51,248 Words and DONE!!!

Oh wow- I am so glad to be done, but also really sad! I actually kind of loved the way I wrapped it up and really can't wait to share this novel with everyone. I ended up really loving my characters.
First, I have to include the first ending- I couldn't wait to use the line Katie wrote in one of her comments. I think you will all agree it was used to great effect and is a triumph:

“Oh, I like you, Jackie, I always have. Always. I will miss you. But you see, you don’t have a choice – you never have. Every single time you thought you were making a choice, it was me pulling the strings- even this mission,” he said, spitting out the word as though it was distasteful. “What a joke.”

“How long have you known?” Jackie asked, not because he was curious, but because he had noticed something remarkable. He kept his eyes fixed on Mr. Black, and he needed to keep Mr. Black’s attention on him, because behind Mr. Black were P.K. Subban and Will Hawthorne, and they were leading the patrons of Jackie’s Place out through the secret entrance in the storage room. As Mr. Black fell prey to the villain’s curse, which was to over explain, the room was slowly, but surely emptying.

“And that was the moment when I knew you had betrayed me…” Mr. Black concluded, a triumphant look on his face.

“Thrilling,” Jackie replied. “And when was the moment when you knew that you were defeated?” He asked, and Mr. Black tilted his head to the side quizzically. He looked around the now nearly silent room, and saw that the only remaining people in it were Jackie, Will, Gordon, and Annalise, the latter of whom was holding a gun to Jorn Alcorn’s head, and pointing a second gun in his direction.

“Hey guess what, asshole?” Annalise said, cold fury pouring through her veins. Although she and Mr. Black had never met, formally, she recognized him as the man she had seen arguing with her mother twice- once when she was 16, and again when she and Jack had broken up. This monster had his hands all over her life, her past, her present and she would be damned if he would get his hands on her future. This fucker’s time was up. “All of your greatest enemies call you Mister, too, you piece of shit.”

And then the epilogue...  Jackie Desmond reappears:

Jackie’s Place was much the same as she had left it, with a few small changes. The corner booth where she sat still bore images of Jackie Desmond- her favourite was the one where Jackie Desmond was perched on the back of a truck, speaking into a microphone- no doubt inspiring the crowd that swarmed the vehicle. Jackie Desmond’s partner was in the foreground, facing the camera, the pride and joy he was experiencing evident on his face. Yes, Jackie Desmond was still a hero of the resistance, although her fame had diminished along with the Ugh Ford movement, which was no longer necessary. At the end of August 2019, Ford and his new Chief of Staff, Jordan Peterson, had inexplicably fallen into the shark tank at Ripley’s Aquarium and been partially consumed. Apparently their brand of faux populist bullshit had not been to the sharks’ taste any more than it had been to humans. It was not known why or how they had fallen into the shark tank, but political commentators speculated that perhaps they had consumed a few too many variety store beers and become disoriented. It would remain a mystery.

And the story of Jack and Anna:

“I will do that,” she said, though he was no longer listening. Ethan would be happy to hear from Taylor Kitsch, he always was. They had all kept in touch this last year, Taylor Kitsch, David Boreanaz, P.K. Subban, Will, of course, Gordon, whom she saw practically every day. Everyone except Jack, who had disappeared following the explosion and fire. But lately, Annalise had felt certain that she had seen him, out of the corner of her eye- at the library, at the 24 Hour Jorts Emporium where she had met Gordon one day, at the grocery store. He seemed to linger at the edge of every crowd, or maybe it was just her imagination. Annalise had a feeling that he was around. That she would see him again. He was never gone from her life, not really. As if on cue, the bell above the door at Jackie’s Place rang gently. And there he was.

Annalise heard the song that was playing through the restaurant speakers, a classic by Gordon Lightfoot.

If you could read my mind, love… what a tale my thoughts would tell…

Jackie moved slowly toward her table, his eyes darting around both out of caution, and out of fear of meeting her gaze. His tentativeness broke her heart.

And I will never be set free… as long as I’m a ghost that you can’t see…

Were they finally free? After a year of looking over her shoulder, she began to think they just might be. His presence seemed to indicate he might believe so, too.

When you reach the part where the heartache comes… the hero would be me… Heroes often fail…

There had been so much heartache in their story, so much loss and sadness, but also so much heroism. Jack had always wanted to be the hero in the story, but in the end, they both needed to be heroes. They needed to save each other. Could they do it? After all this time?

And you won’t read the book again… because the ending’s just too hard to take…

There had been a time in Anna’s life where she had been certain she would not survive losing Jack- where she had been sure that loving him was too much of a risk to take. But maybe this time, they could write their own ending. Maybe this time, things could be different. Jack reached her table, and looked down for a long time before raising his eyes. His, like hers, were filled with tears. Tears of what had once been lost, tears of what could be found again, if they could be brave, so brave, and take one first step.

Annalise decided she would be the one to take it.

“Out of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, he walks into mine,” she said, as tears spilled from her eyes. David Boreanaz and Taylor Kitsch were watching from the bar, clutching each other and smiling.

Jack smiled at her, and it was as though he had set down a heavy burden. He had been set free, and his smile was like light piercing the clouds. “How long have you been waiting to say that line?” he asked, his voice choked with emotion.

“About a year,” she said, and laughed. Jack sat down. And just like that, they began to write their own story. This one, Annalise was sure, would have a happy ending.

THE END

Day 27, 48,217 Words and I can hear the roar of the crowd...

I am so happy to be back on the blogs and so close to the end! I only have 1800 words left, and a lot of story to wrap up, which is hard because I have so many characters. Here are a couple of excerpts from today's writing- I hope you enjoy!

When Jackie emerged from the storage room, he noticed that a strange thing had happened inside Jackie’s Place- something he hadn’t anticipated. The academics and the New Jersey Devils fans had begun to intermingle, and to form a camaderie of sorts. The flip cup game appeared to be at an end, the victor off somewhere celebrating the spoils. And while the noise level remained high, it was no longer two sides of a room competing to dominate the mood. They had come together, united in a kind of joyous grief. They were sharing stories of painful disappointments- of missed opportunities to acquire desired draft picks, of failed grant submissions, of game sevens blown in the final seconds, of teaching requirements that kept one from pursuing one’s true passion. It seemed they were uniting in their common humanity. He saw that the academics and the fans were brainstorming different clever signs to declare their grief to the world. They wrote their ideas on slightly used napkins (where had those come from he wondered- looked like Boreanaz and Kitsch were taking some liberties), and congratulated each other on their expressions of wit and depth of feeling.

“Found the lime,” Jackie said as he reached the bar, setting down an aged looking lime that was more brown than green. It was a clever ruse.

Taylor Kitsch stepped out from behind the bar, and sadly held out the grimy bar cloth.

“You keep it a bit longer,” Jackie said. “I have to go talk to the band.” Jackie turned to go, but not before he saw a beatific smile light up the face of the handsome man, and although Jackie had seen many things in his life, too many things, he often thought, that smile was something he would remember to the end of his days. It was the smile of a man who has found his calling. And although Jackie had miles to go before he slept, he took a moment to wonder whether Taylor Kitsch would ever return to the celebrity hockey circuit, or audition for that wizard role he has been talking about incessantly.

But a moment was all he could take, and soon enough, it had passed, and he went to see a band about some explosives.

And here are P.K. and Will, whom you haven't heard much about in probably about two weeks or so...

