Modern Skepticism, Attempt At Reconciliation

Skepticism. No word has gained a worse reputation in a short amount of time. The expression started a long time ago, with good prospects, high hopes. Greece, I think. Yet there it is now, sinking like a stone...

What it truly means to feel skeptical as "in doubt" of people or ideas I think every person alive knows. It is an intrinsic part of being human to have the feeling, that something is wrong, "off", a certain fact, an idea, maybe even a generally considered truth. Similar to a sense of foreboding - when you think something bad is about to happen - it can be quite overwhelming. 

That's why I'd like to define skepticism as a state of feeling, not being, because unlike the philosophical movement, it is not a product of thorough thought or opinion formation - no, feeling skeptical is typically what happens before that process starts, maybe even the foundation for it. Theoretically, you could remain in skepticism mode for a longer time period, but people usually don't. Same as with feelings of premonition, it is a state of mind that passes once the occasion, the trigger for it is gone.

A world pandemic is a substantial occasion for skepticism, because not only does the virus target our lives, the safety measures to contain it challenge our ways of living. And the truly agonizing part is, that we can't escape the situation, and the complete control it exerts on all of us.

Some say these feelings of lacking control are justified, others say, they are excessive, and a small price to pay for all our physical health. Whatever your position on it may be, the fact is, that at the moment, many people feel confined, trapped, and that feeling is real and needs to be taken seriously. 

Confinement usually starts when someone's personal freedom is in some way limited, controlled, watched over, even a public topic of discussion. "How to sneeze" is a new etiquette, same as not showing one's nose and mouth in confined spaces. "Not be too many" is a hard rule to follow, maybe the hardest. I think, this may be the one linked to skepticism the most.

I have a suspicion, that at its core, skepticism is a direct result of feeling confined. Societal normalcies like being close to each other, hugging or talking to someone while seeing their face are tumbling right now. People are afraid to stand too close, thus, we as a people, feel separated from our own tribe. But the tribe is our history, our existence, our everything. It has always been the solution, not the problem. It has been the most basic human need ever since we stepped out of the mud and decided to live on dry land. So, feeling skeptical, when our world is turned upside down, is a completely understandable reaction.

Too symbolic? Oh, well.

It may take crazy turns once we decide to "side" with Covidtruthers, ProCovidmeasurists or anyone, who, motivated by a feeling of skepticism, is loud and opinionated. These are not tribes we can rely on, but a mere "signaled" affiliation to some people we feel close to in our shared anxiety. And we feel the need to attach to someone, something, during this crisis. So what can we do?

I don't know. We need to try and get through it, somehow, and let the feeling run its course. Usually, what happens after skepticism is opinion formation. Let it be based on facts not fear. Don't let fear overrun your thoughts. This may sound simplistic, but you just tell your fears to shut up for a minute. "Shut up fears, while I check these facts." These fears will be much quieter, once you've collected your information.

Let me just say this: we belong to one tribe, all of us, even the loud obnoxious ones, who seem to be on the opposite side of what you feel is right. Don't let anyone or anything drive a wedge between you and someone else. We all share the same anxieties, we are all afraid. We all want to survive this, and there are no two sides to beating this virus. Let's just agree that separation is not the answer, neither to the virus, nor to the feelings we have concerning this matter.

And speaking of an enemy image: this virus is more than enough, so we really don't need any fights amongst ourselves. Let's just try and kick its ass instead. 

Home Is Where...

I'm in the business of arriving.

We bought a house and moved into our new place of residency two weeks ago. My boxes arrived before me, they came in a large truck while I drove up to the house with my kids and a couple of suitcases. It's good that we're all here now, finally. I know I'm supposed to be dancing. But in terms of being here, finding myself at this new place, I'm still on my way. It's a funny thing, when you leave behind an area that's trusted, well-known roads and short cuts and a house that is so familiar, you know every noise you're about to hear when someone from your family moves through adjacent rooms. 10 years is a long time. New house, new town, and it doesn't sound or smell familiar. It will someday, but it takes a lot of time. I think I need spring, yes, maybe that would be a great time to arrive, to meet everyone and shake a couple of hands. Right now I feel like I'm at the airport, waiting for my luggage to arrive. Everything's in boxes and I don't know where anything is. And my kids keep saying they want to go home. I can't argue with that. Home is a state of mind I haven't gotten around to just yet. I tell them and myself, that this is our home now. The other house is empty, another family will move in there shortly. We are here. They then nod, as though they'd understand, but I know that they don't. How can this be, their glances ask. The large truck came, it took all our belongings and it brought them here, I tell them. How can this be, I ask myself. And it's hurting a little to think that someone else will be living where we lived, invading our space. Yes, we moved. Yes, I am still moving.

