I know that I originally planned to re-launch this blog and Tongues in Jars for December, but recently my time has been short. I'll spare you the regular spiel about working three jobs and planning to move out and etc., etc. The shortest possible version is that I just haven't really figured out exactly what I want to do with A Glass Darkly going forward.
Now, I'm still going to blog (as is plain in my resuming regular updates at Tongues in Jars).
However, the big difference between my blogging in the future and my blogging in the past is that I'm only going to dedicate 1/4 of my writing time and energy to blogging. The other 3/4 are going to my novels, short stories, and poetry. Nonetheless, I want to keep updating these blog regularly. The best way to do this, as far as I've been able to figure, is to simply write more fluid entries.
So, rather than sitting down, planning out, strenuously editing and drafting each blog entry, from now on my entries will be shorter. Ultimately, the purpose of these blogs is to publicly indulge my hobbies, and to give you all a way to get to know me and what to expect from my writing. My blog entries will still have the usual polish, though the fiction and poetry I post here will still be drafts and thus a little unpolished. Think of them as the sketches that artists might post on their sites.
The new year's also going to bring some changes to A Glass Darkly's design and, possibly, name. I'll still post creative writing on Mondays, editorials will return on Wednesdays, and reviews will go up on Fridays. These reviews will mostly be of books, but there'll still be some movie reviews sprinkled in for good measure. But, these entries won't necessarily be regular.
Along with these irregular entries, the plan right now is to post thought pieces based on what I'm playing and reading every day. I've got a crazy book/video game backlog, and so there's plenty of fodder for free-writing. The difference between these entries and Wednesday's editorials will be that the former will be free-flowing wanderings with words, while the latter will usually be more concentrated mini-essays that try to make a point.
So, now that all that's out there - what about the rest of December? Well, for now all I can say is that I don't expect to get much up and running here. I might do one final movie review, either of a bad Christmas movie or of the famous flop Ishtar, but doing either seems unlikely. Instead, I can say for sure that Tongues in Jars will keep getting updated on a weekly basis, and I'll be publishing an article over on examiner.com every week as well.
So, watch this space, gentle reader, and something will appear!
Back To Top
Showing posts with label creative writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creative writing. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Monday, November 5, 2012
[Moon-dæg] Looking East while Writing in the West
Context
Gazing Across Prairies
Closing
Back To Top
Context
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!
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Closing
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!
Back To Top
Gazing Across Prairies
Closing
 |
Back To Top
Context
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!
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Closing
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!
Back To Top
Monday, October 29, 2012
[Moon-dæg] The Box and the Monk
Context
The Monk and the Box
Closing
Back To Top
Context
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Closing
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.
Back To Top
The Monk and the Box
Closing
 |
Back To Top
Context
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Closing
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.
Back To Top
Saturday, October 27, 2012
[Sæternes-dæg] Annotated Links #23: Chameleon Communications
1. Anders, Charlie Jane. "What would a Random House/Penguin merger mean for science fiction and fantasy?" io9 25 October 2012. Web. 27 October 2012.
Anders offers a handful of insights into what a merger of Penguin and Random House might mean for publishers, imprints, writers, readers and those aspiring to be writers. She also includes a link to an in-depth article about what mergers in general mean for science fiction and fantasy, and another link to a 2007 interview with Ace/Roc editor Anne Sowards. This article is written in a easy-going, conversational style.
This one is included, and set into the first place, because the possibility of a Penguin/Random House merger is huge news for anyone keeping an eye on the publishing industry.
2. Sullivan, Tim. "'Gone With The Wind' In North Korea An Unlikely Cultural Phenomenon." HuffPost World: Canada 24 October 2012. Web. 27 October 2012.
Sullivan writes on an array of reasons why Gone With the Wind is so popular among North Koreans. Among these reasons, he gives in depth treatment to the book's Civil War setting and its tough, hardship-enduring characters. He writes in a smooth style and uses a handful of quotations to underline his article's narrative quality.
This one's included because it's a great example of how cultural products can cross cultures and end up thriving in places that you would simply not expect.
