March 18, 2012 Fantasy Writer's Challenge

This was my response to the March 18th, 2012 Fantasy Writer's Challenge.
The challenge: "Describe an unappealing place for a travel magazine."

Perfect Copy

Rodney Rat pulled the sheet from the typewriter.  His grin grew so wide that his whiskers tickled his ears.

Mona Mouse sat at her desk across from him, typewriter forgotten.  Munching straight from a box of Cheez-Its, she had her beady little eyes fixed on him again.  "What now, Rodney?  Another perfect copy?"

"It flows like butter, Mona.  Slices right fine when it’s hot."  And hot it was.  Next week’s commission would have him rolling in peanut butter.  Rhonda Rodent flashed in his mind, his date come Friday night.  She likes peanut butter.  A lot.  His grin grew wider and he squeaked out a giggle, remembering how he liked the way she nibbles.

"So where are you sending them to this time?  Paradise Pub for a night?"

"Better!  A whole weekend at Bernie’s Bistro.  You know the place, right?"

"I don’t travel Maple Ave.  There’s a Terminix at the corner of 17th street."

"Ha!  Bernie’s is at the 21st Street intersection.  Terminix is not a problem."

"Well, come on, let me hear it.  Somebody’s got to proof it before Gerry Gerbil gets it.  You know how he hates typos."  A Cheez-It fell to the floor.  "Rats!  Five-second rule!  Called it!"

Rodney shook his head and began to read.  "Bernie’s Bistro: Hedgehog Heaven."

"Oh, please.  Really, Rodney?  Is that the best you can do?"

"Hush, Mona.  Listen while you munch, okay?"  He watched her force another Cheez-It in her mouth.  The whole thing!  "Manners, Mona?  Is it too much to ask?"

"Just read."

"Two luxurious nights on the wharf.  Amorous aromas for lovers of life."  Mona choked and sent the soggy Cheez-It flying across the room.  It missed his eye by millimeters.  He squeaked his frustration and continued.  "Stay in one of Rodentia’s Twin Green Towers overlooking Bernie’s to the west and the rubbish-laced wharf to the east.  Leave your sunglasses at home and enjoy the shade only the Rodentia’s Towers provide.  They can accommodate your entire family.  Have your meals delivered by drop-in, their taste pre-tested by patrons of the establishment."

"Mmmm," Mona moaned.  Her tail, the only slender bit left on her brown body, rose.  "Leftovers."

"Should you choose to leave the luxury of the Towers and take a leisurely stroll, you’ll find the sleek brick and mortar walls doused daily with fresh refuse.  A manhole cover sits nearby, capping the perfect excursion for you and yours."

"Doesn’t sound so bad.  Maybe I’ll check it out."

"You wouldn’t like it, Mona.  Bernie’s requires a deposit and doesn’t serve Cheez-Its."

"Oh, just go take your copy to Gerry.  I got work to finish."

A Night of Firsts

Tonight was a night of "firsts" for me... Several of them, in fact.

My wife and I went to see John Carter tonight.  A movie date with my wonderful spouse of twenty-seven years was not a first.  Watching the movie in 3D was.  (Yes, I know what you're thinking.  No, I've never watched a 3D movie before now.  I'm old, takes me a while to get around to doing all these newfangled things, okay?  And yes, I know I can never appreciate the wonderful world of 3D unless I've seen Avatar that way.  2D was sufficient.  I will survive.)

So, the whole 3D experience was my first first tonight. My second first was spending less money at the concession stand than I paid for admission.  And I got a BIG tub of popcorn (with loads of salt and butter because I like a little popcorn with my salt and butter, thank-you) and a whopper diet coke.  (Tons of butter is perfectly fine as long as you wash it down with calorie-free drinks.)

My third first was watching a movie made from a book before I read the book itself.  That's okay too because I have the e-book queued up in my Kindle reader (via my Android tablet.)

My fourth first is blogging about a movie.  I mentioned in an earlier post that I intended to give the movie a shot and see how I liked it.  Well, I'd have to give it a 6.5 on a scale of 1-10.  It started about like I expected based on what I had read online.  No real surprises.  I loved the immortals, but the movie left a lot of questions about them unanswered.  (Either that or I was too daft to glean the answers.)  There was plenty of character development.  The dialog was okay.  The storyline tested my suspension of disbelief at times, but I saw the effort undertaken to keep it from shattering.

