This week is about deadlines! Deadlines for work, applications to school, projects...
Do your characters crack under pressure? Do they carefully plan out everything so there is hardly any stress involved? Do they perform best when time is short? Are they procrastinators or the type that is right on top of things? Do they abhor deadlines with a passion or work best when they have one?
500 words max
Have Fun!!
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
It All Went Wrong
Maybe Cody had been listening to Elise’s music too much, because as he stood facing down Agent Samuels and a dozen other armed agents, all he could think of were song lyrics.
Six feet under by age twenty-five.
It was a sad, sad day when his life could be summed up by the lyrics to song by a band called Venus in Furs. Somewhere, while she plucked playfully at Israfel’s wings, Elise was laughing.
“Stand down, Cohen,” Agent Samuels said. Her voice shook, but her hands on the gun were firm.
Cody knew why her voice was shaking. Even though she couldn’t see them, she could feel them, the Fallen who’d accompanied the choirboys the government had rounded up, had foolishly thought were prizes. Samael, Abbadon, Malpas and Zagan. They hovered on the edges of the crowd, black eyes glittering with malicious glee, and their choirboys stared past Cody, eyes devoid of human soul.
“I have nowhere to go but down,” Cody said. “Six feet under, from the looks of it.”
“You don’t have to die today, Cohen,” Agent Samuels said. “What do you say? Will you come with me?”
Samael was the first to move, had always been the first to move, from the war in heaven to the war on earth, and he was grinning.
Cody felt afraid and tired, but mostly tired, because he’d spent the last ten years being afraid, and he was tired of it.
“Can you hear me? Cohen? Don’t listen to your angel. Listen to me. Cohen!” Agent Samuels said.
She didn’t know Asrael was gone and, for the first time in a long time, Cody was alone.
Agent Samuels shouted again, “Cohen!”
And Cody remembered lyrics to a song half-forgotten.
And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but...
“Hallelujah,” Cody whispered, and stepped back over the edge of the cliff.
(322 words)
Six feet under by age twenty-five.
It was a sad, sad day when his life could be summed up by the lyrics to song by a band called Venus in Furs. Somewhere, while she plucked playfully at Israfel’s wings, Elise was laughing.
“Stand down, Cohen,” Agent Samuels said. Her voice shook, but her hands on the gun were firm.
Cody knew why her voice was shaking. Even though she couldn’t see them, she could feel them, the Fallen who’d accompanied the choirboys the government had rounded up, had foolishly thought were prizes. Samael, Abbadon, Malpas and Zagan. They hovered on the edges of the crowd, black eyes glittering with malicious glee, and their choirboys stared past Cody, eyes devoid of human soul.
“I have nowhere to go but down,” Cody said. “Six feet under, from the looks of it.”
“You don’t have to die today, Cohen,” Agent Samuels said. “What do you say? Will you come with me?”
Samael was the first to move, had always been the first to move, from the war in heaven to the war on earth, and he was grinning.
Cody felt afraid and tired, but mostly tired, because he’d spent the last ten years being afraid, and he was tired of it.
“Can you hear me? Cohen? Don’t listen to your angel. Listen to me. Cohen!” Agent Samuels said.
She didn’t know Asrael was gone and, for the first time in a long time, Cody was alone.
Agent Samuels shouted again, “Cohen!”
And Cody remembered lyrics to a song half-forgotten.
And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but...
“Hallelujah,” Cody whispered, and stepped back over the edge of the cliff.
(322 words)
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Welcome to Growing Up
“Well this is an unfortunate turn of events,” Cody said, staring at himself in the mirror.
Behind him, Asrael spread his wings, and for a moment it looked like Cody had two heads and a pair of massive feathered wings. “How so?”
Cody poked at his jaw. “I have a zit.”
“Aren’t blemishes a common occurrence for all adolescents?” Asrael said. He tilted his head to one side quizzically.
“I’ve never had one before, and school pictures are today,” Cody said. He sighed. It didn’t really matter what he looked like for school pictures since people only really saw Jonathan’s pictures anyway, but he shuddered to think about what Sterling Shepard’s friends would do if they saw.
“As you always say, there’s a first time for everything.” That Asrael could smile and make a joke like that was disturbing, seeing how he was the angel of death. Or maybe he’d just been around Cody for too long.
Cody sighed and reached for his toothbrush. He’d heard his mother nag Jonathan plenty of times – if he didn’t pick at it, it wouldn’t scar.
Asrael studied Cody’s reflection some more. “After school, if you like, I can help you practice your piece for your bar mitzvah.”
Cody blinked, surprised. “Really?”
Asrael nodded. “I’m nowhere near as talented as Israfel, but –”
“Thank you,” Cody said. “I’d really like that.”
Jonathan banged on the door. “Cody, stop talking to yourself in there. It’s creepy.”
“I have a zit,” Cody called back.
Jonathan laughed. “Welcome to growing up, little brother. Now hurry up and get out of there – my study group will be here any moment now.”
Cody rolled his eyes. Jonathan just wanted to impress the pretty girls in his college classes.
Asrael started to fade from visibility. “You don’t want to be late for school,” he said.
Cody rolled his eyes again. The angel of death was starting to sound like his most annoying nanny.
(322 words)
Behind him, Asrael spread his wings, and for a moment it looked like Cody had two heads and a pair of massive feathered wings. “How so?”
Cody poked at his jaw. “I have a zit.”
“Aren’t blemishes a common occurrence for all adolescents?” Asrael said. He tilted his head to one side quizzically.
“I’ve never had one before, and school pictures are today,” Cody said. He sighed. It didn’t really matter what he looked like for school pictures since people only really saw Jonathan’s pictures anyway, but he shuddered to think about what Sterling Shepard’s friends would do if they saw.
“As you always say, there’s a first time for everything.” That Asrael could smile and make a joke like that was disturbing, seeing how he was the angel of death. Or maybe he’d just been around Cody for too long.
