Creating the Scene

I have a few ideas for some stories to write.

Very honestly, I have more than a few ideas.

I have notebooks full of ideas, several of which I am actively working on.

Now, despite the fact that I do have all these ideas and items in some sort of State, I rarely share them with a wider population. They're never quite ready to be shared which, of course, needs to change, because they need to be shared at some point.

So when @snook came up with an idea to share some scenes, including an initial scene and a rewrite, I felt this would be a find time to make something a little public. So here is a scene, or the beginnings of one, for a story I have been mulling for some time. I won't share details of the greater story yet. This is just a teaser, so to speak.

Initial Scene

"Ghosts are not real," Robert mumbled matter of factly. He was currently sewing the arm back onto a doll and was holding a needle between his lips, making speech difficult, but his thoughts on the matter were quite clear.

"Then how do you explain what we heard last night?" Mary countered with a question, looking to force the issue into the open. "Clearly we were in the back kitchen and heard voices in this very room, yet when we came to investigate, there was no one here."

Robert shifted his eyes toward his wife and studied her a moment. His lips gripped the needle between them tightly until he pulled it away and returned attention to sewing the doll's arm. "Sounds travel," he exclaimed simply. "As do voices. We would have heard someone outside."

Mary was non-plussed. "It was a call for help," she emphasized. "As clear as the sun on a cloudless day. A call for help that brought us both out here, running."

The needle poked through the shoulder of the arm, into the dolls shoulder, and began to pull them together. "The door is right there, as are the windows." Robert referred to the front door to the main room of the shop, which exited onto the sidewalk outside. The main window, as well, was large and allowed a view of the street. "Someone yelled for help outside. We hear it when someone knocks at the door, too."

A soft sigh escaped Mary's lips. She strolled to one of the shelves of their small toy store and arranged a few items. "Then why was there no one there when we looked?"

Now it was Robert's turn to sigh, which he did while throwing his head back and closing his eyes. "Because they walked away," he answered. "Or ran. Either way. People have legs." This was a nonsensical discussion to be having. Ghosts are not real, and certainly they were not in his shop. Opening his eyes and returning back to the task at hand of doll repair, he paid no heed to needing to straighten the doll's head to look forward, and not at himself.

And now, here is after the edit. It has changed pretty dramatically.

Morning came a little earlier for Mary than most mornings. The apartment above the shop that she and her husband Robert lived in seemed eerily closer than normal to the shop. She slipped into the toy store that was their shop - their's, her and Robert - and padded through the large room as if looking at all the toys and games would give her some better explanation as to what she was sure she heard last night. What she knew she heard last night.

She pulled the curtain to the big bay window in the front to the side and looked out onto the snow covered Victorian street with a thoughtful sigh.

The door from the back opened and she knew without looking that Robert was there. She could tell by the lack of footfall that he was still standing at the door, probably looking at her. "You really are spooked, aren't you?" he asked.

"I know what I heard," she answered simply while letting the curtain fall back into place; it was too early to open and she was happy to keep the curtain closed.

Robert strode across the shop floor to Mary's side, grabbed the front door and gave it a shook. It held tight, fimly closed and locked, just as it had been last night. "If someone had snuck in, they also snuck out and locked up after themselves." He looked across the inside of the room. "Didn't make a mess either."

"That's not what I heard," Mary insisted.

"Ghosts are not real."

"I know what I heard," Mary repeated, though less insisting this time. Under her breath she echoed her husband: "Ghosts are not real."

"Sounds carry," Robert mentioned quietly. Whatever had happened, his wife was spooked, and he was not going to make it worse by speaking loudly to her. "It was likely just some people outside."

Mary looked at him. Sternly. Then closed her eyes and turned her head away. It was the year of the lord 1816, she was a toy maker with her husband and certainly not out of her mind, yet she had no better explanation for what she heard. "Ghosts are not real."

Robert reached out to touch her cheek with the back of a finger. "Let's get to work," he suggested. "Why don't you go fix us some breakfast and I'll get to work on the doll that came in for repairs last night. Look, she's already looking at me as if she's waiting," he said with a reassuring smile.

That smile, however, did not reassure Mary at all, for that doll was absolutely not looking in their direction a scant thirty seconds ago.

Which do you prefer? Any thoughts on what the overarching story might be?

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(c) All images and photographs, unless otherwise specified, are created and owned by me.
(c) Victor Wiebe

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About Me

Sometimes photographer. Wannabe author. Game designer. Nerd. 
General all around problem-solver and creative type.

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