It’s week one on Writer In Motion, and that means it’s time to share the first draft of my new story. Last week I broke down my reaction to the prompt and a little bit about the strategies I employed to move from first glimpse into a full story draft. While the story came easy this time around, the struggle was that once I finished the end, it was all wrong. There was something too happy about the original ending—too bright, almost mirroring the prompt and giving my dark fantasy brain the middle finger. What I really wanted though was a noir vibe to the story, something a bit darker with a twist. So instead of revising, I wrote a second ending that I’m personally much happier with. What I’ve done below is post the story once (the first 80%), with each ending listed below.

Something to note: I write in 3rd person, always have. During last summer’s Writer In Motion, my story came out in 1st person for three lines before my brain course-corrected. This time around, Emmaline’s story came out in 1st for nearly half the story, then flipped. This will be a bit disorienting, but for some reason it’s how characters seem to be speaking to me these days. Just a small warning before you jump in. Enjoy!

The Clocks Inside

I knew in my heart that Henry hadn’t cheated, but each time I saw his face, all I could see was Constance throwing her lips against his. I’d never been a jealous woman, but Henry and I belonged to each other.

I set my suitcase down on the doorstep, rusted iron wrought in elegant designs over the old oak door. Numbers burned into the wood changed with the second, the hour, it was the only clock in the universe that kept true time.

A knock on the door wasn’t necessary. As soon as my knuckles hovered against the weathered wood, grandfather opened. He never called unless something horrible happened, and he never called mother. Only me, because I never had to forgive him. But his daughter—my mother—was another story.

“You came.” He didn’t hug, but glanced at me over his golden wireframes. “Another one broke and it must be fixed.”

He turned and walked deeper inside the old house, a book open in his hand. I was always grateful to see my grandfather. He didn’t hug like the rest of my family, and truthfully I hated hugs. Hated to be touched. Only Henry was allowed to hug me because he was the only person I ever trusted.

Well, did trust.

I picked up my suitcase and stepped inside the house, sliding the door closed behind me. Dust filled the air, sconces turned low as stormlight filtered in through cracks in the shades or curtains. Grandfather hated bright light, another thing we agreed on.

My shoes loud against the wood floors, I stepped quickly onto the rugs and followed him to the back study. Clocks from every nation and era lined the halls—public clocks my grandfather called them. These were the ones outsiders were allowed to see if they stopped by. He said it made him respectable to be an advocate for every nation. I thought it just made him even more suspicious. After all, the really interesting clocks people wanted to see were hidden at the back of the house where no one would ever see them.

I stepped into the old library and took off my hat. Bookshelves lined every wall of the vaulted room, stormlight soft through the high windows. I dropped the suitcase at my feet, taking in the site of my favorite room in the house. Instead of books from all the great writers of the past, grandfather kept a collection of exotic snow globes. Each one had a tiny light behind it to let the small artistic interior shine, and next to each one a thick leather tome.

Emmaline couldn’t read any of them, but she loved to pore over all the different symbols and languages in each one.

Histories, her grandfather called them. He swore he could read many of them, but she was never certain if he really could or used it to make himself even more elevated.

“You said one is broken?” She set her hat on her suitcase and followed her grandfather to the far side of the room where a shattered globe sat on the floor. “What happened?”

“Henry came to visit.”

Her heart lurched and tears pricked her eyes. She wasn’t ready to forgive Henry yet. No, she’d forgiven him, but she still couldn’t erase the image of Constance with her mouth against his. Thirty days, thirty showers before he was allowed to see her again—she had to make sure there was no trace of that bitch left on his mouth before she ever kissed him again.

Emmaline picked up a shard of glass to inspect the edges. “Was he angry?”

“He’s still grieving.” Her grandfather gave her a pointed look, a way to tell her she was being ridiculous. “But today he seemed excited about something. I went to fetch us a scotch, and when I returned, Henry was gone and the orb shattered.”

A manic look crossed her grandfather’s face. “You must fix it, Emmaline. You’re the only one who can.

