30 Days of Creativity

National Novel Writing Month

2011-12-05T16:52:00.001-05:00

Did I mention that I attempted NaNoWriMo this November?

Trapped in a Flash

2011-09-11T18:03:00.000-04:00

It's been a while. I haven't been writing much in terms of stories or poems, but I started another blog, so I'm still writing on and off—just different sorts of things.

I'm starting to feel like I need an outlet for creativity again, though, so I thought it might be time to poke around here a bit. Nothing new to post yet, but I thought I might as well add something I wrote back in March/April for a forum contest:

***

I’m still waiting.

Every morning I wake up with the sun and I think that to myself. Or I think it to you, really. It’s a stupid ritual; it’s not like I believe you can actually hear me. My brain waves don’t telepathically transmit the message to wherever you are, or however that mystical bullshit is supposed to work.

Whatever. It passes the time, and it’s true—I’m still waiting.

I haven’t been lazy, though. I don’t just sit around all day at our rendezvous point, looking down each street for the shape of a human figure. (At least, I don’t any more.) Nah, I've been keeping plenty busy.

In fact, the first thing I’ll do is give you the grand tour. (Well, after the hugging and crying, obviously.) I’m pretty proud of my place. It was slow at first, but I think I might have enough food for next winter. I mean, I haven’t run out of canned stuff yet, but it’s good practice for when I do. And wait ‘til you see the solar panels I scavenged!

So yeah. There’s the garden over here. I got a whole bunch of seeds from a Home Depot the first week or so. I had no fucking clue what to do with them, but that’s what libraries are for, right? That building across the street is a library; I chose this house because of it. Knowledge is power, and all that.

Still, books aren’t everything, so I screwed up my first crop of beans and tomatoes. Some disease, or something. I dunno, it wasn’t very clear, and books aren’t great for diagnosing stuff. No idea what I’ll do if I get sick or injured; I doubt some aspirin and medical textbooks will save me, and you're the one who was studying to be a doctor, not me. But hey, I’ll deal with that if it happens. One step at a time.

Anyway, libraries. Totally the shit, despite my failings. I hope you’ve come across some good ones on your journey here. I’ve learned so much useful stuff. How to hotwire cars, how to collect rainwater, how to shoot.

I’m still not very good at shooting things, though. Sometimes I flinch right before I pull the trigger. But there are plenty of guns in the houses around here, so I’ve got a lot of practice. This rifle is my favorite; I carry it everywhere, just in case. Sounds crazy, since I always hated guns, but I like it ‘cause it saved my life. (I know you love dogs, but I swear it was either him or me. I’m hoping you like me more than a feral dog.)

The bastard was going after my chickens. I could show them to you next—there they are. I made the hutch and the wire cage myself. Easy peasy, once I’d stopped hitting my thumb with the hammer.

But the chickens, man, I was lucky to find them. Some hippie was raising them in a backyard. (Well, I dunno if they were a hippie, but I pretend.) I was out looking for things to use, and I heard this faint whimpering. They don’t always cluck, you know. Sometimes it sounds like whimpering. Anyway, I found them, just scratching around in this backyard. Major jackpot. You should’ve seen me chasing them around; took me what felt like hours to catch them. Bet I looked pretty silly.

So I eat a lot of eggs these days. Fried, boiled, scrambled—I haven’t got the hang of poached yet. My kitchen’s on the porch. Yeah, I know it’s just a fire pit and some pots and pans, but I’m still working on the solar oven. Can’t go post in a web forum asking people what I’m doing wrong anymore. I’ve only got a few diagrams and my vague idea of how it should work to go on.

Still, fire’s good. It’s my heat, my stove, my light. I’ve got these solar panels rigged up now, though, so at night I usually use electric light. Sometimes it’s comforting. Other times, when I stare out the windows into the dark street at the dead houses, it’s not.

Night time is the worst, really. It's when the fears and doubts creep in. I wonder if you're really coming. I wonder if I imagined that brief conversation we had as the internet was slowly dying around us, websites disappearing as servers shut down. Everything contracting down to nothing.

Of course, the stars are really beautiful. You know that from wherever you are. When I look at them I wish my sister were here. She wanted to be an astronomer, so my parents bought her all these books and charts and even a telescope. But we lived in the city, so she couldn’t see many stars.

Then I'm glad she isn't here, not because I don’t love her, but because I do.

Anyway. Where was I? Oh yeah. The solar panels. I use them for more than just lights. Maybe you’ll think it’s stupid. Here I am, the power grid gone, running out of fuel for things like generators and stoves, and I use the solar panels to listen to music.

It’s amazing, though.

Maybe the first thing I’ll do is put on a CD. You like Led Zeppelin, right? What am I saying, everyone likes them.

Finding chickens was good for my stomach, but finding the solar panels was like a fucking epiphany. I just turned the corner one day and there they were on someone’s roof. I suppose I shouldn’t have been so surprised. I mean, I knew they existed. But I guess I was still thinking inside the box then. Gardening came to me because of my aunt; I had some experience with it, even if I'm shit at it. But my brain was still stuck in old patterns. Expecting electricity to come to me from distant power plants, seemingly by magic.

Expecting someone to parachute in and rescue me.

But yeah. Something about those solar panels flipped a switch, and suddenly I was all gung-ho about this survival shit. Human race might be doomed, but I'm going out in style.

'Course, I don't actually know that the human race is doomed. Maybe the quarantines worked, the ones they set up just as they realized things were getting bad. About a year ago I thought I heard a helicopter going overhead; could've been imagining it, but maybe some foreigners in bio-suits were taking a look-see.

What would they do with us, I wonder? Kill us to stop its spread, or stick us in labs to see why we didn't die? Either way, I decided after the ghost helicopter that I'd hide inside next time, if there is a next time. Y'know, just in case.

Sorry, I'm probably being depressing and shit. Not a great welcome, is it? “Hi, welcome to hell. But at least we're here together!”

It'll be better once you get here, though. I promise.

Ruth Parsons

2011-06-28T20:56:00.000-04:00

I made a Steampunk character a while back for an RPG campaign. I thought I'd take her for a spin.

