My last post was about Laura and Tessa's blogfest--as it turns out, I am a finalist in the competition they had going on! I can hardly believe it--amidst so many wonderful and intricate magical scenes, I feel deeply honored by this!
So, go to either of their pages and vote--for whomever you like! (I think you can also vote for more than one.) And then, check out their blogs--both are pretty cool! I am glad I found them through this blogfest.
Happy Wednesday, and end of March! Here comes April...
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Oh where, oh where did my poor voice go?
I don't know about you all, but I'm having one heck of a winter. I keep getting sick. I got a stomach virus around Thanksgiving; I had a sinus infection at the beginning of last month; now this month, I have a cold which has left me with a sore throat and no voice.
Now, on the plus side, I otherwise feel pretty well. And, since I stayed home from work because of it, I did get to work on my writing (when I wasn't dozing or downing fluids). On the negative side, I am supposed to sing on Sunday in church. And I teach two fitness classes between now and then. Plus I am supposed to work Saturday.
Yes, this is not the best timing. We'll see what will happen.
In other news, since I did do a bit of writing, I want to mention that Eric Trant has been talking about this particular magazine that you can submit to, though March 15. It's called "An Honest Lie," and the theme for this year is Justifiable Hypocrisy.
I'm planning on entering, though I am not sure if the story I think I'm going with is the one I ought to. I have two that sort of fit the bill, but I just sort of think I want to use this one. Eric asked us to post a 330 word excerpt (no more!) from what we are considering using, so, what the heck. Here it is:
Okay. In other news, blogger Jon Paul is actually hosting a second drunk at first sight/St. Patty's Day Blogfest! Not only should you sign up--you should read them. I'm taking part. I took part last year, too. This was one of the hardest blogfests I've ever taken part in! And it was tons of fun. So. Check that out, and keep your eyes peeled (not literally!) for my and other entries for this very fun fest.
There you are! My updates, not in a nutshell, but hopefully not painfully drawn out, either.
Now, on the plus side, I otherwise feel pretty well. And, since I stayed home from work because of it, I did get to work on my writing (when I wasn't dozing or downing fluids). On the negative side, I am supposed to sing on Sunday in church. And I teach two fitness classes between now and then. Plus I am supposed to work Saturday.
Yes, this is not the best timing. We'll see what will happen.
In other news, since I did do a bit of writing, I want to mention that Eric Trant has been talking about this particular magazine that you can submit to, though March 15. It's called "An Honest Lie," and the theme for this year is Justifiable Hypocrisy.
I'm planning on entering, though I am not sure if the story I think I'm going with is the one I ought to. I have two that sort of fit the bill, but I just sort of think I want to use this one. Eric asked us to post a 330 word excerpt (no more!) from what we are considering using, so, what the heck. Here it is:
Annie wouldn’t leave him alone so easily, though. “What are you working on?” She tilted her head to the side and leaned over his shoulder, and he could smell something like cinnamon.
“A new case.”
“Oh.” She moved slightly, shifting the stack of papers in her arms. The movement pulled her shirt up a bit in the front, and he could see the lower part of her belly button. “What’s it about, anyway?”
“Normalcy,” he said shortly. He didn’t think it was proper to talk about his cases casually, and she definitely was asking casually. “More depravations of human nature.”
She wrinkled her nose, and even then, Emerson couldn’t help but think that she really didn’t look so young. More like she was twenty-nine than nineteen. “Everything leads back to depravation for you.”
“Such is the case with law.” He sat back, frowning, but pleased despite himself. “Keep this in mind, if you choose to continue in this line of work, Annie. Only we keep our clients from sinking into an abyss of grievances. It is our duty to remember that all delinquents may re-enter regular society. Whom would you rather have living next door? Whom would you rather work to keep off the streets? There may be comparative degrees of depravity, but there is no differentiation, in the end.”
She made a very attractive noise that emerged from the back of her long, slender throat. “So, that’s your excuse?”
He snapped his gaze up at her. “What?”
“Depravation—that’s why you think you put all those people away. When you’re actually really a workaholic.”
He stared at her through his glasses. “I choose to devote my time to justice. Some agendas must be accomplished. Some things are more important than going home when the hour is up, as you know.”
“I know.” She seemed to lean forward, though she didn’t move. “So, what’s the case about?”
“Murder,” he said in a voice that was intended to end the conversation.Okay. In other news, blogger Jon Paul is actually hosting a second drunk at first sight/St. Patty's Day Blogfest! Not only should you sign up--you should read them. I'm taking part. I took part last year, too. This was one of the hardest blogfests I've ever taken part in! And it was tons of fun. So. Check that out, and keep your eyes peeled (not literally!) for my and other entries for this very fun fest.
There you are! My updates, not in a nutshell, but hopefully not painfully drawn out, either.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Library book sale
Two times a year, our public library holds a book sale. Imagine: you walk into a room. There are tables lining the walls, running up and down the center of the room. Each table is covered by the lids of cardboard boxes. Inside each lid are books of all types and all varieties and all ages. Usually there are so many that they are in lids under the tables, that the books are refreshed at various times throughout the three-day sale. Children's and teen's books generally have their own room; last time, so did the mysteries. There are romance novels, science fiction, historical, language, and fiction and nonfiction labels popping up around the area. Cookbooks, too. And records, cassettes, DVDs and VHS (yes, the old technology is not completely gone), sheet music and magazines, all piling up on the floors, in bags, in people's arms.
It's warm, too--because of how tightly so many bodies are packed into the rooms. Craning over the spines of books, hunting for just the right ones.
Did I mention that these books are sold by the pound? $1 per pound for softcover, 50 cents a pound for hardcover (if I'm remembering right).
Now you know what it's like.
Each sale, my brother and I take off a few hours from work, and the Thursday morning (always the first day) of the sale, we go there. It starts at 7:00; by 8, I always have tons of books.
These are books from all over--discarded library copies, books people have donated that never sold at their garage sales, books people donated to the library, anyway. I've found the greatest things there, too; like a fairly complete set of Louisa May Alcott books, a box of Agatha Christie novels, The Castle in the Attic by Elizabeth Winthrop (and a special love of mine from way back), a gazillion copies of The Wind in the Willows, A Wrinkle in Time, and other classics from my childhood. Mary Poppins, for one. Not the movie version--the original book. (Read it, if you haven't.) My favorite spot is the children's room. I'm not above recommending my favorite books to children when I'm in there, either. I hate to see them sitting forlornly on the shelf. They must be read!!!
The sale was yesterday, and although there were definitely fewer books, and I spent the least amount I ever have, there (only $19! The money supports our library, though, so it's totally worth it), I still came away with a ton of treasures. Including a book of poetry that includes the Lady of Shalot! (I'm an Anne of Green Gables fan. I had to get it.)
On the way in, though, some of the ladies standing in line around me were chatting about e-readers. Now, I haven't made up my mind about e-readers--in some ways, I so want one! In other ways, I'm just so reticent--I love to hold a book, to see them on the shelf. (But not to move a library full of them. That's just no fun.) I thought it was such an odd contradiction, to discuss the most recent technology for reading while waiting for a sale that would allow you to pick through (often) dusty books from Beatrix Potter to copies of The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám to Tony Morrion's Beloved to Eragon to Isaac Asimov to French-, Spanish-, Latin-, German- and even Arabic-English dictionaries...well. You get the idea. (I have bought all of these examples at this sale, by the way.)
I'm still on the fence about the e-reader, but I think I've made it a goal to get one. In the meantime, though, and even after, I'm sure, I will always love my books. And I will remember the moment I had yesterday, when I grabbed a book from the box lid and thought, "Some day, maybe some of the bloggers and I will have something laying in these boxes. And maybe somebody will even recommend it to someone else."
It was enough to give me goosebumps.
It's warm, too--because of how tightly so many bodies are packed into the rooms. Craning over the spines of books, hunting for just the right ones.
Did I mention that these books are sold by the pound? $1 per pound for softcover, 50 cents a pound for hardcover (if I'm remembering right).
Now you know what it's like.
Each sale, my brother and I take off a few hours from work, and the Thursday morning (always the first day) of the sale, we go there. It starts at 7:00; by 8, I always have tons of books.
These are books from all over--discarded library copies, books people have donated that never sold at their garage sales, books people donated to the library, anyway. I've found the greatest things there, too; like a fairly complete set of Louisa May Alcott books, a box of Agatha Christie novels, The Castle in the Attic by Elizabeth Winthrop (and a special love of mine from way back), a gazillion copies of The Wind in the Willows, A Wrinkle in Time, and other classics from my childhood. Mary Poppins, for one. Not the movie version--the original book. (Read it, if you haven't.) My favorite spot is the children's room. I'm not above recommending my favorite books to children when I'm in there, either. I hate to see them sitting forlornly on the shelf. They must be read!!!
The sale was yesterday, and although there were definitely fewer books, and I spent the least amount I ever have, there (only $19! The money supports our library, though, so it's totally worth it), I still came away with a ton of treasures. Including a book of poetry that includes the Lady of Shalot! (I'm an Anne of Green Gables fan. I had to get it.)
On the way in, though, some of the ladies standing in line around me were chatting about e-readers. Now, I haven't made up my mind about e-readers--in some ways, I so want one! In other ways, I'm just so reticent--I love to hold a book, to see them on the shelf. (But not to move a library full of them. That's just no fun.) I thought it was such an odd contradiction, to discuss the most recent technology for reading while waiting for a sale that would allow you to pick through (often) dusty books from Beatrix Potter to copies of The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám to Tony Morrion's Beloved to Eragon to Isaac Asimov to French-, Spanish-, Latin-, German- and even Arabic-English dictionaries...well. You get the idea. (I have bought all of these examples at this sale, by the way.)
I'm still on the fence about the e-reader, but I think I've made it a goal to get one. In the meantime, though, and even after, I'm sure, I will always love my books. And I will remember the moment I had yesterday, when I grabbed a book from the box lid and thought, "Some day, maybe some of the bloggers and I will have something laying in these boxes. And maybe somebody will even recommend it to someone else."
It was enough to give me goosebumps.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Hello--I'm back.
Hello. Excuse me while I dust my monitor and check for cobwebs on my keyboard.
Nope, everything's clean.
Apparently, my holiday season extended from December through today. And honestly, the only reason I'm writing now is because I am not feeling well, and am tuckered out from a day of normal activity. I made some soup (perfect for when you're not well, right?), I washed my dishes, and I thought about my current WIP (which is just getting off the ground, but I am very excited about it!). Actually, I spent the wee hours of the morning thinking about it, since I was up. Curses upon congested sinuses.
I do have a few resolutions. I'm resolving to form a (flexible) schedule, in which I can balance out my life a bit more. A bit of time staved off for reading--I get so busy, sometimes, I don't have time for such a simple act. That is so not good. Since Christmas, I've read the Percy Jackson series (as per my friend Amalia's recommendation). They totally rock. Seriously. I started a few others that I haven't finished. But. progress!
Another bit of time will be for writing! I need that creativity, and I deny it because of the other things that come up--work, housekeeping, sleep. You know.
I also want to make sure I'm on a good exercise schedule, and perhaps plan my menu more during the week. That is not really of interest to you, I'm sure, so we'll just glide over that little fact.
Here is a favorite commercial of mine. I hope you enjoy it. Totally awesome, especially for Star Wars fans.
Anyway. I'll try to schedule a bit more time to update this blog, now and again, too. Sometimes, schedules are helpful.
As long as I can stick to it!
So, farewell, for now, my readers!
