All That Jazz
Oct. 4th, 2011 08:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
missmaryrAll that Jazz
Fiction for the prompt 'all that jazz'
"They should be here by now, " I fretted as I made myself a latte. The early morning rush was over and the store was empty except for my relief, Juanita. The sun shone in the windows, lighting up the delicate watercolors my mother loved. I checked the reading room, which was empty. Before I left that morning, I told my parents I smelled gas and they needed to leave the house as soon as possible.
Most people in this little town would swear that my family has no secrets. Momma and Dad founded this little oddball shop that has new books, used books, coffee, and some snacks. When they started it, my mother’s father grumbled that they would never earn a living from it. That didn’t stop him from coming in every morning. He got coffee, sat at the window of the shop at one of the table, and read a chapter or so of a book before he pulled himself upright and walked to his lawyer’s office to begin work. People started coming in to talk to him. Then they came in to buy something to drink- coffee, tea, chocolate milk- and a book, and sat to read it. The room where Grandpa sat was wide and spacious, large enough that you could sit at a window table and enjoy the sun, or go to the back and read in a comfortable chair with the drink on a coffee table. Customers often while away an hour or so. When they finished one book, they often traded it for another the next time they came in. Eventually the parents expanded the single coffeepot and shelf of snacks into a café, which tells you something about how well they did.
Momma would come out and talk about anything under the sun if there were only one or two customers, and Dad would walk the store and speak to people. Just about everyone in town knew them; many were friends.
So no one knew how different we were. Dad could alter reality for a while by making a gesture. He could teleport, move a car from the ditch to the carport, or keep rain from wetting him by nodding his head. He called it his jazz, saying that it was like jazz music, that how the jazz worked depended on the person who used it like jazz music changes depending on the person playing it. He said it wasn’t magic, but more like Mom’s telepathy and my telekinesis, just a stronger form of it.
Mom was cursed with telepathy, which is why we live a good twenty minutes away from town. She got impressions from everyone she was close to, but when she was with me or Dad, she could handle it better-she said we anchored her, whatever that meant. Me, I can move things by thinking about them. Dad told me that I didn’t have his jazz that he could tell, or he would have taken me to be trained in it. I have to admit I was relieved. What little Dad told me about his world convinced me that I wouldn’t like much.
Normally both Momma and Dad worked in the store midmorning when I headed off to the local college, but the gas started leaking the night before. I called the gas people, and they told me how to shut it off and said someone would be by in the morning. Dad used his jazz and fixed it instead, but his changes never lasted long. I smelled it again in the morning. I went and turned it off, but I could still hear the hiss of the gas coming out slow. I warned Momma and Dad and came on to work. I figured they were sitting on the porch steps waiting for the gas man to show up. Picking up the phone to call, I got the shock from Momma. A wizard found Dad. They were arguing. She feared the wizard would take Dad away.
I yelled at Juanita that I was going, and got in the car and on the road in record time. The store was only twenty minutes from the house, but in those twenty minutes, my life changed completely.
Dread from Momma changed to physical shock. For the first time in my life Mom’s presence in my head evaporated. About the same time, I heard an explosion and saw smoke. I pulled the car into the yard and hurtled out. I remember vaguely that the back of the house was torn open and burning, but I focused only on Dad, who lay on the grass with his body twisted at an impossible angle. I ran to him. I could hear sirens in the background. As I ran, I wondered why his jazz didn’t save him.
Dropping to my knees beside him, I took his hands. His amber eyes focused on me with great effort; the rest of his face was swollen with blistered skin. He was holding on with all the strength and jazz he had. “Nadine,” he whispered, and coughed blood. “I tried to get to her, but I was too late. Right when I got there, she turned on the stove-” He breathed for a moment. “My father came for me. Remember what I told you. ” The next cough bubbled. “I love you.” And he was gone, too. The fire trucks and the ambulance arrived, and with them all the chaos a disaster created. I know I talked to them. I remember Grandpa appearing, and working with him on arrangements. But nothing seemed real; I was numb.
