Not so Sci-fi

I feel like writing something fantastic, not blow your mind fantastic, but fantasy fantastic. As it's not in my general vein, I'll give it a shot.

Ampelron, sage of Weildwin, watched the sun rise quietly over the blank plains of the east without much fanfare or glory. He had seen the same sight nearly every morning for twelve hundred years as part of his meditative regimen. The rising sun signaled the start of his three-hour water breathing exercise, a chore that chose him; one he would rather avoid as the lakes of Weildwin still stung with the chill of winter.

With a quiet, resigned sigh, Ampleron left the porch of his humble cottage. Traversing the hill to Whir Lake had become second nature, as meditation dictates. He climbed the granite outcroppings and slick rocks without watching each step while deep in thought. The land in the lakes region changed much more slowly than the greater continent, which allowed Ampleron the freedom to learn each pebble and clod of earth over time.

OK, this isn't great, but it's writing, and the rules of free-writing dictate, regardless of quality, one must continue to write. I won't be breaking into the dragon-infested world of fantasy literature any time soon, as you can see. Well, I tried and Tolkien I'm not. Sorry it's so short, but I haven't much patience right now and a marathon headache. Adios.

12 Echoes

Write a poem of twelve lines about whatever you want; each line must end with one of the following words: “down,” “accept,” “on” “life,” “light,” “flowerless,” “pulses,” “us,” “sun,” “heights,” “shrivel,” “little.” You may use the words in any order. Give the poem a title.

On Delicate Wings

I cannot dream without an audience of flowerless
eyes; hollow, empty, abandoned by light.

I cannot say their countenance haunts us,
so still, so stagnant. They stare, and I shrivel.

I have surrendered aspirations to attaining those heights,
as Icarus and even Daedalus learned to accept
the bindings of fate and misfortune drag dreams down.
Yet, falling meant reaching and drowning meant life.

the sun
pulses
little,
and my wax melts on.

I would like to recognize Prof. J. Bobrick for assigning a similar challenge during my undergraduate education and providing the twelve words used above.

Man in White

Today's self-imposed assignment:
Find a photograph and use it as inspiration for a brief story.I chose this picture from [daily dose of imagery] through my Google Reader account. Below is my story: "Man in White"

"I remember our wedding," the old man paused to reflect, "her lovely gown, my sweaty, shaking hands. I can't believe my nerves, fluttering like dry leaves on a windy November day."

He passed the Church and its skeletal steeples every day. The small loop through Camenta Park only took Albert a few minutes out of his way, minutes that seemed to have grown each lonely month since Virginia's passing. The extra steps were worth it, freshening the past and clearing some of the fog brought by age and solitude, so Albert sacrificed the energy for the sight their chapel and made his way home in quiet contemplation. He would always pause at the entrance and exit of Camenta to glance upward at the spires and their colorless peaks, or gaze reminiscently at a young couple beaming from archway through a flurry of confetti and lively cheers. Today, however, the steps remained empty but welcoming to wayward saints and weary sinners. With that thought, Albert chuckled, “Which am I?” he thought. “A good man too old to do good, or a fool too tried and tested to carry on?”

Losing Virginia had not been much of a surprise, but the shock tore at Albert’s heart; she had been his ballast, maintaining his everyday, shining his everynight. They were married as Poland fell to a psychopathic god clad in desolate olive and black, and their first few years subsisted with a promise to return. In good health, Albert kept his promise and life kept moving, days toward dreams, life toward death, and two toward one. The only movement left is from one to zero, and Albert had little strength left to stand in the way of sunset and could only wind his watch and wait to wind it again.

It hadn’t been much trouble and the clerk barely looked twice before accepting Albert’s money for a bundle of rope. Imagine if we understood the intent of others before they acted, not in retrospect when nothing could be done. We could help or hurt, but something would be different. Yet, star-crossed tragedy may lose its luster and life its flavor. Had he known, however, I doubt the clerk would have so quickly wished Albert a nice day. Just another body in line moving toward the exit, “Your change, and have a nice day.”

