Oh wow, I haven't posted one of these in forever. This response is based on a trip my friend Josh and I made to Fort Williams, where there's a lighthouse and really pretty shoreline. There's no actual beach, but the water crashing into the granite cliffs were pretty amazing. This is a snippet of what I got out of it.
---
They wouldn't let him into the lighthouse (which, in Quentin's opinion, was complete and utter bullshit), so he explored the ruins instead. At one point, Fort Williams was a stationed base, mounted guns along one side, protecting the easternmost port in the country at the time. Now it was just crumbling structures and graffiti covered walls.
And there was the ocean. Here there was no white sandy beach and quiet waves; the surf pounded into the granite boulders forming the cliffs. There was a sense of power in the white foam at the base of the rocks, an act of God in plain sight. It was almost like he could hear a woman's voice on the wind, beckoning him to join him in the water.
Every artist was inspired by something different; this view was one of Quentin's favorites. He climbed down to the small rock outcropping, careful to avoid any spot that looked wet, sketchbook clutched in one hand. Let the rich kids have their celebration. This, in his mind, was a better way to spend the afternoon.
Showing posts with label friday writing response. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friday writing response. Show all posts
Friday, October 30, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Friday Writing Response for October 9, 2009
This week's response is just a brief snippet, as I didn't have as much time to write as I hoped I would have. Pakcing and moving stuff on top of work takes up a lot of time! So, what I have is an intro to a journal entry, told from the point of view of a very girly, princess-like brat named Ravyn. She's fun to write, at least so far.
Also, today is the first day when I haven't completed my writing practice. I've got so much going on, my brain is fried. Tonight is my one day off, and I'm cracking the whip tomorrow.
---
Lesson #1: Do not go to the comic store in one of your best dresses.
Lesson #2: Do not go in stiletto heels. (They were such beautiful shoes, though!)
Lesson #3: And for god's sake, don't piss off the woman your brother is trying to get with!
Finally met Peyton today...
Also, today is the first day when I haven't completed my writing practice. I've got so much going on, my brain is fried. Tonight is my one day off, and I'm cracking the whip tomorrow.
---
Lesson #1: Do not go to the comic store in one of your best dresses.
Lesson #2: Do not go in stiletto heels. (They were such beautiful shoes, though!)
Lesson #3: And for god's sake, don't piss off the woman your brother is trying to get with!
Finally met Peyton today...
Friday, October 2, 2009
Friday Writing Response for October 2, 2009
I didn't get to play with this week's prompt as much as I hoped, but I do have one response. This is from my writing practice a couple weeks ago, a line that I ended up loving. I've taken some of the punctuation marks, thinking it might help the poem a bit.
Thoughts always welcome!
Her engagement ring needed a
funeral,
a memorial service
something to
commemorate -
to celebrate -
the time in her life when
she truly believed anything was possible
that one day
she might hope for those days to come again
Thoughts always welcome!
Her engagement ring needed a
funeral,
a memorial service
something to
commemorate -
to celebrate -
the time in her life when
she truly believed anything was possible
that one day
she might hope for those days to come again
Friday, September 25, 2009
Friday Writing Response for September 25, 2009
I went in a different direction than I originally planned with this week's writing prompt. My first thought was to write out the major points in Emma's history, like a timeline of events. Instead, I used my writing practice to tackle a few scenes set before the novel begins, before Zeke moves away. I found myself coming up with details I hadn't thought of before, like the fact that Emma has a younger brother, Craig. I'm going to stick with this a bit and see where it goes.
At some point, I do want detailed histories for my characters. For now, I'm just happy to know a little more about them. This snippet shows a bit of that, told from Emma's point of view.
---
"Besides," Leigh added, flopping down on the couch like she owned the place, "we were out ghost hunting, and you know how Emma gets whenever we go out to Hell Hollow."
"You killed the lights on the car!" Emma wasn't about to let her best friend portray her as some sort of scaredy cat, afraid of the dark. "In case you didn't notice, there's no moon tonight. We couldn't see a thing."
"We had a flashlight."
"That you kept taking away from me every time you thought you heard something!"
This, at least, brought a hint of a smile to Zeke's face. It was a start, and that was enough for Emma. "You went ghost hunting without me? Guess I really do need to answer my phone more often."
Leigh rolled her eyes. "Obviously. Since I don't think we'll be able to talk Emma into going back out - which is a shame, by the way, I wanted to go to Trinity Church tonight - what are we doing for the rest of the evening? Your parents are out for the time being, yes?"
At some point, I do want detailed histories for my characters. For now, I'm just happy to know a little more about them. This snippet shows a bit of that, told from Emma's point of view.
---
"Besides," Leigh added, flopping down on the couch like she owned the place, "we were out ghost hunting, and you know how Emma gets whenever we go out to Hell Hollow."
"You killed the lights on the car!" Emma wasn't about to let her best friend portray her as some sort of scaredy cat, afraid of the dark. "In case you didn't notice, there's no moon tonight. We couldn't see a thing."
"We had a flashlight."
"That you kept taking away from me every time you thought you heard something!"
This, at least, brought a hint of a smile to Zeke's face. It was a start, and that was enough for Emma. "You went ghost hunting without me? Guess I really do need to answer my phone more often."
Leigh rolled her eyes. "Obviously. Since I don't think we'll be able to talk Emma into going back out - which is a shame, by the way, I wanted to go to Trinity Church tonight - what are we doing for the rest of the evening? Your parents are out for the time being, yes?"
Friday, September 18, 2009
Friday Writing Response for September 18, 2009
This week's prompt didn't work for me. Not given the week I've had with apartment searching and the trials and tribulations thereof. So, therefore, this week's response is a sample from my writing practice, which in itself is a feat, that I managed to get it done.
From the Imperial Story, very late in the storyline. It's hard to avoid spoilers with this one, but this may be part of a potential ending for the whole thing.
---
In the end, it was always about the war. About ensuring victory for our people, even when my father had a few minutes left to live. "We'll try," I choked out, barely able to force the words through my tightened throat.
"You will." Wakka smiled, just a little, a sight so rare that I'd forgotten what it looked like. At least I got to see it one last time. "I was wrong about you, girl. You're a perfect Warrior."
"The triplets will be too," Briyant murmured, sliding his hand off the wound, but still holding on to Wakka. "I'll finish what you started. I promise you."
Wakka nodded, eyes drifting closed. There was nothing more we could do for him, not with how much blood was pooling on the floor around us. "Thank you," he whispered. "Tell Rosaria I love her. That I'm sorry I didn't make it back. Give Salida a kiss for me." HIs voice was getting softer, each breath coming slower.
From the Imperial Story, very late in the storyline. It's hard to avoid spoilers with this one, but this may be part of a potential ending for the whole thing.
---
In the end, it was always about the war. About ensuring victory for our people, even when my father had a few minutes left to live. "We'll try," I choked out, barely able to force the words through my tightened throat.
"You will." Wakka smiled, just a little, a sight so rare that I'd forgotten what it looked like. At least I got to see it one last time. "I was wrong about you, girl. You're a perfect Warrior."
"The triplets will be too," Briyant murmured, sliding his hand off the wound, but still holding on to Wakka. "I'll finish what you started. I promise you."
Wakka nodded, eyes drifting closed. There was nothing more we could do for him, not with how much blood was pooling on the floor around us. "Thank you," he whispered. "Tell Rosaria I love her. That I'm sorry I didn't make it back. Give Salida a kiss for me." HIs voice was getting softer, each breath coming slower.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Friday Writing Response for September 11, 2009
My fears were for nothing - I have something to show for this week's prompt! Granted, it was not written quite the way I had expected; I left my writing prompt book and journal at my boyfriend's house yesterday, and filled in with my kickaround notebook. For anyone who knows me, and how OCD I can be about routines and schedules, this kind of freaked me out this morning. But, never fear - I still managed to write something, even if it's not in the right notebook.
The prompt I used was, "Take two years and call me when you're better," from the Fall Out Boy song "The Carpal Tunnel of Love." This may become a short story all on its own, though I already came up with a revision idea halfway through this prompt.
---
That was how she found herself on the same stretch of highway she'd driven all through college, going to visit him while he was at school. Every couple had certain places they'd visited together, that meant something special to them. She'd visit one of these, convince herself that she was going to have closure once this was all through.
Maybe someday he'd talke to her again. Just once, like they did before they dated, discussing the previous night's episode of Lost and what their theories for the season were. Or talk about the latest video games or funny videos on YouTube. Anything. As long as she got the boy she once knew back.
She could name all the exits on this highway in her sleep, she'd driven it so much while they were in college. Here she'd established herself as a fixture among his friends, in her own right, not just because she was his girlfriend. But that, too, was over. College ends, and everyone drifts away, even the people you never thought you'd never lose touch with.
It was like high school, only harder. After high school, there was college to look forward to, the promise of a new beginning and the adventures that went along with it. Now every day was just work, coming home to an empty apartment and wondering what the hell she'd done with her life.
She'd walked away from most of it.
Had she made a mistake?
The prompt I used was, "Take two years and call me when you're better," from the Fall Out Boy song "The Carpal Tunnel of Love." This may become a short story all on its own, though I already came up with a revision idea halfway through this prompt.
---
That was how she found herself on the same stretch of highway she'd driven all through college, going to visit him while he was at school. Every couple had certain places they'd visited together, that meant something special to them. She'd visit one of these, convince herself that she was going to have closure once this was all through.
Maybe someday he'd talke to her again. Just once, like they did before they dated, discussing the previous night's episode of Lost and what their theories for the season were. Or talk about the latest video games or funny videos on YouTube. Anything. As long as she got the boy she once knew back.
She could name all the exits on this highway in her sleep, she'd driven it so much while they were in college. Here she'd established herself as a fixture among his friends, in her own right, not just because she was his girlfriend. But that, too, was over. College ends, and everyone drifts away, even the people you never thought you'd never lose touch with.
It was like high school, only harder. After high school, there was college to look forward to, the promise of a new beginning and the adventures that went along with it. Now every day was just work, coming home to an empty apartment and wondering what the hell she'd done with her life.