***

The airship floated into Her Majesty's Naval Base Portsmouth at a quarter past two in the afternoon. Ruth Parsons was summoned to the bridge, and she stepped into the controlled chaos with her carpet bag in one hand and her satchel over her shoulder. The Admiral stood with his back to the bridge and his hands clasped behind him. He stared out past the tarnished brass instruments, surveying the docks and the streets beyond. It was raining, a fine drizzle.

"I wanted to thank you, Miss Parsons. You know how difficult a time my wife and I had finding help on previous expeditions."

"Yes, Admiral Robinson," she replied. "I had heard of such difficulties."

The reason for those very difficulties sidled up to Ruth and tried to slip a gecko into her baggage. She grabbed young Mr. Robinson's wrist and gave him a stern look. He stuck his tongue out at her before dashing away with his little captive.

"And yet you applied for the position of nanny, a position that would take you away from your home an family for over a year." He turned towards her, and Ruth ducked her head.

"I wished to see the world, and my mother felt I would be safer on a Navy expedition. She worries about pirates."

"As well she should." His white eyebrows bristled. "So did you find your adventure?"

Ruth smiled at the slight jesting in his tone. "I believe so, Admiral Robinson."

"Well, then. I wish you luck in whatever adventures you find back here in England, Miss Parsons." He stepped away and Ruth breathed in. "Billy! Say goodbye to Miss Parsons."

One dead tarantula on her shoulder and a quickly-stamped-out firecracker later, and Ruth stepped out into the misty rain. She picked her way down the gangplank gingerly, only breathing again when she was finally on solid ground. The damp was beginning to reach her skin, and she sighed.

"Welcome home, I suppose."

Five Words Poetry

2011-06-22T21:33:00.000-04:00

Thought I'd try my hand at another chain poem. In case you don't know, here's the explanation I gave for my previous chain poem blog post:

"There's a thread in the Insight subforum called Chaining Poems, and the concept is simple. It starts with five words. A person writes a poem using them, and then posts five more words for another person to write a poem. Repeat!"

***

gin
glade
gorgeous
gallant
slide

The gallant knight strides into the glade
and a snake slides through the green grass
to escape his heavy boots.

In his hand he holds a bottle of something strange,
gin given to him by a gorgeous stranger
who emerged from the light of heaven.

She was clothed in livery not fit for a lady,
but in her beauty he could not mistake her
for a man, and when she spoke he listened.

Odd words, for an odd woman—
time unravelling like a spool of thread
and war in a distant world.

Her smile was weary, her laugh sad,
and she took a swig for her "Dutch courage."
He said he did not understand

And she said it did not matter.

"Come to the glade tomorrow,
come help me win my war."
And so he came.

***

Hm. Interesting.

I hosted a contest on Locution with the same idea a while back, too. My entry:

***

kismet
fuck
chary
gimcrack
ululate

I bob in a kayak
and think about fate.

I don't believe in it.

No karma, no kismet.
No destiny defined by some deity.
We are gimcracks of the universe,
tucked away on a shelf labeled Gaia.
If I were to turn up my head,
ululate at smears of white on blue,
no one would hear
but an alligator at the bank.

I slide by, chary,
the waves from my vessel
lapping at his feet.
Stretched out on a fallen trunk,
he flicks his tail
as if to say,
“Fuck that shit.”

The trill of a woodpecker
echoes over the lake
and a dragonfly lands on my paddle.

Yeah, fuck that shit.

Playing in a Sci Fi Sandbox

2011-06-20T21:29:00.000-04:00

For a while I've had this idea for a sci fi story or novel. I'm not ready to work on the specific plot, but I thought I'd explore one of the concepts involved.

***

At first she thought it was strange that she could still feel her body. Why wasn't she simply a drifting cloud of consciousness? But the more she pondered this, the more it made sense. Amputees had phantom limbs after all, the odd sensation of having a limb when it wasn't actually there anymore. Your brain stores a map of your body somewhere, and since her brain patterns had been copied exactly, that map was still there.

It was comforting. Her mind could expand in all directions, view feeds from systems all over the city and all over the world, but she still felt centered in her self. There was no fear of losing who she was.

Of course, there was other strangeness to deal with. Mainly, that she was dead but still conscious. Older citizens were counseled with how to deal with their deaths, but she was only 25. Had only been 25.

The sudden grief made her access a CTV camera at her mother's workplace before she knew what she was doing. It hadn't taken her long to rationalize her perceived corporeality, so her mother hadn't been told yet. There she was sitting at her desk, like the day was completely normal, and she couldn't watch, couldn't see the moment when she got the news—

She cut the feed. The sudden lack of visual input made her head spin, so she let the default simulation run.

A field of poppies. She wondered distantly if the programmer had been a fan of The Wizard of Oz. What could be more calming than a flower that lulls people to sleep?

She reached out a finger to touch one of the deep red petals.

"Like it? Made it myself."

Ekphrasis (continued)

2011-06-20T19:39:00.000-04:00

Night Descends on the Mountain with Cyanotype by Hannah Skoonberg

Figured I might as well see where this was going, if anywhere~

***

Bare branches, black against a deep blue sky,
claw at the first few stars.
She slumps against a tree trunk and gazes upward,
hands clenched in pockets.
Cold smoke curls in the air,
stolen from her lungs by the night.

Can you hear the crackling of the leaves
as they slink through the brush?
Knife eyes piercing the dim
to find you where you catch your breath—
but now it belongs to the night, doesn't it?—
and vines twine around your arms and legs

Pinned.

Like a butterfly in a case
(but not yet dead and faded)
wings flutter at the glass
as the eyes watch her final spasms.
She cries out into the dark,
but the trees pretend they cannot hear.

***

I think it's hard to continue a poem when you don't know where it was going; the mind leaps in unexpected places. As a result, I don't think this is quite ekphrasis anymore. The print is very peaceful, but this... poem, or whatever it is, isn't.

Ekphrasis

2011-06-18T23:42:00.000-04:00

Night Descends on the Mountain with Cyanotype by Hannah Skoonberg

***

Clara slumped against the trunk of a tree and looked up into the darkening sky. The bare branches were black against deep blue, reaching for the first few stars with gnarled and clawed hands

***

Bare branches, black against a deep blue sky,
claw at the first few stars.
She slumps against a tree trunk and gazes upward,
hands clenched in pockets.
Cold smoke curls in the air,
stolen from her lungs by the night.

***

I didn't mean to turn that into half a poem, but the alliteration sorta made me do it. It's late, so maybe I'll see where it is going tomorrow.

