Okay, so, I know I promised something new for whenever I next blogged but technically what I’m sharing today isn’t new.
I did a spot of room-tidying today and finally went through the rest of my notes etc. from my classes last semester. One of those classes was a creative writing unit (Myself & The Aliens). Now you’d think that creative writing classes would be really interesting but the workshops went on for 3 hours straight and oftentimes it was a little dull - especially because there was this one guy in my group who talked on and on in circles and was really annoying!!!!
So anyway, what that means for you is that there are some random and mildly amusing bits and pieces written in my book that I am now going to type out here for you to read.
Most of it’s pretty lame, sorry! Except the very last piece, it kinda rocks.
(Maybe you’ll get genuine new stuff to read next time!)
♥Nancy♬
A story (from the introductory lecture):
As she walked into the mouth of the cavern, she heard a dripping: drip-drop, drip-drop. But it wasn’t just a mere drip-drop. It was a drip-drop-fizzle. So she knew it was acidic. And from that, from the sound, from her location, from why she was there, she knew that it wasn’t water that she could hear dripping. It was dragon’s blood. Imarin shivered, then froze still on the spot, trying to ensure silence in her movement, her breath, the frantic beating of her heart. She counted in her head. One, two, three... eleven, twelve... twenty-seven... Surely someone would have come by now, to find her, if they’d heard her.
Imarin took another tentative step forward, nervous and quiet. She began to make her way deeper into the cave. It seemed to be ballooning out, growing bigger, scarier and deeper as she moved through it. The dripping noise grew louder, she was moving toward it. Drip-drop-sizzle, drip-drop-fizzle. The cave grew darker; Imarin couldn’t see her feet when she looked down. Instinctively she stretched a hand out, groping for a cave wall to guide her as she continued through the thick blackness. When she found none, she left her arms outstretched to act as a blind person’s cane, or the whiskers of a cat.
[I apologise for the terrible quality of that piece.]
Apparently some guy in my class wore a shirt that said this:
“Your skill in Reading has increased by 1 point.”
Things I Would Sound Stupid If I Said
Revenge is a dish best served cold. Like ice cream. Om nom nom.
But I like babies! They can’t be evil! =(
Evil cowboy baby! Oh my!
The baby’s soul is the one in limbo yelling “GTFO my lawn!”
From Halo to Star Trek. I can’t decide if this discussion is going uphill or downhill.
Time travel really shouldn’t be this complicated. All you need is a TARDIS.
Ursula le Guin is relevant today.
Radioactive Time Travel Spider
“logistics” is a funny kind of word, don’t you think?
It was totally the snake’s fault. And snakes are a phallic symbol. Blame the men! *feminazi*
I would have made apple pie.
I are take nap now.
A story (from Workshop 6):
[Note: this is a continuation of one of the pieces I wrote when I was in Melbourne! I think...]
For three months before they conceived, everyone that Nat drew was pregnant. She drew pregnant women having a spa day, pregnant pigs snuffling for truffles, a pregnant doctor doing an ultrasound on a pregnant teenager. Her final painting, before they conceived, was of a couple making love while the baby slept peacefully in her womb. And then, pregnant at last, she stopped drawing other women pregnant.
“They’re good,” he said, “you should send them to the gallery. It’s been ages since you did an exhibition.”
“They’re not good,” she said, sadly. “They feel wrong.” She shook her head. “A real pregnant woman wouldn’t believe them.”
But she sent them to the gallery anyway, and ended up in a meeting with the director discussing an entire conception-to-birth exhibition. Reluctantly, she agreed. She needed a reason to keep painting, after all.
“You’re up late,” he said, arriving home at two a.m. and finding Nat still awake. “Painting?” he asked.
She snapped at him, “no! I don’t always have to be painting.”
Taken aback, he said, “I just wondered, Nat. Usually you’re asleep or painting at this time.”
“Well I don’t always have to be! I don’t always have to be painting or drawing or anything like that. You don’t cook all the time!”
“Don’t yell at my Nat!” He raised his voice. “At least I’m still cooking. You don’t pain anymore!”
“I don’t have to!” she yelled back.
“You have an exhibition to paint, Nat. And even if you’re not going to paint that you said you’d paint for our baby.”
“Don’t try to guilt trip me!” Nat yelled, and then she began to cry, and suddenly he had his arms around her, kissing her and forgiving her.
“I don’t love you because you paint,” he said, quietly, and she loved him just for that.
[Further notes: #random - I have no idea where my mind was that I wrote that...]
In case you were wondering:
Trance: if you’re Eladrin then you can meditate in a trance for four hours as your extended rest.
A story (from Workshop 8, although I started it at training one night which is why one of the characters is called Marcus, although he’s not based on the real Marcus):
The crystal moon rose at midday, sparkling down at the earth and glinting its glitter-light off the copper leaves of the metal trees in the city centre. In one of the gardens, a child sat in the shade of a copper-leaf tree, sticky with juice as he ate a red-pink kerzump fruit. His mother, glowing with pregnancy once more, stood nearby in the arms of her husband.
