This Thanksgiving weekend is a writing weekend. I have thus far written a critique, posted a story for critique, started editing said story, and begun trying to make an incomprehensible poem into something comprehensible. (I am thinking the last is a lost cause, but I'm gonna keep trying. ^_^)
The story and poem are the ones I wrote for my creative writing class. I won't bother posting them here yet, but I feel like putting up some of the exercises I've done (one of which I wrote about in my previous post). They're not good, but they were fun to write~
***
Write an unrhymed poem that incorporates the following six words (among others): ROAD, DEAR, SICKLY, GLASS, DISPERSES, BLOSSOMS
Dear Friend,
You took the left turn and I the right
and I wished it had been a knife in the road instead
because then my feet would not have wanted to be right.
The sickly scent of your new perfume
dispersed with the distance and I hated it--
its presence, its disappearance.
Red blossoms on the hedgerows were your cheeks
and bees buzzed around blushing petals.
My dull face did not attract such suitors
and I swatted down your butterfly.
Guilty feet shuffled and scuffed
the dirt, the pebbles, the dust
and later they found their way back to town.
You stood behind the glass of a shop window
and my feet tripped one over the other--
but I saw that you had two left feet
equal to my two right feet.
I waved, and you smiled.
***
Write a poem in which one color (ex: red) is frequently repeated. Consider the symbolic associations of your chosen color (ex: anger, passion, death). Make color your unifying motif. Pay close attention to where, when, and why you're breaking the language where you are.
Viola Brown
The brown sound seeps deep into my bones
and I am the one who owns these strings.
Brown wood sings in mellow melody,
rich rhapsody thrilling down my arms,
and it warms like coffee on an autumn day.
I am a chestnut rooted in brown earth,
my leaves unfurling in rebirth to the sound
resonating all around. My heart begins to heal
as my flying fingers feel and my ears hear
the color of brown.
***
The second is very shallow, but I had so much fun messing around with sounds I really can't bring myself to care. ^_^
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
On the Creative Writing Class
I've been having a lot of fun in my online creative writing class, but unfortunately it's the cause of my lengthy radio silence. A few weeks ago we had a fiction workshop, in which everyone posted a story and then critiqued the other stories. Twenty-two critiques in three weeks gets to be a bit wearing. ^_^
Having to write a story for the workshop was good motivation, though; I managed to write a shortened version of a concept I've had for several years. I think it must be pleased to see the light of day after knocking around in my head for so long. The draft was received fairly well, and soon I'll begin revising it for our final "portfolio" assignment.
Going through the critiques I received has me pondering how to deal with contradictory opinions, a situation I hadn't come across before. On Locution I usually get a body of advice that all adds up to a certain direction; even different opinions aren't blatant contradictions. With this workshop, though, I've found people can have very different reactions to the same story. One person really disliked the magical element I introduced, for instance, while two people thought it needed more emphasis to seem more magical. Yet another said he liked the subtlety of it. I'll probably end up editing the story in line with the opinion I favor, but I can't decide if that's taking the easy way out or simply the way to deal with such variance. Ah well~
Just over a week ago we started the poetry segment of the course, which has been interesting. I'm not much of a poetry person, and I was both apprehensive and excited about it. Right now I've got my workshop poem and a color poem to write--it's sort of what I'm avoiding at the moment, but I'll get round to it soon. ^_^;;
I made a conscious effort when the segment started to try thinking differently. I don't write much poetry, but when I do it's not uncommon for someone to say it's too much like prose, or they can't find a deeper meaning. And I agree--I'm not very good with poetic language or symbolism. I think, though, I managed something different with the exercise last week. We had to take six words the professor gave us and use them in a poem. What resulted wasn't good, per se--the imagery was probably a bit muddled, and rereading it I can see places that need work. Point is, I actually paid attention to imagery, symbolism, metaphor, and suchlike. I may not have got the execution right, but I was thinking about it as I wrote and edited, and I think it made a difference.
Anyway, I should probably get back to thinking about that color poem:
Having to write a story for the workshop was good motivation, though; I managed to write a shortened version of a concept I've had for several years. I think it must be pleased to see the light of day after knocking around in my head for so long. The draft was received fairly well, and soon I'll begin revising it for our final "portfolio" assignment.
Going through the critiques I received has me pondering how to deal with contradictory opinions, a situation I hadn't come across before. On Locution I usually get a body of advice that all adds up to a certain direction; even different opinions aren't blatant contradictions. With this workshop, though, I've found people can have very different reactions to the same story. One person really disliked the magical element I introduced, for instance, while two people thought it needed more emphasis to seem more magical. Yet another said he liked the subtlety of it. I'll probably end up editing the story in line with the opinion I favor, but I can't decide if that's taking the easy way out or simply the way to deal with such variance. Ah well~
Just over a week ago we started the poetry segment of the course, which has been interesting. I'm not much of a poetry person, and I was both apprehensive and excited about it. Right now I've got my workshop poem and a color poem to write--it's sort of what I'm avoiding at the moment, but I'll get round to it soon. ^_^;;
I made a conscious effort when the segment started to try thinking differently. I don't write much poetry, but when I do it's not uncommon for someone to say it's too much like prose, or they can't find a deeper meaning. And I agree--I'm not very good with poetic language or symbolism. I think, though, I managed something different with the exercise last week. We had to take six words the professor gave us and use them in a poem. What resulted wasn't good, per se--the imagery was probably a bit muddled, and rereading it I can see places that need work. Point is, I actually paid attention to imagery, symbolism, metaphor, and suchlike. I may not have got the execution right, but I was thinking about it as I wrote and edited, and I think it made a difference.
