So I apologize for not getting a writing prompt up before this. I've had quite a few people email and ask what it was and I had no idea because I haven't had time to think about it. I've been writing an article for a local publication that was supposed to be some easy cash and has turned into a month-long nightmare that still isn't over. Hopefully it will be soon. However, I have turned in a rough draft for that so I finally have some time to post on our blog. I've been mulling over some ideas for the writing prompt, but it seemed to be consensus last month that things would work better if we were working on continuous stories rather than bits of ones here and there. That way we can get a feeling for each other's writing styles and be in a better place to give helpful critiques.
With that in mind, I am going to keep it simple...the assignment this month is to take something you've written for the blog and keep writing! You can flesh it out with more background, even writing about the events leading up to your last post, or you can continue with your story. Granted, there haven't been a ton of people posting, but that's OK...if you haven't posted anything yet, take something you've written in the past (preferrably something you already have saved somewhere in your computer) and put up 2 posts simultaneously--first the original writing, and then the stuff you've added this month. Does that make sense? Then we still get an idea of how each other's writing is progressing.
So I know the summertime is busiest for most of us (including the 3 of you who either just had babies or are expecting one soon) but please do what you can to keep our blog alive! Let's say word count should vaguely fall somewhere between 500-1,000 words.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Sorry for the delay :(
Okay, so I am new at this blogging thing and very new at sharing my writing but I am so excited to get feedback and learn from everybody, thanks for letting me be a part of this, sorry I didn't post last month, I will try to be better! And here it is . . . (hopefully it isn't too painful for you guys! :) I hope I wasn't too vague with the ending, I tried to stay to the word limit and thought it would be fun to let people decide on their own what they think happened. Let me know what you think.)
It was a witchy house: the low-slung roof; that quiet grey paint; those squinting, shuttered windows; and the empty porch rocker that rocked, rocked, rocked day and night. All these years I had been terrified of it. Never did I imagine that I would be standing in the entrance, preparing myself for its magnificence. I compose myself as completely as I can and push my foot forward with the adrenaline that is now flushing through my system. What is happening? I need to get to him. The house seemed to double in size. Tears began to blur my vision.
I turned into the kitchen; beautiful white marble everywhere was coated with layers of dust making it seem like granite, my fingers made prints on the counter tops, letting the stone shine through and bringing a thread of light into the house. He wasn’t there. The kitchen ended at the dining room where the table was set for 12 but the crystal glasses had webs in them instead of wine. Old candles that once had been lit lie broken on the lace tablecloth. How could something so remarkable be so endlessly frightening? I passed the elevators hoping I was headed in the right direction. I saw a hall. It went on forever, but in which direction, I wasn’t sure.
I felt as though I were walking on the ceiling, the pressure building in my head as the walls tightened and swiveled. Winding through the darkness, I used my hands as guides, not feeling any doors, not knowing where I would end and what I would find when I got there, I only hoped it would be him and it wouldn’t be too late. It was difficult to breathe now as I found the door and realized it was. I begged them without success. There was nothing else I, as a weak human, could do. I joined them, not understanding but giving myself to their power anyway so I could be with him. It was my only option. Things have never been the same since.
It was a witchy house: the low-slung roof; that quiet grey paint; those squinting, shuttered windows; and the empty porch rocker that rocked, rocked, rocked day and night. All these years I had been terrified of it. Never did I imagine that I would be standing in the entrance, preparing myself for its magnificence. I compose myself as completely as I can and push my foot forward with the adrenaline that is now flushing through my system. What is happening? I need to get to him. The house seemed to double in size. Tears began to blur my vision.
I turned into the kitchen; beautiful white marble everywhere was coated with layers of dust making it seem like granite, my fingers made prints on the counter tops, letting the stone shine through and bringing a thread of light into the house. He wasn’t there. The kitchen ended at the dining room where the table was set for 12 but the crystal glasses had webs in them instead of wine. Old candles that once had been lit lie broken on the lace tablecloth. How could something so remarkable be so endlessly frightening? I passed the elevators hoping I was headed in the right direction. I saw a hall. It went on forever, but in which direction, I wasn’t sure.
I felt as though I were walking on the ceiling, the pressure building in my head as the walls tightened and swiveled. Winding through the darkness, I used my hands as guides, not feeling any doors, not knowing where I would end and what I would find when I got there, I only hoped it would be him and it wouldn’t be too late. It was difficult to breathe now as I found the door and realized it was. I begged them without success. There was nothing else I, as a weak human, could do. I joined them, not understanding but giving myself to their power anyway so I could be with him. It was my only option. Things have never been the same since.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Better late than never...
Finding a minute to write in the summertime, when all of my children are out of school, has been nearly impossible! The fact that four of the six of us are on antibiotics for strep throat (including me) hasn't helped matters either. I was so excited for this month's topic, too. The lesson I've learned is to start earlier in the month next time. Here is my submission--completely free-written and unedited, but I like how it turned out. Too tired ot write more, unfortunately.
