Burning. My skin—burning. Eyes open—bright—lids screaming. My stomach jumps, throat open, roaring out—splashing. Crying.

Burning. Red. Blisters all the way down—naked—arms reach, cover. Burning.

A voice—”Not my doing—silk don’t survive the Black River.” A shape in the light.

A man, hair dark. A roar echoes in—hooves pounding.

“They’re looking for you. I best be off.” Metal gleams—motors rumble.

“Take me...” Throat burning, tongue thick. “With you.”

Roll, pull up, blisters popping—stinging—on the stones.

His head shakes and he unhooks something from the mount, brings it—scritch-thump, scritch-thump. “You need a healer, and I don’t heal. Drink.” The canteen sloshes.

Clutching it, my fingers scream, he unscrews the cap. Water burns all the way down. “I can’t go back... help me.”

“I already did. The king rides with the black plume on his helmet. He thinks you’re dead, princess Zareen. His grace has to be better than the backend of my mount.”

I squint, his face won’t come clear. “You know... who I am. My father’s grace already—” Tears sting my face. “—failed me. I am promised to Malik... Hadid. He’ll drag me... rape me. Chop my fingers, knuckle by knuckle until I yield.” Head shaking. “I will never yield.”

He glances past me, lips thin. “I believe that. But I made my own promises to the Iron King. I suggest you hide—plenty of places in this canyon.” He turns. “The water should last until they give up looking for your bones.”

I shuffle forward; flesh scrapes. “Please, I can pay.”

A laugh. “With what... the silk off your back?”

“I was running for the Rust-Gate. Queen Laila is my good friend—take me, and she will honor you as a hero.”

A snort. “Laila the Queen of Whores. We have... debts. I’d rather face Hadid.”

I fall on my arms. Burning. Everything fogging out. “Please, all debts... paid.”

Scritch-thump—he’s in front of me, kneeling, lifting my chin. “If I’m caught in the badlands with the jewel of al-Dukhan, they’ll cut off both my hands. I’m sorry, princess. You’re on your own.”

He’s gone—scritch-thump, scritch-thump—metal creaks and hooves swish in the sand.

My stomach drops out, but I pull every muscle tight. Burning.

And I’m back on my knees—lift—one foot under me, the other. I rise—teeth clenched. Grains skitters down my body like nails. “When they find me, I will tell them of the man with the club foot who pulled me from the Black River, and I will tell them how he soiled the jewel of al-Dukhan. Do you want their chase, or my gratitude?”

His head shakes. Hooves clatter around the bend.

His mount walks closer. A bundle falls to my feet. “Get dressed.” Then drops something from the saddle—a helmet. Black and red. “Tuck your hair—blisters will hide the rest.”

My chest shudders. “You’re one of them.”

“And now you are too, if you want to live.”

Around the corner, you spot a sign to the caravanserai and weave toward it. A rickshaw bounds from the same corner; you twist away—the abaya flaps wide.

A shout splits the crowd: “Zareen!”

The lead guard trots forward, green eyes flash through the slit of his gold helmet. You back into the crowd, but another shout scatters them.

You run, duck into a repair stall—steel legs hanging, machine oil sweet in your nose—out the back, into the alley. Three mounts in a row. Hooves clank—the guard turns the corner.

You grab the nearest saddle-horn, haul up, kick twice; motors rumble and it bolts.

The guard pulls beside you. You kick and leap onto a ramp curving up. He curses behind you. Another guard waits at the top, helmet black—you veer, kick, leap the rail. Clack-crack-clang—a hind leg catches metal. Your mount lands sideways, leg dragging, hot oil spurting over your grey abaya. You shed it into the wind.

The mount stumbles, lurches on.

You turn up another ramp, but a figure blocks the crest. He reins in hard and his mount towers, pawing the air, motors whining, before slamming to the deck, hooves sparking the grate. A man stares you down, hand outstretched, his red turban like bright blood against the gloom. You haul on your reins, your mount pivots, one leg dragging, metal grinding—you gain speed.

Something whistles, and your mount collapses—roll, crack, clang—your ankle pins under metal, twisting. A bolo around the hind legs. You yank free and limp to the rail. He dismounts, steps toward you, hands wide.

You roll over the rail. Fall—

—onto a lift car flying up, green silk flapping. The ceiling rushes down and you roll again, onto a catwalk. Smoke bites your throat. Daylight ahead. You reach for it.

Hooves clank below—up ramps and over decks. You limp—lurch—metal turns to stone underfoot. The sky opens bright. The floor falls away at a ledge, black water roaring below, sand stretching forever into the sun.

Hooves clank, then click on stone. Guards spill out, splitting by color—green and gold, black and red. The lead guard removes his golden helmet. Your father’s green eyes find yours, soft. His lips pull thin.

The man in black eases forward, lips curling, and leans on his saddle’s horn. A guard in black dismounts. Kneeling before you, he raises a green gem set in silver, nestled on a pillow the color of blood.

You bat it away. The ring arcs over the ledge, a green glint flashing, falling—splash—swallowed by the greasy water.

The man in black sneers. “Is this how the throne of Al-Dukhan honors its agreements?”

He barks. Three guards approach, shackles clinking in their hands.

You catch your father’s gaze. He looks away—then back, and his voice cracks. “Do not dishonor me, Zareen.”

Your face goes red, teeth jammed together. The river roars behind you, its stink rising on the desert wind, hot over your back. The shackles clink. You close your eyes—

—and lean.

Fall.

Nothing catches you.

“Zareen!” your father shouts. The wind rushes it away—splash—the greasy water swallows you.

I took a semester of the Story Grid Writer Mentorship program back in June, 2024. Then I ran out of money. But now I’m a mentor, and we do things a bit differently. This scene was based on a chapter from Ninth House by Leigh Bardego and was supposed to represent a protagonist gaining entry to a forbidden place. We wrote by tropes which turned out to be a very bad way to put a scene together. I ended up with 4500 words and it’s lopsided as hell. But, here is my final draft from that program. I’m migrating my website domain to Substack and realized I never posted this here. I may or may not turn this into a novella someday. I’ll include the trope parameters where they fit as well. I’d rewrite it better today, but sometimes it’s best to leave it be so you can see how far you’ve come.

The Squib wants to Join Mongoose

TROPE 1: PREPARING TO TAKE ON THE ROLE

• The protagonist’s trek to the forbidden place sparks reflection on their relationship to the context.

• This reflection is told through specific events that highlight both the risks of the context from the protagonist’s perspective as well as the protagonist’s fish-out-of-water-ness.

• The protagonist assesses the current context in light of past experiences and current expectations.

• The protagonist takes steps to offset their sense of outsider status.

The pilot cut the engine on the airboat and the flat-bottomed craft slowed and then drifted in the dark. The warehouse was yet a hundred yards off, and Ethan could barely make out the glow of halogen lamps against the rusted metal walls. His chest felt suddenly too small for his thumping heart.

“Hey, why are you stopping?”

“You get off here,” muttered the pilot over his shoulder.

“How am I supposed to get all the way over there?”

“You walk. See, walkway’s right here.” The boat thumped against something hard that shifted disconcertingly, sending ripples of moonlight into the murky water. Other things shifted there too, splashing into the tall grass of the flooded bayou.

“The water goes right up to the place, you can’t take me all the way?”

“Listen, kid, right here’s an imaginary line I do not cross. On this side of the line, I’m just a guy on a boat doing a little night fishing. On that side of the line, I’m a smuggler or a human trafficker, or, to your friends over there, I’m a spy, and I don’t want to catch a bullet from either side of it. You get off here, or I take you back to the road, your call.”

“But I can’t see anything.”

The pilot grumbled and dug around beside his seat. “Here, take my kit. It’s got a flashlight and a flare-gun. I’ll be out here fishing for two hours and then I’m heading in.” The pilot pointed at the rickety walkway. “You need a pickup before then, send up a flare and I’ll get you. From here, not over there. I see anything bright and shiny fly up there, I’m-a skedaddle, got it?”

Ethan nodded, took the bright orange case by the handle and stepped onto the walkway. He clutched the kit to his chest as he watched the pilot fire up the propeller on the airboat and pull out.

“I’m adding a hundred scrips to your invoice for that kit, by the way.” The pilot shouted before revving up the engine and skimming out into the dark.

“Bullshit.” Ethan grumbled as he shook off the chill eating at his stomach. He turned and tested the wood planking with a cautious step forward. Each plank bowed under his weight, but the wood worried him less than the rusted steel that was holding it up out of the water. Lesions pocked the supports here and there like bite marks exposing their brittle emptiness.

Glancing back where the boat had disappeared, Ethan could make out skyscrapers on the horizon. He was twenty miles southeast of downtown Houston, yet the corporate plaza of the Big Three seemed to tower above him. To the fore the tallest building in Texas pierced the clouds at over two thousand feet. At its peak, the red Reuleaux triangle of the Triumvirate logo glared across the miles down through the cloud cover like an evil eye. Somewhere amid all that architecture was the Farm. Effy was there too.

Blue, Red, Orange, Black. Effy had won again. Four guesses that time. Four guesses every time. They were nine, and it was Ethan’s turn. He got it in five. He could beat anyone in school at Mastermind in the library, where they encouraged those kinds of games, where they started watching for abductive savants, monitoring how far a kid could jump to a conclusion, how deep they could go on limited information, how well they could leap. Back then they lived in boxes on stilts over the floodplains, but he remembered those days fondly. They would walk the planks to school to stay out of the muck and Effy would chatter his ear off about the most random things.

Then Effy stopped going to school when hormones rushed in and social mores took primacy over fun and games. The other children stopped talking to the weird girl that couldn’t keep pace with the conversation, the back and forth, the things you said and the things you didn’t, the niceties. Each day, the anxiety grew until one day she refused to go back.

Ethan felt it too, but it was different for him. Boys were different. Most boys are just happy to have an audience and “weird” can be a badge of honor. It wasn’t always easy, but where Effy cared so much, Ethan just grew a thicker shell, impenetrable to everyone. Everyone but Effy. Effy was special in a way that he couldn’t match. Effy always guessed the code in four turns.

They caught her leaping in an online game. She had topped all the leaderboards under a handle, but they tracked her anyway. Effy was good at games, but Effy couldn’t lie. So, when the social workers came knocking, Persephone Turner was conscripted to the Farm and Ethan moved with his mother out of the floodplains and into a two-bedroom apartment with a porch in an arcology — full on middle-class.

Ethan covered his nose with the hand holding the kit as the smell of the rotting bayou crept up from the muck and the grasses. The waters were higher now in the summer, after the storms, but they never quite went away and there the bodies of dead fish, garbage and the seeping effluence of pre-flood industry mixed and mated. Nobody lived out here that wanted to.

To distract himself from the odor, he played with patterns in his head — Number sequences, code sequences, Fibonacci and Lucas. He was thirteen iterations into the golden ratio when he stepped through a broken plank and dark water enveloped his new white kicks and soaked the bottom of his jeans.

The stipend they got for Effy’s participation paid for a lot of things. It kept him in new, if not name brand, clothes, it paid for food and the suite at the arcology, and it kept them stocked on pharmaceutical grade cannabinoids for his mother’s anxiety. She was high when he’d left her that evening, but she still knew what he was up to. Ethan could lie, but he was bad at it.

“But it’s Effy, momma. She’s in trouble.”

“Damned right, and what are you gonna do? You’re gonna get us all in trouble then? That place can help her better than I can, and if they find out you were involved, they’ll cut all this off and we’ll be back in the floodplains beatin’ away mosquitoes with a tire iron. What I keep tellin’ you, baby? You don’t bite the hand that feeds. Everything will be fine. I’m sure Effy’s just having her anxiety, that’s all.”

But there was no anxiety in Effy’s message. It was pure terror. Not the fear you live in when you know that someday the door might burst open and your life would be over in the flash of a barrel, like on the floodplains. No, Effy’s fear was for the human race. The message itself was calm, but that only illuminated her terror all the more. If anyone understood that, it was Ethan — they were twins, after all. He needed these people to see that. He needed them to see him. He wasn’t as special as Effy, but he had skills. That stipend hadn’t paid for these shoes or the cash-on-hand that got him to this swamp. But those were small stakes, and he wanted more than petty theft and shiny shoes. He wanted to do something real. He wanted to get his sister out of the Farm.

Ethan wiped at the muck on his shoes and just glimpsed the rolling flashlight as it dove over the edge of the walk and plopped into the water, dragging a green aura along with it to the bottom. Shit. He could see the walkway well enough, but still he pulled his smartphone out of his front pocket and turned on its tiny flashlight.

Shining the weak light around him, he saw that he’d stumbled onto a square intersection of three walkways abutting a tree stump overgrown with vines. The serrated metal platform beneath him was a welcome change from the rotting planks, but the bayou seemed to rush around this spot and fall in hollow echoes below him. He searched the murky water, but couldn’t see where it was falling, just a black void beneath the grating and wrinkles of moonlight in the rushing water all around.

Looking up, he traced the leftmost path to the warehouse and followed it until it ended. The walkway had collapsed here, leaving a four-foot channel of water between him and a stair tower that led to a door two stories up. As he approached the ledge, the walkway shifted, and something splashed in the water below him. He heard the telltale hiss of an unsettled gator there and he froze.

These were the coordinates Athena had given him, but something felt off. A cool sweat had developed behind his ears and he studied the gap in front of him and the door above where dim yellow light leaked out of a boarded window beside it. He pulled a round chip from his back pocket. This was his invitation. It had arrived on his doorstep in response to a relay to Athena about Effy’s message. On the inside of the brown paper wrapping were the coordinates of the warehouse and a handwritten note in black ink, “The chip will get you inside. BURN THIS!” That’s what had triggered the argument with his mother, him burning a secret note in the porch ashtray. That’s how he ended up here.

But there was no other entrance. So he pocketed his phone and the chip, clutched the flare-kit to his chest, and jumped as far as he could, landing squarely but encouraging another hiss from the gator behind. He put down the kit and straightened his shirt.

TROPE 2: APPEALING TO ROLE WITHIN THE CONTEXT (PLAYING THE PART)

• The protagonist attempts to gain access to the forbidden place through the antagonist/Threshold Guardian.

• The protagonist appeals to their role, responsibility, or right within the context.

• The antagonist/Threshold Guardian undermines the protagonist’s appeals through strict adherence to their own role/position (pits the protagonist’s role against the antagonist’s role).

Up the stairs, the landing at the top was square and sturdy. From here the red eye of the Triumvirate glared like a watcher over the suburban neighborhoods that cascaded out from the city under a blanket of warm, steady light. Here and there the dark carapaces of corporate drones reflected the moonlight dimly as they surveilled the streets, protecting the wealthy in their single family homes. Ethan liked drones, one of many fixations, and he could see that these were autonomous, well armed, and deadly to anyone that didn’t belong. But that protection ended at the flood lands where the blanket of light faded, where the cartels and gangs took control, where Ethan now stood at an abandoned warehouse alone.