Once home, Albert sorted through his quiet parlor, then his living room, and finally, Virginia’s kitchen, cleaning and picking up the simple debris of widowhood. She loved the kitchen and barely allowed Albert entry, except to repair a dripping faucet or tighten a loose cabinet hinge. He would have cooked for her, but she was too enamored with the movement of energy from stove to food, the momentary instinct of knowing perfection before the rapid decline of over-cooking set in. Virginia kept each device and apparatus in her kitchen in perfect order, stainless and shining steel, bright and colorful enamel, robust and patinaed copper. Every inch and surface basked in her love and Albert had a difficult time inheriting the emotion tied into that room. He most often ordered a dinner, or dined-out alone, only using the microwave and coffee maker as Virginia allowed. The kitchen held most of Albert’s pain, as it had been Virginia’s room and still radiated her presence. The muffin pan still sat next to the oven as it had before the ambulance arrived; Albert could not return it to the pantry; could not touch it, could barely look at it through clear eyes.

He left the kitchen quickly, sat in his favorite armchair and scrawled a note in his arthritic script. Clutching the rope, Albert descended into his basement, tying off one solemn loop with thirteen bands. The rope tightened against the floor joists and Albert kicked softly.

Days later, Patrolman Angerona read Albert’s note quietly, “I miss my Ginnie,” and radioed dispatch.

Word Count: 648

10...9...8...

My first writing exercise will be a ten minute free-write, after which I will correct for spelling and grammar. The rules are to write for ten minutes without stopping or fixing for mistakes. I've already slapped backspace a half a dozen times and find it a bit more difficult than I had imagined, to type without taking a break. Occasionally, I'll pause and look for a key and think I'm stopping to think about what should follow. I keep backspacing when I notice a mistake in my typing, a difficult habit to break, for sure. Also, there's a glowing red line below occasionally from two sentences ago because I butchered its spelling, and that demonic line is driving me crazy. I can't bear to look at the screen, keeping my eyes on the keyboard , which affects my typing. The trick with this free-write exercise is to avoid your own head and let words come out naturally. I can't seem to figure this one out.

I chose not to follow any more stringent guidelines for my first exercise because I haven't made much effort in writing recently and thought it was more important to mount the challenge of making a fool out of myself on the blog by posting some foolish drivel that never ends. I assume you could always continue on your e-way once this bores you. It's more of a meditative and personal effort, this free-write stuff. I'm simply working on keeping familiarity with writing. I hope I don't run out of ideas with three minutes left to go.

I have read the rules for different free-write exercises and believe I'm supposed to reveal my thought process on the page (or web page), and I must admit, it's unnatural for me. I've always worked sentences out in my head before committing the to paper. Another confession, I've paused twice now in this paragraph alone and think I may need to keep practicing this exercise. And I'm sick of writing exercise over and over again. I want another word. I'm nearly finished with this, in the last minute, and I'm racing to get it done, pause, comma, drivel. That's the one problem I have with free-write: regardless of its worth or value, I'm writing for a time limit and cannot stop to improve.

P.S. All errors made during the session were later edited to save myself the embarrassment.

Structure.

Sorry I've neglected you for so long. I'm ashamed, really. I've been busy or trying to keep busy; I even started another blog to maintain writing. I didn't think the content of a new blog matched the purpose of this blog, therefore: new blog. You follow me, right?

The reason I've drawn you, my readers, together at this point is to relaunch the direction of this blog. At least temporarily. I want to write again and have decided to utilize my corner of the web to that end. I will be researching and experimenting with free-writing techniques and posting the results on this page. I hope to write every day, for at least ten minutes, and maintain a modicum of structure.

Once I begin, I encourage your comments and criticism with the hopes of improving what little skill I have, which I let dwindle in the recent past.