HOW TO WRITE YOUR FIRST DRAFT LIKE WILLIAM PETER BLATTY

The author of the legendary “scariest book ever written” passed away January 12^th, 2017.

For nearly four decades he regretted a key aspect of the publication of his celebrated novel, The Exorcist.

          Having run out of time and funds, he turned in his first and only draft. This is the book The Exorcist as published in 1971.

The author is William Peter Blatty and he collected his fee from Harper & Row and began a new project. No time or enough money, no chance to revise. He sold the book and went back to Hollywood. Yet by the time the book was published, Blatty was critically admired and commercially rewarded.

In 1968 the author was between jobs, alone with his research, writing for the better part of a year. The Exorcist was eventually published and adapted for the screen in 1973. Its status and influence throughout pop culture surpass even Star Wars in its influence and versatility.

And the novel exists because of how Blatty produced his first draft.

Incidentally, it was 2010 before Blatty was revising and supplementing a Fortieth Anniversary Edition. He regards that version as a superior work but for our purposes we will be focusing on the novel as it was originally published.

It is important to understand when we use the term first draft we mean the first draft submitted for review. The writer should submit a completed draft, one that has exhausted the author’s ability to remain objective and find mistakes. That is why even in workshop it is wasteful to submit unfinished work.

The following we will discuss how to write a solid first draft with Blatty’s efficiency.

Before William Peter Blatty was the Academy Award Winning writer of The Exorcist book (1971) and film (1973) he authored a few short novels, such as Twinkle, Twinkle “Killer” Kane (1960), an existential comedy about faith. Blatty was a gifted humorist enthralled with the great mysteries he studied at Georgetown University.

While his novels were admired, it was the $10,000 he won as a contestant on Groucho Marx’s You Bet Your Life in 1961 that gave him the financial freedom to write full time. Before this he’d had a variety of jobs – most notably as the top dog of the Navy’s Psychological Warfare Division.

Blatty paid the bills by penning screenplays for Blake Edward’s hysterical “Pink Panther” sequel, A Shot in the Dark (1964), and Edwards’s What Did You Do in the War, Daddy? (1966). It was while separated from his wife, typing away in Angela Lansbury’s guest house, that he wrote the first draft of The Exorcist in roughly 9 months.

He collected his fee and submitted the draft to his publisher moving on to write the script for a Paul Newman picture that was never filmed. By 1971 The Exorcist was published and Blatty went from a writer of smart comedies to the forerunner of occult thrillers. He adapted his book for William Friedkin’s film, winning the academy award, and as producer earned the Golden Globe for Best Picture.

The success of The Exorcist allowed Blatty to focus on the works he wanted to write, reworking “Killer” Kane as The Ninth Configuration (1978) which he adapted for the screen and directed in 1980. His follow-up to Exorcist was Legion (1983) and in 1990 he was directing again, adapting Legion as Exorcist III.

So what’s all this have to do with YOU and how YOU can write a first draft like William Peter Blatty?

Groucho Marx is not going to give you $10,000 so you can quit your job and write. And you probably won’t be getting a free ride to Georgetown University, so we will focus on those things that only you can control and do for yourself.

RESEARCH. This novel was prepared as if it were nonfiction. Literally. The book was conceived as an apostolic work to prove the Devil exists and therefore God exists.

Secondly, Blatty treated writing like a job. Whether he was producing screenplays in Hollywood or indulging his passion projects in the hills, he was always writing.

Third, he incorporated his experiences into the novel.

We have established that Blatty rented a small cabin just for writing. This is vital. If one drafts a house or types a legal document they need the proper space to produce. When it comes to creating you must commit to being as focused on the task as possible.

After several false starts in a beach house, rewriting the opening sentence of The Exorcist for two weeks, Blatty found the seagulls irritating and sought a quieter home. Upon discovering the small Hollywood cabin, Blatty rented the quiet space and realized why he was stuck on the first sentence.

He was starting in the wrong place.

Your opening is imperative when your content suggests the occult. Not only must you acknowledge the fantastic elements immediately but in the case of Father Merrin, the book’s Exorcist, you must introduce your characters before the story’s structure reveals itself.

Father Merrin does not actively join the narrative until the final act. Blatty understood that he must introduce the exorcist’s relationship with the demon in the first pages. While some bemoan the opening as slow, without it the rhythm of the book would be sloppy, as if the author had to invent and insert a character for the final confrontation to be resolved.

