, I've acknowledged the power of folk traditions and superstitions. Everyone knocks on wood and avoids the thirteenth floor. Who doesn't cross her fingers now and then? But the most powerful rite is more abstract: do something selfless, something selfish, then a random, anonymous act of kindness. In that order. Within a span of forty-eight hours.
This is the charm that heals, I hope. This week the ritual started when I gave away my place on the DART train to a kid desperate to get home on time. Then I indulged in several scanty bras for no reason at all. As for the third, it has to stay anonymous for the magic to work.
And I need some magic in my life right now.
I think I've jinxed myself. Magic, as anyone knows, must be pure and step-by-step perfect if it is to work. If you do any part of it incorrectly, naturally you're going to get side effects or even the opposite of what you intended. It's easy to screw up, which pretty much keeps casual try-it-out types away (because having one sudden image of a celebrity's naughty bits appear in your mind's eye as you twist the final crank on a ritual can completely blow it, pun intended). And if you get nervous--or if you're a scatterbrain like I've been lately--your anxiety can mess things up, contaminating or ruining the magic. Fumbling the spell. Hexing you.
The reason I suspect I'm cursed is that ever since I tried a ceremony to commemorate the ending of my relationship with Patrick Carter, in an attempt to free myself from any lingering power he has over me, things have gone wrong. A lint-covered sourball formed in the pit of my stomach immediately after, so I must have fumbled it. If I knew which unlucky number crossed my mind at the wrong moment and caused this, I would unthink it.
As I back out of my parking place at the grocery store, I feel a sudden thump behind my seat. The jolt sends me flying forward a couple of inches, and the shoulder harness catches me painfully across the collarbone. Adrenaline-fueled panic as I slam on the brakes causes a ringing in my ears that nearly drowns out the sounds of crunching metal and a shattering taillight.
A quick mental inventory says I'm unhurt. As the initial shock subsides, I glance in the rear view to find a frowning dwarf emerging from a black pickup that sits at an odd angle behind me. I could swear nothing was there a moment before.
So much for my spidey-sense.
He's actually not a dwarf, a closer inspection reveals, just a stumpy Hispanic man wearing a two-gallon Stetson and scaled-down cowboy boots. He stands, hands on hips, surveying the damage like an angry hobbit as I climb out of my green Junebug. "I don't have time for this," is the first thing out of his mouth. "And neither do you."
His truck's tailgate is down, with two metal shelving units hanging over because they're too long for the bed. The corner of the top one has rammed into my Junebug's trunk. My trunk lock looks like a belly button, an "innie." The leg of the other shelving unit is stuck in my left taillight. His tailgate has a few scratches. Overall, the damage looks mostly cosmetic on both sides.
We must've started backing out at exactly the same time. Does anyone else realize that the side mirrors tell NOTHING about what's directly behind your car? I might've misjudged the distance in the rear view mirror because I didn't see that lolling tailgate, which adds two feet to the length of the pickup. To hear him talk, there's no question that this is all my fault.
In Texas, fenderbender victims don't call the police unless there's over two hundred dollars' worth of damage. We exchange insurance information and phone numbers.
******
As he's handing me his card, he makes eye contact. "You'd better check yourself before you wreck yourself. Stay true to your mission. You don't have forever, you know." Frowning, he turns and hurries away.
What? I stare after him as he hops back into his truck's cab like a toad into its hidey-hole. What does he mean, my mission? My mission, if I choose to accept it. What a fruitcake. Just my luck to always run into the wack-jobs.
His tires squeal as he speeds away, narrowly missing two other cars that are backing out.
He doesn't miss the third. Full speed, he smashes into the side of a Hummer. As I watch, unable to breathe, the front of his truck turns into accordion pleats. Then the truck seems to dissolve into a pile of pixels as the dwarf pops into the air and hangs over the wreck, looking down and shaking his head. I'm completely freaking out when before my eyes he vanishes.
Along with his truck. The Hummer continues to back out, unharmed.
Nobody else saw that? Heard it? I'm standing here seeing visions. Nobody else seems to have noticed anything at all.
I blink, but he's still gone. My heart starts pounding. It's impossible. Did I just imagine that? I'm going crazy.
An optical illusion. That's what it is, in this heat. Like in the shimmering desert.
No, now I remember; hallucinations can be a side effect of going off that anti-depressant. Gad! The doctor's office warned me to taper off, but I kind of ran out of pills, so I went cold turkey from the lower dose. Maybe that wasn't such a good idea.
I clutch at my chest. I seem to be okay now. But I'll have to watch myself. Did I imagine the entire thing? I run back to check the damage to my trunk. It's there. So the crash happened, but I somehow imagined that guy having a smash-up and disappearing. Weird. I know I'm neurotic, but that's scary.
A truck is honking at me. He pulls up an inch behind me to let me know I'm blocking the way. I manage to climb back into the car and pull into an empty spot, although my hands are trembling a little. I've got to get a grip. I've always had a vivid imagination, but this is ridiculous.
I'm sure the dwarfish man drove away perfectly safe, and I just fooled myself into seeing him crash because I was angry with him. I didn't know I could be that vicious. That disturbs me.
