Excelsior

I'd love to write something sweet and beautiful and heartwarming right now. I would. So desperately. But life doesn't give us that all the time. That's why I write fiction sometimes. I'd love to say I write for the beauty of the words and the impact I can have on lives. But sometimes I don't. I'm not that altruistic. Sometimes I write because I'm hurting. Because friends are hurting. If I were as spiritually advanced as some, I could just submerge myself in prayer and scripture. I'm not there, though. Sometimes the words I write form another world, a fragile sphere only lasting as long as I create it, as long as I can read it.

Sometimes writing keeps me sane, gives me hope, gives me an escape hatch into some different place for a few minutes. But those few minutes help. Maybe it's just like imagining warmth in a snowstorm. It isn't real, but the thought of a fire can make me feel warmer and give me another glimmer at the end of the tunnel.

I wrote this a couple days ago. Or re-wrote it, really. And as I read it again, it does help. I hope it might help you too, or if you don't need help right now, that it'll at least make you smile.

http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2788982/1/Crazy_Love

Because my brain is dead as a doornail (or doorknob, or doorknocker!)

I had two midterms this week, and a 8-10 page paper (it clocked in at 8.5 total). I did not go to bed before 1 am any day this week. I am exhausted. But this week is done! :D So, I will hopefully write something soon that is not drivel from the dregs of my brain. Here is some freewriting. I hope it is not atrocious. Please...don't hate too much :P

_______________

he smiled. oh, god. it was the adonis smile. 'nice to see you out here. you should come more often.'

i lean casually against my car to disguise the fact my knees are butter left in the microwave for three minutes on high. 'yeah, hopefully i'll be able to. it was fun watching y'all play.' i sound so horribly drawling and texan, but my options were 'y'all' and 'you', which could be rightly taken as 'you' in the singular form, which would just be kind of weird since i've only known him for a couple months.

'it was a pretty good game.' he shifts, and the parking lot light falls over his chest, which, thanks to the delightful resurgence of summer weather, is deliciously bare.

i smile and tilt my head a little, getting a quick glimpse. six-pack. just as i suspected. thank you, summer, i know i was cursing you this morning, but i grudgingly concede you have your benefits. 'for sure.' crap. this conversation is racing toward awkward silence. 'i mean, except for the part when matt took a soccer ball to the face.'

he half-snorts. yes, i'm hopelessly biased, but the man makes snorting sexy. 'i always get on him for flirting with the sidelines and not paying attention. i think he learned his lesson tonight.'

i rub the side of my mouth, hiding a grin. 'yeah, he and my roommate seem to be hitting it off.'

'i'm sorry. have fun with that when they start dating.'

i groan. 'noooo, please no, i always manage to walk in on the most awkward couple moments ever. it makes me want to run off to a nunnery for the rest of my life.'

'well that'd suck, especially because i was gonna see if you wanted to get coffee or something tonight.'

my breath latches in my throat, and i make a flattering 'urk' sound. adonis just asked me out for coffee? i cough to clear my throat. 'excuse my frog imitations. i've been practicing them in the hopes of luring the frogs out of the swamp by my apartment so i can eternally shut them up and then use their entrails to tell the future.'

he blinks. to my eternal humiliation, an actual frog croaks from the pond behind the fields.

i feel heat bleeding into my cheeks. what was that crap that just spewed from my mouth? thank you, macbeth, for that inspiration.

he grins and start laughing. my face is on fire. 'you know, i've heard you say some weird things, but that just topped them all.'

'i try to exceed expectations,' i mumble. mumble? i don't mumble! what is wrong with me? now he thinks i'm sort of incoherent freaky frog-whisperer!

he gets a hold of himself. 'um. anyway, coffee?'

i nod tentatively.

'well, that was enthusiastic.'

'after the frog rant, i'm kind of scared of what might come out of my mouth, honestly.'

he starts laughing again. 'i'm kind of curious what's going to happen once we get you on some caffeine. ten o'clock?'

i smile. it's a little hesitant but happy. could be worse, it could be super-bashful and blushing, or one of those stupid grins smearing itself across my face. 'see you there.'

Gee whillikers.

I don't even know where to start with real life, because it has turned into a series of bizarre events. I won't even say 'unfortunate', although there have been several of those, including a rather nastily sprained ankle (the brace totally looks like a corset. I have started referring to the process of getting into it as 'lacing up my ankle's corset.). Blogging about this would simply be a rehash of the oddness, so I shan't. I have no idea what I'll be saying this fall, so I think mainly I shall try to do a bit of freewriting on here. Maybe just a paragraph or two. They might not even make sense, but I finally wrote a (longish) short a couple days ago, and being creative just feels so good. So bear with me, and hopefully I'll free-write some interesting things over the next few weeks.

First sentences

Her grandfather was a preacher, and he named her Grace.

I almost won't read a book if I don't like the first sentence. I know, perhaps a silly reason to set a book back on the shelf, but there's such an art to the first sentence. There are a few of my own I rather like (Biased much? :P). That first bit in italics is one I wrote last night (I know, I actually started something. It's a shock to me as well).

Edward Taravella loathed hostages.

That's an older of mine.

Anyways. As you might tell, I'm feeling a bit random. I've been reading so much C.S. Lewis for summer school I'm thinking half in British English. Not sure if that's good or bad.

What are some of your favourite first sentences? Please share.

Makeover

This blog needs one. Don't get me wrong, I still love my Mustangs, but it needs a cleaner, maybe lighter look. I should probably actually blog more too. And not make every post an apology for not blogging. But I haz linkage to make up for that! http://www.fictionpress.com/~schradez007

Yesh. Fictionpress. It was the easiest way for me to post some of my writings online. Let me know whatcha think!

reading into short stories

I think it's hysterical. For instance, my short(ish) story came up in my creative writing class today. I read the whole thing out loud (thirteen cursed pages), and then had to sit in silence while the class and teacher critiqued it. Some of my thoughts:

The corset as symbolism of that society I wrote about being rigid and restricting? I mean, it sounds gloriously deep and thoughtful. I'm glad people think I'm that deep, because I totally didn't mean that as symbolism.

Red as the color of passion and fire...um, no, actually, I just made the paint in the story red because I really like red.

