[Moon-dæg] Looking East while Writing in the West

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Gazing Across Prairies
Closing

{The prairie's amber wave. Image found on Bridal Buds.}

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Inspired by a lovely face, this is another poem I composed out West. It's been modified from its original to bring some more unity to the over all metaphor of face as prairie field ready for harvest, but still needs some work.

If you've got some suggestions, leave them in the comments!

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Gazing Across Prairies

Her face is like a field of wheat stalks
Each topped by grains massaged by wind
Bringing out the gold of harvest

Each grain heavy with meaning
Each gust a desirous finger
Joy itself is in the meadow beyond that field,
As each finger yearns to run
From field to hair through to air.

So that the deepest wells awake and open,
Awake to gaze, blink, and water

Always moistening in laughter's course,
Ridiculous echoes fill the field
As winter clouds call each grass leaf
Each stalk home.

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That's it for a Glass Darkly this week. My commitment to getting through NaNoWriMo, and this week's work hours have conspired to force my blogging into a minimum. But don't miss my translations and commentaries over at Tongues in Jars: tomorrow, I look at stanza seven of "Dum Diane vitrea," and on Thursday, my delve into the Old English epic Beowulf continues!

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[Moon-dæg] The Box and the Monk

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The Monk and the Box
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{A mysterious box, and a bit of foreshadowing. Image found on the blog Siblingshot.}

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Tonight's story is a bit of a long one, and, as was the case two weeks ago, it is an early version of a short story related to the larger world that I'm building for my novel series. It's something that could maybe be a prologue or first chapter to a novel in the future, but more than likely it will be the first part of a short story told in three parts.

Check it out, and let me know what you think in the comments.

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The Monk and the Box

"Come on, Let’s go.”

The light outside stung his eyes. He still remembered his writing desk - filled with notes that he had been copying and illuminating. But that was before the burning, the beating, and the bag.

He had no idea where he was now. only that the sun beat down so heavily as to make his formerly cool robes feel like a bear pelt.

"Hey! No lagging.” The speaker’s foot found his thigh without problem. After all, there was enough of it to strike, but he was glad of the boot's missing his backside. Spending so much of his life sitting seemed to have tenderized more than harden it.

At the least, he reflected, it was good to be able to stretch out once more. Hunching over the illumination desk for all of those winters had never crumpled his back and he continued to enjoy a height that intimidated most other men. Let alone women.

Though that had never been much of an issue. He remembered what his mother had said of him the night before she sent him to the monastery as the men in hauberks and greaves shouted at him and each other.

“All that fine skin. But no grace. And all that great height and no strength. You’re a misshaped one Hugh, but you’re my misshaped one. Maybe that mind a' yours is at least put right.” He remembered her gnarled cane raising to tap his forehead, “Least it never seems to have pointed you wrong. And it gave you the sponsorship of that roving Friar.

Least ways we can send you off to where the misshaped don’t matter long as the mind is sound. You’ll make me proud yet, you will.”
He brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes as best he could. His hands, tied together as they were, looked oddly over-large to him, as if he hadn’t seen them for days or even weeks. Of course, they were all he'd seen - he never was admitted to the Abbot's order, though he had read and heard about the herbs they used.

“Kneel here.” The man leading Hugh pulled on the rope tied to his bound hands and he fell forward. Unable to catch himself his face broke his fall. He thought he could smell blood, but when he opened his eyes he saw that the flagstone he knelt on was only splotched with dried red patches.

All he had wanted was to be as his elder sister was. Kind and shapely, admired by all - even if, as the brother Olaf had told him in confession, that admiration was only with the eyes. “Eyes make better company than mites.” Hugh had mused to himself then, though he never uttered the words aloud. Only when he was in his cell, struggling to sleep on a bed lengthened with uneven stones. A place whence he knew himself to be entirely alone.

That was still all he wanted, admiration of any sort. But the other brothers only gave congratulations and the Abbot only a wry smile whenever he saw Hugh’s illuminations. Hugh could appreciate their thankfulness for his gifts, but still felt unfulfilled by it. He wondered if any of is work would have survived the fire. He wondered if hoping to find out would help him to do so.

“Say these words.” The rope was yanked again and a piece of parchment was thrust into Hugh's face. Hugh reocgnized the characters but stared at the shapes before they registered.

Something cold reached under his chin. “You can read, can’t you?” The man’s dagger point pricked the excess skin about Hugh’s throat.

“A monk who can’t read? Maybe one of us might as well try to open the damned box. It’s all ended already.” The voice was new and faceless.
“Shut up, Reg. This needs to be seen with fresh eyes. The wise woman said so.”

Reg muttered something as the sound of steel sliding back into a sheath came from his direction.

“You can read, right?”

Hugh looked up into the eyes of his captor.

They were small beady things that looked like the chapel tower windows as the fire licked through the yard. They may even have belonged to the man that burst into the library chamber and threw him from his chair.

“Yes I can read. The brothers taught me.”

“Good. That saves us from cleaning our damn swords later.” The man frowned deeply. “Maybe. Read it.” He pressed the parchment closer into Hugh’s face.

The words had finally settled and they gave Hugh no challenge though he had never seen many before. The parchment was not written in the common tongue, but in the same dialect as some of the older folios and sheaves that he had worked through. Living most of his life with regular prayers in the language made reading the parchment especially easy.

As he began to intone the words, he felt the kiss of steel at his throat.

"Read it to yourself! None of us want to get caught in this, otherwise we wouldn't need an other!" Hugh dared not look up, but a pause suggested a look passed between Reg and Grenn. When he spoke again, Reg's voice carried with it a low grumble, "just move your lips if you have to. Read it t'your self!"

After Hugh had finished reading and looked up, Grenn looked stymied for a moment before pulling his sword from its sheath and raising it over his head.

Hugh threw his hands over his own as he saw and heard the sword swooshing down upon him. He had seen many falcons and owls strike their prey from above but never before suspected that he’d find himself in the role of the rat.

After the sword flashed in its arc one of Hugh's thumbs throbbed, but his wrists felt freer.

“Grenn. Is that a good idea? Letting him loose like that after all his reading?”

“Relax Reg. He’s not about to go anywhere. Not just yet.” Grenn turned to Hugh. Sorry about the thumb, mate. I’m not so used to being precise with this thing.” His sword was swallowed by its sheath.

Hugh lowered his hands and said “It’s alright. What’s this about a box?” He popped his thumb into his mouth. The blood quenched a thirst he hadn’t even been aware of. The flap of his thumb was still well enough attached to keep, he felt. It’s just the end anyway. He pulled his thumb from his mouth, “what, then, about the box?” He still knelt.

“It’s right there. A thing that only the right person can open, at least so Slovan says. But you’re the closest they ever got.” Grenn threw his thumb over his shoulder. “The rest couldn’t read it. Or plain couldn’t read.”

“So what do you expect me to do?” Hugh rubbed his wrists.

“Open the box”

“Why should I do that?” Hugh tried to stand, but a hand from behind him fell onto his shoulder and pushed him back down.

“Hey now. We can end this well for everyone, if you just open the box. No need to get up so fast.”

Hugh heard steel ring against steel all around him. He noticed Grenn reading the parchment as his lips fell into a solid line.

“Now get up. But take it slow. Slow. Just to the box.”

Hugh made his way to where the box sat step by step. The place was completely walled in, yet but there was no echo. He swore he saw water dropping from the ceiling, but he never heard the sound of dripping. His steps were short and shallow, and he realized that his feet were still bound together.

He stopped at the box and looked at it. A large stone contaier of one sort or another. He reached for its edge but Grenn shouted him out of it.

“Wait. Wait. Here” He handed Hugh the parchment. “Hold it while you open it.”