Apotheosis

2011-06-09T23:21:00.003-04:00

I was reading a piece of narrative nonfiction, and came across the word "apotheosis." Not a bad title for something, perhaps?

We'll see:

***

Julie flexed her hands, the leather restraints rubbing her wrists. The light above her was bright, and she squinted at the figure to her right.

"How long is this going to take?"

The needle entered her leg before she realized he held a syringe, and she jerked despite herself. Luckily her legs stayed in place, the straps still tight.

"A while."

Her calf throbbed where she'd been injected, in time with the heartbeat in her ears. A strange heat began to spread from it, like an infection creeping from a cut. As soon as she made the comparison she tried to rid her mind of it. What you thought was important, they said. It could affect the process, thoughts becoming real once you were at the threshold.

Of course, once she'd thought that, Julie remembered the horror stories. People reaching the peak and losing sight of reality, their arms turning to palm fronds or their voices fleeing their bodies.

She heard him move away. "Wait! What if it goes wrong—what do I do?" The door closed behind him with a click.

It felt like an elephant had sat down on her chest. It was too soon for something like that to be actually true, though, so Julie closed her eyes and focused on the way her body pressed into the mattress, the way the cuffs still chafed against her skin, the way the light bled into her closed eyes to make her eyelids red.

Reality would anchor her, and then reality would obey her. She would taste the sweat on her lips and listen to the creaking of floorboards outside the door, and let the burning heat spread through her limbs. The sound of her breath gushing in and out of her lungs roared like a wind, and the faint smell of vanilla candles filled her nose.

Every part of her was full of fire, and she saw herself on the mattress, her face contorted in ecstasy—or was it pain? Her mouth opened in a gasp, her brow furrowed, her body thrashed against the leather straps, and she decided pain made more sense. Julie leaned over herself and put her hand on her cheek, tracing the tears.

She wondered how mortals dealt with such pain. How could something so solid be so fragile and easily broken?

Her hand drifted to her mouth, the mouth. It was pitiful to see herself like this, just the same as always. Julie had never realized how weak she had been.

The body tried to breathe, chest moving in vain, but her hand was too strong. Its hands scrabbled at the sheets, frantic spiders. The body shuddered, then fell still.

Julie moved away and stopped. She looked back at the shell, a collection of matter in an untidy heap. She turned, and stepped into everywhere.

***

So apparently this is what comes out of my brain when it is late at night and I should be sleeping. Pretty rough, but interesting~

Cracking the Code

2011-06-06T21:23:00.000-04:00

I clicked in the title box for this post, and as often happens Chrome supplied a list of things I've typed before. It seemed pretty random, pulling in previous blog post titles and search queries. One of them was "Cracking the Code," so I decided to keep it and write something that fit it.

I don't think I've ever chosen a title before I've written something; usually it's one of the last things I think up. Not sure how it'll work, but here goes...

***

Her computer recognized a few of the sequences—mostly cuttlefish genes to do with pigmentation and camouflage. Cyen knew that already, though. It was the other sequences, the ones spliced and diced so many times the computer couldn't match them to anything in the genetic database, that interested her. Those were what made the gen mod work. Those were what would make her the money she needed.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. And yet every buyer she'd talked to hadn't been interested. The patch was useless without the specimen, they said. Never mind that there was enough information here to fuel years of research, or that its mere existence was proof of the Chameleon project.

A rat skittered by her foot, and Cyen yelped. Fucking things. It disappeared into the darkness of the abandoned warehouse, and she pulled up her knees to her chest. Rain dripped through the ceiling somewhere, a steady rhythm, and she closed her eyes against her temporary home.

Those clandestine meetings with company and crime syndicate representatives who told her a specimen was "essential" rose up to the surface. It wasn't the failure that bothered her, or the fact she'd had one in her grasp and let it slip away. It was simply that word. Specimen.

Every time she heard them speak in such clinical terms, she remembered the man she'd left behind in her gen tat parlour, trapped in the DNA resequencer as the government stormed the building. Telling herself there had been no way to help him, that he would have died if she'd tried to take him out before the process was complete, didn't help any more.

She could have done something.

***

Hm, so it has turned into a brief continuation of a very old story. Makes me wonder if I should go back and edit it...

Ah, to once again return...

2011-06-03T22:54:00.003-04:00

I'm still alive~ If someone is actually reading this, you probably talked to me fairly recently and already know that I am alive, but it bears repeating. One day it won't be true.

Wow, that's a fucking depressing start. Guess that's what I get for neglecting my blog for so long~

I've been writing a bit on and off. A few poems, a short story or two, mostly for the few contests we've had at the Locution forums. Still going to college, still working. Did I mention I was working? Wow, it's been that long. Recap: I got a part time job. Money is good. Working can be fun. Oh, and I went to England for the first time in 6 years in May.

Busy busy.

Anyway, I've been feeling the need to write lately, so I've decided to start updating this blog more regularly again. We'll see how long it lasts. :D

Bit too tired to churn out something new, so I think I'll post some clichéd snippets I've written the past week. Maybe if I get it out of my system, something original will turn up~

***

The lights in the sky came on a Tuesday night. I remember that bit well. On Tuesdays my daughter had soccer practice, and her muddy cleats were sitting by the door when I stepped out onto the porch.

I talk about the lights, but actually it was the humming that was first. A low sound, resonating inside my head. When it started I thought it was my damn ears again—they do strange things when the weather changes. Ringing, dizziness, that sort of thing. But my dog Sassy heard it too. Her ears pricked up and she looked all around the room.

So I opened the door and walked outside. And there they were. Pale blue, bright red, lime green. Strange dots hovering and darting around the sky above our neighborhood.

Now I know what you're thinking. I've thought it too, lots of times. But I've seen meteors before. Got up early to watch the Leonids with my parents when I was twelve. I know what meteors look like, and these weren't them. I don't live by an airbase, either. No experimental aircraft about. Not many normal aircraft either, come to think of it.

I suppose I could have imagined it. But whenever I think that, I remember how Sassy reacted. Shot straight past me to the middle of the yard, then barked at the sky until they left. I don't think she'd humor a hallucination of mine like that, do you?

***

Never use credit cards. That was an important rule. A credit card could be traced, and even if you used it only once it could betray you, become a small piece of the map that leads them to you. Always steal cash or food or clothes. Leave the plastic.