There's a lot of romantic heat between David and Aphrodite...um, okay? If you say so? Totally not how I intended it, but whatever...

No, I didn't think about 'David' being a highly appropriate name for an artist. At least, not consciously.

The conclusion I have come to: my subconscious is brilliant.

Layout

I like my current layout. But not enough. I've done Converse and cars (twice)...and now I'm not sure what I want to do. And there are so many possibilities! All suggestions are welcome. I wish I were experienced enough with HTML to build my own, but alas, I am not.

I'm in a creative writing class, and had to write a short story (well, 'short' being ten pages. It was supposed to be five! I promise! It just needed more time to develop!). That said, should I post it? I'm still harboring an intense fear it's sloppy and rambling, since I'm accustomed to writing much longer fiction (i.e. novel length).

Because I needed to write some marshmallow chick-lit for a few minutes

He laughs at that. “Come here.”

Feet propped up on the coffee table, I fold my arms and tilt my head back saucily, staring him down. “Doubtful.”

He narrows his eyes. “Amy.”

I glare back at him, loving the way he turns my name into two threateningly low syllables. “I’m terrified.”

“You should be.”

My muscles almost eject me from the chair at that. So. Weak. “Careful, I might die of fright here.”

He pushes off his stool at the counter with one smooth movement, eyes dancing with mischief. “Amy. Come here.”

The thing I hate about this is he knows I’ll eventually cave. I can say ‘no’ to anyone. I’ve said no to students, children, parents, and the leader of a sorority, which took more guts than I'd need to turn down President Obama.

I think I’ve said no to the guy over there grinning at me. Twice. Ever. And the thing is, half the time I start out with the intention of saying no, but somehow I end up saying yes, knowing I’m choosing to say yes, and wishing I could do otherwise. It’s like mind control or something, and I totally don’t have the same effect on him. Not fair, anyone?

I lean my head until it rests on the back of the chair. “I hate you.”

He laughs again. “No you don’t.”

He knows that all too well, and he makes sure I know he knows. I sigh and get up, watching that irritating little grin on his face grow with each step I take. “You suck.”

He pulls me in and tips my chin up with one hand. “But you love me anyway.”

And then for a few minutes I'm not even thinking anymore. When we surface for air, my head spins like a psychotic merry-go-round as I wrap my arms around his waist. Wowzaaaaa. “You are so bossy,” I mutter, head against his chest.

His breath is warm on the side of my face, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “Face it, you love it when I boss you around.”

Painfully so, and I will never admit it.

“Admit it.”

“True,” I say.

He laughs. “Told ya.”

I groan.

Fail.

___________________________

So yeah, I suck at updating. Sorry about that. Hope this made up for it :-)

you and i

You and I
shall first be friends
talking of cinema and sports
over lattes in coffee-scented air,
dining with other friends
anywhere and everywhere
crunching dry leaves underfoot
sharing secrets only
you and I
and the fall trees shall know.

And someday
you and I
will drive north-side of the state
and after sun has set
drive far from town light
and through the gate
into the fields of just-cut grain
park my car
and spread the old goosedown comforter
on the packed dirt.

And as the stars rise
and we lay under the endless dome of black sky
heads propped on balled blankets
eyes adjusting
we shall talk of anything
and everything
of Vulcan and Venus
of Hera and Zeus
and I shall try to remember if Saturn is Kronos
and Neptune is Poseidon
and you shall say yes, and query
Athena’s Roman name.

And as the soft crickets sing
and thumbnail of white moon shines
I shall reminisce of my grandmother
calling satellites ‘he’
and Andromeda ‘she’
and you shall smile and point out
Orion and his belt.

And as the velvet breeze brushes our faces
soothing and dry
and the Big Dipper shines
we shall speak of dreams
I of publishing
and justice
and adventure
you of something
I know not yet
but someday will.

And as faint clouds of the Milky Way
texture the sky
and satellites flit across the black
and as the night grows cooler,
you shall smile and hand me your jacket
and I will smell the spice of your cologne on my shirt.

And as meteors shine for an instant and vanish
planes dart across the sky
constellations wheel round
shooting stars flash
I dare a wish already true
that perhaps
you and I
shall fall
in love

The Elves Steal Them

The elf scampered across the vast expanse of concrete, dodging a two-person glider before shimmying up against the wall of the house. He removed his pointed hat (the one without the bell at the end) and, withdrawing a handkerchief from the pocket of his knit trousers, carefully wiped his forehead. Usually, he was closer to four feet tall, but when he shrunk himself to twelve inches, his magic could concentrate over that smaller surface area, and enable him to outrun many things. Such as the oversized Lab puppy the next yard over.

“Stupid reindeer,” he muttered, probing the back door and pushing through a plastic flap. This was the other advantage of shrinking. He fit through small spaces, such as cat doors. Squeezing through, he landed on the floor. No alarms sounded, and no lights flashed on. He snapped his fingers five times, and green lights shone softly from his fingertips, faint reflections glowing on the tile. Night burglary was his specialty before he got nailed trying to lift a prototype computer from Santa’s workshop. The head elf chewed him out, and then sent him to the main factory, on a path of honest labor.

Mrs. Claus, however, knew his criminal past. She also ran Force 7, the undercover group of elves who routinely left the North Pole and traveled the world, doing good. In this case, stealing socks. The reindeer, on the whole, were well-behaved animals. They just had a natural weakness for flowers and shrubs. Humans’ flowers and shrubs. A full fourth of Force 7 was dedicated to the task of preventing reindeer damage to shrubs. After all, the creatures were invisible to the human eye, and, as they weren’t busy most of the year, they tended to gravitate to gardens for snacks.

The elf padded through the living room, breaths slowing. It appeared the humans were asleep. He followed a humming sound toward the side of the house until he reached the utility room. Smirking, the elf closed his eyes, and wobbled as he adjusted his height to three feet. Popping the dryer open, he waited for the clothes to stop tumbling. Reindeer, over the ages, had developed a repulsion to a common item of clothing – socks. The exact cause of this repulsion was lost in history. No one was sure whether it was because they were forced to deliver so many during the Christmas season, or whether they delivered so many because Mrs. Claus and the elves pilfered loads of them every year. It was a chicken-and-egg debate.