Hugh searched the man but found no answer in his face. He held the paper in oe hand and dedicated the other to the box’s lid. It looked and felt as heavy as the bell rope in the chapel tower. But it moved so quickly that Hugh wondered if it was fleeing his hand rather than being pushed by it.

As the lid slid away, the box’s interior was revealed. A hollow dull space, occupied only by a bundled folio.

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That's it for this blog until my review of The Room and Annotated Links #24 are posted on Friday and Saturday respectively, but don't miss out my Latin and Old English translations and commentaries on Tuesday and Thursday over at Tongues in Jars.

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[Moon-dæg] A West Coast Yawp

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West Coast Yawp
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{Some beeswax, taper candles. Image found on Waxing Lyrical.}

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Context

Today's poem is one of several "yawps" I wrote while living over in Victoria, BC. Like this majority of these pieces, this one combines two of the larger hurdles of that experience: the weather and the burden of grad school.

In true yawp-like fashion, it might not make perfect logical sense, but logic isn't so much the point as is putting out words that stir emotions and produce strong images.

As always, you can leave your own thoughts of the poem below in the comments.

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West Coast Yawp

My eyes hoard the written word
And pass out its meaning like a
Miserly king
On the verge of becoming a dragon -

Ready to flaunt his draconitas
In the trick of his new found tail.

All the bone-houses and heart-thought
Of dead poets and buried heroes:
Now no help to me.

Scholar voices bound the crenellations
Of my cranium
And pipe up treble loud
when I place my nose into a book;

Something has gone out
Some spark or other has snuffed it.

More light,
More light,
Lest the West Coast wind
Topple my last lit tapers.

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Check back here Friday for a search through the sins of The Convent for part Four of Shocktober.

In the meantime, check out tomorrow's Latin ("Dum Diane vitrea") entry and Thursday's Old English (Beowulf) entry over at Tongues in Jars!

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[Moon-dæg] From A Ship's Crow's Nest

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Blue Bricks
Closing

{A replica of a medieval ship. Image found on the Seasalt Cornwall blog.}

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Today's story is one of the many shorts that offers some insight into the backstory of the fantasy series that I'm currently working on. In fact, it's a kind of world building story, in the sense that it (once it's as finished as it can be) will offer a glimpse into a major aspect or two of my created world.

To date the process of writing this series has been drafting it book by book (as a "discovery" writer) to figure out how the world works. However, after taking a fair bit of time off from writing this series during my MA, I've gotten to the point where the discoveries made by writing the larger books need to be refined through shorter stories. These shorter stories will also, ideally help me to see how these aspects of the world I'm creating can feed back into the five books of the series.

This story was written based on a prompt at the local writing group, and just evolved from it. The prompt was to write a story in which each paragraph starts with a colour. It's still a draft of sorts, but much of what the story is is already here.

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Blue Bricks

Blue bricks are a rare sight but still seen. The walls around the island city of Shev have them near their bottom, though other sailors said they were just turned that colour by the sea.

Ermina believed instead what some of the Shevites themselves told her. That the blue bricks around the bottom of their city's wall were made of the purest stone found in all the caves that wended through the cliffs over which the city sat. Caves where the more superstitious among them said they would never dare to tread. But even from her place at the top of every ship she ever sailed in, Ermina had never seen anything beneath the city's walls but breaking waves. Part of her wondered about the stories she had heard in the city's inns where the crews she had been with stayed. She believed what she would about the bricks, despite the evidence of her eyes, but the stories were always such a deep red.

She knew that red stories were not necessarily better than any other, but she loved them the most. They almost never moved at a slug's pace. Since she was a child the red stories always moved faster than gulls diving for fish, and their heroes and villains always came up from the plunge with their prey.

Ermina watched such gulls now. They looped and glided, all immaculate white tipped with grey, yellow and orange. Not the kind found around lakes but the sort that would give dull old hawks fair competition - the sort found by the sea, flying between white sails, white masts. She wondered why the place where she stood, her arms on its railing, was even called a "crow's nest." She'd never seen any crows flying out at sea, or even heard stories of such things.

The gulls's cries drowned the waves' crashing against the ship's side. The ship's sides that were still the colour of the meadow honey they made on the Kael Isles, despite recent layers of pitch. While the familiar sound of someone climbing rung over rung snuck in beneath that of the gulls she imagined herself back on those Isles.

“We’ve only just reached the green water and already this one is off beyond the Crumbs.”

Ermina stirred. “Oh, Cyril. There’s not as much to see out there as you and yours’d like to." She didn't bother to turn or straighten from her place at the nest's edge. "What’s got you up here?”

Cyril looked back down the way he had come. Beneath him the ship’s sides rose and fell. “Just to remind myself that even green has its limits.”

“Your maps'd tell you that just as easy.” She turned back to the water. “What’s the real reason?”

"We are bound for Shev. I thought you should know."

Ermina hunched her shoulders. "I already know. I'll get another look at those blue bricks, and hear some more stories about the creatures or gods or demons that gave them."

"And?" Cyril fingered a loose thread in his sleeve.

Ermina said nothing. Why does he press me on this? "And I'll be sure to shout down real loud when I see it all."

Ermina heard Cyril's leather jerkin creak before she heard any of his footsteps back to the ladder. She refused to look back, though she knew that he would linger before heading down. When she finally straightened and turned, she could hear him back down on the deck, giving commands and sending orders. She tried to think of the best red story from past voyages to Shev, but could only fear that with Cyril along the only one to be told would include them both.

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Check back here on Friday for Part Three of Shocktober, a peek into the perils of Silent House. For mid-week stuff, check out Tongues in Jars on Tuesday (Latin) and Thursday (Old English).

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[Moon-dæg] Some Lines about Laity?

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Child in a Church
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{The sort of chancel that a child might run up to. Image found on chancel.org.uk.}

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A poem that was written a few months ago, and that is based on some lines that came my way one day.

I can't say what, if anything, directly influenced this poem, but I had the image of a child walking up to the front of a church and just let a pen finish the thought. Maybe it's got deep resonances with modern day religious situations, or maybe it's just a configuration of words that sound pleasant together - after you read it, leave a comment to let me know what you think!

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Child in a Church

There is a child in a church
Raising and felling eye-sized feet
To claim further carpeted ground.
Before the front pew now,
An edge more shear than a fall from grace.

She turns back to titter and gibber at
Parents seated
Where only she can see.
Then back to the front and further stalking
But no more footfalls.

Giggles
As unlined hands grasp without cross
to reach the wooden table
From which her sight
Slips to the smithed cupboard lock
set as high as her apartment.

No man in any dress all of one colour to stop her,
She clamours to the ground floor of that ceiling scraper,
But begins to cry when no doorman smiles the wooden entrance open.

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Check back here on Friday for a search for what's truly scary in Leprechaun in the Hood, and on Saturday for Annotated Links #21!

In the meantime, head over to Tongues in Jars for my dead language translation posts on Tuesday and Thursday.

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[Moon-dæg] Watching the Detective

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All an Act
Closing

{A traditional ransom note - probably from a real cut-up given its content. Image found on Free the Maps.}

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This is another draft from my time spent at the local creative writing group. It's a story that carries on with the mystery element from the previous fiction entry, but that is completely unrelated to that piece.

Since it appeared incomplete in my notes, it still has the feel of being the opening for something bigger. Though, of course, I have given it a bit of a polish.

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All an Act

The page was still sticky with the yellow paste that held the letters to it. Bland letters and frazzled letters. All cut out by the same hand, but each written in its own.

"Where did you say you found this, again?"
"On the tuba case."
"And the tuba was still inside it?"

Ren rolled her eyes as Jason said the instrument was still in its place when he claimed to have found the note. It was unfortunate, but that was something her younger brother hadn't lost. Another thing. She put the letter down and then walked over to the case. Maybe there's a print or something, she mused.

