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angelgoeslewd · 3 months

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White Lies. [Prologue.]

🔮 summary: becoming Fyodor’s house-spouse is a trial.

⚠️ warnings: unhealthy relarionship dynamics. this excerpt is SFT, there will be more in this series that will not be. please read accordingly with attention to the warnings.

📝 a/n: this got away from me … these were supposed to be headcanons 😰 yes i have more planned. this is only the beginning.

The relationship between you and Fyodor began as a mutually beneficial agreement. Fitting, for one as conniving as him and as cornered as you, but odd, considering his... allure.

It was easy to consider him "out of your league." His status outweighed yours by a fair amount and this didn't even weigh in his looks or platinum tongue, his bank account alone probably tipped the scales in your favor. But your... situation was rare, one that worked in his own interests.

As the eldest of a well-to-do family, you knew, knew from an early age you would be expected to marry. Expected to give up any life and passions you had to seek the hand of someone who elevated your family's status. And as the days passed by, your days filled with schooling and artistic pursuits, the arraignment of your betrothal was a closer and closer possibility. Every leaf that fell on the cold stone pathway of your college campus seemed like just another reminder of the time that was slipping through your fingers.

That was why you saw him as an opportunity. When your friend offhandedly gushed that The Fyodor Dostoevsky was seeking, "a fair person of good standing and kind graces to accompany him in his quest for comfortability and tranquility," (which sounded like something straight out of a Jane Austen novel, for God's sake) at your coffee date and how exciting the possibility was, your desperation got the better of you. You tried not to hope, tried not to let your wretched attempt, your last-ditch effort of securing your own freedom seep into your voice as you asked her for more details, wondering if she heard it, wondering if she saw your hand shake as you lifted your cup to your mouth and she peered at you, questioningly. Thankfully, she asked nothing and simply divulged in full.

You found yourself at the meeting hall in question 5 minutes late, on the date of the supposed event. Her information was true, as you quickly found out, entering the hall to be met with a crowd of every type of people from every corner of your school. All ages were there, young, older, older, to meet Mr. Dostoyevsky. People who had colored hair, people who were draped in jewels, people who had neither of either and looked like simple office workers. They gave you a number when you checked in at the booth, a simple white ticket with nothing but black ink printed on it in a large font. You tucked it into your bag and finding nowhere to sit, you subtly made your way outside to wait.

Sitting on a small brick wall, separating you from a small flower bed, you were near enough to hear any instruction, but far enough from the crowd to not be bothered. You took out your latest novel, began to read, and waited.

And waited.

It only took about half an hour for you to notice people streaming out of the building; some with red faces, others in open tears. Concerned, you shifted on your seat, wondering if this was really worth it. But you made no move to comfort the people, nor did you move to leave. You knew, subconsciously, you had no other choice.

Eventually, your number was called, and you grabbed your things hastily, walking into the building and suddenly hitting the nicely warmed air. You didn't even realize how cold it was outside, your mind was lost in the book you held. Your fingers were thankful, still red from the cold, but it felt almost uneasy inside, with only a couple people left and nothing but the company of the sound of your shoes hitting the floor as you made your way to the man who beckoned you. The people left -- a woman with beautifully coiffed hair, lined with jewels and fur; a man in a dark blue, wrinkle-free suit and slicked-back hair; a person with shortly cut hair and a long, cotton skirt, colored with natural dyes, all smiled at your sympathetically.

The pit in your stomach dropped further. But you continued without skipping a beat of your thumping heart.

The room you entered was barren. There was nothing but a dimly lit table, even the lights were turned down, somehow, something that didn't seem possible at your meager campus. The table legs were dark wood, cut off halfway by a simple, white, linen tablecloth. Nothing was on the table. But there he sat. The dark, imposing figure of Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

He eyed you quietly as you sat down in the chair across from him and thanked the man leading you to what felt like your social downfall. The simple act felt much sinister than it was. You leaned down to place your bag next to the side of your chair, then sat up straight and faced the man who held your future in his cards.

“It is nice to meet you, Лисичка.” Russian. You didn’t know Russian. His accent was thick and heavy, but his voice was soft and gentle, reminiscent of new footprints on soft, powdered snow.

“The honor is mine, Mr. Dostoyevsky.” You reached your hand out, across the table, to greet him, and a gloved hand appeared from below to grab yours. His other one then followed, covering your own, something much more intimate than needed in such a place, and something that would be scolded by your father. You introduced yourself, then pulled your hand back as quickly as social niceties would allow.

“Tell me, Лисичка, what brings a person as lovely as yourself here today?”

You took a deep breath. At that simple request, your mouth dried. Your honesty was preferable, but the rules in this scenario didn’t allow for such dark and bleak hardships to be shared to someone you had barely just met. That wasn’t proper. Nor would you expect him to care. You wouldn’t want him to either. This was your burden to carry, not his. You didn’t want his pity or his sympathy for your plight. It left a bad taste in your mouth to even think such thoughts. It might bring a bad look to your family if you shared such feelings openly, which, neither you nor they, needed to deal with at this time. But you also had a feeling that he would know if you lied to him, and besides, that wasn’t a look you wanted for yourself, either. With being dealt such a bad hand, you decided to take a bigger risk than you ever had in your life.

“Mr. Dostoyevsky.”

“Please, Родна́я, call me Fyodor. We are equals at this table.”

You didn’t mean it to, but a small laugh escaped your lips. His lips flickered down for a small, almost indeterminable moment, and his eyebrows raised at your presumptuousness. “With all due respect. We will never be equals. Even if I sit at this table permanently. Even if you choose me. There will never be a time you and I will be equals. And I accept that.”

He tilted his head in what seemed like approval, leaning back in his chair, crossing his legs, and gesturing lithely for you to continue. You, on the other hand, leaned forward, placing your hands on the cold linen, careful not to shift the cloth, but enough to make this obvious that the next piece of conversation was for you and him only. “Mr. Dostoyevsky. You can fool all those people out there if you want, but you can’t fool me. You need something — not someone, something. To gain, to escape — I honestly could not care what it is.” His face did not shift, staying the same as when you started. “I need something too. Right now, what I need, if you even care, the protection of your attention. Nothing else. Not your money, not your feelings, just the fact that you are with me. I don’t want to know what you gain from this, but I do know that you need me too. This situation would benefit both of us.”

He was quiet for a while after your spiel, letting the weight of your words sink and settle into the corners of the room as he gazed at you. You swear you saw his jaw set as he sat there, and you tried your best not to lick your lips nervously. Then his hand, which had been clasped in his lap, inched onto the table. A small bell which had escaped your notice was rung. The man from before slinked into the room. You felt ill. Did you read the situation wrong? Was it just like the bell, some innocuous thing that slipped your attention?

“Anton.” He called firmly. It was an order. If it wasn’t so cold, you would be sweating. “Tell the others to leave. I have found my company.”

The relief you felt was almost orgasmic. A breath you didn’t know you were holding was released, and your lungs sang. As the man left, Fyodor leaned forward to meet you. “I normally don’t appreciate such direct accusations,” he said, softly. “But I can appreciate a keen eye and a person who knows how to dance between truth and dishonesty. That is what I am seeking.”

He, himself, seemed to be teetering on the brink of honesty with you. But you felt like you had already pushed your luck for the day and said nothing. He could tell you felt something, but waved it off. “Think no more on it. I will only require you to do that with warning.” It was phrased like a joke, but again, that feeling of somehow being lied to and being told the honest truth sat with you. You tried to push it off and do as you were told. “The movers will fetch your things. You must be reinvented if you are to be seen with me.”

With that, Fyodor Dostoyevsky got up and left you sitting there. Alone, in a dimly lit room, with nothing but yourself. A situation you would find yourself in time and time again before everything changed.

#bsd #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #🍩 of bsd #bsd fyodor dostoevsky #bsd fyodor #fyodor x you #fydor dostoevsky #fyodor x reader #angelic songs #YES THESE R HEADCANONS AND NOT A FIC #MY FICS R LIKE 20k AND I DONT HAVE TIME FOR THAT PLS FORGIVE ME I WILL EXPAND THESE THEN EVENTUALLY WRITE THE MORE IN DEPTH FIC

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t-horn-n · 6 months

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A Deposition of a Thousand Words RELEASE

I'm very excited to announce that A Deposition of a Thousand Words, a Finnick Odair fanfiction that I have been working on for the last year, is out now on Wattpad. It updates every Saturday.

You can find it here!

I am excited to share it with you!

Before you go... an excerpt.

ONE

lemons, the universal greeting . . . . .

The level of narcissism presently surrounding Saffron is laughable, but she is dressed to drip with arrogance herself. Here, as in many aspects of her life, her preferences do not matter, only her compliance. It is not her job to produce thoughts born from free will.

To the Capitol stylists, she is merely a doll who sits still while they pull at her hair and dress her in costumes that feel like straitjackets around her hope. On her face they lather costly cosmetics that disguise her blemishes and her authenticity.

When they are done, she is made up of lazy smiles and sultry drops of the eyelids.

Languid slouches.

She adopts a façade so well crafted, she hopes, that if she cannot see the girl beneath, then neither will they. And, perhaps, if she is smart enough, the monsters will not feast on the morsels of herself that she keeps most private and precious.

She has been summoned to the Capitol, and now she steeps in its stifling pressure and crude atmosphere. She seems to lose focus as she sits in the belly of a comically long car, watching the residence of President Snow draw ever closer. It is a contemporary palace doused in light on the horizon.

This is a promotion of the Games, a show of superiority. She is here to honor the Games’ youngest victor as he comes of age.

“I hear Snow’s gotten himself a new prince,” the stylists across from her giggle. Interestingly, they only talk when their gloved hands cover their face.

“What’s his name?”

“Finnick Odair.”

There is a murmur of appreciation. “Everyone in the Capitol is already falling at his feet.”

One woman’s eyes cut to Saffron’s. “Best be on our best behavior, then.”

Saffron directs her gaze to the window.

A Capitol stylist’s words do not matter, she knows. She is perfectly aware that she is young and novel, and that makes her desirable.