Cody sighed and reached for his toothbrush. He’d heard his mother nag Jonathan plenty of times – if he didn’t pick at it, it wouldn’t scar.
Asrael studied Cody’s reflection some more. “After school, if you like, I can help you practice your piece for your bar mitzvah.”
Cody blinked, surprised. “Really?”
Asrael nodded. “I’m nowhere near as talented as Israfel, but –”
“Thank you,” Cody said. “I’d really like that.”
Jonathan banged on the door. “Cody, stop talking to yourself in there. It’s creepy.”
“I have a zit,” Cody called back.
Jonathan laughed. “Welcome to growing up, little brother. Now hurry up and get out of there – my study group will be here any moment now.”
Cody rolled his eyes. Jonathan just wanted to impress the pretty girls in his college classes.
Asrael started to fade from visibility. “You don’t want to be late for school,” he said.
Cody rolled his eyes again. The angel of death was starting to sound like his most annoying nanny.
(322 words)
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
The Voice
It was the night after Grandma Bernstein’s funeral that Cody first heard the voice. He was almost seven and Jonathan was supposed to be preparing for his bar mitzvah, so Cody thought Jonathan was practicing what the cantor had given him to sing, but after he opened his eyes and listened, he realized it was neither Hebrew nor Jonathan’s voice.
Except Jonathan was the only one in the house who called him Cody.
Can you hear me, Cody? Will you listen?
Cody said, “I’m listening.”
Will you follow my voice?
Cody kicked the covers aside. It sounded like the voice was whispering over near the door, so he followed it.
Come along, the voice whispered, so softly Cody couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. The door creaked open. Cody tip-toed down the hall, tracking the soft whispers. Was it just his imagination, or were the shadows moving? He thought he felt something slither against his ankle as he turned into the drawing room.
As he moved across the carpet, he realized the voice was leading him toward Grandma Bernstein’s favorite chair.
Well done, sweet singer, the voice said.
Cody blinked at the empty chair, confused. “I’m not a sweet singer,” he said. “That’s Jonathan. I can’t sing at all.”
The susurration that followed could only have been called laughter. But you will speak for a member of a choir, and through you my sword will sing.
Cody had read about swords in books. They sounded fun, but people usually ended up getting hurt. “I don’t want a sword.”
Worry not, the voice said, for this sword is not of steel and shine but of silence and chaos, and it will show you the edge of the world.
“What’s at the edge of the world?” Cody asked.
Death, the voice said.
“Like where Grandma Bernstein went?”
There was no answer.
Cody peered at the chair. “Hello? Is that where she went?”
A hand came down on his shoulder, and he yelped.
“Nicodemus,” Mr. Cohen said. He looked annoyed and half-awake. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Cody immediately ducked his head. “Sorry. I thought I heard something.”
Mr. Cohen said, “Go back to bed.”
Cody obeyed. As he tugged the covers up to his chin, the voice whispered, right next to his ear, Good night.
(389 words)
Except Jonathan was the only one in the house who called him Cody.
Can you hear me, Cody? Will you listen?
Cody said, “I’m listening.”
Will you follow my voice?
Cody kicked the covers aside. It sounded like the voice was whispering over near the door, so he followed it.
Come along, the voice whispered, so softly Cody couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. The door creaked open. Cody tip-toed down the hall, tracking the soft whispers. Was it just his imagination, or were the shadows moving? He thought he felt something slither against his ankle as he turned into the drawing room.
As he moved across the carpet, he realized the voice was leading him toward Grandma Bernstein’s favorite chair.
Well done, sweet singer, the voice said.
Cody blinked at the empty chair, confused. “I’m not a sweet singer,” he said. “That’s Jonathan. I can’t sing at all.”
The susurration that followed could only have been called laughter. But you will speak for a member of a choir, and through you my sword will sing.
Cody had read about swords in books. They sounded fun, but people usually ended up getting hurt. “I don’t want a sword.”
Worry not, the voice said, for this sword is not of steel and shine but of silence and chaos, and it will show you the edge of the world.
“What’s at the edge of the world?” Cody asked.
Death, the voice said.
“Like where Grandma Bernstein went?”
There was no answer.
Cody peered at the chair. “Hello? Is that where she went?”
A hand came down on his shoulder, and he yelped.
“Nicodemus,” Mr. Cohen said. He looked annoyed and half-awake. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Cody immediately ducked his head. “Sorry. I thought I heard something.”
Mr. Cohen said, “Go back to bed.”
Cody obeyed. As he tugged the covers up to his chin, the voice whispered, right next to his ear, Good night.
(389 words)
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Reading and Writing
“What was that?” Mr. Cohen glanced up briefly from his newspaper.
“Nicodemus,” he said.
“Yes, that’s your name.” Mr. Cohen returned to his perusal of the Wall Street Journal.
“That paper over the fireplace,” Nicodemus said. “It says Nicodemus.”
“Yes it does,” Mr. Cohen said.
Jonathan blinked and paused, a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. “You can read?”
Nicodemus nodded. “Yes. That paper – it says Nicodemus Matthias Cohen. Nicodemus is a very long word. I don’t like it.”
“It’s your name,” Mr. Cohen said. “Whether or not you like it is irrelevant.”
Jonathan goggled at his father, then at his little brother. “Nicodemus, how old are you?”
Nicodemus blinked and looked down at his hand, then held up four fingers.
“Say it,” Jonathan said, because for the first three years of his life, Nicodemus had been reluctant to say anything at all.
“Four,” Nicodemus said.
“How do you spell it?” Jonathan asked.
“I’m not sure,” Nicodemus said. “It could be f-o-r, f-o-r-e, or f-o-u-r.”
“Dad,” Jonathan said. “Nicodemus can read.”
“As can you and I and the maid and the miscreant who washes our windows,” Mr. Cohen said.
Jonathan reached into his pocket for a pen and notebook, and he scribbled out four letters. “Can you read this?”