3. Peng, Kan. "How to hard sell China's soft power." China Daily 26 October 2012. Web. 27 October 2012.
Peng begins by summarizing the Psy/Gangnam Style phenomenon, how social media has played an integral part in the phenomenon's popularity, and how the phenomenon has helped to promote South Korean culture and products across the world. He then moves into how China has tried and failed to do promote their soft power via cultural exports in the same way, but have failed because they've kept their attempts too official. Peng writes in a punchy, to-the-point style.
This article is included because of the contrast that it sets up between two nation's strategies for increasing their soft power. This contrast underlines the usefulness of pop-culture.
4. Rector, Gene. "'Science fiction' becomes 'science fact' following Utah test." WRWR The Patriot 23 October 2012. Web. 27 October 2012.
This is a brief article about a new microwave emitter-equipped missile (called CHAMP, or the Counter-electronics High powered Advanced Missile Project) that is designed to disable electronics. According to the article, the titular test in Utah saw this technology not only shut down all of the computers in a target building but also the camera recording the experiment.
As a technology article amongst articles about books and publishing, this one might seem out of place. However, at its heart it's about a missile that has the potential to take out communications systems - and what are publishing and books if not just friendly means of communication?
5. Perlow, Jason. "Computing's low-cost, Cloud-centric future is not Science Fiction." ZDNet 21 October 2012. Web. 27 October 2012.
This article looks at Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey and Ridley Scott's Blade Runner as examples of futurism. Specifically, Perlow goes over the aspects of each movie that, some 50 and 30 years before the present, accurately depict technological aspects of our daily life and those elements of the movies that aren't here just yet. Perlow writes in an expositional style, using a generous number of links to his own and others' writing.
This one is included because it shows the importance of fiction as a way to explore ideas that seem far removed from reality, just one of fiction's enduring uses.
Back To Top
Closing
That's it for this week in the blog, but check back here next week for another short story draft, a review of the recent cult classic The Room (Monday and Friday), and, over at Tongues in Jars, more of "Dum Diane vitrea" and Beowulf (Tuesday and Thursday).
Back To Top
Anders offers a handful of insights into what a merger of Penguin and Random House might mean for publishers, imprints, writers, readers and those aspiring to be writers. She also includes a link to an in-depth article about what mergers in general mean for science fiction and fantasy, and another link to a 2007 interview with Ace/Roc editor Anne Sowards. This article is written in a easy-going, conversational style.
This one is included, and set into the first place, because the possibility of a Penguin/Random House merger is huge news for anyone keeping an eye on the publishing industry.
2. Sullivan, Tim. "'Gone With The Wind' In North Korea An Unlikely Cultural Phenomenon." HuffPost World: Canada 24 October 2012. Web. 27 October 2012.
Sullivan writes on an array of reasons why Gone With the Wind is so popular among North Koreans. Among these reasons, he gives in depth treatment to the book's Civil War setting and its tough, hardship-enduring characters. He writes in a smooth style and uses a handful of quotations to underline his article's narrative quality.
This one's included because it's a great example of how cultural products can cross cultures and end up thriving in places that you would simply not expect.
3. Peng, Kan. "How to hard sell China's soft power." China Daily 26 October 2012. Web. 27 October 2012.
Peng begins by summarizing the Psy/Gangnam Style phenomenon, how social media has played an integral part in the phenomenon's popularity, and how the phenomenon has helped to promote South Korean culture and products across the world. He then moves into how China has tried and failed to do promote their soft power via cultural exports in the same way, but have failed because they've kept their attempts too official. Peng writes in a punchy, to-the-point style.
This article is included because of the contrast that it sets up between two nation's strategies for increasing their soft power. This contrast underlines the usefulness of pop-culture.
4. Rector, Gene. "'Science fiction' becomes 'science fact' following Utah test." WRWR The Patriot 23 October 2012. Web. 27 October 2012.
This is a brief article about a new microwave emitter-equipped missile (called CHAMP, or the Counter-electronics High powered Advanced Missile Project) that is designed to disable electronics. According to the article, the titular test in Utah saw this technology not only shut down all of the computers in a target building but also the camera recording the experiment.
