The Ranting Willow (v 2.0)

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.

3WW: cajole, recluse, temper

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 13:20:00 +0000

3WW #CXXVIII
Cajole
Recluse
Temper
= = =

"Oh come on!" Carl sputtered in disbelief, efforts to cajole Sheila unsuccessful. How could she be resisting his charms? She'd always melted in the past, why now did she seem immune? She had to be seeing someone else. There was no other explanation. Not when you knew Sheila and the recluse she was. No way. Yet she sat, calmly watching Carl with a cool detachment he had never seen before, and it scared him, it threatened him, it emasculated him. So much so that he had no qualms about giving in to his anger. There was that instant of recognition in her eyes an instant before the fist landed, and Carl kept that jolt of fear playing over and over in his mind even as his fists worked Sheila over and over, staying away from face, arms and places bruises might trigger unwelcome questions. She knew his temper was not something to mess with. She knew it. And now she was paying for it. Yet again. Would she never learn?

Sheila and Carl: the early days

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Sat, 07 Feb 2009 01:10:00 +0000

[Fiction] Friday Challenge for February 6, 2009:
Write about a Valentine’s Day without mentioning these words: Valentine’s Day, Cupid, love, roses, hearts, flowers, February.
= = =

'Tis the month after January,
and halfway through it
lies a Hallmark Holiday
both overwrought and crass.

A certain body organ,
one particular type of flower,
an arrow-armed cherub
come together this day.

See Carl on the doorstep
both puzzled and mad
See Sheila laughing out loud
at his flowers and card

Governed by what he thinks must be done
Carl has blown his salary
for this day
for her

Rejecting norms dictated by sheeple*
Sheila knows she must nip Carl's habit
in the bud
she must be cruel
to be kind

None of this stuff,
she says gently,
please?

Carl manages a smile
the evening goes on
but seeds of humiliation
have been sown...

* sheeple = a term used in South Park.

An Outsider's Farewell

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Thu, 05 Feb 2009 01:05:00 +0000

= = =
crumple, illicit, nerve
(3WW #CXXIII)
= = =

I crumple under their gazes
- stern
- strict
- unsympathetic

That my illicit affair
would elicit such a response
comes as no surprise

Purity of blood,
of race,
- their blood!
- their race!
is threatened.

I never did belong,
and yet now you judge me like I do
belong?

I discard your shackles,
I cut your strings
I reject you.

All of you.

Just let me be,
to be myself,
to follow my heart,
wherever it leads.

Or cut my heart out
now
while I still have
the nerve
- to face you
- to question you
- to challenge you

... farewell ...

criticizing Sam's meat...

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Tue, 03 Feb 2009 06:15:00 +0000

Two prompts, one product:

1. This image by scott.m.liddell is prompt # 29 of the 1000 Words meme.

2. wordwebbing's Flash Fiction Friday VI: When you feel you have to criticize Sam’s meat, something is definitely wrong.

= = =

When you feel you have to criticize Sam's meat, something is definitely wrong. When you criticize it, then eat it anyway, you're just asking for trouble. Sheila couldn't help but frown at Carl's increasingly obnoxious behaviour, and wondered when Sam was going to react, and how.

There was Carl, masticating the piece of steak he'd cut while proclaiming how tough it was, the piece he'd speared while loudly exclaiming how it was too rubbery to be impaled by his fork, earnestly chewing as if it was nothing but inedible fat, while in fact it was a surprisingly tender and delicious cut that even Sheila, who rarely ate dead cow, found excellent. Sam sat at the head of the table, strained smile frozen on his face, knuckles white as they gripped fork and steak knife.

He kept his temper in check, for Sheila's sake.

Sam's mind was working at full speed, however. Carl was due for a haircut soon. Sam would offer his services to Carl - for a steep discount, of course, otherwise that vain skinflint would never take the bait. Sam could see it now: he'd arrange for Carl to come in at the end of the day, when he'd be the only one sitting in the row of chairs facing the wall of mirrors. A few flattering words, a smiling mask in place as Carl described the exact look he would want - who would it be this time, Brad Pitt? That guy from Twilight? No matter, though. He'd get a reverse mohawk. And a blade to his neck. If he knew what was good for him, he wouldn't move an inch. He would apologize. For his behaviour tonight. Towards Sam. Towards Sheila. He would be sincere, or his flawless skin might sport a nick, a gash, heck even a deep bloody smile.