The case was elephantine amidst the rest of Jason's room - strewn with miniatures. All of them were upright as if guarding every square inch of surface space not occupied by lamps. The music stand crowded close to the tuba's case for comfort.

"Look at this." Ren bent over the case.

Jason took his time to respond. When he did it was mostly just a grunt.

"Come on, now." She waited until his attention swung around to her. "There's a line along the case - in the dust, I mean."

"I don't see it." Jason looked over Ren's shoulder.

She stepped aside and pulled him into place in front of the case by his arm. "Here." Ren put her hand behind Jason's shoulder and nudged him to the exact spot where she judged she had been standing when she noticed the line. "You can only really see it in the light right here." She pointed. "It's just the way it falls."

Jason shrugged and turned to her. "So there's a line. What's that even mean?"

"Somebody must've dragged something across the case. Maybe it's a drawing or something." She craned her neck until she could see the path in the dust clearly again. "Are you sure you don't notice anything missing? Anything out of the ordinary? Out of place?"

"No. It's all here." Jason made a quick spot check over each shoulder. "Yeah. All there."

"And your room's locked?"

He eyed the door and then lowered his voice. "Yeah, you know that sis. It would need to be in a house like this. The rent's so cheap, after all - something's got to be wrong somewhere."

Ren straightened and turned to him, picking up the note along the way. "This better not be another job, Jason. I can't be playing the detective here, too."

Jason shrugged as if the motion was necessary to squeeze the words out of himself, "Why not?" He paused long enough to grin, "Acting practice never hurt anyone."

Ren eyed Jason as she turned, the note in hand. Watch that grin, brother - the last I checked, you were the only one in the house with liquid glue.

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Check back here on Friday for the first part of Shocktober, a four week look at some of the reportedly worst horror films ever made. First up: The Screaming Skull!

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[Moon-dæg] Writing of Pale Horses

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Horse Play
Closing

{Smoke rose from his silhouette like steam from a sewer grate. Image found on the blog Mystery Fanfare.}

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Context

One of the early stories from my time with the writing group here in town, tonight's bit is a little noir. The exercise that lead to its being committed to paper simply asked for a first person piece.

It might be partially inspired by Sarah Palmer's vision of a white horse in the middle of the second season of Twin Peaks. In fact, in keeping with that show, the bizarre-ness might or might not be real.

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Horse Play

Suddenly I saw a white horse pacing behind the curtains. They were drawn but the iridescent fur drew on the sun's fading strength (and the moon's gaining power) just as the snow did, and shone through the window's thin veil. Its silhouette gave me pause and I stood in the middle of the side walk, gawking over side walk snow banks and into the house.

If anyone else had been out walking that night they might have stopped as well. Or slowed down to gather details before calling the police to report a suspicious character staring into windows.

The animal faded from my sight and I took a step closer to the house. Blinked. It was gone. The window was empty.

In my delirium of curiousity I walked over the snow covered yard to close the distance between myself and the pane. Foot prints didn't matter. There was a horse in there. At least there might have been. I had to find out.

With my feet firmly rooted in the snow in front of the covered flower bed beneath the window sill I leaned forward and set my hands onto the rough stone sill. I could feel my gloves stick to the cold of it. My face nearly grazed the glass. My eyes were filled with the curtains' dull floral pattern and the shapes and shadows of things beyond. On my left I also saw the sun, reflected. Tucked behind houses as it was I knew that I needed to act quickly. Where was that horse?

A snort and a stamp caused me to whirl around so quickly that I nearly fell head first into the sill. Thinking of that possibility and trying to grasp what I saw before me set my heart pounding.

The man sitting astride the horse addressed me in an accent that would have wooed queens.

"Terribly sorry sir - but I do fear that my polo ball has fallen into those bushes."

I tried to keep my eyes off the mallet he held in one of his hands. The horse stamped. I felt my palms dampen.

"Oh. In the bushes. What's it look like?" I knelt and pretended to look.

"Small. Red. Ball-like."

I didn't need to turn around to see the look of growing suspicion that I knew was on his face. That would have been a rookie mistake. And I knew I was no rookie. Horse or no he sure was lucky that these were my old jeans. The trip to Missoula hadn't just been about business.

He said something in that accent of his and I could hear him getting closer. I noticed the horseman's shadow riding up and over my own. As much as I tried to convince myself that this was all just about a red ball I knew the truth. I knew I was trapped.

"Oh, do hurry on there." His horse whinnied to show its support for its rider.

I brushed against the side of the house now. Crawling among the shadows that hid the ball - I was delusional, ball, what ball? - as well as any first rate hacker could hide a data file.

Before the man and his horse could close off my escape entirely I closed both fists around the snow and slush. This would take speed, precision. Quick thinking after it was done. I hoped my week away hadn't dulled my senses too much. I rose, whirled, and threw.

Both fistfuls hit with a piff more satisfying tha any deli pastrami on rye and I dashed past - though that bastard horse almost pulled me down with its tail. I knew that I was scot-free when the man's curses were gentler than the breeze and just as incoherent.

At the next block I slowed and patted my pockets, unsure that nothing was lost. I reached into the one on the inside of my coat and pulled out the book concealed within. The image on its cover of a man in a round brim hat and full-on suit sitting behind a cluttered desk while a woman with bare shoulders wearing beads and short hair spoke to him reassured me that all was still there. That all was still all right. That my time off hadn't dulled any senses. There had to be a horse.

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On Friday, definitely be sure to check in for my looking for the likeable (aside from Samuel L. Jackson and Luke Wilson) in Meeting Evil. Then on Saturday, watch for an Annotated Links, followed by the week-in-review/week-ahead entry on Sunday.

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[Moon-dæg] An Edit of an Oldie

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Alchemical Links
Closing

{One of many bizarre and fascinating images from medieval alchemical texts. Image found on janeteresa.com.}

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Context

Tonight's piece is an edit of one of the many variations I wrote for an exercise that demanded a poem be written using "old oatmeal," "gore," and "possibility." It's from almost three years ago, and so was written during the early days of my MA studies in Victoria, BC.

I hadn't been writing much poetry while I was in South Korea, so things were a bit rusty, but an MA writing group helped me to re-invigorate my poetry writing.

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Alchemical Links

Old oatmeal on the edge of a spoon
has seen things change from soft to hard to soft again.
Thinking, thoughts like oats and water
Mixed and heated until inseparable
In combinations only possible with that water
and those oats, plus unremembered heat degrees.

Something plentiful made into
something not found in big boxes or on strips
Only in rare conflagrations of perfectly shared passions
Birthing the possibility of true outcomes.

The tender green and virulent potential
of not green is staggering;

The world is no longer separated,
Joined only by a great chain, holding
Down the sequence.

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Check back here on Wednesday for a new editorial, on Thursday for the next blog update entry, and on Friday for some sleuthing for the saving grace of Your Highness.

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[Moon-dæg] Digging Deep for Poetry?

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"Anyway"
Closing

{You may only know these words if you've read books as big as this one. The Image is "Manet's The Reader," and was found on the Eagle-Eyed Editor (ultimately from the Wikimedia Commons).}

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Context

Today's piece is a poem written based on an earlier iteration of the 'obscure words' exercise mentioned in an earlier entry. It was originally written in January of 2008, when I was President of the University of Guelph's Creative Writing Society.

Now, the words themselves weren't recorded along with the poem (since I found this transcribed into a newer notebook), but here there are as close as I can figure (definitions from the Oxford English Dictionary Online):

• Nasonite: (n.) "A trigonal silicate and chloride of calcium and lead, Ca4Pb6(Si2O7)3Cl2, which forms prismatic crystals and occurs as white or grey granular masses."
• Hoodwink: (n.) A game of blind man's bluff; a blind; a person who deceives; (adj.) blindfold; (v.) to cover from sight; to blindfold mentally; to wink."
• Draggling: (v.) "To wet or befoul (a garment, etc.) by allowing it to drag through mire or wet grass, or to hang untidily in the rain; to make wet, limp, and dirty."
• Purloined: (adj.) "Pilfered, stolen"
• Newspaperish: (adj) "Somewhat characteristic of or like a newspaper; having a style associated with newspapers; journalistic."