Nope, everything's clean.
Apparently, my holiday season extended from December through today. And honestly, the only reason I'm writing now is because I am not feeling well, and am tuckered out from a day of normal activity. I made some soup (perfect for when you're not well, right?), I washed my dishes, and I thought about my current WIP (which is just getting off the ground, but I am very excited about it!). Actually, I spent the wee hours of the morning thinking about it, since I was up. Curses upon congested sinuses.
I do have a few resolutions. I'm resolving to form a (flexible) schedule, in which I can balance out my life a bit more. A bit of time staved off for reading--I get so busy, sometimes, I don't have time for such a simple act. That is so not good. Since Christmas, I've read the Percy Jackson series (as per my friend Amalia's recommendation). They totally rock. Seriously. I started a few others that I haven't finished. But. progress!
Another bit of time will be for writing! I need that creativity, and I deny it because of the other things that come up--work, housekeeping, sleep. You know.
I also want to make sure I'm on a good exercise schedule, and perhaps plan my menu more during the week. That is not really of interest to you, I'm sure, so we'll just glide over that little fact.
Here is a favorite commercial of mine. I hope you enjoy it. Totally awesome, especially for Star Wars fans.
Anyway. I'll try to schedule a bit more time to update this blog, now and again, too. Sometimes, schedules are helpful.
As long as I can stick to it!
So, farewell, for now, my readers!
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Siftings
The last few days, I've been going through some old boxes of mine. It's kind of exciting--like opening a pack of trading cards when you're little. You kind of know what to expect, but not completely--will you get that special foil card? That really rare card? Or will you finish off a collection?
I found a treasure!
I think I should start out by admitting that I'm a pack-rat. It's a tendency I'm trying to overcome. But I'm so glad that I found these--old school papers from elementary school. The big, bulky, construction paper-enriched crafts. Math tests, math papers, social studies papers...and writing!
Oh, my gosh. What did you write like, when you were little? Or what did you write about?
I'm pretty sure we were given pictures and were told to write stories about them. I was hoping mine would be fantastic and show how I was a writer at a young age, but alas, they weren't. There were some misspellings--I was just freshly seven, having had my birthday right before school began. But they were such treasures. Interesting views into my mind, in fact. I wrote a lot about kittens and blond girls named Lisa (I wanted to be blond, though I'm definitely not, and I wanted my name to be Lisa, though I love it as is). I laughed, and laughed, and I'm so glad I found them, and I'm so proud of them, whether or not they are well-written. I packed them away, but drawing on my memory:
If I found a dinosaur outside of my house, I would: ask my Mom if I can keep him and then I would keep him and I would call him farad. (I think that was supposed to be Fred. It wasn't capitalized in my "story," either.)
In the summertime: We wear three types of clothes; skirts, shorts and swimsuits. If you are a boy, you can only wear two. If you are a girl, you can wear all three. And you can play with the garden hose.
One Christmas: Everyone forgot, except for a little girl named Lisa. But she didn't know anyone forgot, so she didn't tell anyone. She left him (Santa?) a gift on Christmas Eve. (I assume that's the only gift given, and if you really want to think into it, Santa forgot, too, so he didn't even get his present...but oh, well.)
Oh, sometimes it's annoying to get prompts, but sometimes it's a lot of fun. So, I challenge you to tell me your own stories--what happened in the summer? What happened one Christmas? And what would you do if you found a dinosaur outside your house?
Or, you know, just enjoy my sad "stories." I did. :)
I found a treasure!
I think I should start out by admitting that I'm a pack-rat. It's a tendency I'm trying to overcome. But I'm so glad that I found these--old school papers from elementary school. The big, bulky, construction paper-enriched crafts. Math tests, math papers, social studies papers...and writing!
Oh, my gosh. What did you write like, when you were little? Or what did you write about?
I'm pretty sure we were given pictures and were told to write stories about them. I was hoping mine would be fantastic and show how I was a writer at a young age, but alas, they weren't. There were some misspellings--I was just freshly seven, having had my birthday right before school began. But they were such treasures. Interesting views into my mind, in fact. I wrote a lot about kittens and blond girls named Lisa (I wanted to be blond, though I'm definitely not, and I wanted my name to be Lisa, though I love it as is). I laughed, and laughed, and I'm so glad I found them, and I'm so proud of them, whether or not they are well-written. I packed them away, but drawing on my memory:
If I found a dinosaur outside of my house, I would: ask my Mom if I can keep him and then I would keep him and I would call him farad. (I think that was supposed to be Fred. It wasn't capitalized in my "story," either.)
In the summertime: We wear three types of clothes; skirts, shorts and swimsuits. If you are a boy, you can only wear two. If you are a girl, you can wear all three. And you can play with the garden hose.
One Christmas: Everyone forgot, except for a little girl named Lisa. But she didn't know anyone forgot, so she didn't tell anyone. She left him (Santa?) a gift on Christmas Eve. (I assume that's the only gift given, and if you really want to think into it, Santa forgot, too, so he didn't even get his present...but oh, well.)
Oh, sometimes it's annoying to get prompts, but sometimes it's a lot of fun. So, I challenge you to tell me your own stories--what happened in the summer? What happened one Christmas? And what would you do if you found a dinosaur outside your house?
Or, you know, just enjoy my sad "stories." I did. :)
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Blog-guilt
So lately, I've been feeling guilty for neglecting my blog. So today, I'm going to brush it off, get the cobwebs out of dear Bloggy's ears, and add my few cents to the day.
It is cold here today. Well, not cold by cold's standards--upper sixties and lower seventies are heaven in January, in this region. Or February. March. Often just a dream by the time we reach April. Perhaps we'll get there, by the end of May. But this summer has actually been warm, with temps in the nineties to one-hundreds, and I have been able to melt off the outer layer of ice that the last two winters bore. And now, I fear it's coming back.
But in other news--well. It's officially the last day of August. It's been a busy month for me, though not in every way I'd like. No writing was accomplished throughout this whole month, pretty much--well, not fictionally-speaking, and obviously very little here, as well. When the blog suffers, you know that other things must be going on. I've been training in to teach a new class, keeping busy at work. Trying to become a healthier person, too, by getting into a more regular work out schedule. And preparing to run about 5 miles in a marathon relay that I'm totally going to be terrible at. (Another topic for the future!) And now that it's about to be September, all sorts of new things are about to jump out, grab me by the scruff of my neck, shake me up a bit and demand my attention. All those little things we volunteer or (sometimes) are forced into really add up, you know?
But I promise, my dears--I hope it's okay with you all if I call you that? I'm running on just a few hours of sleep, here--I promise to be back. Because I have two reviews I'd like to share with you, one a book and one a movie. And because Bloggy is just purring so happily, now that I've allowed her to stretch out and get back into the social network.
Happy end of August to you. Enjoy the Kalends of September, which are soon to be upon us.
It is cold here today. Well, not cold by cold's standards--upper sixties and lower seventies are heaven in January, in this region. Or February. March. Often just a dream by the time we reach April. Perhaps we'll get there, by the end of May. But this summer has actually been warm, with temps in the nineties to one-hundreds, and I have been able to melt off the outer layer of ice that the last two winters bore. And now, I fear it's coming back.
But in other news--well. It's officially the last day of August. It's been a busy month for me, though not in every way I'd like. No writing was accomplished throughout this whole month, pretty much--well, not fictionally-speaking, and obviously very little here, as well. When the blog suffers, you know that other things must be going on. I've been training in to teach a new class, keeping busy at work. Trying to become a healthier person, too, by getting into a more regular work out schedule. And preparing to run about 5 miles in a marathon relay that I'm totally going to be terrible at. (Another topic for the future!) And now that it's about to be September, all sorts of new things are about to jump out, grab me by the scruff of my neck, shake me up a bit and demand my attention. All those little things we volunteer or (sometimes) are forced into really add up, you know?
But I promise, my dears--I hope it's okay with you all if I call you that? I'm running on just a few hours of sleep, here--I promise to be back. Because I have two reviews I'd like to share with you, one a book and one a movie. And because Bloggy is just purring so happily, now that I've allowed her to stretch out and get back into the social network.
Happy end of August to you. Enjoy the Kalends of September, which are soon to be upon us.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Feeling Lost, but learning from it (Watch out for spoilers, about midway down)
This isn't a unique feeling or post, I'm sure, and the title is a bit cheesy, I think, but seriously. Seriously!
OK. So, I started watching the TV Show "Lost" about three weeks ago. I wanted to figure out what was going on before the finale, so I could watch the finale. I just wanted to know about the hype. Yes, I got sucked into some stuff, though I had no clue what was going on with some other stuff. Thanks to Wikipedia, Hulu and my cousin, I felt pretty ready for the finale.
I almost cried the entire time! Some of my predictions came true, some had no legs to stand on, anyway. But, oh, my gosh.
Then I started to think about the parallels between the pilot and the finale. If you haven't seen it yet, but want to, maybe you shouldn't read past this point. If you don't care one way or the other, keep on reading.
Jack Shepherd, one of the main cast, starts out the entire show when he wakes up, after the plane has crashed on the island (you all knew that anyway, right?). It starts, as I recall, with the zoomed in close-up of his eyes opening. Vincent the dog finds him in the field, and then Jack's racing for the beach, starting to try to save everyone's life. The plane is in flames, and people are screaming. Locke is discovering he can walk. (He was in a wheelchair.) I think still in the pilot, there is the ubiquitous reference to black and white, good and evil.
What about the finale, then? Jack again is racing to save everyone, only this time, with his last breath. There's a subdued yet rushed feeling to his last walk through the bamboo. He has given his life to save the world this time, without thinking--much like his gut reaction in the pilot. Whatever he may have done in the meantime, he is what he is--he could not escape it. He was caught in that trap from the first episode. At the end, he sank down, fell down, and watched as the last few people escaped the island--Sawyer (once, his competition), Kate (his love), Claire (his half-sister), the pilot, Miles, and Richard. He sort of smiles. Vincent the dog finds him where he has fallen, in the bamboo patch. He's wounded again, as he was in the pilot, but this time, there's nothing he can do about it. There's a zoom-in, and he dies--with the last scene showing us his eye closing.
It's hauntingly beautiful, in a way. That his life has echoed itself, that he has done what he has to do, he has accepted it. It tears you apart--at least, it tore me apart. The parallel, and all of the meat in-between--his character development, the way he said goodbye to his loved one(s), and the sacrifice--all the death, to be completed by one last death. It's like literary fiction!
Yeah, sure, there are alternate time lines and alternate universes and alternate existences--in fact, in the finale you learn that the people from the flight made a place together, a (loosely-termed) purgatory of sorts, where they can meet each other again, remember, and then move on to the next plane together. (Not airplane, guys!) Yes, there's a lot of goofy other stuff going on--polar bears and such, and time travel, some group of people under an initiative that no one seems to know anything about. Think past all that. It's not so important as the basic story, which I believe lies in the first and last season (although this could be just me, as those are the only full seasons I watched). It's the struggle of life, death; it's the turmoil of emotions and relations, of friends, family, strangers, love, hate, the wild vs. civilization, good and evil. Opposites, that are so magnetized to each other that they cannot be one without the other, in many theories, in many instances.
These parallels are, in my humble opinion, beautiful ways to frame stories. The overarching themes that carry through, the true-to-character actions, the parallels, the meat in-between.
And though I didn't understand everything that went down in the finale--I think, after I've, ahem, gone through my grieving process--that it brings this show a bit of closure, and provides some lessons we can all learn from. And that, even if I don't understand, even if I am torn apart, I can respect, admire and even enjoy the framing of the story, and the story itself.
