The Ranting Willow (v 2.0)

NaNoWriMo: There's a liiiight...

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 13:50:00 +0000

(from Rocky Horror Picture Show)

In 2007 & 2008 my NaNo project was this idea I'd been toying with, an East-meets-West fish-out-of-water search-for-meaning otherworldly fantasy work. It's nowhere near done, and I haven't touched it since "winning" last year's NaNo (don't ask). So for this year, I decided I wouldn't write anything that was related to this tale, not even to flesh out other overlapping characters I'd invented in the meantime thanks to 3WW/[Fiction]Friday prompts; I was to just. write. something else. ... then yesterday, while exploring one tangent my struggling tale had gone to, I realised that my MC was exhibiting signs of being related to the previous tale: whether it's Book 2, or a spin-off, I don't rightly know, but with that light now shed on the subject, methinks the flow will now cometh. This may mean needing to rewrite some of the scenes I've already written, but I won't worry about that.. I'll just write whatever needs to be written.

One Word: oven

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 12:45:00 +0000

Today's 1 minute 1 word writing prompt is OVEN.

The bird was in the oven. Ma Smith peered through the thick safety glass, trying to gauge its doneness. It wouldn't do to have an overcooked turkey, not when twenty mouths were expecting yet another juicy delectable feast they had come to expect from Ma Smith every Thanksgiving.

(I had the November 27th [Fiction]Friday challenge in mind, fyi)

oh my... expecting yet another juicy delectable feast they had come to expect?? ugh!! Please allow myself to introduce myself, please! :p Looks like I'll be dealing with the Department of Redundancy Department today, I wonder how that will impact my word count?

Current word count = ~2300 (I should be at 11,669, preferably 14,000)

... and so it begins ...

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 16:30:00 +0000

NaNoWriMo is here!

Click on the logo to get to my profile page.

You'll see that I have no Novel Info.

Yeah.

We'll see how this goes.

Time to hit Write or Die.

In the meantime, feel free to buddy me if you're participating too.

Bye!

ABCs of MeMeMe

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 16:55:00 +0000

I rarely do memes here, but I couldn't say no to Spirit :)

A – Age: the other side of 35, this side of 40
B – Bed size: full (if only the cat wouldn't take up half of it!)
C – Chore you hate: Dusting
D – Dog’s name: N/A
E – Essential start your day item: the 'puter for a quick check of emails, facebook and twitter. Ideally I'd like to start the day with some meditation. Working on it. The call of the internets is too loud!
F – Favorite color: it depends. Black. Green.
G – Gold or Silver: Silver.
H – Height: Not enough (153 cm = 5' .5")
I – I am: still searching, a work in progress
J – Job: nothing official.
K – Kids: none. yet. perhaps. depends on many factors, one of them this fear of channeling my mother when dealing with any kids I may have.
L – Living arrangements: renting a turn of the century apartment.
M – Mom’s name: nope.
N – Nicknames: well, I use ~willow~ here...
O – Overnight hospital stay other than birth: yup.
P – Pet Peeve: fanatics who are convinced their way is true/correct.right/just and everyone else is wrong.
Q – Quote from a movie: "I see you shiver with anticip..[SAY IT!]..pation"
R – Right or left handed: Right.
T – Time you wake up: about 5am due to Elm's alarm ... whether I go back to sleep or actually wake up is another matter altogether!
U- Underwear: granny panties
V – Vegetable you dislike: Brussels sprouts, they are dis.gus.ting!
W – Ways you run late: lose track of time while on the PC/internet
X – X-rays you’ve had: chest, foot.
Y – Yummy food you make: I don't know, everything comes out pretty edible...
Z – Zoo favorite: hmmm... haven't been in a long time, and I don't remember any one animal captivating me in any way...

.. and there you have it! Hope it was worth your 2 minutes to read through the list :D

One Word: gem

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 11:25:00 +0000

Today's 1 minute 1 word writing prompt is GEM.

I glared at him.

At least he had the decency to look ashamed. He knew he wasn't welcome in my thoughts.

"But I wasn't in your thoughts! You were broadcasting them so loud and so strong," he protested.

[had to continue my thoughts a little bit more, in italics]

One Word: aspect

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 15:20:00 +0000

Today's 1 minute 1 word writing prompt is ASPECT.

So many aspects of me you do not see. Do you choose not to see, or are you truly blind to the many layers that form me? And what about you? You try to show a hard face to the world, but I see the hurt, shame and terror peeking out from behind your mask. A burden shared is a burned made lighter. Share with me, so that I can share with you, too.