Better stock up on ShamWow, Sam said to himself. They really did the trick that other time.

Shaking himself from his reverie, Sam refocused on the immediate proceedings and caught Sheila's troubled gaze on him. He smiled and winked at her in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. Things would work out for his little sister. Big brother would help. He always did.

/end

"Lust" and "Meditate" win the w.o.o.f!

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Tue, 03 Feb 2009 04:25:00 +0000

On a whim, I entered my two poems in the w.o.o.f contest last week... and w00t, they were both voted into the Top 5 Poetry picks of the week! Yay! btw, it's been a while since I submitted anything, and I notice the method has changed a little: we now vote separately for Poetry vs Prose, giving a better chance to all those non-poems submitted. Nice!

Here's the official announcement:

Presenting the finest of the writer’s blogs by the bloggers who write them. Highlighting the top 5 posts as chosen by the January 30, 2009 WOOF Contest participants. Want in to join the next WOOF? The next contest ends February 6. Submit a link to your best writing post of the last 3 weeks using the form at the bottom of this page. Participants, repost the winning link list within a week and you’re all set.

WOOF Contest – Top Picks

Poetry

~willow~ - “Observe! How not to meditate?” -

A tongue-in-cheek look at how (not) to meditate.

Patricia Schoenberger - “Event Horizon” -

This is a poem that I wrote, loosely inspired by the scientific term, Event Horizon.

~willow~ - “Lost in Lust” -

17 words, 7 lines, 1 hot poem!

khaye cardenas - “The Fiction Writer”

A fiction writer's life.

Dragon Blogger - “Bedroom Jungle” -

Random twitter word poem about passion in the bedroom, great poem made from random words.

Prose

About Writing

Catherine @ Sharp Words

- “

My love affair with poetry” -

The first part of a brief series describing my life with poetry.

Writing Nag

- “

The Magic of Three” -

What is the rule of three in writing? How does the rule of three work in writing? This post gives examples of the rule of three in creative writing and includes the Writing Nag's rule of three.

Fiction -

Charlotte Faulkner - “blood is blood is blood and love is true vision” -

Charlotte, a freshman at Bailey University, reflects about the inauguration, her crush, and life at college.

Opinion / Tributes / Philiosphy / Thoughts

JHS, Esq. - “Tuesday's Tribute: Florence Wendland” -

A tribute to my client, the late Florence Wendland, from whom I learned a great deal about unconditional love, commitment, tenacity, and faith.

Hopeful spirit - “The New America: A Call to Disagree Without Being Disagreeable” -

At last, Barack Obama has assumed office and the United States has entered a new era. He challenges us to disagree with each other without being disagreeable and, toward that end, included a diverse and eclectic group of people to share in his inauguration ceremony and festivities. Can America rise to his challenge?

Brought to you by PlotDog Press with the Serial Suspense Screenplay "Intevention"

= = =

Other WOOF Contestants for 01/30/09

Poetry

Jennifer M Scott - “Moon Chasing Liar” -

Just a short little poem about aging.

Jennifer M Scott - “Fringe of Utopia” -

Just a poem about dreams.

Jennifer M Scott - “Vermilion Horizon” -

Plaintive poem contemplating unspoken regrets.

Dragon Blogger - “Tagging The Shark” -

One of my Random Twitter Word poems turned out to be about a Shark Hunter.

Dragon Blogger - “The Sandwich Girl” -

Poem about falling in love with a girl who works in a sandwich shop.

Dragon Blogger - “Dreaming An Argument” -

Poem about having an argument only waking up to realize it was a nightmare.

Patricia Schoenberger - “Phantoms and Shadows” -

This is a poem that I wrote, followed by a short essay. The subject is memories, inspired by a writing prompt from the web site 'Sunday Scribblings.'

Prose

About Writing

Ferox - “

Fantasy Sub-Genres: Which am I?” -

Fantasy is such a broad genre with so much potential - where does your writing fit in?

khaye cardenas - “Night Thought” -

A writer's dream reader.

Opinion / Tributes / Philiosphy / Thoughts

Puneet Kaur - “Like the pendulum of the clock...” -

Thoughts, feelings that engulf a mind... the heart... How one seeks peace, relief, a happiness in the words of the Lord and Him alone...