She'd walked away from most of it.
Had she made a mistake?
Friday, September 4, 2009
Friday Writing Response for September 4, 2009
HEY LOOK YOU GUYS, I ACTUALLY WROTE THIS WEEK!
...Ahem. I did go back to the Andrew McMahon lyric prompts, though I ended up picking one not on the list I had posted before. It's still unfinished, but I wanted to get a snippet up before I forgot about it. The lyrics I used as inspiration came from Jack's Mannequin's "Bloodshot":
He sits in his basement from midnight 'til four
Painting pictures that nobody sees
From his days in the war
Canvases bathed in bright red
He heats up the shower,
He paces the hall
He'll scrub for an hour or more but he won't get it all
The paint in his fingernail beds...
Let me know what you think!
---
He'd known this was coming for a few days, but he didn't think Renee would actually pack it up and send it to him right away. Quentin would have much rather just picked it up the next time he went back to Kennebunkport, whenever that turned out to be. It was easier to deal with Kevin's death when every reminder wasn't constantly staring him in the face.
Thank god Renee also shipped him a case of beer with the model ship. Shipyard IPA, a local Maine brew and Quentin's favorite. He cracked open a bottle and took a long pull, staring at the miniature ship inside the bottle.
Model building and boating had been Kevin's big interests. He had them tucked in places all around the house he lived in, and every year he built one for their father at Christmas. Their parents kept them on display in the Drawing Room, a testimony to their favorite son's accomplishments. Once Quentin moved to his mini-apartment above the garage, he finally had a reason not to see his parents' favoritism rubbed in his face every single day.
He painted something for his father, once. A scene of the marina, like the one Quentin had planned to have tattooed on his back. Joshua James had given him that fake half-smile, patted his hair, and put the painting into storage. Never displayed it, like they did with Kevin's model boats.
...Ahem. I did go back to the Andrew McMahon lyric prompts, though I ended up picking one not on the list I had posted before. It's still unfinished, but I wanted to get a snippet up before I forgot about it. The lyrics I used as inspiration came from Jack's Mannequin's "Bloodshot":
He sits in his basement from midnight 'til four
Painting pictures that nobody sees
From his days in the war
Canvases bathed in bright red
He heats up the shower,
He paces the hall
He'll scrub for an hour or more but he won't get it all
The paint in his fingernail beds...
Let me know what you think!
---
He'd known this was coming for a few days, but he didn't think Renee would actually pack it up and send it to him right away. Quentin would have much rather just picked it up the next time he went back to Kennebunkport, whenever that turned out to be. It was easier to deal with Kevin's death when every reminder wasn't constantly staring him in the face.
Thank god Renee also shipped him a case of beer with the model ship. Shipyard IPA, a local Maine brew and Quentin's favorite. He cracked open a bottle and took a long pull, staring at the miniature ship inside the bottle.
Model building and boating had been Kevin's big interests. He had them tucked in places all around the house he lived in, and every year he built one for their father at Christmas. Their parents kept them on display in the Drawing Room, a testimony to their favorite son's accomplishments. Once Quentin moved to his mini-apartment above the garage, he finally had a reason not to see his parents' favoritism rubbed in his face every single day.
He painted something for his father, once. A scene of the marina, like the one Quentin had planned to have tattooed on his back. Joshua James had given him that fake half-smile, patted his hair, and put the painting into storage. Never displayed it, like they did with Kevin's model boats.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Friday Writing Response for August 28, 2009
Okay, so I didn't do as much work as I intended for this week's prompt, but I did do some, so I consider it an accomplishment!
I went back and read a story I'd started in high school, titled Generations. Great title, I know, but I was 17, so give me a break. The basic plot of the story was that a son moves back in with his aging father after his mother's death, bringing his 17-year-old daughter with him. Together the three of them learn what it is that they're supposed to get out of this life, overcoming their personal struggles. I still like the general idea of the story, if I could ever get it out on paper. Rereading it, though, I was surprised at how many adverbs I used, especially attached to dialogue tags. Everything was "Riley injected quickly," "Brad said sullenly," etc. For me, most of this was remembering what I liked about the plot, though I could tell my writing had improved in the years since I'd written it.
So, taking a stab in the dark, I attempted to rewrite the beginning. This isn't perfect by any means, and in revision I probably wouldn't keep it, but it's a start.
---
At 37, I did not expect to be attending my mother's funeral.
It was always a possibility. Of course, someday your parents pass on and you're sad and you miss them. But you're never ready for it.
And I didn't expect it to come so soon after losing my wife. Becky. My high school sweetheart, the mother of my daughter, Riley.
Mom loved her to pieces. She'd held my hand throughout the funeral, Riley tucked against my other side. She'd cried with me, when i sat there in the emergency room and had the doctor tell me there was nothing more he could do.
Now Mom was gone, too.
I glanced over at the passenger seat. Riley stared out the window, hands playing with her charm bracelet. She'd grown so much in the year since Becky died. I could see traces of the gawky girl with too-long legs, but that was fading more and more by the day. Some days it seemed like I didn't know this woman she'd become, even though I saw her every day.
I went back and read a story I'd started in high school, titled Generations. Great title, I know, but I was 17, so give me a break. The basic plot of the story was that a son moves back in with his aging father after his mother's death, bringing his 17-year-old daughter with him. Together the three of them learn what it is that they're supposed to get out of this life, overcoming their personal struggles. I still like the general idea of the story, if I could ever get it out on paper. Rereading it, though, I was surprised at how many adverbs I used, especially attached to dialogue tags. Everything was "Riley injected quickly," "Brad said sullenly," etc. For me, most of this was remembering what I liked about the plot, though I could tell my writing had improved in the years since I'd written it.
So, taking a stab in the dark, I attempted to rewrite the beginning. This isn't perfect by any means, and in revision I probably wouldn't keep it, but it's a start.
---
At 37, I did not expect to be attending my mother's funeral.
It was always a possibility. Of course, someday your parents pass on and you're sad and you miss them. But you're never ready for it.
And I didn't expect it to come so soon after losing my wife. Becky. My high school sweetheart, the mother of my daughter, Riley.
Mom loved her to pieces. She'd held my hand throughout the funeral, Riley tucked against my other side. She'd cried with me, when i sat there in the emergency room and had the doctor tell me there was nothing more he could do.
Now Mom was gone, too.
I glanced over at the passenger seat. Riley stared out the window, hands playing with her charm bracelet. She'd grown so much in the year since Becky died. I could see traces of the gawky girl with too-long legs, but that was fading more and more by the day. Some days it seemed like I didn't know this woman she'd become, even though I saw her every day.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Friday Writing Response for August 21, 2009
I fail as a writer.
For the record, I love this week's prompt. Absolutely adore it. The lyric ones are always my favorite and this one was centered on my favorite artist. But time slipped away this week, and I have nothing to show for the days that passed between today and Monday, when I put the prompt up. I started looking for an apartment, scouring the Internet and Craigslist, seeing a few impromtu places. (Neither of which are going to work out, I'm fairly certain.)
And, as such, it's now Friday and I have nothing to show for it. This just adds to my already pretty rotten mood today. I do have another snippet from my writing practice, a piece of a new scene from the Imperial Story - that much, at least, I managed to get done. No comments expected on this piece; it's mostly up to prove that, yes, I did do some writing this week.
I will come back to this prompt. When I do, I'll let you know.
---
We could just see the figure approaching us now, dressed in fatigues, blending in with the woods surrounding him. It was hard to tell for sure, but this wasn't an Imperial uniform I'd ever seen. "We have you in our sights," Briyant called into the woods. "Put down your weapon and I give you my word this will go over peacefully."
"Like hell I'm putting down my weapon, just as soon as you lower yours." There was something familiar in that voice, like I'd heard it before, but I couldn't put my finger on where. "That's my vehicle you all happen to be poaching and my friend who's still in it, so don't think I won't shoot you if I feel like it."
"No one's poaching anything. We're travellers. Came across the wreckage, looking for survivors." Briyant's voice was steady, but I still reached for my own gun, preparing myself for what might happen if this ended badly. "Come out, and we can discuss this like men."
"Discuss?" The man laughed, taking another couple steps forward. I could see he was definitely wounded now; one leg was twisted behind him, dragging along the forest floor. How he managed to walk at all was nothing short of a miracle. "You'll kill me, loot the vehicle, burn the remains. I've seen it a dozen times. You don't scare me."
For the record, I love this week's prompt. Absolutely adore it. The lyric ones are always my favorite and this one was centered on my favorite artist. But time slipped away this week, and I have nothing to show for the days that passed between today and Monday, when I put the prompt up. I started looking for an apartment, scouring the Internet and Craigslist, seeing a few impromtu places. (Neither of which are going to work out, I'm fairly certain.)
And, as such, it's now Friday and I have nothing to show for it. This just adds to my already pretty rotten mood today. I do have another snippet from my writing practice, a piece of a new scene from the Imperial Story - that much, at least, I managed to get done. No comments expected on this piece; it's mostly up to prove that, yes, I did do some writing this week.
I will come back to this prompt. When I do, I'll let you know.
---
We could just see the figure approaching us now, dressed in fatigues, blending in with the woods surrounding him. It was hard to tell for sure, but this wasn't an Imperial uniform I'd ever seen. "We have you in our sights," Briyant called into the woods. "Put down your weapon and I give you my word this will go over peacefully."
"Like hell I'm putting down my weapon, just as soon as you lower yours." There was something familiar in that voice, like I'd heard it before, but I couldn't put my finger on where. "That's my vehicle you all happen to be poaching and my friend who's still in it, so don't think I won't shoot you if I feel like it."
"No one's poaching anything. We're travellers. Came across the wreckage, looking for survivors." Briyant's voice was steady, but I still reached for my own gun, preparing myself for what might happen if this ended badly. "Come out, and we can discuss this like men."
"Discuss?" The man laughed, taking another couple steps forward. I could see he was definitely wounded now; one leg was twisted behind him, dragging along the forest floor. How he managed to walk at all was nothing short of a miracle. "You'll kill me, loot the vehicle, burn the remains. I've seen it a dozen times. You don't scare me."