Anyway, I should probably get back to thinking about that color poem:
Write a poem in which one color (ex: red) is frequently repeated. Consider the symbolic associations of your chosen color (ex: anger, passion, death). Make color your unifying motif. Pay close attention to where, when, and why you're breaking the language where you are.I'll see how it goes. ^_^
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Locution Issue 3 Is Out!
You can download it here. ^_^
I expect anyone reading this blog (all three of you) already knows of the publication, but what the heck. I'm excited.
In other news, I started my math class a few weeks ago. So far it's really going well; I forgot how much I enjoyed math. Yesterday I also bought my books for the creative writing class, since I'm hopeful that I'll be able to manage taking it along side the math class. So I'm excited about that, too.
Lots of excitement. :)
On the writing front I haven't been particularly busy. I did post my time travel story for critique on Locution, which has me motivated to take it further and develop the story. As a result, for the past few days I've been thinking up ideas and possibilities at inopportune moments, like when I'm just on the edge of sleep. Ah writing, how I love thee~
I expect anyone reading this blog (all three of you) already knows of the publication, but what the heck. I'm excited.
In other news, I started my math class a few weeks ago. So far it's really going well; I forgot how much I enjoyed math. Yesterday I also bought my books for the creative writing class, since I'm hopeful that I'll be able to manage taking it along side the math class. So I'm excited about that, too.
Lots of excitement. :)
On the writing front I haven't been particularly busy. I did post my time travel story for critique on Locution, which has me motivated to take it further and develop the story. As a result, for the past few days I've been thinking up ideas and possibilities at inopportune moments, like when I'm just on the edge of sleep. Ah writing, how I love thee~
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Speaking
A poem; they don't happen very often... I expect that's why they aren't very good when they do. Lack of practice. ^_^
Anyway, just a rough draft, as usual.
***
The words mount their offensive,
setting off from base camp somewhere inside my skull;
a perfect formation of sentence regiments and paragraph brigades.
They rappel into my mouth and set up trenches behind my teeth,
and a preposition, in position, asks,
"Will I see fighting today?"
"You may, Private, you may."
I breathe in deeply--
This is it, soldiers!
May God have mercy on our souls!
--and breathe out again.
Not today, lads. Not today.
Anyway, just a rough draft, as usual.
***
The words mount their offensive,
setting off from base camp somewhere inside my skull;
a perfect formation of sentence regiments and paragraph brigades.
They rappel into my mouth and set up trenches behind my teeth,
and a preposition, in position, asks,
"Will I see fighting today?"
"You may, Private, you may."
I breathe in deeply--
This is it, soldiers!
May God have mercy on our souls!
--and breathe out again.
Not today, lads. Not today.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
News
I haven't written a lot in the past two months, at least not in terms of fiction—most of my energies have gone into writing essays and journal entries for my first college class (English Composition). It's nice to get back into the habit of writing essays, and I certainly need the practice, but five paragraph essays do get wearing after a while...
I did slightly edit a story I wrote last October for a contest on the Locution Forums. The next issue of Locution is coming up (planned date of publication is August 15), and as a staff member I had to submit something. It was interesting to do, since editing is my usual obstacle to finishing a story. I can edit as I write, and I can edit before entering a forum contest, but afterwards? For some reason or another, I get stuck.
This time, however, I had a reason to persevere, and I managed a few changes that (I hope) were worthwhile. So that's progress, perhaps. ^_^
I'll also hopefully be taking an online creative writing course in the fall, which will mean I have to make the time for more creative stuffs. Huzzah~ \o/
I did slightly edit a story I wrote last October for a contest on the Locution Forums. The next issue of Locution is coming up (planned date of publication is August 15), and as a staff member I had to submit something. It was interesting to do, since editing is my usual obstacle to finishing a story. I can edit as I write, and I can edit before entering a forum contest, but afterwards? For some reason or another, I get stuck.
This time, however, I had a reason to persevere, and I managed a few changes that (I hope) were worthwhile. So that's progress, perhaps. ^_^
I'll also hopefully be taking an online creative writing course in the fall, which will mean I have to make the time for more creative stuffs. Huzzah~ \o/
Monday, April 13, 2009
April Prose Contest (Locution)
I wrote this over the past few days for the contest I mentioned last post. It didn't go where I wanted it to, and it's more of a very short first chapter than a stand-alone story. Still, it was rather fun to write, if intensely frustrating at times. ^_^
More on the ending (or not-ending) below.
***
Maia slipped into the classroom and carefully shut the door behind her. She turned to face the clutter and sighed in relief. Just as she had thought—a thick layer of dust covered every surface, and all the desks were broken and pushed against the far wall. The University had many rooms such as these hidden at the ends of empty corridors, and Maia could be sure she wouldn’t be disturbed.
Moving into the middle of the room, she swallowed around the lump in her throat. Deep breaths, Maia, deep breaths. It was just twenty four hours, just a little extra time to study metallurgic and gemological magics before the exam that morning; soon to be tomorrow morning.
It’s not as if anyone will miss it. She fingered the pendant that hung around her neck on a long gold chain. A small sapphire, it didn’t seem much, but the spells within it were very rare. I’ll be returning it just a few minutes after taking it, at least as far as they’re concerned, she reassured herself. All the same, it made her nervous.
