Here's a snippet from my WIP inspired by the bit I posted yesterday. Thanks a lot Justin . . .
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He scooted his feet forward. Yes, he should drown himself. The river would carry him away, so nobody would have to take care of his body. His life meant nothing to everyone here. It didn't really mean anything to him any more. His toes curled over the edge of the bridge's wall. Yes, he should drop himself into the water.
He held out his arms straight from his sides and looked up at the moons. He closed his eyes and tipped forward, giving himself to gravity. It claimed him more quickly than he'd thought it would, and jerked him off the bridge's wall.
"Anyit!"
He turned his head, opening his eyes. A shadowy figure waved its arms. Too late. He landed, and the impact smashed the air from his lungs. Anyit gave a short scream and sank, inhaling water convulsively.
---------------------
This happens in the first chapter.
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Justin's Exercise
Today's exercise: Today, create a word, any word, from a foriegn noun to a proper name, then create a background for that word and use it in a short passage.you never know where it might lead.
And what I came up with:
My word: anyit.
He grew up a lonely child because his mother not only named him after the worst thing she could have, she'd had it Sealed to him as a child so the could not abandon it. She'd named him after the Anyit flower, because, she said, she felt bliss in pregnancy and only the pain of giving birth to him ended that.
She named him after a flower named after the worst drug her people could imagine, a drug that had once enslaved them to another society. A drug that had forced them to serve with joy only to cause great pain if they missed even one dose. It was a foreign word, the only such word permitted in their self-designed language, and its history was taught to every child.
Including Anyit, if only by his mother. She even created a phrase to translate his name into in their language: "The pain of bliss." Others adopted it, and they mocked him for it, calling him "pain," because that was all the Anyit flower represented to them--the greatest pain their ancestors had ever been through.
And what I came up with:
My word: anyit.
He grew up a lonely child because his mother not only named him after the worst thing she could have, she'd had it Sealed to him as a child so the could not abandon it. She'd named him after the Anyit flower, because, she said, she felt bliss in pregnancy and only the pain of giving birth to him ended that.
She named him after a flower named after the worst drug her people could imagine, a drug that had once enslaved them to another society. A drug that had forced them to serve with joy only to cause great pain if they missed even one dose. It was a foreign word, the only such word permitted in their self-designed language, and its history was taught to every child.
Including Anyit, if only by his mother. She even created a phrase to translate his name into in their language: "The pain of bliss." Others adopted it, and they mocked him for it, calling him "pain," because that was all the Anyit flower represented to them--the greatest pain their ancestors had ever been through.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Justin's Exercise
Okay, today's exercise on FM was being a reporter reporting on an alternate reality world's occurance, lifting a bit from history. Considering my main nonfiction reading interest, I chose Hitler as a watercolor painter in Germany. Here's how it went:
I push my hair out of my face as a gust of wind hits me. I look around, because it smells like rain, and, yes, there are clouds gathering. Wonderful. The countdown ends and I get my eyes on the camera just before I get the go to talk.
"Hello, it's A. Shelton, here on-site in Germany--does it really matter which town I'm in? Didn't think so. Anyway, I'm here in Germany where the famous--hah!--watercolor painter Adolf Hitler has just finished what must be his masterpiece!"
I look off camera, and the camera turns to follow my gaze. We all watch Hitler shuffle down the street, departing at as quick a pace as possible. I turn back to the camera and the cameraman turns it back to face me.
"Well, it appears that he's a little camera shy," I say. "Anyway, the guy's about seventy now, and he's still painting postcard watercolors. Mac we got an example?"
"Studio has some."
"From our world, right?"
"Unfortunately. But his skills haven't improved much regardless."
I look at the camera again, eye my microphone, swipe my hair out of my face again, and frown, making a decision.
"You know, living in a world without World War Two is a pretty attractive enticement to me," I say. "Here, Mac." I toss the microphone off camera. I say something more, but without the microphone, you can't hear it, and I wave both my hands once then turn to follow Hitler down the street.
