"He's gonna be toast!" Keith roared. His hands curled into fists, and he lunged.
Tobias lunged at the same time, caught him around the waist and dragged him back. Keith snarled and writhed, trying to get free. Tobias yelped when the sleeve of his jacket - his favorite jacket! - lit on fire.
"Gabriel, a little help here!"
From behind his comic book, Gabriel nodded absently - and the fire went out.
A slurry of curses in Irish from Keith.
"What did you do?"
"Put a telepathic hold on your gift until you behave," Tobias said tartly. "So behave."
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Writer's Tennis Part 10
“You’d better make this fast,” Angela said. She glanced over her shoulder to where some of the other agents were holding off Eddie and some of the ADs. It was the betrayed look on Kenneth’s face that stung unexpectedly.
But Angela had to keep her head in the game.
Thomas nodded his understanding. “Don’t worry - we have a couple of federal prosecutors on hand to counteract anything the studio lawyers try to pull.” He thrust something into her hands - small, a microchip; she’d have to look at it later in her trailer. “Another victim went missing today; that’s ten American hostages in total. If we don’t figure out where they’re being kept in the next seventy-two hours, we risk sparking outright global war.”
“Why isn’t the NSA or CIA handling this?”
“Because this cell is homegrown,” Thomas said. “Your mark is part of a sleeper cell, possibly an Omega, so he hasn’t been in this alone.”
“How do you know?”
“The last victim went missing while he was on set.”
“That explains why the timing on his squibs has been off. He’s been antsy.”
“By the time he gets his synchronization on those back in line, it may be too late,” Thomas said. “Do you have your firearm?”
“No, but I could steal one from props in a pinch.”
Thomas shook his head. “Collateral damage is more than the Bureau is willing to risk.” He unbuckled his shoulder holster - he always carried two pieces on him, shoulder and ankle - and handed it to her. “Keep an eye out and see if you can corner him. We need information, and we need it fast.”
Angela nodded. “All right. What do I tell the others when I get back on set?”
“Tell them that the Angela Carlisle we were looking for was a washed-up actress and recommend to your agent that you pick a new screen name.” Thomas smiled tightly and opened the car door.
Angela slid out and made a big show of tossing her head and smoothing her clothes, indignant. Then she headed back onto set. Immediately, she was surrounded by producers, Eddie, and a cadre of worried make-up girls. Oddly enough, the one who seemed most concerned was Johnny, still clutching the triggers for his mis-timed squibs.
But Angela had to keep her head in the game.
Thomas nodded his understanding. “Don’t worry - we have a couple of federal prosecutors on hand to counteract anything the studio lawyers try to pull.” He thrust something into her hands - small, a microchip; she’d have to look at it later in her trailer. “Another victim went missing today; that’s ten American hostages in total. If we don’t figure out where they’re being kept in the next seventy-two hours, we risk sparking outright global war.”
“Why isn’t the NSA or CIA handling this?”
“Because this cell is homegrown,” Thomas said. “Your mark is part of a sleeper cell, possibly an Omega, so he hasn’t been in this alone.”
“How do you know?”
“The last victim went missing while he was on set.”
“That explains why the timing on his squibs has been off. He’s been antsy.”
“By the time he gets his synchronization on those back in line, it may be too late,” Thomas said. “Do you have your firearm?”
“No, but I could steal one from props in a pinch.”
Thomas shook his head. “Collateral damage is more than the Bureau is willing to risk.” He unbuckled his shoulder holster - he always carried two pieces on him, shoulder and ankle - and handed it to her. “Keep an eye out and see if you can corner him. We need information, and we need it fast.”
Angela nodded. “All right. What do I tell the others when I get back on set?”
“Tell them that the Angela Carlisle we were looking for was a washed-up actress and recommend to your agent that you pick a new screen name.” Thomas smiled tightly and opened the car door.
Angela slid out and made a big show of tossing her head and smoothing her clothes, indignant. Then she headed back onto set. Immediately, she was surrounded by producers, Eddie, and a cadre of worried make-up girls. Oddly enough, the one who seemed most concerned was Johnny, still clutching the triggers for his mis-timed squibs.