As soon as she exits the car, an avox leads her through the gravel pathways of Snow’s estate, guiding her to a raised platform where the president stands addressing his guests. Other victors flank her. All are less than thirty. Some, she recognizes, others are new faces. Vivid lights bear down heavily on her shoulders. They are uncomfortably bright, and if not for the layers of setter caked on her skin, pins of sweat would have congealed on her nape.

The boy she is here to celebrate stands three feet to her left. Though she is maybe only a year older, Saffron thinks that he is startlingly young, but while she feels lightheaded under the spotlight, he appears golden.

Saffron smiles at him, tactful and coy. She has done this too many times to be underconfident. He winks.

At the front of the stage, Snow is still droning on. His voice is like bees hovering around her shoulders, but it reminds her that she must not forfeit good posture for comfort. She has never been good at being bored, though. Her fingers twist at her rings and the boy smirks at her as if he has something to be smug about.

She concedes that he is infuriatingly tall.

Applause flutters from the audience once Snow completes his introduction. He retreats to his balcony and Saffron breaks towards the refreshments table. Her tongue feels dry and coated with chalk. Quickly, she downs a pale-yellow drink. The scent of citrus lingers around her.

Aristocrats smile at her as they prance past, so Saffron grins at them over the rim of her glass. Another yellow drink is empty. She is picking up yet another glass when someone drags their fingertips across her back, mapping the bumps, the raised skin.

She has tensed and then forcefully relaxed in the span of a second.

“Pretty,” a man, a stranger, hisses ambiguously. His grin is full of barbs.

Saffron steps backwards, white knuckles around the stem of the glass. It has been a year, but the same survival instincts that saved her will not be so quick to leave her. So rapidly she became a machine, regaining humanity is more of a chore.

Her lips curl. She hopes it passes as a smile. “Thank you.”

Curtly, she spins away from the man and the golden boy is, of course, there. He’s engaged in conversation with a victor Saffron has seen only in passing. Closer, now, she recognizes the stiffness in his neck and the rehearsal in his stance. Finnick Odair is seventeen years old, beautiful, and aureate, the first time he sees Saffron Creek.

— m. list

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linneatanner · 3 months

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David Fitz-Gerald A Grave Every Mile #Pioneers #HistoricalWestern #WesternAdventure #BlogTour #TheCoffeePotBookClub @AuthorDAVIDFG @cathiedunn

FEATURED AUTHOR: DAVID FITZ-GERALD I’m delighted to welcome David Fitz-Gerald again as the featured author in The Coffee Pot Book Club Blog Tour held February 12th – 16th, 2024. He is the author of the Western / Historical Fiction, A Grave Every Mile (Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail), which was independently released on December 24th, 2023 (204 pages). Below are highlights of A Grave Every Mile, David Fitz-Gerald's author bio, and an excerpt from his book. Tour Schedule Page: https://thecoffeepotbookclub.blogspot.com/2024/01/blog-tour-a-grave-every-mile-by-david-fitzgerald.html HIGHLIGHTS: A GRAVE EVERY MILE A Grave Every Mile: A Pioneer Western Adventure (Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail) By David Fitz-Gerald Blurb: Embark on a harrowing trek across the rugged American frontier in 1850. Your wagon awaits, and the untamed wilderness calls. This epic western adventure will test the mettle of even the bravest souls. Dorcas Moon and her family set forth in search of opportunity and a brighter future. Yet, what awaits them is a relentless gauntlet of life-threatening challenges: miserable weather, ravenous insects, scorching sunburns, and unforgiving terrain. It's not merely a battle for survival but a test of their unity and sanity. Amidst the chaos, Dorcas faces ceaseless trials: her husband's unending bickering, her daughter's descent into madness, and the ever-present danger of lethal rattlesnakes, intensifying the peril with each step. The specter of death looms large, with diseases spreading and the eerie howls of rabid wolves piercing the night. Will the haunting image of wolves desecrating a grave push Dorcas over the edge? With each mile, the migration poses a haunting question: Who will endure the relentless quest to cross the continent, and who will leave their bones to rest beside the trail? The pathway is bordered by graves, a chilling reminder of the steep cost of dreams. A Grave Every Mile marks the commencement of an unforgettable saga. Start reading Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail now to immerse yourself in an expedition where every decision carries the weight of life, death, and the pursuit of a brighter future along the Oregon Trail. Buy Links: This title is available on #KindleUnlimited. Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/agem SERIES TRAILER: GHOSTS ALONG THE OREGON TRAIL FEATURED AUTHOR: DAVID FITZ-GERALD David Fitz-Gerald writes westerns and historical fiction. He is the author of twelve books, including the brand-new series, Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail set in 1850. Dave is a multiple Laramie Award, first place, best in category winner; a Blue Ribbon Chanticleerian; a member of Western Writers of America; and a member of the Historical Novel Society. Alpine landscapes and flashy horses always catch Dave’s eye and turn his head. He is also an Adirondack 46-er, which means that he has hiked to the summit of the range’s highest peaks. As a mountaineer, he’s happiest at an elevation of over four thousand feet above sea level. Dave is a lifelong fan of western fiction, landscapes, movies, and music. It should be no surprise that Dave delights in placing memorable characters on treacherous trails, mountain tops, and on the backs of wild horses. Author Links: Linktree https://linktr.ee/authordavidfitzgerald Website: https://www.itsoag.com/lastthing Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorDAVIDFG Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorDaveFITZGERALD/ Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authordavefitzgerald/ Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/AuthorDaveFITZGERALD Book Bub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/david-fitz-gerald Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/dfitzgerald Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17341792.David_Fitz_Gerald EXCERPT: A GRAVE EVERY MILE First day on the trail, April 15, 1850 Our three teams of oxen, led by Hardtack and Scrapple, stand ready to do their job. It takes a while before it’s our turn to begin pulling, with fifteen wagons ahead of us. When the wheels of the wagon before us begin to turn, Larkin cracks the bullwhip and shouts, “Hi-yah!” He snaps the whip again, and the poor beasts lumber forward. The broody hen squawks in her box. Straps hold the cage in place on a shelf on the wagon’s exterior. Ridge, the devil-eyed goat, blats in protest as the rope that ties her to the back left corner of the wagon drags her along. I can’t see Blizzard, tied to the other corner of the wagon. The children and I begin on foot, following closely behind Larkin. I hate it when people are cruel to animals. I should hold my tongue, but I cannot. “Must you snap that whip so sharply? It’s barbaric. We should thank the oxen, not whip them.” “Don’t be ridiculous, Dorcas. I’m not whipping them. I’m whipping the air above them. You know that. We can’t get to Oregon if the oxen don’t move. Don’t carry on like a child.” Of course, he's right. Somehow, dressing a deer doesn't phase me. I can snap a chicken's neck and pluck its feathers, but the idea of hurting beasts of burden saddens me. “Couldn’t you just tap them lightly on the rump rather than scare the poor creatures?” “Look, see, we’re already falling behind. We need to drive the oxen faster if we want to get to Oregon before winter.” “But…” “That’s enough, Dorcas. Don’t pester me anymore.” My molars tighten against each other. I know a woman shouldn’t bicker, argue, or nag. Usually, Larkin doesn’t complain about having a garrulous wife. Still, it rankles when he tells me not to pester him. After walking alongside for half an hour, Dahlia Jane says she is tired. One mile down, one thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine miles to go. I lift the child into the wagon. Fortunately, she is content to play quietly by herself. I walk for a while beside Blizzard. He always seems to listen and understand me when I share my troubles, worries, and complaints. His coat is sleek beneath the palm of my hand. I can never resist stroking his neck. "We’ll take a ride together soon. I promise." Dahlia Jane hasn’t moved from her nest in the back of the wagon, so I return to walk with the other children. I’m surprised to find Christopher where Larkin was. Larkin is missing. I glance about and don’t see him anywhere. Andrew smiles and says, “Nature calls.” Rose slaps her forehead and looks at her hand to see if she squashed a bug. Christopher seems to have mastered snapping the bullwhip above the oxen, and it makes me cringe even more than when Larkin does it. After half an hour, Larkin tells Rose it’s her turn. She had been complaining about boredom and appears to have come alive as Larkin calls out her name. “Alright, Rose. Here is the whip. Hold it high and flick it hard with your wrist so that it snaps in the air above the kine.” Rose asks, “What if I accidentally hit them with it?” Larkin answers, “Don’t worry. It will not hurt them. They have thick skin and dull nerves.” I can’t help but say, “Larkin, how do you know how they feel? Please don’t beat our animals.” Larkin replies, “We’ll try, but the children must learn how to drive them. If you can’t bear to watch, may I suggest you visit our neighbors?” “Very well, then.” It doesn’t make it any better knowing they whip the beasts while I’m gone, but I pluck Dahlia Jane from her burrow and wander back to the next wagon. Instagram Handle: @thecoffeepotbookclub Read the full article

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andthebeanstalk · 1 year

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"The Professor's Workshop"

An excerpt from my graphic novel script drafts, posted here without beta bc it motivates me to write. In this chapter, the protagonists David and Kuruk are being given a tour of Armadillo Island by its mayor.

"Just wait til you meet them!" RJ exclaims excitedly. "They're the mind of a generation - maybe two!" He now adds an additional spring to his step, and David has to jog to keep up with him, despite them both being very short men. Kuruk follows behind, looking deeply skeptical.

RJ leads them down a winding forested path to a more remote part of the village, continuing to talk about the island the whole time while occasionally asking friendly questions of his guests.

They arrive at a secluded building tucked away in the bright green foliage of the island. The building is made in the same unique colorful architectural style as the rest of the island, but it has an odd overall shape - as though it has seen many small additions and renovations over the years. Paint chips in a couple places, but otherwise it looks well-cared-for. Shiny metal vents and chimneys emerge from the roof and sides, gently emitting white smoke. A stone pathway leads from the sign to the door, nearly hidden in untamed tall grass.

Out front, a high-quality colorful carved wooden sign reads:

Doctor Professor Xosha Zapata, PhD

Chemist & Architect Extraordinaire

"The sign was a gift from me," RJ chirps, stopping for a moment to admire it.

"No kidding," David deadpans politely, obviously hiding a smile.

