Give me a word! A single word! And ye verily, I shall write a tale using it as the seed for a glorious tree of narrative!
[But only when I get back from the beach, so you have until Monday to chime in.]
Tag: Story on Demand
More Time
“Sit down, please.”
The young boy sat, uncomfortable and gangly in the high-backed wooden chair.
“Are you comfortable?” the red-haired man continued, his eyes and quill busy on a pair of scrolls on his desk. The young boy sat opposite in one of the two fine chairs kept for receiving guests.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good – good.” Key said, finishing a line on the left-hand scrolled and looked up. He furrowed his brows and tried to collect his ink-tossed thoughts. ” I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“Lucas, sir. Lucas Grahd.”
“Of Pice? Your family has an estate there?” the red-haired scribe took note of the gryphon emblem on the young boy’s collar – faded, but fine material.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And you’ve come here about your mother?” Key said. “Lionshead Fever –very sad. You have my condolences, of course.” His quill went scratch, adding another line to his letter to the Regent. The paving recently completed outside his office was simply atrocious, and he was determined to have it re-cobbled before the end of the summer.
“Very kind, my lord. That was the subject of my visit today. I believe I may have found a cure.”
…It would honor me greatly if you could send a magistrate to inspect the quality of the work yourself, My Lady. It is simply beyond accepting — I’ve seen untutored yeoman do better with rough bricks and river-mortar…
Key’s quill kept scratching, until the silence in the room finally reached him. He looked up at the young boy sitting in his chair, and blinked.
“What?”
The boy stared at him, but repeated himself.
Key tapped his forefinger on the desk, fresh ink stained – leaving a whorl of his fingerprints on the margin of his letter. The scribe cursed, and quickly reached for a cloth to daub it away.
“Sir, did you hear me? I’ve found a cure for Lionshead fever. My mother has been bedridden for weeks, and the other doctors gave up days ago. I threw myself into our family library and read every medical text and herbal tome that we own. I’m convinced I’ve found a forgotten remedy, passed down from the Sarmadi. Some of the ingredients are exotic, but the process for creating it is exceedingly simple. I consulted many of our family’s friends and business associates, and you have the final ingredient that I need.” The boy leaned forward, the words flung out with desperation.
Key tucked the quill behind his ear, ignoring the ink that dribbled down his cheek. He pinched his nose, and inclined his head to the ceiling for a moment.
“Young man..Lucas? I am sorry. I did not realize that your mother still…lingered. It makes what I’m about to say very difficult indeed.”
The boy slammed his hand on the edge of the desk. “I know the gallowgrass is very expensive, and I know that you have it. Please spare me the sales pitch. I have brought more than sufficient funds to cover any reasonable price. My family has fallen on hard times, but not so hard that we cannot afford—”
“Lucas.”
The boy looked up in surprise. The red-haired scribe has walked from around the desk to sit in the chair next to him. His hand was clenched on the edge of the desk, knuckles white.
“I am sorry that you did not have my full attention at the first. Forgive me. Your age made me think you were here on a simple errand, or perhaps a scholarly project for your tutor. I can see that you are a young man of uncommon intelligence, so I will speak plain.”
The boy said nothing, but nodded quickly with a polite acceptance.
“You say your mother has been suffering for weeks. Did none of the doctors who administered to your mother explain the path that Lionshead takes through the body?” Key said.
“No.”
“Ah. Lionshead Fever is a fairly rare malady, that attacks the upper respiratory system – the lungs and nasal passages. It is not particularly contagious, generally only being contracted through direct exposure to infected tissue. I assume your mother spent some time travelling right before her symptoms appeared?”
“Yes.” Lucas said.
“As I thought. Most people afflicted die in the first two to three days. Their lungs fill with blood and they quite simply drown in their own water. The followers of the deity Nasirah believe it is divine justice, only the wicked, the betrayer, the infidel are cursed with this disease. They would stamp their fierce god’s symbol into the foreheads of the sick – a mark of their fate, and also an effective way to prevent further spread of the contagion. A lion, stamped on the head, do you see?”
