She’d retrieved her stash of food and was ready to go eat it in her favorite patch of grass.

My heart pumped audibly in anticipation as I walked by the cars, but all the weird tension from earlier had lifted.

“There you go,” I said as I unhooked the leash from Ruby’s collar and shut the gate behind her. She didn’t look scared, didn’t growl. Maybe our walk actually did help somehow.

I turned to look for Rita, but she was already next to me, opening the gate, petting Ruby’s head, and heading for the side entrance.

When I followed her in, I smelled aerosol air freshener. “Hey, we’re home.”

“About time,” said Pepper, looking through the box of hard seltzer bottles Rita left on the island counter. “Thanks for leaving me exactly one, that’s sweet.”

I smirked and began separating empty bottles into the recycling bin. “Sorry, Ruby needed a walk. We didn’t mean to take so long.”

“Right, well, next time you go for a walk could you maybe pick up the chairs off the floor, shut the drawers, the cabinets, and by the way, the damn front door? Look, I don’t care if you have parties while I’m at work, as long as I don’t... what now?” She followed me into the living room. “What is that dumb look on your face for?”

I touched the knob on the front door, then opened and shut it a few times, pulling at it, checking the screws.

“Gary, what?”

“Sorry...did anything w-weird happen?”

She folded her arms around her slender frame, hesitating. I finally noticed the outfit she’d chosen for bed. A black oversized tee with Eminem’s “Relapse” album cover as the graphic, and my faded red and black gingham pajama pants I’d just re-hemmed.

“I don’t know, I was kinda tired and pissed off at the mess, but I thought I might have seen...” Pepper sighed as I opened the door again, checking the chair’s position. Right where we left it. “Stop it with the chair. You’re tired, I’m tired, let’s just forget it.”

I shut the door, locking the knob, deadbolt, and chain. “You’re right. You must be so tired that you forgot your clothes don’t live in my dresser.”

Pepper’s typically light-brown cheeks flushed redder than her fruit punch hair dye. “They’re just so comfy...”

“They or He?”

“I don’t know. They, I guess. You don’t have to ask every time, weirdo.”

I shrugged. “Sorry about the house. I’m going to bed.”

“Tell Rita she parked in my spot again.”

“Nope, you tell her.” I waved and headed for my bedroom, glancing at the number seventy-one displayed on the thermostat as I passed.

As soon as my head hit the pillow, all the least calming thoughts rushed to the front of my consciousness, competing for my attention. The chair outside that I never actually saw move on its own, but definitely did when I wasn’t watching. The crazy faceless Halloween decoration of an alien or a demon or some generic mix of the two. Then I realized... that house was perfectly in line with the barricade at the center of the bridge where the dog always got spooked. And the source of the nasty smell.

The same smell surrounded me in my bed. Musty, wet, withered. It smelled rotten. Just like the mole Ruby killed and stashed under the porch last year. It must have been under there for weeks before we found it, because she’d shoved it so far in with her nose that she had no way to pull it back out.

I was feeling nauseated again, and now I was shivering. I looked at the digital clock, then immediately bolted out of bed. I knew it was just a horror movie trope, but some part of me truly believed that nothing good happened at three in the morning.

“Welcome back,” Rita said, scooting over on her bed to make room as I entered her room without knocking. She was eating from a package of cookie dough and a pint of vanilla ice cream, alternating with the same spoon, while watching an old Tarantino flick.

I grabbed her spoon and ate some cookie dough. “Have you been to sleep yet?”

“Nope,” my older sister said, handing me the hoodie I’d left in her room the night before last. “I read an entire book before I realized the buzz saw I was hearing was coming from Pepper’s nostrils. Want me to start this over?”

I nodded, pulling on my hoodie and handing her the spoon back. “Want to stay up till sunrise?”

Rita nodded, pointing the remote at the TV while we both ignored the room’s impossible drop in temperature.

To Be Continued…

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I gasped for air as I pushed the blankets off my head. My legs were stiff from sleeping in the fetal position again. How I wish they’d take this cast off.

“Marta,” said a warm female voice. I looked up at my mom. She looked a lot older than the last time I saw her.

“Mom,” I smiled. “Get me out of here.”

Mom looked sad as she tried to smile. She reached for my head just like Flannery did, and I cringed at the memory.

“Who’s Mr. Flannery?”

She sighed. “Baby, that’s Uncle Ed.”

“Uncle?”

“Yes, Uncle Edwin. We lived with him for years, honey.”

I nodded. She sounded frustrated, so I decided to change the subject. “What time is it?”

“It’s--” Mom stiffened and turned to look behind her.

I hadn’t noticed the man in the powder blue dress shirt. He nodded to her as he folded his hands. I’ve seen him before, I think.

“It’s a quarter to two.” I watched her mouth twitch with some withheld emotion. Whatever it was made her breathing more shallow.

I replayed her words in my jumbled head. It’s a quarter to two.

“Fifteen minutes,” I blurted, scrambling out of bed. I threw off my covers with my good arm, though I’m not sure it was my good shoulder. Why am I so sore?

“Marta, stay in bed, sweetie,” Mom pleaded. I glanced at her, then back to my slippers. Left foot, then right. Scratching beneath my cast, I threw on a robe.

“Time?”

“Just get back in bed, we’ll talk some more,” Mom’s voice cracked. “Don’t you want some coffee?”

“Time?” I directed the question at the man in the corner.

He examined his right wrist. “One forty-seven exactly.”

I darted out the door, hearing Mom start to sob. No, don’t listen, have to get to the roof.

The bus was waiting at the stop, completely empty. I stepped on, wondering what I was forgetting. I checked my pockets. Oh, I’m just wearing a robe and a gown. I fastened the robe tight.

“Have a seat, Miss D.”

I sat and listened to the bus rumble forward, then halt again. A single brown loafer invaded my gaze. It was the man from the corner of my room. I’d seen him before that, though.

“Are you following me?” I said as the bus rocked me forward against the next seat.

“Escorting would be more accurate.”

“Why?”

He raised an eyebrow as he fished in his coat pocket for something. He handed me a watch - my watch.