He turned to the door. It was simple, but sturdy, with a single pull handle and a thick metal latch guard. On the right was an RFID reader and a call button above a speaker and below a camera. He rolled the round chip over his knuckles, back and forth, back and forth, breathing. It looked like a poker chip, blue, ridged, smooth in the center but otherwise unmarked. How would it work? Was it just a token representing the high esteem of Athena, or was it a key? Athena had helped him in the past, given him tips, even praised his work. She made him feel like he really had what it took, but this was Mongoose, an organization as infamous as it was anonymous. Here Ethan felt little more than an imposter entreating entrance to their secret hideout.

Athena had done more than simply relayed his message, though. She’d invited him into the fold. That had to count for something. Ethan stopped fidgeting with the chip and passed it over the reader. An embedded strip of light flashed red with a buzz. The chip was tech, but not a key, it seemed.

He pushed the call button and waited.

The speaker hissed and a male voice crackled through. “We don’t want any.”

Ethan cocked his head and opened his mouth. Shut it.

“You deaf? That means go away.”

“I’m Spitfire- I mean, my name is Ethan Turner. Athena sent me.” He fumbled the blue chip, caught it before it hit the landing and lifted it to the camera.

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

Ethan pulled back the chip and looked at it, then leaned toward the panel. “Um… Athena sent it. She said it would get me in. She gave me these coordinates.”

“Athena does a lot of things I don’t like. Why are you here, squib?”

“My sister is at the Farm. She sent me a message about what’s really going on there. Athena said you could help.”

“There are a lot of kids at the Farm with a lot of families that regret letting them go. How’s that a reason I should let you in here?”

“I can help. I have skills, Athena can tell you. I’m an ace cracker.”

“Athena this, Athena that. I say, we don’t have any use for you. Now, you get along back to your momma and let us grownups do our job.”

“Look, I know I can help. Just let me prove it. I’ll show you I ain’t no squib.”

The speaker sighed a hiss of static. “Turn around, kid.”

Ethan turned. At eye level and inches away hovered three hexacopter drones that he hadn’t heard coming, that he still couldn’t hear now that they were staring him down. These weren’t simple surveillance drones either. They were military grade builds with a small-caliber, coil-accelerated, slug gun mounted to a gimbal turret under the frame.

“I’m done askin’.” The voice from the speaker now echoed in front of him, bouncing from drone to drone in a menacing reverb. “Now put your hands above your head nice and easy, and walk down those stairs slowly.”

Ethan lifted his arms, but frowned at the display of force. While Effy’s anxiety pushed her inside of herself, Ethan’s became a mirror. And, though his stomach was a ball of ice on this warm June night, his brows furrowed and eyes glared over a sneer pulled taut against dry teeth. “Look, I didn’t come here for trouble. Athena called, and I came.”

“No hard feelings, kid. This is for your own good. Athena made you a promise that she’s in no position to keep and you’ll just get you and your sister killed.”

Ethan shook his head and turned to the stairs, taking each one gingerly as his groin tightened and adrenaline turned his legs to jelly.

TROPE 3: BLUFFING ROLE WITHIN THE CONTEXT

• The protagonist abides by the rules on the surface, but their strategy is driven by their outsider status (the protagonist operates in the letter of the law, but not the spirit of the law).

• The antagonist frames the situation in a way that reveals the shared identity (again, this could be between the protagonist and victimized parties or between the protagonist and the antagonist). This should give rise to the Crisis of whether the protagonist will do what it takes to access the forbidden place or if they will acquiesce to the Threshold Guardian.

“I’ll escort you out. I want you to get to your boat nice and safe.”

“I feel safer already. Those are CyTek G-90s right? I bet you got them cheap on account that they like to fire off rounds for no reason.”

“Good eye, but I upgraded the microcontrollers on these babies myself. Just maybe don’t make any sudden moves.”

Ethan swallowed dryly and frowned.

The drones laughed. “See, you feel that? That’s danger, kid, and this op is gonna be dangerous. We don’t need any squibs getting in the way.”

Ethan glared at the drone to his right. “I can handle it. I’ve broken into plenty of places, some of them armed.”

“Not like this you haven’t, kid. You couldn’t even get through our front door with an invitation.”

At the bottom landing, Ethan bent over slowly and picked up the flare kit.

“What’s that?”

“It’s my ticket out of here. Boatman won’t come unless I throw up a flare.”

“Good ‘ol Captain Steve, he probably charged you extra for that didn’t he?”

“A hundred scrips.”

“Hooo! One-hundred scrips for a flare? You’ve got money for that, and a nice new shirt, them shiny white shoes. Hell, I bet you even get your hair coiffed. Do you pay someone to coif your hair, uh, what was your name again?”

“Ethan.”

“Yeah, right. You got money to coif your hair, real nice, like a hairspray model. You gonna give all that up playin’ squib to a bunch of hacktivists?”

Ethan was too busy searching the water for hungry alligators to respond. He jumped when a sudden zook-zook-zook broke the silence and three magnesium slugs threw up dollops of water around the walk. A bigger splash rocked waves against the landing and a long shadow swam into the marshes, carving out scallops of moonlight in its wake.

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

Ethan glared at the nearest drone and then backed up, took a run at the ledge, and jumped. This time, his toe caught the edge of a plank and he tumbled, rolled, then landed on his back, staring up at a drone hovering above him.

“You alright, kid?”

Ethan kneeled and brushed himself off. The flare kit had broken open and spread its contents over the walkway. He hunted around in the dark until three ovals of light converged on a gap in the planks where the flare gun had lodged. “Need a light?”

Ethan thrust his chin at the nearest drone. He collected the flare gun and the single flare that he could find, but the latch on the clamshell case for the kit had snapped. He kicked the case into the water and loaded the flare into the gun, pocketed it.

The drones swept their spotlights down the walk and Ethan followed, away from the moon and towards the big red eye in Houston.

“I can still be an asset, you know, on the outside. I can scope out the Farm. I’ve got visitation.”

“You ever use it?”

Ethan looked down on the plank in front of him and shook his head.

“They’ll have eyes on you as soon as you walk in the door and throw you in a room with a psy-bot the first time you sneeze. It’s not worth the risk.”

“It is if it means I get Effy out.”

The drones spread out beside the walkway, and the voice pelted him from all directions. “I appreciate your spirit, kid, but we’ve all got someone at the Farm. Ain’t none of us going to jeopardize their safety just to babysit a hotshot that wants to play hero.”

“And what about my sister?”

“We get out who we can.”

“You mean you take care of your own first.”

“Wouldn’t you? But don’t you worry, we’re real good at this shit. Your sister will be home in no time at all, sitting there in your nice arco-suite and chatting all about livin’ at the Farm. You might even take her to get coiffed.”

Ethan stopped, but he didn’t know why. The hairs on the nape of his neck bristled, chasing a tingle down the ridges of his spine. He was standing on the square metal intersection where he’d lost his flashlight. It was different now under the roving gazes of the drone spotlights. What he had first dismissed as a tree stump was nothing of the sort. Rather, the platform was anchored to a thick concrete pillar overgrown with fuzzy-bean vines. The tingle in his spine landed in a clench of his inguinal ring as he focused on something else he had missed — a button pulsing dimly red amid the vines.

TROPE 4: UTILIZING THE ROLE (EXPLOITING THE ROLE)

• The protagonist reflects on their duty within the context.

• The protagonist places their own well-being (opportunity, resources, and/or potential for conflict) at risk to access the forbidden place (the protagonist chooses the transformative option, operating according to the Dynamic).

• The protagonist succeeds in gaining access using a resource, skill, or connection associated with their role or identity in the context.

• The protagonist is rewarded (based on External Genre; this could be with a connection, information that the protagonist needs, resources, or additional opportunities).

“What’re you doing, kid?” Echoed the three drones.

Ethan was leaping — the hollow fall of water below him and the newly exposed button on the pillar beside him triggered a shift in his mental map of the area. The door at the top of the stairs was a decoy. And why wouldn’t it be? Hackers prefer back doors. There wasn’t anything they could do to reinforce that entrance that would keep the corps out if they wanted in. There was another way inside, and Ethan was standing on it.

He didn’t know how it worked or what he had to do but he knew where to aim. He had all the colors but not the order and only one guess left to crack the code. There was just the small problem of a grumpy doorman and his heavily armed drones.

But they didn’t want him here. He should leave well enough alone. All he had to do was make it to the pickup, fire off the flare, get on the boat and go home where it was less smelly and noisy and dangerous. There was food there, there was sleep. But there was also shame in an empty apartment with an always-high mother and nobody else in the world that understood him like Effy.

We get out who we can.

You mean you take care of your own first.

Wouldn’t you?

Wouldn’t he?

Ethan looked at the drone hovering in front of him. “I don’t remember which way I came in,” he lied.

The drones focused their beams on the path to his right. “That-a-way.”

As he walked, Ethan committed as much of this path to memory as he could while simultaneously tracking the surrounding drones, which, he had noticed, weren’t actually silent — they simply tuned their rotor speed in order to blend into the ambient soundscape. Ethan could hear them now babbling like water, chirping like crickets, but those sounds were in the air above, not the marshes below. Knowing their tricks made them easier to triangulate.

He also knew for a fact that CyTek G-90s didn’t have silent running rotor controls out of the factory. The doorman wasn’t lying when he said he’d customized the microcontrolles, but if he’d replaced all the original circuits, Ethan’s plan might not work.

They reached the end of the flood walk, and the sky there was clear. Stars spangled the murky water around him and he stood in the still night, listening. The low level hum of eighteen independent rotors drew a picture in his mind of each drone around him, one on either side and one behind. Their spotlights attenuated on his position, but his eyes were closed. He put a hand in each of his pockets, grabbing the flare gun in his right and Athena’s chip in his left.

“Well, kid, it’s been fun but-”

“It wasn’t the microcontrollers that shitcanned the G-90s, you know that right?”

“What?” An epic sigh reverberated from drone to drone. “Alright, squib, go ahead, tell me what I don’t already know.”

“Better yet, I’ll show you.” Ethan pulled the flare gun out of his pocket.

“Ethan, buddy, don’t do anything stupid.”

“It’s Spitfire, and I told you I ain’t no squib.” With his eyes still closed, Ethan fired his only flare directly at the drone behind him at near point-blank range.

The flare careened off the drone harmlessly but that wasn’t the point. The zero-lux cameras on each drone suddenly absorbed over forty thousand lux of orange incendiary light, frying the flight stabilization systems — the key defect that sent all three into a tailspin. The turret on each drone tracked the flare and fired magnesium bullets that caught light and streaked across the sky like tiny comets, sizzling as they struck the water.

Ethan ducked under the chaos and bolted through the dark, back down the walkway, each foot landing squarely on each memorized plank. By the time he reached the metal platform with the vine-covered pillar, the chaos behind him had died down and the silence pulsed in his ears as even the crickets refused to strum their leg-harps.

If the doorman had any more drones at his disposal, they wouldn’t be long coming. He swept aside the vines covering the pulsing red button, but nothing happened when he pounded it in desperation. The adrenaline that had gotten him this far changed shifts with cortisol and anxiety fluttered his heart into panic. He ripped away the vines, exposing the pillar in full, and searched the dull gray thumb of concrete until he felt a slit on one side of it. He slammed the blue chip into the slot, and the pulsing red button shifted to a hopeful green.

Another set of drones buzzed out of nowhere, not even playing at stealth. He slapped the button and was falling.

Falling as the moon winked out, and the drones went silent.

Falling as water rushed around him but he stayed dry.

Falling as his heart palpitated in his throat and the breath froze in his chest.

Falling and then a jolt where inertia carried him to his knees on the cool metal grating.

When Ethan opened his eyes, a narrow tunnel stretched before him lit by dim strip lights. Two figures argued there in the gloom as they rushed towards him. He held up his hands as he stepped forward shakily, unsure what had just happened or where he was or whether these strangers were going to come at him swinging.

First through the tunnel was a tall woman with golden hair fading to green, then blue as it cascaded over her shoulders. Dark makeup barely concealed tired eyes. “You shot at him with live rounds! Are you insane!” She hollered at a shorter man behind her.

“I didn’t shoot at anyone. That dipshit fired a flare and set off the auto-defense.” That was the doorman. He wore a white shirt covered in bright red hibiscus flowers over dry tan skin.

“Ethan, are you okay?” The woman must be Athena, he realized.

“Sure… yeah, all aces.”

They were guiding him now, Athena with a hand on his shoulder and the doorman beside him. The tunnel opened out into a cement cavern where great pillars marched in evenly spaced rows down the length of it. At the center was a brightly lit platform with equipment, monitors and tendrils of thick cable stretching every which way.

Ethan gawked at the immensity of the space. “What is this place?”

“An underground reservoir. The warehouse above was a datacenter before the floods, and they stored a million gallons of clean water here for cooling servers that trained AI models while people downstream died of dysentery.” This voice was different, in charge, a gentle canter of Kreyòl that echoed in silky waves through the damp reservoir. A dark brown man emerged from behind a pillar. He was wearing a simple white nehru shirt over blue jeans with black snakeskin boots that scraped and clicked in staccato on the gritty concrete.

“And you’re damned lucky to be here, too.” Barked the doorman. “Goddamn kid, you almost got yourself killed.”

“Cerberus, that’s enough. I’m sure Spitfire here was well aware of the risks. Legba opened the gate for him tonight and he is here now, safe.” The man in the nehru shirt cocked his head then. “Do you still doubt he has what we need?”

Cerberus pursed his lips, then stomped his foot. “Okay, so he figured out the door. I still don’t like having a kid here, Wizzer. There’s too much at stake.”

“Precisely. We are too methodical and averse to risk. Step by step, we lose ground, frozen by our fear of doing any harm. We cannot win at chess with an AI. We need chaos, disruption. We need a leaper. Tell me, Ethan, how would you infiltrate the Farm?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Perfect! Let’s begin.”

The Constraints

🙏 The “Take a Chance on Me” Scene

✨ The Antagonist wants the Protagonist to agree to go on a date.

• Inciting Incident: Antagonist asks the Protagonist on a date

• Crisis: Trust Dilemma

• Climax: The Protagonist says yes or no

• Word Count: 800 max

• PoV: 1st Person, present - Antagonist

The Plan

Why does the Antagonist want to go on a date with the Protagonist?

• The antagonist is a EMT, and she is asking her partner to marry her, because she just found out he has terminal cancer and will be dealing with it alone after he retires the next day.

What is the crisis that the inciting incident is going to lead to.

• The partner will either say yes, or no to the Antagonist’s proposal.

Inciting Incident: You should marry me. Him: Are you kidding?

Progressive complications:

• No, you’ll need someone to manage things when you’re on chemo <-- If I even do chemo

• Then if you don’t you’ll really need my help <-- Why would you want to go through this again?

