January: Bird by Bird, Word by Word

It's January.

I've decided I no longer count January as the beginning of the year. February is the start of the actual year, January is the month of re-awakening, of breaking hibernation, and of frantically finishing applications.

Applications give false hope to writers. You look at things and think "Look, I've finished three applications, submitted three new re-writes of the most traumatic, compelling moment of my life, and have therefore changed the trajectory of my life."

In reality, I've done none of these things.

I've worked, and cleaned, and bought twenty-four chocolate chip muffins from Trader Joe's, but I haven't altered the trajectory of my life. I think, sometimes, when you write a story you can change the trajectory of life. You're certainly changing the trajectory of the character's life. And, I suppose, if you're a very good writer, you can change the trajectory of your life. And, if you're an incredible writer, you can change the trajectory of a reader's life.

I've bought three self-help books within the past month. I refer to them as self-help, but they're only helpful for writers. They are "The Art of Neil Gaiman," "On Writing" by Stephen King, and "Bird by Bird" by Anne Lamott. I haven't read any of them.

January is the month of re-awakening.

I hope in February, I'll feel well rested.

For now, here's an excerpt from the newest story I have worked on. It's a steam-punk-Victorian-coming-of-age-queer-romance. Maybe I'll finish it. Maybe I won't.

Regardless, I hope you enjoy.

...

I took off like a shot, running as fast as my petticoat-covered legs would carry me. The heels of my shoes kept getting caught in the ridges between cobblestones, and I quickly kicked them off, trusting my bare feet to carry me further and further away from the carriage.

I heard the heavy breathing of some of the men behind me, following me, but I didn’t dare look back over my shoulder. I also heard the harsh crack of wood splitting as the rest of the men started to demolish the coach. I had no time to wonder if Enoch or my drawings or what remained of Henry would be okay. I only had time to run.

I veered off the main street into an alleyway, trying my best to maneuver through the piles of waste. I jumped over wooden crates and empty hogshead barrels, the pack of men still following me. They were several yards behind me now, but not far enough away to convince me to slow down. My lungs burned, sucking in great gulps of the grimy air, and my eyes had started to water. I rounded the next corner, pushing myself forward from the piles of slop only to find a dead end.

I was trapped.

I glanced around me, the footsteps of my pursuers echoing off the brick walls. All I saw was more garbage, more empty crates, more dilapidated wood and rotting paper and food scraps until-

“There,” I wheezed, staggering to a stop.

A gleam came from within a pile of empty coal sacks. The shimmer of bronze caught my eye, and I knew from the curl of the reflection it had to be a doorknob. I threw myself forward, plunging my hand into the pile of burlap, and wrapped my fingers around the handle. With a sharp jerk the mechanism within the knob clicked, and I could feel a door start to give way. I then tugged backwards, and a cellar door appeared from within the fabric, its hinges creaking open. I maneuvered my lower body into the opening, re-arranged the burlap to disguise the cellar, and closed the door behind me.

It was pitch black. I raised my hand to where I thought my face was and wiggled my fingers, but I couldn’t see anything in the dark. I felt the floor around me, felt a second step below me, and slowly slid downwards. I felt below me again and slid down onto a dirt floor.

“Hello?” I whispered.

I strained my ears but heard no movement from within the cellar.

“Hello?” I tried again.

My hand slid to my bodice, fingers scrambling to find the familiar chain of my pendant. I breathed a sigh of relief when the cool metal touched my fingertips and tugged the necklace from between the fabric.

“Well, at least I have you.”

“Have who?”

I jumped at the voice.

“Who’s there?”

“I asked you first.”

I squinted in the dark. My eyes could make out a shadow in the far corner.

“I only answer to people I can see.”