"But you don't know German!" Mac shouts after me.
I turn around and, vaguely, you hear me reply, "I'll learn it!"
As I turn around again, thunder rolls and rain falls.
I push my hair out of my face as a gust of wind hits me. I look around, because it smells like rain, and, yes, there are clouds gathering. Wonderful. The countdown ends and I get my eyes on the camera just before I get the go to talk.
"Hello, it's A. Shelton, here on-site in Germany--does it really matter which town I'm in? Didn't think so. Anyway, I'm here in Germany where the famous--hah!--watercolor painter Adolf Hitler has just finished what must be his masterpiece!"
I look off camera, and the camera turns to follow my gaze. We all watch Hitler shuffle down the street, departing at as quick a pace as possible. I turn back to the camera and the cameraman turns it back to face me.
"Well, it appears that he's a little camera shy," I say. "Anyway, the guy's about seventy now, and he's still painting postcard watercolors. Mac we got an example?"
"Studio has some."
"From our world, right?"
"Unfortunately. But his skills haven't improved much regardless."
I look at the camera again, eye my microphone, swipe my hair out of my face again, and frown, making a decision.
"You know, living in a world without World War Two is a pretty attractive enticement to me," I say. "Here, Mac." I toss the microphone off camera. I say something more, but without the microphone, you can't hear it, and I wave both my hands once then turn to follow Hitler down the street.
"But you don't know German!" Mac shouts after me.
I turn around and, vaguely, you hear me reply, "I'll learn it!"
As I turn around again, thunder rolls and rain falls.
Friday, May 07, 2010
Collecting Whistlegrass
This is a scene with Qawra-Pol, before she became Ferodoxis's most famous person.
I wrote this in response to todays Justin's Exercise, which asked about poisonous plants. I thought it fitting, especially since the exercise's suggestion inspired one of the reasons why whistlegrass is so dangerous.
------
Whistlegrass.
Whether made flexible by winter's rains or hardened by summer's sun, it was dangerous. Qawra-Pol watched the grass ripple, not certain she felt happy about having her final test of her skills in the winter. Granted, the grass couldn't cut her garments now, but if she'd been granted this test in summer, she could have wrapped the hardened blades in swathes of sandsilk before cutting them and had no other concerns. However, it wouldn't have been very easy to cut those trilaterally-bladed stalks.
After several breaths watching the flexible blades ripple, she realized there truly wasn't a "good" time to cut whistlegrass. The winter wind whistled through it, the sound that had given the plant its poetic name, the name that hid its true nature.
She shifted, gripping the hilt of her knife. She had to catch and cut fifty stalks of the whistlegrass, then remove the poisonous edges from the three blades on each stalk. Just the very edges, where the poison formed. Then she had to wash the grass, then soak it, then pull threads from it, combine those threads with individual strands of her hair and a handful of sand and create sandsilk thread with her magic and Shamanic Gifts and those three ingredients. Then she had to weave that thread into fabric, then shape that fabric into a garment. A garment for an adult.
But now, she had to gather fifty stalks of whistlegrass. At least she'd been left here alone to do this; she could take as many days as necessary to begin her final test.
Her camp huddled in the distance, far enough away from the patch of whistlegrass that she could safely drink the water she'd summoned. Here, at the whistlegrass, she stood with the toes of her boots just touching the edge of the dead ground, killed by the poison that flicked off the whistlegrass by the wind. Behind her, she had left a volcanic-glass bowl of water with antidote soap to wash her hands with. A quilted sandsilk-sheathed blanket lay beside the bowl, ready for the whistlegrass stalks, so she could wrap them securely for transport.
She adjusted her headwrap, covering as much of her face as she could. After examining her hands once more to be certain that she had no open wounds, she donned the gloves she'd been given and drew her knife. She stepped into the windblown poison's range.