Will and P.K. Subban were nearly to the exit point, having used the secret exit from the storage closet to enter the hotel room hallways. It was slow going, as at every turn they had to make sure that they were not seen by any of the police officers, who seemed to be everywhere in the building. Will’s job was to successfully extract the hockey player from the building, and keep him hidden until the mission was concluded, at which time P.K. Subban would be able to resume his life as normal, hopefully playing for whichever team made him the best offer. Jorn’s team had successfully contained all information coming and going from the hotel- the staff had been cleared out in advance of the incident, the hotel guests had their cell phones confiscated, told they would get them back once everyone had been interviewed, and the land lines had been disabled, although no one had thought of using those anyway, what with it being 2019, and all. It has been a complete success- the hotel existed in its own bubble- for the time being, everyone in there was on their own.

They had reached the designated exit from the building, and were moments from being whisked away- Will could see the idling car on the other side of the door- the lights went out. Night had fallen in New Jersey, a cloudy, moonless, muggy summer night, and the hotel was plunged into darkness. After a few moments, the emergency lights came on, and Will saw P.K. looking at him questioningly.

Is this a part of the plan?” P.K. asked. Will knew what his role in this mission was, and he knew that if anything were to go wrong, it was his job to carry out his part of the plan- P.K. Subban was his responsibility now, and he was supposed to get him to safety, no matter what. But Will, too, had talents- he had been targeted and recruited because of them, and trained to trust his keen instincts, especially in moments like this one, where the stakes were high, and decisions needed to be made in seconds. Will had spent the better part of the day in P.K.’s company. Much has been made of P.K. Subban’s charisma, his contagious smile, his commitment to his teammates, fans, and community. Will could attest to these, and more. P.K. Subban was a man of considerable intellect and integrity, and over the course of the day, Will’s respect for him had grown considerably. His instinct was to tell this man the truth.

“No,” Will said, concern in his voice, “it isn’t.”

“Are we going back in there?” P.K. asked. Will and P.K. exchanged a loaded glance. Will paused, but only for a moment.

"Yes. We are."

Day 24: 42,216 and Shit is Going to Get Real Sooner or Later

So... finally have moved all of my characters (or most of them) into one spot, so tomorrow, something is going to have to happen to move the multiple plots forward and I will be honest I really don't know what is going to happen but I am out of ways to waste time! So here is an excerpt from the end of my writing today. Everyone is all together in the storage room at Jackie's Place. They are surrounded by cops, Mr. Black is somewhere in the building... 

There was no easy way to explain to Brock what was happening inside of Jackie’s Place. The New Jersey Devils Fan Club, the academics, the flip cup contest, the dog themed cover band… it was a lot. So Annalise didn’t really try, but she had to admit she was impressed with how in stride he took it. Brock had always been unflappable. Although it had driven her crazy at times, she had to admit it was a useful characteristic. It would certainly serve him well here. The only question he had asked was about Black Labbath. As she and Ethan went to meet Brock at the entrance, where he was waiting with the unfortunately named Jorn Alcorn, who was still abiding by Jack’s ‘no cop’ rule for some reason, the band had launched into the ever popular “Old Lab Road,” and had somehow managed a costume change while on stage, as the band members were now wearing western themed outfits that were simultaneously lab-themed. It was an astonishing sartorial triumph.

I’m gonna take my lab to the Old Lab Road… I’m gonna bark ‘til I can’t no more…

“Is that a Black Sabbath tribute band, or a Labrador Retriever tribute band?” Brock had asked.

Ethan, demonstrating classic adolescent contempt for the stupidity of adults, had rolled his eyes.

“Um… it’s a Labrador Retriever tribute band. Duh.”

“Cool,” Brock had responded, earning another eye roll from his son.

While Ethan might have been feeling scornful of his father’s lack of understanding about dog-themed tribute bands, Annalise had been impressed with Brock’s handling of Jorn Alcorn. Perhaps it was because Brock had not brought up the more famous naturalist brother (not being familiar with John Alcorn’s oeuvre), or perhaps it was because Brock was a man, but either way, Jorn Alcorn had been easily talked into allowing Annalise and Ethan some time with Brock in advance of being formally interviewed by the police. Perhaps Jorn believed that they would not be able to successfully discuss anything in Jackie’s Place, what with the music playing so loud, and the crowd being so out of control. So far, it was going according to Jack’s plan.

When Annalise returned to the storage closet in Jackie’s Place, Ethan and Brock in tow, she was surprised to find that more people had joined Jack and the still dusty Gordon in the small space. She recognized the medicolegal death investigator with the penchant for reinforcing traditional Western gender stereotypes, Will Hawthorn, and if she wasn’t mistaken, a very much alive P.K. Subban was hovering at the edge of the group, filling the room with his larger than life charisma.

Day 23, 40,238 Words: Too Much Plot? Could be a problem.

Plugging away here at the cottage, and realizing that all of the plot threads I have cast are a bit unwieldy as I try to move toward the end. Even just bringing all of my characters into one room is proving to be a dilemma. Here is Ethan, Jackie, and Annalise in a storage closet in Jackie's Place:

Ethan watched, looking from one to the other, his eyes growing large. They were talking around something, intentionally avoiding saying the words. Intentionally not talking about how much they loved each other then, how much they clearly loved each other still. Who were they protecting? Him? Did they think he could not hear, could not see? Or were they protecting themselves? And why did that seem to matter, in the face of the horrors Jack was describing? Ethan thought about his mother living through what Jack described and he couldn’t make the pieces fit. He would have to break his image of what and who his mother was in order to make any sense of it, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to.

Just then, a loud noise erupted in the room as several ceiling tiles collapsed and someone fell from the ceiling into the room.

“Ohhhhhhhhhh sshhhhhhhhiiiiiiiittttttttttt!” He yelled as he fell. The man rose to his feet, shaking dust from his blond hair, brushing the shoulders of his cape and rising to his full height, demonstrating surprising dignity.

Jackie looked at the man sardonically. “Luckily this room is soundproofed.” Gordon looked at him quizzically, as though he had just noticed him.

“I forgot my pencil,” he said, striding across the room, and, unlikely as it seemed, he retrieved a pencil from the shelf of the storage room.

“Gordon?” Annalise and Ethan said, identical looks of shock on their faces.

“Hello again,” he said in a friendly tone, as though this were the most normal thing in the world, as though this was just his way of dropping in on friends. His face turned serious as he turned back to Jackie.

“There is a man here looking for them,” Gordon said, nodding his head in Annalise and Ethan’s direction. “Says he’s their lawyer. They are on their way over, you’re out of time.” Jackie cursed quietly. There was so much more to say, so much more they needed to know. Then he paused, looked over at Annalise.

“You called a lawyer?” he asked.

“I had to think fast,” she replied defensively. “At the time I didn’t exactly know that my entire life was a giant government conspiracy,” she reminded him.

“Oh, it isn’t the government,” Gordon said. Jackie shot him a glare.

“I hadn’t exactly got to that yet,” he said and held his hand up to silence the questions that Ethan and Annalise were peppering him with.

“Not now!” he said in a low voice. Then he softened his tone. “We will get to that, I promise.” He turned back to Annalise.

“You have to go talk to this lawyer before they find us in here,” he said, ushering them toward the door. “Get him to buy you some time.”

“Or her,” Gordon corrected the sexist microaggression automatically. “Or them,” he added.

“Right, thank you,” Jackie said, turning his attention back to Annalise. “He or she or they should be able to buy you some time, if they’re any good. Who did you call?”

