where art, theology, and missional living cross
Short story first page
first page to a short story--anyone have time to crit?
Act One: Call to Adventure
I had a lovely life. Lovely indeed until she came and killed me.
The murder wasn’t grotesque. No headline with bloody details dripping down the page. It was quiet and subversive and to most, unnoticed.
The worst kind of death.
At the time, I worked in this little Greek café in downtown Addison Circle, although I’m not Greek. I’m mostly English, with some Scandinavian and a smidge of Native American. Iroquois, to be exact. Not enough to get a scholarship. My grandmother used to tell me stories of the chief’s daughter, the Iroquois princess, I guess, who ran away with a white settler. The princess and white settler are my ancestors. I don’t know that any of this is documented, but my grandmother is convinced of it, and that’s good enough for me.
I’d get occasional gigs in community theaters and the like. Sometimes they’d even pay. I had a glossy, a good one, but not an agent yet. When I met her, I was playing a part at the Addison Water Tower Theater. My biggest gig yet. Or my biggest venue, I should say. I had exactly nine lines in four scenes in an experimental play called Going in Circles. I also had two scenes that I mimed. I painted my face white and everything.
They made me wear a nametag, the Greek owners of the café where I worked. A button. Most of the time it said “Veronica,” which was fitting, since that’s my name, but every so often it would say something like “Bunny,” the ex-prostitute from the Northwest who forgot her real name, or “Clare,” the shy orphan who grew up passed around from foster home to foster home and now was looking for her brother.
Act One: Call to Adventure
I had a lovely life. Lovely indeed until she came and killed me.
The murder wasn’t grotesque. No headline with bloody details dripping down the page. It was quiet and subversive and to most, unnoticed.
The worst kind of death.
At the time, I worked in this little Greek café in downtown Addison Circle, although I’m not Greek. I’m mostly English, with some Scandinavian and a smidge of Native American. Iroquois, to be exact. Not enough to get a scholarship. My grandmother used to tell me stories of the chief’s daughter, the Iroquois princess, I guess, who ran away with a white settler. The princess and white settler are my ancestors. I don’t know that any of this is documented, but my grandmother is convinced of it, and that’s good enough for me.
I’d get occasional gigs in community theaters and the like. Sometimes they’d even pay. I had a glossy, a good one, but not an agent yet. When I met her, I was playing a part at the Addison Water Tower Theater. My biggest gig yet. Or my biggest venue, I should say. I had exactly nine lines in four scenes in an experimental play called Going in Circles. I also had two scenes that I mimed. I painted my face white and everything.
They made me wear a nametag, the Greek owners of the café where I worked. A button. Most of the time it said “Veronica,” which was fitting, since that’s my name, but every so often it would say something like “Bunny,” the ex-prostitute from the Northwest who forgot her real name, or “Clare,” the shy orphan who grew up passed around from foster home to foster home and now was looking for her brother.
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Heather Goodman
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