As a technology article amongst articles about books and publishing, this one might seem out of place. However, at its heart it's about a missile that has the potential to take out communications systems - and what are publishing and books if not just friendly means of communication?
5. Perlow, Jason. "Computing's low-cost, Cloud-centric future is not Science Fiction." ZDNet 21 October 2012. Web. 27 October 2012.
This article looks at Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey and Ridley Scott's Blade Runner as examples of futurism. Specifically, Perlow goes over the aspects of each movie that, some 50 and 30 years before the present, accurately depict technological aspects of our daily life and those elements of the movies that aren't here just yet. Perlow writes in an expositional style, using a generous number of links to his own and others' writing.
This one is included because it shows the importance of fiction as a way to explore ideas that seem far removed from reality, just one of fiction's enduring uses.
Back To Top
Closing
That's it for this week in the blog, but check back here next week for another short story draft, a review of the recent cult classic The Room (Monday and Friday), and, over at Tongues in Jars, more of "Dum Diane vitrea" and Beowulf (Tuesday and Thursday).
Back To Top
Monday, October 22, 2012
[Moon-dæg] A West Coast Yawp
Context
West Coast Yawp
Closing
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Closing
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!
Back To Top
West Coast Yawp
Closing
 |
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Closing
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!
Back To Top
Monday, October 15, 2012
[Moon-dæg] From A Ship's Crow's Nest
Context
Blue Bricks
Closing
Back To Top
Context
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Closing
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).
Back To Top
Blue Bricks
Closing
 |
Back To Top
Context
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Closing
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).
Back To Top
Monday, October 1, 2012
[Moon-dæg] Watching the Detective
Context
All an Act
Closing
Back To Top
Context
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Closing
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!
Back To Top
All an Act
Closing
 |
Back To Top
Context
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Closing
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!
Back To Top
Sunday, September 30, 2012
[Sunnan-dæg] The Last of it's Name
These look back/look ahead entries have proven to be less useful than anticipated. Because the lists that get posted here are seldom worked on over the course of the week, and part of each of the last three Sundays have been consumed by these entries to little avail, I'm going to be stopping their posting all together.
However, as one final list, here's what I'm planning on doing between now and the end of the calendar year:
As you might've guessed from such a list of creative writing-related tasks, I'm dropping this update from my blogging schedule so that I can have more time for my fiction and poetry writing.
However, as counter productive as it may seem, I'm still planning to start a video game playlog over over the coming weeks.
Until then keep checking out this blog and my dead language translation blog Tongues in Jars.
The former/The latter has the usual creative writing on Monday, movie review on Friday (this week: The Screaming Skull), and "annotated links" on Saturday. And over at Tongues in Jars, you'll be able to find the second stanza of "Dum Diane vitrea" on Tuesday, and the first of Wiglaf's reactions to Beowulf's death on Thursday.
Back to Top
However, as one final list, here's what I'm planning on doing between now and the end of the calendar year:
- Outline and completed Dekar 4
- Outline and completed Dekar 5
- Edit and made publicly presentable a very loosely autobiographical novel about an English teacher in South Korea
- Edit and made publicly presentable a poetic novel about mythological creatures
- Edit and made publicly presentable an epic poem about a night in the life of a dishwasher
- Gather and organized all of my poetry
- Gather and organized all of my short stories
- Have 3 short stories accepted for publication
- Have 1 poem accepted for publication
As you might've guessed from such a list of creative writing-related tasks, I'm dropping this update from my blogging schedule so that I can have more time for my fiction and poetry writing.
However, as counter productive as it may seem, I'm still planning to start a video game playlog over over the coming weeks.
Until then keep checking out this blog and my dead language translation blog Tongues in Jars.
The former/The latter has the usual creative writing on Monday, movie review on Friday (this week: The Screaming Skull), and "annotated links" on Saturday. And over at Tongues in Jars, you'll be able to find the second stanza of "Dum Diane vitrea" on Tuesday, and the first of Wiglaf's reactions to Beowulf's death on Thursday.
