A dragon to slay

Sadly, that’s not the title of today’s piece, just a problem we’ll be dealing with. I would love to feature some sci-fi/fantasy here. Although I don’t write in the genre, I’m an avid reader of it.

Today’s submission comes from a member of my critique group, David Fry. His writing has been one of my biggest challenges in critiquing. He has a great love of words and a bent toward lyrical passages. But this has given rise to a purple prose dragon. (He's well aware of this.)

The challenge lies in taming the beast without losing his voice. Because once his words unite for the power of good, he’ll be a force to be reckoned with.

He sent me a chapter long enough for two posts. So Friday you’ll see part two. His genre is suspense, what he terms techno-suspense.

DELETE
David Fry

CHAPTER ONE

Monday noon, August 7^th

Assassination by keyboarding—how does one calculate the ballistics of pressing the delete key?

Click.

Mara Coulsen froze. Her fingers hung in suspended animation over the laptop keys. She held steady, allowing peripheral vision to pan towards the sound. A book’s spine, splitting with age perhaps. This is [was] a library after all. No, that would be more of a crack than a click. Her left brain raced but not fast enough. The right brain envisioned her past, accelerating around her, only to double back. [Is she truly aware of the separate operations of the two halves of her brain?] .45 caliber tunnel vision, complete with silencer. [Frankly, I don’t understand that line.] She shuddered as if an icicle dripped on the nape of her neck.

Mara’s shoulders rolled back and she slowly turned. The left ear bud popped free, its connecting wire stretched taut across her blouse. Buzzing fluorescents projected no warmth but helped betray the source of the click. A thermostat, bulging from the university library’s south wall. She cursed the interruption and lowered her wrists.

Mara heard everything. Ever since 3^rd grade. Mrs. Wilcox was the first to explain it. Called her ‘aleaner’. Said she was an auditory learner—telltale sign—one who leans in to listen carefully. But that was the curse. In this surround-sound world, Mara always had to lean. And leaning gives way to sway, and sway, begets imbalance.

She leaned forward.

It was all so much noise to her. The voices too. Reason enough to call the library home, the 6^th floor, her personal sanctuary. Here she had some modicum of control over ambient sound. Ambient temperature was another matter.

As if to punctuate the point, the HVAC system groaned to life. A monotone hum needled her eardrum like a pin cushion. She repositioned the ear bud and braced herself. An advance guard of goose bumps filed forth. Then it hit. Casper, taking a joy ride between book stacks, a tingly draft enveloping her frame. An assault on her sense of touch. Mara rebuffed the unwelcome caress. The sweep of a juvenile phantasm was no match for the chill of a malice-fueled heart. [There’s a little too much in that paragraph. Something has to go. So as not to tromp on you voice, I’d choose “An assault on her sense of touch.”]

She inhaled deeply, hoping to pacify her senses. But the haunting memories were already in play; police tape fluttering in the wind. Flashing strobes of red, white, and blue arrested with shouts and questions. Prairie grass, flattened by the crop circles of crime scene apparatus. Commotion leading nowhere. Only a whiff of passing. [Lost me again.]

Mara pressed palms hard against her eyes. She bore down, desperate to wipe out the flashback. Instead, a contact lens slid down her right cheek. She squinted at the blurry distraction as it plopped onto the laptop’s shift key. Her jaw tightened and she squeezed eyelids shut as a puddle threatened to splash her lashes. Not so the eyes of her heart, they burst wide-open and locked focus at 20/20. [I think this last sentence calls for punctuation other than a comma to set the last part off.]

Mara would never lose sight of her prey. Nineteen years of fixation on a singular haunting. Its ever-present form—a silhouette of pain—even had its own background noise. Mara was convinced she could, at times, actually see the sound, or at least its color. It helped that the shadow breathed. That meant it could expire as well. And it had a name. Derek Farhaun. Color? Death gray. [This paragraph is a little too abstract for me. You’re dealing with an unsettled mind, so a bit of abstract thought is appropriate. But the metaphors go in too many directions. Focus on one idea. Like:

“Derek Farhaun. Her prey, but also the shadow that had haunted her for nineteen years. The ever-present silhouette of pain shrouded in death gray. But this shadow breathed. That meant it could expire as well.”]