Maia watched the light refract in the pendant’s facets for a moment, calming her heart. With a final deep breath she closed her eyes, clenching the stone in her hand. Focusing her mind, she felt it begin to warm. “Just twenty four hours, that’s all I need,” she whispered. Sudden heat pierced her palm—she gasped in pain but did not let go—and the floor tilted beneath her sharply. She fell to her knees on the stone floor and groaned as the world slowly stopped spinning around her.
“Who are you?” demanded a voice.
Shakily Maia pushed herself up, letting the pendant swing free of her hand. She gaped. The clutter of the abandoned classroom was gone. She stood amongst shelves of scrolls and books, and before her sat a man. He wore a red tunic and on the desk in front of him lay several scrolls and writing instruments.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, punctuating his statement with a jab of his quill. He scowled at her silence.
“I—I—” Maia grabbed her satchel and held it in front of her.
“Guards!”
Maia jumped at his roar. Spurred into action, she ran to the door and flung it open. An arm reached for her but she ducked under it, skidding into the opposite wall. Men were shouting and yelling, and she caught a glimpse of several red uniforms as she fled.
Down one corridor, turn left at the end, through this room, then another, heart in her throat. She knew the University like her own hand, and this was it. But where were all the students and professors? Everywhere she ran there were men in red, all of them shocked or outraged at her presence. What was going on?
What have I done?
She stumbled into the kitchen. A cook screeched at her from behind a giant pot of stew, nearly thwacking her with a ladle. Maia fell back into a servant who swore.
“Watch where you’re going, will ya!”
Through the steam, past the dry heat of the giant ovens, out the servants’ entrance, shoes slapping the dirt. The street was as busy as she’d hoped, merchants, sellers, and customers all yelling over the din. Maia pushed her way through the crowd, glancing back. She saw the purple of the well-off and the browns of commoners, but no red.
Several streets away she dared to stop to catch her breath. Crouching on the stoop of a shop, she dangled the sapphire on its chain and stared. It was not supposed to do this. It did not have the power to change things like this. Maia looked around. This was Arriol City, no mistaking. And she had just escaped from the University, her University. But things aren’t right.
She watched a woman setting out vegetables on a stall opposite. Something was off about her clothes, about everyone’s clothing. Maia shook her head. And what about the men in red? Some wore armor, but there hadn’t been an army within the city since the reign of Duke Ochoa. Her history lessons with Professor Ibarra rang in her head.
“Duke Ochoa, who despised the work of mages, dissolved the University and used its buildings as his military headquarters. Our place of learning was only restored when his niece, our Duchess, overthrew him with the help of Haizea Inon.”
“No…” Maia whispered, feeling dazed. It wasn’t possible. She tucked the sapphire inside her blouse and jumped up, grabbing the sleeve of the first person to walk by. “What year is it? Please!”
The look the washerwoman gave her was full of pity. Maia was suddenly aware of her appearance; her skirt was rumpled and dirty where she’d fallen, and her hair was coming loose from its plait. The woman gently pulled her hand free and continued on. “Poor lass…”
The next woman spat at her feet, and the man that followed tried to give her a copper piece, which Maia refused. “I just need to know the year, please!”
“Three hundred an’ seventy eight, miss.”
Maia turned at the voice. A man leaned in the doorway she had just vacated, watching her with curiosity. Then the meaning of his words reached her, and Maia’s knees gave way.
“Steady on!” He stepped forward to grab her arm.
“Twenty four years,” she mumbled, swaying on her feet.
“What’s that, you say?” He peered at her and she gulped.
“Twenty four years. Not hours—years.” The world spun as the man helped her to the step where she collapsed.
“Easy there.” He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and disappeared into the building, but Maia barely noticed.
There was no way back. The sapphire could only take one to the past, not the future. Her mother, her friends, her life, all gone. She wouldn’t see them again for twenty four years, all because she had wanted a bit more time. Maia laughed bitterly. Well, she certainly had more than enough now.
How could I have been so foolish?
Maia pulled her satchel to her and opened it. She searched through the scrolls and quills for the book she always carried with her. Her hand brushed the familiar worn leather, and she pulled it out slowly. She traced the title, “Haizea Inon,” and fought tears. Her mother had given it to her on her last birthday. As a child she’d asked for stories about the famous woman mage again and again. And now here she was, in Arriol before the unseating of the Duke. Of all the times to end up…
“What’s that?” The man was back, leaning over to look at the book.
“It’s nothing,” Maia said thickly. She went to put it away.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
He reached out to take it and Maia panicked. He couldn’t read about things that hadn’t happened yet! “It’s a diary,” she blurted. “Private.”
The man drew back his hand. “Nice to meet you, Haizea Inon.” He smiled.
“Wait, no, I’m not—”
“If that’s not your name,” he said, pointing at the cover, “then whose diary is it?” His eyes were laughing at her. “Mayhap I can help you find the owner.”
“No, it is mine, I’m just not—”
“As I said, nice to meet you, Haizea Inon. I’m Ander Bakar.”
“I told you, I—” Maia stopped. Ander Bakar. It couldn’t be! Maia’s hands shook as she opened the book, flipping to the first page.
“Haizea Inon rode into Arriol as the sun set. On its streets she met Ander Bakar, a merchant. She was weary from her journey from a far off and distant land, and he offered her a room at his friend’s inn. The great mage told him that she was here to overthrow a tyrant, and he, like many others in the years to come, joined with her. He was to become her closest ally.”
