| WOW. |
[Oct. 7th, 2007|02:15 am] |
So, this is my first update in 102 weeks. That's almost two years. That doesn't mean I haven't been writing, just that I forgot about this.
So here's a pre-nano-practice-short-story! I like it. 1068 words.
( Pineapples and Sun ) |
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| Challenge #103 |
[Oct. 2nd, 2005|10:09 pm] |
| [ | Tags | | | musemuggers | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Philip Glass - Escape to India | ] |
3209 words, about 2.5-3 hours total.
Prompt:
The theme of this story: satirical horror. The main characters: melancholy archivist and weak grave robber. The major event of the story: keepsake.
( The Kitten Box ) |
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| The war of Absentee. Musemuggers challenge number 83. |
[May. 10th, 2005|10:14 pm] |
Sometime they'll give a war
And nobody will come.
Carl Sandburg (1878 - 1967)
The War of Absentee
"Carlsburg?"
Pause.
"Sandstron?"
Pause.
"MacCaffery?"
Pause.
"Thorne?"
"Present!"
Pause.
"Madden?"
Pause.
"Right, well that's it. Looks like, almost, everyone is not here." The officer in charge of the role call that morning glared at Thorne, clapped his ledger, turned swiftly on his heel, leaving Sergeant Cowan to deliver the briefing. The burly Sergeant clipped his heels together, saluted the troops, and gave his first order of the day.
"At ease." Cowan took two steps precisely point eight nine meters each, and stopped. He sniffed his nose and gazed around the briefing room with a steely, sober glare. "Gentlemen, we've all served together a long time now. We have traveled a long way, fought more then a few skirmishes with the enemy, and have managed to come out relatively unscathed. We did lose a few men along the way," here the Sergeant nodded to the empty seats where the dead once sat, "But still we fought on. Now, finally, we have pushed our way forward into the heart of enemy territory, ready to unleash our too long withheld wrath. You all know what to do. You have been trained well. We have planned, discussed, revised, and planned some more for over six months. You're ready. Go show them what our homeland is made of!" The Sergeant's voice had risen to a mighty roar, and with his last sentence clapped his hands above his head, then screamed, "Victory!"
Thorne clapped. Sergeant Cowan glared.
"Alright then, off you go. I have tea with the lovely Major Halahoon and I cannot be late. Do us proud!" With that, the Sergeant stomped out of the briefing room with a smile as brilliant as the shine on his boots.
With a grin almost as incredible, although a little lopsided, Thorne gave a great "Hip hip hooray!" And bolted out the back of the room. He knew where to go. With a great cry, he ran across the field of battle, his weapon drawn, his face that of a demon, or a great cat. Maybe a tabby. He proudly met the enemy, and fought well for his country. He alone destroyed the enemy battalion, an impossible two men and a potted flower. Alas, he returned from the battle a wounded hero. With its last dying breath, that heinous flower had broken its pot, and in his patriotic glee, poor Thorne stepped the Shard of the Axis of Not Nice.
"I'm very proud of the boy," Sergeant Cowan beamed. 'I didn't think he had it in him. Why, he didn't even have the brains to die before the war. Only one of his troop to fail in that, and yet look how he turned out. Wounded on the field of battle - stunning. Simply stunning. Oh my! Now now Major, not there…. Oo! Hoo! HooOOO! Major! One moment please…"
"Major!' |
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| Glory, Gold, and God. |
[Apr. 21st, 2005|11:44 pm] |
769 words. Started in Social Studies class, while my teacher spoke about Imperialism. And interesting piece, I think. I purposely avoided and gender specifications, and also limited myself to dialogue. This would make an interesting short play, I think. What about you? What do you think?
Glory, Gold, and God
A tale of a rut.
“Listen. Can you hear it? Can you hear them? They’re celebrating. The horns, the drums, the flutes. The famous composer, he’s written a song, praising the one who made this victory for them. Listen! The best singer in all the land praises you as though you were a god! Praising you strength, your wisdom, your courage. And there! Ha! Even predictions of your talent in bed. Do you hear it? You’re blushing! You hide your face! Your people love you, monarch. Why don’t you go to them?