“I’ve read all this at great length, my lord. I don’t see how –”
“Those that do not die immediately…” Key continued, his voice level, as if the boy had not interrupted.”….can linger for many days, even for weeks on end. But the damage to the lungs is permanent.”
The word hung in the air.
Key laid an ink-stained hand on the young boy’s shoulder. “You have shown great skill and intelligence in your research, you have shown great ingenuity and determination in tracking me down. I am the only person for hundreds of miles that has the gallowgrass, and I would gladly give it to you to save your mother. She could ask for no greater gift or more pure expression of your love for her. But, the Nameless be kind, it has fallen to me to tell you these truths. You are too late. Any cure would need to be given in the first few days of the infection to preserve any undamaged tissue. It has been weeks. Your mother is dead, in minutes or hours.”
The young boy stood up, and shook Key’s hand with empty poise. “I thank you for your time, my lord.”
“I wish I had more to give to you …and to your mother.” the scribe said sadly.
The boy left, and Key sat for a while in the second high-backed guest chair. He knew he would not finish his cobblestone letter this night, nor would he for many nights to come.
“More time.” he said to the empty room.
[Story on Demand for N.E. White – follow the link for their blog and the clicking thereof.]
Story on Demand: Hey, Remember This Thing Edition
Yeah, I haven’t done this in a while. It feels a little weird, a little strange — a little dangerous.
Hold me.
For those of you new to the game, here’s how it works. Once a week I throw out a net for story ideas, then write a short piece inspired by the shiniest idea-minnow in the net.
I’M SAYING YOUR IDEAS ARE FISH. Because I am a wordsmith.
I sort of summarily suspended this while I was finishing the rough draft, and then editing — but I’ll make it all better, I swear.
Just a reminder, I’m looking for an idea, not a plot. The best ones that I’ve written came from one or two word suggestions. Here are some examples:
So yeah, give me your thought-fish. To make it interesting, whoever puts the last comment on this post by noon EST on Saturday, a winner is you.
Blowing the dust off…
Let me just knock some of the cobwebs off here.
But I was editing, black and white photo soldier guy, who I hope is not some sort of war criminal! I can see that ceremonial dagger on your belt, and I’m sure you’d like to dispense some pre-Internet justice, but hear me out.
In between normal life errata and work neccesity, my creative-time has been in short supply. Lodestar has taken a turn for the awesome as we rocket towards the conclusion – and I’m determined to deliver on the storytelling and gameplay promise of the campaign and not leave my players disappointed when it wraps up in September. On top of that I’m running a short side-game for some neophyte nerds in the neighborhood, plus planning for my Top Secret Next Campaign. Compounded with time rolling in the floor with the new puppy, and other general puttering about – I’ve been swamped.
I finished the rough draft of Spell/Sword back in April, then put it away for as long as possible before diving into editing. I made it a full four weeks, which was torturous indeed.
True editing began in May, here was my process:
1. Print out the draft, and read through it. Making only absolutely necessary notes in the margins.
2. Cry.
3. Read through it again, making nit-picky grammar notes.
4. Take all of the comments/edits from the paper version and add them to my Google Doc. “No argument” edits were implemented immediately. [Grammar fixes, word choice, spelling mistakes, erotic centaurs scene] More complicated edits requiring more thought or massive chapter-spanning revision entered as Comments onto the G-Doc.
5. Man, there’s a lot of these Comments. [63 total, only 17 of which were related to petticoat description. ALWAYS NEED MORE DESCRIPTION OF THE COURTLY LADY DRESSES]
6. Worked in fits and starts on the larger edits. The easy ones first, picking at the edges — then finally dived into the more serious ones in June.
