You NEED to click on this link and go watch the video here. Even pause a while to listen to Kay's playlist of awesome affirming songs while you are there. (I just bookmarked this blog post in my "radio" favorites -- I like the playlist that much ...) After you've listened to her playlist (Jimmy, at least) pause that and then click on the video:
http://loopdeloops.blogspot.com/2007/09/dreams-can-come-true.html
Go on! Go! Now! I'll still be here when you get back. (Did I hear you say "drats!"? That's okay ... LOL)
You went, right? You watched the video?
Okay, now read on ...
Last night, my husband asked if I had heard the news. About Pavarotti. I had not heard but figured that meant only one thing: the world had lost a great voice.
I had heard about this guy from Wales. The opera snobs are not too happy that opera was "cheapened" by being performed in such a popular venue. However, the masses who appreciate a good voice are thrilled. I'm with them.
Never ever underestimate your gifts, your dreams, your talents. They are given to you and they are yours to treasure, nurture, and share.
Go Dream, Live, Share.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
A Three-Word Wednesday entry (#2 for me)
From: http://littlenibbler.blogspot.com/
Welcome to Three Word Wednesday. Each week, I will post three (or more) words. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write something using all of those words. It can be a few lines, a story, a poem, anything. I'll also attempt to write something using the same words.
Leave a comment if you participate. Many fun and interesting people might visit your blog.
This week's words are:
Pound
Sunglasses
Wild
-- -- -- -- --
Okay, here goes. Top-of-the-head, free association and all that jazz stuff happenin' here: (IOW - crap-perhaps)
A pound of hair. A full pound of it! Maybe more.
It littered the floor like so much spaghetti half boiled and thrown by handfuls to splat and smash on the terracotta tiles.
That, finally, was the end to my latest fiasco. 12 years of growing that mop of hair, destroyed by one crazy incident -- a dare from my sisterhood-circle. "Let's all go PLATINUM!"
I thought they meant hair color. They meant to get and abuse a platinum credit card. I think my personal translation of the dare, and implementation, was far superior to theirs.
They still had a mountain of debts. I had all this hair. Bright white hair. So bright, I needed to wear my sunglasses to gather it all and toss it in the trash.
Tomorrow I would go get the stubble of hair left on my head colored -- Copper Penny Red. Kind of ironic, though. That's about all my sisterhood-circle friends each have in their bank accounts after making their minimum payments each month on those platinum credit cards.
(c)2007 Susan Berg All Rights Reserved (but honestly, why would anyone in their right mind (or left mind, even) want to steal that malarky?!)
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Sunday Scribblings #75 -- "The End"
No, it's not the end of Sunday Scribblings. The prompt this week is "the end."
Well, I don't like this one. I wrote it, I posted it, but it is dumb (I think). LOL. Not quite sure why my recent writings of fiction for the net have headed into this sort of genre. Weird, if you ask me. Oh well. I told myself I would try to do these prompts and not self-edit (too much) ...
Her voice trailed off. Lucy shut the book quietly, blew out the candle and tiptoed toward the door. Anna had fallen asleep a long time ago, but Lucy had finished reading the bedtime book to the final page. "The end," it had said.
Lucy was almost out the door when the little voice said, "Mom, you know, I hate that."
Her daughter's comment startled her. "Hate what, honey?" she asked as she returned to her daughter.
"How all my favorite stories end. 'The End.' I don't think that is true, do you?"
Lucy waited for her six-year old to go on. After a short pause, Anna added, "I think the stories have to go on. You and daddy didn't end when you got married, did you?" Her child's eyes grew big as she studied at her mother in the darkness of the bedroom. "You're not a ghost mommy, are you?"
"No, honey," Lucy laughed, "I'm not a ghost. Good night dear. Sleep well."
"What was wrong with the little tyke?" Daniel asked as she returned to the sitting room.
"She asked if I was a ghost? She doesn't like how her favorite stories all finish off with 'The End'."
Daniel Gregg raised an eyebrow at that. Lucy continued, "I didn't tell her that her father is a ghost. And that my lover is a ghost, Captain." She reached up and tickled his chin, always amazed that she touched a warm solid beneath her finger tips and not a cold ethereal mist.
His arms around her were warm and strong. She raised her face to meet his lips. There was no breath upon her cheek, but there was a weight of flesh upon her own. She dared not try to analyze this, try to understand how a ghost could feel so solid, so real.
When her husband had died, Lucy Muir had begun to die in her heart too. Daily she had slipped further and further away into a cold, lonely place that seemed to be shrouded in mist. Her loneliness and despair, unrecognized, unseen by any around her, drove her to attempt suicide. But then a hand, unseen in the darkness, stopped her own. A kiss came from lips she could not see, but the taste was of sweet pipe tobacco and the feel of them was a passion, long in slumber, aroused.
This man, this sea captain long dead, came into her life. He brought sunshine that burned away the fog and mist of despair, warmth that melted the ice in her heart, and strength to face each day knowing he would be there in her arms each night -- if only in her fantasies.
In the end, it mattered not whether he was real or an figment. What mattered was he made her story go on when she had wanted to write "the end."