Annalise looked uncomfortable as she answered. “I called… Ethan’s father. He’s a lawyer- a good one.”

Jackie raised his eyebrows at her but said nothing for a moment. He processed the information, weighed it. Although it was unexpected, perhaps it wasn’t a bad thing. No, perhaps it wasn’t a bad thing at all.

“This could work. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

In the past... 

As she rose from the bed, she noticed that he had left his business card on her bedside table. So Kenny had a real name after all. “Brock Hartfield, attorney” it read, and listed some law firm she had never heard of and didn’t give a shit about. She was oddly touched by the gesture, and though she had no intention of calling him, she also didn’t throw it out.

In the days and weeks that followed, Annalise mourned the loss of Jack all over again. It felt like she was detoxing, getting him out of her system. She was both desperate to see him again and sick at the thought. She dragged herself into work, pale and miserable and intent to not fall any further behind. Her advisor looked at her with sympathy and sent her home to suffer. The academy was no place to heal from a heart break. She briefly thought about writing a song about that, but then wisely reconsidered. There was a reason no one had written a song about the pain of academia.

When she ran out of tears, and tissues, and patience, Annalise rose to her feet. She needed help. She went to see her mother. 

Her mother gives her some advice...

Annalise looked at her mother miserably. “Oh dear. I can see that this is worse than I had thought.” Catherine sighed and sat next to Annalise. “This pain will not kill you, although I know it feels like it will. It will make you stronger. It is like an inoculation- you get sicker to get stronger. And I know you will never, never find yourself in this place again. If you want to be the one in control then you have to be the one to control the narrative. You make them see what you want them to see. And you keep your own heart to yourself. It is yours to break and it is yours to mend.”

Annalise didn’t cry, although she wanted to. She missed Jack like she would miss losing an arm- she didn’t know where she ended and he began- he was a part of her. But if an arm is damaged enough, it needs to be amputated to save the rest of the body. She knew, had known for some time that in order to save her life he had to go. Yes, she missed him, but as she listened to her mother, she realized that she was mourning something else, as well. She was mourning for herself. She was mourning the feeling of sunlight on her face, of warmth on her skin, the feeling of seeing someone, of being seen. It had been something she hadn’t known she had missed until it was there. And now, as Catherine spoke, she knew that she would have to live without those feelings, perhaps forever. To survive this heartbreak, she would have to harden her heart. The arm had to go, and so did the softness she had allowed to grow inside of her heart.

She hugged her mother, and turned to go.

“Annalise,” her mother said. Annalise turned to face her mother. “Don’t see him again.” There was something beyond motherly advice in her tone, a note of warning. Annalise looked at her mother, wondering what she knew. But her mother’s face communicated nothing, showing only what her mother wanted Annalise to see. 

Day 20/21: 34,274 Words- Jackie Desmond! And Brock and Annalise!

I am in the middle of my day 21 writing- am including something from yesterday, and something from today:

First- the introduction of Jackie Desmond (finally!):

Ethan wasn’t sure what he expected when the police officer showed them to the hotel restaurant. It was called Jackie’s Place, which was something of a surprise to him, since there was a Jackie’s Place in Toronto, and he hadn’t been under the impression that it was a franchise. Jackie’s Place in Toronto had been named in honour of Jackie Desmond, a lawyer for legal aid and underground hero of the anti-Ford resistance. Jackie had become inadvertently become the face of the resistance when she became embroiled in a Twitter war with Doug Ford a year earlier. The war had started innocently enough, when Jackie Desmond had tweeted something about not appreciating Ford’s cuts to legal aid. “Cuts to legal aid are an attack on migrant rights! #StopAusterity #AccessToJustice #UghFord” It was rumoured that Doug Ford’s feelings had really been hurt, and when he fired back at Jackie Desmond “Jackie Desmond is a woman, and who gives a shit about women? #FordNation certainly doesn’t!” he unintentionally fueled the fire. The #UghFord hashtag had really caught on, some even referred to it as a resonant call to unite against a tyrannical regime. Within days, posters, t-shirts, and hats bearing the slogan were visible throughout the city, and Jackie Desmond had become the poster child for the resistance. The bar in Toronto, which had previously been a karaoke bar called Dimples, had quickly rebranded to Jackie’s Place, and was well known as a gathering place for the anti-Ford movement. And also shitsters. Décor throughout Jackie’s Place featured images of a defiant Jackie Desmond, a smallish woman, with grey hair and a fierce glare. Most of the images depicted Jackie standing tall, chin thrust out, her fist in the air, ready to take on the world- it was kind of like the closing image in the Breakfast Club, only way cooler. It was Ethan’s favourite restaurant in the city, and he certainly wasn’t alone. The lineup to enter regularly snaked around the corner.

Ethan saw that this Jackie’s Place bore no resemblance to the one in Toronto, and he wondered if it was merely a coincidence that these two places bore the same name. But then, Ethan didn’t much believe in coincidence, and the fact that another one had cropped up did not escape his notice. He filed it away, along with everything else, certain that a pattern was emerging, slowly but surely. He had no idea what to make of this version of Jackie’s Place. On one side of the bar, the academics were jubilantly toasting each other, with shouts of ‘Cheers Butterbeers!’ piercing the air. The morose New Jersey Devils Fans, having lost all hope, were sullenly sipping what looked like cans of PBR, served in paper bags for authenticity. Taylor Kitsch and David Boreanaz weaved their way through and around the tables, bearing trays of bagged PBRs and other murky-looking summer sips. They were both demonstrating surprising skill at their trade, and even more surprisingly, seemed to be enjoying themselves a great deal. In the corner, a band was almost finished setting up, and it looked like they were either a Black Sabbath tribute band (he really hoped not), or a tribute band to Labrador retrievers, as from what he could ascertain from their matching t-shirts and the bass drum design, they were called Black Labbath. He was really hoping for the latter, being a big fan of Labrador Retrievers, himself.

And then, I started writing in the past from Brock's perspective, about how he met Annalise:

He didn’t go every night, though he usually stopped in at least once a week. Twice if he could make it. His work life was demanding, and he did have to spend at least some of his off nights working in other ways to advance his career- his friends weren’t wrong, but still. Brock, as practical and unimaginative as he seemed, had a bit of a philosophical streak. One might even be tempted to call him a dreamer. His mother had often told him that he was a romantic at heart. Mostly, he eschewed that side of himself, his father had made sure of that, but still. Brock believed that there were times when destiny came knocking, and when it did, you answered the damn door. And that was exactly what Brock believed had happened six months previously, during a wild birthday celebration, when Brock had ended up at Dimples Bar, being pulled up onto the stage by a beautiful woman, to sing the Kenny Rogers part of the duet Islands in the Stream.

You do something to me that I can’t explain… hold me closer and I feel no pain…

He knew the song well, Kenny Rogers was one of his mother’s favourites, and the Dolly Parton/Kenny Rogers duets? Forget about it. She used to play the cassette tape in the car, and she sang all the Dolly parts, and he sang all the Kenny parts. So when a beautiful woman, standing on a karaoke stage, turns to the crowd and asks into the microphone if anyone will duet with her on Islands in the Stream? Don’t tell Brock Hartfield that isn’t destiny knocking. So he answered the damn door. Although Brock was no singer, they had done a surprisingly passable version of the ballad, earning them a hearty round of applause from the fickle crowd at Dimples. The way she smiled at him when he kissed her hand to end the song…

Every beat of my heart… we got something going on…

So he came back the following week. Just in case. He was disappointed when she wasn’t there, but he wasn’t crushed. He was a confident guy, and things usually went his way. He was sure she would be there, one of these nights. And he was right. She did come back. About a month after he had first seen her there, she had shown up on the Aerosmith themed night. And just as he knew she would, she had remembered him. As she approached the bar to order a gin and tonic and a beer, she had seen him, and hadn’t a smile lit up her face? She had pointed at him and said to the bartender “Jonathan, this man is a true artiste, get him one on me, whatever he’s having.” When the drink arrived they had toasted.

