Monday, July 9, 2012
Profanity in YA?
Kicking off LiteraryPlus's first ever blog tour is the insightful J.D. Savage, author of The Seeds. Today, he talks about Profanity in YA over on Scott Roche's blog. Be sure to check it out and share your opinion on this hot topic.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
The Bridge
This week's flashfiction assignment for the +Literary+ group was to take the first line of our partner's WIP and write 300 words or less. I was paired with +Jim Hanson, who gave me a wonderfully challenging first line.
I'm pretty certain I went in the complete opposite direction of the original. In fact, I did a 180 from my usual fare, which after reading it over a few times, I didn't mind in the end. :)
---
(294 words)
Perched atop a hillock overlooking the north field and obscured by the sun at his back, Aldwin looked down at his field in horror. The last play of the game; Jimmy over-estimated the fly ball and missed the catch. The crowd groaned. Watching one boy, then another, and yet another cross home base was a bit like watching a slow motion scene in a bad movie.
Afterwards, his son Darren shuffled out from the dug-out. His head down and dragging his bat like he’d lost his best friend. Aldwin took a deep breath and pasted on a smile.
“Good game, son,” he said and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Not really. We sucked.”
“You almost went into overtime,” he pointed out.
“But we didn’t win.” Darren shrugged off his dad’s hand and ran ahead to the car.
‘Allison,’ he thought. ‘I wish you were here.’ It had become a silent mantra. Aldwin squared his shoulders and unlocked the car. Darren needed his mother; she always knew just what to say. Aldwin had been the disciplinarian of the family; his wife the comforter. Stepping into those uncomfortable shoes taught him just how inadequate he was at being a Dad.
“It was a good game,” he said again, feeling his ineptitude keenly.
Darren shifted in the seat and sighed.
On the drive home, the reflection of his son’s dejected face in the window made his heart ache. “You played well.”
“Not good enough,” the twelve year old mumbled. “I wanted to win.”
“Then do it.”
Darren snapped his head around. “Huh?”
“Next time, win.”
“Dad,” Darren said as if speaking to an ignoramus. “Baseball’s a team sport.”
“Exactly.”
“Oh…”
Aldwin smiled at his son and for the first time in a long time, Darren smiled back.
I'm pretty certain I went in the complete opposite direction of the original. In fact, I did a 180 from my usual fare, which after reading it over a few times, I didn't mind in the end. :)
---
(294 words)
Perched atop a hillock overlooking the north field and obscured by the sun at his back, Aldwin looked down at his field in horror. The last play of the game; Jimmy over-estimated the fly ball and missed the catch. The crowd groaned. Watching one boy, then another, and yet another cross home base was a bit like watching a slow motion scene in a bad movie.
Afterwards, his son Darren shuffled out from the dug-out. His head down and dragging his bat like he’d lost his best friend. Aldwin took a deep breath and pasted on a smile.
“Good game, son,” he said and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Not really. We sucked.”
“You almost went into overtime,” he pointed out.
“But we didn’t win.” Darren shrugged off his dad’s hand and ran ahead to the car.
‘Allison,’ he thought. ‘I wish you were here.’ It had become a silent mantra. Aldwin squared his shoulders and unlocked the car. Darren needed his mother; she always knew just what to say. Aldwin had been the disciplinarian of the family; his wife the comforter. Stepping into those uncomfortable shoes taught him just how inadequate he was at being a Dad.
“It was a good game,” he said again, feeling his ineptitude keenly.
Darren shifted in the seat and sighed.
On the drive home, the reflection of his son’s dejected face in the window made his heart ache. “You played well.”
“Not good enough,” the twelve year old mumbled. “I wanted to win.”
“Then do it.”
Darren snapped his head around. “Huh?”
“Next time, win.”
“Dad,” Darren said as if speaking to an ignoramus. “Baseball’s a team sport.”
“Exactly.”
“Oh…”
Aldwin smiled at his son and for the first time in a long time, Darren smiled back.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Cast Your Spell
As a get to know you exercise for the Literary+ group over on Google+, we wrote a fun bio about ourselves then were paired up to write a 300 word flashfiction based on our partner's bio. I was paired with the delightful Sanna Caduri and this is what she gave me for her bio:
"Sanna is of the weird kind.
She usually doesn't go into her head alone, because it's scary in there.
Writing is an essential part of Sanna's life. In one way or another she is always writing.
She's a witch and if you think that writing fantasy is a cliché, screw you. :p
In her stories the princesses are most likely to kill you, Beauty and the Beast will find themselves in the same body.
Short stories are Sanna's favorites, but she is also working on bigger projects right now.
Or, should be working on them. ;)"
And here's my flash (297words):
Even deep into the night, the west wind blew hot across the open plain. Her hair danced in a wild tangle that glinted white streaks of moonlight like glyphs floating around her head. She climbed a small rise and cast her gaze across the fields. A smile flitted across her lips as she lifted her arms; eyes shut, head tilted back and palms open to the sky in supplication.