Back to Top
Monday, September 24, 2012
[Moon-dæg] Poem #997b
Context
Sun and Moon
Closing
Back To Top
Context
Tonight's piece is a sample of my poetry from 2010. This was when I wrote poetry that stuck to a fairly regular form. This specific poem is also an example of my stuff on love that's written in an Elizabethan style; in fact, it's similar to Christopher Marlowe's "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" (a.k.a. "Poem #997").
Check it out, and let me know what you think in the comments!
Back To Top
Sun and Moon
A kiss and a peck and a see you tonight
Said the sun to the moon
at the coming of first light
Go my love and hide away
Scarce your face - scarce!
I’ll hide it behind window-blurred bars
And raise around you robes of cloud
As I shed light, generation, elation to those below.
Then, when those look up nightly
through eyes and disembodied words
To the glow of light from my cumulus chase,
We can join behind a dark-wooled herd
To stoke our lights before parting.
Before returning to our days.
Back To Top
Closing
Check back at this blog on Friday for a look for the likeable in The Samaritan (a.k.a. Fury). Then on Saturday, you'll be able to find the newest Annotated Links here, and a look back/look ahead on Sunday.
Back To Top
Sun and Moon
Closing
 |
Back To Top
Context
Tonight's piece is a sample of my poetry from 2010. This was when I wrote poetry that stuck to a fairly regular form. This specific poem is also an example of my stuff on love that's written in an Elizabethan style; in fact, it's similar to Christopher Marlowe's "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" (a.k.a. "Poem #997").
Check it out, and let me know what you think in the comments!
Back To Top
Sun and Moon
A kiss and a peck and a see you tonight
Said the sun to the moon
at the coming of first light
Go my love and hide away
Scarce your face - scarce!
I’ll hide it behind window-blurred bars
And raise around you robes of cloud
As I shed light, generation, elation to those below.
Then, when those look up nightly
through eyes and disembodied words
To the glow of light from my cumulus chase,
We can join behind a dark-wooled herd
To stoke our lights before parting.
Before returning to our days.
Back To Top
Closing
Check back at this blog on Friday for a look for the likeable in The Samaritan (a.k.a. Fury). Then on Saturday, you'll be able to find the newest Annotated Links here, and a look back/look ahead on Sunday.
Back To Top
Sunday, September 23, 2012
[Sunnan-dæg] After a Partial Peter Gabriel Eclipse
Over the past week, here's what I've done for the sake of my fiction and poetry writing:
By this week's end I'll have:
If you're wondering why this second list is fairly similar to the to-do list from last week's entry, my only excuse is that going to see Peter Gabriel in Toronto was a major distraction. In fact, here are the two highlights of the show (thanks to babyVantage and apc611 respectively):
This week's distraction will be a jaunt out to see "Whose Live Is It Anyway" at the Center in The Square. All the same, I'll have ample time for writing and planning, so I think that I'll be able to make short work of this week's to-do list.
Along with that, I'll be posting some creative writing tomorrow, seeking the salient in Samuel L. Jackson's The Samaritan on Friday, and posting "Annotated Links" on Saturday.
Over at Tongues in Jars watch for the first verse (for real this week) of "Dum Diane vitrea" on Tuesday and Beowulf's final words on Thursday.
And, watch for regular updates over at my examiner.com page.
Back to Top
- Outlined four of the five acts of the audio drama that I'm currently working on;
- Worked out all of the climactic events for my perspective characters in Dekar 4 - except for the main female character;
- Begun to research some of the magazines I'm thinking of sending my short story to;
- Noted more story ideas.
By this week's end I'll have:
- Completed my research into magazines and made a short list of five to send my stories to;
- Sent my stories to the first magazine from this list;
- Written up and organized a chapter-by-chapter outline of Dekar 4;
- Written out the next act (4 scenes) of the audio drama I'm working on.
If you're wondering why this second list is fairly similar to the to-do list from last week's entry, my only excuse is that going to see Peter Gabriel in Toronto was a major distraction. In fact, here are the two highlights of the show (thanks to babyVantage and apc611 respectively):
This week's distraction will be a jaunt out to see "Whose Live Is It Anyway" at the Center in The Square. All the same, I'll have ample time for writing and planning, so I think that I'll be able to make short work of this week's to-do list.