“To Kenny,” she had said, clinking his glass.

“To Dolly.”

Islands in the stream… that is what we are…

Day 19: 32,004 words and welcome to New Jersey, Jorn Alcorn!

Writing started off really slowly, as I had to come up with how Jackie and Annalise's relationship would come to an end in the past. I had a good sense of how, and why, but it was hard to write and sad!

Here is a section that I think describes the emotional tone of their relationship, and why it had to end.

She had so many questions- where had he been, how was he free? But Jack didn’t want to talk about those years, and for a time she indulged him. She didn’t ask him about the scars on his body, though she ran her fingers over them, tracing the lines, the bumps, as though through her touch she could know all of his stories, could heal the things inside of him that were broken. She thought it was a kindness to let him keep his secrets. She thought that maybe he was right, maybe some things were best left in the past. The past, however, wasn’t ready to let go of Jack Bauer.

Jack wouldn’t tell her about his work, he was quite adamant.

“You are my escape from it all, Anna,” he would say, and he sounded so tortured she didn’t have the heart to push him, even though she was afraid. She was afraid when he disappeared for days at a time. She was even more afraid when he returned, with fresh bruises and cuts, exhausted and hungry, and desperate for her in a way that didn’t feel like love. It felt like he was clinging to her to save his life, to save his soul.

Was this love? She knew it was, and yet. And yet. She didn’t know how to finish that sentence. What she had with Jack was something more than love. It felt beautiful and wild. It felt dangerous. She began to fear this love would consume her whole. She began to wonder if she could survive it.

But she wasn’t the same, either, was she? No. She was not Jack’s Anna anymore. She had made a promise to Jack years ago, that no matter what it took, she would survive- no apologies. And she had. She had become Annalise, and Annalise had things to live for, dreams of her own. Annalise would save her before she was crushed beneath the weight of Jack’s love for her, of her love for him. Something cold began to unfurl within her, a part of her that would break whatever was necessary in order for her to break free. There was a part of her that would break her own heart in order for her to survive.

Then moved on to current day, and finally got to include Jorn Alcorn- I have been planning this since the name first came up, it just took me a while to get there!

As he returned his attention to the room, he realized that his mother appeared to be in some sort of argument with the police officer, which also didn’t make much sense.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize he was your brother!” she was exclaiming, her hands out in a conciliatory gesture.

“Huh?” Ethan asked, confused. His mother, a sympathetic look on her face, turned to him.

“The police officer just introduced himself. And then…” Ethan looked to the officer’s name tag. It read ‘J. Alcorn.’

“Oh, is your name John Alcorn, like the famous naturalist?” he asked. Beside him, his mother shook her head and grimaced. Apparently he had asked the wrong question.

“We are not here to discuss my more famous brother!” he shouted, his face stormy. “My name is Jorn Alcorn, not John! And I have a really important job. I investigate murders! Which, might I add, is way more important than making cheesy videos that play at some stupid museum in some stupid small town in Alberta!” Ethan could see that the man was still bitter at his parents for giving him the worse of two extremely similar names, and he couldn’t blame him. It seemed pretty harsh. He decided not to press the matter, realizing that making this man their ally was likely in their interest. Ethan was very, very good at making allies, and good at getting what he wanted. It was a skill he had learned from his mother, which was why he was very surprised by what his mother said next.

"I can see that you are still bitter," she said, smiling sweetly while she delivered the sick burn. 

This was so unlike the mother he had grown up with that for moment, he forgot about everything else and simply looked at her, his mouth ajar. His mother had always known exactly what to say, exactly what to do. “Your mother is so charming” people always told him. His teachers, his friends’ parents, his coaches, everyone loved her. Sure, she could be assertive when she needed to be, but she always had a way of getting her own way without ruffling any feathers. She had a way of making people think it had been their own idea all along, rather than hers. Why was she needling this cop?

Why indeed? If you had asked Annalise, she wasn’t sure she could have explained it herself. Was it the strain, the stress of the situation that had her dropping her guard? Hardly. She had a goddamn PhD, she was immune to stress at this point. No, it was something else entirely. Something inside of her was rising up in protest. She was tired of being perfect, she was tired of being what everyone else wanted her to be all the time. Why did she have to play nice to get what she wanted? All this time, over all these years, had she been interpellating herself? Had she been playing a role, playing the con? Or had she been conning herself, turning herself into something she had always loathed? Annalise wasn’t sure, but what she knew was that she was goddamn tired, and this goddamn cop with some weird family hang-up was pissing her off, and she was not going to play nice. Damn the consequences.

“Close your mouth dear, before a fly flies into it,” she said, and Ethan closed his mouth with a snap, still looking at her incredulously. The cop, he saw, still had his mouth hanging open gormlessly. Well, to hell with him, Ethan thought. Let a hundred flies enter his mouth. He had been warned.

Day 18: 30,107 Words- the Devil revealed, and Jackie and Annalise reunion

Not too much happened in the story today, but quick reveal of who the Devil is, if you haven't already guessed:

As he returned to the bar, he noticed that someone else had taken up residence at the stool recently vacated by the lobster shirt wearing custodian of the patriarchy. Jackie decided that now was the time to grab another case of Pabst Blue Ribbon cans from the storeroom. Jackie hoped they liked their beer room temperature, actually, he didn’t care whether they liked it or not, it was his fucking bar, and if they didn’t like it they could fuck off. As he passed by the bar and headed for the storeroom, he was unsurprised to see the new arrival slink off the bar stool and follow him.

When they were both in the darkened store room, Jackie closed the door behind them, blocking out most, but not all of the sound. They were alone, and this conversation was long overdue.

He turned and faced the Devil himself.

“I heard you were in town,” Jackie said, nonchalantly, his voice steady. He would not betray the churn of emotion he felt on the inside.

“Indeed,” Mr. Black replied, looking both sinister and amused at the same time. “I, too, have heard things.” Jackie waited. He wouldn’t let Mr. Black rattle him. Mr. Black either knew of Jackie’s betrayal, or he didn’t. The only mistake Jackie could make here would be to reveal something that Mr. Black didn’t already know. They stared at each other, neither one willing to speak next. Jackie was unruffled. He could play this game all night if he needed to.

Like Jackie, I have a bunch of interweaving storylines- past and present. It is good to be able to leave one story and head somewhere else for a while. I went back to backstory, of the reunion of Jack and Annalise in the past. They will be reunited in the present very shortly- probably tomorrow.

When Annalise first saw Jack at the university library, she was sure she was imagining things. The nightmares had been bad, very bad, and she assumed that the dreams had shaken loose some old memories, memories that were now haunting her waking mind. When she saw him a second time, at the Starbucks around the corner from her apartment, and then a third time, sitting in the back row of one the undergrad classes she was teaching assistant for, she knew that it was him. She knew that it was him, and that he wanted her to see him. His caution broke her heart.