Curled at her feet lay the great feline Dawon, named after the goddess Durga’s fierce mount. The weight of his mighty presence a comfort as she prepared the way.
Her breath slowed in time with the gusting wind. Her heartbeat sped to match the lusty cries of the field crickets. Dawon stood and leaned heavily into her leg; he grounded her even as the earth opened up around them. She screamed as the power pulsed up through her feet and out her palms.
The sweet agony of creation coursed in her veins like icy streams of bitter cold. She opened her eyes. Light glared out from empty sockets scorching the fields within her view. She clapped her hands once overhead. Once at her chest. And once at the lowest reach of her arms.
The place beyond opened with a great tearing of reality, which bled out in anguished cries of sorrow or terrible suffering. The gash grew wide and she laughed. Laughed with joyful abandon at what she had wrought. Dawon nudged her dangling hand with his great head.
“Only out of destruction can there be renewal,” she said calmly, though existence shrieked around them. “Even we must follow at the end of it.”
Dawon’s rumbling purr, like the crashing of distant waves, acknowledged her words. He knew, as she knew, they’d craft another world in due time.
"Sanna is of the weird kind.
She usually doesn't go into her head alone, because it's scary in there.
Writing is an essential part of Sanna's life. In one way or another she is always writing.
She's a witch and if you think that writing fantasy is a cliché, screw you. :p
In her stories the princesses are most likely to kill you, Beauty and the Beast will find themselves in the same body.
Short stories are Sanna's favorites, but she is also working on bigger projects right now.
Or, should be working on them. ;)"
And here's my flash (297words):
Even deep into the night, the west wind blew hot across the open plain. Her hair danced in a wild tangle that glinted white streaks of moonlight like glyphs floating around her head. She climbed a small rise and cast her gaze across the fields. A smile flitted across her lips as she lifted her arms; eyes shut, head tilted back and palms open to the sky in supplication.
Curled at her feet lay the great feline Dawon, named after the goddess Durga’s fierce mount. The weight of his mighty presence a comfort as she prepared the way.
Her breath slowed in time with the gusting wind. Her heartbeat sped to match the lusty cries of the field crickets. Dawon stood and leaned heavily into her leg; he grounded her even as the earth opened up around them. She screamed as the power pulsed up through her feet and out her palms.
The sweet agony of creation coursed in her veins like icy streams of bitter cold. She opened her eyes. Light glared out from empty sockets scorching the fields within her view. She clapped her hands once overhead. Once at her chest. And once at the lowest reach of her arms.
The place beyond opened with a great tearing of reality, which bled out in anguished cries of sorrow or terrible suffering. The gash grew wide and she laughed. Laughed with joyful abandon at what she had wrought. Dawon nudged her dangling hand with his great head.
“Only out of destruction can there be renewal,” she said calmly, though existence shrieked around them. “Even we must follow at the end of it.”
Dawon’s rumbling purr, like the crashing of distant waves, acknowledged her words. He knew, as she knew, they’d craft another world in due time.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Receding
I caught another PnS! :D I wasn't going to post this submission to my blog, because... because... I don't really know why. Perhaps it's too raw? But the feedback I got on the PnS feed made me feel like perhaps I should.
The rules:
"Prompt-and-Share
Same rules as always apply, all stories must include at least:
- 1 conflict
- 1 resolution
- 1 character
- 1 setting
The "theme" for today is Change . Change can be a lot of things, from the loose stuff that jingles in your pocket, to the big stuff like births and death and there are many places for change in between, so be as creative or uncreative as you like.
300 word max pretty please"
---
The rules:
"Prompt-and-Share
Same rules as always apply, all stories must include at least:
- 1 conflict
- 1 resolution
- 1 character
- 1 setting
The "theme" for today is Change . Change can be a lot of things, from the loose stuff that jingles in your pocket, to the big stuff like births and death and there are many places for change in between, so be as creative or uncreative as you like.
300 word max pretty please"
---
I've lived
a sort of backwards life. All the years of my youth spent concerned for the
comfort of my children. The time when all my friends were running all over the
map having the time of their lives while they had the energy to do so, I ran
around chasing toddlers and picking up messes and wiping little noses and
kissing boo-boos.
Then
worrying about having enough food and torn jeans and whether or not the
homework's complete. My little ones growing beyond my abilities to pick them up
into my hugs. Having to watch them run around the smaller map of town. Then one
by one leave on their own greater adventures.
My
children, don't live your lives backwards. Run while you have legs to carry
you. Breathe the wild winds in your hair and dance with as many friends as you
will or alone as you will.
I peered
into my future. It was an empty house with no where to go. My friends were no
longer running the map, but running after toddlers with snotty noses and potty
training -- no time their own. I'd already seen those sights. I wanted to gallivant
across the loops and lines. Places that inspired me and called me to see, but
my old body unable to carry me any more.