I have one green eye and one blue eye. The green eye sees truth, and the blue eye sees much, much more. I sit outside my misty mountain home and cast my blue eye across the expanse before me. Its sight reaches beyond the miles of olive trees beneath my mountains—a vast forest whose grey-green trees climb hills and fall into valleys and move with the earth, looking more like a swelling sea than anything else. My glance extends past this verdant ocean to the true sea, skipping across the shallows like a smooth stone, and then on, skimming the white tips of the waves. When my sight reaches the shore of an island kingdom, all that I see has an azure tint; and at the edge of my vision, all is lost in deep blue mist.
The palace of the island kingdom is not beyond the limits of my vision, and I can look easily through the stone walls. I see a tall room hung in tapestries and a massive bed decked in fine velvet bedclothes. The room is bustling with the movements of a dozen servant women. Their queen reclines in the bed, beads of perspiration on her brow and a look of relieved joy on her face. In her arms her naked newborn daughter studies her mother’s face.
Just outside the queen’s chamber, a nervous young king is still unaware that his wife has given birth. He stands at a narrow window and gazes on my mountains—if he had an eye like mine he would be staring me in the face.
I have watched the king and queen prepare for the arrival of this little princess. Her parents have such splendid plans for her future that I feel almost sorry to deprive them. But this little one is special, and I have plans of my own.
My sharp claws grate on the craggy ground below me as I ease myself to the edge of the cliff. I stretch my neck out into the abyss before me and let the weight of my head pull me off the mountain. I dive sharply, then open my wings and begin to fly.
I have one green eye and one blue eye. The green eye sees truth, and the blue eye sees much, much more. I sit outside my misty mountain home and cast my blue eye across the expanse before me. Its sight reaches beyond the miles of olive trees beneath my mountains—a vast forest whose grey-green trees climb hills and fall into valleys and move with the earth, looking more like a swelling sea than anything else. My glance extends past this verdant ocean to the true sea, skipping across the shallows like a smooth stone, and then on, skimming the white tips of the waves. When my sight reaches the shore of an island kingdom, all that I see has an azure tint; and at the edge of my vision, all is lost in deep blue mist.
The palace of the island kingdom is not beyond the limits of my vision, and I can look easily through the stone walls. I see a tall room hung in tapestries and a massive bed decked in fine velvet bedclothes. The room is bustling with the movements of a dozen servant women. Their queen reclines in the bed, beads of perspiration on her brow and a look of relieved joy on her face. In her arms her naked newborn daughter studies her mother’s face.
Just outside the queen’s chamber, a nervous young king is still unaware that his wife has given birth. He stands at a narrow window and gazes on my mountains—if he had an eye like mine he would be staring me in the face.
I have watched the king and queen prepare for the arrival of this little princess. Her parents have such splendid plans for her future that I feel almost sorry to deprive them. But this little one is special, and I have plans of my own.
My sharp claws grate on the craggy ground below me as I ease myself to the edge of the cliff. I stretch my neck out into the abyss before me and let the weight of my head pull me off the mountain. I dive sharply, then open my wings and begin to fly.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
I'm sorry...
I have been so preoccupied this past month(with a new born) that I haven't written any of the prompts. I'm sorry for this and I will do my best to get next months done. I haven't forgotten Erin. I've enjoyed reading the stories that people have posted. Thanks for being patient with me.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Prompt #2: The Secret House
(This was a fun one. Thanks Heather! I don't know about everyone else, but I did complete freewriting...which means this hasn't been edited at all. Hope it makes sense, seeing as how my "20 minutes" was really about an hour that was interspersed with nursing a baby and trying to play with whiny children.)
*****
It was a witchy house: the low-slung roof; that quiet gray paint; those squinting, shuttered windows; and the empty porch rocker that rocked, rocked, rocked day and night. When people passed they unthinkingly spoke in hushed tones, fearful of waking the unknown power that lay over the house, that gave it a sense of constant muted humming, as if plugged into dangerously high voltage. For that same reason, no one ever went near the house, never even dawdling on the sidewalk in front for more than a few moments to wonder about its inhabitants. And that is why it was the perfect hiding place.
I had been tracing the worn pathways of the mysterious house on Amelia Street for over a year. Being unable to sleep, due to my unfortunate condition, I had been forced to find other amusements during the witching hours, ones that catered to solitude. I was wary of wandering the streets, still stinging from my encounter with One-Eyed Bob in the mostly deserted alley behind the mini-mart last summer, and had been anxious to confine my wanderings indoors. The quiet house was precisely what I had been looking for. I had noticed it, of course, in passing during regular daytime hours when everything assumed a sense of normalcy and I greeted neighbors on the street cordially, smiling and laughing gayly at the children racing their bikes down the smooth asphalt on Amelia Street. But I had never felt the same sense of trepidation I was conscious of in others. It had instead seemed to great me warmly, as if it understood my nighttime ailments and its the broken timbers of fence that surrounded it stretched out in embrace to enfold me in its secrets.