Sigh
"Stop sighing so much," Jennifer said. "You're getting on my nerves. This isn't a melodrama class, you know." She didn't look up from her book.
Across the aisle, Emily said, "That's Spencer snoring, actually."
Jennifer's head came up; she stared.
Emily laughed softly. "Hey, just be glad he doesn't snore like Morgan. He sounds like a freight train when he's got a cold."
Somewhere from the back of the jet came an indignant, "Hey!"
Across the aisle, Emily said, "That's Spencer snoring, actually."
Jennifer's head came up; she stared.
Emily laughed softly. "Hey, just be glad he doesn't snore like Morgan. He sounds like a freight train when he's got a cold."
Somewhere from the back of the jet came an indignant, "Hey!"
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Writers Tennis part 9
Angela went for her gun in a knee-jerk reaction. When she realized that it was not there she felt exposed and vulnerable.
Everyone on the set looked up in shock, stopping where they were.
Agents came swarming out of nowhere, pointing their firearms at everyone, almost daring someone to move. One agent, Tharen, walked out from behind the others. "Angela Carlisle?"
Angela raised her hand slowly, making no sudden moves. She knew that they would shoot to kill if provoked.
Agent Tharen walked towards Angela. "Angela Carlisle, you are under arrest." He withdrew a set of steel cuffs from behind his back and placed them on Angela's wrists behind her.
"May I ask what this is about?" Angela looked like she was in shock.
"We will discuss that on the way." Tharen said. He placed a hand on her shoulder and guided her forward.
Everyone on the set stared after them in complete shock, not knowing what was going on. They watched the agents place Angela in the back of black car with tinted windows, Agent Tharen sliding in after her.
"Sorry about that Anggie." Thomas reached over and un-handcuffed her. "I hate to pull you out of your cover like that, but we need you."
"Angela rubbed her wrist for a second. "What about my mark?"
"Don't worry, we have it covered for a short while, and then you will be back. There should be no problem in explaining the situation; especially for you. No problems with your cover."
Angela nodded to her superior. "What is going on? Why do you need me?" She was in full agent mode now.
Everyone on the set looked up in shock, stopping where they were.
Agents came swarming out of nowhere, pointing their firearms at everyone, almost daring someone to move. One agent, Tharen, walked out from behind the others. "Angela Carlisle?"
Angela raised her hand slowly, making no sudden moves. She knew that they would shoot to kill if provoked.
Agent Tharen walked towards Angela. "Angela Carlisle, you are under arrest." He withdrew a set of steel cuffs from behind his back and placed them on Angela's wrists behind her.
"May I ask what this is about?" Angela looked like she was in shock.
"We will discuss that on the way." Tharen said. He placed a hand on her shoulder and guided her forward.
Everyone on the set stared after them in complete shock, not knowing what was going on. They watched the agents place Angela in the back of black car with tinted windows, Agent Tharen sliding in after her.
"Sorry about that Anggie." Thomas reached over and un-handcuffed her. "I hate to pull you out of your cover like that, but we need you."
"Angela rubbed her wrist for a second. "What about my mark?"
"Don't worry, we have it covered for a short while, and then you will be back. There should be no problem in explaining the situation; especially for you. No problems with your cover."
Angela nodded to her superior. "What is going on? Why do you need me?" She was in full agent mode now.
Course
"Let the anger run its course," Aaron said. "He'll talk to you tomorrow."
Derek didn't look like he believed it, but he packed up his gear and headed home anyway. So when he woke in the middle of the night to find Spencer standing over his bed, Glock in hand, blank fury in his eyes, he thought Aaron was right about the course but wrong about its destination.
Derek smiled and said, "What up, pretty boy?"
Spencer didn't even blink before he fired.
Derek didn't look like he believed it, but he packed up his gear and headed home anyway. So when he woke in the middle of the night to find Spencer standing over his bed, Glock in hand, blank fury in his eyes, he thought Aaron was right about the course but wrong about its destination.
Derek smiled and said, "What up, pretty boy?"
Spencer didn't even blink before he fired.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Belong
Where do I belong? Where do I fit in, in this world? Where is there acceptance and friendship.
Shane shook his head, clearing his thoughts away. Now was the time to smile, now was the time to be like the other lemmings. Now was the time to not be himself. Now was the time to lie.
