creative writing

A Review I Wrote for Michael Milton

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Upon reading “Short… “, I was able to re-think what I thought about in regards to writing stories. I have my own way of writing them; it did not change; and this is a wonderful book to read, however. I think it would be worth anyone’s time to share in Milton’s tale of his bath-house story. He discusses writing advice and displays his choices.

The story he writes about takes place in China and utilizes a main character effectively. As we read the story three different times, we see how amazing and real some great ideas can be, how they can come to life. Milton discusses techniques of revision, gives us examples of what his peers had to say about his writing. A great idea for a story to begin with, it is impressive to see how the story evolves into its amazing final draft. It is about the father of a Chinese rock drummer – it almost seems to be a factional account. Broken and torn, the Chinese father and his wife seek a brighter future.

This book is not a grammar or style book. It does not tell us how to construct a story with a specific method. It does cover various techniques, however, and shows us what works best for audiences from time to time and what will not. It would be best to write out a story and then read this book. It is more for inspiration and consideration of a certain piece of work; it is great for someone who is new to creative writing, fun for consideration to those of us who constantly rehash classic literary devices. I like the story, itself, because it uses a protagonist and concludes nicely. The final draft is well-done; he includes links for writing properly and inspiration, too.

Many of the links in the end of the book are still up to date; Milton is on the web. I sent him a compliment on tweeter, earlier, to: @miltonmichael.

I took notes as I read the book. Milton certainly has a natural gift for writing, as seen in his first draft. The story includes the use of a protagonist well, does not have a specific climax. The story did not really need one, as it did not need too much rising action, falling action, or foreshadowing. This is because it was a nice story, and its conclusion was nice. An in-depth denouement is not always necessary for every story, the father’s problems were solved. It was nice and pleasing to have a happy ending. A link to suggested writing resources via Michael Milton is here.

Milton encourages writers to review others’ works and allow others to criticize theirs, too. He uses a cat as a symbol, it is a good part of his story (I agree). Could the cat have been a symbol of luck in regards to the father finding his son? We do not know, at least the main character had the opportunity to seek a happy future. Break downs of his story and explanations were nice, as well as thinking about the line-by-lines (lbls); he does not tell us how he created the characters, scene, main idea of the story, early on.

Commentary on the second draft was fun to read; it reminded me of an intriguing web forum. Critics point out aspects of his story that we would not have noticed, otherwise, necessarily. Some of the criticism may have been more or less opinion-based, however we as writers should never forget the power of a sentence or paragraph or composition that is written properly. Those dreaded messages in red ink that say impossible commands such as, “Re-word” or, “Improper word choice” are not always there when we write on our own. “Showing” us the story with dialogue rather than narrating incidences, for instance, is not always easy to remember to do. We write out the story. It is done. How we choose to present our final draft defines our unique voice. The better we write, the more our reading audience will appreciate the voice we empower.

The final draft was impressive, indeed. All good stories should be published, they say, and how nice is it to see one revised to perfection? Very nice, indeed. Milton goes through a section on tips and tricks; the section makes the book worth reading. The story alone was fine, too. He does mention books on grammar, plotting, character, and style – they are good books. He also includes a resources link on his website, an invaluable path for writing better/well. He mentions his participation in plays, play-write discussions and acting, and how these notions better help us as writers develop our characters/their roles.

In conclusion, the book is a great inspiration for those of us learning to write better. Milton’s idea to present to us a broken down Chinese father who finds his rock-n-roll son after seeing a cat in the rain was great. He used a protagonist properly in a great story, explained to us how well he revised it and what made the story so phenomenal. His concluding thoughts and resources were both inspirational and will come in handy for anyone who decides to use them. I encourage anyone considering writing a story again for the “first time” to read this book; thank you, Michael Milton, for sharing with us your various methods of mayhem. Awesome job.

♦

The Van Man

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One time, there was a man who drove a van.  In this van he hauled drums.  He played many gigs.  Times good and bad, the best were hardly meek.

