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1/27/2013

Six Sentence Sunday: Farewell



What a bittersweet Sunday this is, the departure from our beloved Six Sentence Sunday. It has been a heck of a ride. A big thank you to the organizers and all the hard work and effort they put in to make SSS a unique opportunity for writers and fans of writing, as well as a wonderful Sunday tradition. For this special occasion I'll share the very same excerpt, the first excerpt I ever posted for Six Sentence Sunday, including six sentences from Spellbloom, the epic fantasy adventure, and my first unfinished novel ever. Yay! ;) Have a great Sunday!

 


She came to realize that Nian and his friends truly were the voiceless of this world, dispossessed and completely stripped of their rights as human beings. As she thought about the inequity of the very system she was about to become a part of, her strides turned into furious stomps.
They reached the grove at noon and found a shady site amidst the trees where Kaley leaned against a mighty stem. Her feet were sore from walking, and she felt the bark clinging to her from behind, providing some much needed relief to her back. 
Nian sat down across from her, huddling up against a bulky stub of a tree. He didn't look tired, just hungry, and once again Kaley marvelled at his resilience against physical strain. 



I'm not very good at drawing, but that never stopped me from sketching all the major waypoints. This is where Kaley and Nian will be going next. 



1/25/2013

WeWriWa, We're Coming!

Let's do this - is usually not one of my signature lines. In life I tend to move like a very slow, hesitant tortoise. Change scares me, and I'd rather look the other way when I encounter it walking along the waterfront - I'm speaking figuratively of course. (Who is as crazy as to walk on the banks? Haven't you seen The River Wild with Kevin Bacon?) 

Anyways, sometimes a ball gets thrown at your face so fast, you either have to catch it or let it smack your nose. I caught it - and now, I do find myself doing this. Actually we are; we, that is Teresa Cypher of Dreamers, lovers, and Star Voyagers, Marcia Kuma of Letter Go and myself. 

We have been composing a brand-new website, following in the footsteps of the soon-to-be ending Six Sentence Sunday, but with one exception. Instead of six sentences our harsh executive admin (aka Hartman) will be allowing eight sentences. With WeWriWa we want to encourage all kinds of writers, new and old, hairy and bald to sign up on Weekend Writing Warriors for the first round of blog hopping, which will start on February 3.

The great thing is to be able to share your writing in a very friendly, laid-back atmosphere, and take a look around the blogs of other participants, writers of all genres and styles. It can be extremely helpful putting a spotlight on a marked-out piece of writing. If you want honest and blunt feedback, you'll get it, if you want to be hugged by a fellow kindred spirit, you'll get that, too. The most important thing is that it's fun!

Clandestine poets, sassy romance writers, SciFi buffs, fantasy enthusiasts, and freestyle think tanks: we dare you to share your 8 with us. There will be a winner chosen from those who sign up, and we'll award that person a special prize. Excited? We are!







1/19/2013

Six Sentence Sunday: Black Frame





Good Sunday, Sixers, how are you all doing today? Sadly we've only one more Sunday to go until the official end of Six Sentence Sunday. I haven't been a part of SSS for very long, but I have met some amazing people over the last couple of months. Thank you for all the input and writerly advice. I really hope we all find a new home and purpose for that day. Sunday sans all the writing really is an annoying day, when you think about it. It's the coma before the week's storm. Anyways, today I'd like to share another excerpt from Mr. Peker Rue's Soul Shake, a short story I wrote about a year ago. I'll continue right where I left off the last time. You can find the whole story on Scribd.


"Good news!" the doctor said, looking up from the screen. 
He adjusted the position of his black-framed glasses. Fred noticed his slender hands as they touched the frame, and he envied him for a moment. 
"It's not your heart, Mr. Peker Rue." 
"Please, call me Fred, I insist." 
The doctor ignored the request once again.



Awww. Kitty sleeps in my bookshelf.

1/15/2013

Guilty! Pleasure!


What, Mesdames et Monsieurs, does a guilty pleasure consist of? Wikipedia says it is something one enjoys despite feeling guilty for enjoying it. It's an activity that entails both a feeling of joy and shame, pleasure and pain. Those two complement each other rather well don't you think? 

I guess everyone who ever managed to eat a whole cake all by his or her lonesome knows the horribly wonderful feeling. As you're happily eating away, frosting to bottom, the feeling of shame usually doesn't set in until later. But once it arrives, that moment you find yourself staring at the empty platter with a few small crumbs left, it hits you, and it hits you hard, and that is what I am talking about. 

Unlike binge eating cake, the guilty pleasure I am referring to is an indulgence of brain more than it is one of stomach. Correction: lower part of brain. Shame is a big part of it, fueling the dangerous enjoyment/~embarrassment conglomerate. I am somewhat embarrassed to admit to it in writing; my rabbi should know about it, the weird and kinky that says so much about me that I don't want anyone to ever find out. It makes me feel deviant, and oh so low on the human scale that I would even enjoy such a thing... 

But I have to come clean at some point. There is some other questionable stuff I like, despite my better judgement. Let's get the other stuff out of the way, and ease into it. I like reading the Bild Zeitung (tabloid equal to The Sun), and I like that they write stuff like cars, banging into one another on the freeway. The reports are refreshingly un-journalistic and lecherous, openly affiliating news to sensationalism.

I like junk food, the extra greasy kind. I like eating salad with the salad cutlery, and drinking salad dressing with the ladle. Oh, and cake. I like all kinds of things that are supposedly bad for your health, things that make you fat and stupid. 


But it's not in the same category as admitting to that other thing, the dark spot on my conscience. Admitting that I like The Jungle Camp is as good as a full confession that I'm a murderer. Because this program, no matter how you look at it, is definitely killing something. And unlike junk food it is without any hidden nutritional value. I would feel much better and healthier if I didn't like it, but there is something about it that I just can't resist. 