Shane shook his head, clearing his thoughts away. Now was the time to smile, now was the time to be like the other lemmings. Now was the time to not be himself. Now was the time to lie.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Rules v. 1.3
Life Events: during life events, huge time-consuming holidays that require a writer's presence in the real world, or other such things, a challenge may be extended to last two weeks, and after that challenge expires, the next writer will post her challenge in regular turn. For all intents and purposes, a writer may not pass or forego her week to issue a challenge, except in cases of direst emergency (such as sudden illness or a death in the family).
So, this week's challenge goes for another week, or at least until completion.
So, this week's challenge goes for another week, or at least until completion.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Belong
"You belong to me," Joey sang, swaying in front of the mirror.
Steve grabbed the comb he'd been using as a microphone and ran it through his hair.
Joey scowled. "Hey! I was using that."
"You can have it back when I'm done, crooner," Steve said. He checked his reflection, smoothed down his shirt, straightened his tie, and started for the door. As an afterthought, he tossed the comb back to his brother. "Happy singing, kid! I've got a hot date."
Steve grabbed the comb he'd been using as a microphone and ran it through his hair.
Joey scowled. "Hey! I was using that."
"You can have it back when I'm done, crooner," Steve said. He checked his reflection, smoothed down his shirt, straightened his tie, and started for the door. As an afterthought, he tossed the comb back to his brother. "Happy singing, kid! I've got a hot date."
Writer's Tennis Part 8
Kenneth broke her concentration. He must have seen her agitation, and Angela took a deep breath, hoping her next words would be quiet, calm, level. Jennifer had been her best friend, and she’d made the right choice that day, the only choice - but that didn’t mean Angela hadn’t felt hurt.
Betrayed.
“Hello,” Kenneth said, turning to Jennifer. He was smiling brightly, his Hollywood starlet smile, acting as though Jennifer hadn’t shouldered him aside the way bullies had done to him at school for years and years. He extended a hand, the gesture utterly cordial and sincere. “I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Kenneth Arlington, Angela’s co-star. What brings you to the set?”
It was gratifying to see Jennifer, the ever-cool Agent Halladay, looking flustered when those bright green eyes were gazing at her. Jennifer shook his hand politely; Angela had the feeling that the gesture wasn’t nearly as confident as Jennifer usually made it.
“I’m an old friend of Angie’s,” Jennifer said, and Angela did her best not to flinch. Only Jennifer had ever called her that, and after leaving the Bureau Angela had done her best to discourage anyone else from ever calling her that.
Kenneth’s smile brightened. “It’s good to meet you. If you like, one of the ADs can give you a tour of the set. Unfortunately, Eddie’s called us back to start shooting.” He reached past Jennifer, smooth as any other Hollywood lothario, and hooked an arm around Angela’s waist, tugged her out of the trailer.
The other two agents, Bartlett and Gallow, looked suspicious, but Angela just cast them her sunny starlet smile and followed Kenneth onto the set.
“Thanks,” she said, as soon as they were out of earshot of the agents.
Again with that sweet, crooked smile. “Think nothing of it. Couldn’t leave you hanging there, could I? Would’ve been cruel. Besides, you looked uncomfortable, and we need you alert for the next scene.”
Johnny, the lead effects manager, came over to help the costume girls fix a new set of squibs beneath Angela’s shirt. Once the fussing was done, Angela scooped up her prop gun and took her position along the south side of the wall.
Eddie yelled, “Action!”
Someone yelled, “Freeze! FBI!”
Betrayed.
“Hello,” Kenneth said, turning to Jennifer. He was smiling brightly, his Hollywood starlet smile, acting as though Jennifer hadn’t shouldered him aside the way bullies had done to him at school for years and years. He extended a hand, the gesture utterly cordial and sincere. “I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Kenneth Arlington, Angela’s co-star. What brings you to the set?”
It was gratifying to see Jennifer, the ever-cool Agent Halladay, looking flustered when those bright green eyes were gazing at her. Jennifer shook his hand politely; Angela had the feeling that the gesture wasn’t nearly as confident as Jennifer usually made it.
