My latest story written for a Locution contest. This time the prompt was to take a first line from another work, be it story, movie, song, etc, and use it as your first line. I chose Peter Pan.
***
Locution, Issue 3
Monday, October 27, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Locution Contest: Robyn's Hoods
So, long time no see, eh? ;} In the end, it seems I haven't managed to start Roux's 30 Days of Editing. I still want to do it, but I felt that, despite the first 30 days, I didn't really have enough to edit. Plus, editing's hard. ^_^
This latest piece was written for a contest on Locution. The prompt was to write a modern myth, taking a myth, legend, fairytale, or folktale, and setting it in the present or the future. I chose Robin Hood, and this is a result.
I had a lot of fun writing this. I also found it a lot easier to write than previous contests, probably due to the 30 days challenge. Most of it was written in just one day, which is quite a feat for me.
I may just write some more. I think there may be some potential here, provided I get over my block with editing.
***
The guard took a sip of his coffee before setting it down. He turned to the array of CCTV screens and Robyn silently willed him to drink some more. She tried to remember the good doctor’s reassurances that simpler plans were best, but it was hard; after several minutes of waiting her heart had now found a new home somewhere in her throat.
Robyn checked her watch, ignoring Alana as she shifted in her seat, tapping a fingernail on the metal table. John was a comforting, solid presence on her right, silent as he watched the rest of the café clientele. This late at night there weren’t many people out, but there were workers coming off their shifts, hungry for a late-night snack, and others coming on, in need of preemptive caffeine to keep them awake until morning.
After much thought they’d chosen the café for several reasons. Its view was one; from her seat at the window Robyn could see across the road and into the foyer of the bank where the guard sat at his desk. It also made the current part of their plan that much easier; this particular guard was a regular at the café, and it was amazing what one could achieve with a simple sleight of hand.
The guard yawned and reached for his coffee. Robyn grinned. Several gulps later and his head lolled back, mouth open wide. He probably snored.
“Ready to go?” Her companions nodded and they rose to leave. Robyn dropped a few bucks onto the metal tabletop, and then they were gone.
Around the back of the bank Robyn couldn’t help feeling excited. So far everything was going to plan, and whatever was in that stuff the doctor gave them, it worked like a charm. She said so to Alana and John.
Alana rolled her eyes. “Yeah, great. One guard down. Now we’ve just got the cameras, pick-proof locks, silent alarm, and the rest of the guards to worry about.” She stopped in front of a plain metal door and took a small electronic device out of her rucksack. With its cable connected to the lock, numbers on the screen started cycling through combinations.
“Well, our man John Little can take them on, can’t you, big guy?” Robyn slapped him on the back. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. This was normal; John didn’t talk much, though when he did, you listened.
“Okay, so John knocks out the guards,” said Alana. “But you know who’s stuck with the rest? Me.”
The device beeped, and inside the door a bolt clunked open.
Robyn slung an arm over Alana’s shoulder. “That’s because you’re the best there is. Alana Dale—hacker extraordinaire.”
Alana couldn’t stop a smile from flitting across her lips. She pushed the door open. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
The corridor was dim. Alana tapped into the security system and turned off the cameras and the silent alarm. With that taken care of, they found the nearest office. Apparently, while the system was impossible to hack from the outside, any computer inside the bank would do. Robyn didn’t really understand all the hi-tech stuff, but she trusted Alana to know what she was doing.
John stood at the door and Robyn took a place behind the desk, watching as Alana logged on to the computer and started to work, humming a tune softly. Her gloved fingers flew across the keys.
“Damn,” she whispered.
“What is it?” Robyn peered over her shoulder.
“The transfer.” Alana gestured impatiently at the screen. “It’s not here. Someone changed the schedule.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the transfer we planned to reroute isn’t going through tomorrow. It can happen sometimes; Midas Inc must have decided to change the day to discourage—well, to discourage people like us.”
John cleared his throat and they both turned to him. He peered through the crack in the door, one eye on the room and one eye on the corridor. “Guard changes in a few minutes,” he said. “We need to go now, before they find our sleeping friend.”
“Okay. Okay,” said Robyn, running a hand through her hair. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, but that’s okay. Alana, are there any other transfers scheduled for tomorrow?”
Alana searched the records. “Yeah, one. Fifty million dollars from a company called Tri Corp, to be transferred to some unnamed account.”
“Sounds fishy enough to me. You said this bank has a lot of crooked customers?”
“Yeah, but we can’t know anything for sure. For all we know, we could be robbing from someone legit.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Robyn,” John said. “We said we’d only rob from the rich and corrupt. Doing this when they could be legit is just too risky. We can’t make a mistake on our first job.”
Robyn looked from John to Alana. “But the odds are against it, right?” she asked. “What’s the point of planning this and coming away with nothing? We know this bank is rotten. Isn’t that enough?”
John just shrugged and turned back to watch for guards. Alana made a face.
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
It took less than a minute for Alana to change the number of the account the money was to transfer into. There was only one final thing to do—leave a calling card. Robyn slipped it under the keyboard and followed the others out the door. They would both think it too risky, but somehow she forgot to mention it.
The next morning found them back at their hideout. It was in the rough part of town, known as Barnsdale to the locals, a labyrinth of poky, rowhouse apartments and abandoned warehouses. It was in one of these warehouses, on Watling Street, that Robyn and her friends made their home.
Robyn was dozing in her bunk when Will Scarlet climbed up the ladder and rudely disturbed her. He’d been annoyed that she hadn’t picked him to come on the first job, and she thought his temper had finally flared as a result. As it turned out, he was angry for a somewhat different reason.
“What,” he asked, thrusting a newspaper into her hand, “Is this?”
Robyn stared at the headline blearily. She read it once, then blinked several times. She read it again, but sadly the words were still the same.
“Shit.”
“‘Shit’ is right! In what universe, exactly, does ‘Tri Corp’ sound like ‘Midas Inc’?”
Robyn sighed and looked past Will’s scowling face. Alana was at her computer, looking forlorn. John sat nearby, pointedly ignoring the scene as Doctor Saffiya Djaq bandaged his arm. They’d run into a bit of trouble on the way out of the bank, but he would be fine.
A door slammed open and Robyn jumped. John reached for his gun, but relaxed when he recognized the intruder. A blur of a boy slid to an abrupt stop at the foot of the bunk bed, breathing heavily. “Robyn, Robyn,” Much wailed, “Is it true?” A tear threatened to leak down his cheek, and Robyn resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Much Miller had found them like a stray puppy, and like a stray puppy he just couldn’t take a hint. He fancied himself one of the gang, but at 10 he was much too young, and much too small, and much too Much to be of any use. Alana encouraged him, to Robyn’s dismay, and the rest of them just observed him with faint amusement.
“It is true,” she explained to Much, though more for Will’s benefit, “But it was a mistake. We thought Tri Corp were bad guys. We didn’t know the money was going to charity. So we’re going to fix this, okay?”
Much sniffed and nodded.
“Why don’t you go over and help Alana research Tri Corp and this charity?” Robyn said.
The boy scampered over to Alana’s den of electronics, where he bounced on the balls of his feet in excitement. Alana smiled.
Robyn turned her attention back to Will. He was still frowning, but past experiences told Robyn he would soon cool off. Which was good, because she would need his support if they were to sort this mess out.
“Mind if I read this?” she asked, holding up the newspaper. “Then we can start to plan.”
“Fine,” said Will grudgingly. He jumped to the ground and stalked away, leaving Robyn to the paper.
Last night, around one o’clock in the morning, three thieves broke into Doncaster Bank and stole 50 million dollars. They incapacitated one guard with a barbiturate, and two other guards were assaulted when the thieves made their escape.
The police say this was an unusual crime, in that no money was stolen from the vault. Instead the thieves hacked into the bank’s computer system and redirected a transfer that was going to be made the next day. The money belonged to local company called Tri Corp, and was destined for a city charity.
At this time the police say they have only a few leads. One is a card left by the computer that police suspect was hacked. On it is a robin, a red-chested songbird native to Britain. Lately there have been rumors of a female thief known only as “Robyn,” and although police have yet to name her a suspect they say the connection is suspicious.
“These thugs, these hoods, need to know they can’t cross us,” says Sheriff Nottingum. “If this ‘Robyn’ is involved, we’ll find her.”
The police say they have been unable to trace the transfer, and ask that anyone who has information about the money or the perpetrators to call the station. Tips can be anonymous, but Tri Corp has offered a $100,000 reward for any information that leads to the return of their money.
Well, Nottingum had made the connection. Robyn would have been surprised if he hadn’t, but now the job had gone sour this posed a problem. Taking credit for stealing from crooks and giving to charities was one thing. Being blamed for stealing from a charity was a different one entirely.
Robyn folded the paper and hopped down from her bunk. She walked over to see how Alana was getting on.
“Find anything?” she asked.
Alana shook her head. “Not really. I’ve checked news articles about both the charity and Tri Corp, and only one implied something might be going on. The rest say nothing but good things, about both the organizations.”
“Who wrote the article? What did it say?”
“Let me see.” Alana clicked her mouse. “It was written by a Marian Fitzwalter. In it she claims that Tri Corp’s books are fishy, but she couldn’t back it up. The paper retracted the story a few days later. Why, do you think she was onto something?”
“Maybe. Can you look into their financial records?”
Alana cracked her knuckles and grinned. “Have I ever let you down?”
Robyn patted Alana on the shoulder, leaving her to her work as Much watched on with wide eyes.
Doctor Djaq had finished bandaging John’s wound and was putting her supplies away when Robyn joined them.
“Thanks, doctor. For that stuff you gave us, and for this.”
The doctor frowned. “Just be careful, Robyn. If I hear you’ve had a fight with the Sheriff and got yourself hurt, I might not be able to help. There are only so many laws I’m prepared to break.”
Robyn put a hand over one of the doctor’s and smiled. “Don’t worry about me so much,” she teased.
“Ha, worry!” Doctor Djaq lips quirked into a wry smile, but she sobered quickly. “What are you going to do? The public will be against you from the very beginning.”
“Well, first I’m going to have a little chat, maybe make a new friend.” Robyn looked at Will and John. “Want to come along, you two?”
Marian Fitzwalter, it turned out, lived in a house on Leaford Lane. The garden was neat, with rose bushes lining the path to the door. The door was blue, and it had a brass knocker. Robyn stood on the step, with Will and John behind her, and rapped the knocker twice.
It was still morning, but a Saturday, and luck was with them. A woman opened the door and peered out. She had dark, shoulder length hair and silver-rimmed glasses.
“Miss Fitzwalter?”
“Yes, but I’m sorry; I’m really not interested in whatever it is you’re selling.”
“Oh, no! We’re not selling anything. I came to talk to you about a story you wrote on Tri Corp and their financial situation.”
Robyn got a quick glimpse of Miss Fitzwalter’s eyes widening before the door slammed in her face. She knocked on the door again.
“Miss Fitzwalter, I don’t mean any harm. My name’s Robyn, and I just wondered if there was anything behind your suspicions. I—I have an interest in seeing Tri Corp discredited.”
The door slowly opened a crack. “Are you the Robyn everyone’s talking about?”
“Maybe.” Robyn shifted on the step. “Look, if I get you some information that proves Tri Corp is crooked, will you get it printed?”
“I can try.” The door opened a bit more. “If you are who you say you are, how come you don’t already know what they’ve been up to?” she asked. “You stole from them, didn’t you?”
“Well, let’s just say that wasn’t part of the plan.”
Miss Fitzwalter agreed to do her best to get the story printed, and Robyn, Will, and John, returned to Barnsdale. Much had gone home to his mother, but Alana was still glued to her computer screen.
Robyn pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. “How’s it going?”
“You’ll see,” promised Alana. She hummed a bar of music, then looked up. “Oh, before I forget, they’ve named us.” She waved at the TV nearby. A woman reporter stood in front of Doncaster Bank, microphone in hand. The sound was off, but subtitles crawled along the bottom of the screen. “They took your name and Nottingum’s quote about hoods, combined them, and came up with Robyn’s Hoods,” she scoffed.
Robyn pretended to think about it. “Oh, I don’t know. I kind of like it. What do you think, Will?”
Will laughed. “Us, hoods? If they ever catch us, they’ll be in for a surprise. Still, it does sorta have a ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Aha,” exclaimed Alana. “I’ve found something. Take a look at this, Robyn.” She pointed at a bunch of numbers on the screen, and explained. “The charity that money was supposed to go to was a fake. They’ve done something like this before. See this? They donated ten million a year ago, and got a tax break. But since the charity doesn’t technically exist, they pretended the charity bought goods from them with the money. They doubled the money, just with a little bit of paperwork.”
“Where did the money end up?”
“Offshore accounts, it looks like. But that doesn’t even really matter. This proves they were up to no good.”
“That’s great. Not only are they discredited, but this also means the money we stole was dirty. Can you get that to Marian Fitzwalter?”
“No prob.”
“Here that, boys?” Robyn called to John and Will, grinning. “Problem solved.”
The next day, Sheriff Nottingum was sitting in his office reading his morning paper when there was a knock at the window. It was opened before he could move, and in clambered a woman dressed in green. He started to call out for help, but the gun trained on him convinced him otherwise.
“Enjoying your paper, Sheriff?” The woman smirked and snatched the newspaper from his hands. She shook it flat dramatically. “I particularly like the headline: ‘TRI CORP INVESTIGATED FOR FRAUD,’ although LOCAL CHARITIES RECEIVE ANNOYMOUS DONATIONS; DONATIONS TOTAL 50 MIL, ROBIN CARD MAILED TO EACH’ is quite nice, too.”
“Who are you?” the Sheriff demanded. “What do you want?”
“Isn’t it obvious? The name’s Robyn, and I just wanted to get acquainted; that’s all. I think we’re going to be seeing quite a lot of each other from now on.”
This latest piece was written for a contest on Locution. The prompt was to write a modern myth, taking a myth, legend, fairytale, or folktale, and setting it in the present or the future. I chose Robin Hood, and this is a result.
I had a lot of fun writing this. I also found it a lot easier to write than previous contests, probably due to the 30 days challenge. Most of it was written in just one day, which is quite a feat for me.
I may just write some more. I think there may be some potential here, provided I get over my block with editing.
***
ROBYN’S HOODS
The guard took a sip of his coffee before setting it down. He turned to the array of CCTV screens and Robyn silently willed him to drink some more. She tried to remember the good doctor’s reassurances that simpler plans were best, but it was hard; after several minutes of waiting her heart had now found a new home somewhere in her throat.
Robyn checked her watch, ignoring Alana as she shifted in her seat, tapping a fingernail on the metal table. John was a comforting, solid presence on her right, silent as he watched the rest of the café clientele. This late at night there weren’t many people out, but there were workers coming off their shifts, hungry for a late-night snack, and others coming on, in need of preemptive caffeine to keep them awake until morning.
After much thought they’d chosen the café for several reasons. Its view was one; from her seat at the window Robyn could see across the road and into the foyer of the bank where the guard sat at his desk. It also made the current part of their plan that much easier; this particular guard was a regular at the café, and it was amazing what one could achieve with a simple sleight of hand.
The guard yawned and reached for his coffee. Robyn grinned. Several gulps later and his head lolled back, mouth open wide. He probably snored.
“Ready to go?” Her companions nodded and they rose to leave. Robyn dropped a few bucks onto the metal tabletop, and then they were gone.
Around the back of the bank Robyn couldn’t help feeling excited. So far everything was going to plan, and whatever was in that stuff the doctor gave them, it worked like a charm. She said so to Alana and John.
Alana rolled her eyes. “Yeah, great. One guard down. Now we’ve just got the cameras, pick-proof locks, silent alarm, and the rest of the guards to worry about.” She stopped in front of a plain metal door and took a small electronic device out of her rucksack. With its cable connected to the lock, numbers on the screen started cycling through combinations.
“Well, our man John Little can take them on, can’t you, big guy?” Robyn slapped him on the back. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. This was normal; John didn’t talk much, though when he did, you listened.
“Okay, so John knocks out the guards,” said Alana. “But you know who’s stuck with the rest? Me.”
The device beeped, and inside the door a bolt clunked open.
Robyn slung an arm over Alana’s shoulder. “That’s because you’re the best there is. Alana Dale—hacker extraordinaire.”
Alana couldn’t stop a smile from flitting across her lips. She pushed the door open. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
The corridor was dim. Alana tapped into the security system and turned off the cameras and the silent alarm. With that taken care of, they found the nearest office. Apparently, while the system was impossible to hack from the outside, any computer inside the bank would do. Robyn didn’t really understand all the hi-tech stuff, but she trusted Alana to know what she was doing.
John stood at the door and Robyn took a place behind the desk, watching as Alana logged on to the computer and started to work, humming a tune softly. Her gloved fingers flew across the keys.
“Damn,” she whispered.
“What is it?” Robyn peered over her shoulder.
