Granny Smith's Apple Pies by Crystal Charee

Blurb

At the Saturday farmers market in a small town, Granny Smith sells apple pies displayed on a crocheted tablecloth. The pies are perfect, the story is simple, and none of it is true.

Granny didn’t bake the pies. She didn’t make the tablecloth. She isn’t as old as she looks. But the routine works. Week after week, the pies sell out—at least the ones meant to—and no one asks too many questions.

Then her ten-year-old grandson Lee shows up on her porch with no warning and a talent for reading people. On the next market day, he’s at her side, charming customers, pushing for tips, and spotting angles she’s spent decades ignoring.

When a friendly stranger returns with the last slice of a pie he swears his old sweetheart must have baked, Granny shuts him down. Lee sees an opportunity. Granny sees a risk. As the man lingers, the morning turns into a standoff over what information is worth—and who gets to decide.

The Incorruptible Man by Crystal Charee

This is an old story that I started re-writing last year. This is what I'm assuming will be Chapter 3, but we'll see. The story is about Tracy, a con woman who has run away from her old boyfriend (not abusive but very married). 

She has a spreadsheet of known marks, what scams have already been performed on them, and by whom, and how much money each con artist made off of the mark, as well as the mark's potential net worth. 

Fred has an asterisk under his name, which, at the bottom of the spreadsheet just says "The Incorruptible Man". He's a used car salesman, owns his own lot in a small town in the middle of nowhere. He has been touched by a LOT of con artists in Tracy's circle, but never for more than a few thousand dollars. His net worth is estimated at almost a million dollars. Tracy is intrigued and has nothing better to do, so she goes to check him out. 

She meets him at a bar, offers to go home with him, and initiates sex. The next day, while he's at work, she cleans his house, gets to know his neighbors, and throws out the randos that he lets stay in his home. Chapter 3 is later that day, when Fred gets home from work. The previous chapters were from Tracy's POV and this is our first look at Fred from his POV.

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Original (First 500)

Fred wasn't sure which smell hit him first, or hardest. The succulent beef stew simmering on the stove, or the total and utter lack of musty gym socks. The kitchen was dark and quiet, with only the stove hood light on. Silence reigned in his home for the first time in forever. He walked into the empty living room the beef stew trailing behind him to mingle with the faintest hint of weed snaking through a stronger combination of Pine Sol and Lemon Pledge. The couch was empty, all of Todd's stuff was gone. No bong, no scattered clothing and sneakers, no overheating XBox or screaming television. Only a lamp in the corner that Fred had completely forgotten he owned offered some light in the dark room. Thick bows that had previously lay abandoned on the carpet now held the curtains open. Fred felt the sudden need to set down. He sank down on to the armchair next to the couch and looked around.

He couldn't remember the last time the curtains had been open. Way before Todd, some couch guest had closed them, and that had become their permanent position. His second wife, Eve, had kept them open, but they had been chosen by Janice and hung by Fred. He'd never understood Janice's excitement about the exact shade of sage green, the way it perfectly matched the leaves on the floral couch. Everything had been chosen and placed so carefully, been preserved by Eve, and left to rot by Fred and his menagerie of uninvited guests.

Tracy had done this. She'd cleaned his house and made him dinner as a gesture of gratitude for hosting her the night before.  Her car hadn't been in the driveway when he'd gotten home -- maybe she had gone back to Stucky's to find a more attractive, age-appropriate host. He tried to feel grateful, instead, he felt old, tired, and alone. He stood and fled the living room on slow, achy knees. 

The hallway was cleared of the random accumulated junk he'd grown so accustomed to seeing that it had turned invisible over time. The absence of it made the space feel bigger and cleaner. And emptier. He flipped a light on in the bathroom. The bathroom smelled like clean laundry and had towels neatly layered over the towel racks. The sweet, plasticy smell of a fresh shower curtain liner wafted in the air, but he couldn't see it because it was hidden behind a mauve linen shower curtain. He recognized it as his wife's. For a deliciously delusional moment, he stared at the matching bath mat and engaged in a fantasy where Janice wasn't dead after all. 

When the moment was over, that old cactus-spiked blanket of grief pricked at him, settling into his skin.He flipped the light back off and continued down the hallway. He already knew that the guest room would be clean and empty before he opened the door. 

My Edit

Fred wasn't sure which smell hit him first, or hardest. The succulent stew simmering on the stove, or the total and utter lack of musty gym socks. The kitchen was dark and quiet, with only the stove hood light on. He walked over to the simmering pot, and stared down at it. Yep. That was beef stew. The scent trailed behind him as he walked into the living room. Over the stew, the faintest hint of of weed snaked through a stronger combination of Pine Sol and Lemon Pledge. 

The couch was empty, all of Todd's stuff was gone. No bong, no scattered clothing and sneakers, no overheating XBox or blaring television. Only a lamp in the corner that Fred had completely forgotten he owned offered some light in the dark room. Thick bows that had previously lay abandoned on the carpet, held the curtains open first the first time in years. Fred felt the sudden need to sit down. He sank down on to the armchair next to the couch and looked around.

Way before Todd, some couch guest had closed the curtains, and that had become their permanent position. His second wife, Eve, had kept them open, but they had been chosen by his first and only real wife, Janice. He'd never understood Janice's excitement about the exact shade of sage green, the way it perfectly matched the leaves on the floral couch, but he'd been happy that she was happy. Everything had been chosen and placed carefully by Janice, preserved by Eve, and left to rot by Fred and his neverending parade of uninvited guests.