I held it tight to my chest, looking at my cast. I guess I knew it wouldn’t still be on my wrist. I didn’t really think of that. I wondered how he got it, but decided not to ask.

“Thanks, Mr. Loafers,” I mumbled.

He laughed at me. “You like my loafers?”

I watched him lift one to show it off. It was faded and cracked in the creases.

“Not really. But I’ve seen them before. Here on the bus.”

He looked down to contain a smile. Laughing at me again, perhaps?

“It’s not important that you like them,” he said. “What’s important is that you’ve remembered them. That’s enough to make me want to wear them every day.”

“Well, if you’re gonna wear ugly loafers and follow me around everywhere, I should know your name.”

He smirked back at me. “My name is Dr. Samuel Kelley. But if it makes you more comfortable, you can call me Mr. Loafers.”

“Mr. Ugly Brown Loafers.”

Screech!

“Your stop, ma’am.”

I stood and ran for the door, stepping down carefully, then ran straight into the shadows. I heard the loafers catching up to me in the alley.

I tried to climb with my cast, but it wouldn’t fit between the rungs. My heart raced as I tried to fix my elbow on the bottom rung.

“I’m here to help, Marta,” Loafers said with his mocking voice. He watched me prop my elbow up and slip two more times.

“Staring isn’t helping.”

He snickered as he approached, both arms out. He fitted his hands together to make a foothold, looking up at me. His lip wrinkled right by the cut I hadn’t noticed till now. The blood had been his, just like I thought.

“I can’t climb with my cast,” I whined.

“Grab with one hand, hug with the cast. And roll up your sleeve so your arm doesn’t slip.”

I snorted, but took his suggestion. With my robe sleeve out of the way, my arm got enough traction to help me lift my foot. I climbed like this for what seemed like an hour, but I got there. And Loafers followed close. I wasn’t going to lose him now, might as well get used to him.

I scanned the roof. No birds and no redheads. No Flannery... or Uncle Edwin. “What time is it?”

“You tell me.” Mr. Loafers sat on the floor against the ledge, ignoring the beautiful view behind him.

Oh, yeah. My watch. I took it out of my robe pocket. 1:42. What?

“Well?”

“It’s broken,” I replied.

“No, not broken,” he said, checking his pocket watch. “I’ve taken very good care of it. I must’ve been neglecting my own, however, since it’s about fifteen minutes fast.”

I frowned at him, clutching my watch as I walked to my bench. I resolved to push him off this roof, if the opportunity ever presented itself. What a snake.

I reached for my note, but it was at home in my jeans pocket. I sighed and looked at my watch, clutching it in my fist. There was a small blood stain in the crevice where it fastened. His blood again, probably.

“Jen got flowers together for you...”

I stared at the bench. My bench had a man sitting on it. I froze, taking in his image. He wasn’t old, maybe mid twenties. He had brown hair and faint eyebrows that furrowed over squinted eyes. He wasn’t looking at me; just staring into the horizon, or maybe at a far off building.

“...and Mr. F made sure everyone signed the card.” He looked down at his hands. In them, he clutched an open wallet with a small photo facing him.

I couldn’t make out the photo without invading his privacy. So I just sat on the other end of the bench, trying to see what he’d been gazing at.

“I still have all your letters.” The young man smiled, still staring ahead. He was attractive, but not as young looking as in my dreams. Or my memories?

My left hand lifted before my mind could object. “Hi,” I said.

His smile faded and his eyes flitted down to the picture.

“I’m Mist--” my voice wavered, “um, Marta.” The name sounded odd from my own lips, but I felt like I’d said it before. My left arm began to quake as a pain shot through my shoulder. I wasn’t sure if I could hold my arm up much longer. But I was even less sure whether this man was rude or imaginary.

Please, just shake my hand already!

To Be Continued…

[Comments: The tense switches frequently into present and back to past. If these switches are deliberate style choices, they should be used sparingly and with intent. Left as they are, they look accidental.

Dr. Kelley checks a watch on his right wrist and later checks a pocket watch. Why does he have multiple watches, one of which he wears on the same wrist as Marta? The odds are slim that he is also left-handed, especially if he’s of a generation that was discouraged from using the left hand to write and eat. Without any explanation, these details are a potential distraction.

Marta doesn’t know why her body is very stiff, and she seems to notice her hand in a cast for the first time. How much time has lapsed between the end of chapter 4 and now, and what’s happened in the time she’s lost?

Actions: Pick a tense and stick to it

Figure out the wristwatch situation so it doesn’t take attention from the plot

In order to maintain consistency and avoid confusion, outline character profiles and world details that can be referenced before drip-feeding details into the scenes

Details to remember:

• Characters: Mom (first appearance), Dr. Samuel Kelley (AKA Mr. Loafers/Man in alley), Uncle Edwin Flannery, Unknown Man on Roof

• Locations: Marta’s bedroom

• Marta sleeps with her head covered

• Could the guy on the bench be T?

• He seems sad and far off, and could be the sad man on the bench previously mentioned

• She seems repelled by her uncle and Dr. Kelley, not sure why yet

• Marta’s thoughts reveal a plan to push Dr. Kelley off the roof at some point

• Jen, who works with Mr. F/Uncle Ed, brought flowers for some reason, maybe a celebration or a memorial

• The man on the bench stares at a picture in his wallet

• He says he still has Marta’s letters

• She seems to remember him]

Back to Chapter 4

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I sighed with relief when I could no longer see her. I hate everything about her.

1:39. I had to go. Down the stairs, through the lobby, down one block, wooden bench.

“Marta?”

“Let her go, I’m right behind her,” the man muttered to the irritable receptionist. I picked up speed as I ran out the door.

I ran past the store front, apartment, second store front, then the bank. There was the bus stop. 1:46:28. 1:46:29.

I could hear the man panting behind me. He stepped around the wooden bench. Too close, I warned with my eyes. He reached for my left hand, so I reared back with my right. I slammed my fist into his mouth before he could speak and his head hit the bench hard.

I jumped into the bus and checked my watch. It was covered in blood. My blood? Maybe mine and his. I wiped the watch face with my left hand, putting too much pressure on my wrist. Something’s broken here, and it’s not a watch.