Never threaten violence, either. She didn't want to hurt anyone, of course, but even just a threat was bad. Threats got noticed. Better to slip a wallet from a banker's jacket pocket without him feeling a thing.

That was another rule. She only took from people who could afford it. Not quite Robin Hood, but even he probably kept a bit for himself on the side. He was hunted by the Sheriff, after all, living the life of a fugitive in the forest, like her.

Well, not like her. The analogy fell down there, too. She was hiding under bridges, in sewers, in alleys, not amongst the leaves. And as for the Sheriff—a shadowy government agency was also a bit different from the Robin Hood stories her mum had told her.

Gosh, I have a blog!

2010-08-07T21:10:00.005-04:00

I really should come by here more often. ;)

Life's going well--my summer classes will be coming to an end soonish, and I have a job prospect, provided things work out. Exciting stuff!

I've been really enjoying my literature class. The book we're using is very interesting, and I keep dipping into it and reading little sections. (It's easier than starting and finishing a book, unfortunately.) My favorite thing lately was a comparison of two versions of the same story. It was fascinating to see what the author changed, and I had fun trying to figure figure out why he edited the things he did.

Interactive Fiction has also been taking up a lot of my time lately. I'm slowly working my way through the manual for Inform 7, which is a language for writing IF. At some point I'd like to start writing my own stories; I have an idea for one, but I'll probably try some simpler things first. There are so many things to consider, it honestly seems more complicated than writing a novel!

I haven't been writing much, but in the past few days I've written some very rough poems on the Locution forums. There's a thread in the Insight subforum called Chaining Poems, and the concept is simple. It starts with five words. A person writes a poem using them, and then posts five more words for another person to write a poem. Repeat! Anyway, here are my contributions so far~

***

geyser
filament
schist
strata
oblique

The geyser erupts
between the closet and our bed.
Somewhere underneath the floor
words collected, letters pushing
serifs tangling corners grinding
until the pressure was too much.
Lexical shrapnel.

When the steam dissipates
there are no words left.
(You have left as well.)
I pick at the carpet around the crater,
pull up strips and dig into our lives.
Follow the filament of thought
inward and down,
past the strata studded with artifacts.
Chopsticks from dinner last Wednesday,
six of hearts from poker two weeks ago,
the napkin you scrawled 836 3098.

I scrape the dirt, dust off the fragments,
peer at oblique angles,
but cannot see when the schist fractured,
when two planes separated and fell apart

***

beer
origami
nevertheless
bondage
cinnamon

We linger by the beer
behind its glass doors, chilling
and you ask what I'd like for dinner

I tell you wish I was an origami crane
fold me a thousand times
and I would soar
escape the bondage of gravity
the weight of these limbs
the fog in my mind

You smooth my creases
sharp as they are
and blow breath into me

Nevertheless, you say
we need to eat tonight

I grab a squat jar of cinnamon
a bag of rice, a box of raisins
we will have something
that tastes of farawayland
and later dream of flying

Still alive~

2010-06-09T14:51:00.003-04:00

The 750 words experiment was interesting while it lasted. Which wasn't very long, but who cares~

I found it actually wasn't very good for creative writing. For some reason I got stuck writing journal entries. That was different, since I've never been one to write in journals, but it got boring fairly quickly.

While I may have been neglecting this blog, I have been writing some posts for Locution's Blog. We've got a pretty snazzy schedule going, where people post every two weeks. I'm enjoying rambling about things, although I need to stop being so silly and perfectionist~ (What's new, eh?)

Otherwise I haven't been writing much, although I'm currently trying to edit some poems I've got knocking around. It's fun and frustrating at the same time, if that makes sense. ^_^

I wrote this quick thing last Friday night at one in the morning. It was partly prompted by the Locution blog post I wrote that day.

***

I carve the sand with cupped fingers and wait for balls of tar to fill the moat. Not too far away a pelican cannot fly, its feathers heavy while I build the tower higher. I squeeze a wet clump into a spire, a beak pointing at the sky. It crumples under the weight.

Damn sand.

***

I'm not sure what it is. A prose poem, a piece of micro fiction? It's certainly odd, but I kinda like it.

Haizea Inon

2010-03-13T22:32:00.002-05:00

More 750 Words. Very rough.

***

That bitch stole my name. Haizea Inon. I can tell you've heard of her. Of course you have. Everyone in this gods-forsaken country has heard of Haizea Inon, the girl mage, scourge of Duke Ochoa, fighter for the people.

Bitch.

When it was my name it was just Haizea Inon. No pretentious titles, no fame, no ballads or stories, no whispered, hopeful rumors. That suited me just fine.

I met the bitch three years ago in a pub called The Marksman. It's far away from here, in the capital. Have you been? Good-- don't bother, Arriol isn't worth the journey. The Marksman was like the rest of that hole, filthy and dank and depressing.

She was sitting at my table. Our table. I told her to move. Ander Bakar, my partner, told me I was being mean to the "poor lass." She did look poor, hair falling out of her braid, dirt on her clothes and smudging her cheeks. She looked lost. I noticed, since my job means I have to notice things, but I didn't like the way Ander said "poor lass," and so we bickered.

At some point I said his name, and he said mine, and there was a gasp. We'd nearly forgotten about her. She looked from me to him and back to me again. "You're Haizea Inon?" she asked.

No one knew my full name. Not even Ander. My family name was my secret, and I hid it to hide my past. My given name I kept close to me as well. In my line of work it doesn't do to be well-known. A famous thief is a thief hanging with a noose around her neck.

If I had been the murdering type I'd have lured her to a back alley and slit her throat. Don't look at me like that. I said "if." I didn't murder. It made things messy, and I'd seen how it complicated jobs.

'Course, the girl didn't know that. So I pulled out my knife, and in that dim corner of The Marksman I held its sharp edge to where her heartbeat fluttered at her throat. Oh, I've wished many nights since then that I'd cut it.

"Never say that name again," I said. Very threatening it was. Her face was pale and she shook on her seat. And Ander took her side, eyes wide.

She was half his age! Ander and I had a past, and yet he sided with this little chit. I left her cowering in the corner and walked out. He was slow to follow, which should have warned me. The bitch already had him.