Maia began to feel faint again. Fingers snapped in front of her face and she jumped. Ander Bakar, the Ander Bakar, stood over her, frowning.
“Do you have a place to stay? My friend runs an inn just around the corner. I wouldn’t feel well with myself if I just left you here, the state you’re in.”
Maia shook her head, mute. He pulled her to her feet and led her down the street.
“So what’s your business here in our lovely city?”
“I think—I think I’m here to overthrow the Duke,” she whispered.
***
Technically I shouldn't really have ended it here. It gives a different impression than the one I would like to give. The twist is that the stories she knows, the ones she learned and the ones in the book, aren't entirely accurate. They sanitize things--Ander is a buyer and seller of questionable merchandise (aka a thief), not a merchant; right after this line he laughs uproariously and says she's mad, instead of saying "okay, when can we start?" And all the adventures she has as Haizea turn out in entirely different ways than she expects, making it almost as difficult and confusing as it would be if she didn't have the book and knowledge of the future. Sometimes it's even more confusing.
Basically, if I wanted to I could write a novel based on this idea. I might one day, when I have more of the details worked out...
More on the ending (or not-ending) below.
***
Maia slipped into the classroom and carefully shut the door behind her. She turned to face the clutter and sighed in relief. Just as she had thought—a thick layer of dust covered every surface, and all the desks were broken and pushed against the far wall. The University had many rooms such as these hidden at the ends of empty corridors, and Maia could be sure she wouldn’t be disturbed.
Moving into the middle of the room, she swallowed around the lump in her throat. Deep breaths, Maia, deep breaths. It was just twenty four hours, just a little extra time to study metallurgic and gemological magics before the exam that morning; soon to be tomorrow morning.
It’s not as if anyone will miss it. She fingered the pendant that hung around her neck on a long gold chain. A small sapphire, it didn’t seem much, but the spells within it were very rare. I’ll be returning it just a few minutes after taking it, at least as far as they’re concerned, she reassured herself. All the same, it made her nervous.
Maia watched the light refract in the pendant’s facets for a moment, calming her heart. With a final deep breath she closed her eyes, clenching the stone in her hand. Focusing her mind, she felt it begin to warm. “Just twenty four hours, that’s all I need,” she whispered. Sudden heat pierced her palm—she gasped in pain but did not let go—and the floor tilted beneath her sharply. She fell to her knees on the stone floor and groaned as the world slowly stopped spinning around her.
“Who are you?” demanded a voice.
Shakily Maia pushed herself up, letting the pendant swing free of her hand. She gaped. The clutter of the abandoned classroom was gone. She stood amongst shelves of scrolls and books, and before her sat a man. He wore a red tunic and on the desk in front of him lay several scrolls and writing instruments.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, punctuating his statement with a jab of his quill. He scowled at her silence.
“I—I—” Maia grabbed her satchel and held it in front of her.
“Guards!”
Maia jumped at his roar. Spurred into action, she ran to the door and flung it open. An arm reached for her but she ducked under it, skidding into the opposite wall. Men were shouting and yelling, and she caught a glimpse of several red uniforms as she fled.
Down one corridor, turn left at the end, through this room, then another, heart in her throat. She knew the University like her own hand, and this was it. But where were all the students and professors? Everywhere she ran there were men in red, all of them shocked or outraged at her presence. What was going on?
What have I done?
She stumbled into the kitchen. A cook screeched at her from behind a giant pot of stew, nearly thwacking her with a ladle. Maia fell back into a servant who swore.
“Watch where you’re going, will ya!”
Through the steam, past the dry heat of the giant ovens, out the servants’ entrance, shoes slapping the dirt. The street was as busy as she’d hoped, merchants, sellers, and customers all yelling over the din. Maia pushed her way through the crowd, glancing back. She saw the purple of the well-off and the browns of commoners, but no red.
Several streets away she dared to stop to catch her breath. Crouching on the stoop of a shop, she dangled the sapphire on its chain and stared. It was not supposed to do this. It did not have the power to change things like this. Maia looked around. This was Arriol City, no mistaking. And she had just escaped from the University, her University. But things aren’t right.
She watched a woman setting out vegetables on a stall opposite. Something was off about her clothes, about everyone’s clothing. Maia shook her head. And what about the men in red? Some wore armor, but there hadn’t been an army within the city since the reign of Duke Ochoa. Her history lessons with Professor Ibarra rang in her head.
“Duke Ochoa, who despised the work of mages, dissolved the University and used its buildings as his military headquarters. Our place of learning was only restored when his niece, our Duchess, overthrew him with the help of Haizea Inon.”
“No…” Maia whispered, feeling dazed. It wasn’t possible. She tucked the sapphire inside her blouse and jumped up, grabbing the sleeve of the first person to walk by. “What year is it? Please!”
The look the washerwoman gave her was full of pity. Maia was suddenly aware of her appearance; her skirt was rumpled and dirty where she’d fallen, and her hair was coming loose from its plait. The woman gently pulled her hand free and continued on. “Poor lass…”
The next woman spat at her feet, and the man that followed tried to give her a copper piece, which Maia refused. “I just need to know the year, please!”
“Three hundred an’ seventy eight, miss.”
Maia turned at the voice. A man leaned in the doorway she had just vacated, watching her with curiosity. Then the meaning of his words reached her, and Maia’s knees gave way.
“Steady on!” He stepped forward to grab her arm.
