Published in Allegro Poetry Magazine, Issue #5, themed “Childhood.“
For Jeff
I’ve been meaning to tell you:
That day the crayfish darted backward to their silty secrets—
when I caught one with pincers too small to nip my small palms,
when the creek-smell caught in my throat and stuck,
toes squeezing slippery bed-sand,
minnow schools disturbed, winking soft bodies in sunlight,
when I ran across Route 20 and the blue sedan swerved—
I saw your face from the safe side of the road,
but I couldn’t see your chest expand then deflate;
I didn’t understand my weight,
the harsh sounds your voice made, for me.
“Keeping us in suspense”
Published in the Dunkirk Observer and online at observertoday.com.
Editor’s note: Last week writer Rebecca Cuthbert reported about local writer Wendy Corsi Staub’s newest accomplishment, having a Wendy Markham chick-lit book adapted for the Hallmark Channel. This week Cuthbert focuses on Staub’s suspense thriller, “The Black Widow” and the author’s thoughts about writing in that genre.
“The Black Widow,” (HarperCollins) features protagonist Gaby Duran, and concludes Staub’s cyber predator trilogy. Gaby Duran has many qualities that Staub’s dedicated readers will recognize. However, as the author said, the star of this book is also somewhat of a departure from other recent characters.
“Gaby is, like my other protagonists, resourceful, strong, and intelligent,” she said, “(but she is) a little younger than my recent heroines, lives in the city as opposed to a small town or suburbia, and is single instead of married with children, though she once was a wife and mother. Her past is more painful than some – she married the love of her life, but their marriage didn’t survive the tragic loss of their infant child.”
Staub also explored Hispanic culture in writing this novel, and is grateful for the experience. “Gaby also happens to be my first Latina heroine: she’s Puerto Rican-American. I have many Hispanic family members and close friends, so I embraced the opportunity to explore the vibrant culture, and it was a crucial element within the context of this particular plot,” she said.
Staub explained that her recipe for success isn’t so much a recipe as it is knowing her fans, knowing her genre, and balancing expectations with creativity.
“Because I write within a specific genre – domestic psychological suspense – my readers have certain expectations about the kinds of characters who are going to populate the books and what’s going to happen to them,” she stated. “My protagonists tend to be ordinary people whose lives are turned upside down and jeopardized in some way. In real life, when you plug different people into an identical set of circumstances, the outcome is going to be unique every time because of who they are as individuals and how they react to conflict and interact with others. The same is true in fiction.”
Staub said this is not only true of convincing, well-rounded protagonists, but of exciting plots, as well.
“Look at it this way: if I tell you that I woke up this morning and got out of bed – well, that’s not very interesting, is it? You did the same thing. We all did. But the manner in which an event unfolds-and whether others might find it interesting-depends not just upon how it happens, but to whom it happens. Thus, when I conceive a basic plot, I think about how various personality types might behave within the confines of a specific scenario, and how that behavior might influence the plot,” she said.
Staub even gave an example of how drastically circumstances can differ for two characters, influencing the choices they make:
“A happily-married suburban stay-at-home mom with three children is going behave differently than, say, a painfully shy, recently bereaved pregnant widow working two jobs to pay the rent on an inner city apartment,” she said. “Thus, every protagonist I create is unique and comes with a unique background and circle of unique characters with whom she interacts.”
Some of the characters Gaby Duran interacts with – for better or worse – are people she meets online. Staub frequently uses current technologies to help fuel her plots and make her fictional worlds more realistic, but she admitted that these advances in communication can also hinder certain narratives, especially in the suspense genre.
“It’s impossible to write realistic contemporary fiction without addressing technology – or the lack thereof. If you need your characters to operate in a tech-free bubble, then there should be a good reason – like a power outage in a storm, for example – or you set your story in an earlier time or an alternate universe,” she said. “Just as electronic communication can enhance some plots, it can hinder others. For example, in this era of ubiquitous smartphones, it’s difficult to truly isolate a character or setting-always an effective device in a suspense plot – because most people carry or have access to electronics and even the most remote locations tend to have Internet and cell signals. So it’s not easy for a person to disappear without a trace – willingly or unwillingly – without leaving an electronic footprint via the Internet, surveillance footage, banking or credit transactions, or travel security measures. That makes it tricky to create a plot that depends on that particular scenario.”