They did a good job making you feel for the characters--even the computer-generated ones.  The movie's ending nicely tied up the questions it presented at the beginning.  The real question, I suppose, is "would I go see it again?"  The answer: not at the price I paid for admission.  (I'm cheap, remember?)  And no, I'm not the type to reveal the plot so don't ask.

All in all, I don't consider the time spent wasted.  I was entertained and engaged, and that's what it's all about, right?  Drop a comment and let me know what you think of the movie (or the book) if you've watched or read them. 

I guess I'll wrap up the post here.  The belly isn't too happy with me right now.  Must be all the popcorn.  It can't possibly be the butter.

March 12, 2012 Fantasy Writer's Challenge

This was my response to the March 12th, 2012 Fantasy Writer's Challenge.
The challenge:  "When I Close My Eyes"

Call me Carolyn, Dad

"I can't.  I just can't."

Father clasped my hand.  "You must.  We all have to eventually, Carrie."

"It's Carolyn, Dad.  You promised.  And you don't understand."

"Everyone has bad dreams, Carolyn.  You'll have good ones soon enough.  Who knows?  Maybe even tonight."

"They're never good, Dad.  Ever.  He'll come again.  He always does." 

"Who?"

"The friar.  He's always after me.  He wants me burned or drowned.  He won't stop chasing me."

"They're just dreams, Carrie- I'm sorry, dear, Carolyn.  They're not real.  Just dreams.  That's all."

"They're real enough.  And it'll happen too.  I know it will."

"Sweetheart, trust your father.  Nothing bad's gonna happen.  I'm always here.  I'll always protect my little girl."

I wanted to believe him.  God in heaven knows I wanted to.  But he never did.  Not in the dreams.  "You didn't protect Mom."  Father's face grew long.  He kept silent a long while.  No doubt he was trying to find the perfect lie to soothe me.  It wouldn't work.  I might be young, but I remember.

"Your mom was different, Carrie.  I couldn't help her."

"She was no different than I am, Dad.  You know it's true.  You won't help me.  You can't."

"Never say that.  I'll never let anything happen to you.  You're all I got now."

"And it pains you, doesn't it?  A witch daughter?  Born from a witch mother?"

"She was no witch, Carrie.  She was a good mother and a wonderful wife.  She loved us both."

Loved.  Past tense.  That was the key.  No more.  The dead don't love.  They can't.  She's only a memory now.  Mom, I need you so much.  You'd understand.

"Carrie, listen to me.  Had I known what would happen we'd have left Edenton.  Gone someplace safe."

"Safe?  Where's that?  A friar's a friar, Dad.  Edenton's no different than anywhere else.  Burn the witches.  Drown them.  Purge the village of their wickedness.  There's no place safe.  You know that.  And I know it.  It'll happen, Dad.  Just like in the dreams."

"They're just dreams, Carolyn.  They're not the future."

"No?  Then why are they all the same?  Mom had them.  She told you about them all the time.  I heard her.  You didn't listen.  You told her they were just dreams too.  And then they came.  Just like she said they would.  And you just stood there and let them take her."

"I had to keep you safe, child.  Your mother wanted you safe.  If I'd have resisted they'd have taken us all.  You too.  Your mother did what she did to keep you alive.  So did I.  Don't make like I didn't love her or didn't care. God knows I did."

"I didn't say you never loved her.  I said you didn't protect her."  I tried to take the sting out of my voice.  He hurts for her still.  I know he does.  And he'll hurt for me too.  Soon.  "How can I make you see, Dad?  I've done everything you've told me to.  I don't talk to anyone else like I do with you.  They don't know.  I speak like the other children when I'm not home.  I play their silly games and laugh when they laugh and go where they go.  I pretend like I don't understand what the grown-ups talk about.  It's just not enough.  The friar knows.  I don't know how, but he does.  He knows I'm different.  I can tell it by the way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not watching."

"You're just imagining it, sweetheart.  You've done everything perfectly.  He can't know."