1:51:51. My blood was still pumping full power as I examined my mangled right hand. This is gonna hurt once the adrenaline wears off.

I slid down against someone’s leg. “Oh, sorry.”

The man gaped down at me and backed into a seat. He never met my gaze.

“Gonna be early today, Miss D. No question.”

I nodded, still cradling my hand as it began to throb and sear with anger. The bleeding had slowed, but the pain was just firing up. My vision narrowed to the pole in front of me and two black shoes attached to the hem of a pair of jeans. The feet crossed as I heard a screech and fell forward onto my injured hand.

I didn’t mean to cry out, but it was too late.

“Miss D, you’re bleedin’ all over, ma’am!”

The blue jeans shuffled toward me and bent down to reveal a face.

“No, let me go!” I screamed, crawling off the bus. I ran as fast as I could to the alley and threw my right hand over the bottom rung. I climbed up, wincing as I pulled with my forearm instead of my hand. Come on, just a few more rungs before the steps!

I threw my leg up and pulled my body onto the platform, barely stopping to climb the steps. Up, to the right, platform. Last ladder! Come on!

I threw my leg over the ledge and tumbled onto the roof. 1:58:17. I made it. It’s not yet 2.

I looked up at the sun as my face went cold. Sweat stung my eyes, but didn’t distract me from my seething hand. I lifted my red arm and it shook violently above my face. Someone took the broken hand and eased it down to my stomach. A hand brushed my hair from my face.

“Flannery?” I mumbled, trying to meet his gaze. He looked in my eyes, saying something as he stroked my cheek. Shook his head. I couldn’t hear anything beyond the ringing in my ears and the incessant swallowing. Who’s swallowing? Gulp, gulp, gulp. I turned my head and let loose onto the ground. Looked like a viscous river starting at my cheek. My strawberry hair matted to the ground. I laughed as he picked me up.

“Flannery,” I giggled as I was carried through the door and down the stairs. “No T.”

To Be Continued…

[Comments: This opening is one of the more interesting uses of the mirror description trope. The third person switch sheds a light on her dysphoria and dissociation using only a few sentences, while sneaking in a subtle character description that is relevant to the story.

It’s a bit vague how much damage is done to Marta’s hand when she punches the man following her out of the lobby, presumably in the teeth. She would likely have cuts on her first two or last two knuckles from his upper incisors, a strained or sprained wrist, and possibly a broken thumb.

Actions: The amount of blood on her hand after the punch seems excessive. Map out the quality and strength of a punch her character is likely to throw with her non-dominant hand, along with the amount of damage likely inflicted to her and the target. Also, any height difference should be known and accounted for.

Make it clearer that Marta is lying down from the time she tumbles off the ladder until she’s lifted off the ground.

Details to remember:

• Characters: Irritable Receptionist, Alarmed Bus Passenger

• Locations: Lobby of Building (Marta’s current home), an apartment building, a bank, some stores

• She is revealed to have some deformity, probably scarring, on one side of her face

• She covers her mirror with a sheet to avoid her reflection

• Finally, another passenger shows up on the bus

• Her watch is on her right hand, so she’s probably left-handed and punched with her weaker hand]

Back to Chapter 3

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I placed it on the ground beside me, staying crouched down for a minute to scratch underneath Ruby’s faded red collar. She licked my arm in gratitude, then led me to her next sniffing spot. I checked my phone, seeing three missed calls from Pepper, so I clicked on her voice message.

“Um, where the hell are you guys?” She asked in the recording. “I just got home and the house is a wreck. Your sister isn’t answering either. If you don’t call me back soon, I’ll assume you’re both dead and I can look for some roommates who can pick up their damn mess.”

“Pepper tried to call us,” I told Rita, with my eyes fixed on Ruby’s nose.

A scent trail guided her into the neighborhood they finished building sometime last year. She pulled me across a driveway and through a front yard, where she shoved her face into a hole in a fence.

“Ruby,” I whispered. “This isn’t our yard, girl, you’re gonna get us in trouble!”

She was obsessed. The breeze carried a thick odor, which had to be what she kept tracking for the entire walk. I gave her leash a slight yank, but I was stunned. I’d smelled that before. What was it? It was sour, stale, and familiar to my gag reflex. I’d already swallowed five times before I realized I was going to throw up.

Rita strolled over and grabbed the leash. “Come on, give him space.”

I dry-heaved several times, then my miniscule dinner tumbled out of me, mostly undigested. I always thought about grapefruit when I smelled vomit. Such a putrid fruit.

“You okay?” I wasn’t sure if I heard warm concern in her voice or the artificial charisma of alcohol. I looked back to see the answer. She’d already uncapped and guzzled three of the five bottles and placed them back into the wet cardboard container.

“No.” The angry buzz of the street lamp above us made my head throb. “But I think I’m done spilling my--”

I locked eyes with it. No, it had no eyes. Shaped like a child about three feet tall. It leaned on a pickup truck the same rusty red as its skin. I thought I saw its hand move for a second, then I noticed the rotting jack-o-lantern sitting on the truck’s tailgate.

“Oh my god, that thing scared me. I almost forgot it was October,” I told Rita with a laugh at myself as I caught my breath. Some Halloween crap was all it was. I grabbed the leash again, pulling down on my shirt collar to stifle the choking sensation it caused.

Rita stood, frowning at my puddle of noodle bits, then up at the decoration by the truck.

“It just startled me. I’ve seen scarier stuff at the dollar store,” I lied, trying to distract her from whatever ominous thought she was about to voice.

“I’ve seen it before,” she mumbled. She stared at it for several minutes, then shook her head. “Probably some movie I can’t remember. Let’s go home.”

“Yeah,” I said, trying my best not to look at it again. “We have to face the wrath of Pepper.”

“You do, maybe. I can kick higher.”

To Be Continued...

Jump to Chapter 6

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“Hop in, Miss D, fare’s paid again today.”

I startle at the voice. How had I missed the screechy halt of the bus in front of me? 2:03:28.

“I should hope so,” I snapped at Mr. Crichton.

“Pard’n me, ma’am. Late start today, real late. There was a fire at my first pickup.”

I shuddered, hands sweating, arms curling over my head. Last time there was a fire was...