By setting up Father Merrin and the demon Pazuzu in the beginning the resolution is organic, natural – so that it feels authentic, real. Writing without an outline, Blatty had to have is possession research memorized and on-hand. He also had to have an immersed familiarity with his characters and the Georgetown setting.

At this stage, Blatty still didn’t have his story. All he knew was there would be a young girl who exemplified signs of demonic possession. The book was initially going to be a nonfiction work, but lacking the expertise and firsthand experience Blatty retrofitted his research to a fictional narrative.

That brings us back to the most important aspect of writing your first draft like William Peter Blatty:

RESEARCH.

While attending the Jesuit-funded Georgetown University in 1950, young Bill Blatty heard a startling argument for Faith. The priest instructing class introduced an article from the year before about a young boy who had been possessed. It was national news and authenticated by the Catholic Church.

This haunted Blatty for the next 18 years. He studied witchcraft, telekinesis, and the history of demonic possession as documented by the Church.

To accumulate research and execute his draft, Blatty was not only actively present but he was also enthusiastic about his experiences in Georgetown and used this enthusiasm to pen realistic circumstances.

As writers, we won’t be stirred if we are not actively seeking out and following those things that excite us. The master, whether he be carpenter or artist, is actively present in his world. It was this active presence that allowed Blatty to effectively incorporate the Georgetown campus and landmarks into his story.

Which brings us to why The Exorcist is so good: it’s rooted in reality – it feels real.

While writing away from his family 18 hours a day, Blatty was interrupted at 10 in the evening to learn that his mother had passed. Some of the best sections of the novel deal with Father Karras, whose guilt turns to a loss of faith when his immigrant mother dies in poverty. Clearly the real-life loss of his mother and the separation from his wife had a profound psychological effect on Blatty and these emotions where transferred to the page – most likely with little imagination required.

Imagination can be great but don’t depend on it. Imagination can be extremely self-indulgent, boring.

Blatty had taken nearly a year to get The Exorcist, his pet project, an apostolic work meant to illustrate God’s love for his creation, from his mind to the page.

By the time he had the first draft finished it resembled something closer to a horrific detective story. Blatty has stated that he started the book with no idea of how it would end. Despite this, the rough-around-the-edges ‘feeling’ helps to ground the book in reality, thus making it scarier.

That’s something else I would like to mention: because of the individuality of all the characters and Blatty’s firsthand knowledge of the locations – this book does not feel like fantasy. Don’t forget that Blatty had also studied exorcism for almost two decades. This allowed him to write a high concept book that illustrates ‘if demonic possession really happened this is how it would go down.’

Blatty submitted his draft, thankful for the year he had to write it but also ready to move on. Yes, he got very lucky, but that luck would be meaningless if he hadn’t done the following:

RESEARCH, have it at your disposal and in your mind so that you can write without having to stop to investigate and look things up.

KNOW YOUR CHARACTERS, be present at work and in your interactions with people. Notice the quirks and annoying habits of your friends, strange patterns of speech unique to them. Some readers complain that the characters in the Exorcist are annoying. They truly are in some respects and this is what makes them feel so real.

KNOW YOUR LOCATIONS, too often great writers are describing two people surrounded by four walls with cliché dialogue bouncing back and forth. We get the impression the author doesn’t know any more about the location than we do and what should have been a masterful scene reads like something written for Alfred Hitchcock Presents … were the teleplay would do well to stick to general settings that the art director can piece together a satisfying decor later.

BE PRESENT, BE HAPPY, program yourself to get excited over nuances in speech and body language. Keep your ear open for new details that will expand your personal philosophy. Being a writer is like creating your own religion where you are free to mix and match elements from all over existence into your own personal world. What we think of as the ultimate horror novel was really William Peter Blatty trying to prove/disprove demonic possession. His research not only enhance his faith but produced a novel that I believe will be known by later (more desensitized) generations as a theological work.

Perhaps the greatest Christian novel ever written.

Now, get to writing but don’t forget your research!

Is RUMBLE FISH a prequel to BLUE VELVET?

Last night I had a rare experience while watching "Rumble Fish" (1983), Francis Ford Coppola and S.E. Hinton's follow-up to "The Outsiders" (1983):

As this movie unfolds before me, I believe I am watching one of my favorite movies - and for the first time.