3WW: effects of a dance club on an assassin

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 19:00:00 +0000

3WW #CLX
Heartache
Jangle
Reckless
= = =

The cacophonic jangle of what passed for music these days reduced to just a dull roar in my ears as I diverted attention away from my hearing and towards my sight instead, allowing Nelson to lead me ever deeper through the writhing mass of frenetic dancers gyrating wildly not just on the dance floor but wherever there was room - on chairs, tables, even each other. A familiar shape caught my eye, swinging above me from what looked like a light fixture -- surely Adira wouldn't be that reckless? Keeping enhanced eyes trained on what I hoped wasn't Adira, I had just started to tug at Nelson's hand, to show him what was above us, when a set of multi-colored strobe lights flashed to life, searing my hyper-sensitized corneas, turning my world into white pain, my eyes orbs of agony. I know I screamed, but my ears heard nothing; it was all I could do to stagger in the direction I was being pulled. Had Nelson not noticed anything? As trained, my attention moved to the remaining senses, standard survival procedure: the feel of Nelson's already too-cold and too-clammy reptilian skin was suddenly overwhelming and I started to shake uncontrollably, which made Nelson grip me even more tightly and pull me along even more firmly. Forcing my attention away from skin and touch, I was suddenly aware of just how badly the place reeked of hundreds and hundreds of ripe, unwashed bodies. Gag reflex -- I started to heave. Bent over almost double, I gritted my teeth and tried breathing through my mouth, but instead of bringing relief my tongue found itself assaulted by the taste of the offensive odors. They didn't train you for situations like this. I felt myself losing it, on the brink of passing out, yet the grip on my arm was merciless, and I stumbled along, a wretched dry-heaving blind shaky-kneed fool, a wannabe hero defeated effortlessly by the inside of ... of... a dance club?! Oh, the heartache! The shame!

One Word: modern

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 11:15:00 +0000

Another round of the 1 minute 1 word writing prompt; today's word is MODERN.

Here's what I wrung out of me at 6:15 am:

What have we gained in this modern world, and what have we lost? Communication is more rampant, yet we are less connected, meaningfully, than ever before. You have people attending a concert and tweeting about the experience, instead of experiencing the full thing, and exploring the memory of it afterwards.

Funny how my responses so far have been "serious" ones, while other prompts without such time constraints result in fantasy & perhaps a little humor. I wonder what that says about me.

One Word: caring

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 11:50:00 +0000

Just found this 1 minute 1 word writing prompt, thanks to Patsy.

Today's word is CARING.

Here's what I wrung out of me at 6:45 am:

Changeling

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 13:25:00 +0000

[Fiction] Friday Challenge for October 16, 2009:
Your character finds a mysterious package on his/her doorstep. What’s inside?.
= = =

If it wasn't pitch dark, the air would have turned blue as I spat out many a bad word while gingerly picking myself off the front porch. I wasn't late -- yet. But at 5:30 in the morning, on the way to another mission, I could certainly do without calling any attention to myself with things like the startled scream as I tripped, surprised; like the loud thud as I landed, awkwardly; like the coarse curses as the pain hit, hard. Glancing around as I patted and flexed my throbbing face, shoulder, arm and ankle, I was glad for what I didn't see and hear: no lights were on, no curious neighbors, not even a dog was barking. I guess it had all been loud in my head, to my ears.

Unless someone was watching in darkness, not wanting to be seen.

I shook my head. That was a dangerous path for my thoughts to follow. If I lost my nerve, I would compromise not just this mission, but the safety of the goodfolk too.

There was no need to look at my watch - my trained body told me it was now 5:33 am, and I had to get moving. But first ... my eyes flicked back to the door standing slightly ajar: I had been in the process of stepping out, leading with my right shoulder, keys in right hand, left hand on the doorknob pulling the door closed ... there! A dark square shadow sitting askew on the doorstep, an object that didn't belong, this was what had tripped me. I squinted in the darkness: was it topped with a bow?

5:34am. No more delays. I pulled the door shut, locked it, grabbed the surprisingly heavy gift-wrapped package, and jogged to the street corner. Pick-up was 5:35am. I was right on time.

No one asked about the green and silver glitter wrapped box topped with a shimmering ribbon in a bow that sat on my lap. Silence was standard protocol. Of course, standard protocol probably also covered things like not taking unknown packages with you on a mission, but I was suddenly struck with reckless abandon: if we had been compromised, now was as good a time as any to find out.

I pulled at the bow and ripped the paper off, sending clouds of glitter all over the vehicle, temporarily transforming my fellow passengers into eerie oversized goodfolk. I saw spines stiffen and faces freeze, but I also sensed my comrades studying me as well as they could from the corner of their eyes.

It was a brown cardboard box, disappointingly nondescript after its eye-catching exterior. It still felt surprisingly heavy for its size, and made no sound when I shook it a little, providing no clue to its contents. With a shrug of the shoulders, I worked the lid loose and opened it slowly.

I had barely a second to register what I saw.

A bomb.
A bomb of the otherworld kind.

Had the goodfolk turned against us?

