itesser ink: progress, uncensored

Palette cleanser between midnight snack and going back to the novella. Half-prompted by my own prompt to Correspondence Chapbook Collective for Creativity to Try Writing an omission.

"That's really what you want?"

The fish looks half dead in the water, rolled on its side to show a pale belly to the equally pale sky. It looks half dead, but I know it is alive because it waves a fin in the air, mirroring the fin underwater that keeps the fish beside my boat. That, and it speaks with me.

Laying on its side is the only way the fish can look at me with its dark, gaping eye as we converse about the weather, the lake, fishing, and, of course, my wish.

Reeling it in, though no easy feat in itself, hadn't been enough. No, besides locating the most singular fish west of the Rockies, besides luring it, besides pulling it out of the water (all twenty six inches, then I was allowed to let it back in the lake), I also had to charm it. Ladylike. Luckily, that part had been in my study materials, so I had come prepared. At least I didn't have to kiss it.

When magical creatures like this fish are discovered, treasure hunters make a cottage industry of pamphlets, ebooks, and guided tours. But few outside the business realize how much trial and error experimentation goes a verified discovery.

Some creatures need gifts, some need favors, some need validation. Some needed to be haggled with. Some need kisses, some need tickling, some need blood. Some need a stiff drink. Each creature of wonder has its own rules and rituals that must be observed, and unlike the combination locks securing the vaults that hold the world's gold, magical beings can't be defeated by a stethoscope, a good ear, and a deft touch. Very often. Less than one percent.

I had researched diligently to find something to grant my particular wish (magical entities aren't immune to poisons of bigotry and jealousy). Every listed creature within three hundred required more sacrifice, money, or vacation time than I had stashed away. Stumbling onto the possibility for a local, magic fish--and an easygoing fish at that--was a boon.

Truthfully, the discovery was more tripping over than stumbling onto. A story of the wish fish was printed in a newspaper wrapped around a jewelry box beneath a stack of Spanish language National Geographics in the junk room at the end of the hall on the third floor at an estate sale in the house that Jack built. I was there looking for cast iron.

And damn if the paper wasn't older than my mother, but the report was succinct. It said all the lucky wish recipient had done was catch a massive fish with black eyes and green fins, reel it in, hear its voice, toss it back, then have a nice chat with the magical, socially-starved individual.

Where I'm from, people don't really talk, so that last bit was harder than it sounds. I practiced chit-chat at a local coffee bar for a full month, but eventually the owner asked me to stop making the other customers uncomfortable. I wasn't comfortable either, but practice wasn't helping so I set off to talk. To. That. Fish.

It's passed now, though. The slimy, scaly conversation is heaped in my mind's junkyard of useless memories alongside how to get to my elementary school, the combination of my brother's bike lock, and the number of trees on the northern bank, which I counted while waiting for the fish to take my bait.

Now that fish is floating gently and staring at me, as though willing my body to tip from the boat and drown in its deep, black eye.

"You're sure?"

I nod.

"Well, alright then."

With a flick of its emerald tail, the fish wriggles back into the darkness far beneath my boat.

I don't notice any change, or feel any different. But I don't suppose I would.

Did you know that to be called a fish, an aquatic vertebrate has to have at least two pairs of paired fins? I need to revise some doodles, and stat!

This is quite a bit more edited than the 10k words of the WIP I have going. Less than 1000 words are more forgiving for proofreading in that way.

I want to go on about everything I'm discovering by writing so much this week, but I'm too busy writing.

Labels: fiction

I finished the first draft of this about 11 hours ago, so unlike many of my postings, it's been proofed and lightly edited!

((Reagan's going over it. While he does, I'll report that dinner was excellent and I got my google wave invite today. Not sure what I'm going to do with it, but I'm an early-ish adopter!

R's laughing. I think that's good. It's meant to be comedy.

I'm suddenly craving lebni cheese.))

Mom pulls the cover off the serving platter with triumph glistening on her face. We all hunch forward for the reveal, then turn to Mom and watch the triumph run from her face like watered down mascara, to be smoothly replaced by mortification. Taking our cue from her, the rest of us are horrified by the dinner we are being served.