“Don’t eat the seeds, Peter,” she warned; her little boy grinned up at her and threw the pillar-box-red, star-shaped seeds away. “That’s my boy.” His mother smiled back down at him.
“So, Esmerelda, choose a name,” the husband said.
“How about Henry, if it’s a boy?”
“We already have a boy! She’ll be a girl, I’m sure.”
“Maybe,” Esmerelda said, with a knowing smile.
Marcus leaned down to kiss Esmerelda, feeling her sigh and turn her face to the sun as he nuzzled her neck. They were warm, happy and entirely peaceful.
And then the earth trembled.
It was just a gentle shake, at first, and then the earth stood still again. Peter dropped the remains of his kerzump fruit and turned to his mother as his eyes filled with tears.
“Mam?” he whimpered.
Esmerelda pulled away from Marcus’s arms and dropped to her knees next to her son.
“Shh, it’s all right,” she comforted, but she looked up at Marcus quizzically.
Before either of them had a chance to speak, the ground trembled once more.
“Marcus what’s happening?” Esmerelda cuddled her son close.
“I don’t know,” Marcus replied, “but I think we should move.”
The earth shook, harder than before, as Marcus helped his wife to her feet and swung his song up into his arms. He was putting on a brave face, much more nervous than he looked. He’d heard enough stories about earthshakes to know what was happening but he didn’t understand why. Here in the north, the earth stood still, always, especially in the ever-peaceful Metal City.
“Let’s get home.” he said, and helped his wife to hurry across the garden and down the path that led to their house.
The next shake was harder, enough that they heard screams from the city.
“We don’t want to stay near the trees, copper is heavy.”
“Is the house safe?”
“We’ll stand in the doorframe, I’m sure that’s the safest place.” Marcus hoped he was correct about that fact.
They reached the house and stood in the doorway. Marcus worked quickly to unhinge the door and lay it flat. His mind was racing to remember how to keep his family safe. They pressed against the wooden doorframe, Peter clutching his mother’s skirts and crying.
The sound of a whistle pierced the air. It was high-pitched, trilling in their ears.
“No!” breathed Esmerelda. Marcus felt his heart sink.
She grabbed his wrist, digging in her nails so taht the couldn’t pull away.
“I have to, you know I do.”
“Please, you can’t leave us. We need you - I need you.”
He untangled his arm from her grasp and ducked through the doorway to retrieve his belt with his sheathed sword attached.
“Marcus don’t go,” Esmerelda begged one last time.
“I love you, Esmerelda. And I promise to return to you, to our son.”
He ruffled Peter’s hair and kissed Esmerelda.
“Stay in the doorway or out in the open if anything happens here. Keep him safe.”
With a last kiss goodbye, Marcus rushed off towards the city, the source of the whistle-blowing, to join the King’s Guard and face whichever threat their city was up against.
[Note: if I’d written any more of this, Esmerelda would have gone into labour in the middle of the earthquake.]
Three random stories (from Workshop 9):
“Bye!” called Becca, as the heavy front door slammed shut behind her parents. She stood silent for a moment, listening to footsteps, to the car doors, to the engine starting and the sound of her dad leaving down the street. She turned to her right, brushed her hand against a silver knob and watched and heard the music volume jump from a quiet 8 to an ear-busting 17.
“They’re gone!” she yelled back into the house.
“Good, let’s get dressed!” yelled her best friend, from in the kitchen.
[Note: clearly there’s a lack of context there so to avoid awkward misinterpretations I’d just like to say that it was going to be a short story about two girls who get drunk and go partying in Northbridge or wherever.]
“You will not come any closer,” ordered the 18-inch tall fairy. She stretched out an arm and pointed a tiny finger at the target of her words.
He suddenly found himself unable to advance, feet glued to the woodchip-scattered path. He’d been magic-touched before and hated it just as much now as he had then.
He felt her hands running down his cheeks, nails running across his throat - it was sexy, the pressure and the danger. Then white hot pain flashed through him as those nails broke the skin of his neck. Lines of blood appeared, following the path of her nails. He tried to scream but no sound left his throat.
Possibly also from Workshop 9?:
The radar blipped, scanning the space around the ship and finally finding something, for the first time since they’d passed by the outer asteroid belt in the Second-Sun Solar System. The elderly astronaut sitting by the radar jerked awake.
“Wah?” he mumbled, looking around the room, befuddled. Then his eyes settled on the radar, saw the blinking light, and he jumped into action.
“All crew to the flight deck!” he cried into the speaker system.
The blip blipped closer.
The flight deck flooded with people in official uniforms. They fiddled with machines, twisted knobs, flicked switches and tried to figure out what the blip on the radar could be.
About an hour later, someone finally had the good sense to look out of a window, and they realised what the blip on the radar was.
“Is that... a giraffe?”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“A giraffe?”
“In space?”
GIRAFFES: IN SPACE!