7. Anxiety Quicksand. Edits seem to be making book worse. Every thing I read seems to be terrible, even if not explicitly marked for revision. I hate the book, and spend a lot of time polishing a terrible, shiny thought. Writing this draft was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done — a goal in my life that I never imagined I would accomplish. To have made it this far is nothing short of miraculous — but the book still might not be any good. Effort does not equal excellence in writing, or any art. I might have a completely unusable draft, rotten to the core. I might have written a book and still not have a book.
8. Kept editing.
9. Started to lose the feeling of forward momentum, so I engaged the Saving Grace of Art. A deadline. Contacted my Alpha Readers, and let them know that I would be printing the draft the first of July to send them copies for review. I embrace that deadline, and editing redoubles in ferocity.
10. I like the book a little better. Well, let’s be serious — I love the book, but understand that I have lost any objectivity. I’ve read it too many times, I’m way too close. I finish up major edits, with the salve that I’m going to go through this whole process again once my Alphas have a crack at it. Only they can tell me whether or not my child is a Goofus or a Gallant.
11. I have one last brainstorm for my editing before releasing it to the Alphas. I read the entire draft out loud in one sitting. I catch innumerable grammar, tense, spelling, and logic errors in the process. Best thing I’ve done, next time around I’m planning on doing this much, much earlier. I also record me reading it [TECHNOLOGY!] for further review.
12. I like the book.
13. I send the draft to be printed for Alpha Readers. I feel a sense of pride that my closest friends and advisors will soon know how fucking clever I am.
14. I listen to the recording, and immediately catch a dozen glaring syntax and logic problems.
15. Cry a little bit. But you know, in a badass way, like Chow Yun Fat in The Killer.
I know I’m not unique in my process, or in my reactions — I know my colleagues and associates are sick of my talking about these things like I invented Author Malaise. But, you’re my blog and this is my first time up this thorny path — so get prepared for some serious whining and navel-gazing.
Also, some ruminations on various literary and genre concepts. I’ve been struggling to put my novel in context with others in the genre, and I’ve had some thoughts. SOME THOUGHTS, I SAY.
I’m also thinking about pulling my old weekend STORY ON DEMAND out of mothballs, now that I have a little more brainspace to spare.
What do you think, Corporal Steely Breadcrumbs?
Belated Q & A
Okay — so I’ve shirked long enough, time to answer the questions from this week’s story prompt. Sorry for the delay – I was just FOCUSING ON MY FREAKING ROUGH DRAFT.
El Capitan -What do you think will be the next big manufactured craze? Like pomegranates or acai berry. I believe it will be walnuts.
Walnuts are a strong possibility – but I’m telling you right now, it’s going to be jodhpurs. Twelve year-old girls just strutting around, society and morals be damned.
Nila – You know those tabby things that fill the holes of input/output thingies on your device or phone or whatever? Yeah, those are pretty nifty, don’t you think? Sometimes I wish they had those sorts of things for human orifices…
Well, they do. Pacifiers, butt plugs, nose plugs, blindfolds — and though I shudder to think, but I’m guessing there’s some sort of device that plugs up your plumbing completely, for fun and profit. I personally kind of hate putting covers and cases on my technology — my phone deserves to be NAKED and PROUD.
Jason – How bout a story about this time you got tagged? http://jasondegray.wordpress.com/2012/04/01/tagged/
ERG. So many questions — so much work — so….lazy…..zzzzz…….
Rebecca – You need to write a story about soft shell crab sandwiches. (with the little legs hanging out of the bun)
That is horrifying.I’m imagining the little legs wriggling as I bite down — quickly flashing the crab sign language for “Help” and “Pain” and “God” over and over and over. You are a monster, madam.
Marisa – What mythological beast – assuming it could speak – do you think you would find it most challenging to write dialog for and why?
As already discussed — it wouldn’t be Minotaurs. I have like 8 notebooks crammed full of sparkling dialogue about horn care and maze-related metaphors.
I’m going to have to go with Medusa. I just wouldn’t be able to resist making each tendril of her snake-hair a separate character. That would be conservatively 40 different voices all vying for dialogue — a Cowboy Snake, a Sleepy Snake, a Snake with Crippling Depression, a Snake that Speaks only in Haiku — it goes on. It would be a sort of literary blackhole from which I would never emerge.
