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Post by PaperGrace on Aug 19, 2012 19:03:14 GMT -5
Who: PaperGrace What: Writing like I have ink for blood! Where: Creativity From Chaos, the second best forum on the internet! When: Every Day! Why: Because it lives in me, and I need to express it. How: Honestly I have no idea... (Stolen from Chris) I'm going to give myself another smiley for each consecutive day, 'cause I'm a huge dork like that. Continuing list of prompts: Object in the room. Backstory for people on the front of junkmail. Fictionalize a moment from my day. Write from the POV of the baby or toddler. What if [event] turned out differently? Tell a full story in only 100 words. Start with a cliche. Write a eulogy for a fictional character or historical figure. (constantly being modified)
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Post by PaperGrace on Aug 19, 2012 19:37:38 GMT -5
There was something wrong with the picture on top of the entertainment center, but Lucy couldn't be sure what. In it, Grandmother stood smiling, a little shy, with a plaque in one arm and a bunch of roses under the other. Her floral print dress hung shapelessly over her body, childbearing curves long faded--the picture taken when she was well into her eighties. Aunt Patricia had written the poem when Gram died, and they had had it printed onto this photo--blown up to an 8X10. It was framed and displayed prominently in the homes of all of her Aunts and Uncles: Lucy saw it easily a dozen times a year. This time something had called her attention to it from across the room, as suddenly and urgently as if it had called out with words. Lucy stood up, and started to cross the room, becoming dizzy. She pressed on, lurching toward the sturdy oak console, clinging to it's edges when she reached it. She squinted hard, focusing her eyes on the picture, trying to clear the fog from her head when she realized the photo wasn't familiar to her at all. Grandmother was still there, smiling, shy. The carnations in her arm a tacky blend of pink and teal, obviously dyed. The plaque she held so proudly read: "In appreciation for 40 years community service." just as it always had, but the signature was unfamiliar, and who was 'Comm. Fitzwater, of the Citizen Defense Force'? Hadn't Gram gotten the award from her parish? As Lucy's eyes scanned Aunt Pat's poem she became even more disoriented. "Lost too soon/Your sons before you/Our country's boon/Their years too few"? Uncle Geoff and Uncle Edmond were right outside, squabbling over the barbeque grill as they always did at family reunions! Overwhelmed, Lucy's heart began to race, panic setting in. She tried to make it to her purse for her inhaler, but before she could reach it, she blacked out. (modified to fix typo, nothing exciting or new!)
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Post by scribbliz on Aug 19, 2012 20:07:58 GMT -5
ok, i SO want to know more about this! Btw, in the second last line, right hand side, you have "Overwhelmed, Lucy's HEAT began to race" probly should read "heart" ? So, will you share more of the story???
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Post by PaperGrace on Aug 20, 2012 8:12:23 GMT -5
ok, i SO want to know more about this! So, will you share more of the story??? Me too, we'll just have to see where it goes! I was just writing for the sake of writing, so I have no plan. We'll have to hope 'Lucy' will keep us informed.
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Post by scribbliz on Aug 20, 2012 11:23:35 GMT -5
well, then, let's hope she recovers from her blackout, eh??