So how does Staub navigate the tricky waters of writing thrillers in the year 2015, when AAA is always a phone call away and GPS can get any heroine un-lost in a jiffy? By exploring the dangers of the same technology that often makes life so convenient.
“My books tend to feature ordinary people made vulnerable by being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she revealed. “Technology can create vulnerability because otherwise savvy people can momentarily let their guard down on social media, sharing things that they wouldn’t dream of telling close friends or family in person. That creates the illusion of familiarity. If we trust strangers based on who they appear to be online -overlooking the fact that our perception can be easily manipulated – we become vulnerable. Even when we restrict electronic communication to people we know, we’re assuming that the person on the other end of a text or email is our friend, and not a predator who gained access to the device. I’ve used that very device to create frightening, realistic fiction.”
Staub’s readership is used to heroines who get into trouble and make mistakes – as she says, “perfection is dull!” But it’s those same flawed protagonists who rescue themselves, solve the mysteries, and come away from their battles as stronger, smarter, more capable individuals. Staub credits her upbringing as her inspiration for her heroines, along with the women who populated her formative years.
“I was a little girl in the era of Women’s Lib, and watched my mom, my aunts, and their friends – who were stay-at-home wives and mothers – go on to get college degrees and launch successful careers,” she said. “That left a strong impression on me, and I learned that we traditionally expect women to nurture others, but they must also be capable of taking care of themselves. My own strong sense of feminism and independence is often reflected in my heroines. As a result, my female ‘victims’ are rarely truly victims – they’re strong, resourceful women who try hard to save themselves when circumstances become dire.”
Staub also tries, in her way, to be kind to her villains. They’re not caricatures or stereotypes, but people who, in their pasts, suffered traumas they couldn’t rise above.
“I want my readers to come away with the sense that my novels are complex in part because just as in real life, no character is all good or all bad,” she began, and added, “my villains have usually been victimized somewhere in their past. I don’t believe in creating killers who were born pure evil – you need empathy in order to write scenes from a character’s viewpoint. So I do a lot of research into deviant psychology with each book, and my villains must possess some glimmer of redeeming characteristic in order for me to channel them.”
Whether it’s cyberworld stalkers, heroines’ blunders, dead Smartphone batteries or buried secrets, Staub’s plot twists consistently keep her readers on the edge of their seats, and in line for her newest releases. But even with so many titles to her credit, Staub isn’t slowing down. In fact, the more books she writes, the more ideas she gets for new books.
“I’ve been writing thrillers for over 20 years, so it’s like any other skill – constant practice makes you adept,” she said. “Sustaining the excitement has become second nature to me – if I’m bored when I’m writing something, then I know my reader is going to be bored reading it, so it isn’t hard to gauge the excitement level. Inspiration is everywhere. All novelists have an ingrained “What If” mechanism that’s triggered all day, every day, by what we read or watch, by things that happen to us, by events we witness or even snippets of strangers’ conversations we happen to overhear. I will never run out of inspiration – only time.”
Next week: How Staub’s local connections affect her writing.
“Things my 74-year-old Father Says That Do Not Mean What He Thinks They Mean, With Helpful Notations For Those Who May Be Similarly Confused”
Published in Crab Fat Magazine, Issue #4, page 104.
- Cir·cle Jerk \ ’sǝrkǝl, ‘jǝrk \ n: Not a traffic circle, like the one recently built at Routes 5
and 20 in Irving, NY, right next to the Seneca Hawk smoke shop, gas station, and casual
eatery (home of all-you-can-eat spaghetti). - Hand Job \ ‘hand, ’jäb \ n: Not a hand-operated tool or piece of machinery, i.e. “Eric, I’m
already using the nail gun so it’ll have to be a hand job for you” is incorrect, misleading,
and gross. - Dou·ble-team \ ‘dǝbǝl-tēm \ vb: Not when both dogs beg for one’s sandwich.