Megan’s color was a vibrant royal blue, the aura of a princess butterfly. Halting and lilting at the same time.

Mara pinched herself. Toes curling under and sandals bent perpendicular, drilling into the floor, as if physical pain could bury her vexation.

Wake up, girl.

A lilting butterfly?

Get a grip.

She was using his words again. Getting inside his head had its hazards. There’s a fine line between knowing the enemy and personifying it.

What did Megan ever see in Derek? The guy is [was] such a geek fraud, a social clod, and the poster child of compliance.

{Boring.

A cutout. Like a cardboard sword wrapped in tinfoil. Constable of Dullsville. Megan called him her knight in shining aluminum. Some inane reference to durability and resistance to corrosion.

Stop being so intellectually cute sis.} [My instincts say to cut the part in red brackets. Time to get on with the plot.]

Naive Megan loved that about Derek, said she always knew where he stood.

Well sis, where was he standing when you slipped under? Your hero—Derek on the dock—with his candles, moonlight, and mandolin. Trespassing on private property even; my, such a bold step for Mr. Wonderful. Too bad, that’s going to go on his permanent record.

Must have made him feel like a real outdoorsman for a change. I don’t suppose he heard your alto gurgling as water sloshed away your breath of life. And I’m certain he couldn’t see the frantic flail of your limbs under that waning crescent moon.

{Your romantic drivel makes me retch. Everything is so black and white with you Derek. Straight and narrow. Fitting. So is the flat line on an EKG.

Mara fancied herself a ghost hunter, hostess of her own reality show, chasing down phantoms of the past and wringing justice out of them. Her pilot episode—The Hunt For Derek—weapons of choice, technology of the day. One season was all she needed. Then Mara was pulling the plug. Show cancelled due to expiration of the star’s contract. Ghost busted.

Do you hear that? You’ve just been voted off the planet. Let’s see how you like the chill of cyberspace.} [Again, either cut or trim this back. Too many metaphors, making this passage too long.]

She replaced the errant contact and retrieved mauve card stock from her portfolio. It was time to craft an invitation to the premiere episode. Mara blinked slowly and began writing, excruciatingly careful cursive, because that’s what it would take to elicit the proper response. There was no need to go back over the memorabilia from Megan’s hope chest. She had everything memorized.

Mara trembled with disgust as she wrote the words.

“I will love you eight days a week.”

It was their pet saying. Adolescent.

Next came the punch line, the body of it all.

“At rest on the eighth … forever yours, eight days a week.”

Mara’s hand began to quiver as she wrestled with emotion. Just a few more characters and it would be complete. Musical notation. It had to be there in order to be authentic. The gold ink shimmered against the stationary.

She folded the card stock over and over—tearing at the creases—to get the fit just right. The pale bluish-red gift envelope matched perfectly. The postage stamp was the only thing she had no control over, but even that had its part to play—a harbinger of the inconceivable.

An exclamation point was all that remained. This would be her capstone—the knockout punch. Mara reached into her book bag and retrieved the bottle, popping the cap free with her right thumb and forefinger. A fragrant vapor danced from fingertip to shoulder. She upended the invitation, shaping it into a miniature tent, envelope leaning against one end. .375 fluid ounces of liquid ammo, primed and ready. She depressed the pump and drizzled the card and envelope in a blissful mist. Then she showered herself, in remembrance of Megan.

Mara sealed the envelope then reached to stow away the bottle. She smiled at the poetic irony. A marketer’s flash of creative genius lay exposed on her palm. The cologne was contained in an ivory acrylic bulb. A brown rectangular cap fitted perfectly atop the base, forming the distinct shape of that singular punctuation mark used to convey strong emotion. And the brand name of this fragrant spray matched its packaging. Exclamation!

David Fry, aka frydwords, has recently started a blog. Go say hi at http://www.frydwords.com/blog.

And don’t forget to come back Friday for part two of Delete.