It was a great experience. Kinda like watching Fellini or Bergman as a tween, but this time I wasn't taking it for granted - I was savoring the experience as each masterful shot dissolved into the next urban vision of juvenile wunderlust.

Coppola's "Rumble Fish" is in black and white and that is why it is forgotten.
That is also why it is one of the most beautiful films I have ever seen.

Mickey Rourke is at his best as the ghost-like older brother/doppelganger of Matt Dillon, who has never been more beautiful. And speaking of beautiful, Diane Lane is the personification of the animas in this film. In fact, the whole film unfolds like a psycho-analytical fable, gliding to its liberating and painful conclusion.

But it is subtle. Which is interesting. Because you wouldn't really think of the word subtle to describe an art house teen '80s film that has been forgotten in the sea of throwbacks such as George Lucas' "American Graffiti" (1973) or Barry Levinson's "Diner" (1982).

As the flick begins, I thought we were in the '50s, but as we progress through the narrative I thought, maybe this is the '70s, and by the end I was certain this dream-fable was taking place in 1983.

And from it's opening frames, do ya know what movie we, the small living room audience, kept thinking of?

David Lynch's 1986 return to the weird, "Blue Velvet."

Yes, "Elephant Man" (1980) and "Dune" (1984) are weird but not as visionary as "Eraserhead" (1977) which was a nearly decade-long labor of passion from Lynch and his small crew of family and friends.

Yet even "Eraserhead" does not include the sprinkles of 1950s sockhop festishes that would show up in "Blue Velvet," "Wild At Heart" (1990), and "Mulholland Drive" (2001).

It would seem that Lynch composed the screenplay for "Blue Velvet" around 1984 as it was in production by '85. And it would seem that Lynch must have seen Coppola's "Rumble Fish" and was inspired by its timeless world, executed in monochrome German Expressionism with lush dream-visions that leak into the reality of the protagonist's waking moments.

I know I'm not alone, because the pop-cultural sponges I was watching the film with were having the same revelations. And as my fellow viewers pointed out, the film seems to hold a powerful influence over late '80s / early '90s cinema (think Neo-Noir, where people and cars look like an amalgamation of the 1940s through the '80s).

The Coen Brothers arguably took cues from this film as well, and their first feature, "Blood Simple" would be released the year following "Rumble Fish."

So here's my question: About half-way into the movie I had to break out my phone and google:

BLUE VELVET A SEQUEL TO RUMBLE FISH

And to my surprise there was not one hit. I thought for sure there'd be a Cracked article talking about the two films sharing a universe, but somehow there was not.

You see, both films feature Dennis Hopper in very memorable roles. You know the image of a leering Hopper with a face full nitrate gas in "Blue Velvet" - he's a hood that uses his menace and rage to manipulate those around him. In "Rumble Fish" he is the drunken father of Rusty James (Dillon) and the Motor Cycle Boy (Rourke).

While in "Blue Velvet" Hopper is terrifying, he is pitiful in "Rumble Fish." Despite being a very sweaty drunk, you feel sorry for him. He doesn't seem to beat or yell at his sons, although he neglects them for sure. It's not until the film's conclusion that we really see his cowardice and are left to wonder if he'll continue being the lovable drunk or will his demeanor grow darker and dangerous.

So, with Coppola's vision that took Film Noir back to its German Expressionist roots we get a pseudo prequel to "Blue Velvet." It's not real. Just speculation and syncronicity. But why has this never been brought up before?

I'll tell ya why:

NOT ENOUGH PEOPLE HAVE SEEN RUMBLE FISH.

And that's a damn shame.

FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT: PSYCHEDELICS & FREEMASONRY

You can read my tease for "Alchemically Stoned" at
http://www.beatreaper.com/pd-newman-alechmically-stoned/

P.D. Newman is an author and essayist who has come to prominence in the past 5 years by writing some of the most daring yet sound papers of his day, covering topics such as entheogens, rites of passage, and the influence of hermetic science upon modern Freemasonry.

His first book, ALCHEMICALLY STONED: THE PSYCHEDELIC SECRET OF FREEMASONRY (published by The Laudable Pursuit) was released on June 24th 2017, the Nativity of Saint John the Baptizer.

