NaNoWriMo: Day 16! Wrote 1,536 words and I'm hoping to get in another 100 before bed. Just wanted to pop on to share some of Thorberta's adventures! It's a rather long passage.
“Oi, gimme that thar fiddle an’ see what a real sailor does wi’ it!” shouted one of the dwarves when Finginnian finished the last note of a ballad. Thorberta could see the affront building behind the cleric’s short, rectangular glasses and wondered if she was about to witness her first brawl. Sailors brawled a lot according to Grunkelheimer [author of Grunkelheimer's Encyclopedia of Nautical Things and How They Might Function.] That was how they kept fit when not clambering up ratlines. But there was no fight. Finginnian stiffly held out the fiddle and bow and the gnome could just make out the icy words, “Do not dare drop her!” as the dwarf seized the instrument greedily. He waved the elf cleric away and stuck the fiddle under his chin, plucked at the strings, tested the bow, fiddled with the tuning, and held the bow aloft for a suspenseful moment before he attacked the strings with a lively tune. The third dwarf and the elf girl kicked up their feet to the music.
“Yea ho!” shouted the Halfling from his perch on one of the strapped down barrels. He started clapping to the beat and a few others joined in. Some of the crew playing cards took to stomping their feet instead so they didn’t have to set down their hands.
“Yea ho away!” came a roar of response from most of the other sailors.
Thorberta licked the nib of her pen again and poised it over the paper to catch the lyrics. It was a call and response shanty with a leader singing the verses and everyone else joining in with the response. The Halfling male had a gusty voice that somehow carried above all the stomping, hooting, clapping, and fiddling.
“A fair ship she be in all weathers,” he sang.
“Yea ho, Yea ho away!” sang everyone else.
“Here she come gliding o’er the waters
Yea ho, Yea ho away!
Her decks be polished wi’ spit ‘til they shine
Yea ho, Yea ho away!
Her bow rises proudly above the brine
Yea ho, Yea ho away!
The Catspaw in her finest array
Yea ho, Yea ho away!
Ne’er a chance o’ goin’ astray
Yea ho, Yea ho away!
Now ‘oo d’yoo think was master of ‘er?
Yea ho, Yea ho away!
Cap’in Blakeney an’ ‘is cursed skipper
Yea ho, Yea ho away!
An’ what d’yoo s’pose they had for suppah?
Yea ho, Yea ho away!
Shelled sweet peas an’ a pound o’ lubbah
Yea ho, Yea ho away!
With pinkies curled an’ a nap’in propah
Yea ho, Yea ho away!
Diamond forks an’ a tub o’ buttah
Yea ho, Yea ho away!
O come an’ git me things in order
Yea ho, Yea ho away!
Go’ta run ‘fore she sails yonder
Yea ho, Yea ho away!
Kiss me once for luck we're stallin’
Yea ho, Yea ho away!
Kiss me twice, the mornin’s dawnin’
Yea ho, Yea ho away!
With me rucksack packed, all’s in order
Yea ho, Yea ho away!
On the Catspaw I’ll sail o’er yonder
Yea ho, Yea ho! Yea ho away!”
“An’ what d’yoo s’pose they ‘ad for suppah!” cried out the non-fiddling dwarf.
“Yea ho, yea ho away!”
“’ow ‘bout a parrot’s tail an’ a monkey’s livah!”
“My cooking isn’t that bad!”
Thorberta looked up to see Kalikusa standing on the outside of the crowd, hands on his hips, and a wide grin spread across his thin face. The company roared with laughter and hands slapped on thighs. Finginnian snatched his fiddle back and promptly re-tuned it.
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
Saturday, November 12, 2016
NaNoWriMo: Day Twelve
NaNoWriMo: Day 12 complete! 1,983 words for a grand total of 21,524! Some of these are actually kind of good. They say to write what you know. Apparently writing about a character who's also going through writer's block is working for me! -keep writing, keep writing-
Today's snippet:
“It seems the gods smile favourably on you, little gnome, to place you in my path just as you need the services of a fully trained and highly skilled cleric.” The elf pulled a pouch from his belt and slowly untied the strings. He dipped his fingers inside and pulled out a few dried leaves between his middle and forefingers and held them out to the gnome.
“They are quite potent, so you will only want to use one a day. I have enough here for three days. Sniff them. The scent will temporarily help.”
Thorberta looked down at the leaves in her palm somewhat skeptically. She wasn't sure what to expect, as the only cleric she had ever met had been the life of a Ghouls and Goblins party with the animated skeleton of his grandmother. A person can't exactly ask a pile of bones how it feels to have someone manipulating them with spells or strange poultices as any and all opinions would originate from the spell-caster. However, these leaves looked harmless enough and certainly not as scary as the mustard and garlic poultice she’d been instructed to wear on her chest that one winter to ward off the bitter cough. How much harm could one little sniff do, anyway? Besides make her sneeze, or grow six feet in height, or somehow turn into an ostrich. These things had been known to happen, after all. Yet if they could quell the awful sensations in her tummy, wouldn’t it be worth turning into an ostrich just to get rid of the nausea?
Of course it was.
Today's snippet:
“It seems the gods smile favourably on you, little gnome, to place you in my path just as you need the services of a fully trained and highly skilled cleric.” The elf pulled a pouch from his belt and slowly untied the strings. He dipped his fingers inside and pulled out a few dried leaves between his middle and forefingers and held them out to the gnome.
“They are quite potent, so you will only want to use one a day. I have enough here for three days. Sniff them. The scent will temporarily help.”
Thorberta looked down at the leaves in her palm somewhat skeptically. She wasn't sure what to expect, as the only cleric she had ever met had been the life of a Ghouls and Goblins party with the animated skeleton of his grandmother. A person can't exactly ask a pile of bones how it feels to have someone manipulating them with spells or strange poultices as any and all opinions would originate from the spell-caster. However, these leaves looked harmless enough and certainly not as scary as the mustard and garlic poultice she’d been instructed to wear on her chest that one winter to ward off the bitter cough. How much harm could one little sniff do, anyway? Besides make her sneeze, or grow six feet in height, or somehow turn into an ostrich. These things had been known to happen, after all. Yet if they could quell the awful sensations in her tummy, wouldn’t it be worth turning into an ostrich just to get rid of the nausea?
Of course it was.
Thursday, November 10, 2016
NaNoWriMo: Day Ten
NaNoWriMo: Day 10 complete! I'm now sitting with a total of 16,036 words. That's 631 words short from today's goal after having a practically wordless day yesterday [only 429 for an RP post-- no novel writing] and low counts the two days before! If I repeat my performance tomorrow, I'll catch up so well I'll be ahead again!
Ladies and gents, I think I can do this!
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
NaNoWriMo: Days Seven & Eight
NaNoWriMo Update: 12,373 total words. Wow, what a week this has been! Somehow for the first six days I managed to have the time and words to shoot past the 1667 goal and I am truly thankful to have that experience of satisfaction and accomplishment. However, it seems life is reminding me that it exists this week. Yesterday I only had twenty minutes to sit down and write, but I added 635 words! Tonight I added another 1030 words while trying to not sit and stare at the live election coverage. So if you mesh those two word counts together I'm two words short of a day's goal. That's respectable and I'm happy. Most of what I wrote today is, I think, worth keeping. I could envision the Thorberta. I felt the Thorberta. I was the Thorberta. I'd forgotten how much fun it is to be inside a character's head. I'm crossing my fingers and hoping I get more days like this! Even if I don't make the word count, I want to live those words I write. Like I used to.
As a thank you for your enthusiasm and encouragement this past week, have a good portion of those good words while I still feel good about them:
Captain Blakeney bit his lip to keep from laughing at the gnome’s question. It was either laugh or bristle with indignation at the very thought that his beloved ship could have such egregious shortcomings. He decided not to go with the latter, for he knew that gnomes in general detest water and therefore probably know or care to know very little about water transport. Besides, the innocence he espied in those large brown eyes seemed incapable of intentionally insulting. Much like a child’s wondering look, now that he came to think of it.
“Fall through the floorboards?” he repeated in a patient tone, much like a parent explaining something to a child. “Now, Miss Bertie, what kind of ship would this be if there was a chance I could lose my entire crew between the cracks? I can assure you the deck is solid and whole and even if you chanced to fall through, there are three decks below to catch you.”
