Snowflake Method (cont.)-C

Snowflake Method (cont.)

by Adam Huddleston

 

Last week, we went through Step 4 of the snowflake method for writing created by Randy Ingermanson.  This week, I will continue with Step 5 for my story. In Step 5, you’re supposed to write up a one-page description of each major character (a synopsis told from their point of view) and a half-page for each minor character.  To keep this blog from getting too large, I will focus on one character a week.

Dwight John Lara-

I was born in Nassau, Bahamas on December 26, 1994.  Both of my parents worked in local government, as aids in the House of Assembly.  I grew up playing many sports, but baseball and soccer are where I excelled.

When I was a young boy, there was an old man living in one of the poorer areas of Adelaide Village. He would do magic shows for the kids and treat us to ice cream if we were lucky.  I remember he had a big hound dog with one eye missing that always slept under his chair as he enchanted us with disappearing coins and card tricks.

One day, he pulled me aside as the rest of my friends were leaving for home.  He asked if I wanted to learn some of his magic. I said of course. He brought me inside his little hut and sat me down in front of a blazing fireplace.  Why it was lit in July was beyond me, but, he was a little off.

“How good of a baseball player do you want to be,” he asked.

“The best, Mr. Rogue,” I responded.

“Then let me teach you something…special.”

He then proceeded to impart upon me a knowledge I eventually wished I had never learned.

Years later, I graduated from high school and received a scholarship to play at a small college in Mississippi.  Although my team finished each season well back of first place, I never used the secrets Mr. Rogue had taught me.  I was too afraid of being caught.

Eventually, I wound up playing for an adult baseball league in Dallas, Texas.  After an embarrassingly long losing drought, I decided to put my dark teachings to use.  I only employed it a handful of times, but I noticed that we always won those games.

In the summer of 2018, I received a call from the Amarillo Yellow Jackets, asking if I was interested in playing center-field for them.  I figured this was the closest I would ever be to the majors, so I quickly agreed. Besides, how could I turn down a contract worth six digits?

Their season was at the halfway point and they were not even close to sniffing the top of their division.  I played my heart out for them but found myself batting a little south of .200. Our manager, Stephen Craight, started looking at me in a way that made me feel my days with them were numbered if something didn’t change.

After a road trip were the team won one-of-six, I decided to dust off my “little bag of tricks”.  I found a small room (not much more than a broom closet) in the back of our locker room, and performed the dark ritual before our first home game.  We won, and I heard later that a man had suffered a fatal heart attack midway through the sixth inning.

I continued the same spell for the next two nights, and we were victorious in both of them as well; at the expense of an elderly lady who had a stroke and a drunk fan who choked on an enormous hot dog know as “The Big Donger.”  Deep down, I began to truly feel remorseful. I always hoped that whomever was dying, it was just their time to go.

By the time the playoffs rolled around, I was ready to stop the hexes all together.  Craight came to me one night and told me he’d seen what I was up to, and that I better continue.  When I informed him that I wouldn’t, he threatened me and my family.

An hour before the championship game, he was nowhere to be found.  We were managed by Johnny Langston, our assistant skipper. We won the game, even without my black magic, and moments after the last out I received a phone call that my son had been murdered in his seat in the stadium.

I walked through the locker room in a daze, and there, coming out of that little broom closet was Craight.  Without even thinking, I attacked him and we struggled for several minutes before I was able to kill him. I found a large blade in the “magic room” and separated his head from his body.

Holding his head in my left hand, I walked calmly out to centerfield, completely ignoring the cheering of the fans and the confetti that blew around in the Amarillo wind.  A dozen stadium security guards surrounded me with their guns drawn. With my boy gone, I had nothing else to live for. I sucked in a deep breath, and whispered my final spell.  The entire stadium collapsed inward, killing everyone.

 

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