Nicodemus leaned forward in his high chair and peered, nose scrunched up in concentration. “Um...does it say yahweh?”
“Where did you learn to read Hebrew?” Jonathan’s eyes were wide with excitement and awe.
“You have a book,” Nicodemus said. “Beginner’s Guide to Hebrew. You left it in the toy room.”
Jonathan twisted around in his chair. “Mama, Nicodemus knows how to read!”
Mrs. Cohen glanced up from her folder full of complicated papers about a party she was planning for some of the other wives in the neighborhood. “Really, Nicodemus?”
Nicodemus said, “I don’t like my name. Too long. I want to be...Cody. It’s short.”
Mr. Cohen said, “Absolutely not. It’s a terribly plebeian name after a charlatan who made a living off of racism and genocide.”
Mrs. Cohen raised and eyebrow at Jonathan and said, “What have I told you about telling tales? Now eat your breakfast. The driver’s already got the car warming. You don’t want to be late for school.”
Jonathan tried to protest, tried to explain that Nicodemus could read, but then Nicodemus got his pen, and his pen met the fine white tablecloth.
(400 words)
“Nicodemus,” he said.
“Yes, that’s your name.” Mr. Cohen returned to his perusal of the Wall Street Journal.
“That paper over the fireplace,” Nicodemus said. “It says Nicodemus.”
“Yes it does,” Mr. Cohen said.
Jonathan blinked and paused, a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. “You can read?”
Nicodemus nodded. “Yes. That paper – it says Nicodemus Matthias Cohen. Nicodemus is a very long word. I don’t like it.”
“It’s your name,” Mr. Cohen said. “Whether or not you like it is irrelevant.”
Jonathan goggled at his father, then at his little brother. “Nicodemus, how old are you?”
Nicodemus blinked and looked down at his hand, then held up four fingers.
“Say it,” Jonathan said, because for the first three years of his life, Nicodemus had been reluctant to say anything at all.
“Four,” Nicodemus said.
“How do you spell it?” Jonathan asked.
“I’m not sure,” Nicodemus said. “It could be f-o-r, f-o-r-e, or f-o-u-r.”
“Dad,” Jonathan said. “Nicodemus can read.”
“As can you and I and the maid and the miscreant who washes our windows,” Mr. Cohen said.
Jonathan reached into his pocket for a pen and notebook, and he scribbled out four letters. “Can you read this?”
Nicodemus leaned forward in his high chair and peered, nose scrunched up in concentration. “Um...does it say yahweh?”
“Where did you learn to read Hebrew?” Jonathan’s eyes were wide with excitement and awe.
“You have a book,” Nicodemus said. “Beginner’s Guide to Hebrew. You left it in the toy room.”
Jonathan twisted around in his chair. “Mama, Nicodemus knows how to read!”
Mrs. Cohen glanced up from her folder full of complicated papers about a party she was planning for some of the other wives in the neighborhood. “Really, Nicodemus?”
Nicodemus said, “I don’t like my name. Too long. I want to be...Cody. It’s short.”
Mr. Cohen said, “Absolutely not. It’s a terribly plebeian name after a charlatan who made a living off of racism and genocide.”
Mrs. Cohen raised and eyebrow at Jonathan and said, “What have I told you about telling tales? Now eat your breakfast. The driver’s already got the car warming. You don’t want to be late for school.”
Jonathan tried to protest, tried to explain that Nicodemus could read, but then Nicodemus got his pen, and his pen met the fine white tablecloth.
(400 words)
Monday, March 14, 2011
And a Spare
Mr. and Mrs. Cohen stood over the bassinet and gazed down at their son.
“Nicodemus is a noble name,” Mr. Cohen said.
“Compared to Jonathan, you don’t think it’s a bit...austere?” Mrs. Cohen asked.
“He’s a Cohen,” Mr. Cohen said. The baby boy in the bassinet blinked big, dark eyes up at his father and pressed his tiny chubby fist to his mouth. “He will adjust as is necessary. Children are more resilient than we give them credit for.”
Mrs. Cohen eyed the blue romper suit the nanny had chosen; she didn’t like the color, but the baby seemed comfortable. “I really liked David, though. It would be poetic, don’t you think? Jonathan and David.”
Mr. Cohen shot her a withering look. “You know what people today say about Jonathan and David. Besides, Jonathan was prince, but it was David who became king. That’s not how things will be in this house.”
Mrs. Cohen nodded and stepped back from the bassinet. “I know. Heir and a spare. Jonathan already takes after his father.”
Mr. Cohen cast the baby one last look before turning and heading for the door. “I’d prefer it if we didn’t need a spare, but life never gives us the guarantees we want. Now come along – I want to hear from the tutors how Jonathan is doing.”
The door swung shut, and the baby was left staring up at the ceiling and wondering when a pleasant face would come back.
(244 words)
“Nicodemus is a noble name,” Mr. Cohen said.
“Compared to Jonathan, you don’t think it’s a bit...austere?” Mrs. Cohen asked.
“He’s a Cohen,” Mr. Cohen said. The baby boy in the bassinet blinked big, dark eyes up at his father and pressed his tiny chubby fist to his mouth. “He will adjust as is necessary. Children are more resilient than we give them credit for.”
Mrs. Cohen eyed the blue romper suit the nanny had chosen; she didn’t like the color, but the baby seemed comfortable. “I really liked David, though. It would be poetic, don’t you think? Jonathan and David.”
Mr. Cohen shot her a withering look. “You know what people today say about Jonathan and David. Besides, Jonathan was prince, but it was David who became king. That’s not how things will be in this house.”
Mrs. Cohen nodded and stepped back from the bassinet. “I know. Heir and a spare. Jonathan already takes after his father.”
Mr. Cohen cast the baby one last look before turning and heading for the door. “I’d prefer it if we didn’t need a spare, but life never gives us the guarantees we want. Now come along – I want to hear from the tutors how Jonathan is doing.”