Of course that had been a silly thing to think, believe, even suggest. Thorberta suddenly felt extremely foolish and utterly relieved at the same time, though she did visibly relax at the feline's answer. Three decks between her and the liquid of death. She could handle that. What she could not understand was why this knowledge only reassured her to press on with this outrageous trip and not turn on her heel to march off the ship. It wouldn’t take much effort at all. In fact, it would save a lot of future grief and anxiety if she did just that. All she had wanted to do in the first place was study the sea from a distance, perhaps from the safety of a comfortable blanket while peering out of a window in a nearby inn. It had been Lorna’s greedy scheming that suggested this voyage, Sir Hildifons’ irresistible glimmer in his eye that got her to agree to this, and her own inability to pry herself out of her editor’s stony grip that deposited her here on the ship. This had never been her idea. So why was she the one here?
But there was something else, too. Something that nagged in the back of her head and insistently tugged at her curiosity. A small expression of that something lodged itself in the captain’s eye as he stared at her as only a cat can. He was watching her, waiting for her to turn around. She could see it as plainly as she could see the wood under her feet or the sun in the sky. There was a challenge there. He did not think she could do this. He thought her ridiculous, perhaps. Or ignorant. Or both!
Thorberta squared her shoulders and drew herself up to just above his waistline. Thorberta Ivytoes, queen of the quill, ignorant? Never! She knew Grunkelheimer’s Encyclopedia of Nautical Things and How They Might Function inside and out. A ship’s diagram was as familiar to her as the back of her hand. High Seas thrillers were her domain. She lived on boats in her imagination and thrived on the challenges they had presented her. But no more. There was no challenge on the open waters in her head. No characters jumped out from the sea of faces, begging for their stories to be told. Maybe she needed to prove to herself that there was nothing here for her anymore, that she truly had exhausted her niche.
A few days, Lorna had said. No more. A few days on board a ship with three decks separating her from peril couldn’t harm her, could it?
As a thank you for your enthusiasm and encouragement this past week, have a good portion of those good words while I still feel good about them:
Captain Blakeney bit his lip to keep from laughing at the gnome’s question. It was either laugh or bristle with indignation at the very thought that his beloved ship could have such egregious shortcomings. He decided not to go with the latter, for he knew that gnomes in general detest water and therefore probably know or care to know very little about water transport. Besides, the innocence he espied in those large brown eyes seemed incapable of intentionally insulting. Much like a child’s wondering look, now that he came to think of it.
“Fall through the floorboards?” he repeated in a patient tone, much like a parent explaining something to a child. “Now, Miss Bertie, what kind of ship would this be if there was a chance I could lose my entire crew between the cracks? I can assure you the deck is solid and whole and even if you chanced to fall through, there are three decks below to catch you.”
Of course that had been a silly thing to think, believe, even suggest. Thorberta suddenly felt extremely foolish and utterly relieved at the same time, though she did visibly relax at the feline's answer. Three decks between her and the liquid of death. She could handle that. What she could not understand was why this knowledge only reassured her to press on with this outrageous trip and not turn on her heel to march off the ship. It wouldn’t take much effort at all. In fact, it would save a lot of future grief and anxiety if she did just that. All she had wanted to do in the first place was study the sea from a distance, perhaps from the safety of a comfortable blanket while peering out of a window in a nearby inn. It had been Lorna’s greedy scheming that suggested this voyage, Sir Hildifons’ irresistible glimmer in his eye that got her to agree to this, and her own inability to pry herself out of her editor’s stony grip that deposited her here on the ship. This had never been her idea. So why was she the one here?
But there was something else, too. Something that nagged in the back of her head and insistently tugged at her curiosity. A small expression of that something lodged itself in the captain’s eye as he stared at her as only a cat can. He was watching her, waiting for her to turn around. She could see it as plainly as she could see the wood under her feet or the sun in the sky. There was a challenge there. He did not think she could do this. He thought her ridiculous, perhaps. Or ignorant. Or both!
Thorberta squared her shoulders and drew herself up to just above his waistline. Thorberta Ivytoes, queen of the quill, ignorant? Never! She knew Grunkelheimer’s Encyclopedia of Nautical Things and How They Might Function inside and out. A ship’s diagram was as familiar to her as the back of her hand. High Seas thrillers were her domain. She lived on boats in her imagination and thrived on the challenges they had presented her. But no more. There was no challenge on the open waters in her head. No characters jumped out from the sea of faces, begging for their stories to be told. Maybe she needed to prove to herself that there was nothing here for her anymore, that she truly had exhausted her niche.
A few days, Lorna had said. No more. A few days on board a ship with three decks separating her from peril couldn’t harm her, could it?
Sunday, November 6, 2016
NaNoWriMo: Day Six
NaNoWriMo: Day 6 complete. 1,245 words. I have the best husband ever. I had planned to get my writing done when we got home after church things today, but that backfired when I laid down for a quick nap and woke up after 5 PM. I was disappointed and couldn't re-motivate myself to even attempt to write. While driving back from small groups this evening, I told Jeff it just wasn't worth the hassle and I wouldn't get any words done today. He wouldn't take no for an answer. Instead, he pulled out his computer when we got home and coerced me into writing with him!
I ended up going back to add in one scene and flesh out another in Chapter One for most of the word count today, bringing Chapter One to a total of 5,096 words. Chapter Two got a little bit of fleshing out as well and I re-wrote a poem I'd written for the original Role-Play. Today's snippet directly follows Thorberta's meeting of Morgath Lightfinger, the dwarf I introduced yesterday.
The human axiom she'd heard regarding telling apart gnomes, dwarves, and halflings came to mind and made her giggle.
Dwarves are square
Like the letters in their name
With lots of hair
Because they never shave.
Gnomes are round
As their name suggests
With leathery skin
That is tough and has stretch.
Halflings are oval
Some fair, some stout
With light fingers
And hairy feet.
It wasn't a very good rhyme, to be sure, but one learned not to expect much from the humans. They were so bland in general. At least, according to what she'd read. She had never actually met one before. The only dwarf she’d crossed paths with had been a cheery, elderly female with grey whiskers above her mouth. No beard. A very different picture from the hairy one Morgath painted.
I ended up going back to add in one scene and flesh out another in Chapter One for most of the word count today, bringing Chapter One to a total of 5,096 words. Chapter Two got a little bit of fleshing out as well and I re-wrote a poem I'd written for the original Role-Play. Today's snippet directly follows Thorberta's meeting of Morgath Lightfinger, the dwarf I introduced yesterday.
The human axiom she'd heard regarding telling apart gnomes, dwarves, and halflings came to mind and made her giggle.
Dwarves are square
Like the letters in their name
With lots of hair
Because they never shave.
Gnomes are round
As their name suggests
With leathery skin
That is tough and has stretch.
Halflings are oval
Some fair, some stout
With light fingers
And hairy feet.
It wasn't a very good rhyme, to be sure, but one learned not to expect much from the humans. They were so bland in general. At least, according to what she'd read. She had never actually met one before. The only dwarf she’d crossed paths with had been a cheery, elderly female with grey whiskers above her mouth. No beard. A very different picture from the hairy one Morgath painted.
Saturday, November 5, 2016
NaNoWriMo: Day Five
NaNoWriMo: Day 5 complete. 2,595 words. The novel has been tackled and pounded into the ground. Today is "Double Up Day" so I tried writing double the target word count (1667) because I love a good challenge. I failed, but hey! Over 2K new words about Bertie and two new characters introduced! Still have an hour and a half before heading off to bed. Perhaps I'll get in a few more words tonight.
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| http://www.elfwood.com/u/kozienko/image/4c86af60-253f-11e4-8293-7393fb7fed06/dwarf-axeman |
“Miss Bertie, may I introduce Morgath Lightfinger. He will escort you to your quarters and see that you and your luggage are comfortably settled in.”
Friday, November 4, 2016
NaNoWriMo: Day Four
NaNoWriMo: Day 4 complete. 1,341 words. I had an amazing description of scenes and characters playing through my head while I showered this morning, but as soon as I sat down with my breakfast to type them up I hit a brick wall. As a result, there is nothing new to report in Bertie's world except: "What the heck! I will try this again tomorrow." I did, however, get a nice amount of work done on crochet projects and hashed out a scene or two for some RPs. The important thing? I wrote.
Tomorrow I'll tackle the novel again.
Tomorrow I'll tackle the novel again.
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| Mr. Owl is one of the amigurumi I'm getting ready to package up and send out in an order! |
Thursday, November 3, 2016
NaNoWriMo: Day Three
NaNoWriMo: Day 3 complete. 2,049 words. To be fair, 700+ were completely unrelated to my novel, 200+ I rewrote from the RP I tried to start with this storyline two years ago, and I did go through and remove contractions. A lot of contractions. But I think I have a decent first chapter outlined and have started on the second!
Excerpt for today:
Besides the odds and ends of ship terminology and piratical jargon she'd picked up to write her romance novels, she knew nothing about plotting courses and the way the sailing world worked. Thankfully, her readers didn't know a thing about it either. Gnomes generally avoided water if at all possible and everything associated with it. And Thorberta in particular was a gnome who had cultivated that avoidance into a phobia.