"You think because I'm young I don't understand."

"You are young, Carrie.  Despite your dreams.  Despite your gifts.  As remarkable as you are, you're still young."

"I'm old enough to burn."

"Put it out of your mind, Carrie.  Carolyn.  Go to sleep now.  It'll be okay.  I promise."

"Save your promises, Dad.  I know.  The dreams will come true.  And you'll stand by as they take me just like you did when they took Mom.  I'm the seven-year-old abomination, the devil's child who thinks and speaks beyond her years.  It's okay.  I understand."

Firelight flickered through the window.  Soon was now it seemed.  "They're coming.  I can hear them." 

"Carrie..." 

I stroked his cheek and he grabbed my hand and held it there.  "It's okay, Dad.  I love you too.  But call me Carolyn.  It'll be easier for you."

Pure in Life, Not in Word

Okay, it's personal quirk confession time.

I like things pure, my chocolate, my peanut butter, my girl scout shortbread.  I'm a rather bland-loving soul in many respects, I suppose.  Take pecans.  I love them, just not in my brownies.  Peanut butter is great for sandwiches, but don't get it on my Hershey bar.  I like my life a bit on the predictable side.  I'm comfortable with routine and shun the unexpected.  Not always, of course, but as a general rule.

Maybe that's why I love to be surprised when I read.  I like to guess how it's all going to play out and be completely wrong, yet still find the ending satisfying--as I did with Ender's Game.  But even then, I don't want my suspension-of-disbelief shattered.  Shaken is okay.  I cringe when cowboys fight aliens or spaceships land on worlds where magic rules.  It's like a brand new batter walking up to the plate with two strikes already on the board.  That's not to say it can't be done and done well, nor does it mean I discount it out of hand.  It just has to grab me right off the bat and make me believe.  I need to be so enraptured that I can accept the premise--and the sooner the better.

Did I watch Cowboys & Aliens?  Nope.  Didn't want to pay money for something starting off with two strikes against it.  John Carter?  The movie has the look of fantasy with all the elements of science fiction. Yeah, I plan to give that one a shot.  What's the difference?  Tough to say.  It doesn't help that Westerns are low on my list of likes.  Science fiction and fantasy are at the top of the list so maybe that's it.  I'll give them all a chance eventually, but not at theater prices.  (Another quirk: I'm cheap.)

Wrath of the Titans? Oh yeah, that's a go.  The Hobbit too.  It seems I'm more forgiving when my investment is a couple hours of watching rather than hours upon hours of reading.  However, it's the same for me with cross-overs within the same genre.  Alien vs. Predator?  Watched it, but was glad I didn't do so at the theater.  The premise and setup was okay, I guess.  I mean, there has to be some plausible way to get these two races together.  On Earth.  Without defenseless humans suspecting.  I guess it wasn't a total strike-out, but the bases were loaded with a full count.  The payoff pitch forced the run.  Nothing sailed out of the park.  (At least for me.)

Some people love cross-overs and write fan fiction simply because it doesn't happen enough to suit them.  Not me.  I don't want to see Luke Skywalker strolling along the bridge of the Enterprise.  I don't want to see Dr. Who or Flash Gordon addressing the Imperial Senate.  And I definitely don't want to see Emperor Palpatine lecturing Gandalf on the power of dark side, although that could make for a cute tongue-in-cheek comedy sketch.  Some things, in my opinion, should be kept pure.  Like my chocolate.

What about you?  Does Captain Kirk wooing Princess Leia tickle your fancy?  I'd love to know!

March 4, 2012 Fantasy Writer's Challenge

This was the result of the March 4th, 2012 Fantasy Writer's Challenge.
The challenge:  "Get out of the house now!"

Now, there's a story behind this story...

Todd, another Fantasy Writer's group member wrote A Whale of a Tale the week before. It was about a man seeking a peaceful afternoon fishing only to be boarded by a couple of Pirates of the Caribbean clad guys in a pink paddle boat attempting to commandeer his little vessel.  Long story short, our group's members were left wondering and debating whether the man's wife had put these guys up to ruining her husband's afternoon.

