October has become a candypalooza in many parts of the world. But for just a few minutes, why don’t we imagine something different. Perhaps even an Octo-beer. And in that vein, hope you enjoy these haiku drafted written for Haiku Horizons.
At the risk of being dubbed at sixes and sevens, today I will be having some fun with Halloween themes. If you’d like to participate in the contest by SMITH magazine (no relation), you can do their SixContest #38, wherein you comment on their Website and share your six-word Halloween-related stories—funny, silly, melancholy, petrifying, stupefying, or elsewise—by Monday the 27th of October.
Here are a few of mine.
MEDITATIONS ON FUN AND FEAR (AND LOATHING) AT HALLOWEEN
Wow, would you look at that! I have been invited to take part in the 777 Challenge by the ever-so-thoughtful Norma, who writes and artifies over at the Emovere blog. I’m chuffed to have been asked. Thank you, Norma.
The premise of this challenge is that you go to page 7, line 7, of your work in progress. From there, quote the next 7 lines in a blog post on your Web site like so . . .
My novel-in-progress’ page seven is a bit of a dud. It’s mid-dialogue, and I’m afraid it might not be easy to follow what’s going on. Instead, I have selected an excerpt from a longer short story that I wrote a couple of years ago and would still love to develop. It has flown through several title incarnations and has currently landed at “Wallow,” but I’m apt to change that.
I’ve given you an extra line or so at the end.
Without further ado, here it is.
. . . One time, I’d found a miniscule skull next to the stone ledge just under the pipe, as if the animal had recently put its head down only to rest and had decided, instead, to die. The bony head was so white next to the muddy ledge, and I’d accidentally tipped its ribcage over the edge with my toe before I saw all of the body. You couldn’t even see them slip silently like white strings of confetti dragged below the churning water’s surface; it was as if they’d never even been there.
Soon enough, I reached the pipe. I didn’t know what to do; I just knew I needed to get as far away from home, from my parents and all the reminders of the sister-who-never-was, as I could. Maybe I could go up to the abandoned barn my faraway friends and I’d found in the woods last summer. It was our makeshift clubhouse for a time, owl droppings, eerie noises, and all.
As soon as my foot was out on the slick, black metal, I began to slip. . . .
Part of the 777 challenge is also tagging several other writer friends who might be interested in sharing 7 lines from a current, forthcoming, or, methinks, previous work (as long as it doesn’t violate any copyright or contractual obligations of course). From what I understand, you may alter the lines and tinker with them, in the event you want to get them published as never-before-seen text in the future.
I would like to nominate the following writers, and there is absolutely NO OBLIGATION to participate. It’s for fun, y’all. :)
Sarah at Sarah Potter Writes (she’s a busy writer who’s at work on a science fantasy novel, so she might be unavailable)
Andreé at One Starving Activist & Scribe’s Cave (she has a soon-to-be released title called After that you’ll want to see more about)
Ali Abbas, who has published two books so far: a collection of short stories, called Image and Other Stories, and Hajj – My Pilgrimage, which is a nonfiction account of his journey with his family to the holy city of Mecca
Dr. Joe in enchanting Dublin (hey, Joe, have you got any longer stories or poems you’d like to share?)
Syd Dent, who enthralls with his steampunk stories, including The Finder’s Saga, and shares author influences and more on his blog
Andrea Stephenson, who holds many awards and publication credits for her phenomenal short stories and who blogs at Harvesting Hecate
“It’s by Francis Bacon,” Mialy pointed to the violet hologram and elevated her voice, “ ’cept for the shrieking, of course. That’s a modern addition.”
“Wait! The Francis Bacon? The one who invented everybody’s favorite sizzly meat that almost nobody is able to get their hands on anymore?” Joba snickered. “He sure did a lot of wildly different stuff in his lifetime.”
The screaming subsided as Joba spoke, but the New Memphis Art Museum & Distillery hum-spun sound within its walls, smothering the tortured yells for the next patrons.
The building itself had been dubbed “acoustically perfect” through stringent certification channels. One’s ears could only be thankful the hologram of Munch’s famous disconcerting painting was housed in a faraway room.
“No, goofball. It’s some other Bacon according to Teacher Farflung’s notes.” Mialy moved her neck from side to side and it cracked as she attempted to get the implant into better position. “I told you, you should have gotten the neural implant at the door. Teach will not be pleased, if it’s monitoring this field trip out there somewhere.”
Mialy thumbed over a shoulder, causing mauve hair to swing a seeming pendulum behind her head.
“Hmm. I thought they were supposed to be motion- and heat-sensitive to a particular genetic pattern,” Joba muttered.
“Oww, that chair guy is giving me such a hunormous head-ouch,” she typed hurriedly onto the tablet, afraid the wailing would start up again at random.
Joba nodded. “Or maybe it’s the imp. I’ve heard of brains that reject the injection . . . “
“Nah.” She interrupted. “Just listen! Whadda you figure’s his problem?”