The door swung shut, and the baby was left staring up at the ceiling and wondering when a pleasant face would come back.
(244 words)
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Project #83: Raise a character
We've done this before, and we're going it again, but this time with a longer word count and one day less. You have 100-400 words to raise a character, from birth to death (because everyone is born/created, and everyone ends, even vampires and gods). You can choose your moments from societally acknowledged rites of passage, like learning to walk, learning to ride a bike, learning to read, learning to drive, going on a first date, getting married, becoming a parent – whatever you choose. You can choose a character you've been working on or try a brand new one. It's up to you!
Happy writing.
Happy writing.
Overview #82: Books
I started out this week all right, except I totally bailed on feedback, for which I apologize. I was excited about this challenge, because I hadn't really thought about the literariness of my characters. It would be stereotypical to have Cody be really well-read, and obviously Angel and Asia would be incredibly well-read. As DJ is an artist, surely he would read graphic novels. I tried to shake it up a bit, pick books that made sense but were also a twist, and I think I did the best with Angel, but everyone else...yeah. I was pretty proud of what I did with Marsh, because he's the seraph-verse character I know the least, and I liked what happened with him.
In the end, I've been watching too much MI-5 and I picked too many books that I like (although it would be difficult for me to pick books I don't like, as I don't remember them and can't give them to characters as a result), and I welched on feedback, so this week was a posting success but otherwise kind of a bust.
Also, it feels like I still have writer's block.
In the end, I've been watching too much MI-5 and I picked too many books that I like (although it would be difficult for me to pick books I don't like, as I don't remember them and can't give them to characters as a result), and I welched on feedback, so this week was a posting success but otherwise kind of a bust.
Also, it feels like I still have writer's block.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Holy Books
“I don’t know why more people don’t read the Bible,” Angel said. “It’s very comforting, no matter your religion.”
Asia tipped her head back against the coolness of the cement wall. “It’s only comforting if you believe its words. Otherwise it’s just...Early Modern English poetry, and not great poetry, for that matter.”
Angel smiled faintly. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil –”
“Because I am the God of Death, and this is my valley, baby,” Christian said, and he grinned.
Jo Seung peered up at them from the opposite corner. “They’re gonna torture us, aren’t they?”
Asia glanced toward the door. On the other side, they could hear the faint rattlings and mumblings of their captors. “Probably,” she said.
Christian shot her a look.
Asia arched an eyebrow and continued blithely. “Not just them, though. They’ve been paid, so they’ll pass us on to whoever wants us next.”
“You sound remarkably calm,” Jo Seung said.
Angel leaned in to her and said, too low for human ears to hear, “Just because we don’t die doesn’t mean we don’t feel pain.”
“Did you really think this was the first time I’d been captured?” Asia asked.
“I’ve been captured before too, obviously,” Angel said. “Usually I escaped – or died temporarily.”
Asia said flatly, “They don’t treat men and women the same in captivity.”
Angel’s mouth closed so fast his teeth clicked.
Outside the door, someone began to scream. Jo Seung flinched.
Angel said, “Ignore it – it’s just a recording.”
Jo Seung shook his head. “No – it’s Jamal. I know his voice!” His face was pale, his eyes wide.
“It’s a recording,” Angel said again.
Jo Seung began to shake.
Angel slid closer to him, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, began to murmur softly.
“That’s from the Qu’ran,” Asia said. “He’s Korean. Try something – Buddhist.”
“That’s stereotyping,” Jo Seung. “I’m Christian.”
Christian said, “Forget religion.” He shuffled closer to Jo Seung, nudged the boy’s shoulder with his. “Cowards die many times before their deaths, the valiant never taste of death but once.”
“I’ve been valiant,” Jo Seung said. “I’ve served The Change. But I’m pretty sure I will die a thousand times before these people are done with me.”
“If you like,” Asia said, “you only need die the one.”
Angel blinked. “What?”
But Jo Seung nodded. “Please.”
Asia turned to Angel and said, “What other holy books have you read?”
Angel began to recite from the Rig Vedas, and Asia closed her hands around Jo Seung’s neck. He was smiling as he listened, and then he closed his eyes, and Asia twisted.
(442 words)
Asia tipped her head back against the coolness of the cement wall. “It’s only comforting if you believe its words. Otherwise it’s just...Early Modern English poetry, and not great poetry, for that matter.”
Angel smiled faintly. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil –”
“Because I am the God of Death, and this is my valley, baby,” Christian said, and he grinned.
Jo Seung peered up at them from the opposite corner. “They’re gonna torture us, aren’t they?”
Asia glanced toward the door. On the other side, they could hear the faint rattlings and mumblings of their captors. “Probably,” she said.
Christian shot her a look.
Asia arched an eyebrow and continued blithely. “Not just them, though. They’ve been paid, so they’ll pass us on to whoever wants us next.”
“You sound remarkably calm,” Jo Seung said.
Angel leaned in to her and said, too low for human ears to hear, “Just because we don’t die doesn’t mean we don’t feel pain.”
“Did you really think this was the first time I’d been captured?” Asia asked.
“I’ve been captured before too, obviously,” Angel said. “Usually I escaped – or died temporarily.”
Asia said flatly, “They don’t treat men and women the same in captivity.”
Angel’s mouth closed so fast his teeth clicked.
Outside the door, someone began to scream. Jo Seung flinched.
Angel said, “Ignore it – it’s just a recording.”
Jo Seung shook his head. “No – it’s Jamal. I know his voice!” His face was pale, his eyes wide.
“It’s a recording,” Angel said again.
Jo Seung began to shake.
Angel slid closer to him, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, began to murmur softly.
“That’s from the Qu’ran,” Asia said. “He’s Korean. Try something – Buddhist.”
“That’s stereotyping,” Jo Seung. “I’m Christian.”
