Archive | February 2011

15-minute ficlet: The desert blinks

Feb17

From Ty’s prompt here, “The desert is awake / Flicks its pale moon eyes.” Unknown setting.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.”

He hadn’t been. He had been happily off in the land of dreams, where things made sense and no-one was trying to kill or kidnap him, where people didn’t jump out of twelfth-story windows with him over their… over their shoulder?

He blinked slowly awake, no longer quite sure where the dream was and where the reality.

She was sitting leaning over him, casting a long shadow, longer than seemed reasonable. Dark, shaggy-short-cut hair, sun-darkened skin, her cheekbones tattooed, her upper and lower lips each pierced twice, t-shirt with the sleeves ripped out, BDU pants, tape-patched combat boots. She looked like a punk, from back when that word had meaning. She didn’t look old enough to remember when counterculture had been a thing.

“Am I?” he croaked. The heat was unbearable, even the ground under him feeling like the inside of a pizza oven. “Am I even alive?”

She blinked at him, her eyes the color of old ash, of the full moon in daytime. “I rescued you,” she reminded him. “You live.”

He stretched tentatively and was surprised to find that nothing hurt, that nothing was broken. “How did you do that? You jumped … we jumped…”

“Shh,” she scolded. “There are things out there that I cannot stop, and they will hear your yowling. But there are things I can stop, and those creatures were on that list.”

“Creatures? The slavers?” He twitched against the memory of chains. “Fuuuck. They branded me. I can’t go anywhere now.” He reached for the spot on his upper back where they’d burnt in their mark, to find the skin smooth and unscarred. “What…?”

She blinked at him again. “There are things I can stop,” she repeated. “They will not bother you.”

He looked around, past her, at the desert that stretched out in all directions, at the dune that shaded him from the deadly sun, then back to the girl with the moonlight eyes staring seriously at some point two inches inside his skull. “You stopped the slavers. You stopped their brand.” He’d heard of the magic ones, but never in terms of rescue, never in terms of salvation. Then again… “How do I get out of here, then?”

The teeth that showed in her smile were like bleached shards of bone. “For that,” she said, sounding like a rattlesnake’s warning, “you have to deal with me.”

Drakeathon 2/19-2/20/11

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/6949.html. You can comment here or there.

Surname Map neatness @inventrix @clarekrmiller

Feb16

Via YsabetWordsmith, via janetmiles

A …cool resource showing surname maps. So, if you’re a writer and you want to name an ordinary character from one of these places, you can pick a surname from the relevant place and it will fit. This is a very discreet and effective trick with local color.

In writing faeApoc, I try to match gods to the relevant ethnic grouping, with varied luck.

15-Minute Ficlet: Constraint

Feb15

From Ty’s prompt here, “Yearning.” Probably faeapoc.

The yearning was nearly unbearable.

It had been nearly a week since she’d seen him, since she’d felt his touch, heard his voice, since she’d breathed in his scent, tasted his skin.

She didn’t know when he’d be back. “I’ll be gone as little time as I can manage,” he’d told her. “Stay inside unless you have to go out.” The directive had left her an uncomfortable amount of leeway; she’d gotten unused to making decisions, content to allow him to steer

She’d been fine for a few days. She’d lazed in the sun as it shone through the living room windows, re-read some old books and one she hadn’t seen before, tucked away under his bed but not all that hidden, not hidden enough to suggest that she shouldn’t read it. She tidied up and cooked herself treats that he didn’t like and sprawled across his bed at night.

The nights were bad, though. She was used to his presence right there beside her, his body pressed against hers. She stayed up until she was exhausted, reading, until her body demanded sleep, and then it was ragged, uneven, unhappy sleep, hag-ridden with nightmares.

She took to napping through the day in the sunlight, reading through the night or prowling the house. There was no phone, no internet, no TV, but there were books, and she found a notebook and a pen and started doodling.

She’d always had idle time while he was at work, but there were chores, laundry and dinner and picking up, and there was knowing he’d be home. Her evenings had always been filled with him; now they were filled with nothing but her own thoughts.

More days passed. There was food to last a month, and she had little appetite. She re-read her books, and wrote notes to herself that turned into drawings and stories. She played in his weight-room; he’d never expressly forbidden her to go in there, after all. She played in the basement and tidied his tools. She thought, and as the days went on, she thought more.

The yearning was still there, but she was learning to bear it. He’d left her with so little, a few books, some food, and some orders that barely constrained her. He’d left her to fend for herself, who had sold herself for comfort. She read another book, and wrote herself some more notes.

“Stay inside unless you have to go out.” The directive, the only one he’d left, gave her quite a bit of leeway. She stared at the door on the fourteenth day of his absence, and decided she had to leave.

Drakeathon 2/19-2/20/11

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/6623.html. You can comment here or there.

Three 50-Word Fics on Marriage #microfiction #weblit

Feb14

“Honey, I’m home.”

