Overview #12 - Random Phrase

I'm not sure that this week's challenge ended up being what we wanted it to be, but it was good times nonetheless. I'd been meaning to do a dialogue-only challenge, and I suppose this sort of took its place. It was fun, remembering how much implication can be had in dialogue alone, which is, to me at least, what makes reading plays so much fun. Life hit us both at the same time, so any other readers - I suspect there are none - may have been shortchanged, but c'est la vie.

Tell Me What You Know

"Tell me what you know!"

"Captain, he can't tell you anything if you keep hitting him."

"Talk, ya lily-livered beast!"

"Maybe you should take the gag off of him first."

"Oh. Right. There - now tell me the truth, you commie pinko spy!"

"Captain, the kid's Greek. The Greeks invented democracy."

"It's just an expression, sailor. Aren't you supposed to be swabbing the decks?"

"Well, one of the lasses heard a bit of muffled screaming and thought I should come check on the, er, progress of the interrogation."

"I'm only hitting him. He can talk if he has a black eye."

"About that."

"What is it now, sailor?"

"Well, Bosun Benny - he told me to tell you he's seen this kid before, and, well, last he checked, the kid'd had his tongue cut out. Hence the muffled screaming. Or that might've been the gag. Or maybe it's not the same kid Benny saw at all. You know Benny - he was drunk the entire time we were going through the Aegean --"

"Sailor, open his mouth."

"Aye, Cap'n."

"Oh. He is missing a tongue."

"Well-spotted, sir. Shall I fetch a quill and parchment?"

"I can't read, sailor."

"Of course. Swabbing the decks it is for me, then. Cheerio!"

Tell Me What You Know

"So, tell me what you know."

"The suspect in question did in fact have the gun. The GSR came back positive."

"Are you sure about that?"

"I also know that on the night in question the victim met with the suspect. They met at the local bar. The Mas-Spec confirmed that there was a cocktail of burbon and vodka in his system."

"And?"

"And I also know that he didn't do it."

"You know this for certain."

"Yes."



(Curse this blasted writers block... everything sounds lame to me.)

Where Angels Fear to Tread

Pass from life into beyond
out into the brightest dawn

Hear to walk amongst the dead
it is not where the angels fear to tread







(a little pathetic I know, but I am drawing a blank, dratted writers block.)

Where Angels Fear to Tread

"I don't think we should go over there, Raphael."

"Why not?"

"Well, it's a bit...muddy."

"Abbadon, it's a swamp. Of course it's muddy. Now come on - I want to see what all the cheering is about."

"Now look here, Raphael, Michael told us to go straight to Bethlehem, no detours."

"It's not a detour per se, it's just - a pause. To take in the sights. Come on, Abbadon, don't be such a girl - when was the last time you were on earth?"

"When I landed on my head in the middle Persia because someone was not paying attention to his shield hand and bashed me in the face while he was dueling Olivier during the War in Heaven."

"Persia was muddy then, you know."

"Only because I landed in the cradle of Civilization. In the river. And don't call me a girl - just because I happen to have more effeminate features to my androgyny doesn't mean you need to be insulting --"

"Oooh, look, there's cake!"

"Raphael - wait, no, no - don't --!"

"Hey Abbadon, was that Raphael just now?"

"Oh, hello Israfel. Yes, that was Raphael."

"Huhn. And that's Mardi Gras in the distance? In the French Quarter?"

"Yes."

"I thought you two were on your way to Bethlehem."

"We were. Someone got sidetracked by Lucifer's annual side-show."

"I thought that was the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition."

"Same difference. When - if - Raphael comes back, tell him I'll meet him at the Inn. In Bethlehem. Oh, you're not going too are you, Israfel?"

"Wise men do say, only fools rush in --"

"Shut it, Israfel. To Bethlehem I go."

(285 words)

Don't Antagonize the Dragons

"Don't antagonize the dragons. You told him this, Helena?"

"Word for word, sir."

"I see. Then why is Sir Cyrano's leg lying at the entrance of that cave over there?"

"Probably because Sir Cyrano skipped the Dragon's Horde 101 lecture in his second year of Squire School and thought the treasure lying in the back of the cave was just waiting for a new owner, sir."

"Helena, aren't you supposed to be locked up in a tower, in distress?"

"I was, sir, but Sir Cyrano did make it all the way through the Rescue a Fair Maiden course in his final year of Squire School."

"Of course he did. Well, why don't you have the Wicked Witch escort you back to the top of the tower, and you just wait until the next knight-in-training comes along, and I'll tell Sir Cyrano's parents that they've lost their sixth son."