• Because you put me back together after Don. <-- And then who’ll help you when I’m gone?

• I’ll do therapy. <-- Laughs

• Don’t be an ass. I want to be there for you, however this ends up. <-- I just can’t put you through that, I’ve got a solid retirement, I’ll have a home nurse, I’ll have the best doctors. I’ll be taken care of.

• But who will make the hard decisions when you can’t?

Turning Point: I’ve already filled out a DNR, I don’t need you to make that decision for me, I won’t let you carry that. If you want to help me, bring me soup that won’t taste bad coming back up.

Crisis: I won’t be here to bring you soup. I’ve already been over the matter with HR, and I’m not taking another partner. There’s an opportunity out of town that I need to accept by the weekend. I can’t watch another man I love die from the sidelines. If I’m going to mourn you, I’d rather start over somewhere else.

Climax: He agrees to marry her.

Resolution: She smiles and hands him a ring made from a twisty tie.

The Render

I shut off the motor and the hot metal clicks cool. “How long do you have?”

John tugs on his shoulder strap, staring straight ahead. “Six months without chemo.”

I frown. “And with?”

John shakes his head. “Maybe a year? More? Who the hell knows.”

I pick up a straw wrapper from the dash and uncrumple it.

John sighs. “Don’t think I wanna find out, either. There are better ways to die.”

I snap up and glare. “So that’s it? You finally retire after forty years just to ride off into the sunset?”

He shrugs. “Pension buys six months on a nice beach or a few years of puking poison. We both know how this fight goes.”

I flatten the wrapper neat and fold it. “Alone on a beach.”

He shrugs. “Alone either way.”

I curl the wrapper over my finger. “Marry me then.”

John’s eyes pop. “Excuse me?”

“You need someone to take care of you when things get bad.” I meet his eyes. “Let it be me.”

He shakes his head, tugging the shoulder strap, hand on the buckle. “No. No, not a chance.”

I hold his eyes. He huffs and looks away. “Why would you want to go through that again?”

“Because I know I’ll survive it.” I flip and fold the wrapper. “You put me back together after Don, I owe you.”

He glares at me. “And you me with Martha. We’re even!”

My lips go flat. “That’s not how love works, John.”

“Love, Penny? I’m older than your dad.” He swirls his finger over his groin. “And ain’t none of this gonna work at all real soon.”

I scrunch my nose and blow through it. “Don’t be an ass!”

He throws up his hands. “I’m just sayin’, I’m taken care of. I reached full investment, so I’ll have nurses, home hospice, brand name Jell-O from the cafeteria. You can visit me, bring me a card, some scotch in a tea bottle and then go home to some young healthy guy who can take care of you for a change. I don’t need you waking up a 4 am to wipe the diarrhea off my ass.”

“What about PoA? Who makes those decisions when you can’t?” I breathe and my chest shudders. “Who’ll make sure they honor your DNR?”

His eyes are red when he looks at me. “You want me to sign that over? Fine. You don’t have to be Mrs. John Hanson to do that.”

I lay a hand on his shoulder. “But, John, I want to be.”

He shakes me off. “And I don’t want to leave behind a widow.” He turns away; his eyes are closed in passenger window’s reflection. “Why can’t I just close my eyes on friends.”

I fiddle with and flip the wrapper. My eyes heat up. “I’ll feel it the same either way. You know me, I can’t watch from the sidelines while another man I love dies. I’ve already accepted an offer out of state.”

John turns back to me, brow scrunched.

I shrug, twiddling the wrapper in my fingers. “A month ago, your plan was some condo in Costa Rica, and I wanted out of here, so I applied in Colorado Springs.”

John’s hands shake and squeeze his seatbelt. “Then you should go. The DNR is settled. If they bring me back I’ll raise so much hell they’ll smother me with a pillow.” He picks at his eye.

I glower at him but he doesn’t meet my eyes. “Is that what you want, John? Flowers from friends who care for you but won’t visit because it’s ugly? The gloved hands of a nurse rolling you over, cleaning your vomit, speaking soft but unworried, uninvested.” I tuck in the edges of the wrapper in my fingers, and smooth the folds. “Or do you want a woman who loves you, who’ll cry with you when the pain is too much. Who’ll speak for you at the funeral.”

He buries his face in his hands. “I don’t want to be alone, Penny.”

I blink, a tear breaks loose. “Then, John Hanson, will you marry me?” I hold up the ring I’ve made of straw wrapping.

He looks over and takes the ring, laughing, chest shaking, tears streaming. “Yes.”

I laugh too and smile through the tears running down my face. I reach out and thumb away the tears from his. “Then it looks like we have some planning to do.”

Editor’s Protocol

1. What are the forces of Antagonism?

Penny

2. Who is the Protagonist?

John

3. What do the forces of Antagonism want the Protagonist to do?

Penny wants John to marry her so she can take care of him as he fights or dies from cancer.

4. What does the Protagonist want to do?

John wants Penny to live her own life without losing her entirely.

5. What is the 1 emotion the reader will experience?

Hope?

6. What is the Inciting Incident?

I curl the wrapper over my finger. “Marry me then.”
John’s eyes pop. “Excuse me?”

7. What is Turning Point?

John’s hands shake and squeeze his seatbelt. “Then you should go. The DNR is settled. If they bring me back I’ll raise so much hell they’ll smother me with a pillow.” He picks at his eye.

8. What is the Crisis? Does John say yes or no:

“Is that what you want, John? Flowers from friends who care for you but won’t visit because it’s ugly? The gloved hands of a nurse rolling you over, cleaning your vomit, speaking soft but unworried, uninvested.” I tuck in the edges of the wrapper in my fingers, and smooth the folds. “Or do you want a woman who loves you, who’ll cry with you when the pain is too much. Who’ll speak for you at the funeral.”
He buries his face in his hands. “I don’t want to be alone, Penny.”
I blink, a tear breaks loose. “Then, John Hanson, will you marry me?” I hold up the ring I’ve made of straw wrapping.

9. What is the Climax?

He looks over and takes the ring, laughing, chest shaking, tears streaming. “Yes.”

10. What is the Resolution?

I laugh too and smile through the tears running down my face. I reach out and thumb away the tears from his. “Then it looks like we have some planning to do.”

11. Who won the scene? Penny

Lyrics

[intro]
Now here's one for you 'bout a snail named Steve
And a storm in the valley you’d scarcely believe 
It's a tale of adventure, and danger and choice
Will you cry at the end? Or will you rejoice?

[verse 1]
Well our story begins in a town out West
The sun was shining, or 'twas trying its best 
'Cause a dark cloud loomed out on the horizon 
And the wind picked up sending leaves up a flyin

Steve was humming with a spring in his creep
Rummaging through all the fallen leaves
When the first big drop plopped down on his shell
Another, and another, another! "Aw hell."

He made for the base of a solid old tree
But the rain poured down and the leaves broke free.
Steve was swept away and was sure he would drown 
But he splashed onto the walk where the rain drained down

Then a shadow flew over, a great black crow
Swooping and diving and circling slow 
Steve crawled forward to a joint in the slab 
Where a crack in the concrete might give him a chance 

[chorus]
Crawl on little snail
Even though Death is hot on your tail 
His beak is sharp and his wings are black
Better keep moving or you'll be his snack

[verse 2]
The black bird landed, a caw on his breath.
And with that he croaked, "My name is Death."
And the snail? He smiled. "Hi Death, I'm Steve.
If you don't mind, I was just about to leave."

He broke into a lurch, his wide foot too slow.
And the crow cackled out, "There's nowhere to go.
You can slide and creep, but you'll never get far."
I'm here to collect, this is your final hour.

Well the wind blew hard and the rain turned to sleet
And a river ran wild down that cobbled old street
The waters rose and the storm drains belched
And mud bubbled up and roiled and squelched

It's the end of your time my small slimy friend
Death always gets his lunch in the end
Come with me now and depart in peace
Or brave the waters and feel my talons dig deep

[chorus]
Crawl on little snail
Even though Death is hot on your tail 
His beak is sharp and his wings are black
Better keep moving or you'll be his snack 

[verse 3]
Steve inched to the edge as he shivered with cold
He swiveled his eyestalks and cried out bold
"Thank you kind Death, peace sounds real nice, 
but I've come this far, so I'll roll the dice."

And with that he plunged, tucked tight in his shell. 
And the current took and tossed him pell-mell
He swirled and swirled but eventually stuck
His foot snatched a log, his daring brought luck

He crawled up and looked back, the crow was a fluster
He took to the sky, and with all Steve could muster
he shouted, "So long Death, farewell and adieu!
I've got places to go and things to do."

The crow swooped down and snapped with his beak
He raked his talons but flew off with a sweep.
"Gloat not little snail, this isn't goodbye."
"You know in the end—yes, all things must die."

[chorus]
Crawl on little snail
Even though Death is hot on your tail 
His beak is sharp and his wings are black
Better keep moving or you'll be his snack

[outro]
So when the weather is rough, and the trail looks steep
And that crow offers comfort in the long dark sleep 
I hope you'll remember our dear friend Steve
And this tale of a snail with the courage to be.

I FOMO’d hard.

So, rather than simply swap out the audio, I spent way too much time today making a music video and uploading it as a Video Post. Now maybe this will get more than 1 view.

Open the House

This is a song from The Call of Mammitum.
Lyrics by Justin Zimmer1, music generated by Suno.com (Full Playlist)

[intro]
(oooh-ooh-ooh, oooh-ooh-ooh)
Nobody sees death
Nobody sees the face of death 
Nobody hears the voice of death
No one can draw the shape of death

OPEN THE HOUSE! 
HEY DOORMAN, OPEN THE HOUSE!

[verse 1]
Cut away like grain in the field
The comely young man, 
the lovely young girl
the baby from her mother’s lap
the maiden in her wedding gown
Savage Death just cuts us all down.

[pre-chorus][shouted]
OPEN THE HOUSE! OPEN THE HOUSE!
HEY DOORMAN, OPEN THE HOUSE!

[chorus][powerful]
To the house whence none return,
Where kings bow low and wear no crowns.
Savage Death drags everyone down.

[verse 2]
When all the great gods assembled
With Mammitum, mother of fate
They assigned each a life
They assigned each a death
They marked out days for life,
but for death they set no end.

[pre-chorus][shouted]
OPEN THE HOUSE! OPEN THE HOUSE!
HEY DOORMAN, OPEN THE HOUSE!

[chorus][powerful]
To the house whence none return,
Where kings bow low and wear no crowns.
Savage Death drags everyone down.

[bridge][spoken word]
In the house where those who enter cannot leave,
On the road where travelling is one way only,
In that house those who stay are deprived of light,
Dust is their food, and clay their bread.
They are clothed, like birds, with feathers.
They see no sun. They dwell in darkness.

[breakdown][haunting female vocals]
oooh-ooh-ooh, oooh-ooh-ooh
Cherish the child who holds your hand
Laugh and love, dance and play 
Enjoy every treasure of life 
Before death drags them all away.
oooh-ooh-ooh, oooh-ooh-ooh

[verse 3]
We build a home for our children 
And they divide it when we’re gone
We fight wars over land and treasure 
And then the floods just wash it away
As dragonflies drift over the river
Their eyes upturned to the sun
Our ambitions rise and suddenly 
They all come undone.

[pre-chorus][shouted]
OPEN THE HOUSE! OPEN THE HOUSE!
HEY DOORMAN, OPEN THE HOUSE!

[chorus][powerful]
To the house whence none return,
Where kings bow low and wear no crowns.
Savage Death drags everyone down.

[break]

[haunting outro][haunting female vocals]
Cherish the child who holds your hand
Laugh and love, dance and play 
Enjoy every treasure of life 
Before death drags them all away.

[end]

Putting the Personal on the Page

Writing fiction that resonates with readers requires drawing a little blood. You can craft gorgeous prose, perfect sentences—deliver clever turns of phrase that make you sigh at your own literary genius. But if it don’t make you feel anything when you write it, your reader ain’t gonna give a shit either. That means digging deep, peeling open old wounds, and remembering the times in your life when you felt what your character is feeling on the page, because you want your reader to feel that too.

Lately I’ve been chewing on how Shawn Coyne talks about “bullshit” stories in his essay The Lives We Dream and Do Not Realize1. He draws a hard line between mythic stories that are “truer than true” and the ones that only pretend to be. The mythic ones come from what he calls personal mapping—taking some universal situation and tying it back to an analogous experience in your own life. Without that mapping, no matter how well-crafted the book is, the story is inauthentic. It’s not mythic, not “truer than true”—it’s bullshit. 

I mentor writers in the Story Grid Writer Mentorship Program, and this is basically our north star. Story Grid is usually associated with structure—like the Five Commandments of Storytelling. That can make a story work, but it doesn’t make it worthy. Story Grid, as Shawn puts it, also refuses to teach bullshit generation; the whole mission is to empower and propagate authentic narrative truth instead of fake, non-lived performances. So when we’re working with writers, we’re not just tweaking scenes—we’re asking, “Where is your life in this? What have you actually suffered, lost, chosen, failed at, that you’re willing to map onto this character and situation?”

That hit me. I don’t want to spend years polishing a beautiful bullshit story. If I’m going to write monsters and magic, I want them anchored in something I’ve actually lived—especially when I’m aiming at one specific reader: the isolated, grieving teenager who thinks it’s safer not to need anyone. That means putting my own grief on the line.

Ever since reading those words late last year, I took a look at the cute historical YA fantasy/horror novel I drafted and let it consume my world. It was supposed to be a throwaway series about a teen girl fighting monsters—a notch in my belt, a portfolio prop—but I couldn’t let it be just that. Once I started putting myself in, it became The Call of Mammitum: a story about the dead, grief, and the people you share it with—or don’t.

That’s what mapping the personal onto the story looks like for me: I lost a lot of people growing up, chief among them my younger brother, Travis, and my mother, Gloria. But their deaths simply capped the long-tail of struggles that essentially defined my childhood.

The Grief Behind the Story

Travis James

My brother was born with many defects—a cleft palate and a hole in his heart among them, leaving him with some facial deformities and a large scar down the center of his chest.

He was in and out of the hospital throughout his life, having about 26 different surgeries before he died at the age of twelve. And I wasn’t a great big brother—more of a bully really. I always had to have things my way, and one night I gave him shit about lasagna over eggrolls at the grocery store—always the stupidest things. He died the next day while hiking in the Mazatzal mountains along the Barnhardt trail. He probably shouldn’t have been up there, but he wanted to be—and the doctor said he’d be fine.

After setting up my tent at the campsite, I found myself in a circle of other Boy Scouts as our leaders informed us that some day hikers had passed a man with a young boy who’d died on the trail. Travis’d had a stroke—the elevation too high, the strain too much on his broken heart, my father’s attempt at CPR a failure.