Well, I don't like this one. I wrote it, I posted it, but it is dumb (I think). LOL. Not quite sure why my recent writings of fiction for the net have headed into this sort of genre. Weird, if you ask me. Oh well. I told myself I would try to do these prompts and not self-edit (too much) ...
Her voice trailed off. Lucy shut the book quietly, blew out the candle and tiptoed toward the door. Anna had fallen asleep a long time ago, but Lucy had finished reading the bedtime book to the final page. "The end," it had said.
Lucy was almost out the door when the little voice said, "Mom, you know, I hate that."
Her daughter's comment startled her. "Hate what, honey?" she asked as she returned to her daughter.
"How all my favorite stories end. 'The End.' I don't think that is true, do you?"
Lucy waited for her six-year old to go on. After a short pause, Anna added, "I think the stories have to go on. You and daddy didn't end when you got married, did you?" Her child's eyes grew big as she studied at her mother in the darkness of the bedroom. "You're not a ghost mommy, are you?"
"No, honey," Lucy laughed, "I'm not a ghost. Good night dear. Sleep well."
"What was wrong with the little tyke?" Daniel asked as she returned to the sitting room.
"She asked if I was a ghost? She doesn't like how her favorite stories all finish off with 'The End'."
Daniel Gregg raised an eyebrow at that. Lucy continued, "I didn't tell her that her father is a ghost. And that my lover is a ghost, Captain." She reached up and tickled his chin, always amazed that she touched a warm solid beneath her finger tips and not a cold ethereal mist.
His arms around her were warm and strong. She raised her face to meet his lips. There was no breath upon her cheek, but there was a weight of flesh upon her own. She dared not try to analyze this, try to understand how a ghost could feel so solid, so real.
When her husband had died, Lucy Muir had begun to die in her heart too. Daily she had slipped further and further away into a cold, lonely place that seemed to be shrouded in mist. Her loneliness and despair, unrecognized, unseen by any around her, drove her to attempt suicide. But then a hand, unseen in the darkness, stopped her own. A kiss came from lips she could not see, but the taste was of sweet pipe tobacco and the feel of them was a passion, long in slumber, aroused.
This man, this sea captain long dead, came into her life. He brought sunshine that burned away the fog and mist of despair, warmth that melted the ice in her heart, and strength to face each day knowing he would be there in her arms each night -- if only in her fantasies.
In the end, it mattered not whether he was real or an figment. What mattered was he made her story go on when she had wanted to write "the end."
Friday, August 31, 2007
Fiction Friday (002)
This Week’s Challenge
[Fiction] Friday Challenge for August, 31 2007:Pick a famous fictional character (for our purposes here it can be any character from fiction, mythology, legend, comic books...whatever) and give them a secret vice---at the very least it should be distateful if not outright illegal. Now give the character's rationale in their own words.Example: Have Santa explain why he looks through women's drawers during his rounds.Note: This is an exercise in learning about a point of view other than your own, not linguistics---so if you'd like Huck Finn to explain his drug use you can skip the accents or period English.
Ew! This one is hard. Right now, my brain is rather befuddled and foggy -- so even thinking of a FAMOUS fictional character is difficult right now. Right now, my brain can only think as far as last week's theme and how I did a twist on vampires for it -- so, the character is Count Dracula.
Now, there is a bundle of vices all wrapped up neatly into a cryo-vac package -- what new and probably illegal secret vice could HE have, I wonder? And how could such a person/creature rationalize any of it?
[deleted stuff -- I went to Wikipedia for info on vices and picked up a couple that might be funny to work with for my chosen character ... so here it continues ...]
HOO! Count Dracula's vice is VANITY!
What a hoot!
Now, how can he justify it?
I don't know how he can JUSTIFY being vain but it might explain his preference for female "victims" ...
NOTE: I have no idea if Vlad was charming, handsome or short and hideous; this IS FICTION after all. :-)
Vlad strode purposefully around the room. Where was that blasted journalist anyhow? Didn't she know how unbusy he was these days? Rage at being abused so wantonly by her lateness welled up within him. He actually didn't have anything better to do and that added to his anger.
Everyone said he was soulless. That was their reasoning for why he just didn't show up in their mirrors. It was still an odd sensation to walk past a mirror, even after all these centuries. There were his clothes, his watch and his hat. Just no face, no hands, no "him" in the reflection looking back at him.
He was heartless. Not soulless. Heartless. His heart had died a long time ago, but he continued on and on and on and on.
The tap at the door of the cavernous library echoed for a second. The door opened slowly and the old butler shuffled in. "The lady reporter, sir, has arrived."
Vlad stalked to the door and followed the butler to the small sitting room where the woman had been deposited to await his summons or arrival. He stood in the doorway just a moment, watching her wander the room. She was staring at the paintings, scribbling in her notepad and shooting digital snapshots of the artworks. He wondered if she would be foolish enough to want to take his picture with that stupid contraption.
Why had he agreed to this interview in the first place. His annoyance was growing by the second. Then she turned to face him, a smile on her lips as she approached, extending her hand to him.
