A PICTURE PAINTS 1000 WORDS This is an eyeful and an ear full too Gotye - Somebody That I Used To Know

This is the story I am writing for the Unicorn Bell Blog
The A Picture Paints 1,000 Words Blogfest is running from 26th to 28th March. I selected this image.


The story has begun

ADAIN, DOWN

α

The proceeds of wide profit margins and boundless immorality became indiscriminately fair when it lay as a cloud of dense pollution over the nineteen districts of the city.  Everywhere, it wheezed the same noxious breath.

Heavy straps tighten their grip in my mind, I grieve.

There were no soft showers to refresh the streets, nor were they troubled by tempestuous storms. In the city of See, the patter of droplets were magnified by fizzing hisses as each sizzling sting released an acrid stench.The droplets burned through thick materials only degrees faster than it speared the thin.

Fountains of misery flood me but the drops do not disturb my vision, I cry.

The dense cloud would not lift it dripped persistent brownish liquid into the water basin. It flowed through every tap.  Steam rose when the water was boiled. Smoke drifted when the people washed in it.

Warm with a confidence that cannot be shattered by pricks of doubt, I trust.

Only the foolish, those weary of the times, or any who were rich enough to be bemused by drugs, blundered out into danger without protective suits. The clothes manufactured to keep the toxins out make each glance or touch, the essence of all human contact, meaningless and brief.

Uncaring and disinterested hatred is not painted in stillness, I love.

The people of the See were new formed.  Each malformed feature reflected in mirrors and in the darkness of eachother’s eyes became an uncomfortable likeness. They were shaped by carelessness and knowledge that reached no further than the end of their hopeful day.

My care falls with the sun, and it is haloed in moonlight, I wait.

Necessity and need drove them and they hurried as they had before. Only now the scrape of bone on bone, sticks on stones, and the rattle and hacking coughs provided the city with its discordant score.

Uncrushed, contentment rings its own satisfaction, I listen.

They looked for scientific answers to the blunders they had created.  With a trinity of biology, chemistry and genetics, their's became molecular worship.

♣ 

The nurse stood to one side, her lilac scrubs were streaked with blood. Her thin plastic gloves were crimson from fingertips to her palms where the colour ended abruptly like a tidal mark. “Dr Merase?”

From the moment he stared up from behind the piles of books, he examined his assistant and began to formulate several hypotheses. Pale, short body, long arms, a blue-ish glow emanated from his processor but the light did Nurse Backman no favours. “What is it? Is the specimen delivered?”

She shuffled.

Markkus Merase saw the movement. It alarmed him. The way she shuffled when movement irritated her joints and increased the chronic pain she suffered alerted him to the fact that he was not going to like what she was about to say. A death, probably the infant. “What? Report!”

Thought I'd share this with you. I have it on repeat while I'm writing. I'm lovin' this song but... it might be slowing me down. :)



WHAT SONGS OR MUSIC IS INSPIRING YOU?

PICTURING FUTURE BLOGFESTS

I'm nervous, Arlee Bird's Blogging from A to Z is looming large on the horizon. With one week to go until the start, only 1,211 Bloggers have signed up. To keep it manageable, Lee has been joined by an ever expanding team who will help to co-ordinate the Blogfest. 

It is Lee's fault that April will always be flavoured alphabetically ;)

I'm preparing to spend April writing 26 blogposts on the same subject... again. I still haven't decided which A to Z idea - of the several that have been tumbling around in my head - I'm going to go with. 

Last year, I posted an A to Z of CHARACTERISATION. 

Doing the research and writing the posts... was an exhausting, but totally worthwhile, experience.

As a warm up ;) I have entered the Unicorn Bell Blog's A Picture Paints 1,000 Words Blogfest which is running from 26th to 28th March. All you do is select an image and write a story of 1,000 words (or less).

I was drawn to this picture. So far, I have written the opening and named the angel and the city. I think, that is more than half of the task ;)

ADAIN, DOWN

Noxious breath, dense with pollution, wheezed through Melekar city. It lay thick and slow in the streets, a lazy but efficient killer.

To get this far, I have researched smog, air pressure, toxic gases, poor breath sounds, wing physiology and hunted down suitable translations to name my angel and the city.