Friday, August 14, 2009
Friday Writing Response for August 14, 2009
I had originally intended to write something new for this week, but the words proved harder to find. I tried to write about Star Wars, but found that the words reminded me of the essay I wrote back in high school. While they still remain as true today as they did when I was 17, as a writer, I wanted to go with something new and fresh.
So, instead, I give you this little snippet from my writing practice, about musician Andrew McMahon. He's the frontman of Jack's Mannequin and Something Corporate, and aside from being a huge fan of his music, he's a really nice guy and I take a lot of inspiration from him. He fought leukemia and won. His lyrics are profound and amazing and I wish I could write half as well as he could.
Fangirling aside, he's one of my heroes. Here's some of the reasons why.
---
If I am to name one man as my hero, it would be Andrew McMahon, not only for his music but for who he is and what he's done. He's three years older than me, 26, same age as Josh. When his music comes out, it speaks of things going on in my life now, even though he lives in an entirely different world than me. And he's a cancer survivor, diagnosed with leukemia the day he finished recording Jack's Mannequin's debut album, Everything in Transit. He's a fighter and an artist, an activist, and everything in between.
Everything in Transit, is, simply put, the album that describes my life. Granted, it speaks of drug use and other moments that don't apply to me, but the overall feeling of the album does. On one level it's a breakup album, detailing how he processed losing a long-term relationship. On another it's a transition record, adapting to the end of one phase in life and learning to start another.
That's the aspect of the record that still speaks to me, even though it came out four years ago this summer. I hear different things now than when it first came out. "I'm Ready" is a good example. Thinking it was a good song but not his best, I usually bypassed it in favor of more melodic tracks like "Bruised" and "Dark Blue."
"I'm Ready" speaks of a life at a crossroads, not knowing where to go next. And that is exactly where I am right now, and I'm not sure when I realized it. "My life is a boring pop song and everyone is singing along" became an anthem for me. I was determined to believe that I am ready for this next phase of life, that I can take this next step. Now, when that song comes on my iPod, I never turn it off.
So, instead, I give you this little snippet from my writing practice, about musician Andrew McMahon. He's the frontman of Jack's Mannequin and Something Corporate, and aside from being a huge fan of his music, he's a really nice guy and I take a lot of inspiration from him. He fought leukemia and won. His lyrics are profound and amazing and I wish I could write half as well as he could.
Fangirling aside, he's one of my heroes. Here's some of the reasons why.
---
If I am to name one man as my hero, it would be Andrew McMahon, not only for his music but for who he is and what he's done. He's three years older than me, 26, same age as Josh. When his music comes out, it speaks of things going on in my life now, even though he lives in an entirely different world than me. And he's a cancer survivor, diagnosed with leukemia the day he finished recording Jack's Mannequin's debut album, Everything in Transit. He's a fighter and an artist, an activist, and everything in between.
Everything in Transit, is, simply put, the album that describes my life. Granted, it speaks of drug use and other moments that don't apply to me, but the overall feeling of the album does. On one level it's a breakup album, detailing how he processed losing a long-term relationship. On another it's a transition record, adapting to the end of one phase in life and learning to start another.
That's the aspect of the record that still speaks to me, even though it came out four years ago this summer. I hear different things now than when it first came out. "I'm Ready" is a good example. Thinking it was a good song but not his best, I usually bypassed it in favor of more melodic tracks like "Bruised" and "Dark Blue."
"I'm Ready" speaks of a life at a crossroads, not knowing where to go next. And that is exactly where I am right now, and I'm not sure when I realized it. "My life is a boring pop song and everyone is singing along" became an anthem for me. I was determined to believe that I am ready for this next phase of life, that I can take this next step. Now, when that song comes on my iPod, I never turn it off.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Friday Writing Response for August 7, 2009
Okay, so first off: Character profiles turned out both good and bad. The good news, I did finish one complete profile - for a character completely outside of any story I'm currently working on. The bad news, Zeke's profile is started, but not finished. I'll admit, it's actually rather frustrating, the fact that the novel is no longer talking to me like it used to. I think it's been too long since I've worked on it consistently, not in fits and starts. Maybe it's time for another read through, just to refresh myself on the material. We'll see.
For now, I'm just going to post a bit from what I did get finished: descriptions of Zeke's appearance and personality. More so for my reference than anyone else, but I still find it interesting to get an in-depth look at a character, especially as a writer.
CHARACTER NAME: Zeke McMahon
Physical Description: Zeke specializes in laid back. He's most at home in jeans and a t-shirt, just the right cut for his lean frame and you can be sure all his clothes are neat and clean. His hair is thick and dark; he always kept it long, past his shoulders. HIs mother, a hairstylist, finally convinced him to get a more modern cut. It now frames his face in shaggy layers, accenting his square jaw nicely. He does get a lot of glances his way for his looks, but Zeke is mostly oblivious to it.
Personality: Zeke straddles the fence between being completely spontaneous and erring on the side of caution. He's a "go with the flow" kind of guy, and he only worries about the big things - the state of his relationship with Emma he considers to be a big thing. Zeke tries to do the right thing by his friends, but he's always up for a little adventure. When it comes to people he doesn't know well or is just meeting for the first time, he tends to form an opinion quickly, and it takes a lot to change this first impression. He's also convinced that he's right, in most situations, so when it comes to arguing, he always wants to be the one who wins.
For now, I'm just going to post a bit from what I did get finished: descriptions of Zeke's appearance and personality. More so for my reference than anyone else, but I still find it interesting to get an in-depth look at a character, especially as a writer.
CHARACTER NAME: Zeke McMahon
Physical Description: Zeke specializes in laid back. He's most at home in jeans and a t-shirt, just the right cut for his lean frame and you can be sure all his clothes are neat and clean. His hair is thick and dark; he always kept it long, past his shoulders. HIs mother, a hairstylist, finally convinced him to get a more modern cut. It now frames his face in shaggy layers, accenting his square jaw nicely. He does get a lot of glances his way for his looks, but Zeke is mostly oblivious to it.
Personality: Zeke straddles the fence between being completely spontaneous and erring on the side of caution. He's a "go with the flow" kind of guy, and he only worries about the big things - the state of his relationship with Emma he considers to be a big thing. Zeke tries to do the right thing by his friends, but he's always up for a little adventure. When it comes to people he doesn't know well or is just meeting for the first time, he tends to form an opinion quickly, and it takes a lot to change this first impression. He's also convinced that he's right, in most situations, so when it comes to arguing, he always wants to be the one who wins.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Friday Writing Response for July 31, 2009
This week's writing went a bit easier than most, because I wasn't trying to fit it in with everything else I had going on. Instead I just sat outside on my day off, on my front porch, propped my feet up and wrote. The sun was shining, the bugs were leaving me alone (for the most part) and I got a scene done.
For the Imperial Story, as most of my writing has been lately, and using the prompt from the Fray: I'm losing you and it's effortless. Told from Anitra's point of view, set after her and Briyant rescue the Lambazzias.
---
[Rosaria] paused for a moment. "There's still room for you to travel with us, you know. Wakka will never ask for it, but he could use Briyant's help. Your help."
Concentrating on the bedsheets, I found it hard to meet my mother's eyes. "Our place is here, in the Underground. You know that."
She took the top blanket from me, spreading it on top. Her bed always looked crisp and sharp, from the years she had spent working in our village's hospital. "It wouldn't be permanent. Just one mission, like we used to."
I wasn't the only one trying to hang onto the past. As much as I wanted my family to come back together, the way we were before the Great Raid, it was a fool's dream. The kids we were then were only shadows of the adults we'd become. "Briyant and Wakka will never work together again," I reminded her softly, tugging the pillowcase onto the pillow. "Both are too stubborn, wanting to lead."
"I'm sure they can find a way to work something out."
"Not for Briyant." I gave Rosaria a small, sad smile. In her heart I knew she'd done what she thought was best, caring for the lost little boy she'd found. It wasn't her fault, what Wakka had raised him to become. "He's handling this better than I thought he would - at first, he only agreed to the rescue because I wanted to do it. He's accepted it, now."
"He's still that angry with us?" With the bed made, there was nothing left to do with her hands, and Rosaria sank into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. "I only tried to do what I thought was right. To give him a home."
Sitting next to her, I took Rosaria's hands in both of my own. It killed me to see her like this, the woman who had always been our beacon of hope and light when the world seemed like it was coming to an end. "He doesn't blame you, just Dad, mostly. Because you never told him the truth about who he was, and how we discovered what happened. In one night, he learned his entire life had been a lie. That's not something you just get over."
Her eyes glanced up to mine. "And what about you? You were angry enough with us to leave too?"
"It wasn't like that." Not for the first time, the guilt welled in my stomach, but I forced it down. "He wouldn't stay. And I couldn't be without him again." I didn't regret my choice, but that didn't make it any easier to live with.
For the Imperial Story, as most of my writing has been lately, and using the prompt from the Fray: I'm losing you and it's effortless. Told from Anitra's point of view, set after her and Briyant rescue the Lambazzias.
---
[Rosaria] paused for a moment. "There's still room for you to travel with us, you know. Wakka will never ask for it, but he could use Briyant's help. Your help."
Concentrating on the bedsheets, I found it hard to meet my mother's eyes. "Our place is here, in the Underground. You know that."
She took the top blanket from me, spreading it on top. Her bed always looked crisp and sharp, from the years she had spent working in our village's hospital. "It wouldn't be permanent. Just one mission, like we used to."
I wasn't the only one trying to hang onto the past. As much as I wanted my family to come back together, the way we were before the Great Raid, it was a fool's dream. The kids we were then were only shadows of the adults we'd become. "Briyant and Wakka will never work together again," I reminded her softly, tugging the pillowcase onto the pillow. "Both are too stubborn, wanting to lead."
"I'm sure they can find a way to work something out."
"Not for Briyant." I gave Rosaria a small, sad smile. In her heart I knew she'd done what she thought was best, caring for the lost little boy she'd found. It wasn't her fault, what Wakka had raised him to become. "He's handling this better than I thought he would - at first, he only agreed to the rescue because I wanted to do it. He's accepted it, now."
