5SF: Faces

Time for another Five Sentence Fiction entry for Lillie McFerrin's weekly challenge!

Check out Lillie's site!

This week's challenge: FACES

This one is a bit of a departure for me...but I felt like this was the direction I needed to go.

photo source

I would like to know the real story behind this photograph.

Across the chasm that separated her from the encampment, behind a wall of twisted vines and angry mosquitos, Nora settled in with her camera. It had taken her weeks to get there - weeks of hard traveling by banana boat and overcrowded buses, a bribe here, a hard-won conversation with a local street vendor there.

But it had paid off. Though she could not span the gap, Nora could see the atrocities unfolding in the camp that no one wanted to talk about, that the local government "couldn't find", that the outside world didn't know existed.

Swallowing back the grief that threatened to swallow her whole, Nora focused her lens on the victims as they were lined up - one photo for each haunted soul she could not save.

As always - I love to hear your feedback. 

Visual Dare 20: Cascade

TIME FOR ANOTHER VISUAL DARE!

Below is this week's Visual Dare! Photo courtesy of Donna McNicol, of Write4Ten fame.

Use this photo in one of two ways:

     * incorporate it into your current Work In Progress - literally, or figuratively

     * use it as a 100 word flash fiction to get the brain going in a different creative direction.

Post your flash fiction, using the link tool below! (Those who don't have a blog may post their work via Sweet Banana Ink.)

Happy writing!

Welsan 14: A Demand for Soul-Flasks

Here is another episode in Welsan's Story, courtesy of another Write For Ten prompt.

Today's prompt is the word: turn.

I chose to use the word "turn" in the sense of (a) turning glass bottles and (b) turning an item to observe its many angles. Thanks, Donna, for another great writing prompt!

This episode follows on (more or less) from episode 12.

photo source

The Vassal of Ochre has obviously spent a lot of time laying down his plans...

Two fists dropped into the midst of their conversation, cuffed with heavy leather bands etched with a curiously intricate pattern. Each held a foaming tankard of Black Taggart.

Jada looked up to see a young man about Welsan’s age, with long dirt-brown hair that spilled across his face as he shoved the tankards across the table - one to her and one to Welsan. He wore a heavy leather apron that shielded him from his collarbone to his knees. The linen shirt and breeches beneath were soaked in sweat.

“You didn’t have to come at once."  Welsan drew his mug closer as the young man slid onto the bench next to him.

“Of course I did!” The newcomer gave Jada a quick wink and made a swift, unabashed appraisal of her figure. “Berg kept babbling about pewter contracts and black coats; and no one drinks Black Taggart any more. I figured it had to be you. No one else would show up with a shadow-breather in tow.”

Jada started, and looked down to see that her arms and hands were as bare as when she and Welsan had fled the church - only since their encounter in the graveyard they were much blacker, not scribbled in decay-burns only. Each arm was as black as soot to well above her elbows.

I’ve run all this way with my arms exposed. The thought made her heart shrink. What is wrong with me? I know better than that. 

By the look on Welsan’s face, he too was trying to formulate a solid answer that would both explain and shield them from further questions; but before he could the man – Jada guessed by now that this was the elusive Gallows – pulled a dark, shining thing from his pocket and laid it on the table.

“Besides,” he said, “I wanted to show you this. We’ve been turning out a record number of soul-flasks lately for a customer in the Ochre province, and I thought you might like to know.”

“Ochre?” The word spilled from Jada’s mouth and Welsan’s in unison; Jada’s hands shook so that she nearly spilled her Black Taggart.

Gallows held the bottle up to the torch light and rotated it slowly, allowing the light to flicker through it – a deep burnt orange color, with a cap and neck bracings in plain but beautifully wrought silver.

“You’ve heard, eh?” said Gallows.

“Not about the soul-flasks.” Welsan’s eyes were fixed on the bottle, with a look Jada could only interpret as a cold anger. “I’ve heard other rumors, but not this. How many did he order?”

“I need to show you,” said Gallows as all traces of good humor left his face. “You’d never believe me if I merely told you the number.”

* * * * *

Intrigued? If you liked this episode of Welsan's odyssey, you may visit his page to read more.

Questions? Comments? Let me know in the comments below!

And as always - thanks for reading!!

5SF: Blush

Time for another Five Sentence Fiction entry for Lillie McFerrin's weekly challenge!

Check out Lillie's site!

This week's challenge: BLUSH

photo source

The haberdashery was no place for a lady - polite gentlemen, yes; but then gentlemen were supposed to go to the haberdasher for all their "elite particulars," as Auntie Mara always said.

Beatrice, however, was determined to choose the perfect present for her fastidious fiancé, no matter what Auntie or her wretched instructor at "finishing school" said on the matter. The shop owner was all politeness, but a bit frosty in his demeanor; but Beatrice chose to overlook it with all the faux grace of a headstrong girl used to getting her way.