“Access your hoytay-toytay mind-friend, why don’t you? Harness alllll the benefits of your tech,” he mimicked the booming voice in the jingle for TechUnique Products. Mind-fiend is more like it, Joba thought.
Mialy nearly shouted again. “I know, but I wanted to figure it out myself. Art’s effect is personal, y’know. Some people get pain from art, especially this holo-painting. Some reap pleasure. Some get both. Art’s supposed to provoke, amiright?”
“Yeah, but with the whole pain/pleasure thing, art reminds me of drugs.”
“Uh, well, yeah, I guess it’s like those drugs that mold to a person’s genetic contours. Personalized psychotropics.”
Joba fiddled with his tablet. “Howya access the data on, um, what’d you say the artist’s name was again? Franks’N Bacon?”
Snickers seemed to trigger another blood-in-a-centrifuge moment courtesy of the now-popping hologram.
“You know,” Mialy made a tunnel of her fist to amplify her voice, “I think the screams are changing. You hear it? But why?”
“Just a bug in the programming,” Joba offered.
“Anyway, let’s get going. We’ve got lots of art to partake of today, my lady.” He pulled Mialy gently by the hand and past the room sensors that guided the advanced acoustics of the 19th and 20th Century Modern Art pavilion of the museum.
In an interior room adjacent to the artwork informally called “Screaming Pope,” two people are at work.
“Ay, Segala, you can go easy on the audio now,” Rayson shouted to his colleague from well across the room.
“It’s no use,” she called back, letting the arm drop to the side of the chair.
“Damn. That’s the sixth audio to crap out this week, and it’s only Wednesday.”
She shook her head slowly. “I know, tell me about it. Hope we don’t get a lecture from Kathy. She’s a beast when it comes to protocols.”
Segala tugged on the straps, but nothing gave.
“Ray, can you help me get the electric nails out? It looks like I accidentally blew a vein. Don’t slip on her hair . . . anyway, we’ll have to pick up another volunteer on the way back from the DR.”
“Yup, I sure hope the next one holds up longer, for both our sakes. And is less messy. You just never can tell by looking when you’re gonna get a spurter.”
“Yeah, and it seemed like those last patrons were beginning to suspect . . .” Segala’s voice trailed off.
The wet echo of a thump came, and then only a prolonged squeal-screech of a cart on wheels. As the two left the room, a resonant door slammed behind them, complemented by a piping up of hidden music, which was believed to encourage employee tranquility.
“I think to myself/what a wonderful world” serenaded the duo down the hallway, although neither had a clue who the singer was.
Despite that headline and to take tongue out of cheek for a moment, this post is actually about two main things: being thankful and being forthright.
First, I can’t adequately express my gratitude to you all. Regular readers, irregular readers, once-in-a-whilers, or those for whom this blog has been a one-hit wonder or no-hit blunder. (Oh, and might I also recommend Activia, kefir, or other probiotics? I’ve had kefir, but not the others, though I have heard they work well for sluggish colons. No, not the punctuation type.)
In truth, I began this blog as a “what the heck/why not” experiment, with really zero hypotheses. Scientific method and all that. I was encouraged by a family member to start it — probably to keep me sane and to preserve his last remaining wits that living with me hadn’t yet flayed away! — so I can’t even claim it was an original idea. Never mind all the excellent — many far more so — WordPress writing sites that already existed before Leigh’s Wordsmithery was a glint in this copyeditor’s eye.
I really expected nothing, except that it would be nettlesome. Even painful. To share oneself, even through fiction, as the old saw goes, is easy. Just open a vein at your keyboard. With or without the saw.
And so, I thank you for welcoming me, taking me in like the wordulous and scrappy orphan I am, and giving me the firm roof of friendship. It has been sublime to follow your blogs likewise, to see your comments gleaming in my e-mails like a prism where I can peek at other perspectives, and to learn about you and from you. Even from afar.
In short, you all have helped me grow (no pun intended). So, the sole reward or award that I need from you all is one big heaping helping of being-present, when and if you can. I haven’t always had that in my life. Many of us bloggers haven’t. So, lest I fall into my own pity party, I just want to say. loudly and clearly: I appreciate you all and wish each one of you the best and brightest life has to offer.
Honesty is Nota Lonely Word
Presuming you have read this far — hey, I said I was wordulous! — honesty is not a lonely word, because we’re here together, experiencing these slippery letters, which I think that we craft together (I engineer the form, you make it function; conversely, if I’ve goofed, you let me know). I hope we’re not sharing these moments in the Stephen Crane-heart-in-a-desert sense, mind you.
I owe a lot, just short of everything really, to you, readers and friends. I haven’t been ignoring y’all, but I do have to sheepishly admit that I’ve been nominated for a few awards since I started blogging at WordPress in January (2014), by several kind and generous souls.
