In need of help?

Hey all.

I've just discovered a new blogger who's under the impression that she needs help because she can't stop writing stories.  Please drop by and reassure her at Random Acts of Being that it's perfectly normal to have a story in your head that has to get out RIGHT NOW! (Well, as normal as writers get!)

fff55. Phobia

Dianne sat paralysed with fear until the light faded, legs drawn up into her chair so the beast couldn’t reach her. Unable to see where the terrifying animal might be, she remained until rescue arrived.
It did not help her temper when her friend laughed out loud: “It’s a tomato top - not a spider!”

**********

It really happened. Honest.
Fifty five words for the G-Man

3 word week: The Letter

For Steve Isaak's Three Word Week challenge.

I've noticed that Steve's choice of words influence my writing style very heavily. I never write fantasy, but these characters were determined to get out!

This week's words are:
I.) chirography (also called cheirography) - n. Penmanship.
1. the penmanship of a person, especially when used in an important document, as in an apostolic letter written and signed by the pope.
2. the art of beautiful penmanship; calligraphy.

II.) eruct - vb. - To belch.
1. (Life Sciences & Allied Applications / Physiology) to raise (gas and often a small quantity of acid) from the stomach; belch
2. (Earth Sciences / Geological Science) (of a volcano) to pour out (fumes or volcanic matter).

III.) velitation - n. - A dispute or contest; a slight contest; a skirmish.

*********

     'The document is a forgery. I'm sorry.' Elvan's words masked his distaste as he handed the paper back to the short, fat man before him. Sorrow was very far from his mind; he felt nothing but nausea from the dealer's presence.
     'Pshaw!' The exclamation failed to hide the stinking belch that escaped between the rotting teeth of Drango's snake-like smile. 'How can you claim it's not authentic?'
     'Everything about it is wrong: the vellum, the sepia, the chirography... And would you stand back a little? Your eructation is unpleasant.'
Drango took a step back in surprise at Elvan's directness.
     'What kind of language is that you're speaking? I can't understand half of what you say.'
Elvan was unmoved by the trader's rudeness. 'The language I am speaking is one of twenty three in which I am fluent. It is yours, but clearly I speak it rather better than you do. You cannot win this velitation, little man.'
Drango bristled at the Spellman's insult to his height. 'Are you going to buy this paper or not?'
     'Let me say this in words that even you can understand,' Elvan said, fixing the shopkeeper with a clear, grey stare. 'The incantation is a fake. I shall not waste a single nengen on it. Good day,' and he turned and left the dingy shop.
As the door closed behind him he smiled. Drango would have no trouble finding a buyer because the scroll was an extremely accomplished piece of work. Anyone else would be completely taken in by it, he knew, because he had taken great care when he created it.

Hey all you writerly people....

I know there's a few writers who still drop by. Can I suggest that you try your hand at Steve Isaak's Three Word Week writing challenge. It's fun and a great way to extend your vocabulary!

New Jerusalem: Redux

For those that are interested in such things - I realised after writing my 3 word week story that I'd exceeded the word count.  So here's the edited version. 

It was never supposed to be this way. Malcolm looked over the landscape and smiled wryly as he heard an echo of his Grandmother. ‘I can remember when this was all fields,’ she had said and railed against the flow of new homes and shops encroaching on her world; a tide of development that inexorably stole the land around her.  He held power in the City then, and was part of the force that helped to erode her territory. He called it progress; she called it unnatural disaster.
His talent for profit helped him gather a substantial harvest from that aspirational lifestyle crop of buildings.  Malcolm was an automatic leader. Like a weathervane he swayed in the winds of financial change, sensitive to each swing of fortune, and pointing the way for others to share his unerring aim. That innate sense also drove him to get out, just before the storms broke, and uproot himself in search of a dream. Unlike his colleagues, who were destined to fall as the surge of poverty swept through the stock markets, Malcolm did not amass money for its own sake.
As soon as he had could afford to, he planted his hopes in a new life on a small island off the North West of Scotland, which he worked as a croft, and led a simple, hard but happy life.  For years it sustained him: sea all around, calls of wild birds, changing seasons and the immeasurable pleasure of self-sufficiency, satisfied his body and his soul.
In the very early dawn he sat on the island’s western cliffs and surveyed his territory. ‘I can remember when all this wasn’t fields,’ he thought to himself, and wondered how he let his idyll change beyond recognition. Word had somehow spread about the former tycoon who found nirvana through a rejection of materialism, and they had begun to arrive. At first it was only a couple who asked to be allowed to eke out a place using his example. They were poor, they said, and could not buy their own land, but they would happily share whatever they raised.  He agreed, as long as they cultivated the opposite coast.  But the next time he visited the other shore the two had become six and, soon after, they were twelve, then twenty, and before he could stop it they were a village; a settlement of followers wanting to live ‘The Malcolm Way’.
He tried to be a fair leader; co-opted to the position without election or opposition. He did his best to set an example and let them lead their own lives, as long as they left him in peace. But it was impossible. Within a year his existence was beleaguered by a host who saw him as their demagogue and clamoured for his guidance. Now he knew it could not continue. He must winnow the crowd before he was overcome: sort out those worth keeping and discard the rest. 
Malcolm did not relish severing the links, but he made his way down to the sea with a determination he had not felt since his first visitors arrived. He knew exactly what he wanted to keep, and so he walked to where his small rowing boat was moored. Inside were a bag of clothes, fishing gear, his toolbox, enough tinned and dried food to support what could be collected from the ocean, and the remains of his original fortune.  ‘The rest is chaff,’ he said, as he settled into the boat and began to row.