Thanks for the questions everybody!
Story on Demand: Let’s Process our Feelings.
Man, it’s getting dusty in this here blog. I’m going to kick of this week’s Story on Demand early, just to force myself to show some bloggy-love.
This week – how about a topic? Like, Cheerios vs. Honey Nut:Discuss. I’m trying to stay focused on the last stretch of the book’s rough draft — so maybe questions?
YEAH. I will answer all questions submitted, to the best of my ability and liberally sprinkled with lies and deceit.
Shakespeare 2012
[I don’t normally include the explanation at the top — but this one is a doozy. This idea was submitted on Facebook by Allen.]
“Othello is running for reelection. Henry V is the GOP nominee. They wait in the green room to begin a televised debate when, suddenly, a young woman collapses of stroke. who is she? Two paramedics arrive as the scene opens.”
Enter two paramedics.
JARVIS
Summoned we have been, to the house
of light and sound – the television studio
where all visions fantastical
leap o’er the air to the shining
squares in each and every good man’s
noble den, couch-front and shining.
BERNARD
What is the sport? What
dire sickness or mortal wound
summons our white chariot
red lights flashing like
the red eye of Jove himself?
JARVIS
I know not, friend —-
but I see presently a stout porter comes
henceforth to lead us to our
duty and sacred charge.
A television producer enters, bearing a clipboard.
GLENDA
Ah, medics — at last you arrive
fast as Hermes’ to your duty
and sacred charge — well met!
JARVIS
What sickness or ill calls us to this place?
Speak quick — swift action is the blessing of all
who ail and require our skill and succor.
GLENDA
Come hence.
The three discover HENRY V, one time King of England and France — and OTHELLO, a moor. They crouch over the still form of a young woman. The paramedics rush to the woman’s side and begin tending to her.
GLENDA
Honored nobles, please come away and
allow these men to fulfill their charge.
The people of America wait for you to speak
and fill their hearts with the message of
your glory, vouchsafe the country’s goals
and seize the crown imperial through
this televised debate — the time of choosing
is nigh — we must begin this play of words
‘ere more sands fall through the hourglass.
OTHELLO
Jupiter and blessed Pallas Athene!
I do pray this young girl can be
returned to full health and vital
how strange that she should fall
ill here, and swoon into the bosom
of foul sleep ‘ere she could
speak her dire message.
HENRY
Uh huh.
OTHELLO
What means this, friend Hal?
I know we disagree most bitterly
on the course and tack of this country’s ship.
But surely you do not suggest that I—
HENRY
Look, buster. I think we all know about you and the ladies.
OTHELLO
Your words are dross, instead of true-gold.
How can you speak with the split tongue
of a garter snake — here on the cusp of our debate?
To take this poor woman’s fate and twist it to
suit your minstrel-song and mechanical-pander.
HENRY
Or should I say…..girls?
OTHELLO
Listen here, you mealy mouthed motherfucker —
JARVIS
Hark! She breathes, the flame of life
still burns within her mortal frame.
Our duty and sacred charge has been
well served here this day, this time
of legends!
The woman rises and approaches the two candidates.
WOMAN
Look upon my face and know despair
twenty fathoms deep your heart thrown
in iron shackles beneath the blue-green
waves of Poseidon’s kingdom.
OTHELLO
O, horror!
HENRY.
Fuck.
WOMAN
I served your purpose, and served your lust–
a chattel born to the lash is better served
by a quarry’s cruel labor then I was served
by you two princes of the earth.
To take a poor widow, kept in a house
with madmen and waggle-doctors —
to make me scribe your words,
plan your campaign, even pick
out the color of your tie.
Neither of you have half the manhood that I can claim.
you are bitter, empty things — gourds full of sound and air.
And now, here on the edge of your greatest glory
I come— I come to strike you down
GLENDA
Who are you, strange woman?