He plunged one hand into the dryer and came out with a fistful of socks. One was white, with pale blue snowflakes dancing around the ankles. Another probably was white in a past life, until some negligent sorter dropped it into a load of reds and pinks. A yellow one with purple stars and a green knee-high joined his stash. Once he got these beauties back to the Pole, his fellow workers would unravel them and bury tiny bits of the thread in gardens around the world. The reindeer would then reject the gardens, and spare the shrubs. Just a couple more –

He gasped as he unfolded the last sock. A tiny white one with no ankle, meant to be worn with Converse and Vans. He stared at it, eyes widening. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Perhaps it was his brief experimentation with black market varieties of hallucinogenic candy canes, but he had an affinity for this kind of sock. The other ones didn’t taste right, but these…these were the crème de la crème of socks. It was why he tried to raid houses with teenagers, who were prone to wearing Vans, and therefore, these socks.

A light flicked on in the kitchen, and he froze, one hand clasping his sock collection, the other clenching around the tiny white sock. Caught? No! A shadow appeared in the doorway, and he crammed the sock into his mouth, chewing several times before swallowing. An actual person materialized, and he gulped.

The little girl stared at him, head cocked to the left. “Did you just eat my sock?”

He didn’t move, only twitching his gaze left and right. A plan of action formed in his mind. Nodding guiltily, he darted forward and touched her hand. Her eyes glazed over, and she shuffled backwards out of the utility room. He watched her move backwards up the stairs, zombie-like, and resolved to work on his spellcasting over the spring season. For now, he shrank himself to twelve inches gain, darted through the cat door, and slipped into the night, the remnants of the tiny white sock sweet on his tongue.

Vivo

No, the stress of college has not done me in. I am still alive! Alive, and sorely lacking in time. So many, many apologies to all the blog posts I've missed, and a poem!


Silent

The words dance and tangle in my mind
fighting in an eloquent way
to escape. But I cannot say them
say anything
without sounding so
young
and clumsy
and hopeless
and silly
so I let them all keep talking
and stand a half-step back
silent.

I know it will be alright, but I need you to tell me anyway

And some other random thoughts/very short writings:

Excuse the grammar on this first one, those of you who are better at Spanish than me:

Es un día obscuro; llueve. Las nubes están bajas, y los cielos lloran. Es como yo; mi espíritu está bajo. Pero no es como yo, porque yo quiero llorar, pero no puedo. Los cielos están afortunados.

Translation:

It is a dark day; it rains. The clouds are low, and the skies weep. It is like me; my spirit is low. But it is not like me, because I want to cry, but I cannot. The skies are lucky.


I don't like people taking pictures of me. If it's an official photo, as in a 'gather-around-and-smile' thing, I don't really care. But informal, unannounced candid shots? I hate them. I am the one who's supposed to be on the edges, watching the world through a camera lense.

I haven't eaten a real meal today. And I probably won't until around 4. Argh. But I am out of food. I'll probably hit Target and Whole Foods, because I need food/materials from both.

I'm running on six hours of sleep. It's not enough.

I'm trying to find a balance of simplicity in my writings - spare and clean, yet not lacking the necessary details.

I'm clearly about to fall asleep. Oy. Hasta luego.

Okay, Part Two

Now just remember: This is first-draft material. There will be errors. There will be boring sentences (hopefully not too many). And this is all copyright. And my poster just fell off the wall. Hold on.

Okay. The poster is temporarily reattached to the wall with the weirdest sticky putty stuff, which only works if applied in vast quantities. I'll tape it later. So anyway, here it is.



Beginning where this left off...if you're new, scroll down a few posts for the beginning.

Kyle holds out my keys to me. “Because I’m your friend.”

But why? I close my eyes for a moment. Part of me keeps waiting for him to get mad. Oddly, I don’t think he will. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

A few minutes later, when I’ve decided I’m sane enough to drive, and we’re rolling down the road, Kyle shifts in his seat. “If you don’t mind me asking-”

I manage a dry laugh. “Remember what I said? You can ask about anything.”

He considers that and nods. “What happened? The Melissa I remembered was a quiet good girl. I think I was really surprised that time you said you got a ticket for going twenty miles over the speed limit, because that seemed so reckless for you.”

I shake my head, feeling a humorless smile pull my lips. “It’s a long story.”

“It takes an hour to get home.”

“Alright, then.”

____________

Fourteen months earlier

I wake long before my alarm and roll onto my back, tucking my hands under my head. They slide against my sheets, so apparently I exiled my pillow to the floor in my sleep. I pick a spot on the shadowed ceiling to look at and release a slow breath. Finally. The day of my liberation.

It sounds like I’m one of those high school seniors who hates her parents and can’t wait to go wild at college. First of all, I’m on scholarship to play volleyball, and Coach won’t put up with crap. Second, going wild just isn’t my thing. My first drink at a friend’s party made me sick. So I’m sensitive to booze, and it makes me feel horrible. Fun? I think not. Third: I don’t hate my parents. I’m not going so far as to say I’m best buds with them. But we get along pleasantly enough. Most of the time.

My current town is a dead zone. I’ve lived here for two years and have a (singular) handful of friends. I stretch, pushing my feet away until my heels scrape over the footboard and hang off the end. That’s one consequence of pushing 5’10”. That, and having difficulty finding jeans that fit. I slide my left arm off the bed and drag the ground with my fingers until they brush over a mess of thin plastic. Picking up the earbud cords, I lift my silver iPod, dangling it upside down over my chest. I scroll through a playlist and select Life in Technicolor by Coldplay. It’s the first song in the album – the beginning.

I like that. It fits. The beginning of Melissa’s era, in which I become totally me, and less what everyone else expects me to be. I feel like myself today.

I also feel like I should go for a short run. Something to work off the excess energy. Or maybe it’s the jitters. I’ve packed about all my belongings in the past week, and loaded most of it into the cars yesterday. I just know I’m going to get there with the most crap and look like a spoiled white kid. Ugh. It’s a kitchen-equipped suite, though, so I need stuff the average freshman won’t.

Tuning out for the next hour helps me calm down. Around eight, I slouch downstairs, the hems of my blue plaid pajamas flirting with the wood floor. “Morning.”

