More cheese

A random anonymous comment brought my attention back to this unfortunate and ill-attended blog. In honour of "Groo's" appreciation for my classic piece fantasy fiction, I present another installment of my grade eleven story, 'The Guardian', unfinished sequel to the equally unfinished grade ten work, 'The Mystery of the Algonquin Matrix'.

At this point in the story, our heroes have--oh, I don't know, spouted a lot of awkward dialogue and carved their way through numerous beasties drawn from the pages of the Monster Manual. They now confront the top henchman--I think--I can't exactly remember where I was going with all this, you know? Hey, I wrote the damn thing over a decade ago!

The Guardian, continued...

..."Now you die, asshole!" he howled, then mightily charged as the gunner let out a terrified scream.

But as he ran forward, something suddenly grabbed his leg and he fell to the ground. Then, with inhuman strength, he was swung by his legs and thrown across he room. He smashed into an old, dusty table, which splintered under the impact, and laid there stunned.

As Bill had moved forward, Jackie had followed by his side. But her head suddenly erupted in pain as a large, round shield filled her vision and bashed into her head. She was flung to the ground by the force of the blow.

Even as his companions leapt to the attack, Mark had released his arrow. It flew threw the air, before being plucked out of the air with uncanny speed. The hand holding the arrow clenched, and it snapped with a surge of power.

Even as the three wounded comrades looked on in horror, Dave lowered his arm and let the fragmented pieces of wood fall to the ground. His eyes were vacant, his face devoid of any emotion or feeling.

The man laughed once again. "Little turds like you didn't stand a chance against the boss. You would all be dead now, if he didn't want to see you personally."

"Now, drop your weapons. Surrender..."

"I'll never surrender, you prick!" yelled out Jackie.

"Or I'll blow your kneecaps off." finished the man, then fired the gun once. The girl's kneecap suddenly exploded, blood splattering everywhere, mingling with the red pouring from her nose. Her scream of pain filled the air, echoed from wall to wall.

"No!" screamed Dave. The vacant look suddenly left his face, and anger surfaced, twisting his lips into a fierce scowl.

He tottered forward, Sekaon raised to end the man's life....

***

You know, I remember being quite proud of that bit, back in the day. And yes, both Jackie and Bill were friends (term used loosely in the case of Jackie) from high school. I think they each had colour-coded weapons and armour, and this was before I'd ever even seen the Power Rangers! Prophetic, I am.

An unfinished love sonnet for R&J

Continuing my mission to do at least some of the same work that I ask my students to do (I figure that within a year or two of teaching I ought to have managed to write up exemplars of it all), I started working on a Shakespearian sonnet for my year ten class. I started working on it while at that training seminar I went to two weeks back, but haven't really done much with it since. It's almost done--the third stanza's a mess, and that's what I haven't finished yet. Any suggestions?

A Love Sonnet for R&J

When I think of you my mind’s eye sees ice
Unyielding, rigid and bright, strong and cold.
Unthawing such a love comes at a price
Too heavy to bear, or so I’ve been told.

But cold can burn as strongly as the sun
And captured light in hoary form does shine
Brighter than light unconfined. Do not shun
This inconstant star, this brilliance of mine.

[If lonely passion seems too weak to melt]
or
[My love may not burn strong enough to melt
Passions spent too quickly may not touch deep
Yet last long. Caught in glass they may be felt]

Separate things in frozen form become one;
Caught in you my love be forever done.

Meh. So some bits weaker than the rest, but overall not too shabby, I think. Well, fine... but it's still a hell of a lot better than my Villanelle!

Letting the Curtain Fall

I mentioned it over in my daily blog but only made a short, passing reference to it: I've finally started a novel, a serious, real effort at a long piece of writing, the first in... I don't know, since I was a teenager in high school, starting a new novel every other month.

I kept delaying the start through over-planning and outlining and character sketching, but finally stopped and forced myself to start writing. And yeah, what I'm writing might not even be very good, but it's a definite start. I've been back to it a few times since, time allowing, and written more and I'm feeling optimistic about the whole thing. Starting this, however, has almost certainly killed at least one of my fanfiction projects: Let the Curtain Fall. That story simply meshed far too well with the story I've started, and I've basically stolen from myself and integrated elements of that plot into this new one.

Every now and then I'll post little bits of the story here, I think, and now that I've actually got a proper 'work in progress' I should be able to use this blog in the function it was originally intended for: a sounding board for idea and a running commentary on my writing process. A place for rewrites (appropriately enough, through teaching I've finally learnt the value of second and third drafts) and the venting of frustrations.

In the meantime, here it is: the rushed first sentence, written at 11:59 pm on Halloween night, the final minute of my 30th year.

In the setting sun restless water glimmered with reddish tints and cast dappled crimson hues against the grey concrete wall.

June, 1917

Another piece of writing. Wrote this back during my B.Ed, following a trip to the War Museum (the old one, before the redesigned it). It was meant as an exemplar of a possible activity following such a visit--writing a diary entry from the point of view of one of the figures studied at the musuem, or in War Poetry studies. The artifacts viewed at the museum really helped--like the mace Henderson has below, and some of the trench details.