Unfortunately, I'm not sure if those last two words were in the original list, but those are the ones that look the most obscure compared to the rest of the words in this poem.

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"Anyway"

Each and every purloined belch
Is a squeamish expulsion of Catholic conscience
Newspaperish in its regurgitation of facts
What's red and white and red and white‭
     red and white all over‎?

I cannot hoodwink those direfully‭
     skilful reporters
By trying to hide acts in‭
     nasonite mines
Collapsed now yet growing still
As their noisy pessimistic formations slowly
abate.

Yet I groan onwards under that harsh‭
     yoke
My own idea of god and right
Imposed and invulnerable
To any deterioration through draggling:
What's learned in youth is never forgotten
Even in age‭ – ‬health willing‭ – ‬that light
     never goes out.

When the candle becomes a‭
     cold wax column
The smoke it made‭ alone
     will silently mourn,
With an elegiac brief dance,
The loss of those automatic lessons.

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Don't miss tomorrow's Annotated Links (and don't forget about Thursday's)! Come Wednesday, a new editorial will be up, and on Friday, join me for a search for the serviceable in 1976's animal-based horror Squirm

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[Moon-dæg] Fiction in a Melodramatic Flash

Context
A Long-Awaited Kiss
Closing

{Genies are generally benevolent when found in lamps, but what about when found in pens? Image found on askbrianmartin.com.}

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Context

Today's piece of writing came from a writing prompt that called for describing multiple simultaneous actions and embellishing those descriptions with the senses. A kiss was given as an example of a scenario, and I ran with that.

Describing multiple things is a great challenge for any writer because of the limitations of the medium. Unlike art, music, or film, words alone can convey one thing at a time (or two, if you count what a word on the page is not saying as well as what it's saying).

This piece doesn't exactly exemplify the ability of the written word to express multiple simultaneous things, but it does introduce a curious plot that definitely deserves expansion.

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A Long-Awaited

Their eyes met and locked shortly before their lips. She noticed that he closed his eyes seconds before she did so herself, but she didn't mind. An extra few seconds, however short, of gazing into his kaleidoscopic hazel eyes, knowing that his lips were already closed around hers - just as their arms, and shortly she blushed, their legs, perhaps, were - heightened all of her senses.

That's why, as their lips locked, and their eyes closed, she finally noticed a pen in her pocket jabbing into her leg. It can't be drawing blood, no - she thought, struggling to keep her arms around his shoulders, her hands at the middle of his back.

But if it's jabbing me that must mean it's open.

And if it's open...

The stream of her thoughts hit a rock as she felt their lips parting slightly and his tongue edging through them. She sent hers to meet his, but wondered if she'd done it too quicky, if she'd maybe thrown him off. She soon realized that such was not the case.

Oh well. As long as he's distracted he won't notice me being distracted. Maybe I should just tell him.

As their tongues embraced and broke apart and embraced again, she thought she caught a whiff of ink. She mentally waved it away and tried to relax her shoulders, her thighs.

Yet, as she felt the rush of the outside air coming into her mouth from over her teeth and past their tangling tongues, she imagined herself pulling away, looking at the man as seriously as she could, and telling him that they needed to stop what they were doing right away because an interdimensional menace might have escaped from a sealed click pen she kept in her pocket.

The image lingered.

No. No that just wouldn't do.

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Closing

Check back here tomorrow for Annotated Links #14. Come Wednesday, I'll have posted the editorial, and on Thursday watch for Annotated Links #15. Then, Friday will see the uploading of Part Two of All-Request August: Alien Apocalypse.

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[Moon-dæg] Words and Their Stories

Context
Collisions
Persuasion
Closing

{Shadows, mentioned and unmentioned, are a common element between today's two stories. Image found on www.foundshit.com via dimitridze.}

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Context

Tonight's creative writing entry is something of a double feature. The exercise that these works came from asks you to take five words that are rarely used in everyday speech and to create meanings for them. They can be nonsensical meanings, serious meanings, or meanings that are just plain wrong. Then, as an additional part of the exercise, you write short stories using each set of words.

So, here are the words that I used and their real definitions:

• quaquaversal: something that protrudes in every direction at once (a geological term).
• adynaton: an impossibility.
• petrichor: The scent of the air after it rains over an area that's been dry for a while.
• auto-de-fe: A ceremony used by Inquisitors to affirm the faith of converts in South Western Europe; the destruction of something by mob; the destruction of something by fire.
• millefleurs: a perfume made by mixing various flowers together; the pattern, as in tapestries, of various plants and flowers woven together.
• ombrifuge: anything that protects a person or thing from percipitation (an umbrella).

And here are the words and the definitions that I made up:

• quaquaversal: something commonly known among private school headmasters (because they all know Latin, right?)
• adynaton: the Neo-French term for a particularly delicious cut of tuna, which is most often served at dinner.
• petrichor: the fossilized form of a nuclear reactor's core.
• auto-de-fe: the kind of car that the faeries use to get around.
• millefleurs: extra large bouquets found in country shops in rural Europe. OR The mush that you get from mising flour and water
• ombrifuge: a machine that spins things around so fast that it separates them from their shadows.

Curiously, both of these stories are about science in one way or another, and particularly about machines that move things at very high speeds.

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Collisions

"Millicent, power up the grid. We need to run this test today."

"Today? But the instruments aren't ready. The necessary precautions..."

"We need to throw caution to the wind. Albert is coming to the lab this evening and he'll snap up our funding faster than a duchess snaps up millefleur on the high street if we don't have results."

The woman stiffened her shoulders and was about to cross her arms. But Jones' hand at her elbow made them go slack instead.

"Alright we've tested enough to know that hull fracture is an adynaton."

"Alright." Jones' look carried the scent of petrichor.

Maybe he's forgiven me? Millicent tried to catch a glimpse of Jones' eyes, but he had already turned back to his clipboard.

She walked over to the throw switch and turned the power loose on the control panel before her. She stood and waited while Jones stepped into the collider and pulled the rock into it behind him.

"This will crack the bastard open. I'm sure of it." He turned from the rock, set snugly into a ring raised in the collider's bottom.

"Sending particles flying at each other and putting rock between them isn't the usual way to crack a walnut."

"This isn't your usual walnut." Jones had climbed out of the collider and now stood beside the control panel. "Throw the switch Millicent." He must have sensed her hesitation through sound alone. He looked up from the controls. "You can relax. If this doesn't work nothing will reach us - like you said. The hull's defenses have tested positively. The worst to happen will be a little splatter that the ombrifuge will keep from hitting us - even if debris flies quaquaversally."

"I know, but I'm still concerned that this will all end in an auto-de-fe." She leaned onto the panel that housed the switch.

"Bah. There aren't any peasants around. Besides, what could we have done to have called on the wrath of a mob? We've done nothing wrong."

Millicent tried once more to get a look at Jones' eyes. She could see the same certainty in them that she had seen that night, weeks before. It churned her stomach, but she saw her hand reach for the power switch and pull it downwards, completing the circuit and powering up the collider.

As the machine wound up all of its sprockets and gears it roared behind them like some hideous animal struck with a rock.

Millicent's arms crossed. "No. Not yet."

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Persuasion

Alton struggled to keep his expression from changing as he muddled through his mind. Password. Password...what was the password?

"Come on, bub. It's quaquaversal. All your kind knows this."

"Alright. So then let me in." Alton leaned heavily on the hood of the auto-de-fe he'd stolen.