This side of the apocalypse, pink and gray are not appropriate colors for food. I cover my mouth with my napkin, just in case.


° ° ° ° °

I won't lie about this. The smell coming from under the lid is gross. It smells like something died, in the wrong way. I want to leave, but "dinner" has me locked in its tractor beams, and Dad would holler if I left without permission. No way I'm taking the first bite, though. Or the second or the third. Not even on a dare.

Jessie looks like she's gonna puke.


= = = = =

I know the kids are looking to me to be the brave one and throw myself in front of the gelatinous horror that looms in front of us, but Sandi's counting on me, too. I can read those eyebrows clear as semaphores, and she couldn't stand it if I rejected this meal she spent all day on.

Everyone's waiting on me, but I can't bring myself to say a word, so the silence has a field day in our midst. Sometimes it's a layered tension binding us in our seats, sometimes it's a thin wind whipping around the room, both obvious and invisible. At some point it shifts from anticipation to quiet, dumbfounded curiosity.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They're all waiting for what's next. Clearly, nobody has any intention of eating what I cooked, or rather ruined. I can't say I blame them. The kids looked from me, goddess of the kitchen who betrayed them, to their father, hero of evenings, fixer of things, but this culinary disaster is beyond his powers.

I cover the dish again. "Kids, go back to your homework. Dinner is postponed."

"Can we have pizza?" Of course Colin is leveraging my misfortune for his greasy gain.

"No, Mom, order Thai."

Jessie's never had Thai food; the odd request just prolongs the silence which hasn't completely left the room.

"Go... do... your homework. Your father and I will figure something out."


= = = = =

As the kids scatter, I go to my wife and kiss her cheek tenderly, in case whatever happened to dinner is contagious.

"Thai food?" she asks me, query punctuated with an incredulous eyebrow.
"She's seen it on TV. People are always having it delivered."
"I guess."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"No, no." Sandi is resigned to launching a second attack on hunger with one of her plan B contingencies. "You can go back to whatever. I'll make something quick."
"Mac and cheese?"
"If you're lucky."

I give her another kiss and follow the kids upstairs.


* * * * *

But we can't stay away. I am the first to arrive by mere seconds, but dinner#1 is laid bare again, its shroud nowhere in sight. I stand in the doorway held in thrall by the slick rosy slopes. Dad appears in the opposite doorway, serving the food a hard stare with a side of frown.

Colin joins us, almost as though the casserole of crap had summoned us to the table side to gaze upon its splendor again. "What _is_ it?" he breathes.

I don't even notice he is gone until he returns. The squirt climbs up to stand on Mom's chair. I don't pay much attention to him, preferring to watch how the light wraps itself around the gray lumps on the table. A white flash interrupts the warm light on our cooling dinner.

Colin brought back a camera. My camera!


° ° ° ° °

I'm focused on the rubbery mass centered on the table. Focused and capturing its horror to warn my friends and any future dinner guests... but not to focused to notice Jessie's face tighten when she sees what I'm doing. Mom senses danger--or returns to collect the leftovers... leftunders... whatever you call untouched food--or maybe she, too is beckoned by the mystery.

Mom comes in from the kitchen and hollers, "Back to your rooms! Let it rest in peace."

Jessie launches an attack at me, saying I took her things, but Mom pulls me off her chair and deflects Jessie. Much like an eagle snatches a squirrel from a wolf... then eats it. I'm hauled into the kitchen and set on a counter while Mom shuffles around, opening jars, boiling cans, and however else she cooks.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Nothing seems to be quite normal tonight, so I prefer to corral my space alien when I can keep an eye on him, often two. His heels kick the lower cabinets, but today I don't care. I'm simply happy the boy still behaves like a boy, even if chicken doesn't behave like chicken or potatoes like potatoes. And the boy is also behaving like not-boy, seeming to nibble at something square and shiny in his hands.

"Jessie's camera?" I hold out my hand rescue the gadget.
"Pepperoni?" Colin does a keen imitation of me, seeking a bribe for his compliance.

"Clear the.., uh-humm... off the table." I say, dropping a couple over-crisped slices in his hand.
"Okay, Mom."