I couldn’t cry; grief stayed locked in my throat. Grandpa appeared, and together we dealt with the aftermath. After the wake, some of Grandpa’s cronies came for him, and I was grateful. Grandpa needed to get drunk and mourn with them. I needed the space. The funeral home closed, with Mr. White locking the door behind him.
I drove off. After circling the block, I went back, and I used my form of Dad’s jazz. A lock means nothing to me. I went in and stood between my parent’s closed coffins, saying my goodbye in silence and alone. Then I heard someone behind me. Rage boiled up. Without even bothering to look, I slammed the stranger into the wall and held him there.
Then, slowly, I turned and for the first time, looked at my wizard grandfather, who dared to interrupt my goodbye. He was dressed in a white three-piece suit, and looked like my father, except he was slightly shorter and less robust. “Why did you kill my parents?” I asked. Then I pressed harder, and screamed, “Why?”
“I only wanted to bring my son home,” he choked out.
“That’s what killed them! They couldn’t live without each other!” I shrieked, and started crying in deep, shuddering sobs. I turned away, letting him drop. Not all that jazz he had, nor all the altered jazz I had, would bring back my parents.
There was a hesitant touch on my shoulder. “I did not understand,” he said, subdued, and despite my own sobs I heard the pain in his voice. “I would not listen. Why did he not get out?”
“He went for Momma first,” I whispered. “He got caught in the blast.”
“My son,” he wailed softly. “My son.”
We stood mourning for some unknown time. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said, when I could.
“I will allow you the burial rites,” he said, “and then I will take him for mine.” I nodded. Dad would not care what happened to his body but I did want the funeral, the chance for everyone to say good-bye. “Then we have matters to discuss.”
“Do we?” I asked. “Momma was human. I’m not like you. I don’t have the jazz, the,” I snapped my fingers. “That jazz.”
To his credit, he never hesitated. “You are my granddaughter.”
“You want to visit, come visit. I’d like to get to know you. Other than that, I’m an adult and I can take care of myself.”
“We will discuss the matter,” he repeated with great dignity, and then he was gone. But strangely, I felt better. I may have lost my parents, but I had someone else to share my secrets with. I was not as alone as I had thought, and neither was my newly met grandfather.
It helped.
Fiction for the prompt 'all that jazz'
"They should be here by now, " I fretted as I made myself a latte. The early morning rush was over and the store was empty except for my relief, Juanita. The sun shone in the windows, lighting up the delicate watercolors my mother loved. I checked the reading room, which was empty. Before I left that morning, I told my parents I smelled gas and they needed to leave the house as soon as possible.
Most people in this little town would swear that my family has no secrets. Momma and Dad founded this little oddball shop that has new books, used books, coffee, and some snacks. When they started it, my mother’s father grumbled that they would never earn a living from it. That didn’t stop him from coming in every morning. He got coffee, sat at the window of the shop at one of the table, and read a chapter or so of a book before he pulled himself upright and walked to his lawyer’s office to begin work. People started coming in to talk to him. Then they came in to buy something to drink- coffee, tea, chocolate milk- and a book, and sat to read it. The room where Grandpa sat was wide and spacious, large enough that you could sit at a window table and enjoy the sun, or go to the back and read in a comfortable chair with the drink on a coffee table. Customers often while away an hour or so. When they finished one book, they often traded it for another the next time they came in. Eventually the parents expanded the single coffeepot and shelf of snacks into a café, which tells you something about how well they did.
Momma would come out and talk about anything under the sun if there were only one or two customers, and Dad would walk the store and speak to people. Just about everyone in town knew them; many were friends.
So no one knew how different we were. Dad could alter reality for a while by making a gesture. He could teleport, move a car from the ditch to the carport, or keep rain from wetting him by nodding his head. He called it his jazz, saying that it was like jazz music, that how the jazz worked depended on the person who used it like jazz music changes depending on the person playing it. He said it wasn’t magic, but more like Mom’s telepathy and my telekinesis, just a stronger form of it.
Mom was cursed with telepathy, which is why we live a good twenty minutes away from town. She got impressions from everyone she was close to, but when she was with me or Dad, she could handle it better-she said we anchored her, whatever that meant. Me, I can move things by thinking about them. Dad told me that I didn’t have his jazz that he could tell, or he would have taken me to be trained in it. I have to admit I was relieved. What little Dad told me about his world convinced me that I wouldn’t like much.
