Amlokiblogs

When Is It Enough?

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Wed, 23 May 2012 12:38:00 +0000

I've been working on a project that needs me to talk about the craft of fiction writing.

Reading through all the rules made me wonder if 4 years of writing have given me enough craft to carry me through.

Do I know enough?

The answer: It depends on what draft I'm at.

If I'm doing the 1st draft I forget the rules and write from my gut. In subsequent drafts, I worry about the rules.

More and more, I find I've learned some rules enough to break them to good effect. I have a long way to go, though, and I don't think it will ever be enough for me. I'll always be stuck with new things to learn.

What about you? Where do you stand on the writing craft? Do you feel confident about your craft--like you've learned enough?

Everything Happens for a Reason

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Fri, 18 May 2012 16:21:00 +0000

My WIP has a lot of things going in it right now, and so does my life. This is what I'm telling myself:

What do you tell yourself when chaos surrounds you, in your everyday life or your writing?

My first love(s)

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Mon, 14 May 2012 13:34:00 +0000

Alex J Cavanaugh , our Ninja Captain, is hosting the First loves Blogfest:

Post your first loves – first movie, first song/band, first book, and first person. Four loves, one blogfest!

First movie:
Mad monkey Kung fu- My father took me to watch this one when I was five years old, and, I spent most of it trying to hide under the seat. Maybe I should watch it again, to see if it brings back any memories?

First Song: As a kid I remember Phil Collins playing at our place. Can't remember the songs, but then, I've never been very musical.

First Book: It was a comic, actually, meant for kids far more grown up than me. I made my grandma read it to me so many times, I learned the dialogs by heart, and my parents (from what I remember from our family stories) amused themselves (and others) by making two-year-old me 'read' aloud the writing...and apparently I did a flawless job despite not knowing the alphabet.

First Person: I had my first crush when I was fourteen, I think. Just one of those things--nothing special. But if we talk about love as a universal emotion, the first person I adored was my grandma, who passed on when I was six. I wish I had seen more of her-- she was a self-taught poet, a whimsical cook given to experiments in the kitchen, and a spiritual seeker whose heights I aspire to today.

So that's the saga of my first loves. I'll go blog visiting via the linky list now...

Of Writemotivation and such

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Fri, 11 May 2012 13:43:00 +0000

I imagine all writers need a kick on the butt from time to time--well, I can speak for myself at least, and I do. For the month of May, I've chosen to get some writing going by following K.T. Hanna's #writemotivation campaign:

"where you set goals for yourself and hold yourself accountable to them. You let us know what those goals are, and report during the month how you think you’re going with them. This helps hold yourself accountable.

The aim here isn’t to compete with each other – it’s to compete against ourselves (and that pesky inner-critic and procrastination demon that try to defeat us when we least want them to)."

The goals need to be realistic, so here's what I put up:

1. Need to write 800 words a day on WIP, 5 days a week= 4000 words a week- I've done about 2700 this week-- need to step up!
2. Post on my 2 blogs twice a week= 4 posts a week: I think, with this post, I met that goal this week.
3. Work on editing 2 short stories– 3000 words each. This one is tricky, haven't done anything on this yet.

This is the first time I've set up writing goals, other than short story submission deadlines.

So dear fellow-writers, do you set writing goals? Does it work for you?

The #AtoZChallenge Reflections Post

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Sun, 06 May 2012 15:23:00 +0000

My first encounter with A to Z Challenge was last year. I was the 15th to sign up, forgot all about it till I saw a random post talking about it--- reminding me I had signed up. I wrote my A-post, a short story, and after the comments, there was no going back. I winged through the challenge, writing stories based on prompt-words other participants left me. A few months later, I came up with A to Z Stories of Life and Death.

This year, I was thrilled Lee asked me if I'd like to help host the challenge--this year has been bigger than last year---more than 1700 bloggers! I enjoyed working with the hosting team-- the constant flurry of emails became a pleasant part of my life pre-challenge.

The challenge itself was a bit of a blur, not only because the #atozchallenge noise on twitter swamped me, or that there were too many AZ blogs to visit and there was too little time, or that I was traveling and mostly feeling unwell throughout the challenge--- it was that I winged it all over again.

Despite all the best-laid plans of asking for prompts beforehand, matching photo-prompts with story-starters, and drafting all the posts date-wise--I unfortunately remained me.

I wrote each story on its day, some barely a few minutes before midnight after long days of relentless madness. I even missed a day because Blogger did not post as scheduled, and had to post on a Sunday to make up. (Not the most shining of co-hosts, I'm afraid!)

The two things that kept me going through the challenge were the e-mails from co-hosts (a truly amazing team) and the comments from co-participants. On some days when I wanted to throw away the gauntlet,visit no one, make no posts and just go to sleep already-- the emails and the comments kept me going.

I can never thank my co-hosts enough.

Lee, the founder, and leader in all A-Z matters, Alex the Ninja cap'n, Tina the scheduling whiz, Jeremy the Badges and Banners creator, and the awesome co-hosts Konstanz, Karen, Jenny, Elizabeth, Matthew, DL, Shannon and Stephen who took care of all sorts of hosting issues small and big--- take a bow please, all of you--- the hosting team of A to Z:

Tossing It Out (Arlee Bird)

Alex J. Cavanaugh (Alex J. Cavanaugh)

Life is Good (Tina Downey)

Cruising Altitude 2.0 (DL Hammons)

Retro-Zombie (Jeremy Hawkins)

The Warrior Muse (Shannon Lawrence)

The QQQE (Matthew MacNish)

Author Elizabeth Mueller (Elizabeth Mueller)

Pearson Report (Jenny Pearson)

No Thought 2 Small (Konstanz Silverbow)

Breakthrough Blogs (Stephen Tremp)

Coming Down the Mountain (Karen Gowen)
As co-host I did the following in the duration of the challenge: (Things all of us co-hosts did, and need to strategise better next year)

Fought the battle of the Word Verification: I've lost count of the number of blogs on which I left comments requesting comment moderation instead of Word Verification. All co-hosts would tell you the same story. I was heartened to note that most participants had worked this out by the end of the challenge.