His name?  Mark Gibson.  A common name, people thought it was cool that his last name was on a lot of guitars.  Mark followed around with lots of different people and bands over the years.  Before he was a drummer, he worked various jobs and did not finish college.  He made up his mind.  He thought, “I am a man.  I make decisions, and I like to do things.”  So, that is what he did.  He found people who could sing and play the guitar, and he played the drums for their various bands.

Mark stayed with one band for four whole years, and decided to let them go.  His reasoning was that the others in the band were pretty tight; they knew at least four people who would greatly appreciate being able to play the drums with them.  Hence, he explained things to these guys, and left them.  Their name was “The Flaming Lizards,” and they did rock pretty hard, according to their fans.

Mark decided to travel.  Most of his gigs were in the southern part of Arizona, where bands are known prosper.  He had some funds saved, howbeit, and decided to travel to Hollywood California.  To meet people.

Everything was planned out nicely; he had his van gassed up all of the way, an extra tank, his: drums, clothes, money, personal belongings, goals.  Mark was set, and he head out.  He drove and drove down the open, peaceful highway.  The scenery was breathtaking, the air pure, the temperature even surprisingly acceptable.  He nearly fell asleep at the wheel, kept himself awake with cheep cola.

Something subtle occurred, though; his engine gurgled.  The man could claim many a night in his well-kept and fine tuned van with a v-6.  He knew that his engine, should not, gurgle.  He was in a good mood and happy.  He thought, “That was just a ‘gurgle,’ I will check the gas, maybe let Betsy here cool off for a moment before a good long haul.”

As he glanced down to the gas meter, it was on empty.  He had driven just long enough to be way out in the middle of nowhere.  “How can this be?” he wondered.  He pulled over to figure this out and turned off the ignition.  “My tank should not even have 10% of its gas gone, now,” he thought, and he gave his beloved Betsy a nonchalant, common-knowledge, physical visual inspection.

As soon as Mark got out of his van, with no traffic in sight, he smelled something he just did not want to smell at the time -gas.  He checked to see if he forgot his gas cap.  It was there.  Where was the smell coming from?  He looked underneath the van; found a disconnected fuel line; and reasoned that the line had not been loosened from foul play.  The connection seal was rusted and worn.  “Connection seal,” thought Mark, and thought, “This is not too big of a deal, I have my 5 gallon tank.  I will fill her up and carry on.”

He opened the back doors of Betsy and saw his beloved, covered drum set.  “What a vehicle he thought,” as he reached for his gas tank.  It was not there.  Mark distinctly remembered filling it up to go in and pay for the gas, did not recall putting it in the van.  “What a start,” thought Mark.  He crawled in his van, locked its doors, rolled down a window, said a small prayer, and took a nap.

Mark woke in the middle of the afternoon, his van baked over like a late afternoon brick oven in a sixty year old pizza parlor well established in some downtown Italian district of an historic metropolis, as he left his windows up.  The sounds of traffic going by were of seeming familiarity – he was sure to be out of this fix, soon.

He got up and escaped the confines of his oven-house, and leaned up against Betsy to begin to ask for help.  Sure enough, after four vehicles blew past him rapidly, a truck pulled over.  It was an older farmer and his adopted daughter was with him.  She was nineteen, shapely, precariously attractive.  “Where you headed?” asked the man, “Problems?”

“I am out of gas,” said Mark to Mr. Summersby, “My fuel line fell out.”  “We will see what we can do,” said the farmer, as his daughter was happy to see the drummer-man and said nothing.  Mr. Summersby ran the farm his father ran.  He and his wife adopted a young girl 17 years ago.  She was born in the United States.  Her parents were there illegally from Mexico, were taken back.  Her name?  Isabelle.