A house of secrets-- that's what I found the first time I entered through a side door I found unlocked though had to stubbornly force open. Time seemed to have worn its frame down as an old man, causing it to lean lamely on itself from tiredness and lack of strength. Its dusty interiors calmed my usually heightened senses at night and instead weaved a blanket of serenity over everything, easing my nerves and warming the ache in my mind. Often I would lie on a small cot that sat in one of the upstairs bedrooms, a small but sturdy thing that sighed comfortably with my weight. It was my favorite room in the old house, sparsely decorated with a small washbin in one corner and a large ornate mirror placed above it on the wall. A three-legged table stood next to the cot, its only contents were a pot of plastic yellow flowers and a worn copy of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner which had now kept me company for many nights. I would often lay there, conscious only of the fall wind creaking in the branches outside, wanting the dust of the house to envelope me, too, to encase me as one of its secrets, a mummy of shadow and dust and sleep.
The only other thing in the small room was a large trunk sitting below a lace curtain-framed window. The trunk was probably large enough to fit two grown men inside. Its main body had been covered in a dark ebony leather, with two iron bands running around each end, like giant rubberbands holding the lid in place. Although I had spent most of my time in this tomb of a room I had never once opened the secret trunk. Not wanting to know more about the tenants of my private cave, not wanting to disturb the fantasy I had created for my midnight wanderings, I cringed at the thought of what I might discover inside. I liked that about this room, that there was a secret I didn't know.
*****
It was a witchy house: the low-slung roof; that quiet gray paint; those squinting, shuttered windows; and the empty porch rocker that rocked, rocked, rocked day and night. When people passed they unthinkingly spoke in hushed tones, fearful of waking the unknown power that lay over the house, that gave it a sense of constant muted humming, as if plugged into dangerously high voltage. For that same reason, no one ever went near the house, never even dawdling on the sidewalk in front for more than a few moments to wonder about its inhabitants. And that is why it was the perfect hiding place.
I had been tracing the worn pathways of the mysterious house on Amelia Street for over a year. Being unable to sleep, due to my unfortunate condition, I had been forced to find other amusements during the witching hours, ones that catered to solitude. I was wary of wandering the streets, still stinging from my encounter with One-Eyed Bob in the mostly deserted alley behind the mini-mart last summer, and had been anxious to confine my wanderings indoors. The quiet house was precisely what I had been looking for. I had noticed it, of course, in passing during regular daytime hours when everything assumed a sense of normalcy and I greeted neighbors on the street cordially, smiling and laughing gayly at the children racing their bikes down the smooth asphalt on Amelia Street. But I had never felt the same sense of trepidation I was conscious of in others. It had instead seemed to great me warmly, as if it understood my nighttime ailments and its the broken timbers of fence that surrounded it stretched out in embrace to enfold me in its secrets.
A house of secrets-- that's what I found the first time I entered through a side door I found unlocked though had to stubbornly force open. Time seemed to have worn its frame down as an old man, causing it to lean lamely on itself from tiredness and lack of strength. Its dusty interiors calmed my usually heightened senses at night and instead weaved a blanket of serenity over everything, easing my nerves and warming the ache in my mind. Often I would lie on a small cot that sat in one of the upstairs bedrooms, a small but sturdy thing that sighed comfortably with my weight. It was my favorite room in the old house, sparsely decorated with a small washbin in one corner and a large ornate mirror placed above it on the wall. A three-legged table stood next to the cot, its only contents were a pot of plastic yellow flowers and a worn copy of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner which had now kept me company for many nights. I would often lay there, conscious only of the fall wind creaking in the branches outside, wanting the dust of the house to envelope me, too, to encase me as one of its secrets, a mummy of shadow and dust and sleep.
The only other thing in the small room was a large trunk sitting below a lace curtain-framed window. The trunk was probably large enough to fit two grown men inside. Its main body had been covered in a dark ebony leather, with two iron bands running around each end, like giant rubberbands holding the lid in place. Although I had spent most of my time in this tomb of a room I had never once opened the secret trunk. Not wanting to know more about the tenants of my private cave, not wanting to disturb the fantasy I had created for my midnight wanderings, I cringed at the thought of what I might discover inside. I liked that about this room, that there was a secret I didn't know.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Reminder--2 days left!
Just wanted to post a reminder to all (including myself) that there are two days left for this month's writing prompt. I know summer is a crazy time, but I look forward to seeing what everyone comes up with in twenty minutes of freewriting.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Writing Post #2
I don't know if the rest of you are Stephenie Meyer fans like me, but I just finished reading her new novel, The Host, and I am itching for some more good fantasy writing. One of my favorite fantasy authors is Gail Carson Levine who wrote Ella Enchanted. This prompt comes from her book on writing (Writing Magic: Creating Stories that Fly).
Pick one of the following introductory sentences and free write for twenty minutes. You are welcome to change the sentences in any way that you like. After twenty minutes you can keep going, revise what you wrote, or try a new prompt if you feel like it. Anything goes--but try to keep the length of your submission to not much longer than 1000 words. Deadline is June 25.
1. I have one green eye and one brown eye. The green eye sees truth, but the brown eye sees much, much more.
2. The ghost was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
3. "Be nice," my father said. "After all, he's your brother."