Over the next few months, she went about her business, pretending she wasn’t looking for him everywhere she went, pretending that she didn’t hope to see him, pretending she wasn’t devastated whenever she didn’t. They both, it seemed, had become very good at pretending that they didn’t care about the other. Then the day came when he sat next to her, at the university library, where she had first seen him.

“Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine,” he said in a soft voice.

“How long have you been waiting to say that line?” she asked.

“Years,” he said, and there was such sadness in his voice that she was sure she had stopped breathing, for his voice had found expression for a pain inside of her that ran so deep she was sure it was going to break her in two. And that was all it took. Somehow, though it seemed impossible, all the years they had spent apart, all the pain, it just fell away, and they began to talk as though they had only just seen each other only yesterday.

Being with Jack again felt to Annalise like the sun warming her skin after a thousand year winter, a winter that she had felt certain would never end. So long had she been without that warmth, she had almost forgotten it existed at all. It was a love so intense that at times it felt like physical pain. She couldn’t get enough. She neglected her studies. She made excuses to friends. She wanted to spend every moment with the sun on her face. It was good, so very good, so beautiful and true- while it lasted.

17 days, 28,421 words, a mascot feud, a flip cup contest, and a 'classic pizza': An embarrassment of riches

Many things happened in my novel today, and none of them were of any consequence to the plot- all of heavy consequence to the EsNoWriMo-verse.
First, Phyllis Kessel's take on the infamous mascot feud of 2019:

The Devils fans had already had a difficult summer. After yet another lackluster season, resulting in the team missing the playoffs, again, the only thing the fans had to look forward to was the ongoing feud between the their mascot, NJ Devil, and the unreasonably popular mascot of the Philadelphia Flyers, Gritty. Since both cities were known for being hellish landscapes devoid of joy, fans of these teams had little to get excited about, so they took their mascot feud seriously. Phyllis Kessel, beloved sports writer and underground Twitter hero, had described beginning of the feud thus:

“NJ Devil has taken the opening shot in what is sure to be an epic feud between two mascots who are equal parts beloved and reviled. Just in case you have been living under a rock in some future dystopic wasteland city state, NJ Devil posted a video on Twitter earlier this summer in which the NHL mascot and self-described franchise legend, Ken Daneyko, along with a pair of unnamed underlings recreated one of the more bizarre scenes from Tim Burton’s monster hit, Batman (1989). In the original scene, the Joker and his hired goons vandalized an art gallery- in NJ Devil’s version, the players and mascot destroy several images of Gritty, the mascot for the Philadelphia Flyers.

Why the hatred for Gritty? It’s unclear, but Gritty from Philly has been embraced by anarchists as a mascot of resistance. Anyone who has a beef with him is nature’s asshole. No doubt Gritty will provide a much deserved comeuppance and I’m so goddamn here for it.”

All of the conference attendees are being held in Jackie's Place, which has naturally resulted in a great deal of chaos. The Devils fans were drowning their sorrows in lukewarm beer...

The academics on the other hand, were expressing wildly inappropriate joy and good humour, behaving as though they were attending a Bacchanalia themed college frat party rather than sequestered in a hotel dive bar, under heavy police guard. Evidently they were not let out very often, and therefore did not know how to behave in public. A group of middle-aged white men had pulled a number of tables together (scraping the linoleum in the process, Jackie noted with chagrin) to create enough space for a flip cup tournament. All of the academic conference attendees turned out their pockets in search of prizes, and they had come up with a pack of chicklets, a red whistle, a six-pack of Tang, and a pocket copy of Foucault for Dummies. It was an embarrassment of riches, sure to drive the flip cup tournament into high gear.

Jackie knew exactly where this was headed, and if he didn’t come up with some food to serve these buffoons and offset the rampant alcohol consumption, he was one errant flip cup away from a full on beer throwing contest between the bereft Devils Fans and the increasingly out-of-hand academics.

Jackie was a well-known supporter of the local fresh food movement, whose aim is to connect food producers and food consumers in the same geographic region, in order to develop more self-reliant and resilient food networks, and improve local economies. He was committed to only serving food that had been grown within 10 square miles of his geographic location. This had proved difficult, given that Jackie’s Place was located in the middle of the suburbs of West Orange, New Jersey. Jackie had connected with local residents, however, and begun a community garden initiative. When supplies were low, he simply toured the neighbourhood and bought or accepted donations of whatever food the suburbanites had in their homes. After a hushed conference with the cook, Taylor Kitsch, and David Boreanaz, Jackie had posted the ‘Daily Special’, which was also known as ‘all you’re getting.’ The ‘Classic Pizza’, as it was described, contained all of the ingredients that Jackie had in the kitchen: marinated carrots, white onions, mushrooms, fresh coriander, mozzarella, and avocado sauce. To throw off detractors, he had used the word ‘carottes’ instead of carrots, and ‘sauce a l’avocat’ instead of avocado sauce. It had been a huge success, and had the desired effect of temporarily warding off the seemingly inevitable beer throwing competition.

Day 16, 26,758 words, lost in the backstory

Today I was writing more backstory for Jackie. A lot of the backstory I have written until now has been how Jack and Anna's paths diverged... today was the moment when Jackie and Annalise's paths change direction, and move back toward each other- in the past. Still lots of things to happen in the present day. So, where I left off, Jackie was beginning his training.  As he becomes a professional operative, he ends up feeling pretty empty and hopeless:

And so the years went by, and Jackie’s memory of who he was when he was Jack Bauer, his memory of Anna, his memory of the sacrifice he had made to give her a chance at a life so different from where his had led him, these all faded. The faded until they no longer seemed real, until they seemed like a beautiful dream best forgotten upon waking, lest they cast a light on the ugliness of your real life. He came to believe that he would continue the work, always moving, always running, until he died. Men like him had a short life expectancy, which he came to view as a blessing, really. And then something happened that changed everything.

Mr. Black comes back onto the scene:

“I want to show you something, Jackie,” he said in his signature whispery voice. “I have been watching you for years now, and you have impressed me very much.” He hated it, but Jackie felt something like pride when Mr. Black said that. He was the closest thing that Jackie had to a mentor, and had always been the standard he tried to live up to, as hateful as it was. Sometimes, when a flower is left to grow in the darkness, it moves toward whatever feeble light it finds, and Jackie had been left in the dark for a long, long time. “I want you to understand the lengths we go to in order to get what we want- to get what we need, in order to do this work. I think you can go far, Jackie. I think you can go very far indeed. But I need to know if you have what it takes.”

Mr. Black shares some information about Jackie's past, testing Jackie to see if he 'has what it takes'.

On the outside, Jackie looked the same as ever. Cold, calculating, cruel even. He didn’t flinch, he didn’t move at all. But inside, something shifted, a permanent change that could never be undone. Whatever Jackie had felt for Mr. Black moments before, whatever twisted dynamic they had shared over the years as teacher and pupil, it was done. Jackie felt pure, unadulterated hatred. He felt it so intensely he wondered that Mr. Black wasn’t immediately struck dead with the force of it. He felt it pouring out of him in waves, burning away the man he had been in its heat. The staff psychiatrist had warned him that the awakening of feelings could be a dangerous thing for people in his profession, and she had been right. For just as the hatred burned through him, something else broke free. He thought of Anna, the injustice of what had been done to her, to him, to them both. He thought of the years they had needlessly spent apart, and he felt a love so blinding he almost fell to his knees.