Along with that, I'll be posting some creative writing tomorrow, seeking the salient in Samuel L. Jackson's The Samaritan on Friday, and posting "Annotated Links" on Saturday.
Over at Tongues in Jars watch for the first verse (for real this week) of "Dum Diane vitrea" on Tuesday and Beowulf's final words on Thursday.
And, watch for regular updates over at my examiner.com page.
Back to Top
Monday, September 17, 2012
[Moon-dæg] Writing of Pale Horses
Context
Horse Play
Closing
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Closing
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.
Back To Top
Horse Play
Closing
 |
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Closing
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.
Back To Top
Sunday, September 16, 2012
[Sunnan-dæg] The First of many Lights
Welcome to the first Sunday Edition of A Glass Darkly.
In keeping with the themes of my other entries in this blog, since Sunday is named for the Sun, these entries will shine a light on what I did related to my writing over the previous week, while also using that light to peer ahead into the next. Yes, there will be lists, but there'll also be a little bit of description. Let's get to it.
As you might remember from the last "Update Entry" I made, I wrote that I was going to provide an update every three days rather than every two. That was back on Monday, and so things have sort of slackened on that end of things.
However, I'm now yanking that slack and drawing in the last parts of that blog update for this Sunday entry. So, in the future, those sorts of blog updates will come out every Sunday. In the meantime, these entries will be all about my writing efforts.
Over the past week, here's what I've done for the sake of my fiction and poetry writing:
As a refresher, here are the things still outstanding from the blog update of August '12:
It's my hope that I'll have all of these wrapped up come next Sunday.
Until then, don't miss tomorrow's creative writing entry and Friday's look at Luke Wilson and Samuel L. Jackson's Meeting Evil here at A Glass Darkly. Plus, on Saturday, you'll be able to find the newest "Annotated Links" here as well.
And keep an eye out for Tuesday's translation of a poem possibly written by Peter Abelard (of the famed pair of star-crossed medieval lovers Héloïse and Abelard), "Dum Diane vitrea," followed by Thursday's look at Beowulf's burial instructions at Tongues in Jars.
Oh, you might also have remembered that I mentioned a video game blog that I'd be starting up soon. I still intend to start it sooner rather than later, so watch for a link in future entries.
Back to Top
In keeping with the themes of my other entries in this blog, since Sunday is named for the Sun, these entries will shine a light on what I did related to my writing over the previous week, while also using that light to peer ahead into the next. Yes, there will be lists, but there'll also be a little bit of description. Let's get to it.
As you might remember from the last "Update Entry" I made, I wrote that I was going to provide an update every three days rather than every two. That was back on Monday, and so things have sort of slackened on that end of things.
However, I'm now yanking that slack and drawing in the last parts of that blog update for this Sunday entry. So, in the future, those sorts of blog updates will come out every Sunday. In the meantime, these entries will be all about my writing efforts.
Over the past week, here's what I've done for the sake of my fiction and poetry writing:
- Re-organized the schedule of A Glass Darkly to better accomodate my fiction and poetry writing;
- Come up with the climactic moment for my current fantasy novel (Working title: Dekar 4);
- Made notes for a number of short stories;
- Done some world building for that fantasy series I'm working on (the world's cosmology, history, and magic system, specifically);
- Compiled a list of Canadian science fiction magazines.
As a refresher, here are the things still outstanding from the blog update of August '12:
- Send out two short stories to magazines
- Outline entirety of the fantasy novel I'm writing
- Completed 10 of those chapters
- Completed the next act (4 scenes) of an audio drama I'm working on
It's my hope that I'll have all of these wrapped up come next Sunday.
Until then, don't miss tomorrow's creative writing entry and Friday's look at Luke Wilson and Samuel L. Jackson's Meeting Evil here at A Glass Darkly. Plus, on Saturday, you'll be able to find the newest "Annotated Links" here as well.