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Post by PaperGrace on Aug 20, 2012 15:13:25 GMT -5
"Lucy? Lucy. Babe can you hear me? Lu?" Kevin said the last so softly he almost couldn't hear it himself. He rested his forehead on the edge of the hospital cot, hands clasped behind his neck, one finger spinning his wedding band around and around. After a few minutes he jerked upright, sure that he had heard a murmur. Lucy lay still, her face pale, her breathing slow and regular. The Doctor had sedated her not long before he arrived, and she had told him that it might be a few hours before his wife came to. A nurse opened the door slowly, peering in cautiously before he entered, a small square of gauze taped across one cheek. One eye looked swollen and was just starting to darken. Spotting Kevin he entered, respectfully nodded his head, and began to scan Lucy's chart. "How bad is the other guy?" Kevin quipped, trying to lighten the mood. "She's got a hell of a right hook," replied the nurse, a look of chagrin spreading across his olive features. "Of course, you probably knew that." Seeing Kevin's confused look he gestured to Lucy. "It took three of us to get her onto the gurney" he said softly. Kevin's cheeks flushed as understanding hit. "I'm so sorry! I don't know what is going on. She's such a gentle person. She's not, I mean, she wouldn't, I mean, she couldn't have..." Helplessly, Kevin waved his arms around, struggling for words. "Hey Man, It's ok, really" the nurse gave Kevin a firm pat on the shoulder "we'll do our best to figure out what is going on with her." The man had a sort of calm to him that Kevin hadn't run into since his Grandfather passed. Head and face cleanly shaved, the man couldn't have been more than three years older than Kevin, not quite fresh out of school, but not nearly old enough for this confidence. The man stood a head taller than Kevin, his arms thick and meaty, he fairly bulged out of his plain hospital uniform. He moved Lucy's arms carefully while he checked her monitors, as though holding a kitten. His broad clean hands were lumpy and calloused, much like Kevin's own, almost exactly like Kevin's own. "Military?" Kevin asked. "Who isn't these days." The nurse saluted sharply, with a hint of sarcasm. "Anderson, Patrick C. reporting for duty Sir!" His smile softened. "You can call me Rick, all my buddies do." He gave Kevin a once over, took in the rumpled dress shirt, the shiny, uncomfortable looking shoes, the way his body and slacks seemed in disagreement. "Ranger?" "Er... yeah." Kevin's surprise was obvious. "Just last year. How did you know that?" Rick pointed to an imaginary tab on his nurses uniform. "Me too, recycled though, so I got to hang around base for a long time before I healed up and could finish. You get to see what 'Ranger' looks like on a man with all that extra time, waiting." "That must have been rough," Kevin said. "Most of the guys I was with that got hurt just dropped out." Rick shrugged. "Getting hurt was the best thing that ever happened to me. Made me want to be a nurse. I'm training to be a PT right now, but my pick-up-shifts in this ward are making me question that. I might switch to Emergency Psych. Plus when I get put back on active duty I'll have my pick of Medical Battalions. E-Psych's are way more practical than Chaplains." Kevin nodded. Rick had a point. The Army Chaplain that had counseled him in his last deployment had been a good man, a nice man, but he had the bare minimum requirement for training, relying on his daily prayer circles to convert and cure the men in his charge. Three of them had committed suicide while on deployment, and one had been so screwed up after he returned that he had nearly beaten his wife to death one night in the midst of a traumatic dream. His wife! Kevin guiltily turned back to the bed. He'd been so wrapped up in talking to Rick. What if he'd missed something? Lucy lay still, sleeping dreamlessly, just as she had been when he arrived.
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Post by scribbliz on Aug 20, 2012 15:43:05 GMT -5
more! more!!! (er...please?)
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Post by Freedom on Aug 20, 2012 22:40:56 GMT -5
Backstory for people on the front of junkmail. lolol love it! Love your piece, too, love the moment the nurse comes in, so much info! And, what Liz said.
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Post by PaperGrace on Aug 21, 2012 12:37:37 GMT -5
Asked Husband for a writing prompt. He came back with "Like, 'It was a dark and stormy night...?" Lucy, Kevin, and Rick will return soon I'm sure. (P.S. Who's your favorite character so far?) It was a dark and stormy night, the leaves on the tree outside of our window were working as hard as they could to stay attached to the branches. Those same branches were creaking and groaning. Occasionally one would startle me by grasping at my window. Why was it always like this when I couldn't sleep? It wasn't the storm that woke me, but it certainly wasn't helping me drift back into a restful slumber. If not a storm it would be the neighbors' dog barking, or raccoons in the trash cans--there was always something keeping me awake when I lay here in the middle of the night, eyes open, blank ceiling staring down at me. What had woken me? Ah, yes. The Dream. It was always The Dream that woke me, wasn't it? Ever since I was young, the same dream took me out of my sleep and