3 word week: The New Jerusalem

Post-publishing note:  After I wrote this and submitted it to 3 word week I realised I'd overshot the permitted word count. So I edited it. But rather than cheat, I posted the new version here.  Which means those people who are concerned about such things can compare the two versions to see how I did it. The original (below) is 647 words.  The edit is 588.

-----------------------------------

It was never supposed to be this way. Malcolm looked out over the landscape and smiled wryly as he heard an echo of his Grandmother, a long time ago. ‘I can remember when this was all fields,’ she had said and railed against the flow of new homes and shops encroaching on her world; a tide of development that slowly, but inexorably, stole the land around her.  He held power in the City then, and was part of the force that helped to erode her territory. He called it progress; she called it an unnatural disaster.

His talent for profit had helped him gather a substantial harvest from that same crop of aspirational lifestyle homes, boutiques and restaurants.  Malcolm was an automatic leader. Like a weathervane he had been swayed by the winds of financial change, sensitive to each swing of fortune, and pointing the way for others to share his unerring aim. That innate sense was what drove him to get out, just before the storms broke, and uproot himself in search of a dream. Unlike some of his colleagues, who were destined to fall as the surge of poverty swept through the stock markets, Malcolm did not amass money for its own sake. As soon as he had could afford to, he planted his hopes in a new life. He bought a small island off the North West of Scotland, which he worked as a croft, and led a simple, hard but happy life.  For years it sustained him: the sea all around, the call of wild birds, the change of seasons and the immeasurable pleasure of self-sufficiency, satisfied his body and his soul.

In the very early dawn he sat high on the island’s western cliffs and surveyed what he could see. ‘I can remember when all this wasn’t fields,’ he thought to himself, and wondered how he had let this happen; how his idyll had changed beyond recognition. Word had somehow spread about the former tycoon who found nirvana through a rejection of materialism, and they had begun to arrive. At first it was only a few: a couple who asked to be allowed to eke out a place using his example. They were poor, they said, and could not afford to buy their own land, but they would happily share whatever they managed to raise.  He agreed, as long as they cultivated the opposite coast.  But the next time he visited the other side of the island the two had become six and, soon after, they were twelve, then twenty, and before he could stop it they were a village; a settlement of followers wanting to live ‘The Malcolm Way’.

He had tried to be a fair leader; co-opted to the position without election or opposition. He did his best to set an example and to let them lead their own lives however they wished, as long as they left him in peace. But it was impossible. Within a year his existence was beleaguered by a host who saw him as their demagogue and clamoured for his advice and guidance. Now he reached the unavoidable conclusion that it could not continue. He must winnow the crowd before he was overcome: sort out those worth keeping and discard the rest.  Malcolm could see an obvious starting point, although he did not relish severing the link, but he made his way down to the sea with a determination he had not felt since his first visitors arrived. He knew exactly what he wanted to keep, and so he walked to where his small rowing boat was moored. Inside were a bag of clothes, fishing gear, his toolbox, enough tinned and dried food to support what could be collected from the ocean, and the remains of his original fortune.  ‘The rest is chaff,’ he said, as he settled into the boat and began to row.

*********

Three Word Week is a writing challenge set by Steve Isaak.