Top Droppers

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Sat, 31 Jan 2009 09:20:00 +0000

Entrecard calls me a "Consistent, regular dropper", but that's probably only due to my dropping a little bit every day over the past few days. Before this, I was probably "only here for the view" or something, LoL!

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the folk who dropped their cards on me the most this past month, despite my sporadic, inconsistent posts.

As my participation in the first officially-sanctioned Top Dropper Day, I hereby tip my hat to the following:

More Than Sew So
- "We know sewing machines inside and out!"

flitting on fiction
- "bookworms rule! A blog about fiction for adolescents and emerging adults. Research & reviews."

Angels on Your Shoulder
- "Angels fly because they take themselves lightly . . . Angels can be presented in an airy-fairy way, or we can learn to make them an integral part of our lives, using them to help us feel loved and safe enough to risk opening our hearts and our minds to the limitless possibilities life holds."

Toltec Insights with Dr. Susan Gregg
- "I share insights from many spiritual traditions to help you remember it is your birthright to be happy no matter what and that you can create what you want when you want it."

The Way I See It
- "My thoughts, opinions and personal observations on a wide variety of subjects, sometimes mixed with humor and including travel, retirement, opinion, politics, child sponsorship with Children International and life experiences. News and views from my perspective."

Beyond Left Field
- "Humorous and lighthearted events in and out of the news with an emphasis on morons."

Imagination Madness
- "Just a Single Aussie Mum trying to get through life"

The Half-Life of Linoleum (Hi Koe!)
- The journey of a thousand miles often starts with you barking up the wrong tree.

If The Walls Could
- "a ramshackle dustbin, inky denim coils, the hyperbole hits the fan"

Gewgaw Writings
- "An attempt at writing; poems, short stories, essays, quotations and what-nots. The mind is a plethora of uncharted words."

Thanks for the drops!

lost in lust

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 06:15:00 +0000

= = =
caress, jagged, ruthless
(3WW #CXXII)
= = =

sweet caress of lover's touch
leaves my breathing
jagged
as burning skin
tingles
under his ruthless
scrutiny

emotion in advance?

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Wed, 28 Jan 2009 06:15:00 +0000

Spirit, who writes at Written Whispers - the blog, talked about running through unpleasant scenarios in her mind (actually she writes about MUCH more, but I'll keep it simplified for the intents and purposes of this blog post!).

I do that too. Or rather, I know I used to. Not sure when I last did that.

My scenarios were usually as a result of following a random thought down an increasingly negative path. Didn't necessarily involve one person in particular. The main thing seemed to be for me to evoke as much emotion as I could. I'd usually emerge from the reverie emotionally spent.

I remember one particular scenario.

I was halfway around the world, and my mother called to tell me my father was in hospital, heart attack. He was recovering, no need for me to fly back, but he was going to need surgery, probably in a few months, so it might coincide with summer, please make sure I come back for the summer, okay?

Sometime between that phone call and my flight home, I was on a bus heading to campus, daydreaming, and I started imagining how things would be that coming summer. My father going under the knife. He wasn't going to survive. He was going to die. He's dying. Dead.

I remember swallowing a few times, trying to get rid of a huge lump in my throat. I had to blink back tears. Emotions were strong within me. I had lived his death. I had already had closure.

So when I did go back that summer; when he did go under the knife; when my mother was all anxious awaiting the doctor as the operation dragged on and on and on; when everyone around me was frantic with worry... there I was, aloof, disengaged, uninvolved.

It was as if I'd already spent my emotions allotted for this situation.

Or it could have been my dysfunctional way of dealing with it all, who knows.

Anyways... I thought I'd share this random thought triggered by Spirit's post here, because I didn't want to hijack her comments :)

'later!

p/s: the operation took much longer than expected because the doctor went in expecting to do x number of bypasses, but the state of the heart was such that they had to double that number! My father did recover, and is still alive today.

How not to meditate?

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 20:00:00 +0000

cadence, humble, resolve
(3WW #CXXI)
= = =

Observe!
A humble seeker
of great resolve
is looking within
for answers to questions
as yet unknown

but
left right
this that
and the other
thoughts keep sounding off
trampling stillness
disturbing silence

I forgive you, thoughts
I forgive you, mind
I forgive you, Self

Observe!
Marching thoughts slow
their cadence but a whisper
as silence grows

I forgive

breathing in
is dizzying
exhilarating

I forgive

breathing out
is calming
sustaining

I forgi-

attention shattered!
thoughts scattered!
heart battered!
the telephone demands to be answered!!