Tracy had done this. She'd cleaned his house and made him dinner as a gesture of gratitude for hosting her the night before.  Her car hadn't been in the driveway when he'd gotten home -- maybe she had gone back to Stucky's to find a more attractive, age-appropriate host. He tried to feel grateful. Instead, he felt old, tired, and alone. He stood, knees creaking, and continued the tour of his home. 

The hallway had been cleared of the random accumulated junk he'd grown so accustomed to seeing that it had turned invisible over time. The absence of it made the space feel bigger and cleaner. And emptier. He flipped a light on in the bathroom. The bathroom smelled like clean laundry and had towels neatly layered over the towel racks. The sweet, plastic smell of a fresh shower curtain liner wafted in the air, hidden behind a mauve linen shower curtain. Another Janice pick that some guest had switch out for a cat wielding a trident and riding a whale, at some point. With the original curtain back, for a deliciously delusional moment, he stared at the matching bath mat and engaged in a fantasy where Janice wasn't dead after all. 

When the moment was over, that old cactus-spiked blanket of grief pricked at him, settling back into his skin. He flipped the light back off and continued down the hallway, dread building in his stomach. He already knew that the guest room would be clean and empty before he opened the door. 

(Original word count: ~490 → Edited: ~521)

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Critique

It's hard for me to be objective about this scene, partly because it's newer writing, and partly because it just makes me love Fred so much. If you met Fred in real life, you'd think that you were meeting the personification of a beige paint chip. But this scene shows him at his most tenderhearted, grieving, and lonely self, and I'd die for him.

I'll usually critique the first 500 words of a story, but since this is a couple of chapters in, I'll probably be a little more forgiving of the fact that it's a quieter scene. 

Setting

Fred's house at dusk. It's quiet and clean, with the hint of weed peeking through the savory scents of stew and Pine Sol. It feels warm to me, probably because of the beef stew greeting us on the stove and wafting behind him as he wanders through his house. 

Not the most exciting of settings, but this scene will have been preceeded by Tracy cleaning and cooking and clearing out house guests all day. I think it'll be a nice contrast -- the chaotic hustle of Tracy's day versus Fred's lonesome self-guided tour of his own house.

Characterization

We get to know several characters through this passage. Fred, of course, but also his first wife, Janice and his second wife, Eve. We also get remnants of Todd as well as the ghosts of other house guests. If this was the first scene in the book, we'd be getting an interesting picture of Tracy, as well. Someone maybe a little presumptuous but generous. Maybe someone, as we move through the house, that doesn't understand that a neat home isn't as appealing to Fred as a full one.

One thing I had in the original was bringing Janice's mauve shower curtain back. I think I originally pictured just the liner being used for years, but since that wasn't clear when I re-read the passage, I just put in a shower curtain that I actually purchased for my own home because I thought it was hilarious.

Fred's ambivalence toward the changes to his house is interesting. He's not really pleased or displeased. At first, he doesn't really react at all, just kind of accepting, then he's kind of hit by the curtains being open for t he first time in years, then he feels lonely as he moves through the hallway, checking the bathroom and on his way to he guestroom.

His guilt over letting people treat his house however shows up with the curtain tie backs, but the shower curtain makes him hallucinate for a second that Janice is alive. His connection to Janice feels very big in this scene, in a way that it probably won't for the rest of the book. I think that at this point in his story, he associates Janice more with loss than companionship. I want to see, as he moves through the rest of the story, him be able to focus on what they had that he gets to carry with him, rather than what he doesn't have anymore. And I'm not talking about curtains.

Oh, and I have to mention this, because it makes me love Fred, even though I'm the one who wrote him this way. He mentions that he "hosted" Tracy the night before and acknowledges that her cleaning his house is a gesture of gratitude. If you hadn't read the previous chapters, you wouldn't know that Tracy initiated sex and that Fred was very interested in giving her as many orgasms as he could for as long as she'd let him. I like that he uses the word "hosted", I like that he doesn't feel entitled to her continued presence, and he doesn't slut shame her or otherwise be disrespectful of her, even internally. This is how you know Fred is fictional, but I don't care. My world, my perfect love interest.

Conflict/Tension

Fred is not the most demonstrative of characters, even internally, so I worry that he, and this scene, can come off as boring, but I think it's important to allow him to be boring and ordinary. His life is about to get VERY interesting. In a way, this story offers him a call to action, even though Tracy is the main character. She's already in action, has never not been in action, so this is the calm before the storm that she's about to drag him into.

Even without knowing that, there is tension in Fred's ambivalence. Most people walking into a warm, clean home with food on the stove would feel cozy, cared for. Fred feels guilty and abandoned. His lack of gratitude is also in conflict with what the reader might expect after watching Tracy do all of this for him for a full chapter.

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Final Thoughts

My revision doesn't have any sweeping changes from the original, probably because the writing is so recent. I think I wrote this in 2024. I did go through and try to smooth out some of the transitions between rooms and clarify Fred's reactions, although I still want him to be a bit hard to read. Fred is never going to be a demonstrative character, but at this point in the story, he's very disconnected from his emotions, so melancholy and guilt are going to be uppermost.

I will share a spoiler, though. Fred is not alone in the house. Tracy is in his bedroom, which is at the end of the hallway, around the corner from the guest room. So, as Fred gets lonelier throughout his tour, and maybe even a bit resentful at Tracy's presumptuousness, he's going to be blindsided to turn the corner and see light shining under the door.

I came up with this character I think around twenty years ago and never did anything with him. He's so blah of a character at first glance that I didn't even know if I'd ever try to write his story. I came up with the idea for The Incorruptible Man maybe ten-ish years ago? And when I realized that Fred could the The Incorruptible Man, I was really happy that's I'd be able to use Fred in a story that had such a fun premise. For me, it's going to be really fun to balance the absolute soda-crackerness of his personality with a wild, WILD plot.