They told me not to drink alcohol until the drug was well out of my system, and I had a glass--okay, a couple--of Riesling last night. That has to be it. Boy, when they put warning labels on drugs, they really mean it.
I look down at the card he gave me. It's blank.
Somehow he switched it on me. I know the first one I got had information on it. Dammit! I can only hope he's not an illegal immigrant and won't bail.
*****
On my dashboard is mounted a figurine of Ganesh, the Indian god of new things. The statue was put there by my ex, Patrick, back when he and the car were brand-new. I kiss my fingertips and pat the figure, although it's a bit too late to invoke the Ganesha for luck. Still, as the guy who was giving CPR to the fried chicken said, "It couldn't hurt."
I can't afford to get my car fixed right now. I've got a $250 deductible; besides, if I made another claim on my car insurance, they'd hike my rates. But I've got to report the accident in case Frodo tries to make a claim (although there wasn't any damage on his end that I could see.) As usual, my cell phone's battery is dead.
Ouch: as I buckle up again, I feel the place where the belt grabbed my shoulder. It's kind of numb. I'm going to have a bruise.
Raindrops begin to splatter on my windshield as I venture onto the freeway. I should've stayed in bed today, crawling out just in time for my stepmother Ruth's party, but I couldn't bear to waste my day off. I knew it was a bad omen this morning when I reached into my purse for my checkbook and pulled out the keepsake program from Cheryl's funeral.
It was a sign, I'm sure of it. She sent me some kind of warning from the next world that I should've heeded. If only I could figure out what it is.
This is definitely no normal streak of bad luck. Before I start seeing pink elephants floating in martini glasses or get flattened by some cowboy's semi, I need to do some research. How would you Google-search it--"hexes, removing"?
I can't imagine how I'm going to start another set-of-three charm in the mood I'm in. As I step out of the cold drizzle and into my apartment--actually the entire first floor of a regal restored Victorian right on the old-fashioned main street of Renner, Texas, just north of Dallas--I find my dear-but-crazy roommate Elaine dancing the cha-cha around the sectional sofa.
There's more stuff in later scenes, but this is the Impossible Thing that happens in the first ten pages.
LITTLE RITUALS by Shalanna Collins
Revision 2 of opening scene -- the portion between the *s is the addition
There are rules and rites and rituals older than the
sound of bells and snow on mountains.
--James Thurber, THE THIRTEEN CLOCKS
Chapter One
My life is filled with little rituals. I don't know when or how I invented them; I simply know I do them, even if I don't always rationally believe they work. Like blowing a kiss for luck when I see a black cat. Or whistling at every passing yellow VW.
Since childhood, I've acknowledged the power of folk traditions and superstitions. Everyone knocks on wood and avoids the thirteenth floor. Who doesn't cross her fingers now and then? But the most powerful rite is more abstract: do something selfless, something selfish, then a random, anonymous act of kindness. In that order. Within a span of forty-eight hours.
This is the charm that heals, I hope. This week the ritual started when I gave away my place on the DART train to a kid desperate to get home on time. Then I indulged in several scanty bras for no reason at all. As for the third, it has to stay anonymous for the magic to work.
And I need some magic in my life right now.
I think I've jinxed myself. Magic, as anyone knows, must be pure and step-by-step perfect if it is to work. If you do any part of it incorrectly, naturally you're going to get side effects or even the opposite of what you intended. It's easy to screw up, which pretty much keeps casual try-it-out types away (because having one sudden image of a celebrity's naughty bits appear in your mind's eye as you twist the final crank on a ritual can completely blow it, pun intended). And if you get nervous--or if you're a scatterbrain like I've been lately--your anxiety can mess things up, contaminating or ruining the magic. Fumbling the spell. Hexing you.
The reason I suspect I'm cursed is that ever since I tried a ceremony to commemorate the ending of my relationship with Patrick Carter, in an attempt to free myself from any lingering power he has over me, things have gone wrong. A lint-covered sourball formed in the pit of my stomach immediately after, so I must have fumbled it. If I knew which unlucky number crossed my mind at the wrong moment and caused this, I would unthink it.
As I back out of my parking place at the grocery store, I feel a sudden thump behind my seat. The jolt sends me flying forward a couple of inches, and the shoulder harness catches me painfully across the collarbone. Adrenaline-fueled panic as I slam on the brakes causes a ringing in my ears that nearly drowns out the sounds of crunching metal and a shattering taillight.
A quick mental inventory says I'm unhurt. As the initial shock subsides, I glance in the rear view to find a frowning dwarf emerging from a black pickup that sits at an odd angle behind me. I could swear nothing was there a moment before.
So much for my spidey-sense.
He's actually not a dwarf, a closer inspection reveals, just a stumpy Hispanic man wearing a two-gallon Stetson and scaled-down cowboy boots. He stands, hands on hips, surveying the damage like an angry hobbit as I climb out of my green Junebug. "I don't have time for this," is the first thing out of his mouth. "And neither do you."
His truck's tailgate is down, with two metal shelving units hanging over because they're too long for the bed. The corner of the top one has rammed into my Junebug's trunk. My trunk lock looks like a belly button, an "innie." The leg of the other shelving unit is stuck in my left taillight. His tailgate has a few scratches. Overall, the damage looks mostly cosmetic on both sides.