We broke camp and hiked out. I went first—my pack lightened by others so I could speed on ahead. When I reached that spot on the side of the mountain, my father was sitting there, quiet. Beside him my brother lay zipped up in his sleeping bag. All I could see of him was his thin sandy hair, feathering out of the gap in the breeze. I stayed there with them. Silent. Until my father said, “What a beautiful place to die.” And then silent again.

It was. I still remember the shadows of clouds rolling over the foothills on that bright spring day. The troop hiked on by; men cried and gave condolences; the other boys stared at the ground as they passed. I took up drag position with the last group as my father waited on an air lift.

Mothers of the troop told my mother in person (some had lost their husbands one prior year to a kayaking accident, our troop no stranger to loss). That night, I slept on one couch, and my father the other. The next morning, he finally cried. “I want him back,” he wept as my mother held him—which let my feelings come. That was the first time I saw my father cry, so I cried too.

I want to take a breath here to remember those who took my pack to lighten my load, who comforted my mother, and who air lifted my father and brother off the side of a mountain when they weren’t supposed to do that if you’re already dead—rules broken in mercy. Mr. Rogers called them the helpers, and they belong in every story.

Gloria Mae

My mother was Type-I diabetic, onset at age twelve. My oldest daughter also went into DKA when she was twelve (and my youngest at 2). So the rest of this story whispers to me in cautionary tones.

Her eyes went first: the retinas detached, and the stubborn, combative woman she was actually got kicked out of the laser treatment center. Things went south from there. Neuropathy prevented her from noticing the meat skewer jammed between her toes (Family Rule: No open toed shoes at the Renaissance Festival.) This led to infection which led to antibiotics which led to renal failure. My father left us then when I was fifteen2—the second time I saw him cry, as he begged me to hit him, punch him, give him my rage and blame. But I couldn’t. I can’t, it’s not in me to do so. My life was a fugue then. Maybe I dissociated. I still find it hard to grudge.

So I became my mother’s keeper. She couldn’t drive, so I drove her to doctors, dialysis, everywhere. I skipped school because she was too stubborn to call dial-a-ride (old school Uber for you young-folk) and would have driven herself regardless of being legally blind. But I wasn’t a good son. We clashed, and I raged, and I punched holes in things and slammed the door out of the frame and the frame out of the wall and called her a fucking whore and never apologized. Her tears still haunt me.

It was the liver that finally got her. See, it’s the falling apart that kills you even if you manage your diabetes well (which she didn’t). But I knew it was really over when I saw her spirit fail. I mentioned she was stubborn—she’d stand up to anybody with a righteousness that would send any “alpha” man cowering. She fought for two children with special needs (my youngest brother has cerebral palsy) and that became her thing, fighting for those children.

So, when a random infection turned her pinky finger shriveled and black and I raged about doctors ignoring it until it was too late, she just shrugged. They removed it and that was that. Surrender? Acceptance? I don’t know. We never talked about it. She coded at St. Luke’s hospital in Phoenix, Az in April 1997. I was taken to her room to say goodbye to her corpse with a tube still sticking out of her throat. Not her best look.

I’d rather die on the side of a mountain.

We buried her in Pennsylvania at the Beaver Cemetery. She lies there with her oldest son, James Micah (before I was born) and Travis James in a common plot. Her funeral was the third time I saw my father cry. It’s been almost 30 years and I don’t know if I’ll ever visit her grave—their grave—again.

This is the grief I’ve lived with for thirty-some-odd years—tucked into the tank, hidden behind the wall. When I sat down to write a story “just” about zombies, this is what came out instead.

Mattie Mae showed up first. And then I needed a villain, a shadow. We joke at Story Grid that, as authors, we’re the antagonists to our protagonists, so whatever parts of me inform Mattie, the rest inform the Shadow. I think that’s why he has green eyes.

Here’s a sample of what mapping my grief to this myth looks like.

On the Page: Mattie & Her Mother

I’ve been writing songs alongside the novel—Black and Red, Hey Sweetie, Today of All Days, In That Dark Door—to chase down the emotional cores of these scenes, to explore Mattie’s wounds.

Black and Red describes a dream about her father.

The Shadowmancer Chronicles

Track: Black and Red

I wrote the lyrics to this song in order to get at the emotional state of Mattie at the beginning of this story. Mattie has developed maladaptive daydreams as a coping mechanism and this song represents the emotional shift in losing a grip on that crutch…

Listen now

2 months ago · 4 likes · 2 comments · Justin Zimmer

Hey Sweetie gets at how her brother, Marcus, left her behind to avenge their father.

The Shadowmancer Chronicles

Track: Hey Sweetie

I wrote the lyrics to this song to get at Mattie’s relationship with her brother, Marcus, especially after losing him to the war, and her frustration with him for leaving…

Listen now

2 months ago · 5 likes · 4 comments · Justin Zimmer

Now Mattie is struggling to cope with her overworked mother while taking care of her aging aunt. Their common grief is a major thread in the story. The Albright household has become a place of survival and quiet suffering:

We have a rule: never speak gravely of Death in this house. He lives with us—sits in the empty chairs, speaks in the gaps once filled by laughter. So we tease him. Pretend he’s no bother at all.

You can see that in the following excerpts. They’re mild spoilers, but not for the main plot, so I’ll risk it.

First up is the end of a really hard day full of ups and downs and whispers in the cemetery.

Monday’s End

The latch clicks, and I’m home—Mama’s at the sink, scrubbing dishes. My shoes clop on the wooden floor as I pass behind her to the table. Stew simmers in the Dutch oven on the stove; the lid jitters and hisses, steam curling out—rich with pepper and onion.

The smell grabs my stomach like a claw. It hits so hard I nearly double over, but I catch myself on the edge of the table and brace against the nearest chair.

Mama glances over her shoulder. “You’re back late.”

My neck tenses. But there’s a lilt in her voice and a glint in her eye, so I let my shoulders drop.

“I was at the library… studying for a paper—we got a new History teacher today.”

I sigh and hang my jacket over the chair. The rubbing slips out onto the floor. I snatch it, crumple it tight and shove it deep into my pants pocket.

“Really? Did you go there with anyone?” Mama asks.

My lips part, but my throat closes. How do I explain Tommy? She isn’t looking, and I let silence be my answer.

“No? Well, at least you’re being proactive. No use waiting until the last minute, right?”

I nod, but she doesn’t see that either.

“Stew’s ready. Just waiting on you.”

She sighs. “Last of the ham, so meals’ll be light this week—but the insurance check ought to hit the post soon. Then I’ll buy us a roast. What do you think?”

This time, she looks at me, and my mouth just hangs open.

The check. Marcus’s check—the payout from the policy he bought when he shipped out. The only reason we’re not on the street.

I forgot the day. Heat races up my face. Mama’s still watching.

A roast? Sure. I nod and try to smile.

“Okay then. I have to go,” she mutters. “Make sure your aunt eats something. She skipped lunch; wasn’t feeling well.”

I want to keep her here—just a little longer. I wanted to say something this morning, but we fought instead. And now the day is closing.

I want to remind her what day it is—to remember Marcus between us. I want to remember both of them.

But all I manage is, “I’ll get Aunt Millie to the table.”

She’s already pulling on her long coat, tightening the belt, and I let the moment slide. Mama doesn’t seem to remember the day it happened, only the day it hurt. Maybe we’ll talk then.

“Alright,” she says.

She walks toward me, heels knocking hollow on the floorboards. She stops and puts her hands on my shoulders—eyes on my eyes.

“Watch the ham—it’s the tough end—pick out the gristle for your aunt. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She kisses my cheek and leaves me standing with all my words stuck in my throat. Now the kitchen is empty.

Steam curls from the Dutch oven—ham in my nostrils, rumble-and-tug in my belly. But I don’t budge.

I should’ve said something; she could’ve stayed; I could’ve come home sooner.

We could’ve remembered. Together.

Today, of all days.

Today of All Days gets at the crux of this conflict.

The next excerpt is part of the resolution. Mattie overcame so much in the week leading up to this moment but there’s still something left to do—probably the hardest yet.

Aftermath

“Oh, thank you again, Nellie.” Mama says, hands clasped out front like she does for company. “It was so nice having you. Can you see Nellie out, please, Mattie love?”

We step outside together. The air is damp with dew and smoke from the chimney hangs low.

As soon as the door clacks shut behind us, I don’t hold back. “Why doesn’t she remember? Why doesn’t anyone remember? The whole town’s acting like it was just a windy night.”

She hems, eyes to the ground. “Maybe that’s the nature of magic, Mattie. Or maybe it’s just people. We don’t like remembering what we can’t explain. So we weave a simpler story—one we can live with.”

She glances up and cocks her head to the door. “Your mother remembers the wind, and remembers you out studying with friends. That’s a story that makes sense. It fits her pride—her joy at seeing you find a passion.”

She leans back and squints. “A night full of magic and the dead walking? That just doesn’t fit.”

“But it’s true!” I squeak.

She jabs a finger at me. “It is. And you know it—so do your friends. That’s who you share it with. Your mother? She’s here. She’s safe. You made that happen. Is magic what you really want to talk to her about? You’ve got her now, all to yourself. What do you want to say?”

She taps down with her cane and takes a step. “Time doesn’t wait for those who hesitate. You know that better than most.”

I nod as Nellie trundles off and turn back to the door, fighting down the ache building in my chest.

I step inside.

Mama’s at the table, hands wrapped around a chipped mug, staring into the steam.

I sit across from her, and she looks up long enough to give me a small smile before dropping her gaze back to the mug. She sips.

I pick at my thumbnail, smoothing out the jagged edge, even and dull. Twice I glance at her; twice I open my mouth. Twice I close it.

The scrape of her chair startles me. She’s standing, turning away.

Oh! I can’t share the magic with her, but I can share them. I got to say goodbye tonight. She didn’t. So I grab her hand as she takes her cup, and stop her.

She freezes and we look at each other a moment.

Her eyes soften. “Are you okay, Mattie love? I was going to clean up.”

I shake my head. “Can you sit?” My voice comes out small. “Can we talk?”

She sits back down, and nods.

“Mama…” My throat tightens and my eyes blur. “Monday…”

I breathe, and she waits.

“Monday was the anniversary of—”

“I know,” she says.

I look up. Her eyes are already turning pink.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I whisper.

“Mattie… I see how hard things are for you. Every day. Why do you think I get so frustrated? It’s not you. It’s this—this world you’re up against. And I’m the one who has to push you through it. I didn’t want to add that weight—that reminder—”

“But I want to remember!” I whine. “I want to remember them with you. You don’t have to protect me, not from that. It feels… lonely.”

I swallow, breathe and blink at the ceiling. “We’re two halves of the same pain, Mama. We should feel it together. Like Auntie says—we take care of each other. Well, all you do is take care of me. Let me give it back.”

She lays her other hand over mine, and nods.

“Okay,” she says. “What do you want me to say, then?”

“I want to know what you’d tell them. If they were here. Right now. All of it, even the bad.”

I swallow again. “And I’ll tell you what I told them… in the cemetery.”

She closes her eyes, breathes deep, and squeezes my hand.

“Okay,” she says. “You give me a minute now. It’s a lot.”

In That Dark Door covers what she told them in the cemetery.

This chain of events alters the house rule slightly in the epilogue:

We still don’t speak gravely of Death. He’s still there in the empty spaces, but our dead live here too, in the spaces between us; in our laughter, where Death has no place; and in our memories—so long as we live.

No Bullshit

This no-bullshit idea won’t leave me alone. It’s changed how I look at everything I write.

And that’s why I’m putting this much of myself into The Call of Mammitum. I’m not writing a spooky little monster romp. I’m writing the fifteen-year-old version of me who watched his brother’s body airlifted off a mountain. I’m writing the kid who couldn’t hit his father when he begged him to, but could scream vile things at his dying mother and never apologize. I’m writing the house where nobody knew how to talk about the dead, so the grief rotted in the walls. And I’m writing the green-eyed man, the monster in the shadows—the villain who took the wrong path and bottled it all up inside.

But I’m also the father of teens suffering from anxiety and school refusal, of autistic girls who struggle to find connection and maintain friendships—things I recognize in myself. I need to be more than what I tell myself I am so that they can be everything they want to be.

This story is about more than grief—but grief is the core.

The zombies, the incantations, the stone door to the underworld—those are just the angle I need so I can look at that grief without going blind. The magic lets me tell the truth slant. As Nellie says, magic isn’t really what Mattie wants to talk about.

I don’t write to prove I can turn a pretty phrase or to chase preorders. Coyne calls those ‘shadow desires’—the ego stuff that pulls writers toward performance and away from truth. I’m writing this for one specific reader3: the anxious, grieving teenager who’s decided it’s safer not to need anyone. My job is to let Mattie model a different choice—that sharing grief with the living hurts like hell, but it’s better than being alone with the dead.

If Mammitum works, it won’t be because the prose is gorgeous or the horror is inventive. It’ll be because some reader sees their own pain in Mattie’s and realizes, even for a heartbeat, Oh. It’s not just me. Maybe they’ll walk into the kitchen and say, “Can we talk about him? About her? About what happened?”

That’s the bar I’m holding myself to, because, as Mammitum says4:

“I call the desperate because they seek change, and will endure what others cannot. The path is difficult. Ascent is not a ladder, but a cycle of falling and rising, of loss and return. As the ocean breathes, as the moon circles, so shall you stumble—and find footing again.”

No bullshit. Just shared grief, shaped into a story that might help somebody else stay. If you’re a writer, the question I’d leave you with is simple: where are your dead, and are they on the page yet?5

Otherwise, I publish my science fiction serial here:

First, the obligatory, Folk Metal soundtrack (Lyrics by Justin Zimmer, music by Suno.com — Full Playlist):

Whispers in the Cemetery (TCoM Ch. 4)

The last bell rings, and I slip out the back to the service road—past the yard, across the back field.

The Sun presses hot on my back; sweat pools under my shirt. It was cold this morning, but now my jacket feels stupid, trapped in my elbow crook as I tug my collar open—and my books slip. I fumble. “Clumsy,” I huff.

The back road spits me onto Market Street, and Kerr Hill’s wrought-iron fence runs beside the sidewalk like a cage. Near Main, the library’s corner edges into view—gray stone, watching—and I can’t help looking. A black Ford chugs past, kicking up dust; motor fumes bite my nose as it swings down Main, where other cars sit slanted at the storefronts. A man races by on a bicycle.

Wheels everywhere—tires, spokes, pedals—but no wheelchair. I should be relieved. I’m not. I don’t want to see him—

Oh. But I would have liked to.

All day, I dodged Tommy—skipped lunch, hid in the typewriting room, tapped nonsense on the keys and told myself it was practice.

Something tugs low in my stomach, and I clamp my books against it. It’s not hunger—that’s a higher ache, cold under my ribs. This is different. This feels like forgetting, like reaching into a pocket that shouldn’t be empty. I always forget things—sometimes even the shape of what I forgot—but today I know exactly what’s missing.