And keep an eye out for Tuesday's translation of a poem possibly written by Peter Abelard (of the famed pair of star-crossed medieval lovers Héloïse and Abelard), "Dum Diane vitrea," followed by Thursday's look at Beowulf's burial instructions at Tongues in Jars.
Oh, you might also have remembered that I mentioned a video game blog that I'd be starting up soon. I still intend to start it sooner rather than later, so watch for a link in future entries.
Back to Top
Monday, September 10, 2012
[Moon-dæg] An Edit of an Oldie
Context
Alchemical Links
Closing
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Closing
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.
Back To Top
Alchemical Links
Closing
 |
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Closing
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.
Back To Top
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Why the Blog Break? (Update Entry #0)
My taking a break from these blogs is nothing new. I've done it before a few times but, since each of those breaks has been motivated by an unfulfilled desire to tidy things up and to post new pages, I've decided to stop regular updates to both this blog and Tongues in Jars until I've:
I might not be regularly updating these blogs for the next week or two, but I want it to be clear that, despite more than half of the list being indirectly related to my blogs, these blogs (and those reading them) haven't been forgotten. So, as I complete each of these tasks, I'll post an update explaining how the process as a whole is coming along.
Plus, because they're often the most anticipated and the most fun to put together, I'll continue to post my weekly movie redemptions/condemnations while I work on these various tasks.
That said, watch this space for updates on my progress, and for this Friday's attempt to redeem the TV mini-series Earthsea.
- Recorded, edited, and uploaded all of the missing translation recordings (over at Tongues in Jars);
- Created and posted a hyperlinked portfolio page on these blogs;
- Made all of the titles of entries uniform across both blogs;
- Sent out two short stories to magazines;
- Created a central, personal blog on tumblr;
- Created a Facebook Writer/Author page;
- Outlined the next 10 chapters for the fantasy novel I'm writing;
- Completed five of those chapters;
- Completed the next act (four scenes) of an audio drama I'm working on;
- Completed my two outstanding commissions;
- Created a Commissions page (accessible through every blog) to accept new commissions.
I might not be regularly updating these blogs for the next week or two, but I want it to be clear that, despite more than half of the list being indirectly related to my blogs, these blogs (and those reading them) haven't been forgotten. So, as I complete each of these tasks, I'll post an update explaining how the process as a whole is coming along.
Plus, because they're often the most anticipated and the most fun to put together, I'll continue to post my weekly movie redemptions/condemnations while I work on these various tasks.
That said, watch this space for updates on my progress, and for this Friday's attempt to redeem the TV mini-series Earthsea.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Annotated Links #17: Writing of Rarities and Hard Finds
1. Doctorow, Cory. "Great writing advice from this year's Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy writing workshop." Boing Boing 14 August 2012. Web. 16 August 2012.
The title really says it all for this one: it's a short collection of some great advice from this year's Clarion workshop. It's written in a straightforward style and includes a link to the blog of Sam J. Miller, one of this year's participants and a stalwart notetaker who's been benevolent enough to post most of his notes online.
Because this one showcases some great writing advice that will probably still be new to you if you've only read how-to guides and gone to a few general writing workshops it's leading off today's Annotated Links.
2. "South Korean writer to take 'Persian Myths Tour.'" Tehran Times 7 August 2012. Web. 16 August 2012.
Briefly relates the plans of Gong Wonkuk, the South Korean "walking mythologist," to visit historical sites in Iran as part of his Persian Myths Tour. It also explains that Gong will give lectures and interviews during his travels, and will ultimately write a book in 10 volumes that summarizes his tour called "Eurasian Myths." The article is written in a bare-bones style with a handful of grammatical and stylistic errors - but nothing that gets in the way of coherency.
This made it into today's Annotated Links because it offers a look into the literary culture of South Korea, and into what one of the country's literati is up to at the moment.
3. Kennedy, Maev. "Soldiers injured in Afghanistan make surprise find on UK archaeology dig." The Guardian 7 August 2012. Web. 16 August 2012.