“I see,” is what he said. Mr. Black nodded curtly, and the man with the scar went back through the door he had come through, fading out of the alleyway as though he had never been there at all. Mr. Black looked pleased at Jackie’s response, and when Jackie turned to leave, he let him go. They were men of action, not of words, and Mr. Black believed that he knew Jackie, knew him to his core, and he saw in Jackie a soul that was as black and twisted as his own. How wrong he was. How sadly, fatally wrong.

Jackie returned to his hotel room, and retrieved one of the many burner phones he carried with him at all times. He removed the packaging, and dropped it in the hotel lobby as he crossed toward the doors to the street. He looked up at the dazzling blue sky, and dialed a number he had committed to memory many years before.

“I need you to find her,” he said into the phone in a low, whispery voice. He ended the call, snapped the phone in half and tossed it into one of the waste bins that lined the canal.

The next day, as Jackie boarded the plane to leave Vienna, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind, he felt something he almost didn’t recognize. It was hope.

Day 15: 25,043 Words, another twist, and turning my pain into art

Today was a tough day of writing with many unpleasant distractions. But I managed to stay on track and introduce another twist. I think you will be pleased by this one.

Gordon climbed the shelving lining the interior of the closet quickly, demonstrating surprising grace and stealth. He was grateful that the metal shelving was solidly affixed to the wall- with the police standing guard outside the door, silence was of the essence. When he reached the ceiling, he quietly moved aside the grating covering the air duct, and slipped inside. Although he didn’t know the exact pathway to his desired location, having not had the time to memorize a blueprint of the air duct system, he had excellent directional skills, and these did not fail him. Within moments, he was peering down an air duct into another broom closet, similar to the one he had just escaped.

There were two men in the room talking quietly to each other. Although Gordon could not make out the specifics of what they were saying, the urgency of their tone was unmistakable. When he removed the duct and dropped down into the room, the two men, although they seemed a bit startled, did not appear surprised. In fact, they seemed relieved.

“Gordon!” said the first man, smiling his signature megawatt smile. It brightened the dim closet, and Gordon couldn’t be happier to see the man in good health. Their plan, as unlikely as it seemed, had worked.

“P.K. Subban, I trust the VIP wifi network has been disabled?” Gordon asked him, thrusting his cape to the side as they embraced.

I then moved on to tackle some of Jackie's backstory, introducing readers to 'Camp Turnaround'...

‘Camp Turnaround’ was a military style private prison for hardened young male offenders, aged 16-18. Located north of Toronto, it was a pet project of Mike Harris, premier of Ontario and well known for his hatred of teachers, young people, women, Indigenous peoples, and dog-themed Guns ‘N’ Roses tribute bands. 

“All these young people need is a kick in the pants and to know the meaning of a hard day’s work,” he had said at the Grand Opening of the camp, which no one attended. Attendance at most of Mike Harris’s events were poor, because he was universally loathed, but this was different, not only because it was a terrible idea, based in questionable ethics with zero studies supporting its effectiveness, which was true of all his initiatives. No, Camp Turnaround was different because it was in fact a cover for a top secret government operation entitled ‘Project Runaway.’ But when Jackie arrived, he knew none of this.

...and the origins of the 'This Ain't the Hilton' sign.

It was rumoured that on one side of the property was a secondary camp, which was where all of the Camp Turnaround dropouts were sent. The boys who had been classified as ‘unfit’ for Project Runaway, due to personality disorders, poor performance in combat training, and poor scores on the mental acuity and problem solving tasks were sent for a different type of training. As time passed, and Jackie earned the trust of the drill sergeants/camp counsellors he was allowed to roam the camp more freely. One day, he came across a cabin that looked similar to his own training facility. A faded wooden sign above one of the grimy windows said ‘IT Tech Support Training.’ Beneath that, on the dirt encrusted window, was another sign, this one handwritten. It was weathered, dirty, and peeling at the edges. “This Ain’t The Hilton,” it said. Jackie could hear voices coming from inside the training hall, voices devoid of all hope, all joy, all humanity.

“Are you sure that you turned the device on?” asked one.

“Is it plugged in?” said another.

“Have you logged a ticket?”

“Have you tried turning the device off and then on again?”

“What about unplugging it? Just let it sit for at least one minute and then plug it in again?”

None of the boys seemed to be talking to each either, or anyone else, for that matter. They were simply repeating the lines over and over, as though committing them to memory for some unknown, future nefarious purpose. It was chilling.

Jackie left quickly, but before he did, he took the handwritten sign with him. It would forever serve as a reminder that no matter how bad it got, how lonely he felt, how dangerous his mission, it could always be worse.

Day 14, 23,532 Words: A Familiar Face, Ugh Ford Flyers, and Toxic Masculinity

Had a scary moment when my computer crashed just as I was finishing up for the day. Might be worthwhile to back up my novel! So, a lot has happened, including the death of P.K. Subban, and first on the scene is a character you might recognize from my third (?) novel that took place in a funeral home- Will Hawthorne.

When he had reached Annalise and Ethan, and she supposed she could count Gordon among them, since he was standing so close, he had shown not only his badge but had reached into his inner jacket pocket and retrieved a card. He handed it to her, and she took it. The card was cream, with simple but elegant black lettering.

Will Hawthorne

Medicolegal Death Investigator

Northern Regional Medical Examiner’s Office

State of New Jersey, Department of Health

862-555-0100

She turned the card over, her mind feverishly trying to make sense of what was happening. If she had thought she would find the answers on the back of the card, she was wrong. All she had found were more questions. The back of the card read:

“Dad: A son’s first hero and a daughter’s first love”

She had looked up into his brown eyes, and had noticed that he was gazing at her intently, as though he expected her to be able to make some sense of the message carried on the back of his card.

“You know,” she had found herself saying, “This is the second time in about the last 15 minutes that a man has delivered a message to me about Western gender norms. I can assure you, Mr. Hawthorne, that the last thing I need right now is a lesson on patriarchal values.”

She continued to hold his gaze, and was surprised to see something other than the indignant defensiveness she was used to. She saw something that looked an awful lot like respect. 

Annalise and Ethan are taken to the staff lounge at the hotel to be questioned. While they are waiting, the unthinkable happens. Annalise begins reading Gordon's dissertation:

 The Devil Within, the title of Gordon’s dissertation, appeared to refer to the evil within masculinity itself. An evil those in power refused to examine within themselves, preferring instead to cast the devil into the rats, into the women, into the poor, and to punish them, instead. It was a pattern Annalise was familiar with. She decided this Gordon character really knew what was what.

Just as she was beginning to become engrossed in the topic, she came across a sheet that stopped her cold. She recognized it immediately as the anti-Ford flyer she herself had been posting copies of throughout the department of Social and Political Thought at York University, her place of work. The flyer was simple - Doug Ford’s face, his signature maniacal grin on full display, his usual leering eyes covered with a black rectangle, white lettering emblazoned across where his eyes should be. ‘Ugh Ford,’ it said, a pun as clever as it was devastating. It was simple, but effective. It had been a real hit with the anti-Ford resistance that was growing rapidly within the city. But what was it doing here, stuck between pages 74 and 75 of Gordon Toodie’s opus?

She saw that some words had been scrawled across the bottom of the flyer. It was nearly illegible, and she didn’t recognize the messy handwriting, but she thought she recognized the slogan as one from the podcast she and Ethan had enjoyed a couple of summers ago, when they had spent a lot of time on the road. Welcome to Nightvale was as funny as it was spooky, and at 13, Ethan had been the perfect age to appreciate its chilling good humour. She was sure the writing at the bottom of the flyer was one of the show’s slogans: ‘if you see something, say nothing, and drink to forget.’