Excerpt for today:
Besides the odds and ends of ship terminology and piratical jargon she'd picked up to write her romance novels, she knew nothing about plotting courses and the way the sailing world worked. Thankfully, her readers didn't know a thing about it either. Gnomes generally avoided water if at all possible and everything associated with it. And Thorberta in particular was a gnome who had cultivated that avoidance into a phobia.
Wednesday, November 2, 2016
NaNoWriMo: Day Two
NaNoWriMo: Day 2 complete. 1772 words. A slightly more successful day
since there is some actual thought process and it wasn't nearly as hard
to coax the words out. I have to keep telling myself I'm not aiming for
perfection or even a novel. I'm aiming to write because I miss it.
My favourite portion I hammered out today:
“I am sorry to have given you alarm, dear lady,” he said courteously, “but to be truthful, I did not think we had anything to talk about.”
“Nothing to talk about? Nothing to talk about!” Thorberta cried. She threw the journal aside and leapt eagerly to her feet. “My dear Sir Hildifons, we have stories to discuss! Characters! Plots! We must get started on another book! I am already a week behind!”
“A book about what?” Hildifons inquired calmly. He didn’t seem the least affected by the excitable state Thorberta was working herself into, despite the way she kept giggling and clapping her hands. A billowing mushroom worked its way out of the end of his pipe and floated lazily upwards.
“Water! Love! Adventure!” she squeaked. “Something exciting!”
“Like what?” he prompted. A bushy-tailed fox darted up to chase the mushroom around the ceiling before finally colliding with it.
“Like... like... oh, I don’t know. That is why I need you! I have been pacing this very room trying to come up with a new pairing for days and I cannot think of one! Gnomes, fae, humans, mermaids, trolls, elves, dwarves, giants, ghosts, they’ve all been done and with great success I might add.”
“My point exactly,” Sir Hildifons interrupted as soon as she drew breath. “It has all been done. You have exhausted your resources. What else is there to write? What other possible angle could you find to write about? What new characters? And you have specifically stated you will never write a sequel.”
Thorberta made a face. “No! Certainly not. Sequels are for those with no imagination and have somehow forgotten the very essences of their characters. It is lazy writing! Once you have managed to wrap up a story nicely, why undo the packaging? No, no, no, I shall certainly never write a sequel!”
My favourite portion I hammered out today:
“I am sorry to have given you alarm, dear lady,” he said courteously, “but to be truthful, I did not think we had anything to talk about.”
“Nothing to talk about? Nothing to talk about!” Thorberta cried. She threw the journal aside and leapt eagerly to her feet. “My dear Sir Hildifons, we have stories to discuss! Characters! Plots! We must get started on another book! I am already a week behind!”
“A book about what?” Hildifons inquired calmly. He didn’t seem the least affected by the excitable state Thorberta was working herself into, despite the way she kept giggling and clapping her hands. A billowing mushroom worked its way out of the end of his pipe and floated lazily upwards.
“Water! Love! Adventure!” she squeaked. “Something exciting!”
“Like what?” he prompted. A bushy-tailed fox darted up to chase the mushroom around the ceiling before finally colliding with it.
“Like... like... oh, I don’t know. That is why I need you! I have been pacing this very room trying to come up with a new pairing for days and I cannot think of one! Gnomes, fae, humans, mermaids, trolls, elves, dwarves, giants, ghosts, they’ve all been done and with great success I might add.”
“My point exactly,” Sir Hildifons interrupted as soon as she drew breath. “It has all been done. You have exhausted your resources. What else is there to write? What other possible angle could you find to write about? What new characters? And you have specifically stated you will never write a sequel.”
Thorberta made a face. “No! Certainly not. Sequels are for those with no imagination and have somehow forgotten the very essences of their characters. It is lazy writing! Once you have managed to wrap up a story nicely, why undo the packaging? No, no, no, I shall certainly never write a sequel!”
Tuesday, November 1, 2016
NaNoWriMo: Day One
NaNoWriMo: Day 1 complete. 1706 words. Most of them are incoherent
ramblings. My brain feels like it has been forcefully removed from my
skull, trampled on, and stuffed back in through my ear. It would be
nice if my muse worked, but that would be cheating, right? 29 days to
go!
I did, however, manage to write an opening I don't mind.
Little Grindlog was known only for two things: being the birthplace of the Water Edict of 1016, and secondly, as home to the renowned authoress Thorberta Ivytoes. In all other respects it was an ordinary, unremarkable village nestled in the Red Valley with barely a dot to show for itself on a map. It had a village square, like any proper village should, with a small market of ordinary, unremarkable goods. Not like the market in Clayster’s Crossing at all. There one could purchase jewelry fashioned from dragon scales, berries from the Coast, ceramics from the northern factories, clothing spun from fine elven threads, or anything a gnomish heart could desire.
But this story does not begin in Clayster’s Crossing. In fact, the stories worth telling quite often begin in places like Little Grindlog: small, ordinary, and unremarkable. Places, usually, very much like our own.
I did, however, manage to write an opening I don't mind.
Little Grindlog was known only for two things: being the birthplace of the Water Edict of 1016, and secondly, as home to the renowned authoress Thorberta Ivytoes. In all other respects it was an ordinary, unremarkable village nestled in the Red Valley with barely a dot to show for itself on a map. It had a village square, like any proper village should, with a small market of ordinary, unremarkable goods. Not like the market in Clayster’s Crossing at all. There one could purchase jewelry fashioned from dragon scales, berries from the Coast, ceramics from the northern factories, clothing spun from fine elven threads, or anything a gnomish heart could desire.
But this story does not begin in Clayster’s Crossing. In fact, the stories worth telling quite often begin in places like Little Grindlog: small, ordinary, and unremarkable. Places, usually, very much like our own.
NaNoWriMo 2016, Here I Am!
I must be insane. As you can probably tell from my inactivity here, I have been fighting on and off with a severe case of writer's block for the last year and a half to two years. I can't write. The scenes and characters which used to so vividly race through my head now glimmer dimly in the recesses of my mind. The only true glimpses I have of my words surface when I'm taking a shower or curled up in bed. When I get to a piece of paper or a computer, they vanish. I try to grab onto them and hold on, but they slip through my fingers like water through a sieve. I forget what I was thinking. It's as if they never were.
It's frustrating. Aggravating. Stressful. Numbing. I hate it. I hate the fact I am so out of touch with a pasttime I couldn't get enough of. I miss the passion, the eagerness, the desire to write and write some more. The characters, the worlds, the ideas exploded. And now all is silence.
So how did I talk myself into actually doing NaNo this year? Why? The year I can't possibly win because I don't have 50,000 words in me, let alone 1,667 in any given day. But I am here. I am standing in the face of this writer's block unwilling to budge. I signed up last night and spent a good chunk of time working on my profile to try to get into the spirit of NaNo. I will write 1,667+ words a day even if it means most of them look a little like this:
"This is going to be crap. What am I doing trying to write a novel? I have characters, sure, from the days gone by when I could actually see them and interact with them. I have a basic story premise. But can I write it? I doubt it. What do you want to do, Thorberta? You don't know? Me neither. How about I write about you not knowing what to do next in this story and use up some of my word count? That'll work? Great!"
Ask me how I'm doing on getting in those words or see for yourself. Pester me on Facebook. Demand to know my favourite character in this story. Ask me to explain something so I have to think about it. Please. Keep me accountable. I want to love writing again.
Thank you. xoxo
It's frustrating. Aggravating. Stressful. Numbing. I hate it. I hate the fact I am so out of touch with a pasttime I couldn't get enough of. I miss the passion, the eagerness, the desire to write and write some more. The characters, the worlds, the ideas exploded. And now all is silence.
So how did I talk myself into actually doing NaNo this year? Why? The year I can't possibly win because I don't have 50,000 words in me, let alone 1,667 in any given day. But I am here. I am standing in the face of this writer's block unwilling to budge. I signed up last night and spent a good chunk of time working on my profile to try to get into the spirit of NaNo. I will write 1,667+ words a day even if it means most of them look a little like this:
"This is going to be crap. What am I doing trying to write a novel? I have characters, sure, from the days gone by when I could actually see them and interact with them. I have a basic story premise. But can I write it? I doubt it. What do you want to do, Thorberta? You don't know? Me neither. How about I write about you not knowing what to do next in this story and use up some of my word count? That'll work? Great!"
Ask me how I'm doing on getting in those words or see for yourself. Pester me on Facebook. Demand to know my favourite character in this story. Ask me to explain something so I have to think about it. Please. Keep me accountable. I want to love writing again.