Normally both Momma and Dad worked in the store midmorning when I headed off to the local college, but the gas started leaking the night before. I called the gas people, and they told me how to shut it off and said someone would be by in the morning. Dad used his jazz and fixed it instead, but his changes never lasted long. I smelled it again in the morning. I went and turned it off, but I could still hear the hiss of the gas coming out slow. I warned Momma and Dad and came on to work. I figured they were sitting on the porch steps waiting for the gas man to show up. Picking up the phone to call, I got the shock from Momma. A wizard found Dad. They were arguing. She feared the wizard would take Dad away.
I yelled at Juanita that I was going, and got in the car and on the road in record time. The store was only twenty minutes from the house, but in those twenty minutes, my life changed completely.
Dread from Momma changed to physical shock. For the first time in my life Mom’s presence in my head evaporated. About the same time, I heard an explosion and saw smoke. I pulled the car into the yard and hurtled out. I remember vaguely that the back of the house was torn open and burning, but I focused only on Dad, who lay on the grass with his body twisted at an impossible angle. I ran to him. I could hear sirens in the background. As I ran, I wondered why his jazz didn’t save him.
Dropping to my knees beside him, I took his hands. His amber eyes focused on me with great effort; the rest of his face was swollen with blistered skin. He was holding on with all the strength and jazz he had. “Nadine,” he whispered, and coughed blood. “I tried to get to her, but I was too late. Right when I got there, she turned on the stove-” He breathed for a moment. “My father came for me. Remember what I told you. ” The next cough bubbled. “I love you.” And he was gone, too. The fire trucks and the ambulance arrived, and with them all the chaos a disaster created. I know I talked to them. I remember Grandpa appearing, and working with him on arrangements. But nothing seemed real; I was numb.
I couldn’t cry; grief stayed locked in my throat. Grandpa appeared, and together we dealt with the aftermath. After the wake, some of Grandpa’s cronies came for him, and I was grateful. Grandpa needed to get drunk and mourn with them. I needed the space. The funeral home closed, with Mr. White locking the door behind him.
I drove off. After circling the block, I went back, and I used my form of Dad’s jazz. A lock means nothing to me. I went in and stood between my parent’s closed coffins, saying my goodbye in silence and alone. Then I heard someone behind me. Rage boiled up. Without even bothering to look, I slammed the stranger into the wall and held him there.
Then, slowly, I turned and for the first time, looked at my wizard grandfather, who dared to interrupt my goodbye. He was dressed in a white three-piece suit, and looked like my father, except he was slightly shorter and less robust. “Why did you kill my parents?” I asked. Then I pressed harder, and screamed, “Why?”
“I only wanted to bring my son home,” he choked out.
“That’s what killed them! They couldn’t live without each other!” I shrieked, and started crying in deep, shuddering sobs. I turned away, letting him drop. Not all that jazz he had, nor all the altered jazz I had, would bring back my parents.
There was a hesitant touch on my shoulder. “I did not understand,” he said, subdued, and despite my own sobs I heard the pain in his voice. “I would not listen. Why did he not get out?”
“He went for Momma first,” I whispered. “He got caught in the blast.”
“My son,” he wailed softly. “My son.”
We stood mourning for some unknown time. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said, when I could.
“I will allow you the burial rites,” he said, “and then I will take him for mine.” I nodded. Dad would not care what happened to his body but I did want the funeral, the chance for everyone to say good-bye. “Then we have matters to discuss.”
“Do we?” I asked. “Momma was human. I’m not like you. I don’t have the jazz, the,” I snapped my fingers. “That jazz.”
To his credit, he never hesitated. “You are my granddaughter.”
“You want to visit, come visit. I’d like to get to know you. Other than that, I’m an adult and I can take care of myself.”
“We will discuss the matter,” he repeated with great dignity, and then he was gone. But strangely, I felt better. I may have lost my parents, but I had someone else to share my secrets with. I was not as alone as I had thought, and neither was my newly met grandfather.
It helped.