HAVE YOU RESEARCHED ANY UNUSUAL SUBJECTS THIS WEEK?

TAKING E B WHITE'S ADVICE - MORTIMER CHILTON AND THE COLLECTIVE

B-MIRA-HEAD, Image from NASA

ALWAYS BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR THE PRESENCE OF WONDER ~

E B WHITE

M95 with Supernova

I spent much of my writing time today imagining my way through Mortimer's story. Following E B White's advice, I've been looking for the presence of wonder. Finding moments when, despite danger or loneliness, Mortimer would be in awe of something around him.


Wonder is the beginning of wisdom ~ Greek Proverb


Don't call it uncertainty -- call it wonder  ~ Osho


IS THERE ANYTHING YOUR MC COULD BE IN AWE OF?

THE 5 GOALS

GOALS SHOULD BE VISIBLE,
THAT DOESN'T MEAN THEY
HAVE TO BE SPELLED OUT

The 5 goals and MC.

The MC and the 5 goals.

I had a lot of trouble with the title for this blogpost. I kept feeling like I was naming a band ;)

Last week, on the Creative Writing course, we were discussing why we read. This was not the philosophical and psychological study of why people read at all. We didn't focus on the human need to experience events and dilemmas, or to be effected by a range of emotions beyond those encountered in our everyday lives. We discussed what it was about a story that made us want to read on.

The fact that I make all judgements about books by reading page 49 got me into trouble. Taking a peak into the plot was seen as being unfair: to look at one moment in the journey was to miss the significance of it for the MC. 

I argued that the character's motivations and goals would be suggested or revealed, and that ambiguity is important to me. 

Our lecturer, with his background in scriptwriting and journalism, wasn’t impressed. 

He suggested that the opening scene:

• should contain the essence of the whole
• that it is at its strongest when it shows the character’s goal

THERE ARE 5 GOALS AN MC COULD TRY TO ACHIEVE:

• To win
• To stop
• To escape
• To bring
• To find

The goal for the MC could be made apparent even when it isn't described in detail. The events described in the opening could be at a point long before the MC becomes aware of their goal.

Following the advice I added a few sentences to the opening of my wip.

MORTIMER CHILTON AND THE COLLECTIVE

The opening moved from this:

Challenge had always been the game. The new version was projected between five screens. The real action took place in the centre. The other images gave the player access to the other four points of view. They said, if you looked closely enough, you could see what was going to happen before they moved in real time. I’d never seen that.

To this:

They were too wrapped up in the action to notice I was there. I shifted with the crowd and made sure no one blocked my view.

Challenge had always been the game. This was the new version. Five screens. The smaller images showed the other points of view. The fight zone, the real action, was projected into the place at the centre. They said, if you looked closely enough, you could see what was going to happen before they moved in real time. I’d never seen that.

WHAT IS YOUR MC'S GOAL?

SIR SAYS 4 - DO YOU KNOW WHAT KIND OF WRITER YOU ARE?

KM Weiland

Sir says: 


You are a writer and you probably think you know what kind of writer you are.


How do find out the writer you don't know you are?


EXPERIMENT


WRITE SHORT STORIES AND SCENES - OR REWRITE A SECTION OF SOMETHING YOU HAVE ALREADY WRITTEN. 



Write in 1st and 3rd person and try writing in the past and present tense


THIS IS OUR CHECKLIST OF THINGS WE NEED TO HAVE FINISHED BY NEXT WEEK


1 Write a story with one character
2 Write a story with more than one character
3 Write a story with more than one plot
4 Write a story with more than one time zone
5 Analyse short stories and  examine the way the writer created characters, developed the plot and created dialogue


WRITE THEM SHORT

WHAT A BALLS-UP

Finding CC crying behind the gym during school prom was unexpected.

A door slammed. I stashed my bottle – stowed it behind a bin. I looked for an exit.

I heard all the drama: CC found her Brad deep in anyone’s Ginny. There was chaos followed by replaced clothes.

In her character assassination, CC blasted them with two-barrel insults. After that I hadn’t expected the sobs.

My intentions were good-enough when I put my hand on her satin-covered shoulder.

CC screamed.

There was a chasm between my act and her interpretation. “CC! Sorry. It’s me… Reid.”

Precision-perfect, CC kicked me.