Mark saw Isabelle; she was pretty.  Her long flowing hair black, her smooth skin a natural pale tan, her smile, tempting and gentle… her lip was haired.  Mark did not really know what to think of this.  She was pretty and well-endowed, no doubt, but she seemed partially manly.  Not forgetting what was going on he said, “Good friend, my name is Mark, and I am headed to California as a percussionist.”  “I think I have enough gas here in my spare tank to get you to the next station.  You can call me Mr. Summersby.”

Mr. Summersby put gas in the van after Mark fixed the fuel line.  The drummer followed the farmer to the nearest gas station.  Mark offered the farmer money, and the farmer said it was not necessary, to have a safe trip.  “But Daddy,” said Isabelle, “Cannot he come and have dinner on the way?”  Mark was sure hungry, still did not know what he really thought about it.  “I suppose he can,” said the farmer, “You said your name was Mark?”  “Yes sir,” said Mark, “I must be headed out, though.”  “Oh sure,” said Mr. Summersby, “You have to be getting on.  You have your drumming waiting for you in California.  Our farm is just up the way, though.  You are more than welcome to come and eat with us, tonight, and to try and travel again in the morning.  My wife can cook.”

“You talked me into it,” said Mark.  He followed the old truck to their farm; Isabelle’s subtle grin stayed the same the whole way.  Upon arrival, Isabelle asked her non-biological father, “So, what do you think Mom is cooking tonight.”  “I think she mentioned fried chicken,” said Mr. Summersby, and they all went inside to clean up.

Mark was a tall and slender man; Mrs. Summersby was delighted to meet him.  They exchanged pleasant conversation and had dinner and conversed, and Isabelle wanted to see Mark’s drum-set before turning in. He showed it to her at dusk and she was amazed.  He explained how he only uses two small drums, a bass, and a symbol, because his rhythm and natural talent was what pleased the crowds -not big and costly extravagant drum-sets that would be harder to travel with.  He sold a larger set of drums to someone for a good price a few years back.  She was impressed, gave the man a hug, and went off to tidy up for bedtime.

Mr. Summersby showed Mark to the barn.  “We have plenty of room inside,” said Mr. Summersby, “Out here you will probably like it nicer.”  The farmer gave the drummer a bunch of blankets and a pillow.  “The dinner was great, and I thank you for the bedding,” said Mark.  He would have not minded staying in his van on the road, really, but the fried chicken dinner was great, and he did appreciate the bedding.  The farmer and the drummer conversed for quite some time about the farm, its history, and Mr. Summersby’s thoughts on its future.  Things would be modest.  Things would be fine.

As he had taken a nap earlier, Mark made his bed and stayed up gazing to the stars from a barn window.  The night was crisp; the air was clear; and the drummer dozed off.  A creek popped in the night.  Mark awoke without opening his eyes or changing his breathing.  He eased a squint from one eye in the direction of the barn door.  He saw it opening, entirely on its own.

A figure walked through it quietly and closed the door quickly and with no noise.  He could see her.  It was only Isabelle.  She walked carefully toward the drummer and into the light of his small window.  “I wanted to come see you,” she said.  “Your dad is going to come out here, and he will kill us,” said Mark, thinking.  “No he will not,” said Isabelle, “He and Ma are off sleeping soundly.  They will not wake up. I just wanted to talk.”  “Sure you do,” said Mark, as Isabelle lit a small candle and put it besides them.  He sat up, and she sat down by him.  He noticed that she had not removed the hair from her lip, that her nightgown was stunning with its soft laces, albeit, a probable form of costly Asian silk, its small decorative lace-flowers resembling cherry tree blossoms.

The two talked and talked about her school and plans and life and his career and all for some time.  She leaned in to try to kiss him.  He backed away, thinking she might be like a man.  Of course, he knew better.  It would not be proper ethically to let one thing lead to another, not with this young girl on someone else’s farm.  “I am sorry,” said Mark, “You are very pretty, I just do not think it would be okay for us to do anything physically.”

She put her hand on his work-hardened shoulder and said, “Listen.  I plan to live alone for most of my life.  My career is not going to involve mindless boyfriends – I am going after my own bacon.  We only live once, and I want to feel your body in mine.”