She shucked coat, mittens, and boots in the entryway and chased him down for a hug, snow still melting in her hair. She nuzzled her frozen nose against his armpit with a happy sound: “You’re warm,” she explained, muffled by his shirt.

“Gee, thanks,” he smiled, unperturbed.

~

She pushed back against him urgently, hungrily, as he rested his hand on the base of her spine, and shoved her face into the pillow to better muffle her pleasured screams.

After sixteen years, the sex was still hella hot, but the neighbors were not so hot on the noise.

~

She didn’t realize she was slipping until she was halfway in the October-cold creek and scrabbling with no purchase, didn’t realize that she hadn’t caught herself until she was almost out again, hauled up by the handle on her backpack by her quick and vigilant spouse.

“My hero,” she shivered.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/6204.html. You can comment here or there.

A Rather Silly Pantoum for 3ww

Feb10

Three Word Wednesday is a once-weekly 3-word writing prompt.

This week’s three words were dare, essence, practical.

That it’s a poem is partly inspired by [personal profile] ysabetwordsmith‘s recent fishbowl, and partly by a discussion of poetic forms with Inventrix, and the poem she got out of that.

It’s a bit silly,but I like it.

“She’s nice, I guess,” Lenora sighed;
“My son and her, they get on well.
“She’s pretty, charming, dignified,
“But if there’s any sense in her, I can’t tell.”

“Jackson and her are getting on well,”
Lenora felt she could confide,
“But there’s no sense in the silly Nell.
“If it weren’t for me, they’d both have died.”

Lenora felt she could confide
In the women at the market dell
If it weren’t for her, they’d nigh on have died –
Her tales had served all of them well.

The women at the market dell
Listened, nodded, to Lenora’s sighs
They knew her tales; they’d served them well
But the essence-seller had the prize

They’d listened to all Lenora’s sighs
When the dark-haired woman began to sell
Her wares; she dared to price the prize
Quite dear; she knew its worth full well.

The dark-haired woman pitched her sale
“She’s pretty, charming, dab this in her eyes,
“Just four gold, to make her practical.”
“She’s worth the gold,” Lenora sighed.

Drakeathon 2/19-2/20/11

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/6125.html. You can comment here or there.

Drakeathon! Livewriting Flash Fiction – the details!

Feb7

What’s Livewriting? 1889ca’s webpage describes it as “the act of writing a book or story within a set timeframe, with live updates for an audience that also participates by suggesting directions the story might go.”

What’s Flash/Microfiction? Flash fiction is generally defined as short-short stories, under 3000, 1500, or 1000 words. Microfiction is generally short, complete stories under 500 words.

What’s the Drakeathon? The Drakeathon will be two 4-hour sessions in which I ask you, the audience, to prompt me to write short fiction. I’ll ask for audience participation as I write, and post the stories as I complete them.

But, since this is an ‘thon, I’m trying to earn a little money, too (in this case, for Drake, the above-pictured kitty, who has recently been diagnosed with diabetes). At least the first three prompters each hour will have 50-word microfics written off their prompts, but those who sponsor the ‘thon will get more bang: each $5 sponsorship will get 300 words, up to a 3000-word story (anything over 1000 words will be completed in the weeks immediately following the ‘thon).

Note: I’m still ironing out details. But!

As sponsorship goals are met, those who have donated will get bigger perks:

If I reach $20, I get a pizza
If I reach $75, everyone who donates will get a printed-and-snailmailed or pdf-and-e-mailed prettified version of the story from their prompt
If I reach $150, there will be an e-book of the stories from this anthology; sponsors will get a free copy
If I reach $225, the e-book will include a never-before-seen short story of 1500-3000 words written for this anthology
If I reach $300, there will be a print book, and donors will receive a discount on said book.
If I reach $375, the e- and print book will have professional art for the covers & a second new short story.

TL:DR Summary: Throw prompts at me, get microfics.
Throw money and prompts at me, get longer fics.
If enough money is thrown at me, there will be shinies

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/5357.html. You can comment here or there.

Blogging: a thought on writing the darkness ( #weblit #amwriting )

Feb6

I was just re-reading Time Travelers Strictly Cash by Spider Robinson, and there’s a note at the end of God Is An Iron (also part of his novel MindKiller):

    …while the character of Karen Scholz is not drawn from life and is whollly imaginary, the business involving her father is not fiction… Animals like her father are not made up by writers for shock value; they exist.

Every times I think I’m going a little overboard with the darkness in a story, the world surprises me with how dark it gets. Every time I think “no, someone would never do that to someone else,” the internet shows me pictures of someone who did it to themselves.

The world is awfully dark sometimes. I wish I did a better job of shining light on the roaches out there.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/5020.html. You can comment here or there.

Cool: a Sunday meme

Feb6

Stolen from [personal profile] recessional

Name a character I’ve written about, and I will tell you three things that I think are essential to keep in mind when writing that character.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/4855.html. You can comment here or there.