into my dark room at night, usually at least once a month. At times it seemed to be a nightly occurrence, other times I'd go a whole season without one. It was always a variation of the same thing, not a nightmare in the classic sense. There were no monsters chasing me, no disasters to flee, no one died, there weren't surreal happenings, no bizarre circus of the human condition. The dream was simple, quiet, not particularly unsettling. There was a woman at the end of my bed, knitting. That's it. Wherever I was, there she was. She was older, grandmotherly in appearance, but she was not my grandmother--both of my grandmothers had passed away in my early twenties, and the dreams had begun long before that. She wore a simple wedding band on one gnarled hand, but other than that her dress varied. Most often she was in one of many floral print house dresses, her hair tucked up in a loose bun. Sometimes she was in her nightgown, her thin hair framing her face. Rarely she wore a solid color polyester slacks outfit and jewelry. Always she was knitting. When I was small I used to try to talk to her. She would turn toward me, mouth moving silently, and disappear. When I was a teenager I would try to ignore her, and she'd sit there for ages, knitting away. In college it was almost comforting to have her follow me, she was the only familiar thing I took to school. She woke me on my wedding night. She started knitting a delicate little pink layette before I knew I was pregnant. Coincidence? I now have three happy daughters, all grown and off living their own lives. For some reason I've never told anyone about her. She sits and knits, and I watch her, but always I wake up as she disappears. Why is that? She leaves, vanishes really, like the apparition that she is. I lay awake for long hours thinking. Maybe that's it. Maybe she wants me to be thinking about something. I do seem to do my best thinking at night while I lay here staring at the ceiling, listening to my husband snore. What was she knitting tonight? I can't remember. Maybe she'll come again soon.
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Post by PaperGrace on Aug 21, 2012 12:39:18 GMT -5
I totally got stuck there, and decided to just leave it. I can't sit and type here all day while my kitchen taunts me. Sorry to be so anticlimactic. It is just meant to be a quickie writing exercise though! And yes, I realize that I switched from past to present tense in there. Blargh.
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Post by Freedom on Aug 23, 2012 12:45:37 GMT -5
I was so caught up in it that I didn't notice tense.
Wow, excellent cohesion and arc!
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Post by PaperGrace on Aug 23, 2012 18:45:05 GMT -5
Well, I skipped a day. Time to start over with smile-face-rewards. Husband reminded me that I should not feel like I 'failed' because of a skipped day. He says that it's like cheating on a diet or exercise kick--just gloss over it and keep plugging along, otherwise you let in the 'You Can't Do It Nomes' or whatever you want to call your inner nay-sayer, and then you quit. Pointlessly. "If I can't eat better for thirty days I'll eat better for none" is just a stupid way to live. Moving on. FORWARD!
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Post by PaperGrace on Aug 23, 2012 22:28:10 GMT -5
Asked The Manny to present me with any random picture he could lay his hands on: Helen didn't know what to make of the paintings she saw inside the caves at the back of the village. Cultural anthropologists had never mentioned the Megas people having worshiped any animal headed deities. The human faces melding into the bodies of the birds somewhat disturbed her, though she gave nothing away as her guide gestured smilingly at the figures. The markings closer to the mouth of the cave seemed more brightly colored and had more details than the ones further back, as though the paintings had been added to over time, with a certain amount of refinement taking place in between applications. Georgios would know more about this, she decided, or Richard. Funny they hadn't mentioned it to her before. The three of them had set up camp just down the mountain from the village only a few weeks ago, and the men had gone into town to pick up some equipment that had finally arrived and restock on the basics of modern comfort just that morning. She hadn't planned on leaving the camp at all that day, Richard in fact insisting that she not. He had gone so far as to leave a loaded pistol for her, giving her cursory instructions on how to fire it. He was a bit old fashioned she thought. The men were only planning to be gone for a few hours, she'd spent longer periods of time collecting data out in the jungle with the local women. Still, he was uneasy, and she had done her best to take him seriously. Georgios just shook his head and teased that she'd get more work done at camp without them underfoot. The equipment they were picking up would fill the jeep, and any supplies they could stuff in around it would have to do, there simply wasn't room for all three of them. Georgios knew the roads, Richard was the one who was responsible for the equipment. Helen could sort samples while they were away. Two of the young women from the village had appeared shortly after the jeep pulled away, explaining that Helen's presence was needed immediately. They spoke urgently, blending Portuguese and their native