Dreaming

Wednesday kind of snuck up on me. There I was making excellent progress on a story I was working on, when all of a sudden I realized I was supposed to be posting a poem.

And I was actually going to try to write something new for a change, only, well, it was midnight when I started this post and my brain was not fully in gear. In fact, it took several tries before I rooted out even an old poem to use.

I’m pretty sure I was around thirty when I wrote this poem, which is kind of funny when you consider the subject matter. But just to give you a little perspective on the way my mind works ... I have a sister who’s ten years older than me, so when she turned thirty I was only twenty and I thought thirty was positively ancient. She has never forgiven me for the hard time I gave her. LOL


Dreaming

If I could live another’s life, my world their point of view
Oh, how happy I could be to do the things they do.
Instead of drab existence, a life more richly led
A wish fulfillment fantasy - another’s path to tred.

If I could have the romance that others seem to find,
The passion everlasting, the closeness so divine
The happiness I would derive from such a life as this
Seems to me the best that I could ever hope to wish.

If I could find adventure, the kind others seem to find
How exciting life would be - a mystery to unwind
Flights of fancy lead me to far exotic lands
Filled with wondrous peoples and vistas ever grand.

If I could see the dreams I dream come to life at last
The way that others seem to do then when the dreaming’s passed
I could look back upon a life and see what others see
And feel the satisfaction, that dreaming caused to be.

If I could live my life once more now that I’m at the end
I’d live a life that’s real this time instead of one pretend.
I’d do the things I dream about and when my life is gone
There’d be no regrets, as there is now, for things I’ve never done.

Things and Stuff

New Words - 1052
Poetry - 177
Total Words - 1229
Editing Hours - 0
Paragraphs of Notes- 3

Honestly, if it’s not one thing it’s another. Last week was another week that was not conducive to writing, and I can’t even blame the hubby being on vacation. Actually, hubby being at home was a bonus because he was determined to barbeque every night, which meant he was doing half the cooking for dinners.

No, the culprit last week was all the extra babysitting so the son-in-law could spend time visiting his mother, who was in the hospital. I love my grandbaby, but she can be pretty exhausting. She may only be 2 ½ but she’s already a force of nature.

What surprised me the most about last week was I was able to get my blog posts done. Especially the Friday ones. Thursday I babysat from 8:30 a.m. until 7:30 p.m., and then Friday the hubby and I took the day off to go to the CNE, which you can read about HERE if you like.

Thank goodness for the prompts from Brazen Snake Books last week or I might not have anything to show for my week except a few paragraphs of notes for a story idea. The poetry prompt was to write a poem about something (anything) going bad, which came just at the right time for me.

I’d like to move my office across the hall to a sunnier room in the house, but in doing so I also need a smaller desk. I’ve always dreamed of one of those small, roll top desks with all the pigeon holes and secret drawers and such. So on a whim I did an online search and to my surprise I found one I could afford within driving distance. I emailed the seller and yes, it was still available. It was going to be a couple of days before I could get to it and in the mean time someone else, with cash in hand, swooped in and bought it. You can read my poem about it HERE.

And anyone who knows me knows I love all things mystical, so it was impossible to resist last week’s story prompt: A character went to get his/her fortune read six years ago. Today, that fortune is coming true in the most unexpected way. Tell us about it… You can check out the resulting stories HERE. I really love that Jamie’s story (it comes first) is light in contrast to the darkness of mine.

The new PROMPTS for the week are up at Brazen Snake Books, you should really pop over and give them a try. And once you’re done with your story and/or poem for BSB, check out my picture prompt of the month HERE. Last month's prompt inspired someone other than me to write a story, I'd love if that happened again.

Needless to say, I made no progress on a writing routine last week but this week things are back to normal, despite the long weekend. So cross your fingers for me.

Prompt Me - The Bridge

Hard to believe it's September already, isn't it? Where did the summer go??

For a change, I actually started thinking about the monthly prompt early and I had three very different pictures sitting on my desk top for the last week. It was hard to choose between them, but I kept coming back to this one so this one it is:

Who built this bridge? What does it span? Who, or what, is the shadowy figure on the other side? Are the trees dead, or just dormant? Just think of the possibilities!

As always, the idea is to write a fiction story (any genre), a non-fiction story, or a poem inspired by the above picture. You have until the end of the month, in this case, September 28 (which is a Thursday) to send me what you've come up with and I'll post it here on the 29th. Just send what you've written to crward(dot)author(at)gmail(dot)com.

Happy writing!