4. I am the most famous twelve-year-old in the United States.
5. Jason had never felt so foolish before, and he hoped he'd never feel so foolish again.
6. If somebody didn't do something soon, they were going to have a catastrophe on their hands.
7. Alison was the runt of the family, born small and ill-favored, and by the time she was fourteen, she was still small and ill-favored.
8. It was a witchy house: the low-slung roof; that quiet gray paint; those squinting, shuttered windows; and the empty porch rocker that rocked, rocked, rocked day and night.
9. The first time I saw Stephen, he painted a hex sign on my right arm and I couldn't move my fingers for three hours.
10. Ms. Fleming's wig had gone missing.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Unwanted Visitors
(Another entry I am posting for someone else...this one is for Bebe. If anyone else is having problems posting, please email me. Thanks! -ern)
As a teenager I could control my dreams to some extent and was fascinated by those that could arrange to meet up with others in dreams and then both independently recount adventures they had shared when they met up. As such, I have always listened to my dreams and self-analysed, when you look within, it’s usually easy to see a trigger or answer to a question. Said the person that isn’t an analyst.
I have 3 dreams in my life, one is a reoccurring fever driven dream, one a pregnancy hormone nightmare and the other changed my life. Below is the other.
Unwanted Visitors
Sitting crossed legged in my armchair the TV illuminates the darkness as it plays my favourite show. Sipping steaming tea from a China cup, laughing out loud at the log lady, my entertainment is interrupted by a bare knuckle rat a ta tat on my front door. Strange, no buzzer. Putting down the cup, squeezing my tired toes into moccasins I wrap my cardigan around me as I walk down the cool hallway towards the front door. Stretching out my hand above the barely warm storage heaters as I pass, time to change the setting to winter.
Who was it? It had to be a neighbour as the flats had an expensive security system; an unwritten rule agreed by all 6 residents said that if you didn’t know the person buzzing you didn’t let them in. We had a footballer and his wife living on the top floor and he had been hassled a few times by fans so we had a good system installed to protect us all.
In heels I could barely see through the spy hole, in slippers it wasn’t even worth a try and I didn’t put the safety chain on the door, pulling it towards me, I expected to see a friend.
As the door was half way open the metal handle was wrenched out of my hand. Shocked by the force I let go. I tried to see who was on the other side but the door was quickly thrown back at me, a battering ram. It hit my chin, nose and hard in the chest. Tasting blood I was thrown back against the wall. Winded and for a moment unable to move. I opened my mouth to scream but no sound came out. The only sound was my heart pounding in my ears as the pendulum of the Grandfather clock swung from side to side it’s usually proud song mute. Something warm and wet ran down my face freely.
There was a crack and blackness surrounded me as this dark shadow grabbed my shoulders and dragged me, slamming my body into each stretch of magnolia wall, a rag doll, towards the open door of the sitting room. With each body blow a sound emitted from this person, a pained low rumble, like an injured animal.
“Who are you?” I screamed. “You are making a mistake, why are you doing this?”
If I knew who it was, I would know why they were here, maybe calm them down.
In the sitting room playing a game of push and pull our clammy fingers locked together. I had to get to the light switch; had to see whom this intruder was. I would understand then. Bending his fingers back until a snap came and a cry of pain, flying towards the light switch, as it flicked on I turned to face this shadow. He swung a wooden chair at the ceiling smashing the light and returning us to his blackness that threatened to engulf me.
He grabbed me again, I grabbed back and started to pull him towards the front door. I don’t know where the strength came from. I was fighting for my life and I wasn’t giving in.
“Who are you?” I screamed, pulling, dragging, towards the door.
His feet slid on the carpet as I continued to scream.
“Who are you?” I shook him as hard as I could.
The light was on in the hallway, glowing through the cracks around the door, slightly ajar. Not far now, understanding would come.
I yanked the door open and pulled him closer, closer to the light, his face was turned away. Grabbing at his face my fingernails cut in to his flesh, twisting his face to the light. I would see.
Deflated, nauseous, my arms fell to my sides.
Then came the fatal blow.
My killer was me.
This is 16 years old and I can still feel the cold metal door handle being pulled from my hand and the taste of blood in my mouth.
I don’t know if this is too much or too personal or if I should invent things that aren’t true then I am not giving too much of myself. It would be interesting to hear how others approach writing they post on the internet.
As a teenager I could control my dreams to some extent and was fascinated by those that could arrange to meet up with others in dreams and then both independently recount adventures they had shared when they met up. As such, I have always listened to my dreams and self-analysed, when you look within, it’s usually easy to see a trigger or answer to a question. Said the person that isn’t an analyst.
I have 3 dreams in my life, one is a reoccurring fever driven dream, one a pregnancy hormone nightmare and the other changed my life. Below is the other.
Unwanted Visitors
Sitting crossed legged in my armchair the TV illuminates the darkness as it plays my favourite show. Sipping steaming tea from a China cup, laughing out loud at the log lady, my entertainment is interrupted by a bare knuckle rat a ta tat on my front door. Strange, no buzzer. Putting down the cup, squeezing my tired toes into moccasins I wrap my cardigan around me as I walk down the cool hallway towards the front door. Stretching out my hand above the barely warm storage heaters as I pass, time to change the setting to winter.