tongue so quickly that she had a hard time following them. Helen's Portuguese was not exactly rusty, but it was not up to the task. She arrived at the village unsure if someone was hurt or if there was some exciting new specimen or if it was some sort of holy day. She was ushered into the presence of the 'Laclides' roughly translating to mean 'voice of the group', a title that passed from one person to another with each cycling of the moon. The current Laclides was a teenage boy by Helen's measure, but had been accorded full manhood among the Megas. He told her his name, and the names of his grandmothers, an oath common within this community. It meant that the young man promised to be truthful and direct in his dealings with her. In her few weeks here Helen had yet to witness so much as a disagreement between any of the villagers, though the papers they had read at the university before making the journey suggested that the Megas had a complex system of justice that applied equally to all members of a village regardless of age, gender, or status. In slow, careful Portuguese the youth explained to her that an elderly woman in the village would be making her transition to the underworld, and that she was expressly invited to witness this. Anthropology was not Helen's field, but she understood what an incredible opportunity this was for the University. A first hand account of the burial rituals of the indigenous peoples of this mountain region! How have they changed since first contact? Helen couldn't remember any specifics in the files she had access to at school, but a grad student couldn't be expected to absorb every detail. Biology was her forte, not theology! The Laclides brought her some fruit and a nutritional paste milled from a woody stemmed plant found higher up the mountain. Helen politely dipped her fingers in and brought some to her mouth as she had dozens of times before--it was a main staple of the Megas diet. Declining an offer of food was considered very rude in this culture, and Helen had gotten used to taking a little taste of this paste whenever it was offered to her. As the starchy, slightly sweet mash passed her lips she noticed a hint of fermentation. How did the Megas store their food? She would ask Georgios when he returned. After she had eaten her host led her up the mountain, to the mouth of the cave. He turned her over to the young women who had collected her from the camp, almost two hours ago now. Helen had not brought any bottled water, and her bag contained only a small notebook, candy bar, flashlight, tweezers, several small vials and baggies for collecting unexpected finds, and the pistol Richard had insisted on. The girls decorated Helen's cheeks and forehead with a plant-pigment she had seen them making earlier that week. They ushered her inside, where another woman, the girls' mother if she was remembering right, touched each of her fingertips and the back of each hand with the same pigment. Together they walked a few yards deeper, and Helen's lips were decorated by still another woman. This woman was one that had been helping to collect specimens since the team had arrived. She grasped Helen's wrists solemnly but then broke into a wide grin. The woman pulled at Helen's bag, using the Portuguese word for light. This part of the cave was far enough from the mouth that it was almost too dark to see. Helen got out her flashlight, and her Megas friend pointed it at the walls and ceiling. Hundreds, if not thousands of small portraits decorated the cave, each face merging into the body of what appeared to be a crow or a raven type bird. As the women led her further into the cave Helen began to sweat, ahead there was a play of light against the walls, a small turn in the passage revealed a larger room, lit by a large fire. Leaning against one wall was a woman. She had been pretty once, but she was beautiful now, crease after crease defining her face with more character than a simple spread of facial features could express. She was the oldest woman Helen had ever seen. Her smile was one of serenity and happiness. What a peaceful way to die Helen thought to herself. The sound of footsteps came from the cave entrance, and a flapping of wings. Curious, Helen walked a few paces back down the passage and saw the Laclides framed in the cave mouth, arm extended to escort a large bird. The boy walked slowly into the cave, murmuring quietly to the bird in his native tongue. As he reached Helen she saw that it was a large raven. The bird turned his head from side to side, sizing her up with each one of its eyes in a long stare. Finally, it turned and in a very human gesture, nodded his head. The boy continued into the room with the fire. Uneasily, Helen followed. At this time the rest of the women from the village filed into the room and sat along the walls, leaving a space directly across from the old woman. Helen's friend led her to this spot and pulled her to the ground, showing her the proper way to arrange her legs. She explained that women who were directly related to the old woman were decorated similarly to Helen, and that she had been given the place of honor at the request of the old woman herself, though she had never met her. On the floor next to the old woman were several bowls of the Megas staple food, the raven hopped down from the boys arm and consumed them, one after the other, nodding and making appreciative sounds after each one. The