Christian said, “Forget religion.” He shuffled closer to Jo Seung, nudged the boy’s shoulder with his. “Cowards die many times before their deaths, the valiant never taste of death but once.”
“I’ve been valiant,” Jo Seung said. “I’ve served The Change. But I’m pretty sure I will die a thousand times before these people are done with me.”
“If you like,” Asia said, “you only need die the one.”
Angel blinked. “What?”
But Jo Seung nodded. “Please.”
Asia turned to Angel and said, “What other holy books have you read?”
Angel began to recite from the Rig Vedas, and Asia closed her hands around Jo Seung’s neck. He was smiling as he listened, and then he closed his eyes, and Asia twisted.
(442 words)
Friday, March 11, 2011
Any Other Twenty-somethings
“Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly –”
“That’s pretty morbid,” Serena said.
James sighed. “I was trying to read.”
“Yes, aloud,” Katie said, and rolled her eyes.
“It’s actually not that morbid,” Riley said without looking up from his copy of Love in a Time of Cholera. “It’s about the Lady of Shallott.”
“There was a lady of wild garlic?” Serena wrinkled her nose. “Sounds like she’s totally your style, James.”
“She’s from Arthurian legend,” Riley said. “She was in love with Sir Lancelot.”
“I thought that was Queen Guinevere,” Serena said.
“She was in love with Lancelot too, but...well, lots of ladies fancied him,” Riley said. “That’s not the point. Keep reading, James.”
Katie arched an eyebrow. “He was reading for you?”
Serena hummed. “James does have a pleasant speaking voice.”
Riley turned a page in his book. “Read, minion.”
Soon the power would be back on and they could resume shooting. Till then, they were sprawled on the grass in the sun, pretending they were any other twenty-somethings, dressed in medieval gear and sitting in the lee of a fourteenth century castle.
(194 words)
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly –”
“That’s pretty morbid,” Serena said.
James sighed. “I was trying to read.”
“Yes, aloud,” Katie said, and rolled her eyes.
“It’s actually not that morbid,” Riley said without looking up from his copy of Love in a Time of Cholera. “It’s about the Lady of Shallott.”
“There was a lady of wild garlic?” Serena wrinkled her nose. “Sounds like she’s totally your style, James.”
“She’s from Arthurian legend,” Riley said. “She was in love with Sir Lancelot.”
“I thought that was Queen Guinevere,” Serena said.
“She was in love with Lancelot too, but...well, lots of ladies fancied him,” Riley said. “That’s not the point. Keep reading, James.”
Katie arched an eyebrow. “He was reading for you?”
Serena hummed. “James does have a pleasant speaking voice.”
Riley turned a page in his book. “Read, minion.”
Soon the power would be back on and they could resume shooting. Till then, they were sprawled on the grass in the sun, pretending they were any other twenty-somethings, dressed in medieval gear and sitting in the lee of a fourteenth century castle.
(194 words)
Any Good?
"What are you reading?" Hal asked, plopping down beside David. Hal was one of the few people that David would count as a friend in this school. One of the only people who would make the first move to initiate conversation.
David held up the slim novel, "Persuasion, by Jane Austen," he said.
Hal tried, but didn't succeed in suppressing a bubble of laughter. "Why on earth are you reading that?" he asked, merriment dancing in his eyes at the thought of his friend reading such a girly book.
"Just because you would never broaden your horizons doesn't mean the rest of us don't," David sniffed in mock disdain, "besides," he added and smiled a little, "it's one of Ariana's favorites."
"What's it about?" Hal asked, still clearly amused.
"It's about a military man who fell in love with a young girl. The young girl gave up the relationship when pressured by her family. They split up and he went to sea. He came back years later and this is the story of how they both cope with it. It's a story about waiting," David said.
"Is it any good?" Hal asked, his tone low, as if embarrassed to be caught asking.
"It's really good," David said, "I'll let you read it when I'm finished if you want," he continued, casting a sidelong glance at his friend.
Hal looked around quickly, "alright," he said, "if it's as good as you say then I'll check it out."
David smirked a little and returned to the story.
David held up the slim novel, "Persuasion, by Jane Austen," he said.
Hal tried, but didn't succeed in suppressing a bubble of laughter. "Why on earth are you reading that?" he asked, merriment dancing in his eyes at the thought of his friend reading such a girly book.
"Just because you would never broaden your horizons doesn't mean the rest of us don't," David sniffed in mock disdain, "besides," he added and smiled a little, "it's one of Ariana's favorites."
"What's it about?" Hal asked, still clearly amused.
"It's about a military man who fell in love with a young girl. The young girl gave up the relationship when pressured by her family. They split up and he went to sea. He came back years later and this is the story of how they both cope with it. It's a story about waiting," David said.
"Is it any good?" Hal asked, his tone low, as if embarrassed to be caught asking.
"It's really good," David said, "I'll let you read it when I'm finished if you want," he continued, casting a sidelong glance at his friend.
Hal looked around quickly, "alright," he said, "if it's as good as you say then I'll check it out."
David smirked a little and returned to the story.
Moving Memories
"What are you looking for?" Jen asked as she watched Joe rummage through a tattered old moving box.
"Nothing in particular," he said, brushing dust from his cheek.
"What's in the box?" she asked leaning a little closer. She could see old papers, notebooks, and some odds and ends.
"It's just a bunch of stuff from the past," Joe mumbled, his voice muffled from his head being in the box as he dug deeper, "I haven't looking in this box in years."
Jen leaned against the last unpainted wall of the apartment, she was wearing white overalls and a pair of faded old sneakers. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail and the rest was trapped by an old red bandanna. She held a paintbrush in one hand, letting her arms rest atop her knees.
"What made you decide to look in the box now?" Jen asked; she eyed the young man in curiosity.