“I am ashamed.”
“Ashamed? What have you to be ashamed of? You are a hero. You’ll be a legend, they’ll call you “The Great”, your name will be learned by children hundreds of years from now.”
“At what cost? What price must be paid for such glory? And is that all that was gained? Glory? Glory and Gold! Don’t allow me to being on God.”
“Do you regret monarch? Do you wish tha you had lost the battle?”
“No, however -”
“Of course you don’t. You are not suicidal, nor do you no treturn your country’s love for you. No, you would not let your people perish.”
“You are right. I would not. Not when there was still hope that they might go to their homes, kiss their children, and return to their work. Till their fields, bake bread, weave good linen. As long as still they could sing their work songs and laugh at little jokes, I would fight any foe so that they may live.”
“But..?”
“But in doing so, what would I be destroying? Whose fields would lie fallow, which songs would never be sung? What lives would end, never to return to their children and lovers?
“To who did I do this?”
“Now I understand your sorrow, monarch. You fear that the country you destroyed, devastated, had a monarch that felt as you do, who would stop at nothing to protect the songs and jokes and fields of that country. And you fear also that you might have been that monarch.”
“Yes, I fear, and feared, that. I have survived, I have succeded in protecting my people, but I might not have. And that monarch did not. But what I fear more, advisor, is that I should not have. That the other country should have been allowed to live, and to till and sing and joke, rather then mine. My people are simple people, and sometimes I fear that they are stupid. I hope that the people of that country are-- were, the same, but what if? What if, advisor, they were not? What if the other monarch had managed to educate the people, to teach them enlightened songs, and have them find new ways of doing things? What if their minds were open and fresh, filled with thought and learning and idea?”
“Then you would indeed have reason to regret. But you cannot know. Your country, and the other, very rarely communicated. Thus, you must continue on, and hope that your country should not have ended.”
“What do you think, advisor? You know better then me the world outside of my small country, and can tell me - is there hope for my people? Will they always be as deeply stuck as the wagons on the dirt roads, travelling paths their ancestors had travelled many generations ago, paths that have not changed in all those intervening years? I’ve watched them, advisor. It takes much work to get a wagon out of a deep rut. Sometimes it is undoable, and help must be found. But I have just destroyed my only neighbours!”
“I cannot tell for certain, monarch. Your people are an old people, and that rut is indeed deep and old. It may be a repetitious annoyance, but within that rut is the memory of their ancestors, of all the others that came before them that too rolled in that rut, way far back to those that first created them. Your people will be loath to leave them.”
“But can I try? Is it worth it, or would I simply create new ruts to torment and perplex others, much farther down my line? I have a child - would my child continue in my rut, or would my child forge yet another way?”
“You can always try. I do not know if it would be worth it or not. That depends entirely on the end result, and that rests on the shoulders of your child.”
“Do I want to give that burden to my young?”
“Do you?”
“No.
“But I must.” |
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| Challenger #67 |
[Jan. 21st, 2005|12:31 am] |
Option Number Two, Sentence starter.
Wow, first post since Nano, I believe. I was with MuseMuggers2, so this is my first post here regardless. This story below I think will be my next project, provided I can concentrate on it long enough to care. In any case, I don't think it's half bad.
Very short, 744 words. Science Fiction.
( Messenger ) |
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| COSY Monologue |
[Dec. 20th, 2004|06:00 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  contemplative | ] |
A monologue I'm writing for an audition with the Carnival of Shrieking Youth. Two minutes long. (May have to cut some, though)
( Limbo ) |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 24th, 2004|07:35 am] |
I've gotten sick of my story, so I teleported my MCs onto a great big book, and am currently engaged in asking them why I should bother keeping their story alive.
( Excerpt ) |
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| Iiiiit's excerpt time! Again! |
[Nov. 14th, 2004|07:02 pm] |
288 words today.
