You are currently browsing the archives for the Fiction category.
Four years ago, I posted a noodle of a fanfic about Snape and an OFC on fanfiction.net, and every so often I add another interlude.
Yesterday, I was inspired to revamp those one-shots into a coherent story.
The title is ARABESQUE.
You can follow along at Itinerant Imagination or on fanfiction.net.
A bit of what I wrote for this month’s Cafe Writing prompt:
“Race you to the jetty!” I yell and take off without checking to see if Sam is running or not. I don’t much care if I win, I just love the way the sand feels under my bare feet, warm at the surface, then colder beneath, and I love the way the blood surges in my veins as my legs move and my arms pump.
Breathless, the wind and ocean in my ears, face, and hair, I can’t really hear his footfalls, but I can feel his presence a little bit behind me, closer to the surf. Just as in the scene from Atalanta, we reach the jetty together, and sprawl in the sand near the slate blue rocks.
You can read the rest here.
Oil lamps left an eerie yellowish glow on the false fronts of each building, a glow that was at once comforting and strangely foreign, as we dashed from doorway to doorway, arc of light to arc of light, along the uneven cobblestone street in the old part of town. We knew, of course, that they were there just for show, that each of the buildings we passed had all the modern conveniences hidden away beyond the parts the public could see, but somehow in the sudden storm, they made the shadows appear to live, giving chase to us as we searched for the cafe that had been so highly recommended.
“What’s the address, again?” my husband asked, impatient with me for not being able to keep up, though he tried to hide it, as he always did.
“Four-twelve,” I said. We looked up at the doorway where we’d paused. The numbers were blurry, but we could tell we were in the three hundred block. “Almost there,” I added, although it was obvious.
Another few buildings, a dash across a rain-slick brick street, and we were opening the door into warmth and light, wood smoke, and the scent of something amazing.
The chimes on the door brought an old woman bustling from the back. She was wearing one of those skirts that could have just as easily been from last year or a hundred years ago, and a crisp white blouse, with a red shawl tied around her waist. Her hair was glossy black; her eyes a rich brown - she looked, in fact, very like my great-aunt, except that Aunt Maria would never have been caught dead in lipstick that shade of orange.
“You are Mireille’s friends?” It was technically a question, but there was no doubt in her tone. We nodded, as she continued, “Welcome, welcome, the cassoulet is ready, and the wine just needs to breathe.”
We joined her other patrons around a single, round, butcher-block table, and ate while we watched the rain continue to fall beyond the plate-glass window, and the green-painted door.
As some of my friends know, I’m all about silly holidays like the random ones BlueMountain used to have in their list. Because, who DOESN’T want to celebrate International Hat Day, really?
This morning, someone on the ComedySportz forum had posted a link to Towel Day, an annual event commemorating the life and works of author Douglas Adams.
As The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy was one of the first non-Trek science fiction works that captured my attention (largely because my 12-year-old self responded to the cheerful irreverence of the book), I find it fitting to remember the guy who wrote it.
So, my towel is in my CSz bag, and yes, I will have it nearby all day.
So where’s YOUR towel today?
C’mon tell me.
All the hoopiest froods are doing it.
(Mooched from MoonChylde at LJ)
The folks at Wired write:
We’ll be brief: Hemingway once wrote a story in just six words (”For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”) and is said to have called it his best work. So we asked sci-fi, fantasy, and horror writers from the realms of books, TV, movies, and games to take a shot themselves.
To read the offerings they received, go here. (Opens in new window) Then come back and get creative, if you dare, by posting your own Six Word Story in comments.
Mine (as posted in my friend MoonChylde’s livejournal):
Drought expanded. Seattle survivors remembered rain.
A writing challenge courtesy of Tales from the Ridge: 300 words with the title “Disembodied Voices”
She was in bed, with the covers pulled up to her chin and her tiny hands clenched into white-knuckled fists around the sheets. Around the perimeter of her bed, an army of stuffed animals stood guard over her, making sure the muffled sounds from beyond the wall didn’t penetrate her dreams as anything but indistinct sound.
When the sounds got louder, she squinched her eyes shut, so that all she could see was the pixelated after-image of her darkened room, blankness like the snow on an ill-received television channel forming general shapes of furniture on the backs of her eyelids.
She yelped when she heard the *crack* of something hard against something alive…and took herself to the place inside herself where the stuffed animals could talk. “Winnie,” she whispered in her mind, “are you there.”
The golden-brown stuffed bear answered in a golden-brown honey-thick voice, that he was there, and she was safe as long as she kept her eyes closed.
Sleep child, she heard the maternal voice of Raggedy Ann urging in harmony. Everything’s fine when you sleep. In your dreams, everything’s all right.
She smiled into the darkness of her room, and drifted into sleep, an imaginary soundtrack blocking the voices of her parents from her consciousness. She’d learned to do this months ago, when they’d first begun their almost-nightly screaming matches: tune out of the real world, and tune into the songs in her head, or the voices of her dolls.
When morning came, she crept to the door of her room, and peeked out. Finding no one, she announced “I’m going to get juice now,” to the toys that had been dumped to the floor when she tossed and turned in her sleep.
She didn’t wait for any response, but silently thanked them for their vigilance.
Yours