Joe looked up at her and smiled, "because of the move, silly," he said. It had taken them a while to agree that they should get an apartment together and even longer before they found one that they liked. "Isn't that what people do when they move? They go through old boxes and relive the past, try to decide if they want to keep the stuff, realize the memories it brings back and decide to keep it though they will hardly ever look at it again,"
Joe's searching fingers had grasped a thin glossy book and pulled it from under the pile of papers. He smiled fondly at it as he thumbed through it. "I haven't seen or though of this book in years," he said.
"What book is that?" Jen asked looking over at him.
Joe stood up and crossed the room to sit beside her, "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day," Joe said, "Alec used to read it to me when we were young. Whenever I was having a bad day."
Jen glanced sideways to see if Joe was in pain, but was relieved to find only a fond smile tugging at his mouth. "Will you read it to me?" Jen asked.
Joe's smile widened and he flipped open the front cover. "I went to sleep with gum in my mouth and now there's gum in my hair..."
"Nothing in particular," he said, brushing dust from his cheek.
"What's in the box?" she asked leaning a little closer. She could see old papers, notebooks, and some odds and ends.
"It's just a bunch of stuff from the past," Joe mumbled, his voice muffled from his head being in the box as he dug deeper, "I haven't looking in this box in years."
Jen leaned against the last unpainted wall of the apartment, she was wearing white overalls and a pair of faded old sneakers. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail and the rest was trapped by an old red bandanna. She held a paintbrush in one hand, letting her arms rest atop her knees.
"What made you decide to look in the box now?" Jen asked; she eyed the young man in curiosity.
Joe looked up at her and smiled, "because of the move, silly," he said. It had taken them a while to agree that they should get an apartment together and even longer before they found one that they liked. "Isn't that what people do when they move? They go through old boxes and relive the past, try to decide if they want to keep the stuff, realize the memories it brings back and decide to keep it though they will hardly ever look at it again,"
Joe's searching fingers had grasped a thin glossy book and pulled it from under the pile of papers. He smiled fondly at it as he thumbed through it. "I haven't seen or though of this book in years," he said.
"What book is that?" Jen asked looking over at him.
Joe stood up and crossed the room to sit beside her, "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day," Joe said, "Alec used to read it to me when we were young. Whenever I was having a bad day."
Jen glanced sideways to see if Joe was in pain, but was relieved to find only a fond smile tugging at his mouth. "Will you read it to me?" Jen asked.
Joe's smile widened and he flipped open the front cover. "I went to sleep with gum in my mouth and now there's gum in my hair..."
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Down to Chance
“I don’t like to read much,” Marsh said.
Elise raised her eyebrows at the stack of books next to his knee and strummed her guitar. “Really?”
“Sometimes reading is necessary, of course,” Marsh said. “But that doesn’t mean I like to do it. I can just do it quickly. And remember loads of it.”
“Those look like textbooks,” Elise said.
“They are, of a sort.” Marsh glanced at the stack of books. They were hardbacks and had lavish fantasy illustrations on the covers. Elise tilted her head to study the titles. Monster Manual, Psionics, Players Handbook, Exalted, Dragonlance.
“What are you studying?” They didn’t look like they would be useful in any subject at school, not even at Cody’s fancy private school.
“Rules. For a game,” Marsh said. “Every game has rules. The best players understand how the rules work – and how to make the rules work for them.”
Elise hummed thoughtfully, a counterpoint to the chords she was playing. “All right – what’s the most important rule in that game?”
Marsh’s smile was so sweet it was frightening. “Everything comes down to chance.”
(183 words)
Elise raised her eyebrows at the stack of books next to his knee and strummed her guitar. “Really?”
“Sometimes reading is necessary, of course,” Marsh said. “But that doesn’t mean I like to do it. I can just do it quickly. And remember loads of it.”
“Those look like textbooks,” Elise said.
“They are, of a sort.” Marsh glanced at the stack of books. They were hardbacks and had lavish fantasy illustrations on the covers. Elise tilted her head to study the titles. Monster Manual, Psionics, Players Handbook, Exalted, Dragonlance.
“What are you studying?” They didn’t look like they would be useful in any subject at school, not even at Cody’s fancy private school.
“Rules. For a game,” Marsh said. “Every game has rules. The best players understand how the rules work – and how to make the rules work for them.”
Elise hummed thoughtfully, a counterpoint to the chords she was playing. “All right – what’s the most important rule in that game?”
Marsh’s smile was so sweet it was frightening. “Everything comes down to chance.”
(183 words)
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
In the Beginning
Kyle read in a strange, rolling tongue, “En arché en ò lógos, kai ò lógos en pròs tòn théon –”
Cody glanced up from his worn copy of Lovecraft’s Necronomicon and said, “What are you reading?”
Kyle blinked, startled out of his narration, and looked up at Cody. “Pardon?”
Cody nodded at the antique-looking volume Kyle had propped up on his knees. “What book are you reading? And for the record, what language?” They all spoke Hebrew, to one degree or another, and sometimes Aramaic and Latin came in handy, but that sounded brand new.
“It’s ancient Greek,” Kyle said. “And I’m reading from the Bible.”
Cody raised his eyebrows. “The Bible?”
“Yes,” Kyle said, and he began to recite, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God –”
“The New Testament,” Cody said flatly.
Kyle shrugged. “Yes, well, I do have Gabriel.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Well, Gabriel isn’t named till the New Testament, now is he?” Kyle smiled and returned to reading aloud in his rolling ancient Greek, leaving Cody to puzzle over that piece of information.
Cody finally spat on his fingertips and drew some Hebrew letters, and Asrael coalesced from the shadows, blinking and looking like a cat that had been unceremoniously dumped into a frigid swimming pool.
“Yes?” Asrael asked.
“Where in the scriptures are you first named?”
Asrael raised his eyebrows. “Well, they never really named me in the Qu’ran - there they simply call me the Angel of Death. I have many names, of course. But you won’t find my name in any canonized scripture, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Cody’s mouth shaped the word Qu’ran but no words came out.
Asrael smiled and patted his shoulder. “Maybe you need to read something else.”
