writing sample: The Poison Spindle Problem

I have often talked about writing on my blog, and the joys and frustrations of looking for an agent, but I don't think I've actually posted some of my fiction on here before. So I decided I ought to correct that failing. Here, for what it's worth, is the first chapter of The Poison Spindle Problem, as it stands now. This chapter has given me hours and hours of agony as I've rewritten it at least 2 dozen times and never been happy with the balance between introducing the main character and getting to the action. (If it's all character, you don't go beyond the first chapter because nothing is happening. If it's all action, you don't go beyond the first chapter because you have no reason to care what happens to the heroine....As Winnie the Pooh would say, "Bother.") I'm still not sure I got it right, but I think we're finally on the right track.

Don't feel obligated to read this if you don't want to (I usually don't want to read other people's fiction, either); likewise, don't feel obligated to comment or offer suggestions--I am so tired of rewriting that I likely won't do anything about them (other than read them, which I will do) unless you happen to be a reputable editor or literary agent.

So, without further blabbing....


Chapter 1: Once Upon a Time

Kate hefted the last box—this one full of antique books from her private collection--onto the heap in the living room and looked around. Uncle Stan had replaced Grandma’s lace curtains with blinds, but, save Kate’s pile of boxes in the middle of the faded floral rug, the rest of the apartment looked the same as it had when Grandma Clark had lived there, only not quite as clean. Even the old green “grasshopper couch” Grandma had had before she went to the rest home was right where it had been Kate’s whole life. She remembered leaning over the back of that couch when she was a kid, pressing her forehead against the tall second-story windows, watching the cars go by on Center Street while the grownups talked.

Kate felt like she was trespassing.

The apartment would probably be great, once she got used to it.

She went into the kitchen and turned on the light. Grandma’s chrome-and-yellow-Formica table, purchased brand new in 1950, still stood in the middle of the room. The cheerful yellow gingham she’d papered her ceiling with was more gray than cheery now, and it was peeling in the corners. One white-painted cupboard stood open, revealing a few mismatched dishes and a shelf full of random cans of food.

Lightning flashed outside, and Kate suddenly thought about all of Uncle Stan’s personal stuff that was left in the apartment--his clothes in the closets, his pillow on the bed, his old jug of milk rotting in the fridge.

What was she supposed to do with a dead man’s stuff, anyway?

She turned off the light, locked up, and went downstairs to the store, twisting her waist-length blond hair into a thick coil at the back of her head and grabbing it with a plastic “bear claw” as she went.

Melba, the bookstore manager and Kate’s new boss (even though Kate now owned the place), was talking to a skinny wannabe cowboy who looked like he was about thirty-five and had never even smelled a horse before.

“Do you think she’ll like this?” the cowboy asked, setting a copy of The Annotated Mother Goose on the counter. The white fringe on his red plaid shirt hung smooth and straight except for a single strand that was snagged on one of the mother-of-pearl snaps. He combed his wavy brown hair back with his open hand. Kate could see sweat darkening his armpits, despite the fact that it was chilly outside and in.

Kate joined Melba behind the counter and started collecting scattered books, the rejects and returns of the day.

“It’s a little hefty for a six-year-old,” Melba said.

“She’s not your average six-year-old. She read this in one day,” the man said. He set an almost new hardback copy of L. Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz on the counter beside the first book. “That’s why I want to trade it in.”

“She might enjoy the Mother Goose, then,” Melba said. “With the trade, it’ll be six fourteen.”

Pulling a leather wallet out of the back pocket of his tight jeans, the man extracted six perfectly smooth, crisp dollar bills and fourteen unusually shiny pennies and set them on the counter. “So when did you start hiring beautiful princesses to work in the store?” he asked, gazing at Kate and leaning on the counter in a studied way that Kate guessed he had seen on TV and practiced at home, hoping to appear both charming and casual.

“This is our new owner,” Melba said with unusual reserve. She dropped his book into a bag and handed him the receipt.

“What happened to Stan?” the man asked.

“Plane crash.”

Unfazed by the news, he kept gazing at Kate. “You don’t look old enough to own a business,” he said with a smile.

“I’m in college,” Kate said. Melba shot her a look that made her stop talking.

Apparently satisfied that she wasn’t jail bait, he smiled a smile that matched his lean—studied, but neither charming nor casual. “Most pretty coeds aren’t interested in running a used bookstore. You must love to read,” he said.

“Actually,” Kate said, “I don’t like to read much anymore, but I love books. I’ve been collecting them for years. Just yesterday I got a copy of a 1942 booklet about arranging flowers, except the last chapter is about how to arrange and serve bottles of Coke. How can you not get a kick out of that?”

The man laughed.

Melba wasn’t smiling. “Closing time, Jake,” she said.