Fought the advertisers or lame bloggers who added themselves to the list with no intention of taking part in the challenge. Alex did most of the real work though---he manually deleted the bugs from the linky list. (I'm telling you that guy not just writes about distant planets, he probably is a benign extra-terrestrial from somewhere light-years away, with mind-boggling reserves of energy and patience.)

Made it my mission to tell bloggers to make it easier for folks to comment on their blogs. All of us co-hosts did. And again, nearing the end of the challenge, most participants got this.

Tweeted the Challenge via @AprilA2Z , and it was a pleasure reading all the A-Z posts tweeted up. A lot of bloggers helped spread word on the challenge on twitter, and to each one of them, I'm grateful. To those on Twitter not following us yet, please do, so you can keep updated on future A-Z plans.

For the challenge next year, we'd love your help on the above.

Tell us how we can improve, guest post for us at the A-to-Z Challenge site to help raise awareness, and if you have ideas on how you can help us organize better, let us know.

I'd like to end the post with a word of thanks to each and every person who commented on my A to Z posts. I would dearly love to pick a few, but I wouldn't, because this year, while visiting as many blogs as I could as a co-host, I developed a true appreciation of just what it takes to drop a comment a blog. And then to come back another day and do so again.

So all of you who were kind enough to comment on my stories, my heartfelt thanks. And because I really, really mean my thanks, here's an open invite to guest post on this blog or on my other blog Daily (w)rite. If you have commented on my A-Z posts, please feel free to write to me at atozstories at gmail dot com in case you'd like a guest spot. All guest spot guidelines here.

The A-Z linky list would be alive through the year, and I'm working my way through it all over again-- I'm grateful to each one of you who participated. I knew some of you from before, but would not have known a vast majority but for the challenge.

See you all here at my blog and at the A-to Z site, till we meet again for the challenge next year.

What does your Muse look like?

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Fri, 04 May 2012 13:42:00 +0000

I've known for a while what my writing muse looks like.

I've always been fascinated with Betta fish, and this is my latest, Sukhwant Singh.

Male Betta fish are lonely creatures (yes, my muse is male, so sue me!), they are fiercely protective of their territory, and they are so goddamn flashy, temperamental, voracious, and beautiful-- all the qualities I like in my Muse.

My Bettas die, once a year more or less, sometimes eleven months, sometimes fourteen. I have had Lalwant Singh, who was preceded by Kartar Singh, who had un-named predecessors.

Heartlessly enough, I go and buy a new one--is it heartless to replace your Muse with another? I suppose so. But most writers are heartless, I've found, at least some of the time when they're writing!

If you check the links to their names, you'll see I spend quite a lot of time thinking about my Bettas. My Betta fish tank sits atop a bookshelf, right beside another large aquarium, and I spend several happy hours a week on the bean bag right beside the tank--reading, dreaming. I write there, sometimes.
Whenever I'm writing, no matter where I am, the image of my jewel-like Betta fish is never far away--irrespective of my story.

So what does your Muse look like?

On Random Passages from My Bookshelf

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Wed, 02 May 2012 13:23:00 +0000

I just finished the A-Z blogging challenge-- the second time in two years. I wrote 26 stories, more or less in 26 days, well about 26 hours, if I'm to be honest. Being me, I winged through all of it, without any pre-planning.

Time to relax a bit, (and put up the I survived! badge--please pick it up from here if you survived too) I think, and to do that, I have to hit my bookshelf. I have a few books by my bedside and in various nooks of my home, reading-in-progress, so hitting the bookshelf is more or less to play a game-- I hit a random book, eyes closed, and read out a passage (and if I'm in the mood, write a story based on it).

I'll share with you the one I hit today:

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.

Do you ever do random things like this with your books? Can you guess what (classic) book this passage is from?

Z for Zipping through the streets: atozchallenge

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 13:20:00 +0000

Today, the last day of the challenge, I'll be using a story-starter sent by Donna B. McNicol who has encouraged me throughout the challenge. I began with her prompt for A, and am ending with her prompt for Z.

The photograph is courtesy Vikram Tandon, ace photographer, and kind friend who's allowed me the use of his work.

I hope everyone enjoyed the challenge as much as I did, participants and non, and I hope to come back again to the challenge next April.
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Zipping through the streets, Ariel headed towards the highway exit, when she spotted it--a goddamned tiger ambling across the grass towards the road, its tawny coat glowing in the morning light, its amber eyes staring right at her.

She hadn't slept much the night before, both kids had colds and kept coughing and waking. But this took hallucination to a whole new level. Shaking herself, she gripped the steering wheel harder. Nothing in her life as a single mother of two boys under eight, and a bank proof operator frequently harried by her boss, had prepared her for a tiger in front of her car. Particularly one which had settled itself on its haunches right at the mouth of the exit, yawning, completely unaware that it had no business outside a zoo in a Texan suburb.

Much later, she would back out, gather her nerves, and call 911. After a soul-numbing day at the office where she would tell no one about her morning, she would pick the kids from daycare, head home, and then, tuning in to her local station as she set dinner, watch her tiger being tranquilized by animal control. It would always remain 'her' tiger in her stories to her kids.

But at that moment when her palms tingled and she wondered if she should honk, those bright eyes looked at her so silent yet so full of conversation, she did not. She pulled up instead, and stared right back-- just two folks with no axe to grind, meeting up on a quiet morning.