(297 words)
Cody glanced up from his worn copy of Lovecraft’s Necronomicon and said, “What are you reading?”
Kyle blinked, startled out of his narration, and looked up at Cody. “Pardon?”
Cody nodded at the antique-looking volume Kyle had propped up on his knees. “What book are you reading? And for the record, what language?” They all spoke Hebrew, to one degree or another, and sometimes Aramaic and Latin came in handy, but that sounded brand new.
“It’s ancient Greek,” Kyle said. “And I’m reading from the Bible.”
Cody raised his eyebrows. “The Bible?”
“Yes,” Kyle said, and he began to recite, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God –”
“The New Testament,” Cody said flatly.
Kyle shrugged. “Yes, well, I do have Gabriel.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Well, Gabriel isn’t named till the New Testament, now is he?” Kyle smiled and returned to reading aloud in his rolling ancient Greek, leaving Cody to puzzle over that piece of information.
Cody finally spat on his fingertips and drew some Hebrew letters, and Asrael coalesced from the shadows, blinking and looking like a cat that had been unceremoniously dumped into a frigid swimming pool.
“Yes?” Asrael asked.
“Where in the scriptures are you first named?”
Asrael raised his eyebrows. “Well, they never really named me in the Qu’ran - there they simply call me the Angel of Death. I have many names, of course. But you won’t find my name in any canonized scripture, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Cody’s mouth shaped the word Qu’ran but no words came out.
Asrael smiled and patted his shoulder. “Maybe you need to read something else.”
(297 words)
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Spoiled
Mark eagerly began the last chapter of his novel, Warbreaker. He had waited a while to savor this book until he had a little R&R and could take the time to really enjoy it fully. He could almost see it as if it were being played out in front of him. It was one of the reasons he loved to read. He could see it. He could rewind and replay a scene over and over again.
"Hey, I've read that one," Joe exclaimed as he wandered into the living room, "isn't it fantastic? I loved the ending, didn't you? I especially like the part where Vash defeats the bad guy at the end and the God-King is proven to be... Wasn't that a surprise?"
Mark looked up at Joe, his eyes flashing in anger. "It isn't a surprise anymore," Mark said flatly as he snapped the book closed, "do you know how long I've been waiting to read that?"
Joe swallowed hard, suddenly looking like he would rather be anywhere else than where he was. Joe slowly backed out of the room before turning and hurrying down the hall.
Mark growled in frustration and tossed the book aside. He hated a spoiled ending.
"Hey, I've read that one," Joe exclaimed as he wandered into the living room, "isn't it fantastic? I loved the ending, didn't you? I especially like the part where Vash defeats the bad guy at the end and the God-King is proven to be... Wasn't that a surprise?"
Mark looked up at Joe, his eyes flashing in anger. "It isn't a surprise anymore," Mark said flatly as he snapped the book closed, "do you know how long I've been waiting to read that?"
Joe swallowed hard, suddenly looking like he would rather be anywhere else than where he was. Joe slowly backed out of the room before turning and hurrying down the hall.
Mark growled in frustration and tossed the book aside. He hated a spoiled ending.
Cry to Heaven
“Whatcha reading?” Tobias asked.
DJ didn’t even look up. “A book.” He turned the page.
“Goodness gracious me, I’m so unobservant that I didn’t notice.” Tobias rolled his eyes and perched on the arm of the sofa with the uncanny balance of a bird of prey.
“You can read the title.”
“Yes, well, Cry to Heaven doesn’t tell me much. It could be religious or weepy or whatnot,” Tobias said.
DJ said, “It’s none of the above.”
“Then what’s it about?”
“Revenge.”
Tobias blinked. Then he leaned in, peered at the cover, and sure the cover was bright red and all, but that didn’t tell him much. “So...revenge. Who’s getting revenge on who?”
“A boy is getting revenge on his father,” DJ said, “and he has to become a monster to do it.”
“Oh.” Tobias mulled that over for a moment, then said, “But you’ve already done all that. Surely a book pales compared to the real thing.”
The smile that curved DJ’s lips would have sent Jack the Ripper fleeing in terror. “You’d be surprised.”
Later, when Tobias read the book, he was.
(185 words)
DJ didn’t even look up. “A book.” He turned the page.
“Goodness gracious me, I’m so unobservant that I didn’t notice.” Tobias rolled his eyes and perched on the arm of the sofa with the uncanny balance of a bird of prey.
“You can read the title.”
“Yes, well, Cry to Heaven doesn’t tell me much. It could be religious or weepy or whatnot,” Tobias said.
DJ said, “It’s none of the above.”
“Then what’s it about?”
“Revenge.”
Tobias blinked. Then he leaned in, peered at the cover, and sure the cover was bright red and all, but that didn’t tell him much. “So...revenge. Who’s getting revenge on who?”
“A boy is getting revenge on his father,” DJ said, “and he has to become a monster to do it.”
“Oh.” Tobias mulled that over for a moment, then said, “But you’ve already done all that. Surely a book pales compared to the real thing.”
The smile that curved DJ’s lips would have sent Jack the Ripper fleeing in terror. “You’d be surprised.”
Later, when Tobias read the book, he was.
(185 words)
Monday, March 7, 2011
The Mammoth Ego of Merlin
“You are such an egomaniac,” Asia said.
Angel peered over the top of the worn paperback and raised his eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”
Asia nodded at the spine of his book. “The Crystal Cave? And don’t think I didn’t see your copy of Le Morte D’Arthur and The Idylls of the King. Also, let’s not forget The Mammoth Book of Merlin.”
“I’m very interested in Arthurian legend,” Angel said.
Asia rolled her eyes. “Please. You’re just obsessed with how most legends turned you into a cantankerous old man with a massive white beard.”
A mutinous expression crossed Angel’s face, and he looked ready to launch into an age-old tirade, but then he said, “Actually, I’m fascinated at how you manage to not be in any of the legends. To my knowledge, no one ever mentions his page, squire, or personal servant.”