Keeping her eyelids lowered over her eyes, Qarwra-Pol walked up to the rippling whistlegrass. After a breath of hesitation, she knelt and caught a rippling stalk, followed it to the point where it entered the ground, and cut the stalk free. She tossed it back; it slithered over her shoulder.
She worked steadily, focused on her task, silently counting each stalk as she tossed it back. She soon cleared a half-circle into the patch and scooted closer to what remained, making certain she settled out of reach of the whips of the blades blowing toward the south. The stalks she cut now she kept close by, being too far away to be able to throw them a safe distance from herself. She dragged them with her as she progressed, catching, cutting, and counting, catching, cutting, and counting. When she had the requisite number, she rose, still holding her knife, and picked up the pile to take it back to the first scattered stalks.
The poison soaked through the gloves, slicking her hands in the sandsilk. She gathered the other stalks and took all of them to the blanket, where she laid them out. She pulled off the gloves and dropped them onto the whistlegrass she'd cut and knelt to wash her hands and her knife in the antidote soap. She'd have to wash her clothes with it later and give herself a scrub, also.
She looked up from the bowl of soapy water at the whistlegrass she'd cut and smiled, carefully using the blade of her knife to lower her headwrap. She'd win her status; she'd completed the duty she'd always considered most difficult and frightening, after all.
I wrote this in response to todays Justin's Exercise, which asked about poisonous plants. I thought it fitting, especially since the exercise's suggestion inspired one of the reasons why whistlegrass is so dangerous.
------
Whistlegrass.
Whether made flexible by winter's rains or hardened by summer's sun, it was dangerous. Qawra-Pol watched the grass ripple, not certain she felt happy about having her final test of her skills in the winter. Granted, the grass couldn't cut her garments now, but if she'd been granted this test in summer, she could have wrapped the hardened blades in swathes of sandsilk before cutting them and had no other concerns. However, it wouldn't have been very easy to cut those trilaterally-bladed stalks.
After several breaths watching the flexible blades ripple, she realized there truly wasn't a "good" time to cut whistlegrass. The winter wind whistled through it, the sound that had given the plant its poetic name, the name that hid its true nature.
She shifted, gripping the hilt of her knife. She had to catch and cut fifty stalks of the whistlegrass, then remove the poisonous edges from the three blades on each stalk. Just the very edges, where the poison formed. Then she had to wash the grass, then soak it, then pull threads from it, combine those threads with individual strands of her hair and a handful of sand and create sandsilk thread with her magic and Shamanic Gifts and those three ingredients. Then she had to weave that thread into fabric, then shape that fabric into a garment. A garment for an adult.
But now, she had to gather fifty stalks of whistlegrass. At least she'd been left here alone to do this; she could take as many days as necessary to begin her final test.
Her camp huddled in the distance, far enough away from the patch of whistlegrass that she could safely drink the water she'd summoned. Here, at the whistlegrass, she stood with the toes of her boots just touching the edge of the dead ground, killed by the poison that flicked off the whistlegrass by the wind. Behind her, she had left a volcanic-glass bowl of water with antidote soap to wash her hands with. A quilted sandsilk-sheathed blanket lay beside the bowl, ready for the whistlegrass stalks, so she could wrap them securely for transport.
She adjusted her headwrap, covering as much of her face as she could. After examining her hands once more to be certain that she had no open wounds, she donned the gloves she'd been given and drew her knife. She stepped into the windblown poison's range.
Keeping her eyelids lowered over her eyes, Qarwra-Pol walked up to the rippling whistlegrass. After a breath of hesitation, she knelt and caught a rippling stalk, followed it to the point where it entered the ground, and cut the stalk free. She tossed it back; it slithered over her shoulder.
She worked steadily, focused on her task, silently counting each stalk as she tossed it back. She soon cleared a half-circle into the patch and scooted closer to what remained, making certain she settled out of reach of the whips of the blades blowing toward the south. The stalks she cut now she kept close by, being too far away to be able to throw them a safe distance from herself. She dragged them with her as she progressed, catching, cutting, and counting, catching, cutting, and counting. When she had the requisite number, she rose, still holding her knife, and picked up the pile to take it back to the first scattered stalks.
