Hello everyone 😀
I haven’t been on the NERD lately because my current WIP has been haunting me. There is only 21 more days before NaNoWriMo begins. Last year I was my first NaNo experience, so I pantsed it. In other words, I didn’t pre-plan my novel beyond the title and cover picture.
This year I am a planner 😀 I learned how to work enough of Scrivener to upload a template to plan my current writing creation, “Gypsy Song.” For the last three months I have worked on it, piece by piece, in hopes that a story may emerge from the fifty thousand word frenzy that is November.
Here is a possible first scene in all its glory. Enjoy 🙂
He was gone, finally, for what? The weekend? The evening? The month? Who knew with Cab the Bare Knuckle Champ, the Gypsy who could pinch not only pennies but also quarters so damn hard that one could last the shrewd person a whole year. It didn’t really matter to Charlotte, as long as he was gone. He had grown a large group of followers over the years and they often travelled to large expanses for as long as months at a time.
It was just her mother, a woman who had seen her best years about ten years ago and now half blind and suffering from what Gina, the communities local witch doctor a right nasty curse that was incurable. If she had been a castaway in her youth, she was even more after the curse. The rumors were that she had carried on an affair with a gorgio and brought the virus back to the camp. Sarah rarely left her bedroom anymore, and only talked to Charlotte now. Charlotte, not her father, looked after her mother through sickness and famine.
The night was hers. It called to her as a lover, she imagined, would call on his sweetheart. The crickets would serve as the orchestra and the moon, a stage for the stars to seduce her into stealing away from the camp. She had left the campsite before, but only during the day and into the woods for firewood. Tonight the night called her to explore beyond her known and familiar. It was time to sneak into the world of the gorgio, the settled white demons.
Inside her knapsack she stowed away a flashlight, her only book—a steamy romance whose cover featured the two lovers tangled inside each other’s arms, and a couple apples. Her trailer was so quiet except for the slow purr of her mother’s snore as she slept in the other room. The night had dampened the bright flashy ornaments to a darker version, as if they held their own secrets after darkness fell. Charlotte closed the trailer door softly and stole into the woods.
The night air surrounded her, a perfume fit for only her. The dirt path, a regular throughway for many of the Gypsies, was black and it was here she took out the flashlight and began her journey into the village.
As she neared the first of the stone buildings, she could hear people making noises that she assumed were reserved for the Gypsy folk. Laughing, screaming, the low guttural sighs of lovers. Her stomach began to unclench. She expected black magic signs and maybe even a curse set on the outer limits of their dwellings designed to destroy the Gypsy who dared to enter the land of the gorgio without invitation. But nothing had happened, yet. She had been prepared for this possibility. She wore her grandmother’s necklace made of animal bone as a symbol of protection. Her grandmother had been a widely known real witch doctor. Her power had served the family well over the decades.
At the center of the village, she caught sight of a wooden building, the source of all the noise she heard before. Light the color of butter spewed out of the orifices of the building. Out the windows, doorways and even the foundation. Strange music was emanating from the wood, a twist and tumble of sound unlike the Gypsy music. She had never entered a gorgio building without the accompaniment of one of her many aunties when they went into town begging or selling their various talents. Hers was decided to be the art of dance, of movement. With a twirl she could stop the stoniest hearts. But she was never alone, always surrounded by family to ensure that nothing unnatural would “accidentally” happen during the times they came into town. She was good at what she did and earned a steady income for her mother.
No, this sound was not of string nor drum. A sultry female voice floated out of the window, waving and urging her to follow. It was as strong as Gypsy music, but what was this metal sound that seemed to wrap itself her stomach and blinded her mind. It felt as though her mind had melted into syrup and she found herself twisting her hips, arms within its form, under its flesh. It seeped into her ears and heated up her heart, filled her with wonder and sadness. All at the same time.
A man and woman, slipped out the side door. She gasped and fell into the shadows as they passed. This is dangerous, Charlotte said to herself. I am just borrowing trouble by sitting here all by myself. She sat huddled, shivering in the shadows that didn’t feel so comfortable, a lover turned foe. Still the music spun and she found herself swaying once more. She had to know what kind of place would house such heaven, what instrument could produce such a sound with a beat never heard before. Did her aunties and cousins know about all this? They often spent their time in gossip surrounding upcoming marriages, broken engagements, how old the gorgio husbands were for those unlucky enough to be so poor that the family needed a sponsor only gained through marriage. Those dressed in bright clashing colors to attract the lucky boy’s senses as he left to earn his money any way he could. They cared for their brothers, sisters, mothers. Raised their own baby Gypsies in the old style. They cared for nothing else. None of them knew how to read and write nor understood matters that lay beyond their own front door.
Her mother taught her how to read and write as a young girl. A skill that was forbidden in the Gypsy culture but taught to her wild red headed mother when she still worked at the circus, long before she married Charlotte’s father. From that, Charlotte slowly began to see life as something far more vast than hooking the right man. She now had a sixth sense, one that allowed her to view so much more. A life beyond the Gypsy existence, transient and full of sadness that lived behind her colored skirts and ebony curls.
The music ceased after a couple more songs and there was no more. A white stone, the size of a marble, lay next to her. She picked it up and stole back into the forest, back to her campsite, back to her world.