Anoethau eBook Release - Partying like it's 1995

Zzzzzing, I'm so happy, flying, or at least floating a foot above the ground. I just published my first fantasy novel on Amazon. I'm glad I did it, I'm glad it's finally "out there in the universe". I have been coming back to this story since NaNoWriMo 2012, when I wrote the first draft. 

Synopsis

A play on the famous Arthurian legend, Anoethau tells the story of Artie Kendrick, an ex-convict, who has spent the better half of his life in prison, and now prefers the solitude of his house to being in the company of people. Backyard gardening is a newfound and most welcome hobby of his, until, after days of heavy rainfall, he discovers a strange artifact in the puddles of his vegetable patch - a sword. It's not just any sword, since it was given to him by a mysterious woman named Viviana, who introduces herself as a deity of another world. The gift comes at a tremendous price: with it, Viviana wants him to kill her arch enemy and save her world from destruction.

Since some of you asked: The book title Anoethau is mentioned in the longest surviving Welsh prose tale "Culhwch ac Olwen", and refers to impossible task or "difficult things of wonder". It is allegedly the first time, Arthur and his huntsmen are mentioned in a manuscript that old (about 11th century).


Once more unto the breach, my friends. I'm diving head on into the second book in the series. The story evolves around an important character in Anoethau, Eloise Walsh. I feel as though she didn't get enough "screen time" in the first book - and clearly, she's the reason Artie gets to have such a well-trained companion in Cabby, the French Bulldog.

I wrote the first draft of Aned in 2013 and it is a prequel to Anoethau. This will be fun! Wish me luck with book number 2.

Anoethau on Amazon.com

Anoethau on Amazon.de

My Kid's in Color

My kid is really strange. He's odd with words and people, and sometimes with his hands and feet. Watching him among others is watching him being in his own world. Most of the time, he doesn't even take note of the world around him. Nor does he seem to care. He doesn't participate in other children's play, and he doesn't get the rules they set up amongst themselves. To his own world, their rules have no meaning.

He walks across the blanket two girls spread out to have a picnic. He does that over and over. I think he likes the color, red and white, and the fact that there's squares on the fabric. And he likes the feeling of walking on it, because it's soft and he has no shoes on. That is all. In the meantime, the girls get furious. "Don't walk across that blanket anymore. How hard is it to understand, stupid?"

I can tell you now: it is very hard. Yes, my kid is stupid. He's not really noticing that he's upsetting the girls. But they, in turn, are also stupid. Because they're not getting how great it is, to just be walking barefoot across a blanket without thinking of anything but your feet. Without thinking of the rules of girls, the rules of having picnics in public, or properly socializing with people. I mean, seriously, how cool is it, to not care about anything besides what it feels like to walk across a blanket?

And how awesome is it, to just run around without a destination until your cheeks are all red, and you get so exhausted, you're barely able to breathe? How awesome is it, to be that weird? I can tell you, it is super crazy awesome! Because normal is boring, and normal is redundant, and throughout history, normal has been done to death. And while normal probably would be easier for me to handle and easier to explain to the outside world, I wouldn't want to have it any other way.

You see, I gave this boy some of my traits. I may be partially more aware of what's going on around me, but that doesn't mean I always agree with the demands of world. In fact, many a times, I do have some problems getting along with world.

I can feel your vibe, little boy. I see what you're all about. And if I were just a little bit braver, I'd be doing what you're doing. I'd be walking without my shoes, just walking and feeling the soft fabrics of my world.

I'm off!

I guess the time has come to admit it, so I'll finally admit to it: I'm off. I'm blank. I'm vacant. Being creative, making time for other things besides maintenance of life (hah, gotta love the specifics): it's all gone. Off the map. Me, the person who wrote each and every day and blogged half-regularly: was it just a fluke? Or a placeholder? Am I being overly dramatic? Well, I guess it's a little bit of all of the above.

I'd like to cling to the hopes of having a tiny little residue of energy left to go on - creatively speaking. Some day. I haven't given up the idea of a writerly career. But to get there, I have to write. Every day. Stay in shape. Honestly, it wouldn't be hard to make time if I really wanted to do it now, but the truth is, these days I'm burning on a low flame. And I prefer sleep over writing.