( Shakespear in a fantasy. Hmm. )
Uggh. I don't like Riwen. See, she's a player, which is a nice way of putting it. She broke Criths' heart, and she's out to get Sylfee, who Bekibred ends up loving, and who already loves Bekibred. Of course, that just makes Riwen want him even more...
Classic scnario. |
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| Excerpt Time!!! |
[Nov. 4th, 2004|09:15 pm] |
Bekibred is the Male MC, Sylfee the Female MC. They were just very quickly whisked to the outpost of the King's Guard as soon as they entered Crenerd, on the island of Nerd, in the back of a rhickety cart. The cart crashed into the wall of the outpost, and the horse, who had been cut free before the crash (it was a minor one, no injuries), ran into the outpost.
( From Chapter Two. )
I'm doing really well, I think. ^___^ Any readers of ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) anadriel will have seen this. ^_^ As that dial at the top says, I'm up to 9114 words. Yay me!
I am enjoying this story immensly, but I already know that I want to go back and expand Bekibred's backstory before he leaves The Library of the Wandering Order. But that's what December is for, should I be finished the rest of the story by then... which, given what it looks like my plot will be like, is doubtful. -_-,,, |
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| NANO!!!!! |
[Oct. 31st, 2004|10:51 pm] |
This bad boy'll automatically update itself. Most of my journal entries from here on out will be private, so this should be at the top of my page. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 27th, 2004|10:40 pm] |
Hello Loyal Readers.
I need your fantastic support during the month of November. I need all of you out there in Reader Land to nag me constantly during November, unless you yourself are participating in NaNoWriMo. Then we'll take turns.
Anyway. Send me e-mails, msn/icq messages (I think I have all that in anadriel's user info.), etc. If you happen to know my phone #, give me a call occasionally and ask me how my characters are, how many words I've got, if I've written today, etcetcetc.
Mucho Gracias.
-Ben |
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| Light of Snow |
[Oct. 23rd, 2004|12:33 am] |
Again for MuseMuggers. Challenge #59.
Light of Snow
During Winter, darkness dwelt, in the land of Kulinar. Not a menacing darkness, but a darkness nonetheless. The white of the deep, heavy, wet snow reflected back any amount of star or moonlight that appeared, and filled the world with an almost erie, yet soothing pale light that came from everywhere. Rarely was there a time when the clouds were thick enough, or numerous enough, to completely block out the light of moon and star. Yet still, at least once a year, that would happen, and then the true magic of that land would show itself. Those darkest of dark nights, the snow-elves made their appearance.
I would not be surprised if you had never heard of the snow elves. They’re not your typical elf. Indeed, the great empire of Hyhillian, seat of the White Elven King, denied the existence of such beings, naming them fairy tales and myths. But I know better. Indeed, I have seen them myself. I was there, one night, in the cold land of Kulinar, when the Snow Elves joined the world.
My name is Bekibred, and I am a wanderer. I am not a minstrel, sorcerer, wizard, or trader. I am simply a wanderer. Not a warrior, weapons-master, rogue, or thief. Just a wanderer. I wander the world, all over it, in search of knowledge. Not books, but real knowledge, things I can see with my own eyes, feel with my hands, smell with my nose, hear with my ears, or taste with my mouth.The purest, most potent, most meaningful knowledge to be had is knowledge you gain from experience and direct observation, not what little is gained from reading old text one barely understands, from a tome that is little more then dust.
My wanderings had led me to the far north of the western continent. I don’t know why there, and quite frankly I don’t care. All that matters is that I was there when an event of great magnificence and meaning occurred. It was a very, very dark day-night, much like I have described. Darkest of dark. I had had a small fire burning, but had since put it out with the ample snow and dug for my self a small burrow, lining it with my light and very warm hryn skin. Marvellous stuff. I managed to obtain such a rare and fantastic hide as a reward for teaching the son of Chief Irr, leader of the Most Eastern Tribe of Men, how to read and write. I had carried it with me for almost 3 decades, and it served me very well through my travels in the Eastern continent, as well as the half of the Western I had thus far traversed.