“The transfer.” Alana gestured impatiently at the screen. “It’s not here. Someone changed the schedule.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the transfer we planned to reroute isn’t going through tomorrow. It can happen sometimes; Midas Inc must have decided to change the day to discourage—well, to discourage people like us.”
John cleared his throat and they both turned to him. He peered through the crack in the door, one eye on the room and one eye on the corridor. “Guard changes in a few minutes,” he said. “We need to go now, before they find our sleeping friend.”
“Okay. Okay,” said Robyn, running a hand through her hair. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, but that’s okay. Alana, are there any other transfers scheduled for tomorrow?”
Alana searched the records. “Yeah, one. Fifty million dollars from a company called Tri Corp, to be transferred to some unnamed account.”
“Sounds fishy enough to me. You said this bank has a lot of crooked customers?”
“Yeah, but we can’t know anything for sure. For all we know, we could be robbing from someone legit.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Robyn,” John said. “We said we’d only rob from the rich and corrupt. Doing this when they could be legit is just too risky. We can’t make a mistake on our first job.”
Robyn looked from John to Alana. “But the odds are against it, right?” she asked. “What’s the point of planning this and coming away with nothing? We know this bank is rotten. Isn’t that enough?”
John just shrugged and turned back to watch for guards. Alana made a face.
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
It took less than a minute for Alana to change the number of the account the money was to transfer into. There was only one final thing to do—leave a calling card. Robyn slipped it under the keyboard and followed the others out the door. They would both think it too risky, but somehow she forgot to mention it.
The next morning found them back at their hideout. It was in the rough part of town, known as Barnsdale to the locals, a labyrinth of poky, rowhouse apartments and abandoned warehouses. It was in one of these warehouses, on Watling Street, that Robyn and her friends made their home.
Robyn was dozing in her bunk when Will Scarlet climbed up the ladder and rudely disturbed her. He’d been annoyed that she hadn’t picked him to come on the first job, and she thought his temper had finally flared as a result. As it turned out, he was angry for a somewhat different reason.
“What,” he asked, thrusting a newspaper into her hand, “Is this?”
Robyn stared at the headline blearily. She read it once, then blinked several times. She read it again, but sadly the words were still the same.
50 MILLION STOLEN FROM TRI CORP
MONEY INTENDED FOR LOCAL CHARITY
MONEY INTENDED FOR LOCAL CHARITY
“Shit.”
“‘Shit’ is right! In what universe, exactly, does ‘Tri Corp’ sound like ‘Midas Inc’?”
Robyn sighed and looked past Will’s scowling face. Alana was at her computer, looking forlorn. John sat nearby, pointedly ignoring the scene as Doctor Saffiya Djaq bandaged his arm. They’d run into a bit of trouble on the way out of the bank, but he would be fine.
A door slammed open and Robyn jumped. John reached for his gun, but relaxed when he recognized the intruder. A blur of a boy slid to an abrupt stop at the foot of the bunk bed, breathing heavily. “Robyn, Robyn,” Much wailed, “Is it true?” A tear threatened to leak down his cheek, and Robyn resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Much Miller had found them like a stray puppy, and like a stray puppy he just couldn’t take a hint. He fancied himself one of the gang, but at 10 he was much too young, and much too small, and much too Much to be of any use. Alana encouraged him, to Robyn’s dismay, and the rest of them just observed him with faint amusement.
“It is true,” she explained to Much, though more for Will’s benefit, “But it was a mistake. We thought Tri Corp were bad guys. We didn’t know the money was going to charity. So we’re going to fix this, okay?”
Much sniffed and nodded.
“Why don’t you go over and help Alana research Tri Corp and this charity?” Robyn said.
The boy scampered over to Alana’s den of electronics, where he bounced on the balls of his feet in excitement. Alana smiled.
Robyn turned her attention back to Will. He was still frowning, but past experiences told Robyn he would soon cool off. Which was good, because she would need his support if they were to sort this mess out.
“Mind if I read this?” she asked, holding up the newspaper. “Then we can start to plan.”
“Fine,” said Will grudgingly. He jumped to the ground and stalked away, leaving Robyn to the paper.
50 MILLION STOLEN FROM TRI CORP
MONEY INTENDED FOR LOCAL CHARITY
MONEY INTENDED FOR LOCAL CHARITY
Last night, around one o’clock in the morning, three thieves broke into Doncaster Bank and stole 50 million dollars. They incapacitated one guard with a barbiturate, and two other guards were assaulted when the thieves made their escape.
The police say this was an unusual crime, in that no money was stolen from the vault. Instead the thieves hacked into the bank’s computer system and redirected a transfer that was going to be made the next day. The money belonged to local company called Tri Corp, and was destined for a city charity.
At this time the police say they have only a few leads. One is a card left by the computer that police suspect was hacked. On it is a robin, a red-chested songbird native to Britain. Lately there have been rumors of a female thief known only as “Robyn,” and although police have yet to name her a suspect they say the connection is suspicious.
“These thugs, these hoods, need to know they can’t cross us,” says Sheriff Nottingum. “If this ‘Robyn’ is involved, we’ll find her.”
The police say they have been unable to trace the transfer, and ask that anyone who has information about the money or the perpetrators to call the station. Tips can be anonymous, but Tri Corp has offered a $100,000 reward for any information that leads to the return of their money.
Well, Nottingum had made the connection. Robyn would have been surprised if he hadn’t, but now the job had gone sour this posed a problem. Taking credit for stealing from crooks and giving to charities was one thing. Being blamed for stealing from a charity was a different one entirely.
Robyn folded the paper and hopped down from her bunk. She walked over to see how Alana was getting on.
“Find anything?” she asked.
Alana shook her head. “Not really. I’ve checked news articles about both the charity and Tri Corp, and only one implied something might be going on. The rest say nothing but good things, about both the organizations.”
“Who wrote the article? What did it say?”
“Let me see.” Alana clicked her mouse. “It was written by a Marian Fitzwalter. In it she claims that Tri Corp’s books are fishy, but she couldn’t back it up. The paper retracted the story a few days later. Why, do you think she was onto something?”
“Maybe. Can you look into their financial records?”
Alana cracked her knuckles and grinned. “Have I ever let you down?”
Robyn patted Alana on the shoulder, leaving her to her work as Much watched on with wide eyes.
Doctor Djaq had finished bandaging John’s wound and was putting her supplies away when Robyn joined them.
“Thanks, doctor. For that stuff you gave us, and for this.”
The doctor frowned. “Just be careful, Robyn. If I hear you’ve had a fight with the Sheriff and got yourself hurt, I might not be able to help. There are only so many laws I’m prepared to break.”
Robyn put a hand over one of the doctor’s and smiled. “Don’t worry about me so much,” she teased.
“Ha, worry!” Doctor Djaq lips quirked into a wry smile, but she sobered quickly. “What are you going to do? The public will be against you from the very beginning.”
“Well, first I’m going to have a little chat, maybe make a new friend.” Robyn looked at Will and John. “Want to come along, you two?”
Marian Fitzwalter, it turned out, lived in a house on Leaford Lane. The garden was neat, with rose bushes lining the path to the door. The door was blue, and it had a brass knocker. Robyn stood on the step, with Will and John behind her, and rapped the knocker twice.
It was still morning, but a Saturday, and luck was with them. A woman opened the door and peered out. She had dark, shoulder length hair and silver-rimmed glasses.
“Miss Fitzwalter?”
“Yes, but I’m sorry; I’m really not interested in whatever it is you’re selling.”
“Oh, no! We’re not selling anything. I came to talk to you about a story you wrote on Tri Corp and their financial situation.”
Robyn got a quick glimpse of Miss Fitzwalter’s eyes widening before the door slammed in her face. She knocked on the door again.
“Miss Fitzwalter, I don’t mean any harm. My name’s Robyn, and I just wondered if there was anything behind your suspicions. I—I have an interest in seeing Tri Corp discredited.”
The door slowly opened a crack. “Are you the Robyn everyone’s talking about?”
“Maybe.” Robyn shifted on the step. “Look, if I get you some information that proves Tri Corp is crooked, will you get it printed?”
“I can try.” The door opened a bit more. “If you are who you say you are, how come you don’t already know what they’ve been up to?” she asked. “You stole from them, didn’t you?”
“Well, let’s just say that wasn’t part of the plan.”
Miss Fitzwalter agreed to do her best to get the story printed, and Robyn, Will, and John, returned to Barnsdale. Much had gone home to his mother, but Alana was still glued to her computer screen.
Robyn pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. “How’s it going?”
“You’ll see,” promised Alana. She hummed a bar of music, then looked up. “Oh, before I forget, they’ve named us.” She waved at the TV nearby. A woman reporter stood in front of Doncaster Bank, microphone in hand. The sound was off, but subtitles crawled along the bottom of the screen. “They took your name and Nottingum’s quote about hoods, combined them, and came up with Robyn’s Hoods,” she scoffed.
Robyn pretended to think about it. “Oh, I don’t know. I kind of like it. What do you think, Will?”
Will laughed. “Us, hoods? If they ever catch us, they’ll be in for a surprise. Still, it does sorta have a ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Aha,” exclaimed Alana. “I’ve found something. Take a look at this, Robyn.” She pointed at a bunch of numbers on the screen, and explained. “The charity that money was supposed to go to was a fake. They’ve done something like this before. See this? They donated ten million a year ago, and got a tax break. But since the charity doesn’t technically exist, they pretended the charity bought goods from them with the money. They doubled the money, just with a little bit of paperwork.”
“Where did the money end up?”
“Offshore accounts, it looks like. But that doesn’t even really matter. This proves they were up to no good.”
“That’s great. Not only are they discredited, but this also means the money we stole was dirty. Can you get that to Marian Fitzwalter?”
“No prob.”
“Here that, boys?” Robyn called to John and Will, grinning. “Problem solved.”
The next day, Sheriff Nottingum was sitting in his office reading his morning paper when there was a knock at the window. It was opened before he could move, and in clambered a woman dressed in green. He started to call out for help, but the gun trained on him convinced him otherwise.
“Enjoying your paper, Sheriff?” The woman smirked and snatched the newspaper from his hands. She shook it flat dramatically. “I particularly like the headline: ‘TRI CORP INVESTIGATED FOR FRAUD,’ although LOCAL CHARITIES RECEIVE ANNOYMOUS DONATIONS; DONATIONS TOTAL 50 MIL, ROBIN CARD MAILED TO EACH’ is quite nice, too.”
“Who are you?” the Sheriff demanded. “What do you want?”
“Isn’t it obvious? The name’s Robyn, and I just wanted to get acquainted; that’s all. I think we’re going to be seeing quite a lot of each other from now on.”
THE END?
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Day 30
I did more of a critique on Mimir's Well, but didn't get to anything else today. I feel that's a bit of a cop out, but I think waiting another day to finish would probably be worse.
Huzzah, I'm done? ^_^
I shall begin Roux's challenge in a few days, I think. Perhaps every other day, with new writing on the off days. I've quite enjoyed writing so often, even if it doesn't amount to much.
Huzzah, I'm done? ^_^
I shall begin Roux's challenge in a few days, I think. Perhaps every other day, with new writing on the off days. I've quite enjoyed writing so often, even if it doesn't amount to much.
Monday, July 14, 2008
One more day!
One more day and I shall have finished. I wrote a bit more of a critique on Roux's Mimir's Well (to be finished and posted tomorrow), but I thought my final day should have something creative. So, until tomorrow. ^_^
(Yeah, I know, silly of me to put it off one more day. I have a habit of getting distracted... Grar.)
(Yeah, I know, silly of me to put it off one more day. I have a habit of getting distracted... Grar.)
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Day 29
Bugger. I just realized I meant to continue my critique of Mimir's Well today. Hmph.
Anyway, I wasn't going to post this, but then I thought I would so you folks know I'm not slacking. It's Harry Potter fanfiction, so please bear with me. ;)
***
With that over and done with he returned to his studying. He located a spare bit of parchment and a quill and pot of ink, set them up on his desk, and sat down. At the top he wrote “Mental Landscape.” He thought for a moment, the tip of the quill hovering above the parchment, then started to write.
Environment must be either familiar or easy to fix in my mind. Hogwarts, maybe? No, too complicated. Perhaps an aspect of Hogwarts, like Gryffindor Tower. But it must be a place/environment in which I can imbue aspects with emotions and memories. I suppose I could hide things in my trunk. But what would the defensive and distracting elements be?
Something familiar… what about Quidditch?
Harry stopped and read the last sentence. It had just been a passing fancy, but as he thought it over it began to have more appeal.
Defensive element: Bludgers imbued with anger and negative emotions. If I’m in these mental landscapes, I could direct them with a bat towards the attacker.
Harry frowned in thought. In the margins he scribbled: Would the attacker show up in the landscape? He flipped through the book to a description of one person’s mental landscape. It seemed like an attacker would show up as some sort of entity, so Harry wrote a bolded YES underneath his scribble.
Distracting element: the Snitch, imbued with whatever I want the attacker to know—unimportant things, or misleading memories and emotions.
The book said that distracting elements worked well if they were either large or bright and shiny, or both. The Snitch, while shiny, was small, but if he directed it to fly around his attacker’s head it should work. That only left the protective element. Deciding to continue his theme, Harry returned to his parchment.
Protected element: the Quaffle, imbued with anything I don’t want the attacker to see. I can hold it myself, or maybe lock it in the Quidditch trunk.
Leaning back in his chair, Harry reread the parchment. Satisfied that it was at least a good place to start, he folded it twice and slipped it into his book. Having whispered “Grawp” to its spine he set it aside and moved to his bed. Once sitting comfortably, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine the feel of his Firebolt underneath his hands, the sound of the wind rushing past his ears, and the distinct glint of the Snitch.
Concentrating was difficult; the sound of a car honking several streets over jolted him out of the landscape, and not long after a cramp in his foot brought him out again. Gradually, though, he got a feel for it, and soon he had managed ten minutes of flying around on the pitch in search of a Snitch. It felt amazingly real, and Harry smiled, thinking it would have been a cool skill to have during some of the most boring of Binn’s lectures.
The book said it would be a while before the mental landscape would be strong enough to imbue with emotions and memories, and even longer before he’d be able to defend himself without falling into the visualization completely, but for the first time Harry felt he had a chance at mastering Occlumency. He snorted. Even if it didn’t get rid of his visions, a scenario he didn’t want to contemplate, it would be worth it just to prove Snape wrong.
***
Probably doesn't make any sense, since it's in the middle of Chapter Two, and an AU story to boot (it disregards books 6 and 7). Ah well. ^_^
Anyway, I wasn't going to post this, but then I thought I would so you folks know I'm not slacking. It's Harry Potter fanfiction, so please bear with me. ;)
***
With that over and done with he returned to his studying. He located a spare bit of parchment and a quill and pot of ink, set them up on his desk, and sat down. At the top he wrote “Mental Landscape.” He thought for a moment, the tip of the quill hovering above the parchment, then started to write.
Environment must be either familiar or easy to fix in my mind. Hogwarts, maybe? No, too complicated. Perhaps an aspect of Hogwarts, like Gryffindor Tower. But it must be a place/environment in which I can imbue aspects with emotions and memories. I suppose I could hide things in my trunk. But what would the defensive and distracting elements be?
Something familiar… what about Quidditch?
Harry stopped and read the last sentence. It had just been a passing fancy, but as he thought it over it began to have more appeal.
Defensive element: Bludgers imbued with anger and negative emotions. If I’m in these mental landscapes, I could direct them with a bat towards the attacker.
Harry frowned in thought. In the margins he scribbled: Would the attacker show up in the landscape? He flipped through the book to a description of one person’s mental landscape. It seemed like an attacker would show up as some sort of entity, so Harry wrote a bolded YES underneath his scribble.
Distracting element: the Snitch, imbued with whatever I want the attacker to know—unimportant things, or misleading memories and emotions.
The book said that distracting elements worked well if they were either large or bright and shiny, or both. The Snitch, while shiny, was small, but if he directed it to fly around his attacker’s head it should work. That only left the protective element. Deciding to continue his theme, Harry returned to his parchment.
Protected element: the Quaffle, imbued with anything I don’t want the attacker to see. I can hold it myself, or maybe lock it in the Quidditch trunk.
Leaning back in his chair, Harry reread the parchment. Satisfied that it was at least a good place to start, he folded it twice and slipped it into his book. Having whispered “Grawp” to its spine he set it aside and moved to his bed. Once sitting comfortably, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine the feel of his Firebolt underneath his hands, the sound of the wind rushing past his ears, and the distinct glint of the Snitch.
Concentrating was difficult; the sound of a car honking several streets over jolted him out of the landscape, and not long after a cramp in his foot brought him out again. Gradually, though, he got a feel for it, and soon he had managed ten minutes of flying around on the pitch in search of a Snitch. It felt amazingly real, and Harry smiled, thinking it would have been a cool skill to have during some of the most boring of Binn’s lectures.
The book said it would be a while before the mental landscape would be strong enough to imbue with emotions and memories, and even longer before he’d be able to defend himself without falling into the visualization completely, but for the first time Harry felt he had a chance at mastering Occlumency. He snorted. Even if it didn’t get rid of his visions, a scenario he didn’t want to contemplate, it would be worth it just to prove Snape wrong.