RIP, Lost.
OK. So, I started watching the TV Show "Lost" about three weeks ago. I wanted to figure out what was going on before the finale, so I could watch the finale. I just wanted to know about the hype. Yes, I got sucked into some stuff, though I had no clue what was going on with some other stuff. Thanks to Wikipedia, Hulu and my cousin, I felt pretty ready for the finale.
I almost cried the entire time! Some of my predictions came true, some had no legs to stand on, anyway. But, oh, my gosh.
Then I started to think about the parallels between the pilot and the finale. If you haven't seen it yet, but want to, maybe you shouldn't read past this point. If you don't care one way or the other, keep on reading.
Jack Shepherd, one of the main cast, starts out the entire show when he wakes up, after the plane has crashed on the island (you all knew that anyway, right?). It starts, as I recall, with the zoomed in close-up of his eyes opening. Vincent the dog finds him in the field, and then Jack's racing for the beach, starting to try to save everyone's life. The plane is in flames, and people are screaming. Locke is discovering he can walk. (He was in a wheelchair.) I think still in the pilot, there is the ubiquitous reference to black and white, good and evil.
What about the finale, then? Jack again is racing to save everyone, only this time, with his last breath. There's a subdued yet rushed feeling to his last walk through the bamboo. He has given his life to save the world this time, without thinking--much like his gut reaction in the pilot. Whatever he may have done in the meantime, he is what he is--he could not escape it. He was caught in that trap from the first episode. At the end, he sank down, fell down, and watched as the last few people escaped the island--Sawyer (once, his competition), Kate (his love), Claire (his half-sister), the pilot, Miles, and Richard. He sort of smiles. Vincent the dog finds him where he has fallen, in the bamboo patch. He's wounded again, as he was in the pilot, but this time, there's nothing he can do about it. There's a zoom-in, and he dies--with the last scene showing us his eye closing.
It's hauntingly beautiful, in a way. That his life has echoed itself, that he has done what he has to do, he has accepted it. It tears you apart--at least, it tore me apart. The parallel, and all of the meat in-between--his character development, the way he said goodbye to his loved one(s), and the sacrifice--all the death, to be completed by one last death. It's like literary fiction!
Yeah, sure, there are alternate time lines and alternate universes and alternate existences--in fact, in the finale you learn that the people from the flight made a place together, a (loosely-termed) purgatory of sorts, where they can meet each other again, remember, and then move on to the next plane together. (Not airplane, guys!) Yes, there's a lot of goofy other stuff going on--polar bears and such, and time travel, some group of people under an initiative that no one seems to know anything about. Think past all that. It's not so important as the basic story, which I believe lies in the first and last season (although this could be just me, as those are the only full seasons I watched). It's the struggle of life, death; it's the turmoil of emotions and relations, of friends, family, strangers, love, hate, the wild vs. civilization, good and evil. Opposites, that are so magnetized to each other that they cannot be one without the other, in many theories, in many instances.
These parallels are, in my humble opinion, beautiful ways to frame stories. The overarching themes that carry through, the true-to-character actions, the parallels, the meat in-between.
And though I didn't understand everything that went down in the finale--I think, after I've, ahem, gone through my grieving process--that it brings this show a bit of closure, and provides some lessons we can all learn from. And that, even if I don't understand, even if I am torn apart, I can respect, admire and even enjoy the framing of the story, and the story itself.
RIP, Lost.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Bad Girl Blogfest
Oi. This caught me off-guard--how did the May blogfests sneak up on me so easily? I had a lot of work-related writing to do tonight, and so this, which is from a story I started but never finished, is the best I can do. I'm about to pass out from exhaustion, now. Maybe I'll try and make edits tomorrow.
I probably won't, though.
I think I may have to finish this one, too. We'll see.
Oh, and do read other entrants here. Thanks, Iapetus999, for hosting!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Do you hear something?” Jared hissed.
“Shut up. She won’t even notice we’ve been here. The girl is totally loaded. Her family must be those guys who own—”
“I don’t care what she owns!” He could hear it again, he thought. Maybe not, though…it could be in his imagination, after all. Couldn’t it?
“You aren’t helping, Dude. You aren’t going to get anything for your share. I'm doing all the work.”
“I don’t want it!” He ducked around Phil and peered out the window. He could just see Candace—Candy. That was what she said to call her—as she had been the night before. Soft short-shorts, so that the definition of her legs was visible. She had beautiful legs. “I don’t want it!” He wanted her, not her possessions. He was in love.
“I’m telling you, she won’t even know.” Phil almost sounded like he was going to giggle.
“How can she not? These look like heirlooms.”
“You know about the rash of burglaries. We’ll blame it on that.”
“But—”
There was a soft sound, and he stopped. This time, Phil heard it, too. He could tell. They stared at each other, and crept forward.
“We need to get out of here,” Phil said.
It was too late. “Hello?” Candy was standing in the door. Jared froze.
She was wearing all black, and Jared noticed that first. Even her shorts were black. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her in that. She looked hot. And mad.
His stomach dropped into the nether region of his feet. “C-Candy.”
“Hi, boys. What are you doing here?” Her forehead furrowed, and he wanted to kiss her. He shoved that thought down. He had to do some damage control.
“We—we—“ he couldn’t ever talk around her, could he?
“We thought we heard the burglar in your room, Candace,” Phil said. His eyes were round, his face white—he actually looked believable, Jared thought. He glanced back at Candy.
“So, you two were just trying to protect me,” she said, her tone hard. “How sweet.” She stepped into the dark room.
“Phil—” Jared didn’t know what to do.
“That’s it exactly, Candy.” He could hear Phil’s thoughts; he was saying, Shut up, Jared. I’ve got this covered.
Candy seemed to trip over her couch, and she landed behind Phil. She grabbed him from behind, twisted his head and brought him to his knees, his scream piercing Jared’s ears. Run, Jared. Get out of here.
Candy hit Phil’s head against her coffee table, and he dropped belly-down to the floor. She yanked his head up by his hair. “You know what your mistake was, boys?”
Phil wasn't saying anything. He wasn't making any sound. Run, Jared. “Wh-What?’ he stuttered.
“You don’t know your enemy.” She laughed, short and low, and pulled something out of the pocket of her shorts.
“I don’t understand,” Jared said.
Candy grinned, and her face looked feral. “I mean, it’s hard for me to get robbed by that burglar…when I’m the burglar.” She unfolded the metal with one hand, and held the small, sharp blade up against Jared’s throat. “And you read about the other jobs--you know what they say about me.”
“Y-yes,” Jared said. “No-n-no-no…”
She licked her lips. “That’s right. No survivors.”
I probably won't, though.
I think I may have to finish this one, too. We'll see.
Oh, and do read other entrants here. Thanks, Iapetus999, for hosting!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Do you hear something?” Jared hissed.
“Shut up. She won’t even notice we’ve been here. The girl is totally loaded. Her family must be those guys who own—”
“I don’t care what she owns!” He could hear it again, he thought. Maybe not, though…it could be in his imagination, after all. Couldn’t it?
“You aren’t helping, Dude. You aren’t going to get anything for your share. I'm doing all the work.”
“I don’t want it!” He ducked around Phil and peered out the window. He could just see Candace—Candy. That was what she said to call her—as she had been the night before. Soft short-shorts, so that the definition of her legs was visible. She had beautiful legs. “I don’t want it!” He wanted her, not her possessions. He was in love.
“I’m telling you, she won’t even know.” Phil almost sounded like he was going to giggle.
“How can she not? These look like heirlooms.”
“You know about the rash of burglaries. We’ll blame it on that.”
“But—”
There was a soft sound, and he stopped. This time, Phil heard it, too. He could tell. They stared at each other, and crept forward.
“We need to get out of here,” Phil said.
It was too late. “Hello?” Candy was standing in the door. Jared froze.
She was wearing all black, and Jared noticed that first. Even her shorts were black. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her in that. She looked hot. And mad.
His stomach dropped into the nether region of his feet. “C-Candy.”
“Hi, boys. What are you doing here?” Her forehead furrowed, and he wanted to kiss her. He shoved that thought down. He had to do some damage control.
“We—we—“ he couldn’t ever talk around her, could he?
“We thought we heard the burglar in your room, Candace,” Phil said. His eyes were round, his face white—he actually looked believable, Jared thought. He glanced back at Candy.
“So, you two were just trying to protect me,” she said, her tone hard. “How sweet.” She stepped into the dark room.
“Phil—” Jared didn’t know what to do.
“That’s it exactly, Candy.” He could hear Phil’s thoughts; he was saying, Shut up, Jared. I’ve got this covered.
Candy seemed to trip over her couch, and she landed behind Phil. She grabbed him from behind, twisted his head and brought him to his knees, his scream piercing Jared’s ears. Run, Jared. Get out of here.
Candy hit Phil’s head against her coffee table, and he dropped belly-down to the floor. She yanked his head up by his hair. “You know what your mistake was, boys?”
Phil wasn't saying anything. He wasn't making any sound. Run, Jared. “Wh-What?’ he stuttered.
“You don’t know your enemy.” She laughed, short and low, and pulled something out of the pocket of her shorts.
“I don’t understand,” Jared said.
Candy grinned, and her face looked feral. “I mean, it’s hard for me to get robbed by that burglar…when I’m the burglar.” She unfolded the metal with one hand, and held the small, sharp blade up against Jared’s throat. “And you read about the other jobs--you know what they say about me.”
“Y-yes,” Jared said. “No-n-no-no…”
She licked her lips. “That’s right. No survivors.”
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Primal Scream!
OK. It's time for another blogfest, and I'm not even done with the last two. (Thanks for the reminder, Roland!) Sometimes I feel like I just keep blogging by the skin of my teeth, you know?
Anyway, this is the Primal Scream 'fest, hosted by Raquel Byrnes. (With more to come--even this week, yet!) And I'm not completely sure what all I was supposed to do in this blogfest, except post a scene that may include a primal-ish scream. Self-explanatory, huh?
Well, I'm not so fond of this, for this scene, and I don't think I did the best with it, but it's from my WIP, and looking at it sure has been helpful. Pulling bits out really make you look hard at what you have, you know?
Here are a few bits of explanation, this time:
-Herrick wants the Stone
-Sallie knows how to use the Stone, and Herrick wants to know how
-they are not at this time known to Sallie, but she can hear them. Whoever they are.
So, anyway, I hope you enjoy it, at least some. Check out Raquel's page to see more, okay? Thanks!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Herrick thrust the Stone into her hands. “Take it.” He folded his hands around hers, forcing her to curl her hands around the rock. “Think.” He snarled, his face inches away from hers. “Think,” he said again.
She felt like he had inserted a knife down her spine, into her vertebrae. Her mind turned white-hot, smoking, and she could see a pile of brown and ash, the ruins of her house on the Outside. She could see Trina, staring in horror at her, backing away, crying, babbling something. She could see Herrick, standing in front of her, bending over her. His mouth moved. Think. Think. She had to think, she had to do something. She was there, and she was here. She saw almost everything separately, then at the same time, then darkness, stars, fire, heat.
Pain, pain, hot, searing—
Circle, sphere, black, white, red-orange-red—
A long spire, a horse with wings of flame, a horse that was not a horse, but moved more gracefully, with fire in its eyes, brown, black—
“Don’t force it,” Amity saying, over and over. “Don’t force it. Don’t force it.”
She was screaming, she hurt, she screamed more.
“Let go,” they said, “let go!”
