Prompt #1: Novel Character Comes to Life--And May Murder Someone

On Labor Day, as I put the finishing touches on my latest novel and sent it off to my editor Jillian in New York City, I thought I was done.  I assumed I had put my colorful, unique characters to bed, that I was finally due for a long hot soak in the tub and maybe even a weekend trip to Sedona for some serious R&R with my best friend Ruthie.  I had no idea how utterly wrong I was.  

 Tuesday morning I slept in late to celebrate and then woke at ten-thirty to the unearthly howling of my cat, Snickers.  Tearing myself from the comfy warmth of my bed, I stumbled into the laundry room and dumped a cup of Meow Mix into her bowl.  Then, on second thought, I added some extra.  I was in a generous mood, despite the unwanted wake-up call.  And why shouldn't I be?  I had just completed the fourth mystery thriller in my series, Maple Street Murders, and my next royalty check from book number three would be arriving in my mailbox any day now.  Life was good.  Very good.  

Okay, so I still needed a man, but that's another story entirely.  

Out on my back patio I was enjoying the morning paper and a cup of mint hot cocoa with a banana-nut muffin when I heard voices coming from over the wall next door.  Considering the house had been vacant for almost a year, I was understandably curious.  

I should have minded my own business.  I realize that now.  But the writer in me wouldn't leave well enough alone.  I am nosy by nature, and I can hardly apologize for that.  It's how I earn a living!  Anyway, that's when the trouble started.

Peering over the wall, I got the shock of my life.  There was Francie, in the flesh!  

Okay, let me back up a bit.  You haven't read Maple Street Murders number four, because it hasn't yet gone to print, but Francie is the darling of the book, at least until she commits murder on page one hundred and sixty-two.  Francie the neighborhood pest, food-blogger and recipe swiper extraordinaire.  Larger than life, Francie looks like a cross between Sofia Vergara and Paula Deen.  Just to be clear, Sofia's face but Paula's body.  I had just spent the last year of my life honing and shaping Francie until she was so real to me I sometimes caught myself trying to look her up on Facebook.  

I knew Francie as well as I knew the pesky mole under my left armpit.  And the woman standing in the backyard next door was her, no doubt about it.  

For a moment I stood there on my tiptoes, watching her talk to one of the hired U-Haul guys, pondering this jaw-dropping resemblance.  She was dressed in a tangerine polka-dotted getup, something Francie would have thoroughly embraced.  She even wore the same fuschia-colored scarf around her hair that Francie wore when she had her open house in Chapter Two and invited the neighborhood gals over for chicken salad sandwiches and her 'famous' lemon bars.  The resemblance was uncanny.  Even her red stiletto pointy-toed heels were Francie-esque.  

Like I said, I should have left it right there.  She wasn't any of my business, and if she was about to become my new next-door neighbor, the last thing I wanted to do was get chummy with her.  But as the day wore on and I heard her shrilly Southern voice directing the moving guys where to place her furniture and boxes, I found myself peering over the adjoining wall again and again.  

At four o'clock I was busily engaged in the arduous task of cleaning my six-foot fish aquarium, trying desperately to mind my own business, when I heard the doorbell ring.  It was my new next-door neighbor.  She stood there in a frilly pink apron, her voluptuous lipsticked mouth smiling innocently at me.  I wasn't surprised to see a plate of brownies in her hands, another food item that my Francie was famous for.  

"Umm, hi," I stammered.

"Hello!  I'm your new next-door neighbor," she trilled.  "Just wanted to come by and introduce myself.  And I brought you some of my signature pecan delight brownies.  Hope you aren't allergic to nuts?"

"No..."

"Oh, good!"  She was almost ecstatic.  "I do hope we can be friends!"

Friends?  I didn't have any friends.  "I'm Cynthia," I offered reluctantly, reaching out to take the plate.  

"So pleased to meet you!  I'm Francis, by the way."  

What were the odds?  All I could do was smile and stare.

*****

Things got weirder over the next few days and weeks.  Just like my fictional Francie, Francis made the rounds all over the neighborhood, sharing her baked goodies and trading recipes with all the stay-at-home moms and sweet grandma types.  Everyone loved her.  And how could you not?  After all, who doesn't love a fresh caramel apple pie after a long hard day of chasing kids?  And the dads couldn't keep their eyes off her.  Okay, so she was a little bit fleshy, but still.  This woman was a dream.  

Then came the notorious feud with Gracie Smith three houses down.  During one of Francis's get-to-know-you brunches, Gracie accused her of stealing her highly guarded spinach-and-feta quiche recipe.  The next thing everyone knew, Gracie had shoved the quiche into Francis's face and stormed out.  We all just stood there gawking at our hostess, egg on her face and her usually perky expression growing darker by the second.  

In that moment I think we all knew the game had changed.  