***
Probably doesn't make any sense, since it's in the middle of Chapter Two, and an AU story to boot (it disregards books 6 and 7). Ah well. ^_^
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Er, I went to the movies today...
It was not aborted this time, which was fun, but it did leave me rather tired.
I'm not exactly ending on bang, am I? More like a whimper. ^_^
I'm not exactly ending on bang, am I? More like a whimper. ^_^
Friday, July 11, 2008
Day 28
Did a bit of an edit of Roux's story that she posted on Megatokyo. Dunno if it counts, since I just nitpicked, really...
Yeah, it counts. :P
Yeah, it counts. :P
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Day 27
I thought I'd try some poetry for a change; it's not something I do very often, since there are so many others out there much better than I (Meri and Missedtarget, for example), but then I suppose that's the case with fiction and nonfiction, too. ^_^
***
We trudge through sodden fields, and climb the stiles
on old stone walls to startle skittish sheep
who graze upon the other side. The miles
of rolling moors and fissured limestone sleep
beneath the damp and murky mist. It floats
like swirling spindrift, droplets sliding down
our necks, and rocky outcrops loom like boats
emerging from the gloom. Below the town
sits nestled in the valley,
.
.
.
.
.
***
Eh, gotta go sleep, even if that means stopping mid-sentence. The poem's not entirely new, since I started it years ago, but there are a few new lines in there somewhere. The plan was a sonnet, but I haven't exactly managed enough lines yet. I'm finding rhymes are really quite limiting (I mean, "boats?" *shudder*), as is my general lack of skill. Ah well. ;}
***
We trudge through sodden fields, and climb the stiles
on old stone walls to startle skittish sheep
who graze upon the other side. The miles
of rolling moors and fissured limestone sleep
beneath the damp and murky mist. It floats
like swirling spindrift, droplets sliding down
our necks, and rocky outcrops loom like boats
emerging from the gloom. Below the town
sits nestled in the valley,
.
.
.
.
.
***
Eh, gotta go sleep, even if that means stopping mid-sentence. The poem's not entirely new, since I started it years ago, but there are a few new lines in there somewhere. The plan was a sonnet, but I haven't exactly managed enough lines yet. I'm finding rhymes are really quite limiting (I mean, "boats?" *shudder*), as is my general lack of skill. Ah well. ;}
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Day 26
This, if you'll recall, began here, and continued on Day 9.
***
"Pay?" The word was out of her mouth before she could stop it, and Nia cursed herself. If the man wanted to pay her, let him. He didn't have to know she would have fixed the droid for free.
"Yes, you silly girl. How much? Five credits? Ten?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a purse which clinked in his hand.
Nia bristled. What did he take her for? All she'd done was fix a loose connection, and she wasn't just another sleazy mechanic who robbed anyone in sight. "Two credits," she said, sticking out her chin.
The man stopped counting coins in his hand and appraised her again. His brows furrowed, and as he squinted at her she felt as if she was a Herlon desert beetle pinned to a display.
"You are a droid mechanic?"
She nodded, wondering where this was going. Wasn't that fact obvious?
"Would you like a job?"
The question was so unexpected Nia could only gape.
"I am a merchant and I own several ships," he explained impatiently. "One that is here for a few days is in need of a mechanic to repair the droids on board and keep them in good condition."
Nia grasped for something to say. A job! On a ship, no less! She didn't like this man, but if he owned the ships he certainly wouldn't be flying them. Just thinking of all the places a merchant vessel would visit made her dizzy.
"Yes!" The little hover droid beeped happily and she grinned at it.
The man abruptly turned on his heel. "This way then," he said, calling over his shoulder. "Quickly, now. I haven't got all day, you know."
Nia trotted after him, still too pleased with her luck to feel annoyed at his brisk manner.
***
Well, something's better than nothing, I suppose. I got a bit distracted today by a library book, Making Comics. A lot of it was more geared towards artists, but there was a chapter on writing. Much of the other stuff is helpful, too, since it teaches you how to think visually and imagine how best to write a story for an artist to illustrate it. Funfun. ^_^
***
"Pay?" The word was out of her mouth before she could stop it, and Nia cursed herself. If the man wanted to pay her, let him. He didn't have to know she would have fixed the droid for free.
"Yes, you silly girl. How much? Five credits? Ten?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a purse which clinked in his hand.
Nia bristled. What did he take her for? All she'd done was fix a loose connection, and she wasn't just another sleazy mechanic who robbed anyone in sight. "Two credits," she said, sticking out her chin.
The man stopped counting coins in his hand and appraised her again. His brows furrowed, and as he squinted at her she felt as if she was a Herlon desert beetle pinned to a display.
"You are a droid mechanic?"
She nodded, wondering where this was going. Wasn't that fact obvious?
"Would you like a job?"
The question was so unexpected Nia could only gape.
"I am a merchant and I own several ships," he explained impatiently. "One that is here for a few days is in need of a mechanic to repair the droids on board and keep them in good condition."
Nia grasped for something to say. A job! On a ship, no less! She didn't like this man, but if he owned the ships he certainly wouldn't be flying them. Just thinking of all the places a merchant vessel would visit made her dizzy.
"Yes!" The little hover droid beeped happily and she grinned at it.
The man abruptly turned on his heel. "This way then," he said, calling over his shoulder. "Quickly, now. I haven't got all day, you know."
Nia trotted after him, still too pleased with her luck to feel annoyed at his brisk manner.
***
Well, something's better than nothing, I suppose. I got a bit distracted today by a library book, Making Comics. A lot of it was more geared towards artists, but there was a chapter on writing. Much of the other stuff is helpful, too, since it teaches you how to think visually and imagine how best to write a story for an artist to illustrate it. Funfun. ^_^
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Ugh.
I really should've written something today. I feel so lazy! :(
Eh, I went to the doctor. And I wrote a lot yesterday. (Excuses, excuses...)
Eh, I went to the doctor. And I wrote a lot yesterday. (Excuses, excuses...)
Monday, July 7, 2008
Day 25
I saw WALL-E yesterday, and now I have an urge to dissect it. I don't usually do so, since I actually dislike it when people over-analyze movies. But hey, what the hell.
Now, first off, don't be fooled by WALL-E's cutesy exterior; this may be a kids movie, but in name only. Sure, it was silly, and geared towards kids, but there was quite a lot going on under the surface. Science fiction is well-known for it's examination of the human condition and contemporary issues, and I think that the things that the creators of WALL-E decided to touch on are an interesting commentary on the issues of today.
The first, and most obvious, is consumerism. In WALL-E, humans have deserted planet earth to escape the massive amounts of trash they've created; the mountains of garbage have literally made the planet uninhabitable. In the spectacular vistas there are advertisements galore, giant super stores, gas stations large enough for fifty cars, all of which have the Buy n Large logo. It's the ultimate Wal-Mart.
Depicting the future earth as covered in trash may seem like an exaggeration, and maybe it is. I doubt we'll ever get that far in our excess. Still, stories about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, a giant raft of plastic and other debris that accumulates due to the area's circular rotation, are eerily reminiscent of the possible future as shown in WALL-E.
A friend of mine, after we watched the movie, mentioned that she wished it had focused more on the environment. That would have been interesting, but I think it misses the point. By focusing on consumerism and excessive waste, the creators of WALL-E looked at the real cause of the environmental mess that we're in. Why are our forests and other natural habitats disappearing? Why is toxic waste finding its way into our rivers and oceans? How on earth did there get to be a giant raft of plastic in the middle of the sea? In the end it all comes down to stuff. We deplete our resources and destroy the natural world to make stuff. We create toxins through the manufacturing of stuff. And when we get tired of our stuff, it gets thrown away as waste.
Moving from the planet earth to aboard the spaceship Axiom one finds more social commentary. Much has been made of the humans and how fat they are in the movie; they've become so dependent on machines and robots that they never leave their hover chairs. But what's more interesting, at least in my view, is what the humans on Axiom do. Their interactions are regulated to talking to one another on holographic screens, so much so that even when they're floating right next to each other they don't look at each other. They just watch their screens.
Much of our interaction in the developed world these days is through technology, be it texting on a cell phone, posting on web forums, or conversing through email or instant messaging. This isn't necessarily a bad thing; new communications technologies have opened up faster ways of doing business, ways to talk to people abroad, and ways to connect with people who have similar interests but you'd never meet in real life. What WALL-E shows us, though, is that perhaps, like most things, this could be taken to far; in the end, nothing beats face-to-face interaction, and if we were to lose that we'd be losing a lot.
I could go on—how the "meals in a cup" found on Axiom are a commentary on our fast food society of today, for example. But I'd like to skip the end of the movie. (SPOILERS AHEAD!)
There's been a lot of talk lately about "green technologies" and how they're the future. They're being touted as the answer to our prayers, as the solution to our environmental, perhaps even our economic woes. But there's something fishy about them in my mind. We're led to believe that with the right technology we'll be able to wean ourselves of fossil fuels and go on our merry, over-consuming ways.
I do believe that green technologies are the answer, but there's a catch. I don't think we'll be able to live the same lives we do today. Will we fall back into the Dark Ages? Hardly. But there's something terribly ironic in the idea that we'll fix all our problems, which stem from our consumerist culture, by buying more stuff just because it's "green."
When the humans in WALL-E returned to earth, they returned to an earth in which technology had failed it. The plan to clean up the earth using robots like WALL-E has failed, and what do these humans do? They grow plants. The radically change their lives, moving from a consumerist culture to one that grows things, and builds things. And it's this change that turns the earth green again, not a continuation of their previous lives.
It makes you wonder what we'll have to do to make our earth green again.
Now, first off, don't be fooled by WALL-E's cutesy exterior; this may be a kids movie, but in name only. Sure, it was silly, and geared towards kids, but there was quite a lot going on under the surface. Science fiction is well-known for it's examination of the human condition and contemporary issues, and I think that the things that the creators of WALL-E decided to touch on are an interesting commentary on the issues of today.
The first, and most obvious, is consumerism. In WALL-E, humans have deserted planet earth to escape the massive amounts of trash they've created; the mountains of garbage have literally made the planet uninhabitable. In the spectacular vistas there are advertisements galore, giant super stores, gas stations large enough for fifty cars, all of which have the Buy n Large logo. It's the ultimate Wal-Mart.
Depicting the future earth as covered in trash may seem like an exaggeration, and maybe it is. I doubt we'll ever get that far in our excess. Still, stories about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, a giant raft of plastic and other debris that accumulates due to the area's circular rotation, are eerily reminiscent of the possible future as shown in WALL-E.
A friend of mine, after we watched the movie, mentioned that she wished it had focused more on the environment. That would have been interesting, but I think it misses the point. By focusing on consumerism and excessive waste, the creators of WALL-E looked at the real cause of the environmental mess that we're in. Why are our forests and other natural habitats disappearing? Why is toxic waste finding its way into our rivers and oceans? How on earth did there get to be a giant raft of plastic in the middle of the sea? In the end it all comes down to stuff. We deplete our resources and destroy the natural world to make stuff. We create toxins through the manufacturing of stuff. And when we get tired of our stuff, it gets thrown away as waste.
Moving from the planet earth to aboard the spaceship Axiom one finds more social commentary. Much has been made of the humans and how fat they are in the movie; they've become so dependent on machines and robots that they never leave their hover chairs. But what's more interesting, at least in my view, is what the humans on Axiom do. Their interactions are regulated to talking to one another on holographic screens, so much so that even when they're floating right next to each other they don't look at each other. They just watch their screens.
Much of our interaction in the developed world these days is through technology, be it texting on a cell phone, posting on web forums, or conversing through email or instant messaging. This isn't necessarily a bad thing; new communications technologies have opened up faster ways of doing business, ways to talk to people abroad, and ways to connect with people who have similar interests but you'd never meet in real life. What WALL-E shows us, though, is that perhaps, like most things, this could be taken to far; in the end, nothing beats face-to-face interaction, and if we were to lose that we'd be losing a lot.
I could go on—how the "meals in a cup" found on Axiom are a commentary on our fast food society of today, for example. But I'd like to skip the end of the movie. (SPOILERS AHEAD!)
There's been a lot of talk lately about "green technologies" and how they're the future. They're being touted as the answer to our prayers, as the solution to our environmental, perhaps even our economic woes. But there's something fishy about them in my mind. We're led to believe that with the right technology we'll be able to wean ourselves of fossil fuels and go on our merry, over-consuming ways.
I do believe that green technologies are the answer, but there's a catch. I don't think we'll be able to live the same lives we do today. Will we fall back into the Dark Ages? Hardly. But there's something terribly ironic in the idea that we'll fix all our problems, which stem from our consumerist culture, by buying more stuff just because it's "green."
When the humans in WALL-E returned to earth, they returned to an earth in which technology had failed it. The plan to clean up the earth using robots like WALL-E has failed, and what do these humans do? They grow plants. The radically change their lives, moving from a consumerist culture to one that grows things, and builds things. And it's this change that turns the earth green again, not a continuation of their previous lives.
It makes you wonder what we'll have to do to make our earth green again.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Day 24
Gasp! I'm back a day early! Quite surprisingly, after going to the movies with friends, I do not feel like going to bed and sleeping for a year. Success!
I've seen quite a few movies this long weekend (four, to be precise), which strikes me as awfully lazy and unproductive. But I was feeling crummy, and they were fun, so I think that makes it okay.
Anyway, I thought I'd write my thoughts about each of them, focusing on the writing. It's not really creative (I seem to say that a lot...), but it counts.
Maybe. ^_^
***
TWELVE MONKEYS (Slight spoilers towards the end.)
Time travel! What's not to love.
I love science fiction, but I particularly love time travel stories. My favorite Doctor Who episodes aren't the ones with Cybermen and Daleks (though those are pretty fun), but the ones that actually use time travel, and not just as a gimmick to have a new setting every week but as an integral part of the story. Like "Blink" by Steven Moffat—not only do the monsters send people back in time, feeding off the energy of the life they could have had, but Sally Sparrow ultimately saves herself because of a time loop.
I like to think of time travel stories as fitting into two categories: those in which time can change, and those in which it can't. (Doctor Who, as usual, is a law unto itself; apparently time in its universe is a combination. Some events are fluid, but others, like Pompeii, are fixed in time. Changing these brings utter disaster.)
Now, both scenarios offer interesting opportunities, but I think I'm a bit more fond of the "unchangeable time" scenario. A character goes back in time to change an event, only to find that he can't, or that by going back in time he caused it to happen. Or a character goes back in time knowing he cannot change the past—he must either live with being unable to change it, or, even though he knows it's futile, try to change the event and fail.
Twelve Monkeys is a wonderful mix of all of these. James, a convict, goes back in time to collect information about a virus that wiped out 5 billion people in 1996. At first he's resigned to the fact that these people are going to die; there's nothing he can do but attempt to complete his mission. But this changes (of course), and in the end he tries to stop the spread of the virus. Along the way he also begins to believe the people in the past who say he's crazy, and also comes to fear that by going back in time he sent in motion the events that led to the catastrophe.
Brilliant plot. Watching it made me want to dust off that time travel story I wrote a while back and fix it up. I might just be able to make it work...
***
Hm, that took longer than I expected! Ah well, I certainly don't have to ramble about every single movie I've seen lately.
Anyway, hopefully tomorrow I'll get back to one of the stories I'm working on. Yah, that would be good. ^_^
I've seen quite a few movies this long weekend (four, to be precise), which strikes me as awfully lazy and unproductive. But I was feeling crummy, and they were fun, so I think that makes it okay.
Anyway, I thought I'd write my thoughts about each of them, focusing on the writing. It's not really creative (I seem to say that a lot...), but it counts.
Maybe. ^_^
***
TWELVE MONKEYS (Slight spoilers towards the end.)
Time travel! What's not to love.
I love science fiction, but I particularly love time travel stories. My favorite Doctor Who episodes aren't the ones with Cybermen and Daleks (though those are pretty fun), but the ones that actually use time travel, and not just as a gimmick to have a new setting every week but as an integral part of the story. Like "Blink" by Steven Moffat—not only do the monsters send people back in time, feeding off the energy of the life they could have had, but Sally Sparrow ultimately saves herself because of a time loop.
I like to think of time travel stories as fitting into two categories: those in which time can change, and those in which it can't. (Doctor Who, as usual, is a law unto itself; apparently time in its universe is a combination. Some events are fluid, but others, like Pompeii, are fixed in time. Changing these brings utter disaster.)
Now, both scenarios offer interesting opportunities, but I think I'm a bit more fond of the "unchangeable time" scenario. A character goes back in time to change an event, only to find that he can't, or that by going back in time he caused it to happen. Or a character goes back in time knowing he cannot change the past—he must either live with being unable to change it, or, even though he knows it's futile, try to change the event and fail.