I don't have a lot of story ideas for "real world" settings. I mostly like high fantasy and speculative stuff. The thing about that is that you have to ground more fantastic settings with believable (for the genre) plots and characters. Not an issue with this story. As it's set in "reality", I don't need to ground it and it's going to get weird. Sometimes, conflict and tension just come from contrast. Fred's bland personality in juxtaposition with a wild plot is going to be SO fun.

Darcy's Date by Crystal Charee

This is an original of mine. Darcy is a mermaid who gave her daughter up for adoption when she was sixteen years old. The daughter is Aura, who features in Britney, The Dwarf Queen, which I'll posted a First 500 challenge on, someday. Aura is also a main character in her own story, A Thousand Auras, and is a recurring character across several of my fictional universes.

This story was supposed to help me explore Darcy's character so that she can be a full person in my mind. I never got far with it, but I do love her.

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Original (2005)

Darcy was stumped. She stared into her wardrobe, trying to figure out what to wear. She briefly wondered if she should just go topless and get the fun part started early. But then her stomach rumbled and she didn’t feel like cooking, so she grabbed a tank top and slipped it on. It was black, naturally. With tiny purple hearts and a doubloon-sized skull embroidered on it in tiny beads. It would be dressy enough for almost anywhere, but casual enough if he’d just packed a picnic or something.

Darcy heard banging on the hatch. It was probably the doorknocker she’d attached to it. Sometimes the tide – Darcy’s eye caught the clock –damn the man for being on time! Caught with her hair down, she answered the door. Vincent was there, sparklier than ever, framed against the black waters of the ocean. Appreciating the view, her eyes traveled from his handsome face, all the way down – to his new appendage. It was small, female, and looked like it was about eleven years old. “Crap,” Darcy said.

“Nice to meet you too,” the girl said like a little Miss Smarty Pants. The girl brushed Darcy aside and entered her home. Darcy felt like her inner sanctum was being violated. Vincent had never been invited in, and this brat certainly hadn’t. Darcy swam forward a bit, pushed Vincent back to clear the way, and grabbed the girl who was – touching something! Snatching back her ceramic replication of a bottle of poison, she tossed the girl out the door. Vincent caught the girl as she nearly swooshed past. Both merpeople stared at Darcy in shock.

Carefully replacing the bottle on the side table next to her couch, Darcy turned back to Vincent and friend, and asked politely, “Would you like to come in?”

Vincent shushed the girl who was about to reply. “Maybe we should just be on our way,” he responded. Holding out his hand, he waited for Darcy to take it.

She hesitated. She wasn’t sure what to do with a gentleman, and that more than the pre-teen brat compelled her to stay home. No doubt her memory played tricks on her, making it seem as though those kisses had been better than they actually were. The possibility that she was wrong though, was what made her hold out her hand. He pulled her through the hatch as though she were a delicate, crystal feather. Light, delicate, and beautiful. Once again, she suppressed the urge to turn, swim, and slam the hatch behind her.

As if he could read her mind, Vincent took Darcy’s hand more firmly in his own. Taking both girls by the hand, he led them to a carriage that was attached to a baby whale. He picked up the reins and shook them a little. The whale moved forward, graceful for something that size, under Vincent’s power. She could relate.

“This is my niece, Learah,” Vincent explained. “Her mother is in labor and can’t leave the girl alone for a minute...."

My Edit (2025)

Darcy stared into her wardrobe, trying to figure out what to wear. More importantly, she wondered why she'd agreed to a date with Vincent. Nerdy, adorable, way too nice Vincent. She wondered if she should answer the door topless and really freak him out.

Her stomach rumbled. She sighed. She couldn't really afford to chase off a free dinner. Plus, she still had to work with the guy. She grabbed a black sequined tank top, and slipped it on. She was thinking about what to do with her hair when she heard banging on the hatch of her sunken yacht.

She pulled up the pocket watch the she wore wrapped around her waist and cursed to herself. Of course he was early. Vincent was always early. She sighed, pulling her eyepatch down. If she took the time to put her hair up, he'd think that she was taking a long time to get ready, for him. But if she left it down, the long pink curls were going to be in her way all night. She pulled it into a loose braid over her shoulder as she swam from her room to the companionway and then up to the aft deck.

Along the way, she cursed herself for caring if he'd like her hair in a braid instead of her usual messy bun. She hadn't been on a date since she was fifteen, and even then, she couldn't say that her boyfriend took her out on dates. Did that mean she'd never been on a date? Oh, God. That meant that first date was going to be with Vincent. How pathetic was that? She was probably his first date, too.

Vincent was there, his long grey fin sparkling against the black waters of the ocean. He'd ditched the tie, for once, but wore a short-sleeved button-down shirt. His smile was warm, but a little worried. It should definitely have been more worried. Darcy was going to make him regret asking her out.

Then she noticed that instead of his usual briefcase, he had a small mermaid with him. She had big, watchful, turquoise eyes, a swirling mass of blonde hair, and a turquoise tail that matched her eyes. She was probably around ten or eleven years old.

“Ugh. No thank you,” Darcy said, involuntarily. She did not deal with children. At all.

“Nice to meet you too,” the girl said, in sign language. Darcy blinked. She eyed the girl. The girl's tail was mechanical. There was only one mermaid in the entire kingdom, hell, anywhere in the world that Darcy knew of, who had a mechanical tail and spoke sign language.

Darcy said, glaring at Vincent, who, now, was looking more guilty than nervous. "You brought the princess on our date?"