(Behind him, the side of Kuruk's mouth twitches upwards a little for just a moment.)

RJ is marches up the overgrown stone and knocks confidently on the door, which turns out to not be fully closed; it creaks open from his knocking.

RJ stands just outside of the doorway and shouts inside cheerfully, causing Kuruk to wince at the volume. "OH, PROFESSOR!!! Are you in, Professor? I've met the most lovely chaps and I'd love to introduce them to our island's premiere scientific mind!"

There is a distant muffled sound from within.

"... PROFESSOR?" RJ shouts again, looking slightly concerned, "ARE YOU ALRIGHT?"

An indistinct wobbly speech bubble comes from inside, ending in question marks.

RJ looks both worried and like a man on a mission. "WE'RE COMING IN TO CHECK ON YOU - ALRIGHT, PROFESSOR?" He shouts loud enough this time that David and Kuruk both wince.

RJ hustles in and our heroes follow hesitantly behind.

The small entryway opens into a large room with high ceiling. It appears to be a lab or a workshop of some kind. Skylight windows light the room with soft sunlight, and dust motes float in the air in the brightest of the rays of light.

In terms of the contents of the room, the place looks like if a cartoon professor somehow had even more ADHD than usual:

There are dozens of beakers and vials on a number of desks and tables. A few of the beakers sit on lit bunsen burners, bubbling with colorful substances and sending white smoke up into the vents above them. At least one beaker has bubbled over and created an unidentifiable burnt mass at its base.

There are multiple architectural drafting tables with designs and blueprints on them in various states of completion.

There are several chalkboards full of notes in messy handwriting.

Books, papers, notebooks cover nearly every flat surface and several of the non-flat ones. Many torn notebook pages have been taped to the walls. [I guess this fantasy world has an equivalent to scotch tape now. ... I'm fine with that.]

The only decorations are a cluster of very nice painting on a small section of the wall. (Readers looking very closely will notice they all have the same artist's signature - Epa, who runs the inn.)

There is nothing to suggest nefarious scientific activity. Real "absentminded professor" energy.

In the far corner of the room, a set of scaffolding and a ladder block off a small space.

"H-hello? RJ, is that you?" says a small speech bubble from behind the scaffolding.

"Aha!" RJ leaps in that direction impressively quickly for a tiny man in his 50s.

Before David and Kuruk catch up to him, they hear RJ's relieved and once again cheerful voice:

"Ah, professor! There you are, thank goodness!!! You had us worried for a moment there!"

"...'Us' ?" says the unknown person in a pinched voice.

David and Kuruk round the corner to see three things:

One: an incomplete 8-foot-tall architectural model of a building,

Two: a fallen ladder, and

Three: a very embarrassed-looking non-binary person whom they recognize as the amateur vigilante they last saw getting shoved into the town square fountain by Armadillo Woman. Ze is wearing overalls, safety goggles pushed up on zyr head, a white shirt with some almost neon-colored stains on it, and a safety harness.

Ze appears unharmed, but they are suspended in the air by a cord attached to the back of the harness, and they look exceedingly uncomfortable. Zyr feet are dangling high off the ground, and ze is slowly and involuntarily rotating in place.

"Oh." Ze says weakly at the sound of additional footsteps. "There's... more people to witness this. ...My lucky day." They look as though they'd rather melt away into the earth. As they speak, they continue to spin, and they miss their initial chance to look at David and Kuruk, not seeing their faces until spinning slowly back around.

RJ, however, continues with his introductions, gesturing grandly and earnestly. "Mister David, Mister Kuruk - please meet the esteemed Doctor-Professor Xosha Zapata! Professor, these are my new friends Kuruk and David! They're here for the festival!"

Behind RJ, Kuruk squints at being called RJ's "new friend." David just looks amused.

"Y-You can just call me Xosha actually I'm not really--"

Xosha stops as ze finally catches sight of David and Kuruk - zyr face somehow falls even further. "Ah. We've, uh, met, actually," they say with a pained smile.

RJ is delighted. "Really?!? Fantastic! You must tell me all about it! How you met, what everyone was wearing! Every detail!"

"Um, actually, do you think maybe somebody could get me down first, please?" Xosha says in a small voice.

RJ looks surprised to find Xosha still in the air; he presses his hand to his forehead. "Oh! Oh my! Of course of course - my apologies! - I just get so carried away! Gentlemen, would you assist me?"

David and Kuruk nod. Kuruk looks like he's questioning how his life has come to this.

"Tell us what to do, Professor!" RJ says with his hands on his hips.

What follows is a ridiculous comical sequence in which Xosha explains how this happened and the men help zyr get down.

Ze was standing on a tall ladder and working on the architectural model. The safety harness they're wearing supports their torso and pelvis, and it connects to a rope from a clever pulley system on the ceiling. The early light of dawn indicates that this was probably a few hours ago.

They lean too far to reach for something and lose their balance, kicking the ladder out from under them while simultaneously knocking the pulley controls out of their reach.

Their legs kick in the air as they tried to release themselves from the harness, but in their struggles they manage only to somehow tangle the straps of their overalls and cause a lot of discomfort.

The final flashback panel is a distant wide shot of the whole workshop with the lonely defeated figure of Xosha hanging comically from the harness in the background.

Per Xosha's direction, RJ and David find the pulley controls and begin to lower zyr down in stops and starts. The pulley system is not cooperating with them, and Xosha yelps in a mix of alarm and discomfort with each small drop. It looks very painful, and David winces in sympathy. RJ looks similarly apologetic.

After the first small drop, Kuruk moves quickly to stand under Xosha.

"I will catch you," he says, looking entirely unsure of himself, but ready nonetheless.

"Thank-- you," Xosha squeaks, "It's-- YAAHH--!!!"

They let out a final yelp as they drop the last few feet. Kuruk catches them from behind [either under the arms or by the harness] and slows their fall so they land safely on their feet. Kuruk continues to support them for a few seconds until they seem steady.

As soon as Kuruk lets go, however, Xosha whimpers and lowers zyrself to the ground in a comically pained ball. Evidently, hanging from a pelvis harness hurts one's crotch and hips like a motherfucker, and Xosha is too exhausted to pretend otherwise. They are still clearly embarrassed, but they seem to have accepted their humiliating fate.

RJ hurries over to help them take the harness off, crouching on the ground next to them and patting their shoulder consolingly. He asks them what happened, and he asks if they need help taking the harness off. Xosha accepts his help and explains, accompanied by 3-5 cartoony flashback panels:

In the flashback, ze is standing on a tall ladder and working on the architectural model. The safety harness they're wearing supports their torso and pelvis, and it connects to a rope from a clever pulley system on the ceiling that can be manually adjusted by the user. The early light of dawn indicates that this was probably a few hours ago.

Xosha leans too far to reach for something and loses their balance, kicking the ladder out from under them while simultaneously knocking the pulley controls out of their reach.

They are caught by the harness and the expression of pain on their face is ridiculous and exaggerated for humor.

Their legs kick in the air as they tried to release themselves from the harness, but in their struggles they manage only to somehow tangle the straps of their overalls and cause more discomfort.

The final flashback panel is a distant wide shot of the whole workshop - with the lonely defeated figure of Xosha gently swaying in the background.

In the present, Xosha buries their head in their hands and lets out a loud long groan; they lament how stupid their mistake was, and RJ reassures them that even geniuses make mistakes! Xosha insists that ze is not a genius. RJ declares that they are too modest. It is clear that this is not the first time they have had this conversation.

David takes in the absurdity of it all and he smiles at Kuruk across the room. Kuruk doesn't smile back, but he does meet David's gaze and there is a hint of a twinkle in his eye amongst his general bewilderment.

Finally, Xosha manages to get the harness off and sit in a chair, letting out a long sigh.

On the final page of the chapter, a large panel shows Xosha in a detailed, fully-rendered (shaded, inked, colored, etc.) shot with warm natural lighting. Ze looks up from their chair with an attempt at a smile that lands a little closer to a wince. The shot is framed to make them appear endearing in their awkwardness. They are both cute and anxious.

"So, uhh, I'm guessing you have some questions about yesterday?" ze says.

Below that panel, a banner with large font reads:

Tune in next time for Part 3, Chapter 7:

"The Professor."

[End.]

If you liked this and want to read the published scripts with concept art on AO3, you can do that! I get a comment on those like once every 3 months and every time it gives me serotonin for like 3 weeks tbh. If you don't mind an unusual reading format, then you can find sexy men tied up and rescued, gay sky pirates, budding friendships, autistic/ADHD friendship, so many Trans people, sexy fat characters, empowering disability representation, a group of actors who would fit right in with The Ember Island Players, a haunted mop, a magical trauma recovery library, a lesbian biker gang that robs imperialistic museums - AND SO MUCH MORE

Note to self: I think maybe I'll change Xosha's pronouns to they/them and zey/zem, instead of they/them and ze/zyr. Seems to fit better.

#original #the blacksmith #original character #original characters #I might delete this later #but I will eventually publish a more polished version of this scene with concept art on AO3 #graphic novel #short story #my graphic novel consists of about 13 parts/arcs that come together into one story #scripts and concept art for parts 1 and 2 are up on ao3. pt 1 is lots of hurt and some really juicy comfort. pt 2 is GAY SKY PIRATE TIME.#this is an excerpt from part 3. which is called The Amazing Armadillo woman and which i am frankly very impatient to finally finish!#This excerpt is from a chapter in which the guys get a tour of the town from the mayor. - RJ is the mayor. ('But please! Call me RJ!')#RJ is the real deal tho. He is based on Gomez Addams. RJ stands for Raul Johnston - after my two favorite Gomez actors #who are Raul Julia and John Astin - from the 90s movies and the 1964 tv show #fun fact! John Astin is the father of Sean Astin aka Sam Gamgee!#anyway all of RJ's his enthusiasm is 1000% genuine - he is just Like That.#and yes of course he loves his wife and children SO MUCH #also the concept art all has full image descriptions for visually impaired readers.#the finished novel will either have full image descriptions or - even better - an audiobook!#NOTE TO JACK: do not edit this post; this is not the most updated version of the script.