He knew she meant to shake his hand but the admiration he saw in her eyes made him lift her hand to his lips and kiss it in the oh so old-fashioned manner of a gentleman.
He no longer travelled about, biting women in the neck, to survive. He had an entire crew of workers and volunteers who worked exclusively for him -- running community blood drives all over the country. Ah, the donations went up so high after any disaster struck. If only he could go out and create disasters, then the generosity of humanity would forever be increased!
His personal needs were simple. Two pints a day: A, B, O, AB, positive, negative -- it didn't matter. Blood, for him, was blood. Though, he really wasn't the monster everyone believed him to be -- he was careful to not use the rarer blood types; he actually left those for the people who really needed it.
The interview was far different than he had expected. He had expected to be asked how he had become a vampire, why he bit only women, how many did he bite over the years, how often, etc. The usual bunch of mass-delusional garbage the superstitious and weak-minded asked. No, this woman asked really stupid things like what was his favorite color, and did he have a lucky number. She asked if he read the latest best selling novel and if he had seen the summer's blockbuster swashbuckler movie. She had laughed at his lame attempts at humorous answers to her dumb questions. For some reason, his anger and annoyance had melted away when she had pretended to swoon after he had kissed her hand.
It had been a very long time since a woman had looked at him that way -- seeing him as a desirable man and not as a monster. Even though she hadn't asked, he began to explain himself to her. "Do you find me attractive?" he asked her, his vanity demanding to know if he was still as attractive to women as he had once been centuries ago -- but now, the mirror refused to reveal to him.
Vlad could tell she was surprised by his direct question, aimed at her. She was the interviewer, she thought. After a pause, dare she say yes or should she say no? Which one was more dangerous? And, honestly, did she want to avoid danger? She was here after all. What dangers had she faced lately? Oh yeah, that cauldron that boiled too hard all the time and splatted out the oatmeal every morning, threatening to stain her cardigan. She hadn't experienced any adventure or danger at all since Harry had killed Voldemort and Ron had asked her to marry him.
"Bite me, okay," Hermione finally answered.
Vlad was a bit shocked at first, but ever since he got that dang laptop computer, had logged on to the Internet and discovered Blogs -- he'd learned that "Bite me" was not an invitation for him to sink his fangs into a beautiful neck. It was a sort of put down.
He was depressed. It must have shown in his demeanor.
"No, seriously, bite me!" Hermione Weasley demanded. "My husband is a twit. He thinks he is famous because he is the best friend of someone famous. He keeps reliving the glory days. I'm sick of it. Sick of him."
A look of ... "was that rapture?" Vlad thought as he watched her talk more than listen to her words. Yes, it was. What was she saying? He better pay attention, this could be important. Maybe "bite me" wasn't a put down after all.
"... so, you see, I was the brains of it all. Without me, they would never have succeeded at all. Next time they have an all-powerful evil to contend with, it will be me! I'll be immortal, I know more than they do, and ..." Vlad stopped listening again.
Ah, vanity thy name is woman. And he thought he had been vain, and that an eternity of never seeing himself as he is was his punishment. But, eesh, the vanity sitting across from him was more than he could bear. If it would help him die right now, he would blow his brains out. That wouldn't work, his brains would be all over the wallpaper and his body would keep on, like that stupid Energizer Bunny -- and he would be brainless as well as heartless. He needed his brain. Maybe not his heart, but he did need his brain.
Being the heartless jerk that he was, he got up and left the room, found the butler and had him usher her out the front door. Hermione was so caught up in her nauseating monologue that she didn't even notice. "... I would be far more stealthy and cunning than Volde..." The door of the castle slammed behind her.
Then Vlad returned to the laptop, to the blog he had been reading: http://whigmaleerieworkshop.blogspot.com/2007/08/this-weeks-challenge-fiction-friday.html
(c)2007 Susan D Berg ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
[Fiction] Friday Challenge for August, 31 2007:Pick a famous fictional character (for our purposes here it can be any character from fiction, mythology, legend, comic books...whatever) and give them a secret vice---at the very least it should be distateful if not outright illegal. Now give the character's rationale in their own words.Example: Have Santa explain why he looks through women's drawers during his rounds.Note: This is an exercise in learning about a point of view other than your own, not linguistics---so if you'd like Huck Finn to explain his drug use you can skip the accents or period English.
Ew! This one is hard. Right now, my brain is rather befuddled and foggy -- so even thinking of a FAMOUS fictional character is difficult right now. Right now, my brain can only think as far as last week's theme and how I did a twist on vampires for it -- so, the character is Count Dracula.
Now, there is a bundle of vices all wrapped up neatly into a cryo-vac package -- what new and probably illegal secret vice could HE have, I wonder? And how could such a person/creature rationalize any of it?
[deleted stuff -- I went to Wikipedia for info on vices and picked up a couple that might be funny to work with for my chosen character ... so here it continues ...]
HOO! Count Dracula's vice is VANITY!
What a hoot!
Now, how can he justify it?
I don't know how he can JUSTIFY being vain but it might explain his preference for female "victims" ...