They say the blast took out two miles of the highway and neighboring buildings.
How I survived with nary a scratch on me when everyone else perished, I did not know.

Or rather, I didn't want to know.

Because humans could never have survived that explosion.
So what did that make me?

Rumors started circulating: maybe I have a fairy godmother. I suspected it might be worse than that: I might actually be one.

Goodfolk. Faerie. Sidhe.

Changeling.

Then came the tribunal. Verdict? Exile.
That was how I came to find myself - I can thank them for that, at least.

And yet, as I now survey what remains of the place I once called home, of the organization I once considered family, as I wipe the blood and dust off my brow, I smile ruefully and think: They should have killed me while they could.

One long sentence for 3WW

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 11:50:00 +0000

3WW #CLIX
frustrate
indecent
understand
= = =

I don't understand why you have done nothing but frustrate every single peaceful overture I have put forth -- I swear you derive an indecent amount of gratification from these endless family feuds!

...of NaNo and Mantras...

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 15:40:00 +0000

I wasn't planning on it, then changed my mind: I'm dragging my shriveled and dry muse into this year's NaNoWriMo! So far she's not kicking and screaming, so either she's dead, or she's giving tacit support for this year's endeavor: I guess we'll find out once November rolls around, eh? :D

I have no idea what I'll be writing this year: I ~do~ know I will not be tackling the same tale that I did in '07 and '08 ... I'll come back and do justice to Anita and the gang once Ms Muse is inspired again. ... Of course, I ~could~ tackle "Book 2" ... or explore one of my other characters in more depth (Vincent!!) ...

... we'll see...

In the meantime, I'd like to share this fantastic video: it's the Medicine Buddha mantra for healing, sung in such a way that I keep hitting the replay button. Tell me if you find yourself doing that too.

ack

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 01:30:00 +0000

ack. it's been over a month since my last post?!!

sigh

finding the time ~and~ frame of mind to don the ~willow~ "hat" has been quite challenging recently. IRL this past month has been, and continues to be, quite the challenge in terms of stress, health and focus in general.

I'll be back though.

~willow~ has stories tell and tales to weave.

one of these days, a [Fiction] Friday or Three Word Wednesday prompt will jar her into action.

wait for it

:)

3WW: fickle, sparkle, wrinkle

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 16:20:00 +0000

3WW #CXLIII
Fickle
Sparkle
Wrinkle
= = =

The melee in the courtyard slowed, all noise seemingly muted as combatants' eyes followed the arc of the ring as it flew -- no, leisurely floated -- up and up, spinning ever so deliberately in the bright blue sky, emitting sparkle after sparkle as the mid-morning sun's rays reflected off its gleaming surface.

King Philliam, in plush purple robes astride his magnificent midnight-black stallion, was just as dumbstruck as the rest of his gaping men decked in scarlet uniforms, as the gawking rebels with many a wrinkle and hole riddling their dirty peasant attire.

So dumbstruck was he that he didn't even complete the spell he had been casting, the one that required a flourish of the hand infused with his Will, the one that would have laid the rebels to waste in an instant. He didn't even think to invoke a simple Pull spell to get the ring back in hand. Instead, all that ran through his mind was Huh. I must have lost some weight.

Then up jumped Young Master Tyrus.

His too-long arms now seemed works of art as they stretched skywards, ringwards; the band's elegant journey interrupted by the boy's calloused hands. Landing nimbly, Tyrus shook a ring-clutching fist in the air and screamed "I've got it! I've got it! Let's go!" The rebels were quick to react, disengaging from the still-gaping soldiers, emptying the courtyard, disappearing into the many alleyways and downwards into the tunnels.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, King Philliam let out a bellow of incompetent rage. Spell broken, wide-eyed soldiers scurried after the rebels, even though they knew no trace would be found of them: better to vacate the courtyard, however, than to face the wrath of the king.

Alone in the courtyard, King Philliam slid off his horse, unaccustomed dread starting to insinuate itself throughout his very being. Of all the days to have been moved to wear a ring, it had to be today. King Philliam shook his head in disbelief as he led the war stallion to the stables. Of all the rings to have been moved to wear, it had to be that one. Fate surely was the most fickle of mistresses.

What awaits after the jump?

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 05:45:00 +0000

[Fiction] Friday Challenge for June 19, 2009:
Include this line in your story:

...(your character) closed his/her eyes, took a deep breath, and jumped

= = =

Young Master Tyrus whimpered as he curled up as tightly as possible, the sound too loud in his sensitive ears. He continued to rock back and forth, working himself into the springy layer of twigs and leaves that covered the the forest floor, and that of the cave in which he sought shelter. Well, not so much cave as just a little alcove formed by an outcropping of rock just a foot or two from the ground.