“No!” a woman screamed, and something whizzed past Sallie’s ear, and it was a knife, and it hit the man who was with her, the man who was Herrick.
She felt something fall away, and she dropped to her knees, to her palms. She pressed her forehead on the marble of the tomb and closed her eyes.
“Get the hell away from my daughter,” her mother said.
Anyway, this is the Primal Scream 'fest, hosted by Raquel Byrnes. (With more to come--even this week, yet!) And I'm not completely sure what all I was supposed to do in this blogfest, except post a scene that may include a primal-ish scream. Self-explanatory, huh?
Well, I'm not so fond of this, for this scene, and I don't think I did the best with it, but it's from my WIP, and looking at it sure has been helpful. Pulling bits out really make you look hard at what you have, you know?
Here are a few bits of explanation, this time:
-Herrick wants the Stone
-Sallie knows how to use the Stone, and Herrick wants to know how
-they are not at this time known to Sallie, but she can hear them. Whoever they are.
So, anyway, I hope you enjoy it, at least some. Check out Raquel's page to see more, okay? Thanks!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Herrick thrust the Stone into her hands. “Take it.” He folded his hands around hers, forcing her to curl her hands around the rock. “Think.” He snarled, his face inches away from hers. “Think,” he said again.
She felt like he had inserted a knife down her spine, into her vertebrae. Her mind turned white-hot, smoking, and she could see a pile of brown and ash, the ruins of her house on the Outside. She could see Trina, staring in horror at her, backing away, crying, babbling something. She could see Herrick, standing in front of her, bending over her. His mouth moved. Think. Think. She had to think, she had to do something. She was there, and she was here. She saw almost everything separately, then at the same time, then darkness, stars, fire, heat.
Pain, pain, hot, searing—
Circle, sphere, black, white, red-orange-red—
A long spire, a horse with wings of flame, a horse that was not a horse, but moved more gracefully, with fire in its eyes, brown, black—
“Don’t force it,” Amity saying, over and over. “Don’t force it. Don’t force it.”
She was screaming, she hurt, she screamed more.
“Let go,” they said, “let go!”
“No!” a woman screamed, and something whizzed past Sallie’s ear, and it was a knife, and it hit the man who was with her, the man who was Herrick.
She felt something fall away, and she dropped to her knees, to her palms. She pressed her forehead on the marble of the tomb and closed her eyes.
“Get the hell away from my daughter,” her mother said.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Body Language blogfest
A quick draft of a short story I thought up years ago..this gave me a chance to work a bit on something new! Anyway--here it is, rough and tumble, and ready for Harley D. Palmer's body language blogfest! Go check out the other entrants!
(Update to add link!)
__________________________________________
Amy had been talking to someone, but she turned, her skirt swirling, and then she saw him. She stared, and he did, too.
She cocked an eyebrow, tilted her head in that way he used to like. Like she was issuing a challenge.
Okay, so maybe he had stared too long. He nodded, and took a step toward her. Maybe he should say something. Or not. It was all so awkward. He lifted his hand in a sort of wave, then let it drop back.
She looked amused. She twisted back and forth, crossing her arms behind her back, gripping her elbows. Just like always.
An elder woman pushed past Tyler, shoving him further even more. He glanced over at Amy; she grinned, and stepped forward as well, opening her mouth.
A wrinkly-faced man interceded, and she turned toward him, dropped her hands, and twitched her skirt back and forth.
“Hey, Ty?” No one called him Ty. He glanced at her; the girl, her cousin’s daughter’s friend’s whatever who was patiently serving her term as attendant, chuckled nervously. “Lana said to forget the sandwich, she’s not hungry anymore. Too nervous.” He nodded mutely.
"She wants you to go and fix the flowers on the pews, though. She’s very nervous about them, I guess. She hasn’t stopped talking about them yet!”
“I got ‘em. Tell her not to worry.” The girl smiled, and he took three steps back, then entered the sanctuary—away from Amy.
(Update to add link!)
__________________________________________
Amy had been talking to someone, but she turned, her skirt swirling, and then she saw him. She stared, and he did, too.
She cocked an eyebrow, tilted her head in that way he used to like. Like she was issuing a challenge.
Okay, so maybe he had stared too long. He nodded, and took a step toward her. Maybe he should say something. Or not. It was all so awkward. He lifted his hand in a sort of wave, then let it drop back.
She looked amused. She twisted back and forth, crossing her arms behind her back, gripping her elbows. Just like always.
An elder woman pushed past Tyler, shoving him further even more. He glanced over at Amy; she grinned, and stepped forward as well, opening her mouth.
A wrinkly-faced man interceded, and she turned toward him, dropped her hands, and twitched her skirt back and forth.
“Hey, Ty?” No one called him Ty. He glanced at her; the girl, her cousin’s daughter’s friend’s whatever who was patiently serving her term as attendant, chuckled nervously. “Lana said to forget the sandwich, she’s not hungry anymore. Too nervous.” He nodded mutely.
"She wants you to go and fix the flowers on the pews, though. She’s very nervous about them, I guess. She hasn’t stopped talking about them yet!”
“I got ‘em. Tell her not to worry.” The girl smiled, and he took three steps back, then entered the sanctuary—away from Amy.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Sweet, sweet sunshine!
It's a deliciously beautiful day, today. I want so badly to go running outside--literally, with my arms wide open and my head tilted back to feel the sun, like I did when I was little, alone in our backyard. It would be so bright that, with my eyes closed, I could see dark red, no black, and I could see spots when I opened my eyes.
I want to go out right now, but I am a working gal, now. (Four jobs, technically, though three are part time. Oh, and I tutor Latin once a week, as well.) And tonight, I teach a class at our local YMCA, so that will cut into the evening hours, as well.
I love to be doing things, and to be busy, but it's days like this that make me want to play hooky. I looked ahead at the weather for the week, and lined up everything I'm doing alongside the schedule. When can I go ride my bike again? (I took it for a spin the other day, and even got to ring the bell! I love my bike.) When will I have time to go for that once-a-week jog I'm trying to make myself keep up with?
It cuts into writing time, too, when you get so busy. That's what happens to me, every so often. Then I wish I didn't have to work; that I could spend every day doing what I want, reading, studying languages, writing, jogging, dancing, gardening, cooking, and I suppose even some deep cleaning, because *someone* would have to...
That sounds busy, too, doesn't it? And then I remember--but wait! What about choir? And what about--
Some people have gambling problems. Perhaps I have a busy-ness problem. But I seriously have a hard time imagining not doing much for more than a day at a time...if that much. Even with the sun shining.
I can still run around outside over my break, I suppose. I can still find time to enjoy the sun. Even if it means sitting on my front step to eat my supper.
I want to go out right now, but I am a working gal, now. (Four jobs, technically, though three are part time. Oh, and I tutor Latin once a week, as well.) And tonight, I teach a class at our local YMCA, so that will cut into the evening hours, as well.
I love to be doing things, and to be busy, but it's days like this that make me want to play hooky. I looked ahead at the weather for the week, and lined up everything I'm doing alongside the schedule. When can I go ride my bike again? (I took it for a spin the other day, and even got to ring the bell! I love my bike.) When will I have time to go for that once-a-week jog I'm trying to make myself keep up with?
It cuts into writing time, too, when you get so busy. That's what happens to me, every so often. Then I wish I didn't have to work; that I could spend every day doing what I want, reading, studying languages, writing, jogging, dancing, gardening, cooking, and I suppose even some deep cleaning, because *someone* would have to...
That sounds busy, too, doesn't it? And then I remember--but wait! What about choir? And what about--
Some people have gambling problems. Perhaps I have a busy-ness problem. But I seriously have a hard time imagining not doing much for more than a day at a time...if that much. Even with the sun shining.
I can still run around outside over my break, I suppose. I can still find time to enjoy the sun. Even if it means sitting on my front step to eat my supper.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Bar scene blogfest
OK, I don't do a lot of writing about bars, but this is from a WIP I happened to have sitting around, where I happened to actually write about a bar. There's a bit in the middle (where the ellipsis is) where I cut part of a scene, but the whole bit in the bar is there. If that makes sense.
I got my two scenes for the 10th up really late, so take a look at them, too, if you're interested--Murder 'Fest and First Kiss Blogfest, yesterday. This one, I wanted to make sure to get up ASAP! Then check out Tara's page for links to more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The bar was like a trip back in time; it had a Hawaiian theme, and apparently it was “Fifties night,” part of the bar’s special. Lindsey rolled her eyes at him and grinned, as if to say, “Isn’t this all chintzy and cheap? But for a free beer, may as well take part,” and he felt again like she was someone a little different, this time, someone he could maybe talk to and think about safely.
Together, they separated from the rest of the group and sat down at the bar. There was a sad-looking paper palm tree wilting on the countertop next to a display of three empty, fake coconut cups. Austen drummed his knuckles on the counter while Lindsey made small talk, played with her hair, and brushed against his arm four or five times.
When the barkeeper came over, “Sex on the Rocks, please,” Lindsey said, and she giggled.
The man nodded. His arms were thicker than his neck, and he had “Mom” tattooed on his arm. He looked at Austen expectantly.
“I’ll have the special,” he said.
He turned around and started filling cups as others took up the stools and tables around them. Austen thought it seemed awfully full for 5:30 on a Tuesday at a crappy little bar full of fake pineapples, but then, he didn’t know what the norm was.
“I hope this doesn’t sound stupid,” Lindsey said. “I was just wondering if you’d mind telling me a bit about yourself. I mean, I know we work together—”
“But we don’t know each other?” he said, and he smiled.
“Yes, exactly,” she said.
“Not much to say, really,” he said. “Grew up near here. Went to school near here. Now I work here.”
“Are your parents still living nearby?” she asked. “My parents are miles away. It can be nice, but sometimes it’s nicer to have them close.”
The barkeeper turned back, then, with her drink and a beer for him, and slipped the glasses toward them, before moving down the bar to customers more interested in heavier drinks.
“Actually,” he said, “My parents both passed on when I was young.”
She paused, her cup halfway to her lips, and she looked over at him uncertainly. “They both died?”
He shrugged.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. Then, apparently at a loss for words, she took a big gulp of her drink.
...
They sat at the bar in an awkward silence, each sipping from their cup. His beer tasted sweet, too sweet, and he felt it trickle down into his stomach. He didn’t much like beer. He didn’t much like this bar.
He drained his glass, and looked over at Lindsey, who was taking small sips and looking very uncomfortable.
“Want to get out of here?” he asked.
I got my two scenes for the 10th up really late, so take a look at them, too, if you're interested--Murder 'Fest and First Kiss Blogfest, yesterday. This one, I wanted to make sure to get up ASAP! Then check out Tara's page for links to more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The bar was like a trip back in time; it had a Hawaiian theme, and apparently it was “Fifties night,” part of the bar’s special. Lindsey rolled her eyes at him and grinned, as if to say, “Isn’t this all chintzy and cheap? But for a free beer, may as well take part,” and he felt again like she was someone a little different, this time, someone he could maybe talk to and think about safely.
Together, they separated from the rest of the group and sat down at the bar. There was a sad-looking paper palm tree wilting on the countertop next to a display of three empty, fake coconut cups. Austen drummed his knuckles on the counter while Lindsey made small talk, played with her hair, and brushed against his arm four or five times.
When the barkeeper came over, “Sex on the Rocks, please,” Lindsey said, and she giggled.
The man nodded. His arms were thicker than his neck, and he had “Mom” tattooed on his arm. He looked at Austen expectantly.