“Bollocks!”  

OR WRITE THEM LONGER

SOLD

Fast-like-a-thought the Arch Angel appeared, without so much as a whoosh or warning. He did have an awfully big smile though. He always likes to think he is in-the-know. “Francis, I’ve got a message,” he said, “and you’ve got a job.”

“MICHAEL!” Sneaky B-uzzard. If I wasn’t dead already, I would be now. “Did you have to swoop out of the dark? Don’t you got a flamin’ sword parked somewhere back home?”

He shook his head.

Surely, that must have been a lie of commission – omission – some sort of not exactly telling the truth? Michael is well-known for his fiery accessories.

“You’re wanted, Francis. Don’t keep the Great Man waiting. Move! Quick as you can.” He paused. He took the time to grin with moon-like reflected radiance. “Go on. Move. I’ll settle for moderately slow… at the moment.”

I'm new. My skill with the feathery wingspan is not so great but I gets a move on. Flying ain’t my thing: it ain’t fast, and it ain’t pretty, but I get there. I find flapping exhausting. I’m shattered. Tiredness plays havoc with my attention span.

As usual, JC is surrounded by angels and acolytes and chubby little cherubs and syruppy what-nots. I’m last there. In this kind of situation, I’m prone to panic. But I’m also necessary, it seems. Things happened too fast. I’m still catching my breath when JC, all world-weary and worn down by inhumane humanity, is watching what is going on far below.

In the bowels of a club, on the seedier side of Shanghai, there is action in progress. The scene ain’t pretty: some innocent who stood up to wrong person is cut down. An innocent. With a volcanic rumble JC roars, “Get me Sovin Yung for the soul!”

I wait for one of the other AAAs to spread wings and take flight.

No one moves.

They stare at me.

Right. He meant me.

Fair enough, he could have been asking me to reap the soul of the murderous leader of the Tong who'd just sliced the head off some defenceless soul. He could have been like: Go! Deliver Holy Justice! Bring the evil doer to his just deserts in the Hothouse of Horrors. Make sure he pays for his time on Earth poorly spent and deservedly over. But that kind of detail is lost on me.The command got through. 

“Go and get… etc.”

I heard and I went.

Finding wasn’t going to be easy, there’s no call for the hard stuff in heaven.

With my 30’ wingspan, I descend – fast and furious – to my old stomping ground. I arrow in on this place I know between the Deli and Paddy’s Bar, 1^st and 37^th Street. The store has been there since Noah went to woodwork classes. It’s a bit shoddy to look at but it sells a mean chardonnay and a pretty passable Meursault.

Friction played havoc with my sneak visit. Arriving in a blaze of glory, I barter heavenly indulgences for a nice bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

I also halt the traffic, increase attendance at mass, mosque and synagogue, that night alone, by 3,000%. And that was before the video went viral.

It was just a little misunderstanding.

I don’t know if the Big Man was all that surprised but the resulting Peace on Earth was more than I expected when I went to fetch a little Sauvignon for the soul.

WRITE THEM LONGER STILL
(I've been tinkering with this one since the start of the course)

THE OLD CAFE 

Rain soaked visitors combined with the carefully controlled temperature until the atmosphere inside the shopping arcade reached humid sub-tropical. As the smell of hot socks and damp coats rose, the shoppers wilted. After a day of window-shopping and with bags full of guilt, the younger women raced their buggies back to their cars: it was time for the school run and they were determined to be first out of the car park. Kevin destroyed the evidence of his little customers as he wiped the window clean of their sticky fingerprints. Circling his arm, he waved the lot of them good bye.

The security alarm bleeped as soon as Kevin had made coffee in the small office, outback. He hurried from the rear of the shop. Hiking up his trousers, he patted his pockets and smoothed down his shirt. He took one look at the Velcro shoes and swollen ankles, and he figured this customer wouldn’t be staying long. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, please,” the elderly lady said. She glanced around, a little distracted. “Could you tell me where I should sit?”

Wrong again. Kevin hurried forward. He’d been so sure this one would take one look around and head back out. “Right. Seat. Wherever.” Despite her expensive coat and diamond earrings, she smelled like the urinal at the football ground. She’d probably be offended if he sanitised his hands. She wasn’t the first, and she wouldn’t be the last customer that made him wish he could wash his hands after touching her. He could almost see the microbes waving at him. Kevin put his hands in his pockets and turned the small bottle of anti-bacterial gel over and over, out of sight.