"He's still that angry with us?" With the bed made, there was nothing left to do with her hands, and Rosaria sank into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. "I only tried to do what I thought was right. To give him a home."
Sitting next to her, I took Rosaria's hands in both of my own. It killed me to see her like this, the woman who had always been our beacon of hope and light when the world seemed like it was coming to an end. "He doesn't blame you, just Dad, mostly. Because you never told him the truth about who he was, and how we discovered what happened. In one night, he learned his entire life had been a lie. That's not something you just get over."
Her eyes glanced up to mine. "And what about you? You were angry enough with us to leave too?"
"It wasn't like that." Not for the first time, the guilt welled in my stomach, but I forced it down. "He wouldn't stay. And I couldn't be without him again." I didn't regret my choice, but that didn't make it any easier to live with.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Friday Writing Response for July 24, 2009
So. I tried this week's prompt. Twice, as a matter of fact. I had one scene in my head - Briyant and Anitra stuck in an Imperial city for a few days with nothing to do but wait, and I wanted to send them to a "movie theater" of some kind. This idea didn't work, I think because I was trying too hard to force it to.
This leaves me without a response to this week's prompt, however, but that's okay. I'll put up a snippet from writing practice instead. I've been focusing a lot on the "Andros' return" scenes this week, taking place after this snippet from a while back. Told from Anitra's point of view, taking a friend's advice and it seems to be working out so far.
---
Gingerly, I laid Andros down on the bed, my bed. I hadn't actually slept here in weeks, so he could use it for however long his recovery turned out to be. Behind me, Rosaria carried the tray full of medical supplies, setting it down on the small table by the bed. "You said he talked to you? On the boat?"
"Yes. Whatever happened damaged his vocal chords." I could still remember the rasp in his voice, a shadow of what he used to sound like. I'd fix his voice, his face, his eyes, everything. I had to. He was my Warrior. "He's awake, though, and responding."
Andros reached out, hand hitting my arm first, then working upward, until it rested against the side of my neck. It was warm and rough, the way I remembered him. "You can hear us still?" I whispered, since my face was close to his.
His hand stroked my cheek once. Yes.
"Is anything else hurt? Anywhere I should check?"
Two strokes. No. Just the face, then.
"We're going to have to sedate you, in order to get the mask off." I paused, closing my eyes and wishing, not for the first time, that I'd been there when this happened. "There's a chance that there could be more damage if it wasn't used properly. The removal will hurt."
He hesitated. Andros, I knew, didn't want pain medication of any kind. "A Warrior's duty is to fight through it," he explained to me once, "to be stronger than the pain, to carry out the mission. You'll have to force the meds down my throat." This was an exception. I knew already that we didn't have the equipment here to treat a wound this bad, especially a burn. And he wouldn't want to be awake when I removed the mask.
"Please, Andros," I whispered. "For me. So I can help you."
Finally, he stroked my cheek again. Andros would take the medicine. "Thank you," I breathed, turning to Rosaria, holding out my hand. "Is it ready?"
This leaves me without a response to this week's prompt, however, but that's okay. I'll put up a snippet from writing practice instead. I've been focusing a lot on the "Andros' return" scenes this week, taking place after this snippet from a while back. Told from Anitra's point of view, taking a friend's advice and it seems to be working out so far.
---
Gingerly, I laid Andros down on the bed, my bed. I hadn't actually slept here in weeks, so he could use it for however long his recovery turned out to be. Behind me, Rosaria carried the tray full of medical supplies, setting it down on the small table by the bed. "You said he talked to you? On the boat?"
"Yes. Whatever happened damaged his vocal chords." I could still remember the rasp in his voice, a shadow of what he used to sound like. I'd fix his voice, his face, his eyes, everything. I had to. He was my Warrior. "He's awake, though, and responding."
Andros reached out, hand hitting my arm first, then working upward, until it rested against the side of my neck. It was warm and rough, the way I remembered him. "You can hear us still?" I whispered, since my face was close to his.
His hand stroked my cheek once. Yes.
"Is anything else hurt? Anywhere I should check?"
Two strokes. No. Just the face, then.
"We're going to have to sedate you, in order to get the mask off." I paused, closing my eyes and wishing, not for the first time, that I'd been there when this happened. "There's a chance that there could be more damage if it wasn't used properly. The removal will hurt."
He hesitated. Andros, I knew, didn't want pain medication of any kind. "A Warrior's duty is to fight through it," he explained to me once, "to be stronger than the pain, to carry out the mission. You'll have to force the meds down my throat." This was an exception. I knew already that we didn't have the equipment here to treat a wound this bad, especially a burn. And he wouldn't want to be awake when I removed the mask.
"Please, Andros," I whispered. "For me. So I can help you."
Finally, he stroked my cheek again. Andros would take the medicine. "Thank you," I breathed, turning to Rosaria, holding out my hand. "Is it ready?"
Friday, July 17, 2009
Friday Writing Response for July 17, 2009
Not my best response ever, but not my worst. It was harder to get into my characters' heads on demand than I remembered; I think I've let this project go too long, which I'll have to remedy soon.
A quick side note to my best friend Meg - I'm sure this scene will make you hate Leigh that much more, but I like her. I needed someone to be the antithesis to Emma, all collected and rational and without a spontaneous bone in her body, and Leigh fits that to a tee.
Timeline wise, this takes place after the end of the novel, so minor spoilers, I suppose? Just assume the novel has a happy ending, and you should be all set. This is a snippet, as I have most of the scene finished, but not entirely. Email me if you want to read the rest.
---
Emma managed a smile at her new boyfriend as she climbed into the front passenger seat. Boyfriend - it was still something she was getting used to, looking over at Zeke and knowing he was hers and she was his, no questions asked. Novels talked about rainbows and butterflies and warm fuzzy feelings, and while Emma didn't feel any of those, she knew this was right. They were where they belonged.
And, if the road trip turned disasterous, her AAA card was tucked in her wallet. She even made sure to double check the night before. No side of the highway for Emma Jean Wilson, no sir.
Zeke turned on the car, the radio station blaring loud, from when he'd been the car last. Emma reached out and turned down the volume, rubbing at one of her ears. "No wonder why you're going deaf," she murmured, shaking her head.
He just shrugged. "I'm going to call it an occupational hazard. Any music suggestions?"
"Something easy for all of us to listen to," Corey suggested. He'd returned from his honeymoon tanned, well rested, and more relaxed than Emma had ever seen him. "Classic rock, maybe."
"Fiona Apple! No, some old No Doubt! I think my iPod's in here somewhere, there's plenty of good stuff on that." Most of Leigh's words were muffled as she was going through her bag, pulling out various items and giving them to Corey as she found them. So far he was holding two pairs of sunglasses, three books, a journal, and a handful of pens.
Zeke looked up at Emma, who just shook her head. "I agree with Corey. Nothing too loud - something for background noise. Classic rock would work."
From behind her bag, Leigh stuck her tongue out, just a spot of pink behind a can of Pringles. "I swear, you wouldn't know what fun was if it came up and smacked you in the face. Come on, Zeke, you agree with me, right?"
"I don't know, Leigh." Throughout the conversation, Zeke had been searching his iPod, scrolling through lists of artists. "My car, so I cast the deciding vote." He set down the music player, AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" starting to play. "Sorry. You know how much I enjoy the rock."
A quick side note to my best friend Meg - I'm sure this scene will make you hate Leigh that much more, but I like her. I needed someone to be the antithesis to Emma, all collected and rational and without a spontaneous bone in her body, and Leigh fits that to a tee.
Timeline wise, this takes place after the end of the novel, so minor spoilers, I suppose? Just assume the novel has a happy ending, and you should be all set. This is a snippet, as I have most of the scene finished, but not entirely. Email me if you want to read the rest.
---
Emma managed a smile at her new boyfriend as she climbed into the front passenger seat. Boyfriend - it was still something she was getting used to, looking over at Zeke and knowing he was hers and she was his, no questions asked. Novels talked about rainbows and butterflies and warm fuzzy feelings, and while Emma didn't feel any of those, she knew this was right. They were where they belonged.
And, if the road trip turned disasterous, her AAA card was tucked in her wallet. She even made sure to double check the night before. No side of the highway for Emma Jean Wilson, no sir.
Zeke turned on the car, the radio station blaring loud, from when he'd been the car last. Emma reached out and turned down the volume, rubbing at one of her ears. "No wonder why you're going deaf," she murmured, shaking her head.
He just shrugged. "I'm going to call it an occupational hazard. Any music suggestions?"
"Something easy for all of us to listen to," Corey suggested. He'd returned from his honeymoon tanned, well rested, and more relaxed than Emma had ever seen him. "Classic rock, maybe."
"Fiona Apple! No, some old No Doubt! I think my iPod's in here somewhere, there's plenty of good stuff on that." Most of Leigh's words were muffled as she was going through her bag, pulling out various items and giving them to Corey as she found them. So far he was holding two pairs of sunglasses, three books, a journal, and a handful of pens.
Zeke looked up at Emma, who just shook her head. "I agree with Corey. Nothing too loud - something for background noise. Classic rock would work."
From behind her bag, Leigh stuck her tongue out, just a spot of pink behind a can of Pringles. "I swear, you wouldn't know what fun was if it came up and smacked you in the face. Come on, Zeke, you agree with me, right?"
"I don't know, Leigh." Throughout the conversation, Zeke had been searching his iPod, scrolling through lists of artists. "My car, so I cast the deciding vote." He set down the music player, AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" starting to play. "Sorry. You know how much I enjoy the rock."
Friday, July 10, 2009
Friday Prompt Response for July 10, 2009
So this week didn't go exactly as planned, writing wise. While I did manage to get my writing practice and my blog post done, i found myself without a lot of time to work on the prompt for this week. I still love the idea for it - "Sunday night crappy hour," it's a great line - but I found it hard to keep an idea for it in my head. It didn't inspire me like I'd hoped, but that's okay - some prompts work better than others, and at different times.
