1993 & Other Hazards

On my 12th birthday an inner demon my parents gave me a dollhouse.

The Davis Girl circa 1993.

This dollhouse:

The Greenleaf Dollhouse (Assembled).

I was stunned. What was this heinous box?

But there was something about this dollhouse. It came assembled and painted [Maroon siding with ivory gingerbread]. Even had flecks of furniture including the neatest bathtub with tiny brass faucets and a working chain and plug that went no where. 

In the cubby-sized kitchen, there was even a pint-sized table and on it a miniature cake with frosting that looked good enough to inhale. 

That sugar rose frosting looked so real.

So did the dollhouse. With its beady little windows and wide toothy porch.

And it scared the bejeezus out of me but I wasn't going to admit this to my parents. I was a pre-teen of the 90s! I was supposed to be all: 

Go Blossom, go Blossom, GO.

 and

Dream Phone: Setting mathletes on the path to disillusioned joy since 1989.

At first I pretended that I heard creaks and scratches coming from it, hopeful my parents would be terrified on my behalf and Remove It From The Premises Immediately. But when I told them, they laughed and made me unload the dishwasher. But I insisted I hadn't Gotten The Idea from anything.

Well, obviously.

But then, I-Swear-To-God I heard things coming from it. 

Maybe it was a mouse. 

Or our own house settling. 

Or my dog stretching.

Or nanobots eating the oxygen or whatever. 

But I swear that godforsaken demon-box was watching me so I turned it around like Clarissa did so it would be innards-out like a shelves instead. 

SIDENOTE: Sam *made* Nickelodeon. 

But nothing looked right in it, so I turned it back around a few days later and that's when that nasty top spindly piece stabbed me.

Nasty Top Spindly Piece

Ok, I probably poked myself on it but I'd swear shoebox hut of death bit me. I swear.

I swear I wasn't even that near it. I still have the scar. But really. A dollhouse bit me.

Which made me wonder: What in the world possessed my parents to buy me a dollhouse?

I now realize my parents saw me like:

Though in reality, I was like:

but secretly wanted to be:

The Davis Girl has Spoken. Mlyeah.

The moral of the story is don't look a gift dollhouse in the windows because it will just suck out your soul and leave you with a scar on your eyelid and an irrational fear of particle board.

#TrueStory

7x7x7x7 Challenge ACCEPTED.

In honor of my colleagues braving the #Pitchwars waters, @mtelschwilliams  challenged me to take the 7x7x7x7 Challenge in which I post a set of 7 lines starting with the 7th line on the 7th page of my current WIP, ALPHAGOREY'S. Then, I challenge 7 more writers to do the same. 

And now, here are 7 lines starting with the 7th line of the 7th page of ALPHAGOREY'S:

       As Ashley dematerialized, the fireworks window display wavered, hissed, and sizzled into an aura of orange glow.
PUFF! A writhing cloud of yellow corkscrew smoke curled, stretched, then dissipated as a tiny paper-wrapped popper of no extraordinary size materialized.
     With a hiss and a whirr, firey words burned themselves into the window boasting:
      NEW-AND-IMPROVED CORK-ASH-POPPER - LIMITED TIME ONLY!
Alphagorey's shook out its shingles, rattled its shutters, flapped its neat little awning, and settled its hissing self down. 

As promised, I nominate: @bizzycoy @tongawingo @osutein @annsulliva @julieartz @rebekah_kritsch @thethirdmother 

The Man, The Legend, The Davis Dad. Or: The Definitely True Obituary of Howard C. Davis

Coffee stockholders are mourning the loss of their shares today. Right-wing recycling overlord Howard Crittenden Davis graduated from Shady Pines on April 23, 2015 during a top-secret mission to save blind puppies from a burning orphanage, probably.

Born on January 1, 1943 to Charles S. Davis and Faith (Howard) Davis of Getzville, NY, Howdy was the last in a long and noble line of Welsh sheep thieves and claimed to have been a "technical writer" (secret agent).

Among the various high schools Howdy sampled, his favorites were Nichols and Darrow, from where he graduated in the 60's. The 1960s, most likely. He did some Army, then graduated college with a B.A. in Sociology and a minor in Underwater Basketweaving Habits of Left-Handed Gnats. 