"I don't think so, mac. We need more than that if you're to get in here."

The man slid his eye slot shut, but Alton flung a stone into it before it closed completely. In the same second, the stone was caught in the slot, and the man's eye bulged and blinked.

"Hey! This is very un-headmaster like of youse!"

"Maybe so. But this stone's important."

The man made no move to loose his eye slot's cover. "It's just a stone. Get it outta here before I call up security."

"It's not just a stone. It's a piece of petrichor."

Alton could see the curiousity rising in the man's eyes.

Typical underclassman. Alton fought the smirk from his face.

"Petrichor? Where'd you ---"

"Don't ask questions of me here. I'd much rather discuss this over a nice adynaton - something more than the millefleur we get out here."

The man on the other side of the door was silent.

"Well? Can I come in now?"

"Uh." The man loosened his slot and the stone fell through. The absence of the sound of stone hitting stone assured Alton that the man had caught it. "Sure. But don't get loud. Just follow me."

Alton smiled to himself as the door's hinges protested their being moved. He knew they had an ombrifuge inside and that all of the petrichor he carried would be more than enough to convince them to change their minds. Just as long as he was far far away when they tried to extract the stones' shadows.

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Closing

To let me know what you thought about these stories you can leave a comment or check out my Contact page for other ways to reach me. And, don't miss tomorrow and Thursday's Annotated Links (Nos. 12 and 13), Wednesday's editorial, and Friday's movie review!

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[Moon-dæg] Gesturing towards Science Fiction

Context
The Train Ride to the Freeholds
Closing

{Another world, but similar trains. Image found on www.guardian.co.uk.}

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Context

This short story was written based on an exercise that asks you to write a scene between two people where all of the communication happens in body language.

The lack of dialogue really opens things up, while the fact that you need to describe the gestures that you want to use means that you really need to pay attention to your description. Everything has to work well together for such a piece to work, and after some minor edits, this piece is a decent example, I think.

It's definitely the start of something bigger, and possibly a story from the world that my five part fantasy epic is set in (though possibly further down the timeline).

Enjoy!

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The Train Ride to the Freeholds

There was a lot of nodding going on. Everyone in the box car seemed to be bobbing their heads, wagging their chins. But it was al silence. Like a tunnel the train had entered that would only be left at sunrise when the windows and the thin drapes could not hold any more light at bay.

It helped that everyone was asleep.

Except for Roscoe, whose eyees swept the train car's passengers over as the auto duster had swept the car clean while it was still in the station. Some people stirred, but only to shift their positions. It was a difficult maneuvre but one that Roscoe was impressed to see carried out so flawlessly. The new chips really had improved the brain's higher functioning in sleep. The boy's gaze stopped at one of the windows behind a line of heads, its drapes waved back and forth in time with dull metallic chug of the locomotive. The resulting shafts of moonlight slid between people's feet like a reluctant ping pong ball.

One of the feet kicked it away. Or seemed to. Roscoe looked up to see the rest of the foot's owner, beyond the leg. A young woman, maybe from the facility just before he was started, looked back. Her eyes struck him clearest of all the aspectsof her face, for they were as large as the moon most nights now, and the irises were such a pale blue that her eyes looked almost entirely white except for both of her ebony pupils. Roscoe thought back to the city's mascot, the eyes simple white circles with black dots. But the young woman's eyes were more life-like. More genuine. Especially when he noticed them looking at him.

The young woman shrugged and looked around. She put her hands on the seat beside her and pretended to dangle her legs in the space between seat and floor, although her feet had no difficulty reaching the cold steel bottom of the car. She lowered her face and then raised her eyes to Roscoe.
He could feel his cheeks redden and hoped that the car was too dark for the girl to see what he knew was an imminently rich color. He stared back at her and shrugged as well.

Then, without any thought, he crossed one leg over the other at the knee, set his elbow on top and leaned into his arm, resting his chin in his hand. At first, he returned his eyes to her feet, but then raised them to hers.

She pointed to her head and then shrugged as she leaned forward.

Roscoe immediately dropped his hand across his chest as if presenting something there and used the same hand to point at her. The moonlight helps, but even if she was wearing her id I couldn't read it from here. Not without those other upgrades.

The young woman mimicked his gesture and then sat still for a moment. She drummed her finger on her lower lip and seemed to be looking everywhere but directly in front of her. She straightened herself and then threw her hands into her lap. She curled them upwards and slowly raised them towards the ceiling, fingers first. Once her elbows touched she fanned out her fingers and swayed the figure made by her arms and hands almost imperceptibly.

Ah. She's definitely from the facility from before me. Animals come two after flowers, so she's two cycles older than me.

Roscoe put his hands over his eyes, separating his middle and ring finger so he could look through them. He could see her nod off-rhtyhm to the rest of the passengers though his hands. Her lips rose into a smile and he copied the motion as best he could, hoping that she noticed it rather than the color he felt filling his cheeks once more.

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Closing

Check back here tomorrow and Thursday for Annotated Links #10 and #11, on Wednesday for an editorial on some of the newest news, and on Friday for part four of Nicolas Cage month - a look at the decent in 2012's Seeking Justice.

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[Moon-dæg] When the Guard is Down

{A figure, a silhouette, a being - but with what intent and purpose? Image from the Minecraft modding site mcmodding.com.}

Context
Still Not Saved
Closing

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Context

This piece of flash fiction (or scene from a longer work) came from a writing exercise, that, as far as I remember, just involved a phrase. The idea of the exercise is to take a phrase and then to write a piece that starts with that phrase.

So, once the phrase "She could hear them living all through the house" came up, I just took it and ran.

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Still not Saved

She could hear them living all through the house. She felt herself sink deeper into the bed, all of the muscles in her arms and legs loosening for the first time in weeks. Mathias' plan had worked. And he was right about them not wanting to get into this room.

A quick glance to the window still showed a pillar of smoke rising from somewhere below the lintel. And the sky remained filled with the kinds of clouds that brought drabness but no rain.

Yet she knew that they were all living beyond the door and down on the first floor. The still silence confirmed it. Silence enough to hear someone's walk. It's brisk, she mused. A word she hadn't been able to use to describe anything's walk for far too long.

She relished the sound of shoes squeaking on the floor. A stop! Low voices. Low voices that only survived as undulations of sound full of pitch and intonation - but measured and easy - after they crossing through walls and even floors.

But then, a scratching. A scritching against wood that forced Emma back into the fore of her mind. She closed her eyes and tried to melt into the mattress. The memory faded, but the sound did not. She put her feet on the floor, faced the closet and walked over to it.

Her hand reached for a knob of the folding door. Her hand's steadiness caused her no surprise - she knew the door led only to a closet. And nothing terrible had ever come from a closet. They had never seemed to get into them.

The scritching subsided and air rushing through the corner of a canine mouth could be heard.

How on earth did he wind up in there?

She turned the door knob. The hinge creaked and the colour of clothes formerly worn only by shadows rushed to get through the crack of light.

A low growl followed.

Her arm continued to push the door outwards. But before the panel door snapped into place a weight latched onto her neck and she fell backwards.

"No..." she managed, as low as the voices that had now resumed below and around her. But teeth and flesh would not part. "No...bad. Bad...Dog-uugh!"

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Closing

On Wednesday, come looking for an editorial on some of the newest news, and on tomorrow and Thursday be sure to watch for annotated links #8 and #9. Plus, don't miss part three of Nicolas Cage month on Friday, featuring his 2011 thriller Trespass.

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[Moon-dæg] A Convention, A Challenge, and A Poem

Context
A Ballad of Polaris
Closing

{Polaris 26's logo. Image found on the Polaris 26 website.}

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Context

Tonight's piece is an early draft of a poem written specially for the 26th Polaris convention. It was held this past weekend (July 6-8), and I wanted to challenge myself to write something narrative about it before it faded into memory.