For now I'm going to hold on to this week's prompt and post a snippet from my writing practice instead. I've been working a lot on different parts of the "Imperial story," and I think I may be at a point where I can start plotting out scenes and seeing what goes with which part of the story. It looks like this will need to be a full, written epic after all.
Thoughts, comments - they're always appreciated. This is unedited, so whenever these scenes become part of the overall story, I expect a lot of changes to be made.
---
...Wakka looked over at me again and behind him, I watched Rosaria flinch and look away. "You never answered my question earlier. Who are you, and why don't you talk?"
"And where's Andros?" Rosaria's voice was soft, pleading. Of all the Lambazzias, it was hardest to be mad at her. She'd always acted from the heart, doing what she thought was right, like Anitra did. "We know he was with you, when you left us. Is he all right?"
Biting her bottom lip, Anitra shot a glance over at me. "We'll discuss it later," she said. "Dad, you're limping. Our Healers should take a look at it, or Mom can, if you'd prefer-"
This time, instead of me, Wakka grabbed Anitra, holding her by the shoulders as if to shake her. "Answer the question, girl."
I was done. Hoisting Wakka by the shoulders, I threw him to the ground, uncaring if I injured him further. "Her name is Anitra," I snarled behind my helmet, "and you should be able to remember what you named your own daughter."
"Please, there's no need to fight." Rosaria hovered behind me, Anitra taking hold of her, to protect her or to keep her from joining in, I wasn't sure. "He's just trying to understand what's going on."
"Then understand this." Planting a knee in Wakka's chest, hand on his throat, I used my other hand to pry off my helmet, throwing it to the floor. Rosaria gasped as she recognized me, like I knew she would. "Andros Lambazzia is dead. And as far as I'm concerned, the two of you are as well."
For now I'm going to hold on to this week's prompt and post a snippet from my writing practice instead. I've been working a lot on different parts of the "Imperial story," and I think I may be at a point where I can start plotting out scenes and seeing what goes with which part of the story. It looks like this will need to be a full, written epic after all.
Thoughts, comments - they're always appreciated. This is unedited, so whenever these scenes become part of the overall story, I expect a lot of changes to be made.
---
...Wakka looked over at me again and behind him, I watched Rosaria flinch and look away. "You never answered my question earlier. Who are you, and why don't you talk?"
"And where's Andros?" Rosaria's voice was soft, pleading. Of all the Lambazzias, it was hardest to be mad at her. She'd always acted from the heart, doing what she thought was right, like Anitra did. "We know he was with you, when you left us. Is he all right?"
Biting her bottom lip, Anitra shot a glance over at me. "We'll discuss it later," she said. "Dad, you're limping. Our Healers should take a look at it, or Mom can, if you'd prefer-"
This time, instead of me, Wakka grabbed Anitra, holding her by the shoulders as if to shake her. "Answer the question, girl."
I was done. Hoisting Wakka by the shoulders, I threw him to the ground, uncaring if I injured him further. "Her name is Anitra," I snarled behind my helmet, "and you should be able to remember what you named your own daughter."
"Please, there's no need to fight." Rosaria hovered behind me, Anitra taking hold of her, to protect her or to keep her from joining in, I wasn't sure. "He's just trying to understand what's going on."
"Then understand this." Planting a knee in Wakka's chest, hand on his throat, I used my other hand to pry off my helmet, throwing it to the floor. Rosaria gasped as she recognized me, like I knew she would. "Andros Lambazzia is dead. And as far as I'm concerned, the two of you are as well."
Friday, July 3, 2009
Friday Writing Response for July 3, 2009
Not my best answer, but not the worst. Cut me some slack this week - today is the first day I'm finally starting to feel better. Next week's will be more extensive, I promise.
The prompt I used, as you'll figure out very early on, is Thriller. Emma and Zeke in this piece are from my novel, And You Tell Me I Am Home.
---
Emma found Zeke alone in his apartment, sitting on his bed, strumming his guitar while Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” played in the background. She’d gotten worried when he didn’t answer her phone calls – granted, she’d just called to say she was on her way over, but it wasn’t like him not to answer when she called.
“Hey.” Leaving her back on the couch, Emma sat next to him, reaching out run a hand over his hair. “Everything okay?”
He blinked, looking over at her. Though his fingers never left the strings, he wasn’t playing anymore. “Michael Jackson is dead.”
“I know.” She’d thought it was a joke at first – one of her customers mentioned it while paying for her drink. Then someone else brought it up. And so did the next customer in line.
“It’s just-” Zeke waved with his hand, as if trying to find the words. It was then that Emma realized the music came from his record player, not the computer; “Thriller” had to be one of his father’s old records. “I’ve listened to his music for years. Sure, the new stuff wasn’t any good but he was a genius, Em.”
Resting her head against his shoulder, Emma whispered, “I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say. While she hadn’t expected this reaction out of him, it made sense – Zeke had many musical idols and he loved 1980s pop music.
Zeke blew out a breath, shoulder slumping forward. “No, I’m sorry. It’s been on my mind ever since I found out.” He strummed the guitar. “I’ve been trying to play all night, but this is all that comes out.” He played for a second, the notes forming the bassline to “Thriller.”
“Maybe that’s all you need to play.” Sitting up, Emma crossed her legs, leaning forward. “Or maybe it’s because the record’s on.”
“It’s been on since I got home.” He rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t know. I didn’t expect it to hit so hard, you know? It’s not like I knew him personally. I just had a few albums.”
She reached for his hand, stilling his fingers as they brushed over the strings. “That’s not the point. Music, art – they touch you. You don’t have to know them to be affected by it.”
“You probably think I’m crazy.”
“I think you’re grieving. I’d be the same way if one of my idols passed away unexpectedly.” She couldn’t imagine if Neil Gaiman or Jim Butcher stopped writing; their works were the kind of books she hoped to write someday. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
He was quiet for a moment, looking down at his hands – no, not his hands, but the instrument he held. “Distract me?”
As gently as she could, Emma took the guitar from him, setting it next to her on the bed. “We stick with the plan. Ice cream at Hank’s tonight, remember?”
His eyes brightened. “I haven’t been to Hank’s since I came home.”
“It’ll be just like old times.” She sat up, holding her hands out to him. “Come on. We’ll be standing in line forever if we don’t get there soon.”
Before they left, Zeke paused in front of the record playing, hand resting against the glass. The music still played, almost as if he was afraid to shut it off. After a minute or so, he lifted the lid and took the needle off the record. “When we come back,” he murmured.
“When we come back,” Emma agreed, taking his hand and leading him to the door.
The prompt I used, as you'll figure out very early on, is Thriller. Emma and Zeke in this piece are from my novel, And You Tell Me I Am Home.
---
Emma found Zeke alone in his apartment, sitting on his bed, strumming his guitar while Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” played in the background. She’d gotten worried when he didn’t answer her phone calls – granted, she’d just called to say she was on her way over, but it wasn’t like him not to answer when she called.
“Hey.” Leaving her back on the couch, Emma sat next to him, reaching out run a hand over his hair. “Everything okay?”
He blinked, looking over at her. Though his fingers never left the strings, he wasn’t playing anymore. “Michael Jackson is dead.”
“I know.” She’d thought it was a joke at first – one of her customers mentioned it while paying for her drink. Then someone else brought it up. And so did the next customer in line.
“It’s just-” Zeke waved with his hand, as if trying to find the words. It was then that Emma realized the music came from his record player, not the computer; “Thriller” had to be one of his father’s old records. “I’ve listened to his music for years. Sure, the new stuff wasn’t any good but he was a genius, Em.”
Resting her head against his shoulder, Emma whispered, “I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say. While she hadn’t expected this reaction out of him, it made sense – Zeke had many musical idols and he loved 1980s pop music.
Zeke blew out a breath, shoulder slumping forward. “No, I’m sorry. It’s been on my mind ever since I found out.” He strummed the guitar. “I’ve been trying to play all night, but this is all that comes out.” He played for a second, the notes forming the bassline to “Thriller.”
“Maybe that’s all you need to play.” Sitting up, Emma crossed her legs, leaning forward. “Or maybe it’s because the record’s on.”
“It’s been on since I got home.” He rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t know. I didn’t expect it to hit so hard, you know? It’s not like I knew him personally. I just had a few albums.”
She reached for his hand, stilling his fingers as they brushed over the strings. “That’s not the point. Music, art – they touch you. You don’t have to know them to be affected by it.”
“You probably think I’m crazy.”
“I think you’re grieving. I’d be the same way if one of my idols passed away unexpectedly.” She couldn’t imagine if Neil Gaiman or Jim Butcher stopped writing; their works were the kind of books she hoped to write someday. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
He was quiet for a moment, looking down at his hands – no, not his hands, but the instrument he held. “Distract me?”
As gently as she could, Emma took the guitar from him, setting it next to her on the bed. “We stick with the plan. Ice cream at Hank’s tonight, remember?”
His eyes brightened. “I haven’t been to Hank’s since I came home.”
“It’ll be just like old times.” She sat up, holding her hands out to him. “Come on. We’ll be standing in line forever if we don’t get there soon.”
Before they left, Zeke paused in front of the record playing, hand resting against the glass. The music still played, almost as if he was afraid to shut it off. After a minute or so, he lifted the lid and took the needle off the record. “When we come back,” he murmured.
“When we come back,” Emma agreed, taking his hand and leading him to the door.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Friday Writing Response for June 26, 2009
This one was harder to finish than I thought it would be, including a couple false starts. The first image I came up with for the "I remember..." prompt ended up being the one I used, though I tried others first. I think it has to do with the proximity of the event in question, the one year anniversary of Steve's death coming up. The prompt I used was: "I remember Steve ordering his caramel macchiatos, wanting them 'hot, hot, hot,' the look on Kim's face when she told me he passed away."
---
Pat and Steve used to come to our store two or three times a week. They'd been married for forever and a day, and whenever we hired a new barista, Pat made sure to ask what his or her name was, how they liked the store, what was new that day. Every time we would go out and clean the condiment bar, one of them would strike up a conversation, and if the store was slow, I would stand there and talk for a few minutes.