The drummer just did not know what to think about all of this.  This pretty girl and her hairy mustache – it was awkward.  She wanted it; he knew he did, too; and, as Mark looked into her eyes, he, again, saw the frail hairs of her upper lip.  That was his dilemma.  “If I wanted to get with something manly, I could just wait until California,” thought Mark, thinking, “I prefer women, do not understand being with something besides them.”

Nevertheless, the two gave into temptation.  It was her first time.  They embraced each other and made passionate love together, she was strong and got what she wanted.  The two slept like a rock.  They woke up before dawn; she wrote down her address so he could contact her.  Mark promised he would, said to keep in touch, his new band would be traveling.  He planned to send her a post card from California, gave her a twenty for some extra lunch money or whatever.  She was happy.  Isabelle kissed him on the cheek and snuck back inside to crawl into bed before her parents awoke.  They were fast asleep.  The sun’s morning glow was coming before it over the horizon.

Mark was ready to head out.  He put all of the bedding on the back porch and checked out his van.  It was fine; his fuel line was secure and fine.  As he was going, he hollered to Mr. Summersby’s window.  “I guess I am heading out,” said Mark.  “Be safe and do not be a stranger now,” said both the farmer and his wife.  “Okay,” said the drummer, “We thank you now.”  That was all they said, and he made it to the van and drove away.

Mark drove all the way to California; sent Isabelle a postcard with a horse on it; met some guitarists and played often gigs with large crowds; and they all rocked on.

♦

Francis’s Party

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Francis‘s Party

“You going to Francis’s party?” asked Frince, as the four-inch tall Christmas ornament elf shook his partner in crime,  Mince, a little.  “Am I alive?”  asked Mince, as he climbed to his feet.  Silver, gold, blue, green and red glitter shimmered from the cracks of light seeping into their ornament box as it fell in the nostalgic air of the small fellow waking.

It was Christmas Eve, once again.  It was duty time.  Historically, in this house, Frince and Mince came to life on the 24th of December, at midnight.  The woman of the house and her husband always erected a Christmas tree and decorated it with ornaments and lights of varied hue to shine in the late dark cold night.  The woman, three years in a row, now, decided to go with a “theme” for the tree.  While stunning to those who saw these Christmas trees, the older ornaments of past tradition were usually mostly left in their decorative, glittered and dusty, ornament box.  This year she titled her Christmas tree’s theme “The Ice of Winter”, and their tree was adorned with mostly store-bought silver ornaments and blue and dark-blue lights and metallic silver stringed strands.

Frince and Mince made their way to see the tree; both found it to be baffling.  “Back to business.”  “Due course.”  They scurried to the shadows of a near sofa and discussed hunting options.  The two elves were connected magically.  It was unnecessary for them to speak aloud, many times, because they shared natural extrasensory perception.  They could hear each other think with minimal effort.  This kept them safe from their one known danger other than living and walking-while-awake humans, their big fat lazy old nocturnal cat.

Their duty? To find the mouse, Streak.  They caught Streak, one year, eating cookies left out for Santa, and the cat caught and ate the mouse right in front of the elves.  How did the elves see the mouse again?  Streak came back into physical form a few days later, as the elves lay down to rest for another 362 days.  They usually only come to life once a year.  Why were they on a hunt for Streak?  For one, to prevent confusion.  If Streak was to eat more cookies, it could upset the woman.  If the cat was to eat the mouse, it could mean another costly trip to the vet.  The mouse was sure to come to life anyway for most of the year.  The elves commonly only lived three magical days, themselves.  So, it was up to them to find this mouse, and that is what they sought to do.

“I seen him.”  “No you did not, you are still waking.”  “We will see.”  Mince thought he saw the mouse streak around a corner to his normal creviceway hideout in the corner of a back room.  The two elves, sure the humans were asleep, ran to the opening in the corner.  The mouse was, as guessed, nowhere to be found.  “If not be him here, as you were accurate, why not frequent the cookies?”  “I want this to be quick and easy, this year.  I think your idea is supreme.”