“You okay back there, ma’am?”

I nodded, opening my eyes again, and the bus rumbled forward. 2:04:39. I had less than five minutes left.

“Not gonna make it...”

“You’ll make it today, ma’am. I’ll see to it.”

I sat and swayed as the bus barreled forth toward my alley. 2:05:13. I should be there! He’ll be looking for me!

I took out the note and unfolded it. So tattered, so old. How long have I stared at this note? I traced my finger over the T at the end, my long fingernails scraping the paper.

I looked out the window, not seeing past my own grotesque image. I scowled at the girl in the reflection. That’s not me. That’s not me! I’m me.

Screech!

“That’s you, Miss D.”

“No,” I whispered my protest. Then I looked up at a very concerned Mr. Crichton. I shook the unwanted thoughts out of my head and scrambled off the bus.

Run! The alley seems so deep today, so far! 2:08:57. 2:08:58. 2:08:59.

“I can’t!” I gaped at the fire escape as I clasped the bottom rung. Come on, hands, climb! 2:09:06. One hand in front of the other, climb up! MOVE!

I look over at the bus. Yes, it’s safe on the bus. I won’t have to jump today. 2:09:11. I have to go back.

I ran for the bus, flames licking my feet, and leapt inside for cover. I crouched as small as I could, gluing myself to the floor next to the driver’s seat. I caught myself rocking and stopped, just holding my head. Don’t rock, you’re not a nutcase!

“Just go ahead, I’ll take her from here.”

“You sure, sir? I can wait if ya need. Miss D’s a preferred customer in my book.”

“That’s okay, thank you.”

No, where’s the bus going? Why am I still on 5th? No, no, no! This isn’t how it goes!

“It’s okay, Marta. You’re safe.”

I took a cold glass of water from the man’s hand. “Misty.”

“Pardon?”

“Misty. Mr. Crichton calls me Misty.”

“No, he’s saying --” the man froze. “You’re remembering names now?”

“Not your name,” I sipped at the water, looking out the office window. 2:23:03.

To Be Continued…

[Comments: The bus arrival and departure times are unclear and inconsistent.

Who keeps paying her fare?

Aren’t there any other passengers on the bus?

The bus driver’s accent is a bit vague.

She is disgusted by her appearance. Could she have burn scars?

Actions: Solidify the bus schedule since there’s a strong emphasis on time.

Mention other passengers in close proximity to Miss D/Marta. Fill in sensory details.

Make Mr. Crichton’s accent more specific to a region and/or toned down. Less is more, and readability is more important.

Her visceral reaction to the word “fire” works well to characterize her and could be foreshadowing something at the same time. This needs to come back into play later.

Mr. Crichton seems oddly protective of Miss D for a mere acquaintance, and consequently, she feels safe around him. There should be a reason for this, even if it’s as simple as them having a friend in common.

It’s clear that she has trauma. Any symptoms mentioned should line up with one or more specific conditions. Referring to herself as “not a nutcase” speaks to a fear of judgment, so she must sense that she’s different.

Details to remember:

• Characters: The man in the alley

• Locations: Fifth (Street?), the man in the alley’s office

• Miss D doesn’t know her first name is Marta, and assumes the bus driver is calling her “Misty”

• For some reason, she remembers that the bus driver’s name is Mr. Crichton

• Her daily routine is interrupted by the man bringing her to an office

• He’s taking note of her memory function, implying that he could be a care provider for her

• Fire and jumping from the roof are related in some way

• Marta has body dysmorphia strong enough that she can’t recognize her reflection

Jump to Chapter 4

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At the top, I peered above the ledge and saw my bench. There were two gray birds lounging on it until I walked over. They’re as scared of me as I am.

I sat down, steadying my heartbeat. Why did it feel different? Was someone watching me? I looked at my watch, wincing at the sun’s glare. 2:01:18.

I wanted to be here before 2, I remembered. I got off the bus at 1:58:39 today, so maybe 1:56 tomorrow would do. Yes, I’ll tell Mr.... Mr. Clinton? No, Mr. Crichton. Bus driver.

Shoes shuffling! I hid beneath the bench, trying to keep my breathing steady. I wouldn’t be seen under the wide bench, I knew. But the dread was creeping up on me. Run or wait?

Two pairs of feet. I stared out from my cover to see red hair. Redder than my strawberry blonde locks, I noted as I examined one that sat on my shoulder. I like her red better.

She was with a man I recognized. Brown hair, bald spot in the back, tweed coat and brown pants, and that face... 2:03:02.

“What am I going to do with you, Flannery?”

Oh, that’s right. Mr. Flannery, from the seventh floor. How do I know that?

She stroked his cheek and he grabbed the bottom of her skirt. I looked away. 2:03:55. How long are they going to be up here?

Clang!

“Crap, what was that?” She whispered.

“Jen, you’re late for an interview in the conference room.”

“Thanks Eileen, I’m coming. Hold the door.”

“You’re in trouble,” Flannery laughed.

“Only when you make me late,” she hissed. “Why can’t you take your lunch at a normal hour?”

He smiled, holding up a brown bag. “I wasn’t hungry at noon.”

She ran a hand through her very long hair and straightened her skirt. Then she was gone.

The man looked at his brown bag and sighed, walking toward me. Oh no, he’s gonna find me! I clamped my hand over my mouth. 2:05.

Just as I developed goosebumps all over, he backed away from the bench and headed for the door. He grabbed the handle with a sigh and pushed away the cinderblock, letting the door lock behind him.

Alone, finally. 2:05:40. I climbed out from the cover of the stone bench. No birds on the roof after all the commotion. I turned to the bench again. He left me his lunch? No, he couldn’t have known I was here. It wasn’t here for me, he just didn’t want it. Well, it’s mine now.

I unrolled the top of the bag, smelling fish. I pulled out a sandwich wrapped in plastic. A familiar brand of potato chips in a small bag. And a juice box? I haven’t had a juice box in... I don’t remember how long. I guess since I was a kid.

I unwrapped the sandwich and sank my teeth into the tuna. I didn’t even realize I was hungry until I began to chew. My mind flooded with images of Mom. Where is she? She should be here in a few minutes, shouldn’t she? No, she doesn’t come to the roof. Where was I before the roof?