If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

As co-host, I would like to end with the following remingder to A-Z participants:

Blogging from A to Z Challenge Reflections Posts of 2012 will start on Monday May 7th. The Linky list will go up on that day so you can enter the link for that post on the list.

You can tell us what you thought were the highlights of your April Challenge, what you learned, what changes you might make next time, or what surprised you most. Let us know about special bloggers you met in your A to Z journey or about a post or posts that especially moved or impressed you. There are no limits as to what your Challenge experience might have been so tell us in your best way how you felt about the April A to Z Challenge of 2012.

Y for Yesterday morning was different: #atozchallenge fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Sun, 29 Apr 2012 15:18:00 +0000

I'm posting on a Sunday in order to finish with everyone else tomorrow---blogger bungled up a scheduled post (the only story in the challenge I had managed to pre-write), and I've been lagging behind by a day ever since!

Today's prompts (the story starter in bold at the beginning of the story below) and the picture prompt are from Siv Maria.
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Yesterday morning was different, a lifetime away. She was certain something remained of her earlier life, somewhere, but she was unsure-- it seemed a different beast altogether.

For starters, in the twelve years of her life she remembered and the four she did not, she had a home, a town, a place she belonged to. The sun shone upon acres of dark green, her friends chased her around trees in the orchard, limber girls giggling and squealing, faltering in their long black habits, but not falling, as they ran up the hillside, hair flying from their plaits come undone.

Girls, apples are sinful fruit, the nuns said, and as she'd run among the low-hanging fruit, as always, she'd imagined them as little monsters with sharp teeth and frothing tongue. Apples, and men, girls, keep away from both, and you have nothing to fear. She had laughed, as the voice of the matron rang in her head, and she wondered about the boy who kept staring at her as she walked from one lesson to another, and he picked apples or swept the yard, the gardener's new assistant.

But that was yesterday.

This morning-- if at all this hazy dawn filled with the tortured cries of the wounded, the whinnying of frenzied horses, the strange but now familiar smell of blood-soaked earth, could be called a morning-- all she felt were the kicks on her sides every time she stopped, the chafing of her wrists in leather bonds, the blisters under her unshod feet as the shackles on her waist dragged her along.

If apples were sinful, what were these men who had her bound?

She stumbled on, her hair in her eyes, till they caught a movement in the trees, a furtive, bird-like thing that followed her through the hillside forest. She darted glances at it, till she glimpsed the face of that gardener's boy-- grimy, determined, undeniably reassuring.

Perhaps, something remained of her earlier life after all. Changed, it is true, but something she could go back to. Maybe not all men were sinful.

If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

Blogging from A to Z Challenge Reflections Posts of 2012 will start on Monday May 7th. The Linky list will go up on that day so you can enter the link for that post on the list.

X is for Xavier knew he wouldn't make it: #atozchallenge fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Sat, 28 Apr 2012 15:53:00 +0000

Today's word prompt is by Jocelyn Rish because I liked its tone of desperation. And in contrast, I've chosen this sunny picture from Anna Smith, just to see what sparks would fly when the two opposite tones meet.
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Xavier knew he wouldn't make it to the bottom of the stairs and on to the beach by himself, but he did not let that stop him. Each breath emerged harsh in the seaside air, his spindly legs and veined feet ached, his arm gave way as he held on to the banister.

With the other arm he waved away the man who had taken bullets for him on more than one occasion. This one he had to do alone.

He saw them in the distance, his portly mother with his little son, out in the sand, trying to give the boy the sort of memories he should have at this age. Not an absent mother, and a father whose bones stood out further each day, surrounded by grim, gun-toting strangers. He had to reach them. The man whose word was law in all of Sicily, for policeman and thugs alike, could surely take a walk on the beach.

He stumbled and fell in a heap, sweat trickling into his eyes. Immediately his man Friday was by his side, his hands awkward, gentle. Xavier let himself be picked up, cursing the blood that now ran in his veins, a blood turned against its own master, sweeping away and sucking at his life from the inside. But he would not let that stop him.

He would walk to his son, and be the father, walk to his mother and be her son. He would do it, he told himself as he took another step, waving away the help again--- he would do it, or die trying.

If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

Blogging from A to Z Challenge Reflections Posts of 2012 will start on Monday May 7th. The Linky list will go up on that day so you can enter the link for that post on the list.

W for When I stepped over the threshold: #atozchallenge fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 15:10:00 +0000

Today's picture prompt is from Theresa Cole ---I love its light within darkness---and to go with it I've chosen a story starter (below at the beginning of the story in bold) by Marta Szemik which seems to portend a misfortune.
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When I stepped over the threshold, I did not know I would never see the sun again, but that is how it turned out.

I walked slow, not breathing too often nor too loud, trying to feel each step before I took it, waiting for an echo of my footsteps. But none came.

I smelled the air, raising my face, but could pick up no familiar scent. In the pitch dark, I could see nothing, and when I turned, I realized I did not know which way I had come.

Tired, I sat down, then lay myself, though I could not tell whether it was on a blanket or grass or concrete I lay. I felt nothing, not even the beating of my heart.

Welcome, thrummed from nowhere and everywhere at once, a voice, yet not a voice.

Here I have been ever since, waiting for the clouds to part for the sun, and the thrumming sings through me, as it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be, world without end.

I know not if days, weeks, months or years have passed. I stay here, no sense, no feeling, only existence, and the singing of the voice that is not a voice. The sun has not emerged, the clouds have not parted, and I know now that it does not matter.

I am, and the world is without beginning, without end. That is all.
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If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

Blogging from A to Z Challenge Reflections Posts of 2012 will start on Monday May 7th. The Linky list will go up on that day so you can enter the link for that post on the list.

