Dear Mr. Bradbury,
I never had the opportunity (as some lucky individuals did) to meet you in person. I will not have the chance to shake your hand and say thank you for Fahrenheit 451 and the Martian Chronicles, and so I’m afraid that this will have to suffice. Thank you, Mr. Bradbury. I’ll never forget the worlds you showed me.
Normally, I’m not a reblogger. I’m a retweeter. In the case of this brilliant poem (note that it’s not written by the person I’m reblogging), I had to make an exception. Enjoy.
Each month, the wonderful Sonia M. over at doingthewritething presents her fellow bloggers with a writing challenge, usually to create a piece of microfiction that fits within a particular word limit and based on a simple prompt. It’s a great way to connect with other writers, and it can only help to boost your creativity. Isaac Asimov even wrote under similar limits, once crafting a short piece of fiction designed to fit on the back of a postcard. The man was a genius, but I digress.
This month, Sonia’s challenge for us was “First Impressions and Famous Last Words.” We were allowed to write any genre, but we were limited to one hundred words and told to create either the opening or closing lines to a story. Here’s my contribution.
* * * * * *
The explosion shook me off my feet, hurling me into the bulkhead. The airtight doors around me began to seal, red hazard lights flashing as artificial atmosphere vented. I scrambled for my emergency oxygen mask, knowing that precious seconds would make the difference between living and dying. As soon as I was breathing normally, I looked around again, pleased that my training had saved me but terrified of what could’ve caused such a catastrophic failure in the compartment. My communicator was still attached to my belt, but it had been damaged in my fall. No signal. I was truly alone.
* * * * * *
Was it the first or last hundred words of a story? I don’t know. I like that it could be either one.
“Leave this to me. I’m British. I know how to queue.”
One of the best things about my library is the fact that I can put things on hold, and they’ll be delivered promptly for pickup whenever they become available. It’s like Netflix for books. Even new releases can be placed on hold before they physically arrive in the library system. This means that I can track the upcoming books, order them, and get in a queue for things before they’re in stores. Now, granted, everyone in the library system has this ability, but few people utilize it to the fullest. I like to use it to keep up with some of my favorite new manga series. I’m also around fifth in line for a DVD copy of Game of Thrones, and I am thrilled. I didn’t watch any of the episodes when they aired, for two reasons. One, I’m too cheap to pay for HBO, and two, I wanted to finish reading all of the available books before I started the show. Now I can sit down and watch the whole thing.
Speaking of television, has anyone seen the BBC series Sherlock yet? It’s in my instant queue, and as soon as I can dedicate a few hours to it, I’m going to power through. It’s three episodes, each about an hour and a half long, and from all of the reviews I’ve heard/read, it’s absolutely genius. I’ll let you know my verdict, but I can only imagine the power of a show about a modern version of Sherlock Holmes starring Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. I absolutely love Sherlock Holmes anyway, and I’m quite happy to see that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s work is getting so much attention right now.
Since getting back from my trip, I have started a new schedule at work. This has several benefits, most notably the fact that I am now earning partial benefits. I have more hours each week, a slight pay raise, and the same awesome people to work with. Yet another advantage: I’ve got the same schedule every week, instead of my old alternating schedule. My girlfriend and I can carpool three out of my five work days, saving both of us a lot of wear and tear on cars, and money on gas. All in all, it’s a very good thing. Things are looking up. I’m still hunting for a second part-time job, but I’m also starting to be brave and send out emails to the big publishers and submitting short stories to various publications. Needless to say, there’s a lot to do in the near future. Good thing I have plenty of new TV and books to read, and things to write. Look forward to a new writing challenge entry, coming soon to a blog near you.
A few years back, I took an advanced grammar course at my school. Being who I am, I absolutely loved it, and I found myself digging through old assignments on my computer this morning, and came across this. We were instructed to create a single, grammatically correct sentence that contained at least one hundred words, and I responded with a little character introduction.
“His elegant, beaklike nose and dark black oilskin raincoat dripping furiously, the large man drew the gazes of many as he burst suddenly through the heavy oaken door of the inn; out of the fiercely piercing rain and whipping wind and into the welcoming embrace that was the main dining hall; out of the inky blackness of the night and into the warm glow of the roaring fire; safe at last from the threat of the lurkers in the shadows and secure in the familiar confines of Georg’s tavern; free of the frantic chaos that enveloped the outside world and comforted by the sight of Georg pouring him a foaming tankard of ale.”
It’s all the fault of my literature professors. I fell in love with the beat generation several years ago. I was introduced to people like Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs, and their numerous contemporaries. When I first read “Howl” in my American Literature class, it didn’t really click with me. Then we listened to Ginsberg reading it. It was a lightbulb moment. My entire concept of what poetry was and what it could be was completely inverted. I’d never heard anything with that kind of, well, beat, to it before, and I’d certainly never heard any poetry that was willing to take on the subject matter it did in such a bold fashion. I couldn’t believe it had been published in the 50s, and that was before I learned that Ginsberg stood trial for obscenity for the poem. Not that he was the only author who’d ever faced that kind of censorship. No. Like so many others, Ginsberg was merely ahead of his time. Want to see something amazing? Check out the movie “Howl,” which stars James Franco as Ginsberg, and discusses Ginsberg’s life at the time of his trial.
Some people would say that beat poetry died, or at least was phased out, in the 60s. I would disagree, thanks to the various poetry slams I’ve attended in the last few years, and also thanks to things like Tim Minchin‘s “Storm.” A good friend of mine showed me this the other day, and I can’t help being impressed by the brilliance of the writing and the tone of the poet as he reads it. Looks to me like the Beat Generation is still alive and well.