“I’m an old friend of Angie’s,” Jennifer said, and Angela did her best not to flinch. Only Jennifer had ever called her that, and after leaving the Bureau Angela had done her best to discourage anyone else from ever calling her that.
Kenneth’s smile brightened. “It’s good to meet you. If you like, one of the ADs can give you a tour of the set. Unfortunately, Eddie’s called us back to start shooting.” He reached past Jennifer, smooth as any other Hollywood lothario, and hooked an arm around Angela’s waist, tugged her out of the trailer.
The other two agents, Bartlett and Gallow, looked suspicious, but Angela just cast them her sunny starlet smile and followed Kenneth onto the set.
“Thanks,” she said, as soon as they were out of earshot of the agents.
Again with that sweet, crooked smile. “Think nothing of it. Couldn’t leave you hanging there, could I? Would’ve been cruel. Besides, you looked uncomfortable, and we need you alert for the next scene.”
Johnny, the lead effects manager, came over to help the costume girls fix a new set of squibs beneath Angela’s shirt. Once the fussing was done, Angela scooped up her prop gun and took her position along the south side of the wall.
Eddie yelled, “Action!”
Someone yelled, “Freeze! FBI!”
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Writers Tennis part 7
"Truth be told, Angie, we need you." Jennifer said, glancing back over her shoulder at the other agents. Agents Gallow, and Bartlett shifted a little uncomfortably. "Can we talk Angie?" Jennifer asked as she turned back towards her friend. "Please."
Angela's eyes had gone wide when Jennifer told her that they needed her for a case. Only the love for her friend made her stop at all to listen. "Yeah," Angela jerked her head towards her dressing room, "We can talk in there." Turning back to Kenneth, Angela offered a small smile, saying, "Perhaps another time Kenneth."
Angela didn't look at the others, walking rapidly towards her trailer. Opening the door, Angela gestured Jennifer inside. "Please wait outside, Bartlett, Gallow." Angela said, motioning them to stop at the door. She was more at ease with her old friend. "So what do you want Jen?"
A short while later Angela had the whole story. "I can not believe what you are asking me to do." Angela was dumbfounded. "You know what happened to me! You know why I left!" Her voice was rising now. "I can't. There is no way that I could do that."
"Angela, there is no other way." Jennifer stated firmly, taking her friends hand. "I know this will be hard for you, but we need you. I need you to be there with me. Help me now, my friend."
Angela took a deep breath, pushing back thoughts and memories, trying to focus just on her friends need.
Angela's eyes had gone wide when Jennifer told her that they needed her for a case. Only the love for her friend made her stop at all to listen. "Yeah," Angela jerked her head towards her dressing room, "We can talk in there." Turning back to Kenneth, Angela offered a small smile, saying, "Perhaps another time Kenneth."
Angela didn't look at the others, walking rapidly towards her trailer. Opening the door, Angela gestured Jennifer inside. "Please wait outside, Bartlett, Gallow." Angela said, motioning them to stop at the door. She was more at ease with her old friend. "So what do you want Jen?"
A short while later Angela had the whole story. "I can not believe what you are asking me to do." Angela was dumbfounded. "You know what happened to me! You know why I left!" Her voice was rising now. "I can't. There is no way that I could do that."
"Angela, there is no other way." Jennifer stated firmly, taking her friends hand. "I know this will be hard for you, but we need you. I need you to be there with me. Help me now, my friend."
Angela took a deep breath, pushing back thoughts and memories, trying to focus just on her friends need.
Writer's Tennis Part 6
Kenneth shifted his weight from foot to foot. Angela’s mind spun with textbook information that had been gathering dust in her memory. Some of what she’d learned was still good for acting school, and some of it was better lost to the annals of time.
In short, however, he was nervous. His posture, though nervous, was still faintly relaxed, his shoulders back, so he wasn’t feeling - guilty. Good. No awkward propositions, then.
“Say, Angela, me and some of the other lads - some of the stuntmen, actually, were thinking of going out for a pint - er, drink after shooting ends for the day. Would you like to come along? Play some darts?” He lifted his head, and Angela saw the smile that no paparazzo had ever caught. If girls loved him for the fake Hollywood grin he offered whenever he was in front of a crowd, they’d follow him to the ends of the earth for the sweet smile he was offering her now.