My chest pulls tight like a fist—every rib a finger, every breath a strain, every heartbeat a spasm. It’s like this every day after school, and usually the walk helps. Not today. The clutch cinches tighter, so I turn through the gates of Kerr Hill Cemetery. I don’t need a walk. I need someone to listen.

Grit grinds underfoot on the cobbles as I follow the footpath up and around the hill. Empty plots stagger between freshly hewn tombstones. Overhead, the long yellow strands of a changing willow sway and swish; leaves like golden blades spin around me, and wind slips through—hissing, sighing—like words I can’t understand, as if whispering secrets only the dead should know.

Daylight’s already thinning through the trees where Kerr Hill meets the western range; the Sun follows the gone Moon, and shadows stretch off every stone.

I’m glad for my jacket now. In the shade, the wind finds the sweat at my neck and chills it; a shiver climbs over my back.

But I’m not afraid—not here. My lungs loosen. The quiet sits soft around me. Mourners keep to themselves, and the dead don’t judge.

I follow the path to the cenotaph the town put up a year after the war ended: a granite wall taller than me, long and lined with small bronze plaques etched with the names of the bodiless dead—soldiers buried far from home, townfolk lost at sea.

I stop at two near the edge, side by side.

Matthew M. Albright Husband and Father 1879–1916

Pvt. Marcus M. Albright Brother and Son 1899–1918

That’s it: names and titles. Nothing else.

​Papa—his laugh filling every room, his smile catching and spreading like flame—telling me how the calm sea at night turns to stars, like being wrapped up in heaven.

And Marcus—ruffling my hair, telling me not to worry so much—standing in Papa’s place when he was gone, knowing every secret I ever had. My best and only friend.

Now they’re just names on metal plates—my heart reduced and pinned to a wall.

I kneel, tuck my ankles under, and set the books down beside me. Closing my eyes, I draw my jagged thumbnail across the skin beneath my palm: sharp, hot, then cool.

Again, and again—until my chest loosens, until my jaw lets go.

I whisper, “Hey Papa. Hey Marcus. It’s been a strange day. We’ve got a new teacher—Dr. Gewargis. He’s different; strict, but clever. Or he thinks so. We talked about that old library fire—the one from a hundred years ago.”

Marcus’s voice cuts in, clear as ever: Oh, that, Mattie? Just old wives’ tales.

My cheeks lighten. He’s on my left, where Sun leaks through the willows—but I don’t dare look. If I look, he might vanish. This isn’t a dream; it’s my imagination, and I cling to it. This is why I come: I need it. I can’t talk to anyone else, so why not them?

“I never thought much about it before,” I whisper. “But the way Tommy talked… it sounded interesting.”

Heat rushes my cheeks. Marcus’s eyebrow goes up. A boy, Mattie?

I sigh. “It’s not like that.”

Tommy Sinclair is just a boy from school—a boy who asked me, of all people, to study with him. But when he talked to me… I didn’t feel silly. I felt safe. Not the weird girl. Not the stupid girl.

Of course not, Pa’s voice chimes in from the right. Mattie’s too young for that.

I picture him there and my little smile grows—his broad grin, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. I’m fifteen, but when I think of him, I’m still that girl in pigtails watching the sea and waiting.

“Tommy did ask me to meet at the library—to study for our History paper.”

My cheeks draw heavy. Sting—hard and fast—and heat spills over my eyes. I swipe with my palm.

“Oh! Papa, but I told him I couldn’t. I got scared. I don’t even know why. He’s so kind. Everybody likes him, and he’s smart—so smart.”

I shake my head.

“Why would he want to talk to me at all?”

The lift in my mouth collapses, and my throat goes tight.

“I—I need h-his help. That p-paper’s our w-whole grade. And I c-can’t d-do it alone.” My breath catches. “Mama wants me to do well, but all I ever do is disap—point her. I’m ruining the plan, Papa. She’s killing herself, and I just can’t do it.”

My nail finds the soft skin at my wrist—back and forth, back and forth—hot, hot, sharp, sharper. I roll up my sleeve. Red wells.

I smear it on my pants, cross my legs, and stare at the new line: wet red shining between today’s welts. It’ll scar white—like the older ones.

“It’s so hard here without you,” I whisper. “I wish you were both still here.”

My hands blot out the light, damp in my tears.

“Marcus, Mama would be so proud of you.”

A sniff yanks in hard, shuddering my chest.

“And Papa, if you were here, maybe she’d laugh again—the way she used to laugh at your awful fish jokes.”

I let my hands fall. Their plaques stare back, greening at the edges

“You could both help with Aunt Millie… She almost didn’t know me today. What’ll we do when she doesn’t remember me at all?”

I grip my knees tight.

“It feels like we’re walking a tightrope… and the rope’s starting to tear. I can feel it fraying underfoot—strand by strand. And when it snaps…” My voice shrinks. “…there’s nothing underneath.”

Head up, I shut my eyes.

“I keep thinking there’s something I’m supposed to do, but I don’t know what.”

My nails bite my palms and I glare at the names etched in front of me.

“If you were here, none of this would feel so hopeless. You’d know what to do. I don’t know if I can go on like this. Things would be better if you were here instead of—”

I swallow, and the words fall out.

“I wish… I wish I could trade places with you.”

They hang in the air a beat—then echo inside me, sharp as broken glass.

My chest aches, but I can’t take the words back. Because I do mean them.

The light blurs, and the wind sighs. I wait for their voices to scold me, comfort me, anything. But they don’t answer—they’re not listening. The cold sinks in.

My head shakes as I pull the green kerchief from my pocket, wipe my eyes, and blow my nose. Standing, I brush off the dirt and leaves; lift my books.

“Maaattie.”

A tingle shoots down my neck; every hair lifts. Did I really hear that?

The path. The shadows. The gaps between stones. No one’s there.

“Maaattie.”

Behind me—a voice, rasping as if woven from wind and leaves. I whip around.

A man in uniform stands down the path. Pale face—blurred. Marcus? He dissolves into shadow and he’s gone.

My skin prickles up my arms, down my legs. My stomach turns. I should run. Oh—run. But my legs drag like trudging wet sand as I step back, up the path.

It’s my imagination. It has to be. But it feels like a dream creeping up on me anyway. My name whispers again—right at my ear—and every hair on my body lifts. Papa’s voice, I think, my heart shaking, my belly gone cold. I turn, and he’s there down a branch in the path, draped in broken light: oilskin jacket, sou’wester hat dripping wet, face pale—almost white—hand lifted, waving me toward him.

Oh, Papa!

My feet drag me forward, but he’s gone at the first step. My breath catches. Was he really there? But I walk to where he stood, and their voices rise and fall—Papa, then Marcus—louder with every step, speaking my name, again and again. Then, a promise: You can see us again!

Oh—God—I want to. That want pulls me further. I don’t know what’s happening, but the voices tug me along anyway. Beneath them, a chorus of strange syllables bubbles up, whispers chanting—ki-gal-sheh, ki-gal-sheh

Soon I’m past the graves I know, and everything is strange. I’ve never been here. The cobbles give way to dirt; roots snake through the cracks and grass sprouts between. The stones are broken, names corroded, dates worn dull from before the Revolution—seventeen hundreds, sixteen hundreds.

The hills climb steep, and the sunlight dims to dusk through the thick branches. Something shifts ahead—shadow breaking from shadow.

“Papa? Marcus?” My voice cracks, thin and shaky in my chest.

The shifting dark pauses. Figures turn, and vanish. The whispers hush into soft syllables scraping across the ground.

A wooded hill climbs ahead. Rays of light break through the branches and over the ridge, barring a pit of shadow—and in that pit, half-swallowed by the hill, is a stone tomb. Massive. Dark. A mausoleum? A house for the dead?

The stone door towers over me, wide as I am tall. At its center, there’s a carving: an encircled flower with seven petals, each curving to a point, and split along the vein. At the heart lies a symbol made of four wedge-shaped lines crossed like jackstraws.

My feet carry me forward, and the whispers rush in—across the weathered stones, through the willow boughs behind me. A dozen voices, a hundred, maybe a thousand, each repeating the same strange words. They flutter around me like moths, pulling, nudging, calling.

Ki-gal-sheh, ki-gal-sheh, ngesh-tug-zu ki-gal-sheh si.

The stone is warm and damp under my fingers, sweating like skin after a hot bath. I trace the flower, then place both hands on the door and feel a change.

The whispers swell until they fill me—lift me—push something loose in my chest, and it all comes rushing in: Mama’s wet glare shoving me out the door; waking in the classroom with every eye watching; Tommy’s face when I told him no; my broken dreams; the weight of my wish to join the dead.

I shut my eyes and my forehead touches the stone, and it grows warmer still. It hums like a question, and I sigh like an answer.

The stone turns to ice, and I stumble back—tears in my eyes again, hands trembling. My chest squeezes. I want to go home.

But the seven-petaled flower won’t let me. I want to—no, I have to—know what it means. I trace it again, but the shape slips the second I blink. I won’t remember it right. My knees hit the cold soil and I unstrap my books. I pull my pencil, then a folded sheet. On one side, Ganser and the Great war, crossed out—I stop.

Dr. Gewargis’ voice—find me something... interesting.

The light drops as the last spears of sunlight flicker out above and dusk takes the sky.

I shake my head and stand—dry the stone with my sleeve, press the page blank-side out, and rub. My hands shake; the page blurs, but I’ve got it: the flower’s echo.

The air turns bitter; my breath fogs. Darkness is settling in. I’m alone in the cemetery, and I no longer feel safe.

I tuck the rubbing into my jacket, bundle up my books and race back up the path. Ground and bramble blur together, and I flinch at every snap of a branch as I stumble through shadows across the stony fields of the dead.

Owls hoot in the willows, and nighthawks beat invisible-wings above. I duck my head and run faster.

Electric globes burn on bronze posts ahead—yellow and steady. I’m panting, chest shuddering, but that yellow light soothes me.

I want to go home—to the warm stove, to whatever meal Mama made—but the glow of the library windows catches me at the gate, and I stop.

The sky glows dusky purple. I check Papa’s watch—less than two hours before Mama needs me. The rubbing shifts in my pocket, rustling like a thought I can’t quiet, refusing to be forgotten even as my stomach growls.

My thoughts run in circles—what just happened? What was that? Who can I tell?

Who would believe me?

I know who. I rejected him—lied to him. Still… he’ll be there. He said so. And I believe him.

I leave the cemetery. The library rises ahead. But I carry those whispers with me—ki-gal-sheh, ki-gal-sheh—as I run to Tommy Sinclair.

I received a generous comment from on a song I wrote for this story and had the debatably brilliant idea to post the chapter that inspired this song (and was in turn inspired by, it’s reflexive). I’ve gotten into this habit where I wrote lyrics to try and get at the emotional core of a scene or character relationship, often taking the perspective of one of the characters in the scene. Almost every song posted to this publication is related to a scene in The Call of Mammitum (I’m doing the same for The Girl with the Cybernetic Eye but that’s a very different story). The second scene in the chapter is really where the song fits, but I left the first scene in place for context.

The Call of Mammitum: Ch. 12 (Draft 5 Updated)

I don’t have to remind Sarah the next morning—she stops me on my way in like it’s nothing. Voice level, face steady, she says the plan—out loud.

My stomach tightens, but the girls behind her don’t giggle—they stare, and I stare back.

Sarah says she’ll meet me after school at the front steps—so we can walk to the library together.

I nod—face tight—and say, “I look forward to it.”

Oh. But I dread it.

At lunch, I expect the boys to look pleased—until their eyes land on Sarah across the room and something in them goes off.

“So you got her, eh?” Jonah whispers while I poke at the limp beef on my tray.

I nod slow, but the way he says it crawls up my neck. “If you mean I begged her for help—yeah. She’s coming to the library after school.”

“That was almost too easy,” Tommy mutters.

My face flushes. “Too easy?” I snap, voice low. “I walked five miles up Arkham Boulevard, then down to the ruins of Ravenswood behind her house—and now I’ve got blisters all over my feet.”

Neither flinches at my blisters.

“Ravenswood?” Tommy says. “You mean Blackwood’s place?”

“Yeah. It’s just a broken old building. She walks through the maple wood around it.”

I glare at him. “What does it matter? She’s gonna help.”

“We still need to be careful,” Jonah mutters.

I shake my head; my hair swings into my eyes. I blink it away, brush it back, then stand and dump what’s left of my tray in the bin.

I march straight outside, into wind that hits my hot face under the sugar maple—away from their stupid comments and squinty eyes.

Too much.

After school, walking with Sarah is almost as nerve-wracking as lunch with the boys: then their words jabbed; now the silence does—each step louder than it should be.

The sky hangs low and gray, and the air tastes wet—like the clouds might break open any second—turning the red bricks brown in this light.

Sarah floats along the left edge of the walk, and I stick to the right—the space between us wide enough for a whole other person.

We don’t speak; the silence walks between us.

I steal glances when I think she won’t notice, but her face gives me nothing—no twitch, no crack—just forward, forward. She stares straight ahead with her arms folded over her books, tight, like she’s bracing for a fall.

It’s like I’m not even here.

She glides—so quiet. Her soft, custom-made shoes barely make a sound, and the velvet of her dress sways smooth—no swish over her long strides. All that tells me she’s really there is the whiff of lavender talc.

But the silence needles me—for once, I want to talk. I have things to say, and my fingers twitch on the strap across my books, fidgeting just to stay busy.

I run through half a dozen ice breakers in my head, but each one comes out wrong before I even open my mouth—not that I’m good at breaking ice anyway.

Oh—snag. My toe catches and my stomach drops as the sidewalk rushes up—my knees flaring hot, ready to kiss brick. Stumble step, stomp, roll back. I juggle my books and twist a look behind me: one brick sticks up like a tooth.

Heat crawls up my neck as I hustle to catch up. “So clumsy,” I mutter—lips barely moving.

Sarah heard me. “It’s your shoes,” she says—like it’s obvious.

I stop. “What?”

She keeps walking. I jog to catch up, trying to match her pace.

She doesn’t look at me, but she says, “The cobbler did a poor job—your new soles are uneven. The right one isn’t trimmed properly, so it catches on things… like desk legs.”

Her lips pinch. “I tried to tell you the other day—before you ran off.”

My face burns and my hands clench as shame punches through me—because she noticed, and I didn’t.

“Well, you and the other girls started giggling,” I snap. “I thought you were making fun of me.”

Sarah stops and turns, and I skid to a halt.

She lifts an eyebrow and looks down that sharp nose. “I don’t… giggle.”

The eyebrow drops; she turns back to the sidewalk. “And I don’t make fun.”

But… I never did hear her laugh. The others were—eyes cutting sideways—Oh. Not me. Her.

The desk leg screeched on the tile—then came a whisper: “Oh, what’s she gonna say?”

She asked about my shoes—voice flat, measured, exact, like always—and then they laughed: “How weird.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and jog up again.