Terzanelle

This form is a little ... shall we say ... challenging. It was invented by Lewis Turco in 1965, and for those of somewhat familiar with poetry forms, it combines the villanelle’s refrain with the terza rima’s end line patterning. What truly makes it challenging is the number rules for it:

1. It is a fixed form of 19 lines - five triplets and a quatrain.
2. The body is comprised of tercets that each refrain the second line of the preceding tercet for its third line.
3. The first line of each of these tercets is rhymed with its refrained line.
4. The first and third lines of the opening tercet are refrained as the second and fourth lines of the closing quatrain.
5. The closing quatrain refrains the second line of the last tercet as its third line and rhymes its first line with that refrain.
6. Lines may be in any length or meter within reason.
7. Terzanelles may be written on any subject.

Got that now? There’ll be a test later. ;-)


Dragonflight

The wind is sighing through the trees,
The warmth of summer shimmers ‘round;
Magic‘s found in days like these.

A forest pool, a wild playground,
Where water lilies are abloom,
The warmth of summer shimmers ‘round.

A wafting scent of rare perfume;
The air is soft with ambient light
Where water lilies are abloom.

Who directs your soaring flight,
Free spirit wandering where it will.
The air is soft with ambient light.

You dip and weave and fly with skill -
I’d follow if I only could,
Free spirit wandering where it will

I watch you flitter through the wood;
The wind is sighing through the trees.
I’d follow if I only could -
Magic is found in days like these.


If you’d like to learn more about the Terzanelle, try one of the following links:
Shadow Poetry 
Writer's Digest 
The Poet's Garret  
Popular Poetry Forms 

If you give it a try, I’d love to see what you come up with. If you email it to me at carolrward(at)gmail(dot)com, I’ll post it here next Wednesday. And if you don’t, then you’re going to be stuck reading a couple of poems that survived junior high school.

How’s that for incentive? :-D

Paving the Road

New Words - 583
Poetry - 0
Total Words - 583
Editing Hours - 0
Paragraphs of Notes - 4

I added Notes to my list this week because sometimes even when I’m not actually editing I’ll come up with ideas for a WIP and if I’m lucky I’m smart enough to write them down.

Well . . . crappy doodles! Last week was a real bust as far as writing went, and I didn’t spend a whole lot of time in my office. No good writing habits were formed. And I only have myself to blame. I had such good intentions, but we all know they’re only good for paving the road to hell. Or maybe that should be roads, plural. I’m pretty sure I’ve had enough good intentions over the years to pave several roads.

I did get some work done on Wandering Wizards, but seeing as I didn’t think to keep track of the new words I have no idea how many it was. I know it wasn’t much. And I recycled some old poems for Wednesdays poetry feature, so they don’t really count as “new” words. My story took a painfully long time to write, I was up pretty late finishing it, considering how short it is. You can read it HERE  along with a story my friend Catherine sent me. I hope you’ll see more stories from her in the future.

Anyone who has trouble finding ideas, here’s a perfect example of how you don’t find ideas, ideas find you. Thursday morning I was writing my inspiration quotes email to best bud Jamie and I was whining moaning telling her about the trouble I was having coming up with an idea that would pan out for my picture prompt of the stone angel. I was going to be flippant and add something about how she looks like one of the Weeping Angels from Doctor Who and I should write about that when it clicked. Maybe I should write about a Weeping Angel.

There were so many ways this story could have gone, but after doing copious amounts of research on the Weeping Angels, I was really crunched for time. Seventeen pages of research, and very little of it was useful from a story point of view. I really should have just done a non-fiction piece, but it didn’t occur to me until just now. :-D

I thought you had to be a fan of Doctor Who to properly ‘get’ my story, but the same friend who sent me a story and her hubby read it and thought it was great - and they’ve never watched Dr. Who. I admit to taking a couple of liberties with the facts at the beginning of the story, but the rest of the information in it is pretty much true, at least according to my research.

At the beginning of last week I sent an email out to four of my old writing friends, begging for a story or poem, or whatever. One of them replied with a full story, and a second one replied with a partial story (that I really hope she finishes - I want to know what happens next!) but too late for me to post it. And two never replied at all.

I figure part of it is my own fault. When I post the prompt I give people a whole month to come up with something. These ladies barely had a week. This Friday is the first of September, which means a new picture prompt, and I’ll be sure to send it to them in a timely fashion.