HENRY
Look — could you not — shit.
OTHELLO falls on his sword. No one notices.
LADY MACBETH
I am the kingmaker — I am the queen of iron
behind the prince of straw, spinning quiet webs
and laying plans for these fools’ victory.
And I will have my cup overflow with
revenge and the blood of those who have
wronged me.
HENRY
Hey — Lady M. I think you spilled some barbecue sauce on your dress. It’s right there….on your sleeve.
LADY MACBETH begins to tear at her clothing.
LADY MACBETH
Out! Out! Damn–
A ravenous bear enters.
EXEUNT all pursued by bear.
Story on Demand – Blank Curse
Hey — I want to write something faux-Shakespearean. Give me an idea!
[No, I will not worry about the meter — because I’m super lazy.]
A Hero’s Death
Elijah leaned against the crude statue in the village green. Time and weather had done its work on the stone, its features pitted and scarred. The unknown founder’s face was unrecognizable, but it still stood its ground, keeping watch.
The old soldier ran a whetstone down the edge of his greataxe. Both edges had been grief-sharp for an hour, but he pushed the stone again and again. He stopped, and looked up into the battered face of the statue.
He could relate.
Across the dark green, the sounds of music and merrymaking spilled from the general store. The people of Jackson’s Grove had been saved by the skill and steel of the Ghosts of Gilead, his comrades. They had shaken off the terror of the unholy attack, buried their dead neighbors and immediately insisted on a party in the adventurer’s honor. Elijah was always surprised at how quickly people could forget the shadows of death, and thrust their heads into the first cake or ale tankard they could find. But he had seen it many times — his brother had lead them to many victories large and small, and here in this tiny town of Jackson’s Grove in the middle of nowhere the same old song. Drunken celebration, life over death.
His brother. Simon. Not a birth-sibling, but a brother in arms. He was always first at the bottle, a fistful of cake and his other hand down a wench’s bodice. Laughing and singing, his weapons and cares propped against the bar and forgotten. His other comrades were just as bad.
No blood-family since the Fall. These slap-dash fighters are the only kin I have left. Swords of Faith preserve me!
So it fell to Elijah to keep watch. No one asked, and no one noticed — except for the times that he gave the warning shout. The dozen-dozen times. His back to the light, sharpening his axe in the darkness.
Tomorrow morning he’d be the first to rise, as they snored the drink away. Running his hands over the faded map, planning their route — preparing for the dangers to come. Someone had to, he wouldn’t fail this little legion, now that everything else had fallen to dust.
The stone hissed down his axe-blade. Elijah wiped a bead of sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.
His ears pricked at a whisper of sound, and he bent low pulling the greataxe into both hands. He scanned the darkened houses ,one by one. The sound had come from the roof of the general store, Elijah shielded his eyes from the light and saw a slim figure slipping down the side of the roof.
It was his brother, Simon.
Not like him to miss a party. Where is he going?
Something in Simon’s face kept Elijah from calling out. The way he pressed himself into the shadows and headed north — clearly not wanting to be followed.
It was probably to meet some farmer’s daughter — or to console a young widow. But Elijah was his brother’s keeper.
And barely six hours ago they had crossed swords with devils, imps, and horrors from the Blight. The old soldier grimaced, and followed his brother into the night.
—-
Elijah followed at a distance. He was a large man, and no footpad — but the night was moonless, and his brother seemed totally focused on his destination.
A plain wood building. The Church of Linneus. Elijah felt his blood go cold. Linneus was the god of farmers, of shepherds, of the plow. But the church was empty — it’s priest had been the one that brought the devils down on his home. A filthy pact for pleasure of the flesh , Elijah had been sickened to hear. He had prayed to his own Nameless God for the grace to forgive the priest — but it had been futile. His god had been silent, and his own heart had been black and wrathful.
The priest of Linneus had forsaken his holy duty – no punishment was stern enough for that. The pain of Hell was the least that he deserved.