It's not that different from reality shows such as Survivor, but with d-list celebrities suffering the horrors of being publicly humiliated for the camera. And I'm right there to watch them starve and make a fool of themselves. Those poor suckers do it for the money, or fame or whatever sad reasons. But hey, they are not the ones to blame here. Those sick weirdos in front of the TV, however, are. 

The concept of the show is not that different from the idea of slaves being used as humanoid torches in ancient Rome, except that the contestants on TV are burnt slower and more painfully. The modern version of panem et circenses (bread and games) is less lethal, but then again nowhere near as humane as having the relief of sweet sweet death in your near future. So why would I even like this piece of junk, me and 7 million (!) other viewers? 
Tell me. Is it morally acceptable to enjoy watching a daily broadcast of torture? I don't think so.

1/13/2013

Six Sentence Sunday: Weakened Heart


http://sixsunday.com/

It's a strange Sunday, this Sunday. Usually I have my excerpt ready and prepared late Saturday, early Sunday, which is super-duper-early. I blame the transatlantic space-time continuum. This weekend I have my mom here in my home office, and because of that my PC has been temporarily moved to the upper floor facilities of the house. I don't know if it is the strange environment or the top floor mountain air but I feel distracted. I never wanted to be one of those "I can't work like this" oddballs, but today I feel like I have Asperger's, so strangely uprooted from myself. Nothing is where it should be, even though it is the same PC, and basically the same molecules sitting in front of it. Anyways, since I am completely without opinions, and everything just seems so incredibly daaaaah, what else I went back to an older excerpt, a short story from the earlier days. You can look up the whole thing on Scribd, it is called Mr. Peker Rue's Soul Shake. Thanks for stopping by! :)


Dr. Cole went back to his desk as Fred buttoned up his shirt - the one his daughter had given him for Christmas, and the only decent garment he had. "Sit down here for a moment, Mr. Peker Rue," the doctor said, pointing towards the chair across from his desk. "Please, doctor, call me Fred." He didn't find himself in a formal mood after his near-death experience earlier today.
Fred took the few exhausting steps towards the desk and slumped into the chair. The doctor's eyes moved steadily across the computer screen. "So, doctor, what do we do about my heart?" It was obvious to Fred, that the pain he had felt all morning and some time during last night must have been caused by his weak collapsing heart; the same flawed heart, that had killed his father and grandfather, both before the age of 70.

1/05/2013

Six Sentence Sunday: Old Habits



http://sixsunday.com/

Hear ye, hear ye, it's another beautiful Sunday and another opportunity to bring forth the six- may they delight and entertain...:) Last week I posted the intro snippet from Anoethau, my latest fantasy adventure. The title itself derives from Welsh mythology, actually from one of the oldest Arthurian tales there is, and it means difficult or impossible task. This week I'll continue where I left off the last time. Please feel free to comment and criticize my work as you see fit. And have a good one.


It was back in prison when Artie had found out about his grandmother’s passing and the inheritance she had left.  
His lawyer had given him the mysterious letter with a note, saying that the next parole hearing might be worth putting some effort into, unlike the last few times when he’d "blown" it. 
To Artie’s understanding he hadn’t blown anything except being honest; apparently that was something the commission didn't want to hear.
He hung his jacket in the closet, and put his street shoes next to the other pair, which he slipped into with a single sideways move. As he passed through the living room he realized that the heavy smell of pipe smoke clung to the curtains and sofa cushions like a persistent cloud of smog. 
Disgusting habit, he thought and yanked open one of the large windows. 


 


1/02/2013

Account Me Out

There are some things in my life, that I wish would come easy to me, but they are incredibly hard. Keeping my desk clean can be a nightmare, especially when I'm working at it. I have to force it upon me to remedy little piles of chaos all the time. Clearing up the desk is equivalent to keeping my mind clean which is the basic requirement for any other kind of activity. It has to be done.

One of the other sad little things I toil away on is book keeping for the family business. There are piles upon piles of papers, I never find what I'm looking for, and as I'm looking I forget what I was looking for - finding other stuff instead - subsequently I have to start the frantic search again and again, and a vicious cycle of failure unfolds. I don't have a system, I refuse a system, I'd rather get angry for not having a system, than invest the time to make me a system.

Pretty paaapers, where aaare youuu?

I knew that, I knew back when I started, that this would not be a joyride. I swore to high heaven that no matter how difficult it would be, and how much I would despise it, I would get better at keeping the books. I did that once before. In school I used to be horrible at math, underdeveloped, I was even kept back a year because of it, up until university and the day I consciously decided to make statistics my specialty. I became good at it because I was fed up sucking at it.

This accounting matter would be no different, I told myself. I would be ambitious to become better, be the apprentice, and eventually the wizard of book keeping. Unfortunately not a bit of it has happened. I'm still as reluctant and nauseated as I was in the beginning, inept at picking up new things, if picking up things at all.

There are all kinds of problems to be dealt with in the new year, social security statements, tax filings, and a whole new chance to be neat and tidy.

I tried being tender to those ring binders, I tried giving pet names to the documents, but they bore no kindness in return. I told myself that it shouldn't make a difference, that usually, I like all things paper, written things, stories and such. Unfortunately it worked just as little as calling them honeybun. They have no soul.

And it is not the things written on them, it's the paper itself that is the problem, bone-dry and dusty, like a haggard old lady with grey hair and a bun, mirth-repellent, stapled, lecturing me to get my act together. Be more serious it tells me. Surrender to being more responsible. And it's true. I do, however, feel that shredding them should also do the trick.