A beam of light came from the corner of the room. As my eyes re-adjusted, I could see the figure was a girl, about my age and height. She had on a pair of faded, oil-stained overalls, and her hair was tied in a loose bun atop her head. Her skin reminded me of my mother’s carnelian ring, a deep, rich brown with red undertones, and her eyes were dark, different shades of brown scattered throughout her irises. She raised a hand to brush along her cheekbone, disturbing a layer of dirt that lay there.

“Have who?” She repeated, one hand on her hip.

“This.” I lifted the pendant slightly, just enough so she could see what it was. “My necklace.”

“You talk to your necklace?”

I frowned. “Sometimes.”

“That’s weird.”

“No, it’s not!”

“Yeah, it is.”

I could feel my cheeks heating up. “It in fact is not weird because I-”

The sound of muffled footsteps carried down the cellar. A man’s gruff voice broke through the silence. The girl and I looked at each other, frozen and silent. A few more footsteps came, followed by what sounded like a barrel being broken. Then, all was quiet.

We sat in the silence a few more moments, neither of us daring to move. I started to rub my thumb across the surface of my pendant. The girl watched me, her eyes following the movement of my finger, until I got frustrated.

“Will you stop watching me!”

“What did they want?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “They broke down our coach and tried to kidnap me.”

“Who would want to kidnap you?”

I turned to look at her, really look at her, and puffed my chest out.

“I happen to be a very valuable asset.”

She let out a snort.

“What?”

“Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you’re valuable.”

I stared at her a few seconds, the words still bouncing around in my brain.

How did she know I was rich?

“You’re dressed too fancy to live in any of the dirt districts,” she said, as if reading my mind. “Even if your clothes are covered in muck.”

“Well…you have dirt on your face!”

“I always have dirt on my face!” She threw her arms wide, gesturing to the rest of the room. There were two distinct corners on the wall to my right that had enormous piles of dirt. They surrounded a messy work desk with various machine parts scattered across the surface.

“So, you just, decorate with dirt?”

“Only when my silver is being polished.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That’s quite rude.”

She took a step forward. “Well, if you’d prefer different company maybe I should go get those men from the alleyway? I’m sure they’d love to hear all about your papa’s estate and the great, big, ENORMOUS factory he-”

“My father is dead.” I snarled.

She stopped in the middle of the floor.

“And we don’t own a factory.”

She glanced at her work desk, then back at me. She stared at me for a long time.

“You can stay until the men are gone. For good. Just, don’t get in my way.”

She stalked her way across the dusty floor, plopped herself down at the desk, and began tinkering. I looked down at my pendant again, began to trace over the surface. The tiny, brown parasol stared back up at me.

“What’s your name?” I called.

She ignored me.

“I just want to know so I can tell my rich, dead papa who to send the reward money to. Since you seem to care about it so much.”

“I don’t care about money.” She snarled.

“Well, I don’t care about money either!”

“Must be nice.”

We sat in silence again. I could hear soft clinks as she fiddled with the items on her desk, and a soft whirring noise started soon after.

“What do you care about? If you don’t care about money. Gears?”

“No. I care about life.”

“Well, I care about life too.”

“Not life here. Not life in the city. Life…outside of here. Away from here.”

“Where?”

I watched her shoulder blades shift as she attached more parts to other parts and pieces to other pieces. I followed the gentle, rolling motion of them beneath the overalls and through her shirt. She worked like a well-oiled machine, fluid and confident.

“Life where there’s more than just dirt. Life where there’s real horses, and food you grow yourself, and water that isn’t brown, and…stuff.”

I squeezed my pendant.

“I care about that kind of life too,” I said softly. “My mother has fossils. And bones. And…and plant remnants and I just wish I could see their world. See if it’s any better than ours.”

Her shoulder blades stopped moving.

“Dorcas.” She spoke.

“What?”

She turned in her chair.

“My name is Dorcas.”

I looked at her eyes again, almost a dark orange in the lower light. A pretty orange, like the rind of the imported persimmons my mother would save for Christmas.

“I’m Estelle.”

She nodded, then turned back to her work.

© 2023 by Lesley Porterfield