The small figure coughed.

With disgust and his need to increase the daily takings balanced evenly, Kevin rushed to get started and get her out and on her way. He put his arms wide. He pointed and moved. “That way.”

Kevin nearly stepped on her. She still hadn't moved. That cough hadn't been to clear her throat. He didn't have much experience of dealing with people of the granny-persuasion but even he could spot the moment when waves of bristling unhappiness began to emanate from her. Heat warmed his cheeks. “What?”

“I. Don’t. Call. This. Service,” she said. “Please escort me to my chair properly, young man.”

With his eyebrows raised so high his forehead hurt, Kevin pointed to the red seat a few paces away. He waited. 
Slow and regal, she passed him with her ice-blue eye shadow, string of large pearls and the two skirts she had layered on. The cloud of perfume didn't mask the other odours that trailed along behind her.
Kevin wondered if he should clean his hands before he started, as an extra precaution.

Settling herself on the seat, the elderly lady placed both feet flat before she crossed her hands and placed them on her lap. “Now, young man, I would like to order coffee. I…” she halted and frowned then carried on with a slight smile playing at the corner of her mouth, “I like coffee in the new style. I’d like a Cappuccino, please.”

“Re-ally?” stuttered Kevin. I didn’t see that coming. He looked over his shoulder and wondered if he should call the boss down, for support. The old lady wasn’t frowning, but she had begun to stare. He could see a glare coming on. “Mam, I don’t think we have any of that.”

“I know times are hard but I’m not a big fan of chicory. I will settle for a pot of tea but I must have a jug of hot water: I don’t like my tea too strong.”

“Me neither,” said Kevin. “Only… that isn’t something we normally – I’m going to ask my Manager if he could pop down.”

“You need your Manager to make a cup of tea? What do they teach you young people, these days?”

The elderly customer sat straight backed on the low, red plush stool and stared around her. Her smile wrinkled around her eyes.

Kevin didn’t move. He held his breath. Her confusion and anger was drifting away as her features relaxed. Something close to a spell was taking place inside her.

“Everything looks so different,” she said. Slowly, the kind of smile that spreads with memories, layered with pleasure blossomed in her pink cheeks. It twinkled in her eyes. “I remember when the waitresses here wore black dresses and starched, pin-tucked, smart white aprons.”

“About that,” Kevin began. He watched as her eyes focussed. He saw her lip wobble. “I’m sorry but…”

Looking around at the shelves, her smile dimmed.  “Where are the cakes? Why did you put shoes on the shelves, today?”

She sat up straighter, and she pulled her shoulders back, as she stared around the shop. She blinked. Frowned. Her expression slipped. Angry confidence, frayed around the edges of her eyes until it crumbled into fear. “Oh.”

Hesitantly, Kevin raised his hand. He couldn’t touch her. It was nothing to do with germs, and he didn’t believe she might bite, but he was afraid for her. How hard would it be to make a cup of tea and find a custard cream?  “I’m sorry. This isn’t a café. It’s a branch of Schuh. A shoe shop.”  
Levering his six foot frame lower, Kevin stooped to her level but he couldn’t make himself meet her damp eyes as he whispered, “I don’t know about any café but I’ve been sizing up feet and fitting shoes here for… more than two years.”

A tear collected in the corner of her eye and ran down to her cheek until it was diverted away by the creases in her paper thin skin. “Where am I?”

Confused by a situation that hadn’t been covered in the Employee’s Manual, Kevin shuffled away. He headed for the phone on the counter. His flat palms were raised like he was ready to defend himself from her imminent attack.

He’d nearly made it to the phone when the security alarm warned that the door was opening. Could life get more complicated? Kevin glanced over. A smartly dressed woman squeezed through the door, arms full of bulging bags from all the right shops. Great. What was he going to say about the fruit bat?

Dropping the bags on the welcome mat, the woman leaped over her shopping and threw herself towards the l-shaped bench. Stunned by her speed, Kevin couldn’t stop her. What was happening to the quiet end of the day? He straightened up, imagined he was in a calm place. He found his best sales-voice while he prepared for the train wreck.