Who was it? It had to be a neighbour as the flats had an expensive security system; an unwritten rule agreed by all 6 residents said that if you didn’t know the person buzzing you didn’t let them in. We had a footballer and his wife living on the top floor and he had been hassled a few times by fans so we had a good system installed to protect us all.
In heels I could barely see through the spy hole, in slippers it wasn’t even worth a try and I didn’t put the safety chain on the door, pulling it towards me, I expected to see a friend.
As the door was half way open the metal handle was wrenched out of my hand. Shocked by the force I let go. I tried to see who was on the other side but the door was quickly thrown back at me, a battering ram. It hit my chin, nose and hard in the chest. Tasting blood I was thrown back against the wall. Winded and for a moment unable to move. I opened my mouth to scream but no sound came out. The only sound was my heart pounding in my ears as the pendulum of the Grandfather clock swung from side to side it’s usually proud song mute. Something warm and wet ran down my face freely.
There was a crack and blackness surrounded me as this dark shadow grabbed my shoulders and dragged me, slamming my body into each stretch of magnolia wall, a rag doll, towards the open door of the sitting room. With each body blow a sound emitted from this person, a pained low rumble, like an injured animal.
“Who are you?” I screamed. “You are making a mistake, why are you doing this?”
If I knew who it was, I would know why they were here, maybe calm them down.
In the sitting room playing a game of push and pull our clammy fingers locked together. I had to get to the light switch; had to see whom this intruder was. I would understand then. Bending his fingers back until a snap came and a cry of pain, flying towards the light switch, as it flicked on I turned to face this shadow. He swung a wooden chair at the ceiling smashing the light and returning us to his blackness that threatened to engulf me.
He grabbed me again, I grabbed back and started to pull him towards the front door. I don’t know where the strength came from. I was fighting for my life and I wasn’t giving in.
“Who are you?” I screamed, pulling, dragging, towards the door.
His feet slid on the carpet as I continued to scream.
“Who are you?” I shook him as hard as I could.
The light was on in the hallway, glowing through the cracks around the door, slightly ajar. Not far now, understanding would come.
I yanked the door open and pulled him closer, closer to the light, his face was turned away. Grabbing at his face my fingernails cut in to his flesh, twisting his face to the light. I would see.
Deflated, nauseous, my arms fell to my sides.
Then came the fatal blow.
My killer was me.
This is 16 years old and I can still feel the cold metal door handle being pulled from my hand and the taste of blood in my mouth.
I don’t know if this is too much or too personal or if I should invent things that aren’t true then I am not giving too much of myself. It would be interesting to hear how others approach writing they post on the internet.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
The stuff that dreams are made of.
(This is being posted by ern on behalf of Laural, another member of the group)
For all the non-film buffs out there, this is the closing line to one of Bogart’s greatest, The Maltese Falcon. After a tense 101 minutes of betrayal, deceit, murder, and passion (not to mention the longing for Peter Lorre to slither out just one “yessss, massssster”), the final conclusion is that the pursuit was all for a dream; the manifestation of something only seen in the mind’s eye.
If I watched The Maltese Falcon right before I laid my weary head on my old feathered pillow, it really is what my dreams would be made of. Turns out, whatever I’ve been watching last becomes the stage for my subconscious. And I watch entirely too much television because that’s all I dream about. To those who know me best, this comes as no great surprise. I’ve skipped many a college class for a good Moonlighting marathon or nerve-wracking Price is Right episode (I mean, who really leaves in the middle of a good Plinko game?? It’s darn near impossible.) I’m not sure if it was the appeal of losing myself in another world or the purposeful avoidance of daily duties, but all it takes is one strain of “thank you for being a friend” and the mere glimpse of Bea Arthur, and I’m booked for the rest of the day.
Sadly, this is nothing new. One of the first dreams I can remember is being kidnapped by Paul Reiser. That’s right, the neurotic half of My Two Dads. I also remember being chased by some crazy monster and my legs traveling like windmills a la Scooby Doo. Now that I’m older, it’s competing in America’s Next Top Model (apparently my subconscious would let me pose topless, who knew?) or accompanying the minstrel in Star’s Hollow (if only I could really be friends with Lauren Graham…).
Maybe I’m just not creative enough to conjure my own dream world, I’ve got to borrow from screenwriters and production sets. Maybe it’s that my conscious dreams are so realistically achievable, my brain’s only left with the Saved By the Bell reruns to pull from. Then again, if a “black bird” can be the stuff that dreams are made of, why can’t the Fonz’s jacket make an appearance in mine?
For all the non-film buffs out there, this is the closing line to one of Bogart’s greatest, The Maltese Falcon. After a tense 101 minutes of betrayal, deceit, murder, and passion (not to mention the longing for Peter Lorre to slither out just one “yessss, massssster”), the final conclusion is that the pursuit was all for a dream; the manifestation of something only seen in the mind’s eye.
