I never did get around to posting here. I've been writing stories lately--I'm a creative writing major at the University of Washington. (Yes, in about 53 more credits, I'll have a Bachelor of Arts in creative writing. Woo.)
This is the first draft of a story I wrote about a month ago. (I know, we're supposed to post things from the last week--but I figured I'd save last week's story for posting next week. That way, I can actually get two weeks in a row covered.) It still needs work, and I'm currently working on revising it. There are two major weaknesses to the story, and a few minor ones...
Anyway, it's available here: "Ghosts of Gryphons" (PDF format). If anyone wants it in an alternate format, leave me a comment and I'll send it to you.
This is a response to archangelbeth's prompt: In Nomine crossed with most twisted fandom/meme/whatever you can think of. The target isn't exactly twisted ("Red Barchetta", by Rush), and it could probably work just as well if the In Nomine were taken out, but hey.
A friend of mine in a medieval re-enactment group was named Northern Regional Commander of the armies of Atlantia. By way of congratulations, I just hammered this out:
Eager and ready are Eastern warriors Strong, hardy men from snow-covered reaches Bold, brave battlers border our north Atlantia's best must bar their way Wise is Ragnar right choice made Good battle-king great in wisdom Seeking in Storvik a stalwart man His thane Johanna offers her best From these warriors a warlord of old Many campaigns called forth has he Keen of mind mettlesome man Sylvanus Perrin praised in men's songs Well will he lead large armies now From broken black tower borders are watched Fear, foemen! The fight will be hard.
I don't remember growing up there, but I know I did. A proud little building covered in rust where the weather had eaten away at the iron siding. Rivets and porthole-windows and the airlock door, seven feet tall with five iris blades and a concrete stoop below, three steps to the ground. Tin roof, gleaming in the sunshine and babbling noisily under rainfall. My earliest memory is of watching my father replacing one of the side-plates because the unseasonably harsh rainfall had damaged it beyond repair. It is one of the only memories I have left of my childhood, the rest torn out to make way for information and skills.
I see almost nothing there now but a patch of dirt. They have tried to clean it up as well as possible but you can still tell where the house used to be, where the walls stood and the concrete stoop squatted. I tell myself it isn't fair, but it is; the house's inhabitants were dead or moved out, the building itself nearly a ruin, and the land will be used for a much-needed hospital. I tell myself it should have been left for historical value, but it wasn't that old, and it wasn't that historical. In the end, I am justifying to myself, because I have so few reminders left of my life and I want so badly to remember.
I look down the street. My home is not the only one to have been destroyed to make way for the hospital. All of them have torn the earth and left their mark, and until that building covers them up forever they will still sit there, squat iron ghosts along a newly-busy block, wishing until their shadows disappear that someone will come and live in them and make them real again.
(At about 900 words, this took me about 45 minutes to write.)
Over on roleplayers, one of the regular posters was asking for help in his Everquest RPG; a powerful necromancer was arriving in town with a shipload of undead. This sort of "will this work?" post is the sort of thing I wouldn't normally respond to - a good GM and players can make nearly anything work - but for one comment:
For some reason I felt the need to respond to this, and when I was done I was so pleased with what I'd written that I decided to share it here. (I've edited it to take into account later thoughts.)
- Wondered what a historical fiction with an old woman protagonist would be like - Have more dialogue planned, not sure where to go much afterwards - Present-tense vaguely pretenious, I know
Merry noticed rather abruptly that Frodo was acting oddly. He had his cloak pulled over his head, so that only his eyes were visible in the deep twilight, and the Ring, hanging as it was from its chain 'round the Bearer's neck. Merry thought that this was somewhat strange, and now that he thought of it, Frodo had been behaving in a decidedly un-Frodolike fashion since the martial arts training with Boromir. Merry made his way over to the Bearer and crouched down. "Frodo?" he asked, eyes wide. "Are you all right, then?"
Frodo hissed. "Not Frodo."
Merry drew back in alarm, and was about to call out when Frodo continued. "...I'm BATMAN."
Suddenly, Frodo called out. "Orcs! To the Batmobile!"
Behind him, Boromir and Aragorn exchanged glances. "Right," said Strider, "no more television for the Bearer."
I grew toward adulthood in a culture of adaptation, not creation. Original ideas are few and far between for me and I treasure them when they visit. Campbell and Frazer are my banes, convincing me of my uselessness, proving me uncreative because any yarn I might conceive a thousand people have spun before me.
But I beat despair years ago. What I called at the time "going through depression and out the other side." All because of the threat of "help."
I'm stubborn, you see. Don't need no help.
There's a funny little friend here, sitting on my chest, mewling in pretention, suckling at my breast. There's a funny little fiend here, sprawled across my desk, shitting on my papers, rather kafkaesque. There's a funny little foundling here, pulled out of his nest, chirping for attention, I'll send him to his rest. There's a funny little father here, click-clacking away, eyes red-rimmed with worry, he'll last another day. There's a funny little fabric here, warp aweft with woe, stretching to the moment, how far will it go?
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ex_tepes85
thoughtful
amused
creative