His insides were on fire. Was it hunger, or effects of the water he'd gulped down at that deserted well? He whimpered again as another spasm threatened to rip his guts into shreds: this time his eyesight and hearing throbbed in time to the uneven rhythm of his stomach and intestines.

A twig must have worked its way to the seat of his pants with all that rocking. Young Master Tyrus reached down with a trembling hand to brush it away, but the shock of cold metal had him on his knees in an instant, scrabbling in the dirt to unearth the offending object.

Oh ironies of ironies.

He'd been sitting on it all along! Grinding his behind into it over the past two hours! How Vincent would have been amused.

How Vincent would be amused, when I tell him! he corrected himself, his mind shying away from the battle scene, refusing to lock on anything except the crimson blood spray that had covered every person on that battlefield. Hadn't Vincent joked about having blue blood? Young Master Tyrus had only seen red yesterday. Surely Vincent was still alive?

Forcing his tortured mind back to the task at hand, Young Master Tyrus managed to twitch the corners of his mouth in a ghost of a smile. The trapdoor. He'd been sitting right on its handle, buried under decades of forest detritus, unearthed only because he had this habit of half-rocking half-burrowing into the ground when needing comfort, a habit his poor departed Ma had tried to rid him of so long ago, and in the end gave up on, deciding it was just easier to just reinforce the seat of his pants than get him to not wear a hole in them every week or so.

Pulling with all his remaining strength, flaming guts forgotten for the moment, the trapdoor reluctantly, but silently, opened up, emitting surprisingly fresh-smelling air and the sound of ... water. Moving water. An underground stream? What a precious resource! Vincent would have been, no, would be overjoyed! The legend was true!

But of the realm's guardian? It was supposed to be Vincent's duty to confront the beast, to tame it the way the legends foretold. All Young Master Tyrus had with him was the ring he'd stolen from King Philliam, the theft that on hindsight had probably precipitated this whole mess.

We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, whispered Young Master Tyrus to himself, smiling as he imagined Vincent's gruff voice, not his own barely cracked one, filling his ears. He reached down to grasp for a ladder, or to locate stairs, but didn't find any: either they had rotted away, had been destroyed, or they had never existed. Well then, only one way down, isn't there?

Young Master Tyrus closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and jumped.

If only he had thought to somehow close the trapdoor behind him.

Better late than never!

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Wed, 27 May 2009 05:15:00 +0000

He lurched along the sidewalk like Frankenstein's monster.
Frankenstein's monster on inline skates, that is.

They were black, with purple and green laces.
Purple and green.
Wimbledon colors.

How 'bout that.

I gaze at the skates wonderingly: if I'd gotten a pair for myself when they'd first come out, when they were all the rage, about fifteen years ago, I know chances are high I would have gotten something very similar for myself.

I mean, come on! Wimbledon colors?! ~plus~ black??!!

I smile to myself, happy at the coincidence -- if you want to call it that -- that Elm so long ago would have picked a pair of rollerblades that please my eye, now, over fifteen years later.

I also am aware of this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. A regret of sorts, or a memory of a regret, perhaps. I recall drooling over and coveting rollerblades when they were all the rage, that summer a decade and a half ago, that summer I stayed in the US to take summer classes, which prompted my parents to visit me since I wasn't going back "home" halfway around the world for once.

I think I was turning 21 that summer.

"What do you want for your birthday?"

"That," I say, pointing to one of many passing rollerbladers.

"Oh." "Isn't that dangerous?"

I'd like to think I protested, or at least pointed out the safety gear many 'bladers were wearing. I'd like to think I was able to do more than immediately be defeated by her reluctance, her disapproval. Chances are, however, that none of that happened. She didn't like the idea, so I didn't push it.

(I also vaguely remember talking about getting one of those mini-fridges to have in my room, so that I could have my drinks cold and theft-free, instead of storing them on my assigned shelf in the common fridge downstairs, at the mercy of unscrupulous fellow lodgers. Again with the reluctance.)

I have no idea what, if anything, I did choose/get that year.

I do know that I could have gotten a pair of rollerblades for myself at any time.
But I didn't.

And so as I accompanied Elm on foot as he skated down the street a few days ago, I wondered what it was about Willow-that-was that had her so ... captive ... to her mother's wishes that she was content -- for lack of a better word -- to continue observing rollerbladers with a muted longing, but never making that move to get a pair for herself.

I'd been defeated a long time ago.

I remember being complimented by my tennis coach, him recommending that I join a few other of his students to play friendly matches against other kids from other clubs. I so wanted to. But. Never did I ever bring this possibility up with my parents. Never ever.

Why not?

I look back and see someone who lived totally in her head, overthinking scenarios into defeatist endings and concluding somehow that that was the probable outcome therefore no use even trying anything.

My blood no longer boils at the memory of Willow-who-was, and how she came to be.
Instead, I am sad more than anything else.