I check on the pizza in the oven, then sweep up the meat crumbs in Colin's wake. Before the door to the dining room has stopped swinging, he's in the gap again. "It's not there."

I try to take the news in stride.

"Tell your sister to wash again, we'll eat soon." Colin stops abruptly as I grab his shirt. "And return this."

He takes the camera and I call my husband.

= = = = =

Sandi yells for me when I'm right around the corner. She doesn't know I'm heading for a third examination of the dinner that was not food.

"I'm here, I'm here".

"Did you do something with the--" She coughs and glances significantly at the white expanse of our dining room table.

"No, why would I..?" I notice then that it is gone.

"Why would you throw out inedible food?"

"Well, that's the logical thing to do with it, but I haven't yet. Didn't you?"

"Would I be asking if I did? If I didn't chuck it, and you didn't, and Colin didn't...."

I say "Dingoes?" the same moment she says "Jessie?"

But neither of us are confident.

"Then where is the dish? The lid, even? Your mother gave those to me for our wedding."

My wife is troubled, but there's nothing to do now, when none of us have eaten supper. And a timer is ringing in the kitchen.

* * * * *

Mom and Dad both glare at me when I come down for dinner take two.

"What?" I give them my best impression of an annoyed teenager.

Mom starts "Did you---" But Dad steps on her line.

"Help your mother get supper on the table."

There's nothing to do but follow Mom into the kitchen and stand next to her at the oven.

I can tell she's still nervous, hoping her kitchen magic didn't fail a second time. Her knuckles are white on the heavy door's handle.

"Courage, Mom"

She takes a deep breath and opens the oven. The pizza inside looks marvelous. The edges are black and crispy, and the toppings are a bit past well done, but the smell makes my mouth water. Her triumph is shy--but pure--as she carries the steaming pie to the table. I grab the cheese and pepper in her wake.

We sit down again, usual places, usual faces, and dig in.

I think I fulfilled the exercise's demands, even though I neatly exceeded the word count by half. Without Mr Brian Kiteley here to check my work, though, I'll never know for sure.

The voices for the four characters aren't as differentiated as I'd like. Each section is preceded by a special header which indicates the next narrator, though, if you want to mental-map out that kind of thing.

Other themes for today:
- apartment vs. house, both in terms of our current living space and my various pursuits... am I renting or buying the mantles of writer and artist?
- binging on writing magazines. I dropped some cash on three different writing magazines, and unsurprisingly, they are both inspiring and demoralizing.

Labels: 3am, cooking, fiction, writing

At first I didn't post because I was Just. That. Busy.

No, that's the primary reason, but not the first one. The first (but secondary) reason I haven't brought any new fiction (or other update) to the table in two weeks is because the next prompt in 3am Epiphany was so easy I couldn't think of what to write. Really. I had many many weak ideas, and though I knew the only way to make one of them strong enough to present would be to start writing and discover what the story was meant to be as I went along.

I finally got over that silly block by putting on some Philip Glass and let it paint the broad strokes of tone. Once again, the strategy was so good that I made it only halfway through the mini-story I expected to write, but already find myself beating out the word count. If it wasn't 6am I'd keep writing, but it is, so I'll try to come back to this prompt tomorrow.

Even on this vast expanse of wasteland, there is only one direction for me to go. I head for the light in the distance. Every time I try to avert my steps and walk into the darkness, the earth seems to turn under my feet and point me toward the tower again. So toward the tower I go.

I've fallen asleep three times on this cracked and dusty ground. Between these periods of unconsciousness, I tread the barren land for untold hours. Two? Twelve? Twenty? Each time I wake up, the tastes of salt and soil in my mouth, I can't remember laying down. All I can do is stand again and put one foot in front of the other, dragging my wagon in the direction of the beacon that never seems to get brighter.

At least the wagon is lighter now. A third of the rations I started with are gone. Too bad the power cell was more than half the payload, even at the beginning of this trek.