heat must be getting to me Helen thought I could have sworn that bird just said 'thank you'. The group sat quietly, watching the fire. Some of the women lightly tapped their fingers together in a rhythmic pattern that Helen couldn't quite follow. One after another the women joined in, quietly tapping, the soft beats blending to become a steady hum. As the heavy, smoke filled air became more and more filled with the sound Helen's eyes began to unfocus. The Laclides came around to the women who weren't yet tapping their fingers with a bowl of paste, each of them silently consuming a handful. When he got to Helen she dipped her fingers in and put them to her mouth automatically. This time the taste of fermentation was unmistakable. Realization dawned too late, as the powerful substance finally took effect. She began to see patterns in the flames and smoke, as though watching an animation. There were people and birds merging in and out--each becoming the other, ever shifting. Helen noticed that her fingers were tapping out a rhythm her conscious mind still could not follow. Once all of the assembled women were deep in their trance the Laclides presented the drugged bowl to the raven. The bird bowed deeply to the boy and dipped his beak into the paste. Once he finished this last offering the raven hopped into the lap of the old woman and spread his wings wide, seeming to grow larger than she, and folded them around her still form. As the raven shrank back to his normal size he took wing, circling the fire, wing tips nearly brushing the walls of the cave. Helen could see that the body of the old woman was gone. Confused, she tried to get to her feet, as she lurched forward she was caught by the wiry arms of the Laclides. The rest of the women sat, unmoving, the susurration of their fingers the only sign that they were still conscious. Helen's thoughts were foggy, but she was terrified and quickly sobering. She began to babble as the boy led her out of the cave. As they reached the mouth a tremendous flapping of wings met them. Hundreds of ravens took to the sky, and from behind them a deafening call sounded. The raven came hurtling out of the cave and joined the cacophony above. Helen followed his path until she lost him among the throng. The Laclides sat Helen down at the mouth of the cave, still babbling. He patiently explained to her, over and over, that it was her task to paint the old woman's portrait inside the cave, but she just shook her head, tears running down her cheeks. He brought her water, but she wouldn't touch it. He explained that the old woman had chosen her, and that until she finished the painting the old woman would be trapped, the raven unable to complete its journey to the underworld. She sat, unmoving. He showed her the pots of handmade pigments she was meant to use, but she stared, dull eyed, at a place behind him. Nothing that he said could convince her to return to the cave. Eventually the women came out of the cave and were horrified to find that she would not cooperate. They pleaded with her to paint the old woman's portrait in the cave. When one of the old woman's relatives became threatening, Helen pulled out the pistol and brandished it. She ran down the path, through the village, and back to her campsite. When Richard and Georgios returned they found Helen alone in the camp, raving and waving the pistol at every sound. Her face was smudged with red pigment, her hands black with charcoal. They tried to talk to her, but she was beyond the capacity for reason. She insisted that ravens were coming to get her. Eventually Richard tackled her to the ground and Georgios wrestled the gun from her hands. Rough drawings of a bird with a woman's face in its breast littered the tent. She babbled for the entire jeep ride back to town, screaming incoherently any time the vehicle startled a bird out of the undergrowth. She was sedated for the trip home. modified to fix a couple of typos so far, no content changes yet
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Post by PaperGrace on Aug 23, 2012 22:42:56 GMT -5
Well, upon getting a chance to read it in one sitting, I can see that I used the word babble like, a zillion times at the end. This is what happens when I try to write while both boys are awake. Starting and stopping over and over makes it hard to keep a story coherent. The picture that The Manny found for me was the cover of a book: Folktales of Greece Edited by Georgios A. Megas, Translated by Helen Co laclides, Foreword by Richard M. Dorson. ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51j1ooqiXvL._SL500_AA300_.jpg
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Post by PaperGrace on Aug 24, 2012 16:47:49 GMT -5
This is harder to do than it seems: 100 Words Alice hadn't intended to look in the box. It had sat, long forgotten on the dark oak desk for months now. Nothing in her father's study had been touched since his passing. If the hallway light hadn't burned out she might not have entered at all. She flipped the switch, hoping the light spilling through the door would be enough to help her in the task of hunting up sheets from the linen closet opposite. There was a thump from the desk. Alice crossed the floor to investigate the sound. The dust around the box was disturbed. She opened it. It doesn't really feel complete though. Hmmm... I may have to keep working on this idea.
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