"It was a last-minute thing," Vincent said, pleadingly, his warm, grey eyes sparkled sweetly in the light that shone through her cockpit windows. "It was either bring her or cancel the date."

"Cancel the date!" Darcy said, glaring harder. Rage flooded her body. She wondered that the water around her didn't boil. "Nevermind, I'll cancel it." She turned to swim back through her companionway, but the flash of the kid's hands stopped her. She turned back.

"I've never met a pirate before," the girl signed, again. "You're not that scary. I like your hair," she added with a grin.

"It's taken me two years to get you to go out with me," Vincent said. "And you said this was my one chance. If I'd cancelled, you'd never agree to go out with me again. And, if I had told you about the kid, you wouldn't have believed me." He still had his pleading look, but that sharky lawyer look that he got when he was talking business was creeping into his gaze. "So," he continued, transitioning into his bargaining tone, "If you would like to reschedule, I can make that happen."

Darcy liked to convince herself that Vincent was boring to look at with his gray eyes and gray tail and gray personality. But his eyes generally held a spark of humor in them, as they did now, his tail was pinstriped with dark and light gray, and his fins were long and flowy. And he never bored her. His off-duty personality was sweet and almost shy, but he was full of stories and when he negotiated with her, his "boring" gray eyes would flash like steel. Now, he waited, a challenging smile twitching at his lips.

She glared at him even more, mostly just to give herself time to think. He'd just given her the option to re-schedule or to let him take her on a date with a tiny brat. She was aware of the unspoken third option, to just cancel and never give him another chance. But, it would have been cowardly. It wasn't like Vincent would have had the option to say no to babysitting a princess -- it was pretty much the only excuse she would have accepted.

She hated the option of cancelling. She'd never admit to anxiety, but the anticipation had made her nearly cancel at least once an hour since she'd agreed, in a moment of pure insanity, to go out with him, once. She didn't want to go through all of that again. But to go on a date with a ten-year-old child in tow? How was that supposed to play out? Actually, she thought, how was that supposed to play out? Did he really think that he could pull off a once-chance date with a kid around? She couldn't help but grin at the thought.

"Alright," she said, mirroring his challenge with her uncovered violet eye. "Wow me."

The way his brows went up said that he was surprised, but his shoulders squared, and he grinned. He held out one hand to her, and gestured toward the bow of her ship with the other. "Your chariot awaits," he said.

It really was a chariot, a golden one, with six silver, mechanical dolphins harnessed to the front of it. Suddenly, she knew she wasn't dressed up enough to go wherever he'd planned to take them. Well, she thought darkly, if she embarrassed him, that was his problem. She wasn't fancy enough to see any of the fancy folk he wanted to parade her in front of, again. He'd be the one who'd be judged for dragging a circus act around.

Darcy took his hand, grimly, and he turned to offer his free hand to the child. "Princess," he murmured.

The little girl ducked her head, blonde hair swishing, and took his hand too. Darcy didn't miss the worshipful gaze the girl shot up at Vincent as they moved toward the chariot. He handed the girl in first, and then turned to Darcy. Registering her wooden expression, he smiled, and kissed her hand. "Don't worry," he said, a promise in his warm gray eyes. "This will be fun."

"Worry," Darcy scoffed, allowing herself to be guided into the carriage. She couldn't help but relax at his words, though. And as he took up the reigns and the dolphins swooshed through the night waters, she allowed herself the tiniest moment to appreciate the luxury of being escorted to a fancy, unknown place, in the dark, with a reasonably attractive man.

And a ten-year-old brat.

(Original word count: ~507 → Edited: ~1222)

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Critique

Darcy has a unique voice — snarky and insecure at the same time. She’s a misanthrope, but that cynicism masks a deep insecurity. In the original version, it’s hilarious that she’s completely uninterested in impressing her date or accommodating him or the kid. In my revision, I toned down the child abuse but ramped up her sass toward Vincent, letting her humor cover for vulnerability instead of cruelty.

Setting

The original setting wasn’t entirely clear, and I didn’t add much description in my revision — but I did try to orient the reader with a sense of movement as Darcy swam from her bedroom to the deck. At least now, it’s easier to picture her inside a sunken boat. I'll explore setting more in a future draft. In this draft, I was more focused on characterization.

Characterization

The original carried a light, almost chick-lit tone, but Darcy is darker. She has a past she’s ashamed of, a strong survival instinct, and intense social anxiety. The bubbly tone didn’t fit her—or me. I gravitate toward interiority and emotional realism, so I leaned into her internal reactions and motivations instead of staying on the surface.

Something I didn’t yet explore is how she knows Vincent. We find out that he’s a lawyer, but we never see how that intersects with her life as a scavenger of sunken ships. That relationship will either need more backstory or a change to his vocation.

In this rewrite, removing the scene where Darcy manhandles the child also fixes Vincent’s earlier passivity. He’s still kind and a little playful, but now he has the quiet confidence of someone who can handle her sharp edges. He senses her discomfort about not being “fancy” enough for wherever he’s taking her and reassures her without condescension.

The child mermaid, originally Vincent’s niece Learah, was mostly a plot device to inject conflict. While revising, I realized her description matched an existing character: Princess Coral. The mechanical tail and sign language are hers. I think it will be fun to explore her character, especially in interaction with Darcy during the date. 

The date might ultimately become less about romance and more about Darcy exploring a “what if” — what life might have been like for the daughter she gave up, if Aura had been able to grow up under the sea with her.

That said, with Vincent there, we'll get to deepen the relationship between him and Darcy based on how they interact with Coral together. This scenario will highlight aspects of each of their personalities that may only have glimpsed during their business dealings.

