#four apples

[violsva]

Tagged by @sanguinarysanguinity :

Writing game: post the last line that you wrote and tag someone for every word of that line.

“Can I help you?” he asked, in tones that suggested he very much hoped not.

Thank you very much! though I am not tagging, as usual.

[russell-tomlin]

Four Apples

[violsva]

For the ask meme let’s try streetcar, rail, and ticket 💜

This is for this writing meme here which I am still happy to answer.

Streetcar is in fact in the first sentence:

At the corner of Queen and Bay Streets, a crowd of people flowed off the streetcar, to be replaced by the much better-dressed crowd which had just left City Hall.

Rail didn't appear until ten seconds ago when I realized it should:

It was a long ride down Queen Street in the dark, watching for potholes and streetcar rails.

(Streetcar tracks are still a serious danger to cyclists in Toronto.)

Ticket:

Across the street was a row of newish townhouses, and he wondered how the residents felt about living directly across the street from the Arena. He wouldn’t mind it himself, during the hockey season. Perhaps they got free tickets to make up for the noise and inconvenience.

[violsva]

Guessing game: hands, heart, head!

Hands:

“It’s not that bad,” Tom said, and then tried to think of evidence to support that assertion. His room was narrow enough that he could stand in the middle and touch both walls at once, the window was about the size of his two hands next to each other, his fellow-lodgers were other out-of-work labourers like himself, and the house didn’t have indoor plumbing.

And some time later:

Josie landed lightly next to her on the roof, and went to the edge at once. “This is a bit harder,” she whispered. “I’ll go first, in case you need me to catch you.” Then she slipped off the edge, so all Verry could see of her was her hands, and then her hands let go as well.

Nothing for heart (yet).

Head:

“What about if I go in first?” Verry suggested. “I can just poke my head in and then say I have the wrong door and back out again."

In a flashback:

The room was clean and neat and the window was open, but he barely noticed any of that. As soon as the maid had let go of him he was on his knees by the head of the bed. “Nursie,” he said, like a child. He tried to compose himself, drawing himself up. “Nurse Kennell.” “Freddie!” she said. “Freddie, are you back?” Then she coughed, turning her head away from him and gasping slightly for air afterwards.

[violsva]

OC-tober Day 3: In a Cherished Memory

(Wow, I have a lot of deep-seated reluctance to talk about my [WiPs, interests, creations]. Let's try anyway. If I exposure-therapy the feelings away maybe I won't have to examine them.)

So I thought I'd try OC-tober (by @icannotreadcursive), mostly to give a daily theme to the general rotation-in-my-head of the Toronto novel characters that's happening anyway. This one is about Josie.

Just off rue Sainte-Catherine, Joe—Marie’s eye is caught by a tall woman.

Her dark hair is held under a kerchief, but it’s not a sign of respectability—her face is made up and her dress is bright red and very short, almost at her knees. She must be cold, but she doesn’t show it.

Joey stares, maybe—she is so tired, and so worried that she is attracting notice, and she so much wants something familiar. She doesn’t think there’s anything familiar about this woman, but she can’t stop looking.

Then the woman catches her gaze as well. And then she turns fully toward J—Marie, and comes right up to her.

Marie is about to apologize, but the woman speaks first. “Oh, non, cherie!” she says. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“Pardon?” Jo—no, Marie asks. She has had little trouble getting used to elle and la féminine, but the false name she keeps struggling with.

“Ton visage, cherie! Ça!” The woman pulls her glove off and swipes a finger over Jo—Marie’s lips. “Ce n’est pas bien, ma chere!” She waves the red-smeared finger at Joe—Marie.

This close, Marie sees that her makeup is skillfully applied over rough skin, that her hair by her ears is—Marie gasps. This woman is like her.

“Mademoiselle?” she asks.

“Viens.” The woman tucks her arm into Jo—Marie’s and pulls her along. Marie follows, wide-eyed, not knowing what to expect but hoping—hoping very much.

[violsva]

So @kangofu-cb tagged me to list WIPs for discussion, and this was very helpful in that it encouraged me to go back through my Scrivener files that I have ignored for the past 18 months. However, what I've discovered is that a) it has been A While (the break was deliberate but still annoying), and b) right now I really just want to write my Toronto novel.

(Until/Unless I get a Mentopolis idea, I suppose.)

So while hopefully at some point I will work on chipping free some of the WIPs and polishing them up and posting them, right now I'm going to talk about the Toronto novel.

The Toronto novel is the story of two young people, Verity (Verry) Cowles and Tom Campbell, who grew up together in early 20thC rural Ontario, and then run into each other again in Toronto after World War I when they're both unemployed. They get involved in adventures, take on the Orange Order, and fall in love … with different people, because they're both very gay.

I'm calling it Four Apples, which is not its title but I have to call it something. Please feel free to ask me questions whenever!

[violsva]

OC-tober Day 4: Waking up from a nightmare

@icannotreadcursive knows what people want, and what people want is PTSD. (Though actually neither of these guys meets the clinical definition.) This scene will probably be in the draft.

Tom jolted awake, then found himself in silence. He wasn't sure what had woken him.

He was in a strange bed, alone. It took him a moment to orient himself. 1920. Toronto. Fred’s apartment.

Fred wasn’t there. Tom listened, but he couldn’t hear anything now. There was a faint strip of light under the door.

Tom wasn’t used to staying the night with men. He didn’t know if he ought to go poking around Fred’s home, though wartime instincts urged him to get up and see if anything was amiss. He thought about trying to go back to sleep, but when he shut his eyes he remembered hazy dream-images of Will’s face, and confused descriptions of corruption and—He got out of bed and pulled his trousers on.

When he looked into the sitting room, Fred was smoking out the window, wrapped in a dressing gown. A lock of his normally smooth hair fell over his forehead, and his sharp features were lit up from the streetlight outside, and Tom took a moment to just gaze at him before Fred noticed he was there.

“Did I wake you up?” Fred asked. “I’m terribly sorry. Dropped a spoon.”

“That’s all right. Why are you awake?”

Fred shrugged. Tom realized the obvious answer a second later and added, “Memories?”

“Indeed.” He sighed. “Care for a cup of tea?”

Tom heard a kettle heating up in the kitchen. “What time is it?”

“Just after three ack emma, I’m afraid.”

Well, Tom thought, it was Saturday tomorrow, and he had no place to lecture Fred about his sleep. “Why not.”

Fred put out his cigarette and went into the kitchen. Tom heard various quiet clatterings in the next room as the kettle came to a boil.

[violsva]

OC-tober Fills

So here is a complete list of my OC-tober (from @icannotreadcursive) prompt fills this month:

Day 3: In a Cherished Memory (Josie)

Day 4: Waking up from a nightmare (Fred and Tom)

Day 10: In a different time period (Modern AU, everyone)

Day 16: Expressing or exploring their spirituality (Verry, definitely not doing that)

Day 24: Being cared for by someone they love (Verry, Tom, and Fred)

(Not doing today’s because dressing up for Halloween wasn’t as much of a thing at this time, although in their youth Tom and Verry have definitely helped relocate someone’s wagon to his barn roof.)

And even the ones that didn’t get written down were fun to think about at work.