Jot 2

Hey! Finally Jot 2! And, in a way, 1. This is the first post of the new Jot. This snippet is in the middle of what I have done so far, but is still in the beginning of the story. So you're not completely lost: Civil war; Miller and Clare are married; Berta and Eudora are their slaves; Confederate side; Miller has left to fight; Clare is by herself.
Well, here it is. Tell me what you think and where you think this should go, though I already have a bit of an idea.

JOT 2

The messenger was waiting in the parlor when she walked in. He was studying a portrait of Miller and herself they had had taken the day of their wedding. They’d only been married a year when Miller left. Both of them were still so young.

“Can I help you, sir,” Claire asked when the man did not notice her enter the room.

He jumped then straightened himself, his hat tucked under his arm. “Mornin’ ma’am.  I have a message for you fr—“

Claire cut him off. “From Miller?”

He frowned. “I’m afraid not, ma’am. From General Lee.”

“General Lee? Why would he have a message for me?” Again Claire’s fears rose to the surface after the brief moment of hope.

The messenger did not answer but simply reached into his coat pocket and handed her a small piece of parchment with a red seal, dirt caught in the dried wax.  Claire took it and, sitting on the couch, began reading.

“Mrs. Quinn,”

“Ma’am.”

Claire looked up, frustrated the man had stopped her.

“If you don’t mind ma’am, I have other business to attend to.”

“Oh, yes, yes. You may go. Eudora will show you out. Eudora!”

Claire quickly looked back at the message, not bothering to offer a proper farewell.

“Mrs. Quinn,

The battle rages on. We all believed this to be a quick endeavor and I apologize that it has dragged on longer than expected. Morale is high and we are determined to see this through.”

“Small talk,” Claire thought. “What is it you mean to tell me, Lee?”

“Your husband, Mr. Miller Quinn, has been an important asset to our purpose here. He has fought bravely and has saved many young lives. We will forever be in his debt. The reasoning for this letter, however, is unfortunate.”

Claire sucked in her breath and held it as she read on.

“It is my displeasure to have to inform you that your husband—“

Claire quickly crushed the letter into her lap, covering it with her shaking hands. She could not bear to read further. Miller could not be—Claire covered her mouth with her hand as she began weeping quietly. 


Okay, that's all you get. For now. 
MUAH HA HA HA HA!

Jot REMASTERED: Episode II

Hmmm...I've been thinking. In my own personal opinion, this Jot is getting...well it's getting quite good. I'm happy with it so far. And sadly for you all, someone made a good point in telling me publishers won't look at something that's online for the world to see. So I think I might change what this blog is. Again. Or maybe I'll go back to the way it was, though that didn't work out like I'd wanted.

I think for now I'm going to try this: the blog is called Jot, right? So maybe if I put little snippets of things I have or am writing. Like a page or so, to give people a view of a small "Jot" of my writing. Give some feedback on that, some ideas of where I could take it based on what they see. This way I can share my work without sharing the entirety of them, and in so doing, jeopardizing my chances of my dreams coming true.

...I think this is what I'm going to do. Jot REMASTERED (again).

Jot 1.7

Laurel laid in her stiff hospital bed and stared down at her legs. They were plated, screwed, and casted, but she still had them and was willing to go through any surgery or physical therapy as long as she could walk again. The doctors were as yet unsure if she would walk again, but her odds were fairly good. It could have been a lot worse, as she was repeatedly told. She knew it. She could be dead. Laurel had not seen the mad who'd saved her since the emergency crews arrived and sped them both away. She hoped she would have a chance to see him again, to thank him again. She didn't even know his name. If he didn't find her, she would probably never get the chance to make sure he knew how grateful she was.
The doctor came in then, interrupting her thoughts. "Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling?"
Laurel cleared her throat and tried to answer clearly, but the smoke had irritated her throat and made her raspy and hoarse. "Alright. I hurt all over."
"We can give you some more morphine for that. Do you remember everything that happened?"
Laurel rubbed her forehead with the heal of her hand. Her head was throbbing. "Yes," she answered sadly. She wished she didn't remember anything. "Do the police know what happened?"
The doctor was writing on his clipboard and didn't look up as he answered, "I don't know. I'm not the one to ask about that. You'll have to talk to an officer yourself."
Laurel frowned. "Okay." She paused. "The man...the man that pulled me from the building...is he okay?"
"Mr. Searly? Yes, he's fine. In fact we discharged him this morning."
"He left the hospital?"
"Yes, he went home."
"And he didn't---"
"Yes?" the doctor asked when Laurel didn't finish her sentence.
"Never mind." She had been hoping he would come see her. Did he not care to see how she was doing? Saved her life and disappeared. It was like the movies, the mysterious hero riding off into the sunset without as much as a nod goodbye. Oh well. He knew she was grateful. If he didn't want to see her again, she could live with that.