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captainderyn · 4 years

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Six Sentence Sunday (ish)

I’m very behind in everything tumblr and fic reading with camp nano going on, but I was tagged by the lovely @elveny and @kunstpause for Six Sentence Sunday! So here is a excerpt from The Ol’ Novel~

—

With that clear of a sign that she was facing company, there was only one path for her to follow. The path across the parade grounds was dark, vast in its open space while the rest of the fort was crowded with buildings and smaller structures. Stepping onto the grass swallowed her the same as stepping off a boat into the open ocean.

The sad voice crooning was her lifeline, her life preserver pulling her back to shore. Or, if she wasn’t careful, the darkest part of Quinn’s mind mused, deeper under. Around her bits of light flicked about, brightly colored orbs gathering and swirling across the grounds like playful creatures. Only thirteen people had lost their lives, or at least been documented, as dying on Fort Warren, and they’d all seemed to gather here.

While Mrs. Lanier’s presence felt like a tugging in her gut and a weight on her mind, these entities only felt like a bit of electricity humming across her skin, tugging at her playfully without any real insistence. If they lingered here without a true form, they must simply have been reluctant to leave this place behind. They had had a choice.

The orbs followed her as she approached the looming cells across the way, little lost ducklings trailing after her. Whether it was just that they were drawn to her, could sense somehow that she would pay mind to them, or if it was just because they sensed that she was living, she wasn’t sure. But as she stepped onto the dirt pathway adjacent to the prison cells the orbs paused at the edge, hovering before they retreated. Whatever was across the pathway, they had no interest in interacting with.

Stepping off of the lawn eased the weight off her as if she had truly stepped onto dry land after swimming through turbulent waves. Yet the song that had drawn her over here was sinister now, its words clear and ringing through the prison barracks.

Quinn paused, rubbing her hands together as she stared at the worn stone walls. A sign, lettered with the history of the Fort Warren prisoners, loudly proclaimed that this was indeed the building that she was looking for. The next step that Mrs. Lanier had taken in her own journey.

A sound rattled from within the cells, ringing like metal striking stone. Quinn jumped, grabbing for her phone and whipping its flashlight into the doorway. But nothing was there to accompany the ringing.

Forcing herself to calm down, breathing in deeply and then out, Quinn peeked her head through the archway entrance. Alongside each ringing strike on the stone came the repetition of the song lyrics, loud enough now that Quinn might as well be standing next to her. As she peeked around, trying her best to try and spot a figure, Quinn saw nothing.

#my writing #six sentence sunday #wip whenever #original novel #novel: aslihm #ch: quinn

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nanowrimo · 4 years

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20th Anniversary Interviews - Part 2: Writing In Difficult Times

This participant interview focuses on Kara Reynolds, who participated in NaNoWriMo for the first time in 2010 after a miscarriage. Content warning for discussion of pregnancy loss. Q: What NaNoWriMo memory stands out to you?

A: I started doing NaNo in 2010, after a miscarriage that left me feeling terrible about myself and life in general. Doing NaNo helped me have something to look forward to every day at a time when I really needed it. It had a huge impact on my healing.

Q: I'm very sorry to hear about your miscarriage. I know it might be difficult to talk about.

A: It's not a difficult subject for me to talk about, and actually I'm a big believer in talking about it because a lot of people feel like they can't be open about pregnancy loss and that can hinder people's healing.

Q: What I'm interested in discussing is how NaNoWriMo helped with the healing process. What was that first novel about?

A: NaNo helped me immensely with healing because it gave me something to focus on and work towards, which kept me from being immersed in my sadness. My husband was in school and worked full-time, so once my son was asleep I often had hours to myself every night. NaNo helped me fill those hours with creativity, and even success once I realized I was going to hit 50k! I hadn't felt successful in a while, so that energy really helped me remember how to be happy again.

Q: I'm struck by the kind of... dual role that NaNoWriMo played: both as a distraction from sadness and a pathway out of it. Would you like to talk about the journey between the two, or the relationship between those at all?

A: Yes, I'd say that's an accurate way to describe it. Everyone deals with grief differently, of course, but for me it was very helpful to have a distraction from my feelings. And I think what made it a pathway out of grief (instead of just a temporary distraction) was that it gave me a goal I could work on as well as a creative outlet. Creativity can be an important part of healing for many people; I am the kind of person who is terrible at most forms of creative expression, so writing fills that need for me. I'd like to say I wrote something really deep that year that helped me process my feelings, but I did the opposite: I wrote something light and fluffy and fun because those feelings were missing from my life.

Q: What was your novel about?

A: It was a coming-of-age story about a girl breaking free from her family responsibilities and finding herself on a summer road trip to visit Shakespeare Festivals. It was the first novel I'd ever actually finished, even though I'd started a lot over the years. NaNo gave me the discipline to complete a novel.

When I finished, my husband threw a little party with some of our friends where I got to read an excerpt from my work, and it felt amazing to be celebrated for an accomplishment instead of an object of people's pity for something I'd lost. Not that their sympathy wasn't appreciated, but it was also so helpful to be seen as something else.

Kara is currently serving as ML for the USA::Wyoming::Elsewhere region.

Follow her on Twitter @Kara_Reynolds7, and visit her website.

#nanowrimo #writing #participant interviews #20th anniversary #cw: pregnancy loss #cw: miscarriage

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neworleansvoudou · 5 years

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My new book is available for preorders here: https://amzn.to/2XBWhyn

This book is unlike all the others written about Marie Laveau. It’s not just a biography, nor is it just a spellbook. It is much more than either of those types of books. But before I share with you an excerpt from the book, I have seen people ask about me on Tumbler and assume my ethnicity and background. To set the record straight, I am Creole, born and raised in New Orleans. I was introduced to the Mysteries at the age of 6 by my aunt and have spent a lifetime practicing, growing and learning about New Orleans Voudou and related traditions of Southern rootwork and conjure. I write from an insiders’ perspective and often share information others have not heard of before as a result. Trust, there is a whole lot of nonsense out there about Marie Laveau that needs to be cleansed from the practitioner’s palette - in my humble opinion, of course. When you are born and bred, you got the goods, and I spill the tea in this book!

Here’s an excerpt from the Introduction to give you an idea of what to expect:

If Marie Laveau were alive today, I truly believe she would be at the forefront of the #MeToo and #BlackLivesMatter movements. I envision her standing in front of the White House as a #SisterResister, protesting the current administration’s racist policies, attacks on health care and the environment. Instead of Alyssa Milano, it could have been Marie Laveau sitting behind Brett Kavanaugh at those now notorious SCOTUS hearings that mobilized the female warrior aspect of the country like never before. She would be advocating prison reform, laying the gris gris down at the border for those seeking a better life or in need of asylum, and making sure no one forgets there are children held in cages in internment camps for brown people right now, at this present moment in time, in post-slavery America. But the reason she would be doing these things might surprise a lot of people who are unfamiliar with her as a living, breathing human being. Marie Laveau is no myth; she is no mere legend. While her reputation precedes her as the notorious Voudou Queen of New Orleans, she was also a devout Catholic, an independent businesswoman, a free woman of color, a mother, and healer who lived her life in accordance with the Corporal Works of Mercy. Her belief in Catholicism guided her life as well as her magic in such a distinct way that people from all over the world are inspired by her spirit and her story. This phenomenon is evidenced by the fact that her grave site is purportedly one of the most visited pilgrimage sites in the United States, second only to the King of Rock and Roll, Elvis Presley.

There have been many books written about Marie Laveau that either focus on her life and legend or are popular spellbooks, pamphlets or fictional novels. I wanted to write a different kind of book – one that describes her magical and spiritual legacy with distinct practices found among Laveau devotees of past and present. I wanted to then be able to present the information in this book as a true working grimoire, one that has been thus historically and culturally authenticated as much as possible. Hence, what you will find in the following pages include stylistic workings attributed to her as identified in the aforementioned sources along with oral tradition as a primary indigenous information source. This latter source of information – oral tradition by actual Voudou and Hoodoo practitioners - has been sorely lacking in the available literature. What sets this book apart is that I am both a cultural anthropologist as well as a New Orleans Voudou insider with specialized knowledge of multiple folk traditions – a tradition keeper - which I have chosen to share with the world rather than take with me to my grave. That fact allows me to share with my readers a unique, twenty-first century, practitioner-scholar perspective that has been heretofore undocumented.

This book is divided into three parts. Part 1: La Belle de Nouvelle Orleans focuses on Marie Laveau as a woman, healer, Catholic, and businesswoman. It highlights key events in her life and introduces key players and myths in the Laveau legend as well as her contribution to the evolution of New Orleans Voudou from its African roots. From this exploration, I make the case for a specific type of New Orleans Voudou I call Laveau Voudou. Part 2: Becoming a Devotee discusses what it means to become a Laveau devotee, including how to create an altar to the Voudou Queen and and how to petition her. This section and the next are dedicated to the practitioner interested in learning how to serve Marie Laveau in a meaningful and culturally respectful way. Part 3: A Laveau Grimoire is a working grimoire of conjures, cures, roots and remedies in the Laveau Voudou tradition. It consists of two sections: a) Conjures, Cures, Roots and Remedies, which breaks down the eleven categories of conjure in the Laveau Voudou tradition along with examples of each, and b) Formulas and Receipts, which provides a list of remedies, products and formulas from the late 19th and early 20th centuries, including those attributed to Marie Laveau.

In total, The Magic of Marie Laveau: Embracing the Spiritual Legacy of the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans provides a pathway for culturally respectful devotion to the Holy Mother of New Orleans Voudou for anyone seeking to incorporate her style of magic into their lives and develop a working relationship with her.

#Marie Laveau #new orleans voodoo #laveau voudou #denise alvarado #marie laveau book #laveau devotee

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aion-rsa · 4 years

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Are You Afraid of the Darkness?: A Hopepunk Explainer

https://ift.tt/2PUZUv7

A brief guide to the hopepunk movement—its origins, and its possibilities.

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This feature originally appeared in Den of Geek's NYCC 2019 print magazine.

When author Alexandra Rowland (A Choir of Lies) first posted to Tumblr in 2017, "The opposite of grimdark is hopepunk. Pass it on," she had no idea how intensely that sentiment would resonate with the platform’s community and beyond.