With a second kid, I somehow feel ridiculous talking about the importance of art and leisure. It has little meaning to me. I'm not saying that I found it elsewhere, because there's no infinite wisdom buried beneath baby poop and vomit, but these are the pressing issues in my life right now. Life upkeep. Hey, by the way, here's the test to find out if you are a real writer: If you have the choice between writing a story and cleaning up a spilled drink that drips down to the floor, what would you do first? If you choose writing over cleaning up, congrats, you are a writer! If you are like me, and you can't do anything else, knowing that something is dripping, you are not. Or maybe you have OCD.

There are a couple of other options, for those of us who want to combine the everyday life with writing. I thought about it. Writing about the everyday life. Unfortunately I can't mash up these things. I'm not a baby blogger. I just don't have it in me. And I rarely find other baby blogs to be insightful or original, least of all entertaining - except for the Baby Bible, which I've come to enjoy quite a lot.

Me, I don't want to talk regularly about the ups and downs of being a nurse, janitor, baby feeder. Unless those babies have magical powers hidden beneath their diapers that is, then I could write about it and call it a fantasy story. And in regards to writing about being a parent, there's not much to go on either. My quintessential parental insight basically comes down to one rule, namely "try not to kill kids". Well, there could be a funny angle to this, but it's more like a pun: "Today: tried not to kill kids, and barely succeeded." But that's about it.


Why didn't I jump in while I had more time? It's easy. I'm afraid. I'm afraid no one will care about the story I labored over, and worse, that it's an utter failure, and no one will care,  which is basically worse than having a million bad reviews. Having a sucky story and no reviews. Annoyed people still are an audience. If no one is annoyed, is it like the proverbial tree in the forest? Does my writing even exist? Seems like at the moment, I can't answer these questions.

Right, I do care a little too much for someone who doesn't put any effort in having their story published, don't I! Hah, maybe there is a grain of hope. A little one.

Story news about Anoethau

This year, a lot of stuff is about to happen: I'm adding the final touches to my 2012 NaNoWriMo story for it to be published in the last quarter of this year. I'm excited about this story. Interestingly enough, re-reading it, I didn't find it completely horrible. Yes, certain parts were longwinded descriptions, and reflected thoughts. The main character is alone for a certain time of the story and with no dialogue options and no interactions, strange things happen in storytelling. Plus the NaNo requirement of having a story with at least 50000 words demanded a certain creative "redundancy" on my part. I'm excited though, I feel like I can move on from here.



Reading Guy Gavriel Kay's Fionavar Tapestry trilogy reassured me, that re-imaginings of known narratives can be an asset. For his story, he revived some of the Camelot cast, just like I did, but unlike him, I did it in a contemporary setting. Read The Fionavar Tapestry if you get a chance. Guy Gavriel Kay was Tolkien's editor for the Silmarillion, so that should tell you everything you need to know.

I hope you're not turned off of me saying hang in there once again. We're almost there. I still need a website, but hubby promised to help me with that. And amongst other things, hubby is a website wizard, and a tech-fex if anything else. OK, enough pampering, back to work.

First Page Review: Spellbloom

Hey everyone, and hello to first page review! Always exciting to get a little bit of feedback on the first few words of a story. This is taken from the first story I ever thought out and wrote down, titled Spellbloom, a contemporary fantasy tale. It is the one story closest to my heart, but it is yet to be finished on paper. I'm so hestitant when it comes to writing this story. In the hopes of getting more experienced at storytelling, I never want to touch it to not spoil it with mediocre writing, if that makes any sense. :) I started writing it two years ago, and I'm not even halfway finished, but I edited bits and pieces of it. The picture you see is a home-brewed graphic experiment that may or may not be the real cover for the book one day. 

Looking forward to reading your comments and suggestions and I can't wait to visit your blogs and to read your stories. :)

1.

Pador stared at the portrait in silence. The face in the picture frame stared back at him. He knew that the years had given him a few hard lines around the mouth, and the painter hadn’t wasted any time sugar-coating the truth.

The people of Indova called Pador rigorous, a man purported to rule with a strict vision of things that needed to be done. He had never seen himself that way. The things to be done most rarely are what everyone agrees with, his father used to say. Unlike Pador, he had been the leader of a family of 4, not millions. Pador sighed.