“I’m sorry,” I call ahead. “I haven’t been very nice to you, have I? I just thought… well, I thought you hated me.”

Sarah whips around; I check myself hard and almost slam into her.

Her brows knit deep. “Never,” she snaps.

Then she straightens and hugs her books to her chest like a shield, and whatever flashed in her eyes goes blank again.

“You… taught me how to fish,” she says with a nod like punctuation.

A laugh jumps out before I can stop it. “What?”

It’s a nervous laugh—a surprised laugh. Oh. I really wish I hadn’t.

Her brow tightens; her eyes narrow. “Fourth grade. Spring.”

Her voice goes sharper—still not cruel, just… exact.

“I saw you sitting alone on the stoop by the door, with your hands out in the air, while all the other children played out in the yard.”

She breathes. “But you looked... happy.”

Her gaze slips somewhere past me as she continues, voice soft—words placed like pins. “I asked what you were doing, and you told me you were fishing. I said that was silly, but you invited me to join. You handed me an invisible rod and showed me how to hold it.”

She shakes her head a little. “I don’t like pretending—never liked playing that way—but I sat there with you, holding out my hands like you showed me. I felt foolish, but then you told me all about fishing in the cove with your father.”

Her eyes brighten, just a little. “And without warning, you jumped up, shouting you’d caught ‘a big one’. I didn’t know what was happening. But there I was, helping you reel in an invisible striped bass.”

Her lip curls gently, and her shoulders settle. “It was so… fun.”

But her voice drops—almost a whisper. “When school started again that Fall, I looked for you. I hoped we could play again. But you were… sad. They told me your father died, and they said I should just leave you alone.”

She looks away. “I didn’t… understand. So I did as they said.”

“And I never saw you fishing on that stoop again.”

My chest tightens until it aches. I shake my head, slow. “I don’t… How do you remember that?”

“I remember everything,” she says.

And just like that—she’s walking again.

But I’m stuck, and her words—sewn like seeds—sprout slow… then bloom all at once.

I did that. I used to play all by myself, pretending the days Papa took me and Marcus out on the little boat—blue, like Mama’s eyes, he said.

Floating in the inlet cove by the harbor, where the water’s calm and the bass bite anything that dangles.

That was our feast for the weekend. I even caught a few myself. Marcus helped me reel them in.

Laughter—mine.

And the yellow-haired girl in the velvet dress—skeptical about my game. Did I even know her name then? She tried to explain there was no water, so no fish. I thought it was funny. I insisted she try.

Laughter—ours.

Then came Summer—that visit from the captain—and Fall turned blurry. People were blurry. Everyone gave me space—distance.

I was ten. Space didn’t help—it just made the rooms feel empty, like being punished and wishing someone would open the door. And I didn’t know how to ask.

No laughter.

I surge up beside Sarah and blurt, “I wish you hadn’t.”

A breath. “Left me alone, I mean.”

She doesn’t answer—and I don’t think she’s going to—but she nods slow, toward the walk ahead.

“Yesterday,” she says, “you walked up a very tall hill, through a very wealthy neighborhood, in very poor shoes—just to find me. You even convinced our housekeeper to show you where I like to… think.”

She swallows. “No one’s ever tried that hard just to talk to me. I didn’t expect it.”

She glances over at me.

“When I saw it was you by the ruins, I was... glad.”

My eyes go hot, but I smile and nod anyway as the knot under my ribs loosens—warm, almost floaty. Maybe we could be friends. Maybe we already were.

Maybe I just forgot how to play with other people.

“So,” I say, nudging her elbow with mine, “any ideas how to fix my shoes?”

“Find a better cobbler.” Dry. But not flat.

“Barring that,” she adds, “have Jonah take a look. He likes to whittle—keeps a knife in his right back pocket.”

“How do you know that?”

“Calluses,” she says. “Upper palm, fore and middle fingers of his right hand. So he does it a lot.”

I grin. “You sound like Sherlock Holmes.”

“You’ve read Doyle?” She lifts an eyebrow at me.

I shrug. “A couple stories from The Memoirs. My aunt’s got it. What about the knife though?”

Sarah’s eyes gleam. “Jonah is fond of tweed and suspenders. He’s worn the same duck-tail trousers for years and—if you hadn’t noticed—” she hooks an eyebrow downward, “they’ve gotten quite... snug.”

Oh—my jaw drops. I clap a hand over my mouth, but a snort still escapes. Heat floods my face.

I have to stop—folded over, one hand on my knee—laughing too hard to breathe; my books slip, and I catch them against my hip.

Breathe. “Ha—oh.” Breathe.

Yes, I have, in fact, noticed.

I catch up again, grinning now—open and toothy. I don’t care; I beam it at the side of her face.

She doesn’t look back, but I catch a tiny curl at the corner of her mouth.

We don’t talk anymore, but the quiet doesn’t bite—and once or twice, velvet grazes my shoulder as we walk side by side, with no gap between us.

Emma Lou and the Orphan’s Gold

A little ditty I whipped up awhile back as a teaching tool, elucidating the Five Commandments of Storytelling. (Lyrics by me, Music by the machines of Suno.com)

[Intro]
Now, here’s a story that’s seldom been told,
about brave Emma Lou and the orphan’s gold.
We’ll see the five commandments play out strong
and figure who wants what and who wins this song

[verse 1]
Rattlin’ down that rocky mountain road
A stagecoach haulin’ through a heavy load
With Eight orphan children, wide-eyed and small,
And gold in the boot meant to feed ’em all.
(ooh-ooh-ooh)

At the reins sat Emma Lou, grit in her jaw
Her eyes sharp ‘n wary of all she saw
That gold was pledged to a mission in need,
For new shoes, warm beds, and mouths to feed.
(ooh-ooh-ooh)

Black Bart stepped into the road. His rifle flashed.
A shot cracked a wheel and the stagecoach crashed.  
The horses reared, screamed, then galloped away.  
Emma Lou leaped up with her rifle aimed.
(ooh-ooh-ooh)

Black Bart strolled up, cocked his head just right,  
“Just give me the gold, girl, don’t give me a fight.”
And that right there’s our inciting incident.
Where wants collide and the stakes get bent.
(ooh-ooh-ooh)

[chorus][backing singers]
Emma Lou, whatcha gonna do with that gold?
Black Bart wants it and he’ll leave you cold.
Do you hand it all over or stand your ground?
Can you keep those children safe and sound?

[verse 2]
Well, Black Bart, he’s the antagonist of our tale,
He wants to take that gold without fuss or fail.
Emma Lou’s our protagonist, and in her head
She wants to keep the gold without any bloodshed.
(ooh-ooh-ooh)

Black Bart’s gonna give her complications
each of them escalates the situation
The kids started crying, still trapped inside
Bart gave them a glance and smiled big and wide.
(ooh-ooh-ooh)

“You make me shoot, I’ll hit those kids” He spit.
“You won’t get the chance,” she growled, “Now git.”
A crack as hooves raced down the canyon wide.
Four more riders there at the mountainside.
(ooh-ooh-ooh)

“You got the high ground,” Bart nodded slow,
“But we got numbers, and that’s how it’ll go.”
And this right here makes our heroine stall 
The turning point where she can’t have it all
(ooh-ooh-ooh)

[chorus][backing singers]
Emma Lou, whatcha gonna do with that gold?
Black Bart wants it and he’ll leave you cold.
Do you hand it all over or stand your ground?
Can you keep those children safe and sound?

[bridge]
Now every scene, if it’s told just right,  
Should turn on a choice and end in a fight.  
Not fists and fire, but values in play,  
Where someone gives somethin’ important away.

A scene ain’t just what the people say.  
It’s what they want, and what’s in their way.  
So ask yourself each time you write:  
Who wins, who loses, and why that fight?

[verse]
Now Emma Lou stood with her boots dug deep,
Eyes on the kids, who’d begun to weep.
Behind her Bart’s men fanned out and grew bold.
In front of her: orphans, a mission, and gold.
(ooh-ooh-ooh)

She could shoot it out and most likely die,
Or give up the gold, and let her honor lie.
That’s Emma Lou’s crisis: two paths, both steep.
To give him the gold or to bury ‘em deep.
(ooh-ooh-ooh)

She held fast the rifle, eased off to the boot.
She lifted the tarp and took hold of the loot.
With a grunt, she hurled that heavy old sack,
It hit the dirt with a tinkle and a crack.
(ooh-ooh-ooh)

That right there’s Emma Lou’s climax action.  
A hard choice gives the reader satisfaction
Will Black Bart keep up his end of the bargain?
Leave them alone and ride back up the mountain
(ooh-ooh-ooh)

[chorus][backing singers]
Emma Lou, whatcha gonna do with that gold?
Black Bart wants it and he’ll leave you cold.
Do you hand it all over or stand your ground?
Can you keep those children safe and sound?

[outro]
“Leave ‘em your water, boys. It’s whiskey tonight.”
They left five skins and rode straight out of sight.
And that’s our resolution, plain and dry.
Bart got the gold, no need to lie.
So who won the scene, you surely ask?
Bart took the prize and dodged the task.
Emma Lou lost. But saved all of their lives,
And sometimes that’s how a hero survives.
(ooh-ooh-ooh)

Emma Lou, whatcha gonna do with that gold?
Black Bart wants it and he’ll leave you cold.
Do you hand it all over or stand your ground?
Can you keep those children safe and sound?

[end]

Editor’s Ten Question Protocol

1. Who is the antagonist?

Black Bart

2. Who is the protagonist?

Emma Lou

3. What does the antagonist want?

The gold in the stagecoach

4. What is the Inciting Incident of antagonistic demand on the protagonist?

Black Bart attacks the stagecoach

5. What does the protagonist want?

To keep the gold without harming the children

6. What is the Turning Point?

Black Bart’s posse arrives (New Method: “You won’t get the chance,” she growled, “Now git.”)

7. What is the Crisis?

Give Black Bart the gold to prevent a shootout that could harm the children, or keep the gold and risk their lives in a gunfight?

8. What is the Climax action the protagonist takes?

Emma Lou gives Black Bart the gold.

9. What is the Resolution, how does the antagonist respond the the protagonist climactic action?

Black Bart and his posse leave water behind.

10. Who won the scene?

Black Bart

This was the song that got me into the whole “writing lyrics to get at the emotional value in my story events” thing, but it’s also the shortest and so I tweaked the grammar on the Kreyòl and structured for extended play. I also rendered it on the newer Suno model v5 so it’s a bit better on the duet side. (Original - Full Playlist)

Fwa Twa Ou Kriye (EP)

[Intro]
Mm mm hmm mm mm hmm
mm mm mm mm hmm
mm mm mm mm mm hmm
mm mm hmm mm hmm

[Verse 1 - Kreyòl]
[Man] Ti limyè mwen, premye fwa ou te kriye
Mwen te ba ou kè mwen pou w jwe avè l
[Girl] Ti limyè mwen, dezyèm fwa ou te kriye
Mwen ba ou zepòl mwen pou m siye je w
[Duet] Ti limyè mwen, twazyèm fwa ou te kriye
Mwen te ba ou men m pou m kite w ale
Mwen kite w ale

[Chorus - Humming]
Mm mm hmm mm mm hmm
mm mm mm mm hmm
mm mm mm mm mm hmm
mm mm hmm mm hmm

[Verse 2 - English]
[Girl] Little light of mine, the first time you cried
I gave you my heart for you to play
[Man] Little light of mine, the second time you cried
I gave you my shoulder to dry your eyes
[Duet] Little light of mine, the third time you cried
I gave you my hand to let you go
I let you go-o-o
I let you go

[Chorus - Humming]
Mm mm hmm mm mm hmm
mm mm mm mm hmm
mm mm mm mm mm hmm
mm mm hmm mm hmm

[interlude]

[Bridge]
Ti limyè mwen, premye fwa ou te kriye (Mm mm hmm mm mm hmm | mm mm mm mm hmm)
Mwen te ba ou kè mwen pou w jwe avè l (mm mm mm mm mm hmm | mm mm hmm mm hmm)

Ti limyè mwen, dezyèm fwa ou te kriye (Mm mm hmm mm mm hmm | mm mm mm mm hmm)
Mwen ba ou zepòl mwen pou m siye je w (mm mm mm hmm | mm mm hmm hmm)

Ti limyè mwen, twazyèm fwa ou te kriye (Mm mm hmm mm mm hmm | mm mm mm mm hmm)
Mwen te ba ou men m pou m kite w ale (mm mm mm hmm | mm mm hmm hmm)

[Chorus - Hook][Duet]
Mwen kite w ale
Mwen kite w ale
Mwen kite w ale
I let you go-o-o
I let you go-o-o
I let you go

[Outro]
Mm mm hmm mm mm hmm
mm mm mm mm hmm
mm mm mm mm mm hmm
mm mm hmm mm hmm
Mwen kite w ale

Here is my attempt to write the Compromising Position Scene. I ask my students in the Story Grid Writer Mentorship program to write this scene, so I figure I should be able to do it myself so I know how to explain it.

The Constraints

Scene Type: Status

Word Count: 800

Mentor Dials:

• POV: 1st or 3rd Person (Strict)

• Tense: Past

• Setting: Confined space

• Dialogue: 80% Dialogue

Focus:

• Writing clear status dynamics through language and behavior

• Sustaining verbal tension across a single location

• Managing power shifts without physical action

The Gist

The Compromising Position Scene develops your ability to dramatize social conflict and group dynamics while exploring the tension between individual desires and group acceptance. This scene type teaches you how to show internal conflict through external behavior and social consequences.

Outline:

• Inciting Incident: Protagonist is discovered doing something disapproved of by the group

• Crisis: Status Dilemma

• Climax: The Protagonist gives into the group or stands their ground

This scene forces you to understand how social pressure creates real stakes without life-or-death consequences. You’ll learn to show shame, defiance, and moral conflict through actions and group reactions rather than internal narration. The challenge is making the group’s disapproval feel genuinely threatening and the protagonist’s choice meaningful. You’ll practice using setting details and character beats to reinforce the social dynamics at play. This scene type reveals how status and belonging drive human behavior, giving you tools to create compelling interpersonal drama. (Source: Story Grid)

Let’s Have At It Shall We?

Francine stopped by the trophy case and itched where the compression sock bunched up at her kneepit. Her own face smiled back at her from the row of small trophies on the shelf in front of her. Her photo was mounted on all but the last three, where a younger woman smiled with perfect teeth and angelic cheekbones. Francine huffed, pulled her handbag over her shoulder and marched on.

Glancing left and right, she slipped through a side door into a dim room lit by emergency lights. She eased the door shut, turning back the handle; the latch clicked quiet.

Dozens of slow cookers hummed along two folding tables, and Francine tiptoed between them, checking each nametag. She stopped at a cooker with a blue display, set the lid to the side, and pulled a dropper bottle from her handbag. She opened it and poured a glug of liquid into the crock.

She was stirring the glop with a ladle when the door clacked shut and her eyes popped wide.