“I’ll have the special,” he said.
He turned around and started filling cups as others took up the stools and tables around them. Austen thought it seemed awfully full for 5:30 on a Tuesday at a crappy little bar full of fake pineapples, but then, he didn’t know what the norm was.
“I hope this doesn’t sound stupid,” Lindsey said. “I was just wondering if you’d mind telling me a bit about yourself. I mean, I know we work together—”
“But we don’t know each other?” he said, and he smiled.
“Yes, exactly,” she said.
“Not much to say, really,” he said. “Grew up near here. Went to school near here. Now I work here.”
“Are your parents still living nearby?” she asked. “My parents are miles away. It can be nice, but sometimes it’s nicer to have them close.”
The barkeeper turned back, then, with her drink and a beer for him, and slipped the glasses toward them, before moving down the bar to customers more interested in heavier drinks.
“Actually,” he said, “My parents both passed on when I was young.”
She paused, her cup halfway to her lips, and she looked over at him uncertainly. “They both died?”
He shrugged.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. Then, apparently at a loss for words, she took a big gulp of her drink.
...
They sat at the bar in an awkward silence, each sipping from their cup. His beer tasted sweet, too sweet, and he felt it trickle down into his stomach. He didn’t much like beer. He didn’t much like this bar.
He drained his glass, and looked over at Lindsey, who was taking small sips and looking very uncomfortable.
“Want to get out of here?” he asked.
Eep! Murder scene blogfest/first kiss blogfest!
So, not realizing what day it was, I only just now got onto the blog. Checked to make sure that murder scene day was tomorrow.
I discovered it was today. My reaction?
"Nooooooo!" Fall to my knees shock! Hands outstretched, in the classic Hero-desperation mode! How did I lose track of days? And how did April pass me by so quickly?
So, today is murder scene day. And that means it's also First Kiss blogfest day. And I still have--well--a *little* bit of time.
*Murder Scene*
So, this is a WIP that I posted a teensy bit of, the other day. I want to give a bit of background; the mc is a lawyer involved with a murder trial. His POV changes, but this is his re-imagining of the ordeal--he becoming the murderer, himself. It's the only thing I have prepared to toss your way, at the moment, although it needs some work. And, it's actually quite short! Here it is.
In his mind, he saw Mrs. Haroldson. This time, she was wearing a red dress. He saw her with the neighbor, the two of them sitting together on a couch, her neck bent back in laughter at something funny he had said. The ringing noise in his ears screamed at him. He knew what to do. He went to his house, got a gun, and returned. The neighbor was afraid of him, but Emerson didn’t hear a thing. He shot him five times, though he was dead after three. Mrs. Haroldson looked, then. She screamed at him, but he couldn’t hear. He squeezed his eyes shut. He could see it. He could feel it. White, smooth skin, and this time, it was cold.
Justice.
OK, now go read the other entries at Anne Riley's page--she's the one who started that 'fest.
*First Kiss*
Again, a little background.When I write stories, I usually feel like the major players are receiving the first kisses (or at least the first ones that count). In this case, this is the first kiss that counts, to the mc. And, it's with an escaped convict. So that should fit in with both 'fests, right? I hope this will satisfy (and be short):
“I’m not changing the rules,” he said. He took a step toward her. “I can’t.”
“Just stay back, okay?” she said.
“You still don’t believe me,” he said, and she thought he seemed insulted.
“I don’t believe you,” she said. She leaned back. “I think you’re going to kill me.”
He stepped toward her, and she stiffened against the refrigerator. He stood and stared at her for a moment, and then he grabbed her arms, pulled her forward, gently tipped her head back, and he kissed her.
He tasted of peanut butter and bitterness, of iron and of steel. He kissed her, and she knew, she knew, that he needed something, and it wasn’t to kill her.
He stepped away, then, and she stared at him, all too aware that her breathing was shallow and that her shirt was all wrinkled.
“I didn’t do it,” he said. “What they want me for.” She stared at him, and flinched, and knocked one of the magnets against the floor. She was sweaty all over, she realized. She was too hot.
And now, go read others at Melissa's blog. And see you tomorrow for some bar-hopping stories....hopefully...
I discovered it was today. My reaction?
"Nooooooo!" Fall to my knees shock! Hands outstretched, in the classic Hero-desperation mode! How did I lose track of days? And how did April pass me by so quickly?
So, today is murder scene day. And that means it's also First Kiss blogfest day. And I still have--well--a *little* bit of time.
*Murder Scene*
So, this is a WIP that I posted a teensy bit of, the other day. I want to give a bit of background; the mc is a lawyer involved with a murder trial. His POV changes, but this is his re-imagining of the ordeal--he becoming the murderer, himself. It's the only thing I have prepared to toss your way, at the moment, although it needs some work. And, it's actually quite short! Here it is.
In his mind, he saw Mrs. Haroldson. This time, she was wearing a red dress. He saw her with the neighbor, the two of them sitting together on a couch, her neck bent back in laughter at something funny he had said. The ringing noise in his ears screamed at him. He knew what to do. He went to his house, got a gun, and returned. The neighbor was afraid of him, but Emerson didn’t hear a thing. He shot him five times, though he was dead after three. Mrs. Haroldson looked, then. She screamed at him, but he couldn’t hear. He squeezed his eyes shut. He could see it. He could feel it. White, smooth skin, and this time, it was cold.
Justice.
OK, now go read the other entries at Anne Riley's page--she's the one who started that 'fest.
*First Kiss*
Again, a little background.When I write stories, I usually feel like the major players are receiving the first kisses (or at least the first ones that count). In this case, this is the first kiss that counts, to the mc. And, it's with an escaped convict. So that should fit in with both 'fests, right? I hope this will satisfy (and be short):
“I’m not changing the rules,” he said. He took a step toward her. “I can’t.”
“Just stay back, okay?” she said.
“You still don’t believe me,” he said, and she thought he seemed insulted.
“I don’t believe you,” she said. She leaned back. “I think you’re going to kill me.”
He stepped toward her, and she stiffened against the refrigerator. He stood and stared at her for a moment, and then he grabbed her arms, pulled her forward, gently tipped her head back, and he kissed her.
He tasted of peanut butter and bitterness, of iron and of steel. He kissed her, and she knew, she knew, that he needed something, and it wasn’t to kill her.
He stepped away, then, and she stared at him, all too aware that her breathing was shallow and that her shirt was all wrinkled.
“I didn’t do it,” he said. “What they want me for.” She stared at him, and flinched, and knocked one of the magnets against the floor. She was sweaty all over, she realized. She was too hot.
And now, go read others at Melissa's blog. And see you tomorrow for some bar-hopping stories....hopefully...
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
And oh, once writ...
So, hello, there!
I feel like it's been some time since I've posted anything other than a blogfest entry. I am really sorry. Honest! I've been busy outside of blogdom. Not that that's as important as you all, of course...but the deadlines are more pressing.
So, when did I hit 42 followers? I can't believe I've come this far, or that that many of you actually think I'm follow-worthy! It's an honor to watch that number rise, however fast or slow.
So, I just thought I'd pop on, and say hello. Let you know about more upcoming blogfests. I'm starting to worry that I'm going to forget them! Charity Bradford is doing a baking one; Melissa @ The Guardian is doing a First Kiss one (on the same day as murder blogfest day, so that could be interesting); there's one I just signed up for today, through Harley Palmer, in which MCs use body language instead of actually talking. I totally just signed up for a Deleted Scenes blogfest through My Literary Jam and Toast (tres exciting--Amalia T., this one's for you!) Oh, I'm addicted to blogfests, and it seems that even more of them are popping up all month! Am I missing any?
Oh, which reminds me--thanks to everyone who gave their advice and their opinion for the first page blogfest, hosted by Kelly--you all helped me so much. I got great feedback. I'm still going through and reading other posts for that blogfest, actually. Hopefully I'll get a little further tomorrow.
So anyway, I guess I just wanted to write this post for a specific reason, which I'm sort of hemming and hawing about. One of my goals this year was not to try and publish my novel--no, that needs way more work--but to try and submit a short story (or more than one) to literary magazines, to see if I could get it published. So, I did. And I haven't heard back, and I'm not expecting anything...but...I did it. Hey, it's worth a shot, right? And it's a step forward toward a goal. So, I'll try to keep you all up to date with that. I almost don't care what happens (but I do, totally)--I'm just proud I took this step.
Which reminds me of one last thing: my truths and lies. You were supposed to guess--four of each. I never quite did tell you which were true, did I? No. Check out the original post here.
Answers:
1. We traveled a lot when I was younger, and so I have been to 48 of the United States, as well as several other countries. FALSE--but sneakily so. We've been to 47 states.
2. One of the states I haven't been to is Louisiana. Another is Hawaii. TRUE! And the third is Alaska.
3. I am allergic to fur, but I have had some very interesting pets...among them, a snake, several frogs (Hoppy, Junior, Carla and Sadie), at least a dozen goldfish, and now I have a pet pig, Wilbur. I know, kind of unimaginative, but he really looked like a Wilbur! FALSE--I do want to have a pet pig, though. But I'd probably name him Hammie. Or her Porcia. I am allergic, though, and we did have a tarantula...but that's another story.
4. If I could, I would ballroom dance professionally for the rest of my life. I teach some, though I'm by no means like the professionals. I briefly considered trying to get on a soap opera so ABC would contact me to go on Dancing With the Stars. True, but when I say briefly considered, don't take me too seriously--I just wished I could.
5. When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I didn't know for sure, usually. I had several ideas throughout my life: I wanted to be an angel, a Barbie doll, a mermaid, an artist, a marine biologist (for about a week), and then by the time I turned 13, I knew I wanted to write. Who knows which of these is most attainable. Ha. True. I did want to be all of those things. Even the Barbie Doll!
6. I love to color--especially with crayons. The look of the wax, they way they smell, the way they write on paper--it's magical! FALSE! I kind of feel mean. I love to color...with markers. I can't stand crayons most of the time. I only use them if they're Crayola, actually. Then it's...okay. But they've got nothing on the markers!
7. Kirsten Dunst walked right by me at work one day, and though I smiled at her and saw her, I had no idea it was her until later, when one of my coworkers started to talk about how nice she was. True! I almost died when I found out. Seriously. Couldn't someone have told me?
8. I have a twin brother. We're really close, and finish each other's sentences and all that behavior people think is typical of twins (it's not always). But we don't look anything alike, so most people get really confused when we're around, and we always have to convince them that we're related. Oh, well. False. I have an older brother, and though we are close, we are complete opposites, people say, and absolutely not like that. And we are both glad for it.
So, that's that. Peace out, and sweet dreams till morrow...or, if it's morrow, sweet daydreams till night.
I feel like it's been some time since I've posted anything other than a blogfest entry. I am really sorry. Honest! I've been busy outside of blogdom. Not that that's as important as you all, of course...but the deadlines are more pressing.
So, when did I hit 42 followers? I can't believe I've come this far, or that that many of you actually think I'm follow-worthy! It's an honor to watch that number rise, however fast or slow.
So, I just thought I'd pop on, and say hello. Let you know about more upcoming blogfests. I'm starting to worry that I'm going to forget them! Charity Bradford is doing a baking one; Melissa @ The Guardian is doing a First Kiss one (on the same day as murder blogfest day, so that could be interesting); there's one I just signed up for today, through Harley Palmer, in which MCs use body language instead of actually talking. I totally just signed up for a Deleted Scenes blogfest through My Literary Jam and Toast (tres exciting--Amalia T., this one's for you!) Oh, I'm addicted to blogfests, and it seems that even more of them are popping up all month! Am I missing any?