When they came in, every one of us knew what Pat and Steve drank: caramel macchiatos, no foam, light caramel, nonfat milk, "hot, hot, hot," Steve would tell us as he pulled out his money. I always remember him smiling as he got their drinks, bring them to their table by the window. After their morning drinks, they would walk a few laps around the mall, hand in hand.
They were like the store's grandparents. When mine were three states away, I felt like I could confide in them if I ever needed someone to talk to. When I opened the store during the week, I always knew I'd get to see them.
Then, a few weeks passed, and Pat and Steve didn't come in. Steve had cancer, I learned, something he'd been fighting for a long time. No one ever mentioned a thing and he was always smiling, never mentioning that anything was wrong. Their absence from our store was something we noticed.
We signed get well cards. A few of my co-workers visited him in the hospital; I wasn't able to go. The last I knew, the doctors said Steve was getting better, and he should get to come home.
He didn't. Pat and her sister came in to tell Kim and Steph, who had worked there the longest, the closest to them. And it was Kim who told me as I walked in for my shift. "Steve's dead."
I stared at her, mouth slack, trying to let the words sink in. Steve's dead. I didn't realize I'd started crying until the tears had reached my chin and Kim was pulling me against her, my head pressed against her shoulder. "I've been thinking about how to tell you and it just came out," she said. "We cried too. I sent Steph home. She's never lost someone so close before."
Later that night, I would send Kim home too; though she tried to act like she was okay, her heart and mind were elsewhere. I would be the strong one, who would take care of the store and do my job for all of us.
All I remember is getting home and finally letting it out, curling up with my new kitten, only four months old at the time, still young enough to want to be held. That was how my parents found me, balled up on the couch, clutching my cat and unable to stop crying.
The part that hurt the most was explaining who Steve was and what he meant to us. That was almost a year ago, now. Steph mentioned it a couple weeks ago and though Pat still comes in, still talks about Steve, none of us have mentioned the anniversary to her.
---
Pat and Steve used to come to our store two or three times a week. They'd been married for forever and a day, and whenever we hired a new barista, Pat made sure to ask what his or her name was, how they liked the store, what was new that day. Every time we would go out and clean the condiment bar, one of them would strike up a conversation, and if the store was slow, I would stand there and talk for a few minutes.
When they came in, every one of us knew what Pat and Steve drank: caramel macchiatos, no foam, light caramel, nonfat milk, "hot, hot, hot," Steve would tell us as he pulled out his money. I always remember him smiling as he got their drinks, bring them to their table by the window. After their morning drinks, they would walk a few laps around the mall, hand in hand.
They were like the store's grandparents. When mine were three states away, I felt like I could confide in them if I ever needed someone to talk to. When I opened the store during the week, I always knew I'd get to see them.
Then, a few weeks passed, and Pat and Steve didn't come in. Steve had cancer, I learned, something he'd been fighting for a long time. No one ever mentioned a thing and he was always smiling, never mentioning that anything was wrong. Their absence from our store was something we noticed.
We signed get well cards. A few of my co-workers visited him in the hospital; I wasn't able to go. The last I knew, the doctors said Steve was getting better, and he should get to come home.
He didn't. Pat and her sister came in to tell Kim and Steph, who had worked there the longest, the closest to them. And it was Kim who told me as I walked in for my shift. "Steve's dead."
I stared at her, mouth slack, trying to let the words sink in. Steve's dead. I didn't realize I'd started crying until the tears had reached my chin and Kim was pulling me against her, my head pressed against her shoulder. "I've been thinking about how to tell you and it just came out," she said. "We cried too. I sent Steph home. She's never lost someone so close before."
Later that night, I would send Kim home too; though she tried to act like she was okay, her heart and mind were elsewhere. I would be the strong one, who would take care of the store and do my job for all of us.
All I remember is getting home and finally letting it out, curling up with my new kitten, only four months old at the time, still young enough to want to be held. That was how my parents found me, balled up on the couch, clutching my cat and unable to stop crying.
The part that hurt the most was explaining who Steve was and what he meant to us. That was almost a year ago, now. Steph mentioned it a couple weeks ago and though Pat still comes in, still talks about Steve, none of us have mentioned the anniversary to her.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Friday Writing Response for June 19, 2009
Again, I find I didn't follow this week's prompt exactly, but that's the beauty of prompts: You don't have to. I'm working with the "Imperial Story" again, jumping around in the plotline, figuring out different pieces of the society as I go. This is the first scene I've written with Andros in his new identity, as Briyant Correleon, and already he seems a little bitter, harder. And I like that, that his character changes over the arc of this storyline.
The prompts I used, or pretended to use, were:
silver - dive bar - calm
This is a snippet of the completed scene; if you're interested to read the whole thing, drop me a line and I'd be glad to email it to you.
---
“Excuse me?” The man flagged Jackal down with a wave of his hand. The dialect was foreign for these parts, the vowels too rich – he had to come from money. What was he doing in a place like this? “What is the finest wine you carry?”
Jackal rolled his eyes, wiping his hands on his rag. Whoever this guy was, this was not the bar for him to hang out in. “Vetrian cabernet. Twenty years old.”
“I’ll have a glass, please.” He glanced sideways, “And two glasses for this young couple.”
Anitra tensed, hand on my arm, squeezing a little. “That’s a kind offer,” I said, “but we’ve already beat you to the drinks, I’m afraid.” I held up my glass, taking a long sip.
“I insist.” The man switched chairs, moving closer to me. “It’s not everyday I meet two legends in person.”
“Legends?” Anitra chuckled at that; I could hear the nervousness in her voice, but I doubted he could. “Surely you have confused with someone else.”
He leaned forward, and I caught a hint of vanilla and musk on his clothes. Old money, then; he’d probably never even held a gun, much less fired one. I still let my free hand drop to my lap, out of sight, fingering the gun on my hip.
“You’re Briyant Correleon,” he said, and my finger found the trigger. “Formerly Andros Lambazzia, trained to follow in Wakka’s footsteps until you’d discovered what he’d done. And you,” he turned to Anitra, “You’re his partner, the daughter Wakka lost. Your reputation precedes you.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic, a spy sent to take care of two thorns in the Empire’s side. Keeping my face neutral, not wanting to give anything away, I asked, “And who are you?”
Tilting his head, he held out a hand. On his finger was heavy gold signet ring, engraved with the axe and tree emblem of the House of Berryd, one of the noble families of the Old Empire. “My name is Lucard, representative of the House of Berryd. Our information said you might be found around these parts.”
The door to the bar swung open, and another group of patrons wandered inside, a little louder than the other people in the bar. Lucard’s hand dropped away, and Anitra’s hand slid down to mine, on the handle of my gun. “Perhaps we should take this to a table?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Jackal grunted, returning with the wine. The glasses were made of the finest crystal, engraved with the logo of the tavern. Apparently Jackal thought us worthy of pulling out all the stops. “Corner’s free,” he said, gesturing towards the other end of the room.
“Thank you.” Anitra slid off her stool, her hand brushing over my leg as she moved. I was the strategist, planning out raids and battles, but she was the diplomat. “Shall we, gentlemen?”
I made sure to keep myself between Lucard and Anitra as we sat down. The booth Jackal pointed out offered a good view of the empty stage, but also of the bar and the tables around us. “First things first,” I began, tapping my fingers against the wine glass, “How do you know of us?”
Lucard was mid-sip, eyes closed, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Always with the business, your kind. By the time you stop and enjoy life, it’ll be far too late.” Setting the glass down, he leaned forward, towards me. “Your Underground has earned quite the reputation, even reaching the upper echelons. The Nobles are amazed of it – a safe harbor for the refugees and fighters, a place to regroup, utterly brilliant. Not that we know where it is, you see,” he was quick to add, “but the existence of such a place – my, isn’t that a thorn in Cansolee’s side.”
“The way we see it,” Anitra said, “the nobility is part of the reason why Cansolee came into power to begin with. Signing the treaties to allow full military control over the government let him pull his coup.” She never raised her voice, never said anything in such a way that could be seen as demeaning or looking for a fight. But still Lucard recoiled as if she’d struck him, and it was the first hint of shame I saw on his face.
“Ah, yes, there is that.” He stuttered a little, trying to hide it behind a sip of wine. “But the House of Berryd has always been sympathetic to the rebellion’s cause, trying to right a wrong, as it were. We occasionally fund a few groups, provide rations, a place to stay.”
I tried the wine, sure Jackal hadn’t given us anything poisonous. It reminded me of the wine from the celebrations of the Trials, sweet, but richer, a better vintage. “That’s all well and good of you, very noble.” Anitra’s hand squeezed my leg under the table, but I ignored her. “And we figure into this how?”
He looked from me to Anitra. “One of the groups we’re funding is the Lambazzia faction.”
Anitra sucked in a breath. “We weren’t aware Wakka was actively fighting.” We kept what information we knew about the Lambazzias quiet; I knew they’d left the island sanctuary, but not much else.
“Indeed he is. I’m afraid he’s run into a bit of a snag, which is where you come in.”
My free hand balled into a fist. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t owe Wakka a thing. He lied to me, kept me away from my family, raising me to believe I was someone else. “We haven’t said we’d help you.”
“Of course, of course. I shouldn’t have assumed.” Finishing his drink, Lucard attempted to flag Jackal down for another round. If Jackal noticed his waving, he was dutifully ignoring the other man. “If it were just Wakka, I could understand your hesitation. But you haven’t heard the whole story.”
“Just what kind of trouble is he in?” Anitra started playing with the frayed edges of her gloves, a nervous tick she’d had since childhood. I needed to remember that the Lambazzias were her flesh and blood; she was more tied to them than I was.
From his jacket, Lucard pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. Inside were the floor plans to an Imperial holding facility, detailing the guards’ locations, entrances, the best times to get in. “They’ve been captured, and they’re being held here, about 20 kilometers north of this village.”
“They?” I was skeptical, though the plans bore Cansolee’s seal, they were as authentic as they come.”
“The family, him, his wife and children. Our informant says the boys put up a bit of a fight, but there were damages sustained.”