The months passed slowly as Laurel attempted to get around with, first a wheelchair, then crutches. Her roommate was forced to take her everywhere, help her with everything. But Cassidy was a good friend and didn't complain, especially when she thought about what could have happened to her best friend. "I can't believe you almost DIED! I don't know how I could have lived without you! And your beautiful legs! Crushed! Thank goodness that man pulled you out! I wonder who he is. Was he hot? Did you thank him? I hope you thanked him! He did save your life, Laurel."
Jay called her the second he found out and kept calling, no matter how she discouraged him. "I'm so glad you didn't die, Laurel! What a scary thing to have happen. I do feel bad for all those other people, but I'm so glad you weren't as unlucky. When are you coming home? I love you, baby! Why won't you let me help you get through this?"
"Because we're over Jay! I need you to stop calling me. I'm not going to come home and I don't want you to come here. Ever."
"Come on, Laurel. You don't mean that."
"Yes, I do. I'm fine now. So leave me alone."
The police found the fire had been started by an arsonist. They still didn't know who, or how the building collapsed, but they assumed since someone started the fire, someone must have demolished the building.

Laurel looked down at her legs, rubbing the dry skin that had been under the casts for so long. She rolled her ankles, bent her knees.  Laurel frowned at the scars that now lined her shins and calves. They were so ugly, revolting reminders of her near death experience. She hoped they would fade quickly, but knew they'd never fully disappear. Laurel swung her legs to the side of the couch and placed her feet on the carpet. Slowly, she stood. Her casts had been removed weeks ago, but she still had trouble moving. She felt like a ninety-year-old woman when she walked around and still made Cassidy do everything for her, embarrassed to leave the house when she could only shuffle.
Cassidy was at the grocery store, getting more painkillers and toilet paper when someone knocked on their apartment door. Laurel groaned and tried to walk towards the front door, clinging to furniture as she moved. She made it to the door exhausted and out of breath, but quickly composing herself and smoothing her unwashed hair, she opened the door. Her smile suddenly fell from her face and her jaw dropped.
The man smiled at her and extended his hand. "Hey. I'm Reed Searly. It's nice to officially meet you. Laurel, is it?"

Jot 1.6

Laurel dug her forehead into the soft cool grass as she continued to cough, desperately trying to clear her lungs. She was alive! She could hardly believe it was true. She should not still be here, should not be crying, breathing, almost laughing in hysterics with a strange man next to her. He was watching her intently as she continued to cough.
"Are you alright?" he asked, concern distorting his features along with the black soot that had caked his skin.
Laurel chuckled and rested her cheek on the ground, looking at him. "Am I alright? I'm alive, aren't I? If not for you, I'd...I'd be much worse than I am now."
"Yes, but are you hurt, hurt badly?" The stranger seemed completely unconcerned with his own heroics, passing off her declaration that he had saved her life as if she had told him the time.
"My lungs burn and my legs...I don't know how bad they are. But other than that, there's not much seriously wrong with me. Are...are you hurt?"
The man smiled. "Just a few bumps and bruises."
"Good."
Sirens could be heard in the distance, speeding toward them. Laurel struggled to push herself up and looked back at the Bed and Breakfast. Flames licked every inch of the lot, burning what was left of the rubble. The fire roared bright and hot and reached high into the night sky, illuminating the entire block.
"We...we weren't the only people in there, were we?" Laurel asked, her lower lip quivering.
The man lowered his head. "I took the last vacant room this afternoon."
Laurel looked around frantically, in search of other lucky survivors. There was no one. No one but the wide-eyed people that emerged from surrounding buildings.
"They...they all...they all," Laurel suddenly began sobbing, sobbing with the realization of how many had not been as lucky as she had. Who had been in there? Newlyweds? Families? Children? All gone. Whoever they were, they were all gone. Dead.
The man scooted closer to her and wrapped his arm around her shaking shoulders. The emergency vehicles soon pulled up and doused the raging flames, but it was too late. The fire had consumed everything, everyone.

Jot 1.5

The heroic stranger dragged Laurel through the smoking debris, coughing and staggering. Laurel clutched his shirt and tried to use her legs, but she could not. She could see the strain in his eyes as he carried her; the fire reflected in the shine of his perspiration on his face.  She was too heavy for him. She could feel it as her legs began to drag lower and lower on the floor below them as they squirmed through the debris. Laurel wanted to say something. She wanted to tell him to go on without her. But he didn't leave her back at the rock and she knew he would refuse to do so now. So, they would both die.

Finally, the man collapsed and both fell to the ground coughing and panting.
"Please," Laurel pleaded, "Just go! You can't save me. Save yourself."
The man ground his teeth together and grimaced, his head bowing. Suddenly, he roared and, grabbing her, pulled them both up, screaming, "I can't do that! But I can, and I WILL save you!"  He dragged her farther into the debris, closer to what they both hoped would lead to an exit. He pulled her over and under, through and around, coughing as smoke continued to enter his lungs, but he continued to hold her and his grip did not slacken again.
"Do you feel that?" the man asked as he continued to carry her.
"What?"
"The air. It's...clearer, cleaner. I...I think we're close!"
Laurel lifted her head and tried to concentrate, to notice the difference the man noticed. At first, nothing seemed changed. But soon Laurel noticed the freshening air.
"There!" the man called out. "I see it! I see a way out!" His pace quickened at the sudden realization of hope, of life and soon both were lying on the grass across the street, panting and crying in the glow of the streetlight.