This day also marked the 300th anniversary of the United Grand Lodge of England, the birth of modern day Freemasonry.

photo taken by J.A. Hawkins, Valley of Corinth Scottish Rite Reunion 2012

Newman is not only a learned author of Masonic papers, he is a Freemason himself. His research has earned him a prestigious standing in some of the world oldest and authentic esoteric research societies.

For those interested in studying Freemasonry the first advice I would give is read books by actual Freemasons. Yes, I enjoy the astro-theology of C.C. Zain and the romanticism of Manly P. Hall - but these men were not Freemasons, or at least not initiates when they wrote their books.

Newman writes in a concise and elegant style which makes his work not only a great introduction to the many facets of Freemasonry but also an introduction to her deeper and more muddled mysteries.

Dare I say it may be another 300 years before the public sees another book like this.

http://www.thelaudablepursuit.com/articles/2017/6/21/introducing-alchemically-stoned-the-psychedelic-secret-of-freemasonry

BUY THE BOOK HERE:
https://www.amazon.com/Alchemically-Stoned-Psychedelic-Secret-Freemasonry/dp/0578194007/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1498935727&sr=8-1&keywords=alchemically+stoned

.'.STONE.'. (2017)

"Many people cannot refrain from picking up stones of a slightly unusual color or shape and keeping them, …. without knowing why they do. It is as if the stone held a mystery in it that fascinates them. 

Men have collected stones since the beginning of time and have apparently assumed that certain ones were the containers of the the spirit of the life-force with all its mystery.”

- CARL GUSTAV JUNG

 

After a morning of defensive procrastination, Mark drove his girlfriend Cindy to an old cemetery so she could experience the Great New Orleans Snowfall of 2008. The freak weather gave him the day off while she was preparing for art finals. They descended the urban trench marking the white road as the green sedan crossed into the oncoming lane. Slush splattered between the driver’s side tires and the curb.

       St. Louis Cemetery was fortified by 8-foot stone walls that shined in the noonday sun. The glossy perspiration trailing to the sidewalk. Beyond the gates’ threshold, soft layers of frozen rain enveloped the white tombs and grey statues. Mark bent over Cindy bracing her down the pathways of stone. She had light green eyes against a dark complexion and Irish curls. Cindy moved ahead of him, veering between above-ground tombs. The structures so close together the frost shaped a canopy. They breached the narrow passages between cold rock and religious vandalism: Xs chiseled and drawn next to beads, candles, and other offerings.

       The diffusion of sunlight spread over the yard, the canopy dripping like a subterranean ceiling. An insulated hoody and lime jacket kept the broken layers of snow from soaking Cindy’s skin.  As she dodged ahead of Mark more slush slid off the peaked crypts. His brown suede jacket became ridiculous with discolored wet splotches.  He clenched it tighter over his snug cable-knit sweater, a bleached sunhat pulled tight to his scalp.

They entered the inner courtyard where the tombs were less suffocating and the view above them opened into a hovering vortex of evaporated ocean.  The entire cemetery looked like a faded shipwreck: snow for sand, New Orleans the seabed. Cindy’s soggy sneakers passed against a derelict mausoleum where a black stone had been left and accidently launched it from the snow. With a clack the stone struck a stout pyramid and ricocheted into a depression on the ground, spinning until gravity caught up with it. She picked up the black stone and let it roll to the center of her palm. Snowflakes gathered like little crystals caught against the relic and her body. The weight of coldness heavy in her hand, she saw it was chipped. To feel the cold smoothness and find the rough, broken edge was jarring. Cindy’s mouth twisted to the corner of her face.

        Mark was paces behind her leaning against a speckled mausoleum. Black streaks of rusty time ran frozen between the cracks of broken plaster. The ancient roots of trees had displaced the pathways and the Spanish moss obscured the sky. He noted the terribleness of the place and resolved never to let Cindy talk him into this again. 

       “Mark,” she held the stone up to his chin, “look at this.”

       “Put it back Cindy-Lou,” he said.

Cindy’s green eyes glared and she shoved the stone into a jacket pocket.

“C’mon let’s go,” Mark said.

Cindy toed back, turned and raised her arms to the sky, spinning as she said, “You don’t get nostalgic here?”

“You talkin’ ‘bout that super warm Halloween when we jumped the gate?”

“We were so tore up I nearly let you fuck me,” she said.

Mark squinted and cocked his head, “I thought we did?”