How I wish I could go to her now, eleven-year-old Willow-that-was, and tell her to believe in herself, that she is capable of so many great things, just as she knows deep inside yet can't bring herself to believe because of all the programming, the put-downs, the dare-I-say-it mental abuse she had suffered -- and would continue to suffer -- at the hands of her mother, she who should have known better, she who now is reaping what she sowed, she who is all hurt and confused at the bitter fruits available to her today.

Don't define yourself by your mother's approval, or lack thereof.

Ten words that would have made a huge difference to me back then.
Back in college.
Back in high school.
Heck, back as far as I can remember.

Oh well.

I'm all better now.
Better-er, anyway.

And I've decided: (once Elm and I get to a better financial situation) I'mma gettin' me a pair o' them rollerblades!

Better late than never.

[image credit: Inline skate by saso]

WOOF Contest – Top Picks

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Tue, 12 May 2009 04:45:00 +0000

Presenting the finest of the writer’s blogs by the bloggers who write them. Highlighting the top posts as chosen by the May 8, 2009 WOOF Contest participants. Want in to join the next WOOF? The next contest ends May 15. Submit a link to your best writing post of the last 3 weeks using the form on this page. Participants, repost the winning link list within a week and you’re all set.

WOOF Contest – Top Picks

Fiction / Short Story / Flash Fiction

Zorlone – “Insanity Road” - An Urban Legend about the outcome of trespassing a private road.
Webbielady – “Isn't Life Supposed To Be Meaningful?” - He was in the process of taking his own life... he's ready to die until some strange melody played over the air that made him do something....

About Writing

Izzy Daniels – “5 things you should learn before starting a blog” - Some beginning bloggers have a view common ideas that they think blogging is linked to. In this post, I let people know how to avoid these common issues.
Writing Nag – “A Perfect Day” - Can writing about what you want make it happen? Writing with intention and writing about your perfect day.

Poetry

Christable Anon – “Memories” - Where did moths steal their wings from?
Dragon Blogger – “Honorless Man” - Rhyming poem made from random words about a man living a double life.
Jennifer M Scott – “four horsepowered heart” - A surreal poem includes a drawing by as well, welcome to my weird world.
Roy – “Man... I am” - A poem about why real men shouldn't hide their own emotions...

Other WOOF Contestants for 05/08/09

Fiction / Short Story / Flash Fiction

Jennifer M Scott – “A Portrait of Two Sisters” - A story of jealously and sisters.

Poetry

Dragon Blogger – “Lord of Pain” - What can I say, a poetic interpretation over someone’s misery.
Christable Anon – “A room for Messie” - About every teenage girl who see her life in a mess yet love it the way it is...
Siddhartha Banerjee – “Stranger” - A traveler's tale.
Gaurav Saxena – “The evening pair” - Man who looks at the world through the spectacles of love.
~willow~ - “... what goes around, comes around?" - A ruler expresses his displeasure, and metes out some apt justice.
Gabriel Gadfly – “Teetering” - Teetering on the border between good and evil.
Zorlone – “Recovery” - There are times we get lured by the broken promises of addiction. Yet, we struggle to rise above it and move on with what was left f the life it stole from us.
Jennifer M Scott – “Such is Our Story” - A poem of focusing on dreams with a cold heart and tears to get the sugar.
Jennifer M Scott – “Saunter and Sashay” - I wrote this poem after a bad day at work with someone she acts like she is god and I should bow down before yeah freaking right.
Jena Isle – “A Gentle Touch” – What would be the gentlest of touch?

Non-Fiction / Prose

Ranjinap – “Social Bookmarking Websites to Blogger or Any Websites” - Proper Social Bookmarking plays key role in Blogging Success.

3WW: Cryptic, Flash, Malign

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Wed, 06 May 2009 17:15:00 +0000

3WW #CXXXVI
Cryptic
Flash
Malign
= = =

... what goes around, comes around?

How dare you malign me,
me, your master,
me, your life,
me, your king.

Don't plead innocence.

Your cryptic words
and hidden snickers
are
- not so cryptic
- not so hidden
as you may think.

Don't bother to flash your smile;
after all,
according to you
I am too blind to see it.

Don't bother pleading either;
after all,
according to you
I am too deaf to hear.

Don't expect any deliberation;
after all,
according to you
I am too doddering a fool.

Expect no mercy then;
after all,
according to you
am I not too heartless to rule?

[F]F & 3WW: Sheila and Carl on a boat

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 18:15:00 +0000

[Fiction] Friday Challenge for April 3rd, 2009:
A married couple sets out on a six-month adventure, living on their boat while sailing from port city to port city. By the fifth city, they are thoroughly sick of each other and their relationship takes a serious turn for the worse.
= = =
3WW #CXXXI
Crush
Knack
Varied
= = =

"You really have a knack for doing things wrong, don't you?" accused Sheila as she hunkered down in the all-too-small cabin, nursing her already rapidly bruising left forearm, her face pulled so long it was a miracle the downward-pointing corners of her mouth weren't dangling past her chin. It was all Carl could do to just look on helplessly. He was so out of his element. There was no denying it any longer. The past five days were a testament to just how much he DIDN'T like being at sea.