At least in the picture he looked the part of the leader, Pador thought, carrying the bearings of Indova on his chest, the blue cloak hovering over the black cliffs of the Seam, the traditional symbol for the first Mage Rebellion nearly 300 years ago. His ancestors had fought in that battle, and many of them had lost their lives.

He had always worn his blue cloak with pride, ever since the day he got elected. He had made a name for himself in the Academy, and he was a reasonable choice for the Council. The fact that he didn't want the job was of little importance and just went to show how the laws of Indova bestowed all power upon the election committee. The committee had seen aptitude and farsightedness in equal measure in him, and none of the other candidates. Sometimes Pador still thought they'd made a terrible mistake choosing him, but his advisor had told him that his doubts proved him to be the right choice all the more. 

Pador knew his duties, and well enough to realize that anyone would have a hard time ruling a country, at least if he tried to do it well. Sometimes however he caught himself thinking that there might be someone out there who would enjoy it more than he did. He sighed again, a heavy and deep sigh – resonating back at him from the walls of the hallway. He turned around to go back to his office. He longed for this day to be over, but it wasn’t even close to noon. He had several ministers to meet still, representatives to greet with a smile on his face and their pleas to suffer through. He would be able to visit Janey thereafter – if it wasn’t too late in the day. He had been looking forward to seeing her all week, yet he hated visitation days because they would only sound in another 6 long days of waiting. He missed the times when he saw her each day, the times when they were freshmen in the Academy and their assignments would bring them to different places all across Fallwyne. He was a better man with her by his side, always, and a happier one, but unfortunately, there were other things to consider, more important things such as her health. Janey was his wife and he loved her dearly, but he couldn’t risk exposing herself to him more than once a week. He was poison to her, and she needed all the time she could get to recover from his visits. It was the only way they could be together at all.

Pador opened the large wooden door to his office and saw Aeron sitting in one of the high visitor’s chairs. He got up to greet him as he saw him enter, “Ah, there you are”. His black cloak swirled as he rose. Pador always thought that there was no one who wore the Guardian’s cloak as well as Aeron, although there certainly were Guardians who took their responsibilities more seriously than he did. They had been friends for over a decade, and now wasn’t the time to question his work ethic. 
“Do you have a minute or two?” Pador knew, that, with Aeron, it would never only take a minute or two, but he nodded.   
“What’s going on?” he closed the door behind him. Aeron sat down again, this time on the corner of Pador’s large writing desk, in between red document folders and a pile of mail.

“Wintershedge has sent word of their arrival.”

“And?”

Apparently the girl has already fallen ill with the bloom.”

“What!? Oh no!” Pador was dismayed at these news. He started pacing up and down the room.

“How bad is it?”

Aeron hesitated. “She’s…functional, but very weak. The journey was exhausting for her.”

“Is she bedridden?”

“Unfortunately yes.”

“Good gods.. how did this happen so quickly?”

Pador massaged the few stubbles on his chin. “That’s bad…  I shouldn’t have sent them away together..”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, we don’t know the details. There is still a possibility that she’s just sick with some other illness.

“Please,” Pador said, “you know as well as I that there is no one better suited to judge the onsets of second bloom than their people.”

Aeron didn’t respond. 
“We should offer to help them, bring them back to the city after…. they are done..” He sat down. The regent's chair was heavy and cumbersome.
"I had no right..."
He felt Aeron’s hand on his shoulder moments later.

“You did it for Janey.”

Motherhood's Kicking in!

I was wondering about this for a while now, ever since the moment the other little strip turned a faint shade of pink. Surprise! The idea of pregnancy wasn't something my mind could fully grasp, the consequences being too extensive to even imagine a world beyond ginormous belly.
Sentenced to 9 months to life!

The first 12 weeks of any pregnancy are known to be shaky, a fearful stretch of hit-or-miss, and to be completely honest, I had no reason to believe it would stick this time. It tried to pay as little attention to it as possible plowing through NaNoWriMo. And it stuck. Now that it's past half-time and actual proof is hitting me from within with violent little earthquakes, I'm still having trouble believing it.

Thoughts like is that belly that has long begun to cast a shadow really a baby or did I just let myself go over the winter? Are these strange bursts I'm feeling coming from my intestines after all? Are these kicks telling me that my bowels are in trouble, do I have some kind of abdominal epilepsy?

I don't know whether it'll ever start to feel real in a way that will allow me to fully commit to the idea of having a child before it's factually there.