Twelve Monkeys is a wonderful mix of all of these. James, a convict, goes back in time to collect information about a virus that wiped out 5 billion people in 1996. At first he's resigned to the fact that these people are going to die; there's nothing he can do but attempt to complete his mission. But this changes (of course), and in the end he tries to stop the spread of the virus. Along the way he also begins to believe the people in the past who say he's crazy, and also comes to fear that by going back in time he sent in motion the events that led to the catastrophe.
Brilliant plot. Watching it made me want to dust off that time travel story I wrote a while back and fix it up. I might just be able to make it work...
***
Hm, that took longer than I expected! Ah well, I certainly don't have to ramble about every single movie I've seen lately.
Anyway, hopefully tomorrow I'll get back to one of the stories I'm working on. Yah, that would be good. ^_^
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Charlie Wilson's War...
Is a fun movie with brilliant, witty dailogue. Man, if I could write dialogue like that I think I'd die happy. ^_^
I'll be back on Monday. Probably. Tomorrow, I go see Wall-e. Huzzah!
I'll be back on Monday. Probably. Tomorrow, I go see Wall-e. Huzzah!
Friday, July 4, 2008
Well, today was an adventure.
My dad and I wanted to go see The Incredible Hulk, but I've been feeling off these past few days. (Don't ask; I think it's probably just PMT, but the abdominal discomfort is somewhat... disconcerting? Ah well. If I get a fever, then I'll know if it's my appendix. ^_^) So I make myself go, 'cause I want to see the movie. Right at the last second though, just as my dad started to buy the tickets, I felt worse and decided I wasn't up to it. Gah. >_<
So, yeah. Not feeling too hot at the moment. I dunno how I'll be for the next few days, either, so I may not get much writing done. Which sucks, 'cause I felt like I was on a bit of a roll. Sigh...
Oh, yeah! Erm, Happy Fourth of July?
So, yeah. Not feeling too hot at the moment. I dunno how I'll be for the next few days, either, so I may not get much writing done. Which sucks, 'cause I felt like I was on a bit of a roll. Sigh...
Oh, yeah! Erm, Happy Fourth of July?
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Day 23
Well, there's not a lot to post, but believe it or not I got a fair amount of writing done today. ^_^ I edited some of what I wrote yesterday, finished my next chain story section, and wrote the next page of the comic! Oh, yeah, I am on a roll. :D
Continued from yesterday.
***
PANEL 5: They stare at the wallet again, each thinking.
PAGE 9PANEL 1: Close up of Leela. She smiles wryly, having just remembered something.
LEELA: "I'm sure you'd lighten up?" Where did that one come from?
PANEL 2: Zoe puts her head in her hands.
ZOE: Argh. I don’t know! It just came out.
PANEL 3: Leela is pretending to be aghast.
LEELA: But a pun, Zoe. A pun!
PANEL 4: Zoe puts one hand up in surrender.
ZOE: All right, all right, I get it. No more attempts at being punny.
LEELA (off panel, small): And it wasn’t even a very good one…
PANEL 5: Zoe hits Leela with a pillow. Leela puts her arms up in defense, laughing.
ZOE: Hey!
SFX (pillow): Whump.
LEELA: Hahahaha!
ZOE: Idiot.
Continued from yesterday.
***
PANEL 5: They stare at the wallet again, each thinking.
PAGE 9
LEELA: "I'm sure you'd lighten up?" Where did that one come from?
PANEL 2: Zoe puts her head in her hands.
ZOE: Argh. I don’t know! It just came out.
PANEL 3: Leela is pretending to be aghast.
LEELA: But a pun, Zoe. A pun!
PANEL 4: Zoe puts one hand up in surrender.
ZOE: All right, all right, I get it. No more attempts at being punny.
LEELA (off panel, small): And it wasn’t even a very good one…
PANEL 5: Zoe hits Leela with a pillow. Leela puts her arms up in defense, laughing.
ZOE: Hey!
SFX (pillow): Whump.
LEELA: Hahahaha!
ZOE: Idiot.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Day 22
I found this really interesting site about writing comics. Turns out I've sorta gone about this the wrong way (I haven't bothered with thinking much about characters or creating a plot outline), but I think I knew that already. Comics aren't very different from short stories and novels in that respect—the more planning the better.
Ah well, too late now! I shall carry on regardless, and the result will be a screwy, Frankenstein of a comic. Buahahahaha!
Continued from yesterday. I think when this is over I'm gonna go through and mess around with the pacing some...
***
FLARE: Damn.
PANEL 5: Flare looks down at the wallet, which is the focus of the panel. (Caption is in lower right hand corner.)
CAPTION: "You stole his wallet?"
PANEL 1: It's the inside of a teenage girl's room. There're several movie posters (old trilogy Star Wars, Matrix) and a computer in the corner. Clothes draped over the computer chair, but the room's more lived in than messy. Flare (now out of "costume" and known by her real name, Zoe) is sitting at the head of her bed. She's freaking out. Facing her is her friend Leela, who's sitting cross legged the foot of the bed. Leela is calm, and mildly amused but trying not to show it. A messenger bag sits next to her. On the bed between them is the wallet.
ZOE: I didn't steal it! He just ran away before I could give it back.
LEELA: He ran away, and now you have it. I think that counts as stealing.
PANEL 2: Zoe falls back onto the pillows, right arm over her eyes. Leela is looking at the wallet curiously. She's poking at it with a finger, as if it's a strange animal she's never seen before.
SFX: Whomph!
ZOE: Ugh. This is a total disaster.
LEELA: You know, he probably thought you were another mugger.
PANEL 3: Zoe's lifted her arm to look at her friend. She's confused. Leela's gesturing with her arms, emphasizing the line, "'never fear, I’m here to save you.'"
ZOE: What? Why?
LEELA: Well, come on, the costume doesn't really say "never fear, I'm here to save you." It's a bit… threatening.
PANEL 4: Zoe sits up, propped up on her elbows. Leela shrugs.
ZOE: And what is Batman, exactly? Cute and cuddly?
LEELA: I was just sayin'.
PANEL 5: They stare at the wallet again, each thinking.
***
Only one page! Ah well, maybe I'll manage more tomorrow.
Ah well, too late now! I shall carry on regardless, and the result will be a screwy, Frankenstein of a comic. Buahahahaha!
Continued from yesterday. I think when this is over I'm gonna go through and mess around with the pacing some...
***
FLARE: Damn.
PANEL 5: Flare looks down at the wallet, which is the focus of the panel. (Caption is in lower right hand corner.)
CAPTION: "You stole his wallet?"
PAGE 8
PANEL 1: It's the inside of a teenage girl's room. There're several movie posters (old trilogy Star Wars, Matrix) and a computer in the corner. Clothes draped over the computer chair, but the room's more lived in than messy. Flare (now out of "costume" and known by her real name, Zoe) is sitting at the head of her bed. She's freaking out. Facing her is her friend Leela, who's sitting cross legged the foot of the bed. Leela is calm, and mildly amused but trying not to show it. A messenger bag sits next to her. On the bed between them is the wallet.
ZOE: I didn't steal it! He just ran away before I could give it back.
LEELA: He ran away, and now you have it. I think that counts as stealing.
PANEL 2: Zoe falls back onto the pillows, right arm over her eyes. Leela is looking at the wallet curiously. She's poking at it with a finger, as if it's a strange animal she's never seen before.
SFX: Whomph!
ZOE: Ugh. This is a total disaster.
LEELA: You know, he probably thought you were another mugger.
PANEL 3: Zoe's lifted her arm to look at her friend. She's confused. Leela's gesturing with her arms, emphasizing the line, "'never fear, I’m here to save you.'"
ZOE: What? Why?
LEELA: Well, come on, the costume doesn't really say "never fear, I'm here to save you." It's a bit… threatening.
PANEL 4: Zoe sits up, propped up on her elbows. Leela shrugs.
ZOE: And what is Batman, exactly? Cute and cuddly?
LEELA: I was just sayin'.
PANEL 5: They stare at the wallet again, each thinking.
***
Only one page! Ah well, maybe I'll manage more tomorrow.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Day 21
Last night, as I was trying to fall asleep, I had an inexplicable urge to write a comic book. Since this urge was still there when I woke up this morning, I'd thought I'd make a go of it. The idea is clichéd and silly (I've probably created a new genre, called "Superhero Conventions Taken to the Extreme"), but what the hell. It isn't meant to be taken seriously.
Like everything this is a rough draft; I expect, were I to turn it into a comic, that it would need a lot of revising, especially since this is my first time trying to pace panels of artwork. (For example, I have a sneaking suspicion the action should take up more pages.) Eh, whatev.
***
SPLASH PAGE: It's nighttime, outside in a back alley somewhere, and we see the scene from above. Across from us, sitting atop the opposite building, is a figure shrouded in the shadows; at first glance she shouldn't be obvious, as it's the scene in front of us that's the focus. With his back to us is a man wearing the blue jumpsuit of a janitor. He's got one hand raised in front of him, cowering as he's being cornered by three thugs. They've formed a semi-circle around him, facing us, and they're wearing hoodies and baggy clothes. Their grins are gruesome in the light of the streetlamp. One of them, the leader, is holding a knife confidently.
TITLE: Flare: The First Light
JANITOR: N-no! Please!
CREDITS: --
PANEL 1: Close up of the Janitor. We can now see his face, and he looks terrified. He's holding out his wallet (towards us, as if we’re in the place of the thugs) and his hand is shaking.
JANITOR: Just take it! It's all I got!
PANEL 2: Angle on the Ringleader and his buddies standing on either side. He's snatched the wallet from the Janitor, and he's smirking, brandishing the knife. He's having fun.
RINGLEADER: That's right, bro. Else I'm gonna cut you up.
FLARE (off panel): Aw, come on, man!
PANEL 3: Behind the thugs drops Flare; she's posing, arms above her head, one leg bent and the other pointed at the ground, in the way superheroes sometimes make an entrance as they land. She's wearing a black hoodie and black cargo pants. The hood is up and you can't see her face, only a vague impression of features. The thugs turn their torsos to look at her. They're surprised to see her.
FLARE: That threat is so last year.
PANEL 4: Close on the Ringleader. He's angry at being interrupted. Behind him, the Janitor is starting to sneak away. The thugs haven't noticed yet.
RINGLEADER: Who the fuck are you?
PANEL 1: Flare stands there confidently. She's acting like nothing's wrong, mocking them by staying cool. One hand on her hip, head cocked to the side, that sort of thing. The Ringleader now looks furious, and is gesturing with his knife to his buddies, who're off panel.
FLARE: The name's Flare. I'm new in town, and I was hoping we could be friends.
RINGLEADER: Get her!
PANEL 2: The two other thugs are advancing on her, and Flare looks disappointed. In the palm of her right hand, which is hanging by her side, there's a small ball of light forming.
THUG #1: Grr!
FLARE: Shame! If you just got to know me a little--
PANEL 3: The thugs are closer now. Flare has raised her right hand, fingers splayed. The ball of light in her palm is bigger, and it's casting light on her and the thugs.
FLARE: --I’m sure you'd lighten up.
PANEL 4 (inset): Close up on Flare's lips, which so far we haven't seen because of the hood. They're pulling up in one corner; it's a wry smile, almost a smirk but more good natured than that implies.
DOUBLE PAGE SPREAD: Light bursts forth from Flare's palm. It's her signature move, the "Starburst." The three thugs cower, covering their eyes against the glare with their arms. They've been momentarily blinded by the attack; the Ringleader has dropped the wallet, but he's still hanging on to his knife.
SFX: some sound that the light could make [does anybody know a sound effect I could use?]
SFX: Ahhhhhh!
PANELS: The layout of this page is up to you. The thugs are incapacitated, and Flare takes advantage of that. She downs the nameless thugs (kneeing 'em, that sort of thing) then turns to face the Ringleader. He's just starting to recover, but she disarms him easily and the knife drops to the ground. He keels over slowly.
PANEL 1: Wide shot of Flare standing in the alley. The three thugs are slumped on the ground around her, unconscious. This is the first time she's done this, so now it's over the bravado is gone. Her stance shows she is simply relieved.
PANEL 2: Close up of the Ringleader's head. His eyes are closed and his face slack. Flare is stepping over him.
PANEL 3: Close up of the wallet on the ground where it fell. One of Flare's feet is in frame, as well as her arm as she reaches down to pick it up.
PANEL 4: Flare holds the wallet in her hand. Her hood has slipped a bit, giving us a look at her profile. Her wavy hair pokes out and frames her face. She's looking at the empty entrance to the alley. The Janitor is long gone. (Caption is in lower right hand corner.)
FLARE: Damn.
CAPTION: "You stole his wallet?"
***
Oh, man, this is fun! I haven't even got to the scene I originally came up with, so I think I'm gonna run with this for a couple of days. (Luckily my pet werewolf is very patient.) Anyway, now I've got an excuse to read lots of comics—gotta read 'em so I can learn how it's done... Ah, research of the best kind. ^__^
(Yeah, I really need to learn how to write action scenes, don't I? Page 6 is a bit silly at the moment; while leaving some things up to the artist is okay, I think I need to be a tad more specific.)
[Edit: Continued here.]
Like everything this is a rough draft; I expect, were I to turn it into a comic, that it would need a lot of revising, especially since this is my first time trying to pace panels of artwork. (For example, I have a sneaking suspicion the action should take up more pages.) Eh, whatev.
***
PAGE 1
SPLASH PAGE: It's nighttime, outside in a back alley somewhere, and we see the scene from above. Across from us, sitting atop the opposite building, is a figure shrouded in the shadows; at first glance she shouldn't be obvious, as it's the scene in front of us that's the focus. With his back to us is a man wearing the blue jumpsuit of a janitor. He's got one hand raised in front of him, cowering as he's being cornered by three thugs. They've formed a semi-circle around him, facing us, and they're wearing hoodies and baggy clothes. Their grins are gruesome in the light of the streetlamp. One of them, the leader, is holding a knife confidently.
TITLE: Flare: The First Light
JANITOR: N-no! Please!
CREDITS: --
PAGE 2
PANEL 1: Close up of the Janitor. We can now see his face, and he looks terrified. He's holding out his wallet (towards us, as if we’re in the place of the thugs) and his hand is shaking.
JANITOR: Just take it! It's all I got!
PANEL 2: Angle on the Ringleader and his buddies standing on either side. He's snatched the wallet from the Janitor, and he's smirking, brandishing the knife. He's having fun.
RINGLEADER: That's right, bro. Else I'm gonna cut you up.
FLARE (off panel): Aw, come on, man!
PANEL 3: Behind the thugs drops Flare; she's posing, arms above her head, one leg bent and the other pointed at the ground, in the way superheroes sometimes make an entrance as they land. She's wearing a black hoodie and black cargo pants. The hood is up and you can't see her face, only a vague impression of features. The thugs turn their torsos to look at her. They're surprised to see her.
FLARE: That threat is so last year.
PANEL 4: Close on the Ringleader. He's angry at being interrupted. Behind him, the Janitor is starting to sneak away. The thugs haven't noticed yet.
RINGLEADER: Who the fuck are you?
PAGE 3
PANEL 1: Flare stands there confidently. She's acting like nothing's wrong, mocking them by staying cool. One hand on her hip, head cocked to the side, that sort of thing. The Ringleader now looks furious, and is gesturing with his knife to his buddies, who're off panel.
FLARE: The name's Flare. I'm new in town, and I was hoping we could be friends.
RINGLEADER: Get her!
PANEL 2: The two other thugs are advancing on her, and Flare looks disappointed. In the palm of her right hand, which is hanging by her side, there's a small ball of light forming.
THUG #1: Grr!
FLARE: Shame! If you just got to know me a little--
PANEL 3: The thugs are closer now. Flare has raised her right hand, fingers splayed. The ball of light in her palm is bigger, and it's casting light on her and the thugs.
FLARE: --I’m sure you'd lighten up.
PANEL 4 (inset): Close up on Flare's lips, which so far we haven't seen because of the hood. They're pulling up in one corner; it's a wry smile, almost a smirk but more good natured than that implies.
PAGES 4 AND 5
DOUBLE PAGE SPREAD: Light bursts forth from Flare's palm. It's her signature move, the "Starburst." The three thugs cower, covering their eyes against the glare with their arms. They've been momentarily blinded by the attack; the Ringleader has dropped the wallet, but he's still hanging on to his knife.
SFX: some sound that the light could make [does anybody know a sound effect I could use?]
SFX: Ahhhhhh!
PAGE 6
PANELS: The layout of this page is up to you. The thugs are incapacitated, and Flare takes advantage of that. She downs the nameless thugs (kneeing 'em, that sort of thing) then turns to face the Ringleader. He's just starting to recover, but she disarms him easily and the knife drops to the ground. He keels over slowly.
PAGE 7
PANEL 1: Wide shot of Flare standing in the alley. The three thugs are slumped on the ground around her, unconscious. This is the first time she's done this, so now it's over the bravado is gone. Her stance shows she is simply relieved.
PANEL 2: Close up of the Ringleader's head. His eyes are closed and his face slack. Flare is stepping over him.