After that I started noticing more uncanny parallels between my Francie and our new neighbor.  Francis started calling the HOA to report Gracie's minor trash violations and illegal overnight parking.  Gracie's brand new Mercedes got seriously egged, and there was no question as to the perpetrator.  Someone mysteriously left what looked like a homeless person's trashy-looking shopping cart in front of Gracie's house.  She had to call one of those 1-800-JUNK trucks to come and take it away.  

Sometimes I could hear Francis and Gracie arguing over the wall, their voices raised.  During those moments I kept my cell phone close by, ready to dial 911 if the noise reached Death-Con levels.  

In Maple Street Murders #4, Francie keeps her neighborhood HOA busy investigating her arch-nemesis's infractions.  Like weeds in the front yard and a basketball hoop set up in the driveway.  But then things progress to the point that the nemesis's cat is poisoned and eventually the nemesis turns up dead with a steak knife stuck in her chest, the stolen recipe card pinned beneath it.

Things were not looking good for our real-life neighborhood food diva.  All indications were that she was about to commit first-degree murder.  

On Halloween eve, I noticed the UPS truck delivering a package next door.  Not good.  (This was how Francie the food blogger acquired her murder weapon in Maple Street Murders #4.  She didn't want to sully one of her expensive Cutco knifes with all the blood, so she ordered a cheap set online.)  There was no way I could let this crime occur.  When my book came out as scheduled in two months, I would be likely be called in for questioning.  

Francis was out doing her weekly marathon shopping trip at Costco.  The only reason I knew this was because that morning she had invited me to come along.  I declined, since I had serious plans to clean out my rabbit cage.  Anyway, with Francis safely out of the way, the logical thing to do was to get rid of the box before she got home.  

Donning my sunglasses and a big floppy hat I found buried in the closet, I slunk next door for a closer look.  The box sat innocently by Francis's front door, just the right size for a set of steak knives.  I couldn't believe how Twilight Zone this felt.  

I peered around to make sure no neighbors were lurking about, then ripped off the tape and dived into the popcorn packing.  This was one murder plot that was about to be iced.  

Just then I heard the clicking of heels on the sidewalk behind me.  "Cyndi?  Is that you?  What on earth are you doing?"

Slowly I raised my head, and there stood Francis, loaded down with strawberries.  True to form, she was even dressed like a strawberry.  I couldn't believe how benign she looked, considering the premeditation involved in all of this.  

"Cyndi?  Why are you opening my package?"

I knew this looked bad, but I wasn't going to stop now.  I thought of Gracie and how her life was in my hands.  I would never be able to forgive myself if I walked away now.  Reaching into the box, I pulled out the murder weapon, holding it high to confront Francis.  

"Yes!  It finally came!" Francis said.

Doing a double take, I realized my error.  I was holding a KitchenAid 9-Speed Digital Display Hand Mixer in candy apple red. 

"Oh goodie!  Now I can try out that new divinity recipe!"

Divinity?  Suddenly I felt like a fool.  

"So, are you here to help?"  She grinned at me. "You can measure the ingredients and I'll unpack this bad boy."  Really, who gets that excited over a hand mixer?

"Uh, sure."  It looked like Francis and I were destined to become friends after all.  

But as I followed her into the kitchen, I couldn't help wondering... what kind of torturous mayhem could be committed with a hand mixer?...

Prompt 1: Novel Character Comes to Life--and may Murder Someone

...I left the block party early that night.  The kids protested, my friends needled, but I laughed it off weakly.  I said I needed to catch up on sleep.

Danita Blake bid me goodnight when I left.  I felt her eyes follow me home, and I was still shuddering hours later...

I paused in my typing, read over the last few paragraphs.  "John?"  I called into the next room.  "Is it too cliche to describe the murderer's "cold, dead eyes"?"

My husband came into my office and read the computer screen.

"...Eh, it's a bit overdone," he said after a moment's thought.  "Try talking about the expression instead." 

I shrugged and nodded.  He said something else, but I was already planning the next scene when he left the room.

***

The next day, I was taking my 10-year-old to the bus stop when one of the other neighborhood moms pulled me into the greenery.

"We have a new neighbor!" Jenny gushed.  "Just moved in last night, apparently she's a single lawyer who's just joined a law firm nearby."

I raised my eyebrows, waved reassuringly at the kids who peered at us through the bushes.  "You realize that that's the second-most common profession of serial killers?"  I was teasing, but it was true; in fact, that was the job I'd assigned to the antagonist of my murder mystery. 

Jenny rolled her eyes at me.  "Come on!  There's a new girl in the neighborhood, we should celebrate!"

"Just invite her to the book club!  Or bring her cookies!"  I blinked and jumped quickly out of the bushes as the bus turned onto the street.  "Wait, Charlie, don't go on the bus with your hair like that..."  I accosted my son and licked my hand surreptitiously, trying desperately to smooth a cowlick that had escaped my attention earlier.

"So, what's her name?" I asked Jenny later, after the kids had boarded.

"Oh, it's... Danita," she said, peering after the bus.  "Danita Blake."