Oh, which reminds me--thanks to everyone who gave their advice and their opinion for the first page blogfest, hosted by Kelly--you all helped me so much. I got great feedback. I'm still going through and reading other posts for that blogfest, actually. Hopefully I'll get a little further tomorrow.
So anyway, I guess I just wanted to write this post for a specific reason, which I'm sort of hemming and hawing about. One of my goals this year was not to try and publish my novel--no, that needs way more work--but to try and submit a short story (or more than one) to literary magazines, to see if I could get it published. So, I did. And I haven't heard back, and I'm not expecting anything...but...I did it. Hey, it's worth a shot, right? And it's a step forward toward a goal. So, I'll try to keep you all up to date with that. I almost don't care what happens (but I do, totally)--I'm just proud I took this step.
Which reminds me of one last thing: my truths and lies. You were supposed to guess--four of each. I never quite did tell you which were true, did I? No. Check out the original post here.
Answers:
1. We traveled a lot when I was younger, and so I have been to 48 of the United States, as well as several other countries. FALSE--but sneakily so. We've been to 47 states.
2. One of the states I haven't been to is Louisiana. Another is Hawaii. TRUE! And the third is Alaska.
3. I am allergic to fur, but I have had some very interesting pets...among them, a snake, several frogs (Hoppy, Junior, Carla and Sadie), at least a dozen goldfish, and now I have a pet pig, Wilbur. I know, kind of unimaginative, but he really looked like a Wilbur! FALSE--I do want to have a pet pig, though. But I'd probably name him Hammie. Or her Porcia. I am allergic, though, and we did have a tarantula...but that's another story.
4. If I could, I would ballroom dance professionally for the rest of my life. I teach some, though I'm by no means like the professionals. I briefly considered trying to get on a soap opera so ABC would contact me to go on Dancing With the Stars. True, but when I say briefly considered, don't take me too seriously--I just wished I could.
5. When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I didn't know for sure, usually. I had several ideas throughout my life: I wanted to be an angel, a Barbie doll, a mermaid, an artist, a marine biologist (for about a week), and then by the time I turned 13, I knew I wanted to write. Who knows which of these is most attainable. Ha. True. I did want to be all of those things. Even the Barbie Doll!
6. I love to color--especially with crayons. The look of the wax, they way they smell, the way they write on paper--it's magical! FALSE! I kind of feel mean. I love to color...with markers. I can't stand crayons most of the time. I only use them if they're Crayola, actually. Then it's...okay. But they've got nothing on the markers!
7. Kirsten Dunst walked right by me at work one day, and though I smiled at her and saw her, I had no idea it was her until later, when one of my coworkers started to talk about how nice she was. True! I almost died when I found out. Seriously. Couldn't someone have told me?
8. I have a twin brother. We're really close, and finish each other's sentences and all that behavior people think is typical of twins (it's not always). But we don't look anything alike, so most people get really confused when we're around, and we always have to convince them that we're related. Oh, well. False. I have an older brother, and though we are close, we are complete opposites, people say, and absolutely not like that. And we are both glad for it.
So, that's that. Peace out, and sweet dreams till morrow...or, if it's morrow, sweet daydreams till night.
Friday, April 2, 2010
First page...*sigh*
Well, I've mentioned before that I can't seem to refuse a challenge, but today's blogfest, brought to us by Kelly @ Kelly's Compositions, is a challenge I really believe I need to take part in. Because, as so many people do, I hate the first chapter of my WIP. I can't seem to get it right. This is the latest incarnation of probably at the very least, twelve different versions...yikes. So, if you enjoy ripping apart people's work, rip away...I'll take any and all comments.
Thanks for hosting, Kelly--and please, readers, be sure to check out the other posters.
And if you're here for yesterday's Alternate Version blogfest, well, look at the post directly below this one!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sallie Kingston sank down onto her knees in the dirt, and put her fingers over the words, to feel the engraving as she had when she was younger. Helena, 1851. Death knows life’s secrets.
It was one of the few markers in the graveyard still inscribed with a name, one of the fewer marked by a date; it was engraved so deeply that, centuries later, Helena still lived on. At least for Sallie.
She folded herself against the stone to read it over again, one last time before going home, before her mother started to wonder, and then she stood. Yellow leaves fell from her lap like rain. Her knees were sodden, and she tried to wipe them down, but only made it look worse. She looked out beyond the front of the graveyard, to the small house she shared with her mother; it was a bit less than a mile away, but there was nothing in the way, and she could see it clearly, the windows lighting up as the sky darkened. As long as her mother wasn’t waiting for her at the door, Sallie could clean herself up, and she wouldn’t know.
Unless she asked. Sallie wasn’t exactly the world's greatest liar.
She should have gone straight home, probably, but sometimes she stayed after to study, so her mother would probably assume that’s where she was now. Maybe she would have been, too. But that had been before Trina Smithson had tormented her at school, before she had gotten in trouble in one of her classes for dozing off. Before the others had whispered about her as she walked through the halls. She was tired out, and now she was waiting for—well, just waiting to forget, a little. To not think about the day—but more to forget about the night.
Nights had never been easy, but they were mostly manageable. Her mother was overly concerned when something like this came up, and it made Sallie uncomfortable. It wasn’t anything, really. Sometimes, she just worried. Or her dreams woke her, sometimes—something just wasn’t right about them. They were nonsensical and gray.
It was much easier to forget, here and now, in her sanctuary.
Thanks for hosting, Kelly--and please, readers, be sure to check out the other posters.
And if you're here for yesterday's Alternate Version blogfest, well, look at the post directly below this one!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sallie Kingston sank down onto her knees in the dirt, and put her fingers over the words, to feel the engraving as she had when she was younger. Helena, 1851. Death knows life’s secrets.
It was one of the few markers in the graveyard still inscribed with a name, one of the fewer marked by a date; it was engraved so deeply that, centuries later, Helena still lived on. At least for Sallie.
She folded herself against the stone to read it over again, one last time before going home, before her mother started to wonder, and then she stood. Yellow leaves fell from her lap like rain. Her knees were sodden, and she tried to wipe them down, but only made it look worse. She looked out beyond the front of the graveyard, to the small house she shared with her mother; it was a bit less than a mile away, but there was nothing in the way, and she could see it clearly, the windows lighting up as the sky darkened. As long as her mother wasn’t waiting for her at the door, Sallie could clean herself up, and she wouldn’t know.
Unless she asked. Sallie wasn’t exactly the world's greatest liar.
She should have gone straight home, probably, but sometimes she stayed after to study, so her mother would probably assume that’s where she was now. Maybe she would have been, too. But that had been before Trina Smithson had tormented her at school, before she had gotten in trouble in one of her classes for dozing off. Before the others had whispered about her as she walked through the halls. She was tired out, and now she was waiting for—well, just waiting to forget, a little. To not think about the day—but more to forget about the night.
Nights had never been easy, but they were mostly manageable. Her mother was overly concerned when something like this came up, and it made Sallie uncomfortable. It wasn’t anything, really. Sometimes, she just worried. Or her dreams woke her, sometimes—something just wasn’t right about them. They were nonsensical and gray.
It was much easier to forget, here and now, in her sanctuary.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Alternate Version Blogfest--Happy April Fools Day!
So, it's been some time. I've left my poor followers hanging out there in blogdom. I can see you were all busy...I was, too. But it kept me away from the blog.
However, Blogfests always pull me back, whether I'm prepared for them or not. Today, very last-minute, I signed up for two more, bringing the total of April 'fests I'm taking part in up to four--Tara @ Secret Story's bar scene blogfest (Eep, I have no idea what to share, for that); Anne Riley's murder scene blogfest! (Is saying hurray acceptable? I do know what I want to post for this, I think); and Kelly @ Kelly's Compositions' First Page blogfest (ugh...I hate my first pages!); and at last, tomorrow's, the Alternate Version Blogfest, hosted by Livia Blackburne, in which she tells us to write a small scene in a different style. OK. As usual, I'm not prepared, but not about to be left behind...so below it the beginning of a short story I wrote which I realize needs some work, and the alternate form(s) it has taken. Really a lot of fun, though mine are sort of off the wall...I feel like I cheated, really.
Happy April Fools Day, everyone!
*The original version*
Skin. That was all he could see. A wide expanse of skin, smooth and creamy and untouched. He imagined himself reaching out, pressing his warmth to the cold. It was so white.
Emerson Talbot Fredericks, Esq. looked away and turned back to his work as she flitted around. She knew what she was doing, he was sure. She dressed just the right way, wearing clothes that curved where she did. He shook his head. “Annie, can you leave or stay quiet? I’m trying to concentrate.”
“Sorry,” she said, turning. The expanse of skin was covered as she straightened. He tried not to stare at her lip while she bit it. “I didn’t think I was making that much noise.”
The *Rulebook* version
To improve interoffice relationships, please be mindful of your coworkers.
*Men/women must wear non-distracting, office dress.
*Men/women should respect each other in regards to how they wish to be treated.
*Men/women must maintain appropriate noise levels in office.
*Men/women must not solicit each other.
And, for good measure, the *Zombie version* (FYI, I know little to nothing about Zombies. Feel free to point out errors!)
Skin. That was all he could see. A wide expanse of skin, smooth and creamy and untouched. He imagined himself reaching out, pressing his warmth to the cold. It was so white. And he was so hungry.
Emerson Talbot Fredericks, Esq., tried to look away. He fought against himself. He turned back to his work, trying to remember that he had liked her once, had known her once, before he became what he was now. They had walked the streets together, carrying their axes, ready to swing them into the others.
But now, she was under his possession, and he freshly changed, freshly bitten himself. Now, she looked like a meal, and her bare skin didn't help. He shook his head. “Annie, can you leave?”
“Sorry,” she said, turning. The expanse of skin was covered as she straightened. He tried not to stare at her lip while she bit it. Beauty and brains, and all he wanted was...braaains. She would make a lot of noise.
However, Blogfests always pull me back, whether I'm prepared for them or not. Today, very last-minute, I signed up for two more, bringing the total of April 'fests I'm taking part in up to four--Tara @ Secret Story's bar scene blogfest (Eep, I have no idea what to share, for that); Anne Riley's murder scene blogfest! (Is saying hurray acceptable? I do know what I want to post for this, I think); and Kelly @ Kelly's Compositions' First Page blogfest (ugh...I hate my first pages!); and at last, tomorrow's, the Alternate Version Blogfest, hosted by Livia Blackburne, in which she tells us to write a small scene in a different style. OK. As usual, I'm not prepared, but not about to be left behind...so below it the beginning of a short story I wrote which I realize needs some work, and the alternate form(s) it has taken. Really a lot of fun, though mine are sort of off the wall...I feel like I cheated, really.
Happy April Fools Day, everyone!
*The original version*
Skin. That was all he could see. A wide expanse of skin, smooth and creamy and untouched. He imagined himself reaching out, pressing his warmth to the cold. It was so white.
Emerson Talbot Fredericks, Esq. looked away and turned back to his work as she flitted around. She knew what she was doing, he was sure. She dressed just the right way, wearing clothes that curved where she did. He shook his head. “Annie, can you leave or stay quiet? I’m trying to concentrate.”
“Sorry,” she said, turning. The expanse of skin was covered as she straightened. He tried not to stare at her lip while she bit it. “I didn’t think I was making that much noise.”
The *Rulebook* version
To improve interoffice relationships, please be mindful of your coworkers.