“Twenty four years,” she mumbled, swaying on her feet.
“What’s that, you say?” He peered at her and she gulped.
“Twenty four years. Not hours—years.” The world spun as the man helped her to the step where she collapsed.
“Easy there.” He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and disappeared into the building, but Maia barely noticed.
There was no way back. The sapphire could only take one to the past, not the future. Her mother, her friends, her life, all gone. She wouldn’t see them again for twenty four years, all because she had wanted a bit more time. Maia laughed bitterly. Well, she certainly had more than enough now.
How could I have been so foolish?
Maia pulled her satchel to her and opened it. She searched through the scrolls and quills for the book she always carried with her. Her hand brushed the familiar worn leather, and she pulled it out slowly. She traced the title, “Haizea Inon,” and fought tears. Her mother had given it to her on her last birthday. As a child she’d asked for stories about the famous woman mage again and again. And now here she was, in Arriol before the unseating of the Duke. Of all the times to end up…
“What’s that?” The man was back, leaning over to look at the book.
“It’s nothing,” Maia said thickly. She went to put it away.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
He reached out to take it and Maia panicked. He couldn’t read about things that hadn’t happened yet! “It’s a diary,” she blurted. “Private.”
The man drew back his hand. “Nice to meet you, Haizea Inon.” He smiled.
“Wait, no, I’m not—”
“If that’s not your name,” he said, pointing at the cover, “then whose diary is it?” His eyes were laughing at her. “Mayhap I can help you find the owner.”
“No, it is mine, I’m just not—”
“As I said, nice to meet you, Haizea Inon. I’m Ander Bakar.”
“I told you, I—” Maia stopped. Ander Bakar. It couldn’t be! Maia’s hands shook as she opened the book, flipping to the first page.
“Haizea Inon rode into Arriol as the sun set. On its streets she met Ander Bakar, a merchant. She was weary from her journey from a far off and distant land, and he offered her a room at his friend’s inn. The great mage told him that she was here to overthrow a tyrant, and he, like many others in the years to come, joined with her. He was to become her closest ally.”
Maia began to feel faint again. Fingers snapped in front of her face and she jumped. Ander Bakar, the Ander Bakar, stood over her, frowning.
“Do you have a place to stay? My friend runs an inn just around the corner. I wouldn’t feel well with myself if I just left you here, the state you’re in.”
Maia shook her head, mute. He pulled her to her feet and led her down the street.
“So what’s your business here in our lovely city?”
“I think—I think I’m here to overthrow the Duke,” she whispered.
***
Technically I shouldn't really have ended it here. It gives a different impression than the one I would like to give. The twist is that the stories she knows, the ones she learned and the ones in the book, aren't entirely accurate. They sanitize things--Ander is a buyer and seller of questionable merchandise (aka a thief), not a merchant; right after this line he laughs uproariously and says she's mad, instead of saying "okay, when can we start?" And all the adventures she has as Haizea turn out in entirely different ways than she expects, making it almost as difficult and confusing as it would be if she didn't have the book and knowledge of the future. Sometimes it's even more confusing.
Basically, if I wanted to I could write a novel based on this idea. I might one day, when I have more of the details worked out...
Monday, April 6, 2009
Translation
So! I have not written for... quite a while. I could beat myself up about it, but that's not productive, so no worries.
There's a contest going on at Locution at the moment, so I'm trying to write something for it. Not sure if this will end up being my entry—at the moment I'm just thinking of it as a warm up, to get back into writing (again).
***
Stacy rubbed her eyes stared blearily at the metal table in front of her. She was in a windowless room God knew where, and there was no coffee. Who drags someone out of their bed at three in the morning and shuttles them off to a government facility without offering them cup of coffee? Stacy frowned. The brass wanted help—for what they had yet to say—but how they expected her to think in these conditions she didn’t know.
The door clicked open; Stacy glanced up and did a double-take. “Alec?”
He had the nerve to grin. “How’s it going, Stace?” he asked, sliding into the seat across from her and slapping a folder onto the table.
“That’s Dr. Evans to you.” Stacy shifted in her seat and crossed her arms, glaring.
“Touchy!” Alec didn’t stop smiling, the bastard.
“I was abducted in the middle of the night by the military. I think I have a right to be touchy. Why the hell am I here, Alec?”
Alec had the grace to look a little uncomfortable. “Abducted is a bit harsh, Doctor. We knocked on the door, didn’t we? And I’m sure someone explained that we needed your help.”
“Ha! That’s hardly an explanation. So come on, spit it out. How can such a humble scientist help the likes of you?”
Shooting a glance at the camera in the corner, Alec leaned closer. “Come on, Stace, please. Just—just forget about us for a second. I told them you were the best, and I thought you’d find this interesting, and…” He trailed off.
Stacy sighed and turned her attention to the folder. She flipped open the cover, ignoring Alec for the moment. There were some photos of a crater and some sort of meteor. There were other papers, but Stacy didn’t bother reading them.
“I’m a linguist, not a geologist. Next time wake up someone else.”
***
Not much... ah well~ I got distracted reading up about linguistics. Reading this, I wonder if I haven't unintentionally followed the optional prompt... ^_^
There's a contest going on at Locution at the moment, so I'm trying to write something for it. Not sure if this will end up being my entry—at the moment I'm just thinking of it as a warm up, to get back into writing (again).