“Hello? Who—Francine? What are you doing in here?” A woman asked.

Francine squeezed her eyes shut, bit her lips, and set the ladle down. With a breath, she put on a smile and turned.

“Oh, Martha! I’m just giving these a stir. They’ve been warming for hours, and nobody likes burnt chili.”

Martha crossed her arms over a clipboard. “You know contestants aren’t allowed back here. You practically wrote the rulebook.”

Francine clutched her handbag to her chest. “Oh, I know. I just want everything to go off without a hitch. You know how I love this contest.”

Martha hooked an eyebrow and sauntered closer. “And why did you start with Hillary Putnam’s chili over the others?”

Francine’s eyes popped. “Oh, is this hers?” She turned and squinted at the nametag. “I can hardly read in this light. I went for the fanciest cooker; you know some of these newer models like to run hot.”

“Mm-hmm, and what’s this?” Martha reached for the open bottle on the table.

Francine snatched it first. “Oh, nothing, just medicine for this toothache I’ve been having.”

Martha picked up the dropper and sniffed, recoiled, dropped her jaw and scrunched her nose. “Francine! Is this... quinine?”

Francine’s lip trembled; her mouth opened and shut as Martha leaned over the crock, sniffing.

She looked up slowly—brow pinched and nostrils flared. “Francine Waterbury—queen of the PTO, president since before half the kids in this school were even born—sabotaging the Homecoming chili cook-off?”

Francine set the bottle back on the table and collapsed onto its bench. Her shoulders fell, and she cradled her face in her hands. “Oh. What am I doing? It’s just... It’s been ten years since Frankie and Frederick graduated. I’ve been holding on to this position because the house just feels so empty without them.”

Hands to her lap, she looked up at Martha. “And Hillary... well, she’s next, isn’t she? She’s the next queen of the PTO. I’ll be out, with nothing to do, hoping my kids maybe call on the weekends.” She shook her head, hands planted on the bench. “I wanted one last win, Martha. One last trophy on that shelf before the name Francine Waterbury disappears from the rosters. But Hillary’s just better at everything. So, I figured she could stand one year of bitter chili.”

Martha huffed and shook her head. “Bitter? Francine, that much quinine could have made everyone sick.”

Francine covered her face again. “I’m sorry.”

Martha let out a long breath. “Here is what you’re going to do: apologize to Hillary, and withdraw from the contest. Tell everyone that sob story of yours, and maybe you’ll still be on the ballot come May.”

Francine’s head shakes. “No, no. I can fix it. Just... we can dump hers out and pour mine in. It’s just chili; no one can really tell the difference. Nobody has to know; I’ll say I spilled mine—”

Martha snapped, “I won’t be your co-conspirator. I am telling the judges what happened, no matter what. You still want to be the queen? Then go handle it like a queen.”

Francine squeezed her eyes and shook her head. Her eyes opened wet but crinkled; her lips pulled taut against her teeth. She stomped away to a cooker with a melted knob; ripped the cord from the power strip; hauled it up and stormed back to Martha. “You know what? You all were going to toss me out next year anyway. So here, I’m withdrawing my entry in this stupid contest. You do what you have to do. I’ll email my resignation in the morning.”

Martha held the door open as Francine juggled six quarts of hot chili.

“Don’t forget this, Your Majesty.” Martha dropped the bottle into Francine’s handbag.

Eleven Question Protocol

1. What are the forces of Antagonism?

Martha Keene and the Uptown High PTO

2. Who is the Protagonist?

Francine Waterbury

3. What do the forces of Antagonism want the Protagonist to do?

Apologize to Hillary Putnam for ruining her chili and voluntarily withdraw from the contest.

4. What does the Protagonist want to do?

Francine wants to get away with trying to sabotage the contest without having to apologize to Hillary Putnam and face her peers after what she did.

5. What is the 1 emotion the reader will experience?

Shame

6. What is the Inciting Incident?

“Francine? What are you doing back here? You know contestants aren’t allowed in the warming room.”

7. What is Turning Point?

Francine’s head shakes. “No, no. I can fix it. Just... we can dump hers out and pour mine in. It’s just chili; no one can really tell the difference. Nobody has to know; I’ll say I spilled mine—”

8. What is the Crisis

Francine has a best bad choice: She can agree to apologize to Hillary and withdraw from the contest, leaving her position as president tenuous come May elections or she can just quit, losing her last connection to the school her children went to.

9. What is the Climax

Francine yanks her crock from the table and storms out of the room.

10. What is the Resolution?

Martha says, “Don’t forget this.” And hands her the bottle of Quinine.

11. Who won the scene?

Martha and the PTO.

Lyrics Copyright Justin Zimmer 2025. Music copyright who the hell knows? (Generated by SUNO.com).

Freedom in the Dark

Full Playlist

[intro]
(oh-ah-oh, oh-ah-oh)
I hear them calling
From that house whence none return
It’s all my fault
What’s left here for me now?
If I follow
I see freedom in the dark

[breakdown]
I have a choice
I can make it right
If I descend, 
I can see them all again.

[chorus]
I don’t know
what to do
don’t wanna be alone here now

I’ll go there
Won’t let them
dwell alone in darkness

All this pain
It won’t end
Is there freedom in the dark?

[interlude]
(oh-ah-oh, oh-ah-oh)
(I see freedom in the dark)

[bridge][call and response]
Go where there’s no pain (no joy)
Where there’s no despair (no hope)
No hate (no love)
They wait for me there 
(But Mama waits at home)

[bass drop]
(oh-ah-oh, oh-ah-oh)

[verse]
I see your face
it’s ashen and unclean
I’m not there,
Who’s left to hold you now?
If I leave
who’ll be the one to bury you?

[breakdown]
You give me so much, 
and ask for nothing
If I die here now
You’ll be the one to bury me

[chorus]
a casket
and church bells
all black suits and black dresses

Each stranger
Handing out 
insincere condolences

All your love
Forsaken 
For my freedom in the dark

[verse]
In my grief
I took your love for granted, 
but now I see
no matter how this hurts me
I can’t leave you 
alone in the winter of life

[breakdown]
Mama, I’m coming 
Home now, I’m running
away from the dark
I won’t let you bury me!

[chorus]
I’ll come home
stay with you
we can let the whole world burn

I don’t care
I want to 
Hold you til the end of days

Oh Mama
I’m coming
I see no freedom in the dark!

[break]

[outro]
(oh-ah-oh, oh-ah-oh)
Mama, I’m running home
I won’t let you worry
I won’t let you be alone
I won’t 
let you 
bury me
(I see no freedom in the dark.)

I. Am. The. Ant. Agon. Ist

A little ditty I whipped up in response to ‘s challenge that we, as novelist’s are the antagonist’s of the heroes in our story. Just don’t ask what an invisible phere gorilla is. We don’t talk about that anymore. Say it with me: I. Am. The. Ant. Agon. Ist! (Lyrics by me, Reggae beats by the machines of Suno.com)

[intro]
I
Am
Say it wit’ me
I am
Yes, I am
I am the
ANT, AGOH, NIST
ANT, ANT, AGOH, NIST
See me coming out the mist
I am the antagonist.

[verse]
I’m cruel, I’m a sadist
I’m a serial anarchist
I’m your invisible phere gorilla
Throw boomerangs out the corna’
of your eye, you can’t catch ‘em
My heroes dreams I be crashin’
Dishin’ out those complications
rampin’ up that thrill sensation
At the turning point I gonna make you choose
You reach a crisis: Want cake? Nah, can’t eat it too
Show me what your made of with your climax action
If the choice ain’t hard then there’s no satisfaction
I’m here to give you resolution
Take your risks, expect no absolution
Some people just call me a novelist
but to you, HELLO! I am the antagonist.

[chorus]
ANT, AGOH, NIST
ANT, ANT, AGOH, NIST
I. AM. THE. ANT. AGOH. NIST
See me coming out the mist
I AM THE ANTAGONIST

[outro]
Gonna give you such a hard time
Gonna make you walk the hard line
It’s my job to make you better
Gotta make you show character
Don’t blame me, I hope you get the gist
I’m here to be your antagonist
(ANT, AGOH, NIST, ANT, ANT, AGOH, NIST)
(I AM THE ANTAGONIST)
[end]

I’m impatient, so I skipped ahead to the Take a Chance on Me scene. I’ll go back and do Assignment 2 later (rewrite the 2nd person chase scene in 1st person with more words and some dialogue). I got this idea in my head when discussing the scene with my colleagues and wanted to jump on it. Here’s how that went (498 words).

Assignment 3: The "Take a Chance on Me" Scene (Round 1)

Scene Type: Love

Word Count: 500

Mentor Dials:

• POV: 1st Person Strict

• Tense: Present

• Balanced mix of Dialogue and Physical Action

• Setting: Performing a physical task (e.g., washing dishes, walking)

Focus:

• Introducing trust stakes and subtle emotional tension

• Integrating physical activity with early-stage dialogue

• Testing ability to keep momentum in a grounded, everyday setting

At the bottom of this scene are the ten editor protocol questions we apply to scenes to validate or plan our scenes to determine whether they work or not.

And of course, the audio drama.

Feed the Pigs

Bridget runs shears along the black plastic. I tug it open. Together, we grab one side and roll the dead man onto the tarp. A squeal echoes from the pigpen behind us.

Bridget's blue overalls are crisp and clean. She tightens her gloves. Grabs the sawzall and gives it a whir.

I reach out and tuck a blonde curl behind her face shield. "There, before things get messy." Her blue eyes sparkle. She looks away and kneels at the man's shoulder.

I clear my throat. "Hey, only one today. What say we hit Jambee's after this? I'm buying."

"Huh?" She glances up, and then down. "Hey, straighten this arm."

The man's arms are curled tight. I wrench at the elbow. Pop! It gives. She cuts it away from the armpit.

"Jambee's. Let's go grab a drink. Just you and me." I shout.

She's cutting through the other arm. Stops the saw. Looks at me.
"Like... a date, John?"

I toss the arms into the wheelbarrow as blood sluices down the plastic.

"Sure, why not? We've been doing this together, what, five years now?"

She shuffles on her knees to the waist. Cuts through the left femur.

"Yeah, and we have a great working relationship. You wanna ruin that by fraternizing?"

The leg rolls away; she hops over to the right.

I fold it into the wheelbarrow.

"Well, no, I mean, we're great business partners. But I think we could be even better life partners."

She cuts through the other leg. Shakes her head.

"John, jobs like ours... let's just say the exit interviews are a bitch. I don't want things to get messy."

I lay the leg next to its partner.

"Hey, if shit gets weird, I'll just transfer to shakedowns. Don says there's an opening since Julio got pinched."

I lean down and grab the head by the topknot, lift, steady it in my other hand. Bridget slides the blade under the neck and cuts up. Wincing as she rocks through the vertebrae.

"But I like what we have. You go off with Don and I'll never see you." She hollers.

My lips curl up. "So, you're saying you'd miss me."

The blade shreds through the throat. Blood spatters my shield. I stand with the head.

She stands and cradles the saw, frowning. "Oh! Of course I would, you idiot."

"Then let's see more of each other. Come on. Go out with me. Just tonight. A free trial—no credit card required. If we don't have any fun, I swear I'll never bring it up again." I nod at the head. "Life's short, you know?"

Bridget puffs through her teeth. Shakes her head. Her fingers toy with the saw's trigger lock.

She turns it and hands it to me. "Oh, alright. But I buy the second round. We're partners, remember?"

I grin, taking the saw in one hand. "Great." I toss a hook shot with the other. The head drops into the wheelbarrow. "You can feed the pigs."

Editor's Protocol

Who is the Antagonist? John

Who is the Protagonist? Bridget

What does the Antagonist want? Bridget to agree to grab a drink with him.

What does the Protagonist want? To keep things professional

What is the Inciting Incident? I clear my throat. "Hey, only one today. What say we hit Jambee's after this? I'm buying."

What is the Turning Point? "...If we don't have any fun, I swear I'll never bring it up again." I nod at the head. "Life's short, you know?"

What is the Crisis? Does Bridget go out with John, risking their great working relationship or reject him now and preserve their professionalism.

What is the Climax? "Oh, alright. But I buy the second round. We're partners, remember?"

What is the Resolution? I grin, taking the saw in one hand. "Great." I toss a hook shot with the other. The head drops into the wheelbarrow. "You can feed the pigs."

Who won the scene? John

I wrote a rap about chicken sandwiches. Had Suno render it old school.

Chicken Sandwich

[Clucking Intro]
There's a special little treat in town 
Made from the sweetest little loins around
Season it, soak it, batter it and coat it
A hundred forty thousand birds a minute 
Butchered to make tenders for the drooling masses
Contributing to heart disease and size large asses
Screw all the ecological damage
Just make me a god damned chicken sandwich!

[Bass drop][chicken sounds]
*Cluck cluck cluck*

[verse][rapping]
I want a tasty snack: fried, salty, juicy, dreamy
But eating a dozen doesn't feel quite seemly
I can pack away those little mother cluckers
But those whipped meat discs are made for suckers
Shove 'em in my mouth oh so easy
Wanna smother those breasts with American cheesy
Or maybe leave it plain with a little pickle
Mmmm that tang-y bite gives me a tickle
lay that sauce on thick and drizzly
the smell of that grease makes me gay and giggly 
Served hot in a basket of fresh fried taters
If there's no special sauce then see you later
I haven't eaten since breakfast and I feel so famished
Oh please, just gimme that chicken sandwich

[Chorus][female vocal]
(It's so good!) Toast them buns
(So damn good!) Slap that cheese
(I wanna taste it!) Gimme, Gimme some more please 
Spread that sauce (Nice and thick!)
(Oh please!) I wanna taste that Chicken sandwich!

[Verse][rapping]
See, now ya gone and done it
better get that fry cook on it
I like 'em plain and I like 'em spicy
But those round patties are a little dicey
I Want the real thing even though it's pricey
So I'm gonna hafta ask you nicely
You own the fryer so you've got the leverage 
but can I get a complimentary beverage? 
Sauce 'em, bread 'em, cheese 'em then plate 'em
Young man I'm here to give an ultimatum 
Screw all the ecological damage 
Just gimme that God damn chicken sandwich!

[Chorus][female vocal]
(It's so good!) Toast them buns
(So damn good!) Slap that cheese
(I wanna taste it!) Gimme, Gimme some more please 
Spread that sauce (Nice and thick!)
(Oh please!) I wanna taste that Chicken sandwich!

[verse][rapping]
For breakfast I'll eat it on a waffle
During a shortage there'll be a kerfuffle 
Come on fool, ya wanna shuffle? 
When the sandwiches run out it's quite a scuffle
During Oktoberfest I eat 'em on a pretzel 
I don't really give a schnitzel 
But if the sauce on my chicken doesn't drip drip drip
Someone ain't gettin' my tip
Give me holy chicken and your name I'll be blessin'
But mess it up and I'll teach you a lesson
Did I bite your finger? Better get a bandage
I told you not to touch my effin' chicken sandwich!