The color drained out of Anitra’s face, and this time it was me squeezing her hand. I needed to keep her focused, her mind on the present, not dwelling on possible injuries. “Damages?” she whispered. “Rosaria, even Salida – they should be able to do something to help.”
Lucard’s face softened, and he reached over to push Anitra’s wine glass towards her. “Take the drink, dear. It will help you relax.” He looked over to me. “The rumor says you two are the best at what you do: taking back what the Empire has stolen. I need you to get Wakka Lambazzia for me.”
The prompts I used, or pretended to use, were:
silver - dive bar - calm
This is a snippet of the completed scene; if you're interested to read the whole thing, drop me a line and I'd be glad to email it to you.
---
“Excuse me?” The man flagged Jackal down with a wave of his hand. The dialect was foreign for these parts, the vowels too rich – he had to come from money. What was he doing in a place like this? “What is the finest wine you carry?”
Jackal rolled his eyes, wiping his hands on his rag. Whoever this guy was, this was not the bar for him to hang out in. “Vetrian cabernet. Twenty years old.”
“I’ll have a glass, please.” He glanced sideways, “And two glasses for this young couple.”
Anitra tensed, hand on my arm, squeezing a little. “That’s a kind offer,” I said, “but we’ve already beat you to the drinks, I’m afraid.” I held up my glass, taking a long sip.
“I insist.” The man switched chairs, moving closer to me. “It’s not everyday I meet two legends in person.”
“Legends?” Anitra chuckled at that; I could hear the nervousness in her voice, but I doubted he could. “Surely you have confused with someone else.”
He leaned forward, and I caught a hint of vanilla and musk on his clothes. Old money, then; he’d probably never even held a gun, much less fired one. I still let my free hand drop to my lap, out of sight, fingering the gun on my hip.
“You’re Briyant Correleon,” he said, and my finger found the trigger. “Formerly Andros Lambazzia, trained to follow in Wakka’s footsteps until you’d discovered what he’d done. And you,” he turned to Anitra, “You’re his partner, the daughter Wakka lost. Your reputation precedes you.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic, a spy sent to take care of two thorns in the Empire’s side. Keeping my face neutral, not wanting to give anything away, I asked, “And who are you?”
Tilting his head, he held out a hand. On his finger was heavy gold signet ring, engraved with the axe and tree emblem of the House of Berryd, one of the noble families of the Old Empire. “My name is Lucard, representative of the House of Berryd. Our information said you might be found around these parts.”
The door to the bar swung open, and another group of patrons wandered inside, a little louder than the other people in the bar. Lucard’s hand dropped away, and Anitra’s hand slid down to mine, on the handle of my gun. “Perhaps we should take this to a table?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Jackal grunted, returning with the wine. The glasses were made of the finest crystal, engraved with the logo of the tavern. Apparently Jackal thought us worthy of pulling out all the stops. “Corner’s free,” he said, gesturing towards the other end of the room.
“Thank you.” Anitra slid off her stool, her hand brushing over my leg as she moved. I was the strategist, planning out raids and battles, but she was the diplomat. “Shall we, gentlemen?”
I made sure to keep myself between Lucard and Anitra as we sat down. The booth Jackal pointed out offered a good view of the empty stage, but also of the bar and the tables around us. “First things first,” I began, tapping my fingers against the wine glass, “How do you know of us?”
Lucard was mid-sip, eyes closed, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Always with the business, your kind. By the time you stop and enjoy life, it’ll be far too late.” Setting the glass down, he leaned forward, towards me. “Your Underground has earned quite the reputation, even reaching the upper echelons. The Nobles are amazed of it – a safe harbor for the refugees and fighters, a place to regroup, utterly brilliant. Not that we know where it is, you see,” he was quick to add, “but the existence of such a place – my, isn’t that a thorn in Cansolee’s side.”
“The way we see it,” Anitra said, “the nobility is part of the reason why Cansolee came into power to begin with. Signing the treaties to allow full military control over the government let him pull his coup.” She never raised her voice, never said anything in such a way that could be seen as demeaning or looking for a fight. But still Lucard recoiled as if she’d struck him, and it was the first hint of shame I saw on his face.
“Ah, yes, there is that.” He stuttered a little, trying to hide it behind a sip of wine. “But the House of Berryd has always been sympathetic to the rebellion’s cause, trying to right a wrong, as it were. We occasionally fund a few groups, provide rations, a place to stay.”
I tried the wine, sure Jackal hadn’t given us anything poisonous. It reminded me of the wine from the celebrations of the Trials, sweet, but richer, a better vintage. “That’s all well and good of you, very noble.” Anitra’s hand squeezed my leg under the table, but I ignored her. “And we figure into this how?”
He looked from me to Anitra. “One of the groups we’re funding is the Lambazzia faction.”
Anitra sucked in a breath. “We weren’t aware Wakka was actively fighting.” We kept what information we knew about the Lambazzias quiet; I knew they’d left the island sanctuary, but not much else.
“Indeed he is. I’m afraid he’s run into a bit of a snag, which is where you come in.”
My free hand balled into a fist. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t owe Wakka a thing. He lied to me, kept me away from my family, raising me to believe I was someone else. “We haven’t said we’d help you.”
“Of course, of course. I shouldn’t have assumed.” Finishing his drink, Lucard attempted to flag Jackal down for another round. If Jackal noticed his waving, he was dutifully ignoring the other man. “If it were just Wakka, I could understand your hesitation. But you haven’t heard the whole story.”
“Just what kind of trouble is he in?” Anitra started playing with the frayed edges of her gloves, a nervous tick she’d had since childhood. I needed to remember that the Lambazzias were her flesh and blood; she was more tied to them than I was.
From his jacket, Lucard pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. Inside were the floor plans to an Imperial holding facility, detailing the guards’ locations, entrances, the best times to get in. “They’ve been captured, and they’re being held here, about 20 kilometers north of this village.”
“They?” I was skeptical, though the plans bore Cansolee’s seal, they were as authentic as they come.”
“The family, him, his wife and children. Our informant says the boys put up a bit of a fight, but there were damages sustained.”
The color drained out of Anitra’s face, and this time it was me squeezing her hand. I needed to keep her focused, her mind on the present, not dwelling on possible injuries. “Damages?” she whispered. “Rosaria, even Salida – they should be able to do something to help.”
Lucard’s face softened, and he reached over to push Anitra’s wine glass towards her. “Take the drink, dear. It will help you relax.” He looked over to me. “The rumor says you two are the best at what you do: taking back what the Empire has stolen. I need you to get Wakka Lambazzia for me.”
Friday, June 12, 2009
Friday Writing Response for June 12, 2009
So. I didn't get a chance to try out this week's writing prompt yet, and I feel really guilty for not getting to do so. The day's still young, but I wanted to post something here anyway, to prove to myself that I'm still writing and so I didn't forget to post entirely.
This is from an idea I'm calling The Imperial Story for now, and pairs with the scene from a couple weeks ago. I've been coming back to this idea in my writing practice, writing out different points of the story. While I'm no closer to figuring out large chunks of what this society is like, I'm starting to get a handle on who Andros is and what drives him. Who knows? Maybe something longer will come out of it. All I know is that I had this scene in my head for a couple days and now it's somewhat down on paper.
This is a snippet; this particular scene is finished, but I'm waiting to see if it still makes sense to me a couple days from now before I show it off. At this point in the story, the Lambazzias believe Andros to be dead and he's trying to find them. He's severely injured, having been blasted in the face by a fireball (thanks Final Fantasy, for your enemies showing me new ways to mess up people!) and is currently wearing a bright blue mask to protect the burn, which needs to be treated. As such, the mask pretty much makes him blind.
I'm interested to know if anyone finds this snippet intriguing - worthy of continuing.
---
I heard the faint buzz of another engine approach the boat and then cut out nearby. Imperials, then, or hunters of some kind – someone who didn’t want their prey to know they were coming. I hauled myself into a sitting position, tightening a hand on my gun. I was not about to have them steal my boat, blind or not.
It was then I noticed my hands were shaky, the gun vibrating in my hand. I wasn’t scared – though the odds were bad, I could be facing worse. I hadn’t been able to eat solid food in over a week, and my liquid rations were almost gone. Even those burned like hell going down my throat, but it was all I could do. I feared letting anyone but Anitra near my wounds.
I couldn’t worry about that now. My hunger, my pain were making my mind wander, losing focus on the moment. One mistake here and I’d never see Anitra or my family again.
Footsteps landed on the upper deck, at least two distinct pairs. The first was heavy, though I could tell he was trying to move quietly. I pictured a man, possibly built, possibly heavyset, but with half a mind about what to do in a situation like this. The second set was dainty, quick taps against the boards, like a dancer walking from one end to another. A woman, then, which meant these probably weren’t Imperials who found me. More than likely, they were hunters or poachers, curious about the boat, wondering who might be aboard.
Murmurs floated down to me; they’d paused outside the cabin door. The man was giving orders and I slid into a crouch, ignoring the way my neck protested as I kept my head down. The heavier footsteps moved away from the cabin, towards the bow and the storage compartments underneath. He wouldn’t find anything.
The cabin door creaked open, and those tiny feet tapped inside the doorway. I’d left the lights off in the cabin – there was no point in using them when I’d gotten used to the darkness. There was a click, and a dim light flooded the edges of what was left of my vision.
The light felt almost warm as she swept it over the edges of the cabin. Another few steps forward and she’d reveal my position. A burst of static broke the silence, and I could hear her breathing as she lifted the communicator to her mouth. “It’s set to drift,” she murmured, voice quiet and sweet and a flood of memories surged forward. “Might have been set on auto-pilot.”
That voice – I knew that voice. Anitra was here; she’d found me without knowing where to look, like the Gods had smiled down on us for a change. I slumped forward, bumping into the cabin wall and knocking over a spare communicator as I did so. The clattering sound it made rang throughout the cabin and she jumped back, the click of a gun pointed in my direction.
“Who are you?” Anitra asked, shining her floodlight in my direction. I turned away from it, the brightness searing my injured eyes.
“Anitra.” Her name was a rasp in my throat, having avoided speaking for so long. “Anitra.”