*Men/women must wear non-distracting, office dress.
*Men/women should respect each other in regards to how they wish to be treated.
*Men/women must maintain appropriate noise levels in office.
*Men/women must not solicit each other.
And, for good measure, the *Zombie version* (FYI, I know little to nothing about Zombies. Feel free to point out errors!)
Skin. That was all he could see. A wide expanse of skin, smooth and creamy and untouched. He imagined himself reaching out, pressing his warmth to the cold. It was so white. And he was so hungry.
Emerson Talbot Fredericks, Esq., tried to look away. He fought against himself. He turned back to his work, trying to remember that he had liked her once, had known her once, before he became what he was now. They had walked the streets together, carrying their axes, ready to swing them into the others.
But now, she was under his possession, and he freshly changed, freshly bitten himself. Now, she looked like a meal, and her bare skin didn't help. He shook his head. “Annie, can you leave?”
“Sorry,” she said, turning. The expanse of skin was covered as she straightened. He tried not to stare at her lip while she bit it. Beauty and brains, and all he wanted was...braaains. She would make a lot of noise.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Drunk at first sight blogfest
Hello, again! Two days after Simon's PG/MG blogfest challenge, (you can read mine here if you're looking for that), it's time for another blogfest--this one, Drunk at first sight.
I have to admit, I found this to be more of a challenge for me than the previous one. You see...I don't really have much that fits for this, pre-written. drink alcoholic beverages. I did have one story, but it's not ready, and the scene I could have used was too *short*, if you can believe that. Also, I tend not to really write about drinking. I tend not to drink! And so I feel a bit like a fish out of water.
So I thought I'd write something new for Jon Paul's challenge (check out the other entrants!)...and instead I feel like, right now, it's an endless scene of nothing. But I think I love the characters. The only other thing is that it's horribly long. I'm sorry about that. You have my permission to skim (if you needed it).
So, here it is: my post about alcohol and relationships and such. Thanks for reading...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Green foil shamrocks were everywhere—cropping out of the corners, growing up the walls, hanging from the ceilings. It was a good thing the lights were dimmed, because if they had been on full, the green glare would have run everyone out of the bar. Except that the place was so packed, the light wouldn’t have been able to get far enough to bounce back.
Dan sat at a corner table, where he was able to view the crowd, but was still close enough to the bar to catch the bartender’s attention, if he needed another drink. He sipped his beer—his regular, pale and golden, and definitely not green. He never could force himself to down any green beer, even if it was St. Patrick’s Day—and he watched the bodies moving. Forward, backward, colliding with each other, pulling apart. Dancing. One girl spilled her drink all over her shirt, cheered, and then pulled it off; she was wearing a little tank top underneath, so tight it showed everything. Someone covered her with a sweater and steered her out of his view, while two men followed. She was drunk. Happy and drunk.
He took another sip.
It was hard to see anything, hard to hear anything. He wondered why he had come. Why he came every year. Why it was so important to him to see humanity rolling and reeling. Maybe because of Karen—his Karen. Because she had enjoyed it, and now she was gone.
"There’s nothing like watching people.” Hard lemonade was her favorite, but on St. Patrick’s Day, she always had a glass of green beer on the side. She had a sip of it, asked him to try it. When he refused, she pushed it aside, and they both forgot it until the end of the evening. “Except for talking to them.”
“Not always.” He could feel the smile pulling at the corners of his lips.
She wore a triumphant look on her face--she knew she had him. “No. Always. Even the crazies. The crazier, the better.”
“Maybe not.” He leaned forward here, took her hand.
"You know, maybe we’re the crazy ones,” she said. She was starting to get tipsy. “Crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy—”
He was bumped from behind, knocked out of his reverie. A girl with short blonde hair fell into the chair beside him. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”
"It’s okay.” He kept his tone short, so that she’d get the hint and leave him alone.
She didn’t. Instead, she settled herself down. “I’m knocking into everyone, tonight.”
"It happens.” He tried to create some distance between them, while he tried to get back into his head. Back to Karen. He took a sip of his beer. It wasn’t even all that good.
“Do you mind if I sit here? I mean, since I’m here already?” She had a shot in her hand—one of the night’s specials. Small, and green. He grunted.
“Thanks, so much. It’s a mad house.” She set it down. “Oh, I’m so ready for this to be over.”
“For what to be over?”
She smiled, and lifted the drink. “It’s my first time.”
“Oh?” She looked older than 21. Still young. Too young. He glanced around, and wished vainly that he had dyed the gray out of his hair.
Not gray. White. He had to realize that by his age, hair couldn’t be called distinguished or gray—only white.
She didn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that she was sitting with the oldest man in the room. “My first time getting drunk, I mean. I really didn’t want to, unless it was worth it.”
Now he was interested. Karen would have wanted to know. “You found something that made it worth it?”
“Yeah, no, I didn’t. Not one thing.” She smiled at him. “A bunch. My family. I have a horrible family, you know? Just awful. And my boyfriend. He’s an idiot. And I think I’m about to be laid off. Company’s trying to save some money.” She lifted the drink. “Cheers!”
He tapped his beer cautiously against her small glass, and then watched as she drained it. She sucked in her cheeks as she set it down, and leaned back.
“Well?”
“Terrible. Just wretched. And it did nothing for me.” She frowned. “How many do you think I’ll have to have?”
“More than one,” he said. “Obviously. How many have you had?”
She looked up toward the ceiling, obviously counting in her mind. “Like, five. Two shots, a martini, a glass of wine and a margarita.”
He took another sip. “Either you’re drunk already, or this is the reason you’ve never been drunk before.”
She sighed. “I guess I’ll just get a beer. Green, maybe. So at least I’ll get that awful dye into my system. Maybe that’ll do something. I just felt like being a little destructive, you know?” She began to dig through her purse. “Do you want one?”
He shook his head, and watched as she waved the barkeeper over. He brought her a clear mug of green liquid, foaming over. She thanked him, paid him. “This is my last one,” she told him.
“That might be a good idea,” Dan said, as the barkeeper walked away. “Getting drunk isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
I have to admit, I found this to be more of a challenge for me than the previous one. You see...I don't really have much that fits for this, pre-written. drink alcoholic beverages. I did have one story, but it's not ready, and the scene I could have used was too *short*, if you can believe that. Also, I tend not to really write about drinking. I tend not to drink! And so I feel a bit like a fish out of water.
So I thought I'd write something new for Jon Paul's challenge (check out the other entrants!)...and instead I feel like, right now, it's an endless scene of nothing. But I think I love the characters. The only other thing is that it's horribly long. I'm sorry about that. You have my permission to skim (if you needed it).
So, here it is: my post about alcohol and relationships and such. Thanks for reading...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Green foil shamrocks were everywhere—cropping out of the corners, growing up the walls, hanging from the ceilings. It was a good thing the lights were dimmed, because if they had been on full, the green glare would have run everyone out of the bar. Except that the place was so packed, the light wouldn’t have been able to get far enough to bounce back.
Dan sat at a corner table, where he was able to view the crowd, but was still close enough to the bar to catch the bartender’s attention, if he needed another drink. He sipped his beer—his regular, pale and golden, and definitely not green. He never could force himself to down any green beer, even if it was St. Patrick’s Day—and he watched the bodies moving. Forward, backward, colliding with each other, pulling apart. Dancing. One girl spilled her drink all over her shirt, cheered, and then pulled it off; she was wearing a little tank top underneath, so tight it showed everything. Someone covered her with a sweater and steered her out of his view, while two men followed. She was drunk. Happy and drunk.
He took another sip.
It was hard to see anything, hard to hear anything. He wondered why he had come. Why he came every year. Why it was so important to him to see humanity rolling and reeling. Maybe because of Karen—his Karen. Because she had enjoyed it, and now she was gone.
"There’s nothing like watching people.” Hard lemonade was her favorite, but on St. Patrick’s Day, she always had a glass of green beer on the side. She had a sip of it, asked him to try it. When he refused, she pushed it aside, and they both forgot it until the end of the evening. “Except for talking to them.”
“Not always.” He could feel the smile pulling at the corners of his lips.
She wore a triumphant look on her face--she knew she had him. “No. Always. Even the crazies. The crazier, the better.”
“Maybe not.” He leaned forward here, took her hand.
"You know, maybe we’re the crazy ones,” she said. She was starting to get tipsy. “Crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy—”
He was bumped from behind, knocked out of his reverie. A girl with short blonde hair fell into the chair beside him. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”
"It’s okay.” He kept his tone short, so that she’d get the hint and leave him alone.
She didn’t. Instead, she settled herself down. “I’m knocking into everyone, tonight.”
"It happens.” He tried to create some distance between them, while he tried to get back into his head. Back to Karen. He took a sip of his beer. It wasn’t even all that good.
“Do you mind if I sit here? I mean, since I’m here already?” She had a shot in her hand—one of the night’s specials. Small, and green. He grunted.
“Thanks, so much. It’s a mad house.” She set it down. “Oh, I’m so ready for this to be over.”
“For what to be over?”
She smiled, and lifted the drink. “It’s my first time.”
“Oh?” She looked older than 21. Still young. Too young. He glanced around, and wished vainly that he had dyed the gray out of his hair.
Not gray. White. He had to realize that by his age, hair couldn’t be called distinguished or gray—only white.
She didn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that she was sitting with the oldest man in the room. “My first time getting drunk, I mean. I really didn’t want to, unless it was worth it.”
Now he was interested. Karen would have wanted to know. “You found something that made it worth it?”
“Yeah, no, I didn’t. Not one thing.” She smiled at him. “A bunch. My family. I have a horrible family, you know? Just awful. And my boyfriend. He’s an idiot. And I think I’m about to be laid off. Company’s trying to save some money.” She lifted the drink. “Cheers!”
He tapped his beer cautiously against her small glass, and then watched as she drained it. She sucked in her cheeks as she set it down, and leaned back.
“Well?”
“Terrible. Just wretched. And it did nothing for me.” She frowned. “How many do you think I’ll have to have?”
“More than one,” he said. “Obviously. How many have you had?”
She looked up toward the ceiling, obviously counting in her mind. “Like, five. Two shots, a martini, a glass of wine and a margarita.”
He took another sip. “Either you’re drunk already, or this is the reason you’ve never been drunk before.”
She sighed. “I guess I’ll just get a beer. Green, maybe. So at least I’ll get that awful dye into my system. Maybe that’ll do something. I just felt like being a little destructive, you know?” She began to dig through her purse. “Do you want one?”
He shook his head, and watched as she waved the barkeeper over. He brought her a clear mug of green liquid, foaming over. She thanked him, paid him. “This is my last one,” she told him.
“That might be a good idea,” Dan said, as the barkeeper walked away. “Getting drunk isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Ides of March! - Middle Reader love scene blogfest
Welcome to the Ides of March! Today is the day Simon C. Larter picked to host his Middle reader love scene. You can read more about this and see rules and who all signed up here; in the meantime, I wrote this scene (just now, as per my usual), and I'm just going to post it right now, because I'm too anxious about it. (I've still got a bit of time, but oh, well.) So skip down to below the line to read it, if you are in a hurry.
But if not, for those of you who don't know anything about the Ides of March, here's a fun little fact.
In the days of the ancient Romans, calendar dates were could be told by three set dates in a month. The Kalends were the first of the month, the Nones were the 5th, and the the Ides fall on...the 13th.
Are you asking yourself, what happened to the 15th of March?