***
Stacy rubbed her eyes stared blearily at the metal table in front of her. She was in a windowless room God knew where, and there was no coffee. Who drags someone out of their bed at three in the morning and shuttles them off to a government facility without offering them cup of coffee? Stacy frowned. The brass wanted help—for what they had yet to say—but how they expected her to think in these conditions she didn’t know.
The door clicked open; Stacy glanced up and did a double-take. “Alec?”
He had the nerve to grin. “How’s it going, Stace?” he asked, sliding into the seat across from her and slapping a folder onto the table.
“That’s Dr. Evans to you.” Stacy shifted in her seat and crossed her arms, glaring.
“Touchy!” Alec didn’t stop smiling, the bastard.
“I was abducted in the middle of the night by the military. I think I have a right to be touchy. Why the hell am I here, Alec?”
Alec had the grace to look a little uncomfortable. “Abducted is a bit harsh, Doctor. We knocked on the door, didn’t we? And I’m sure someone explained that we needed your help.”
“Ha! That’s hardly an explanation. So come on, spit it out. How can such a humble scientist help the likes of you?”
Shooting a glance at the camera in the corner, Alec leaned closer. “Come on, Stace, please. Just—just forget about us for a second. I told them you were the best, and I thought you’d find this interesting, and…” He trailed off.
Stacy sighed and turned her attention to the folder. She flipped open the cover, ignoring Alec for the moment. There were some photos of a crater and some sort of meteor. There were other papers, but Stacy didn’t bother reading them.
“I’m a linguist, not a geologist. Next time wake up someone else.”
***
Not much... ah well~ I got distracted reading up about linguistics. Reading this, I wonder if I haven't unintentionally followed the optional prompt... ^_^
Monday, March 2, 2009
The Forest
I watched My Neighbor Totoro, today, which I think may influence this quite a bit. Miyazaki's films often put me in a nature/spirit sort of mood. Once again, I'm not going anywhere, just messing around.
***
The air smelled like dirt. Maggie scrunched up her nose. Wet dirt, and growing things. She took another deep sniff, and decided she actually liked it. It smelled like a forest should.
Maggie stepped along the trail, slowly and carefully, one foot in front of the other. Indians walked like this, she'd learned somewhere. She imagined herself as a member of a hunting party, following in the footsteps of the person in front of her. Breathing through her nose, she listened for the sound of the leaves underneath her feet.
Loud and raucous laughter came from down the trail and Maggie frowned, pausing; she looked up. She'd fallen behind her classmates. Mrs. Kravitz had stressed that they needed to keep together, but she hadn't noticed. The boys were taking all her concentration to keep in line--Maggie watched as she shushed them, and looked at the group bunched around her. Her hair was coming out of her bun, and Maggie almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
Maggie shook her head and looked back down at her feet. She started walking again. Left foot, right foot. Her imaginary quiver of arrows bumped against her back with every step. Their party was stalking a herd of deer, and she listened to the sounds of the forest. A rustle in the bushes. A bird call overhead. Her head snapped up and she watched the bird flit above her, across the trail and into the trees where it disappeared in the leaves.
Turing her attention back to her feet, Maggie suddenly noticed the quiet. She had been listening intently for some time, but one sound was missing--that of her classmates. She looked up the trail, which rose before her, but there was no one there.
Maggie picked up her pace, clambering over the tree roots to reach the top of the rise. The trail sloped away from her, winding down into a gully, before turning out of sight. No classmates. No teacher.
Thinking back to the map they'd been shown at the start of the hike, Maggie grinned. In her mind's eye she could see the different trails, squiggly lines of red, yellow and blue making their way through the green expanse. They had taken the red trail, but Maggie remembered noticing that it crossed paths with the longer blue trail. She must have missed the intersection while watching her feet, and taken the wrong fork.
Well, the blue trail had to end back at the park's entrance like the others. Maggie continued on, reveling in the knowledge that she was alone. She breathed deeply, looking all around her. Every leaf on the ground, every twig on a tree, every bird trill and every breeze in the canopy seemed sharp and clear. It was like she was the only person in the world.
It was not long that she came to the tree. Not a tree, like the others. The tree. As soon as she saw it, Maggie new it was special. Big, and obviously old, it made the other trees around it seem like young little saplings. Slowly she walked up to it and put her hand on its trunk. The bark was rough, and damp. On an impulse, she wrapped her arms around it in a hug. She guessed it would take four more of her to get all the way around.
"Quite a beauty, isn't he?"
Maggie gasped and whirled around. She stared. It was like an illustration from one of her books had come to life--an Indian was stepping out of the bushes on to the trail behind her. He smiled at her.
"Who are you?" Maggie was somewhat distracted--was he really wearing moccasins? was that a real bow?--so the question was the first thing that came to mind.
"A guide," he said simply, a smile tugging at his lips.
Maybe he was a guide for the park, like the actors at historical villages. Deciding that made sense, Maggie relaxed. "Why did you call the tree 'he?'"
The guide walked over and lay his hand on the bark, as Maggie had. "Well, this is a special tree. They say a spirit of a man lives in it."
Maggie craned her neck and looked up into its branches. "Does he protect the forest?"
"In a way," the guide replied. He chuckled. "Yes, I suppose that is a good way of saying it. He watches over the forest, and the people and animals who live in it."
Maggie thought about this. "Does he help them?"
"Sometimes. He might, for example, help a lost girl find her way home." His eyes crinkled as he said this, like Uncle's Will's did, and Maggie knew he was teasing her.
"I'm not lost," she declared. "I just took a different trail."
