Dead Dizzy Lizzy for Class Pet

Here's a short story I wrote for and shared with my fourth grade daughter's class. There's a dead lizard in it, so I figured it could go in my horror blog.

(Dead) Dizzy Lizzy for Class Pet

Mrs. W’s fourth grade students wanted to keep a dead lizard for a class pet.

They had this lizard, see. Her name was Dizzy Lizzy and she lived in an aquarium on the shelf which the sun hits nicely in the afternoon. She had purple streaks along her cheeks, a yellow line on her back, and little teeth that seemed to smile when someone gave her a cricket. She got her name because whenever she got excited running after crickets, she twirled round and round until people watching got dizzy.

But she died.

Maybe she was lonely. Maybe she ate too many crickets one day. Maybe she got too cold the week it rained all day, every day and no one hardly saw the sun.

They were going to take her out of the aquarium to bury her in the school yard, but S. – who always says hi to stray cats and gives her dogs treats under the dinner table when she thinks her parents aren’t looking – said, “Please, can we still keep her as the class pet?”

At first, her classmates looked at her funny. Her best friend N. even giggled about it. But soon, everyone was nodding – what a great idea! – and turned to look expectantly at Mrs. Walker.

Mrs. W. said, “I don’t know. Let’s ask Mr. B.”

Mr. B was the school principal. Mr. B usually walked around doing important things with an important look on his face. And sometimes the kids didn’t want to bother him about questions like “Can we keep a dead lizard as a class pet?” because he seemed too busy to bother. Today was a hard day to bother him because it was photo day and he had spent all morning with the photographer after a student jammed a camera with a piece of chewed gum.

But they were already standing as a class in his doorway. Mr. B looked up from his desk and of course asked what he could do for them.

Someone pushed S. forward. She finally said, after three unsuccessful tries, “Please, can we keep Dizzy Lizzy in our classroom?”

Mr. B’s smile froze on his face. “Are we talking about a student?”

Fortunately, Mrs. W explained. But Mr. B still looked puzzled. “A dead lizard?” he asked.

Everyone nodded.

Mr. B leaned back and thought about it. Then thought about it some more. Finally, he plucked a book from his shelf and opened it up. He said, “I am sorry, but according to school rules, ‘Only live pets are allowed.’”

All the kids walked back so slowly and sadly that by the time they reached the classroom, they missed recess. They all crowded around the aquarium to say goodbye to their dear Dizzy Lizzy. But when they got there, the aquarium was empty. A nearby window was open, Mrs. W’s water bottle was tipped over on its side and there was a gum wrapper on the floor.

Whatever could have happened?!

The Next Time I Lie

At a recent campout with girls from our church (I was one of the leaders), we gathered around the camp fire to exchange scary stories. Most of the others' stories had to do with intruders or sounds in the night.

I told them, "I have a story," and proceeded to tell them in essence, the first chapter of my novel "Ghost Moon Night". Everyone hung on to my every word, and then I revealed that I was fibbing. Someone asked, did you just make that up? I said, no.

It worked once, I don't know if it'll work again, the next time I say, "I have a scary story to tell..."

I feel obligated to reveal next time if I am making the story up, or if it's real. But what's the fun in that?

From the Dead

I have resurrected my YA paranormal novel Ghost Moon Night. Taken it out of the crypt and sent it out again to haunt an editor whom I met recently at a writer's conference. I tweaked it some, but otherwise, let the first three chapters stand as is.

I had shown her my first chapter of a historical novel, and though she loved it, she doesn't represent that genre. And then it occurred to me, listening to her presentation, hey, she represents paranormal!

It took me two days to figure this out.

So I asked her if she would look at my ms. She said, sure, send me first three chapters. Normally, she doesn't even look at ms without an agent's blessing. So the conference has been a great foot in the door.

Now I wait.

Too Happy

I have a little problem.

It's spring, I am eating pastel M&Ms, baby calves are running in farm fields around town...

...and I am not in the mood to write horror.

I'm too happy.

My latest novel is waiting for edits and then submission to agents, and I am thinking of tackling my "coconut" horror novel.

What I really would rather do is to run down to a beach somewhere and sip coconut under the shade of an umbrella.

Friday the 13th

Are you superstitious about Friday the 13th?

I'm not. But when I was growing up in the Philippines, my family was superstitious about some other things.

For example:

Don't sweep uncooked rice or you will sweep good fortune out the door. (As a child, if I spilled uncooked rice, I had to pick up every grain.)