In no particular order, these good folks have gobsmackingly nominated me, lo these 10 months of WP blogging: Frankie at Trucker Turning Write, Swoosieque at Cancer is Not Pink, and the Exquisite Priyanka. I am awed and very grateful that the images and/or writing here have been meaningful to these readers in some way. These bloggers have made me blush, but in a good way. Please do visit these writers whenever you can; I’d be happy to know you did.
Now, I thought it might be fun (and I hope not tedious for you) for me to do a very brief interview with myself, since the requirements of so many of these awards are that you share yourself with your readers. (Gawd, the height of arrogance am I, a Q & A with myself! I have to smile.)
And now, seven “deadly” factoids about me, which you may later wish you’d never read:
1. As a kid who was a “tomboy,” one of my early pastimes was baseball. Playing and watching (and collecting). I shared the love with my grandfather, whom I have old audio tapes of when I interviewed him about seeing Babe Ruth play.
2. Our family has 6 ducks as pets. They give us eggs, companionship, and fascinating vocalizations and observations.
3. I was once “arrested” for playing spy at nightime when I was about 9 or 10. The neighbors called the police for, presumably, “strange small person hanging out in a tree near our driveway.”
4. My husband and I took Shaolin kung fu for several years (as adults) and really enjoyed it. I also learned a smidge of Cantonese from Hong Kong cinema, which I still love.
5. I have a weird aversion to styrofoam and, perhaps not so weird, heights and flying. Also, flying in a styrofoam airplane.
6. In college I hoped to someday work as a writer for “The Simpsons” television cartoon/comedy. I have a partial episode or two I wrote still lying around somewhere.
7. T.S. Eliot is (directly/indirectly?) responsible for at least $400 of my lifetime writing income. A flip of the penny for the old guy.
Again, all the best to you. And my deep appreciation to Sally Field, from whom I cadged the headline. Have a great weekend and be kind to each other and our planet. :)
If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them. (Walden, 323- 324)
I’ve always said, aloud and in my head, I’d never want to permanently live anwhere there’s only one or two seasons. (Not that I could afford to live in Hawaii, beautiful though it is.) I need variety to splice up my life. Yes, splice. Sounds sorta like a soda pop, but it’s not. Unless you consider the mental effervescence in the mix.
If life (or our perception of it) is strandlike — and that’s obviously debatable — and generally the threads hew (in the bonding sense of the word) together but are not necessarily linear, do we move from thread to thread, then back again, dancing on high-wires, as we age? Seamlessly or not. Many of the threads are touching, raveling, wrestling, melanging together. Perhaps all of them imperceptibly.
I’ve been thinking how even broken or mistuned words can be therapy. My own writings, or others’. Let’s call the last category shelf-therapy. This is when you dig down past the bites and bolts, through the nuts and molts, letter by letter, sherd by sherd, to excavate some dry meaning from the silty bed of experience.
I’m not a mental health expert or adviser, but I do have a therapist/counselor, beyond myself, who therapizes. To me, self-therapizing is allowing yourself to be . . . not exactly hypnotized, not quite enthralled, but more like a human sieve, mindful of everything and nothing at the same time, both absorbing and letting go of thoughts and the emotions that sometimes anchor them. Think of it as an almost “my god, it’s full of stars” moment. Or at least one hopes it’s semi-transcendent.
I haven’t therapized my own mind lately, but I am learning to be my own advocate, my own walking coping card in a mental Rolodex somewhere among the cobby webs or webby cogs. Wobbly blobs? Bloggly wobs? In any case, I’m supposing that autumn + summer (autumner? Gordon Sumner?) is my favorite trio of months, even with all the hen-with-its-head-cut-off freneticness of school days, holidays, and just plain old everyday days daze.
But now, enjoy a gallery, why don’t you? And many thanks for reading and viewing.
I wandered lonely . . .
Stand still, laddie!
Storms over brown fields (unedited)
First attempt at Kartoffelpuffer (German potato pancakes)
Dr. Kyla Dysun marveled at the LP prototype from the archive.
From that mock-up to the latest incarnation of the LollyPetz product line seemed light-years. When she’d formed FiveFineMinds eight years ago, only the technology for the ChocoLiszts had been perfected. For a time, everybody with the means could generate a piano sonata with mere mouth power, thanks to edible electronics by FFM.
But the word whipper-uppers had worked a new level of magic with the LollyPetz campaign.
It is a brave new world, she thought, with such capital in it.
Later, her speech to the shareholders went grandly. “Today, 31 March 2079, carves a company milestone: one LollyPet ‘born’ every minute!”
This flash fiction is for Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers of 3 October 2014. Please visit Rochelle and check out the other Friday Fictioneers as well; you’ll find a great range of story genres and angles to go with this prompt. And, if you enjoyed my speculative fiction story, please pop back by sometime. I have a feeling I will continue the LollyPetz story soon.