To go out there and buy stuff for the nursery, because I am certain it's going to happen. No way. I will give birth to a human being. Seriously!? I can tell myself that over and over. I'm two people now, one of them living inside the other. Get that: one of them is not a woman... Still not quite sure if it's me after all?! Him? There's going to be a him? Maybe I'm just fat and schizoid!

I feel motherly towards my cats, and even more so than towards children. I have never been needed by a child. I think we're biologically prone to like whomever we're responsible for. (Or what we've tamed, in the words of The Little Prince)

I'll have a lifetime to make horrible mistakes once it's in the world. I'm sure I'll never feel like I'm doing a good job, or that I'll be making the right choices; living up to some absurd standard of parenting that I don't even know I'll have. That's just how I am in life. Let's hope the mistakes I'll make will be glorious ones, and my shortcomings will make me smile rather than want to make me beat myself up.

Also I'm not sure I'm ready to accept that once I'm a parent, a part of my life will be in freeze mode, the parental stage of preservation. Worrying and caring override any impulse to run for your life and join a cult in search of self-fulfillment. Parents are a different species. Biology forces them to zone in on a tiny piece of life other than themselves  - at least for a little while. Some people go nuts, others blossom in new-found meaningfulness, and others yet again see their children as some kind of investment opportunity.

The only thing I ask is that you, lovely baby, will not make me stupid..at least be kind enough to merely put my brain on ice. Don't eat it. I'm not ready to give it up for good...

June. Not too far away. Still some time to get acquainted. If not with baby, then at least with the concept of change. If that's ever possible before it is thrown upon us. Bloody hell!

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. 

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!

NaNoWriMo: Trash and Tragedies

So, I realized something today. Once I have written down something and locked it as far as the story goes, it is hard, not to say close to impossible for me to "un-think" it. I don't like to drop ideas, partly because I'm lazy but also because I tend to consider myself grandiose enough to deem everything I come up with a treasure.

Today I had to tie in some loose ends, and frankly, some of the ideas just didn't make sense anymore. So, while it is hard to say goodbye to "story trash" it's better to drop it than to keep something that would screw with the basic idea for purely nostalgic or ego reasons. I realize now, that this story is far from what I wanted or expected it to be when I started writing it. It is simultaneously the only thing and the worst thing I will have finished thus far. Yes, this realization was quite painful.

I naively underestimated how much there was to learn when I started writing for an audience bigger than myself and the potted plants in my room. But I'm not waving the flag of defeat, quite the opposite. Now I feel like I can really get started. This was the thing holding me back towards actually becoming a (real) writer.

Six Sentence Sunday: Storms In Quiet Places

http://sixsunday.com/

Hey lovely Sixers, here we are again, sharing our wonderful Sunday tradition. This week it's part #11 of The Days Adrift - and ->this is what happened last time. We are back in the boat with Brita, Tams and that other girl telling her story. :) Feel free to share your thoughts with me, I do appreciate all of your comments.


There is...something. I can see it now, a shape emerges, approaching the keel from deep within the white wafts. It is lengthy and even and..."Outpost!!! Outpost!! Outpost!!!" Brita jumps up and down on the bow, the bottles roll on the floor in disarray. It is a small landing stage...I can't believe it. 
Tams collapses onto the bench right in front of me, she quivers like a branchlet shaken by storm.

Six Sentence Sunday: Hell-bent On Giving Up

Hey there lovely Sunday Sixers, here we are again! Whew, the weeks fly by quickly, and as I'm mentally preparing for Nanowrimo I feel like I have to do some preliminary work for my Sunday Six excerpts. So this week, it's another double-six snippet from The Days Adrift, part #10. Feel free to comment, critique and share your thoughts! :)
->This is what happened last week.


"Don't throw it all out," I say, a tad insulted, "we may still need some of those things." Like an excavator, Tams grabs the lot of empty bottles and all of our shoes - the good shoes. 
A single sneaker falls off of her arms. "Stop it!" but she seems to be in some sort of frenzy. "We need shoes, you twerp." 
She pauses and stares at me, that scary glare in her eyes, the one telling me that she's hell-bent on giving up.
"Guys!" 
As she leans over the rail, I yank her arm from behind, hard. She stumbles, loses her balance and falls back with a thump. 
"Guys!!!" Brita yells, her voice is cutting capers. She gestures dramatically. Tams lies on top of my legs, amidst scattered shoes and bottles. Brita's incessant screech has become a hoarsely squeal; it pierces right through my ears.
What in the world is she pointing at?