She swallowed hard and tried to think up an excuse. Her mind spun with memories - more memories of hanging out in a bar after work, grinning into her mug while Agent Holladay took down a group of strangers at a game of darts. Of course, Agent Holladay was so beautiful that the men didn’t care how soundly they’d been beaten - a beautiful woman was talking to them, after all.
“Kenneth, as much as I’d love to, I have to --”
“Angela Cuaron?”
Angela went still at the familiar voice. One hand twitched for her sidearm - but it wasn’t there. Kenneth jumped and spun around.
Agent Jennifer Holladay looked just as good now as she had five years ago when she’d only been the team liaison. Now she walked more confidently. Angela noticed the slight emphasis on her right side when she approached and knew she was carrying a government-issue sidearm.
Had it been anyone else, Angela would have run - or struck out in anger, but then whoever had sent Holladay knew that.
Holladay pushed past Kenneth and pulled Angela into a hug. “It’s been so long! How you been, girl?”
Angela looked over Holladay’s shoulder and saw that several other innocuous agents had ordered security to stay back.
“I’ve been good.” Angela resisted the urge to hug her one-time friend and stepped back. “What brings you to the set?”
(Word count: 393; thought I'd stick to Kenneth as a name)
In short, however, he was nervous. His posture, though nervous, was still faintly relaxed, his shoulders back, so he wasn’t feeling - guilty. Good. No awkward propositions, then.
“Say, Angela, me and some of the other lads - some of the stuntmen, actually, were thinking of going out for a pint - er, drink after shooting ends for the day. Would you like to come along? Play some darts?” He lifted his head, and Angela saw the smile that no paparazzo had ever caught. If girls loved him for the fake Hollywood grin he offered whenever he was in front of a crowd, they’d follow him to the ends of the earth for the sweet smile he was offering her now.
She swallowed hard and tried to think up an excuse. Her mind spun with memories - more memories of hanging out in a bar after work, grinning into her mug while Agent Holladay took down a group of strangers at a game of darts. Of course, Agent Holladay was so beautiful that the men didn’t care how soundly they’d been beaten - a beautiful woman was talking to them, after all.
“Kenneth, as much as I’d love to, I have to --”
“Angela Cuaron?”
Angela went still at the familiar voice. One hand twitched for her sidearm - but it wasn’t there. Kenneth jumped and spun around.
Agent Jennifer Holladay looked just as good now as she had five years ago when she’d only been the team liaison. Now she walked more confidently. Angela noticed the slight emphasis on her right side when she approached and knew she was carrying a government-issue sidearm.
Had it been anyone else, Angela would have run - or struck out in anger, but then whoever had sent Holladay knew that.
Holladay pushed past Kenneth and pulled Angela into a hug. “It’s been so long! How you been, girl?”
Angela looked over Holladay’s shoulder and saw that several other innocuous agents had ordered security to stay back.
“I’ve been good.” Angela resisted the urge to hug her one-time friend and stepped back. “What brings you to the set?”
(Word count: 393; thought I'd stick to Kenneth as a name)
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Writers Tennis part 5
Brendan looked up at Angela with gratitude. "Thanks, you make it seem so easy. How do you know this stuff?" His lilting British accent was adorable.
Angela shrugged, "oh, I pick it up here and there." She was not up to relating her past to anyone, she didn't even want to think about it at the moment. Angela looked up as Brendan handed her back her prop gun; and taking it, she thought about replacing it with a real gun, just so that it would feel right.
Walking back towards the set, Angela was trying to remember why she had said yes when asked if she would play this roll. For her, it was starting to hit a little to close to home for comfort. The only benefit she could think of, was that she could call a halt to the action when she needed to.
Eddie was back behind his camera again and everyone was in place. "Action," Eddie called, and the scene was run from the top one more time. Angela performed it flawlessly.
Heading back to wardrobe and her dressing room, she tried to put the days work behind her, to shake off the memories. She heard steps behind her, and smiled, she could already identify Brendan's pattern of walking. "Yes, Brendan?" She asked before he even opened his mouth.