Mom looks up from a bowl of cereal, her hair in a haphazard bun. “Morning, Mel.”

I yawn and shuffle into the kitchen, grabbing a bagel from a plastic bag on the counter. The strawberry cream cheese from Einstein’s Bagels sits a few inches away, and a knife covered with pale pink stuff next to it. Yum. I smear the bagel and slink back upstairs. Usually Dad’s weird about having food upstairs on the carpet, but I can get away with anything today.

At nine-thirty I throw my backpack into the side of my pale blue Rav4 and slam the door in case the toaster box tumbles out. Dad pulls the Expedition out of the driveway. I slip into the driver’s seat, close the doors, take another deep breath, and start the engine. A few minutes later when we’ve hit the freeway, I punch the radio button. Viva La Vida pours from the speakers.
I smile, note that Dad’s picked up speed, and egg the accelerator. It’s a good day.

A couple hours later, Dad sticks his head into my little room. “Go ahead and start putting your computer together. I’ll head back down and get the last boxes.

I grind my teeth together for a millisecond before turning my voice into cotton candy. “Okay.” As soon as the door closes, I look at the computer desk, and then at the laundry basket next to it. An edge of grey plastic pokes out from under a crimson towel. I mentally growl. I hate putting computer systems together. This cord, that port, this hole, that power strip. I’ll figure it out eventually. But seriously, this is the age of technology. Why isn’t all this stuff wireless?

When the door opens next, I’m staring at the underside of the desk, one hand between the desk and wall. I clutch the end of the printer cord and randomly jam the connector forward at the printer, which is on top of the desk. It would be smarter to scoot the desk out so I could see what I was doing, but if I fumble long enough, I’ll get it into the right port.

A female voice. “Mel?”

Ack, that’s not Dad. I mutter under my breath and jab the connector again. It clicks into place. Well, whaddya know? I scramble out and to my feet, dizzy for an instant.

Kara stands in the doorway, huge brown eyes lit with her smile. She extends her arms and hugs me, and I hug her back. We met a couple months ago at orientation, and some kind woman in the housing department told me she was one of my suitemates. “Hey, how are you?”

I step back, catching a whiff of some flowery scent. “Good, just trying to get this computer set up. I hate plugging in computers.”

She wrinkles her nose and laughs. “Yeah, all those cords are kind of annoying.” Something beeps, and she opens the huge maroon purse on her arm and pulls out a phone. Flipping it open, she reads the text before rolling her eyes. “My boyfriend is so clueless.”

“Mike, right?” I think that’s his name. I remember meeting him too.

“Yes, he’s asking what time the opening convocation is.”

“Five, right?” I think it’s pointless to ask if I’m correct, because it’s almost a mandatory event, and everyone knows when it is. Except Mike, apparently.

“Yes, everyone keeps telling me that I should go, but I heard opening convo is always really old school.” She finishes texting and drops the phone into the bottomless purse with a husky laugh. “I think the main music person is an opera singer.”

I quail at the very word. “I hate opera.” My parents dragged me to Le Nozze di Figaro when I was ten. I slept through it. I’ve always been bad about nodding off when I’m bored.

Kara’s eyes widen as she nods. “It’s definitely not my style of music.” She chuckles again. It’s one of the things I think makes her interesting. She always laughs.

Dad re-enters, I make introductions, and we carry on the unloading. Everything must be accomplished in an orderly fashion, with each task being completed before beginning the next. I like to bounce around from project to project. Keeps things interesting. Or if I really don’t want to do something, that way I can stall and still get things done. But this is Dad. He does things A-B-C-D-E. It’s one of our irritation points, because I like Q-J-A-D-Z.

When I am straining to find a happy voice, we get the last box in. I pretend to do things for a couple minutes as Mom chats with Kara’s mom, who is absolutely tiny compared to Kara. And when Kara’s parents leave, I continue feigning to work. They have to go soon, and I’m fiddling with my nightstand so it doesn’t become the three of us standing around, hands in pockets, staring at the walls. Hopefully without tears. I dread the thought of tears.

Dad glances at his watch and grimaces. “We’d better get going so we can make it to church on time.”

I hide a little laugh of glee. I get freshman privileges and hence may skip church today. “Okay.” I hug Mom. “Thanks for helping move all this stuff up here.” The sixth floor will be quieter, but the first floor would have been nice for unloading.

She hugs me and steps back, face perfectly composed. She looks happy that I’m ready to be here. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” I turn and hug Dad, scolding myself for being so hard on him. He’s a good dad, and I can overreact. I do overreact. “See you soon.”

When the door closes, I release a deep breath. “Thank you God.”

Kara pokes her head out of her room. We each have tiny little separate rooms, two on each side of the suite, split by a common room. “What’s up?”

“I was really hoping no one would start crying or anything, and no one did.” I’ve heard all the horror stories about parents falling apart on the first day and refusing to let their children stay at the school. I would burrow into the couch in the living room and tie myself to the coffee table. Bring on the stormtroopers.

Kara nods. “Yeah, that’s the way it was for me too.” She laughs. “I did all my freaking out a couple days ago.”

From her room at the opposite end of the hall, Nicole steps into the hallway. She redefines perfectly petite. Okay, so she’s 5’4”, but she’s so slender, has perfect bone structure in her face and beautiful ivory skin. I’d love to be that proportionately slim. I’m not gawky, but I’m thin for a volleyball player.

She tucks a wing of black hair behind her ear. “Yeah, me too. I was totally fine today, and my mom was weepy, but yesterday night she was the steady one and I was a wreck.”

She has the cutest drawl. It’s not a stereotypical Texas twang, so I’m not sure what to call it. I shrugged. “No one was weepy, but the last few days have been awful. Everyone was just acting really weird.” Maybe none of us knew how we should act.

But I do know one thing.

I am free.

___________________

Phew. I'm not sure how I feel about posting this. Irritated, maybe, that there are errors. Hey, y'all can buy the book when it gets published. Or if it does well enough, I'll just give you copies :-)

Quickly!

I'm headed home for today, and will be back tomorrow. Due to a midterm, I have written exactly two sentences on the project. I think I'm going to name it Moonlight for right now - like the Moonlight Sonata. As I may have mentioned before, I suck at titles.