I wake up for the fourth time with the tastes of salt and soil in my mouth, and I cannot hear anything. I'm face down on the ground. My shoulders lift once, then droop again. I wonder why my body isn't getting up. In my mind, I stand as far away from myself as I can, and observe in a detached way this prone creature who does not stand, does not move. My hear-rate, already sluggish with apathy, slows more.


Johnny doesn't want to get up for school. His mother is ready to coax the family's sheepdog into jumping on Johnny's bed. She reaches to place a dog treat on her son's pillow, but his eyes snap open, looking directly into hers, and her hand withdraws.

"Time to get ready for school, Jon."
"I went to school yesterday."
"Well, school is open again today, so you have to go."
"I went the day before that, too. And the day before that. And the day before--"
"That was Sunday, you didn't go to school Sunday."
She looks at the clock. No hurry yet. She clears the biggest toys from the middle of Jon's room.
"Sunday doesn't count. Weekends are illusions."
"How's that?"
"They just trick us into thinking the rest of the days aren't the same."
"You've been in the seventh grade for less than three months. Where are you getting this from?"
Jon lies still, watching the line where the far wall joins the ceiling.
"You can't help growing up, Jon, and no one can help summer being over." She leans down and kisses his forehead. "But if you can live through the boring old dull days, you'll make it to another summer."

Jon watches her pick up the laundry basket and leave the room, then looks into a corner of the room and thinks about next summer: the bike trails and pool parties. the barbecues and bonfires. The tree-climbing and baseball-playing under the blazing overhead sun that never seems to set.


When I open my eyes, I am facing away from the light, but still it appears clearly in my mind, dimmer than ever, but undeniable. The image in my head consumes my attention, and I can only see the beacon. When I blink, sight restored, the tower's light remains paramount. I'm already walking, feet already moving under me, subverting my conscious intentions, carrying me towards the tower.

I was numb at first, but not anymore. But I keep going the same way, guided by the only thing I can see... the only thing there is to see.

I love this book. The 3am one. Even a mere 4 exercises into it, I can tell each one has a high replay value.

Labels: 3am, excuses, fiction, writing

I am not pleased that I have to reference previous posts to remember how I styled the other 3am exercises I posted. (Even though the answer is "not consistently enough for this one to matter".)

Today's post that I started, uh, more than a week ago, comes from the prompt regarding unreliable narrators. Unreliable third person narration, to be specific.

(Quick note on why it took me so long: it started out as a difficult exercise, then I had a week away from home, the first two days of which were so eventful that it took me 3 miles to tell my mom the story.)

In any case, unreliable narration is a tricky thing to pull off without it looking like poor continuity or sloppy editing. The book doesn't say this, but when tacking each of my two attempts (plus a third that isn't written), I had to come up with a reliable voice of authority in the story that would point out what is unreliable.

The abandoned story, that looked like it would at least triple the required 500 words, had an authority in a pair of police officers that would be the sensible counterpoint to a main character who is lit by a Mary Sue lamp with a 150 watt bulb. I'd like to finish it at some point.

Story 3 (not written) also uses cops as the authority to reveal the flaws in the narrator's story, but breaks away from my frequent use of female leads with an ensemble cast, and a primarily male one, to boot. But, again, it's a concept that would have greatly exceeded the 500 word suggestion.

Instead of either of those, here's 585/500 words that did get written, hopefully fulfilling the letter and spirit of the Unreliable Third assignment.

The dogwoods were flowering the last time Shirley held hands with her best friend. Hunter took her to Greenstead Park for a date that day. He left their house just before noon with a wink and drove around the block twice before knocking on his own front door.

"Just a minute!" Shirley hurried around the living room, looking under chairs and cushions for a missing sandal. The man outside knocked again, but she didn't give up; the wayward shoe went best with the yellow sundress she had picked out.

"Anybody in there?" Hunter called, and his date replied with a wordless call as she rushed to the front door, both feet finally shod.

Shirley opened the door and exclaimed "Daffodils! My favorite!" at the bouquet Hunter offered her. When he took her arm to lead her down the path, Hunter kept Shirley on his left side, hoping she wouldn't notice the empty, broken stems in her flower bed.

Hunter escorted his lady to the car, opened her door for her, and shut it gently one she was inside. Shirley shivered with the pleasure of being treated so well and inhaled the deep scent of the car's leather interior.