The sandwich was gone except for the crusts and I looked at the chips. I popped the bag open and started munching between sips of juice. So hungry. When are they bringing my lunch? Mom should be here any minute. Where am I?

I looked around. I’m sitting on my bench, alone up here, and I smell grape juice. Empty juice box. Oh, yeah, Mr. Flannery. I looked at my watch. 2:09:07.

I scrambled up, heart pounding in my chest. I crumple the plastic wrap and the potato chip bag into the brown bag and set it down on the bench. The juice box fell off the bench, but I was out of time. I scrambled for the ladder and threw my foot over, checking my watch again. 2:09:16.

I shot down the fire escape and ran to the safety of the bus. I doubled over at the bus door to catch my breath.

“Just made it, Miss D. Gotta shut the doors now.”

I stumbled forward and grasped at a pole.

“No charge today, ma’am,” he said as I reached in my pocket.

“What?”

“Have a seat, Miss D, I got a busy day today.”

“Okay,” I said, depositing my fare before I turned to sit.

I checked my watch. 2:09:58. 2:09:59. 2:10. I’m safe. I’m going home. Mom will be there.

To Be Continued…

[Comments: She climbs up the fire escape to get to the roof every time, but only this time hears footsteps. Why would she do this, and does anyone witness this and ask questions? Is she trespassing? What is the building?

Darling Alert: “But I didn’t trust myself to know that.” This line sounds pretty, but it’s in the first draft, and there’s a lot to edit, so don’t get too attached.

She perceives the birds as being scared of her. Is this actually true? Why is she afraid of herself?

What’s on the 7th floor? What is she afraid will happen if they find her?

Mr. Flannery seems to be on the roof for two reasons: Jen and Miss D. He took his lunch late, claiming he wasn’t hungry until now, and left his food on the bench under which Miss D was hiding. Miss D also recognizes him. Who is he to her? Did he leave his lunch yesterday, too?

Actions: Give a plausible reason for using the fire escape instead of the entrance or scrap the idea. The reason has to be worth the risk of getting caught. Also, make sure to revisit the mysterious footsteps she heard.

Mr. Flannery’s actions appear very deliberate and routine. He could be bringing two lunches and leaving Miss D one of them every day, in which case, it should be mentioned in the previous scene.

Details to remember:

• Characters: Mr. Flannery, Jen, Eileen, Mom

• Locations: The alley, The Seventh Floor, “Home”

• she kept hearing footsteps and wasn’t sure if there was someone following her

• she’s scared of herself

• today she feels different and thinks she’s being watched

• the bus driver might be Mr. Clinton or Mr. Crichton

• she can fit under the bench and easily hide

• She saw two pairs of feet, one belonging to a female with very red hair, the other belonging to a man named Flannery that Miss D recognizes

• Miss D has strawberry blonde locks

• Flannery from the 7th floor has brown hair with a bald spot, a tweed coat, and brown pants

• Flannery and Jen, the redhead, are an item of some kind, possibly a secret affair

• Miss D doesn’t want to watch their intimate moment

• Mr. Flannery seems to have left his lunch for Miss D, maybe on purpose, maybe not

• The tuna sandwich brought back memories of Miss D’s mom

• She doesn’t eat the crust

• The bus leaves the stop at 2:10

• The driver said no charge, but she still paid for the ride

• He also said he had a busy day today, but didn’t say why]

Jump to Chapter 3

Back to Chapter 1

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I peered over the edge, dizzy - too dizzy. Get my footing back. I don’t need you falling from the sixteenth floor, he said. Yes, I remember him saying it a minute ago. No, yesterday maybe. It was 2:08.

I looked at my watch. 2:05. Late, but what for?

The breeze felt warm but cool. It could have been fall where I lived. But this wasn’t my town; it didn’t have that rural feel. The roads here were paved and the birds sat on roofs instead of trees. A cardinal sang sweetly, but then trembled at my presence and flitted away. Careful, little bird! That’d be a nasty fall.

The door was shut with the cinderblock next to it. I was alone out here. Oh, yes, I was searching for the bench. My bench. I walked to the far corner and sat on my bench. He looked so sad sitting next to me, interrogating me. Mournful brown-green eyes. Full lips. He kissed my forehead twice.

Whoa, what was that? I glanced behind me. No one. In front, no one. Another memory?

I reached into my pocket for the note. It was crumpled and aged, seconds from falling apart at the folded edges. I read it to myself.

“On the roof. I’ll be there around 2. You can tell me then. -T”

I became excited to find out what “T” stood for. When would he be here? Was he a he or a she? The he from my memory?

I checked my watch. 2:08. One more minute. I had to see if today was the day. But the note said around 2. Around 2. Maybe that meant closer to 2:15? I could never stay till 2:15, never. Maybe it meant before 2? Tomorrow I’ll come earlier.

Oh no, 2:09:21. 2:09:22. 2:09:23.

Oh no, I need to leave here. I have to make the bus or it’s going to happen again. It’s getting too hot on this roof and I don’t want to jump. Please, just get to the bus. It’s safe there.

2:09:33. I hurled myself down the fire escape to the street. There was the bus. I reached in my pocket and deposited my fare.

“D’you make it, Miss D?”

“Huh?” I looked into the sunken old face of the man behind the steering wheel.

“D’you see him today?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’d like to come early tomorrow. Maybe 1:58.”

The driver laughed and the doors of the bus squealed shut. “Two minutes to two, Miss D. I’ll do my best.”

To Be Continued…

[Comments: Someone left a note saying they would meet a woman, age and appearance not mentioned, named Miss D on the roof at roughly 2:00. She seems to assume it’s 2:00 p.m. and not 2:00 a.m. This could be either cleared up or called into question as foreshadowing. Is this a romantic meeting, or maybe a confrontation? The note also said she had something to tell them, but given her gaps in memory, does she remember her own message? She doesn’t address this issue.

Actions: Convey thought without mixing it in with memories of other characters speaking. This is confusing, even when considering her an unreliable narrator. Possibly have the main character think aloud to demonstrate her mental instability. This will help to clearly show the switch from thoughts to memory.