Six Sentence Sunday: Grave Goods

http://sixsunday.com/

Huzzah Sunday Sixers! Today it's back to the usual length and format of the Six Sentence Sunday snippets. And this week also, I'll crack open Chapter 4 of The Days Adrift, my story about three girl-fugitives at sea, running from the turmoil of war and the crime they committed. This is what happened ->last time. Let's move on forward to part #9. Feel free to share your thoughts, any thoughts! :)


4.

"You're doing a great job, girl," Tams says, leaning over the keel to rinse one of the empty water bottles. 
"Do you think we will make it?" It does sound incredibly small and stupid, now that I say it out loud. Tams looks at me bleakly, in calm defeat. No, of course not.  
She grabs the bloodstained hammer from under the plastic cover, dumps it in the water and watches as it sinks into the abyss; already cleaning up for the ship burial, aren't we?

Six Sentence Sunday: Cold Fog, Rising

http://sixsunday.com/

Hey there Sunday, Sunday Sixers! How are you all doing today? I admit, I have been absent more often than not these last few weeks. Today, I'll share a longer excerpt to make up for it. :) This is a whole scene, and the end of chapter 3 of The Days Adrift, my YA novel WIP. ->Last time the main character almost lost herself to the water, but Brita, one of the other two girls on board pulled her back into the boat at the very last second. This time, the protagonist struggles to find her place in this dire situation, being lost out at sea.
Your comments & criticisms are very helpful and precious to me, and I want to encourage you again to share each and any thought you have. Thank you.


There is no sign of an outpost, no sign of anything in the dense morning fog. Tams unscrews the last bottle of water and hands it over to me. 

"Here." 

I get feeling she knows as well as I that we are completely lost. She doesn't have as much sailing expertise on her back, but she still knows me.

The nagging look she gives me doesn't fail to remind me that there is something to be done about the situation, something on my part. I mean, what does she expect?

Oh my, poor little Brita sits at the bow and stares across the water like a watchdog, turning her head left and right, so as not to miss any signal above ocean level. 
There is none. There hasn't been one for over a week. 
After days without food we are narrowed to a weak signal ourselves.

Are we just waiting to die out here?

I remember, I was only five years old, when my father took me out boating for the very first time. I loved every minute of it. We went deep-sea fishing the following summer, and he let me help throw out the net. Back then I could barely reach the fiddle with my nose.

At the age of ten, I knew how to steer a motorized boat, with twelve I could easily find my way home without the help of the stars; he told me to keep an even keel to where the cold fog rises.

At fourteen he pronounced me seaworthy and presented me with my own captain’s hat. He would mess up my hair, and then put it on my head...

Dad... 

In a desperate maneuver I turn the cockleshell northeast, towards the soon to be rising sun; an even keel to where the cold fog rises.
It's a long shot, but it's the only chance we have.

"Let's head towards Old Venice." 

I barely recognize my own voice. 
Brita turns around in surprise and she claps her hands, cheering me on. "Old Venice, here we come!"  

Exude confidence when captaining -always.

How could I ever forget? 

My whole body shivers as I reach for the handle to resume my post. I can never tell whether it is from the cold or from hunger.

I look over at Tams and she smiles at me, through slight wafts of mist.

Six-Sentence-Sunday 8/19

http://sixsunday.com/

 

Hey y'all it's Sunday, and that means time to share another excerpt from The Days Adrift. -->This is what happened last time. Three girls, still out at sea, on the run from the turmoil of war and the crime they committed..and it's getting quite dark. Feel free to comment, criticize, like, not like, whatever you want! By the way, I need your help with a little apostrophe crisis. Her name is Tams. Is it Tams' face, Tams's face or Tams face - or should I just rename her? Not stupid, just German and easily confused! :) 
 
Before you go, don't forget to take a look at the talented Sunday crowd right -->here.



As the season changes from spring to early summer, the sun breaks through skin like a thin coat of ice. There is hardly any shade on deck, and with each passing day, Tams' tattered face reminds me more of a giant cracked egg. 
I can't even look at her without feeling uncomfortable. 
Brita doesn't talk to me anymore. Delicate little Brita, furiously cowering in the corner, like a glaring red lobster. 
I should throw her overboard, or better yet, dump her in a pot of boiling hot water...