V for Vulnerable was not the first word : atozchallenge fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 05:38:00 +0000

Today's word prompt (at the begining of the story below) comes from Jaye Robin Brown and I've matched it with a photo prompt courtesy Michelle Wallace.
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Vulnerable was not the first word that came to mind when you saw Blythe.

Her pinched waist, her plump breasts, her long legs, her short clothes, her straight blonde hair, and last but not the least, her vacant eyes, might remind you of Barbie. And you would be right.

That is all Blythe had dreamt of, all her life, since she was six and watched her mother take more care of her Barbie dolls than of her breakfast, bedtime and all the times in between. Blythe wanted to be Barbie.

They sent her mother away, because Dad said she was sick. She and Dad visited mother on Sundays in different white rooms that smelt of soap, cough medicine, and fear. Surrounded by white walls, white sheets and white flowers, mother seemed a little more wrinkled each time, afraid to touch anything other than the Barbies she lived with.

But all that would change today.

After two years away from mother, spent in hospital rooms and clinics that looked much like her mother's prison; hours, weeks, months spent recovering from cuts, sores, nips, tucks, pulls, agonies, implants, Blythe now hoped mother would look at her. Really look, and smile. She might even give Blythe a hug, or comb her meticulously ironed hair. Or kiss her porcelain-white cheek.

Blythe walked past the swinging glass doors of the facility that had housed her mother for more than twenty years, and into the lobby restroom. She gave herself a once over in the bathroom mirror. Her large, blue, unseeing eyes stared back at her. She moved up her skinny arm to pat her hair, and wondered what would happen if her arms came off, or her legs.

Worse still, what if mother found out they wouldn't come off? And that she had nipples, and a dark, soft cave between her legs? That she really wasn't Barbie, after all, but faltering, imperfect Blythe?

No. She would be quiet, and stay out of mother's reach. That way, mother would grin, call out to the life-sized Barbie doll. Blythe's dream would come true. She gave herself a stiff smile in the mirror, and walked to her mother's room, hips swaying, in determined steps.

If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

Blogging from A to Z Challenge Reflections Posts of 2012 will start on Monday May 7th. The Linky list will go up on that day so you can enter the link for that post on the list.

U for Unable to forgive her: #atozchallenge Fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 15:10:00 +0000

Today's story starter (at the beginning of the story in bold) comes from the super-helpful blogger friend Jocelyn Rish and the photo from Joseph. W. Richardson, an amazing writer and photographer I came across during this challenge.
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Unable to forgive her, he walked out to the lakeside, to watch a pale sun set amidst the bare branches of autumn.

They had bought this place beside the lake dreaming of weekends there, planning an extension when the children came, a boat to take them on rides and a short jetty where they would moor it after a long day out on the water.

He breathed in the chilled air, and the heaviness that is the curse of cold evenings settled upon his heart, slowing his limbs as he walked, filling him with a longing for a warm fire, mulled wine between his palms, her sigh upon his neck, reassuring, content.

He walked back to the log cabin, but instead of driving off after a final goodbye as he had intended, he found himself shoving open the door, and walking in. He switched on the lights and looked around---throughout her long illness, she had added touches here and there, in the bric-a-brac and paintings she had picked during their travels, their framed pictures in which their faces glowed with the conviction of happily ever after. Only she left before her time. Twenty-nine made no sense-- she should have waited to turn thirty. She should never have left.

His eyes cloaked in mist, he dragged the bean bag near the fire place, turned it on, and settled back. As the warmth seeped into his blood, he inhaled her fragrance that lingered in the air. He closed his eyes and saw her as she was, smiling, full of life even when angry or sad. Maybe she had lived squeezed in more years in the ones she lived, after all.

He pushed himself up on his feet, walked across to the kitchen to make himself a drink, something warm to hold between his palms. He was going to stay the night.
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If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

Blogging from A to Z Challenge Reflections Posts of 2012 will start on Monday May 7th. The Linky list will go up on that day so you can enter the link for that post on the list.

T for The Moon Was Broken: #atozchallenge Fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 15:58:00 +0000

Today's picture prompt was sent in by writer-friend Stuart Nager, and the word prompt (the bolded out part of the story in the beginning) I chose to go with it came from Christine Rains.
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The Moon was broken.

They could not live without light---had to talk to the Sun, They all knew it, but none had the guts to go up and make the first request.

For years, They remained in the dark, building a track across the fields. Once it was done, They would all board the train, so no one would arrive before or after. The wrath of the Sun would divide, and dissipate.

The Sun, lost in His own brightness, never caught on that His bride, the Moon, had broken down, that it was all Their fault, the fault of Those who did not give Her enough love, did not joy in Her cold light enough to give Her a reason to continue to burn, and in anguish She told herself, Be Not, and broke into a million icy shards.

Long ages they made that track, and in the years of darkness They did all by sound, touch, smell, taste, and lost the use for sight, like moles digging under the ground. By the time They boarded the train, they no longer remembered their request. But the Sun, hot and bothered without the Moon to cool Him down guessed Their plight.

The Sun emerged into Their horizon, and wherever He looked, flowers bloomed-- in the fields, and along the long train track that led to him. Flowers red and yellow and blue, and all the other shades between them waved in the wind, with no one to see their beauty.

They felt the Sun's warmth, and thought They had got his blessing. Every few decades one of Them developed sight, and when he spoke of the splendors he saw, he was anointed a Prophet.

The Moon remained broken in a million pieces, frozen, and appeared whole only when the Sun dreamed of her. She waxed and waned as her husband's ardor grew and fell, and when the Sun forgot her entirely, She retaliated by swallowing him whole.

And that is the story of the Sun, the Moon, and Those that broke her.