This week's words are:
I.) beleaguer - v.
1. To harass; beset: We are beleaguered by problems.
2. To surround with troops; besiege.
3. To trouble persistently; harass.

II.) demagogue - n. -
1. A leader who obtains power by means of impassioned appeals to the emotions and prejudices of the populace.
2. A leader of the common people in ancient times.
3. (Government, Politics & Diplomacy) A political agitator who appeals with crude oratory to the prejudice and passions of the mob.
4. (Government, Politics & Diplomacy) (esp in the ancient world) Any popular political leader or orator.

III.) winnow - v. -
1.
a. To separate the chaff from (grain) by means of a current of air.
b. To rid of undesirable parts.
2. To blow (chaff) off or away.
3. To blow away; scatter.
4. To blow on; fan: a breeze winnowing the tall grass.
5. To examine closely in order to separate the good from the bad; sift.
6.
a. To separate or get rid of (an undesirable part); eliminate: winnowing out the errors in logic.
b. To sort or select (a desirable part); extract.
v. intr.
1. To separate grain from chaff.
2. To separate the good from the bad.

FFF55: A Grim Tale

This is for the G-Man, as usual. His weekly challenge to write a story in 55 words is fun and entertaining. My offering this week is inspired by a news story I heard a few days ago.
Are fairytales too frightening for children?

*********

‘So, traditional tales are too scary for children,?’ Brian queried after gathering his family in the kitchen.  His young sons looked on, fascinated.

‘No more Brothers Grimm. No more Fee Fi Fo Fum.

‘Maybe we should show them a slice of real life, then,’ he sneered, and plunged the bread knife into his wife’s chest.

Thursday extracts: Crackdown on Cruelty

I found this piece in a magazine I read at work. I'm employed as a communications officer for a charity devoted to finding humane alternatives to animal testing in laboratories. Most of the things I read are quite scientific. I thought this was a refreshing change.

(Note: I'm not having a go at farmers or anyone else whose work exploits animals in a humane way. If anyone wants to get into a discussion about the rights and wrongs of animal experimentation I'll happily direct you to my work persona, where we can have a full and frank discussion.)

Crackdown on Cruelty
While glancing through a newspaper
I paused to study there
A story of a youth
Who kicked a cat into the air.
His doing so was witnessed
By police, who chanced to be
Nearby and who were watching him
On closed-circuit TV.
The court did next to nothing with the thug.
What do I mean?
'You'll pay £60 and be supervised
By the Youth Offcending Team.'
A week before, a man who was
(In a sense) a 'pal'
Of the youth, was stopped when about to throw
Two cats in a canal.
(A passer-by said:'Give them me,'
And took them to the vet's,
And now they have been taken
Into someone's home as pets.)
I doubt that either of those culprits
Feels in any way abashed.
People who treat creatures cruelly
Really should be thrashed.
If being convicted does not bring
Real punishment, what then?
It would not be surprising
If they did the same again.
'Human rights law rules out thrashing,'
Say the liberals, 'and that's that.'
Protect the sadist, yes.
It's just a shame about the cat.

Anthony Hofler

Falling Star. For 3 Word Week

Dirk Blaise looked hard into the mirror to check the crow's feet around his eyes. "Time for another tuck, Dirk baby," he muttered, as he continued to brush dye onto the canescent patches around his temples. "Or they won't be casting you as the varlet much longer."
He smiled his youngest-looking grin, revealing his newly re-whitened teeth.
"You CAN still pass as the juvenile lead," he asseverated, at the face that grimaced back at him.
But his reflection looked unconvinced.

*********

The wonderful 3 word week is back, hosted by Steve Isaak over at Reading & Writing by Pub Light. If you want to know the rules check them out here.  This week's three words are:

I.) asseverate - v. To declare seriously or positively; affirm.
II.) canescent - adj. -
1. Biology: Covered with short, fine whitish or grayish hairs or down; hoary.
2. Turning white or grayish.
III.) varlet - n. -
1. An attendant or servant.
2. A knight's page
3. A rascal; a knave; a deceitful, unreliable scoundrel.

FFF55: Omens

Dan had heard all the superstitions from his old grandma but he ignored them.  Shoes on the table, horseshoes upside down, red and white flowers in the same vase. All supposedly portended death – but he couldn’t see it. He didn’t see the bus coming as he stepped under a ladder to cross the road either.

*********

Over on my other blog I've been having some recent discussions about old beliefs and what some would call superstitions. (In my family they're considered a way of life.) I guess it's brought some ideas to the front of my mind.