His stomach had yet to keep anything down longer than ten minutes, and the jests about bad food or cooking had gone down so well the first day he knew he might be thrown overboard if he ever brought that up again. He still had land legs, and kept tumbling this way and that with the slightest lurch of the boat. He had certainly not meant to crush Sheila's arm against the cabin wall, but the sea was rather choppy, and after all, wasn't she supposed to be on deck, keeping a lookout?

"Let's go back." Carl's ears pricked up. He looked back at Sheila, who was watching him expectantly, fearfully, hopefully. "Neither of us knew just how difficult, just how bad this was going to be." Carl nodded, expression neutral. Sheila continued: "Maybe we should have listened to the folk at the marina. I really thought a 6 month voyage would be a piece of cake..." her voice tapered off as she gazed forlornly at Carl, while her right arm still cradled the left. He noticed the silver-white gleam of the wedding band on her finger. He smiled, fingering the matching braided band on his hand.

"You do recall, I tried to dissuade you from this, but you insisted? You do recall, you went and bought the boat and arranged this itinerary behind my back, using money that wasn't yours but mine?" Carl's gentle tone was in total contrast with the rising anger boiling within. Oblivious to the danger, Sheila turned defensive. "I only used the money that you stole when you closed out our joint account last year! It was as much mine as it was yours!"

There was a moment of stillness as the words hung in the air between them, as their gazes locked: hers moving from defiant to fearful, his from shock to fury. In the next instant, Carl let out a loud roar, moving rapidly towards Sheila with fists clenched, ready to mete out the only punishment he knew for such insolence, when suddenly the fists opened and arms windmilled as Carl desperately sought to regain his balance lost from yet another lurch of the boat.

Sheila looked on disbelievingly as Carl fell in slow motion before her eyes, one of his hands gently slapping her foot as his head hit the sharp corner of the stowable table Carl had never bothered to stow away.

She might have prayed to a multitude of deities, but the prayer Sheila muttered for the next five minutes varied not one bit: "Let this be the end, oh please, let this be the end. Let me be finally free!"

Sliding slowly off the bunk onto the floor, Sheila extended a trembling hand to Carl's neck and rested it there for a minute.

Was he, or wasn't he?

Oh!

[F]F: another glimpse of Young Master Tyrus

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 19:30:00 +0000

[Fiction] Friday Challenge for March 27, 2009:
Setting: An office building - A secondary character says: “Look, somebody has got to make a decision.” Your main character offers a solution.
= = =

They were once again in a meeting that was going nowhere. The thirty-something man with pasty skin and hair a touch too long for the tailor-made suit he was wearing stood a step behind the rest of the pack as they crowded around the table, oblivious of the magnificent view through steel-framed glass from the 66th floor of the building. The view always grabbed he who once had been known as Young Master Tyrus, he who had reinvented himself as Mr Phil Callahan. One name to remind him of his sworn enemy, the other of his eternal shame, the reason for his flight, his loss of favor in Vincent's court.

"Phil" blinked and brought himself back into the present, listening to the cacophony of voices as the executives continued to argue over the blueprints. They were going nowhere, in circles, fast. He sighed. None of them would survive an hour in his world. His ex-world. His escape from Vincent so many years ago still woke him up every night, yet every night the mystery of how he had ended up in a completely different world continued unanswered. He had woken up one day to find himself sharing a blanket with a homeless man, on the streets of New York, with a pocketful of Benjamins to start his new life. Perhaps it was King Philliam's dabbling? But why would he have bothered lifting even one bony finger to save the wretch that was Young Master Tyrus?

"Look, somebody has got to make a decision." The cacophony died down as everyone turned to look at the red-faced intern now regretting having opened his mouth. Fresh out of college, David Banter was aptly named, as he was an easy-going young chap who would go far in any field he chose, because he so easily made friends with everyone. Today, however, it seemed his golden tongue might get him in trouble. "Phil" could see the rest of the pack ready itself to pounce on the hapless young man. It reminded him too painfully of his own past. No one had saved him then, but he would save young Banter now.

"Ah, the first honest thing I've heard all day!", exclaimed "Phil", a second before the pack could do anything. Any psychics within a block of the building reported hearing or feeling a collective whine that cut through everything. It was not a pleasant feeling. David Banter was in the eye of the storm, and was therefore spared the impact. All eyes were now turned on "Phil". He cleared his throat and moved to the table, stretching out a well-manicured hand to bring the blueprint closer.