***

June, 1917

An hour ago Fritz sent down a barrage. No real point to it. I think they do it on general principle. Then again, so do we. A war fought on general principles. Last week we raided a trench at midnight, it wasn’t a surprise since we knew we’d have to go at least once before our tour was up. Strangest thing, we took them completely by surprise. Went over the top and walked across the broken and blasted land and straight up to the trench. At night No Man’s Land doesn’t look terrestrial, it’s all grey and pale whites and things jump out in sharp relief, except when artillery lights up the landscape like a false dawn, and then the shadows skew across the mud in a crazy dance. We got to the trench and jumped in and took down the first few before they knew what was happening. I remember feeling envy when we hit their trench. Some young blond-haired kid standing there with a cup of coffee in his hand, his rifle leaning against the wall, and I took off half his jaw with a single shot before his eyes even widened with surprise—and I felt envy at their trench, cleaner and dryer and better built than ours.

Stick a bayonet in someone and it’s hard to shoot after, sometimes, what comes out gums up the rifle something terrible. Another kid came up from the left and we went at it up close, and when he went down he took my rifle with him. I felt wet but didn’t know if it was blood or sweat, mine or his. Henderson went down and I went to help him, took that club of his he’d made and I’m not sure after, somehow dragged him away and pulled him from the trench. The machineguns stuttering behind and the rattle of the rifles.

Eight wounded that night. A couple of French Canadians, a guy from New Zealand, Henderson, Bryce…

What of it? Wounded and killed on both sides. We continue to bombard, ceaselessly. Everything still stinks and we stand in water up to our knee and nothing changes. What currency does courage hold when it is squandered without thought? Henderson won’t be back. His legs were too red. Wasted, and to what end? This war feels as if it is being deliberately prolonged by those who have the power to end it.

Some kind of protest or declaration must be written.

S. Sassoon

***

Some of the details are hard to appreciate if you don't know Sassoon and his stuff... the bits at the end are drawn from his 'declaration', and the sound of the machine guns I pulled from one of his poems. Actually, I also based myself a bit on a WW1 diary entry I found online. So, not entirely original, but I reckon enough of it is to call it my own. I'm kinda proud of a couple of the lines I managed up there.

Anyway, brought this into class to help my year ten girls with their 'Original Writing' coursework--writing an 'I Was There' story, from the perspective of someone else, somewhere else. Don't think it helped. Some of them are so damn set on making this harder and refusing to do the activities I assign for them. They don't trust me, I think, since I'm new at teaching the GCSE. It's true, it's my first time walking students through their coursework. But creative writing... yeah, I'd like to think I know something about that, thank you.

Fizz! Bang! Whamo! Honey Pot!

So, after a recent chat with artist friend B-- over at frogfeetproductions, a new idea has popped up. Graphic novels! No, serious. Yeah, this probably sounds like other ideas I've popped out: writing for the Nugget, hacking out that novel, producing a coupla short stories--but it's different, see, because it involves a partnership, another person depending on your work so that you've got to get your end of the deal done in time. I'm good at that! I don't like conflict; don't like letting people down.

Of course, there's the downside that I don't actually know anything about the graphic novel written form--the script format or how much you're supposed to impose on the artist. (B--'s the artist, obviously. I can barely manage stickmen, as you can see to the left here. Me, MS Paint, and a touchpad: yay! Though I do hope to learn how to draw someday--at least, to draw better. Though my latest whiteboard drawing--Clucky the R.E. chicken--has become the offical mascot of my year seven R.E. class. I should commission a proper drawing of that damn chicken--he's a funky mascot. And he's religious!

To be honest, it's not the first time I thought about it. (Writing a graphic novel, that is, not non-denominational chickens.) After reading The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay, yeah, I was suddenly big on the idea of the graphic novel. And I think I've got a coupla ideas floating about in the back of my head. So who knows... something else to play with (or feel like a loser about if I don't get it done). But B--'s really good, and I think between the two of us--I mean I honestly think we could come up with something of genuine quality!

Guess we'll see...

Revising a poem; the past keeps you humble

I think I've decided to stick with yesterday's poem.

Is it good? Nah, not really, but considering how little poetry I've actually written--I think I've got something to learn by working it over, polishing it into something a tad better. I'll ditch those middle stanzas and rework 'em a bit. Kinda fun, really.

But nothing new and original to post tonight, despite my intentions to get some writing done. But wait! What's this? Rather than something new, how about a blast from the past, a relic drawn up from the deepest, darkest recesses of my hard drive? This little gem was hacked out on an 8086 (!) and has been transfered from floppy to hard drive to cd and back so often it's a miracle it's still intact--let's give it up for digital!

So here we go, the opening paragraphs of The Guardian, introducing the world to Dav (formely known as Dave), rescuer of princesses!

***
With a mighty battle-cry the shimmering blade slashed downwards once again, and dug deep into putrid flesh. The horrid, misshapen creature let out a pathetic scream, till Dav's mystical blade ended its existence by removing its skull-head with a single swing. Steaming, acidic blood splashed outward, hissing as it struck the warrior's armor.