“You disappeared.” Breathless, and nearly sobbing the shopper didn’t sit, she squatted beside the old lady. “I couldn’t think where else to look, Mum. I hoped I’d find you here, where your favourite café was. Are you alright?”

Red-faced, the old lady rubbed at her cheek with a twisted hanky. “I’ll be fine in a few moments,” Her thin fingers fluttered over the hand that rested on her knee. She pushed it away and straightened her skirts. “No. You mustn’t. Who did you say you were, again?”

MULTIPLE PLOTS?

Right now, with the deadline looming, I have an MG idea with multiple plots. I know my characters, and I've worked out how their lives could collide. Now I have to find a vehicle that isn't clapped out and clichéd... that and a theme.


I should experiment with an idea of a non-paranormal nature for my next piece of work.


HOW DO YOU FIND OUT WHAT KIND OF WRITER YOU DON'T KNOW YOU ARE?

TEASER TUESDAY - Jim Butcher's FURIES OF CALDERON

I love to read around the Tuesday’s Teasers hosted by MizB of Should Be Reading.


If you want to play along:

• Grab your current read.
• Let the book fall open to a random page.
• Share two (2) sentences from that page.

When you select a sentence, try to make sure the Teaser doesn't stray into Spoiler territory.


If you share the title everyone can track the book down, when the section you have posted has drawn them in and has them desperate to read a whole lot more :D


What would Harry Potter do when he grew up? I have been a Butcher girl for a very long time: I read Dresden Files at the same time as I devoured the adventures of "the boy who lived."


FURIES OF CALDERON


The story takes place in the Aleran Empire. Most people there are "crafters" who can control the elements: water, air, earth, fire, wood and metal through their bond with the element's fury.


THE CODEX ALERA: Book 1


This book, by Jim Butcher, was written for young adult readers.


page 24 lines 4 to 8 


She started blinking her eyes again, slowly gaining back her vision - as she did, she saw Odiana standing over her, just out of arm's reach, smiling, her dark eyes glittering. She took a step, and with one dainty, bare foot, she kicked more dust into Amara's eyes.


That has got to make a girl furious ;)


I've found the style a little different but the story is cutting into my sleeping hours and that is a good thing :)


I'M READING BROAD-SPECTRUM FANTASY AT THE MOMENT, DO YOU HAVE ANY RECOMMENDATIONS FOR MY TBR LIST?

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY - DRAWN - a dele; a gift with ties that bind

I have been busy. I have rewritten the start of MORTIMER and  taken a little time to help Darrah out of the mess being caught in the snow left her suffering.


DRAWN


Darrah has been charged with finding and rescuing the Regal's heir. The evidence suggests he was taken by a band of Sarkisians who feed directly from the living. Darrah fights her cultural prejudice and instinctive fears when The Sarkisian Council send Fauld Hale to work alongside her to rescue the boy and maintain the fragile peace between their peoples.


This is my, gift of renewal but it will come with a price, SUNDAY 6:

Purple, grey and black - and stiffly heavy - her mottled foot look less damaged than it felt. Darrah was a millstone that would have to be carried. Her injury was debilitating: it eroded her presence, diminished her reputation, ended her ability to fight to protect the realm… and it shamed her men.

With one knowing look, Hale stepped inside the steely point of her pride. He raised her face close and whispered, “I dele my lifeforce to you for more than your own good. Remember that.”

MORTIMER CHILTON AND THE COLLECTIVE

Clay Beaumont and I were suddenly eye to eye. Great. His eyes should have been a good 40 bits higher than mine. I’m not sure how we came to be glaring at each other like that. He didn’t want to be there. He didn't want to have to finish off the game by letting Erith Payne inflict humiliation on his head and top it off with scorn. 

HAVE YOU POSTED 6 SENTENCES FOR SUNDAY?

INEQUALITY AND POVERTY ARE UNEQUALLY DISTRIBUTED

OXFAM ADVERT - and soo true :)

Inequality and poverty are unequally distributed, of the 1.3 billion people who live in extreme poverty, two-thirds are women and girls.

Two-thirds of people who are denied schooling are girls.

Domestic violence is the single biggest cause of injury and death to women.