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If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

As a co-host, I end with A to Z Challenge reminders:

1. Turn off your word verification. It helps no one. You may moderate comments for a while if you're unsure.

2. In your comment id, link only to your AZ blog, NOT your profile which may have five other blogs.

3. Leave a link to you when you comment.

4. Comment when you visit blogs. Start visiting with the blog below you on the linky list.

5. Make it easy for people to follow your blog and follow you on social media.

S for : Saying Goodbye : #atozchallenge Fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 14:00:00 +0000

Today's word prompt came from Jocelyn Rish and I selected the picture from Rayna M Iyer's collection.Writing this story proved harder than I'd imagined:
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Saying goodbye was easier than Martha had imagined. They were two words, after all, Good and Bye, which meant Bye for Good; Bye, and never see you again. One opened one's mouth and said them, one after the other, while one tried, fought, to keep curving the lips upwards, to make the eyes suck back their moisture, to keep them from looking at what they'll never see again.

Complicated, but doable. Martha had managed rather well, the old lady who carried him away said so. Don't you worry now, dear, by tomorrow he will settle down. They forget easily at this age. And realizing what had escaped her, she added, You're doing what is right by him you know.

Martha nodded, trying to tear her eyes away from the swaddled bundle in the woman's arms. Her eyes caught on the Devil's Ivy snaking up the red brick wall opposite her. There wasn't much to distract her in the alley.

Well, I must be off, it'll pour anytime now, nodded the lady and walked away to her car, with as much of a trot as her bent old legs would allow.

Martha moved her eyes back to the wall, watching the contrast of green against red, willing herself to move. That was easy, and now I just have to put one foot ahead of the other. It's called walking, Martha.

The clouds made good their threat. Rain pelted her as she stilled, poised for her next step, which refused to come. Instead, she stood dry-eyed in the middle of the downpour, staring at the red brick wall, and the weeping tendrils of Devil's Ivy. That's easy, she said. Just watch how they do it. It's called weeping.

But after a while she left the ivy alone in its task, and walked out of the alley. Weeping proved harder than she'd imagined.
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If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

As a co-host, I end with A to Z Challenge reminders:

1. Turn off your word verification. It helps no one. You may moderate comments for a while if you're unsure.

2. In your comment id, link only to your AZ blog, NOT your profile which may have five other blogs.

3. Leave a link to you when you comment.

4. Comment when you visit blogs. Start visiting with the blog below you on the linky list.

5. Make it easy for people to follow your blog and follow you on social media.

R for Red light covered the evening sky: #atozchallenge Fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Sat, 21 Apr 2012 15:58:00 +0000

Today's picture prompt and story starter (the bolded out part of the story in the beginning) are from Claire Goverts, a great A to Z challenge supporter for me last year. The picture is what drew me to these prompts. The word prompt is very unrelated to the picture, and I hope that helps rather than hinders my writing!

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Red light covered the evening sky-- he saw her outlined against the approaching darkness. She would come back, he knew, if only he could carve her out of the unfeeling stone in which she had hidden herself.

His curses and jibes had sent her curling inwards, hardening. His love would chisel her out, give shape to her limbs, her exquisite breasts, her smile, her eyelashes, her voice. He would bring her back.

He looked up at her as she sat on the steps of their hillside home, her gaze distant, unseeing, her face vacant in the fading sunlight.

These days she spoke only when asked a specific question, and then only in a subdued monotone. She did not anger, did not show hurt except when he slapped her around to get a reaction. Her sobs, though visible, never broke the silence. She did not look up at his apologies, she ignored her favorite dishes he cooked to win her back, she lay nerveless in their bed as he made love to her body. Her lips curved up at his gifts, as if she had learned how to smile from a book, never having seen one herself.

As the red in the sky faded, he walked into the garage at the back, and brought out the canister of petrol. Its smell brought up his gorge as he soaked in it--his clothes, his hair, his heart. He would bring back the fire, he promised himself, as he cried to her, the man calling for his muse.

The hillside echoed with their cries, the flames rose, and she ran to him. The evening sky turned red again, and this time it continued to burn.
------

As a co-host, I end with A to Z Challenge reminders:

1. Turn off your word verification. It helps no one. You may moderate comments for a while if you're unsure.

2. In your comment id, link only to your AZ blog, NOT your profile which may have 5 other blogs.
3. Leave a link to you when you comment.

4. Comment when you visit blogs. Start visiting with the blog below you on the linky list.

5. Make it easy for people to follow your blog and follow you on social media.
---------

If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

Q for Quiet--thick, absolute quiet: #atozchallenge fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 13:45:00 +0000

Today's story starter (in the beginning of the story below in bold) was sent in by S.B. Stewart-Laing and the photo came in from Rae Weaver. The minute I read the prompt, the picture fitted in as a natural and I let it be.
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Quiet-- thick, absolute quiet-- was so rare in the neighborhood it felt like a noise unto itself.

This is what woke her up, this cessation of sound in her dreams, as if a blanket of snow, soft and heavy, had fallen, muting everything and everyone around her.

She creaked out of bed, surprised her old limbs had given her enough respite to fall asleep. In the semi-darkness of the morning, she stumbled not just on her feet but in her thoughts.

I wish it snows this year before Christmas. Christmas in two days. Maybe they would come this year--their kids piled in the backseat, their colors and voices filling up her wooden home, and bring another new wreath for the door.

She thought of the old one, the one from three years ago, with its red satin sash which hung on, despite the elements, despite the withering leaves and wood-apples on the the rest of the wreath.

She parted the curtains and looked out-- nothing but the bare cherry trees in her garden. She huffed, and closing the curtains back, hobbled back to her bed. They wouldn't come---they had plans, they'd said-- vacation in the tropics, Christmas on the beach after a day of sand and surf.

She went back to sleep and dreams.

Outside, the silence continued, and soon became the silence of snow, as a flake became a flurry, and the flurry a fall.