- Blow Your Wad \ ‘blō, ‘yōr, ‘wäd \ vb, adj, n: Not when one spends all of his/her money
on one item, and no, “blow your load” isn’t any better. - This Guy’s Jerk·ing Me Off \ ‘ this, ‘gīz, ‘jǝrk-iŋ, ‘mē, ‘ȯf \ pron, n+vb, vb, pron, adv: Not
when the man selling his lawn mower in the Classifieds won’t accept one’s offer of half the
asking price, (and no, telling him “because I already have six lawn mowers” doesn’t make
him more inclined to accept the offer; if anything, it just makes him realize you are a
hoarder and that you will, in fact, pay the asking price). - Get·ting F’d To Death \ ‘getiŋ, ‘eft, ‘tü, ‘deth \ vb, adj, prep, n: Not when one’s youngest
children are swearing too profusely at the dinner table for one’s liking, and really, Dad, it
was at the Seneca Hawk.
“Dear Ms. Bradigan”
Published by Treehouse Magazine
***
Dear Ms. Bradigan,
It’s not that your efforts went unnoticed—the “private” journal only you would read, the soulful “Are-you-okays,” the invitations to visit the school counselor.
It’s that I was ten, or not quite, and my mother had just died, and I felt flayed open, peeled flesh exposed to stinging wind, and even before that, before I was half-orphaned, I was an introverted child.
When you insisted I see the counselor—because swallowed sadness hurts, you said—I talked about my yellow parakeet, who would later get cancer and be put to sleep by my older brother with a pillowcase and an exhaust pipe, which is not at all how my mother died, and for which I was at least prepared, though I loved the bird too, a little, which is why when that tumor grew on his face and he could no longer eat, I said “Do it” without stuttering or regretting the words.
I did not talk to the counselor about the parakeet as a substitute mother, or of you as a substitute mother, or whatever you had hoped I’d say. I did not call myself the parakeet’s mother, or it my baby, because, Ms. Bradigan, it was a parakeet, and because I didn’t understand, I could not measure, I’d not yet tossed a stone into the yawning black hole my dead mother left; I did not know that for the rest of my life I would throw parakeets and miniskirts and seven-dollar bottles of wine into it, never to hear anything bounce off a damp-sounding rock face or hit hard on a silty bottom.
I was not ungrateful then because I didn’t understand gratitude, but would not have thanked you if I did, or not sincerely, because sometimes when you see a potato bug curled into a ball you should just leave it there, let it take comfort in its protective roundness, or, if you must interfere, Ms. Bradigan, pull a curtain of lush green grass away from a stone step and drop the gray ball into the deep, loamy recess where it will be safe from crushing boot heels and predators’ beaks and too many questions about its feelings, which, at that point, Ms. Bradigan, it had not known how to articulate.
All my sincerity,
Rebecca Schwab
“Three Tears in a Bucket”
Published by Slipstream Press, Issue #34, “Rust – Dust – Lust.”
Poetry by: Shanalee Smith, Marc Pietrzykowski, Andrea O’Rourke, Noah Kucji, Harvey J. Baine, Cait Weiss, Courtney Leigh Jameson, Christopher Warner, Quinn Rennerfeldt, Rich Heller, Michelle Valois, Pat Phillips West, David Denny, Leona Sevick, Dawn Corrigan, Michael Walls, Eliese Colette Goldbach, Irena Praitis, Katie Darby Mullins, Mary Kathryn Jablonski, Rachel Squires Bloom, Michael Gatlin, Dan Sicoli, Peter Ramos, Leland James, Les Bares, Bill Edmondson, Ed Taylor, Donna L. Emerson, Alison Stone, F.G. Mulkey, Max Shanley, Lynn Pederson, Doug Draime, Maggie Blake, Paul French, Rebecca Schwab, Katharyn Howd Machan, Jenna-Nichole Conrad, Jody A. Zorgdrager, Nicole Zuckerman, Anthony Seidman, Livio Farallo, Mather Schneider, Yosef Rosen, Terry Godbey, Chelsea Dingman, Jim Daniels, Karen J. Weyant, Katie Longofono, Brian Fanelli, Eric Gelsinger, Jared White, Kimberly Eagen Latko, Bryan Thomas Rice, Janet Warman, John Marvin, Kita Shantiris, Lyn Lifshin, Margo Davis, Carol V. Davis, Aidan Ryan, Lockie Hunter, Beth Bateman Newborg, Regina Murray Brault, Brett Armes, Odessa Denby, M.K. Meder, David Chorlton, and Gerald Locklin.