“Ha – haah,” Cindy rolled her eyes and swiveled away from him.

Mark squinted at his wristwatch and rubbed his eyes, “put it back before we freeze to death.”

“Why do you think we came here, dude?” Cindy circled the tombs deducing the worth of any other trinkets that were there, “I need some voodoo for my project.”

“I’ll get some clay and you can make your own voodoo,” Mark said.

Cindy pushed passed him watching the ground.

“I do mixed media, Mark. You know this.” She said.

He followed her, brushing the slush walls with his sleeve, “I just don’t want to bring home any curses.”

“You’re a curse,” Cindy said.

“What about your camera? I just thought you could do pictures instead.” Mark’s cheeks were red and vapor trailed from his mouth.

“I thought you wanted to leave,” Cindy said giving him a ‘the-fuck-do-I-care’ look.

 

The car skirted the weathered roads as traffic roused mobile again. Cindy reclined in the passenger seat admiring the stone. Her thumb caressed the jagged edge as Mark tugged his seat belt. It kept scraping his neck so he unbuckled it. Cindy rested her legs on the dash and they both sighed, finally warm. The oldies station played a fuzzy pop song and they were silent for a few moments. Cindy’s eyes followed the turn to their apartment but Mark drove passed it.

“You’re going the wrong way,” she said.

“Yeah I know,” Mark said, “I got turned around looking at all the snow.”

He took a right on red and maneuvered through a medical parking lot.

“Christ,” Cindy said to herself as she took her feet off the dash and held her knees to her chin, “Jesus Christ.”

Mark took her exclamation as criticism and steered violently passed doctors’ suites.

“It’s not you,” Cindy said, “I’m gonna have a panic attack.”

“You what?” He swerved into a narrow alley for delivery trucks.

“Just get me outta here.” Her eyes were closed. Tears broke and she covered them.

        He huffed and took a left. They were back on Claiborne Ave albeit the right direction this time. The car smelled like stale cigarettes. Mark didn’t smoke anymore and was very sensitive to the stench so he cracked a window. A book bag and clothes were askew in the back seat. A set of stapled papers began to rustle. Mark checked the rearview mirror but didn’t see anything to tend to Cindy’s tears.  He watched her face anxious for an explanation.

+ + +

       Mark helped Cindy up the slick stairwell and unlocked the apartment door. He began to ask her again, but Cindy waved him away. She hurried straight to the bedroom, into their bathroom, and shut the door. Mark went to the right of the apartment where the kitchenette was and rinsed out a glass.  The light from the refrigerator illuminated the particles of dust that hovered over unopened bills and dirty plates. He mixed a drink and moved across the room to the large windows that were opposite the door. Mark opened the blinds and sat on the love seat facing a laptop upon a stack of books. He would’ve watched some videos but someone had turned the computer off and he didn’t feel like waiting for it to boot back up. Mark sipped his whisky and coke trying to hear if Cindy was still crying.

       “Babe?” He took a long pull and exhaled with a satisfied hiss, “you all right in there?”

       He could hear water running for a few moments and then it stopped. Dragging herself Cindy emerged, eyes puffy and looking at the floor. Mark took several fast sips and watched her. She did not say anything. He tapped his foot restlessly. She moved from the door frame and Mark extended his arm expecting her to sit next to him.  Instead she sat at the bar that separated the kitchenette from the rest of the room. She was hunched over holding herself. The thumb of her right hand rubbing the cracked part of the black stone. She looked peaked and swayed on the tall barstool uncomfortably.

       “Are you gonna throw up?”

       “Please shut it for a second,” Cindy said.

       Mark looked out the window, shaking his head so Cindy would see. He took another long sip from his glass and held it to the light. The three cubs were just corners of dissolving ice now.

      “Already drinking?”

      “What does it matter?” Mark said. He admired the amber reflections in his glass. He sucked what was left with a slurp, stood up slowly and moved passed Cindy almost brushing her. “You want one?”

      “Hell no,” she said looking up for the first time, her lip snarling.

      Mark put his glass down hard and poured more whisky, “Please tell me what the fuck I’m missing.” He slid the whiskey bottle against the wall carelessly so Cindy could see what a bitch she was being.

     “I’m trying,” Cindy said.

     She watched his back as he took ice from the freezer and poured what was left of the coke into his glass. She kept rubbing the stone. She wondered if she could rub it smooth in a few years.

