What are some of the hard things you've done recently? What are some hard things you haven't gotten to yet, but need to do?
The things I post are barely edited. They may have typos. They're not majorly-high-quality writing, in which I've lovingly labored over sentences and synonyms. They contain far too much punctuation and will probably systematically abuse italics. They're not going to be perfect.
What I want to see is if - and how well - I can build something interesting, something resembling a story, out of these incomplete ideas and fragmented entries. This is word-and-story brainstorming. It's an experiment. I want to try to make something really cool (or at least decently cool) from this nearly nonexistent framework, and see what happens, and where it takes me.
The process is simple: I open up DW during a break at work, and let my brain and fingers go. Whatever happens, I read it over once or twice to correct anything truly offensive, and then make myself post. It's casual, just to practice writing and practice creating to try to get back into the habit.
So, that's what's going on here.
( the shattering's world )
For readers of this journal: you are welcome to read and comment and interact, or ignore, as much as you would like. Feel free to ask questions, point things out, make suggestions - whatever, I will love any feedback.
I struck something invisible and ended up tumbling out of the magic onto the front lawn, landing in an awkward heap. Hey, it happens sometimes: in this case, May and Arston had probably changed the wards and I'd have to retune myself. Or, I thought, as I slowly sat up from my pile-of-trash pose and noticed the blinding glow, something more powerful is blocking puny magic like mine without thinking about it...
( blinding light )
I will do the best I can to fill new prompts and pick up some from the previous session. I have no idea how long it'll take. My body is being kind of cranky after last week's adventures, and the internet is a bit iffy although nowhere near as bad as it was earlier this month. Witch me luck, eh?
WARNING: This poem contains some intense and controversial topics. Highlight to read the more detailed warnings, some of which are spoilers. You-all wanted to see the gaybashers who attacked Kenzie curbstomped by the Iron Horses, so here it is. Watch out for conspiracy to commit assault, religious issues, conflicting obligations, bloody souvenirs, desire for vengeance, magical/spiritual stalking of culpable parties, Thunderbird is fucking scary and so is his follower, rude language, using superpowers against ordinary opponents, gaybashers stalking around a gay bar, oblique references to pony play, references to poaching and hazardous equipment, graphic violence, vigilante justice, use of barbed wire as a rumble weapon, probable permanent injury, brutal application of inconvenient truth, temporary hearing impairment, explanation of internalized oppression and repression of identity, complicated transgender issues, and other mayhem. This is a major plot development, so skipping it would leave a big gap, but the main thing you need to know is simply that the Iron Horses hunt down the gaybashers and beat the shit out of them. If these are sensitive issues for you, please consider your tastes and headspace before reading onward.
( Read more... )
There are bees everywhere. In the wildflower garden, I saw a big bumblebee visiting every flower on this plant. I saw a small black bee and a tiny metallic green one on the echinacea. These are probably native species, some of which are rarely seen. All had large panniers of yellow pollen collected from the flowers. :D Beeeeeees!
EDIT 7/17/17: Round 2, I picked a few blackberries.
EDIT 7/17/17: Round 3, I planted some morning glories and watered plants.
EDIT 7/17/17: Round 4, I weeded about half of the septic garden.
Garden Photos 7-16-17 (pots)
Garden Photos 7-16-17 (prairie garden)
I'm back at the keyboard now after a busy week.
The second session of the July Poetry Fishbowl will open on Tuesday, July 18.
Poetry in Microfunding:
"A Hope and a Promise" belongs to Polychrome Heroics. Aidan and Mrs. Ozenne talk more about Saraphina as she interacts with another toddler. "The Inner Transition" belongs to Polychrome Heroics: Berettaflies. Valor's Widow finds out what Stylet has in his backpack.
Weather has been steamy here. It rained a little yesterday. Currently blooming: dandelions, marigolds, petunias, lantana, million bells, snapdragons, zinnias, firecracker plant, white and red clover, morning glories, spiderwort, echinacea, blackberry lilies, yellow coneflowers, Queen Anne's lace, frost asters, and some yellow thing in the wildflower garden. Corn is tasseling. I need to pick more blackberries. I think there are two jalapeno plants with tiny peppers on them, and more cayenne too. \o/ Evidently peppers grow better in pots than my efforts with tomatoes.
Just now, I went out and watered plants. It is starting to spit rain, so hopefully we'll get some more.