PANEL 3: Close up of the wallet on the ground where it fell. One of Flare's feet is in frame, as well as her arm as she reaches down to pick it up.
PANEL 4: Flare holds the wallet in her hand. Her hood has slipped a bit, giving us a look at her profile. Her wavy hair pokes out and frames her face. She's looking at the empty entrance to the alley. The Janitor is long gone. (Caption is in lower right hand corner.)
FLARE: Damn.
CAPTION: "You stole his wallet?"
***
Oh, man, this is fun! I haven't even got to the scene I originally came up with, so I think I'm gonna run with this for a couple of days. (Luckily my pet werewolf is very patient.) Anyway, now I've got an excuse to read lots of comics—gotta read 'em so I can learn how it's done... Ah, research of the best kind. ^__^
(Yeah, I really need to learn how to write action scenes, don't I? Page 6 is a bit silly at the moment; while leaving some things up to the artist is okay, I think I need to be a tad more specific.)
[Edit: Continued here.]
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Day 19
Continued from Day 16. Yesterday and the day before were a bit of a cop out, so I thought I'd get some more of this novel thingy written today. ^_^
***
Even at a young age, before disillusion set in and such fantasies went the way of Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy, she had instinctively known that going any farther would put an end to her imaginings.
Now, though, there was nothing to stop her from following the path to wherever it led; after seven years away, talking rodents and tiny people with wings were all but forgotten. Violet barely hesitated as she came to the wood, and she trod onwards, pointedly pushing the empty boxes she’d left behind to the back of her mind.
It was cool in the shadow of the trees, and a wind rustled the leaves of the canopy above. The cultivated flowers were soon left behind her, and she breathed in the smell of earth and damp. Beyond the well-tended path the undergrowth grew wild and untamed, and Violet had a sudden fancy that as she walked the plants were closing in, encroaching across the path behind her so that it disappeared entirely. She did not turn around.
Violet wondered why the path was there. Someone—most likely her grandmother, though she shied away from that train of thought—had obviously used it regularly, but there didn’t seem to be much point to it. She supposed the wood was pretty, if a bit unnerving. But where did it go?
That question was soon answered when she turned a corner and the trees began to thin. She stepped out into the bright sunlight, blinking, and surveyed the meadow before her. Here the path petered out, getting quickly lost in the tall grasses. Violet waded through them slowly, looking around. There was nothing there. No sign of civilization, no sign of the path. Just a meadow surrounded by hedgerows, and a country lane on the other side.
The scene jolted as her foot caught in a hole and she stumbled. She righted herself, cheeks burning even though no one was there to see her clumsiness. Brushing off her trousers Violet glanced back over her shoulder and froze.
The wood was gone. Where there had been trees there was now only a hedgerow, and behind that another field. There was no sign of the way she had come, even though she had only walked twenty paces out into the meadow.
***
Even at a young age, before disillusion set in and such fantasies went the way of Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy, she had instinctively known that going any farther would put an end to her imaginings.
Now, though, there was nothing to stop her from following the path to wherever it led; after seven years away, talking rodents and tiny people with wings were all but forgotten. Violet barely hesitated as she came to the wood, and she trod onwards, pointedly pushing the empty boxes she’d left behind to the back of her mind.
It was cool in the shadow of the trees, and a wind rustled the leaves of the canopy above. The cultivated flowers were soon left behind her, and she breathed in the smell of earth and damp. Beyond the well-tended path the undergrowth grew wild and untamed, and Violet had a sudden fancy that as she walked the plants were closing in, encroaching across the path behind her so that it disappeared entirely. She did not turn around.
Violet wondered why the path was there. Someone—most likely her grandmother, though she shied away from that train of thought—had obviously used it regularly, but there didn’t seem to be much point to it. She supposed the wood was pretty, if a bit unnerving. But where did it go?
That question was soon answered when she turned a corner and the trees began to thin. She stepped out into the bright sunlight, blinking, and surveyed the meadow before her. Here the path petered out, getting quickly lost in the tall grasses. Violet waded through them slowly, looking around. There was nothing there. No sign of civilization, no sign of the path. Just a meadow surrounded by hedgerows, and a country lane on the other side.
The scene jolted as her foot caught in a hole and she stumbled. She righted herself, cheeks burning even though no one was there to see her clumsiness. Brushing off her trousers Violet glanced back over her shoulder and froze.
The wood was gone. Where there had been trees there was now only a hedgerow, and behind that another field. There was no sign of the way she had come, even though she had only walked twenty paces out into the meadow.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Guess what?
I'm tired! (Betcha didn't see that one coming, didja? -_^) It's only five o'clock and I'm already having trouble keeping my eyes open. So, yeah. Not gonna happen today.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Day 18
I worked on my next part for the chain story today, but I still can't post it. Don't worry; I'll have something up tomorrow, provided I'm not too tired. I'm actually going out for a change, though, so we'll just have to see. ^_^
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Day 17
I thought I'd write a bit of a scene that comes later on in my droid story; I'm a bit too tired for the novel idea or the werewolf story. I'm not so attached to this story, so I don't mind messing it up. :)
***
The door slid shut behind Nia and she collapsed on the bunk. The cabin was small; standing with her hands outstretched, her palms would probably lie flat against the metal walls. There was a little storage under the bunk, consisting of several metal boxes with latches, but apart from that the room was bare.
She shook her head to clear it and grabbed her pack. Turning it upside down she dumped its contents out onto the bed. Along with her cloth roll of tools were a few changes of clothes, a small purse that clinked as it fell, a notebook, a pen, and a small metal box that she picked up. It fit into the palm in her hand and a closer look revealed it to be made of nothing more than different bits of scrap metal. Nia turned it over and pressed a piece before setting it on the ground.
***
Ooo, not much today. Ah well. Must sleep now. ^_^
***
The door slid shut behind Nia and she collapsed on the bunk. The cabin was small; standing with her hands outstretched, her palms would probably lie flat against the metal walls. There was a little storage under the bunk, consisting of several metal boxes with latches, but apart from that the room was bare.
She shook her head to clear it and grabbed her pack. Turning it upside down she dumped its contents out onto the bed. Along with her cloth roll of tools were a few changes of clothes, a small purse that clinked as it fell, a notebook, a pen, and a small metal box that she picked up. It fit into the palm in her hand and a closer look revealed it to be made of nothing more than different bits of scrap metal. Nia turned it over and pressed a piece before setting it on the ground.
***
Ooo, not much today. Ah well. Must sleep now. ^_^
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Day 16
Still haven't really discovered where the werewolf story is going; I have an idea, but I think "and something happens" is just a bit too vague. ^_^
I haven't thought about this novel idea lately, so I thought I'd try writing the beginning and see what happens. Some of it was written a while ago, but I think the majority is new.
***
Violet had known that the task would be difficult, but as she nursed a cup of tea and surveyed the mess of cardboard boxes she realized she had completely underestimated it. The sheer effort it took to neatly pack away her grandmother's things, to sort the china and the knitting needles and the books that only a short while ago had helped define a person's life, was utterly exhausting. These were the things that had surrounded her grandmother, here in her little house, and now she was gone and they were all that was left behind.
A lump was forming in her throat and she quickly took a sip; the too-hot liquid burned in her mouth and on the way down. Violet cast her gaze around the room and it settled on the clock on the mantelpiece. It had a simple wood casing, with a still life above the face depicting several apples, a bowl, and the clock itself. The Roman numerals were wrong in the painting—the artist had mixed up the order, so where there should have been XI for the eleven there was IX. Violet remembered when she'd first noticed the mistake; being only six or seven she hadn't even understood Roman numerals, but she'd felt great pride in pointing out the difference to her grandmother.
Violet turned around suddenly and put her mug on the table by the door. This was just too much. She strode into the kitchen and out the back door onto the patio. Closing the door behind her, she breathed in a deep breath and let it out shakily. She looked out over the garden, feeling a calm settling over her. The flowers and vegetables still reminded her, but unlike the lifeless house and its contents they made her smile.
There was a path that began where the patio ended, and Violet found her feet taking her away from the house. It wound its way past runner beans twining up canes, through flowerbeds of foxgloves and roses that buzzed with bees, to the bottom of her grandmother’s garden. There it entered a small wood, and the gravel crunching underfoot gave way to tamped down earth. In the shade of the trees the path quickly turned out of sight, and as a little girl Violet had never made it to the bend before retreating to the sunlit garden. It wasn’t that she had been afraid of exploring; well, not entirely, anyway. Looking back, she realized she had been afraid of losing the mystery of what might lie in the beyond. As long as she hadn’t ventured too far she had been free to imagine fairies lounging atop spotted toadstools or squirrels arguing over a nut. Even at a young age, before disillusion set in and such fantasies went the way that Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy go, she had instinctively known that going any farther would put an end to her imaginings.
***
Hm... not terrible, but not great. Huzzah for editing!
[Edit: Continued here.]
I haven't thought about this novel idea lately, so I thought I'd try writing the beginning and see what happens. Some of it was written a while ago, but I think the majority is new.
***
Violet had known that the task would be difficult, but as she nursed a cup of tea and surveyed the mess of cardboard boxes she realized she had completely underestimated it. The sheer effort it took to neatly pack away her grandmother's things, to sort the china and the knitting needles and the books that only a short while ago had helped define a person's life, was utterly exhausting. These were the things that had surrounded her grandmother, here in her little house, and now she was gone and they were all that was left behind.
A lump was forming in her throat and she quickly took a sip; the too-hot liquid burned in her mouth and on the way down. Violet cast her gaze around the room and it settled on the clock on the mantelpiece. It had a simple wood casing, with a still life above the face depicting several apples, a bowl, and the clock itself. The Roman numerals were wrong in the painting—the artist had mixed up the order, so where there should have been XI for the eleven there was IX. Violet remembered when she'd first noticed the mistake; being only six or seven she hadn't even understood Roman numerals, but she'd felt great pride in pointing out the difference to her grandmother.
Violet turned around suddenly and put her mug on the table by the door. This was just too much. She strode into the kitchen and out the back door onto the patio. Closing the door behind her, she breathed in a deep breath and let it out shakily. She looked out over the garden, feeling a calm settling over her. The flowers and vegetables still reminded her, but unlike the lifeless house and its contents they made her smile.
There was a path that began where the patio ended, and Violet found her feet taking her away from the house. It wound its way past runner beans twining up canes, through flowerbeds of foxgloves and roses that buzzed with bees, to the bottom of her grandmother’s garden. There it entered a small wood, and the gravel crunching underfoot gave way to tamped down earth. In the shade of the trees the path quickly turned out of sight, and as a little girl Violet had never made it to the bend before retreating to the sunlit garden. It wasn’t that she had been afraid of exploring; well, not entirely, anyway. Looking back, she realized she had been afraid of losing the mystery of what might lie in the beyond. As long as she hadn’t ventured too far she had been free to imagine fairies lounging atop spotted toadstools or squirrels arguing over a nut. Even at a young age, before disillusion set in and such fantasies went the way that Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy go, she had instinctively known that going any farther would put an end to her imaginings.
***
Hm... not terrible, but not great. Huzzah for editing!
[Edit: Continued here.]
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Day 15 (one day late)
Ooo, the halfway point! Funfunfun. ^_^
I just finished a really interesting book by Michael Pollan called The Omnivore's Dilemma. This isn't really a review of the book or a discussion, both of which can be found elsewhere (most notably here), but more of what it's made me ponder in a roundabout way.
Rough draft, as usual, and a rather rambling one at that. I expect it stretches the "creative" guideline, but I'm not picky. ;)
***
I don't often think about food. Oh, I like it all right, and sometimes my mum or dad will ask me what I'd like to eat for dinner, forcing me to contemplate it for a short while. And I suppose that when I remember events in my life, like trips abroad or Christmas's spent with family, I, like many people, inevitably think about the foods that accompanied them. But where our food actually comes from, well, that's something that doesn't usually cross my mind when chewing on a ham sandwich.
Of course, this is partly because I have a fairly good idea of our foods' origins, a better idea, I'd like to think, than some people out there. I've read the articles about the factory farms, the toxic retention ponds of full shit, the chickens forced to live so close together they eat each other, the algae blooms caused by agricultural runoff, the perils of monocultures, and the death of the small farm.
Thinking about these things while eating would put anyone off their dinner, so instead, when my thoughts do stray to my food, I comfort myself with flimsy reassurances that my mum buys organic, so it must be okay.
Reading Pollan's book, among other things, forced my to examine my ideas and conceptions about food. What I discovered made a lot of sense based on my general world-view, but there were some surprises in there, too. It's interesting to see what you learn about yourself when forced to ponder something relatively new.
I now know that I don't want to be a vegetarian, and I don't think I ever will. I had recently considered whether I should try it, and reading this book help me sort things out. For me, eating other animals is part of life, and not something of which we should be ashamed. Any moral qualms I have are not about killing innocent animals, but their quality of life, the environmental impact of how they're raised, and how they are killed. So instead of eschewing meat entirely, I've decided to make sure I know where it comes from and to eat less of it. It's a grayer position, but then not everything is black and white.
Then there's hunting—Pollan's descriptions of hunting actually made me want to try it. Which was sort of disturbing, until I realized my views on hunting hadn't suddenly morphed into that of the stereotypical sport hunter who owns more guns than seems entirely necessary. I still don't think hunting for sport is right; if you hunt an animal you should do so with the intent of eating it. But the idea that I might actually want to experience hunting once or twice, well, that's certainly new.
Finally, there's that flimsy reasoning that I don't have to think about my food because a lot of it's organic. Turns out that organic food isn't synonymous with small family farms and happy little animals. I suppose if I weren't so naive I would've figured this out sooner; organic agriculture has had to become more and more industrial to meet growing demand.
***
Okay, not sure how to end it. Since it isn't anything special, I think that'll do. Rambles don't need conclusions. ^_^
I just finished a really interesting book by Michael Pollan called The Omnivore's Dilemma. This isn't really a review of the book or a discussion, both of which can be found elsewhere (most notably here), but more of what it's made me ponder in a roundabout way.
Rough draft, as usual, and a rather rambling one at that. I expect it stretches the "creative" guideline, but I'm not picky. ;)
***
I don't often think about food. Oh, I like it all right, and sometimes my mum or dad will ask me what I'd like to eat for dinner, forcing me to contemplate it for a short while. And I suppose that when I remember events in my life, like trips abroad or Christmas's spent with family, I, like many people, inevitably think about the foods that accompanied them. But where our food actually comes from, well, that's something that doesn't usually cross my mind when chewing on a ham sandwich.
Of course, this is partly because I have a fairly good idea of our foods' origins, a better idea, I'd like to think, than some people out there. I've read the articles about the factory farms, the toxic retention ponds of full shit, the chickens forced to live so close together they eat each other, the algae blooms caused by agricultural runoff, the perils of monocultures, and the death of the small farm.
Thinking about these things while eating would put anyone off their dinner, so instead, when my thoughts do stray to my food, I comfort myself with flimsy reassurances that my mum buys organic, so it must be okay.
Reading Pollan's book, among other things, forced my to examine my ideas and conceptions about food. What I discovered made a lot of sense based on my general world-view, but there were some surprises in there, too. It's interesting to see what you learn about yourself when forced to ponder something relatively new.
I now know that I don't want to be a vegetarian, and I don't think I ever will. I had recently considered whether I should try it, and reading this book help me sort things out. For me, eating other animals is part of life, and not something of which we should be ashamed. Any moral qualms I have are not about killing innocent animals, but their quality of life, the environmental impact of how they're raised, and how they are killed. So instead of eschewing meat entirely, I've decided to make sure I know where it comes from and to eat less of it. It's a grayer position, but then not everything is black and white.
Then there's hunting—Pollan's descriptions of hunting actually made me want to try it. Which was sort of disturbing, until I realized my views on hunting hadn't suddenly morphed into that of the stereotypical sport hunter who owns more guns than seems entirely necessary. I still don't think hunting for sport is right; if you hunt an animal you should do so with the intent of eating it. But the idea that I might actually want to experience hunting once or twice, well, that's certainly new.
Finally, there's that flimsy reasoning that I don't have to think about my food because a lot of it's organic. Turns out that organic food isn't synonymous with small family farms and happy little animals. I suppose if I weren't so naive I would've figured this out sooner; organic agriculture has had to become more and more industrial to meet growing demand.
***
Okay, not sure how to end it. Since it isn't anything special, I think that'll do. Rambles don't need conclusions. ^_^
Day 14 (two days late)
Well, I missed another two days, which is rather disappointing, but really, I'm not doing too bad. So far, in the first 13 days of this challenge (if I include the writings of Day 11 which have not been posted), I have written nearly 5,300 words. That's about 408 words a day, which doesn't seem like much until you realize that's about as much as I wrote per week before I started. Success! ^_^
Today I'm think I'll try writing three days worth (we'll see how that works out.) First I'll be taking a quick break from my pet werewolf to work on my chain story, but never fear! He shall return once I figure out what the hell happens next. ;)
This morning I got the second part of my chain story, the 300 or so words my partner wrote in response to what I wrote on Day 11. I have absolutely no idea where it's going, but it's really quite fun to wonder what he/she will write next. (I'm not sure I really know who my partner is, but maybe the more we write back and forth the more of an idea I'll have.)