NOTE: I have no idea if Vlad was charming, handsome or short and hideous; this IS FICTION after all. :-)
Vlad strode purposefully around the room. Where was that blasted journalist anyhow? Didn't she know how unbusy he was these days? Rage at being abused so wantonly by her lateness welled up within him. He actually didn't have anything better to do and that added to his anger.
Everyone said he was soulless. That was their reasoning for why he just didn't show up in their mirrors. It was still an odd sensation to walk past a mirror, even after all these centuries. There were his clothes, his watch and his hat. Just no face, no hands, no "him" in the reflection looking back at him.
He was heartless. Not soulless. Heartless. His heart had died a long time ago, but he continued on and on and on and on.
The tap at the door of the cavernous library echoed for a second. The door opened slowly and the old butler shuffled in. "The lady reporter, sir, has arrived."
Vlad stalked to the door and followed the butler to the small sitting room where the woman had been deposited to await his summons or arrival. He stood in the doorway just a moment, watching her wander the room. She was staring at the paintings, scribbling in her notepad and shooting digital snapshots of the artworks. He wondered if she would be foolish enough to want to take his picture with that stupid contraption.
Why had he agreed to this interview in the first place. His annoyance was growing by the second. Then she turned to face him, a smile on her lips as she approached, extending her hand to him.
He knew she meant to shake his hand but the admiration he saw in her eyes made him lift her hand to his lips and kiss it in the oh so old-fashioned manner of a gentleman.
He no longer travelled about, biting women in the neck, to survive. He had an entire crew of workers and volunteers who worked exclusively for him -- running community blood drives all over the country. Ah, the donations went up so high after any disaster struck. If only he could go out and create disasters, then the generosity of humanity would forever be increased!
His personal needs were simple. Two pints a day: A, B, O, AB, positive, negative -- it didn't matter. Blood, for him, was blood. Though, he really wasn't the monster everyone believed him to be -- he was careful to not use the rarer blood types; he actually left those for the people who really needed it.
The interview was far different than he had expected. He had expected to be asked how he had become a vampire, why he bit only women, how many did he bite over the years, how often, etc. The usual bunch of mass-delusional garbage the superstitious and weak-minded asked. No, this woman asked really stupid things like what was his favorite color, and did he have a lucky number. She asked if he read the latest best selling novel and if he had seen the summer's blockbuster swashbuckler movie. She had laughed at his lame attempts at humorous answers to her dumb questions. For some reason, his anger and annoyance had melted away when she had pretended to swoon after he had kissed her hand.
It had been a very long time since a woman had looked at him that way -- seeing him as a desirable man and not as a monster. Even though she hadn't asked, he began to explain himself to her. "Do you find me attractive?" he asked her, his vanity demanding to know if he was still as attractive to women as he had once been centuries ago -- but now, the mirror refused to reveal to him.
Vlad could tell she was surprised by his direct question, aimed at her. She was the interviewer, she thought. After a pause, dare she say yes or should she say no? Which one was more dangerous? And, honestly, did she want to avoid danger? She was here after all. What dangers had she faced lately? Oh yeah, that cauldron that boiled too hard all the time and splatted out the oatmeal every morning, threatening to stain her cardigan. She hadn't experienced any adventure or danger at all since Harry had killed Voldemort and Ron had asked her to marry him.
"Bite me, okay," Hermione finally answered.
Vlad was a bit shocked at first, but ever since he got that dang laptop computer, had logged on to the Internet and discovered Blogs -- he'd learned that "Bite me" was not an invitation for him to sink his fangs into a beautiful neck. It was a sort of put down.
He was depressed. It must have shown in his demeanor.
"No, seriously, bite me!" Hermione Weasley demanded. "My husband is a twit. He thinks he is famous because he is the best friend of someone famous. He keeps reliving the glory days. I'm sick of it. Sick of him."
A look of ... "was that rapture?" Vlad thought as he watched her talk more than listen to her words. Yes, it was. What was she saying? He better pay attention, this could be important. Maybe "bite me" wasn't a put down after all.
"... so, you see, I was the brains of it all. Without me, they would never have succeeded at all. Next time they have an all-powerful evil to contend with, it will be me! I'll be immortal, I know more than they do, and ..." Vlad stopped listening again.
Ah, vanity thy name is woman. And he thought he had been vain, and that an eternity of never seeing himself as he is was his punishment. But, eesh, the vanity sitting across from him was more than he could bear. If it would help him die right now, he would blow his brains out. That wouldn't work, his brains would be all over the wallpaper and his body would keep on, like that stupid Energizer Bunny -- and he would be brainless as well as heartless. He needed his brain. Maybe not his heart, but he did need his brain.
Being the heartless jerk that he was, he got up and left the room, found the butler and had him usher her out the front door. Hermione was so caught up in her nauseating monologue that she didn't even notice. "... I would be far more stealthy and cunning than Volde..." The door of the castle slammed behind her.
Then Vlad returned to the laptop, to the blog he had been reading: http://whigmaleerieworkshop.blogspot.com/2007/08/this-weeks-challenge-fiction-friday.html
(c)2007 Susan D Berg ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Unconscious Mutterings 238 (001)
- Uneven :: sidewalk, Augsburg College, Fly like an Eagle -- till "splat" land again on knees and palms. OW!