Soldiers who had returned to the UK after serving in Afghanistan found the remains of an Anglo-Saxon warrior on a dig as part of their rehabilitation to civilian life. Their find is in the area of an ancient burial monument dating from 2000 BC. Because of the thrill of a successful dig, eight of these soldiers are now going on to study archaeology at Leicester University. This article is written in a straightforward, journalistic style.
It's rounding off today's set of links because it shows how transformative discovering something can be. In this case the discovery is archaeological, but I think the same thing can happen if you discover something amazing to write about (as Gong Wonkuk might) or how to write more effectively (following that advice from the Clarion workshop).
Back To Top
Closing
Have your galoshes ready for tomorrow - Part Three of All-Request August will be posted then. This week's movie is the Deep-South horror venture Squirm!
Back To Top
The title really says it all for this one: it's a short collection of some great advice from this year's Clarion workshop. It's written in a straightforward style and includes a link to the blog of Sam J. Miller, one of this year's participants and a stalwart notetaker who's been benevolent enough to post most of his notes online.
Because this one showcases some great writing advice that will probably still be new to you if you've only read how-to guides and gone to a few general writing workshops it's leading off today's Annotated Links.
2. "South Korean writer to take 'Persian Myths Tour.'" Tehran Times 7 August 2012. Web. 16 August 2012.
Briefly relates the plans of Gong Wonkuk, the South Korean "walking mythologist," to visit historical sites in Iran as part of his Persian Myths Tour. It also explains that Gong will give lectures and interviews during his travels, and will ultimately write a book in 10 volumes that summarizes his tour called "Eurasian Myths." The article is written in a bare-bones style with a handful of grammatical and stylistic errors - but nothing that gets in the way of coherency.
This made it into today's Annotated Links because it offers a look into the literary culture of South Korea, and into what one of the country's literati is up to at the moment.
3. Kennedy, Maev. "Soldiers injured in Afghanistan make surprise find on UK archaeology dig." The Guardian 7 August 2012. Web. 16 August 2012.
Soldiers who had returned to the UK after serving in Afghanistan found the remains of an Anglo-Saxon warrior on a dig as part of their rehabilitation to civilian life. Their find is in the area of an ancient burial monument dating from 2000 BC. Because of the thrill of a successful dig, eight of these soldiers are now going on to study archaeology at Leicester University. This article is written in a straightforward, journalistic style.
It's rounding off today's set of links because it shows how transformative discovering something can be. In this case the discovery is archaeological, but I think the same thing can happen if you discover something amazing to write about (as Gong Wonkuk might) or how to write more effectively (following that advice from the Clarion workshop).
Back To Top
Closing
Have your galoshes ready for tomorrow - Part Three of All-Request August will be posted then. This week's movie is the Deep-South horror venture Squirm!
Back To Top
Monday, August 13, 2012
[Moon-dæg] Digging Deep for Poetry?
Context
"Anyway"
Closing
Back To Top
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):
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.
Back To Top
"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.
Back To Top
Closing
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
Back To Top
"Anyway"
Closing
 |
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
"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.
Back To Top
Closing
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
Back To Top
Monday, August 6, 2012
[Moon-dæg] Fiction in a Melodramatic Flash
Context
A Long-Awaited Kiss
Closing
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
A Long-Awaited Kiss
Closing
 |
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Monday, July 30, 2012
[Moon-dæg] Words and Their Stories
Context
Collisions
Persuasion
Closing
Back To Top
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:
And here are the words and the definitions that I made up:
Curiously, both of these stories are about science in one way or another, and particularly about machines that move things at very high speeds.
Back To Top
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."
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
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!
Back To Top
Collisions
Persuasion
Closing
 |
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
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."
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
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!
Back To Top
Monday, July 23, 2012
[Moon-dæg] Gesturing towards Science Fiction
Context
The Train Ride to the Freeholds
Closing
Back To Top
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!
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
The Train Ride to the Freeholds
Closing
 |
Back To Top
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!
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Monday, July 16, 2012
[Moon-dæg] When the Guard is Down
 |
Context
Still Not Saved
Closing
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
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!"
Back To Top
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.
Back To Top
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)