I had been laying there for some time, and was almost fully asleep, when a dim, yet very noticeable light appeared all around me. I thought that perhaps there had been a break in the clouds, but I soon realised that it was not the white, blue light of the moon and stars, but it was a pale grey-yellow. I was reminded of a very determined dawn I had experienced once, years before, in the southern tip of the Eastern Continent. It was the first real day of spring. A day that lasted only an hour, but a day nonetheless, after 4 months of complete darkness. A barely noticeable light that did not grow.
I crawled out a short distance from my burrow and stood up. I wanted to pinpoint exactly where this light was coming from. It took be some time to realise that it was coming from beneath the snow, as if it were nothing more then a frosted glass roof hanging over a grand hall of some kind. Indeed I was not too far off with my guess. For as I paid more attention, and the light grew very slowly, I could discern figures moving about, I would say dancing, underneath my feet. Over time, I thought that the figures had been growing larger, or perhaps closer. And indeed they were.
After about an hour had gone by I saw the first of the figures pop out of the snow. I was amazed to see such a lovely, majestic, and mysterious figure. Looking for all the world like the first snow of winter, playful, light, joyous, he ignored me entirely and began to dance about the snow. He had perfectly white, straight hair that came down to about his jaw line. Other then a light pair of silver-grey breeches and a matching tunic, he had no other ordainments or articles of clothing. Not even a pair of slippers.
Several others rose up from their snowy world and joined our snowy world. Excepting that some were female, and others were male, they were all nearly exact duplicates of the first elf, for that was obviously what they were. The only differences were small and inconsequential, such as hair length, height, girth, etc.
I would say that no more then 3 dozen of their kind appeared, though I thought I could still see some shadows moving about under the snow. Those that had appeared danced about, laughed, and played with each other in the clean, heavy snow. All of them ignored me completely. I tried to get the attention of one of their kind, but either he was purposefully ignoring, or he could not see nor here me. I suppose that it did not matter much. I was rather content to simply sit down, wrapped in my hryn hide, watching them at their antics. They were such delightful creatures, so full of life and joy, that it was hard for me to not just simply jump up and join them in their play, but a wanderer must be completely impartial, and should never join in that which he is observing, so that he can present to the All-Knower when his time is over a thorough, completely observed report.
After some time, I cannot recall exactly how long, the elves halted their play and gathered together in a large circle. They conversed for a short time in some language that I did not, nor do I wish to, understand. It was such a beautiful tongue, like the very snow that surrounded us. At times, it seemed light, playful, yet at others, it would whip and lash about like the wailing winds of a winter blizzard. As they spoke, they began sinking into the snows, returning to whatever magical land they came from. I so wished to join them, but I knew that it was rather impossible. Still, it would have been quite an experience to report.
I sat staring at the place where they had once stood in their circle for a few minutes, hoping perhaps that one of their number would return to bring them with them. Eventually I stood and turned to return to my burrow and sleep, if I could, but I paused. Looking back, I found that I could see no trace that they had ever existed. Not a single foot print or otherwise disturbed snow flake could be found. Marvelling at what fascinating beings they must be, I crawled down into my burrow and lay still, watching the darkness deepen around me until it was the darkest of darks again, the kind that rule here during winter. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 3rd, 2004|12:37 am] |
I must admit I'm fond of this'un. Written for the musemuggers2 LJ group.
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Musemuggers
Chalenge #56
Option 3
Cinderella and the Mind-Reading Witch Who Can’t Just Mind Her Own Business
It might have been a Robin, but I wasn’t sure. It might have been a Blue Jay for all I know. That’s the problem with a sheltered, secure lifestyle. You don’t get out much
“Your not day dreaming again, are you? Get back to work you lazy wench!”
Ah yes. Aunt Petunia. Why she’s called Petunia I’ll never know. She’s definitly the least flower-like person in existance. At least, that I’ve ever met. Not that I have a lot to base my conclusions on. Sheltered and Secure Lifestyle strikes again.
“That’s enough of your attitude!”
