
The Bordertown stories, which now seem destined to move into a single novel, are throwing out so many narrative strands that I can barely get them threaded together before having to unwind them to allow for another configuration. I have been writing this in the exact opposite way I usually work by having first a strong opening, a solid draft of the ending, and then a hazy sense of the middle. It's a skeleton with a skull and feet first, and then write down the spine to connect the two parts.
But this time...it's like someone threw a skeleton (of what I am not sure) into the air and all the bones, big and little, landed in a heap. So, here I am putting together the pieces. I have been writing down random sentences, not sure yet who is saying them or why they matter. And every time I write a few paragraphs and then walk away to take the wet clothes out of the washer and put them into the dryer, there are ten other possible directions the following paragraphs can take before I return to my desk. It's crazy.
What the hell am I writing? Yet, for not knowing how it will come together, I am comforted by the fact that it feels organic and right; alive and determined to speak its mind. So many characters are clamoring to tell their stories. But at this point, it's like a Child Ballad, where often all you have is the most dramatic moment of a much longer story -- after all who the hell knows why Lord Randall's lover was so pissed off at him that she chose to poison him and his dogs over lunch? -- we never learn the reason, there is no back story to weigh down the tragedy, only the dying Randall answering his mother's anguished questions about where and with whom he had shared his fatal last meal.
So...trying to put these moments together -- and honestly, not even sure of the order. I'll keep collecting them, like cards in a deck until I have a full house.

She wouldn't decay, not like the rest of us. She was Blood. Her Elvin body would return to nature, into lichen, moss, wood and dark soil. She had already begun to change, the veins beneath the pale skin of her arms bleeding green. To cover her with the shroud was a crime. To leave her here unattended was a crime. To tell anyone I'd seen her would jack me up in the worst way. "Who left you here?" I asked the girl, wanting to shake her alive again. I stood, making the only decision I could. I had to find that halfiing and ask her into what sort of hell she'd gone and dropped me. And why me?
*****
Farell Din, his back to the bar felt their presence before they spoke. He was drying a mug and wished to continue, so as not to have to turn and face them. He heard them though, arguing. "Faite gor mohan flea? Nah, grifted mach noile." To him it was gibberish, but to them it was a language of their own. He turned, not liking the chills up his spine at the sound of their words. "Nock. Dina," he greeted them, knowing their difference only by the color of their hoodies, red for Nock, black for Dina. "What will you have then? " They started talking fast and at the same time, forgetting in their urgency they were still using their twin-speak. He set the mug down hard on the counter. "Plain speech," he ordered. The chills had turned to shivers. "A sylph is loose in Bordertown," Nock said. "She's gathering the great stones"-- "and she's taken Charon," Dina finished. Farell steadied himself, a hand gripping the edge of the bar. "And whose fault is that?" he asked. But neither would answer.
*****
Ryder staggered on his feet, blood from his broken nose dripping over his chin. He held his fists up, dug his feet into the ground, as ready as he could be for the next assault. They were watching him, taking his measure, three of them, wolf and fox masks tied to the back of their head; gloved fists with claws. They barked at him, then howled, and he braced, feeling the weight of the stone hidden in his pack. Don't fuck up, he told himself, repeating the first rule of the dojo. But it was too late for that advice, he thought as he blocked a strike to his head and countered with a hard punch that split open the wolf's lips and cracked teeth. I'm already in too deep.
*****
The bar was exploding with hardcore metal, the notes breaking out of the guitars like jack hammers. Rocket tore the song out of his ragged throat, and the throngs leaped to their feet, pounding and roaring with him. Nock stood in the middle of the deafening noise. She loved it, because the terminus stones beneath her feet awoke to the sound, shrugged and lifted up, buckling the cobblestones of a backstreet alley. They murmured and shuddered beneath the thin veil of concrete and the dancing crowd stumbled, drunk and ecstatic. Someone flicked on a strobe light, and Nock saw her, standing on the far side of the dance floor, her palm pressed against the wall to feel the vibrations. Caught in the pulse of silver light shards of mica gleamed on her granite skin. Their eyes locked, a cold smile on her face and Nock screamed as the room tilted, grinding as it turned on itself, changing shape as it moved, pressing falling dancers into new corners as it folded and refolded.
Earlier Excerpts from the WIP: Bordertown Born and Bred Roots, Charon Introduction
Art Credits: Flavia Pitis, Craftmanship and Isaac Pelepko, Study of Antonia's Hair
© 2017 Midori Snyder. All fiction passages in this post may not be reproduced without the express and written permission of the author.