Upon leaving, however - one foot on the boardwalk, the door still creaking closed behind her - her own "progressive" notion of deportment withered at the sight of a dashing young man striding up the street, cane and gloves in hand.

Heat rushed to Beatrice's face as she clutched her lapdog and thought bitterly: Be gracious, even if it kills you - that's what they taught at the school, isn't it?

Questions? Comments? Let me know!

And don't forget to add your own 5 Sentence Fiction as well!

Visual Dare #19: Depth

TIME FOR ANOTHER VISUAL DARE!

Below is this week's Visual Dare! Photo courtesy of Donna McNicol, once again. Thanks. Donna!

Use this photo in one of two ways:

     * incorporate it into your current Work In Progress - literally, or figuratively

     * use it as a 100 word flash fiction to get the brain going in a different creative direction.

Post your flash fiction, using the link tool below! (Those who don't have a blog may post their work via Sweet Banana Ink.)

Happy writing!

5SF: Night

Time for another Five Sentence Fiction entry for Lillie McFerrin's weekly challenge!

Check out Lillie's site!

This week's challenge: NIGHT

photo source

Light sloped beyond the hills, fleeing from a sky foaming with stars above a scribbled treeline, ink-black against a bleeding sun. Around her sagged the ancient graveyard, where the old bones called to her from beneath her feet. The dead ones rested, but their very quietude made her restless, as a gnawing ache within her screamed against the serenity: we are not all asleep here!

As the headstones around her faded into a flat gray dusk Jada sank to her knees and wormed her fingers into the damp grass around her. The tramp of soldiers clambering up the cemetery road unnerved her for a moment - she had not expected to do this again, let alone defend herself in this way - but she shook off her misgivings and turned instead to the task at hand: crafting some shadows of her own.

Yes, I used this as an excuse to do a spot more on Welsan's tale.

Call me selfish. But "night" was just too good a prompt to ignore.

Jada is a shadow-breather, after all...

Questions? Comments? Let me know!

And don't forget to go to Lillie's site and add your own five night sentences!

Visual Dare 18: Minimal

TIME FOR ANOTHER VISUAL DARE!

Below is this week's Visual Dare! Photo courtesy of Donna McNicol, of Write4Ten fame.

Use this photo in one of two ways:

     * incorporate it into your current Work In Progress - literally, or figuratively

     * use it as a 100 word flash fiction to get the brain going in a different creative direction.

Post your flash fiction, using the link tool below! (Those who don't have a blog may post their work via Sweet Banana Ink.)

Happy writing!

Welsan 13: The Gloves Come Off

Here is another episode in Welsan's Story, courtesy of another Write For Ten prompt.

Today's prompt is the word: vulnerable.

To properly employ this word for Welsan's tale, I was driven back to the scene of the 

"Ritual Suicide Gone Amuck." This episode follows on from episode 9, and 

positions Welsan's and Jada's unlikely alliance as they prepare to flee 

those who want Jada's soul for purposes of their own.

photo source

more of a figurative representation of what happens in this episode...

Welsan watched as a torrent of ochre-uniformed soldiers poured through the door, some trampling The Donna in their effort to get inside. None heeded the fragile body that crumpled like a ragdoll beneath their shining black boots. Only one or two even looked down to see her. None stepped aside.

The old church exploded into chaos. A broad-chested captain barked out orders while Einhard – poor, self-important Einhard – surged into their midst, shouting counter-orders and threats, most pertaining to the Tribunal, and possibly the Emperor.

All the words jumbled together in Welsan’s mind. For a moment he was back on the battlefield of Lindentree, and the clamor of war, the angry and the dying screaming together in one unending aria of death.

Death. They were all here to stop the shadow-breather from her ritual suicide while he, Welsan, was there to help it along. What he was under contract to oversee, both the Tribunal and the militia of Ochre were here to prevent.

Welsan looked over his shoulder at the shadow-breather, now very awake and in the present moment, watching with horror as soldiers surrounded her parents.

“Wait!” she shrieked, and stood up. The sword on her knees clattered to the floor.

You won’t die today, thought Welsan, Not in suicide, anyway...

In that moment his mind was made up. They had to get out – both of them – but they were vulnerable, exposed, in a broad blunted end of the church. Every access door bristled with yellow-jacketed soldiers, swords at the ready. For the moment, none of them had moved any farther into the church – they all seemed to be waiting on the captain, who was in the throes of a heated argument with Einhard.

Before she could move any closer to her family, Welsan reached out and snatched the shadow-breather by the wrist.

“Take off your gloves,” he hissed.

The black eyes flashed to his defiantly.