In her trance, the cherry trees stood, patiently, in their new white garb, waiting for her to wake up. There would be a new Christmas this year, they whispered, there would be noise and cheer, a new wreath. And if you live long enough, there would be spring.

She slept on. The snow continued to fall-- silent, thick, and soft, in the absolute quiet of her dreams.

If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

As a co-host, I end with A to Z Challenge reminders:

1. Turn off your word verification. It helps no one. You may moderate comments for a while if you're unsure.

2. In your comment id, link only to your AZ blog, NOT your profile which may have 5 other blogs.
3. Leave a link to you when you comment.

4. Comment when you visit blogs. Start visiting with the blog below you on the linky list.

5. Make it easy for people to follow your blog and follow you on social media.

------

P for Perched up high: #atozchallenge fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 01:09:00 +0000

Today's story starter (in bold at the beginning of the story below) comes from Boysmum2 and the picture prompt is another, my favorite, snapshot by Joseph. W Richardson.
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Perched up high in a church bell tower waiting for the rain to pass, he cowered as he watched things fall apart. Would he be spared to later tell the tale of the times when the earth quaked, the wind sang, when outside there was a storm, as much in his heart inside?

His eyes fogged with tears, he curled himself in a corner of the conjuratory, a preacher who'd forgotten his prayers against the rain. The bell rang through his body, sending ripples through his being, incessant, like the howling of the wind through the broken glass panes.

As afternoon became evening and evening rolled into night, he clung on, trying to remember the holy words he had learned for years at the seminary, but none came. The bell tolled through him, till he and the bell became one. It purged him of all thought, and only the breath and the vibration remained through the night, wordless, but no longer agonized.

They found him in the morning lying in a silent heap under a quiescent bell.

Your prayers saved us from the worst of it Father. A few were hurt, but none died, they said as they lifted him on their shoulders and down the dark stairs and into the sunlit church courtyard.

He opened his eyes and looked at them, You were the saved by the bell, my children, he said, and fell quiet, listening to the tolling of the bell within.

Those were his last words. Another took his mantle in the church, because from that day onwards till the hour he died, the good preacher never uttered a word again.

If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

As a co-host, I end with A to Z Challenge reminders:

1. Turn off your word verification. It helps no one. You may moderate comments for a while if you're unsure.

2. In your comment id, link only to your AZ blog, NOT your profile which may have five other blogs.

3. Leave a link to you when you comment.

4. Comment when you visit blogs. Start visiting with the blog below you on the linky list.

5. Make it easy for people to follow your blog and follow you on social media.

O for Orange light reflected from its eyes: #atozchallenge fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 03:32:00 +0000

Today's story starter (at the beginning of the story in bold) comes from Jocelyn Rish and to go with it I chose this picture by Joseph W. Richardson.
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Orange light reflected from its eyes as it paced towards me, unhurried, its hooves clacking on the ice on the pavement. So this is how I would die, five minutes past midnight into Christmas, on an empty road as I walked back home, after a day spent gallivanting in disguise.

Christmas always gave me that creepy feeling, as if everyone were making merry and eating, pretending for all their worth as if nothing were wrong, when they knew the world was about to end. And today it would end for me, notwithstanding my own years of training as a warrior, the many sermons I had attended in both school and church, a púca with its black horse-body and its clarion clear voice would mark my end.

So boy, are you ready? it said, whinnying and stomping the ground, clanging the chains about its neck, its orange eyes now a pale gold, its breath a mist of spoiled blackberries.

Trying to stand tall with my body that was no longer that of a boy, not yet of a man, I said, No one is ever ready. The gas light above my head dimmed and flashed.

Will you fight or submit, Brian Boru?said the púca, grinning through its horse teeth.

What will be, will be, but if its is all the same to you, I'll fight.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

As a co-host, I end with A to Z Challenge reminders:

1. Turn off your word verification. It helps no one. You may moderate comments for a while if you're unsure.

2. In your comment id, link only to your AZ blog, NOT your profile which may have five other blogs.

3. Leave a link to you when you comment.

4. Comment when you visit blogs. Start visiting with the blog below you on the linky list.

5. Make it easy for people to follow your blog and follow you on social media.

N for Nothing Could Stop Me: #atozchallenge fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 00:05:00 +0000

This intriguing photo was left me by Lauren S. and I decided to combine it with a story starter (below at the beginning of the story in bold) from Siv Maria. I went completely with my gut on this one, don't know why I chose one to go with the other, but here is the result:
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Nothing could stop me.

I had her where I wanted her, in my car, wide-eyed and breathless, eager to listen.

I had a gun cocked to her head, but that's just detail.

Point was she had agreed I was good, I was handsome, and despite her running mascara, and the faint stench of her sweat, I found her believable. Her eyes spoke of love, as they must. I wasn't a down and out blagger any more, lonely for company.

I looked at the cap she had worn against the cold, I ran my finger on the shaking red lips, and her black jacket that shone in the light that came in from the car window. When I tugged at the coiled silver necklace about her throat, the tears on her face shone too.

I did not know then about her left boot, and my dirty old sock in the subway of all places, where they fell out my bag as I ran a few errands around town, not wanting to take her along in the car boot all wrapped up in the trash bag.

Her boot would be submitted to the police by some batshit Blahnik fan convinced the owner would offer a reward. They would recognize her as the owner, and the socks would lead them to me.