So I wrote a ballad about Polaris 26 tonight (taking about an hour to get it from brain, to page, to post-able form).

The ballad chronicles the trip to Polaris on Thursday and part of Friday; the convention itself on the rest of Friday, Saturday, and Sunday; and the departure on Sunday. It begins with a refrain, and then a verse about Thursday and repeats that pattern for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

Some poetic license is taken with form (there are some long lines, irregular rhyme) and content (for the sake of brevity and of rhyme). However, where necessary, I've added hyperlinks to clarify references.

Enjoy, and feel free to let me know how I can improve this one.

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A Ballad of Polaris

A special thing, held but once a year,
Hosted where a cultural heart is,
Full of friends and bright of cheer,
A convention called Polaris.

One leg's journey done and gone
And then a brief respite
First con fellow was well-met
While anticipation reached new heights.

A special thing, held but once a year,
Hosted where the cultural heart is,
A place where fandom runs ever clear,
A convention called Polaris.

The city heart was sought and found,
The lady love to the party was added,
With an old friend we dined, and had
Were funds that would that very night
In the Sheraton's halls resound.

A special thing, held but once a year,
Hosted where the cultural heart is,
To which many a spec fic fan does steer,
A convention called Polaris.

The con was off to a rumbling start,
Friday's karaoke gave voice to our hearts,
But Saturday was solitary,
Though distant victory did carry

Through Ms. Munteanu's editing 'shop great,
Where was found help enough to save
An old story from its sorry state.

A special thing, held but once a year,
Hosted where the cultural heart is,
Place of artists, editors, writers dear,
A convention called Polaris.

All was quiet in the final day's late morning,
The dance and six six three were sweated
Through and past. Bamb'ry on social media
Was clear, and shared how to make people online see ya;

While learning of when best
to leave readers to a guess
Was a fine thing over which to mull
As con and city both from view did fall.

A special thing, held for the year,
Now done and gone; farewell Ms. Lin,
All other guests and staff without peer,
Until, when in a year, comes Polaris 27.

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Closing

Check back here on Wednesday for an editorial on the newest news, and on Friday for part two of Nicolas Cage Month: a search for the good in Season of the Witch. And be sure to come back to the blog on Tuesday and Thursday for more annotated links.

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[Moon-dæg] A Childhood Horror

Context
Vous Allez Dormir (You'll Be Sleeping)
Closing

{A child's tombstone in Boldre Church, Hampshire, England. Image from geograph.}

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Context

This is another thing that's come out of the local writing group. If you've got one in your town, then I heartily recommend attending it. Writing groups are a great way to boost your productivity and to find inspiration through challenges and through sharing perspectives.

Anyway, the exercise that resulted in this piece of writing comes from Pat Schneider's Writing Alone and With Others, a guide to getting into the writing habit and to starting a writing group.

What the specific exercise that lead to tonight's piece involves is simple: take a song or prayer or poem that you know by heart, and use its lines as a refrain for whatever it is you write.

My own result is a short horror story, but the same song in another's hands might have lead to something a little more innocent and pitched to the audience of the song that I used. Also, Wikipedia was used as a reference for the full song.

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Vous Allez Dormir (You'll Be Sleeping)

Frère Jacques...

The sound spewed out from the top of the door jamb, an empty space of just a few centimeters – but enough for the sound wiggle through and into the room. Clarence held his fingers in his ears and hoped that it would mute the sound enough to let him think. To come up with a way out.

Frère Jacques...

It didn't seem to be working. The melody pinned all of his muscles to the spot and made his arms feel as heavy as the furniture he had pushed up against the door. At the time he hadn't considered the use of the towel that Joyce had offered, screaming as the song ate at her from the inside out, turning her every movement into a concentrated step and swing in time with the schoolroom chant.

Dormez vous?...

Clarence wondered how much more pressure his inner ear could take before it burst. He cursed himself for refusing the ear plugs, though by the state of the house, it seemed like no one here had taken them either. And why would they?

Dormez vous?...

Who would have believed the news reports and status updates and tweets? That there was a song in the air and it was out for human blood?

Clarence was beginning to feel woozy, and he staggered backwards, his elbow striking a lamp, the thing bursting on the floor.

Sonnez les matines...

It was getting clearer now, trying to pour its whole essence through the crack at the closed and [fortified] door's top. Clarence imagined that he could see the vibrations as each recognizable word lilted through the air, tugging at his own childhood memories of its recital like French Canadian nuns pulling at taffy.

Deafness was better than this.

Death was better than this.

Sonnez les matines...

Clarence forced his fingers harder against his ears, until he could feel both digits compressing the ears' inner chambers. It felt like two walls were being pressed down into the same room – he wondered which would top which.

Din, dan, don...

He wondered and pressed.

He pressed and wondered.

Din, dan, d-

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Closing

Check back here on Wednesday for an editorial on some of the newest news, and on Friday for a hunt for the good in the 1993 Nicolas Cage film noir, DeadFall. Also, be sure to come by the blog tomorrow and Thursday for more Annotated Links.

And, if you'd like to leave me some feedback on today's story (positive or negative, but only constructive, please), feel free to add a comment below.

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[Moon-dæg] Parody Reporting, Gold, and Laughter

Preamble
Billionaires Breathe Comedy Gold
Closing

{Forget gold mining, today's bit of writing reveals a more sought for metal. Image from portableantiquities on Flickr via Fotopedia.}

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Preamble

Tonight's piece of creative writing is another that came from the local writing group. It was written in response to an exercise where we each had to name a despicable person and either defend or incriminate that person. The person we were writing about at the time was one Kevin O'Leary, a periodically controversial entrepreneur, investor, and TV personality.

I must have been thinking about a particular root vegetable when this was written on the night of 20 November 2011, because my writing took the form of parody reporting. So some things may have been exaggerated for effect.

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Billionaires Breathe Comedy Gold

It appears that in a world where jobs are scarce, resources are being eaten up, and reasons for laughter seem few and far between, there is a ray of hope.

Billionaires like Mr. Kevin O'Leary.

Good, kind, old, "I like money" O'Leary is one of the few things that comedians can still use to connect to the common man, woman, and child. These brave people of the punchline - never out of work themselves it seems - are able to use figures like Mr. O'Leary for a nearly inexhaustible supply of funnies.

"In this tough economic time, I'm just glad that there are still some fat cats for us to still poke fun at," said Lana von Opsidoodle. "It's really taken the pressure off in our search for material. And, finally the plight of African children working in ridensium mines across that continent have been heard. Mr. O'Leary and those like him are real heroes to us. And to those kids."

Ridensium is a rare metal found only in places that were once rife with hyenas. Scientists say that the animals' hilarious barks echoed off the walls for centuries, infusing them with what they like to call "pure funny."

"We were very near a ridensium shortage" Dr. Arno Leggit said at a recent press conference. He explained further that "Hyenas are nearly extinct because of people like Jamie Oliver and Chet McCooks who lauded the animal for its nutritional value and steak-like taste. So the mines were just about tapped out and no new ones have been discovered."

In a later interview Professor Legit was quoted as saying "I think Mr. O'Leary should get more money. Now we can free the slave workers of African ridensium mines, clean up those governments, and maybe bring back the majestic howl of the hyena."

Yet ridensium mines aren't just filled with laughter. They're also popular lion hangouts since along with the animal's sound, the rocks are also rife with the hyenas' scent. Therefore, lions frequent the caves in the hopes of finding there what has long since been absent from the savannah.

As of press time, Mr. O'Leary is slated to receive a large novelty check from the president. The nation's comedians are reportedly standing at the ready.

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Closing

Check back here Wednesday for an article on the newest news and on Friday for a hunt for the good in Wrath of the Titans. Also check this blog out on Tuesday and Thursday for more "Annotated Links."