Thank you. xoxo
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
The Fairy Elf is Officially in Business!
All right, so while I have made my first sale, I don't actually have a "store" up and running yet. I am still plugging away opening an Etsy shop, but there are so many things that have to happen first. The big thing is settling on a name. Thankfully, I've already decided on a staple to start with [crocheted vintage sun bonnets and sun hats for babies under a year] and a brand name [Lady Alainn] but the overall name is eluding me. If worst comes to worst I'll settle on Heirlooms by Alainn unless y'all have any better ideas!
I also have a basic look and feel of what I want the store image to be. It's just a matter of time until I relearn Adobe so I can create banners, tags, website images, and all that jazz. Hopefully I'll be officially, officially up and running by next summer for a little bit of Farmer's Market action!
So why am I celebrating now if I still have a long way to go before it becomes completely legitimate? As of today I have officially crocheted, packaged, and mailed my first order! This means I am a professional now, right? And that's reason enough to celebrate for me! I took a few photos [forgive me, I'm terrible with lighting] and made a collage to commemorate the occasion. A big thank you to Katie of Spero Naturals for being my first official client and Ariel of Wrap It Up With Ariel for being the inspiration that started it all!
While I'm still working on creating stock and finding a photographer, I am taking special orders until I get things settled down. I have a variety of available thread and ribbon colours. If you're interested in finding out more or possibly ordering one just shoot me an email at mary.lynne90@yahoo.com.
I also have a basic look and feel of what I want the store image to be. It's just a matter of time until I relearn Adobe so I can create banners, tags, website images, and all that jazz. Hopefully I'll be officially, officially up and running by next summer for a little bit of Farmer's Market action!
So why am I celebrating now if I still have a long way to go before it becomes completely legitimate? As of today I have officially crocheted, packaged, and mailed my first order! This means I am a professional now, right? And that's reason enough to celebrate for me! I took a few photos [forgive me, I'm terrible with lighting] and made a collage to commemorate the occasion. A big thank you to Katie of Spero Naturals for being my first official client and Ariel of Wrap It Up With Ariel for being the inspiration that started it all!
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| "Vintage Rose" 17 1/2" circumference (9 MO) |
While I'm still working on creating stock and finding a photographer, I am taking special orders until I get things settled down. I have a variety of available thread and ribbon colours. If you're interested in finding out more or possibly ordering one just shoot me an email at mary.lynne90@yahoo.com.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
Ask Jeeves
Finish That Thought #2-23 (Judge's Comments)
Prompt: Three strangers appeared on my [doorstep] and in their [hands] they brought death.
Special Challenge: Include at least THREE of the following literary characters: Edward Rochester, Jo March, Harry Potter, Anne Shirley, Sherlock Holmes, Katniss Everdeen, Dracula, Miss Havisham, Rhett Butler, Lucy Pevensie, Gandalf the Grey
Three strangers appeared on my balcony, and in their little blue box
they brought death. Oh, not actual grim reaper Death, but a death to
all of my delightful plans for that afternoon. I just folded my
newspaper to set it aside when the most awful noise came from outside.
Before I knew it, a police box materialized on the balcony of my
apartment and out stepped a young woman, a ginger-haired man in tweeds,
and what appeared to be a Charles Dickens look-alike. What a good prank
this was turning out to be! Deciding to play along, I jumped to my
feet in agitated excitement.
“I say!” I cried out as I approached the French door, “who are you? And how did you get...? Where did you...? What...?”
“Lucy Pevensie,” the young woman replied cheerily, stepping through the doorway and into my sitting room. She stuck out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wooster.” I shook it absently as her companions fell in behind her.
“Look here, you can’t just barge into a fellow’s house-”
“I am The Doctor,” interrupted the ginger-haired man with a wide, sly grin. He did not offer his hand but instead winked and tugged out the strangest little device I’d ever seen and pointed it about the room. I stared at him in bewilderment.
“Doctor Who?”
“No, no. Just The Doctor, mate.”
“Good God, you’re Australian!” I exclaimed.
“Haven’t I a right to be? It’s not like this is BBC.” The Doctor, whoever he was, then tucked his bizarre stick back inside his suit jacket and turned his gaze to me again. “We’re here to see Jeeves, is he around?”
“What, do you know Jeeves? What the devil do you want him for?”
“Oh, it’s the most horrid thing!” Lucy set down the photograph she’d been examining. “Pip has hired Sherlock Holmes to discover his benefactor!” My look of utter cluelessness must have been evident for she continued in equal passion, “There won’t be much left of the book if he finds out Miss Havisham isn’t his benefactor now and poor Mr. Dickens’ book will cease to exist! We desperately need Jeeves’ advice.”
I looked at the silent, bearded fellow then in absolute bafflement. This was quickly getting out of hand for a joke and quite possibly a result from a trip to the club. Had I gone already? I must have. I needed Jeeves’ tonic. In a daze I wandered out of the room in search of my valet.
---
A short time later all was explained, remedied, and I had my flat to myself again. Kicking my feet up, I exclaimed, “You are marvelous, Jeeves! How did you convince Holmes?”
“Yes sir, thank you, sir. It was relatively simple, I merely told Mr. Holmes who the benefactor was.”
“What, that’s all?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He dropped the case?”
“Completely, sir. It no longer intrigued him.”
“Who is the actual benefactor, Jeeves?”
“Well, sir, I suggest you read the book.”
Prompt: Three strangers appeared on my [doorstep] and in their [hands] they brought death.
Special Challenge: Include at least THREE of the following literary characters: Edward Rochester, Jo March, Harry Potter, Anne Shirley, Sherlock Holmes, Katniss Everdeen, Dracula, Miss Havisham, Rhett Butler, Lucy Pevensie, Gandalf the Grey
Three strangers appeared on my balcony, and in their little blue box
they brought death. Oh, not actual grim reaper Death, but a death to
all of my delightful plans for that afternoon. I just folded my
newspaper to set it aside when the most awful noise came from outside.
Before I knew it, a police box materialized on the balcony of my
apartment and out stepped a young woman, a ginger-haired man in tweeds,
and what appeared to be a Charles Dickens look-alike. What a good prank
this was turning out to be! Deciding to play along, I jumped to my
feet in agitated excitement.“I say!” I cried out as I approached the French door, “who are you? And how did you get...? Where did you...? What...?”
“Lucy Pevensie,” the young woman replied cheerily, stepping through the doorway and into my sitting room. She stuck out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wooster.” I shook it absently as her companions fell in behind her.
“Look here, you can’t just barge into a fellow’s house-”
“I am The Doctor,” interrupted the ginger-haired man with a wide, sly grin. He did not offer his hand but instead winked and tugged out the strangest little device I’d ever seen and pointed it about the room. I stared at him in bewilderment.
“Doctor Who?”
“No, no. Just The Doctor, mate.”
“Good God, you’re Australian!” I exclaimed.
“Haven’t I a right to be? It’s not like this is BBC.” The Doctor, whoever he was, then tucked his bizarre stick back inside his suit jacket and turned his gaze to me again. “We’re here to see Jeeves, is he around?”
“What, do you know Jeeves? What the devil do you want him for?”
“Oh, it’s the most horrid thing!” Lucy set down the photograph she’d been examining. “Pip has hired Sherlock Holmes to discover his benefactor!” My look of utter cluelessness must have been evident for she continued in equal passion, “There won’t be much left of the book if he finds out Miss Havisham isn’t his benefactor now and poor Mr. Dickens’ book will cease to exist! We desperately need Jeeves’ advice.”
I looked at the silent, bearded fellow then in absolute bafflement. This was quickly getting out of hand for a joke and quite possibly a result from a trip to the club. Had I gone already? I must have. I needed Jeeves’ tonic. In a daze I wandered out of the room in search of my valet.
---
A short time later all was explained, remedied, and I had my flat to myself again. Kicking my feet up, I exclaimed, “You are marvelous, Jeeves! How did you convince Holmes?”
“Yes sir, thank you, sir. It was relatively simple, I merely told Mr. Holmes who the benefactor was.”
“What, that’s all?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He dropped the case?”
“Completely, sir. It no longer intrigued him.”
“Who is the actual benefactor, Jeeves?”
“Well, sir, I suggest you read the book.”
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Chasing Red
Finish That Thought #2-22 (Judge's Comments)
Prompt: As quickly as [she] appeared, the [woman] in the red dress vanished into the [woods.]
Special Challenge: Include at least FOUR different words for shades of red. "Red" doesn't count.
As quickly as she appeared, the woman in the red dress vanished into the
cluttered abyss of cyberspace. The ruby dot blinked once, twice, then
disappeared as static overtook the 42” screen.