Why was his brother slipping into the church? Light came from within, his brother had lit a torch. Elijah hastened to the doorway and looked within. His eyes widened in shock.
Simon’s back was to the door, and the torch was jammed into the book holder at the end of the pew. Leaning casually against the altar was a devil made of paper. Thousands of pages, wrapped and folded into a feminine shape with corkscrew horns — the writing of every land covered the paper. A contract devil!
“Say what you want, Simon of Gilead — my ink is ready and time is short.” the devil purred. “Your friends 
nearly destroyed me today — I delight in the delicious irony of this moment.”
“This only involves you and me.” Simon said. “You leave my friends out of this, or this conversation is over.”
Simon, you idiot. Elijah looked for another entrance into the church, where he could surprise the devil. The windows were too small and high, and he stood at the only door.
“I need a way into Gilead.” Simon was saying.
“Homesick, are we?” the paper devil laughed.
His brother turned his back to the devil, covering his eyes with his hand. Something that he did when greatly angered. “Can you do it?” Simon said fiercely.
“Of course I can – anything you want, son of Gilead. It’s as easy as signing your name — some loops, some lines, and the path opens.” the paper devil cooed.
Simon’s hand slid slowly down his face, his eyes to the ceiling as he thought.
Only Elijah saw the truth of the devil’s words. The paper coiling itself in her hands, forming a whip – barbed and jagged. Her arm raising to strike, the paper-whip silent in the air.
The old soldier shouted a battle cry, and flung the church doors open. “Gilead!”
He shouldered his brother roughly out of the way, and caught the whip in his hand. It coiled around his thick forearm like a serpent, the barbs digging into his flesh. They were paper maggots biting tearing. Elijah felt poison course through his veins and his heart staggered. The devil hissed in frustration and tugged on the whip, pulling it back.
Elijah forced his hand to grip the whip despite the pain. He pulled grimly on the whip, his eyes locked on the devil. The paper-whip was a part of the creature, and she could not let go.
“By the Swords of Faith, by the Temple of Iron Nails.” He prayed, and his god answered.
His greataxe felt weightless in his hand, and began to burn with a pure white light. Elijah smiled, a rare thing.
The devil hissed and fought, but the old soldier’s time was upon him. He was his brother’s keeper, and his strength would not fail. He stood, as he always did.
And he pulled. His vision narrowed as the devil drew closer, screaming in rage. He saw Simon leap onto the devil’s back, his arms locked around her paper throat — but it was on the edge of his sight.
The evil thing came close, and Elijah’s axe fell.
The paper burned in holy fire, leaving nothing but ash. The devil’s scream hung in the church, burning contracts falling around Elijah.
He sank to his knees, his heart beat slower.
Simon grabbed him by the front of his armor, and was saying something his eyes wide with concern. But no sound came out, his mouth moved and Elijah heard nothing.
The old soldier pulled himself to his feet, his brother helping him and continuing to talk silence. He couldn’t find his axe, but he knew what was required. He brought his savaged arm and hand to his head.
“The Watch stands.” he said.
His brother let go with a stricken look, and forced himself to return the salute.
“The Watch is relieved.” Simon said. “Dismissed.”
Elijah couldn’t hear it, but his brother’s voice broke.
Darkness came, and Elijah went. He sharpened his axe and stood guard. There was light and music ahead, but he had work to do.
No one would catch his brothers unaware. Not while he was on duty.
[Story on Demand for N.E. White — hope you enjoyed. But I must be honest, this story has been rolling around in my brain for a while now. Original character concept W. Steven Carroll, with much love and respect to my brother-in-arms.]
Story on Demand: Luck of the Irish
Give me an idea, and a story I shall write.
Simple ideas are better than plot.
Feel free to suggest a genre you’d like to see, or any wacky-ass rules you want to lay down. No words that begin with “q”, or each sentence must have exactly five words. [You can’t pick these because I already thought of them. :P]
Do it!
spell-sword.com 