“Go ahead and lock up. I’ll help you tidy up and then take the trash out the back when you’re ready to leave,” Jake said. “Alleys aren’t safe for women, but I...”

Melba didn’t even wait for him to take a breath before she cut in. “We’re skipping the usual stuff tonight,” she said quickly and firmly. “I have to pick up my son at the airport. But thank you for the offer. See you next week?”

“I’ll be here, rain or shine,” Jake said, picking up his bag. “Nice to meet you, Princess.”

Melba followed Jake to the door and locked it behind him.

Kate watched him jaywalk across Center Street. The old two- and three-story buildings across from the bookstore were partially obscured by leafless maples that stood in a gray row down the middle of the street. Rusty dry leaves blew past, piling up against the green metal trashcan that stood on the sidewalk outside. With a rumble of thunder, the rain that had been threatening all day started to fall, splashing against the windows and turning a month’s worth of dust into muddy splotches and streaks.

“He seems nice,” Kate said absently.

“Jake? You don’t want anything to do with Jake. He irons his bills, polishes his pennies, and is fifteen years older than you,” Melba said.

“Nobody polishes pennies,” Kate said.

Melba handed her one of the shiny coins. It was minted in 1987. Bizarre. “What a waste of time,” Kate said.

“Uh-huh. Just be careful,” Melba said. “Falling in love is usually more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Who said anything about love?” Kate asked, taken aback. “Didn’t you notice the sweat tacos he was sporting?” She hoped the disgust was evident in her voice. “I wouldn’t mind falling in love, of course, but Jake belongs on a dude ranch with all the other dudes from the half-way house.”

Melba laughed. “You said he was nice,” she reminded her.

“I know,” Kate said. “I was looking for something to say that wouldn’t offend you or anyone else who might be in the store, since he appears to be a regular source of income for us. Besides, even if he hadn’t been…weird…I thought it wasn’t kosher to let customers pick up on you while you were working.”

“I don’t think you are going to have much choice. The guys will try whether it’s kosher or not,” Melba said. “Might be good for business, though, to have the guys on campus realize you’re here.”

Kate blushed and looked past the displays of antique books in the front window to the rain pelting the cars parked outside. People always said stuff like that to her, but it was all talk and wishful thinking. Stuff like that might have happened in ‘50s movies and fairytales, but it didn’t happen in real life.

Melba finished counting the sparklingly polished change into the drawer and turned to Kate. “All moved in?” she asked.

“My stuff is upstairs now,” Kate said, finally looking away from the dusty display in the front window. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed before that it never changed. She thought maybe one or two of the books had been replaced—probably when the originals were purchased by some collector—but mostly they looked like they’d been sitting there for twenty years. She’d never really paid attention to the condition of the store before, but now that she owned it, she was noticing a lot of things—things that had been that way for so long, she didn’t know if she could do anything about them. “I’m not sure I’ll get it all unpacked right away,” she added.

“I can come up and help later tonight if you want,” Melba said.

“No, thanks,” Kate said, running her hand along the edge of the smooth mahogany counter. The counter was original to the building, and it was darkened with time, polished with use, and beautiful. Kate had always thought it looked a little like a bar from a saloon in an old movie. “The apartment’s not really ready for me to live in yet. Stan’s stuff is still up there, and the whole place needs to be cleaned. I think I’ll go back to my mom’s house until I can get the apartment fixed up some.”

“I thought your parents were in England supervising a study abroad,” Melba said, picking up her book and putting it in her purse.

“They are,” Kate said. “But my brother, Michael, is watching their house while they’re gone. I think the apartment could use a good coat of paint and a serious carpet cleaning, and I want to drag him back here and get his input before I do anything to the old family home.”

“Well, if Michael has time between med school and his wedding preparations, you and he might think about ripping out that old carpet instead of cleaning it,” Melba said. “Stan told me there’s a solid oak floor underneath.”

That actually sounded like a fun project. “We’ll look into it,” Kate said.

“I’m already late picking my son up at the airport, and I still have to drop the deposit by the bank, so I need to get out of here. Do you mind shutting everything down?” Melba asked, putting on her sweater as if the question were already answered.

“Sure,” Kate said.

“Be careful,” Melba warned. “Don’t let anyone in, even if you know them. Jake is notorious for coming back on some pretense or other and then wanting to stay and ‘help’ while he talks your ear off.”

“He’s crazy,” Kate said.

“You never know,” Melba said. “And he’s not the only regular who raises eyebrows. So just be careful. You didn’t park in that alley did you?”

Kate nodded. That was where Stan’s permanent reserved spot had been.

“Don’t go out if anyone’s there,” Melba said. “Jake may be weird, but he’s right about alleys not being safe for women.”

“Are you sure you want me to lock up? Sounds like a two-woman job at least.”