So anyhoo, despite my not being able to write squat this week, I've formulated a lot of the plot in my mind. I guess I could call it mental outlining. Soon enough (today?) I'll get an actual slug-line outline on paper. It's funny. I write so much better on a computer, but if I'm writing out character names or an outline, I have to use pen and paper. I guess that means I'm not a total slave to technology.

See y'all around!

The Realm of Fiction, and Its Forbidding Doors

Read this first.

(Isn't it amazing that even on a bad day Q can write something so good?)

This is an inevitable part of writing. All writers know that. Or if they don't, clearly they have been given the golden key to the gates of the realm of fiction. Writer's block - I might start calling it writer's lock-out - is something that drives me beserk. I've been suffering it since school started...such a long time.

Maybe it was burnout. With two weeks before I moved out, I realized once I got to school the odds of me finishing my current project anytime soon were slim. So in the last two weeks of summer, I charged through to the end of the book. It was a great feeling, no writer's block.

And then it hit. Seven weeks of painful nothingness in the mind, except for phantoms of ideas too insubstantial to hold.

There's a glimmer of hope, though: one of the phantoms is solidifying a little. As much work as Shakespeare class is, I now have inspiration. From which play? Romeo and Juliet. Not at all what I expected. For years I've hated that play. I came to terms with it last week: every problem I have with it deals with the time span. They fall in love overnight? They get married the next day? They kill themselves a day later? Uh-uh.

But then I grudgingly admit that spreading these events over a long time period wouldn't work for a play. Shakespeare had to condense. So when I read R&J, I just imagine there are tidy gaps of time between acts. If I think of it that way, I quite enjoy it.

So yes, my idea, flickering at the edges of my mind, is somewhat based on Romeo and Juliet. But modern. And with a somewhat happier ending. (Not a Disney ending, mind you, not at all. I may not be friends with Will, but c'mon - a happy ending in something based on one of his tragedies? It's an insult.)

I just realized something. The three projects I've finished have something in common. Or the process leading to them did: I wrote rough outlines for all three. Unfinished projects, I didn't.

Yes! Perhaps this is a breakthrough. I must go now - and finish my pesky paper on The Merchant of Venice so I can try to outline this idea...I hope it will not fail me.

Wordle

So, I finally updated my Java browers and did a Wordle of my third novel.





Thanks, Q, for showing me Wordles! You can make your own at www.wordles.net.

So.

I'm oddly hooked by what I wrote a few days ago (see below - actually, don't yet). Today is my day in between classes. My to-do list:

- Read the last act of Tony and Cleo.
- Stretch
- Swing by my coach's office
- Do some Spanish homework
- Organize my room

I don't have any reading to do for two of my classes (this may never occur again) because we are a bit behind shedule (misspelling purposeful). We've spent the time fleshing out the previous works (which I am happy with).

Wow, I'm using a lot of parentheses.

Anyway. It's been two weeks since I've actually worked on something. And since I have the time today...

Yes, that's right. I wrote. I wrote on the Iliad-inspired thing I started a few days ago. Here it is. This is starting from the very beginning (the way I began the original short was too abrupt for me), so after a couple pages, you'll realize it's the same material you've read before, but tweaked. As always, LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK.

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The air felt like death. I wasn’t given to second-sight or prophecy as Cleon, but I felt danger holding its breath in the dry Greek afternoon, lingering around the next bend of the rift. I glanced over my right shoulder. “Patroclus.” I nodded at him to catch up.

Patroclus’ sword rattled in its hilt as he fell into stride next to me. “Yes, Altes.”

I considered him for a moment as we continued into the ravine. My father’s most trusted friend, nearing his fiftieth year but strong as Atlas holding up the sky. “I don’t like this path.”

He rubbed a hand over his chin, studded with grey stubble. “Its rockiness or its feeling?”

I stepped onto a rock slab jutting from the dried riverbed. “Both. Namely the feeling. It’s as though Hades is waiting to ambush us.”

The left corner of Patroclus’ mouth flickered down. He came from the school of thought which discouraged speaking the names of the gods. “It does not reassure me how many skulls we’ve seen.”

At that moment I saw the sun-bleached skeleton of a wild deer, its ribs no thicker than my middle finger. Each bone was smooth and white, in its correct position. It did not seem it died violently, but as if something snatched the life-breath from it, and it collapsed there. “Do you consider them omens?”

Dymas turned and snorted. “Omens? Hardly. Perhaps there have been more wolves this year.”

“In which case it would still be a warning, whether of the gods or not.” This from dark-skinned Lysias, who sailed to Greece several years ago from a place across the Mediterranean. He was nearly as devout as Patroclus.

I shook my head. “Remain alert. I’ll be glad to clear this ravine.”

Patroclus laid his hand on my shoulder, only for a moment, always careful to respect my status as my father’s child. “It won’t be long.”

I nodded, not looking at him. Patroclus knew my secret. Lysias suspected, I know, but he would not question me, or reveal his suspicions to anyone. Dymas was blind as the steep rock walls rising on our sides. Neither Harmon or Nomion spoke much of anything. Excellent fighters and dependable men, yes, intellectuals, no. I found myself in an uncomfortable position as proficient
in both disciplines.

A horse whinnied around the bend.

I felt the warm metal of my sword grip under my palm before I realized I’d reached for my weapon. Both Lysias and Harmon had hands on their swords; Nomion swung his bow over his shoulder an instant later.

Dymas and Patroclus rested their hands near their weapons, Dymas grimacing as though he longed for the familiar weight of his spear. I know he regretted having to send it ahead with the main party. He could pin an apple to a tree trunk from fifty paces back.

Patroclus made as if to step in front of me. I held a hand up. “Perhaps it’s a band of traders or nomads.” Anyone with equal or even slightly great numbers would be mad to engage us. The weakest fighter at the moment was Dymas, only because he was a master of the spear and not sword. As the leader of our group, I rounded the bend first.

Seven men stood across the ravine, barring the path, sun glinting from their armor.

I knew then, before a word had been spoken, they were here to meet us. Yesterday Perin suffered a deadly snake bite – mostly through his own foolishness – and was left behind for his troubles. We numbered six now.