Angela shrugged, "oh, I pick it up here and there." She was not up to relating her past to anyone, she didn't even want to think about it at the moment. Angela looked up as Brendan handed her back her prop gun; and taking it, she thought about replacing it with a real gun, just so that it would feel right.
Walking back towards the set, Angela was trying to remember why she had said yes when asked if she would play this roll. For her, it was starting to hit a little to close to home for comfort. The only benefit she could think of, was that she could call a halt to the action when she needed to.
Eddie was back behind his camera again and everyone was in place. "Action," Eddie called, and the scene was run from the top one more time. Angela performed it flawlessly.
Heading back to wardrobe and her dressing room, she tried to put the days work behind her, to shake off the memories. She heard steps behind her, and smiled, she could already identify Brendan's pattern of walking. "Yes, Brendan?" She asked before he even opened his mouth.
Writer's Tennis Part 4
Angela sipped from a mug of coffee one of the bustling personal assistants had brought over from catering. If she closed her eyes, she could see them - bodies strewn across the floor, life spilling out of them while the suspect got away. She supposed it was some sort of pathetic irony of life that she’d left the Bureau one of the top commended agents and ended up as...an actress. A fast-rising Hollywood starlet, or so her agent liked to gleefully tell her over the phone after he’d read through the press reviews for the day. Angela looked down at the prop gun they’d given her - it was too light, too plastic to be real - and decided that the next time she took on a project it would be a romantic comedy. She was a good actress, she knew that, but then that was what came of being an undercover agent.
Nervous footsteps interrupted her musings, and she looked up. Her co-star, a lovely-faced British tween star whose handlers thought they could break him out of a stereotype by putting a gun in his hands, hovered in front of her, looking nervous.
“I’m not sure why I’m doing this,” he confessed. His voice was lighter, sweeter when he dropped his American accent. Angela would have killed to get a boy like him to look at her back when he was in high school. “It’s just - I don’t even like guns, and I’m always afraid I look like a fool when I’m holding one.”
This Angela was comfortable with. She straightened up and offered her mock-Desert Eagle. “I’m sure the principles of actual shooting will help with pretending to shoot,” she said.
Kenneth eyed the gun warily. “They tried to teach me how to shoot, before filming began. And they made me go to the gym and do all sorts of other horrible things to look - look right for the part. I used to play at Stratford. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
Angela smiled gently and told herself that he was just like a nervous trainee instead of an international heartthrob. “It’s pretty simple,” she said. He took the gun. Angela moved to stand behind him. “Keep both hands on it, and remember, squeeze, don’t pull. Keep both eyes open, too. It’s pretty simple - sight, steady, and follow through.”
“If you say so...” He fired.
(400 on the nose. Sorry I got us behind - I had a test today and I have to study for my test tomorrow. If we get a bit behind, we can double-post until we get caught up.)
Nervous footsteps interrupted her musings, and she looked up. Her co-star, a lovely-faced British tween star whose handlers thought they could break him out of a stereotype by putting a gun in his hands, hovered in front of her, looking nervous.
“I’m not sure why I’m doing this,” he confessed. His voice was lighter, sweeter when he dropped his American accent. Angela would have killed to get a boy like him to look at her back when he was in high school. “It’s just - I don’t even like guns, and I’m always afraid I look like a fool when I’m holding one.”
This Angela was comfortable with. She straightened up and offered her mock-Desert Eagle. “I’m sure the principles of actual shooting will help with pretending to shoot,” she said.
Kenneth eyed the gun warily. “They tried to teach me how to shoot, before filming began. And they made me go to the gym and do all sorts of other horrible things to look - look right for the part. I used to play at Stratford. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
Angela smiled gently and told herself that he was just like a nervous trainee instead of an international heartthrob. “It’s pretty simple,” she said. He took the gun. Angela moved to stand behind him. “Keep both hands on it, and remember, squeeze, don’t pull. Keep both eyes open, too. It’s pretty simple - sight, steady, and follow through.”
“If you say so...” He fired.
(400 on the nose. Sorry I got us behind - I had a test today and I have to study for my test tomorrow. If we get a bit behind, we can double-post until we get caught up.)