She looked over at Ethan. They had spoken little since they had been placed into the staff lounge and ordered not to leave. Without his usual performance of adolescent bluster, he looked younger than his 15 years. More vulnerable. While she had tried to engage him in the topic of the dissertation, he had preferred to lapse into a tense silence, although he acknowledged that Gordon was making some great points about toxic masculinity. Now, as the meaning of the words penetrated the stillness, she felt a deepening sense of unease. The slogan scrawled across the Ugh Ford poster referred to sound advice given to Nightvale residents, specifically as it related to interactions with the Sheriff’s Secret Police.

She felt deep in her bones that Gordon was sending her a message, that it had been more than hubris that had prompted him to shove the stack of pages into her hands as he was led away by the police. Sure, everyone wanted people to read their dissertation, but there had to be more to it than that. It was a warning not to trust the police, she was sure of it. Just then, the door opened, and a police officer swaggered into the room, removing his mirrored sunglasses. Annalise quickly shoved the flyer to the bottom of the stack of pages. She was sure this police officer would never look for information buried within several hundred pages of PhD dissertation. Who in their right mind would?

Day 13: 21,694 Words and Stop Trying to Interpellate Me!

Great motivation from the chat this morning. Thanks everyone for supplying the first several hundred words of my writing today. I introduced a character I think you will recognize:

He was quite possibly the douchiest looking man she had ever seen in her life, and that was saying something. His carefully coiffed salt and pepper hair swept back from a face that bore an expression she could only describe as decades old adolescent ennui on steroids. The sheer arrogance of his face made her want to punch it repeatedly. He also had that really annoying facial hair, contrived to look like two days without shaving, but in fact involved daily, if not twice daily interactions with a specific type of clipper. He wore an expensive tailored suit, ill matched with a t-shirt he must have had made himself, because it was so stupid looking. It was black, with a red lobster in the centre, and the word ‘ascend’ lettered onto the lobster.

When she finally did notice him, mostly because he kept asking her in a bored drawl if she wanted to know what his shirt meant, she delivered a stomach curdling glare, and ignored him. She most decidedly did NOT want to know what his t-shirt meant. Unfortunately, the clueless rube to her right politely accepted the offer, much to the dismay of everyone else at the table. The lobster shirt guy launched into an inarticulate diatribe about the evils of feminism and how the deterioration of the world was the direct result of ‘an overdose of femininity’. Annalise was already very familiar with Western gender norms, and most definitely did NOT want a lesson in patriarchal values. When she said as much, lobster shirt guy looked stricken and called her a witch.

“You say, ‘Well, there’s no such thing as witches,’” he said, which made no sense, because she had said no such thing. “But they exist, yeah, they do. They do exist. They just don’t exist the way you think they exist. They certainly exist. You may say well dragons don’t exist. It’s, like, yes they do — the category predator and the category dragon are the same category. It absolutely exists. It’s a superordinate category. It exists absolutely more than anything else. In fact, it really exists. What exists is not obvious.” A few of the others at her table had the audacity to look interested. He then began to explain the lobster on his shirt and she realized with a sinking feeling that he was one of those asshole clinical psychologists who used evolutionary psychology as a means of justifying the continued reproduction of class, race, and gender privileges. She decided that she, and the other gape-mouthed buffoons at her table, had heard enough.

She launched into her own (very articulate) diatribe about hegemony, and how nothing that he said was interesting, or new, or revolutionary. “No wonder you like predators so much! As a white, middle-aged, heterosexual man, you are at the apex of the food chain, and all of your bullsh*t ideas are just ways of justifying and upholding your own unearned privilege.” At which point, the man accused her of sucking all of the oxygen out of the room. She thought that wasn’t a bad idea, it might guarantee certain death for all of them, but at least he would stop talking.

“Stop trying to interpellate me,” she said calmly, which she knew he would find really annoying, mostly because as a woman, she was supposed to be out of control with emotion, but also because he wasn’t even an Althusserian scholar. He stared at her with abject horror, and she knew she had just had another successful interaction with a man. 

We also finally learn what the title of Gordon's dissertation is.

“I have a doctorate in Medieval Studies,” he said testily. “My dissertation is entitled The Devil Within: Interpellation, the rise of the Ego in Bubonic Plague era Europe, and the unfair demonization of rats who had nothing to do with spreading the disease.” he added, as though this were relevant information. “I have some copies there if you want to read it,” he concluded, pointing to a stack of papers on the floor. She glanced at the title page, and noted the man’s name. Gordon Toodie.

Although Annalise had grave doubts about his medical qualifications, she had to admit that he had a point about the rats.

20,259 Words on Day 12: Goodbye Catherine Gauthier and a warning

Today was not hilarious, since I was writing about the death of Catherine Gauthier, Annalise's adoptive mother. Tomorrow I will be back to the present timeline, so will get back to the action then. A while back, when Catherine was introduced, a couple of you asked what would be the consequence to Anna of playing a role- this is about what those consequences were for Catherine. And she delivers a chilling death bed warning.

Sorry this is such a long excerpt, I shortened it as much as I could.

“I want to tell you something,” Catherine began. “Something about me that no one knows.” Annalise was not surprised that Catherine had not said ‘not even your father knows.’ As they both knew, Annalise’s father knew nothing of his wife. He saw what she wanted him to see, and nothing more. “I loved you from the moment I saw you. When you walked through that door, all twisted up, and fierce, and ready for battle, I knew. I knew you had something in you that would get you through whatever life threw at you. You are a survivor, Annalise, I know you know that.” Annalise nodded, unable to keep the tears from streaming down her face. “I am a survivor, too.” Catherine clenched Annalise’s hand as she said this, tears in eyes now, too. “But one thing I have come to realize these last months, is that I have survived, but I have not lived.” The tears began to stream down Catherine’s face, but she choked them off. She had more to say. “I know I am the one who taught you how to wear a thousand masks, how to shift from one to another, how to recognize which is needed, and how to be the perfect version of whoever anyone wants you to be, and you have been that, Annalise. You have been so perfect. What I never taught you, what I can’t teach you, is how to live without the masks, because I don’t know how.” The tears broke free then, and Annalise said nothing, allowing Catherine the time she needed to compose herself. She didn’t wait long. Catherine was an old hand at controlling her emotions.

“I read this quote once: ‘Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.’ I laughed when I read it. I laughed the laugh of a woman who knows nothing of life, even less of death. I laughed and thought ‘what fool said that?’” Catherine laughed as she said this, but it was a bitter laugh, devoid of joy. “Those words have stayed with me, and these last few days, I can’t stop thinking about them," she continued, a faroff look in her eyes, “and I can’t stop thinking about you.” She turned her gaze to Annalise. “You know, I didn’t save your life so that you could survive, Annalise, I saved you so that you could live. Don’t make the same mistake that I made. Do not die with your mask on. I need you to promise me to be so brave, braver than you have ever been. Promise me you will find a way to open your heart.”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry about me. You know I will be okay…” Annalise began, but her mother cut her off.

“Promise,” she commanded, her eyes on Annalise, tear-stained but as fierce as ever.

“I promise, Mom. I promise,” Annalise said, and her mother visibly relaxed. Catherine’s hand, which had felt cool and dry, now felt warm in Annalise’s own. Annalise reached for Catherine’s forehead, and was alarmed by how quickly the fever had returned.