“Not you too,” she said.
            “Just remove them,” said Welsan. “Your family is dead unless we can get you out of here.”

The girl scanned all the entrances, taking in the situation in one rapid turn of her head. 

“But how…?”

In answer, Welsan reached up her arms and stripped away first one glove, then the other. Sure enough, she had been in a graveyard lately. All her exposed flesh, from her fingertips to just below the elbows, were scribbled in black stains.

A shout went up from the soldiers guarding the family. Time slowed as all eyes turned to look on the shadow-breather standing with bare arms and uncovered head, as open a target as any of them could wish.

“Time to leave,” said Welsan, and grabbed the girl’s blackened left hand. Then he slipped his free hand into the folds of his coat.

* * * * *

Intrigued? If you liked this episode of Welsan's odyssey, you may visit his page to read more.

Questions? Comments? Let me know in the comments below!

And as always - thanks for reading!!

Visual Storyboarding: Accountability

So - I am woefully behind on my last installment of the Visual Storyboarding series. I'll spare you the excuses, or if you want to know precisely why I haven't done more than flash fiction here in a good while, you can visit my Beauty of Painful Grit post.

Recently, I've tried to practice what I've been preaching to all of you since my blog first started in late September 2011. After months of lecturing on how to write, what to do, and not do, I've made it a priority to put my money where my mouth is. I've been writing - serious rewrites on Castle 8, and expanding my suddenly-hello-here-I-am-you-ought-to-write-me manuscript idea for Welsan.

But it's easy to get discouraged when you're writing bits and pieces every day, and your characters argue with you, or simply won't cooperate. So I figured out a way to help me overcome the doubt that so often bogs us down.

This is what I would rather be doing all day.

I have so many jobs, and so many demands on my time, that making time to write is difficult. Of course, we could all say that - life in the 21st century is an ongoing cautionary lesson on the cannibalistic principle of busy-ness. Our lives eat us alive, and with it most (if not all) of our creative energy. That's the very real threat, at any rate.

My writing funk came from knowing that I was doing a lot of writing - A LOT of writing - and yet very little of it was showing up in my manuscript. It was a horrible feeling to think that I was writing my fingers off and had "nothing" to show for it.

I was also discouraged because, a couple years ago, I and a few writing friends made it our mantra to write a minimum of 500 words a day. The ugly truth finally hit home: 500/day just wasn't a feasible goal for me. It felt more like a hollow ritual that somehow had me by the neck.

So one day in mid-May I stopped, and took inventory of my writing life.

I thought about how much blogging I do. That I had been trying to get back into more flash fiction. That I was spending a chunk of time each month beta-reading for friends who are on the same road to publication that I am.

It wasn't that I hadn't invested in my love, I realized. I had lost track of how I invested in that love.

My accountability calendar. This is now as routine for me as brushing my teeth.

Pictured above is my personal solution to that quandry - and, as you might expect, it's a very visual way to keep track. But I am a very visual person, so this is what works for me.

If you study the above photograph, you will detect several patterns to how I "keep track":

     * I always note the starting word count, and ending word count on my manuscript each day.

     * I then figure the difference and note the total word count in the box at the top of the day.

     * Negative word counts are considered progress 

     * Other things noted as writing progress:

          - flash fiction opportunities (Menage Monday, Five Sentence Fiction, Write4Ten)

          - posting said flash fiction on my blog, or other blog posting activity

          - beta-reading for someone else

          - those evenings spent doing significant networking on Twitter

Keeping track of my writing in this fashion didn't make a lot of sense for the first few weeks, but now that I've been at it a couple months I'm detecting distinct patterns. I've learned that:

     * Up to three non-writing days in a week is fairly average for me. 

     * I tend to write more toward the end of the week.

     * Getting anything written on Monday is nothing short of miraculous most weeks.

     * When I make time to read, I am more likely to make time to write

In recent weeks I've seen several bloggers sound off on the "Don't count your words - make your words count" saying, and similar axioms. I must say I am inclined to agree. I also think the age-old advice to "write every day, regardless" is also worth its weight in gold.

Obviously writing isn't going to happen EVERY day - see my calendar as proof of this - but if the habit of writing every day is there, and the accountability to boot - then the dream moves forward.

Not by leaps and bounds, perhaps, but forward movement is all any writer ultimately needs.

How do you make your words count? How do you hold yourself accountable for your dream?

Let me know in the comments!

And as always - thanks for reading!!

If you missed the earlier Visual Storyboarding episodes, you can follow these links to catch up:

     PART ONE: Storyboarding vs Mere Plotting

     PART TWO: Building on Your Hook

     PART THREE: Chasing Down the Details

PART FOUR: Jellybean, Licorice, Vonnegut, Line

The Beauty of Painful Grit

I hope your July was better than mine.