The two elves traversed the normal shadows of the house to finally find a plate of cookies on a small book-table with a moodlamp lit on dim.  “That is not a Christmas tree.” “You are correct, Mr. Natural Eggnog.  It is still stunning, though.”  The two elves shared a short-lived moment together appreciating the aesthetic value of the green and red sugar cookies and white and brown fudge cubes on the large crystal platter with shimmering golden trim.

Then, as if they were not even visible, as if no small cookie crumb could be thrown to them from the short table, Streak climbed unknowingly onto the high-class platter.  Frince and Mince both saw the small mouse and made their way to the table.  The tiny creature was exceptionally fast and would be nearly impossible to catch if the two elves were to mess this chance up.  They positioned themselves behind a large mug of warm milk, as Streak was sure to extract one good crushed nut from a large chunk of fudge and scurry off to some place of safety as soon as possible.

Frince noticed that the small scoundrel was not even paying attention.  The mouse removed a large chunk of a walnut, and Frince motioned to Mince.  Mince leaped a good four steps from the mouse and was on him, had him behind the ears by the neck.  The tiny creature might have actually got away, however Frince was just behind Mince and hoisted the mouse into the air by his short hind legs.  “We have him!” thought Frince, almost loud enough to wake the woman.  “That we do” thought Mince, quietly enough to near the man into a supposed year-long length of slumber.

The happy elves held onto the small mouse and bounced and danced to the fire.  A small faggot was only burned on one end.  Mince held the mouse to the log and Frince went and found a small thread of sorts to tie the mouse down.  Upon his return, he and Mince tied down the mouse, and Mince drew his “long-sword” – the four-inch tall elve’s ritualistic version of a Katana.  Frince almost fell asleep – it was almost too easy, this year.

Just then, however, both elves saw the cat.  The old, overweight feline monster was creeping up to them, one paw per inch, one noiseless step at a time.  He was spotted, able to pounce, howbeit, at any time.  Mince near shaded himself a new hue of white and glanced to Frince for some attempt of request for authority.  Frince looked to the cat, calculated their possible escape, and said, “Take him.”  Mince quickly came down upon the small mouse, decapitating him, and the cat leaped into the air.

Both elves jumped away from the slain mouse to escape the deadly cat.  The cat caught Frince, Mince stayed within dangerous reach, moving.  Soon to bite the head off the magical little elf, the cat looked to Mince to see if there was any last reason for not pursuing his natural wishes.  Mince had to think quick, his sword would do him no good; he remembered the warm buttermilk by the cookies.  Mince aimed his sword in that direction and the cat knew there was warm milk over there.  The large fluffy animal lifted his paw off the terrified elf and strolled toward the buttermilk.  Halfway to the moodlamp, the cat lay on his side and slept.  The two elves were exhausted, too, and sat for a moment.

Their annual deed was done.  They walked to the Christmas tree and watched the fading lights glow bright blue and dim to darkness repeatedly, decided to turn in.  They made their way up the stairway-ladder to their ornate ornament box to conclude the Christmas night.  As Frince was closing their lid for slumber, he noticed a large, shiny black boot make the chimney floor’s ashes cloud into its surrounding air.

♦

On Writing, Topic 001 – A Method of Crafting an Effective Story

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On Writing (“Francis’s Party”),

Topic 001 – A Method of Crafting an Effective Short Story

Introduction

“On Writing” is a mini-blog, currently in the form of a quick and easy post, within my larger small blog for fiction creation.  It is meant for those who would enjoy discussing ideas such as creative writing, literary devices, and publishing.  If you have any thoughts, commentary, suggestions, or other type of feedback, I will more than welcome your comments. I will research your questions and lessons, and usually approve them for others to learn and benefit from.  Please enjoy what I have to present to you; I welcome inspiration as well as lessons on creating intriguing fiction.  Thank you for your time; again, enjoy.