She fumbled with the communicator; I could hear her pressing buttons. “Found our pilot,” she said, louder now. “You’d better get down here.”
“Subdue him until I arrive.” It was Wakka who answered; that explained the heavy footsteps.
“Anitra,” I tried again. This time it almost sounded right, so I continued. “It’s me.”
Her footsteps came closer, and she shined the light in my face. No, I realized, not directly in my face, but on the edges of it; she was inspecting the edges of the burn outside of the mask. “How do you know my name?”
“Andros.”
“Is dead.” Her rebuttal is quick, but I knew Anitra’s voice well enough to hear the quiver behind it. She believed the rumor, and I felt the gun pressed beneath my ribcage. “I’m not in the habit of playing games. Who are you, and how do you know who I am?”
This is from an idea I'm calling The Imperial Story for now, and pairs with the scene from a couple weeks ago. I've been coming back to this idea in my writing practice, writing out different points of the story. While I'm no closer to figuring out large chunks of what this society is like, I'm starting to get a handle on who Andros is and what drives him. Who knows? Maybe something longer will come out of it. All I know is that I had this scene in my head for a couple days and now it's somewhat down on paper.
This is a snippet; this particular scene is finished, but I'm waiting to see if it still makes sense to me a couple days from now before I show it off. At this point in the story, the Lambazzias believe Andros to be dead and he's trying to find them. He's severely injured, having been blasted in the face by a fireball (thanks Final Fantasy, for your enemies showing me new ways to mess up people!) and is currently wearing a bright blue mask to protect the burn, which needs to be treated. As such, the mask pretty much makes him blind.
I'm interested to know if anyone finds this snippet intriguing - worthy of continuing.
---
I heard the faint buzz of another engine approach the boat and then cut out nearby. Imperials, then, or hunters of some kind – someone who didn’t want their prey to know they were coming. I hauled myself into a sitting position, tightening a hand on my gun. I was not about to have them steal my boat, blind or not.
It was then I noticed my hands were shaky, the gun vibrating in my hand. I wasn’t scared – though the odds were bad, I could be facing worse. I hadn’t been able to eat solid food in over a week, and my liquid rations were almost gone. Even those burned like hell going down my throat, but it was all I could do. I feared letting anyone but Anitra near my wounds.
I couldn’t worry about that now. My hunger, my pain were making my mind wander, losing focus on the moment. One mistake here and I’d never see Anitra or my family again.
Footsteps landed on the upper deck, at least two distinct pairs. The first was heavy, though I could tell he was trying to move quietly. I pictured a man, possibly built, possibly heavyset, but with half a mind about what to do in a situation like this. The second set was dainty, quick taps against the boards, like a dancer walking from one end to another. A woman, then, which meant these probably weren’t Imperials who found me. More than likely, they were hunters or poachers, curious about the boat, wondering who might be aboard.
Murmurs floated down to me; they’d paused outside the cabin door. The man was giving orders and I slid into a crouch, ignoring the way my neck protested as I kept my head down. The heavier footsteps moved away from the cabin, towards the bow and the storage compartments underneath. He wouldn’t find anything.
The cabin door creaked open, and those tiny feet tapped inside the doorway. I’d left the lights off in the cabin – there was no point in using them when I’d gotten used to the darkness. There was a click, and a dim light flooded the edges of what was left of my vision.
The light felt almost warm as she swept it over the edges of the cabin. Another few steps forward and she’d reveal my position. A burst of static broke the silence, and I could hear her breathing as she lifted the communicator to her mouth. “It’s set to drift,” she murmured, voice quiet and sweet and a flood of memories surged forward. “Might have been set on auto-pilot.”
That voice – I knew that voice. Anitra was here; she’d found me without knowing where to look, like the Gods had smiled down on us for a change. I slumped forward, bumping into the cabin wall and knocking over a spare communicator as I did so. The clattering sound it made rang throughout the cabin and she jumped back, the click of a gun pointed in my direction.
“Who are you?” Anitra asked, shining her floodlight in my direction. I turned away from it, the brightness searing my injured eyes.
“Anitra.” Her name was a rasp in my throat, having avoided speaking for so long. “Anitra.”
She fumbled with the communicator; I could hear her pressing buttons. “Found our pilot,” she said, louder now. “You’d better get down here.”
“Subdue him until I arrive.” It was Wakka who answered; that explained the heavy footsteps.
“Anitra,” I tried again. This time it almost sounded right, so I continued. “It’s me.”
Her footsteps came closer, and she shined the light in my face. No, I realized, not directly in my face, but on the edges of it; she was inspecting the edges of the burn outside of the mask. “How do you know my name?”
“Andros.”
“Is dead.” Her rebuttal is quick, but I knew Anitra’s voice well enough to hear the quiver behind it. She believed the rumor, and I felt the gun pressed beneath my ribcage. “I’m not in the habit of playing games. Who are you, and how do you know who I am?”
Friday, June 5, 2009
Friday Writing Response for June 5, 2009
So. That Colors prompt? I followed it loosely - too loosely. While this short piece does focus on descriptions, I found it much, much harder to focus on a color than I previously thought. Instead I focused on an aspect of a color and writing a little scene around that, using a character I've been playing around with for a while now. It's still practice, so the effort wasn't lost even if it wasn't as successful as I had hoped.
The color I chose was green, focusing on it being a sign of life and rebirth. I blame it on the weather being so nice up here for a change. Comments always appreciated.
---
Adrie always noticed the same thing when she first stepped out her front door: the sunlight. It filtered through the trees, thick with late summer leaves; it spotted the roads, warming her feet as she walked through the patches. Everything always seemed so bright in Southampton, compared to the dark, claustrophobic halls of the manor where she grew up. She loved the openness of the town, the closeness of the water, the wonder of small town life.
People smiled here as she walked past them, out checking the mail or watering their gardens. Some stopped to ask her how things were going, how her husband was, what was new. Adrie had grown so accustomed to the jealousy, the fear, she'd seen in the eyes of her parents' friends. The difference was astounding, the freedom she could feel.
It was something she'd never realized, when she and her husband first came to Southampton. Josiah grew up here; his parents lived two streets away, and they'd welcomed her with open arms, like she was their daughter already. Southampton was a place to raise a family.
She laid a hand on the tiny bump of her stomach as she walked. Josiah had been beyond thrilled to learn he was going to be a father, and Adrie was even more pleased that she was starting to show. She couldn't wait to feel the baby move within her, to take on a life of his or her own, to know the baby was half her, half Josiah. Though she'd never been the kind of girl to have her children's names picked out or nurseries planned, she knew when the moment was right.
They'd have the baby in spring, just when the leaves returned to all the trees after winter's long stay. A new life as nature returned to life - Adrie thought it was fitting. She'd be able to show the little one the sun and the sky and the sea and all the things she loved about their port town.
A slow smile spread across Adrie's face as she reached the bottom of the hill, downtown Southampton spread out before her. The Owl's Nest Restaurant, the business her in-laws owned and where her husband was a chef, was at the end of the street. Josiah always seemed so surprised whenever Adrie visited him at work; he should be getting out soon, and they could walk together back to their new house. Their life was built on these quiet moments, and Adrie wouldn't have it any other way.
The hostess ushered her into the kitchen, and Adrie stood to the side, hand on her stomach, waiting. Her father-in-law caught her eye and smiled, knowing who she was here to see. Reaching over, he nudged his son's shoulder, where Josiah was flipping steaks over on the grill.
Josiah's eyes grew wide as he saw her standing there, the deepest shade of blue she'd ever seen; she hoped their child would have those eyes. "Adrie? What are you doing down here?"
Her smile matched his: mischievous, loving, promising. "Waiting for you, what else would I be doing?"
The color I chose was green, focusing on it being a sign of life and rebirth. I blame it on the weather being so nice up here for a change. Comments always appreciated.
---
Adrie always noticed the same thing when she first stepped out her front door: the sunlight. It filtered through the trees, thick with late summer leaves; it spotted the roads, warming her feet as she walked through the patches. Everything always seemed so bright in Southampton, compared to the dark, claustrophobic halls of the manor where she grew up. She loved the openness of the town, the closeness of the water, the wonder of small town life.
People smiled here as she walked past them, out checking the mail or watering their gardens. Some stopped to ask her how things were going, how her husband was, what was new. Adrie had grown so accustomed to the jealousy, the fear, she'd seen in the eyes of her parents' friends. The difference was astounding, the freedom she could feel.
It was something she'd never realized, when she and her husband first came to Southampton. Josiah grew up here; his parents lived two streets away, and they'd welcomed her with open arms, like she was their daughter already. Southampton was a place to raise a family.
She laid a hand on the tiny bump of her stomach as she walked. Josiah had been beyond thrilled to learn he was going to be a father, and Adrie was even more pleased that she was starting to show. She couldn't wait to feel the baby move within her, to take on a life of his or her own, to know the baby was half her, half Josiah. Though she'd never been the kind of girl to have her children's names picked out or nurseries planned, she knew when the moment was right.
They'd have the baby in spring, just when the leaves returned to all the trees after winter's long stay. A new life as nature returned to life - Adrie thought it was fitting. She'd be able to show the little one the sun and the sky and the sea and all the things she loved about their port town.
A slow smile spread across Adrie's face as she reached the bottom of the hill, downtown Southampton spread out before her. The Owl's Nest Restaurant, the business her in-laws owned and where her husband was a chef, was at the end of the street. Josiah always seemed so surprised whenever Adrie visited him at work; he should be getting out soon, and they could walk together back to their new house. Their life was built on these quiet moments, and Adrie wouldn't have it any other way.
The hostess ushered her into the kitchen, and Adrie stood to the side, hand on her stomach, waiting. Her father-in-law caught her eye and smiled, knowing who she was here to see. Reaching over, he nudged his son's shoulder, where Josiah was flipping steaks over on the grill.
Josiah's eyes grew wide as he saw her standing there, the deepest shade of blue she'd ever seen; she hoped their child would have those eyes. "Adrie? What are you doing down here?"
Her smile matched his: mischievous, loving, promising. "Waiting for you, what else would I be doing?"
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