"Initially, I was just vaguely bemused that anyone was listening to me," Rowland says, "but at the same time, I understood intellectually why hopepunk was resonating with people. Simply put: they were hurting, and hopepunk was a thing that helped comfort the hurt."

What is hopepunk? It depends on who you ask...

Rowland, quoting her essay “One Atom of Justice, One Molecule of Mercy, and the Empire of Unsheathed Knives,” says: “Hopepunk is a subgenre and a philosophy that ‘says kindness and softness don’t equal weakness, and that, in this world of brutal cynicism and nihilism, being kind is a political act. An act of rebellion.’”

To understand hopepunk as a concept it helps to understand what it stands in contrast to. Grimdark is a fantasy subgenre characterized by bleak settings in which humanity is fundamentally cutthroat, and where no individual or community can stop the world’s inevitable decline. Hopepunk, in contrast, believes that the very act of trying has meaning, that fighting for positive change in and of itself has worth—especially if we do it together.

read more: Autuonomous — Robots, Love, and Identity Under Capitalism

“I think it's a reaction against the overwhelmingly nihilistic, dystopian slant to a lot of stories in the world right now,” says author Annalee Newitz (The Future of Another Timeline). For Newitz, hopepunk isn’t a subgenre but rather “a reason to tell stories, a motivation, or maybe a narrative tone.”

“The idea is to tell a story where there are hopeful elements or maybe a hopeful resolution to the characters' struggles,” Newitz says. “I don't mean to suggest it’s all about having a happy ending, because you can have a pretty ambivalent, broody ending that still conveys hope. Hopepunk is really about showing readers that we can make it through even the most difficult situations. Even if your hero dies, hopepunk suggests that someone else will be there to take up her torch and carry on.”

Hopepunk is Curtis blowing up the train at the end of Snowpiercer, or Max and Furiosa deciding to risk everything and go back to the Citadel at the end of Mad Max: Fury Road. It’s Naomi choosing to open the Roci’s door to let in as many desperate Ganymede refugees as possible in The Expanse. It’s believing that humanity may not be inherently good, but we’re not inherently bad either, and that giving people the chance to prove themselves compassionate is a worthwhile choice.

“At Uncanny, we tend to think of this as ‘radical empathy’ or ‘radical kindness’—choosing to do the good, kind thing, even when the system doesn’t encourage that, as an act of courage,” say Lynne M. Thomas and Michael Damien Thomas, the editors of Uncanny Magazine.

read more: City in the Middle of the Night Review

The Thomases contextualize “hopepunk” as a marketing term, one that has gained prominence in the last few years but that has been around much longer: “There have been veins of hope (as opposed to grimdark hopelessness) across literature for hundreds of years, and for decades within the SFF genre.”

If hopepunk, by some definitions, is nothing new, it is a cultural lens seemingly on the rise after a pop culture period ruled by cynical stories, like Breaking Bad and The Dark Knight, and in a real-world environment that has become increasingly distressing.

“We can retreat into paralysis, and pretend that's somehow pragmatic or realistic,” says Newitz. “Or we can say, fine, this is a horrible problem, let's get together with other people and try to solve any small part of it that we can. Those are the two pathways we can take through a narrative, too. We can tell stories about people who try to fix things, rather than rejoicing in their splendid destruction. It’s a way of showing other people that just because things aren’t perfect, doesn’t mean they can’t be better.”

Has the definition of hopepunk changed since Rowland first coined the term?

“The heart of [my original definition] hasn't changed at all, but my efforts to remind people of the angry part of hopepunk definitely have grown,” she says. “The instinct is to make it only about softness and kindness, because those are what we’re most hungry for. We all want to be treated gently. But sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone is to stand up to a bully on their behalf, and that takes guts and rage.”

read more: How Red, White, and Royal Blue Hopes For a Kinder America

In 2019, hope can feel impossible. If the past few years have taught us anything, it’s that the struggle to create a kinder and more just world is one that will never be linear and will never be over. It is bigger than any one of us, and longer than any lifetime. If hopepunk is the stories that keep us trying in the long shadow of that reality, then it is a vital ingredient to the recipe for change.

So what is hopepunk storytelling? It’s whatever you need it to be... as long as what you need it to be is a way forward in the darkness.

“In hindsight,” Rowland says, “I'm just very happy–when so many people find a philosophy like hopepunk meaningful and compelling... it sorta restores a bit of your faith in humanity, doesn’t it? Maybe all is not yet lost if there are enough people around to say, ‘Oh. Yes, this.’”

Hopepunk Reading Guide

Novels

The Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison Saga by Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples Uprooted by Naomi Novik Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler The Future of Another Timeline by Annalee Newitz The Calculating Stars by Mary Robinette Kowal A Choir of Lies by Alexandra Rowland The City in the Middle of the Night by Charlie Jane Anders Trail of Lightning by Rebecca Roanhorse The Expanse by James S.A. Corey Wayward Son by Rainbow Rowell The Sol Majestic by Ferrett Steinmetz The Book of the Unnamed Midwife by Meg Elison

Other

Our Opinions Are Correct Podcast, Episode 22 hosted by Annalee Newitz and Charlie Jane Anders

Uncanny Magazine edited by Lynne M. Thomas and Michael Damien Thomas (recommendations: "Contingency Plans for the Apocalypse" by S.B. Divya, "Sun, Moon, Dust," by Ursula Vernon, and "Packing" by T. Kingfisher)

Hopepunk Author Interviews

Due to the nature of print media, I was unable to include as many of my interviewees' insightful thoughts on hopepunk as I would have liked to. Here is a guide to the full interviews from various speculative fiction authors and editors. I highly recommend clicking through to read them in their entirety.

An Interview with Alexandra Rowland, Author of A Choir of Lies

Excerpt: "By telling hopepunk stories, we necessarily have to be asking questions like, 'How do we care about each other in a world which so aggressively doesn't care about so many of the people in our communities? Who do we consider community, and is that definition too narrow? How do we fight back against the people who want to make us sit down and shut up?'"

An Interview with Annalee Newitz, Author of The Future of Another Timeline

Excerpt: "I think hopepunk is the opposite of apathy. In so many stories these days, characters are (literally or metaphorically) lighting cigarettes and enjoying the end of the world. They may look cool doing it, but it's profoundly anti-social and toxic. As soon as your characters don't give a shit about anything, you're leaving hopepunk behind."

An Interview with Lynne M. Thomas & Michael Damien Thomas, Editors of Uncanny Magazine

Excerpt: "We think that the world can always use more radical empathy and radical kindness. Culture is, fundamentally, a mix of people giving in to their most kind and least kind impulses, and much of our storytelling comes from that inherent conflict. We'd rather encourage the former, personally."

An Interview with Ferrett Steinmetz, Author of The Sol Majestic

Excerpt: "I loved it the moment I heard it. I'm an old punk who knocked around some of the Nazis that the Dead Kennedys decried in 'Nazi Punks F**k Off,' so the idea of punk utilized for something other than some Hot Topic-style cynicism flooded me with joy."

Note: The title of this article comes from hopepunk musician Frank Turner's "Blackout."

Kayti Burt is a staff editor covering books, TV, movies, and fan culture at Den of Geek. Read more of her work here or follow her on Twitter @kaytiburt.

Read and download the Den of Geek NYCC 2019 Special Edition Magazine right here!

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Feature

Culture

Kayti Burt

Nov 7, 2019

Hopepunk

NYCC

NYCC 2019

from Books https://ift.tt/32pEbOv

#aion-rsa #Books

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mostlysignssomeportents · 5 years

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SO LATE SO SOON: fun, genre-celebrating SF for young readers (of all ages!)

[Harry Tynan posts on our forums as Moose Malloy. Earlier this week, he messaged me about his fun, self-published kid's book, written as a series of bedtime stories for his kid (a tradition I'm very fond of -- it's the origin story of The Borribles!). The book is so much fun that I invited him to write a short introduction and choose a excerpt for your edification. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did! -Cory]

The great Umberto Eco once wrote, in a marvellous essay about Casablanca, that "Two clichés make us laugh. A hundred clichés move us. For we sense dimly that the clichés are talking among themselves, and celebrating a reunion."

And hey, who doesn't love Casablanca?

I'm no Umberto Eco, but a while back I wrote a science fiction novel out of love for my son and out of love for the SF genre itself. Freed by love, I poured my heart into this short tale of a boy and his dad (plus his two accidental, argumentative clones, plus his dad's childhood dog accidentally yanked forward from the 1970s for their own, very tail-waggy reunion).

For my son's amusement, I unselfconsciously stuffed each of my quick, cliff-hanging chapters with my favourite SF clichés from a lifetime of fandom. I smushed in some 'gritty history' and some light moral lessons and some Shakespeare and some counterfactual frolics. I had huge fun bashing out 500 words nightly on an old laptop after everyone else hit the hay.

I was pretty careful with editing and general quality control. But I let the tale itself go where it wanted. When I read it over I smiled to find influences from stuff I adored -- not only Sheckley and Dick and Zelazny and Silverberg and Doctorow, but also Beverly Cleary, and Treasure Island, and Calvin and Hobbes, and 2000AD and Red Dwarf and arcade games and pop music and every other good thing we turn to for hope and light. I called it SO LATE SO SOON, after the wistful absurdism of the Dr. Seuss verse. Then I printed some copies and gifted them around. Did that a few times. Kinda forgot about it then, to be honest.

Now, I've never made any big claims for this book. For me it is, as Eco says, 'the clichés having a ball.' But it's had a joyful little half-life. Some schoolteacher here in Ireland read it in class. Kids I don't know, cousins of neighbours of my nieces or something, petitioned for a sequel. Well-meaning friends kept nagging me to publish it -- as if it were that easy!

But of course, it IS that easy to self-publish these days. And this week I finally did, on Amazon KDP. It feels great! Right now it's free, so if interested, please snag it

here

(US) or

here

(UK) or in your local Amazon region. I'll run more free days asap (KDP limits these, though).

I hope some of you like it. You could start with the extract below, wherein our protagonists use a time-freezing whistle to escape from a medieval court which alleges they're demons.