About a week ago I said goodbye to my grandmother, who was without doubt one of the most amazing women I have, or ever will, know. What she endured in life without complaint, the strength of her character, the vibrancy of her life ~ all equals a remarkable woman whom I will deeply miss.

To say I am heartbroken over this farewell goes without saying, though I know she is definitely in a better place and now healed, and far removed from the pains and grief of this world. Moreover, I know I will see her again, and that knowledge is precious to me.

Nor is the heartache a useless or debilitating side eddy in my life.

When going through difficulties - I write.

Writing has always been my safety valve. When experiencing any extreme of life - good or bad - my kneejerk response is to sit down and write about it: if not in my journals, then in one of my current-works-in-progress.

I am fond of telling my writer's groups that "When life hands you lemons - give them to your characters. Therapy for you, plot development for them. It's a win-win scenario."

I mean that very sincerely. Writing is, for me, not only how I gain full closure on the ups and downs of life, but also how I add texture to the tales that I am crafting.

Life can be gritty sometimes. It can be painful, even. But it can also be beautiful, especially when it transforms you, and the art of your soul, in such a way that it more fully reflects the way we live -- not in jarring words, or scarring images, but in the carefully threaded moments that bind our days together.

photo source.

(no this is not me. hehe.)

Grit can give you road rash. Or it can sculpt the hard surfaces of your life into something smooth and beautiful.

Give texture to flat surfaces.

Draw out color from dullness.

And, in the end, make one heckuva tale.

I'm not sure if I'm making any sense here. I think I am. If not, then never mind. I have lived and loved, and those who love me have enriched my days and my writing in ways I could hardly have imagined.

Forget your royalty checks ~ this is all the wealth I need.

Welsan 12: Death Contracts

Here is another episode in Welsan's Story, courtesy of another Write For Ten prompt.

Today's prompt is the word: ring.

Since Donna posted all the various definitions of "ring" I was able to discover that a certain kind of ring, 
or "annulus", is a very specific term generally used in mathematics. Here I put my own spin on it, 
thereby deepeningWelsan's world, especially those who comprise the Charnel Guild. (THANKS, Donna!)

This episode follows on from Episode 11.

photo source

A Celtic Annulus Necklace, much like the one I envision Welsan wearing.

But in pewter. And with very different things carved on it.

The door swung open part way, spilling firelight into the filthy dead-end of an alley and making Jada squint. Welsan moved as if to enter, but the guard stopped him.

“Contracts first,” he said.

Welsan hesitated, and his voice grew instantly cold.

“I do not carry iron,” he said.

“Prove it,” said the guard. “Let’s see the contracts.”

Jada looked from Welsan to the guard and back again, baffled. Surely he doesn’t mean the death-contracts? she wondered; but before she could form a question Welsan had fished a hand down his collar and pulled out two black cords, one slightly longer than the other, each one cinched through a circle with a hole at its center. The smaller one was made of glass, and glinted like a black star in the spilled firelight; but the larger one shone like silver, and made the guard step back in surprise.

“Any reaper of the Crown is a friend here,” he said.

“Protected by the Crown,” Welsan corrected. He waved Jada forward. “We’re not at war right now.”

“One can always hope,” grinned the guard, and stepped aside.

Together they slipped into the room – a wide space surprisingly well-lit, with a fireplace roaring at each end and chairs and tables set throughout the open spaces. Welsan took Jada directly to a corner table where he could see the whole room at a glance and sent the guard off at once – for drinks, and also for Gallows. Only a few other people sat about the room, each minding his own pint or conversation, save for a pinch-faced man in another corner who seemed occupied with a game of solitaire.

“Let me see that,” Jada said as soon as she was seated. She pointed at the gleaming discs, still in full display over Welsan’s shirtfront.

Welsan put a hand around the glass disc, but Jada stopped him with a sharp: “No – not that one. That’s the contract to oversee my suicide, I know. I signed the back myself.”

“How brazen of you.” Welsan’s eyes did not leave her face as his hand moved to the other disc and lifted it from around his neck. He put it on the table and slid it across to her.

Jada took the disc in her hand, the black cord trailing across the heavily scarred wooden table. “You are under contract to the Emperor,” she said in a low whisper. A thrill ran through her – and instantly tried to squelch it. Can’t show excitement, she thought. Death is delayed for me – not cancelled.

“It’s called an annulus,” said Welsan. How he always insisted on precision of words! “But since the cease-fire, it’s serves only as proof of protection.”

“And if war broke out again?”

“Then I’d be on the front lines, with a glass-man at my back.”

“Like Gallows?”

“It would be Gallows, if I had my way.”

* * * * *

Intrigued? If you liked this episode of Welsan's odyssey, you may visit his page to read more.

Questions? Comments? Let me know in the comments below!

And as always - thanks for reading!!