Howdy is survived by his partner-in-crime of 38 years Jerrie (LoDestro) Davis, favorite daughter [eldest category], Morgan (Davis) Krauss of Williamsville, and favorite daughter [gifted/talented/humble category] Erica (Davis) Secor of Charlotte, NC; his unfathomably talented and devoted sister Margo Davis who took him to that Bills game where everybody else left early because it was sucking--because it was the Bills in the 90s--but then they got their heads out of their butt holes, kicked some ass, and took some names. 

Howdy is also survived by three awesome Granddaughters: Hailey "Zerbertz Queen" Krauss, Kelsey "Bag-of-Squirrels" Krauss, and Catie "Poppy-That's-MY-Cookie" Krauss, as well as Henry Jones Jr. (Flat-Coated Retriever) Secor, and Ridley (reddish dog-like mutt) Secor.

Howdy is predeceased by Vicky (setter), Blinker (setter), Louie (standard poodle), George (setter), Hugo (setter), Socks (cat), Addie (collie-shepherd), Doc, (houdini/greyhound), Sammy Davis Jr. (one-eyed greyhound), Hannah (bichon/hell-beast), a mug of last week's coffee (still in the microwave), two sets of dentures, a wrist bone (2011), and, due to his own ingenious idea lovingly referred to as the "Kevorkian Machine", half the vole population of East Amherst. His spirit animal is a large wooden badger.

Howdy will be especially remembered for his self-awareness:

            I'm a septuagenarian who still has both his marbles and car keys.

His guidance on sibling relationships:

           

            Don't bleed on anything good.

His passion for the arts:

           

            Bach would have been a Barbershoper.

And his unwavering optimism:

            It's probably Barbershopable.

And his aptitude for conflict resolution:

           

            If you're going to argue, don't stand in front of the television.

Howdy was the founding father of the prestigious dozen-member strong Facebook group Only Ladies Wear Hats Indoors and continues to infuriate his wife by never having told her his password from his college fraternity days.

When he wasn't "writing" (going on secret missions) or raising upstanding (and naturally brilliant, yet unfathomably attractive) daughters, Howdy was a part-time astronaut. Just for extra cash on the weekends. He also enjoyed texting mildly inappropriate jokes on his clamshell phone, and intentionally never watched Star Wars.

In heaven, Howdy plans to sing bass in a Barbershop quartet with Leonard Nimoy (tenor), Johann S. Bach (lead), and AndyRooney (baritone).

In lieu of mourning, Howdy would respectfully remind you to stop sniveling; it happens to the best of us. Then, buy a friend a drink, get a dog, and do whatever you can to keep the whole world singing.

 Miss you Dad.

An Ink and Paper Twin

You may already know that my genre is middle-grade horror (think GOOSEBUMPS + the basement from CABIN IN THE WOODS), so there's nothing too treacherous to worry about when writing late at night. However, I'm beginning to recognize a recent arrival in my manuscript as similar to an in-real-life (IRL) neighbor from my childhood. And that is creepy. Especially since this new character's voice grows louder and clearer than my main character (MC)--who is creepy enough on her own.

I'm thrilled that my work-in-progress (WIP) is getting stronger. I don't just mean better--though I won't object if this alone were the case--just that the MC is getting antsy for me to finish her story. She's usually the loudest voice in the WIP, but a little over a week ago, this other boy crept in.

And he's everywhere.

Seven nights ago he showed up in a scene barring my MC's way into the Half-witch Woods. He said he was protecting her, but I'm not sure. I don't think I trust him. Either way, my MC seems neither to care nor mind.

Three nights later, he showed up briefly in a dream. Can't remember what, but when I woke up, my skin crawled.

Yesterday during class I had to give my students an early break so I could email myself his connection to my MC's family--during which he proceeded to rant about me not referring to him by his 'real' name.

Last night, I woke from a dream in which I came-to in an abandoned nine-story boathouse--him standing on the dock watching the killer jellyfish circling closer and closer and closer. Woke up sweating.

I did not plan this character.

I do not want this character.

Yet, I need this character.

The tiny gods living between the pages of my manuscript demand him and they are never wrong. But it's creeping me out. You try ignoring an imaginary depressive-ogre-nightmare-boy who makes your story a million times more goosebump-giving.

Resistance is futile.

I tried avoiding him.

I tried writing around him.

I tried writing him out.

Bad idea.

As a result, he is currently holding my unconscious MC hostage in the middle of the Half-witch Woods, threatening to bury her. Unless I learn his 'real' name.

I don't even know what that means.

Until then, he has taken the name of this childhood neighbor who was no where near as creepy and only half as intimidating. Regardless, this character insists they are ink-and-paper twins.

And I am powerless.