"Well, then. Shall we?" The guide motioned to the trail, and they started down it together, side by side.
The walked in silence for a minute or two, but soon Maggie had to satisfy her curiosity. "So who is the spirit?"
"Hm?" The guide looked at her. "There are many stories. One is of a great warrior, who died underneath the tree's boughs after saving his village. Another is of a wise man, a shaman, who lived a long life serving his people and the forest. It is said that when he died of old age his spirit remained in the tree, to continue his work."
After a pause, Maggie spoke again. "I think it must be lonely."
"Why do you say that, little girl?" He seemed amused, for some reason.
"Well, people don't live in the forest any more. Mrs. Kravitz said that the Indians moved on when the Europeans came." Maggie nearly said "except for you," but didn't think it was polite to pry.
"Ah... yes, it is true the People are gone. Perhaps he is lonely." The guide sounded a bit sad, but he smiled at her. "But it is only a story, after all."
Maggie nodded.
***
Hm. I think the voice changed somewhere in the second or third paragraph. Gotta work on that. I'm also not happy with the way I'm expressing things at the moment (it lacks description, for one), and I ran out of steam before the end. But I'm enjoying myself, so I won't stress about it. ^_^
***
The air smelled like dirt. Maggie scrunched up her nose. Wet dirt, and growing things. She took another deep sniff, and decided she actually liked it. It smelled like a forest should.
Maggie stepped along the trail, slowly and carefully, one foot in front of the other. Indians walked like this, she'd learned somewhere. She imagined herself as a member of a hunting party, following in the footsteps of the person in front of her. Breathing through her nose, she listened for the sound of the leaves underneath her feet.
Loud and raucous laughter came from down the trail and Maggie frowned, pausing; she looked up. She'd fallen behind her classmates. Mrs. Kravitz had stressed that they needed to keep together, but she hadn't noticed. The boys were taking all her concentration to keep in line--Maggie watched as she shushed them, and looked at the group bunched around her. Her hair was coming out of her bun, and Maggie almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
Maggie shook her head and looked back down at her feet. She started walking again. Left foot, right foot. Her imaginary quiver of arrows bumped against her back with every step. Their party was stalking a herd of deer, and she listened to the sounds of the forest. A rustle in the bushes. A bird call overhead. Her head snapped up and she watched the bird flit above her, across the trail and into the trees where it disappeared in the leaves.
Turing her attention back to her feet, Maggie suddenly noticed the quiet. She had been listening intently for some time, but one sound was missing--that of her classmates. She looked up the trail, which rose before her, but there was no one there.
Maggie picked up her pace, clambering over the tree roots to reach the top of the rise. The trail sloped away from her, winding down into a gully, before turning out of sight. No classmates. No teacher.
Thinking back to the map they'd been shown at the start of the hike, Maggie grinned. In her mind's eye she could see the different trails, squiggly lines of red, yellow and blue making their way through the green expanse. They had taken the red trail, but Maggie remembered noticing that it crossed paths with the longer blue trail. She must have missed the intersection while watching her feet, and taken the wrong fork.
Well, the blue trail had to end back at the park's entrance like the others. Maggie continued on, reveling in the knowledge that she was alone. She breathed deeply, looking all around her. Every leaf on the ground, every twig on a tree, every bird trill and every breeze in the canopy seemed sharp and clear. It was like she was the only person in the world.
It was not long that she came to the tree. Not a tree, like the others. The tree. As soon as she saw it, Maggie new it was special. Big, and obviously old, it made the other trees around it seem like young little saplings. Slowly she walked up to it and put her hand on its trunk. The bark was rough, and damp. On an impulse, she wrapped her arms around it in a hug. She guessed it would take four more of her to get all the way around.
"Quite a beauty, isn't he?"
Maggie gasped and whirled around. She stared. It was like an illustration from one of her books had come to life--an Indian was stepping out of the bushes on to the trail behind her. He smiled at her.
"Who are you?" Maggie was somewhat distracted--was he really wearing moccasins? was that a real bow?--so the question was the first thing that came to mind.
"A guide," he said simply, a smile tugging at his lips.
Maybe he was a guide for the park, like the actors at historical villages. Deciding that made sense, Maggie relaxed. "Why did you call the tree 'he?'"
The guide walked over and lay his hand on the bark, as Maggie had. "Well, this is a special tree. They say a spirit of a man lives in it."
Maggie craned her neck and looked up into its branches. "Does he protect the forest?"
"In a way," the guide replied. He chuckled. "Yes, I suppose that is a good way of saying it. He watches over the forest, and the people and animals who live in it."
Maggie thought about this. "Does he help them?"
"Sometimes. He might, for example, help a lost girl find her way home." His eyes crinkled as he said this, like Uncle's Will's did, and Maggie knew he was teasing her.
"I'm not lost," she declared. "I just took a different trail."
"Well, then. Shall we?" The guide motioned to the trail, and they started down it together, side by side.
The walked in silence for a minute or two, but soon Maggie had to satisfy her curiosity. "So who is the spirit?"
"Hm?" The guide looked at her. "There are many stories. One is of a great warrior, who died underneath the tree's boughs after saving his village. Another is of a wise man, a shaman, who lived a long life serving his people and the forest. It is said that when he died of old age his spirit remained in the tree, to continue his work."
After a pause, Maggie spoke again. "I think it must be lonely."
"Why do you say that, little girl?" He seemed amused, for some reason.