"Sixth?"

"I have hopes for their seventh. Seventh son of a seventh son and all."

For Sunday post - Don't Antagonize the Dragons

Don't antagonize the Dragons

"I told you not to do that."

"Yeah but you didn't tell me what would happen." The voice was whining

"Well what did you expect? That nothing would happen?" Sarcasm layered thickly in this voice. "Use your head. Fire burns, yes? And you are mostly made of stuff that will burn, yes? So it stands to reason that your hair would burn right?"

"I suppose so."

"I can't believe you went and poked the dragon. Haven't you ever heard the phrase, 'don't antagonize the dragons?' Though I must say, you certainly look ridiculous."

"Oh shut up."

Project Assignment #12 - Random Phrase

Okay, this week instead of a random word it will be a random phrase. It can be anything, and like last time we will switch off choosing the phrase. Lets set the word limit at 400. It can be fandom or original, poetry or prose. The sky is the limit.


Sorry for not having the challenge up yesterday, but I am still sick and a little slow.

Overview #11 - Sense Sketch

So this was an exercise in self-defeat. My original intention was that this be an exercise in description, i.e. practicing describing the world with the absence of a single sense, to practice describing other sensory imagery, but I ended up going for characterization instead. I wondered how people missing certain senses conducted themselves, and mostly it was deception, pretending to have a sense one did not have as the absence of certain senses can often go unnoticed. I attempted to pull a Madness and ran a connecting scene with two different missing senses. In retrospect, I wanted to try someone who was missing a sense of smell, but my math was flawed. Still, it was interesting to write, and a little characterization exercise never hurt anyone.

Wouldn't If She Could

She doesn’t really like hip-hop music, but she concedes that it has a steady beat and is probably simple enough to dance to. She hates that her parents still treat her like a child even though she already has her driver’s license and can see herself around town. She supposes that it makes her elder brother feel better, that he can be her big, strong, brave chaperone to fend off all those boys who won’t talk to her because they can’t talk to her.

She knows why her parents are so afraid to let her go out alone, but she isn’t afraid like they are. So what if she can’t scream for help? She wouldn’t scream if she could - she’d fight.

So she steals a cup of punch and slips away from her brother’s side while he’s distracted by one of the cheerleaders he likes so much, and she heads for the other side of the dance floor. She spots a boy, a quiet boy who sits behind her in math, and she opens her mouth to shape her lips around a soundless greeting. How anyone can talk to each other over this cacophony is a mystery anyway.

But he cups a hand over his ear like he can’t hear her, and she knows. He’s deaf. It means he speaks the same way she does, with flicks of the wrist and graceful hands. So she sets down her cup of punch and says hello the proper way. He’s funny and charming - he likes poetry and math and wants to be a writer when he grows up. She wonders if he’d like to dance with her, because the music is certainly loud enough for him to feel the backbeat, but then her brother calls her name, and she turns.

He scolds her for running off, and her reply is a series of quick, cutting gestures. She was fine on her own. Plus, he was scoring with the cheerleader. That makes him blush, and when he finally backs off, she discovers that the handsome boy she was talking too has vanished.

(350 words)

Feel the Beat

He can feel the beat, the way it throbs through his limbs and hints that maybe he’d like to move, to sway in time with the others, because even though he has no clue what sort of music is playing, he has a genuine sense of time and can count.

Just because he cannot hear the electric guitars or piano or rappers’ voices doesn’t mean he can’t dance. He simply chooses not to.

So it’s a pleasant surprise when a girl slides up to him, holding a cup of punch and smiles at him.

He smiles back. She opens her mouth to speak, and maybe he ought to be able to hear her voice, or maybe no one else would hear her either. He cups a hand around one ear in a universal gesture and shrugs apologetically.

She takes it in totally the wrong way, but it lights up his night. He can only watch, confused, as she sets down her cup of punch. And then she raises her hands and begins to draw words in the air, and he cannot stop his smile.

Her name is Sylvia, and she’s a history major. She lives nearby, and she came to the dance with from friends. She’s been signing all her life, and she loves old noir films.

He’s almost worked up the nerve to ask her to dance when she suddenly turns her head. He’s confused, because he doesn’t know what she saw - and then he realizes she can hear. She turns and continues to sign, but the person who approaches - a boy, taller, more handsome than he could ever hope to be - isn’t signing.

She can hear.

He wonders why he feels suddenly and painfully betrayed, and while she’s distracted he ducks into the crowd.