Finally... I cannot thank Cory and Boing Boing sufficiently for this -- it's a wish come true, realising a childhood dream (to write and share an entertaining story) with my dream audience (the awesome happy mutant community). Buíochas!

FORTY-FIVE

One minute later I was outside again, panting heavily, frightened and excited at the same time. The streets were filled with people stuck in fixed poses; even the horses who'd pulled us here in our cage were poised without twitching, like statues. And around everything, that strange ring of the whistle pulsed like some alien music.

No time to hang about, I told myself. We need to leave. But how? I went back inside the courthouse to assess the situation.

First, I removed the whistle from Marlowe's collar and stuck it in my pocket. No telling when I'd need that again.

Second, I took a good look at Dad, where he was suspended in time, leaning against the side of his dock. No way would I be able to carry him. But I might be able to drag him.

The sound of the whistle, still echoing, rang pure and clear in my ears as I worked.

I pushed experimentally on Ezquerra, who was blocking the steps up to Dad. He tumbled over like a skittle and landed flat on his back with a crash. Terrified someone would hear me, I looked around in a panic for somewhere to hide. But then I controlled myself. Who cared if anyone heard me? They were all frozen. And that gave me an idea. I looked around for the largest people in the room, to lie down beside Ezquerra.

Two soldiers and a judge later, I'd made a pretty soft-looking landing pad just outside Dad's dock. "Sorry, Dad," I whispered as I opened the gate at the top of the steps. He tumbled straight out and landed smack-bang across the judge's belly and a soldier's fleshy forearms. It seemed to me that the sound of the whistle was beginning to fade at this stage, and from the corner of my eye I could see hints of very slow movement amongst the crowd, so it looked like the freeze was wearing off.

That was fine. I was nearly ready anyway. But I needed to talk to Dad. I dragged him, with great difficulty, outside the courtroom door, around a corner, and down a quiet hallway with polished wooden panels and huge pictures of great battles hanging everywhere.

Then I waited.

All around me I could hear the sounds of reality restarting, like one of Dad's old records rotating at the wrong speed. Around the corner somewhere, I heard a footstep. As I watched Dad's face, he blinked. The ring of the whistle was almost completely gone now. And suddenly, time was back to normal -- moving forward at one second per second.

"Dad," I said quickly, "don't talk, let me explain. I froze time using this Silverberg whistle. Lukes B and C and Marlowe are still in the courtroom, which I imagine is going bananas right now, because you and I have just disappeared into thin air... and also, some people have been, uh, rearranged."

Dad's eyes bulged in confusion as I continued, but I put up a hand to silence him. "There's no time to lose. They'll really think we're devils now, with this kind of black magic. We need to escape. But I'm too small to carry everyone."

He nodded to show he understood. "This time, I want YOU to blow the whistle, go back in there, and carry all of us to somewhere safe. It wears off after about ten minutes, so keep blowing it till you're done. Got it?"

There were sounds of shouting and alarm all through the building now. A group of soldiers came tearing around the corner, spotted us, and charged with an almighty roar.

"Got it," said Dad. He grabbed the whistle from me, raised it to his face, and --

FORTY-SIX

Dad got us out of Lisbon. He got all of us out, all on his own.

It must have taken him hours. I woke up a couple of times, emerging woozily from the freeze-sleep, becoming aware of reality crowding in on me once more. The first time it happened, I was bent forward over a low wall, presumably where he'd left me while he went to get one of the other Lukes. There was a slow, low, grinding noise: GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG... It started to get faster and higher: GRGRGRGRGRGRGRGRGRGRGR... and then it suddenly disappeared as normal time resumed with a POP!

I lifted my head. I felt fine. I was near a busy marketplace. Sounds of life were audible all around me; I wasn't the only person waking up.

"Dad," I croaked. "The whistle."

I was still lying draped over that wall and couldn't even see Dad, but he must have heard me, because next thing I knew I was coming around again on the side of a dusty pathway just outside of the city.

GGGGGGGGGGGGG

GRGRGRGRGRGRGRGRGRGRGR

POP

Luke B was lying beside me and I could see Dad, with Luke C in his arms, staggering tiredly toward us. He saw me watching him, and winked. "You okay Dad?" I asked. "I'll be fine," he answered. "The old dog for the hard road, as my mother used to say."

He'd even rescued one of the backpacks somehow. It lay on the ground beside me. Seeing me looking at it, Dad winked. "Took it from the hands of the boss bishop himself," he said. "He'll be one surprised padre when he wakes up!"

I heard a sneeze behind me and looked over to see a soldier staring in amazement. That was only to be expected. After all, as far as he knew, there'd just been some weird noises and then we had appeared out of nowhere.

"No problem," said Dad, as the soldier started shouting. He lowered Luke C gently to the ground and reached again for the whistle.

https://boingboing.net/2019/05/02/so-late-so-soon.html

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junkyardbluebox · 5 years

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Too cute not to share

I recently got the Classic Who novel “The Roundheads” by Mark Gatiss and just had to share these excerpts ...

(Note: The TARDIS landed in 1648 London. The Doctor and Jamie have been imprisoned in the Tower of London while Ben and Polly are elsewhere)

The Doctor glanced at Jamie, gave a quick smile, and then extricated himself from the watchman’s grip. With astonishing speed, he raced across the room to stand by Jamie’s side and began to speak rapidly in a bizarre Scandinavian accent. “Ah! The secret is out, my boy,” he announced. “We will have to tell them now!”

The jailer scowled. “What secret?”

“The secret of second sight,” cried the Doctor, warming to his theme. “My friend, the McCrimmon of ... er, Culloden, is a powerful seer. He can foretell the future. He can see how the winding pathways of the future may twist and turn!”

The watchman raised a fat, threatening fist. “What are you on about?”

The Doctor stood behind Jamie and raised his arms above the young man’s head. “Do you not see, man?” he said appealingly. “The McCrimmon can tell you what fate will befall this warring land of yours. He can tell you whether the forces of Parliament will ultimately be victorious. You must listen to him!”

He poked Jamie in the back. “Isn’t that right, McCrimmon?”

Jamie frowned. “Eh? Oh, aye.” At once he assumed a glassy expression and moaned softly as though possessed. To add to the effect he raised his hands and began to wiggle his fingers.

The jailer moved closer again. “What trickery is this?”

.....

He nodded to himself then bent his lips to Jamie’s ear. “Oh, great McCrimmon,” he whispered. “Tell us! Tell us of the time to come!”

Jamie rolled his head from side to side and began to breathe in short, gulping rasps, the way he had once a wise woman in the Highlands behave. Finally, he whispered in the Doctor’s ear and the little man straightened up, smiling.

“Well?” said the jailer.

The Doctor clasped his hands over his chest and spoke with as much gravitas as he could muster. “The McCrimmon tells me that the King has been moved from his prison on the Isle of Wight and is to stand trial for treason.”

The watchman and the jailer exchanged shocked glances. “Nobody knows the King’s been moved!” hissed the latter.

“The McCrimmon knows!” said the Doctor. “The McCrimmon knows all.”

....

The jailer moved to the door. “We will return,” he muttered.

The Doctor nodded his head sagely. “Very well. The McCrimmon and I will await you.”

... That’s about it. I just got a kick out of the Doctor and Jamie’s routine and the Doctor referring to him as “The McCrimmon.” XD

#classic doctor who #2nd doctor #polly wright #ben jackson #jamie mccrimmon #books

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adorhauer · 6 years

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Coming in 2019

Since publishing my debut novel, I haven’t announced any future projects. All of October had been dedicated to marketing and taking a break- but since Halloween is over, I can now look ahead. So, without any more delay, these are the stories that will be finished by the end of this year and are scheduled to be published:

✩ Your Grandpa’s Curls: A short story about a girl who walks out on the road to find her grandpa waiting for her moments after he died. Is he a ghost, or is it some kind of trauma-induced fantasy? The only way to know for sure is to go up and talk to him. YA/Fantasy

✩ The Body of Susan Hallaway: A short story about a demon who, upon quitting his job, possesses the body of a young woman and goes on what he considers a vacation. The affects are not at all expected as he finds himself being hunted by the entire host of hell. NA Fantasy/horror

These are the stories that I will be writing in 2019, and will give several updates on as I continue to progress with them:

✩ [Unnamed Fairytale]: Two children are allowed to enter the world of the Good Neighbors- only to be trapped inside after the fairy queen closes the portal that connects this world to theirs. With enough wit, and the help of some friends they make along the way, the children fight to escape before it’s too late. MG/Fantasy

✩ The Creak House: A sequel to Maple Street, this story shows what happened to the characters after the events of the first book and is recorded by the first-hand witnesses of two children who, having moved to the United States, know nothing about Halloween or the creatures it encompasses. MG/Fantasy

✩ The Weight of Diamonds: A young woman enters into a polyamorous relationship- and though she is happy, her family is not. Since when did she stop being interested in dating? Why doesn’t she invite her family over? Along with the trials of love come the pitfalls of hiding who she is to the people she needs most. As her relationships become more strained, the pressure to obtain a ring from a single partner mounts. NA/Romance

✩ My Uncle is A Bunghole (How to Kill Your Dad and Get Away With It): The most personal project on this list, this is a slapstick retelling of a family much like my own, preserved within the confines of a book. Maybe you know people like us, and maybe you are people like us. Hopefully you don’t have the fire department called quite as often.

Working on four stories is going to be tough, but based on what I’ve learned from the last publication, I’ve got a plan. I can’t wait to start posting excerpts for you all and see where this new pathway leads.

And as always, thank you for your support!

#writing #update #publishing #stories #writeblr #writblr #writing community #wips #my work #soon to be written #new stories #wish me luck!

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jdketchwrites · 6 years

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Novel Excerpt

I’ve been a bit negligent of the Tumbles lately. Mostly because this novel revision has devoured my life. I recently came across something that convinced me that all is not lost. Here’s a chapter from my book that not only do I not hate, but actually think is some of my best writing. So, throwing caution to the wind, I’m posting it here for your reading enjoyment, and to prove that I don’t just drink whiskey and surf facebook...