“Dang it, she’s gone again!” Murphy cursed into his headset. Fingers flattened from many years of typing on keyboards gripped the scuffed edge of the roll top desk in annoyance. The woman in scarlet always did this, always got away just in the nick of time before he came onto the scene. Like clockwork.
“Where d’you think she’ll head next?” inquired his partner on the other end. “Morocco? Venezuela?” Her southern syllables dripped with a calming patience. However, Murphy had worked with this mysterious woman—known only by her code name CrimsonHater and honeysuckle voice—long enough to recognize the subtle difference between her indifferent tone and her I’m-about-to-blow-a-gasket tone. This was definitely more towards the latter.
“I’m not sure, I didn’t find any clues this time,” he admitted sheepishly. Pulling out his datapad, Murphy licked the pad of his forefinger and flipped through the top sheets to his scribbled notes from this case. “At some point she’s got to go to Portugal to meet up with her contact there, but that’s only after she gets her hands on the Damask Files. As far as my contact here knows, she hasn’t gotten them yet.”
“Should we consult W.A.L.D.O.?”
Murphy grimaced. He hated having to resort to W.A.L.D.O. [Wayfinding Agent for Locating Distributed Objects] for any reason. It made him feel like a cheat. Besides, he’d misplaced the flash drive containing the program the last time the maid decided to do a surprise spring cleaning of his office and digging up the search engine online just irked him to no end. No one had the time to find W.A.L.D.O., least of all him.
“Negative, Crimson. We can do this ourselves. There’s got to be a clue we’ve overlooked, a question we haven’t asked. How did your interrogation go?”
A long sigh sounded through the headphones.
“That bad, huh?” Murphy turned to the world map hanging on the wall to study the scattered cherry-topped pins symbolizing red-coat sightings. He pinched a green pin from the side of the board and pressed it into Munich. Their woman wasn’t in Germany after all. “There’s got to be some sort of pattern I’m just not seeing-”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, use W.A.L.D.O. already!”
“Fine...” Sighing in defeat, Murphy pulled up his web browser in another window. The hourglass cursor rotated again and again as he waited for his search query to bring up answers. Where in the world is Carmen San Diego?
Prompt: As quickly as [she] appeared, the [woman] in the red dress vanished into the [woods.]
Special Challenge: Include at least FOUR different words for shades of red. "Red" doesn't count.
 |
| Taken from http://nollaig.deviantart.com |
“Dang it, she’s gone again!” Murphy cursed into his headset. Fingers flattened from many years of typing on keyboards gripped the scuffed edge of the roll top desk in annoyance. The woman in scarlet always did this, always got away just in the nick of time before he came onto the scene. Like clockwork.
“Where d’you think she’ll head next?” inquired his partner on the other end. “Morocco? Venezuela?” Her southern syllables dripped with a calming patience. However, Murphy had worked with this mysterious woman—known only by her code name CrimsonHater and honeysuckle voice—long enough to recognize the subtle difference between her indifferent tone and her I’m-about-to-blow-a-gasket tone. This was definitely more towards the latter.
“I’m not sure, I didn’t find any clues this time,” he admitted sheepishly. Pulling out his datapad, Murphy licked the pad of his forefinger and flipped through the top sheets to his scribbled notes from this case. “At some point she’s got to go to Portugal to meet up with her contact there, but that’s only after she gets her hands on the Damask Files. As far as my contact here knows, she hasn’t gotten them yet.”
“Should we consult W.A.L.D.O.?”
Murphy grimaced. He hated having to resort to W.A.L.D.O. [Wayfinding Agent for Locating Distributed Objects] for any reason. It made him feel like a cheat. Besides, he’d misplaced the flash drive containing the program the last time the maid decided to do a surprise spring cleaning of his office and digging up the search engine online just irked him to no end. No one had the time to find W.A.L.D.O., least of all him.
“Negative, Crimson. We can do this ourselves. There’s got to be a clue we’ve overlooked, a question we haven’t asked. How did your interrogation go?”
A long sigh sounded through the headphones.
“That bad, huh?” Murphy turned to the world map hanging on the wall to study the scattered cherry-topped pins symbolizing red-coat sightings. He pinched a green pin from the side of the board and pressed it into Munich. Their woman wasn’t in Germany after all. “There’s got to be some sort of pattern I’m just not seeing-”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, use W.A.L.D.O. already!”
“Fine...” Sighing in defeat, Murphy pulled up his web browser in another window. The hourglass cursor rotated again and again as he waited for his search query to bring up answers. Where in the world is Carmen San Diego?
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Lifted Up
A break from my writing to bring you the refreshing words of the lovely MurMade. This short piece of fiction features the same characters from my published piece "Once Upon a Christmas Feast" in the Tales by the Tree anthology. In fact, the Fairy Elf, the Mermaid Princess, and the Dragon Queen are none other than yours truly, Miss MurMade herself, and our good friend Theresa! [I featured one of Theresa's short stories not too long ago here.] There is nothing we like better than turning an ordinary walk into a fantastical adventure! Please enjoy!
I am a mermaid who delights in life underwater. Who collects pearls. Who stops to look at the coral. I lure fish from their anemones to play with them. I get lost in seaweed. I bask in sunshine at the surface. While lounging on a riverbank in the woods I chatter the day away with my friend the fairy elf. From the salt-splashed rocks I visit The Dragon Queen, with grand, powerful wings and scaly beasts at her command. Often we rendezvous on the shore to go adventuring. On the beach their flapping sends hot sand swirling in warm air. It dehydrates my skin. In a brief but excruciating moment my fin rips deeper and deeper. It divides into two separate limbs. Scales pull away from the fresh raw skin of pale, unsteady legs. Then I am ready.
Today a dragon also joined our party, for we were going by air. With help, I climbed atop the enormous beast, settling onto its back just as I was told to avoid the scathing heat and pinching joints of dragon scales. All at once he stood, his powerful legs pressing and lunging off the ground without ever returning. Long, blond tendrils whipped away from my face and shoulders and flowed behind me, almost dragging me backwards. Unpracticed legs desperately squeezed around the shoulders of the dragon mount. The land below shrunk, growing ever more distant as I cowered atop the huge creature, my fingers clutching to his scales like mollusks to a ship’s hull. Even my face, which must have been desperately pale, was pressed against its smoldering hide. This was no place for a mermaid.
I have no idea how I let them talk me into this. The merry laugh of the fairy elf cut through the constant rush of air past my ears. “Dragon got your gills?” my blithe companion teased, her iridescent wings easily keeping her alongside.
To the dragon, it must seem a leisurely pace. Scowling back at her I bit my lip, but had been shaken from the fear just enough to take a deep breath through my nose. Now to sit up. Convincing my limbs to obey was going to be more difficult than expected.
I am a mermaid who delights in life underwater. Who collects pearls. Who stops to look at the coral. I lure fish from their anemones to play with them. I get lost in seaweed. I bask in sunshine at the surface. While lounging on a riverbank in the woods I chatter the day away with my friend the fairy elf. From the salt-splashed rocks I visit The Dragon Queen, with grand, powerful wings and scaly beasts at her command. Often we rendezvous on the shore to go adventuring. On the beach their flapping sends hot sand swirling in warm air. It dehydrates my skin. In a brief but excruciating moment my fin rips deeper and deeper. It divides into two separate limbs. Scales pull away from the fresh raw skin of pale, unsteady legs. Then I am ready.
Today a dragon also joined our party, for we were going by air. With help, I climbed atop the enormous beast, settling onto its back just as I was told to avoid the scathing heat and pinching joints of dragon scales. All at once he stood, his powerful legs pressing and lunging off the ground without ever returning. Long, blond tendrils whipped away from my face and shoulders and flowed behind me, almost dragging me backwards. Unpracticed legs desperately squeezed around the shoulders of the dragon mount. The land below shrunk, growing ever more distant as I cowered atop the huge creature, my fingers clutching to his scales like mollusks to a ship’s hull. Even my face, which must have been desperately pale, was pressed against its smoldering hide. This was no place for a mermaid.
I have no idea how I let them talk me into this. The merry laugh of the fairy elf cut through the constant rush of air past my ears. “Dragon got your gills?” my blithe companion teased, her iridescent wings easily keeping her alongside.
To the dragon, it must seem a leisurely pace. Scowling back at her I bit my lip, but had been shaken from the fear just enough to take a deep breath through my nose. Now to sit up. Convincing my limbs to obey was going to be more difficult than expected.
‘Just dive in and do it,’ I told myself.
But that was a poor choice of words and my
eyes slammed closed faster than a clam’s shell. Rising to the same altitude the dragon queen
herself offered words of confidence.