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[Moon-dæg] A Poetic Turn for Mondays

The Change Up
Still the Same old Moon-dæg
The Poem's Intro
The General Lee Stanza Suite
Closing

{This General Lee can definitely make any and all jumps, with a little "digital" help. Image from Toy Wonders, Inc.}

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The Change Up

Because A Glass Darkly is my general blog, I’ve decided to make it a little more general.

Up until now, Monday’s and Wednesday’s entries have been more or less the same - just editorials or opinions about current news of one sort or another. Though the suite of recipes back in February was a bit different from all that (interestingly Bibimbap proved the most popular dish).

So, in an effort to make this blog a broader spectrum of writing styles and to work some non-editorial/review stuff into it, Monday’s entries will now feature what’s included under the umbrella term “Creative Writing.” Sometimes poetry will be posted here, sometimes fiction. Eventually, it may include novel excerpts, eventually.

The content of Monday's entries is also changing in the hopes that it will free up more time so that I can put that extra time towards other projects.

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Still the Same old Moon-dæg

As per how this fits in with the blog's original conceit: The moon is very closely related to many magical practices and occurrences.

Creative writing, in the way it weaves devices and plots and characters together into something that causes some sort of response, is similar to some of the moon's magical aspects (think of the full moon's effect on lycanthropes). And that's the connection.

However, there may still be series or sequences of work spread out over weeks, not just standalone pieces.

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The Poem's Intro

Now then, for the inaugural “creative writing” entry, I present a poem written at a local writing group.

This piece was written based on an exercise involving a handful of random figures that one member of a group or meeting brings in. At this particular meeting these figures included a tiny plastic Millenium Falcon, a Superman figurine, a Strawberry Shortcake figurine, a generic wooden man on a peg, a board for the peg man, a green figurine of some sort, and a tiny, metal General Lee. The idea behind the exercise is to write based on whatever comes to mind when looking at the brought items - in any configuration.

This poem involves the figurines and models, but not entirely directly. This indirect inspiration is reflected in the poem's title.

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The General Lee Stanza Suite

Part 1: Prophecies of Playtime

Too much too much
Crowded like a stable when all the inns are full
This train of random figures is simply too much
What will the man in the red cape save?
Through what will the mercernary and new hope fly?
Where will the woman in the fragrant hat plant
her virtues and straws?

A green man will the red cape save
Through gravel and brush will the two fly
And on a block of solid flat wood -
made fertile by a plethora of mite corpses will
the lady plant.

The green man - lowing like cattle
at the prospect of lowering over his arm
something sharper than a knife - will be saved
Those two will leave the gravel and brush behind
And that woman will make all square with
the round man’s help.

The cape will flash and sharpness will shatter on the ground
Those two will land with a leap and a pulse higher than a
snacking pastry chef’s - back out more gravel and brush
And that woman, the round man, will stand as if the ground had
grooves and
smile, their bright red reward to see.

Part 2: Further Impressions

A lot will be written about figures -
images cast in plastic -
laying on a flat brown table
While from some other space

Music of the island plays and
a voice both bright and bawled
will make an announcement to fill
auditoriums.
Such words as that on which
books are made.

Any connection -
only as needed -
the Doctor and the Farmer
born and raised in
the pretty how town.

If you only knew of all
the plundering done
to swim upstream and
to reach that distant shore with more

Or with enough
So that in your
Wake diamonds and gems would shudder
and shake causing the river to

Undulate in
A bed muddi-
er than your hands at such an end.
No matter it all comes off a

'gainst a leaf still
caught in its tree
Plucked down and scraped across each palm:
You’ll need clean hands for the promised feasts.

(Composed on 20 December 2011)

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Closing

Check back here Wednesday for an article on the newest news, and on Friday for the hunt for the good in The Last Airbender.

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[Moon-dæg] Two Takes on North Korea - Part 4

Recap & Introduction
The Same
Basic Differences
Differences in War
Truly Curious
Wrap Up
Closing

{Where is that camera pointed, and what will it see? Image from the Agnes Kunze Society Hope Project website.}

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Recap & Introduction

Two weeks ago we looked at how the North American media reacted to the Bombardment of Yeonpyeong. Last week, we looked at the South Korean treatment of the same. So what’s the same? What’s different? And what can be told from all that? Let’s find out.

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The Same

Both North American and South Korean news sources covered the Five Ws: Who, What, When, Where, Why. This is practically a given, but an important thing to lay down. So both sources reported the facts, in one way or another. However, aside from this, there aren't many remarkable similarities between these two sets of articles.

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Basic Differences

North American coverage often buried its facts in analysis, and this analysis was always the core of the story. Why was Yeonpyeong bombarded? What was the North’s motivation for doing it? What does it all mean?

Because of this, North American news sources were much more likely to trumpet various conclusions: the North was growing hostile and dangerous, it was a show of power to help usher in Kim Jong Un’s ascension to power, it was deeply related to North Korea’s growing nuclear testing and supposed capabilities.

On the other hand, South Korean news sources stuck closer to the facts. They reported what happened, and sometimes added in extra details for various effects: official statements, personal anecdotes, etc.

Plus, no real assumptions were made in any of the South Korean sources looked at. Since the event directly affected them, South Koreans were more concerned, or interested in, what the attack meant for them specifically and what their leaders had to say about it.

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Differences in War

Curiously, though, none of the three North American sources that were looked at cited Kim Tae-Young, the South Korean Defense Minister, replied to a question about being at war by saying “Didn’t it start already? We must stop it from expanding.”

Since this quote appeared in an article from 23 November 2010, it wouldn’t have been difficult to work it into the slew of stories that came out around the incident. And it even has an action movie kind of a ring to it. But perhaps this omission speaks the loudest to the difference of the two in their coverage of the event.

Not including the quote suggests that it wasn’t deemed newsworthy over here. Even though it is a reflection of present reality in the Koreas – an armistice was signed, but there never was a peace treaty. So, technically, the Korean War carries on, though in a definitely colder sort of way.

But that’s not how North Americans see war. Even something like the Cold War strikes fear into the hearts of many, and for the most part that fear was the product of the media.

The people of South Korea didn’t need to speculate about Kim Jong Il’s plots or ploys or machinations behind the bombardment. They just viewed it as the tragic even that it was and declared it an action that is unforgivable and spoke of how it’s necessary to keep things from getting worse.

But those are the people in power, those completely unaffected by it might have hardly blinked at the story – the same way that something about a shooting in a different part of the country might cause the average North American to simply turn to the next page in the paper, or to scroll onward to the next story.

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Truly Curious

This also illuminates another essential difference between reporting styles. For better or worse, the North America news media is all about finding out the “why” of an incident, whereas South Korea news media seems to be more about the “what.”

While the articles that have been looked at are about the same length, North American coverage dwelled on speculation about motivation, and South Korean sources focused on just what happened and how it effected the people involved.

But that’s exactly it. That’s why the media can inspire so much fear in North America – because it works on the imagination. It relies on thinking of things that may or may not be true, and the human imagination is ingenious at scaring the human wielding and/or listening to it.

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Wrap Up

So, at heart, the difference between the two is really the North American media's social curiosity calling itself out.

North American news doesn’t just look into the abyss and paint a picture of what it sees, it stares into it with all of the steady focus of an open-eyed stone gargoyle and all the tenacity of a determined squirrel. And nothing can terrify like that which looks back from the abyss, especially when it’s put under so much scrutiny it could be called duress.

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Closing

Check back here on Wednesday for a look at the newest news, and on Friday for another search for the good in a terrible movie.