The day earlier we'd acquired an amulet. Magic, of course. Powerful, too. I wasn't interested in what it could do, though, only how much gold it could get me in the next fiefdom over. Ander wanted to stay longer in Arriol. He said we could use the amulet ourselves, do something about that silly Duke of theirs. It was his home fiefdom, and he had a sentimentality about it.

I'd been considering it. Sooner or later he would get bored, I thought. We could move on to new jobs, and things would stay like they had always been. But now. Now someone knew my name. I didn't know how, but I wanted the hell out of town.

She followed us. I was walking briskly, Ander trailing behind. "We're leaving," I said. He asked what about the Duke, and then she appeared at his elbow.

"You can't leave! You have to fight the Duke!" she said.

Who was she to tell me what I should do? Bitch. Anyway, long story short, I left that night, and Ander stayed with her. It was doomed to failure, and I figured he'd get what he deserved. Figured they both would.

You going to drink that? Thanks. God, this stuff tastes like shit. Barkeep! Where the hell is he...

Anyway, I left. Good riddance, right? But then I heard rumors. People were talking about me. Haizea Inon. There were wanted posters with my name on it. Not my face, though. Her face.

Do you know what it feels like to have your name stolen? I could have been her. I would have stayed.

***

I'm not really sure about this piece. It started off well, or at least different, which I like. Different is good. It loses something in the middle. Ah well.

It's a weird experiment based on a time travel fantasy I wrote a while back. A girl named Maia goes back in time only to find she has to fulfill the role of her hero, Haizea Inon. In the short story there was no original Haizea Inon, but here I started playing around with an idea--that Haizea Inon is a thief who would never have done the things Maia knew her hero to do, and Maia is forced to take her place in history.

So, yeah. Messed around with second person a bit, and trying to inject bitterness into things, as well as unreliable narrator (Haizea would never have stayed.) It didn't go in the same direction as it did when I was writing it in my head, but oh well~

750 Words, and Talking Trees

2010-03-10T15:10:00.012-05:00

I've been remiss in my New Years Resolution, but for the past 5 days I've been taking part in 750 Words. I've been mostly treating it like a journal, so it doesn't produce much creative writing, but the statistics aspect is pretty interesting, even if it is a bit unsophisticated.

I was going the writing on my hard drive today and found this. I don't know where I was going with it, but I'm going to see where it takes me now.

***

"Come on, Mandy!" Elise tugged at Mandy's hand as she led her down the path towards the woods. Mandy followed behind obediently, wondering what her little sister's imagination had conjured up this time.

"What are you taking me to see? Are the fairies back?" she asked. Last summer Elise had invented a fairy community in the woods near their village. They had visited it almost every day, trying to catch a glimpse of a delicate wing tip or an acorn hat or a tiny footprint.

"No, silly; those weren't real." Elise stopped and turned around to look up at Mandy. She was frowning, obviously put out that Mandy had not realized this earlier.

"Oh," said Mandy, at a loss. At fourteen she knew there were no such things as fairies, but Elise had believed in them so she had always played along. When had Elise shed that illusion?

"Well, what have you found now?"

Elise grinned, pulling her hand free. She ran to the trees, shouting back, "You'll see!"

Mandy caught up with her just as the path became littered with leaves. She took her cue from Elise, and they both proceeded cautiously into the cool shade. Their tip-toeing feet made little noise on the tamped down earth, and the birds were quiet. The stillness struck her as odd and unease prickled up Mandy's spine, but she shook it off.

The path wound between the trees, taking them further into the dimness. A breeze began to blow through the canopy, and the rustling of the leaves reminded Mandy of people whispering. She was startled when Elise spoke, echoing her thoughts.

"The trees are talking," she said, her voice hushed.

"What are they saying?"

Elise paused, then stepped off the path. She strode up to the nearest tree, a beech, and stopped before it. She reached around the trunk as if she were hugging it, and Mandy had to stifle a laugh; Elise's arms didn't even make it halfway around its girth. Elise glanced back reproachfully and put her finger up to her lips before resuming her position, one ear against the smooth bark.

At first, nothing happened. Mandy stood watching, and Elise stood listening, and the branches swept back and forth above them. After a minute or so, however, there was a change, and the gentle swishing of the tree tops became louder as the wind grew stronger. The roar swelled not unlike the sound of waves crashing on the beach; it rose then fell, only to rise again. Unnerved, Mandy picked her way through the scrub to Elise’s side. The young girl's face was scrunched up in concentration, eyes screwed shut.

"Elise. I think we should go," Mandy said, raising her voice over the roar.

Elise opened her eyes. "But they're talking!" She went to put her head back against the trunk, but Mandy grabbed her arm.

"Not now, Elise! There must be a storm coming; we have to get home!"

"But—"

"Not now!" Her heart thumping in her chest, Mandy pulled Elise away from the tree and back to the path. Twigs reached for their clothes and Mandy stumbled on a root.

Elise twisted in her grip, digging her heels into the earth. "Mandy, no!" Above them tree limbs whipped into a fury, and a branch crashed to the ground a few feet from them. Trees groaned as they leaned in the wind, and it felt as if Mandy's breath was being stolen from her lungs.

Pushing and pulling, Mandy dragged Elise along the path a few feet at a time, her sister flailing, yelling. Tears ran down the girl's face, and Mandy looked away, fear clawing at her throat. Leaves rained down on them, so thick Mandy couldn't see the sky. She batted at them with her hand, nearly at the edge of the wood—

And Elise yanked her arm free.

The screaming wind stopped at once. Mandy stood gasping as the final leaves fluttered to the ground around her. Her ears rang in the silence. "Elise? Elise, where are you?" She stumbled in a circle, the tree trunks a blur.

"Elise!"

Mandy ran back into the trees, her shuddering breaths loud in her ears. She reached the beech in less than a minute, but no one was there. "Elise?"

A great sigh rustled the boughs of the trees, and Mandy froze. In between the roots of the tree, where Elise had been standing with her ear to the bark, was a sapling. Its leaves waved in the breeze before falling still.

***

Bleh. I hate it when I have an ending in mind, but I don't manage to do it justice. Guess that's what editing is for, right?

Taking a Stab at Poetry

2010-02-05T14:39:00.003-05:00

First up is the prose-with-line-breaks-masquerading-as-poetry I wrote for a contest on Locution to do with clichés.