Jot 1.4

Laurel continued to sob quietly in her small tomb, her own personal mausoleum. But perhaps it wasn't her own. How many others had been spending the night in the Bed and Breakfast? How many more were stuck under the rubble? How many were no longer panicking as Laurel was, but as calm as the rubble now still and silent above her? How could this have happened? The Bed and Breakfast had looked sturdy and well kept as she climbed up the whitewashed steps. She had seen no flaws in the foundation, no cracks up the wall or holes in the roof. It was an old building, yes, but not one to tumble in on itself without cause or notice. There had been no tremor of the earth or gust of wind. One second Laurel was climbing into bed and the next her world was crumbling around her. One second she had been whole and the next, she was broken. What was the--suddenly, Laurel froze. Her eyes shot open and she stared at the glowing rock above her. Light? But not good light, not life-saving light. Laurel knew this, for it was not alone. A smell, a very distinct smell accompanied the glimmer, drifting in through the wreckage. Smoke. Burning. Death. Fire? The building was on fire? No! No! Now there was no hope at all! No chance of survival or rescue! Laurel screamed and wriggled beneath the weight of the stone slab on her legs. She had to get out! She had to free herself and crawl from the rubble, legless if she must. She could not die this way! "Help! Someone please help me!" But no one answered. Of course, no one could hear her. Who knows how much lay over her, how high the flames were, how loud their roar? "Please! Please help me! I--"

"Hello?"

Laurel froze. No. "Hello! Hello! Please help me!"

"Hello? Is there someone in here?"

"Yes! Yes! Please! I'm here! I'm here!"

"Keep yelling! I hear you!" It was a man's voice, calling to her through the mist. It echoed off the stone, making it impossible to pinpoint where it was coming from. But it was coming for her, and that's all Laurel cared about. She continued to yell, trying to stretch her cracking voice over the sound of the flames and over the occasional rock that clattered through the rubble. Soon, a shadow weaved between wood and stone as her rescuer drew nearer to her. A man rose from the dust. He crawled towards her on hands and knees. He had a long gash across his square jaw and his blonde hair looked gray from the coat of dust covering it. 

"Help me! Help me, please!" Laurel pleaded as he reached her. 

He placed his hand on her arm. "I will. Don't worry." He ran his eyes over her, assessing the situation. Laurel did not like the darkening of his expression as his study reached her legs smashed under the rock. 

"Is there...is there hope for me?" she asked. 

"I...I am sure there is. We just need to...need to get you out of there." 

Laurel bit her quivering lip. There was no hope for her and they both knew it. "Leave."

"What?" he stared at her questioningly. 

"It's...it's on fire. You need to get yourself out."

"I can't just leave you here."

"Yes, you---"

"No." He cut her off. The man climbed down the slab over her legs and pushed on it. It didn't move. He pushed harder, jamming his shoulder into the stone. It stayed still.

"Please, just go!" Laurel screamed. The man ignored her. Quickly, he grabbed a three foot beam laying a few feet away and jammed it under the stone. Putting all his weight on the end, the stone lifted a few inches.

"Can you move?" he grunted, his teeth grinding under the strain. Laurel tried to slide away. She moved a few inches, but it was not enough to free her.

"A little more!" The man pushed harder, groaning. Laurel pushed hard on the dirt with her palms, trying to drag her body out from under the rock. She could feel the underside of it scraping against her skin as she slid out, surprising her. She did not think she still had feeling left. Laurel ignored the pain and kept pushing. Finally, her feet appeared from under the rock and it fell with a boom as the man released it. 

"Are you all right?"

Laurel shook her head. She refused to look at her legs.

"Come on." He wrapped his arm around her back. "We need to get out of here."

Jot 1.3

He shoved his hand into his pocket and toyed with the small metal lighter he absentmindedly placed there every morning. He never left home without it. One doesn't know when an instant spark of flame will come in handy, when something needs to be destroyed, consumed by the most powerful source of devastation. This one of of these times, though his plan to use it had been in his mind long before grabbing it as part of his morning routine. He had to make sure, be completely positive. It had to burn.

He pulled the lighter out of his pants pocket and flicked it open. Running his finger along the side, a small flame flipped up and began to dance and flicker as he held it close to his face, his excited breath making it quiver. Staring at the rubble in front of him through the fire he held in his hand, he tossed the lighter into the remains of his old home and watched the flames begin to lick and consume, reaching higher and higher as the unceasing hunger was fueled but never quenched. He pushed his hands into his pocket and began walking away from his burning troubles. He smiled. He was going to need a new lighter.