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[Moon-dæg] Two Takes on North Korea, Part 3

Recap & Introduction
The Korea Herald
The Chosun Ilbo
The JoongAng Daily
Wrap Up
Closing

{Smoke rises from Yeonpyeong Island. Image from The Korea Herald.}

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Recap & Introduction

Today’s entry takes a look at the Korean coverage of the Bombardment of Yeonpyeong, a maritime skirmish between North and South Korea that happened on 23 November 2010.

In last week’s overview of the North American coverage of this event, all of the news outlets looked at included fairly extensive analysis of their reports. There were points raised about how the incident fit in with the impending ascension to power of Kim Jong Il’s son Kim Jong Un, and the incident also offered the chance to mention North Korea’s continuing nuclear experimentation.

Let’s see if coverage in South Korea is any different.

The three news outlets featured (The Korea Herald, The Chosun Ilbo, and The Joongang Daily) are all considered major South Korean papers, and each has a distribution of at least 1.96 million.

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The Korea Herald

The article from The Korea Herald wastes no time getting to the facts. It begins with a quick outline of the incident, and moves onto more facts and reports from relevant sources. However, this article does talk about how tensions were high since the sinking of the Cheonan on 26 March 2010, and states that a “Seoul-led multi-national investigation team” had since concluded that North Korea was entirely responsible for the sinking of the corvette.

There are also passages like those about the shelling happening after South Korea’s exercises were finished, and that South Korean experts on North Korea expected North Korea to extend the olive branch rather than the bayonet to help stabilize themselves on the eve of power passing from Kim Jong Il to Kim Jong Un. Crowning these statements, though, is a single paragraph:

"Foreign press quickly reported the attack as a major news, producing a flurry of interpretations about the motive of North Korea. Reuters quoted an expert as saying that the attack is "unbelievable.""

Interestingly, South Korean media was much slower to produce it’s own interpretations of the event.

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The Chosun Ilbo

The article from the The Chosun Ilbo is originally in Korean, and the translation offered by Microsoft’s translation service is decent, but not entirely clear.

Nonetheless, from the translation it's plain that the attack was unsuspected. The article also notes that North Korea’s actions put it squarely in the wrong in the eyes of the UN, and even suggests that the armistice between the two Koreas has been broken.

On the matter of war re-igniting between the two nations, though, the article is apparently quiet.

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The JoongAng Daily

Just like The Korea Herald article, this one from the The JoongAng Daily starts with a summary of events. Curiously, this includes the number of shots fired by North Korea, and the casualties and wounded on the South Korean side - both military and civilian.

Also interesting, is that this article includes the relation of a local who fled her home when the shelling shattered her windows.

The article also goes the most in depth of the three on the question of war reigniting. It notes that Joint Chiefs of Staff set the country to the highest level of military alertness. Even the Defence Minister, Kim Tae-Young, is brought into it as he is reported as answering a question about war breaking out with: “Didn’t it start already? We must stop it from expanding.”

The article winds down with a myriad of voices. These run from the South Korean Democratic Party and their call for co-operation with the ruling Grand National Party, to Japan on the tension between the nations, to China’s call for caution, and to Reuters’ reporting on the attack causing the Hong Kong stock exchange to suffer significant losses. But, going the furthest to prove its uniqueness among these three articles is the article's final paragraph.

In this paragraph it is stated that 11 days before the attack on Yeonpyeong, North Korea had been showing an American nuclear scientist its uranium enrichment facilities.

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Wrap Up

All in all, then, the local reporting on the incident offers quite a different take on the Bombardment of Yeonpyeong. Rather than the hunt for a motive and speculation on said motive found in North American coverage, there’s a much greater emphasis on facts. Any kind of elaboration on them is left entirely up to the reader.

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Closing

Check back here next week for Part 4 of this series, an analysis of the difference between these reporting styles and some reasons and theories for that difference.

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[Moon-dæg] Two Takes on North Korea, Part 2

Background
CNN
CBC
TIME
Closing

{A caricature of Kim Jong Il by David Baldinger.}

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Background

The Bombardment of Yeonpyeong is the latest military incident between North and South Koreas which raised tension on both sides. Apparently, North Korea did not want South Korea to go through with a training exercise that they had planned for November 23rd, 2010, however, South Korea ignored the North’s cease request, and so they attacked the island barracks.

Yet, the incident also goes deeper than just a single ignored request.

The maritime border between the two countries has been contentious for quite some time. Since 1973, in fact, when North Korea redrew the border on the heels of the redefinition of “territorial waters” from 3 nautical miles to 12. However, South Korea and the UN continued to only recognize the border they had drawn up at the end of the Korean War (1952).

Because the idea is to limit each of these four parts to as few words as possible, only three major news outlets will be examined: CNN, the CBC, and TIME. The first and the last of these are American outlets, while the second is Canada’s national channel. Though small, the purpose of this range of news outlets is to get a general cross-section of how the issue was treated.

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CNN

CNN presents a fairly balanced portrayal of the event. The news outlet constantly quotes sources that are representative of the groups that it’s making statements about. However, the way that it deploys these quotations is interesting.

On the one hand, the Koreas and the US are quoted more or less in full sentences or phrases that read naturally as parts of a statement.

On the other, the presentation of some quotes from Hong Lei of the Chinese government is quite different. The man is quoted three times, and two of these are placed to seem euphemistic. This is the sentence in question: “Chinese Foreign Ministry spokesman Hong Lei said China had ‘taken note of relevant reports’ and expressed its ‘concern.’” The quote that follows this sentence in the article is on par with the others, but this selective quoting suggests that China’s integrity is being called into question.

The CNN article also takes the chance offered by reporting on the bombardment to note that North Korea, days earlier, had made it public that they had built a new nuclear plant.

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CBC

The CBC approaches the story in a similarly straightforward manner, but makes no real mention about the nuclear tie-in. Instead, it is just a general overview of what the incident means for Obama, of Prime Minister Stephen Harper’s response, and of Canada’s and the UN’s reactions policy-wise.

There is a twist, though. Rather than revealing the entire incident and then reporting on the details, the article takes a backwards approach. It reports on the details first and then, at the end of each of its sections, presents the basics of what happened. It’s a strange method that emphasizes the outcomes rather than the incident itself, as if the CBC is trying to say that it’s not going to judge what happened, only what’s resulted.

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TIME

The article published on TIME’s website, is very clearly from a magazine rather than a newspaper. For, despite the incident’s serious nature, the TIME article presents North Korea as a kind of dangerous clown at both its beginning and end. It also uses some fiery rhetoric, referring to the attack as “commenc[ing] a fusillade of artillery fire,” and outrightly calling it a “bombardment” (which is a little bombastic, but makes sense since North Korea fired 170 shells at the island).

TIME’s treatment of the nuclear aspect is also vamped up as it is stated that, according to US intelligence, North Korea already has 8 to 12 nuclear bombs. Interestingly, though, rather than just connecting the bombardment and North Korea’s revelation of its new nuclear plant, the TIME article suggests that these two incidents are part of Kim Jong Un’s training to be North Korea’s next leader.

Nonetheless, just like the CNN article, China is also painted as vaguely sinister, though with a bit of a broader brush. The article states that China’s reaction to the incident was delivered with “a blandness that approached indifference.”

Despite the lack of explicit fear-mongering in these articles, it’s interesting that the two of American origin mention North Korea’s newest nuclear capabilities and frame China as being a player in the incident, but a very aloof one. The mention of nuclear power definitely calls back to fears of nuclear war, and the portrayal of China just coolly looking on while the incident happened suggests that the country is lax on politically tough calls.

The lack of these two aspects in the CBC article suggests that American coverage is more sensational and more about making a story of something rather than reporting on the facts of something.

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Closing

Next week, we’ll see what South Korea itself has to say. As per the rest of the week, this blog will not have any new entries. So, until 4 June rolls around, you can check out older articles in this blog or my translation blog at tonguejar.blogspot.ca.

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