- Wonder :: Stevie, O wonder as I wander, Wonder-Full
- Spider :: YUCK! KILL IT! KILL IT!
- Emma :: Aunt Emma was a cousin but old so was "aunt"
- Swing :: Music, thing (swing set) in the backyard that bounced up into the air if you went too high, till dad cemented those legs in place; drats
- Orbit :: gum; a repetitive route
- Flirt :: a wink and a smile; come-hither, too
- Donation :: something you don't want cluttering your closet anymore so you make a donation to Goodwill or the like; a tax-write-off; rarely altruistic
- Veil :: a curtain; an object of torture for a wedding day; a wall
- Atmosphere :: stuff you breathe; the feeling of a place; the kitschy stuff
Find out more about the meme, Unconscious Mutterings at http://subliminal.lunanina.com
Word Beads for August 26
Salt
Tattoo
Private
Symmetric
Reassembly
This is an interesting set of randomly chosen words to try to string together in any semblence of reasonable thought. But I'll try. :-)
The tattoo was in a very private portion of her skin-as-canvas-of-life. Yet, she knew the symmetric quality of the artwork, when displayed properly, would create envy in the hearts and minds of the viewers contemplating a tattoo and among those who considered themselves masters of the tattoo arts. Like salt in a wound, the excellence of the workmanship would sear the viewers' brains, and make them finally realize none could dare be an equal or better. Of course, the reassembly of the tattoo after the surgery had been a near impossibility; yet Nathan had pulled it off with panache. And that is what made the beauty of it so delicious now.
Well, that was a really dumb entry but it's all just in fun,right??
Tattoo
Private
Symmetric
Reassembly
This is an interesting set of randomly chosen words to try to string together in any semblence of reasonable thought. But I'll try. :-)
The tattoo was in a very private portion of her skin-as-canvas-of-life. Yet, she knew the symmetric quality of the artwork, when displayed properly, would create envy in the hearts and minds of the viewers contemplating a tattoo and among those who considered themselves masters of the tattoo arts. Like salt in a wound, the excellence of the workmanship would sear the viewers' brains, and make them finally realize none could dare be an equal or better. Of course, the reassembly of the tattoo after the surgery had been a near impossibility; yet Nathan had pulled it off with panache. And that is what made the beauty of it so delicious now.
Well, that was a really dumb entry but it's all just in fun,right??
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Sunday Scribblings
#74 - "I get that sinking feeling..."
While wandering Blogdom on a sort of Quest Journey, I have discovered many things. Sunday Scribblings is one of them.
And I get that sinking feeling that this is going to become an obsession with me like I think Friction [oops! FICTION not FRICTION!] Friday, Thankful Thursday, Wordless Wednesday, and Mute Monday are quickly on their way to overtaking my spare time and becoming obsessions too ...
So, here's to my first "entry" in Sunday Scribblings. Here here!
While wandering Blogdom on a sort of Quest Journey, I have discovered many things. Sunday Scribblings is one of them.
And I get that sinking feeling that this is going to become an obsession with me like I think Friction [oops! FICTION not FRICTION!] Friday, Thankful Thursday, Wordless Wednesday, and Mute Monday are quickly on their way to overtaking my spare time and becoming obsessions too ...
So, here's to my first "entry" in Sunday Scribblings. Here here!
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
"Fiction Friday" but not really ...
When I posted to the Wordless Wednesday participant list, I clicked on a few of the other entries. As I did so, I found more sites by and/or for writers. One of these is "Fiction Friday." A theme is given and then the participant is supposed to write, without editing (so it is a first draft, off-the-top-of-the-head kind of thing), for at least five minutes on that topic or prompt. The topic for this Friday (8/24) is to write a character in a genre you usually avoid.
"There's no time like the present," right?
Just yesterday I had the germ of an idea for a character. Today, writing about having the idea, I developed it just a little bit further. Then I found this writing prompt.
The story idea involves a twist on vampire stories. I've never read a vampire story. Not even Count Dracula, which was an assigned reading in one of my college English courses (I survived on Cliff Notes back then and still got pretty decent grades -- woo hoo Cliff Notes!)
Wandering around Blogdom, some of the first writer's / author's blogs I discovered are by people who write a genre I don't know anything about: Urban Fantasy. Based on the photos of book jacket/cover designs I've seen at these blogs, I've sort of determined this is a genre set in contemporary times, in urban environments, with vampires as characters. I know nothing about this genre, but have the simplest stereotypical view of Gothic or Dark Ages settings. That I could work within for now.
So, I set about writing a character who is "Undead."
First attempt was taking too much time setting up the scene and not getting to the fact I was dealing with the Undead and hadn't gotten into the character much at all. So, disregarding the "rules" of no editing, I stopped that attempt and started a second. First word is "Undead!" Well, got that much set up right away! LOL. Again, didn't get to the character too much though.
Not wanting to fiddle with that attempt any more today, I thought I would post a "Pre-Fiction Friday" entry here now. And then attempt to bring my character into the present but maybe not in an urban environment -- I don't know about that, yet ...