Conflict/Tension

In the original, the tension came mostly from the kid — contrived, but it showed my instinct that a scene like this needs conflict. I think I avoided deeper tension at the time because I didn’t know how to write a date scene without romantic or sexual charge, and the story was intended for middle grade readers.

Now, I can rely on Darcy’s social anxiety and bluntness to create friction. Vincent’s empathy disarms her — it feels good but also unbearable. Like stepping into a warm room after being out in the cold: the warmth hurts a little. She can’t trust it, because she never knows when she’ll be tossed back into the cold again. That’s why she lives alone, keeping her world small and predictable.

Final Thoughts

Ultimately, even though having Vincent unexpectedly babysitting was contrived at the time, I'm committed to the idea now. That means that the weakest part of the story, now, is the beginning when Darcy is looking in her closet. What does a mermaid's closet look like? The clothes can't be on hangers, because the hangers would float off of the closet rod.

Also, Darcy staring into her closet, wondering what to wear? That doesn’t fit her. She’s the kind to distract herself from nerves by working, not primping. She’d be startled by Vincent’s knock because she was absorbed in something mechanical, maybe salvaging or tinkering.

I'm actually exploring that idea in another revision, but it's so different from the original version that I didn't want to use it for this post. I'll use another post to explore the edited original versus the final revision.

The Pink Assassin by Crystal Charee

Blurb

I had completely forgotten about this story until I was looking through old stuff to do another First 500 exercise on. I was pleasantly surprised to find it way less cringy than my writing from four years earlier. At this point in my writing journey, I had found that I didn't really like sketching out scenes to figure out plot and adding style later.

 
Rather, I preferred to let the details I found in writing the little bit of the story that I knew fill in details for more of the story. This backfired a bit in that there is way too much exposition dragging down the action, especially with information that should be worked in naturally with the rest of the story — or not needed at all, other than as information for myself.

But, it's still fun! This story is about an assassin who has refused to complete a job, but since she works for her uncle, this has become a family matter.

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Original (2009)

Sally is a smart, if not a particularly wise, girl. She knows that bubble gum pink and lemon yellow are inappropriate colors for an assassin to wear. The colors stand out, especially on her svelte, leggy future carcass. But the colors go so nice in contrast to her shaggy old black cloak and matching belt. She just can’t help herself.

Despite her weakness for fashion, Sally has two things going for her as an assassin that few of her contemporaries share. One is her literal, killer bod; a distraction at the best of times, a playground of carnal delights at ever better times. The other is her willingness to accept that her own demise is not only inevitable, but imminent. In the assassin business, there’s always someone who wants to kill you back.

Live by the sword, die by the sword. Sally likes to pretend that the proverb is from an old Bob Dylan song because few things give her the shivers like thinking about the wages of sin that she’s been racking up for years.

Morality aside, she has little choice of vocation. And if she can’t justify every kill by telling herself her victims deserve it (because quite a few didn’t), she can at least take pride in her efficiency and athleticism.

“Salleee….”

Death’s breath mists on the back of her neck as her assassin stalks the circle of mannequins, leaving knife holes in one cute outfit after another. Gokor has killed eleven out of twelve of Sally’s mannequins and he’s left a nice slice of steel searing the spot between two of her ribs. Black really is the best color for hiding stains.

“Sally-jhan, it‘s no use hiding from me. You know that. Just come out and let Uncle Gokor give you one last hug.”

As she waits for Gokor to find her, Sally no doubt feels the urge to pee that always reminds her of playing hide-and-seek as a kid. It never failed. As soon as she found the perfect hiding spot, she’d curse herself for not going to the bathroom first. It’s a problem that has persisted into adulthood. She’s killed countless men (one hundred and twenty-three (and a half)), and many a victim’s toilet discreetly disposed of her DNA before she disposed of him.

Although she’s been murdering since she was eleven, she’s never received this sort of injury. She’s been slashed at during knife fights with would-be rapists in dark alleyways, and from sparring with Gokor, -- everyone needs hobbies. She was even shot once. This is different. The steel is embedded, and she isn’t allowed to scream or cry or even breathe hard. No desperate scramble away from her murderer; no effort of movement or destination to distract her from the pain -- or from the need to urinate. No way to express her fury at her uncle’s betrayal, although, she must be accustomed to that particular frustration by now. Or maybe not.

Sally isn’t particularly misandristic, but she only kills men. She once waited two months to take out a guy on his eighteenth birthday. Gokor has thus far been surprisingly lenient in regard to Sally’s refusal to kill women. Sally’s failure to kill Dick is the reason she’s on Gokor’s “to do” list.

My Edit

“Salleee….”

Death’s breath mists on the back of her neck as her assassin stalks the circle of mannequins draped in her favorite capes and corsets, leaving knife holes in one cute outfit after another. Uncle Gokor has stabbed and slashed up eleven of the mannequins that are dressed up like her, and he’s left a nice slice of steel embedded in a spot between two of Sally's actual ribs.

“Sally-jhan, it's no use hiding from me. You know that. Just come out and let me give you one last hug,” Uncle Gokor says.

Sally, coldblooded assassin since the age of eleven, has never felt this helpless. She has scars from fights to the death with disfavored members of Uncle Gokor's gang -- Uncle Gokor's version of assassin school. She’s been slashed at during knife fights with would-be rapists in dark alleyways. Everyone needs hobbies. She was even shot, once. 

This is different. The steel is embedded in her side, and she can't scream or cry or even gasp. She definitely can't fight back. Her life depends on her uncle neither seeing nor smelling the blood seeping into her clothing. She wore black because it looks similar, whether it's wet or dry. Especially in the dark.