Since Todd was happy allowing everyone to draw their own conclusions, I decided to tie up the loose ends the following week with my 250 word submission to the new challenge.  I did so without his permission, hence the otherwise meaningless "Unauthorized Sequel" title.  This was the conclusion I chose.

Note: I highly recommend you read Todd's A Whale of a Tale prior to reading my continuation of it.  It's short and quite amusing.  And he graciously posted it on his Todd's Shorts blog just so I could link to it for you.

The Unauthorized Sequel

"Get out of the house!  Now!  And stop sloshing all that water through my living room!"  Wanda pointed toward the door with one hand and shooed with the other.  "And take off those ridiculous clothes."

"Calm down, Wanda!  Bernie and me got paid this time!"

"Bernie?  You didn't bring him here, did you?  Where is he?  He'd better not be messing up my bathroom!"  Wanda turned and peered down the hallway.  "Bernie!  You in there?"

"Coming Wanda!"

"You better hurry it up, Bernie!"

The bathroom door opened just enough to reveal Bernie's bald head and dangling earring.  "Sorry, Wanda!  I'll be right there!"

"Good Lord, Jack, he's as stupid as you!  Where the devil have you two been anyway?  And looking like that!  Get back to the door at least!  You're dripping water everywhere!"

"We went to Teach Cove.  Got paid for it too."

"Some fool paid you to prance around in that?  In that??"

"Yeah, she gave us fifty bucks each and even rented the boat." 

Bernie came traipsing up the hall wearing nothing but his ripped, black jeans and a t-shirt.  Wanda stopped him with a hand to his chest.  What's that say, anyway? 

Bernie grinned.  "I got it this morning.  It says 'Drink Up Me Hearties!'  You like it?"

"What I'd like is for you and Captain Jack Sparrow here to get your wet butts out of my house!  Now!  And don't you come back inside either until you dry off!  You bunch of Caribbean crackpots.  And half of that fifty's mine, Jack!  You hear me?"

Inspiration, Discipline and Senses

My last post dealt with lingering in the creative moment with the muse for a while before putting fingers to keys, how doing so can pull from the imagination the details one needs for full sensory writing.  After all, writing is more than just seeing things and hearing what people say.  Well written pieces--at least pieces of any length--should stimulate more than just our sense of sight and sound.  We're also creatures of smell and taste, and perhaps most importantly, touch.  More often than not, it's touch that elicits the most pronounced emotional reactions within us.

A gentle touch, hold my hand, a shoulder to cry on, a tender kiss, a comforting embrace, all these phrases and so many more are proof of our need for physical contact.  I'll take it a step further and claim that these other senses can bring more life to what we write than merely painting images of landscapes, buildings and clothing in the readers' minds can ever do. 

Writing, especially in the genres of science fiction and fantasy, so often forgoes contact between individuals apart from combat or the occasional budding romance between the protagonist and her main squeeze.  I believe readers want more than the infrequent kiss or caress.  They want to feel the sun bearing down on them, feel how wet the grass and weeds are after the rain, and the biting cold of ice and snow.  They want to smell the bitter coffee, taste the overly-spiced tea and burnt mutton the cook at the inn served.  They want to feel the stiffness of stale bread and smell and taste the globs of butter used to make it palatable.

Lingering in the creative moment not only tells what was served for dinner, but how it smelled and tasted.  It calls to mind how the patrons received the meal.  We not only see the server, but smell her perfume and feel the itch in our nostrils as it makes us sneeze.  We not only notice what the other customers are wearing, but empathize with them for the despondency on their faces and the tone of sadness in their voices.

Upon reading my last post a couple times, I realized how serene it seemed.  It came across as so casual and peaceful, yet it was written in brief minutes.  It wasn't rushed.  The thoughts and words just came easily that time.  Trust me, putting words on the page is often an arduous task.  I relish the moments when words flow like a rushing river, the moments when I can't type them fast enough for fear they'll be forever lost downstream.  That's when writing is easy.

The difficult moments are when we fight for each word, hold down the backspace key, highlight and delete, or click the New File button on the toolbar.  Those are the times when our discipline as writers must pick up where the muse leaves off.  The odd thing, for me anyway, is that the inspiration can still be there.  The imagination can still be running in overdrive.  We just can't phrase our thoughts in a way to satisfy our critical minds or adequately convey what we're trying so desperately to express.