***

For the rest of the week, I was paranoid.  A friend's mention of a missing garden hose made me think of the improvised garrote in my novel.  A "Lost Dog" sign reminded me of how, before the murder, all the characters' dogs began to disappear.  Once, when walking by the newly-bought house, I saw a familiar black convertible in the driveway and blinked rapidly several times before hurrying away, shaking my head.  I kept to my writing schedule, but each new scene added to my sense of foreboding. 

I didn't see my new neighbor until the neighborhood block party.

The thing about this particular block party, of course, is that it inspired the one in my novel.  When notices from the HOA started popping up, I had been struck by the thought that it would be the perfect scene for my novel.  Dark, noisy, and a crowd to get lost in...

But I never really made the connection between the block party and the mysterious Danita Blake until the night of the event.  Jenny and the other book club girls had found out that I still hadn't met our new neighbor, and so they dragged me over to her when the night was still young.

I don't know what I had been expecting... but no, I hadn't expected this.  For all my forays into the fantastic as a novelist, I hadn't genuinely believed that there was something to be worried about.

But Danita Blake had jet-black hair in a pixie cut.  Danita Blake had eyes the gray of a cloudy sky, and a nose that was just a fraction straighter than ordinary.  Danita Blake had immaculately groomed eyebrows, fingernails painted scarlet, and buckled boots that reached her knees.  Danita Blake wore earrings shaped like roses, and there were diamonds glinting in the center.

...I knew those earrings.  I knew those boots.  I knew this woman.

I knew, and even as disbelief gripped me, I felt my knees start to shake.  Because every aspect of Danita Blake, every expression that crossed her face, I had described in detail weeks before.  I'd described my Danita Blake, the character.  And somehow this Danita Blake was exactly the same.  In every way.

My knees shook, my breath caught, and one thought stuck in my mind.  Repeated like a broken record.

My Danita Blake had been a serial killer.  Was this one?

***

I made my way to stand alone by the food.  Images flashed through my head: sirens, screams, a corpse... all images that I'd blithely described just days ago.  Despite the delicious food next to me, I suddenly felt like throwing up, imagining what I'd written as the aftermath of that fictional block party.

This is crazy, I thought to myself.  That's a book, not real life! You're being paranoid, this isn't real, there's nothing to be worried about...

My husband came over and wrapped his arms around me.  "You look frazzled," he said, poking me in the ribs slightly.  "Did you work yourself too hard today?"

I melted into his embrace, only slightly put out.  "You're supposed to tell me I look beautiful," I muttered defensively.  Then, louder, "Maybe I did work too hard today... Um.  Does that girl over there look like a serial killer to you?"

John laughed uproariously, and then incredulously when he realized that I was serious.  "Honey, you've spent too much time writing.  Relax, have some food!"  Then he added, when he saw I wasn't reassured, "Or if you're really stressed out, maybe you should go to bed early tonight.  I can watch the kids for you if you want."  

I took a deep breath, and then another.  "Ok," I said faintly.  And then, "Ok, I think I will...  You're sure there's nothing suspicious about her?"

He rolled his eyes and gave me a little shove.  "Bed. And don't start working on your novel again--it's driving you crazy!"

So I left the block party early that night.  The kids protested, my friends needled, but I laughed it off weakly.  I said I needed to catch up on sleep.

Danita Blake bid me goodnight when I left.  I felt her eyes follow me home, and I was still shuddering hours later...

******************************************************************

That's all!  Fair note, I spent about two hours writing this, but it was off and on while I was watching the... umm... Late Night Jimmy Falon show?  I thought it was Saturday Night Live for the first hour or so.  Mainly because it's Saturday night, and that's the only comedy show that I've ever really heard of.

Anyway, for our first prompt I looked at Writer'sDigest.com to try and find a good prompt, and Mom and I agreed on this one: 

You’ve written a novel with a character that eventually murders one of his or her neighbors. Suddenly, a new person moves into your neighborhood with the same name as your character. Looks similar too. In fact, you can’t help but notice this new neighbor is doing several of the same things as your character—including laying the groundwork to murder someone. You decide to follow this person because, if all holds true to your plot, you know what’s going to happen. Write this scene.

(Prompt)

(I didn't follow it exactly, by the way.)

Intro to The Writers' Project

The Writers:

Elisa and Cassie Thompson, a mother-daughter duo.  Aspiring writers, fiction fanatics, and best friends (on Tuesdays, at least).

The Goal:

One post a week.  One prompt.  Two takes.  The plan is to give ourselves an hour to write a 'flash fiction', both of us working from the same prompt.  When we finish, both versions will be posted here.

Yay!

The Rules:

No collaboration.  Be creative.  Have fun if you want, have an aneurysm if you don't.

Oh, and no cursing.  We're funny like that.  This is family-friendly, except for when we drool over Chris Pine.


It's a bit late for New Year's Resolutions, but we'll see how this goes!