Why post before Friday? Hey, it's Wednesday! A lot could happen to that little snippet of a story between now and then. So, here's the closest it will ever be to a "first draft." I hope you enjoy it.
She poured water into a goblet to try to stop the coughing fit, and there in the goblet, her own face peering back at her again. She threw the goblet across the room and cried out, "NO!"
For more information about Fiction Fridays, click here:
http://www.take2max.com/writing/fiction-friday/
To see my entry for this week's Wordless Wednesday, click here:
http://suseadoodle-ant-thymes.blogspot.com/2007/08/its-not-photo-this-week.html
(c)2007 Susan D Berg ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
(and like I put on the WW picture, "but seriously, who would want to steal THAT!?")
"There's no time like the present," right?
Just yesterday I had the germ of an idea for a character. Today, writing about having the idea, I developed it just a little bit further. Then I found this writing prompt.
The story idea involves a twist on vampire stories. I've never read a vampire story. Not even Count Dracula, which was an assigned reading in one of my college English courses (I survived on Cliff Notes back then and still got pretty decent grades -- woo hoo Cliff Notes!)
Wandering around Blogdom, some of the first writer's / author's blogs I discovered are by people who write a genre I don't know anything about: Urban Fantasy. Based on the photos of book jacket/cover designs I've seen at these blogs, I've sort of determined this is a genre set in contemporary times, in urban environments, with vampires as characters. I know nothing about this genre, but have the simplest stereotypical view of Gothic or Dark Ages settings. That I could work within for now.
So, I set about writing a character who is "Undead."
First attempt was taking too much time setting up the scene and not getting to the fact I was dealing with the Undead and hadn't gotten into the character much at all. So, disregarding the "rules" of no editing, I stopped that attempt and started a second. First word is "Undead!" Well, got that much set up right away! LOL. Again, didn't get to the character too much though.
Not wanting to fiddle with that attempt any more today, I thought I would post a "Pre-Fiction Friday" entry here now. And then attempt to bring my character into the present but maybe not in an urban environment -- I don't know about that, yet ...
Why post before Friday? Hey, it's Wednesday! A lot could happen to that little snippet of a story between now and then. So, here's the closest it will ever be to a "first draft." I hope you enjoy it.
"Undead!" The cry rose from the group of old shrews like the yips and yaps of a pack of coyotes on the hunt. "Undead!"
Kendra's heart stopped for a long moment. The call came from behind her. How could they know? Her hood was drawn up against the day's chill air and they were behind her.
"Undead! Undead" The chanted cries grew closer and Kendra did not turn to watch their approach but busied herself with pretending to study the stitching on the ... what was she holding now? Ah, a glove made of soft kidskin. Yes, fine workmanship on that glove.
"Undead!" The jingle of the tiny bells on the belts The Mirrors wore were right behind her now. The jangle of the bells on their staves was annoying. "Undead!"
The five shrill, old voices snapped and cracked as they called, over and over, "Undead! Undead!" It was a non-stop litany. They were right behind Kendra and seemed to have stopped there. They continued their cries.
Kendra heard wailing. Coming from across the marketplace. Wailing, "No!" And then the loud congregational reply of the villagers assembled in the market, "Boo! Yah!"
The moaning "Nooooooooo" now moved off as The Mirrors moved on again. The song of the village was almost rhythmic. The soprano chant "Undead" followed by the basso "Boo! Yah!" was the beat of a tambour to the keening wail and moan of the quarry's wife or mother.
They had passed on by now. Kendra allowed herself to steal a glance in their direction.
The Mirrors! Oh, what a bunch of old shrews. They bustled about the village, dressed in those outlandish costumes: layers and layers of assorted fabrics, mostly scraps plucked from the rag bags of the seamstresses at the Bastion, held together with antler pegs and bronze brooches. Their hats were tall and covered with a wild tangle of vines, leaves, flowers and more fabrics from the castoffs of the gentry. Their shoes had huge swirling curlicues on the toes that stuck up in the air as high as their knees. Their stockings were knit, of odd bits of wool, into multicolored stripes, neither leg matching the other.
Their dress and stockings were a symbol of how they lived. Their work wandering the village, considered a necessity for the safety of the villagers, afforded these women no time to put their hands to any trade or work that would give an income; they lived on the generosity and favor of the town folk. Collecting a little of this here and some of that there, they made their way through life. They cobbled together their clothing, their meals, their homes from the gifts, the cast-offs and the scrounged effects from their neighbors.
There were tiny bells they attached to their belts, and the staves they carried, that jangled incessantly. On top of the staves were mirrors. Mounted in fancy bronze frames, the mirrors were set to make a circle of five, like eyes seeing in all directions. These staves passed from one Mirror to her replacement and were considered a badge of honor and a talisman of providence.
Not waiting to see who the quarry was, Kendra handed back the glove to the merchant and turned toward home, away from the plinth at the center of the market. Here the sales and auctions were held. Here the trials were held and the punishments meted out.
No trial was needed when an Undead was herded to the plinth. The evidence was there for all to see. The Mirrors proved it. Giving of evidence in a trial could not, would not, change the facts. The quarry either was or wasn't Undead.