Anyway, I can't post it here until it's over, but I'll get something else up today. ;}
Today I'm think I'll try writing three days worth (we'll see how that works out.) First I'll be taking a quick break from my pet werewolf to work on my chain story, but never fear! He shall return once I figure out what the hell happens next. ;)
This morning I got the second part of my chain story, the 300 or so words my partner wrote in response to what I wrote on Day 11. I have absolutely no idea where it's going, but it's really quite fun to wonder what he/she will write next. (I'm not sure I really know who my partner is, but maybe the more we write back and forth the more of an idea I'll have.)
Anyway, I can't post it here until it's over, but I'll get something else up today. ;}
Monday, June 23, 2008
I'm just too effing tired
And fed up, and overwrought. Sometimes it feels like my dad is the teenager, not me. He's currently listening to music downstairs, and it just so happens that I cannot escape the beat no matter where I go, and it is driving me insane. Normally I don't mind, but sometimes I'm tired and I can't focus and the last thing I want is some music pounding into my bedroom at 9:15 at night.
How hard is it to understand that sometimes I just can't deal with more than one thing at a time?
[/rant]
Sorry, venting over. I shall write something tomorrow, preferably before my dad comes home. >_<
How hard is it to understand that sometimes I just can't deal with more than one thing at a time?
[/rant]
Sorry, venting over. I shall write something tomorrow, preferably before my dad comes home. >_<
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Day 13
Next little bit in my "reverse werewolf" thing—when I started I hadn't planned on going anywhere with it, but now that I've got my first fangrrl... ;}
It began here, continued on Day 12, and is, as usual, a rough draft. In other words, there's a reason for any crappiness. ^_^
***
Stepping into the water, he let it flow around his legs, numbing the wound a little.
The trap was still very heavy.
The pebbles shifted under his paws as he made his way downstream, away from the Pack. His leg was now blessedly numb, but the cold water was beginning to sap his strength; he could feel a clumsy heaviness in his limbs as he splashed through the water.
He felt a sense of urgency now. Clambering out onto the opposite bank, he left footprints in the mud and trampled the undergrowth. The spot wasn't far from where he'd entered the stream, leaving similar markings, and with any luck the hunter would notice.
Entering the water again, he moved upstream, past his first trail. He was shaking, staggering, but he kept on, following the stream around a bend. Once out of sight of the fake trail, he crawled back onto the bank and lay there panting. His leg throbbed painfully, and he wondered blearily if that was bone he could see next to a metal tooth.
He couldn't walk, only drag himself further into the bushes and away from the water. Finding a hollow he curled up awkwardly, the trap still biting into his flesh. He licked it feebly. The sky above was greying in the pre-dawn light, and he waited for the sun and its warmth.
The day passed in a daze. At times he was aware of the passing of hours, and at others he slipped in and out of awareness, finding the sun had moved across the sky in what seemed like minutes. Eventually it began to set, and he could feel the full moon in his bones. His nose itched, and he sneezed.
The change was quick; fur melted into skin, bones rearranged, his eyesight dimmed. He braved it without a sound, having done so many times before, but it was painful. His pelt itched like he'd been bitten all over by thousands of ants, and his bones felt as if they were breaking. Within a minute, though, it was over, and he uncurled himself.
He inspected his wrist; it was bleeding, and he put down his head to lick at the wound before remembering himself. In the dark he could just make out the trap mechanism, and with a bit of struggling he managed to remove his hand. He stood up unsteadily and held his hand to his chest, wincing as the movement jolted it. Squinting into the darkness he began to walk. In only a few meters he managed to stub his toe, walk into a branch, and practice several new swear words he'd learned the previous moon.
***
I'm beginning to think I should've named my pet werewolf. "He" is getting awfully repetitious...
Not sure about the description of the change. It seems rather anti-climatic, and not very descriptive, either.
It began here, continued on Day 12, and is, as usual, a rough draft. In other words, there's a reason for any crappiness. ^_^
***
Stepping into the water, he let it flow around his legs, numbing the wound a little.
The trap was still very heavy.
The pebbles shifted under his paws as he made his way downstream, away from the Pack. His leg was now blessedly numb, but the cold water was beginning to sap his strength; he could feel a clumsy heaviness in his limbs as he splashed through the water.
He felt a sense of urgency now. Clambering out onto the opposite bank, he left footprints in the mud and trampled the undergrowth. The spot wasn't far from where he'd entered the stream, leaving similar markings, and with any luck the hunter would notice.
Entering the water again, he moved upstream, past his first trail. He was shaking, staggering, but he kept on, following the stream around a bend. Once out of sight of the fake trail, he crawled back onto the bank and lay there panting. His leg throbbed painfully, and he wondered blearily if that was bone he could see next to a metal tooth.
He couldn't walk, only drag himself further into the bushes and away from the water. Finding a hollow he curled up awkwardly, the trap still biting into his flesh. He licked it feebly. The sky above was greying in the pre-dawn light, and he waited for the sun and its warmth.
The day passed in a daze. At times he was aware of the passing of hours, and at others he slipped in and out of awareness, finding the sun had moved across the sky in what seemed like minutes. Eventually it began to set, and he could feel the full moon in his bones. His nose itched, and he sneezed.
The change was quick; fur melted into skin, bones rearranged, his eyesight dimmed. He braved it without a sound, having done so many times before, but it was painful. His pelt itched like he'd been bitten all over by thousands of ants, and his bones felt as if they were breaking. Within a minute, though, it was over, and he uncurled himself.
He inspected his wrist; it was bleeding, and he put down his head to lick at the wound before remembering himself. In the dark he could just make out the trap mechanism, and with a bit of struggling he managed to remove his hand. He stood up unsteadily and held his hand to his chest, wincing as the movement jolted it. Squinting into the darkness he began to walk. In only a few meters he managed to stub his toe, walk into a branch, and practice several new swear words he'd learned the previous moon.
***
I'm beginning to think I should've named my pet werewolf. "He" is getting awfully repetitious...
Not sure about the description of the change. It seems rather anti-climatic, and not very descriptive, either.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Day 12
Continued from Day 10. Sadly not very much today; I got a tad distracted by other things. (Bad eladnarra!) ^_^
***
But with the trap still clamped around his leg, how not to leave a trail? He couldn't lead the hunter back to the Pack even if he could make it that far, and he didn't think he could.
Gingerly he began to move, dragging the trap through the leaves. With every step pain jarred through his leg, and the weight of the metal trap was almost too much. He staggered to a stop, panting. The sound was loud in his ears, but there was something else—he cocked his head, and the gurgling babble of running water reaching his ears. If he made it to the water perhaps he could confuse the trail. It wouldn't work if the hunter had dogs with him, but a haze was already beginning to cloud his thoughts. The plan would have to do.
His progress was slow, but eventually he made it to the bank of the stream. The water was from the spring melt, and he stopped to take a drink; it slid down his throat in the way cold water does on a hot day. Stepping into the water, he let it flow around his legs, numbing the wound a little.
The trap was still very heavy.
***
[Edit: Continued tomorrow.]
***
But with the trap still clamped around his leg, how not to leave a trail? He couldn't lead the hunter back to the Pack even if he could make it that far, and he didn't think he could.
Gingerly he began to move, dragging the trap through the leaves. With every step pain jarred through his leg, and the weight of the metal trap was almost too much. He staggered to a stop, panting. The sound was loud in his ears, but there was something else—he cocked his head, and the gurgling babble of running water reaching his ears. If he made it to the water perhaps he could confuse the trail. It wouldn't work if the hunter had dogs with him, but a haze was already beginning to cloud his thoughts. The plan would have to do.
His progress was slow, but eventually he made it to the bank of the stream. The water was from the spring melt, and he stopped to take a drink; it slid down his throat in the way cold water does on a hot day. Stepping into the water, he let it flow around his legs, numbing the wound a little.
The trap was still very heavy.
***
[Edit: Continued tomorrow.]
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Day 11
Ugh. Tired. I did do something "creative" today, mostly brainstorming and messing around with different ideas, but since it's to do with the collaboration thing going on over at Locution I can't actually post it. So I guess you'll just have to take my word for it. ;)
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Day 10
A while back I had an idea for a story about werewolves which were only men under the light of the full moon, and wolves for the rest of the month. Maybe a bit silly, but I thought I'd mess around with the idea a bit. The first few paragraphs were written previously, but I edited them today and the rest is new. (I'm not stretching the guidelines, I swear!)
***
A lone wolf loped through the trees, gracefully maneuvering the rough terrain in just the light of the stars. His pace was loose and unhurried—with a full belly there was no need for hunting, not now. No, tonight was for exploring.
His gait slowed as he reached the edge of the forest and the trees began to thin; he came to a stop, sitting on his haunches alertly. His ears twitched to catch the faint sounds of cars on the new highway that drifted up from the valley below. Lifting his nose, he sensed the smog mingling with the fragrance of the pine needles crushed beneath his paws, and he bared his teeth to growl softly. The humans were moving farther up the mountain, farther into the Pack’s territory. There had always been hunters, but hunters could be tricked, outrun and outsmarted. But the developers didn’t hunt; they encroached. With their loud machinery that belched smoke into the air, they literally paved the way for the hoards of humans that followed. There were too many to fight, and the patches of forest they could retreat to were dwindling.
The wolf let out a huff of air and turned away from the highway. He began to run, perpendicular to the slope, his paws moving faster and faster. The ground moved quickly under him, and soon he came to the city. From the bluff he looked down on the starks lights of the skyscrapers and the glowing suburbs; the stars faded into a gray night sky. The sounds of wheels on tarmac were louder here, and a siren wailed in the distance. Compared the gentle quiet of the forest, it was deafening. Or perhaps it just seemed that way.
He didn't linger and melted back into the forest, leaving the humans and their noise and lights and smells. The Pack would soon wonder where he was, and Blackfoot would have his hide if he suspected he'd been so close. He could feel the moon begin to rise, hidden by the mountain; tomorrow it would be full. Maybe that was why he was so preoccupied, so lost in his thoughts that he missed the tracks on the ground and the unnatural patten of the leaves where they'd been disturbed.
The trap snapped around his foreleg. Hot pain shot up into his shoulder and he stifled a yelp. He could feel blood welling around the metal jaws. His instinct was to bite at the metal, to pull and fight and struggle, but he repressed it. Instead he looked for the anchor that chained the trap in place. He pawed at the ground around it, nudging the metal spike with his nose. Slowly it came loose, and after what seemed like an age it was free from the dirt.
His breath was coming in heavy pants now, and he licked carefully around the throbbing wound. He had to get away before the hunter returned in the morning. But with the trap still clamped around his leg, how not to leave a trail? He couldn't lead the hunter back to the Pack even if he could make it that far, and he didn't think he could.
***
[Edit: Continued on Day 12.]
***
A lone wolf loped through the trees, gracefully maneuvering the rough terrain in just the light of the stars. His pace was loose and unhurried—with a full belly there was no need for hunting, not now. No, tonight was for exploring.
His gait slowed as he reached the edge of the forest and the trees began to thin; he came to a stop, sitting on his haunches alertly. His ears twitched to catch the faint sounds of cars on the new highway that drifted up from the valley below. Lifting his nose, he sensed the smog mingling with the fragrance of the pine needles crushed beneath his paws, and he bared his teeth to growl softly. The humans were moving farther up the mountain, farther into the Pack’s territory. There had always been hunters, but hunters could be tricked, outrun and outsmarted. But the developers didn’t hunt; they encroached. With their loud machinery that belched smoke into the air, they literally paved the way for the hoards of humans that followed. There were too many to fight, and the patches of forest they could retreat to were dwindling.
The wolf let out a huff of air and turned away from the highway. He began to run, perpendicular to the slope, his paws moving faster and faster. The ground moved quickly under him, and soon he came to the city. From the bluff he looked down on the starks lights of the skyscrapers and the glowing suburbs; the stars faded into a gray night sky. The sounds of wheels on tarmac were louder here, and a siren wailed in the distance. Compared the gentle quiet of the forest, it was deafening. Or perhaps it just seemed that way.
He didn't linger and melted back into the forest, leaving the humans and their noise and lights and smells. The Pack would soon wonder where he was, and Blackfoot would have his hide if he suspected he'd been so close. He could feel the moon begin to rise, hidden by the mountain; tomorrow it would be full. Maybe that was why he was so preoccupied, so lost in his thoughts that he missed the tracks on the ground and the unnatural patten of the leaves where they'd been disturbed.
The trap snapped around his foreleg. Hot pain shot up into his shoulder and he stifled a yelp. He could feel blood welling around the metal jaws. His instinct was to bite at the metal, to pull and fight and struggle, but he repressed it. Instead he looked for the anchor that chained the trap in place. He pawed at the ground around it, nudging the metal spike with his nose. Slowly it came loose, and after what seemed like an age it was free from the dirt.
His breath was coming in heavy pants now, and he licked carefully around the throbbing wound. He had to get away before the hunter returned in the morning. But with the trap still clamped around his leg, how not to leave a trail? He couldn't lead the hunter back to the Pack even if he could make it that far, and he didn't think he could.
***
[Edit: Continued on Day 12.]
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Day 9
Continued from yesterday. It wasn't exactly going anywhere fast, but I thought I might see where it takes me. That, and I'm too tired to think of anything new. ^_^
***
Mertel might have had fancies of "doing what he loved" and "getting off this rock," but look what that had got him. Nothing but disappointment.
Nia shifted the pack on her shoulder and turned to leave. She found herself face to face with metal rimmed eyes, and she yelped in surprise. The eyes turned towards her and she realized they were lenses. A questioning series of beeps made her smile in relief.
"Hello, little one. Who do you belong to?"
It was a spherical droid, hovering off the ground at eye level. His metal casing gleamed brightly, but his eyes were strangely dark. It moved hesitantly through the air, nearly running into her head before backing off.
"Oh, you poor thing! Is is your optical sensors? They don't look like they're working properly."
He beeped in affirmative.
"Do you mind?" She reached out a hand and was rewarded with friendly chatter. "Here, let me take a look."
Carefully Nia grabbed hold of him and looked for the access panel. "Hold on," she said, reaching for her pack as she sat down on the ground, legs crossed comfortably. Out of the pack she took a cloth roll, which she opened to reveal her tools. She let her hand hover over them for a moment before picking a screwdriver of the right size.
"There we go. Now, for the access panel—" Once it was unscrewed, she gently lifted the curved metal panel and peered inside. "There you are; it's just a loose connection. I can connect it easily enough, but you'll have to power down, I'm afraid. It wouldn't be very safe, otherwise."
The droid, which had stayed quiet throughout the process, chirped and then turned itself off. Nia reconnected the wire, and was replacing the panel when her concentration was interrupted.
"Just what do you think you're doing with my droid?"
Nia looked up into the face of a middle aged man, whose current expression, complete with red-faced indignation, could only be described as irate.
"I'm—I'm so sorry, sir! Here!" She thrust the droid into his hands and stood, ready to flee. "I didn't do nothing to it, sir." Maybe if he thought her slow, maybe he'd let her go.
He glanced suspiciously at her for a moment before inspecting the droid. He pressed the hidden power button, and it hummed to life, beeping cheerfully. The man's eyebrows rose, and he turned his gaze back to Nia. He was looking at her much more closely now, and his calculating gaze was making her nervous.
"You fixed it."
"I dunno what you're talking 'bout, sir. I didn't do nothing." Nia scuffed her foot in the dirt and looked at the ground, twisting her hands in her skirts.
"That won't fool me, girl. How much do you charge normally? I won't pay more because you're pretending to be slow."
"Pay?" The word was out of her mouth before she could stop it, and Nia cursed herself. If the man wanted to pay her, let him. He didn't have to know she would have fixed the droid for free.
***
[Edit: Continued here.]
***
Mertel might have had fancies of "doing what he loved" and "getting off this rock," but look what that had got him. Nothing but disappointment.
Nia shifted the pack on her shoulder and turned to leave. She found herself face to face with metal rimmed eyes, and she yelped in surprise. The eyes turned towards her and she realized they were lenses. A questioning series of beeps made her smile in relief.
"Hello, little one. Who do you belong to?"
It was a spherical droid, hovering off the ground at eye level. His metal casing gleamed brightly, but his eyes were strangely dark. It moved hesitantly through the air, nearly running into her head before backing off.
"Oh, you poor thing! Is is your optical sensors? They don't look like they're working properly."
He beeped in affirmative.
"Do you mind?" She reached out a hand and was rewarded with friendly chatter. "Here, let me take a look."
Carefully Nia grabbed hold of him and looked for the access panel. "Hold on," she said, reaching for her pack as she sat down on the ground, legs crossed comfortably. Out of the pack she took a cloth roll, which she opened to reveal her tools. She let her hand hover over them for a moment before picking a screwdriver of the right size.