This microfiction is for the G-Man.

Beginning to feel homesick (or should that be sea sick?)

Poster of the Charles W Morgan (a whaling ship) at Mystic Seaport.
I took the photo and the poster resides in my bathroom*

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

*Though the photo was taken while it was propped up on the back of the sofa, so I could get a long enough focus on it.  

Microstory a Week

One of my stories (Helen's Dilemma) will be featured on the Microstory a Week site from today. It was originally written as a Friday Flash 55 response

Writers, wannabee writers and genuine human beings.

How many 'writer' blogs do you read? It's an interesting question. When I set up this blog to keep a separate thread for my writing (so it doesn't get lost among my ranting and folklore gathering and other daft stuff) I sought out several other writers: put links to their blogs onto mine; made regular comments on their posts. But did any of them reciprocate?

Well yes, to be fair, some of them did. There are some great people out there, published and hopeful, who interact, respect what others are doing and offer support when necessary. And then there's the rest.

Let's call them the also-rans. The ones who describe themselves as writers and use all the right publisher jargon and stress how important it is to : 'Edit. Edit. Edit.' I've noticed that most of their posts are about themselves, either self congratulatory (I've written 300 wonderful words today) or self derogating (oh poor me I'm struggling over this character's motivation. With the subtext 'massage my ego'). Most of them are full of basic errors too.

They write about writing, rather than actually getting on with their novel/short story/poem/whatever. And they never visit anyone else's blog unless it's absolutely necessary. Then, as soon as they find out you can't forward their careers, they're off like a shot to butter up someone who can.

Now I'm not talking about the occasional 'I've finally got myself an agent' 'Hey I've had a story published' 'At last I've finished editing that 500,000 word novel I've been working on for three years' posts. I mean, well done guys. I'm pleased for you.

I'm talking about why someone thinks I'm interested in every cough, spit, delete, change of direction or tea break along the way. OK, so NaNoWriMo gets very self-centred, but it's just for a month and then everyone shuts up. (Most people shut up.) It doesn't go on every day, all year!

So I'm whittling out some of the links that have been less than interactive. And I promise to make more effort to support the people who ARE decent and friendly.

Mondays (from four years ago)

Here's another of those rescued pieces I found last week. I think I was trying to write 300 words a day, just to 'keep my hand in' and I seem to have broached some interesting topics.  I don't think my attitude to Mondays has changed much in the intervening period.

Monday mornings have always been a source of confusion. On the one hand they are the start of a new week and should be an opportunity for new and exciting things to happen; but on the other hand they are disconnected from the previous work flow so nothing happens automatically. Two days of relaxation have turned off the brain so that Mondays are a cerebral challenge while the thinking processes grind their way up the gear system in a bid to accelerate to the necessary speed. It can take some time.

In theory, after the weekend, the brain should be rested and fresh, ready for the week ahead, but it is much more often addled with the remnants of last night’s bottle of rosé and dulled by the decision to stay up late watching that TV drama with the gorgeous actor in it. This morning you can’t even remember what the story was about, although you can dimly recall some views of his excellent backside and the fact that he, inevitably, ended up in bed with the female lead so that the scriptwriters have fodder for next week’s episode.

So you stare at the screen throughout Monday morning in the hope that some sort of inspiration will happen, but it rarely does. No amount of cups of coffee will help and it’s instant anyway, because your bosses are such skinflints they won’t buy the real stuff, so you’ll end up dehydrated and regretful by five o’clock but still not awake. Where is the Muse? No doubt sleeping off her own hangover after two days of debauchery with a variety of gods of wine, beer, ciggies and any other intoxicant available on a city’s streets on Saturday nights. There is only one consolation - perhaps Tuesday will be better?

More rescued words

There are no dates on the actual writings I have rescued from my old email folders - only the dates of storage. I know this one is older than July 2008 (when it was stashed away) because I know which event in my life it describes.

This one was for you, K!

*********

Love is a disease, they say, and it’s true.
The symptoms are the same.
The faster heart, the sweating palms
The lack of concentration
Could all be flu.
Do I know if I am ill? Or in Love’s sight??
Do past romances tell?
No use depending on old loves
For a clue as my last was
A parasite.

*********

Incidentally - six years on and he's still a keeper!

Rescued from oblivion

I've been clearing out my email archives because I have a lot more stored data than I need in my old folders. Among the posts I've kept was a file dated July 2008 that contained a selection of short writings I had totally forgotten.