Back home, Kendra slammed the door against the chill of the damp Autumn air. She leaned back against the door, her breath coming in gasps. She had almost run the last half-mile home. The echo of The Mirrors and the villagers filled her ears, her brain, her mind, her soul. Her soul!
Slowly she drew back the hood of her cloak and peered toward the mirror on the opposite wall. She choked on a cry of despair. She stifled it and began to cough.
Mirrors were a strange thing. Every home had at least one. The richest merchants often had entire walls covered in mirrors mounted in ornately decorated frames. What better art to display on the walls of a home, than the reflections of all the gifts of Mother Nature and the finery of living these gifts afford, like the home and its furnishings? Reminders of Nature's love and providence. Mirrors were placed to reflect the view through an open window, or through a door into another room of the home, or a vase of flowers artfully arranged on a table nearby.
Mirrors were not for the egoist or the vain. Mirrors could not confirm one's beauty or lack of it. Mirrors did not reflect the face of the Living, only the Undead.
Only the Undead had souls. And here, was the proof that Kendra possessed a soul -- her own reflection in the mirror.
Kendra's heart stopped for a long moment. The call came from behind her. How could they know? Her hood was drawn up against the day's chill air and they were behind her.
"Undead! Undead" The chanted cries grew closer and Kendra did not turn to watch their approach but busied herself with pretending to study the stitching on the ... what was she holding now? Ah, a glove made of soft kidskin. Yes, fine workmanship on that glove.
"Undead!" The jingle of the tiny bells on the belts The Mirrors wore were right behind her now. The jangle of the bells on their staves was annoying. "Undead!"
The five shrill, old voices snapped and cracked as they called, over and over, "Undead! Undead!" It was a non-stop litany. They were right behind Kendra and seemed to have stopped there. They continued their cries.
Kendra heard wailing. Coming from across the marketplace. Wailing, "No!" And then the loud congregational reply of the villagers assembled in the market, "Boo! Yah!"
The moaning "Nooooooooo" now moved off as The Mirrors moved on again. The song of the village was almost rhythmic. The soprano chant "Undead" followed by the basso "Boo! Yah!" was the beat of a tambour to the keening wail and moan of the quarry's wife or mother.
They had passed on by now. Kendra allowed herself to steal a glance in their direction.
The Mirrors! Oh, what a bunch of old shrews. They bustled about the village, dressed in those outlandish costumes: layers and layers of assorted fabrics, mostly scraps plucked from the rag bags of the seamstresses at the Bastion, held together with antler pegs and bronze brooches. Their hats were tall and covered with a wild tangle of vines, leaves, flowers and more fabrics from the castoffs of the gentry. Their shoes had huge swirling curlicues on the toes that stuck up in the air as high as their knees. Their stockings were knit, of odd bits of wool, into multicolored stripes, neither leg matching the other.
Their dress and stockings were a symbol of how they lived. Their work wandering the village, considered a necessity for the safety of the villagers, afforded these women no time to put their hands to any trade or work that would give an income; they lived on the generosity and favor of the town folk. Collecting a little of this here and some of that there, they made their way through life. They cobbled together their clothing, their meals, their homes from the gifts, the cast-offs and the scrounged effects from their neighbors.
There were tiny bells they attached to their belts, and the staves they carried, that jangled incessantly. On top of the staves were mirrors. Mounted in fancy bronze frames, the mirrors were set to make a circle of five, like eyes seeing in all directions. These staves passed from one Mirror to her replacement and were considered a badge of honor and a talisman of providence.
Not waiting to see who the quarry was, Kendra handed back the glove to the merchant and turned toward home, away from the plinth at the center of the market. Here the sales and auctions were held. Here the trials were held and the punishments meted out.
No trial was needed when an Undead was herded to the plinth. The evidence was there for all to see. The Mirrors proved it. Giving of evidence in a trial could not, would not, change the facts. The quarry either was or wasn't Undead.
Back home, Kendra slammed the door against the chill of the damp Autumn air. She leaned back against the door, her breath coming in gasps. She had almost run the last half-mile home. The echo of The Mirrors and the villagers filled her ears, her brain, her mind, her soul. Her soul!
Slowly she drew back the hood of her cloak and peered toward the mirror on the opposite wall. She choked on a cry of despair. She stifled it and began to cough.
Mirrors were a strange thing. Every home had at least one. The richest merchants often had entire walls covered in mirrors mounted in ornately decorated frames. What better art to display on the walls of a home, than the reflections of all the gifts of Mother Nature and the finery of living these gifts afford, like the home and its furnishings? Reminders of Nature's love and providence. Mirrors were placed to reflect the view through an open window, or through a door into another room of the home, or a vase of flowers artfully arranged on a table nearby.
Mirrors were not for the egoist or the vain. Mirrors could not confirm one's beauty or lack of it. Mirrors did not reflect the face of the Living, only the Undead.
Only the Undead had souls. And here, was the proof that Kendra possessed a soul -- her own reflection in the mirror.
She poured water into a goblet to try to stop the coughing fit, and there in the goblet, her own face peering back at her again. She threw the goblet across the room and cried out, "NO!"