"Well, people don't live in the forest any more. Mrs. Kravitz said that the Indians moved on when the Europeans came." Maggie nearly said "except for you," but didn't think it was polite to pry.
"Ah... yes, it is true the People are gone. Perhaps he is lonely." The guide sounded a bit sad, but he smiled at her. "But it is only a story, after all."
Maggie nodded.
***
Hm. I think the voice changed somewhere in the second or third paragraph. Gotta work on that. I'm also not happy with the way I'm expressing things at the moment (it lacks description, for one), and I ran out of steam before the end. But I'm enjoying myself, so I won't stress about it. ^_^
Sunday, March 1, 2009
I'm back~
It's been over four months, but I'm back. After finishing 30 Days I lost momentum, and I've decided the best way to get that back is to start writing every day again. I don't plan on a particular time span--it might be 30 days, it might be 3 months, it might be a year. Who knows.
Since there's less structure this time, I'm going to worry less about missing days. If I'm tired or busy, there's always tomorrow. The only excuse I won't allow is lack of inspiration. What the hell is this writer's block, anyways? We'll have no more of that. ^_^
This is nothing in particular--no idea where it will go, if anywhere. I'm just trying to get back into writing in general.
***
The house began as a few lines drawn in the margins of Anne's math homework. A simple floor plan, it wouldn't have seemed much to anyone else. There was a bathroom, a small bedroom, a kitchen with an eating nook, and a sitting area.
A small house, just big enough for a single person to live in (and perhaps a cat). No sharing the bathroom during the morning rush, no sitting cramped at the kitchen table, elbows knocking. Oh, and no snoring through thin walls.
The paper itself was turned in the next day. It was returned graded (13/15), and later lost, but the lines remained in Anne's memory. That summer when she visited her grandfather she spent hours reading on his front porch, relaxing in the warm breezes. A few mental strokes added a porch, and a few curves a hammock.
Apartment life during college added small things--a clothes washer, a desk. The book shelves she had imagined in the sitting area grew bigger, as did her imagined closet.
Several years later, as Anne lay next to Mark late one night, she made the bedroom large enough for a queen-sized bed. She moved the bathroom, erasing lines and drawing others, and fit in a nursery next door. Closing her eyes, she thought that yellow was a nice color for the walls. Or perhaps green.
Far too soon, though, there was no need for a larger bed and a larger bedroom to accommodate it. A few lines made short work of the bedroom, and in the nursery it was easy to make the cot a sofa bed, the changing table a desk. Easy to draw the lines, at least; harder to erase the lines that had come before them. She never could get rid of their ghosts left by her eraser.
The night Anne was phoned by the hospital, she added a building to her house. Unable to sleep on the unexpected flight, she imagined it to stave off her worry. A stone's throw from the main house... She listed the things it would have. A kitchenette, an accessible bathroom with rails and a seat in the tub, a bedroom with no obstacles for tripping. The last was foremost in her mind.
Early the next morning, when she entered the room and saw her dad in the bed, and her mother sleeping in the chair next to him, she moved the building closer.
***
Well, it's a short start, and I don't know how to end it, but that doesn't matter. I like the concept, but at the moment this is more of an outline than a story. Ah well~ ^_^
Since there's less structure this time, I'm going to worry less about missing days. If I'm tired or busy, there's always tomorrow. The only excuse I won't allow is lack of inspiration. What the hell is this writer's block, anyways? We'll have no more of that. ^_^
This is nothing in particular--no idea where it will go, if anywhere. I'm just trying to get back into writing in general.
***
The house began as a few lines drawn in the margins of Anne's math homework. A simple floor plan, it wouldn't have seemed much to anyone else. There was a bathroom, a small bedroom, a kitchen with an eating nook, and a sitting area.
A small house, just big enough for a single person to live in (and perhaps a cat). No sharing the bathroom during the morning rush, no sitting cramped at the kitchen table, elbows knocking. Oh, and no snoring through thin walls.
The paper itself was turned in the next day. It was returned graded (13/15), and later lost, but the lines remained in Anne's memory. That summer when she visited her grandfather she spent hours reading on his front porch, relaxing in the warm breezes. A few mental strokes added a porch, and a few curves a hammock.
Apartment life during college added small things--a clothes washer, a desk. The book shelves she had imagined in the sitting area grew bigger, as did her imagined closet.
Several years later, as Anne lay next to Mark late one night, she made the bedroom large enough for a queen-sized bed. She moved the bathroom, erasing lines and drawing others, and fit in a nursery next door. Closing her eyes, she thought that yellow was a nice color for the walls. Or perhaps green.
Far too soon, though, there was no need for a larger bed and a larger bedroom to accommodate it. A few lines made short work of the bedroom, and in the nursery it was easy to make the cot a sofa bed, the changing table a desk. Easy to draw the lines, at least; harder to erase the lines that had come before them. She never could get rid of their ghosts left by her eraser.
The night Anne was phoned by the hospital, she added a building to her house. Unable to sleep on the unexpected flight, she imagined it to stave off her worry. A stone's throw from the main house... She listed the things it would have. A kitchenette, an accessible bathroom with rails and a seat in the tub, a bedroom with no obstacles for tripping. The last was foremost in her mind.
Early the next morning, when she entered the room and saw her dad in the bed, and her mother sleeping in the chair next to him, she moved the building closer.
***
Well, it's a short start, and I don't know how to end it, but that doesn't matter. I like the concept, but at the moment this is more of an outline than a story. Ah well~ ^_^
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