“No need to look back, is there? We will always have tea in the fairy elf’s tree
house, take shortcuts in the woods, and hide from the giant worms that live in
the mountains as we have done. But now
we can visit the cloud cathedrals, look upon starlight from the valley of
crystal flowers, and show you the waterfall of mist, without a pool, which no
sea creature could ever behold. What
have you to worry about? NOTHING. And you have everything to enjoy.”
She was right. If I were to slip, there was a dragon, fairy elf,
and winged dragon queen all ready to catch me mid air. Death by falling was not my fate. But somehow my ragged breath convinced the
rest of my being otherwise.
“Just think of it, the first mermaid to
fly!” the fairy elf beamed. “You’re the only one to even consider the realm of
air when you could be dominating the ocean or on land catching men. Why, you’re no longer bound to the adventures
of your kin! What fun we shall have!”
“I can’t do this,” erupted the confession
to my dearest of friends.
“You already are, just open your eyes!” her
majesty insisted, not putting up with a moment of unnecessary selfish
cowardice. They would help me beat this.
I felt absolutely ridiculous. This was so simple for them, so natural, why
couldn’t I just enjoy it with them? After longing for the same abilities, hanging
on every word they spoke of flight, we had finally found a solution.
I could bravely face the pressures of bleak
ocean depths, race whales and dolphins, outwit sharks, play amongst pounding
waves and crawl from the surf to take human form and traverse forest and
mountains. I opened my eyes. What danger was there here? In the wide open spaces with, not water, but
air flowing over and around me and a dragon firm and true holding me up. Straightening my back, both arms stretched out
to feel the wind. Now I am a mermaid who
flies.
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Now Available to Own: In Creeps the Night Anthology!
I am beyond ecstatic to announce that yet another collection of tales shall sport one of my flash fiction pieces! With beautiful design work by the talented Blue Harvest Creative, this anthology will grace any coffee table, bathroom counter, or bookshelf and get you in the mood for this spooktacular time of year. A big thank you to Laura Jamez and Marissa Ames of J.A.Mes Press for their hard work in editing our stories.
There are so many amazing authors featured within these pages, but the most fabulous thing about this anthology is that all profits are donated to Mothers Without Borders. This organization seeks to provide programs for orphaned children around the globe. [For more information visit their website: http://www.motherswithoutborders.org]
I'm looking forward to snapping up a copy for myself! Don't forget to leave the lights on tonight. Mwahahaha...
There are so many amazing authors featured within these pages, but the most fabulous thing about this anthology is that all profits are donated to Mothers Without Borders. This organization seeks to provide programs for orphaned children around the globe. [For more information visit their website: http://www.motherswithoutborders.org]
I'm looking forward to snapping up a copy for myself! Don't forget to leave the lights on tonight. Mwahahaha...
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Your Wish is My Command
Finish That Thought #2-12 (Judge's Comments)
Prompt: Two wishes wasted; this third and final one was [our] last chance.
Special Challenge: Include at least two of the following: a genie, a magic carpet, a magic lamp, a magic ring, a Grand Vizier, a clever woman named Morgiana, a talking bird, Cerebrus, a Cyclops
Two wishes wasted; this third and final one was their last chance. I wasn’t going to cross my fingers and hope, though. Disappointment had long ago been replaced with indignation. I’d been so careful, researching down to the last detail, in picking the targets for my experiment and these college students were completely botching it.
“All right, you had your joke, where’s the trick wire?” the female one asked. Cass, at least that was her name on her Facebook profile, stood poking the magic carpet she’d conjured up with the first wish. The rug folded its tasseled corners as if they were arms and wiggled in a mocking manner. I’d had such great hopes for Cass, too. She was an active member in three campus support and relief groups, always posting things online and shoving petitions in people’s faces. How many times had she started out her statuses with “I wish?” Surely, she would have used her wish for something grand, no? And now she had a pet carpet. Typical.
Almost as soon as Cass had blurted out her wish, Matt, her companion and fellow activist, had laughed and wished for a Cyclops as big as his thumb. Boom, granted. Of course, it showed up on his thumb and had half the nail nibbled off before the man realized it was real. Matt flicked the poor creature off and stomped on it. Might I also take the time to point out that Matt is also an avid member of the “Fairies Are Real, Protect the Rainforests” group?
What were these two humans doing? Applauding. Asking me when the Aladdin production was starting up. Laughing at their “so smart” wishes. The guy just ruthlessly murdered a Cyclops! I was too dumbfounded to speak. They had one last wish between the two of them. Surely, surely they’d take a gander and do something good with that last glimmer of hope.
“Hey, genie! I wish for a lifetime supply of bacon! Now conjure that one up!” Matt crowed. The courtyard exploded with uncooked bacon.
I buried my head in my hands. No, no, no! This wasn’t supposed to happen. I could feel my frustration building and building until it unleashed in a colossal outburst.
“You idiots!” I shouted. Thunder rumbled, clouds darkened, and the winds howled overhead as my temper escalated. “You could have wished for every person to have access to clean drinking water! You could have ended poverty! You could have wished for world peace! And what did you accomplish? You have a magic carpet, a squashed Cyclops, and a lifetime supply of bacon. Congratulations! You have completely ruined my faith in humanity. May all your bacon burn.”
I vanished in a puff of smoke as their jaws dropped.
Prompt: Two wishes wasted; this third and final one was [our] last chance.
Special Challenge: Include at least two of the following: a genie, a magic carpet, a magic lamp, a magic ring, a Grand Vizier, a clever woman named Morgiana, a talking bird, Cerebrus, a Cyclops
Two wishes wasted; this third and final one was their last chance. I wasn’t going to cross my fingers and hope, though. Disappointment had long ago been replaced with indignation. I’d been so careful, researching down to the last detail, in picking the targets for my experiment and these college students were completely botching it.
“All right, you had your joke, where’s the trick wire?” the female one asked. Cass, at least that was her name on her Facebook profile, stood poking the magic carpet she’d conjured up with the first wish. The rug folded its tasseled corners as if they were arms and wiggled in a mocking manner. I’d had such great hopes for Cass, too. She was an active member in three campus support and relief groups, always posting things online and shoving petitions in people’s faces. How many times had she started out her statuses with “I wish?” Surely, she would have used her wish for something grand, no? And now she had a pet carpet. Typical.
Almost as soon as Cass had blurted out her wish, Matt, her companion and fellow activist, had laughed and wished for a Cyclops as big as his thumb. Boom, granted. Of course, it showed up on his thumb and had half the nail nibbled off before the man realized it was real. Matt flicked the poor creature off and stomped on it. Might I also take the time to point out that Matt is also an avid member of the “Fairies Are Real, Protect the Rainforests” group?
What were these two humans doing? Applauding. Asking me when the Aladdin production was starting up. Laughing at their “so smart” wishes. The guy just ruthlessly murdered a Cyclops! I was too dumbfounded to speak. They had one last wish between the two of them. Surely, surely they’d take a gander and do something good with that last glimmer of hope.
“Hey, genie! I wish for a lifetime supply of bacon! Now conjure that one up!” Matt crowed. The courtyard exploded with uncooked bacon.
I buried my head in my hands. No, no, no! This wasn’t supposed to happen. I could feel my frustration building and building until it unleashed in a colossal outburst.
“You idiots!” I shouted. Thunder rumbled, clouds darkened, and the winds howled overhead as my temper escalated. “You could have wished for every person to have access to clean drinking water! You could have ended poverty! You could have wished for world peace! And what did you accomplish? You have a magic carpet, a squashed Cyclops, and a lifetime supply of bacon. Congratulations! You have completely ruined my faith in humanity. May all your bacon burn.”
I vanished in a puff of smoke as their jaws dropped.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
The Last Piece of Pi[e]
Finish That Thought #2-11 (Judge's Comments)
Prompt: Little did we realize that the peace and quiet of our country afternoon picnic was soon to be rudely shattered.
Special Challenge: Include a pie fight in all its gory detail
Little did they realize that the peace and quiet of their country
afternoon picnic was soon to be rudely shattered. We felt bad for them,
really. They had their checkered blanket all laid out and large,
whicker basket propped in the grass. Whole-wheat sandwiches sat on
brilliantly white paper plates and an opened bag of red grapes spilled
across the sheet. But unfortunately for them, there wasn’t a cloud in
the never-ending blue sky.
We strolled past the parked car on the edge of the field where the family of merry picnickers gathered and snickered at the B.C. license plate. Yup, they were clueless. Chester jabbed a thumb in their direction. “Should we warn ‘em?”
I shrugged. “Nah, let ‘em experience Alberta in all its glory.”
We snickered again and walked on by.