Every minute a woman with no medical care dies in pregnancy or childbirth.

Improvements are being made. 

After all, in Canada, it has been less than 100 years since individual women were recognised as being "a person" in their own right. 

It won't be until 2028  that the women in the UK will be able to celebrate 100 years of being allowed to vote under the same terms as men.

I celebrate the advances in the countries where: 

• women have the vote
• where we can play our part or take a lead in government
• where the rights of women to own property is protected
• and where there is a drive to ensure women earn the same rate of pay for the same work as men

I look forward to the day when every woman on the planet has basic human rights.

The women and girls who influenced me as I was growing up were (in order) :

Sara Crewe

Anne Frank

Jane Austen 

Mary Woolstonecraft

Jacqueline Wilson

JK Rowling

With The Higher Road on its travels in Scotland, I've been working on Mortimer's story. It has not escaped me that this book is written from Mortimer's perspective and he is male. What can I say? His reality is not the same as ours.

MORTIMER CHILTON AND THE COLLECTIVE

CHAPTER 1

BLAST

Challenge had always been the game. The new version was projected between five screens. The real action took place in the centre. The other images gave you access from four other view points – all the Wielders and the Shade. They said, if you looked closely enough, you could see what was going to happen before they moved in real time. I’d never seen that.

The Uppers were on Down Time as the required amount of study had been processed for the cycle. Most were mustered in the Rec.  It was hot. Challenge was hard work, physically and mentally. The atmosphere was a stormy mix of anticipation, misery and victory. Most of the Uppers went through all three stages at different points during Down. There were other things they could do in the Rec. A few were actually playing games and not watching. If they were on the other stations they tried not to look towards the big screens. I think they played to avoid being challenged. Very few played games after they’d lost.

On the platform, through crowds of cold shoulders, the latest match was edging towards humiliation. 

Clay wasn’t going to take it well. 

Erith made time to smile.

FAMILY, FRIENDS AND CHALLENGES I'VE COMPLETED ARE MAKING ME SMILE. WHAT IS MAKING YOU HAPPY?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DR SEUSS

I finished THE HIGHER ROAD. 

I changed the name at the last second. I like to think it is an "-er" away from the cliché. :)

Including thinking about the advice and completing the manuscript, the process of changing the novel from 3rd to 1st person, and increasing the word count, took seventeen days. 

"Guessing what was happening, the whole time, was wearing me out." I hadn't realised I had shifted too far along the "show" verse "tell" slide. 

It is done and I even got it into the post on time!

That is me finished *zip-shut-and-schtum! HIGH ROAD? What high road? ;)

THIS IS THE POST OF THE DAY:

I'm a day early.

Early is keen.

I wrote a poem... I hear plagiarism doesn't count if you include it in poetry ;)

Happb Birthday, Dr Seuss

At the end of the shelf

The teacher said, “Look,

if you’ve finished your work

you could look at a book.”

I stood there with Gerard.

We  stood there, we two.

And I said, “How I wish

they were int’resting too.”

We were too young for

fat books… the print was too small.

They had black blobs and dots

that did nothing at all.

We were too old for

books with a word on each page.

The pictures were nice

But we’d moved past that stage.

So all we could do was to

go with the fat.

And we faked some good reading

Turned the pages and that.

And then

Something went BUMP!
And it wasn't a door

How that bump made us jump
when it crashed to the floor!

We looked

And we saw a strange book on the mat!

We looked and we saw it!

The Cat in the Hat!

With his bow and umbrella

With his hands out... so funny.

The cat in striped hat made

The classroom seem sunny.

“I know a good place.

We could read this all day,”

said the boy

who I knew was addicted to play.

The pictures were brilliant.

Reading wasn’t a fight.

The story was bad.

We found bad was just right.

We ate up the story

Of boxes and hooks

The fish and the Things

We’d found inside the book.

With the bell, we both ran.

Mum said, “What did you play?”

We said, "Nothing…  Dr Seuss made

made us readers today."

Happy Birthday Theodor Seuss Geisel.

Dr Seuss is timeless. There is only one other doctor I know who is like that. 

The colours of my early years were black and white, and blue and read - thanks to Dr Seuss.

WHAT WAS THE COLOUR OF YOUR EARLY YEARS?