You know, just as soon as I find a picture to post. ;-)

Forest Angel

You’re in for a treat today, I have not just one but two stories inspired by the picture prompt for August:

As a point of interest, when I was trying to come up with an idea for my own story, I decided to do a little research on the picture itself. It’s called, Forest Angel of the Ozarks, Missouri. Pretty much every hit on the Google search led me to another version of the same picture. There doesn’t seem to be any other information, other than it truly does exist.

With that in mind, I’d like to first share a story by a friend of mine. I actually sent an email out to several writer friends, begging for a story, and she’s the only one who responded. :-D

I’m not sure if enjoy is the proper word to use for this story, but it’s certainly very appropriate based on current events, and even though we’re both Canadians, the scary part for me is I could actually picture something like this happening.


Hate Lives
by C.L. Hannah

“Virginia was just the start of it Malcolm. Now that someone’s opened Pandora’s box and let hate escape, it’s only going to get worse. Tell me you’ve taken the steps we discussed, that everyone is in motion.”

Malcolm stared across the breakfast table at his father and shook his head. Popping the end of his scone into his mouth he chewed thoughtfully. “You know Dad, just because Hitler raised an army doesn’t mean history will repeat itself and the Confederates will this time.”

Running a hand over his face, Stuart sighed heavily. “You don’t know that son. You weren’t around when Hitler ran over countries taking what he wanted and exterminating what he didn’t.” Resting his elbows on the table he leaned forward and stared hard at the boy-man sitting before him. “How you’re my son and refuse to understand that history always repeats itself is beyond me.”

Standing, Malcolm walked to the sink with his dishes. Staring out the window at the beautifully sunny day he spoke without turning around. “Can’t you see the beautiful day Dad? Things aren’t as dire as you’re making them out to be. Please, just this once, enjoy what we have and look forward to our future.”

Stuart slammed his hand on the table, making Malcolm jump. “Look at me when you speak to me boy. I’m not one of your rat pack. I’m your father and you will address me with respect.”

“Respect is earned Dad,” said Malcolm, turning and leaning back against the sink. “You always told me that.”

“So what are you trying to tell me? That you haven’t made the calls? That everyone isn’t making their ways to the bunker as we speak? You’re playing a dangerous game son.”

“Game? You call this a game? This is life Dad, real life.”

“That’s right. This is life and if we’re going to survive it we have to take action. Now. If we don’t call no one will know it’s time. And one of us must be there to let them in son, you know that. Only one of our eye scans will open the door.”

“I’m not retreating to the bunker Dad. There is too much I want to do above ground.”

Stuart stared hard at his son and shook his head. “Have it your way boy. But remember once the door is locked it can only be opened from the inside and no one will be able to hear you knocking through the steel door. Especially after all hell breaks loose. No one. Think long and hard before you turn your back on what you know is the only safe way to survive the coming war.”

“Yah, sure, gotta go, Steve is waiting for me down by the creek.”

“Let him wait,” said Stuart, to his son’s retreating back. Knowing he had an obligation to those trusting him to protect them, he picked up the file from the table, walked into his office and started to make the calls.

Four hours later everyone on the list was safely inside the bunker. Before securing the heavy steel door, Stuart looked around, praying his son had come to his senses and would arrive. The sound of gunfire startled him and he took a step inside but still held the door open.

“It’s time Stuart,” said Lloyd, his best friend. “I’m sorry but it’s time.”

“Just give him five more minutes. I’ll close the door before anyone else tries to get in, I promise.”

Lloyd stood at his friend’s shoulder helping to scan the forest. A bomb blew up some factories in town shaking the ground under their feet. The smell of gunpowder floated through the trees, sticking to their clothing but still, they watched and hoped.

“It’s time,” said Stuart, pulling on the door.

“Let me,” said Lloyd, reaching to help.

“No. This is on me. I’ll do it.”

Five hours later the news reported more rioting in North Carolina, Tennessee and Kentucky. The National Guard had been called out but the army the Confederates had miraculously pulled together wasn’t being contained. The race wars had returned.

“I’m sorry Stuart,” said Lloyd. “I know you’d hoped your son would listen and understand. It must be brutal to know he’s out there when we’re safe in here.”

“It is, what it is,” said Stuart, his eyes tearing up. “I brought him into this world and did my best to keep him it but he refused to listen. He thought he knew better. But I suppose we all thought we knew more than our parents, so it really shouldn’t surprise me. I just wish he’d listened. I feel like I’ve failed. Maybe if I’d stayed up top, I could have gotten him to believe?”

The bunker shook as another bomb detonated near by but other than a few of the ceiling lamps swaying everyone was safe inside. Outside the landscape was being pock marked by bombs and riddled with dead bodies as the two sides fought for dominance. History was repeating itself.