If I watched The Maltese Falcon right before I laid my weary head on my old feathered pillow, it really is what my dreams would be made of. Turns out, whatever I’ve been watching last becomes the stage for my subconscious. And I watch entirely too much television because that’s all I dream about. To those who know me best, this comes as no great surprise. I’ve skipped many a college class for a good Moonlighting marathon or nerve-wracking Price is Right episode (I mean, who really leaves in the middle of a good Plinko game?? It’s darn near impossible.) I’m not sure if it was the appeal of losing myself in another world or the purposeful avoidance of daily duties, but all it takes is one strain of “thank you for being a friend” and the mere glimpse of Bea Arthur, and I’m booked for the rest of the day.
Sadly, this is nothing new. One of the first dreams I can remember is being kidnapped by Paul Reiser. That’s right, the neurotic half of My Two Dads. I also remember being chased by some crazy monster and my legs traveling like windmills a la Scooby Doo. Now that I’m older, it’s competing in America’s Next Top Model (apparently my subconscious would let me pose topless, who knew?) or accompanying the minstrel in Star’s Hollow (if only I could really be friends with Lauren Graham…).
Maybe I’m just not creative enough to conjure my own dream world, I’ve got to borrow from screenwriters and production sets. Maybe it’s that my conscious dreams are so realistically achievable, my brain’s only left with the Saved By the Bell reruns to pull from. Then again, if a “black bird” can be the stuff that dreams are made of, why can’t the Fonz’s jacket make an appearance in mine?
Heather's Dream
I know this was supposed to be a recent dream, but I’m moving too fast to remember my dreams lately. Here is a particularly memorable dream I had when I was in high school.
“The greatest academic honor our government can bestow…” the speaker is saying. He is dressed in a dark suit and tie, and is flanked by other similarly attired, sober-faced men. The speaker praises the students in the room for their impressive achievements. Parents beam and students’ faces flush with embarrassment. My mother reaches over and places her hand over mine. I look into her face and see that it is glowing with pride. I feel a little exultant myself, to have earned a place among this group. My talents do not extend to the sciences, like most of my fellow honorees, but I have distinguished myself in other areas, like writing and foreign languages. I relish the pleasant feeling of having my accomplishments recognized and praised.
My wandering thoughts are interrupted as the speaker changes his theme. He has finished congratulating the students in the room and is now explaining the honor we have earned. I have been surveying the room and have missed his mention of the award itself. It must be something very exciting, judging by the fascinated faces around me. I am intrigued, but not enlightened by the phrases the speaker uses: “the greatest adventure” and “something the rest of us must wait years to experience.” It is only when he begins to describe the process by which the honor will be bestowed that I realize, with horror, what is happening.
“It will be quite painless, I assure you,” the speaker intones. “First, a sedative will be administered, and then, once you are all asleep, our nurses will deliver another injection, and you will be transported into the great unknown. We have chosen the best and brightest young minds for this great honor. We trust that your ingenuity and intelligence will guide you in your journey, and if possible, help you find a way to share what you learn on the other side.”
I try to take in what the speaker has just said. I want to stand and run from the room, but first I look around for solidarity in the faces around me. To my dismay, everyone looks as proud and excited as they did before the speaker announced we were all about to be killed. My boyfriend looks especially enthusiastic and grins at me giddily.
The meeting is apparently over. Our parents hug us and pat us on back before they make their way out of the room through the door that we came in only a few minutes before. I throw a panicked look at my own parents, and they smile at me and point in the direction of a door on the other side of the room that is being held open by one of the speaker’s companions. Assuming I have misunderstood the situation, I say good-bye numbly and allow my boyfriend to lead me by the hand through the new door.
We enter a room filled with hospital-style cots. Students are milling around, looking for beds near their friends. My boyfriend and I choose adjacent cots and sit down.
“This is insane,” I whisper to him, “we have to get out of here.”
He looks at me incredulously. “Are you kidding? This is the highest academic honor there is. No one turns it down. Your parents would be mortified.”
A nurse approaches him from behind. He looks up and holds up his arm.
“See, I’ll go first. No big deal—trust me, you’re doing the right thing,” he says as he receives his injection. Reluctantly, I hold my arm up as well.
I rub the sore spot on my arm and lay down on my cot. Immediately I feel drowsy and see little dark spots dancing in front of my vision. The panic inside of me starts to subside, and then surges to the surface again.
I sit up in the cot and shout, “Wait! I don’t want to die!”
The little dark spots in front of my eyes begin to blend together and soon everything is black.
Kim's Dream
I closed my eyes that night, unaware where my dreams would take me. The places my dreams usually take me were always distant reminders of familiarity. I didn't know why, but I felt that I had always been there.
When I opened my eyes I was in an open field, barren of any life. The colors were all somewhat sepia-like. There was one tree in the far distance. It was black and had no leaves and stood motionless. It just stood there as if it was waiting for something or someone to remove it from it's misery. I stood there looking around for anything. The ground was hard and dry. There was a soft breeze in the air. I stood for a moment...I felt a strange heavy feeling in my stomach. I turned around and saw her. She had a black long flowing tattered dress on. She had black torn wings that I could see right through. Her hair was long and black and her face was icy pale. Her lips were a dark blue as if she had been standing outside in an ice storm all night. I wouldn't have been so afraid if I hadn't looked at her eyes. They seemed to look right through me. They were the blackest eyes I have ever seen. She seemed to stare deep into my soul, or right through me. I wasn't sure which. All I knew was that I was scared. She opened her mouth but didn't move her lips. A sound came out that sent shivers up my spine and I felt sick to my stomach. It sounded as if 10 voices were speaking at once, all saying the same thing. "Get out".