The man in the center of the ravine unfolded his arms, looking at each of us, gaze settling last on me. “Altes.”

“What do you want?” I said. “We’re not on business of war.” Though if they attacked, that would soon change. “And if you’re wondering about our seventh man, he was bitten by a viper and left to recover.”

He lifted eyebrows the color of washed-out sand. Trojan coloring, faint accent. “Why would I be wondering of Perin?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t condescend to me. You’re waiting, fully armed, in a little-traveled ravine with seven men. Coincidentally the same number of men in my band until yesterday. It’s all a very convenient accident.”

In my side vision, Patroclus’ mouth twitched, likely in a combination of mirth and caution.
I kept my right hand draped over my sword hilt. “Dispense with the absurdity. What do you want of us?”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting like blue ice. “It’s nothing I want of you, Altes.” He said my name with irritating familiarity. “It’s you and your men that I want.”

I felt cool fear wafting into my stomach. “Your first problem is if you think my father will be coerced into paying ransom, you are mistaken, and second problem that there are many wealthier families to kidnap from.” I half-turned and took in my group with a glance. “And with no insult intended, no one in this band possesses anything of absurd value.”

Except Dymas.

“Except for Dymas,” said the man. He did not shift his gaze to my red-haired spear thrower.

He knew, then, of Dymas’ pearl-beds. Perhaps not of the methods Dymas’ oysters produced such large stones – no one knew that – but he did know whose pearls were the most lustrous and valued.

“Well then,” I said. “One of seven. I congratulate you on your fine catch.” I paused. “Except for the minor issue that you have chosen to assault a highly-trained group of fighters. I suppose the laurel wreath will be due after you’ve defeated us.”

Patroclus made a suppressed sound of impatience. I understood the cause of his concern, but I could be much more insulting if I chose. All I said was true.

The Trojan smiled and drew his sword, metal singing once and again with the voice of Echo in the cliff walls. “Then I take that as a challenge.”

“Hardly,” I said. “We have business to attend to elsewhere that does not involve Trojan kidnappers.”

Dymas wavered in the corner of my left eye, glancing at me. I dipped my chin once. His fault was impatience, but he’d waited for the enemy to draw weapons first. Therefore I would allow him to respond for us.

He unsheathed his weapon, bronze glittering in the light.

The canyon sang with metal on metal, the clear ring of sword and sheath. I felt the weight of my sword, familiar as the laced sandals on my feet. Swinging my shield from my back, I slid it onto my left arm.

It was then I saw the man on the enemy’s side. At first I did not know what drew my gaze. As I cinched the straps on my shield, I began to discern. Something of the air around him appeared different – hazy, flickering, as the air on a scorching day.

He returned my gaze in a manner not describable with words – unflinching? Little wonder. He was huge. Not flabby, but the most muscular man I’d seen. And as sure as I knew my sword, I knew I was going to fight him. A total mismatch, yes, between the slight boy and the giant (not a true giant, of course).

So, it came as little surprise to me when a moment later we squared off. Half-grinning, my opponent brought down his sword with what seemed a casual turn of his wrist. His blade struck mine with enough force to clack my teeth together. I cursed myself for not anticipating the blow and took a half-step back, tightening my grip. Our blades met again, and my arms felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. I couldn't decide exactly what about this man worried me so much. There were many things. There was something about him physically that seemed...almost superhuman. Even without a helmet, he stood just enough taller than the rest. His shoulders filled armor inches wider than even my father's friend Argos. It was unnatural. By nature I was one of the best swordsmen - swordspersons - in Greece, and my father theorized that Artemis blessed me in my toddling days. Never had I met one who could put so much force into a stroke.Sunlight flashed against his sword, the bronze throwing specks of light into my eyes. I continued parrying, dodging. He was a giant, yes, and I was a girl masquerading as a boy, but I was by nature quicker. At one thrust, however, I could not dodge, and shoved my shield arm forward. Pain exploded in my arm as the blow knocked me backwards three steps. That was when I comprehended the truth I’d known all along but refused to admit.
He was toying with me. Impossible but true.
Teeth gritted, I scanned the ground near his feet. A rock the size of my fist laid on the sun-baked ground a few feet behind my opponent. If I could trick him into stepping backwards onto it, I might have the advantage for a few crucial moments."Yah!" I shouted and swung my blade at his head. A startled expression broke across his sun-tanned face, and he skipped backwards with surprising agility. His left heel came down on the rock, and he stumbled, shield swinging sideways.With a grunt, I slashed sideways. I hated killing, but I would hate to be killed more. With some impossible maneuver, he twisted at the last moment, regaining his balance. The blade bit into his arm instead of plunging into his side. At the least his sword arm was injured, giving me a hope of survival. I pulled back a few paces, glancing at the top of my sword. The other metallic rings of swords faded in my ears, the thuds, shouts, wind in my ears died.
I thought I would see crimson tipping my sword. Over the bronze of my sword, golden liquid gleamed, flecks of silver glinting in the sun, droplets sliding toward the hilt.It fell together. A man stronger than all the rest. An unnatural fighter. Golden blood.Ichor. Blood of the gods.It could not have been a breath later I looked up, eyes wide. "Ares."The edges of his lips curved up, smooth as a new archer's bow. No doubt he was pleased with my paralysis, my awe, my fear. With no warning change in his posture, he attacked. Three strokes later my wrist snapped. A choked sound of pain split my lips as pain rushed through my right arm. My sword clanged against the ground. I bent for it, knowing I had no time.A blur of glimmering, flashing bronze, and a wall of metal slammed into my chest, driving me backwards into the cliff side. A spur of jagged rock dug into my skull, and light flared in my eyes for an instant. The edge of his shield dug into my throat. I prayed to Pallas Athena and to Artemis to act in these last few moments, to spare my life.The goddesses had other business than to interfere with this pitiful mortal's affairs, because Athena did not appear with her shield, or Artemis the Huntress with her bow.
A sharp edge bit into my neck, and I forced my eyes open. I would not die as a coward. Just cut down by an immortal’s blade."That would be Lord Ares to you, boy," said the god of war.I repressed a last impudent comment. Dying quickly and cleanly appealed than some of the more grisly deaths Ares was famed for. All I wanted to know was why, why me, why an immortal deigned to meet swords with me.I did not ask, because something slammed into my temple, and the dark mists of unconsciousness swirled over my eyes.