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise." Hunter smiled, with his lips, with his eyes, with his soul, and put the car into gear.

As the breeze, smelling of tender growth and apple blossoms, pulled at her hair, Shirley watched the streets roll by as though for the first time. The picket fences were fresh and white. The neighbors, testing out their porches after months of hibernation, have the look of friendly strangers.

Hunter pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car in a space that knew its drips and tires well. He got out, walked around the hood to Shirley's door as she leaned forward to peer through the windscreen to the grassy fields ahead.

"Ooh, this looks lovely!" She took the hand he offered and squeezed it tight as she climbed out of the car.

She wobbled on his arm, wearing impractical shoes on unpaved paths.
He named all the children playing in the sandbox.
They doubled over laughing at the innocent humor in the outdoor puppet show.
He sweated through his shirt, pulling their rowboat across the pond.
She paid for two ruby-ripe apples when his back was turned, to stave off their hunger until they returned home.

The phone was ringing when they came through the door, wrinkling the image of Hunter carrying his lady over the threshold.

Shirley was shaking the last leaves out of her hair when Hunter returned from the den.

"I have to go to the office, Shirling. I'll be back soon." He kissed her cheek.

Shirley pulled her face into a tight smile; she understood and didn't want to make it harder for him to leave.

This time, when Hunter left, he closed the front door quietly. The click of the bolt sliding back into place echoed back and forth in Shirley's mind until it merged with the ticking of the wall clock.

It seemed like only a moment had passed when the phone shrilled for her attention, but looking around for the receiver, Shirley was surprised to see i was already dark.

Even after hanging up, she didn't reach to turn on the lamp at her elbow. Shirley lacked the strength; all her reserves were needed to keep her upright as the trunk of the many-forking, far-reaching tree that had to spread the word that Hunter's car had slipped on a patch of black ice, black as the abyss that Shirley faced.

So how obvious was it that I finished this more than a week after I started it?
And last thing before bed so I wouldn't be able to slack off with diminishing guilt for another day?

Don't get too comfortable, though. I'm on the move again starting tomorrow, so it will take a lot of effort to keep up the posting.

Labels: 3am, fiction, writing

Another 3am bit of fiction done! Today I'm well outside the suggested word count, and, again, I'm not sure if I'm doing it "right". The exercise was (surprisingly enough) to write a fragment of a story made up entirely of imperative commands. The language of the prompt seems to suggest that I should not have used "you" so liberally, and I should not have been so detailed with my storytelling.

In any case, 937/500 words it is.

How to Win Me Back

Realize that the door I left open on my way out is a symbol, not of the gaping hole in your heart, but I didn't fully shut the book on us when I said "It's over" and left. Heave yourself out of that sticky leather chair, and don't even bother to fix the skirt that's clinging halfway up your thigh. Wander towards the door, still in shock, jaw as wide as the doorway. Look towards the street where I usually park my car. Look, but don't notice I'm still there, watching your silhouette on the porch.

Close your mouth, at last, and feel the dry rasp of your tongue to the roof of your mouth. Take a gulp of the wine that's still in your hand; it tastes better now that it's had time to breathe. Go back inside before your eyes fully adjust to the darkness I left you in.

Kick off your shoes after you close the door, steadying yourself by holding the knob. Leave them there, in tilting disarray, instead of nudging them into their cubby hole, lined up with all the other. Hear only buzzing in your ears, louder than the TV you'll forget to turn off, louder than your own thoughts (if you could form any coherent ones right now).

Pull at the zipper at your side; you may have to glance down for a moment to see the button still clasping the fabric to your hips. Let the fabric swirl and fall to the floor. Take two more unsteady steps; set the glass on the coffee table. Don't spill. Reach down and pull off your blouse, over your head, tossed on the sofa. Ignore your glass of wine as you keep moving, grab mine from the counter and stumble seamlessly to your bedroom.

Don't turn on the light, just tilt towards the bed and drain the last of the wine before gravity has a chance to pull the glossy liquid into your precious area rug. Let the glass roll one way as you twist the other way, onto the bed, away from the light still invading your sanctuary from the other room. Grope the nightstand for the phone, and place it on the pillow that used to be mine. Wonder if it's meant to be dialed or answered.