I shook my head at her. "I don't know how to!" I whispered.
"Get out and don't come back" the voices said simultaneously.I kept shaking my head. My whole body was trembling. "How do I get out of here!" I shouted."Ruuunnnnn" they said. Then she started laughing. I looked at her for what seemed like an eternity before I started running. Where was I going to go? This place seemed to never end.I started heading what I think was East. I ran until my feet were burning. I stopped and bent down to try and catch my breath. I sat for a few minutes and then I started to feel the heavy feeling again. I looked up and there she was again.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I have no name." She said, the many voices echoing around me.
"I don't know why I am here and I don't know where to go."She suddenly turned from me and flew away. Her tattered wings made a horrible screeching sound. I didn't understand any of this. I looked around again. The one lonely tree I had seen was now gone. There was nothing. I was lost in a place that I knew nothing about. With a freakish angel chasing me who's motives were unknown.
When I opened my eyes I was in an open field, barren of any life. The colors were all somewhat sepia-like. There was one tree in the far distance. It was black and had no leaves and stood motionless. It just stood there as if it was waiting for something or someone to remove it from it's misery. I stood there looking around for anything. The ground was hard and dry. There was a soft breeze in the air. I stood for a moment...I felt a strange heavy feeling in my stomach. I turned around and saw her. She had a black long flowing tattered dress on. She had black torn wings that I could see right through. Her hair was long and black and her face was icy pale. Her lips were a dark blue as if she had been standing outside in an ice storm all night. I wouldn't have been so afraid if I hadn't looked at her eyes. They seemed to look right through me. They were the blackest eyes I have ever seen. She seemed to stare deep into my soul, or right through me. I wasn't sure which. All I knew was that I was scared. She opened her mouth but didn't move her lips. A sound came out that sent shivers up my spine and I felt sick to my stomach. It sounded as if 10 voices were speaking at once, all saying the same thing. "Get out".
I shook my head at her. "I don't know how to!" I whispered.
"Get out and don't come back" the voices said simultaneously.I kept shaking my head. My whole body was trembling. "How do I get out of here!" I shouted."Ruuunnnnn" they said. Then she started laughing. I looked at her for what seemed like an eternity before I started running. Where was I going to go? This place seemed to never end.I started heading what I think was East. I ran until my feet were burning. I stopped and bent down to try and catch my breath. I sat for a few minutes and then I started to feel the heavy feeling again. I looked up and there she was again.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I have no name." She said, the many voices echoing around me.
"I don't know why I am here and I don't know where to go."She suddenly turned from me and flew away. Her tattered wings made a horrible screeching sound. I didn't understand any of this. I looked around again. The one lonely tree I had seen was now gone. There was nothing. I was lost in a place that I knew nothing about. With a freakish angel chasing me who's motives were unknown.
Monday, May 26, 2008
ern's dream
I am slightly embarrassed by this writing entry because of: 1-my poor creative writing skills, 2-my lack of practice that has made my poor writing skills even more so, 3- the subject matter being more difficult that I imagined, thereby leaving this dream to be the best option because it was the only one I could remember with enough detail to actually write about it. Also, I may have just written several run-on sentences and I'm not even going to go back and proofread this caveat so I'll quit my whining and get on with the writing. Enjoy! (Or, at least, don't be too cruel).
I am stepping off an airplane and right into downtown Naples, Italy (although Tamilisa, the returned missionary I'm traveling with, is pronouncing it Napolia) where we apparently have a one-night layover. It is nearly dusk so the colors are somewhat dusty and fading into neutrals, but there are a few food vendors with bright blue or red awnings that stand out brightly against the graying light. The air is warm and we breathe deeply, enjoying even the dust that seems to lightly cover everything. I don't remember taking off my shoes, but am suddenly aware of being barefoot and closing my eyes to appreciate the delicious coolness of cobblestone against my feet. As we begin walking toward the city it appears we are traveling with some sort of church group because we begin looking for a place to have Family Home Evening. I lead everyone to a small step-down lounge, thinly carpeted but cozy because of the dark wood paneling covering the walls. Someone finds a piano in the corner and begins an attempt to lead the group in song, but I find myself trying to get away because more than anything I want a piece of authentic Italian pepperoni pizza. And it has to be pepperoni. Tamilisa tells me she knows just the place and leads me outside and down a small, dingy alleyway, poorly paved, our footsteps echoing in the eerily empty road. Looking behind me I see a large Italian woman, about 6 feet tall in heels, curvy and leggy, her hips accentuated by a wide red belt, her short puffy-sleeves and perfectly set hair giving her the look of a 50's era starlet. She is approaching aggressively & talking to us in Italian and I answer back, surprised that we can understand one another, although I have no idea if I'm speaking English or Italian. I am suddenly aware of Michael behind me and realize that she is probably trying to get past us so she can offer her local “services” to him. I grab him territorially, holding our torsos close and turning to the side so I can keep an eye on this advancing voluptuous vixen. As she continues brashly, I push Michael behind me and respond in kind by advancing on her. The next moments are slightly fuzzy, but I am aware that a wrestling match of some kind has taken place and that I have easily won. She seems surprised, but I grin knowingly, darting her a “try again if you dare” look and she retreats sheepishly while I dust off my hands and turn back to my husband. Tamilisa has witnessed this whole thing and is utterly mortified when I begin kissing Michael, probably, I realize, because she is still there as a missionary and I am supposed to be her companion. But I am really not bothered as she steals away and I am wrapped in kisses with my sweetheart.