He turned, oblivious to the melting scum that was all that remained of the chaos-spawned monstrosity. Dav, also known as the Crusader, looked around, searching for more enemies. Small skirmishes continued around him as his valiant army repressed the last of the demon-hordes that had been recently pouring out of the chaotic Hellands.

***

Not bad, I'd like to think, for a 15 year old. It's readible, at least. Ah, but just wait for some of the scintillating dialogue!

***

"Prepare to die, foolish mortal! None can stand against the hordes of Rakash, Demonlord of the third Pale, servant to none but Histhanar and those of the fourth and greater, and his minions!" His voice was terrible to hear, and a loathsome smell poured from his nostrils.

Even as Dav looked, other creatures, similar to Rakash, but seemingly lesser in status, rose from the ground, emerging next or in the midst of his armies. He raised himself to his full height, and turned to face to vile Demonlord.

"Rakash!" he thundered out in his most commanding voice. "Know one thing, before you attack! I am Lord Roberts, Duke of Shaminé, defender of this land, protector of its people. I am also known as the Crusader, savior of Kulmon, defeater of Chaos, rescuer of princesses. Furthermore, I am known as Dav, the demonslayer. And know that I wield Sekaon, blade of Power, wear the enchanted armor of Khavin, and bear the great shield Arkadiov. And I fear neither you, nor did I fear your superiors, as they fell to my Chaos-slaying weapons and magic!"

For a second, the great Demon seemed to hesitate, doubt creeping through its loathsome eyes....

***

Oh... my... God.

Stars Are Many and the Dark Is Deep

Hardly fair to ask my year nine students to write poetry and not give it a go myself. Distracted myself from necessary corrections and wrote a villanelle for myself. For those not familiar, the villanelle is a very structured form of French poetry that fell out of favour and was often dismissed as pretty but essentially pointless--until Dylan Thomas came along and wrote one of the greatest poems of the 20th century in that style: Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.

I'm no Dylan Thomas. I don't even pretend to be a hack poet. But here you go: Mike's Untitled Villanelle! This bloody thing took me over an hour to write (maybe two!), can you believe it?

***
Untitled

At night across my heart I feel it creep
Empty spaces nearer home catch the sky:
Yet stars are many and the dark seems deep

Solitude and angry thoughts deny me sleep,
Double bed with a single pillow: why?
At night across my heart I feel it creep.

Against the glass those cold distant lights sweep,
The answer must lie with a woman’s thigh.
Yet stars are many and the dark seems deep.

Cheerful pub glow, and company we keep,
To then return home and try not to cry.
At night across my heart I feel it creep.

Whatsoever a man sows shall he reap,
I observed the winds and the clouds that fly.
Yet stars are many and the dark seems deep.

And I am deeper yet; I will not weep.
To those empty spaces I turn my eye.
At night across my heart I feel it creep,
Yet stars are many and the dark seems deep.

***

Yes, I cribbed from both Robert Frost (Desert Places) and the Bible. Rough as this thing is... any comments? (And no, please, don't read too deeply into it, eh?)

Not sure what I was trying to get at. I think I began intending it as a bit of a lark and half-way through tried to take it seriously. Started by looking at possible rhymes, actually--a villanelle requires an awful lot of them (7 for your 'a' and 6 for your 'b')--and maybe was thinking of my recent posts on my main blog and words like 'dark', 'lonely', 'night' came to mind... which I admit is very, very cheesy. You'd think I'm an angsty 14 year old. A 14 year old _girl_ for chrissake! But the difference between a 14 year old and an adult (that would be me, I think) is, I hope, that I can at least try for something a bit deeper. (Trying in no way assures actually achieving any depth.) So I wanted to start with some of that depressing, lonely stuff--which immediately made me think of Robert Frost, for some reason, even though I haven't read or studied his stuff in years, but with that whole star and depth thing suggest that there's always more to it--an infinity of options, alternatives; and since it all only 'seems' deep, I figure that'd be my backdoor in case someone accused me of bullshit.

Meh, it's not all bad, I'd like to think. The biblical reference is a bit obscure... not the sowing and reaping ("whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap"--Galatians (ch. VI, v. 7)), but the wind and clouds ("He that observeth the wind shall not sow; and he that regardeth the clouds shall not reap"--Ecclesiastes (ch. XI, v. 4)), which is to say... I haven't sown a thing, and therefore I'll reap nothing as well.

Not sure if the ending is optimistic or not. Am I turning my eye towards those deeper spaces I'd like imagine are within myself? Or turning away from them? Eh, who knows?

I wish I had rhythm. Sigh. I'd hate to drop a whoop-ass can of scansion on this thing. Not that I quite know how, that is.

Enough beating up my own work. Maybe with some revision and serious thought I could salvage it into something mediocre. But, you know: "Double bed with a single pillow: why?" I mean... c'mon! And how seriously can you possibly take any poem that mentions a woman's thigh?