Will yourself into a deep, dreamless sleep.

---

Wake up focused, no more laziness or pity. Look yourself in the eye in the mirror as you wash your face. Tell yourself, "No more fooling around." Mean it.

Triple check everything in the hall mirror before leaving for work. Make sure every line and crease, every tooth and nail is razor sharp; god forbid anyone crosses you today. Forget the files you pulled out of your briefcase last night before our "chat". Walk so quickly to your bus stop that you reach it too early. Pace until the bus arrives.

Ride the bus. Ride the elevator. Ride your damn fine legs over to his desk and stand your ground. Ask if you can speak somewhere private. Don't take no for an answer and don't let him lead you anywhere. Keep in control, my love.

Take him to an out of the way corner and tell him it's over. Tell him it was mistake, tell him you are in love with me. Say "I'm sorry", if you must. Leave him hanging. Walk away without another word. Make sure he knows it's not up for discussion.

Go to your desk, unpack your bag. Discover your papers are not all there, and smile to yourself. Lean over to Debbie, or Marsha, or Alexis, whatever her name is, and interrupt her call. Apologize profusely, explain the missing files. Leave your attache behind and make your escape.

Daydream about freedom as you ride down eight floors in a stuffy box. Imagine bursting onto a rooftop, sun on your face. Wish for a trolley to hang from dangerously, wind tugging at your hair. Step out of the box and wade through the stream of tailored suits hurrying towards the beige maze you just left.

Eschew the plodding schedule of the bus and hop a cab to the travel office. Stand in front of the window we skimmed past on many a date. Plant your feet in the tide of pedestrians and search the giant world map for the perfect answer. Let your eyes slide along jet-streams and latitudes, across borders and over mountain ranges. Waste an hour and ignore two offers for help from the travel agent before stepping into the storefront. Hand over your card to pay for the elegant, obvious solution.

Cross the street to the florist and pick out a simple arrangement. Choose violet flowers to match your eyes. Choose blue flowers to match your mood. Choose yellow flowers to remind me of the roses I brought you when we first met. Tuck the tickets from the travel agent into the envelope. Watch a handful of customers come and go as you decide what to write on the card. Help an older gentleman decide what to get his wife for her birthday. Ask the florist for a new card; you wrote something silly on the other one. Ponder how to best express yourself on a two by three bit of paper. Write "Take me back" on the outside. Finish the thought with "to our future" inside. Giggle to yourself, then pay to have the flowers delivered.

Catch another taxi. Wait nervously for me to appear and sweep you up in our favorite cafe... across the street from my office building... in the lobby... near the elevators... in my reception area...

I imagine this probably falls a little flat as text-fiction (when I started I wanted it to be a little more romantic), but I'd like to see it done up as a little film (or I could do it as a comic? :D ). It would start a tad before this text, with the actual break-up on camera. Then the narrator would depart and begin his voice-over. All would go as planned for the first section, perhaps even until the dumped character gets to work the second day*. But instead of breaking up with the man in her office, she says "he dumped me! we can be together!" Except we don't hear her say that, it's all in her body language/actions. The voice-over drones on, but the woman enjoys her day and her other man, finally FREE of the awful control freak.

(*one hint otherwise is that she mouths something else to herself in the mirror the second morning, probably "it's really over".)

And then the comic/film ends with the other guy leaning out of his office to ask his secretary something like "you're sure nothing's come for me?" or "Nobody's waiting for me?", unable to fathom that the woman he just dumped isn't crawling after him.

But, as I said before, when I first started typing it was the woman who left and was commanding the guy to do a bunch of romantic (but reasonable) stuff for her. When I got to the bit about getting out of the leather chair, though, a messed up skirt was a compelling image and I stuck with it.

hum de dum. time to draw.

Labels: 3am, fiction

I got myself this book for my birthday. It arrived on Friday, and I arrived this afternoon, and got to work straightaway.

The first prompt was to write a story in the first person but only use 2 personal pronouns. I somewhat skimmed the rest of the assignment and only saw "600 words" before getting to work.