    

      “All right,” Mark said.  He crushed the can with his hand and chucked it in the trash bin. Taking a swig, he noted how much stronger this drink was. He mouthed a silent OWW, and smiled within.  He was buzzing good,      

     “I’m all ears, babe.”

+ + +

     Outside Mark leaned against the cold stone wall of a neighboring building. He had filled an insulated coffee thermos with crushed ice and whiskey. He took a long drag from one of Cindy’s smokes and nearly reeled. He flicked the cigarette into the street where it vanished in the white. He shoved his hand in his jeans and gulped the drink. The cigarette and whiskey gave him a rush of warmth and the icy air kept his nausea at bay. He switched hands and let the other hand hide not necessarily getting warmer. Mark had decided it would look good to excuse himself. That showed he was in control of his emotions. Another part of him felt like trashing the apartment – maybe even shake her a little bit but that would be wrong. She had obviously kept this secret buried deep. Had she told one of her girlfriends? Probably, but what did it matter? She really seemed like she had completely forgotten about it until that moment he pulled into the parking lot where, apparently, an abortion clinic was tacked on behind a gynecologist’s office.

     Mark was pretty drunk now. With a slight lean he looked like a junky scarecrow on Magazine Street. His sunhat drenched from the snow, his sweater bulging from below the last button of his jacket. Cindy was a good chick. Yes, he was pissed that she had done it without telling him, but so what? That kid would be 2 or 3 by now. Mark had thought of dumping Cindy’s ass at least once a month for the past year.

    What would raising a kid with her have been like, he thought. Goddamn, if anything she saved my fucking life.

    His self-righteous rage transmuted into gratitude and lovey-dovey discharges of dopamine. Then a rattle of ice hit the lid of his cup.

    

     Out of whiskey. Goddamn. Need to get upstairs before I end up like my dead kid.

 

     Mark shifted his weight to the other leg.

 

     Jesus, Mark. Don’t ever think that again.

     He had a rotten feeling that he wasn’t done processing this, but for now he was grateful for Cindy.

     I am resolved to be a good man for my woman, he thought.

     With a hooked finger he let the thermos dangle while the other fingers burned against the frozen handrail. He pulled himself up the stairs.

     “Ooooh, I love mah woman,” he sang, “I am resolved no longer to mean her – be mean to her – be a shit head.”

     He laughed.

 

Cindy was in bed facing the wall with her back to the door. She heard Mark try to quietly shuffle in.

Good. He thinks I’m asleep.

Mark’s heavy jacket landed in the corner of the room, his shoes pushed each other off and his pants hit the floor with the clank of a belt buckle still attached. His teeth were chattering as he slid under the sheets. Mark was naked and stunk. He wrapped his cold legs around Cindy. She was wearing a long sleeve t-shirt and sweat pants. Maybe he would be asleep soon and she could leave. There was nothing here she wanted except that expensive Canon camera her dad had bought her last semester. His chin jabbed her shoulder and the whiskey/cigarette breath was overwhelming. She pulled the covers over her nose.

        What was he thinking? Had he just gotten drunk so he wouldn’t have to think?

“I love you, babe,” Mark said. “I love you so much.”

        He continued to mumble love, love like a warbled Van Morrison record.

Cindy was wide-eyed now. She looked at the black stone on her bedside table next to a smudged glass of water. That chip bothered her so much. She thought about leaving the stone behind but she feared it really was some kind of voodoo fetish that Mark could use, even subconsciously, to call her back. She took the stone and pushed it deep in to her soft pockets. His grip loosened and she shifted away from him.

I will leave him tomorrow, Cindy promised herself, but for now I will just sleep. Sleep in my bed one last time.

She watched the street lamps burst bright outside the bedroom window. The snow was like black tears in the electric orange light. Her thoughts dissolved to black gulf waters, mountains of cloud that broke into wisping snowfall streams. She dreamt of levees freshly blanketed by sticky precipitation. The tide licking the abyssal hill clean. With a twitch, her right leg jumped and the stone shifted, waking her. Her fingers touched its cold smooth surface and she clenched her fist around it, bringing her arm to her chest the stone resting in the notch of her neck. 

One last time, she promised and fell back to sleep.

Text, illustration, and photographs by  J. Alec Hawkins, April 2017.