With shaking hand
and quavering voice
the distraction is addressed

Observe!
Next time,
turn the thing off!

bemused

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 06:15:00 +0000

Saturday was one of those days.

I decided to experiment a little during my morning meditative yoga class, since it was only me and a veteran yogi there: invoking the names of the deities "managing" different aspects of different chakras, without using the "standard" mantra form, while working our way up slowly from the root chakra all the way up to the crown of the head, with additional attention to the left and right aspects of the sacral and throat chakras, since we both felt some catches there. (yes, that was a LONG sentence - reread it a few times if you must, teehehee!).

Putting my hand and attention to the left sacral center and asking for the establishment of the characteristics of Shri Nirmala Vidya resulted in a cool sensation right at that energy center.

Throughout my dabbling with this yoga, I've not felt the manifestation of energy anywhere apart from on my palms/fingers or top of head (both of which might be classified as "external") and sure at the third eye, but that latter could just be a headache, so I tend to discount it. So feeling this coolness was... different.

Then I moved the attention to its mirror image, the right aspect of the sacral energy center, and this time asked for the establishment of Shi Nirmala Chitta there. More coolness.

I was bemused.

I then moved up the other centers, and they all behaved like normal, i.e. I didn't really feel anything within. But those two aspects, down there kinda at my hip socket area of both sides, continued to exude coolness.

Going back after the session, I felt as if I had belt of coolness across my lower belly, stretching from one cool center to the other.

Even now, as I type this over 14 hours later, they continue to exude coolness.

This is a new experience. I like. :)

Then in the evening, I attended the collective meditation: there was a havan - a fire ritual that involves the clearing of the left side, which is conducted with the ~~chanting~~ saying of mantras that invoke(?) the different names or aspects of a particular deity. I usually kinda mumble along, since it's in Hindi or Sanskrit and therefore I might recognise a word or two but overall they are just sounds. This time around, the mantra book was passed around, and I read a page's worth of names. Before the book was passed my way, I was just kinda there. As soon as I started leading the mantras, I immediately felt the coolness on my fingertips of both hands. Once again - not something I had experienced before. But, before, I'd never led, heck I'd never read, the words, so my mind had perhaps been focused on trying to listen to the sounds in order to repeat them back. With the book in front of me and therefore the little bit of stress and thinking eliminated, perhaps I could let go just that little bit more, resulting in my being able to feel the vibrations?

Right now, I'm not wanting to think too much about what this means. I just want to enjoy the sensations. Oh, and I'll be ordering a copy of the Mantra Book.

Guide to perfection

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 08:10:00 +0000

Life is a challenge
Life is a gift
Life is an adventure
Life is a sorrow
Life is a tragedy
Life is a duty
Life is a game
Life is a mystery
Life is a song
Life is an opportunity
Life is a journey
Life is a promise
Life is Love
Life is beauty
Life is Truth
Life is a struggle
Life is a puzzle
Life is a goal

- meet it
- accept it
- dare it
- overcome it
- face it
- perform it
- play it
- unfold it
- sing it
- take it
- complete it
- fulfil it
- discover it
- praise it
- realise it
- fight it
- solve it
- achieve it

I've seen this attributed to
- 18th Chapter of the Bhagavadgita (didn't find it!)
- "found on the bathroom wall of a Retreat House"

Nevertheless, the above is something worth meditating upon, no matter its origin.

another 3-in-1 :)

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Sat, 10 Jan 2009 04:30:00 +0000

[Fiction] Friday #86: With ten days until payday, your character discovers his/her account is overdrawn (adjust as necessary to fit your timeline or world).

3WW # CXVIII:

panic / deception / scheme

1000words meme prompt #26

Image by cachesurfer, as uploaded to MorgueFiles

Sheila drove mindlessly. Her mind was far away. Her mind was still at the bank manager's office, reeling from the news that not only had Carl wiped out their joint account, but the account was now overdrawn by a few thousand dollars. A few thousand dollars that she was liable for. Her mind had shut down then, overwhelmed by panic, overcome by helplessness, by regret.

By anger.

An anger that finally boiled over, dragging her mind back into function.