***

Love is Blind

Cupid needs glasses.
He must, for he always
passes over me.

His aim is /not/ true--
it's a wonder his arrows
flew straight before now.

I don't really mind,
but if he can't seem to
find me sitting here,

how is he to hit
his real targets? It's a
bit suspect, I think.

I should say something.
Oi, mister Roman god!
Ring up an optician!

No? It's not so bad.
I survived the visit I
had sometime last year.

Oh well, it's your loss.
No running to me when
cross lovers complain.

It's not like I mind,
but love is so very blind.

***

I started something else before writing "Love is Blind." It felt a bit more like poetry, but the imagery/direction seemed muddled. Here goes trying to make something of it:

***

Climbing up the Walls

You've got me climbing up the walls,
still remembering yesterday's fall when
you failed to take up the slack--
I might as well be bouldering.

I feel like I'm at the end
of my rope (even though I'm not),
and all I can see is red
tape marking the route's holds.

***

I can't get any further with it. Somehow I'm unable to crystallize the premise--comparing a fight with rock climbing. It was supposed to tie in the idea of a person climbing in anger, to let off steam, but it just doesn't gel properly. I like individual lines, but not the poem itself, unfinished though it may be.

DMV

2010-02-02T17:35:00.002-05:00

Prompt: write about something boring.
The something boring: standing in line.

***

Derek was glad his phone had Tetris, because otherwise he might have killed a few people out of boredom already. He briefly imagined a game of Tetris played with contorted human corpses as he slotted a square into place before realizing the thought was probably morbid. His roommate Brian was a a psych major, and he was always going on about Derek's supposedly morbid outlook on life. Said it wasn't healthy, or whatever.

He felt a bit justified at the moment, though. Standing in line at the DMV had the atmosphere of a funeral combined with a shipwreck. Desperation and the consuming urge to get the fuck out while there were still lifeboats left tempered with the heavy, paralyzing weight of inevitability you feel when faced with the cruel fact of mortality.

Yeah... better to focus on the Tetris game. Derek mashed the buttons, trying to find a place for an L-shaped block. Damn thing was the wrong type of L. He ran out of time and swore as it plopped down ungracefully, leaving several spaces empty but inaccessible.

Many, many people into the distance, someone called, "Next!" The murmur of the crowd rose slightly as a wave of shuffling moved from the front to the back of the line. A space opened up in front of Derek in his peripheral vision, and he moved forward without taking his eyes off the little screen. He was never going to fix those empty spaces now; the higher the pile got, the harder it was to maneuver.

GAME OVER. Derek sighed and glanced at his watch before starting a new game. Twelve twenty--he had class in an hour, and this line was taking forever. Maybe he could grab a sandwich on the way back to campus. Which was more likely to get him in trouble with Professor Miles, he wondered. Falling asleep from hunger, or trying to eat a sandwich sneakily. Sounded like a no-win situation, really.

Why didn't they have more people at the desks, anyway? It was lunchtime, the time when people ran out of their cubicles and classrooms to do all the things they couldn't do while working. If the DMV people had any sense, they'd have more people working during lunch hours. Which, come to think of it, explained why they didn't.

Derek frowned at his cell phone and wished that all the people there were gone. Then at least he could grab something to eat before trying to wrap his head around derivatives that afternoon.

Another space opened up in front, and Derek stepped forward, still preoccupied with Tetris. No back appeared in his vision, so he kept going. Finally, people were actually moving--about time.

He didn't realize how far he'd walked until he bumped right into the counter. Letting out a grunt of surprise, he finally looked up from his game. Turning around, he took in the cramped office space. There was no one there. No old man arguing with a harried worker about the results of his eye test, no spotty teenager getting his pictures taken, no woman talking loudly into her bluetooth headset.

"What the fuck?"

***

Bad ending. Well, it doesn't have an ending. Hm...

Apparently strange things occur to me when I'm really tired and should be falling asleep. (contorted corpse Tetris game? O.o)

Tycos

2010-01-11T17:21:00.001-05:00

Harriet's calves burned as she plodded up the dune. Why the hell was she here? Even on paper Tycos looked inhospitable. Absolutely freezing at the poles, made of nothing but rock and sand in the so-called temperate zones--it was a wonder anything at all could live on this god-forsaken planet. But no, she just had to jump at the first extraterrestrial opportunity that came along.

A momentary lapse of concentration and Harriet's foot slipped out from underneath her. She swore. Damn dunes. They got increasingly unstable the more tired you were just to spite you. Jerome might laugh, but she knew they did.

Reaching the top, she at last caught sight of the base. Harriet half-ran, half-skidded down the slope, an avalanche of sand following her. At the bottom she looked back at the trail she'd carved in the dune, knowing she'd get teased for her inelegance if anyone had been watching. Oh well. At least she no longer somersaulted down the things.

The base sat in an ancient, dried-up lake bed, its small metal pods connected by enclosed walkways clustering around their ship. As she trekked closer, Harriet could see that sanddrifts were already forming on the wind-ward sides of the pods. Someone would have to clear that soon, or they'd be completely buried during the next storm.

Harriet sighed. Just another perk of being stationed on Tycos.

What She Missed the Most

2010-01-08T22:48:00.001-05:00

She missed waking up next to him the most. Cocooned in a warm pocket under the duvet, limbs tangled, drool on the pillow. They'd occupied that in-between place, where you're left with only fleeting images of dreams but have yet to remember the plates in the sink or the report due at work. It was that small space of time she missed, the moments before he had rolled over and whispered, "Fancy a quick one?" in her ear, or rolled the other way and got out of bed to slip on his jeans, or she threw back the covers to let the shock of cold air wake her.

It wasn't that she hadn't enjoyed the quickies, the way she felt hurrying into the office a little late, a smile tugging at her lips. The comfortable silence as she watched him dress, shooting a smile over his shoulder as he walked out the door, well, she had liked that, too. Even his protests on those mornings she had shucked the duvet were familiar, and therefore missed.

She didn't know why she missed the waking up the most, although she imagined it had something to do with that pang she felt each morning when she moved her arm and found the other side of the bed was empty.

***

Sometimes you just have to write something clichéd.

Waiting Room

2010-01-08T22:40:00.001-05:00

Continued from previous post.

***

It was like those numbers taken by people waiting to be served at the the local butcher's. Ben had one too, he realized. He opened his fist and examined the crinkled paper. Had he always had it?