Until now, Gokor had tolerated Sally’s refusal to kill women and children. She once waited two months to take out a guy on his eighteenth birthday.  Sally’s failure to kill me is the reason she’s on Gokor’s “To Do” list. 

And he can't excuse her for her latest refusal to complete a job, as I am neither woman nor child.

(Original word count: ~543 → Edited: ~365)

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Critique

Okay, so, a few things. First, the story started from an avatar outfit prompt, which explains why the opening emphasizes her clothing -- that was literally all I knew about her.Second, the POV in the original is not clear -- this is the would-be victim of Sally's that she refuses to kill. Not sure why I felt the need to make the whole story in his POV but I'm pretty sure it was just lack of confidence as a writer and just throwing as many bells and whistles into the thing as possible.

The main thing I've learned since then is that clarity beats style. It doesn't matter how cleverly something is phrased if the context it's placed in doesn't make sense.

Setting

The setting is supposed to be Sally's giant walk-in closet. Yes, she has mannequins that look exactly like her to help her pick out her outfits. The story takes place in her house. She's dressed as one of her mannequins because she wants him to think that she's a mannequin so that he doesn't try too hard to kill her — it's more of a symbolic thing.

Anyway, I didn't spend a ton of time on the setting because by the time we get to this part of the scene, we should already be familiar with the setting.

Characterization
Sally’s been an assassin since age eleven, with a strict code: no women or children. She kills would-be rapists in dark alleys — her favorite hobby. Honestly, I still love her. What a badass.

Did I add any more depth to her character in the re-write than I did in the original? Nah. But, as this is an action scene (albeit one with a lot of inaction), it doesn't makes sense to go into backstory. I actually deleted about half of the original excerpt when re-writing because it was information that was not necessary to the scene.

Conflict/Tension
Oh, yeah, we have conflict. We have a kingpin (or something) who is intent on killing his personal assassin for refusing one too many jobs -- and he's her uncle. So, this isn't just business -- it's family business.

 
We also have Sally, who can't move and give herself away as a non-mannequin, for plot reasons. I think conflict and tension are covered.

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Final Thoughts

To be honest, I think the only thing going for the original story is the hook. 

That sounds harsh to my 2009 self. I think the writing of the original is funny and clever, but that's all it's trying to be. It's not really trying to be part of a story, it's trying to be the whole story at once. This is something I see in a lot of newer writers, and obviously something I was guilty of. 

But that's not to say that there's no value in the original version. First, it's fun. I didn't hate reading it. I loved the character and the convoluted story I was trying to tell. I think if I was going to continue with this story, it'd be a lot more grounded, and less sassy.

But I do think that part of this excerpt could work as a blurb or query letter:

Sally has two things going for her as an assassin that few of her contemporaries share. One is her literal, killer bod; a distraction at the best of times, a playground of carnal delights at even better times. The other is her willingness to accept that her own demise is not only inevitable, but imminent. In the assassin business, there’s always someone who wants to kill you back.

I just don't think that you can build a whole story out of a blurb voice. At least, that's not something I'm currently interested in trying. I really like exploring motivation the differences between how we try to present ourselves, see ourselves, other people see us, and who we actually are. Those things don't really work in blurb voice — and, for me, at least, it's too hard to sustain. 

Britney the Dwarf Princess by Crystal Charee

This is another piece of my own writing. The story is about a little person who lives in our ordinary world and gets pulled into an alternate universe where dwarves actually live under mountains and sing “Heigh Ho” — basically, her nightmare. In this early draft, Brittany has twelve foster kids and is supposed to make it a baker’s dozen by the end of the book. I’ve started this story over at least three times; this was the first attempt. If you’d like to compare it to my latest version, you can find it on my portfolio blog here.

[TRIGGER WARNING:  I use the words “dwarf” and “dwarves” throughout this post to describe fictional beings who live under mountains and mine for jewels, and “little person” to describe actual humans from our world. This story explores how the cartoonification of little people into a separate race has been damaging — but if this language feels uncomfortable, please feel free to skip this one.

I’m not a little person, and I don’t claim to speak for that community. I’m simply trying to explore an issue I don’t often see addressed in fiction. Despite the serious subject, this isn’t a dark or heavy story — it’s a middle-grade fantasy adventure that happens to center a little person as the hero.]

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Original (2006)

A bevvy of fluttering papers greeted Brittany as she entered the den. Small children and loose pages littered the room. Tom jumped up as she entered the room. "Here's mine!" he exclaimed, thrusting a crayoned sun into her hands. He checked his watch, then sighed in relief. He looked at Brittany accusingly. "You were almost late." Then he smiled. "But you weren't." He skipped over to the TV and sat next to Vic. He checked his watch again, and switched off the video game that Vic was glued to. A year younger than Tom, Vic just looked at him in bemusement.

Brittany walked through the room, picking up final submissions for the gallery. Sophie, situated in the window seat and pretending to read a book handed hers over to Brittany without glancing up. Renee waited quietly until Brittany reached him. He handed his up to her, intent gaze searching for her initial reaction. She smiled approvingly, and moved on to Verlee, who was writhing in her seat.

The children weren't allowed to beg their way into the Top Five, and Brittany saw Verlee's lips clamp shut as she handed her drawing. Her eyes were filled with yearning to be picked and the absolute self-control it took not to speak. Her mouth opened and Brittany's brows rose. Verlee said, "It's got a spell on it. It only works if you say it when you REALLY want to be somewhere else, and you hafta find a four-leaf clover and spin three times in the direction the wind is blowing. And you hafta be outside for it to work." She paused, and her eyes lit with inspiration. "Oh, and it only works on your birthday!" Her eyes grew wide, and she clamped her mouth shut again.