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no subject
Date: 2011-10-14 02:52 pm (UTC)You asked for no holds barred with grammar and such. I don't recall reading your work much before, but that doesn't mean anything... there are some months I wander off and don't read everything.
The idea of this story is clever and intriguing, and it builds as the story goes on, with more of the family's secrets and hints of the supernatural revealed. I love the idea and I think with some work this could be an excellent story!
As far as grammar and punctuation, I don't see much to worry about. Your use of punctuation is solid and I don't see any words used in a way that's obviously incorrect. What you do have some issues with here is some issues with your adjectives and verbs. You could probably use more of the former, and you could really use some variety in the latter.
There's a lot of "was", "were", and "would", which, while not incorrect, don't really do anything to give a sentence action or motion. They are passive verbs, and too many of them can make the reader feel distanced from the story and the action going on in it. For an example, here's your first sentence:
"I was at the store when I knew something was wrong."
There's no action in this sentence, and it doesn't give the reader much in the way of information or interest.
"Sitting in a chair near the front windows of the store, I almost dropped my book at the sudden realization that something terrible had happened."
Just one possible way to rewrite it. I'd suggest you go back through your sentences and try to make sure that almost every one of them has some kind of active verb in it. "Was" is fine, but if that's the only verb in the sentence, it makes for rather static sentences.
Also, some adjectives and description would help to add some flow to what right now sort of feels like a list of events. Maybe describe grandpa in his spot by the window at the store, or work some description of the store in. Maybe describe what the narrator sees as she's approaching the house. We don't know if she's running or in a car or on a bike, or whether the house is in town or in the country. Can she see the smoke as she approaches? What does she feel when she sees flames? Again, just some suggestions, but more description would help the reader feel like part of the story.
Also, I understand trying to work the optional prompt in, and maybe I'm missing it, but I don't really understand the use of the word "jazz" at all. Is it referring to telekinesis, which the narrator seems to have? Or is "jazz" just supernatural abilities in general? You sort of lost me with that.
The meeting with her other grandfather at the end is very intriguing. I'd like to know more about their relationship prior to this, and more about who he is and why he's not involved with the family, and what he is that's not human. Definitely interesting points to work on!
Overall a very cool story idea. I would enjoy seeing it reworked and expanded!
To edit
Date: 2011-10-15 12:26 am (UTC)Wow, great advice, I appreciate it! If and when you have time, you can check out the changes I made based on it.
Re: To edit
Date: 2011-10-15 02:18 am (UTC)The part about the jazz was explained well this time and I understood quite nicely what it was about. I also liked the descriptions of how the narrator's father and mother experience and use their own abilities... those were EXCELLENT details! The scene where she arrives at the house and finds her father was another great improvement! The hints about her father and grandfather, and her grandfather coming for her father, were great to help get a better sense of the wider scope of the story.
You did a great job rewriting this and you should be very proud of it! More of this good stuff this week and you'll be getting votes!
Have you been playing in the competitions before, out of curiosity, or did you just get into it?
Re: To edit
Date: 2011-10-15 02:40 am (UTC)Re: To edit
Date: 2011-10-15 02:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-19 08:30 pm (UTC)First of all, wonderful concept. This would make a great novel but it can stand as a short story too. I do feel like it needs to be a bit longer to fully explain who these people are and give more detail about the action. For instance, although the father's death was emotional and effective, I was a little disappointed that the sights and sounds and feelings associated with ambulances and fire trucks arriving. Maybe your character is too emotionally numb to even realize it, but you can put that in the story too!
I loved the conversation with Grandpa and the way the two characters resolved their differences at the end. Where a lot of writers pull off the beginning but peter out, you do an excellent job of building up as the story goes on. I like it.
I do agree that you overuse "was" a bit, but that can be hard to work around. For instance, instead of "I checked the reading room, which was empty" you could say "I peeked into the empty reading room".
Overall I liked it, and I hope you continue to post and participate. I'll be checking to see if you submitted anything for week 2 as soon as I have time!
Thanks for the edit
Date: 2011-10-20 01:36 am (UTC)I am working on a larger story with this character but the story line starts after this incident. I'm glad you like the idea.