“Recall”
Published by Rivet: The Journal of Writing that Risks.
***
When constituents expressed, via text message and Facebook, the desire to speak directly to one another even less, the government helpfully stepped in.
“It’s sort of like the Electoral College,” the President explained, via Tweet. “Or the Fifth Amendment.”
They sold mandated Mood Skin™ at pharmacies and supermarkets, offering deep discounts to those who brought documentation of college debt, steep alimony, or hard times.
The Mood Skin™ fit over a person’s real skin, snug but comfy like a ballet leotard, with enough give to allow its wearer to rake leaves or salsa dance or eat a lot at Thanksgiving.
“It will streamline communication!” top sociologists and talk show hosts assured their audiences. “No more pointless ‘How are yous,’ no more explaining how your day went!”
And for a while, things seemed to get better.
Wives avoided bringing up money at the dinner table when their husbands’ Mood Skin™ flushed russet.
Fewer women got hit.
Lovers knew that a cool blue meant “Not tonight, baby,” and no one felt the sting of bedroom rejection.
Stray dogs even learned to seek out people the color of yellow legal pads, which indicated a penchant to pet and the likely sharing of leftover gyros. Yellow meant nice.
But the Mood Skin™ had a shelf life, or the people’s feelings had a shelf life.
Soon the jungle greens and sassy oranges faded, the colors ebbing away until everyone’s Mood Skin™ became tapioca-dull.
No one fought in tavern parking lots or yelled from car windows on expressways. No one kicked the stray dogs and no one took them home. No one held hands with anyone else. Nicholas Sparks stopped writing books.
Exports slowed to a leaky-faucet drip—just Marilyn Monroe calendars and the occasional shipment of Elmo dolls, left un-tickled. Consumerism died alongside economic competition. No one needed retail therapy, and rom-coms were good for nothing.
So like with immigration and the Temperance Movement, the government tried to backtrack. They ordered the glitchy Mood Skin™ returned, peeled off—“As you were,” they said.
Law-abiding citizens turned in their Mood Skin™ for a tax credit. They dropped it into biohazard receptacles set up at police-patrolled polling stations.
Some rebelled and kept it, reserving it like sexy lingerie for when they were in the mood to be in no mood.
The few people who refused to ever wear it came out from their hiding places in barns and bunkers and holes in the ground. They taught workshops on how to say “I’m sad” and “I love you” and “I resent the fact that you used the last of the coffee creamer.” These group sessions included face-stretching exercises in front of hand-held mirrors. The first person to laugh shocked the others back into silence.
Yesterday, I saw a mangy terrier approach an old man in the park. The man pet the dog, and they both smiled.
“Things I’ve Heard Myself Say in ENGL 260: Introduction to Creative Writing”
Published in Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, Volume 8, Issue 2, “Rose Hip.” Purchase on meatfortea.com.
Contributors: Chloe Accardi, Stephanie Baird, Abigail Bautista, Hussein Behneshat, Greg Bogaerts, Jess L. Bryant, Perry Carter, Ruth Dandrea, Arturo Desimone, Robin Wyatt Dunn, Milton P. Ehrlich, Linda Gartz, Nels Hanson, Mikita Hernandez, JoHanna Hochstetler, Matthew Huff, Clinton Inman, Jennifer Juneau, Aunia Kahn, Roy Lotz, Christina Lovin, Denny E. Marshall, John McLaughlin, David P. Miller, Christopher Mulrooney, Jimmy Ostgard, Tom Pappalardo, Charles Rammelkamp, Rudy Ravindra, John Richmond, Thomas Rowland, Richard Skoler, Rebecca Schwab, Gimore Tamny, D. Z. Watt
“Calcification”
Published in Brevity: A Journal of Concise Literary Nonfiction (brevitymag.com).