(296 words)

He Can

There are sounds in the world that some people never hear, and textures that they never feel because their minds are overridden by one overwhelming sense. Some people say he’s lacking that sense, but he likes to think he’s overcome it, because no one can tell he operates without it. They just talk about slick Shane, with his ever-present shades, his charming fedora, and his dapper cane, and never think twice about the fact that he always hears things they can’t hear and never really faces anyone he talks to.

After classes get out - Shane records lectures and transcribes them on his braille typewriter when he gets home as one form of studying - he heads to the office to get some work done. He can hear the lilt in voices as the secretaries turn to him and tell him hello. He can tell when their cheer is genuine or forced by the grit of teeth behind their words, and he always tips his fedora politely.

Once in the elevator, he listens to the gears whirr and waits for the giant metal death-trap to take him where The Powers That Be choose for the day. Sometimes it’s upstairs for briefings and strategy discussions. Today it’s downstairs for training, training, and more training.

He can tell whether or not a gun is empty by the weight of it in his hand, and he can tell the caliber of the bullets by the way they roll in his palm, but the curve of the barrel between his fingers. He can tell where a man is standing by the sound of his breathing and he imagines, in the aftermath of rapid gunfire, that he can hear a man’s heart before it stops.

(290 words)

Shades of Music

“Are you falling asleep on me?” Hannah asked.

Luke shook his head and kept his eyes closed. “No.”

“Then open your eyes.”

“I don’t like this song,” Luke said. “It’s ugly.”

“I agreed to come along to the bar tonight because one of your favorite bands is playing.” Hannah’s voice took on a distinct pout.

“Right - this is one of my favorite bands, and the song sounds absolutely lovely, but it looks ugly,” Luke said. He dared to open one eye and peek at Hannah, but his vision was swamped by a rush of dull, rusty oranges and dry-blood browns.

“What do you mean it looks ugly?” Hannah asked.

Luke sighed. “Didn’t Evan and the others tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Luke ran a hand through his hair. “Evan usually tells anyone who’ll listen - ever since we were kids, he acts like it’s a party trick.”

Frustration crept into the edges of Hannah’s voice. “What is it?”

“Synesthesia,” Luke said. “When music plays, I hear it - and I also see colors that go with it. Every sound has a different color, every song has a color scheme - and the scheme for this song is really, really ugly. So it’s better for everyone if I close my eyes and listen.”

“Oh,” Hannah said in a small voice. “I - do human voices give off color?”

“Some of them more than others,” Luke said. He heard the chair beside his squeak, felt a crescendo of warmth as Hannah slid closer. When she spoke next, her voice was right next to his ear.

“What color is my voice?”

“Turquoise blue, mostly,” he said. “Shades of green when you’re angry. It goes straight to purple when you’re sad. Why?”

“Just wondered.” Hannah pressed a kiss to his temple. “When the next song comes on, open your eyes, and we’ll go dance.”

“The next song in the set is Learn to Fly,” Luke said. “It’s lots of yellows. I think you’ll like it.”

(328 words)

Acquired Taste

Tony cast wary glances at the other boys and girls at the table. So far none of them were making faces, so at best guess the food tasted good. When Mrs. Hankel put a plate full of food down in front of him, he scooped up a fork-ful of the mashed potatoes. He brought it close to his face to test its temperature. Safe enough. He took a bite. No tongue-burns, then. The stuff was weird and mushy, but then he reckoned that was the difference between instant mashed potatoes and the real ones his mother mashed by hands. The vegetables - carrots, overcooked and also a little mushy - didn’t burn him either. Tony watched the other children eat and saw a few of them make faces and poke hesitantly at the meat on the table. He could smell it, and was leery of it, but it didn’t smell as bad as, say, his uncle’s gassy dog.

So he took a bite. It was a little chewy, but he swallowed the first bite and cut another piece.

Mrs. Hankel hovered over the children once all the food was served. Tony smiled at her around a mouthful of meat and continued eating. She came to stand by him.

“Doing okay there, kiddo?” she asked.

He nodded. Once he’d cleaned his plate, he laid his knife and fork across it to show he’d finished and he drained his glass of water.

“Huh,” Mrs. Hankel said, staring at his empty plate. “Most kids can’t stomach the taste of liver.”

Liver. That’s what he’d eaten. Tony shrugged. “I’m not most kids, I guess.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Mrs. Hankel said.

Tony nodded dutifully, but he knew the truth. It was no taste at all.

(291 words)

Overview # 10 Pictures

I enjoyed this project! It helps to have a picture sometimes to work from. Though I have to admit that when I had an idea, I would find a picture to match, even thought that was not the process it should have been.

I had fun using different pictures, of people, of places, of items. Pictures for me can be very inspiring.