Fifteen minutes later we trekked to the field again, curious how our picnickers were making out. The sandwiches had vanished and when I squinted, I could just make out a slice of lemon meringue all by its lonesome. Around it hovered two teenage boys about our own ages, a younger girl, and what we presumed to be their dad. They were red-faced about something, and it wasn’t from the sun. Shooting curious glances at each other, Chester and I slipped our hands into the pockets of our overalls and slinked on over to get into hearing distance.
“3.14159265358979!” shouted the older of the two boys.
“3.141592653589793238!” countered the girl.
The father said something we couldn’t quite catch.
“3.14159265358979...323846264!” yelled the younger boy in triumph.
Chester and I took the momentary silence as an opportunity to blink at each other. Were they seriously fighting for the pie... with pi?
“3.141592653589793238462643383.”
“3.1415926535897932384626433832795!”
Round and round they went, tacking more and more numbers onto the end.
“Hey, Josh...”
I turned to my buddy, “Yeah, Chester?”
“There’s a cloud on the horizon.”
I looked where he pointed. Sure enough, a fluffy white cloud broke up the blue sky.
“Five minutes?” Chester asked.
“I’d say more like three. We better run to your house or we’ll get soaked.”
The rain came pouring down just as we jogged into Chester’s garage, soaking us as if we’d been standing out in a downpour for hours. We stood under the edge of the roof line, peering out at the dark clouds booming overhead.
I ran a hand through my wet locks. “Wonder how the pi[e] went.”
Prompt: Little did we realize that the peace and quiet of our country afternoon picnic was soon to be rudely shattered.
Special Challenge: Include a pie fight in all its gory detail
 |
| From Lindraxa's cooking blog |
We strolled past the parked car on the edge of the field where the family of merry picnickers gathered and snickered at the B.C. license plate. Yup, they were clueless. Chester jabbed a thumb in their direction. “Should we warn ‘em?”
I shrugged. “Nah, let ‘em experience Alberta in all its glory.”
We snickered again and walked on by.
Fifteen minutes later we trekked to the field again, curious how our picnickers were making out. The sandwiches had vanished and when I squinted, I could just make out a slice of lemon meringue all by its lonesome. Around it hovered two teenage boys about our own ages, a younger girl, and what we presumed to be their dad. They were red-faced about something, and it wasn’t from the sun. Shooting curious glances at each other, Chester and I slipped our hands into the pockets of our overalls and slinked on over to get into hearing distance.
“3.14159265358979!” shouted the older of the two boys.
“3.141592653589793238!” countered the girl.
The father said something we couldn’t quite catch.
“3.14159265358979...323846264!” yelled the younger boy in triumph.
Chester and I took the momentary silence as an opportunity to blink at each other. Were they seriously fighting for the pie... with pi?
“3.141592653589793238462643383.”
“3.1415926535897932384626433832795!”
Round and round they went, tacking more and more numbers onto the end.
“Hey, Josh...”
I turned to my buddy, “Yeah, Chester?”
“There’s a cloud on the horizon.”
I looked where he pointed. Sure enough, a fluffy white cloud broke up the blue sky.
“Five minutes?” Chester asked.
“I’d say more like three. We better run to your house or we’ll get soaked.”
The rain came pouring down just as we jogged into Chester’s garage, soaking us as if we’d been standing out in a downpour for hours. We stood under the edge of the roof line, peering out at the dark clouds booming overhead.
I ran a hand through my wet locks. “Wonder how the pi[e] went.”
Thursday, September 11, 2014
The Tragedy of Mrs. Chibbles: A Tale from Persimmon Hallow
Finish That Thought #2-10 (Judge's Comments)
Prompt: The day [Anna dyed her hair purple] was the day the news broke that notorious mass murderer [John "The Chef" Baxter] had escaped from police custody.
Special Challenge: Incorporate some type of life lesson or moral
The day Mrs. Chibbles dyed her fur purple was the day the news broke
that notorious mass murderer Evil-Eye Kinevil had escaped from police
custody. Of course the former news out-rivaled the latter news by far
in Persimmon Hallow. Kinevil had a habit of eluding Sheriff Hopsalot’s
brute squad on a daily basis. Well, eluding or eating them as the case
more often was. This unfortunate fact of life was one of the main
factors in our continually electing the rabbits as our police force
against the nefarious hawks. It didn’t matter how many brave, young
lads the birds carted away, there were always 10 or 12 more bright-eyed,
eager bunnies to take their places. Rapid breeding and all.
Now, where was I going with this? Oh yes! Mrs. Chibbles, the newest bride of Harry Chibbles the hedgehog, went into Selma Salamander’s Salon on Tuesday as usual to get her fur trimmed. This was a weekly habit of hers as the paparazzi hardly ever left the poor chinchilla alone. She didn’t mind the attention much, fame and food were two of the reasons she consented to the inter-specie marriage after all. She came from the city, where she had her own human servant to wait on her hand and foot. What brought her to our little community? I’m not sure exactly, though I think the “leaked” story, if you pardon that phrase, is that she grew tired of the glamour and decided to travel the world. Personally, I believe she fell out of a car on the way to somewhere and the human didn’t bother to retrieve her.
Ah, here I am digressing again. Anyway, Mrs. Chibbles went into that salon grey and came out purple. It was the most beautiful shade of purple I’d ever laid eyes on, a deep purple, like an eggplant. The horrors! The sacrilege! Never before had such a colour been seen in Persimmon Hallow. Beautiful though the colour was, we townsfolk found it extremely offensive. Well, those pesky mosquitoes swarmed on her in an instant with their microphones shoved against her snout and the fireflies stood by with their cameras flashing away. Mrs. Chibbles was in raptures. She preened her fur and strutted down Main Lane in all her rebellious glory.
Then, just like that, she was gone. Timothy Fieldmouse claims he saw old Evil-Eye glide off into the trees with a mass of purple fur clutched in his talons. As for me, I believe the Maker snatched her disgraceful hide from the earth. After all, chinchillas have no business being purple.
Prompt: The day [Anna dyed her hair purple] was the day the news broke that notorious mass murderer [John "The Chef" Baxter] had escaped from police custody.
Special Challenge: Incorporate some type of life lesson or moral
The day Mrs. Chibbles dyed her fur purple was the day the news broke
that notorious mass murderer Evil-Eye Kinevil had escaped from police
custody. Of course the former news out-rivaled the latter news by far
in Persimmon Hallow. Kinevil had a habit of eluding Sheriff Hopsalot’s
brute squad on a daily basis. Well, eluding or eating them as the case
more often was. This unfortunate fact of life was one of the main
factors in our continually electing the rabbits as our police force
against the nefarious hawks. It didn’t matter how many brave, young
lads the birds carted away, there were always 10 or 12 more bright-eyed,
eager bunnies to take their places. Rapid breeding and all.Now, where was I going with this? Oh yes! Mrs. Chibbles, the newest bride of Harry Chibbles the hedgehog, went into Selma Salamander’s Salon on Tuesday as usual to get her fur trimmed. This was a weekly habit of hers as the paparazzi hardly ever left the poor chinchilla alone. She didn’t mind the attention much, fame and food were two of the reasons she consented to the inter-specie marriage after all. She came from the city, where she had her own human servant to wait on her hand and foot. What brought her to our little community? I’m not sure exactly, though I think the “leaked” story, if you pardon that phrase, is that she grew tired of the glamour and decided to travel the world. Personally, I believe she fell out of a car on the way to somewhere and the human didn’t bother to retrieve her.
Ah, here I am digressing again. Anyway, Mrs. Chibbles went into that salon grey and came out purple. It was the most beautiful shade of purple I’d ever laid eyes on, a deep purple, like an eggplant. The horrors! The sacrilege! Never before had such a colour been seen in Persimmon Hallow. Beautiful though the colour was, we townsfolk found it extremely offensive. Well, those pesky mosquitoes swarmed on her in an instant with their microphones shoved against her snout and the fireflies stood by with their cameras flashing away. Mrs. Chibbles was in raptures. She preened her fur and strutted down Main Lane in all her rebellious glory.
Then, just like that, she was gone. Timothy Fieldmouse claims he saw old Evil-Eye glide off into the trees with a mass of purple fur clutched in his talons. As for me, I believe the Maker snatched her disgraceful hide from the earth. After all, chinchillas have no business being purple.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Requiem For A Soul
A bit of flash fiction from the person who taught me the ends and outs of the beautiful, diverse, imaginative world of Role-Playing. I absolutely love Theresa's style of writing and the way her words create puffs of imagery that swirl around the mind and tickle the imagination. Please enjoy!
The torrential rains of April birth more than flowers into summertime. For me they herald gloom, death, and despair. The memory is crisp--- as if fifteen years haven’t gone by. I remember it well.