"Where am I?" wondered Sheila, as she pulled over to the shoulder of the narrow winding road. "I don't recognise this view. Where on earth have I driven myself to?" The view was essentially that of a bridge, spanning a wide body of water. Its top was shrouded in clouds, and a few cars traveled along its length. Sheila inhaled deeply. The salty tang indicated she was on the coast. She had been driving for over an hour, then.

"Damn him. Damn him to hell!" she shouted, she screamed. It felt good to let it out. A few birds decided they preferred to take flight than be subject to Sheila's screams. The long grass by the roadside continued to sway lazily in the breeze, oblivious to her presence. A rock stood unmoving within the ocean of waving green grass. Sheila made her way to it. She sat down on the warm rock, facing the bay. She closed her eyes, keeping her hands on the rock, trying in a way to push her jumbled emotions out of her, into the boulder. Seeking calm. Seeking her center. Seeking.

"Ahem!"

Sheila jumped up in surprise, almost blinding herself as she opened her eyes. Looking wildly around, she saw no one around. She had heard someone clear their throat. Hadn't she?

"Over here!"

There! Where the boulder met the earth, hidden by the long grass, stood a foot-high creature. It looked as a human would, except for the nose and mouth, both seeming a little oversized for its tiny face. Long silky hair stuck out messily from under a green brass-buckled tophat. Bright twinkling eyes caught Sheila's gaze, and held it; held it so tightly she couldn't tear her eyes away. She realised later she had no idea what he had been wearing, he only had the impression he adhered to a green color scheme. All she could remember was the twinkling eyes and the ridiculous tophat.

"A victim of deception, you be?"

"Yes. By someone I was going to marry, but recently I called it off. I forgot all about our joint accounts. That no-good sonofawitch took everything, and more!" Sheila was surprised at the note of hysteria she detected in her own voice. She had never been driven to this extreme before. Damn that Carl.

A soft touch on the back of her right hand brought her back. Eyes still held in the creature's gaze, Sheila could only feel his hands on hers. Had he jumped up on her lap, or was he standing on tip-toe stretching up to reach her hands?

"Shhh, 'tis important only to feel, Madam Sheila. No need to think just yet. Hush now. Shhhhh."

The slightly hypnotic voice filled her ears, and urged her to close her eyes. Sheila didn't fight it. She found herself in a state of ... nothingness. It was strangely peaceful. She embraced it, welcomed it. She floated in a calm bliss, lost in time.

"Excuse me ma'am, is that your car parked on the shoulder back there?" barked a harsh voice, rudely jolting Sheila out of her state of peace. She blinked slowly, and noted how differently she felt now compared to the previous interruption. Turning around, she saw a police officer standing closeby, studying her curiously.

"Yes, officer. Is there a problem?" she replied perfunctorily, rather preoccupied by her awareness of energy buzzing though her, around her, in her.

"Is everything all right, ma'am? The car's been on the side of the road pretty much all day today. I was going to call it in as abandoned, then noticed you sitting here. Have you been here all this time?"

"I... I suppose so. Lost track of time?" she replied, smiling widely at the officer. He smiled back, shyly. Sheila's heart did a flip-flop. Little did she know that his had, too. "I... I suppose I sh-should be on my way now, officer. Thank you."

They walked back towards their vehicles slowly, neither knowing what to do about the magnetic attraction between them, an attraction so strong the air was practically buzzing with energy.

Sheila felt the weight of a gaze on her back. Looking back, all she saw was the boulder in an ocean of grass waving in the ocean breeze. Nevertheless, she whispered thanks to the mysterious creature she knew she had encountered. She was quietly confident that Officer Barbrady's presence was no coincidence. It would be up to her to figure out what his role was going to be in her life. Sheila waved at the boulder, much to the amusement of Officer Barbrady.

Things were going to get interesting.

dedicated :)

noreply@blogger.com (~willow~) — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 05:50:00 +0000

here's a little bit of fluff, as found on Trisha's Tripping over my Tongue:

What Kind of Reader Are You? Your Result: Dedicated Reader You are always trying to find the time to get back to your book. You are convinced that the world would be a much better place if only everyone read more.
Literate Good Citizen
Obsessive-Compulsive Bookworm
Fad Reader
Book Snob
Non-Reader
What Kind of Reader Are You? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

one or two questions could have had much better options, but overall it wasn't a quiz that made me feel I'd wasted two minutes of my life.

So, what kind of a reader are you?