But at that moment, when her eyes still lived, when her soft, halting voice gave me the answers I wanted in the parking lot I had picked her from, I was handsome, I was good, and nothing could have stopped me.
------

If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

As a co-host, I end with A to Z Challenge reminders:

1. Turn off your word verification. It helps no one. You may moderate comments for a while if you're unsure.

2. In your comment id, link only to your AZ blog, NOT your profile which may have five other blogs.

3. Leave a link to you when you comment.

4. Comment when you visit blogs. Start visiting with the blog below you on the linky list.

5. Make it easy for people to follow your blog and follow you on social media.

M for Meet Me at Midnight in the Garden: #atozchallenge Fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Sat, 14 Apr 2012 15:55:00 +0000

Today's story starter (in the beginning of the story below in bold) came from Arlee Bird, the founder of the A to Z Challenge. I loved the picture he sent me, by AdaZdanowicz , because there is so much to the woman's expression, and how that adds to entire atmosphere.
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"Meet me at midnight in the garden," said the man in the mask, only she knew exactly who he was. She knew that voice, hot and sticky like molasses at supper time, because it had whispered many sweet nothings into her ear over the years, and some things not so sweet. And she had obeyed.

The smoke of his cigarette nauseated her, the fingers trailing on the satin shoulder of her alabaster gown made her want to turn around and do something noisy and abrupt, which would bring this sham of a costume party he had thrown for her birthday to a screeching halt. But she did no such thing. She knew the consequences only too well.

She left the party as the long hand of the clock inched towards twelve and made her way towards the gazebo where she knew he would be, a pair of rings nestling in a heart-shaped cushion on the table before him. The renewal of vows.

She flipped open her phone as it buzzed in her purse, shoulders bunched, then sagged in relief. She strode ahead, her stilettoed legs gleaming in the half-light, as they thrust through the slit in her gown. He would pay for it all tonight---the number of times he'd held their daughter outside the window when she threatened to leave him, for each time he said Sorry I didn't hear you, say that again, for all the welts on that small defenseless body every time she refused to do his bidding.

He would pay for them all, and then some. Their daughter was now beyond his reach, and of those who lived to obey him, even if he be no more.

Switchblade at the ready, she stepped before him as he stood unmasked, clouded in his cigarette smell. He kneeled to kiss her hand, following a decade-old ritual, Happy Birthday my darling, will you be mine?

I'm yours, her lips answered before she could stop them. Warm blood spattered her gown, scenting the air as he gurgled and fell, clutching at his throat. No more cigarette smells.

Say what, darling? she bent her head a little and smiled, Sorry I couldn't hear you.

If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

As a co-host, I end with A to Z Challenge reminders:

1. Turn off your word verification. It helps no one. You may moderate comments for a while if you're unsure.

2. In your comment id, link only to your AZ blog, NOT your profile which may have five other blogs.

3. Leave a link to you when you comment.

4. Comment when you visit blogs. Start visiting with the blog below you on the linky list.

5. Make it easy for people to follow your blog and follow you on social media.

L for Labour Like You Don’t Need Money: #atozchallenge Fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Fri, 13 Apr 2012 14:55:00 +0000

Today's picture prompt and story starter (in bold at the beginning of the story below) came in from Michelle Wallace.

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Labor like you don’t need money, Father said as he did every time Rob worked in the yard, That will bring you true happiness, my boy.

I already labor like I don't expect nothing, muttered Rob under his breath. The air smelled of dying lichen. It was a wonder Father did not hear him in the stillness of the hills.

Each autumn weekend, Father and Rob would crush the fallen, dry leaves as they walked, Father's gaze sizing up the best oaks to cut, Rob's eyes lowered on his boots dragging over the gravel. Father slid his arm on Rob's shoulder. His hard hand stroked Rob's back, rubbed over the pockets at the back of his fitted jeans, To be young again, my boy, I would give anything for such pleasure.

As usual, Rob flinched, but this time he felt a pulse of hope. Maybe it would work if he asked permission to go for a weekend out camping with the boys right now. Father was always in a generous mood when he talked of pleasure.

Work is worship, Father replied instead, handing him a pair of ratty old gloves that did nothing to save his hands from blisters, Get to work, and no breaks till lunchtime. And remember, happiness, my boy! Look alive! He strode out with a crackle of dead leaves under his feet.
Rob got rid of his jacket, set to work.
I'm happy, he said with each stroke, his arms straining as he lifted the hatchet, One day I'll be truly happy, he continued as he brought it down. The day it is your head right here Father, he said, setting the next log for splitting, that day I would labor like I need nothing else.
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If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

As a co-host, I end with A to Z Challenge reminders:

1. Turn off your word verification. It helps no one. You may moderate comments for a while if you're unsure.

2. In your comment id, link only to your AZ blog, NOT your profile which may have 5 other blogs.
3. Leave a link to you when you comment.

4. Comment when you visit blogs. Start visiting with the blog below you on the linky list.

5. Make it easy for people to follow your blog and follow you on social media.

K for Kokeshi was the name of the beautiful doll: #atozchallenge fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Thu, 12 Apr 2012 15:38:00 +0000

Today's Picture prompt and story starter (at the beginning of the story below in red) come from Honoré Dupuis and I chose them because I find them somewhat sinful and everyone knows writers like sinful stuff!
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Kokeshi was the name of the beautiful doll, a doll with no arms and legs. But that is where her similarity with her name ended.

She wasn't Japanese, first of all, nor made of wood. Secondly, she wasn't painted in delicate colors and she did not stay still. To make up for her lack of walking, her body danced and twitched. In place of her hands, her shapely mouth picked and spoke and ate and laughed, her large blue eyes winked and chortled at friends and family.

The day he saw her, he knew he had to have her. He made friends, making friends with Kokeshi was the easiest thing. He gave her lips tattoos-- candy stripes in rainbow colors, weighed her eyes with false eyelashes, concealed her short hair in a beehive wig. You'll be a new woman when we're done, he told her, a tube of paint in one hand, palette in another.

Really? asked Kokeshi, How?

Close your eyes and sit very still, he grunted through the brush gripped between his teeth.