“Let me get you some ice,” she said, eager to have something to do, anything that would allow her to shake off the feeling of helplessness that was overwhelming her, if only for a moment. Catherine nodded weakly, and closed her eyes.

When Annalise returned, she could see a sheen of sweat on Catherine’s face. She had expected to find her mother asleep, but Catherine’s eyes were wide open, glassy with the fever that had overtaken her again.

“There’s one more thing, something you must do,” Catherine said, a new urgency in her voice.

“Yes, Mom, whatever you want,” Annalise replied.

“You must take care of Ethan,” she said.

“Of course.” Annalise felt somewhat relieved. She was finding the dying confessions of Catherine Gauthier to be decidedly uncomfortable. There were things she didn’t want to know, about Catherine or about herself. About herself most of all.

“You don’t understand me,” Catherine continued, the urgency in her voice giving way to near panic. She clutched Annalise’s hand and looked meaningfully into her eyes. “You must keep both eyes on him at all times. Someday, he is going to try to take him, and you mustn’t let that happen. You must never let that happen.” Someone was going to try to take Ethan? What the hell? Did she mean Brock? Surely she didn’t mean…

“Who is going to try to take Ethan?” Annalise asked, a chill running through her body.

“The Devil,” she said, and for the first time in her life, Annalise heard fear in Catherine’s voice.

Day 11: 18,500 Words of Cheers, Jeers, and Beers

I feel compelled to post two fairly long excerpts today, because they are both really important to me. First, I had so much fun writing about the Kitsch/Boreanaz feud. Thank you all EsNoWriMers for the inspiration, I hope you will find my combination of bits of all of your excerpts pleasing. I was also inspired by some pictures I found while doing a Google image search of 'Taylor Kitsch David Boreanaz hockey'. To give some context to this excerpt, the New Jersey Devils fan club meeting has only three items on the agenda for each day of the three day meeting. Cheers, Jeers, and Beers. This excerpt takes place during the 'Jeers' portion of the agenda:

A tall, brooding handsome man with dark hair and a strong jaw stood as he inexplicably shouted “What is this Kitscher, the Stanley Cup Playoffs?“ He appeared to be directing this at a man across the room, who was equally attractive, but in a completely different way. This man, whose shoulder length hair flowed to his shoulders in a manner that perfectly complemented his chiseled good looks wasted no time in responding. “Jeez, Bor-e-ANUS, I’ve seen softer hands on a rock!” The crowd winced. The jeer was as clever as it was devastating.

Ethan realized with glee that he was witnessing firsthand one of the most famous celebrity hockey rivalries of all time. ‘Kitscher’ was none other than Taylor Kitsch, an actor known for his role as Tim Riggins, a drunken, bored model who played football on the side in the teen drama ‘Friday Night Lights.’ He was perhaps better known for the incendiary decade long feud that had been going on between him and David Boreanaz (Bor-e-ANUS), an actor best known for his love of charity celebrity hockey, his hatred of Taylor Kitsch, and his portrayal of the brooding, handsome, sensitive vampire Angel in the teen drama ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’ and its spinoff ‘Angel’. It was well known in hockey circles that the two had once been friends, but following a bitter dispute over an icing call at the 2010 Celebrities Against Children’s Cancer charity hockey tournament, the two had called it quits. The enmity had been simmering between the two for years, despite the attempted intervention by the beloved hockey diplomat Wayne Gretzky. Wayne, in a fruitless attempt to mend the rift, had sat down for separate televised interviews with each man, in which he explained the icing call, using graphs, a white board, and when those failed, hand gestures. It came to nothing as neither man was willing to give an inch. By all appearances, the rift was reaching a fever pitch at the 2019 New Jersey Devils Fan Club Meeting.

brian j. Pickles could only watch with mounting dismay as the two continued to trade jeers. The crowd grew quiet, tensely observing the duel.

“I’ve seen better wheels on a canoe!” Kitsch roared. The crowd gasped. Then Boreanaz delivered the coup de grace.

“I would rather have a hundred flies in my mouth than have you on my wing!” It was a stinging rebuke, since it was well known that Taylor Kitsch was not even a winger.

“Yeah?” Kitsch responded. “Well no one has ever made you that offer, since it doesn’t make any sense!” The crowd burst into applause, which seemed to diffuse the tension enough for brian j. Pickles to intervene.

Next, an excerpt that I am including because something really shocking happened today when I was writing, and I have apparently plunged headlong into some action (quite unintentionally). I knew this was going to happen, but thought it would come later closer to the halfway mark. I'm sure tomorrow I will find a way to grind the action to a halt, but until then, enjoy!

He was disappointed, if unsurprised, to find that there was much less interesting debate taking place among the academics, who seemed to have taken up the familiar refrain of complaining about how impossible it is to dedicate time and energy to teaching, when one has so many research and publishing responsibilities. Ethan wondered what the hell these people were doing at a teaching conference if it was so impossible, but he was unshocked when zero people made that point, but instead began arguing bitterly about the relative pressures of non-tenure, tenure-track, and tenured positions. Ethan silently wondered (not for the first time) why conservative politicians felt so threatened by academics, when it was clear to anyone who spent any time around any of them that there wasn’t a group of people less likely to initiate a class revolution, since they all had such vested interest in protecting status quo. 

All of this might have been easier to take had the blonde, caped man not continued to follow him while trying to engage him in conversation. The man was toting around copies of his dissertation, trying to read lengthy passages to Ethan. He was undeterred by Ethan’s complete lack of interest, and seemed to be operating under the assumption that Ethan was an attendee of the academic conference. Also, he kept calling him Doogie Howser, which was annoying, because although Ethan had VIP wifi access, which was working perfectly, the Google search function seemed to have been disabled, which meant that he had no way of making sense of the ancient cultural reference. He therefore had no idea whether it was a cheer or a jeer, meaning he had no way of knowing how to appropriately respond. If he wasn’t so bored, he probably would have felt impotent with rage.

As he sat stewing, something began to tug at a corner of his mind. At least, that was how it felt to Ethan. It meant that his brain was working on something, was observing a pattern emerging from the chaos. He thought about his observation about sports Twitter on the day of their arrival, how it had been moving around something, something big. He thought about P.K. Subban in the hotel lobby, his smile frozen as he awaited Ethan’s password guess. He thought about Lisa MacLeod, Minister of Tourism, Culture, and Sport yelling obscenities at Eugene Melnyck, owner of the Ottawa Senators at the LOUD AS HELL music festival. He thought about the chaos created by double-booked conferences. He thought about the suspicious nature of how implausibly terrible the public access wifi was at the hotel. He thought about how the google search function appeared to have been disabled. Images and memories flashed through Ethan’s mind in rapid fire. Phyllis Kessel, Bad Medicine, kawhactus, Goatwhore, the Ottawa Senators, Lisa MacLeod, P.K. Subban, wheels on a canoe, Wayne Gretzky. The images circled and circled, picking up speed until they blurred together and he could no longer distinguish one from the next, and he arrived at a final, terrible conclusion he knew to be true with every fibre of his being.

The cloaked man had continued to babble inanely throughout the entirety of Ethan’s epiphany, but Ethan brushed him aside as easily as a hundred flies as he rose to his feet, terror raising the hackles on the back of his neck.

“Mom!” he yelled over the din of disgruntled academics. “MOM!” he yelled again when he heard no response. Across the room, Annalise rose to her feet, colour draining from her face. Ethan began to move toward her, desperate to reach her. “Mom! They’re going to kill P.K. Subban!” he screamed. And just then, all of the lights went out.