For more information about Fiction Fridays, click here:
http://www.take2max.com/writing/fiction-friday/
To see my entry for this week's Wordless Wednesday, click here:
http://suseadoodle-ant-thymes.blogspot.com/2007/08/its-not-photo-this-week.html
(c)2007 Susan D Berg ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
(and like I put on the WW picture, "but seriously, who would want to steal THAT!?")
A second try at the E-Muse Widget
Here is a second attempt at using the e-muse widget (see blog entry two down, I think -- "A dumb poem for a stormy night" or something very much like that ...)
lime green moth slumbering
camomile yellow skies over labrynth of love again
husband arrives, kisses about
looking wet and carnal
the only fractional part--that moth
slumbering near silence
where kitten awaits
now lime green moths fade
into camomile yellow beginnings
then kitten once more
by Suse
lime green moth slumbering
camomile yellow skies over labrynth of love again
husband arrives, kisses about
looking wet and carnal
the only fractional part--that moth
slumbering near silence
where kitten awaits
now lime green moths fade
into camomile yellow beginnings
then kitten once more
by Suse
A Short Story Contest to Consider
Check out this link below for information on an upcoming Short Story Contest. It begins August 31.
http://www.take2max.com/writing/short-story-contest-rules/
I'm going to try to write up something for it. Won't you join me?? I think it should be fun.
http://www.take2max.com/writing/short-story-contest-rules/
I'm going to try to write up something for it. Won't you join me?? I think it should be fun.
Monday, August 13, 2007
A Very Stupid Poem for a Stormy Monday Night
Over at Missy's blog, The Incurable Disease of Writing, she has an entry in the "Monday Poetry Train." She used "emuse," an online widget, to "write" a poem. You can read her poem here:
http://incurable.hoyeya.net/?p=282
The online widget she used to help her "write" the poem asks for a few inputs (remember those "Mad Libs" from when you were a kid? Something like that but not quite the same) ... and then it generates a poem using the words you have provided. Here is the link to the widget:
http://www.poetryexpress.org/emuse/emuse.html
And here is the really stupid poem it came up with for my set of words:
http://incurable.hoyeya.net/?p=282
The online widget she used to help her "write" the poem asks for a few inputs (remember those "Mad Libs" from when you were a kid? Something like that but not quite the same) ... and then it generates a poem using the words you have provided. Here is the link to the widget:
http://www.poetryexpress.org/emuse/emuse.html
And here is the really stupid poem it came up with for my set of words:
mustard box stupefying
puce skies over Calgary again
Don Juan arrives,
Sit about
looking smooth and pretty
the only weird part--that box
stupefying near silence
where zorse awaits
now mustard boxes fade
into puce beginnings
then zorse once more
by Suse
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
I'm Super!
| Your Superpower Should Be Mind Reading |
 Why you would be a good superhero: You don't care what people think, and you'd do whatever needed to be done Your biggest problem as a superhero: Feeling even more isolated than you do now |
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Saturday, June 30, 2007
The Angel Company's new Fall 2007 Idea Book and Catalogue is here!
The Angel Company™ new Fall 2007 Idea Book and Catalogue has arrived!
It is brimming full of stamp sets, papers products, inks, tools and embellishments to make any crafter's heart sing and shout, "I just gotta have one of those!" At the very least, it will get your creative juices pumping and flowing and inspire you to Be Alive While Living, to Create Your Life instead of just letting it happen to you, and to Live Purposefully.
Sounds like a lot for one 128 page catalogue, doesn't it?
Why not contact me today to find out more?
SuseADoodle@gmail.com
It is brimming full of stamp sets, papers products, inks, tools and embellishments to make any crafter's heart sing and shout, "I just gotta have one of those!" At the very least, it will get your creative juices pumping and flowing and inspire you to Be Alive While Living, to Create Your Life instead of just letting it happen to you, and to Live Purposefully.
Sounds like a lot for one 128 page catalogue, doesn't it?
Why not contact me today to find out more?
SuseADoodle@gmail.com
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
First Fiber Post Card back home now
This is my very first Fiber Postcard. It was on display at the Tohono Chul Park in Tucsan this past Spring. They had a show of Fiber Postcards at the park with the theme "Wish You Were Here" in Arizona.I gave it a small twist and made it "Dad WAS Here." During WWII one of the places he was stationed was in Arizona with the 535th Army Air Force. He managed a bowling alley for the Army here. (He's the guy in the center of the picture bottom left.)
The card is made with iron-on transfers of scans of photos from his photo album and is all hand-sewn. Except for the ribbon around the edge, which I ran through a Xyron first, then used the blanket stitch to hold in place.
My second Fiber Postcard utilized a variation of Japanese Rag Weaving. I cut strips of colorful fabrics, wove them together, sewed down the edges with a whipstitch (to keep threads from getting caught in postal machinery), and mailed it off to a friend. It made it without any problems. Again, it was all hand sewn.
Soon, I hope to make and mail many more of these fun projects! Amazingly, they both traveled for the price of a stamp that you would put on a store-bought postcard! WOO HOO!
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