Must Write!

This will be a very short post, but I have to write some fiction. It's been two weeks. I'm not even sure what I'm going to write about yet, so don't expect a masterpiece (and no, Judi, this is not the promised story involving music and colors. Hang tight, 'kay?) I'd love to write about my crazy long run on Sunday, and how ticked off one of my teammates got at the guy who suggested this particular park to run at, but I'd have to do a lot of editing. Language issues and all. Don't get me wrong on this, but it was really funny. Of course, I also tripped and ate dust the day before, so maybe my brain was just rattled...

Alright, I"ve got an idea. This is total off-the-top-of-the-head, inspired by The Iliad. I finished book 8 this morning. (And no, this is not brought on by the Percy Jackson books).

My opponent brought down his sword with what seemed a casual turn of his wrist. His blade hit mine with enough force to clack my teeth together. I cursed myself for not anticipating the blow and took a half-step back, tightening my grip. Our blades met again, and my arms felt like they were being pulled from their sockets.

I couldn't decide exactly what about this man worried me so much - aside from the fact he was in a group ambushing a small pack of travelers. And that there was something about him physically that seemed...almost superhuman. Even without a helmet, he stood just enough taller than the rest. His shoulders filled armor inches wider than even my father's friend Argos. It was unnatural. By nature I was one of the best swordsmen - swordspersons - in Greece, and my father theorized that Artemis blessed me in my toddling days. Never had I met one who could put so much force into a stroke.

Sunlight flashed against his sword, the bronze throwing specks of light into my eyes. I continued parrying, dodging. He was a giant, yes, and I was a girl masquerading as a boy, but I was by nature quicker. At one thrust, however, I could not dodge, and shoved my shield arm forward. Pain exploded in my arm as the blow knocked me backwards three steps. Teeth gritted, I scanned the ground near his feet. A rock the size of my fist laid on the sun-baked ground a few feet behind my opponent. If I could trick him into stepping backwards onto it, I might have the advantage for a few crucial moments.

"Yah!" I shouted and swung my blade at his head.

A startled expression broke across his sun-tanned face, and he skipped backwards with surprising agility. His left heel came down on the rock, and he stumbled, shield swinging sideways.

With a grunt, I slashed sideways. I hated killing, but I would hate to be killed more.

Somehow, with some impossible maneuver, he twisted at the last moment, regaining his balance. The blade bit into his arm instead of plunging into his side. At the least his sword arm was injured, giving me a hope of survival. I pulled back a few paces, glancing at the top of my sword. The other metallic rings of swords faded in my ears, the thuds, shouts, wind in my ears died. I thought I would see crimson tipping my sword.

Over the bronze of my sword, golden liquid gleamed, flecks of silver glinting in the sun, droplets sliding toward the hilt.

It fell together. A man stronger than all the rest. An unnatural fighter. Golden blood.

Ichor. Blood of the gods.

It could not have been a breath later that I looked up, eyes wide. The word was a whisper. "Ares."

The edges of his lips curved up, smooth as a new archer's bow. No doubt he was pleased with my paralysis, my awe, my fear. With no warning change in his posture, he attacked.

Three strokes later my wrist snapped. A choked sound of pain split my lips as pain rushed through my right arm. My sword clanged against the ground. I bent for it, knowing I had no time.

A blur of glimmering, flashing bronze, and a wall of metal slammed into my chest, driving me backwards into the rock wall. A spur of jagged rock dug into my skull, and light flared in my eyes for an instant. The edge of his shield dug into the base of my neck. I prayed to Pallas Athena and to Artemis, to act in these last few moments, to perhaps spare my life.

The goddesses had other business than to interfere with this pitiful mortal's affairs, because Athena did not appear with her shield, nor did an arrow of Artemis the Huntress strike. A sharp edge pricked under my chin, and I forced my eyes open. I would not die as a coward.

"That would be Lord Ares to you, boy," said the god of war.

I repressed a last impudent comment. Dying quickly and cleanly appealed than some of the more grisly deaths Ares was famed for. All I wanted to know was why, why me, why an immortal deigned to meet swords with me.

I did not ask, because something slammed into my temple, and the dark mists of unconsciousness swirled over my eyes.

Yet Another Update

I'm working on the short story thing. I promise. I just packed a huge suitcase with two pairs of running shoes, a pair of boots, a pair of heels, a tool kit, and some other stuff. And then I went through my clothes and donated some stuff to my sister. Why I am posting a laundry list (no pun intended)? I don't know. Maybe because my brain is whirling? I'm not panicking (at the moment), so it's a good day. It's cloudy out - looks like rain!! I love rain. And thunderstorms, especially. It's weird. I've found that a lot of bloggers love thunderstorms. It must be imagination...

Hmm... it was a dark and story night. No, my bad. A dark and stormy noon. The clouds, thick like mashed potatoes - no! Awful. What was I thinking?

Okay, round two. Ahem:

It was a dark and stormy noon. The rain collected in the clouds, intent on pummeling the earth, longing for that signal, the breaking of the clouds, so they could complete their mission.

Raindrop #296 looked at his partner, 297. "Mission?"

297 rearranged his atoms to smile; he resembled a grinning blimp. "A rose bush. Award-winner. Joseph's Coat."

His friend 299, the new kid, winced. "Ouch. Watch for the thorns."

297 nodded sagely. He was a veteran, having been reincarnated three hundred and fifty-nine times through the water cycle. He was at Gettysburg. He was at the battle of Arbonne. A rose bush was cake for him. "I'll hit the flower, slid down the curve of the top petal, past the leaves, and down the stem. Unless an enemy derails me, I'll make it to the base of the plant and the soil. After that..."

The three fell silent, silently honoring their fates. It went unsaid, but they thought of the same thing: how some of their number would fall into the street and roll in a teeming mass of other drops into the sewer. From there it was a long underground ride, through processors, to the ocean. It could be a month before Evaporation, that heavenly being, lifted them from the sea into the sky.

And those were the lucky ones. Those like 297, who fulfilled their mission, would seep into the soil. The roots of the rose would eventually slurp him into its system, deconstructing him and using his different molecules for its life processes. He would be torn apart. It would be months at the least, even years before he took that celestial journey into the clouds again.