Inspiration is a gift to writers.  You can't summon it at will.  It just comes.  And when it does, lingering in the moment enables you to evoke the senses that makes it real to the reader.  However, that lingering requires discipline.  And that discipline only comes with diligence and practice.  Take the time to linger, to be the protagonist, to be the antagonist, the silly sidekick or the single scene waitress.  Doing so, for me, opens a whole new perspective and that--quite often--fires the imagination that opens the dam's floodgates.

Is it the Soap?

I often wonder why my muse appears when she does.  Rarely does she drop by while my rump is flat in my chair and my fingers are poised over the keyboard.  She wouldn't have as much fun then, I suppose.

Actually, I think it's so she can get my attention.  And keep it.  You see, getting my attention isn't difficult.  Keeping it is.  That's why she likes it when I'm cornered.  Trapped in traffic.  Slumbering on the sofa.  All buff in the shower with suds of Irish Spring streaming down my skin and Prell lathered in my hair.  But seldom at my desk.

She doesn't like to spark a thought and watch me run away with it before she's finished.  She likes to take her time and give me little hints.  She likes to lure me into a forest's edge and wait as I ponder what she's up to now.  She knows I want to write, not stroll through oaks and evergreens.  But she insists.

"What do you think is in there?" she'll ask.  It doesn't matter how I answer.  I'm wrong.  And she proceeds to show me why.  "No dragons in there," she says.  "No trolls, no fawns, no hares."

I squint and try to verify.  "You sure?"

"Look," the muse whispers.  "Nothing's been in this forest for years.  Nothing.  Why?"

The possibilities are endless.  So this is my story?  Write the why of it all?  I don't have to speak to her aloud.  She hears my thoughts.  A smile stretches across her face.

"Not just the why, Jeff.  Write the who, the when, the how.  Show the reader how this came to be.  Show them who lived here once and where they are now.

"So they're still alive?" I ask.

Her smile widens.  "Walk with me, Jeff."

Why can't she just answer when I ask?  It's a simple question.  I'm not looking for a dissertation or a history lesson, just an answer.  She nurses her secrets sometimes.  So I follow her deeper into the shade.  She leads for a while and pauses, turning to see if I'm noticing what I should be noticing.  She'll wait until I do.  She's patient like that.

"What do you smell?"

I take a deep breath, flaring my nostrils for good measure.  "The forest," I finally answer. 

Her beautiful smile fades.  "Just the forest?  No whiffs of honeysuckle?  No aroma from the pines?  No mildew from last night's rain?"

Again I try.  "Yes, I think I can smell that."

"You'd better," she answers sternly.  "And what do you hear?"

"Not much," I say through a grin that utterly fails at hiding my disappointment.

"Listen.  The pines are whispering.  You can't hear that?  The chatter of leaves rustling in the wind?  The rush of the brook?  Over there behind the rise.  Hear it?"

"Ah, yes, now I hear it."  She accompanies me as I go for a closer look.  The water runs clear revealing the rocks and mud, pebbles and leaves that lie serenely beneath the gentle current.

"How does it feel?  Taste?"

I cup my hands and dip them beneath its surface.  "Feels cold," I answer.  "And wet."  Bringing it to my lips, I drink.  "Not bad."

"Not bad?"

"Well it's, I mean, it's water, you know?"

"Water?  It's snow that melted last week on peaks beyond the horizon.  Ice that fell from the barren limbs of maples when the winter sun finally warmed them just enough to shake it free.  Does your tongue tell you none of this?"

I stand and brush my hands against the legs of my jeans.  Not dry, but drier.  I remind her, "You still haven't answered my question."

"I can't answer them all, Jeff.  I can bring you here.  Show you what there is to see, make sure you hear what there is to be heard.  I can make you stop and smell the aromas, taste what can be tasted, and feel what can be felt.  But I'm not yours alone, Jeff.  Others need me too."

"I need you," I say, "more than you know.  Before you, I just saw the forest."

"Then you lingered," she replies.  "Remember that the next time you're in the shower.  It's the imagination that excites me, Jeff.  Not the soap.