Well, my New Year is off to a great start, with a day spent helping put away Christmas decorations and (finally) finishing Skyward Sword. That’s right, I’ve finished yet another Zelda game (you know, aside from the side quests, item hunting, and the new, more challenging “Hero Mode” that I unlocked).
It’s been nearly a year since I started this blog, thanks to V‘s influence. Through her, I’ve made contact with some pretty awesome people out there in the internet. I just want to take this time to say thank you to everyone who reads these, however infrequently. You make me feel like I might be able to make a difference.
I’m pretty sure that most of my readers already know how much I love J.R.R. Tolkien. The other day, I came across this, a brief piece that just proves even more awesomeness on the part of the man behind some of the greatest fantasy ever written. It’s not just that he was a phenomenal writer. It’s also that he was an incredible man. It would be an honor to be able to call myself comparable to a writer who has inspired me since I was in kindergarten. I’m also pretty excited about this picture, and the upcoming Hobbit films.
I think that some of you might be interested in reading this article as well. It’s pretty relevant to most of us, since the vast majority of us are writers, after our own fashion. It was originally sent to me from V, and number 13 on the list struck me as exceptionally relevant, since I’m her editor/publicist-to-be/leech of money from my soon to be famous friend, etc. I know that she’s going to do well. I’m hunting down some possible REAL editors for her at the moment. It’s good to keep busy, and have a few different options for writing projects, and I’m happy to help out someone who’s so far ahead of me in the novel-writing game.
I’m always looking out for new words, or old ones that have fallen into disuse. When I was taking classes on early literature, I absolutely loved studying Beowulf, because our professor was incredibly passionate about the language. He also taught my class on Chaucer, and I’d never met anyone quite like him. He loves to talk about his visits to Westminster Abbey to have chats with “Geoff.” His love for the language of Middle English and its predecessor showed in every lesson he taught. Because of his classes, I’ve rediscovered my own love of languages, and so, when I first heard this song, the first thing I did was look up a word that was unfamiliar to me: skald. Thanks to wikipedia, I learned that skalds were Scandinavian poets/bards, and they were responsible for most of the earliest known Norse poetry. Personally, history aside, I think it’s an awesome word. Toss in the historical aspect, and it just gets better. Skaldic poetry also includes one of my favorite concepts ever, the kenning. Now V and I have discussed this at length, but the kenning is a metaphor, usually hyphenated, found especially in Scandinavian verse, such as Beowulf. One of my favorite examples of a kenning is used to describe a character’s vast knowledge and ability to speak eloquently. “That noblest of men answered him; the leader of the warrior band unlocked his word-hoard.” Is that not the best way to show off someone’s sheer skill in speech?
Is it too much to ask to be able to want to write something like that?
I’ll be away for a couple of days, as I’m going home to visit family. It’s the first time in over a year that I’ll be going home for something other than a funeral or Christmas, so I’m very much looking forward to it. I’ll be writing while I’m gone, so I should have my July Challenge posted as soon as I get back. In the meantime, I’d like to leave you with this and this. I found a new channel on youtube called wax audio, and the mashups presented are some of the best I’ve ever heard. I’ll see you all in a couple of days. AWAY!
“I hate navigating around this place,” James muttered to himself. His grandfather’s home was labyrinthine, and despite his heritage (his father and grandfather had both been legendary puzzle masters), he despised mazes, and the idea of making a home within one tormented him.
He found himself in front of the family’s sculpture of a young man holding a sword in one hand and a ball of twine in the other. The statue itself was one that his grandfather had commissioned decades before, after he’d decided to take up permanent residence on the island that had once merely been a vacation spot. That was long before James had been born. Long before his mother had died, leaving him in the care of his father.
“Okay, twine-boy statue, then three lefts, a right, another left, and the second hall on the right.” James was consulting a paper that his grandfather had given to him to help him find his way.
“I promise not to tell your father,” the old bull said. “I know that you don’t have the gift, my boy. It’s quite alright. There are very few of us left, after all, and a life filled with puzzles must seem dreadfully dull to a young one such as yourself. There are so many new things in this world. I’ve lived a long time, and I’ve seen a great many things. This home is the greatest puzzle in the world, and someday it will be yours, no matter how you feel about that. Some day, I’ll be gone, and there’s a hidden room with my greatest treasure inside. Those directions will get you there, but you must promise me that you’ll wait until after I’m gone…”
James’ grandfather had passed away almost a year ago, and he’d finally built up the courage to visit the old house. That same old-people-smell still lingered, though it felt almost stale now. He tried not to think about all the visits to see the old bull before he’d passed, but memories lingered in every one of the near-identical passageways. Finally reaching the end of the sheet of directions his grandfather had left him, James found himself facing a dead end.
“DAMMIT!” he bellowed, slamming his fist into the wall. “I followed them perfectly! What did I miss?” He punched the wall panel again, making contact with a fresco of the man who’d once ruled the island. Suddenly, a hidden door slid open in front of James, revealing a room he’d never seen. Glancing inside, he spotted a single box sitting on a table in the otherwise empty room. James opened the box cautiously, lifting out a photograph of himself as a young boy, an older minotaur beside him. On the back of the photo, in a labored scrawl, was a note from his grandfather.
“I will always be proud of you, James, no matter what. You are my greatest treasure.”
James wiped a tear away as he pocketed the photo, and walked back into the labyrinth.
The Swords of the Ancients 