Hours later, when Kokeshi's head and heart had cramped, and her heavy eyes had given way to sleep, he said, Open your eyes for my masterpiece.

Kokeshi now had long legs, and long arms wrapped around them. Her fingers and toes ended in perfect red nails.

Stay still, he said, or you'll spoil the effect. Women the world over beg me to paint them and I decided to paint my best on you.

Kokeshi gave herself a shake, and as her body moved, the limbs painted over her breasts and stomach moved like pale snakes under water.

Keep still, he barked, you're ruining it!

As she rolled on the floor, he howled in agony. Stop, that is my best art! At least let me take a photograph!

She let out a sound between a laugh and a sob. Art is all very well, but I liked the earlier woman better. She moved, she lived, said Kokesi, smudging the new limbs beyond repair.

------

If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

As a co-host, I end with A to Z Challenge reminders:

1. Turn off your word verification. It helps no one. You may moderate comments for a while if you're unsure.

2. In your comment id, link only to your AZ blog, NOT your profile which may have five other blogs.

3. Leave a link to you when you comment.

4. Comment when you visit blogs. Start visiting with the blog below you on the linky list.

5. Make it easy for people to follow your blog and follow you on social media.

J for Just a Little More: #atozchallenge Fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 13:38:00 +0000

As a co-host, I begin with A to Z Challenge reminders:

1. Turn off your word verification. It helps no one. You may moderate comments for a while if you're unsure.

2. In your comment id, link only to your AZ blog, NOT your profile which may have five other blogs.

3. Leave a link to you when you comment.

4. Comment when you visit blogs. Start visiting with the blog below you on the linky list.

5. Make it easy for people to follow your blog and follow you on social media.

---------

Today's story starter (in bold red at the beginning of the story below) and picture are from Mina Lobo, and I chose them because they seemed so much in harmony. Here goes the story:
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Just a little more love, crooned David Guetta from the battered radio in the workshop, that's all you need. She sat in the half light coming in from the bay window above the stairs, the lyrics slamming about in her head as she worked on the mannequin. The sky gloomed over the house, overcast, silent.

How had it come to this? Like her mother all those years ago who used to come and hug her on dark, rainy days, she was reduced to longing for a touch that would tell her she wasn't alone. That this day that followed day held meaning, that the pricks of the needle on her fingers as she created one vintage dress after another were worth more than just the money required for their mortgage, or the fees for her daughter's music lessons.

This is what he has brought me to, she muttered as Guetta kept crooning the same words over and over again, a cliched suburban wife looking for a 'little more love'.

She imagined him in another part of town--her husband, beginning to grow bald, soften around the middle, poring over the accounts at his job, his glasses poised at the bridge of his nose.

Would I have married him had I known, she whispered under her breath, her hand picking up pace over the mannequin, that this is what it would come to?

She watched as the first drops of rain pelted the glass window, began to weep their way down and out of sight. I was always alone, even in his arms in those first days, right in the throes of my pleasure.

She switched off the radio, walked up the stairs and sat herself on the bay window. I'm always alone--you're each alone though you fall together, she told the raindrops. We're all alone. The trick is to learn how not to be lonely.

She watched as it poured on the houses and trees across her street, hugging herself, rocking to and fro. Just a little more love won't cut it.
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If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.

I for It took a full ten seconds: #atozchallenge ficion

noreply@blogger.com (Damyanti) — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 14:00:00 +0000

As a co-host, I begin with A to Z Challenge reminders:

1. Turn off your word verification. It helps no one. You may moderate comments for a while if you're unsure.

2. In your comment id, link only to your AZ blog, NOT your profile which may have 5 other blogs.
3. Leave a link to you when you comment.

4. Comment when you visit blogs. Start visiting with the blog below you on the linky list.

5. Make it easy for people to follow your blog and follow you on social media.
-------

Today's story comes from the prompt and picture sent by
Jamie Gibbs. I chose this because of its fairy-tale quality, and I fancied the idea of a very literary, cynical take on what would have made excellent fantasy.
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It took a full ten seconds for him to realize that he was awake and not in his bed. It had happened again--he had walked out to his backyard and beyond, and now he lay on the leaf-covered forest floor. A look at the partly clouded sky told him he would reach his office late again, and a glance at his wristwatch confirmed it.

Propping himself on his elbow, he rubbed sleep from his eyes and found his one-eyed gaze returned by the tree across where he lay. Like a monster escaped from his nightmares, the tree sneered, fixing its beady eye and thin lips into a knowing smirk.

I know you, it said, Peter Pansington, your surname has grown as much as the rest of you, especially your belly. How do you like being a grown up, eh?

Peter thought of his wife who could not cook. Or would not, at any rate. Of the children he had fathered who could never keep quiet. Of friends he never made. Of his boss who could not smile, his colleagues who could not stop laughing. Of his body that could not sleep in bed, wandering out into the woods each night.

Why, it is swell being grown up! he said, getting up and brushing the leaves off his trainers, Beats the hell out of standing like a statue all day in the middle of a garden, having fairies and animals and people gawk at you.

Wouldn't you rather go back? asked the tree, its eye rolling in its socket, its lip uncurled.

No, he said, beginning to walk away, this may not be fun, but it ends. Forever gets to be boring. I'd rather be a bald, ornery man who grows old, than a boy who stands in one place, never growing up.

But what is the point? the tree threw the question at his retreating back. You made me, and now you're going away.

There is the whole point, dear tree, said he, looking straight ahead as he walked back to the bedlam that was his home. There is no point. There never will be.

What should I do now? wailed the tree.

Take a walk, tree, grow old, have kids, die, said Perter Parsington, turning the knob on his back door. Stop searching for the point behind it all. There is none. Trust me.

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If you liked this story you might like some of the stories I wrote for my A to Z last year.