Sorry for posting the challenge late last week.

A Fighters Hands

Dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun, a black beanie crammed down to her eyebrows. Black eyes were obscure under the camouflage paint, they saw everything and analyzed it in a second. There was no insignia on her uniform, this was not sanctioned, it never happened. Her gestures were sharp and pointed, conveying a direct meaning. Cover flank, flow around to the rendezvous, I'll take point. Move out! They moved silently through the compound, each knowing their jobs and accomplishing objectives with deadly skill. Such was the life of the special forces.

She had very graceful hands, they moved like pale silk ribbons in a gentle breeze, forming her thoughts and emotions.

Silent as the Grave

Nobody really noticed that David was different. He seemed just like everyone else, quieter certainly, but normal.

Jessica had never heard David's voice. Though from his facial expressions and the intensity in his gaze, she knew his voice would be perfect when he finally got around to speaking to her. Everyone knew what he meant and what he wanted, just by his focus.

"Hi David." Jessica had finally screwed up the courage to talk to him. She did in fact have a legitimate reason for being at his desk, she needed to give him the plans for the new building that was going up down town.

David looked up from his work, his steady hand pausing in the middle of a schematic. He offered a smile to the pretty girl next to his desk. His dark blue eyes looked her up and down, and he raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

"How have you been?" she was hoping to keep the conversation going for a bit.

David shrugged, his expression clearly meant to convey that it was okay, but nothing special. He raised an eyebrow in question at her.

"I've been okay." Jessica, already nervous, decided to make a retreat. "Well, I'll talk to you later."

David smiled and nodded, his focus returning to his work. A smile now hovering around his silent mouth.

Numb

The sharp, salty scent of blood in the air told him he was wounded. He glanced down and checked himself and found that he had a piece of shrapnel lodged in his thigh. An experimental brush of his fingertips against the wound, a peer at the redness, the thickness of the blood against his skin, and he decided that he wasn’t bleeding that much. He tried to stand and nearly fell over for his leg’s disobeying him. So he wouldn’t be able to get away on his own.


There was only one choice, now - pretend he was one of the civilians and let the paramedics take care of him. He knew that as soon as one of the hackers realized he hadn’t made it into the transport with the rest of the demolitions team a false identity would be in the government databases to cover his treatment. He could say he was a musician - there had been plenty of them at the fundraiser that night. He had the calluses on his fingers to prove it - and the scars. He’d fumbled one of the charges, hadn’t made it out of the blast radius in time, and now he was wounded.

A paramedic entered his field of vision.

“Sir, are you all right?”

“I’m wounded,” he said. “Can’t walk. Leg.” He pointed at the wound, and turned his calm, unfeeling gaze on the paramedic.

“Sir, you’re in shock and losing blood - I need you to stay right here.” He nodded and did his best to prop himself up against the remains of the low cement wall and watched the paramedic dash toward the nearest ambulance and scramble for a med kit.

He’d have to remember to flinch away from her ministrations this time.

Project #11: Sense Sketch

Write a vignette, 100-400 words, about a character - preferably original - who is missing a sense or has synesthesia (since there are generally only five senses to work with). Perhaps try someone who is missing more than one sense. Think of this as an opportunity to practice description and imagery.

Overview #10 - Picture

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and, well, maybe it is. I had a lot of fun with this project and did my best to use as many different pictures as possible - some of people, some of places, and to use the pictures in different ways. Most of the times the pictures were of characters. One picture, though it had people, was to me of a moment rather than just visual reference for the characters. It was relieving, to know that I wouldn't have to do the work a picture could do. In Last of Asgaroth I used the picture to do the work for me, so I wouldn't have to use inadequate adverbs and adjectives to try to recreate the emotion between the man and the woman in that scene. I thought that was useful.

In the first story I wanted the picture to be not just of his face but of who he was at the time the picture was taken, like in crime procedural shows, where the suspect's mother hands the police officer a picture of her boy, sweet-faced and smiling, and the entire audience knows he's a killer. I wanted to write about Iori because I played him for so long, and when one role-plays one accrues characters whose stories are never written on paper or screen, whose stories are incomplete, so I figured I'd give my sweet Iori a chance. I liked to use the picture as Irony in White City; those who recognize the fandom there would likely recognize the irony of so beautiful a place being home to so horrible an institution.

The pictures came to me either way - sometimes I was inspired by a picture and wrote from it. Other times I already had an idea and had to hunt for a picture that suited it; playing in the Middle of Nowhere with my friend BenTen helped me learn how to find a picture to suit my idea rather than using a picture the other way around. Overall, this was an excellent exercise.