As she started to leave the room, a couple of sheets were tossed toward her feet. Looking in the direction they came from, she saw Jay, looking away, uninterested. Brittany suppressed a smile, and picked up the pages. She left the room, taking one last glance at the inhabitants. Vic, Gerry, Tita, Lena, Wil, Emma, Tom, and Andy were all absorbed in their various activities. Some were getting their galleries ready for the next week.

Four auras stood out. Verlee's squirming one, Jay's feigned indifference, Sophie's sheer expectation, and Renee's introverted intensity. Brittany sighed in relief. Choosing the Top Five should be easy enough this week. Around holidays, kids tended to go nuts, and the expectations were often too much for Brittany choose from. In that case, she handed it over to Colin.

Speaking of, there he was, sitting at his desk. Colin wasn't the best looking guy in the world, but Brittany would have been hard-pressed to find a better one. She felt her fortune as she stood in the doorway.

Brittany ran her fingers through Colin's hair that was growing a little too long down the nape of his neck. He sighed, and she kissed his neck. "Mm..." he said, turning his attention toward her.

My Revision (2025)

Britney leaned against the doorway of the den and counted her mistakes. There was Vic, a slim four-year-old in Luigi pajama bottoms and a Yoshi shirt, Kool-Aid stains permanent around his mouth, glued to Mario Kart — a game he’d play twenty-four hours a day if Britney let him.

Next to him, Tom — five, pudgy, khakis and a button-down like a tiny accountant — divided his attention between a picture book and the race on-screen.

There was Jay, sixteen, and far less surly than he had been three years ago, when he'd moved in. He sat at the coffee table next to Aura, helping her cheat on her homework.

Ten years ago, Aura had been Britney's first -- and best -- mistake. Parents weren't supposed to choose favorites, but Britney didn't really think of herself as a parent so much as a warden. Aura was special, and not in the sentimental way that most parents thought their kids were special. For one thing, Aura's birth mother was a mermaid, and for another, Aura had magical powers. 

Also, Aura was the only child Britney had adopted. The rest were all work that her social worker husband, Colin, had brought home with him. Britney had vowed to divorce him if he brought any more home. Then again, she'd made the same threat each time he brought home a kid. She was starting to think he didn't think she was serious.

Colin, Britney’s biggest mistake at six feet tall, joined her in the doorway and kissed the top of her head — a long drop from his height to her three-foot-five.

“Alright,” he said, clapping his hands as he stepped into the den. “Who’s got their drawings ready?”

The weekly drawing contest had been Colin's idea, of course. They'd posted five picture frames between the two windows in the kitchen and the five winners got their drawings displayed there for the whole week.

"I do!" Tom carefully closed his picture book, set it aside, and then picked up the old leather portfolio that Colin had given him. Tom scrambled to his feet and ran over to Colin.

Colin's favorite chair, an over-sized tufted gray leather monstrosity was occupied by Tita, Jay's two-year-old sister. But Britney's small yellow chintz armchair was free, so Colin squatted down onto that, his knees jutting aggressively toward the coffee table. Colin accepted the old leather portfolio and bent over it as Tom earnestly explained each of his submissions.

Sophie, twelve years old with short dark hair, wearing a baggy but immaculate matching white sweatshirt and sweatpants, bent over Tita. Tita was chewing on her forefinger and listening to something Sophie was saying. Sophie handed Tita a piece of paper that looked like it had been torn out of a coloring book. Coloring book pages were eligible for the contest, but didn't score as high as original artwork.

Tita scooted and wriggled her way out of Colin's chair, landing on her butt. She righted herself on the floor, turned, spotted Britney, and started toddling over. She was still chewing on the finger of one hand, the other hand held the now crumpled page. Sophie, following Tita's progress with an indulgent smile, looked over, and spotted Britney. She looked embarrassed and then defiant. She folded her arms and plopped down into Colin's chair, glaring at Britney.

Sophie had only been with Britney for a couple of weeks and had the worst attitude of any of the kids Colin had brought home. The kids tended to be confused, shy, and anxious at first. Colin explained that the other kids had come directly from their family's homes to Britney's, whereas Sophie had been through several foster homes. Most kids had intrinsic trust in adults, but Sophie had learned to be wary, even aggressive. Like a cat that stands on its tiptoes and fluffs out its fur in order to trick predators into thinking it's a lion.

Britney returned her attention to Tita, who was navigating around the coffee table and through the myriad of toys littering the room like an obstacle course. Just a couple of feet away from Britney, she stepped on a stuffed elephant and almost lost her footing. After regaining her balance, she continued to toddle, dark ringlets bouncing, finger still in mouth, paper crumpled in her fist.

"Is this for me?" Britney asked, feigning surprise.

Tita thrust the paper out. She unclenched her fist.

Britney caught the page before it fell to the floor. "Ooh, thank you so much," she cooed.

Tita grinned and held out her arms in the universal signal that she wanted to be picked up. They were nearly the same height, so Britney just plopped down on the carpet, pulling Tita into a snuggle. Tita leaned her head against Britney's shoulder, exchanged her forefinger for her thumb, and seemed to fall asleep.

One arm cradling Tita, Britney did her best to use the other hand to flatten the paper against the carpet. Sophie was still lounging on Colin's chair, one leg hooked over an arm. As Britney looked up, she could tell that Sophie looked away quickly, pretending to watch Vic play Mario Kart.