Old
enough to really feel the heart of a place, but too old now to see it. I can
only sigh and dream.
Then the
phone rings and one of my progeny pipes down the line, "Mom! Listen to
what happened!" And I smile and listen and travel with them where I can't
go.
I smile
and listen and am content. I can finally rest my bones.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
A start of something
The last couple of prompts haven't called me, so today, I listened to some music and contemplated the emotions of the songs- melody and lyrics. As the music disappeared into the background, my mind wandered, then arrived at a scene.
I don't know if anything will come of it, but it's there if I decide to continue.
152 words in the raw*:
I don't know if anything will come of it, but it's there if I decide to continue.
152 words in the raw*:
He sat alone. The perfect picture of the tragic figure. His profile sharp against the lowering sun, which just kissed the horizon in a spectacular blaze of blinding color. He leaned forward; pressed his forehead against his palm. His dark hair, scrunched between splayed fingers that dug into his scalp, tumbling down his cheek.
What caused such despair? I felt it radiate out from him even at a couple dozen yards. I never knew such sadness myself, but I carried that heavy burden for many years now. The aching familiarity squeezed my guts up through my throat until I choked back a flood of tears.
His anguish, a potent crashing of waves on a tidal break, throttled me until I kneeled before it. Jagged little rocks cut through my jeans - another layer of pain. If I couldn’t crawl that small distance to reach him soon, I doubted my hold on sanity.
*unedited words as they first appeared on my computer
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Whether or no...
"Prompt-and-Share A fun little random word prompt for Friday, keeping it short again but a little longer than yesterday:
150 words max
Use the words: time, attitude, clever"
Those who follow me on Twitter will have a decent clue where this came from. ;P
---
Time, like the soft sigh of a sleeping babe or a clever turn of phrase in the hush of distant memories; it comes and goes.
Woe that it is so. No matter to which attitude we greet it.
It comes.
Swiftly or slow; it goes.
Would you weep for me? Would you rage with me? Would you laugh at the turning of its wheel?
Or holding hands, leap forth into that deep night where it matters not. Where time cannot grasp at our wrinkling flesh. Or touch strands of silvery hair.
Our stuttering hearts wind down. Would you stay with me? My head bowed in final supplication, with outstretched arms to greet it.
Swiftly, now, it goes.
150 words max
Use the words: time, attitude, clever"
Those who follow me on Twitter will have a decent clue where this came from. ;P
---
Time, like the soft sigh of a sleeping babe or a clever turn of phrase in the hush of distant memories; it comes and goes.
Woe that it is so. No matter to which attitude we greet it.
It comes.
Swiftly or slow; it goes.
Would you weep for me? Would you rage with me? Would you laugh at the turning of its wheel?
Or holding hands, leap forth into that deep night where it matters not. Where time cannot grasp at our wrinkling flesh. Or touch strands of silvery hair.
Our stuttering hearts wind down. Would you stay with me? My head bowed in final supplication, with outstretched arms to greet it.
Swiftly, now, it goes.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Gone
I caught a prompt today! I think I've been missing them in my feed.
"Prompt-and-Share A really short one today, just to get those juices flowing.
100 words MAX
Your story has to start with: I'd expected he'd come after me.
No other criteria required - Write!"
To be upfront about this.... I haven't written anything in probably close to two months now and I only put about three minutes worth of effort into this little flash. I have to say, I've really missed the prompt and shares.
---
I'd expected he'd come after me, but he'd already been. The whispering shadows shifted, lingering where the sun couldn't reach. His scent, I remembered so well. So fondly. It tickled the edges of my awareness. Yes, he'd already come and gone. Long before my dreaming mind fled to reality; the hateful place, but for him.
There, he'd waited, impatiently. Waited, then walked away while I slept. His breath a memory of the wind, now. His sad eyes peering too deeply. His beating heart under warm skin. I'd never know, ever again.
I expected to be first, but he'd gone on ahead.
"Prompt-and-Share A really short one today, just to get those juices flowing.
100 words MAX
Your story has to start with: I'd expected he'd come after me.
No other criteria required - Write!"
To be upfront about this.... I haven't written anything in probably close to two months now and I only put about three minutes worth of effort into this little flash. I have to say, I've really missed the prompt and shares.
---
I'd expected he'd come after me, but he'd already been. The whispering shadows shifted, lingering where the sun couldn't reach. His scent, I remembered so well. So fondly. It tickled the edges of my awareness. Yes, he'd already come and gone. Long before my dreaming mind fled to reality; the hateful place, but for him.
There, he'd waited, impatiently. Waited, then walked away while I slept. His breath a memory of the wind, now. His sad eyes peering too deeply. His beating heart under warm skin. I'd never know, ever again.
I expected to be first, but he'd gone on ahead.
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