Chapter 9: The Deadman's Switch

Callie and Twist ascended the main staircase from the rail platforms. The city-station opened up into a grand chamber off of the tracks. A brick-lined network of chambers and ante-chambers each containing blocks of buildings and pathways. If not for the glass-network overhead, the space above the buildings would easily be mistaken for night sky rather than the buttresses and beams of a brick-lined vaulted ceiling. Past the merchant alleys and commercial corridors of the central Galleria, the open storefronts and glass-front business give way to private quarters and residences. Periodically, the smell of food will waft down a hallway denoting the presence of a restaurant somewhere down that particular branch. And just as the hustle and bustle of commerce and trade give way to restaurants and apartments, so does the spread of wealth. The further back the branches are the darker they are. The helios is only projected so far before the rate of decay for the light is too great. Especially in a Station like Alisade, outside of Hypogean jurisdiction due to being in the Lower Q. Without regular maintenance and monitoring from the Menders of the Glass-setters, some rows of the station saw little light at all. Most resorted to gas-lamps or the sort, as stored electricity was a rare commodity. They headed down a back alley several paths off of the central Promenade, past the reach of the glass network that no matter what time of day the inhabitants relied on gas lamps or electric light.

It was down one of these darkened corridors. The tile floors made slippery with soot from the gas-lamps, behind a plain door with the initials DMS atop a glyph of a rail lever set into a circle with the top left quarter cut out was where Callie and Twist had found themselves to relieve themselves of contraband cargo and avail themselves of drinks to stave off the negativity of the last two days in transit.

The Deadman’s Switch was a bar owned and operated by a Canine Fauna by the name of Jaxx. He mostly used the bar as a de facto meeting place for Freelance and Privateer train operators. Alisade Station was at the edge of the Wild Q and run by the Sikorsky Firm. Callie and Twist were contracted Privateers for the Sikorsky Firm, and as such MadCap Sikorsky had a hand in nearly every deal they made, as well as just about any deal made in the entire station. Sikorsky was the biggest firm, and the more dangerous, as MadCap still tried for an illusion of legitimacy, even going so far as to take contracts from the Timekeepers in the Wheel proper. But that sheen legitimacy sat atop a ruthless iron fist that brokered no leniency for anything unsanctioned. Tucked away in one of the darker wall-side alleys the Deadman’s was as good a place as any to attempt an anonymous deal or two.

They stepped through the surreptitiously marked door into the gaslight of the bar proper. It was a small space, built for purpose more than looks. Rough-hewn root-wood tables and cheap metal stools. The bar was made of pipe fittings holding up a concrete slab of a bar top. There were a few darkened booths in the back for private deals and those that preferred to drink alone. There was a gas-lit lighting fixture hanging from the center of the ceiling that appeared to be made from a repurposed train wheel.

Behind the bar, the proprietor, Jaxx was cleaning a glass until he looked up and saw them enter.

“Hey!” he barked, his voice was sharp but not aggressive. Callie and Twist had known him for a long time. His reputation for being able to fetch just about anything someone would want was legendary around the Lower Q. His willingness to use privateer operators working freelance on the sly was less known, and it was that discretion that Callie liked best about the hound-dog bartender.

Like most fauna, Jaxx looked mostly human. He had light colored skin and a full black beard, save for white patch down the center of his chin. His black hair was full but short and his eyes were brown and soulful. Besides the black furred tail protruding from his lower back, the only other fauna feature he exhibited were longer than normal canines and hair covered ears with a slight flop to them. He smiled brightly at them and set a couple of glasses up on the bar.

“What’ll it be for my two favorite operators in the Quarter?”

“Jaxx, I know you’re just saying that because we’ve got cargo for you.” Said Twist, settling in on a stool.

“Doesn’t mean I like you any less. But since you mention it…” Replies Jaxx suggestively.

“Platform 11, and I’ll have a pratai, neat.” Said Callie, warily.

“Wouj dlo, for me. Make it a double.” Twist followed up.

“Wow, must’ve been a rough couple days on the tracks. You guys don’t usually go for the hard stuff,” he said, pouring the drinks after telling two of his employees the platform number and seeing them leave. This was standard procedure for working freelance with Jaxx. He never handled the cargo directly and that gave him plausible deniability at all times. Operators came into the station with cargo. Parked the cargo at an out of the way platform, came to the bar, told him the platform number. He would tell his employees the location, and they would confirm retrieval of the cargo from the platform while the operator and Jaxx had a drink. Once the employees contacted Jaxx with confirmation of the goods, he paid the operators and they were on their way. “We got ambushed by the Mechanics on the inner rim line,” said Twist. At this Jaxx nearly drops the bottle of wouj dlo he’d just poured from.

“I thought the Klaxxon was off limits to the Mechanics,” he said. Callie really wished he hadn’t. Twist was suspicious enough of her link to the zealot group as is.

“Turns out otherwise,” She says dismissively as she takes a drink of the pratai or potato liquor. Not her usual drink but definitely called for to calm her nerves.

“You know that’s one of the primary reasons I use you guys right? I mean the Klaxxon’s fast and all but it’s not worth the bedlam should MadCap find out you’re freelancing for me,” he said,

“Look, it’s unusual for the damn suicides to be working the inner rim line as well, so I’m sure it was an isolated incident. Right, Callie?” Said Twist, looking at her rather eagerly.

“Yeah, I’m sure it is,” she says, downing her drink. She gestures for another. She should be relieved that Twist has her back, but she could also tell by his tone that there would be compensation in return.

****

Callie and Twist had been at the bar waiting for confirmation on their cargo from his men when another train crew came into the bar. Callie recognized them immediately and she immediately bristled.

“Don’t look now, but our day just got worse.” Callie said under her breath to Twist, “The Torque is here.”

“Wow, they should raise the standards on who they let in here.” Said Twist, looking over his second glass of wouj dlo. Callie could smell the sweet red liquor, distilled from beets, from where she was sitting.

“I heard that, furball,” said Jaxx, making a point of not looking at the crew coming in the door. “Can’t afford to discriminate at the door. Trust me if I could I would.” He replied under his breath.

The train crew that had come in was the Torque, a rival privateer train contracted by the Kobold Firm. Both firms were basically criminal organizations. However, the Sikorsky Firm maintained a certain appearance of legitimacy and such as things are in the Lower Q, tended toward the shadier side of the moral spectrum. Not that the Kobold firm or the Torque’s crew were any better. They were true mercenaries and would take any job for the right amount of Coin. The difference being, they were just honest about being thieves.

“Callie, don’t look at him and maybe, just maybe we can get out of this without him--”

“Well, well well, if it innit the Klaxxon…” says one of the two Torque operators.

“Bugger all, it’s Kline.”

Humboldt Kline, the engineer of the Torque was considerably shorter than Callie but just slightly taller than Twist. He was wearing dirty coveralls with an incredibly old leather jacket over it that looked as though it might have been a TDA uniform jacket at one time, however, the patches have been removed. It was unclear if the man was once a Timekeeper or a Dispatch Agent or if he took the jacket off of one of them.

“Word is, you’ve been away for a bit. What’s MadCap got you doing these days?” He asked suspiciously. Sidling up to the bar taking the seat directly to the right of Callie. Rake, his Engineer settled in the booth next to Twist.

“What brings the Torque to Alisade? Fair ways from Tyrmel Station.” Asked Twist, deflecting the question.

“Funny you should ask that, Red. See we just got back from a salvage job just the far side of Clocktower Station over in the Root Quarter,” He said, “Little favor for the Tick-Tock’s, y’know.” He said, with an annoying wink. Kline seemed far too pleased with himself for Callie to be comfortable and way too chatty.

“Word from one of the Agent’s we were working with is someone or another sparked the network just inside the Stone Q without paper. You wouldn’t know anything about that now, would you?” Kline’s partner was sitting with his back to the bar. He was doing his best to stay calm but Callie could feel Twist tense up and one hand was now resting on the hilt of one of his knives while the other still held his drink.

“All they get is a signal spark? Could have been a local roamer.” Said Callie, playing it cool, or trying to.

“The Dispatch sent the Triumph to investigate. And they’re claiming there was a freelance operator on the track that just vanished.” Said, Rake.

“For a supposedly tough as nails privateer, you suddenly seem very chummy with the TDA.” Said Twist. Callie really didn’t like where this was going. She knew Twist thought Kline was a blowhard but really hated Rake. She put her hand on Twists arm to reassure him. He relaxed some but still didn’t take his hand off his knife.

“Chummy with the Tick-tock’s?! Ha! That’s rich coming from MadCap’s hotshot crew. Word is she’s setting up a long-term contract with the big man Exeter hisself.” Kline said. “Seems like the way things are gonna be for all us independents out here. Firms aren’t going to be any better than the Dispatch itself.”

“Yeah, well we’re just trying to stay rolling. MadCap makes that happen for the time being.” Said Callie, finishing her drink. She motioned for Twist to leave. Jaxx stopped them.

“Hey, Callie. Your tab?”

“Bill it to my usual account.” She said, confirming to Jaxx where their payment should go for the freelance job. Thankful of the discrete code. She and Twist made to leave. Just as they were about to reach the door Kline spoke up again.

“Funny thing, that Dispatch train, the Triumph, also said there was a whole mess of Zen Mechanics on the tracks. Looking like they’d been in quite the scuffle and lost. But when the survivors were asked what train they got into it with, they all seem to have memory loss.” Callie knew why the Mechanics weren’t talking, she just didn’t want to admit it. Least of all in front of Kline and Rake.

“Everyone knows the Mechanics are nuts. It’s why we call them suicides.” she countered. “Just saying, aren’t many trains in the wheel can pull off a ‘vanishing act’ and be covered by the Mechanics after an attack.” Said Kline, “MadCap might be paying the bills for now, but should her toy train get caught stepping out? Wouldn’t want to see that happen.”

“That a threat Kline?” Challenged Twist. Callie rolled her eyes because she realized they’d been baited.

“Nope, a friendly warning. If an old Privateer like me can figure it out. Won’t take long for your boss.”