It took two sittings, but I came up with this (680 words):

The view from up here, tucked against the ceiling of the abandoned cathedral, is amazing.

Most of the pews are gone, either looted during the Days of Silence or broken down for firewood in the nameless cold months that followed. The few that remain were blessed by saints who prayed from them. Priests deemed those slabs of wood more valuable than their own lives and wrapped their bodies around the pews when the armies of Voiceless soldiers and, later, mobs of destitute peasants stormed and swarmed this castle of God. These pardoned pieces of holy furniture have been pushed away from the cathedral's main floor. They now line the walls of the vast room, and where the pews once stood, a few dozen people now tread rhythmic circles and switchbacks.

It might be impossible to pin down their exact numbers as they swirl and bob, hand in hand, hand to hand, across the polished floor. Occasionally two or three will slip through the heavy wooden doors. People shuffle in to join the patterned dance, or bow out to take a breath of cool midnight air in the courtyard.

The dance continues for hours, quite a feat with no music to guide them. Occasionally a single voice will be moved by the movement of his own feat and lift up the first words of a song. Others who know the lyrics will join in, and the humming tune will curl upwards to the rafters, but only for a short time. Each song begun is left unfinished, as the end of music, a cappella though it may be, could bring about the end of the dance. The time for that has not come yet.

Some of older folk, white ovals of hair from this vantage point high above, spin out of the group like fractals, faltering on old joints. They make their way to the pews to rest, leaning against each other for support and tilting flushed faces towards the ceiling. Fortunately this hiding place is well chosen, and their eyes fall from the cathedral's peak and trail down the walls, tracing the veils of soot that partially obscure ancient murals.

Only when every face is shining with sweat and every arm is drooping with exhaustion, every shoe scuffing the floor, does Arianna appear. She held her breath for a minute in the back room before entering into the midst of these people. Arianna knows that if she seems to calm and collected after the others have danced themselves to exhaustion, they will not listen to her well. Arianna knows what she is doing.

She moves easily among them, bringing stillness in her wake. The minute without air made her eyes shine and her breath deep. The people see her intensity and gather around, crowding skirt to cloak. Arianna leads them in a wide circuit around the room and they follow like iron filings follow a magnet. She sweeps the full cathedral making sure she commands the attention of every man and woman. At last she speaks.

Her words are low at first. They do not reach beyond the last row of people, and even that outer ring has to lean in and concentrate to hear clearly. All shuffling and gasping subside, and after the lull of Arianna's voice has worked its way into every crevice of the crowd, they breathe in unison.

Her cadence rises slowly, tightening the grip she holds on her audience. Their eyes remain fixed on her as Arianna's voice rises and her movements become more animated. She paces and uses her arms to emphasize the words that are just now loud enough to reach the rafters.

Arianna's rhythm is quick now, quicker than the fastest boots at the height of the dancing. The people are leaning forwards, nodding slightly in time with her speech, mouths agape. With hardly any warning, she turns her back to the assembled people. The crucial moment is here. Arianna speaks the cue, "... mercy from above!"

My hands tighten on the railing one last time, and I propel myself towards her outstretched arms seven stories below.

I'm very pleased with myself for completing the assignment. I even did a tiny bit of editing (tweaking the second paragraph to have tighter sentences)! Two-thirds of the way in I thought I'd have to do a little extra song and dance to fill the requisite 600 words, but that turned out not to be the case.

On the other hand, I might rework this in a couple weeks to add the extra material back in. It expands a little on the "Voiceless Army", what Arianna is, and the state of things. Plus, a rework would let me add in a little more of the narrator, and indicate things like him calling Arianna his sister. Granted, I don't even know what Arianna is, or all of what's going on. It's interesting to write something in which my narrator knows more than I do.

I'm not sure how well I fulfilled the spirit of the assignment. Two bits from the prompt: "The point of this exercise is to imagine a narrator who is less interested in himself than in what he is observing" and "It is very important in this exercise to make sure the reader is not surprised, forty or fifty words into the piece, to realize that this is a first-person narration." Perhaps the use of "here" in the first sentence, and other hints at the narrator's current location did well to indicate it was first person, but I'm just the author.