(But look Ellie - Never. Throw anything. Away. Ever.) 

Some of them are interesting.  Given my current long-haul dental journey I was fascinated to find this. I've not edited it. Even though it could do with it. 

High pitched whining cannot be called a soothing noise. And when it’s coupled with a pastel-painted waiting room, uncomfortable chairs, posters of smiles and three-month old copies of women’s magazines it can be a terrifying experience. Yes – you’re at the dentist.
Most people grow up hating the idea of visiting their dentist and yet the experience is nowhere near as scary as it once was.  Modern techniques, effective anaesthetics and improved hardware mean that treatments are almost painless and usually over rapidly these days.
People are also much better at looking after their teeth, cleaning them regularly and watching their diet. Add on the availability of fluoridated water and dental hygiene products and the overall effect is that far fewer people need treatment when they see their dentist.
A six-monthly check-up is precisely that for the majority these days – just a check-up – unless they opt for a range of cosmetic treatments that have replaced the old drill and fill routine.
So why are people so afraid?  The fear is almost certainly learned from others; grandparents, parents and friends who have also bought in to the cliché of the scary dentist.  It isn’t surprising.  When film directors and advertising executives want to imply fear they grab at dental images; the classic encounter between Dustin Hoffman and Lawrence Olivier in Marathon Man is only one example.
Be honest. How long is it since you actually experienced pain while undergoing dental treatment?  If you’re under 25 in the UK you’ve probably never experienced treatments other than a quick polish, let alone pain. There might be some discomfort and it is rarely a pleasant experience but it is certainly not one to induce terror. But mention to someone that you have a dental appointment and their immediate reaction is to offer sympathy. Why? 
 

FFF55. Victory

Will’s motorbike wasn’t very powerful, but he dreamed of winning races just as soon as he was old enough to ride a big machine. He regularly practised his victory salute in readiness for the day.
At the inquest the lorry driver said Will could not have swerved because he had his hands in the air.

*********

Another 55 words on a Friday for the G-Man.

Thursday extracts. The style of D. H. Lawrence

This might be a strange confession for a keen reader, but I have never read any D. H Lawrence before. Since moving to this area six years ago I've been meaning to, ater all, he lived and worked just up the road, but I've not got round to it before.  I am currently dragging my way through Women in Love, the novel he considered his best. It's hard work. He has a very annoying habit.

When I was being taught to write I was discouraged from repeating words. I was told that they chime in the reader's head and can distract from the story. Of course, I was a journalist and the story was the most important thing. Style was necessary, but only to enhance the reader's comprehension. So Lawrence's insistence on tolling the same words, often immediately after their first use, is deeply disturbing to me.

Here's some examples:

• The two women were jeering at him, jeering him into nothingness. The laugh of the shrill, triumphant female sounded from Hermione, jeering him as if he were a neuter.
•  She only needed his conjunction with her. And this, this conjunction with her
•  `To know, that is your all, that is your life -- you have only this, this knowledge,' he cried.
• `Hadn't they better be anything than grow up crippled, crippled in their souls, crippled in their feelings
• Isn't anything better than this? Better be animals, mere animals with no mind at all, than this, this nothingness

On the other hand, some of his descriptions are exquisite.

A SCHOOL-DAY was drawing to a close. In the class-room the last lesson was in progress, peaceful and still. It was elementary botany. The desks were littered with catkins, hazel and willow, which the children had been sketching. But the sky had come overdark, as the end of the afternoon approached : there was scarcely light to draw any more. Ursula stood in front of the class, leading the children by questions to understand the structure and the meaning of the catkins.
A heavy, copper-coloured beam of light came in at the west window, gilding the outlines of the children's heads with red gold, and falling on the wall opposite in a rich, ruddy illumination.

I'll let you know how I get on.

February's a nothing time.....

"February's a nothing month isn't it?" she said, "Nothing ever happens in February."

Her boyfriend was quick with an answer: "The guy who inspired the book Robinson Crusoe was rescued in February.
"The first public toilet in London opened in February in the 1850s.
"Al Capone was sent to prison in February.
"Frank Sinatra began his singing career in February........"

As he continued listing off historical dates she thought ruefully to herself: "I was trying to remind you about Valentine's Day you idiot. Trust me to have an anorak for a boyfriend!"

**********

Not restricted to 55 words for a Friday or being extremely short for a small stone - a microfiction inspired by the date.