One thing she was grateful for, her grandfather never filled his globes with water like some of the cheap vendors she’d seen at the fair. He hand-crafted every one, even forging the exterior glass with intricate designs to catch the eye. He never sold them—“they’re far too valuable”—and Emmaline never understood why.

“Bring my kit.” She pointed at her suitcase. The wooden base was still intact as well as the glass’ lower portion. An engineer by trade, Emiline could fix almost anything with a little solder or glue. But her grandfather’s prized globes had always been a challenge.

Glue would ruin the glass, so she’d created a handheld glass blower to help melt the pieces together.

Once her grandfather set down her suitcase, she opened the lid and pulled on a welding mask and a pair of thick gloves designed by the great D. Ragon Hyde. She arranged each piece in a circle around the central base and tucked her legs beneath her.

“Did Henry say anything before he left?” She wanted to keep her grandfather busy while she worked, otherwise he’d hover over her shoulder and wring his hands together.

The conversation helped relax him and seemed to work as he sat down and closed the book on his lap. “Only that he’d bought a train ticket to come after you.”

Her heart dropped. Henry knew her rules—if he tried to contact her before the thirty days were up, she’d add another week. She wanted that bitch Constance off his skin for good.

Ending One

Emmaline picked up the handheld glass blower and clicked it on. Setting the base upright, she held the first shard to the edge and pulled the flame’s trigger. White-hot fire burned against the seams, melting the glass shards together. “Water please.”

As if he’d read her mind, her grandfather set the bucket next to her almost immediately. With the two pieces fixed together, she picked up the globe by the base and dunked the orange-hot glass into the water.

Heat—cool—repeat. For the next few hours, she chatted with her grandfather as she worked, trying to talk about anything except Henry, but he always steered the conversation back.

As the last piece cooled in the water, steam rose off the surface of the metal bucket until the glass was cool enough to touch.

Emmaline pulled off her gloves and held the base in her hands, most of the heat diffused by now. “Do you know the history of this one?”

A faint smile touched her grandfather’s lips as he leaned back in his chair. Her grandfather opened the book in his lap and adjusted his spectacles. “My dear Emmaline, why don’t you ask Henry.”

She whipped around, expecting to see Henry leaned against the door frame, but a vast ocean stretched to the horizon as the wall clock’s first chime faded to a flock of gulls calling into the storm.

“Grandfather?” Emmaline turned a slow circle, the globe library gone, replaced by storm clouds over sea and a strong smell of brine in the air. “Grandfather!”

Her heart raced in panic. Was she dead? Dreaming? “Grandf—”

A hand touched her shoulder and she jumped. “Deep breath, nice and slow,” a familiar, husky voice whispered in her ear.

“Henry.” She grabbed his hand and turned to face him, her fiancé clad from head to toe in strange leather-forced clothing, a sword buckled to his back. Emmaline forgot all her anger and leaned into his chest, clutching him tight. “Am I dead? I don’t want to be dead!”

“You’re inside the globe.” He caressed a hand through her hair and guided her to look at him as a giant dragon flew overhead, fire bursting from its open mouth. “Welcome to Helios.”

Ending Two

Emmaline reached for the handheld glass blower, her eyes skimming the pearl-handled pistol wedged under a twist of wire. She touched the smooth surface, anger burning in her heart, then picked up the blower and clicked it on.

Setting the base upright, she held the first shard to the edge and pulled the flame’s trigger. White-hot fire burned against the seams, melting the glass shards together. “Water please.”

As if he’d read her mind, her grandfather set a bucket of melted ice next to her almost immediately. With the two pieces fixed together, she picked up the globe by the base and dunked the orange-hot glass into the water.

Heat—cool—repeat. For the next few hours, she chatted with her grandfather as she worked, trying to talk about anything except Henry, but he always steered the conversation back.

As the last piece cooled in the water, steam rose off the surface of the metal bucket until the glass was cool enough to touch.

Emmaline pulled off her gloves and held the base in her hands, most of the heat diffused by now. “Do you know the history of this one?”

A faint smile touched her grandfather’s lips as he leaned back in his chair, a clock chiming softly nearby. It must be nearly tea time. Her grandfather opened the book in his lap and adjusted his spectacles. “My dear Emmaline, why don’t you ask Henry.”