Ah yes. She’s a mind-reader too. Must wait until later to have these thoughts.
“Oh know you won’t!”
Sigh.
Oh, how I love washing floors! It’s such satisfying and (degrading) up lifting work!
**********
Well, Petunia’s asleep. I think. Hope. Maybe she’s right outside my door, taking notes on everything I think. Quite frankly, I don’t care, because she is a NOSY BITCH WHO LOVES TORTURING ME!
Oh dear. There I go again. Best keep away from thinking about Petunia. She’s not that important, really, she’s just the only person I ever have contact with.
Sheltered and Secure. Oi.
I’m like Cinderella, just without the step sisters or the friendly mice. I could use some mice. Or maybe a Goldfish. Hell, I’d settle for a plant to talk to. Or maybe paper. Paper would be nice. It’s not easy to write a Diary when you have to keep it all in your head. Oh, and Cinderella was pretty. And she could sing. I’m not even really sure what I look like, but I can sing. I think. Well, I can when Petunia isn’t around. I’m sure I can. I just need to find a time when she’s not around.
Oh fiddlesticks. I forgot to turn off the lights downstairs. Excuse me. |
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| First Post |
[Sep. 25th, 2004|10:52 pm] |
So, this is my writing LJ. Not for talking about me, just for my writing. It's mainly for Nanowrimo, but I'll use it anyway for everything. I need to get used to writing a lot every single day. So, without further adue, here is today's (well, yesterday's...) writing.
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Quitter
A woman with dyed blonde hair sits alone on the bust stop bench. She is still young, probably in her mid to late twenties, but around and in her eyes show the wrinkles, shadows, and cares of a life of worry and doubt. Yet, at the very back of those same eyes shines a small, faint, flickering light of hope that all humans carry while they are still human and alive. Sadly, some lose it.
Her dyed blonde hair is tied back in a pony tail, bound by a green, blue, and violet elastic. She has a fair complexion, mildly pale. She looks like she might be scandanavian, and you wonder why she has to dye her hair. Her eyes are a pale, watery, yet vibrant blue green. She is wearing more then enough mascara. White nails. No other makeup.
She is wearing a pair of hospital grunges from the Glenrose Rehabilitation Centre, a matching top, and a navy blue fall jacket that is too big for her over that. On her feet are a simple pair of white canvas sneakers. She has on her hand a ring from the M.E. Lazert graduating class of ‘95. You notice, as you watch her, that she occasionally fingers it, as if just to remind herself it is still there. She has no other jewelry visible.
A lime green handbag sits on the bench next to her. She is holding the straps tightly. Inside is a pack of ciggarettes she rolled herself, a pink bic lighter, the mascara she wears too much of, white nail polish, two pens, 47¢ in change, a much wrinkled five dollar bill, a pack of gum, two more green, blue, and violet hair elastics, September Edmonton Transit bus pass, a Canadian Passport, and a picture of her ex boyfriend.
Time passes, the bus doesn’t come, and finally she reaches into the lime green handbag and pulls out one of the cigarettes she rolled herself. She holds it in her hand, gently, as if it may explode if she handles it the wrong way. Looking at the cigarrette she rolled herself, she starts to pull out the pink bic lighter. She stops suddenly, lets go of the pink bic lighter, and instead grabs the rest of the cigarrettes she rolled herself; the ones still in the package. She stands and walks towards the garbage can. Looking from the ciggarrette she rolled herself, to the package of cigarrettes she rolled herself, and finally to the garbage bag, she closes her eyes.
Breathe in. Hold. Drops all of the cigarrettes she rolled herself into the garbage can. Breathe out. Breathe again. Twice. Three times. Opens her eyes, and she walks back to the bench and sits down. Look at garbage can. She finally relaxes, leans back, and sighs. On her face is a big smile. She reaches again into her lime green handbag and pulls out the package of gum. She takes out a piece, and puts the package back into the lime green handbag. Beggining to chew on this new, fresh, clean piece of gum, she closes her eyes and keeps on smiling until her bus comes. |
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