When things finally calmed down on the surface, Stuart led the people from the bunker out into the sunshine. They stood silently, taking in all the carnage and wasted lives of those who hadn’t believed that history would repeat itself.

“What a waste,” said Stuart, turning a body over with his toe. “Oh My God, Malcolm.”

“See Stuart,” said Lloyd, supporting him by the arm. “In the end he did believe. He understood. You didn't fail, you did your job.”

Over the following weeks the people from the bunker rebuilt their homes and lives. They accepted strangers into their small town and helped each other heal. None of them forgot the sacrifice Stuart had made and on the day that would have been Malcolm’s birthday, they all gathered and erected a stone angel on the spot he’d died.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

My own story (as you might expect) is a little more out there. The idea for it came when I was sending my buddy Jamie her daily quote email. I was talking about coming up short for ideas and I was going to facetiously suggest I write one based on the villains from one of my favourite television shows and suddenly it clicked - and I had my idea.

If you’re a fan of science fiction, you’ll probably recognize what show this “character” is from. If you’re not, well....I think I’ll just keep you guessing. :-D

Hey! I guess technically this is my very first piece of fan fiction.


Even Monsters Need to Feed

by Carol R. Ward

I have been here for a thousand years, and if I must I will be here for a thousand more. Waiting. Longing. Dormant. It has been too long since I fed.

Some called us the lonely assassins. Most called us monsters. I suppose this is true for we were born of the union between the medusas and the basilisks. But I tell you plainly, we are not evil. We are not motivated by cruelty or greed, the evil that we are accused of is merely our desire to survive. To feed.

We have been here since the dawn of time and we will still be here when time runs down. We are everywhere, maybe even in your own back yard. For we are cunning and patient. But we have no conscience and no emotions. We have no need of them.

You will never see us in our true form. When you glance our way we assume the form you see me in now, that of a stone angel. This is the form we take our prey in. A single touch is all we need to extract the life essence of our food.

Our form was not always that of an angel, but it is the one we are most comfortable in. It seems soothing to our prey, at least until we are ready to attack and our claws and fangs appear. Their fear adds flavour to our sustenance.

Unobserved we can move with incredible speed. It is only when our prey is looking that we take on the appearance of harmless stone. As long as they are looking we cannot move. It’s only once they look away that we are free to act.

Our prey does not die, as such. With a touch we send them back to a time before their birth and then feed on the energy that remains of what would have been their life. Our prey is helpless in our presence. Weapons cannot kill us and we possess the ability to reform if we are destroyed.

When hunting in groups we must take care. Should we accidentally look at each other we would become locked in place forever. I have even heard of instances where a group of us on a hunt accidentally exchanged glances and remained frozen in place until they starved to death. For this reason when we are in groups we often cover our faces with our hands, giving the appearance that we are weeping.

Our numbers do not change much. We do not procreate in the sense humans do. First of all, we have no emotions so there is no love or desire, and though we look human we are not. We are unable to perform the physical act of love. Should the need to procreate arise, we can use our magic to give life to other, lesser statues.

I am the sole survivor of this place. We came here eons ago, and fed until there was nothing left. A glance towards one of my fellows was all it took and we were frozen in place. The others moved on, leaving us behind. As the ages passed my companion starved to death, and I was left too weak to move.

Should you come across me in the woods my exile will end. I give this advice freely:

Don’t blink.

Creative Writing

What follows is some of the few poems that survived my high school days. The original title of this series was: Creative Writing Across the Street From the School in Front of the Mansion.

In its early years, there was a ferry that went from Rochester, New York to our little harbour, allowing several rich American families to summer here. These Americans built beautiful, sprawling mansions only three of which (that I know of) still survive to this day. And one of them, to the shame of our town, is being allowed to fall into ruin so it can be pulled down and replaced with condos.

Anyway, while I was in high school one of these mansions was still across the street from the school but I can’t remember if it was still occupied at the time. But I do recall the English teacher sent us outside to find inspiration for our creative writing class and this is what I came up with:


The spider crawled carefully
up one blade of grass and
down again, only to discover
a forest of others.

The gentle breeze
Touched the fuzz
On the leaves
And invited them
to play.

The once green leaf
Is now old and faded
Changed in colour
And cracked with age.
Its edges are curled
As if with distaste
At the thought of
The coming winter.

Where did you come from
Little spider who scurries
Along the length of my page?
Wherever it is
I’ll put you back there
With the edge of the leaf
In my hand.

The helicopter passed
Eggbeaters at both ends
An intruder in the sky.