Look, a short! How did that happen? :-)

The writer wrings her hands as she studies her blog comments. One by one, they trickle in. She sighs. She took a risk, posting a short story she wasn't sure of - was it brilliant? Or copycattish? All the bloggers, to her surprise, loved it. Now they all encourage her to post more. She glares at the monitor. It's all Q's fault, she rants. If she hadn't read Q's shorts, if Q hadn't posted them, this never would have happen. She blames Q!

She sits back, blushing prettily as she recalls the comments. And then she knows: the mission falls. She most post more. They have asked, and she cannot deprive them. For what would happen if - unlikely - but if she died from lack of internet exposure during the next week, spent entirely at camp? No, she must.

And so she does, and will return later to ponder the beautiful, dark poetry of The Dark Knight, in which Heath Ledger is a freaking psychopathic yet entrancing genius, and Bruce Wayne has a very sweet polished-like-a-black-gemstone Lamborghini.

Ahem. The story:

Steadfast

The rainclouds threaten to drench us. I watch Katy, stationed to the left of the casket. Her spike heels sink into the grass, the only evidence she’s distracted. The normal Katy hates stilettos. To anyone else she is aloof, an observer, a marble pillar.

A breeze catches the ends of the minister’s robe, tugging them as he finishes a traditional liturgy. Still Katy’s face reveals nothing. She studies the edge of the casket lid. I didn’t know her grandfather well, but I remember him. He carved for a living, something I personally like as a career option. In my memory, I see him sliding his hands over the velvet body of a cherry-wood dolphin, smile creasing his skin.

The procession moves inside. Even though I’m not the biggest fan of tradition, I bow to its mandates and stand in the consolation line. I watch a graying couple step toward Katy’s parents.

Tears glimmer in the woman’s eyes. The man looks stiff as he extends a hand toward Mr. Donovan. Then he drops his shoulders as if to say forget this, and hugs him. The women sob together.

That eases the knot in my chest. I hate false mourners. It’s a harsh word, but people who do nothing but bring casseroles and a few form phrases bother me. I’m not what you call the introspective type, or the go-to person for comfort, but when things are bad, and I mean scraping-the-ocean-floor look-up-to-see-bottom bad, I feel it. It’s like I internalize grief. Don’t ask why. I don’t have an explanation.

I shake Mr. Donovan’s hand, because I don’t know him well enough to hug him. The muscles around Mrs. Donovan’s eyes are pulled tight as if she can squint back the tears. I know her a little better, and decide she could use the embrace.

She sniffs into my shoulder. “Thank you, Garrett.”

I feel my tie tightening in a hangman’s noose. I have no idea what to say but “You’re welcome”. As I step away, I rail myself up one side and down the other. You’re welcome. Pitiful, pitiful response. At least I didn’t say I’m sorry. Remember my take on tradition? I’m sorry is the most worn-out funeral line.

Then I spot Katy. She stands off to the side, weight shifted on one hip. As I meet her gaze, the mask resembles rice paper, and is peeling one agonizing strip at a time.

The smile forces itself across her lips as to resemble a grimace. “Hi, Garrett.”

“Hey.” I’m feeling brilliant and talkative.

Three minute creases form between her eyebrows. “I thought you had an interview today.”

I must have told her about it last week a couple days before her grandfather died. I shrug. “Rescheduled.” After a piece of delicate diplomacy over the phone. I left out the reason of a funeral until necessary. “Trevor around?” I figure if anyone he’ll be here. He’s known Katy since third grade.

She shakes her head once. Another piece of mask tears and flutters to the ground. “He had a scholarship interview too.”

We stand in silence for a minute until a woman in a black (duh) suit bustles up.

She takes Katy’s limp hand in hers. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. I know how close you and Dad were.”

The grimace-smile thing inches onto Katy’s face. “Thank you.”

The woman shakes her head mournfully and walks away.

Katie bares her teeth. “She couldn’t care less. She’s been badgering Grandad about his will for years in the hopes he’d drop dead and leave her a big chunk.”

This is harsh for Katy the encourager. “You holding up alright?”

Her eyes fill. Her breath shudders, and she blows it out. “I’ll be fine.” A single tear spills onto her cheek, and like some kind of enzyme, it dissolves the mask.

There’s some chivalric code regarding weeping women. I’m pretty sure I remember it, but the contents suggest I should try not to.

Ah, what the heck. I pull her into a hug, touching her like she’s a tissue paper butterfly. Weird analogy, but you get the point.

She lets her head hit my chest. Soon enough I feel dampness seeping through the suit jacket. This is really weird, and kind of freaking me out, and all I can do is hope she isn’t getting a concussion from my heartbeat. I pin my gaze on some silver clip-thing in her hair. I think I’ll die if I look anyone in the eye right now.

Later Katy steps back, running a finger under her bottom eyelashes. It’s a mystery to the male mind how girls can bawl their eyes out and emerge with makeup intact. My guess is an unhealthy amount of waterproof chemicals and years of practice. As she glances down, I check my jacket without moving my head. Spotless. Incredible.

She swallows and breathes once. “Wow. Sorry.”

No, I’m supposed to say that to her, except if I say it now it’ll sound wrong. I search for inspiration, but wind up staring at a jet-black curl falling from her ponytail. “Uh, no problem.” Gratefully, my speech teacher is not present. She would make me give my own eulogy before killing me. Given the location, she could make a clean getaway.

“You know something? You’re a good friend.”

“Really? I mean, I know we were acquaintances and all, but I thought since I’d only known you for a year and all-”

She cocks her head, looking amused.

I close my eyes for an instant. “I think I’m going to shut up now.” To the flood of words arriving in my head just now, I growl we’ll talk later.

Katy manages a smile. “I meant it like you’re a good friend. I mean, like you said, we haven’t known each other very long, but you still showed up here and kept me from totally melting down-” she stops herself. “I’m rambling. You get my point.”

My chest warms at this revelation. “I guess I didn’t think about it that way.”

“I really appreciate it.”

To me, that phrase usually has the credibility of I’m sorry. But I can tell she means it. “You’re welcome.” And this time it feels like the right response.