Less than a year had passed since my mother died from a burst valve in a heart no one knew was faulty. That’s raw when you’re ten. And then Buttercup died.
Buttercup was an albino guinea pig with eyes like maraschino cherries. She wasn’t mine.
Samantha owned Buttercup, loved her. She gave the rodent a funeral, lined a shoebox with plaid and paisley fabric scraps filched from her grandma’s craft room and had her truck-driver daddy dig a deep hole out back beside the swing set. She sobbed as dirt covered the cardboard and filled the hole to the grassline.
For my mother’s funeral, I sat in my Easter dress in the front pew of Mt. Carmel church, my five siblings and stunned father beside me. August heat left a sweat mark on my stomach where the pastel sash pulled tight. I looked at the harsh red altar carpet, at the supplicating statue arms of Mary as she held them out to candle-lighters, at the stained glass windows with their bright and bubbled saints—anywhere but at the powder blue casket that held my mother, her body quiet and still as a wet leaf on a windless day.
Friday nights I went to Samantha’s house. Hers or someone else’s. Spending weekends at home gave me the hushed, anxious feeling of being inside an automatic carwash, everyone shuffling and subdued, the passing hours lurching us forward until Monday flashed a signal to move.
That Sunday afternoon, Samantha played Disney’s Beauty and the Beast soundtrack on repeat, singing along from her green bean bag chair. I sat on her bed and paged through an old magazine, Tiger Beat or Teen, wondering if home wasn’t so crappy after all. Then Samantha’s deep alto turned into a pinched sniffle. I looked at her. Tears thick as dish soap rolled over her freckles and into the scaly corners of her chapped mouth. “I miss Buttercup!” she shuddered.
Maybe it was the song’s mention of “beast” that did it. Maybe it was Angela Lansbury’s gentle crooning that dropped a stone into Samantha’s deep well of grief. She waited for me to respond. I didn’t. Her quiet sobs changed to full-throated wails. Her mother—her breathing, talking, warm-fleshed mother—came running. She knelt on the floor and held Samantha, petting her daughter’s tangled hair.
And then I felt something harden inside my chest. Tears weighted my eyes but did not spill. I blinked and stared at the carpet. My hands became fists, wrinkling the glossy, shadowless faces of the New Kids on the Block.
“Honey?” I heard. It was a frightened Honey, meant for me. Samantha snortled on. I didn’t look up. “Honey?” her mother tried again, louder. In my peripheral vision, I saw the petting and rocking stop. A hand reached out to me. I jerked backward, my sharp-angled body moving quicker than a threatened crayfish.
Samantha quieted, hearing alarm in her mother’s voice. The raised hand hovered near my elbow. If she touched me I would shatter. Explode. Bite. Half-orphans are half-feral. I clenched my body so tight to its frame that I vibrated.
“I’ll drive you home,” she said, withdrawing her hand. She kept space between us as she left the room.
I made my legs unfold, told them to stand and walk. I dropped the magazine near my feet. A ragged tear now separated Jordan Knight’s head from his body and bandmates. Samantha yelped at the damage. Ignoring her, I grabbed my overnight bag and went outside to the idling truck. The ride home was silent, but I mumbled “thank you” as I pulled the door handle and jumped down to my driveway.
Bluish lights from the television scattered ghost images on the walkway. Rock music leaked through the seams of a drafty upstairs window. I unzipped my sweatshirt to feel the chilly wind pluck at my collarbone and fought the urge to hug myself.
I opened the front door and went inside, turning on the porch light as I passed the switch. I dropped my bag, hung my sweatshirt on a hook in the hall. I cooked Spaghettios for dinner.