The number on the ticket was really long. The numerals were small, and they seemed to be flickering. That was strange. Squinting, Ben brought it closer to his face and realized they were wriggling around, switching places. They refused to stay in one place and be read.

"You won't be able to read it." The boy sat across from him, flipping through a sports magazine without looking up. "I haven't figured out mine yet."

"I don't understand--do you know why we're here?"

The old woman next to Ben started snoring softly; her head nodded onto his shoulder.

The kid shrugged and turned a page. "Nope. Doesn't matter."

"Where are your parents?"

"Dunno."

"Don't you care?"

He shrugged again. "They're around here somewhere."

Ben ran his hand through his hair and sighed--

And woke up. He propped himself up on an elbow and blinked in the morning light.

"Weird." Ben dragged himself out of bed and made his way to the kitchen, wondering if he had any toffees. Maybe if he met the old woman again she'd offer him one.

He paused in the middle of measuring out his ground coffee. Not that he'd meet her again, because that had just been a dream. Ben shook his head and laughed softly to himself.

***

I'm bored with this already... Writing ADD?

2010

2010-01-03T21:43:00.005-05:00

Oh, look, a new year!

I finished my creative writing class, obviously. In the end my revisions for the portfolio went well, despite my stressing. I'm still not quite happy with the story and the poem, but my professor liked them, so I suppose that suffices.

(She suggested I submit the poem to journals for publication, which was a bit of a shock. I don't think it's up to that, but I may do so anyway--never too early to start racking up rejection slips. ^_^)

I've joined meri in a new years resolution, to post at least 200 words at least 4 times a week to a thread in Locution. Mine is here, and meri's is here. I think I'll co-post here, just to keep things in one place...

***

Ben found himself in a waiting room suddenly, in that strange, scene-hopping way that dreams change. One minute he was fishing with his dad in a lake of lava and the next he was sitting in a plastic chair under fluorescent lights.

"Would you like a toffee, young man?"

Ben stared down at the candy in confusion. It shook in the old woman's hands, the red wrapper bright against her skin, and she smiled at him.

"Um, no thanks."

"Ah well, suit yourself." She unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth, sucking noisily. "I shouldn't, really, but if you can't indulge when you're old, when can you?"

"Yeah..." The lake was fading, and then it was gone. Ben couldn't remember how he got here, or what he was waiting for. He said so to the old woman.

"Oh, don't you worry about that, dearie. I expect someone will be along in a bit to sort it all out." She patted his knee twice and settled back into her seat.

"Wait, don't you know why you're here?" Ben asked.

She frowned, puzzled. "Now that you mention it, no. My memory must not be what it used to be. Maybe I wrote it down." She patted her trouser's pocket and drew out a slip of paper. "Oh, look, my number. Perhaps they'll call it soon."

It was like those numbers taken by people waiting to be served at the the local butcher's.

***

It's a story idea I came up with over Christmas break, while vacationing in the swamp. I'll see where it goes~

Poetry Snippets

2009-11-26T16:22:00.002-05:00

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. ^_^

On the Creative Writing Class

2009-11-10T15:50:00.006-05:00

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:

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. ^_^

Locution Issue 3 Is Out!

2009-09-13T11:34:00.003-04:00

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~

Speaking

2009-08-18T17:46:00.010-04:00

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.

News

2009-07-16T21:44:00.004-04:00

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/

April Prose Contest (Locution)

2009-04-13T21:45:00.010-04:00

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 Arriola 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 Arriola 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 Arriola 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...

Translation

2009-04-06T18:13:00.012-04:00

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... ^_^

The Forest

2009-03-02T19:34:00.001-05:00

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. ^_^

I'm back~

2009-03-01T14:46:00.010-05:00

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~ ^_^

Locution Contest: All Children, Except One

2008-10-27T16:10:00.004-04:00

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

Locution Contest: Robyn's Hoods

2008-08-25T10:07:00.008-04:00

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.

***

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

“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

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?

Day 30

2008-07-15T21:40:00.004-04:00

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.

One more day!

2008-07-14T21:24:00.005-04:00

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.)

Day 29

2008-07-13T21:32:00.004-04:00

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. ^_^

Er, I went to the movies today...

2008-07-12T22:06:00.003-04:00

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. ^_^

Day 28

2008-07-11T21:07:00.004-04:00

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

Day 27

2008-07-10T22:12:00.003-04:00

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. ;}

Day 26

2008-07-09T22:05:00.002-04:00

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. ^_^

Ugh.

2008-07-08T21:27:00.005-04:00

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...)

Day 25

2008-07-07T22:11:00.005-04:00

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.

Day 24

2008-07-06T21:31:00.002-04:00

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. ^_^

Charlie Wilson's War...

2008-07-05T21:36:00.001-04:00

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!

Well, today was an adventure.

2008-07-04T21:04:00.003-04:00

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?

Day 23

2008-07-03T20:34:00.003-04:00

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 9

PANEL 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.

Day 22

2008-07-02T08:52:00.003-04:00

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?"

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.

Day 21

2008-07-01T21:32:00.007-04:00

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.

***

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.]

Day 20

2008-06-30T22:10:00.004-04:00

Erm, I sorta lost track of time today. So I thought I'd take a leaf out of Meri's book and write a haiku (or something like one). Not that haiku are easy~

***

The skyline sparkles—
Stars tangled in weighted nets
Slowly dim and die.

***

Eh, crap. Ah well.

Day 19

2008-06-29T22:04:00.002-04:00

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.

Guess what?

2008-06-28T17:07:00.002-04:00

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.

Day 18

2008-06-27T21:13:00.002-04:00

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. ^_^

Day 17

2008-06-26T21:59:00.002-04:00

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. ^_^

Day 16

2008-06-25T22:16:00.005-04:00

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.]

Day 15 (one day late)

2008-06-24T21:30:00.004-04:00

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. ^_^

Day 14 (two days late)

2008-06-24T14:05:00.007-04:00

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. ;}

I'm just too effing tired

2008-06-23T21:28:00.007-04:00

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. >_<

Tired again...

2008-06-22T21:03:00.002-04:00

Shall write a bit tomorrow. Today, though, I am tired.

Day 13

2008-06-21T22:30:00.003-04:00

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.

Day 12

2008-06-20T22:11:00.006-04:00

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.]