Monday, December 8, 2008
Writer's Tennis part 3
"Yes, from the top, and Johnny, do it right this time." The director called, ducking back behind the camera again.
Angela had changed shirts and had placed herself behind the wall again, squibs in place under her costume. Closing her eyes, Angela tried to get back into character. She focused on anything terrifying that she could think of.
Images flashed in her minds' eye; and her breathing spiked, her heart racing. Blood, flashes of light and dark, pain and terror. Everyone thought that she was a fantastic actress; calling any emotion forward as needed.
Swallowing hard, her eyes snapped open when the director called 'Action!' She played the scene again, and this time, the squibs went off on cue.
Angela stood up again, "I need a minute Eddie," She called to the director.
"Alright, fifteen everyone!" Angela passed Eddie on her way to the break area. "Thanks." Angela tried to collect herself, tried to push the thoughts from her mind.
No one knew the memories, the images, were real.
Angela had changed shirts and had placed herself behind the wall again, squibs in place under her costume. Closing her eyes, Angela tried to get back into character. She focused on anything terrifying that she could think of.
Images flashed in her minds' eye; and her breathing spiked, her heart racing. Blood, flashes of light and dark, pain and terror. Everyone thought that she was a fantastic actress; calling any emotion forward as needed.
Swallowing hard, her eyes snapped open when the director called 'Action!' She played the scene again, and this time, the squibs went off on cue.
Angela stood up again, "I need a minute Eddie," She called to the director.
"Alright, fifteen everyone!" Angela passed Eddie on her way to the break area. "Thanks." Angela tried to collect herself, tried to push the thoughts from her mind.
No one knew the memories, the images, were real.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Writer's Tennis Part 2
Almost certain wasn't good enough, not when her opponent was a former army sniper. A bullet whizzed through the air just beside her head and she cursed, threw herself back down behind the wall. She closed her eyes and listened as another bullet sang just over the wall. She forced herself to take a few deep, calming breaths, and continued to listen. If she could hear them before they heard her, she had at least one advantage. The shooting had given him away. If he had any brains on him - and he must have, to have made it this far without the Marshals catching up to him - then he would have moved as soon as he'd fired his last shot. Only a fool would stay in place.
She counted to ten and wished she had a Mac-10 or an AK-47 or something that fired faster than her handgun. Then she threw herself across the gap toward the next wall, firing off shots. She heard a bullet sing mid-air, saw a red stain blossom on her shirt - and then someone yelled,
"Cut! Johnny, where's your head today? The squibs weren't supposed to go off until she hit the ground on the other side!"
Angela opened her eyes and dragged herself onto her feet. Instantly, three costume girls swarmed her, dusting her off and fixing her hair. She resisted the urge to bat them aside. "We gonna take this scene from the top?"
She counted to ten and wished she had a Mac-10 or an AK-47 or something that fired faster than her handgun. Then she threw herself across the gap toward the next wall, firing off shots. She heard a bullet sing mid-air, saw a red stain blossom on her shirt - and then someone yelled,
"Cut! Johnny, where's your head today? The squibs weren't supposed to go off until she hit the ground on the other side!"
Angela opened her eyes and dragged herself onto her feet. Instantly, three costume girls swarmed her, dusting her off and fixing her hair. She resisted the urge to bat them aside. "We gonna take this scene from the top?"
Overview #7 - Closed-form Poetry
Ah, this was an almighty challenge, one that I perhaps should not have issued upon myself in the weeks preceding second year's fall session of exams. Still, it was fun to do. I was probably far more lazy about certain things, like meter and perfect rhyme, than strictly calls for, but I confess I am little of a poet, and this exercise was interesting. Even though I'm awful at writing poetry, I've read enough poetry to know the difference between good and bad poetry and to have a sense of how to make meter and rhyme function. It was difficult not to have the same theme in every single poem. I noticed there was a lot going on about the unspoken - in the triolet, in the rondeau, and even in my final cinquain. I wonder what that was about. Probably because I have a tendency not to say things others think I ought to say. The best sonnet I ever wrote was in ninth grade and had perfect meter and rhyme and was about vampires, but I lost it a long time ago and was very sad, I attempted to recreate it, though I know this was nowhere near the same poem I wrote at thirteen. Perhaps the poem I was most pleased with is the Sestina, because the structure of the piece is much harder than at first blush. I enjoyed the almost ballad quality to the final piece and was amazed that I survived. I learned that it's not cheating to use the same word the same way twice in one poem. I did enjoy the haiku - it's not the first bilingual one I've written. (I confess, that's half the reason I wanted to learn Japanese, so I could write proper Haiku). All in all, this was a good stroll down memory lane, back to high school creative writing classes as well as to college, where I remember learning about poetry and came to respect those who can work within a closed form.