“Usually is, but you’ll be fine this once. Just be careful,” Melba repeated again. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she unlocked the front door and stepped out into the gusty wind.

Kate locked the door behind her employee-boss and watched her hop into her car as thunder rumbled again. It wasn’t late, but it was already getting dark. She turned off the main lights and went back around the counter to shut down the computer.

Lightning flashed, making creepy shadows appear on the walls just for an instant. Kate stared out at the bare branches of the maples that were waving in the wind in front of the yellow streetlight. They were suitably creepy for October, especially when she was alone, surrounded by hundreds of dusty old books. A dark figure staggered past outside, bumping into the front window. Startled by the noise, Kate jumped. Nervously, she watched the man move on into the wind. Lightning flashed again, briefly illuminating another man, this one hovering in the shelter of the bookstore entryway taking a drink from a bottle that was mostly hidden inside a wrinkled paper bag.

What was Melba thinking leaving her alone in a creaky old building with glass doors and no security gate?!

Kate dug her keys out of her pocket and headed into the labyrinth of mismatched shelves, dodging haphazard piles of books that were scattered here and there. She could finish tidying up the front of the store tomorrow. It wasn’t worth the risk tonight.

As she stepped over yet another cascade of books that had completely overwhelmed their disintegrating cardboard box, Kate realized the apartment wasn’t the only thing that needed updating. The whole building could probably stand to be fixed up. But what could she do? It had always been like this.

In the back of the store, hidden in the shelves and books, Kate felt safely invisible. Even if Jake came back, he’d think she was gone for the night. And this spot, as far from the front door as you could get without leaving the bookstore, was comfortingly familiar to Kate. She had spent hours here as a child, undisturbed while she perused the fairytales and dreamed of magic and princesses. It was like her own private hideout, full of books and happy memories. She’d probably made some of these piles of books herself years ago.

Still, she wished she hadn’t parked in the alley. What if Jake or some off-kilter alley rat were waiting just outside? They certainly seemed to be hovering around the front door, so why not the back? But the car was in the alley, and it was safer to go out this way than walk the length of the alley in the dark.

Kate wiggled Stan’s old brass key into the lock and swung the door open. Then, puzzled, she poked her head through and looked both ways. Admittedly, she had never come out of the bookstore this way. Family members always used the private entrance on the side of the building. And she hadn’t come in this way this afternoon when she arrived--she’d parked the car in the alley, but carried her boxes around to the private entrance so she wouldn’t disturb the customers.

Nonetheless, she had been certain this was the back door. Everyone called it the back door. There was a glowing “exit” sign over it.

But this was definitely not the alley.

She was standing on the threshold of a small room overflowing with old books. Her personal collection looked like garbage compared to the beautiful leather- and cloth-bound volumes that lined the walls and lay in piles on the floor. The only other doorway in the room was hung with a faded red velvet curtain. That wasn’t the alley door either.

How could she have practically grown up in the family bookstore and not known about this? She thought of all the times that Grandpa had set aside valuable new arrivals to show her before he put them up for sale to collectors across the globe. Why hadn’t he brought her back here? Someone should have at least mentioned it!

Leaving her keys dangling in the door, Kate headed in to examine the treasure-trove. She was just reaching out to touch a thick, leather-bound volume with gold lettering on the spine, “Classification of Creatures by Discoursal Ability,” when there was a small shuffling noise behind her.

“Princess?” a man’s voice said.

Kate spun around to find a dark figure standing in the shadows in the corner behind the door. Jake? He must have gone around to the alley and come back in that way. Fully expecting him to say, “Let me walk you to your car,” Kate said firmly, “The bookstore is closed.”

Somewhere beyond the red curtain, a bell tingled, and a man’s voice echoed hers, “The bookstore is closed.”

Also beyond the curtain, a woman’s voice replied, “Do you know the alarm is ringing?”

What alarm was she talking about? There was no alarm ringing.

“Get in,” the man in the shadow said urgently, stepping forward and gesturing to a wooden crate in the corner behind him.

“Are you talking to me?” Kate asked, pointing to herself, her heart pounding.

“You’re going to get us all killed!” the man said with panic in his voice. He stepped forward again, this time into the dim green light that spilled from the exit sign above the door. Jake must have picked up some warmer clothes from his car—a long, ragged cloak hung from his shoulders, and a peaked hat, like the Pied Piper wore in storybook illustrations, obscured his face.

“Go home, Jake,” Kate said, trying to sound authoritative.

“Who is Jake?” the man said, looking over his shoulder.

Without another word, Kate turned to rush back through the door toward the front of the bookstore, but the stranger grabbed her from behind, clamping a strong hand over her mouth. She squirmed, her screams coming out as squeaks against her attacker’s sweaty palm as he dragged her back toward the corner. With a swift movement, he tossed Kate into the large wooden crate.