"Here!" he snarled, jabbing at the intersection of 42nd and Lexington so hard he made a cresent-shaped indentation in paper and table. "The billboard goes here. The rituals have said this is the best place to erect it. Either we do it here, or we lose our best client. This is no choice at all." He looked at every person in the room, holding each gaze until they looked away. "Now, please focus your energies on figuring out the cost. Enough of this quibbling!"

If only he'd had the same courage back then, when they were asking him about Father Callahan. Why had he fingered the priest? He'd been nothing but kind, gentle, understanding; a father he'd never had.

"Phil" walked out of the conference room, and for the umpteenth time, wished that this was all a bad dream; that he was going to open his eyes and find himself in the Underground of Widdershinsville.

The caution about getting what you wish for was a lesson Young Master Tyrus had yet to learn, apparently.

3WW: earnest, layer, reactive

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 16:35:00 +0000

3WW #CXXX
Earnest
Layer
Reactive
= = =

"How many times have I told you? You need to be proactive, not reactive!" roared Vincent, his voice reverberating off the cold cavern walls even as every eye in the place was drawn to the sight of Young Master Tyrus's usually earnest face screwed up in terror, his usually proudly-carried body folded over so low that his long hair was almost touching the polished granite floor. Many of the same eyes, once registering Vincent's presence, proceeded to look away; there was a noticeable movement away from that particular cavern. Word would spread through every layer of the Underground community: avoid Throne Room Eleven for an hour or two. Vincent's angry again!

Worse than molestering?

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 05:15:00 +0000

[Fiction] Friday Challenge for March 20, 2009:
A priest is attacked for being a pedophile. He is innocent of the crime, but guilty of something far worse.
= = =

"So, what have you got to say for yourself?"

Father Callahan struggled to open his eyes, but found them taped shut. He tried to bring his hand to his face, and found himself immobile. Restrained? Paralyzed? He couldn't tell. He couldn't even think, all of a sudden buffeted by wave after wave of panic, fear, terror as memory returned.

They had come for him during the night. Someone must have opened the door to them. A fellow clergy. Poor misguided soul, whoever he was. In silence, they had filled his room, watching him sleep, waiting until he had woken up struggling to breathe that they had started the beatings. He remembered pitchforks and baseball bats. He remembered the pain. He remembered the eerie silence in which the townsfolk worked as they beat him into pulp.

The pain.

Remembering it only invited it into his senses; wave after wave swept over Father Callahan, leaving in its wake a dull throbbing in what felt like every inch of his body. Relieved, he tried to smile, but had to stop almost at once. No matter, he would smile on the inside. He felt them all in pain: his legs, his feet, his hands, his fingers, his ears even. Gotta count your blessings when you have 'em, mama used to say. And so he counted every throbbing extremity, and smiled, for at least he was in one piece. So to speak.

The voice spoke again: "Father Callahan? I know you are awake. I do not like to be kept waiting. I ask you once more, and once more only, what have you got to say for yourself?"

"Not guilty!" whispered Father Callahan through gritted teeth. He still had teeth to grit! Another blessing, mama!

"That might be so, but I'm sure you'll agree with me that I didn't ask you if you had in fact molested young Master Tyrus as he claimed," replied the voice smoothly, amused smile conveyed by a lilt in tone and a chuffing of breath.

"I didn't do it!" whispered Father Callahan as he struggled to clear his head, to identify his questioner, to figure out if they knew his secret. It had lain dormant for so long, he had actually started to believe he was finally free. Now, he wasn't sure anymore. He needed to remember more about the assault: had anything happened? It could manifest under stress: that's how he'd come to know about it in the first place, that fateful day, decades ago.

A lifetime ago.

Tears prickled his eyelids, unable to escape.

A rustle of clothes, and an aroma of garlic washed over Father Callahan as he sensed his questioner lean in close, almost nose to nose, perhaps. Garlic. Ah. That was both good news and bad. A member of the Royal Court.

"I know you didn't do it, you fool," a harsh whisper in his ear. "I don't know whether to laugh or anger at the fact that the pretty lad doesn't know a nobleman from a priest. Or perhaps he thought he was saving himself, or saving me, or maybe he really is addled in the head."

The silence hung heavily between them as Father Callahan tried to understand what was going on. His questioner was the actual molester? Things were going from bad to worse. Was the man going to claim Confessional Rights?

"I know you didn't do it. I also know what you are. So tell me, do you want to face a molester's death, or a wizard's one?"