“Do you really want to know?” Asia asked. She plopped down on the other end of the sofa.
Angel closed the book over a bookmark (a tattered thing made of plaited yarn born of one of Keith’s bored days). “You actually know the answer?”
“Yes,” Asia said.
“Go on then. Tell me how history managed to utterly cock up one of our finest moments,” Angel said.
Asia leaned in and lowered her voice. “Well, after Arthur died, we went our separate ways. You became a samurai, but I stayed in the British Isles, and I returned to my ways as a wandering songstress.”
“And?”
“And I might have started telling stories about a wondrous king, a sword in a stone...and his cranky old wizard,” Asia said.
Fury sparked in Angel’s eyes, and his telekinesis laced the air. Pillows launched themselves at Asia from all sides. She laughed and batted them away. Angel lunged at her, and Asia leapt off the sofa, danced out of reach.
“You –!” Angel yelled.
Asia was still laughing. “Yes, me.”
Angel attempted to fling more household furnishings at her, but she just dodged. When they finally settled down, Angel picked up his novel.
“Fine, so maybe I had it coming, what with spawning Mordred,” Angel said. Then he tilted his head and looked at her, curious. “Why did you write yourself out of the legend?”
“Because no one would believe a woman was any good with a sword,” Asia said easily, and both of them knew she was lying.
“Do you think you’ll ever get a second chance with him?” Angel asked.
Asia frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Like with all the others – do you think you’ll have a second chance?”
“No.”
“But the prophecy –”
“Those are books, Angel,” Asia said, and she stood up. Maybe one day he would remember that he, too, had been there to witness the burial of the king, and he’d heard her say the words himself. Until then, he could keep reading and imagining.
(479 words)
Angel peered over the top of the worn paperback and raised his eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”
Asia nodded at the spine of his book. “The Crystal Cave? And don’t think I didn’t see your copy of Le Morte D’Arthur and The Idylls of the King. Also, let’s not forget The Mammoth Book of Merlin.”
“I’m very interested in Arthurian legend,” Angel said.
Asia rolled her eyes. “Please. You’re just obsessed with how most legends turned you into a cantankerous old man with a massive white beard.”
A mutinous expression crossed Angel’s face, and he looked ready to launch into an age-old tirade, but then he said, “Actually, I’m fascinated at how you manage to not be in any of the legends. To my knowledge, no one ever mentions his page, squire, or personal servant.”
“Do you really want to know?” Asia asked. She plopped down on the other end of the sofa.
Angel closed the book over a bookmark (a tattered thing made of plaited yarn born of one of Keith’s bored days). “You actually know the answer?”
“Yes,” Asia said.
“Go on then. Tell me how history managed to utterly cock up one of our finest moments,” Angel said.
Asia leaned in and lowered her voice. “Well, after Arthur died, we went our separate ways. You became a samurai, but I stayed in the British Isles, and I returned to my ways as a wandering songstress.”
“And?”
“And I might have started telling stories about a wondrous king, a sword in a stone...and his cranky old wizard,” Asia said.
Fury sparked in Angel’s eyes, and his telekinesis laced the air. Pillows launched themselves at Asia from all sides. She laughed and batted them away. Angel lunged at her, and Asia leapt off the sofa, danced out of reach.
“You –!” Angel yelled.
Asia was still laughing. “Yes, me.”
Angel attempted to fling more household furnishings at her, but she just dodged. When they finally settled down, Angel picked up his novel.
“Fine, so maybe I had it coming, what with spawning Mordred,” Angel said. Then he tilted his head and looked at her, curious. “Why did you write yourself out of the legend?”
“Because no one would believe a woman was any good with a sword,” Asia said easily, and both of them knew she was lying.
“Do you think you’ll ever get a second chance with him?” Angel asked.
Asia frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Like with all the others – do you think you’ll have a second chance?”
“No.”
“But the prophecy –”
“Those are books, Angel,” Asia said, and she stood up. Maybe one day he would remember that he, too, had been there to witness the burial of the king, and he’d heard her say the words himself. Until then, he could keep reading and imagining.
(479 words)
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Project Assignment # 82 - Books
What is your characters favorite book? Have the written a book or do they just like to putter around? Why is the book their favorite? Does Tobias like historical fiction? Maybe Bryan likes fantasy books.
500 word limit.
Have fun!!!
500 word limit.
Have fun!!!
Overview # 81 Musical Instruments
I tried to get a feel for what instruments my boys would play. And I think the most difficult was writing Stephens Beat Box piece. How do you render those sounds into writing...?
I have to say I partially failed this week because my sister gave birth and so it kinda didn't happen.
I enjoyed writing Mark and Joe's pieces.
I have to say I partially failed this week because my sister gave birth and so it kinda didn't happen.
I enjoyed writing Mark and Joe's pieces.
Overview #81: Musical Instruments
So...this week was all right. I learned some new things about the boys and girls in Seraph-verse. The cheap thing about the boys in the Dagaz is that they all play instruments (except maybe Angel) and they all play bloody well. I'd given Tobias an instrument from his first life, and I think he's the only one who inherently has two, so I gave Keith another one out of national pride, but...I don't know that I really did anything new with them having musical instruments. In typical me fashion, what started off as an exploration of music itself turned into an exploration of character with music as a sort of foil or entry point.
Who knows. As long as I'm learning new things about my characters, I'm glad, but I'm not entirely sure I grew as a writer this week.
On the other hand...this week Madness wins! Because she wrote her own song lyrics for a piece. That's artistic integrity and dedication, friends. So...fandom of your choice, 1000 words or less!
Who knows. As long as I'm learning new things about my characters, I'm glad, but I'm not entirely sure I grew as a writer this week.
On the other hand...this week Madness wins! Because she wrote her own song lyrics for a piece. That's artistic integrity and dedication, friends. So...fandom of your choice, 1000 words or less!
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