“Make any noise at all and you’ll die,” he warned, and then he dropped a heavy wooden lid down over her.

Too scared even to wiggle into a more comfortable position, much less to scream, Kate forced herself to breathe slowly so she wouldn’t hyperventilate. She heard the door slam, the key grinding in the old lock. Then there was movement on the lid of her prison-crate, and she heard what sounded like someone eating an apple and turning the pages of a book right over her head. She heard footsteps, and the smell of Christmas unexpectedly filled the air, spicy and sweet like gingerbread men fresh from the oven.

Suddenly, a woman’s voice startled her. “You won’t mind if I check the back room, will you.” It wasn’t really a question, and the cruel condescension in the voice sent chills down Kate’s spine. If the threat of death hadn’t stopped her from crying out, that woman’s voice would have.

“Why are you here after the store is closed?” the woman demanded a moment later.

“I’m reading,” said the cloaked man’s voice over Kate’s head.

“He writes reviews for me,” the other man’s voice added.

There was the sound of someone flipping pages, and then the woman said, “Who is Orson Scott Card? I guess someone named Card might be qualified to write a book about a game, but this looks like utter nonsense to me. And if you’re just back here reading, why did the alarm go off?”

“I didn’t hear any alarm,” the cloaked man said.

“Of course you didn’t. It only rings in the castle,” the woman replied.
Castle? What was she talking about?

“Then only the people in the castle know why it was ringing,” the cloaked man said.

“Don’t be smart at me,” the woman snapped back, “or I’ll rip your eyeballs out and eat them on the spot.” Kate stifled a gasp. She sounded serious.

“The alarm rings when this door is opened,” the other man explained quietly.

“Well you should have told me that in the first place!” the cloaked man said jovially. “Of course I opened the door. I had to use the alley.”

“For what?” the woman demanded.

“I drank a little too much cider.”

“You got me out of bed because you had to…” the woman seethed.

“I didn’t get you out of bed,” the cloaked man interrupted calmly. “The alarm did. If I had gotten you out of bed, I would have piped you to your death in the stream or locked you in a mountain like I do to all the other vermin people hire me to get rid of. I also do weddings. Care to dance?”

The man wasn’t just dressed up—he was actually playing the Pied Piper! What was this, some kind of Halloween trickery? It was the right month for it. Kate heard a light shriek and then quick footsteps leaving the room.

There was a little shuffling overhead, and then, “Are we supposed to wait for Stan?” The whisper in a knothole near her ear made her jump and she bumped her head. It sounded like they were talking to her. Stan? Did they mean her uncle?

“Stan is dead,” Kate said. Suddenly she realized these people had probably been waiting for him, not her. Perhaps she should have shown more tact in the announcement. Of course, they hadn’t shown much tact in locking her in this box.

There was a pause, a jangle of keys, and then the Pied Piper’s voice said, “Let’s get out of here before they come back.”

Out of the crate? That would be a welcome change. Before who come back? Where were they going?

She heard the door open. With a jolt, the crate was lifted and carried, lopsided, a short distance. Kate’s heart sank. They weren’t going to let her out, after all. Air seeping through the cracks felt cold and moist. They were outside. And it wasn’t raining anymore.

How did they get outside? It felt like they’d come back into the bookstore.
There was a scraping sound under her—wood against wood--and then a voice warned to keep quiet, “or else!”, and then everything was still.

Kate tried to slow her panicked brain so she could think. Yes, she was being kidnapped, but it was by people who knew her uncle.

But were they friends of her uncle, or people who wanted him dead? Kate took a deep breath.

What kind of scheme would Uncle Stan have been involved in? Not drugs, knowing him. It seemed unlikely anyone in the government would be dressed as the Pied Piper on an assignment. And why would someone waiting for Stan, knowing they got the wrong person, take her anyway? Unless they thought she knew whatever it was they wanted Stan for. And what was it they wanted Stan for? “That is the question,” her dad would say, making sure she knew he was quoting Hamlet.

Shivering in the fall air, Kate wriggled until she was lying on her side curled in a tight ball to keep warm. Her heart sank as she realized that nobody was going to miss her and come looking. Dad and Mom were off for the next six weeks touring poets’ graves with Dad’s English Lit classes, and Michael and Melba each thought she was checking in with the other. She doubted any of them knew about Stan’s appointment with the Pied Piper, anyway. Maybe Stan hadn’t even known the Pied Piper would be there, waiting in the back of the bookstore.

With a little jerk, the crate started moving, bouncing and swaying in time to the steady clop-clop of…horse hooves? Kate swallowed a sob. She knew what happened to most girls who got kidnapped. Maybe if she cooperated, they would let her live.