The page was from an activity coloring book. It was a game of Hangman. The clue was a slice of cake. The word should’ve been four letters, but Sophie had added four more, spelling out B-R-I-T-T-A-N-Y. Then she had filled out the stick "man" with all four limbs. She'd also filled in the face with two x's for eyes and a mouth that was just a tongue hanging out.

Britney couldn’t help but laugh. She looked up at Sophie, whose stoic glare had—just for a second—turned to shock. Maybe even relief.

It was the expression of a twelve-year-old girl, not a jaded thirty-year-old woman, and it gave Britney hope.

(Original word count: ~500 → Edited: ~970)

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Critique

The origin of the premise goes back to a friend I had on a message board who was a little person. She lamented how few fictional stories there are about little people, and I thought, I can fix that (nineteen years ago, lol). I started with the idea of a little person from our world meeting and interacting with storybook dwarves — half Disney, half Tolkien.

In the original excerpt, Verlee’s poem was an actual spell that worked, and Britney found herself in the dwarf world alone. The kids (and Colin) had to rescue her, and the story alternated between Britney and the rescue team.

So… if the whole idea behind the premise was to take a little person from our non-magical world and put her in a fantasy-like setting where dwarves are a separate race — why did I give her a daughter with magical powers?

To be fair to 2006 me, I never really fixed that. In the updated version, Britney adopts the baby with magical powers from a mermaid, which doesn’t exactly help with the “our world” issue. However, until Britney meets the mermaid, she believes they’re mythical — and it makes sense to her that a mermaid’s baby would be magical. (It turns out the baby just has psychic AI earrings, but that doesn’t come up until her own POV story.)

Setting
We have a pretty standard den — a TV, a kid playing video games, a window seat. It’s the bare minimum for a scene like this, but it gets the job done. There are flying papers and some crayons, which add a hint of life. The crayons hint at bright color, but otherwise, the space feels unanchored — like a room floating in space. There are no real colors, smells, or textures grounding it.

For my revision, I gave Britney and Colin their own favorite chairs and added a coffee table — still pretty bare bones, but not as floaty. The nice thing about realistic settings is that you can rely on reader experience to fill in the blanks, but I’ll refining the space in future drafts.

Characterization
There are twelve kids in the room, but only four (five, if you count Vic) have action in the scene. The characters we meet are basic sketches: Tom is sturdy and earnest — a little too cute, maybe. Vic’s personality is “video games.” Verlee is creative, Sophie’s a bookworm. For my revision, I gave the kids unique looks: Sophie in her pristine oversized sweatshirt, Tita with her ringlets, Tom with his little Assistant Manager vibe. Vic finally got an outfit this time — on theme with his Mario obsession.

The biggest offender is Britney herself, who’s supposed to come from a non-magical world but somehow can see auras? I meant that as empathy — she could “read” emotions — but it doesn’t come through that way.

I realized that I originally wrote Britney as the kind of mom I thought I would be — so attuned to her kids’ emotions that she could keep them all happy and stable. I still don’t have kids, and don’t want them, partly because I’ve realized I don’t have that kind of intuition. Kids are fascinating, terrifying little mysteries I have no interest in solving. So, I took away Britney’s sixth sense and made her a little more bewildered about what to do with Sophie. I like that by the end of the scene, she feels a little more like she can be a foster parent to such an untrusting, troubled girl.

When I wrote the original version, I thought adding a thirteenth character was too much work. Turns out, like any good partner, Colin halves the burden. He focuses on the easy kids so that our POV character, Britney, can focus on Sophie.

The quickest way to get to know a group of characters is through their interactions. Colin with Tom; Jay with Aura; Sophie with Tita; then Tita with Britney, and finally a silent exchange between Sophie and Britney.

Struggling with this scene in 2006 taught me it’s best to introduce characters one at a time, so each gets their spotlight. Then, when you reach a group scene later, you’re not juggling introductions and action at the same time. It’s like writing your story on Hard Mode.

That said, I’m at almost double the word count of the original and have still only introduced half the kids. I’d never start another novel with a group scene of thirteen people, but if you have to, let the biggest personalities shine and be okay with the reader getting to know the quieter ones later.

Conflict / Tension
In the original, there’s no conflict between the kids, so the only tension comes from Britney sensing who really wants to make it into the Top Five. But we’ve got a dozen kids in one room — and no one’s biting, crying, or shouting? Actually, that’s fine. There’s none of that in the revision, either.

The bigger issue is purpose. The scene’s meant to introduce the characters and show Britney’s dynamic with the kids — but doesn’t. Tom’s the only one who even looks her in the face. It’s also supposed to ground the fantastical story in realism, which sort of works, but only just.

In the rewrite, I made the main conflict between Sophie and Britney. Having Sophie use Tita as a messenger for her saucy note was not only inappropriate but perfect — it adds both conflict and character. When Britney laughs it off, it diffuses the immediate tension but leaves a subtle “this isn’t over” simmer beneath the surface. I like that. It promises more to come — that the emotional dynamics will matter just as much as the adventure itself.

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Final Thoughts

I was unusually close to my mom — cough, codependent — and she was the most fascinating person I knew: funny, thoughtful, deeply philosophical. I thought it was strange that books for kids teach so much about relating to other kids, but not about relating to adults. Authority figures weren’t real people; they existed to praise or punish. So if I could pat my 2006 self on the back for anything, it would be combining two underexplored areas of literature: stories about little people, and stories for kids who have parents who are people, not archetypes.

The revised scene isn’t perfect — I still only addressed half of the kids — but it works so much better, and it’s revived my interest in this version of the story. Fortunately, Britney’s magical daughter has the ability to travel through the multiverse, so now she can visit this version of her mother.