Details to remember:

• Characters: Miss D, T, Sad Man on the Bench, Old Man Driving the Bus

• Locations: The Roof, The Bus, Miss D’s Former Town

• the main character has memory issues and is possibly unstable

• this building has sixteen floors

• she was speaking to a man on the roof maybe yesterday

• she’s locked out of the building because the cinderblock isn’t propping the door open

• she’s late at 2:05

• it feels like autumn, and she’s from a rural area

• she keeps an old note with her from someone called “T”

• she had something to tell “T”

• she seems to come up to the roof and wait on “her bench” at about the same time every day hoping to meet “T”

• someone was sitting with her on the roof at some point, looking sad and interrogating her, and he kissed her forehead

• something bad might happen if she stays on the roof much later than 2:00 and she thinks she may have to jump off

• she can climb down a fire escape very quickly

• the bus driver is an old man who knows her by “Miss D”, so he probably at least knows her last name and speaks with her frequently]

  

  Jump to Chapter 2

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It was pretty lackluster as far as web design goes, even for the time. I won’t be linking it, because I also wasn’t all that worried about whether my name and face were public. Probably because I had no confidence that I’d gain any readers. Luckily, my privacy remains intact. (If you think posting on here feels like talking to a wall, you probably don’t remember the sucking vacuum of the Blogs of Olde.)

I did some writing for that blog that helped me grow as a writer. One practice I started there and kept up here on Substack is publishing my first drafts. I see a lot of other writers trying to learn and grow, and I love being a part of this network. I wish I could go back and show my younger self how many barriers indie writers have broken in the last twenty years. Back before my mother told me that most writers don’t make money writing books, and that I should go to college and become a journalist. (Love you, Mom, but you had to know that was never happening.)

I made a decision, looking back at all the posts on my old blog. I’m bringing back my first serial story. I’ll drop it in here untouched, all twenty-six chapters, and add a critique at the end. This way, my time spent writing on this Substack won’t take away from editing projects I plan to publish. The editing will happen publicly.

I haven’t read this story since I typed it up the first time. We will find out together what it’s about, how much work it needs, and how much my writing has changed. I don’t know about you, but I’m excited. At 18,000 words, this will be a beast to edit with an audience.

Wish me luck,

Jack

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Several years ago, a good friend showed me a company that needed AI trainers, and I needed money. I worked on several types of projects in a freelance capacity until they ran out of projects for long enough that I needed to move on. Even knowing what I know now about how artists like myself and my kids are experiencing IP theft of Napster proportions, I am not ashamed. I do not regret feeding my family, and while I would love to say I’ll never take a job like that again, I don’t have the luxury of boycotting a stream of income if it becomes a last resort.

With that said, the main reason I remained in the dark about the legal and moral issues with generative AI is that I wasn’t training it. Not the type of generative AI that “draws” or “writes”. Funnily enough, I didn’t qualify for those projects.

Every time a round of new projects was commissioned, the trainers would take assessments to see what projects they were allowed to work on. It felt a bit like being plucked from a jury pool. If you weren’t skilled in creative writing (or didn’t want to waste creative energy on a temp job), you were given informational writing tasks and more options to edit other writers’ submissions. If your responses indicated a strong sense of social justice or moral fortitude, you worked on reviewing and flagging for models with heavy censorship guidelines. If your responses indicated a talent for creating stunning visual art, well, I never got through that threshold. I don’t know what the company assigned to those trainers. I can only speculate.

The other reason I don’t regret working for The Company Who Shall Not Be Named: knowledge and skill building.

I flexed my editing skills and learned writing styles and structures I’d never bothered to research before. I learned quickly how to structure prompts to get closer and closer to the desired output instead of initiating a long and frustrating guessing game. I learned a lot about how many different models use data to fulfill prompt requests. I learned how easily models fall into repetitive patterns, and consequently, how to spot possible AI generations. I say “possible” because the more a model is trained with authentically created content, the easier it is to blend in with it.

I wish I’d had more knowledge and less trust before I saw the offer. But I don’t regret finding a quick income when my family needed it. I also don’t regret working for a company that treated me with more dignity than many of my former employers.

Even though I didn’t see inside every single project, I saw consistently high standards enforced throughout. Communication with supervisors and peers was easy, fluid, and transparent. Getting booted from a project was fairly common, and the majority of people complaining in threads either shamelessly admitted to throwing a wrench in their project or showed that they didn’t fully understand their project’s parameters. Writers were required to use only the most reputable informational websites and to cite every source. Models were not open to internet access, according to the company.

If every claim they made was true, their goal seemed to be a nearly unattainable level of AI integrity. Perhaps that’s why they’re not a household name. Or perhaps I believed exactly what they wanted me to believe.

Questions? Comments?

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He offered me a hand, but I was already mostly upright. I squinted at the neon light ahead, using my peripheral vision to confirm. The open sign was lit up.

Gary waited by the single gas pump with Ruby while I walked inside the convenience store.

“Back again, Gorgeous?” Frank greeted me from behind the counter.

“Mm-hm. It’s been a day.” I rubbed my temple, frowning at the loud buzz of the old fluorescent lights. My foot hit something rubbery.

“Watch your step,” he called out, “I just finished the floors.”

Was he closing up already? I pulled my phone out of my pocket to see five-till-eleven. I finished my shift at nine, stopped here at nine-forty, and got home ten minutes later. What happened between getting home and now?

“I gotta lock up in a bit, hun.”

“Sorry,” I said, grabbing the first six-pack I touched.

“Hard seltzer, eh? You finally trying my recommendation?”

I groaned internally, but smiled to him and nodded. “Why not?” Because it’s going to taste like watered-down wine coolers, that’s why.

I pointed behind Frank, through my snowy blind spot, hoping he remembered what Gary usually smoked.

“Menthol lights?” He asked.

“In a bag,” I sighed, rubbing my eyes, then my whole face. I set my whole wallet on the scanner, hoping the first card that registered would cover the cost. The beep confirmed.

“See ya tomorrow,” he said in a cheery voice that rivaled the irritation of the buzzing lights.

“Most likely,” I replied, then I plopped down on the bench just outside the door. I shut my eyes tight and tried to uncap one of the glass bottles.