[Chorus][female vocal]
(It's so good!) Toast them buns
(So damn good!) Slap that cheese
(I wanna taste it!) Gimme, Gimme some more please 
Spread that sauce (Nice and thick!)
(Oh please!) I wanna taste that Chicken sandwich!

[clucking interlude]
*Cluck cluck cluck*

[Outro]
So fry them mother cluckers up just right
I wanna have a feast tonight 
Give 'em to me hot, gonna dip 'em in ranch
Give me that God damn Chicken sandwich.
*Cluck cluck cluck*
[End]

My last attempt at the chase scene focused more on creating a humorous story than following the constraints set out by the Story Grid Writer’s Mentorship Program™. It was 500 words, it was in second person, present tense. But I didn’t adhere to the showing only principle and the stakes weren’t quite life or death. So, I gave it another go. Here is how that went.

Assignment 1: The Chase Scene (Round 1)

Scene Type: Action
Word Count: 500
Mentor Dials:

• POV: 2nd Person

• Tense: Present

• Dialogue: None

• Setting: Changing Physical Domain

Focus:

• Physical-only storytelling using the five senses

• Enforcing strict "showing only" (no thoughts, no emotions)

• Testing ability to structure a scene with clear Five Commandments

At the bottom of this scene are the ten editor protocol questions we apply to scenes to validate or plan our scenes to determine whether they work or not.

And I also had Suno turn it into an audio drama. That was fun.

Fun with Tentacles

Sump-sump-sump-sump.

Water sinks below the grate.
The light turns green.
Thunk-hiss-whir.
The airlock door rolls open.
You step through.

Bluish bars of light flicker overhead. Chairs and tables lay tossed about.

A red smear scars the white wall ahead.
Half a body lies where the bloody arc ends—legs curled into a dim corridor.

You pull out your sidearm.
Flick the safety.
The barrel whines: yellow.
One. Two. Three.
Stops: green.

You enter the corridor.

Shoof. Behind you.
Spin. Aim.

Nothing.

Turn again.

Shoof.

Back around. Slowly, you approach the hatch.
Step. Step. Bump.
Your muzzle hits something firm.
The room dissolves into a mottle of red and black.
A giant eye opens.

Clatter! From behind.
Backpedal to the wall.
A vent cover on the deck.

A tentacle whips down.
It coils and probes.
You leap to the side and run.

Shoooooof!
Behind you, the octopus squeezes through.
Its beak snaps a meter away.

You duck left through an open hatch.
Your helmet casts a halo across the dark.
Tipped tables. Shattered glass. Chunks of bodies in pools of blood.

Tentacles probe the hatch. One knocks a table aside; pulls a bloody chunk into the snapping beak.

You edge along the wall to the farside hatch.
Tap the panel. Whir-thunk. It rolls.

Tentacles shiver. Lurch in.

You bolt down the corridor.

A tentacle slaps the grate ahead.
You jump; catch your boot.

Stumble. Roll. Stand. Fire.
Plink! A spark.

It's gone.

The vent above: open, its cover on the deck.

Whine: yellow.
Silence: green.

You backpedal, aiming at the vents.
Tap the hatch at the far end. It rolls open.

Inside, you sweep your light: a window on the opposite wall; a submersible glows through it: docked on the airlock beyond the hatch to the left.

A man stares from the floor beside it.
Missing a leg.
You step up. He shakes his head.
You tap the panel.
The hatch rolls.

A tentacle flings you against the window. Crack!
You shake your head.
The one-legged man screams.
A tentacle lifts him.
Snap!
Silence.

The beak pushes into the room.

You bolt for the other hatch, but tentacles swarm over it.
The mottled mass follows them.
You backpedal into the corner.

The beak snaps. Snaps. SNAPS!
Closer. Toothy tongue rasping.
A massive eye rises above.

You aim. Shoot. Thwup!
The eye blinks. The bullet tinks onto the deck.

Whine: yellow.
Stops: green.

The black eye reflects dimly in the glass.

A tentacle whips overhead.
You duck and shoot again.

A spear of water pierces the eye.

The octopus flails. Mantle torn, beak splintered.

Yellow. Green.

You dive into the gash as spiderwebs bloom in the glass.

Slick darkness.
Tugging. Reaching.
You fire again.
Clamber toward the light.
Grab, rip, shimmy.
Fall to the deck.

Tentacles writhe through behind you.

CRASH!

The window gives.
Water slams into you.

You scramble to the airlock.
Pull the latch. Squeeze inside.
Water floods in. Tentacles whip.
Whir-hiss-thunk. The door closes.

Sump-sump-sump-sump.
The light turns red.

Editor's Protocol

Who is the Antagonist? Giant Octopus

Who is the Protagonist? You

What does the Antagonist want? To eat you

What does the Protagonist want? To not be eaten

What is the Inciting Incident? After entering the lab, you see a giant eye and a tentacle reaches for you.

What is the Turning Point? You're trapped in a dead end module and the squid's beak is snapping through the hatch.

What is the Crisis? Do you shoot the window and risk catastrophic compression or jump into the octopus's mouth and blast your way out, risking slow digestion.

What is the Climax? You shoot a hole in the window creating a spear of water that cuts through the octopus. You leap into the gash and blow your way through the back of it's mantle.

What is the Resolution? The octopus is cut up by the water stream and can't follow.

Who won the scene? You

As a mentor for the Story Grid Writer Mentorship program, I have to assign constrained scene assignments to my students to help them grow as a writer. Of course, some constraints make writer’s nervous and I want to be sure I’m able to perform the tasks I’m asking of them. So, I tackled the first assignment of the program this week using the following constraints:

Assignment 1: The Chase Scene (Round 1)

Scene Type: Action
Word Count: 500
Mentor Dials:

• POV: 2nd Person

• Tense: Present

• Dialogue: None

• Setting: Changing Physical Domain

Focus:

• Physical-only storytelling using the five senses

• Enforcing strict "showing only" (no thoughts, no emotions)

• Testing ability to structure a scene with clear Five Commandments

At the bottom of this scene are the ten editor protocol questions we apply to scenes to validate or plan our scenes to determine whether they work or not. I decided to have fun with this one. According to my word counter, it’s exactly 500 words. Then, for fun, I set it to music via Suno.com (audio below).

Banana Commando

The nice Jewish lady stands and you turn from the table.
The usher pulls the tape taut across the gap behind you.
Click—it locks into the post.

Look down: Wonder Woman smolders over a silver scribble and loopy heart.

You grin. And Sigh.

Look up: there's a giant banana.
His eyes flick to the autograph.
His mouth puckers. His fists strain white.

You nod, smile quivering. Step into the hall.
All around: costumes swish, chatter rises.
Trails of spicy beef waft from a burrito stand nearby.

You glance at the menu.
A flash of yellow catches your eye.

The banana is behind you.

Faster.
You stumble into the crowd.

Grunts and curses trail behind as your turtle shell jostles shoulders.

You look back: the banana is gaining.

Quick!
You veer into a forest of furries.
Rayon foxes. Downy dragons.
You slip through.

Pop!
Into the expo room, spitting out pink fur.
Right, passing booths: indie comics, action figures, Funko Pop!
Left. Another right.
Stop.

A Harley Quinn contest.
Fishnets. Leather shorts. Babydoll t-shirts riding up over their—

Oh! Yellow in your periphery.
You turn. The banana is there.
Stiff.
Staring.
You both watch Quinns strike poses.

One.
Two.
Three.

You bolt. He follows.

You bump Wolverine in a wife beater.
He shoves you into a band of Teletubbies.
They toss you aside.
They smell like cheap cigars and astroglide.

The banana reaches and grabs.

You yank the autograph back.
Roll onto the seafoam carpet under hopping legs.
You leap up.
Step. Stomp. Run!

Weave through Avengers.
Shuffle between xenomorph Marge Simpson and Warhammer Santa Claus.

Burst into the main hall. It's packed.
At the far end: elevators.

Crash!
Behind you, the banana slams a gaggle of Gryffindors.
Broomsticks fly everywhere.

You run.

Traipse around Teen Titans. Dodge daleks.
Genuflect slide under Gandalf on stilts.
Stop!

Deadpool in a top hat blocks your path.

Veer left: he's there.
Veer right: still there.

Left. Right.
He kick dances, cane swinging,
Like Michael Flatley with a shillelagh.

You bellow a barbaric yawp, arms flailing.

Deadpool screams.
You charge forward.
Shove him aside with your polylactic shell.

Trip! Your legs fly out. Thud! Onto your butt.

Deadpool hat-tips; struts away, cane twirling.

Yellow felt blazes toward you. The banana pushes and shoves.
You scoot back and back and Ding!

Shubba-shubba-shubba-shub-shub-shhh…

The elevator opens.

You dive in. Jam the button.

Tchik-tuh—FIVE lights up.

The banana approaches, eyes glinting, teeth flashing.

Chika-chika-chika-chunk!
You hammer CLOSE.

The door closes and closes and his eyes peer through the gap that closes and closes and stop! Fingers in the gap.

The doors open.

The banana stomps in.

You clutch the photo to your chest. He holds out his hand. You shake your head.
Again the door closes and closes. Your rubber suit squeaks down the wall.

You roll.

Spin.

Between his legs.

Wince! Ooh. Banana commando!

You kick off the wall and slide through the door, green feet tucked.

The door pinches shut over the banana's glare.

Editor's Protocol

Who is the Antagonist? The Banana

Who is the Protagonist? The Turtle

What does the Antagonist want? The signed photo of Gal Gadot

What does the Protagonist want? To keep the signed photo of Gal Gadot

What is the Inciting Incident? The Banana man looks at the signed photo and charges.

What is the Turning Point? The elevator doors are closing you in with the banana.

What is the Crisis? Give him the photo or duck and run

What is the Climax? Duck and run

What is the Resolution? Banana glares.

Who won the scene? Turtle

Lyrics Copyright Justin Zimmer 2025. Music copyright who the hell knows? (Generated by SUNO.com).

Today of all Days (Monday)

Full Playlist

[intro]
oh-ay, aaaah-ooh-ay
oh-ay, aaaah-ooh-ooh-ay

[verse 1]
We pass each other, flying by. 
Touching, but never connecting
I need you by my side
I need to tell you about my day
Can you just sit here a moment?
Please don't rush
I need you to stay

[pre-chorus]
oh-ay, aaaah-ooh-ay
oh-ay, aaaah-ooh-ooh-ay
What do you remember?

[chorus]
We don't tryyyy to feel
We just cryyyy on our own
I wish weeee could just talk about them
I don't want to be alone
today of all days.

[interlude]
(oh-ay, aaaah-ooh-ay)
(oh-ay, aaaah-ooh-ooh-ay)

[verse 2]
This life is way too hard
I hate seeing you broken
You always protect me
please don't spare me your tears.
All you give to me, 
why can't you take from me
Everything I want to give

[pre-chorus]
oh-ay, aaaah-ooh-ay
oh-ay, aaaah-ooh-ooh-ay
Please, talk to me

[chorus]
We don't tryyyy to feel
We just cryyyy on our own
I wish weeee could just talk about them
I don't want to be alone
today of all days.

[post-chorus]
oh-ay, aaaah-ooh-ay
oh-ay, aaaah-ooh-ooh-ay
today of all days.

[bridge]
(oh-ay, aaaah-ooh-ay)
Mama, please don't go
Can't handle this day
Got so much to talk about
I want you to stay
If they were still here.
Tell me, what would you say?
We can feel this together.
We're two halves of the same pain
(oh-ay, aaaah-ooh-ooh-ay)

[chorus]
We don't tryyyy to feel
We just cryyyy on our own
I wish weeee could just talk about them
I don't want to be alone.
Why can't we tryyyy to heal
We shouldn't cryyyy on our own
I just neeeed to talk to you
I don't want to grieve alone
When will we tryyyy to feel
I'm tired of cryyyying alone.
I neeeed you to talk to me
I don't wanna miss them on my own
today of all days.

[interlude]
(oh-ay, aaaah-ooh-ay)
(oh-ay, aaaah-ooh-ooh-ay)

[slow outro][spoken word]
Mama, don't go.
Can we talk?
I have something to say.
Can you just sit here a moment?
Please don't rush
Today
of all days.
(oh-ay, aaaah-ooh-ay)
(oh-ay, aaaah-ooh-ooh-ay)
[end]

The Shadow's Lament (Never Gonna Die)

Lyrics by Justin Zimmer, music by Suno - Full Playlist

[classical intro][operatic]
Cruel fate took everything I love from me
My boys, my little girl, death stole them away
In the night, their mother, she haunts my dreams
Her lips as blue as when I found her that day

I'd give anything to hold them in my arms
I'd burn this world for a moment of their touch
But when they stood there in that door, I saw the lie
Now I swear that I'm never, no, I'm never gonna die

[bass drop][menacing]
(Ha ha ha ha ha)

[verse 1][rapping]
kigalšè, kigalšè, ŋeštugzu kigalšè si
In the cemetery, the whispers calling me
they soothe me, their promises tempt me 
I answer the call but the promise is empty 
Mammitum shows me my sons, she shows me my girl
She shows me their mother, the love of my world
They're colorless, and lifeless, they can't even speak 
Their eyes sightless, no brightness, bodies sullen and weak 
I'm petrified, and terrified I don't know what to say
The goddess lied, I've been denied, it shouldn't be this way
Death is farce, death is evil, death is a lie
I tell you I'm never, no, I'm never gonna die
(Ha ha ha ha ha)

[classical chorus][operatic]
Death is a demon, he takes all that we seek
Death is a curse, made by the gods to make men weak
Death is the foe we must battle through and through
Death is for man to conquer, and that's just what I'll do

[verse 2][rapping]
Then they trapped me, they cursed me, they put me in chains
I called them my friends, but now I'm betrayed.
A century imprisoned in a cage of stone
Trapped with my hatred, my anger, alone
I have to break free, I need a life for a life
Hear a young girl's dreams, tragic with strife
crying for her daddy, crying for big brother
So weak and sad, easy to reach out and smother
(Ha ha ha ha ha)
I can break into her dreams and make them nightmares
I can break her down until she hears the whispers
She'll hate herself and take herself to that door of stone
She'll heed the call, forsake it all for the great below
I'll break her heart, I'll shatter her mind
With her life in trade, I'm never gonna die
(Ha ha ha ha ha)

[classical chorus][operatic]
Death is a demon, he takes all that we seek
Death is a curse, made by the gods to make men weak
Death is the foe we must battle through and through
Death is for man to conquer, and that's just what I'll do

[instrumental break][cello]

[slow outro][operatic]
Death took away my boys and my little girl 
He stole their mother, the love of my world
When they stood there in that door, I saw the lie
I swear that I'm never, 
no never, 
I'm never gonna die!
(Ha ha ha ha ha)
[end]