#novelrevisions #writing #excerpts from my writing #train pirates

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divine-nonchalance · 3 years

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The Lion's Mane Mushroom Common Names: Lion’s mane, monkey’s head, bear’s head, old man’s beard, hedgehog mushroom, satyr’s beard, pom pom, yamabushitake (Japanese for “mountain-priest mushroom”).” “Medicinal Properties: Traditional Chinese medicinal practitioners prescribe this species for stomach ailments and for prevention of cancer in the gastrointestinal tract. Dr. Mizuno, of Shizuoka University, isolated acidic derivatives in this mushroom that are strongly effective against hepatoma cells. He further identified 5 distinct polysaccharides with potent antitumor properties that extended the life spans of patients (Mizuno 1995). Other researchers patented an extraction process that isolates nerve growth stimulant (NGS) factor—compounds now known as erinacines and hericiones (Kawagishi et al. 1991). A novel erinacine, erinacine Q, isolated from liquid culture, is one precursor to this family of erinacines (Kenmoku et al. 2002). Erinacines stimulate neurons to regrow and rebuild myelin, and so they may possibly be significant in treating senility and Alzheimer’s disease, repairing neurological trauma, increasing cognitive abilities, and perhaps improving muscle/motor response pathways, which would be helpful for those suffering from nerve degeneration, such as that occurring in muscular dystrophy. Kawagishi (2002) noted that lion’s manes’ low molecular weight compounds pass through the blood-brain barrier intact.”

Excerpt From: Paul Stamets. “Mycelium Running: How Mushrooms Can Help Save the World.”

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laberintos-espinas · 4 years

Text

The Old Chunk Of Coal

Some days are diamonds. Some days are Stones... And the alternative one, I am just an vintage bite of coal, but I can be a diamond at some point Custom Made Jewellery I love songs. I love the lyrics and secondly the thumping vibrations of the decrease observe beats. I recollect these traces from country conventional refrains. I recollect them due to the fact I realize the feeling of being taken into consideration a clump of coal. It's a bad feeling. It's now not so much the coloration that is a downer, it's the darkness that's involved whilst one thinks of coal. It's a fossil gas. It's top simplest for heaping onto an already insupportable ecological or metaphorical emotional trauma situation and making it worse. Let's strike a in shape to the coal and burn it until it is used up into ash. Then allow's desire the wind will scatter it, as we do not even want to empty the ashes once it is usefulness has been used up. We're ungrateful every now and then for services rendered. Coal paperwork under the floor. Without light. I assume it gets worse. I assume coal is not even an unique component. I suppose it is compressed gases or rotted timber or something discarded to begin with.

OK. So you get the image that I just like the phrases to songs that sing approximately desire for rotting ancient discarded elements.

I have a friend it truly is a shamanistic healer. It started out that he changed into going to help me locate my manner and discover my voice. Then I commenced cleaning his house for him. This made feel sooner or later for some motive. We additionally percentage songs. Baby-boomers are constantly flower youngsters at heart. I suppose neither one folks really knows why I'm nonetheless spiffing up the palace. I know at a few level we bartered house cleaning for transcended meditation classes. Yet I got here with a again schedule. I'm going to clean my way through his lavatories and into his coronary heart. When I get there, I'm going to mirror my Light on his pathway and then flip him into the palms of the one true God to take care of. Silly presumptive conceited me, assuming he wanted me to shop him. I deliver up my Shaman due to the fact he instructed me in three separate restoration periods I turned into a diamond so first-rate that soon many round me could recognize and notice me. I figured he changed into speakme inside the religious geographical regions and in symbolic language. Now I'm not so sure.

OK. So you get the picture that I've been on a religious quest to connect and solder myself right into the mainline connection with my Creator, God as I changed into taught. You recognise the only inside the Christian container? However, something came about along the way I didn't assume. My point of view concerning traditional Western Christianity flipped. I think now, that Jesus changed into certainly the entity that lead me into the Kingdom of God. Nevertheless, since I've certainly wondered and did research from original supply statistics, I suppose God is Spirit, the whole Spirit of the God and that God is entire natural Love; the originating, creating, shrewd Source that is the vibration of natural white power light. The Light of all cosmology and creation.

Something has also happened to me for the reason that my unique friend and the Shaman helped me locate my voice and soul again. I started out to put in writing. I started out to write prolifically. I write all the time. I cannot prevent it. It's been approximately six months now of nonstop writing. I write day and night time. I write about something and the entirety. I actually have masses to say and do not know why. My "still small voice" is very talkative. Just about each person it is are available in contact with my e-mail radar range, has advised I write for a living. I've just been watching for the go-ahead signal from a person. I've been at the intersection watching for the mild to turn green. Today it occurred.

You now recognize I stay to write down. I discover the sector around me high-quality and wondrous and want to inform absolutely everyone all about it.

I belong to a churchwomen's fellowship institution. It's seventy five-a hundred women who can find time on Thursday mornings to come back collectively with aim of being God honoring, together. One of the instructors for one in all this season's classes, I am venerated to say, has come to be a pal of mine. Judy is a raven-haired angel of a girl filled with grace, information and dignity. She's the pastor's spouse. She's additionally very humorous. I'm unshakably convinced God has a strong dry sense of humor. He need to have. Look at us!

Today Judy surprised me. She asked my permission to study one in all my written works. It was well timed and related to the President of america. She felt it turned into a very good element for some women to hear. I did not want to appear unpatriotic in those perilous instances, right after 9/11 so I agreed. I changed into very thankful she become not going to make me arise and examine my essay. I contemplated just skipping magnificence these days, to keep away from the embarrassment I'd no question sense and possibly keep away from the harsh sarcasm or poor criticism of my sisters in Christ. (Oops. It sounds a tad like my perceptions of my fellow guy is askew, would not it?) God will work on this hassle.

I did not hen out. I confirmed up. What I didn't anticipate passed off next.

Judy didn't wait till small institution time. She got up there and read my article to the complete bunch of properly-bred, sensible ladies at the monthly scheduled all-church women's luncheon earlier than our writing class. I become mortified! I started to look around me. The feast room changed into full of spherical tables seating eight ladies a table. A little hearth-orange rose budded out of the middle of every desk. These ladies began to appear like a bouquet of freshly reduce plants to me. This kind of bouquet is such an extravagance for someone like me. These girls are the cream of the crop on Mercer Island, WA. A.Ok.A. The Golden Ghetto. My sons and I best live on the island because of a Section 8 HUD housing voucher for the poor.

I watched as women began to wipe water out of the corners of their eyes. I watched as eyeglasses started being eliminated and noses had been blown. I watched girls torn between gazing me ( seeking to hide in a nook of the front of the room) and trying to stay riveted on Judy analyzing My written words. I watched as the sounds of my tale bounced towards my mind. I changed into surprised to say the least. I 'd by no means heard my words out loud earlier than. I become curious about the article. It produced a silent sound down in my internal middle connection to God. It struck worry (as in awe) in my heart as I realized some thing supernatural had passed off to my palms to jot down such sounds.

When the object become finished, the girls applauded. They asked copies to own in unison. I turned into proclaimed a proficient writer. I was humbled into silence, again. I saw some thing unrecognizable. I saw refracted mild start to prism off these ladies lower back at me. Just like while a diamond is held up to the daylight. I contemplated this sight.

As if this became now not sufficient, the primary group disbanded into the smaller lecture room corporations to prepare for the inspirational teachings of the day. It would be an hour and a half of studying and sharing Life training, girl Christian style. Judy had every other marvel in keep for me. She wasn't through with me yet due to the fact she was the teacher of the writing group I belonged to for this smaller organization.

The topic below discussion become Changing Times. Judy started out giving examples of how traditional authors had expressed themselves as she thumbed via Emerson, Lewis, and a pair current luminary authors. About midway via the class, Judy yanked out yet ANOTHER of my tales and read it to this magnificence as her last example! I turned into petrified the ladies might grow resentful, bored and angry at this monopoly on their time. There had been many proficient women in this organization. All with superb motivating stories to inform. Judy made no bones about how highly she regarded my capacity to seize pix and percentage my coronary heart-mind to an target market. She study Homecoming Parade. She excerpted and compacted the lengthy story into one which hit the mark. More tears flowed and mouths hung free. You should've heard a pin drop in the location. More applause. I shriveled underneath the desk and attempted to clown round graciously to alleviate the pain of appreciation and recognition.

What I saw as I appeared around this group of 30 movers and shakers of all ages, shocked me. I noticed it symbolically, as is my way. But nevertheless, it became there for the viewing. I saw a super wonderful blue-white, exquisite-reduce diamond being held up and placed into a platinum solitaire putting.

When the meeting ended, a woman I'd gotten to recognize recently approached me. Her call is Judy Boynton. She clipped off her credentials for the organization. She was a professional posted creator of fiction and non-fiction novels. She changed into an finished artist of sculptures. She become a trustee on the Board of Pacific Northwest Writers Conference affiliated with Pacific Lutheran University. She'd been a member of this group for over 25 years. I became impressed. Not so much through her credentials, as high-quality as they were, however with the aid of the strength and force at the back of her eyes. This woman had awareness and motive. She was aiming at me.

She advised me she knew what she was speaking approximately. She instructed me and the organization I WAS a gifted creator. She told us she'd visible enough to realize the difference among one that would like to be a writer and one that IS a writer. I fell into the latter category. She surpassed me numbers and pamphlets and instructed me to be at the next convention meeting. She explained this is where publishers, agents, and authors meet each other with the purpose on publishing written works of merit. Names like Ann Rule and J.A. Jance had been bantered approximately at some stage in this same day through others as they requested my permission to have them perhaps touch those "friends of theirs."

It isn't regularly in a lifetime that one simply is AWARE of a life converting moment or day. I've been graced with one of those moments. Today it appears, the sector round me is starting to notice and recognize the old chew of coal were given the dust pressure-washed off of her so hard and significantly by means of Life, that she'd developed into a diamond solitaire of well worth and observe.

I know in which I belong proper now, proper at this area in time. I belong sticking effective near my special buddies who know a way to crimp the ones platinum prongs at the diamond setting firmly and securely. I even have a sense diamonds are forever, as they are saying. How should this have passed off?

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