Dawn treaded swiftly on the heels of April 30th. I was twelve and preparing for examinations. Weeks had been devoted to diligent study to ensure my position of top student from the only classmate who challenged my academic reign. After dressing in uniform ensemble that fateful morning, I started down the stairwell with my briefcase. As I descended I noticed my brother, only five, displaced on the bottom step and nestled against the wall in his pajamas. Upon examination, I found him fast asleep, his rosy cheeks pressed against the cool surface. I had brushed the loose strands of sloppy hair from his forehead before observing the eerie calm. Maids usually bustled about, but not today. I rested my briefcase at the base of the rail and sat beside my baby brother to lightly rub his back. The house was pin-drop quiet. I scooped the little one up and stood upright, considering putting him in bed before heading to school.
I had placed my foot on the first step when I heard the sound. It was faint and at first I thought my foot had creaked against the polished wood, but then it came again. Had a bird flown into a window? The still air caused the third echo to zenith louder than the two previous. My curiosity exchanged the idea of returning my little brother for discovering the origins of the odd thumping. The sound didn’t come again, but it didn’t have to. Turning down the open corridor, I walked past the family portraits to Father’s private study. Silence even stronger than before lingered as I pressed my ear against the cherry-wood door. I held my breath as I distinguished muffled voices-– Father’s overpowering Mother’s. The walls and door were sound proof, protecting their words from my ears. There was no keyhole to peep through or hole through which to listen. I knelt down to prop the sleeping boy beside me against the wall. Standing again, I tested the doorknob with a cautious twist. It unlatched easily.
Up until now I was extraordinarily calm. I hadn’t realized this until a constricting nervousness harried my heart. My hand jerked away as regret consumed me. If father caught me, he’d… but the door steadily opened until a sliver of light shone through. Suddenly their voices were clear, crisp and audible and I could do naught but spy.
“I will not let you do this to my sons,” Mother’s voice came, shaking and strained, through gritted teeth. “I will not –”
“You have no say in the matter,” retaliated Father in a voice unshaken but elevated, “I will do as I must for the security of this family.”
“It’s not this family you care about!”
I strained to see, but only the back of Mother’s white gown and elbow-length, wispy black hair was visible. She took several steps backward into full view. Her face was stained with cosmetics and tears. Her arm tucked close to her side and behind her.
“I’ll ask you again, put it down.”
“I will not let him have my boys,” her voice shook. She backed out of my vision and Father entered next. His composure was calm as always.
And then it happened. I was so eager to see what had become of Mother I took a step forward unconsciously. The door pushed open with a creak. Both heads spun. Four crazed eyes bore into me.
Mother moved first, revealing a long knife clasped in her fist. She leapt towards me like a doe through mist, her hair blowing in the wind of her precise motion. Time ceased as she gained proximity. Her eyes focused on mine, some unforeseen passion driving her. My legs froze in place, hypnotized by the sight of her loving face obscured into this twisted mask. In the same timeless motion, Father grabbed Mother’s shoulder and upper arm, yanking her away before she could strike. At that moment I fell to my knees and watched an angel struggle against a devil, though I knew not who was which.
Mother kept her eyes on me, fighting against Father to lunge in my direction every chance she had. Her strong grip on the knife proved useful as she sliced at Father who powerfully defended. She pushed with all of her might against his grip as they tangled within each other. The sight was menacing and I sunk until my bottom hit the floor. Tears flooded Mother’s eyes as a moment of weakness finally broke her. She stumbled back, crumbling to her knees.
“My children!” she cried, the knife still held high.
She lunged for Father this time. He forced the knife from her white knuckles and plunged it into her throat. They stood like statues, Father looming over her, both shocked and locked in motion, until her hands slowly moved towards the hilt. Her once crazed eyes were now sorrowful and empty. Her lips moved but no voice came, though I knew she called my name. Then she fell to the ground in a cascade of white like petals of a wilting flower. Everything stilled once more.
I was too shocked to speak. There was a lump in my throat, as if I had re-swallowed my heart after regurgitating it. Father’s shaking hands balled into fists as his angry eyes turned on me.
“Out!” he shouted, “Get out now!”
Scrambling to my feet, I fled, the door slamming vehemently behind me. Snatching my briefcase, I dashed out the front door as fast as I could, my brother forgotten.
To this day I wonder why it had to happen. Why was I so helpless to defend her? A heart full of rage and confusion converted into ambition. I now strive towards one goal: to someday return my beloved mother to this earth.
Dawn treaded swiftly on the heels of April 30th. I was twelve and preparing for examinations. Weeks had been devoted to diligent study to ensure my position of top student from the only classmate who challenged my academic reign. After dressing in uniform ensemble that fateful morning, I started down the stairwell with my briefcase. As I descended I noticed my brother, only five, displaced on the bottom step and nestled against the wall in his pajamas. Upon examination, I found him fast asleep, his rosy cheeks pressed against the cool surface. I had brushed the loose strands of sloppy hair from his forehead before observing the eerie calm. Maids usually bustled about, but not today. I rested my briefcase at the base of the rail and sat beside my baby brother to lightly rub his back. The house was pin-drop quiet. I scooped the little one up and stood upright, considering putting him in bed before heading to school.
I had placed my foot on the first step when I heard the sound. It was faint and at first I thought my foot had creaked against the polished wood, but then it came again. Had a bird flown into a window? The still air caused the third echo to zenith louder than the two previous. My curiosity exchanged the idea of returning my little brother for discovering the origins of the odd thumping. The sound didn’t come again, but it didn’t have to. Turning down the open corridor, I walked past the family portraits to Father’s private study. Silence even stronger than before lingered as I pressed my ear against the cherry-wood door. I held my breath as I distinguished muffled voices-– Father’s overpowering Mother’s. The walls and door were sound proof, protecting their words from my ears. There was no keyhole to peep through or hole through which to listen. I knelt down to prop the sleeping boy beside me against the wall. Standing again, I tested the doorknob with a cautious twist. It unlatched easily.
Up until now I was extraordinarily calm. I hadn’t realized this until a constricting nervousness harried my heart. My hand jerked away as regret consumed me. If father caught me, he’d… but the door steadily opened until a sliver of light shone through. Suddenly their voices were clear, crisp and audible and I could do naught but spy.
“I will not let you do this to my sons,” Mother’s voice came, shaking and strained, through gritted teeth. “I will not –”
“You have no say in the matter,” retaliated Father in a voice unshaken but elevated, “I will do as I must for the security of this family.”
“It’s not this family you care about!”
I strained to see, but only the back of Mother’s white gown and elbow-length, wispy black hair was visible. She took several steps backward into full view. Her face was stained with cosmetics and tears. Her arm tucked close to her side and behind her.
“I’ll ask you again, put it down.”
“I will not let him have my boys,” her voice shook. She backed out of my vision and Father entered next. His composure was calm as always.
And then it happened. I was so eager to see what had become of Mother I took a step forward unconsciously. The door pushed open with a creak. Both heads spun. Four crazed eyes bore into me.
Mother moved first, revealing a long knife clasped in her fist. She leapt towards me like a doe through mist, her hair blowing in the wind of her precise motion. Time ceased as she gained proximity. Her eyes focused on mine, some unforeseen passion driving her. My legs froze in place, hypnotized by the sight of her loving face obscured into this twisted mask. In the same timeless motion, Father grabbed Mother’s shoulder and upper arm, yanking her away before she could strike. At that moment I fell to my knees and watched an angel struggle against a devil, though I knew not who was which.
Mother kept her eyes on me, fighting against Father to lunge in my direction every chance she had. Her strong grip on the knife proved useful as she sliced at Father who powerfully defended. She pushed with all of her might against his grip as they tangled within each other. The sight was menacing and I sunk until my bottom hit the floor. Tears flooded Mother’s eyes as a moment of weakness finally broke her. She stumbled back, crumbling to her knees.
“My children!” she cried, the knife still held high.
She lunged for Father this time. He forced the knife from her white knuckles and plunged it into her throat. They stood like statues, Father looming over her, both shocked and locked in motion, until her hands slowly moved towards the hilt. Her once crazed eyes were now sorrowful and empty. Her lips moved but no voice came, though I knew she called my name. Then she fell to the ground in a cascade of white like petals of a wilting flower. Everything stilled once more.
I was too shocked to speak. There was a lump in my throat, as if I had re-swallowed my heart after regurgitating it. Father’s shaking hands balled into fists as his angry eyes turned on me.
“Out!” he shouted, “Get out now!”
Scrambling to my feet, I fled, the door slamming vehemently behind me. Snatching my briefcase, I dashed out the front door as fast as I could, my brother forgotten.
To this day I wonder why it had to happen. Why was I so helpless to defend her? A heart full of rage and confusion converted into ambition. I now strive towards one goal: to someday return my beloved mother to this earth.
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