A single phrase forced its way into my head. “La perdí.”

They weren’t my words, and they weren’t in my ears. They just... were.

A pair of corduroy-clad legs appeared to my left, and a shiver raised the hairs on both my arms. Again my throat tightened. I hated the way my nervous system seemed to encase my whole being in concrete when I really needed to run. Or scream. Or do anything besides sit there.

“Gary...” I whispered, which was all I could do.

It seemed like the presence of an elderly man. I could smell something musty, like folded sheets sitting in the same cabinet for a year. My breathing changed and my chest felt weighed down.

“Ayúdala!” More words I couldn’t understand. Loud and desperate and inside my head. Then a flash of a little girl no older than eight, prying boards away from a wooden fence. Her face was clearer than a memory and streaked with terror. I hated her. I hated him for showing me her.

I took a deep breath and used all of my energy to lift the chilled bottle into my view. Crappy beer with a pry-off cap. Of course.

“L-l-leave...me...alone.” My voice was raspy and barely audible, but it seemed to get the message across.

The weight of the man’s presence lifted all at once, loosening my breathing and my grip. The bottle shattered.

“Are you serious?” Gary rushed over, grabbing my arm. “Come on, we gotta go, now!”

I grabbed the six-pack and handed him the black bag of his cigarette pack and my receipt. “Sorry, I zoned out.”

We jogged with Ruby just out of sight of the store and then let her mark the grass beneath someone’s mailbox.

“You’re kind of a jerk sometimes, you know that?”

I yanked the bag back out of his hand before he could look inside. “Yeah, I know.”

To Be Continued…

Jump to Chapter 5!

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There’s the mom who listens, relays what she’s heard, and asks for clarification until we’re on the same page. She communicates her limitations and asks for breaks before losing all patience and lashing out. She admits her wrongs and apologizes, encouraging her kids to do the same. She fails sometimes, has lots of bad days, is nowhere near perfect, and is honest and open about it with each of her kids.

Then there’s the mom I used to be. The one who based her values equally on her parents’ traditions and the expectations heaped on her by society. The one who believed everyone who called her lazy and wondered why she couldn’t make herself do the things other moms found so easy. The way my son talks about her is hesitant, cautiously worded, and also surprisingly forgiving. The sense of relief in him that I’ve changed for the better is palpable.

He’s my oldest by a few years, and I feel comfortable saying that he knows me better than most people. He’s the only one of my children carrying memories from before a lot of the life-changing events that have reshaped me. In many ways, I’ve grown up along with him. That, and the way he towers over me while wearing a much hairier version of my face, makes us look more like siblings to people who don’t know us. It could also be our near-identical humor and (mostly) gentle roughhousing.

I wish I could take all the credit, but in all honesty, I don’t know how he became so kind, resilient, and forgiving. He remembers me at my worst, he’s told me how unhappy he felt at that time, and he is unbelievably understanding about it. I sometimes feel a quiet sting of jealousy when any of his siblings complain about him after an argument between them. I’m thankful they’re still innocent enough to think kindness is the default.

Despite my belief that I am the sum of my choices, and both the bad ones and the good ones have led me to this life, raising these children, I do still wonder. Who might I have been, and what choices might I have made, if I’d grown up with a big brother even half as loving and protective as he is toward his siblings?

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As you may have seen in my early posts, I started this page with the working title: Jacked Fiction Lab. A fine title, but not quite what I wanted to convey.

When I was ready to choose a brand and buy a domain, I remembered the term “faction” as a way to describe an exaggerated telling of factual events, blending the words, and the concepts, fact and fiction.

The main definition of “faction” is a clique or subgroup, branching off or dissenting from a larger organization. The counterculture of neurodivergence (or insert your preferred term here) could be categorized as a faction of neurotypical society.

Meanwhile, “jacked” is a much more versatile word. Like a few other four-letter words in the English slanguage, “jack” can be used as a noun, a verb, or an adjective. It can mean out of order, excited, or increased, when used as a descriptor.

Any of these could fit the theme of neurodivergence and counterculture. To say that my brain is “jacked up” is my way of re-framing the unfortunately popular opinion that atypical is synonymous with broken. I’m not broken. I’m slightly out of order, I get excited about strange things, and I have an increased sense of irony.

Anyway, the root of the name is pretty much a coincidence. When I was just old enough to form full sentences, I randomly decided to call myself Jack. That nickname has stuck with me for decades, and in my process of unmasking, I’ve fully embraced it as part of my personality.

Also, how cool is “JACK: Just Autistic Creative Knowledge” as an acronym? That was a rhetorical question. It’s awesome.

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“Rita, are you even listening? You’re acting so weird tonight.”

“I’m listening,” I responded automatically. “I just...kinda...missed everything you said.”

I looked up from my feet to see an eye-roll as he glanced my way. “Hm. You must’ve gotten started earlier than usual, then.”

“Yeah, I wish. Right now I’m the most sober bartender you’ve ever seen.”

“Well, that answers my second question,” he said, nodding in acknowledgement to the man I wasn’t aware he could see. He ignored us.

I glanced behind me after a beat, making sure the man passed up our driveway. “I figured you already knew where we were going. Unless you have some candy on you or something?”

Gary shook his head. “I gave you my last two the other night, remember?”

I shivered as I kicked a fallen pine branch out of my path and chuckled at Ruby for sniffing at it. “Wait, what was your first question?”

“It-uh…doesn’t matter.” Gary pulled his navy blue hood over his head and picked at one of the drawstrings. I watched him silently repeat the word “matter” three times.

I frowned, but didn’t push it. We continued quietly on the closed highway, assaulted by the scents of ditch water and old take-out containers. Today, it was sun-spoiled barbecue sandwich bits discarded by the construction crew pretending to repair our decrepit bridge. Ruby scarfed down the meat and carried the bun in her teeth while she pranced between us. I wished I could remember ever being so easily delighted.

“Come on, old girl,” my brother said as he guided Ruby through the barricades we assumed were only meant for vehicles. She backed away, tightening the slack of her leash, and Gary tugged at her harder.