"There we go. Now, for the access panel—" Once it was unscrewed, she gently lifted the curved metal panel and peered inside. "There you are; it's just a loose connection. I can connect it easily enough, but you'll have to power down, I'm afraid. It wouldn't be very safe, otherwise."
The droid, which had stayed quiet throughout the process, chirped and then turned itself off. Nia reconnected the wire, and was replacing the panel when her concentration was interrupted.
"Just what do you think you're doing with my droid?"
Nia looked up into the face of a middle aged man, whose current expression, complete with red-faced indignation, could only be described as irate.
"I'm—I'm so sorry, sir! Here!" She thrust the droid into his hands and stood, ready to flee. "I didn't do nothing to it, sir." Maybe if he thought her slow, maybe he'd let her go.
He glanced suspiciously at her for a moment before inspecting the droid. He pressed the hidden power button, and it hummed to life, beeping cheerfully. The man's eyebrows rose, and he turned his gaze back to Nia. He was looking at her much more closely now, and his calculating gaze was making her nervous.
"You fixed it."
"I dunno what you're talking 'bout, sir. I didn't do nothing." Nia scuffed her foot in the dirt and looked at the ground, twisting her hands in her skirts.
"That won't fool me, girl. How much do you charge normally? I won't pay more because you're pretending to be slow."
"Pay?" The word was out of her mouth before she could stop it, and Nia cursed herself. If the man wanted to pay her, let him. He didn't have to know she would have fixed the droid for free.
***
[Edit: Continued here.]
Monday, June 16, 2008
Day 8
Don't think I'll get two "days" up today. Ah well; I think as long as I don't miss any more days I'll be all right.
This isn't very long, and I'm not sure how much I'm making sense at this time of night, but no matter. I have a feeling this could be loosely termed as Star Wars fanfiction, but as I'm not consciously using any terms or concepts from the series, save "droids," I think I may be all right.
A rough draft, as per usual.
***
Herlon was the largest city Nia had ever stepped foot in. As the only spaceport in the outerlands that wasn't all that surprising; anyone with business in the region had to come through here. And yet, according to Mertel, Herlon was like a small village when compared to the capital.
Standing in the shadow of the ship docks, Nia was having a hard time believing it. How could any place be bigger than this? Tall skyscrapers, glittering in the sunlight, rose so high they were lost in the clouds, and the crowded market streets stretched for blocks in every direction.
Closing her eyes against the barrage, she was assaulted with the smells of hawker stalls, meat cooking on open flames, and the coarse shouts of sellers promoting their wares. Someone bumped her roughly behind and she stumbled, eyes flying open. Nia winced as a particularly enthusiastic vendor let out his shout right next to her ear, and she fled to the dark doorway of an establishment.
It was quieter here, and Nia stopped to catch her breath. Looking up at the sign she saw it was a shop selling droids and she smiled. She tried to peer through the grimy glass, but didn't venture in. She couldn't afford a droid, and the proprietors wouldn't look kindly upon her "skulking" around the shop.
That thought made her frown, but she banished it from her mind. True, she was no thief—she'd come to Herlon for honest work, from whomever would have her—but they wouldn't know that. Never mind that she could fix just about any—
No. Nia shook her head. She wouldn't do this. She was here to take any work she could have. Mertel might have fancies of "doing what he loved" and "getting off this rock," but look what that had got him. Nothing but disappointment.
***
[Edit: Continued on Day 9.]
This isn't very long, and I'm not sure how much I'm making sense at this time of night, but no matter. I have a feeling this could be loosely termed as Star Wars fanfiction, but as I'm not consciously using any terms or concepts from the series, save "droids," I think I may be all right.
A rough draft, as per usual.
***
Herlon was the largest city Nia had ever stepped foot in. As the only spaceport in the outerlands that wasn't all that surprising; anyone with business in the region had to come through here. And yet, according to Mertel, Herlon was like a small village when compared to the capital.
Standing in the shadow of the ship docks, Nia was having a hard time believing it. How could any place be bigger than this? Tall skyscrapers, glittering in the sunlight, rose so high they were lost in the clouds, and the crowded market streets stretched for blocks in every direction.
Closing her eyes against the barrage, she was assaulted with the smells of hawker stalls, meat cooking on open flames, and the coarse shouts of sellers promoting their wares. Someone bumped her roughly behind and she stumbled, eyes flying open. Nia winced as a particularly enthusiastic vendor let out his shout right next to her ear, and she fled to the dark doorway of an establishment.
It was quieter here, and Nia stopped to catch her breath. Looking up at the sign she saw it was a shop selling droids and she smiled. She tried to peer through the grimy glass, but didn't venture in. She couldn't afford a droid, and the proprietors wouldn't look kindly upon her "skulking" around the shop.
That thought made her frown, but she banished it from her mind. True, she was no thief—she'd come to Herlon for honest work, from whomever would have her—but they wouldn't know that. Never mind that she could fix just about any—
No. Nia shook her head. She wouldn't do this. She was here to take any work she could have. Mertel might have fancies of "doing what he loved" and "getting off this rock," but look what that had got him. Nothing but disappointment.
***
[Edit: Continued on Day 9.]
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Day 7 (one day late)
Continued from Friday. I decided to to a bit of editing, so this is the whole shebang. I've managed 1,118 words, which isn't too bad. Not sure if I'll ever be able flesh out any of my ideas to the required length (1,200-1,400 words) for submitting to the The Folio Weekly, but it was a fun attempt, anyway. It gets a bit iffy towards the end; I think I may've lost the plot slightly. That's all right, though. Perhaps I will work on it a bit more, flesh it out just a tad and work on the flow and such.
Anyway, I'll (hopefully) have two "days" up tomorrow, to make up for my slip-up yesterday.
***
Solving for Pattern
Watching the news these days is a bit like watching a scene in an apocalypse movie. The main character changes the channels, each time coming to a news anchor detailing some aspect of the catastrophe(s). "In the ongoing food crisis, riots have spread to Egypt and Haiti," intones one woman. "Oil prices reached another record high today," drones an economics analyst. Another click on the remote and there's someone talking about global warming. "Scientists fear that the ice cap is melting faster than predicted..."
At first the characters dismiss the events as coincidences. They fail to see the larger picture, to see that all the events are connected and that the world as they know it is coming to an end. Then slowly it dawns on them, but it's too late to change anything; all they can do is hope to survive the coming storm.
Of course, the analogy does fall short. We’re not facing an army of zombies, for instance. That’s a fairly simple adversary to comprehend, at least once you get past the fact that they're the living undead and here to eat your brains. Just remember to aim for the head, and for god's sake, whatever you do, don’t get bitten.
But this, this is different. We’re not facing a future with one "enemy," but many. And while some people are still at the oblivious, TV watching stage (whether by choice or through ignorance), the rest of us, if we're not completely insane, are probably starting to get a bit worried. We can't bomb the hell out of global warming, and while invading a country to get at their oil reserves might work in the short term, it certainly won't work for long. (And no, that isn't a veiled reference to Iraq. If peak oil comes to pass, and the worse predictions come true, there will be many wars waged for the control of scarce resources.)
So what is there to do? Many people across the world are working on solutions; campaigning for legislation curtailing carbon dioxide emissions, inventing new green technologies, educating others about speculation and its role in rising food and oil prices, speaking about the changes global warming could, and most likely will, bring to our planet. Their efforts are commendable, and will make some measure of a difference, but the challenges now facing us require a response far beyond anything humanity has ever orchestrated. Not only that, but I think they require a whole new way of thinking about problems and their solutions, and one possible contender is the concept of "solving for pattern."
Wendell Berry coined the phrase in an article of the same name. Originally it was applied to agriculture; however, as Berry indicated in his article, the concept can be applied to just about any problem. And while it was first written about nearly thirty years ago, I feel it's just as relevant today as it was then, perhaps even more so.
Essentially, solving for pattern is the practice of looking beyond the initial problem, engaging in a holistic approach, if you will. In his essay Berry defined a "good solution" as, among other things, one that solves several problems at once and doesn’t cause any new ones. Paul Hawken, author of Blessed Unrest, defines solving for pattern as something that "arises naturally when one perceives problems as symptoms of systemic failure, rather than as random errors requiring anodynes."
Well, duh, you think. Of course a good solution shouldn't cause any new problems. To continue our rather silly analogy, it would be a bit like nuking the zombies without giving a single thought to the nuclear fallout, or the humans still in the city.
The problem is, our efforts to make things better do often make them worse. In a more realistic example, consider the current biofuels issue. On the surface the idea seemed sound—make fuel from plant matter and therefore reduce our dependence on oil, a resource which, sooner or later, we'll have to do without. Biofuels were hailed as the solution to all our problems; understandably, really, since a lot of us are still looking for that perfect fuel that will take the place of gasoline. Trading one fuel for another at the gas pump seems a lot simpler than changing our entire energy economy.
Such a simplified view hasn’t severed us well as we now know; our "green" solution to the energy crisis has had ramifications in areas far beyond fossil fuel usage. Land that once grew food now grows fuel, and while the biolfuels' guilt in the recent increases in food prices hasn't been agreed upon, the fact that the grain it takes to fill an SUV once would feed a person for an entire year speaks volumes.
If less land is being used for farming food, then more will have to be found, which brings us to the next unforeseen consequence of biofuels. A search for farmland inevitably destroys forests, grasslands, and wetlands, which, besides being home to many species and indigenous people, ironically store carbon. One of the solutions intended to help curb global warming is actually causing more carbon dioxide to be emitted into the atmosphere.
Even biofuel's claim to reduce the use of fossil fuels seems suspect these days. To grow crops requires fertilizers and pesticides, manufactured using fossil fuels, and tractors have to get their fuel from somewhere. Some people have gone as far to say that we might as well just pump regular gas into our cars, for all the "hidden" fuel costs that go into making biofuels.
So obviously it isn't simple, taking all these consequences into account. Or is it? That's the thing about solving for pattern; very often the best solutions are good because they're simple.
Sustainable agriculture, which Wendell Berry wrote about in his essay, is an example of a solution that solves for pattern. As Hawken explains in Blessed Unrest, it helps to solve quite a few problems: it reduces agricultural runoff, since there are few or no man-made fertilizers and pesticides used; it helps reduce carbon emissions and therefore global warming, because, unlike industrial farming, organic farming sequesters carbon; it promotes healthy soil, because it reduces soil erosion and the depletion of nutrients. And those aren't even half of the benefits of sustainable agriculture.
Solving for pattern, then, is not only possible, but a viable way of approaching the challenges we face today. Just think—solutions that not only take the big picture into account and address several or more problems, but ones that don’t cause any more glitches. It might just work, if we look at things a slightly different way, and watch out for those zombies.
***
[Edit: Reposted here on my other blog.]
Anyway, I'll (hopefully) have two "days" up tomorrow, to make up for my slip-up yesterday.
***
Solving for Pattern
Watching the news these days is a bit like watching a scene in an apocalypse movie. The main character changes the channels, each time coming to a news anchor detailing some aspect of the catastrophe(s). "In the ongoing food crisis, riots have spread to Egypt and Haiti," intones one woman. "Oil prices reached another record high today," drones an economics analyst. Another click on the remote and there's someone talking about global warming. "Scientists fear that the ice cap is melting faster than predicted..."
At first the characters dismiss the events as coincidences. They fail to see the larger picture, to see that all the events are connected and that the world as they know it is coming to an end. Then slowly it dawns on them, but it's too late to change anything; all they can do is hope to survive the coming storm.
Of course, the analogy does fall short. We’re not facing an army of zombies, for instance. That’s a fairly simple adversary to comprehend, at least once you get past the fact that they're the living undead and here to eat your brains. Just remember to aim for the head, and for god's sake, whatever you do, don’t get bitten.
But this, this is different. We’re not facing a future with one "enemy," but many. And while some people are still at the oblivious, TV watching stage (whether by choice or through ignorance), the rest of us, if we're not completely insane, are probably starting to get a bit worried. We can't bomb the hell out of global warming, and while invading a country to get at their oil reserves might work in the short term, it certainly won't work for long. (And no, that isn't a veiled reference to Iraq. If peak oil comes to pass, and the worse predictions come true, there will be many wars waged for the control of scarce resources.)
So what is there to do? Many people across the world are working on solutions; campaigning for legislation curtailing carbon dioxide emissions, inventing new green technologies, educating others about speculation and its role in rising food and oil prices, speaking about the changes global warming could, and most likely will, bring to our planet. Their efforts are commendable, and will make some measure of a difference, but the challenges now facing us require a response far beyond anything humanity has ever orchestrated. Not only that, but I think they require a whole new way of thinking about problems and their solutions, and one possible contender is the concept of "solving for pattern."
Wendell Berry coined the phrase in an article of the same name. Originally it was applied to agriculture; however, as Berry indicated in his article, the concept can be applied to just about any problem. And while it was first written about nearly thirty years ago, I feel it's just as relevant today as it was then, perhaps even more so.
Essentially, solving for pattern is the practice of looking beyond the initial problem, engaging in a holistic approach, if you will. In his essay Berry defined a "good solution" as, among other things, one that solves several problems at once and doesn’t cause any new ones. Paul Hawken, author of Blessed Unrest, defines solving for pattern as something that "arises naturally when one perceives problems as symptoms of systemic failure, rather than as random errors requiring anodynes."
Well, duh, you think. Of course a good solution shouldn't cause any new problems. To continue our rather silly analogy, it would be a bit like nuking the zombies without giving a single thought to the nuclear fallout, or the humans still in the city.
The problem is, our efforts to make things better do often make them worse. In a more realistic example, consider the current biofuels issue. On the surface the idea seemed sound—make fuel from plant matter and therefore reduce our dependence on oil, a resource which, sooner or later, we'll have to do without. Biofuels were hailed as the solution to all our problems; understandably, really, since a lot of us are still looking for that perfect fuel that will take the place of gasoline. Trading one fuel for another at the gas pump seems a lot simpler than changing our entire energy economy.
Such a simplified view hasn’t severed us well as we now know; our "green" solution to the energy crisis has had ramifications in areas far beyond fossil fuel usage. Land that once grew food now grows fuel, and while the biolfuels' guilt in the recent increases in food prices hasn't been agreed upon, the fact that the grain it takes to fill an SUV once would feed a person for an entire year speaks volumes.
If less land is being used for farming food, then more will have to be found, which brings us to the next unforeseen consequence of biofuels. A search for farmland inevitably destroys forests, grasslands, and wetlands, which, besides being home to many species and indigenous people, ironically store carbon. One of the solutions intended to help curb global warming is actually causing more carbon dioxide to be emitted into the atmosphere.
Even biofuel's claim to reduce the use of fossil fuels seems suspect these days. To grow crops requires fertilizers and pesticides, manufactured using fossil fuels, and tractors have to get their fuel from somewhere. Some people have gone as far to say that we might as well just pump regular gas into our cars, for all the "hidden" fuel costs that go into making biofuels.
So obviously it isn't simple, taking all these consequences into account. Or is it? That's the thing about solving for pattern; very often the best solutions are good because they're simple.
Sustainable agriculture, which Wendell Berry wrote about in his essay, is an example of a solution that solves for pattern. As Hawken explains in Blessed Unrest, it helps to solve quite a few problems: it reduces agricultural runoff, since there are few or no man-made fertilizers and pesticides used; it helps reduce carbon emissions and therefore global warming, because, unlike industrial farming, organic farming sequesters carbon; it promotes healthy soil, because it reduces soil erosion and the depletion of nutrients. And those aren't even half of the benefits of sustainable agriculture.
Solving for pattern, then, is not only possible, but a viable way of approaching the challenges we face today. Just think—solutions that not only take the big picture into account and address several or more problems, but ones that don’t cause any more glitches. It might just work, if we look at things a slightly different way, and watch out for those zombies.
***
[Edit: Reposted here on my other blog.]
Saturday, June 14, 2008
I'm really tired
Really, really tired. I didn't want to screw up so early in the game, but I'll have something up tomorrow. Hopefully that'll be all right. :(
Friday, June 13, 2008
Day 6
There's a free magazine that comes out every Tuesday in my area called The Folio Weekly. It's a fun read—I love their movie reviews, and they often report on local news of interest, such as environmental goings on in North Florida.
They've also got a backpage editorial, and anyone can write one and submit it for consideration:
***
Solving for Pattern
Watching the news these days is a bit like watching a scene in an apocalypse movie. The main character changes the channels, each time coming to a news anchor detailing some aspect of the catastrophe(s). "In the ongoing food crisis, riots have spread to Egypt and Haiti," intones one woman. "Oil prices reached another record high today," drones an economics analyst. Another click on the remote and there's someone talking about global warming. "Scientists fear that the ice cap is melting faster than predicted..."
At first the characters dismiss the events as coincidences. They fail to see the larger picture, to see that all the events are connected and that the world as they know it is coming to an end. Then slowly it dawns on them, but it’s too late to change anything; all they can do is hope to survive the coming storm.