All in all, if I had read the full book intro, chapter intro, and prompt intro, the resultant piece might have been very different than the bit of fiction above, but, hell, I'm doing this to help me practice writing, not for a grade. :D

Labels: 3am, fiction, writing

Version 0.2

Mother Cheetah is hungry. Very soon her cubs will be born, and for that she will need all her strength. She travels north from the plains the cheetah live on. She goes north, across the southern river, across the jungled island, across the northern river, and into the plains where the antelope live.

Mother Cheetah, so heavy with cubs, cannot catch the quickest prey. She is only able to catch Mother Antelope, who is close to birthing her calf. As hungry as she is, Mother Cheetah completely devours Mother Antelope, baby and all.

Her hunger satiated, Mother Cheetah turns south. She makes it out of the north plain, across the north river, and into the jungle island, but darkness is falling quickly, and Mother Cheetah is feeling the first pains of birth. All night she lays in the jungle in pain.

At the next dawn, Mother Cheetah's first child is born, but it is no cub she gives birth to. An antelope is birthed from her belly, the points of its horns ripping her flesh as it emerges. Soon after this, the father of Mother Cheetah's cubs finds her in the jungle.

"This is no child of mine!" he roars, seeing the antelope lying next to her. He picks up the child, covered in blood and the wetness of birth. "If it is not mine, it will not be yours either." Cheetah takes away the new antelope and drowns it in the southern river as he returns to his home, leaving Mother Cheetah, still bleeding, to her own fate.

At noon that same day, Mother Cheetah gives birth to a second child. This one, a cub-sized image of her, is perfectly formed in every way. No sooner is it delivered from Mother Cheetah's belly that Antelope comes upon them in the jungle. "You stole my child, now I steal yours." Antelope takes the cub and drowns it in the norther river as he returns to his home. Mother Cheetah, still bleeding, is left for dead.

As the day fades, Mother Cheetah still lies alone in the jungle. At sun set a third child is born. It is formed like a cub, her true offspring, but bears the horns of an antelope. They tear Mother Cheetah's belly, and her wounds are opened again. Moments later, two elephants rumble out of the jungle and stop when they see Mother Cheetah and her child.

"Have you come to take away my last cub?" Mother Cheetah speaks without moving. She is too weak.

"No" says the first elephant.
"Have your other cubs gone missing?" says the second elephant.

"My first cub was an antelope. Cheetah drown it in the river and left me for dead.
"My second cub was a cheetah. Antelope drown it in the river and left me for dead."

"We are sorry to hear of your losses," says one elephant.
"We are not here to take your cub," says the other. "This is jungle is where we roam."

"I will leave you to your jungle," says Mother Cheetah, trying to rise. "My cub and I will trouble your home no more." Her voice shakes and her body quakes, and Mother Cheetah is unable to carry her cub

"No, New Mother, you are both weak," an elephant replies.
"Stay in our jungle as long as you need," replies another.

"As long as I need when Cheetahs to the south would have me dead?" asks Mother Cheetah
"Yes."
"As long as I need when Antelope to the North would have me dead?" Mother Cheetah collapses to the ground next to her cub.
"Yes."

The elephants begin to pace, trunk to tail, in circles around mother and cub.
They spoke in unison, "Stay in the jungle and raise your young. Our kind will help, every one. Remain on the island, never stray. Our word that each Man will stay away."

With no other parting words, the pair of elephants cease their circling, and walk, one following the other, into the depths of the jungle.

Mother Cheetah lies back, wondering over the elephants' words, and nearly forgetting her new, horned cub. The cub, deaf to the elephants, and blind to his mother's suffering, reaches out for her sustenance. His tongue, seeking her milk, touches her bloody wounds as well.

As her cub bathes her injuries, Mother Cheetah regains her senses and her strength.

The stars come out high above, and Mother Cheetah lifts her head, watching her cub, spots, horns, and all. With her last bit of energy before falling asleep, Mother speaks to name her son.

"Musoke"


End of part one

Part Tow

Labels: fiction