Well, in March, May, July and October, the Nones and Ides fall on different dates. The Nones fall on the 7th day of the month, and the Ides fall on the 15th...and thank goodness, too. Because now we have a way of remembering that July is one of those special months that takes the Ides on a different day. And if we read something that says the Ides of a different month, say, August or January, is the 15th, we can revel in the fact that we know better.
Good ol' Romans. If you're interested in more of this, I found this article that seems to be pretty informative.
Without further ado: here is my entry for the blogfest!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Their parents had to work late, and Dustin and his brother Craig were on their own. But that night, Craig had a friend over. A girl. She wasn’t like the girls in Dustin’s class. She was what their father would have called “over the top,” which seemed to be just the way Craig liked girls. She had long dangly earrings and very curly, long hair, and she smiled at Dustin when she walked in the door.
“Hi, Champ.”
No one ever called Dustin anything but his full name. Not even his parents.
She was wearing a plaid jacket with fur around the collar, zipped tightly over her chest. She had on a short skirt over plaid leggings.
“Stop staring, Dustin,” Craig hissed.
The girl heard. “Craig, it’s fine. Really.” She smiled at Dustin, and his stomach felt funny. “It’s okay, Champ.” She leaned over and whispered loudly. “I like plaid.”
Her name was Erica, and she stayed for dinner, which Craig took care of—they ordered pizza, because that was easiest, he said, and fastest. Erica giggled.
After dinner, Craig told Dustin that they would be up in his room for a while, studying, and that afterward, he would take care of “the dishes.” He made bunny ears with both hands when he said it, and Erica laughed again, but Dustin just rolled his eyes. There were no dishes—just the pizza box. And Dustin was pretty sure he’d end up having to throw that out himself.
“Stay here, Dustin,” Craig said.
They went up the stairs, and Dustin stayed at the kitchen table. He had a little math to do, but that was it. He pulled it out, finished the problems in his text book. He threw away the pizza box, as he had thought would happen. Craig and Erica were still upstairs.
She looked nothing like the girls in his class. He liked the way she called him Champ. And he liked her hair. The curls looked light and fluffy. He wondered, if he had been older, would she have come over to see him, instead? What if she were still sitting at the table, with Dustin, while Craig was wondering what was going on?
It was quiet. Their parents wouldn’t be home for another few hours, probably. Dustin went upstairs, to his own bedroom.
The door to Craig’s room was partially closed, but he could hear something, like a snuffling. He looked in, quietly.
Craig and Erica were on Craig’s bed, under the sheets. Her curls were everywhere, spilling over them both. It was awkward, and both of them were moving in strange ways, all legs and arms.
Dustin couldn’t look away at first. Then he realized that there were plaid leggings and a plaid vest on the floor, mixed in with his brother’s blue jeans.
The funny feeling in his stomach grew, and he walked away, to his room, and carefully closed the door. He sat down on the edge of his bed. He couldn’t hear them, anymore. But he could hear her.
“It’s okay, Champ.”
But if not, for those of you who don't know anything about the Ides of March, here's a fun little fact.
In the days of the ancient Romans, calendar dates were could be told by three set dates in a month. The Kalends were the first of the month, the Nones were the 5th, and the the Ides fall on...the 13th.
Are you asking yourself, what happened to the 15th of March?
Well, in March, May, July and October, the Nones and Ides fall on different dates. The Nones fall on the 7th day of the month, and the Ides fall on the 15th...and thank goodness, too. Because now we have a way of remembering that July is one of those special months that takes the Ides on a different day. And if we read something that says the Ides of a different month, say, August or January, is the 15th, we can revel in the fact that we know better.
Good ol' Romans. If you're interested in more of this, I found this article that seems to be pretty informative.
Without further ado: here is my entry for the blogfest!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Their parents had to work late, and Dustin and his brother Craig were on their own. But that night, Craig had a friend over. A girl. She wasn’t like the girls in Dustin’s class. She was what their father would have called “over the top,” which seemed to be just the way Craig liked girls. She had long dangly earrings and very curly, long hair, and she smiled at Dustin when she walked in the door.
“Hi, Champ.”
No one ever called Dustin anything but his full name. Not even his parents.
She was wearing a plaid jacket with fur around the collar, zipped tightly over her chest. She had on a short skirt over plaid leggings.
“Stop staring, Dustin,” Craig hissed.
The girl heard. “Craig, it’s fine. Really.” She smiled at Dustin, and his stomach felt funny. “It’s okay, Champ.” She leaned over and whispered loudly. “I like plaid.”
Her name was Erica, and she stayed for dinner, which Craig took care of—they ordered pizza, because that was easiest, he said, and fastest. Erica giggled.
After dinner, Craig told Dustin that they would be up in his room for a while, studying, and that afterward, he would take care of “the dishes.” He made bunny ears with both hands when he said it, and Erica laughed again, but Dustin just rolled his eyes. There were no dishes—just the pizza box. And Dustin was pretty sure he’d end up having to throw that out himself.
“Stay here, Dustin,” Craig said.
They went up the stairs, and Dustin stayed at the kitchen table. He had a little math to do, but that was it. He pulled it out, finished the problems in his text book. He threw away the pizza box, as he had thought would happen. Craig and Erica were still upstairs.
She looked nothing like the girls in his class. He liked the way she called him Champ. And he liked her hair. The curls looked light and fluffy. He wondered, if he had been older, would she have come over to see him, instead? What if she were still sitting at the table, with Dustin, while Craig was wondering what was going on?
It was quiet. Their parents wouldn’t be home for another few hours, probably. Dustin went upstairs, to his own bedroom.
The door to Craig’s room was partially closed, but he could hear something, like a snuffling. He looked in, quietly.
Craig and Erica were on Craig’s bed, under the sheets. Her curls were everywhere, spilling over them both. It was awkward, and both of them were moving in strange ways, all legs and arms.
Dustin couldn’t look away at first. Then he realized that there were plaid leggings and a plaid vest on the floor, mixed in with his brother’s blue jeans.
The funny feeling in his stomach grew, and he walked away, to his room, and carefully closed the door. He sat down on the edge of his bed. He couldn’t hear them, anymore. But he could hear her.
“It’s okay, Champ.”
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
A few loose ends, which aren't completely tied
Hello! It's been a while!
I think everyone has been posting such lovely exciting stuff. Contests, like Elle Strauss' new agent contest (congrats!), Amber Murphy hosting a B-Day giveaway (Happy Birthday!), and Sara McClung's March Madness thing-a-ma-bob (Hooray?)! (I think this is all of the ongoing ones I know of, right now.) Tons of award-giving and lying and truth telling. Lots of discussion. And many upcoming Blogfests!
And I haven't even thanked the very sweet Stephanie Thornton @ Hatshepsut for giving me such a tres awesome award:
Thanks, ever so! I can't tell you how excited I was to receive this! Really! It made my day. :)
And, I still haven't passed on any of my awards...not one. I'm starting to feel guilty. I think, gosh, everyone already has one!
So...in my next post...I will go through and gift all of my awards. All five, I should say. And too bad if you already have it! I'm giving it again. :) And I'll do some lies and some truths and will try to remember other such things. So stay tuned for that.
In the meantime, one little shout-out to a pretty interesting blog post I read today: Amalia T.'s post is on heroes. And it's awesome. And I want to talk about heroes till I'm blue in the face right now, because I get all worked up about the whole concept, the idea of them, how they work in narrative and all that. Yep. I believe the term is geek out?
So check everything out...and have fun in blogland. (Blogdom?)
Happy Tuesday, all.
I think everyone has been posting such lovely exciting stuff. Contests, like Elle Strauss' new agent contest (congrats!), Amber Murphy hosting a B-Day giveaway (Happy Birthday!), and Sara McClung's March Madness thing-a-ma-bob (Hooray?)! (I think this is all of the ongoing ones I know of, right now.) Tons of award-giving and lying and truth telling. Lots of discussion. And many upcoming Blogfests!
And I haven't even thanked the very sweet Stephanie Thornton @ Hatshepsut for giving me such a tres awesome award:
And, I still haven't passed on any of my awards...not one. I'm starting to feel guilty. I think, gosh, everyone already has one!
So...in my next post...I will go through and gift all of my awards. All five, I should say. And too bad if you already have it! I'm giving it again. :) And I'll do some lies and some truths and will try to remember other such things. So stay tuned for that.
In the meantime, one little shout-out to a pretty interesting blog post I read today: Amalia T.'s post is on heroes. And it's awesome. And I want to talk about heroes till I'm blue in the face right now, because I get all worked up about the whole concept, the idea of them, how they work in narrative and all that. Yep. I believe the term is geek out?
So check everything out...and have fun in blogland. (Blogdom?)
Happy Tuesday, all.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The Fling! And yet another blogfest!
Well, I took part in the Whoops! Blogfest, hosted by Laurel, and I think that it was a lot of fun! I enjoyed reading the other entries and also (quickly) writing my own.
And now, I have yet another blogfest to admit to have joining! (I sure hope I remember all of the ones I've signed up for, now.) Jon Paul is hosting a Drunk at First Sight Blogfest! And I signed up! And, of course, I have nothing to enter...
From his blog, here are suggestions for taking part.
2) Write a new scene or short story, or dust off an old one, about a love/relationship situation that also includes one or more of the following elements:
---St. Paddy's Day as important event or setting
---Use of Ireland or anything Irish as a setting or prop
---An alcohol related event (party, hangover, cocktails, AA meeting, etc.)
You know, I just had a thought of something I could use a scene from...
Anyway, the other big news in my life right now is that I will be learning part of the Highland Fling. Seriously. Via Youtube. Oh, dear.
You see, it started because a gal at work and a guy at work made a deal with each other that one would do the Fling if the other would play the bagpipes...and I got sucked right in. Because they know it's easy to suck me in, I guess. And because I love to dance. And to learn new dances, thank heavens! Because I certainly don't know how to do any Flinging, other than of my arms up into the air and sometimes, of small, harmless objects at other people. Only occasionally, mind you.
But hey--if I can belly dance, ballroom dance, and teach a hip-hop exercise class (though it's been a while, and I had some help with the choreography), I can totally learn to do a Highland Fling...right?
So, I guess we are all set up to do a SCOTTISH Highland Fling for St. Patrick's Day!
And now, I have yet another blogfest to admit to have joining! (I sure hope I remember all of the ones I've signed up for, now.) Jon Paul is hosting a Drunk at First Sight Blogfest! And I signed up! And, of course, I have nothing to enter...
From his blog, here are suggestions for taking part.
2) Write a new scene or short story, or dust off an old one, about a love/relationship situation that also includes one or more of the following elements:
---St. Paddy's Day as important event or setting
---Use of Ireland or anything Irish as a setting or prop
---An alcohol related event (party, hangover, cocktails, AA meeting, etc.)
You know, I just had a thought of something I could use a scene from...
Anyway, the other big news in my life right now is that I will be learning part of the Highland Fling. Seriously. Via Youtube. Oh, dear.
You see, it started because a gal at work and a guy at work made a deal with each other that one would do the Fling if the other would play the bagpipes...and I got sucked right in. Because they know it's easy to suck me in, I guess. And because I love to dance. And to learn new dances, thank heavens! Because I certainly don't know how to do any Flinging, other than of my arms up into the air and sometimes, of small, harmless objects at other people. Only occasionally, mind you.
But hey--if I can belly dance, ballroom dance, and teach a hip-hop exercise class (though it's been a while, and I had some help with the choreography), I can totally learn to do a Highland Fling...right?
So, I guess we are all set up to do a SCOTTISH Highland Fling for St. Patrick's Day!
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