I am stepping off an airplane and right into downtown Naples, Italy (although Tamilisa, the returned missionary I'm traveling with, is pronouncing it Napolia) where we apparently have a one-night layover. It is nearly dusk so the colors are somewhat dusty and fading into neutrals, but there are a few food vendors with bright blue or red awnings that stand out brightly against the graying light. The air is warm and we breathe deeply, enjoying even the dust that seems to lightly cover everything. I don't remember taking off my shoes, but am suddenly aware of being barefoot and closing my eyes to appreciate the delicious coolness of cobblestone against my feet. As we begin walking toward the city it appears we are traveling with some sort of church group because we begin looking for a place to have Family Home Evening. I lead everyone to a small step-down lounge, thinly carpeted but cozy because of the dark wood paneling covering the walls. Someone finds a piano in the corner and begins an attempt to lead the group in song, but I find myself trying to get away because more than anything I want a piece of authentic Italian pepperoni pizza. And it has to be pepperoni. Tamilisa tells me she knows just the place and leads me outside and down a small, dingy alleyway, poorly paved, our footsteps echoing in the eerily empty road. Looking behind me I see a large Italian woman, about 6 feet tall in heels, curvy and leggy, her hips accentuated by a wide red belt, her short puffy-sleeves and perfectly set hair giving her the look of a 50's era starlet. She is approaching aggressively & talking to us in Italian and I answer back, surprised that we can understand one another, although I have no idea if I'm speaking English or Italian. I am suddenly aware of Michael behind me and realize that she is probably trying to get past us so she can offer her local “services” to him. I grab him territorially, holding our torsos close and turning to the side so I can keep an eye on this advancing voluptuous vixen. As she continues brashly, I push Michael behind me and respond in kind by advancing on her. The next moments are slightly fuzzy, but I am aware that a wrestling match of some kind has taken place and that I have easily won. She seems surprised, but I grin knowingly, darting her a “try again if you dare” look and she retreats sheepishly while I dust off my hands and turn back to my husband. Tamilisa has witnessed this whole thing and is utterly mortified when I begin kissing Michael, probably, I realize, because she is still there as a missionary and I am supposed to be her companion. But I am really not bothered as she steals away and I am wrapped in kisses with my sweetheart.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
one week left!
Just wanted to send out a quick reminder that your "dreams" are due in next week. We want to get everyone posted as close to the 25th as possible so we can spend the last week of the month reading and responding on each other's pieces. I must admit I sat down to write today and ended up with only a not-very-long paragraph. This has been a good reminder to me that I need a lot of writing practice. I've been working on fleshing it out, trying to recall specifics like color, clothes, face shapes, etc. The problem with writing about a dream is that the more you try to focus on specifics the more slippery it becomes and seems to retreat further away into your subconscious. Don't know if anyone else is having that problem, but if you are then I can sympathize. Still looking forward to reading what you have to say next week. Happy writing!
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Writing Prompt #1
So our first official month of writing has begun! Writing prompt #1 is to write about a dream you've had recently, with as much specific detail as possible. If you can't remember a recent dream, use something significant, like a recurring dream or one you had as a child that you still remember. I know I've heard about dreams that some of you have had in the past, so I'm looking forward to reading these!
I may try to post some more during the month, like some amazing motivational speeches (written by other people) or just some ideas to get the creative juices going, but don't be offended if I don't. Michael's family will be visiting for a few weeks, so our schedule may be too packed to allow it. If not, I look forward to hearing from everyone by the end of the month.
Oh, yeah, the deadline for this month's writing is May 25. That way we can spend the last week reading submissions and making comments.
Thanks everyone!!!
(As always, if you know anyone who would like to join, send me their email and I'll add them as an author of the blog. Thanks!)
I may try to post some more during the month, like some amazing motivational speeches (written by other people) or just some ideas to get the creative juices going, but don't be offended if I don't. Michael's family will be visiting for a few weeks, so our schedule may be too packed to allow it. If not, I look forward to hearing from everyone by the end of the month.
Oh, yeah, the deadline for this month's writing is May 25. That way we can spend the last week reading submissions and making comments.
Thanks everyone!!!
(As always, if you know anyone who would like to join, send me their email and I'll add them as an author of the blog. Thanks!)
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