Day 11

2008-06-19T21:27:00.004-04:00

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. ;)

Day 10

2008-06-18T21:52:00.003-04:00

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.]

Day 9

2008-06-17T22:15:00.003-04:00

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 from here.

Day 8

2008-06-16T21:57:00.003-04:00

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.]

Day 7 (one day late)

2008-06-15T22:24:00.004-04:00

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.]

I'm really tired

2008-06-14T22:44:00.001-04:00

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. :(

Day 6

2008-06-13T22:33:00.004-04:00

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:

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. ;}

Day 5

2008-06-12T22:36:00.004-04:00

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."

Day 4

2008-06-11T21:37:00.003-04:00

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.

Day 3

2008-06-10T09:39:00.001-04:00

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.

Day 2

2008-06-09T21:44:00.006-04:00

I meant to write in a notebook that I took to the orthodontists today; I've got a new idea for a novel, and I was hoping to play around with some dialogue to help me figure out some characters. Alas, I didn't manage it, and when I got home I was horribly tired. Which was a bit depressing, since I hadn't thought about my illness affecting the challenge. I haven't had a really bad day like this in a while (just some not-so-good days), so it's a downer when I feel like I've suddenly gone a step backwards.

Anyway, I'm feeling a bit better now, so I think I shall ramble. It won't be a particularly creative ramble (or a long one), so it might stretch the limits of the challenge, but at this point I think anything will do.

I just finished watching a film with my parents entitled Paris, Je T’aime. It's a collection of five-minute shorts set in Paris, each about love of some form or another. The shorts ranged from a strangely hilarious one about a man who falls in love with a vampire, to a story narrated by an American woman (in rather appalling French) about how she fell in love with Paris.

It was really quite wonderful. A lot of the stories were simply "slice of life;" they showed scenes that could happen to anyone, simple moments that aren't particularly exciting or dramatic, but are somehow utterly real and authentic. I'd love to write something like that; most of my ideas for stories are science fiction or fantasy, which can't exactly be called realistic. And while science fiction has been traditionally a wonderful vessel for examining the human condition (honestly, what better way is there to get people thinking about what makes us human than writing about androids?), it doesn't tell it like it is. To be able to write about everyday events, everyday people, and to imbue that writing with meaning and poignancy, well, that seems pretty damn difficult to me.

Heh, not that examining the human condition in science fiction is any easier.

Day 1

2008-06-08T21:04:00.006-04:00

All right, here goes nothing! I'm starting to wonder what on earth I've got myself into, but no matter. I'm sure I'll manage somehow. ^_^

***

Carrie had told herself she wouldn't look down, but now that she was twelve feet off the ground this was proving to be a difficult resolution to keep. Every time she wanted to move a foot she had to look down to find one of those plastic holds first. And with her arms beginning to get tired, seeing that the ground was so far away wasn't helping matters one bit.

Why had she agreed to go rock climbing with Alice? Sure, Carrie had read a book about it, as her friend had so helpfully pointed out, but since when did that translate into any sort of skill?

"Come on, Carrie!"

She braved a look—Alice was waving her arms and grinning. Good thing she wasn't belaying. Alice could be rather exuberant at times, and Carrie shuddered to think what would happen if she was in charge of the ropes and got a sudden urge to throw her hands in the air.

"I think I want to come down!" Carrie shifted her weight; her left leg started to jiggle uncontrollably. "Scratch that. I want to come down, now!"

"Aww! But you’re almost there!"

Alice’s pleading wouldn’t sway her, not this time, Carrie told herself. It was her lack of resistance, after all, that had got her here in the first place. She had been stuck in the same spot for several minutes. Her arms hurt, her leg had mutinied, and she had a sneaking suspicion she was developing a blister on her palm. There was no was she was making it any higher.

Back on the ground, she felt a twinge of guilt at the disappointment on Alice’s face. It wasn't her friend's fault that she failed miserably at sports. Carrie undid the knot and handed the rope to her, lips turning upwards in a wry smile. "Your turn. Bet you can't do any better."

Alice smiled in return. "You're on!" She strode up to the wall and leaned back her head, making a great show of surveying possible routes. The effect was pretty funny, like the exaggerated movements of a silent film, and Carrie laughed.

***

Ye gods, this is crap. Not to mention short and going absolutely nowhere. Ah well—the challenge didn't specify that it had to be good, or long, or complete. *sigh*

Not a great start, but I think I'll get better with practice. Probably. Maybe. Possibly. ;)

First Post!

2008-06-07T13:04:00.005-04:00

Today, on the Locution and Megatokyo Creative Writing forums, Marrow posted a writing challenge, which reads thus:

Hi people. I have a little challenge for you all. Are you ready? I hope you're ready. Here it comes!

I challenge you all to write something creative every day for the next 30 days. Every day you will then post your creation in a blog for everyone to see. It does not have to be heavily polished, but it does have to be new work. The idea is just to get creativity flowing, which I know from personal experience can be a real bitch to do.

I was planning to do this regardless of whether or not anyone else joined in, but then I thought to myself that it might help if other people were doing it, too. That way we could keep track of how each of us is doing throughout the challenge. Plus, we would be able to leave crits in each other's comment boxes.

As a final note, I'd like to mention that you do not have to all start at the same time. I'm planning to start today, but you do not have to. Ideally, you would start around the same time, but it does not have to be exactly the same day.

Let me know what you all think about the idea. Maybe some of you will join in...?

Note: the blog I created for this challenge (for myself) can be found here.

I have created this blog for that purpose—starting tomorrow I'll begin posting a piece of creative writing every day for 30 days. Why embark on such madness? Like quite a few people (such as Marrow himself) I don't write as much as I'd like. I get caught up in perfectionism, in writing the best story I can, so when most of my ideas and efforts fall short of my (admittedly too high) standards, I end up writing nothing at all. And the whole point is to get better and grow as a writer, which proves a bit difficult when there isn't any actual writing going on.

Outside motivation, however, can often help (a bit like a kick up the backside to get one going). As I've found in contests on the Megatokyo forums, when other people are expecting you to finish something it keeps you writing even when you think it isn't good, or when you just don't feel like writing that day. The threat of public shame, whether real or imagined, is apparently a great motivator.

So, let's get going! Hopefully I shan't bring shame to my name. ^_^