Of course, the analogy does fall short. We’re not facing an army of zombies, for instance. That’s a fairly simple adversary to comprehend, at least once you get past the fact that they’re the living undead and here to eat your brains. Just remember to aim for the head, and for god’s sake, whatever you do, don’t get bitten.
But this, this is different. We’re not facing a future with one "enemy," but many. And while some people are still at the oblivious, TV watching stage (whether by choice or through ignorance), the rest of us, if we're not completely insane, are probably starting to get a bit worried. We can't bomb the hell out of global warming, and while invading a country to get to their oil reserves might work in the sort term, it certainly won't work for long. (And no, that isn't a veiled reference to Iraq. If peak oil comes to pass, as many predict, they'll probably be many wars waged for scarce resources.)
So what is there to do? Many people across the world are working on solutions; campaigning for legislation curtailing carbon dioxide emissions, educating others about speculation and its role in rising food and oil prices, speaking about the changes global warming could, and most likely will, bring to our planet.
But the challenges facing us require a response far beyond anything humanity has ever orchestrated. I personally think they will require a whole new way of thinking about problems and their solution, and I think one contender is the concept of "solving for pattern."
***
Okay, time to get some sleep for a change. To be continued tomorrow. [Edit: Continued Sunday.]
Oh, and did I mention this is an editorial? I know some people will disagree with my assessment of the situation, but please, no flames. ;}
They've also got a backpage editorial, and anyone can write one and submit it for consideration:
These are unpaid submissions that should be between 1,200-1,400 words in length. They can be on any subject, but topics of local interest and/or concern are given preference.Anyway this is my attempt to get ideas down, a practice of sorts. No idea what I should write about when submitting, but this'll do for now.
***
Solving for Pattern
Watching the news these days is a bit like watching a scene in an apocalypse movie. The main character changes the channels, each time coming to a news anchor detailing some aspect of the catastrophe(s). "In the ongoing food crisis, riots have spread to Egypt and Haiti," intones one woman. "Oil prices reached another record high today," drones an economics analyst. Another click on the remote and there's someone talking about global warming. "Scientists fear that the ice cap is melting faster than predicted..."
At first the characters dismiss the events as coincidences. They fail to see the larger picture, to see that all the events are connected and that the world as they know it is coming to an end. Then slowly it dawns on them, but it’s too late to change anything; all they can do is hope to survive the coming storm.
Of course, the analogy does fall short. We’re not facing an army of zombies, for instance. That’s a fairly simple adversary to comprehend, at least once you get past the fact that they’re the living undead and here to eat your brains. Just remember to aim for the head, and for god’s sake, whatever you do, don’t get bitten.
But this, this is different. We’re not facing a future with one "enemy," but many. And while some people are still at the oblivious, TV watching stage (whether by choice or through ignorance), the rest of us, if we're not completely insane, are probably starting to get a bit worried. We can't bomb the hell out of global warming, and while invading a country to get to their oil reserves might work in the sort term, it certainly won't work for long. (And no, that isn't a veiled reference to Iraq. If peak oil comes to pass, as many predict, they'll probably be many wars waged for scarce resources.)
So what is there to do? Many people across the world are working on solutions; campaigning for legislation curtailing carbon dioxide emissions, educating others about speculation and its role in rising food and oil prices, speaking about the changes global warming could, and most likely will, bring to our planet.
But the challenges facing us require a response far beyond anything humanity has ever orchestrated. I personally think they will require a whole new way of thinking about problems and their solution, and I think one contender is the concept of "solving for pattern."
***
Okay, time to get some sleep for a change. To be continued tomorrow. [Edit: Continued Sunday.]
Oh, and did I mention this is an editorial? I know some people will disagree with my assessment of the situation, but please, no flames. ;}
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Day 5
Continued from yesterday. A rough draft, as usual.
***
Suddenly Agatha found herself being pulled by her arm through the ruins. Her camera thudded uncomfortably against her chest, hanging as it did from a strap around her neck, and she hoped it would be all right. She stumbled behind Elise, rocks clattering underneath her feet. She didn't bother protesting, since she knew her friend would release her. Eventually.
It wasn't until they reached the beginning of the trail that Elise realized she was still tugging on Agatha's arm. She stopped and dropped it, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry."
There was nothing apologetic about the word, but Agatha had to smile. "All right then," she said. "You've dragged me away. Now what?"
"We climb!" With that Elise started up the steep path, scampering past boulders that rose on either side.
Agatha followed, legs moving quickly so she could catch up. They settled into an easy rhythm, walking steadily as the path cut into the side of the rock face and the canyon disappeared from view. Soon there was nothing but blue sky above and red rock all around.
"I don't get it," said Elise, breaking the silence. "You're making such a big deal out of nothing. Why not just take the picture and hope for the best?"
"I dunno." A bead of sweat slid into Agatha's eyes, and she wiped her brow. "I just want that perfect shot, you know? I want to take a picture that, years later, I can look at and remember exactly what this place was like. It's just so beautiful—how am I supposed to capture the essence of this trip on a strip of film?"
"Maybe you can't."
"Oh, but have you seen Ansel Adams? The feelings you get when you look at his pictures! All I want is a reminder of this day, and I can't even manage that."
Elise glanced back over her shoulder. "I think you're being to hard on yourself. I mean, I took some pictures today, and I didn't have a mental breakdown because they might not come out right."
Agatha felt a twinge of annoyance. What did Elise know? Her camera was some plastic disposable thing, and the pictures it was capable of taking were just as crap as the camera itself. The words were out before she could think. "Well, no wonder. With that thing of yours, the only question is just how bad they'll be."
She could feel the anger and hurt in the air before Elise even spoke, and her stomach twisted.
"Fine. Be that way."
The rest of the trail was walked in silence, and by the time they reached the top Agatha was miserable. The sun was starting to set but it was still hot, and Elise was pointedly ignoring her, and with good reason. She watched as her friend found a flat-topped boulder a good distance away and sat down facing the view. Agatha sighed and took her camera in hand.
The canyon was admittedly stunning. In the light of the sunset the scruffy landscape glowed warmly, and the walls of the Anazasi ruins stood in stark contrast with the long shadows cast out behind them. In the distance, giant monoliths of rock jutted upwards from the flat land, reminding Agatha of the skyline of a city.
She stood there for several minutes before she put her eye to the viewfinder. A few pictures later, and she still couldn't shake her disappointment. Here she was, at Chaco Canyon, watching the sun set, and all her pictures fell flatter than... well, something really flat.
The sun slipped lower and lower, until at last it was nearly gone from the horizon, only a sliver of light remaining in the darkening sky. Agatha turned away, reaching for her lens cap, but froze when she saw Elise still sitting there, legs crossed, staring out into the sky. Her hair was blowing softly around her, and the dying rays of the sun were just enough to light her serene face.
The camera was up to her face before she realized it, and Agatha snapped the picture without a second thought. She screwed on the lens cap and walked over to her friend. Elise looked up, and smiled, all forgiven.
"Did you get it?"
Agatha smiled back. "Yeah, I think I did."
***
Suddenly Agatha found herself being pulled by her arm through the ruins. Her camera thudded uncomfortably against her chest, hanging as it did from a strap around her neck, and she hoped it would be all right. She stumbled behind Elise, rocks clattering underneath her feet. She didn't bother protesting, since she knew her friend would release her. Eventually.
It wasn't until they reached the beginning of the trail that Elise realized she was still tugging on Agatha's arm. She stopped and dropped it, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry."
There was nothing apologetic about the word, but Agatha had to smile. "All right then," she said. "You've dragged me away. Now what?"
"We climb!" With that Elise started up the steep path, scampering past boulders that rose on either side.
Agatha followed, legs moving quickly so she could catch up. They settled into an easy rhythm, walking steadily as the path cut into the side of the rock face and the canyon disappeared from view. Soon there was nothing but blue sky above and red rock all around.
"I don't get it," said Elise, breaking the silence. "You're making such a big deal out of nothing. Why not just take the picture and hope for the best?"
"I dunno." A bead of sweat slid into Agatha's eyes, and she wiped her brow. "I just want that perfect shot, you know? I want to take a picture that, years later, I can look at and remember exactly what this place was like. It's just so beautiful—how am I supposed to capture the essence of this trip on a strip of film?"
"Maybe you can't."
"Oh, but have you seen Ansel Adams? The feelings you get when you look at his pictures! All I want is a reminder of this day, and I can't even manage that."
Elise glanced back over her shoulder. "I think you're being to hard on yourself. I mean, I took some pictures today, and I didn't have a mental breakdown because they might not come out right."
Agatha felt a twinge of annoyance. What did Elise know? Her camera was some plastic disposable thing, and the pictures it was capable of taking were just as crap as the camera itself. The words were out before she could think. "Well, no wonder. With that thing of yours, the only question is just how bad they'll be."
She could feel the anger and hurt in the air before Elise even spoke, and her stomach twisted.
"Fine. Be that way."
The rest of the trail was walked in silence, and by the time they reached the top Agatha was miserable. The sun was starting to set but it was still hot, and Elise was pointedly ignoring her, and with good reason. She watched as her friend found a flat-topped boulder a good distance away and sat down facing the view. Agatha sighed and took her camera in hand.
The canyon was admittedly stunning. In the light of the sunset the scruffy landscape glowed warmly, and the walls of the Anazasi ruins stood in stark contrast with the long shadows cast out behind them. In the distance, giant monoliths of rock jutted upwards from the flat land, reminding Agatha of the skyline of a city.
She stood there for several minutes before she put her eye to the viewfinder. A few pictures later, and she still couldn't shake her disappointment. Here she was, at Chaco Canyon, watching the sun set, and all her pictures fell flatter than... well, something really flat.
The sun slipped lower and lower, until at last it was nearly gone from the horizon, only a sliver of light remaining in the darkening sky. Agatha turned away, reaching for her lens cap, but froze when she saw Elise still sitting there, legs crossed, staring out into the sky. Her hair was blowing softly around her, and the dying rays of the sun were just enough to light her serene face.
The camera was up to her face before she realized it, and Agatha snapped the picture without a second thought. She screwed on the lens cap and walked over to her friend. Elise looked up, and smiled, all forgiven.
"Did you get it?"
Agatha smiled back. "Yeah, I think I did."
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Day 4
An idea for a story a had a while back. The first few paragraphs were written previously, but the rest is new.
***
The Perfect Shot
Agatha squinted through the viewfinder and frowned. Her finger rested on the shutter release button, but she couldn't bring herself to take the picture. The ancient wall lost some unnameable quality when made to fit within the frame. Lowering the camera, she tried to figure out what it was that was missing. Was it the texture of the individual stones, worn by centuries of weather? Or the pattern they formed, interlocking perfectly together as they did. Or the way they glowed in the afternoon sun. She shook her head. Why was this so difficult?
"Watcha doing?"
She’d half expected the interruption; maybe that was why she jumped. Agatha turned to look at her friend. "Elise, not now, okay?"
"Oh, come on, you’ve been at that for ages. Why don’t you give it a rest and explore for a bit? I heard the tour guide say something about a trail up that cliff." Elise gestured at the rock face behind her. "Sounds like we could get a great view of the whole ruin, and the canyon landscape." She grinned and waggled her eyebrows. "I bet there's lots of stuff to take pictures of."
Agatha knew her friend was trying to make her feel better, but the sun was hot and Agatha was tired and it just. Wasn't. Working.
"I don't understand!" she said. "Nothing looks right."
"Well standing there starting at a wall isn't gonna help. Come on!"
Suddenly Agatha found herself being pulled by her arm through the ruins.
***
To be continued tomorrow, when I'm not quite so tired. Gah, I wish I were more prolific. I shall never never write enough for a novel if I don't learn to write more.
***
The Perfect Shot
Agatha squinted through the viewfinder and frowned. Her finger rested on the shutter release button, but she couldn't bring herself to take the picture. The ancient wall lost some unnameable quality when made to fit within the frame. Lowering the camera, she tried to figure out what it was that was missing. Was it the texture of the individual stones, worn by centuries of weather? Or the pattern they formed, interlocking perfectly together as they did. Or the way they glowed in the afternoon sun. She shook her head. Why was this so difficult?
"Watcha doing?"
She’d half expected the interruption; maybe that was why she jumped. Agatha turned to look at her friend. "Elise, not now, okay?"
"Oh, come on, you’ve been at that for ages. Why don’t you give it a rest and explore for a bit? I heard the tour guide say something about a trail up that cliff." Elise gestured at the rock face behind her. "Sounds like we could get a great view of the whole ruin, and the canyon landscape." She grinned and waggled her eyebrows. "I bet there's lots of stuff to take pictures of."
Agatha knew her friend was trying to make her feel better, but the sun was hot and Agatha was tired and it just. Wasn't. Working.
"I don't understand!" she said. "Nothing looks right."
"Well standing there starting at a wall isn't gonna help. Come on!"
Suddenly Agatha found herself being pulled by her arm through the ruins.
***
To be continued tomorrow, when I'm not quite so tired. Gah, I wish I were more prolific. I shall never never write enough for a novel if I don't learn to write more.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Day 3
In my previous post I mentioned that I'd come up with an idea for a novel, a fantasy set in England. It's in the early stages yet, and a lot of it is rather vague in terms of plot and suchlike, so I thought I'd try some exercises. This one is my first attempt at writing some dialogue from a scene that occurs very early on; I'm trying to get a feel for the characters (named, for the moment at least, Violet and Samson). Tomorrow I think I'll try writing a description of each character from the other's point of view.
It's actually quite helpful (I've already learned some things I didn't know about Violet before), but I'm having a bit of trouble with Samson's dialogue. He's supposed to be in his twenties, but here he's disguised as an old man. He's also not from modern-day England, so I'm not sure how to pull that off...
***
V: Excuse me. I was wondering if you knew which way it is to Nottingham.
S: Nottingham, miss?
V: Yes.
S: I'm afraid I can't say I've heard of it. There's no Nottingham around these parts as far as I know.
V: But that's impossible! I've only been walking for half an hour, maybe less.
S: Lost, then, are you?
V: No—I mean, maybe. It's hard to explain.
S: It will be if you don't even try.
V: Well, I was walking in a wood, following a path, when I came out into this field. But when I turned around it was gone!
S: The path?
V: Not just the path; the whole wood! If I didn't know any better, I'd say it had disappeared, but that's just silly.
S: You're probably right there; it'd take some pretty powerful magic to make the trees actually disappear. Are you sure they didn't get up and walk away? They can be mighty quiet when they want to be.
V: Well, if you're going to be like that!
S: Like what, miss?
V: Taking the mickey! I know it sounds ridiculous, but there's no reason to be rude.
S: Where did you say you were from, again?
V: Nottingham. Well, Middle Barton, really, but I've just come from my grandmo—from a house in Nottingham.
S: I see. Would you like to come with me to the next village? Perhaps someone there will have heard of this Nottingham.
V: Yes, thanks, that would be great. I need to find a phone, anyway, to call my parents. I didn't exactly tell them I was going for a walk.
S: A phone. Yes, that would make sense.
V: Pardon?
S: Oh, it's nothing. After you!
***
Note: Names of places are place-holders. I'm not sure exactly where I should set the story, so I've just used familiar names that work well enough.
It's actually quite helpful (I've already learned some things I didn't know about Violet before), but I'm having a bit of trouble with Samson's dialogue. He's supposed to be in his twenties, but here he's disguised as an old man. He's also not from modern-day England, so I'm not sure how to pull that off...
***
V: Excuse me. I was wondering if you knew which way it is to Nottingham.
S: Nottingham, miss?
V: Yes.
S: I'm afraid I can't say I've heard of it. There's no Nottingham around these parts as far as I know.
V: But that's impossible! I've only been walking for half an hour, maybe less.
S: Lost, then, are you?
V: No—I mean, maybe. It's hard to explain.
S: It will be if you don't even try.
V: Well, I was walking in a wood, following a path, when I came out into this field. But when I turned around it was gone!
S: The path?
V: Not just the path; the whole wood! If I didn't know any better, I'd say it had disappeared, but that's just silly.
S: You're probably right there; it'd take some pretty powerful magic to make the trees actually disappear. Are you sure they didn't get up and walk away? They can be mighty quiet when they want to be.
V: Well, if you're going to be like that!
S: Like what, miss?
V: Taking the mickey! I know it sounds ridiculous, but there's no reason to be rude.
S: Where did you say you were from, again?
V: Nottingham. Well, Middle Barton, really, but I've just come from my grandmo—from a house in Nottingham.
S: I see. Would you like to come with me to the next village? Perhaps someone there will have heard of this Nottingham.
V: Yes, thanks, that would be great. I need to find a phone, anyway, to call my parents. I didn't exactly tell them I was going for a walk.
S: A phone. Yes, that would make sense.
V: Pardon?
S: Oh, it's nothing. After you!
***
Note: Names of places are place-holders. I'm not sure exactly where I should set the story, so I've just used familiar names that work well enough.
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