Oh mama, I think I just ran out of blessings!

in medias res

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 02:55:00 +0000

My first participation: One Minute Writer.
Today's prompt: BARTER

The knife dug into my neck, but didn't break skin. Yet. I forced myself to relax, breathing in deeply, filling my nose with the overripe aroma of he who thought could get the better of me. I inhaled the aroma of unwashed body, sweat and excrement, garlic and grease. Ah. Garlic and grease. Of course. Who else. I twisted my body this way then that while pushing myself backwards, into my captor, sending us both sprawling on the ground, where he could not help but function as the cushion for my fall. He, on the other hand, suffered from the impact of his body on cobblestones and of my rather angular elbows in his ribs, delivered with the full force of my rather frail body. It was enough to make him very pliable. Soon it was his neck that his knife dug into. He squirmed, though, so it wasn't my fault he started bleeding. If nothing else, it helped with the bargaining. I get information, he gets to keep a finger. Who had put him up to it. Description. When. Where. How much money had exchanged hands. In the end, he only lost the tip of his left ring finger to me. I fiddled with the bloody half-moon as he scurried away. It had been too easy. Perhaps his flesh would Tell me things. I wrapped the fingertip carefully in my handkerchief and stood up, trying to orient myself. That was when they attacked. Damn. I knew it had been too easy. Excuse me while I fight for my life. King Philliam be thrice-damned!

---
I didn't use "barter" per se, but went with the spirit of exchanging one thing for another; in this case, information for NOT losing a finger :)

3WW: burden, natural, ubiquitous

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 01:00:00 +0000

3WW #CXXIX
Burden
Natural
Ubiquitous
= = =

The sky was clear, bright, blue, cloud-free. It might not be officially spring, but it certainly felt like an awakening. Anita certainly felt a lessening of her burden, although her rational mind argued that nothing of her situation had changed. And yet. Hope was in the air. You could see it in the way everyone was smiling, nodding and greeting each other as they made their way through crowded streets. They were smiling. Smiling!

It had been a long time since so many smiles had been sighted in one place in Widdershinsville.

The change had attracted other sorts too, though. The sort that crawled out of the woodwork, out of the sewers, out of the shadows, to enjoy the warmth. These folk remained as if invisible, even in the sun's rays. People stepped around them, or walked just a nudge to the left, all the while smiling and nodding and certainly NOT looking to the right where Vincent stood, tall, proud, leonine, freak, unwelcome. He was used to being ignored, relished the invisibility even. It helped with the Watching.

Vincent frowned. Something wasn't right. It wasn't anything he could put a clawpoint on; it was just a gut feeling, a little niggling at the back of his neck, a discordant note in the otherwise orchestraic symphony playing in front of his Watchful eyes. He continued Watching, scanning the crowd that seemed to increase every minute, as more and more people seemed to all have the same idea: Let's take advantage of this beautiful day and take a walk at the village square!. All dressed in their Sunday best, it seemed. The ladies in corseted dresses trapping their bodies in uncomfortable fashions that went against the natural order of things, while the young men strutted around in traditional three-quarter pants, embroidered collared shirts, and cocked hat. Not forgetting the ubiquitous green armband, seen on everyone's left arm, tied just above the elbow. They were all loyal to King Philliam, proclaimed the armbands. Publicly, at least.

A sharp intake of air. Vincent felt himself tense up and go numb at the same time. That was it. The armbands. They were on the wrong arm. They were ALL on the wrong arm. Desperately, he tried to catch Anita's eye, she who was stationed on the far side of the Square. They needed to get out of here. Things might turn nasty, fast.

A loud rumble shook the very ground, as a black cloud suddenly appeared overhead, threatening to blot out the sunny blue sky.

Too late. King Philliam, curse that all-too-knowing wizard, was already here.

Vincent slipped away, down towards the tunnels, hoping Anita and the others would be able to do the same, sighing as he made his way through the damp conduit, back to the lair. He didn't look forward to being stuck down here for another month, but what could he do about it? Underground was the only place to weather Philliam's rain of fire spells.

At least he'd gotten a few hours out in the sun, in the fresh air today. Gotta count your blessings when you have 'em, mama used to say. And so he counted them as he made his way deeper and deeper, trying not to think about how silent it was, how he couldn't hear any of his friends and fellow Watchers making their way down to safety.

Still alive, muttered Vincent to himself.

Any observer would be hard-pressed to say if it was a statement or a curse.

Teaser Tuesday: 17032009

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 04:00:00 +0000

TEASER TUESDAYS asks you to:

Grab your current read.Let the book fall open to a random page.
Share with us two (2) “teaser” sentences from that page, somewhere between lines 7 and 12.
You also need to share the title of the book that you’re getting your “teaser” from ... that way people can have some great book recommendations if they like the teaser you’ve given!
Please avoid spoilers!

...
I'm in between books right now... so I grabbed something I got a little over a month ago and am due to meditate upon (in more ways than one, probably!)

"It cannot be explained by logic because logic is limited to dead matter and cannot explain the living process. Self Realisation is an actualisation, ignited by a living incarnation of modern times."

The book is Sufi Odes.... to Divine Mother by Yogi Mahajan, a Sahaja Yoga publication.