She whipped around, expecting to see Henry leaned against the door frame, but a vast ocean stretched to the horizon as the wall clock’s chime faded to a flock of bioluminescent gulls calling into the storm.

“Grandfather?” Emmaline turned a slow circle, the globe library gone, replaced by storm clouds over sea and a strong smell of brine in the air. “Grandfather!”

A clock gonged so loud she had to cover her ears. Emmaline turned toward the source, her eyes trailing a waterfall upward to steel gears and rusted pipes as large as a castle on a high tower.

Her heart raced in panic. Was she dead? Dreaming? “Grandfather!”

She dropped to a crouch, the glass blower in her hand and her suitcase open beside her. The house had disappeared—she had to be dreaming.

A hand touched her shoulder and she jumped. “Deep breath, nice and slow,” a familiar, husky voice whispered in her ear.

“Henry.” The panic in her heart shifted to cold anger as the memory of him entangled with Constance clawed its way into her mind. Maybe she hadn’t forgiven him.

She set the blower down so she didn’t hurt him, but her fingers traced over the pistol, wrapping around the hilt as she stood and faced her fiancé. “You broke the rules.”

For one brief second anger burned in his eyes. Henry had grown his hair out to a long, disheveled state. It had been short two weeks ago, but now the locks hung around his eyes and brushed the strange wine-colored robe he wore. “You came after me, Emmaline. Did you bring the watch?”

She ignored his words, unable to let go of the anger she’d seen. He’d claimed victim when she’d caught them together, and despite the fact that Constance would open her legs for anyone that breathed, Emmaline no longer believed his innocence.

He grabbed her arms and shook her out of her thoughts. “Emma, I need the watch so I can go back home!”

I.

Not we, I.

It was too much. She pressed the gun against his side and pulled the trigger. “You kissed her, didn’t you?”

Henry’s eyes were wide as he released his hold on her. “You bitch, you shot me!”

“No, Henry.” As he fell to his knees, she shoved his chest with her foot until he fell to his back. “I set you free. Now you can go home.”

She raised the gun and fired another bullet between his eyes. Two for Henry, two for Constance. She only had two left and one more person to kill.

The Next Steps

It’s been a long week, so I need to re-read the story. But I already know there are several areas I want to flesh out, a few spots I’d like to inject a little more fantasy world-building, and the biggest thing nagging me is that the world inside the glass globe doesn’t feel all that different from Emmaline’s world. I want the two to be in stark contrast to help feed her horror, confusion, and disorientation. Or maybe I want Emmaline to already know all about the globe worlds.

This week I’ll be fleshing out those thoughts and really deepening the emotion in this piece. And I really want to consider more of what’s happening with Constance. Is she just a trash woman who threw herself at Emmaline’s fiancé, is she part of an ongoing love affair, or is there something more sinister happening?

By the way, this is Constance:

As soon as I saw this woman’s image, the petty jealousy shone through and I had to make her the centerpiece for this story’s blend. She may not end up in the story apart from some angry thoughts, but I really like that her actions–whatever the motivation–really help feed Emmaline’s bitterness. So each week I’ll be adding a new layer to this image until the final draft & final aesthetic is complete.

That’s it for today! If you want to get a taste of how I envision Emmaline’s two worlds, you can visit my Pinterest wall. Be sure to check out www.writerinmotion.com for all the juicy details on how to participate with your own short story. Or you can follow along on Twitter with the hashtag #WriterInMotion.

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K.J. Harrowick is a freelance web developer and graphic designer with more than a decade of industry experience on a diverse range of projects. As a child, she fell in love with fantasy worlds like those found in the books of Andre Norton and Mercedes Lackey, which continued well into adulthood with the worlds of Ivan Cat and Rand & Robin Miller. She began to world build and create fantasy languages in 2004, and in 2014 it became a full-blown passion to write and publish her own books. Currently she resides in the rainy Pacific Northwest where she works with a broad range of client projects, plots how to destroy her characters’ lives, and occasionally falls down rabbit holes.