If you bite your tongue, someone is thinking of you. Name a letter and a person's name starting with that letter; they are thinking of you. (This is a fun game I do with my kids now.)

Jump at midnight on New Year's Eve and you will grow taller. (Didn't work too well for me.)

Serve round fruits and long food (like noodles) on New Year's Eve to ensure prosperity for the coming year.

***
Are YOU superstitious?

Out of the Darkness

In my previous post, I wrote about a new horror story I am working on. At first I was really excited about it. But now, I am not so sure because of the horrid feeling the first chapter gave me.

Ghost Moon Night is scary but does not have a pervasive feeling of evil. Whereas this new chapter involving coconuts (I am trying to write this with a straight face) makes me feel dark and dismal and dread-y if there is such a word. Thank goodness for a goofball sort of hero, or I'd have stopped at page five.

I am not sure I want to channel this story to life.

***
So I took a break and wrote another first chapter to a YA novel and the feeling is like light and day. The characters still are flawed and there will be major conflicts, but for the first time in a long time, I felt - emotion! Sadness. Wistfulness. Happiness. As I closed the scene, I felt like I was writing something that could illuminate the human experience. I am usually unsentimental in my fiction and avoid Hallmarky stories, but I really enjoyed writing this. The words flow and I do not grit my teeth over the effort.

Truth is, unleashing emotion on the page scares me. It is powerful but makes me feel utterly vulnerable.

***
I cannot imagine not writing horror anymore. It's been such an integral part of my writing life, hence this blog.

But what goes in has to have a source, and I'm just not sure I want to be the receptacle of all that.

A New Story

I've started a new story.

All I'm saying is it's scary and involves coconuts.

I showed the first chapter to my 13 year old daughter and she gave me this weird look when she was done.

I don't think she'll be my first reader.

***
I aspire to be a YA writer, but in reality, maybe my themes are too adult.

My husband keeps telling me that, but I'm still hoping to be considered YA. I don't know why, I guess because it sounds more "important".

Please Do Not Disturb

Here's a short story to ring the new year with. I wrote this two years ago, my first stab at a short horror piece. Be warned, it is a little disturbing.

***
"Look," the girl said to Ruben, "a nuno sa punso." A gnome in a mound.

In the moonlight, Ruben saw a two-foot tall berm. He silently scoffed. It looked more like an ant hill to him.

"Where are you going?" he asked as she veered to the right.

"Don't you know, we're supposed to leave them undisturbed, or else..."

"Or else what?"

"Or else the nuno will get mad and cast a spell on you."

"You don't really believe that, do you? Anyway, we'll just walk by it." But the girl hung back.

The church bell tolled. "I guess," she said, "we can go this way or we'll be really late for mass." She pressed close to him as they made their way toward the mound.

This vacation was going better than Ruben expected. At first he had hated the idea of going to the Philippines for Christmas. He had rolled his eyes. Christmas among the provincials, in his mother's hometown. Not to mention New Year's Eve. No parties in Boston, no watching the ball drop at Time Square on TV, no kiss at midnight with some girl.

This girl's name was Diana, and she was from Manila. They met at someone's house earlier in the evening. She had invited him to attend mass to celebrate the arrival of the new year. He knew better than to pass up such an opportunity. She was a little taller than him, big deal. She was cute anyway.

They came to the mound and stared.

"When my uncle was young," she said in a hushed voice, "he stepped on one and he went blind for a while."

"No one really lives there," he said.

"Shh. He'll hear you." She walked a few steps, giving the mound wide berth, and glanced at him anxiously. "You coming?"

He took a step back and kicked at the mound. Diana screamed.

"What have you done?" She was all hysterical. It was kind of funny, really.

"It's just an ant hill, see? There's nothing in it." He laughed, but she was already stomping off.

They squeezed into a crowded bench at the back of the church.

The priest was droning on and on. Ruben looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to midnight. He remembered another Filipino superstition. He and his sisters had done it a million times on New Year's Eve.

Jump up exactly at midnight on New Year's Eve and you'll gain an inch or two.

If he gained another inch or two, he'd be as tall as Diana.

At midnight, the church bell tolled. Ruben jumped in place. Diana gave him a scathing glance. Goll, she sure was a nag. He yawned.

When he opened his eyes, his first thought was, where'd all the people go? In front of him was a wall of wood, and to his right was a dark blue curtain.

Then he looked up.

That blue curtain, it was Diana's leg in jeans. She towered over him like a giant. And he was like an ant.

He thought of the nuno sa punso, the one he stupidly demolished.

He screamed just as Diana's foot shifted and her shoe squished him.