The poison soaked through the gloves, slicking her hands in the sandsilk. She gathered the other stalks and took all of them to the blanket, where she laid them out. She pulled off the gloves and dropped them onto the whistlegrass she'd cut and knelt to wash her hands and her knife in the antidote soap. She'd have to wash her clothes with it later and give herself a scrub, also.
She looked up from the bowl of soapy water at the whistlegrass she'd cut and smiled, carefully using the blade of her knife to lower her headwrap. She'd win her status; she'd completed the duty she'd always considered most difficult and frightening, after all.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
Resurrection
Well, since I'm going to be doing my best to keep up with as many of Justin's Exercises on Forward Motion, I've decided to resurrect this blog as well. You'll notice a link to the second blog in this trilogy of Pen and Keyboard, but that one's pretty much defunct at the moment. I'm not removing it--and I'll be adding it to P&KI--because I just may need it again at some point.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
The Power of Creation has moved again.
It now has its own blog. I decided that since I'd probably be spending quite a bit of time ranting about it (when I work on it), It had better have its own place. You'll find the link on the left, with my other blogs' links.
The Power of Creation has moved . . .
And in its place is now a third project.
TPoC moved because I made some changes to Ferodoxis, and it suddenly fit. In its place is Pililani's Chosen, a set of Tandem novels that take place on the Mistworld, in the Heartland. I'm probably going to restart Chosen, mainly because I have so many characters, and I want their stories to begin all at the same time.
TPoC moved because I made some changes to Ferodoxis, and it suddenly fit. In its place is Pililani's Chosen, a set of Tandem novels that take place on the Mistworld, in the Heartland. I'm probably going to restart Chosen, mainly because I have so many characters, and I want their stories to begin all at the same time.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Poem: Ben
This is a poem I wrote for yesterday's exercise on Forward Motion.
BEN
O you have a bloody look!
When it I saw, I terribly shook.
And what do you want of me?
Wait just a moment, while I pee.
Now what is it you'd like to say?
I see blood on you lips, please don't spray.
I must forewarn you, Vampire Lord,
Your silence is making me quite bored.
Out with it now; must I shout?
Or will that put you in a pout?
Yes, yes, I hear you now.
What's that you say--You've milked my cow?
Why thank you dear kind Vampire sir--
And what was that? Oh, you must whir?
I thought Vampires flew like bats.
Oh, yes, I see, eaten by cats.
Well, fare thee well, good gentleman.
Oh, I'm Joe. Nice to meet you, Ben.
O you have a bloody look!
When it I saw, I terribly shook.
And what do you want of me?
Wait just a moment, while I pee.
Now what is it you'd like to say?
I see blood on you lips, please don't spray.
I must forewarn you, Vampire Lord,
Your silence is making me quite bored.
Out with it now; must I shout?
Or will that put you in a pout?
Yes, yes, I hear you now.
What's that you say--You've milked my cow?
Why thank you dear kind Vampire sir--
And what was that? Oh, you must whir?
I thought Vampires flew like bats.
Oh, yes, I see, eaten by cats.
Well, fare thee well, good gentleman.
Oh, I'm Joe. Nice to meet you, Ben.
Update . . .
I've reached 5,000, as you can see by the counter I've added on the right. I now have an antagonist, name of Lapis in my story. whee
I've also added a new link, to a writers' site that's just started. It's called A Novel Thought, and the link will bring you to the index where you can create a login. The site needs members, so I encourage you to visit. The more people who sign in and have fun, the more there'll be to do and talk about.
I've also added a new link, to a writers' site that's just started. It's called A Novel Thought, and the link will bring you to the index where you can create a login. The site needs members, so I encourage you to visit. The more people who sign in and have fun, the more there'll be to do and talk about.
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