“Give it here,” I said, taking control of the leash. I remembered this as a lesser used precaution of hers. Like any good food-hoarder, she needed to bury this remnant in her safe spot for later in case she needed a snack on the way back home. She did this when she was feeling anxious at the start of the walk, especially when we took a right out of the driveway instead of a left. Something about crossing the barricades spooked her.

“God, this is gonna take forever.” Gary folded his arms, watching as she nosed the smallest little layer of dirt over the bun, over and over, contributing to the callous on her snout that never quite healed. She stamped it down, still using the tip of her nose, and swiped one more dusting over it. She snorted with a finality that communicated more than words, then sniffed forward on the path with a half-tucked tail.

“See? She just needed to season, I mean, bury her food. No big—”

The leash ripped out of my hand and I tripped over a broken cinderblock. The knee that caught me throbbed and my ears rang.

“RUBY!” I heard Gary’s footsteps quicken and then stop. “What’s wrong with you, girl? What happened?” His voice faded from my hearing.

I looked up to find them, but the center of my vision was blocked by what looked like TV fuzz with purple flashes. It started as a slim line and grew into the shape of Texas. Sort of. If I’d tried to draw it with my toes.

“Jeez, Rita, you scared the crap outta her. We should just go back home. Forget the liquor store.”

“No!”

Look, I’m not an alcoholic, if that’s what you’re thinking. I know, I know. All the signs are there. But unless you look at every stranger you pass and have to wonder if they’re alive or dead, you have no idea how much a good buzz is worth.

To Be Continued…

Jump to Chapter 4!

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“Where are you going?” Gary asked, bending the screen away from the kitchen window.

I dangled my keyring in response, looking across the yard at my sedan.

He sighed, failing to jam the window up. “Do you know if any of these are unlocked, or should I just break one?”

I shook my head, knowing he’d just keep trying, because that’s who he was. “Seems like a waste of energy,” I muttered, fishing my earbuds out of my pocket. I was detecting a pattern.

The calm beats trilled out of my earbuds as my heart pounded. I stopped walking, seeing movement in the passenger seat through my windshield. Did I see it, or was I just too shaken?

Last night, I assumed Gary had locked the door and gone to bed before I got home. The chair had moved from the side of the door where he liked to smoke, but only by a few feet. I could have imagined that, or he could’ve moved it himself. Three nights ago, he’d left his lighter sitting on the chair. As I was opening the door, I didn’t see it, but I definitely heard the lighter clatter to the ground. This was the first time I’d seen something moving around in my car, though. If I really did see it.

A robotic voice startled me out of my thoughts. It cut off my music, saying, “Low. Battery.” I sighed and put the earbuds back in their case. I pocketed both the case and my keys, looking over my shoulder.

“Do you want to take a walk? Maybe if we kill a few minutes, things will calm down by the time we get back.”

Gary was crouched down, frowning as he peered into the dark kitchen. “Yep, I’m coming.” He walked faster than me, straight to my car.

“A walk, not a drive,” I called out, unhooking a spare leash from the chain link fence. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to tag along.”

He jogged past me and opened the gate. “The kitchen lights are off now, by the way.”

“Aw, look at her tail,” I said, ignoring his observation. Our old mutt had her reddish-brown tail tucked so far between her legs that it looked like part of her belly.

“Poor Ruby, you look almost as scared as I feel,” he said, kneeling in front of her to kiss the top of her head. Ruby always calmed down when she was around him, and she tolerated me well enough.

I snapped the leash onto her collar once her tail started wagging, then handed it over to him.

“Changed your mind about driving?” Gary asked, still walking at a brisk pace. I looked at my car, giving it lots of space as I walked past.

As I opened my mouth to speak, Ruby let out a low growl. Her hackles raised slightly as her eyes fixed to my car. “What do you think?”

I reached down and gave her leash a little tug to snap her out of it. She snorted, turning her attention to the drying spaghetti sauce smeared on my pants as we reached the edge of the driveway. Gary glanced back at my car, then shook his head.

To Be Continued…

Jump to Chapter 3

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I slammed the car door and locked it while fishing my phone out of my pocket. No notifications on the lock screen except one missed call with a voice message. I dialed my voicemail inbox, positioning the phone to my ear, then I tripped. I spilled my leftover lunch from work all over my sidewalk. I cracked the screen on my phone. A gust of autumn breeze blew a stinging pain into the fresh scrape on my elbow. It was damp with blood. My stomach growled at the scent of marinara sauce and meatballs that I’d planned to finish eating.

What the hell did I trip over? I looked back, and there it was. For a third time this week, the stupid little wooden chair moved from the edge of the porch to the middle of the sidewalk. I brushed myself off, picked up my phone, and left the food on the sidewalk. Maybe they were hungry, too. Do they even eat?

“What happened to you?” My brother asked with a stifled laugh in his voice.

“Nothing. I tripped over my feet,” I lied, walking around him to open the first drawer on the kitchen island. I glanced at the stove hoping for dinner, but no such luck. “What did you eat?”

“Noodles. Why do you smell like pizza? Did you bring me any?”

I sighed. “It’s spaghetti, and it’s outside. Help yourself.”

Before I looked up again, he was already out the door, cursing my name.

I followed him out, saying, “Do you want me to bring you a fork? Or a shovel?”

“It was the chair, wasn’t it? I told you it moved on its own and you didn’t believe me,” he said, crouching in the grass to inspect it.

“I never said that. I said I didn’t want to talk about it, and I still don’t.” I picked up the takeout box and scooped up both of my soiled meatballs and the majority of the grassy spaghetti. “Here’s your pizza,” I said, handing him the box as I walked back to the door.

“Why?”

“Because the more attention we give them, the more they seem to want to mess with us.” I sighed, turning the ice-cold handle.

He frowned, approaching the porch. “They? So you think it’s multiple ghosts?”

I tried the handle again, but the door didn’t budge. I looked back at him, but noticed the chair wasn’t knocked over by my fall anymore. It had waited until we both weren’t looking to right itself, as if inviting one of us to sit.

“I think…” I started to say, but my throat tightened.

He followed my glassy-eyed gaze to the chair behind him, then ran to the door, swatting my hand off the handle to try it for himself.

“I think they locked us out, buddy.”

To Be Continued…

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