We must've started backing out at exactly the same time. Does anyone else realize that the side mirrors tell NOTHING about what's directly behind your car? I might've misjudged the distance in the rear view mirror because I didn't see that lolling tailgate, which adds two feet to the length of the pickup. To hear him talk, there's no question that this is all my fault.
In Texas, fenderbender victims don't call the police unless there's over two hundred dollars' worth of damage. We exchange insurance information and phone numbers.
******
As he's handing me his card, he makes eye contact. "You'd better check yourself before you wreck yourself. Stay true to your mission. You don't have forever, you know." Frowning, he turns and hurries away.
What? I stare after him as he hops back into his truck's cab like a toad into its hidey-hole. What does he mean, my mission? My mission, if I choose to accept it. What a fruitcake. Just my luck to always run into the wack-jobs.
His tires squeal as he speeds away, narrowly missing two other cars that are backing out.
He doesn't miss the third. Full speed, he smashes into the side of a Hummer. As I watch, unable to breathe, the front of his truck turns into accordion pleats. Then the truck seems to dissolve into a pile of pixels as the dwarf pops into the air and hangs over the wreck, looking down and shaking his head. I'm completely freaking out when before my eyes he vanishes.
Along with his truck. The Hummer continues to back out, unharmed.
Nobody else saw that? Heard it? I'm standing here seeing visions. Nobody else seems to have noticed anything at all.
I blink, but he's still gone. My heart starts pounding. It's impossible. Did I just imagine that? I'm going crazy.
An optical illusion. That's what it is, in this heat. Like in the shimmering desert.
No, now I remember; hallucinations can be a side effect of going off that anti-depressant. Gad! The doctor's office warned me to taper off, but I kind of ran out of pills, so I went cold turkey from the lower dose. Maybe that wasn't such a good idea.
I clutch at my chest. I seem to be okay now. But I'll have to watch myself. Did I imagine the entire thing? I run back to check the damage to my trunk. It's there. So the crash happened, but I somehow imagined that guy having a smash-up and disappearing. Weird. I know I'm neurotic, but that's scary.
A truck is honking at me. He pulls up an inch behind me to let me know I'm blocking the way. I manage to climb back into the car and pull into an empty spot, although my hands are trembling a little. I've got to get a grip. I've always had a vivid imagination, but this is ridiculous.
I'm sure the dwarfish man drove away perfectly safe, and I just fooled myself into seeing him crash because I was angry with him. I didn't know I could be that vicious. That disturbs me.
They told me not to drink alcohol until the drug was well out of my system, and I had a glass--okay, a couple--of Riesling last night. That has to be it. Boy, when they put warning labels on drugs, they really mean it.
I look down at the card he gave me. It's blank.
Somehow he switched it on me. I know the first one I got had information on it. Dammit! I can only hope he's not an illegal immigrant and won't bail.
*****
On my dashboard is mounted a figurine of Ganesh, the Indian god of new things. The statue was put there by my ex, Patrick, back when he and the car were brand-new. I kiss my fingertips and pat the figure, although it's a bit too late to invoke the Ganesha for luck. Still, as the guy who was giving CPR to the fried chicken said, "It couldn't hurt."
I can't afford to get my car fixed right now. I've got a $250 deductible; besides, if I made another claim on my car insurance, they'd hike my rates. But I've got to report the accident in case Frodo tries to make a claim (although there wasn't any damage on his end that I could see.) As usual, my cell phone's battery is dead.
Ouch: as I buckle up again, I feel the place where the belt grabbed my shoulder. It's kind of numb. I'm going to have a bruise.
Raindrops begin to splatter on my windshield as I venture onto the freeway. I should've stayed in bed today, crawling out just in time for my stepmother Ruth's party, but I couldn't bear to waste my day off. I knew it was a bad omen this morning when I reached into my purse for my checkbook and pulled out the keepsake program from Cheryl's funeral.
It was a sign, I'm sure of it. She sent me some kind of warning from the next world that I should've heeded. If only I could figure out what it is.
This is definitely no normal streak of bad luck. Before I start seeing pink elephants floating in martini glasses or get flattened by some cowboy's semi, I need to do some research. How would you Google-search it--"hexes, removing"?
I can't imagine how I'm going to start another set-of-three charm in the mood I'm in. As I step out of the cold drizzle and into my apartment--actually the entire first floor of a regal restored Victorian right on the old-fashioned main street of Renner, Texas, just north of Dallas--I find my dear-but-crazy roommate Elaine dancing the cha-cha around the sectional sofa.
There's more stuff in later scenes, but this is the Impossible Thing that happens in the first ten pages.
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Date: 2006-01-12 04:04 am (UTC)Of course, I'm also interested in the second crash. Does it depend on whether the person he hits is ready for his help? Is that why the Hummer escaped unscathed? Maybe its driver is still too self-absorbed to be helped or something...
See, now you've got me wondering. Some of it is wondering based on this discussion, but I'm definitely set up to expect to see this gruff little man again.