Writers Tennis part 1
She tucked her body behind a low wall, ready to either run or fight. Her heart pounding in her chest, she tried to still her breathing, it would be a dead give away to her location. Slowly she levered herself away from the wall, crouching low, she began to slink away. Keeping low to the ground, her grip slightly unsteady on her Desert Eagle. Glancing around, she was certain that she was in the clear.
(I don't know if we should add a Tag specifically for Tennis stories... you can decide that. Also let me know if I made any mistakes, and I will fix them. Cheers mate!)
(I don't know if we should add a Tag specifically for Tennis stories... you can decide that. Also let me know if I made any mistakes, and I will fix them. Cheers mate!)
Project Assignment #8 - Writers Tennis
This week is a collaborative project.
One of us writes a few paragraphs of a story. It can be about anything. You then pass it on to your writing partner, who then writes the next paragraph and so on and so on.
So at the end of the week we should have an interesting short story.
One of us writes a few paragraphs of a story. It can be about anything. You then pass it on to your writing partner, who then writes the next paragraph and so on and so on.
So at the end of the week we should have an interesting short story.
Overview #7 Closed-Form Poetry
I had a good time with this project. Some of my poems didn't really make sense, but then again, it doesn't always have to. Closed form is enjoyable in that you have a definite structure to follow, but also confining when you have ideas that would go beyond the bounds of the structure.
I noticed that I leaned on angst, and while angst can make for powerful poetry, I should probably branch out more. Angst just flowed well this week, so on my final poem, the Villanelle, I purposefully chose to focus on something other than heartbreak or anger.
The Triolet: I love the tight rhyming schemes of the closed form, and it was tough to say all you wanted within the confines of the set form. In the Villanelle and the Triolet I liked the refrain repeating, almost making it a litany.
The Rondeau: Again the tight rhyming and the repetition of a few lines really made them have a greater impact than a poem that never repeats a line. Death, anger, loathing... are we seeing a pattern here.... ha. I am actually feeling none of these. The poem probably would have been more powerful if I actually was.
The Tanka: This one was interesting. Trying to fit what I wanted to say within the syllable count. But the simplicity of the Haiku and the Tanka are wonderful.
The Cinquain: Okay I know this one didn't make much sense, so I will be re-writing it at some later point.
The Spencerian Sonnet is a derivation of the regular English sonnet, except that it ignores the meter. Only the rhyming is important. I did notice that I avoided poems that had a set meter.
The English sonnet was a pleasant one to write, nice and familiar in form.
I noticed that I leaned on angst, and while angst can make for powerful poetry, I should probably branch out more. Angst just flowed well this week, so on my final poem, the Villanelle, I purposefully chose to focus on something other than heartbreak or anger.
The Triolet: I love the tight rhyming schemes of the closed form, and it was tough to say all you wanted within the confines of the set form. In the Villanelle and the Triolet I liked the refrain repeating, almost making it a litany.
The Rondeau: Again the tight rhyming and the repetition of a few lines really made them have a greater impact than a poem that never repeats a line. Death, anger, loathing... are we seeing a pattern here.... ha. I am actually feeling none of these. The poem probably would have been more powerful if I actually was.
The Tanka: This one was interesting. Trying to fit what I wanted to say within the syllable count. But the simplicity of the Haiku and the Tanka are wonderful.
The Cinquain: Okay I know this one didn't make much sense, so I will be re-writing it at some later point.
The Spencerian Sonnet is a derivation of the regular English sonnet, except that it ignores the meter. Only the rhyming is important. I did notice that I avoided poems that had a set meter.
The English sonnet was a pleasant one to write, nice and familiar in form.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)