Jalapeno peppers are getting bigger, some about thumb-size now. Blackberries are ripening.
a) finish what i have and post it as done - it needs maybe another 200-500 words to be FINISHED - even imperfect, which it really is, it's a fic, and guess what penelo and larsa can smooch as many times as i want
b) scrap the oddly tumbled word vomit and start over with something cleaner that will be what i want this piece to be
c) give up entirely and write penelo/larsa coffeehouse au trash
d) do a different prompt-fic and come back to this next week
e) [something else you're going to tell me in the comments]
And of course in the dream nothing rose up, and there was no Shattering: and we all felt something dark and hot and burning roll over us in waves. I guess that's how my dream-self was imitating radiation; not like we knew what it felt like. The children screamed, and I was running back through the building and screaming, my skin scorched like a sunburn, and when I got to my dorm room all of my friends were already black and burnt, scarred corpses tipped over or leaning against each other.
The thing is, you wake up from a dream like that and instantly know it isn't true. Your brain is already running through the litany of logic that you need: seven years ago mankind did in fact try to destroy itself, its homes, its planet, by launching nearly every nuclear warhead in existence in a round robin of angry men; but the earth decided it was sick of this shit - our shit - and stepped in. First the world froze time, trapping all of us in this weird viscoelastic stasis where our minds were aware but everything around us had been stopped. Then our planet took a deep breath, which we all heard and felt - and then it shattered what must have been a barrier between its - its power - and us.
No one knew the earth had been protecting us from her magic for so long, although the scientists say it makes sense in retrospect, considering the times magic has leaked through a crack and broken the known laws of physics. But that layer shattered like so much glass - the Shattering - and the power that rushed through vaporized every single explosive that had been fired, and all that hadn't, and just wiped from existence every known warhead and weapon that could damage her.
Then the earth - well, we still don't really know how or why, but the prevailing theory is that our planet needed to tell us something (tell us off, in my opinion; humanity is a gigantic gaping asshole) and it used the history it had: the power coalesced into archetypes of worship, ancient and modern, anything the earth thought mankind might revere and follow. It created the Incarnate, the avatars, the graced: gods and goddesses, angels and devils, from all creeds and all times. Those chosen became vessels for whatever archetypical power had chosen them, and thus began the only way the planet had for us to communicate with her: the best way she had to create protectors that could speak with her voice.
So now, even through apparently everyone had dreams about the end of the world, it hadn't really ended at all - shifted, irrevocably, the complacency with which humanity had lived shattered as well, but not the end. In seven years, I had never dreamed about it. I'd had my share of stupid dreams, sure, but my subconscious had been happy to leave well enough alone - until last night.
I sat up slowly, because even though my brain was doing a great job reciting the facts, I still had this odd feeling in the pit of my belly: almost nauseous, like a physical sense of doom. People said you were supposed to pay attention to your dreams now, with magic out and about, but whatever this had been I didn't really want to pay attention to it.
Coffee would help. I wrenched myself out of the covers and into the kitchen.
I was halfway through the mug and a game on my mobile when it rang. Unknown number, huh. I almost ignored it, but it looked somewhat familiar and that nagged at me. (I haven't memorized a phone number other than my own since I was a small child, so what?) Plus I was still feeling residual existential dread over my dream, and I was mad because I was out of bagels. So I picked it up. "H'lo?"
"Mor," Arston said breathlessly, "I need you to - you need to come over, okay?"
"Arston?" I asked, even though I recognized his voice, and from there remembered I hadn't added his new number to my phone. "Did something happen? Is May okay?" Arston was May's roommate; May was my best friend, had been for almost our entire lives, and had been fighting off a major flu for a while.
"It's May," he said, and my heart dropped - I heard him swallow, and then he continued in an incredibly small voice: "I think she's becoming Manifest?"
"Manifest?" I squeaked, suddenly feeling vertigo. "Incarnate?"
"I - I don't know, Mor, can you please just get over here?" He took in a deep breath, and then exhaled. "She said your name, asked for you."
Shit. Incarnate or not, May would be asking for me, because no one else in her shitty family was going to be any help with any of this. "Yeah, Arston, I'll be there as fast as I can..."
"Good." He hung up.
I realized I was shivering. The foreboding feeling of my dream had mixed with my panic over my friend and created a weirdly toxic adrenaline cocktail. I needed to get to their house - driving would take twenty minutes, biking about the same. If I could calm myself down, I could transport.
My magic wasn't that old - it showed up about five or six years ago, right after the Shattering, but it had taken until about two years ago for it to have solidified enough for me to make use of it. I sat down the coffee mug, checked on the cats' bowls - they would be fine, and took a deep breath. Clasped my hands before me, fingers extended along opposite wrists. Set my intention in my mind. Called up the magic, carefully, focusing only on the spell, trying to shove everything else off into the corners where it could wait. Then I pulled my hands apart, and before I could doubt myself, pushed myself head-first into the glimmering opening the movement had created.