A Method of Crafting an Effective Short Story

Classical methods of creating a short story are constantly rehashed in what we read.  A short story, by its very definition, is a story of about 2000 words.  With at least 500 words, but not usually over 9000, many a synopsis is good enough for the common reader to enjoy before bedtime.  And who are we trying to impress?  Ourselves.  Our audience.  The more intelligible our audience and the more impressed they are with our work, the more we have to be proud of.

Without having ever written it down, verbatim, I do have my own method of writing down a decent story.  I will share my easiest technique with you, will most probably be part of the crowd that refers to the post before crafting a new story.

First, I think about what actually happens in the story, or what could.  I also compare a good notion with many other ideas; I give them the attention I can to compare these ideas.  I think of journalists, how they document real life – what people pay to know about besides the weather and photos entities such as the Associated Press may compensate for.  What of setting?  What of characters, beings, and occurrences?  Am I thinking of a love story?  What is my reason for the story?  Is it for a competition, a certain genre?  Is it to remember a fond memory of childhood or some factional psychological venting?  Usually, I like a good bedtime-story for any age, unless I want some action more suitable for adult readers.  I seek to edit and revise my stories for quality, as if any one of them were to be submitted to the most ruthless of editors or the most competitive of large-volume competitions.

I will explain my technique, as I design a new story, even if it is not my very next one to author.  Why let the word “series” come into place here?  Because, once we setup some dialogue, a setting, original characters, incidences and a conclusion, we can use the same ideas for new stories over and over.  Once we have a good setting and characters, we can use the same building blocks over and over for many exciting stories.

Let us make a first and original story, though, for now.  We will choose a setting, some main characters, come up with the dialogue as needed, and even begin the story with dialogue, as an audience-catching literary device.  One story I never wrote had to do with Christmas and the name Francis.  It is alluded to in a story in “A Collection of Tales”, my first book.  I find it to be a quick and easy idea to give examples to classically defined devices.  If you read this entire post, it should, at the minimum, be a fun reminder for any storycrafter’s technique.  I was going to leave personification out of this lesson, however the brilliant hues of Christmas lights and little elves in my mind just seemed like too much fun to pass up.  What were we going to endure for this reminder, anyway?  A conversation between two people waiting for a bus ride with a camera?  Two women having tea only to find their waiter faints at their table in the deadest, coldest time of winter?  No, no; we are going with elves and can love each other and our art in the process.

We will not actually start the story, just yet; we will plan it out, however.  I suppose I will go ahead and type it up, too.  We, as I said, will start the story with dialogue.  This involves the two main characters, a victim, an outstanding party, and shadow characters.  In my book, there is a story about a young university student who analyzes water.  It is titled “Forrest Hollow” and includes paranormal experiences in the woods.  Before his travels, the main character reads a short story titled, “Francis’s Party”, because his name happened to be Francis and he came across it.  I had yet to have composed the draft; we will do that within this post.  I am happy to finally post to On Writing; the closest idea I ever had to starting a second blog.  I love the study of literary devices.  This post, alone, should suffice for our collective needs, for now.

“Francis’s Party” is set up to be a form of personification and some form of an approach to horror.  Mostly like a cartoon, it attempts to use reality with characters that are fantastical beings.  Is the idea completely original?  Very close.  It was inspired.  While watching the Cartoon Network on New Years Eve of 1999, I saw the “Millunium” – a ten-hour showing of the most popular Warner Brother’s cartoons during the last 100 years.  I was completely wired and enjoyed every cartoon.  Between the old familiar classics, I saw these two Christmas ornaments speaking.  They were elves who could talk with each other.  One always asked, “You going to Francis’s Party?”  That was close to all that occurred before the next show.  So, we can now manufacture what these two elves were really up too – killing a mouse annually.

That is our premise of the story we are happily crafting.  Once a year on Christmas Eve, two characters with original names carry on their tradition, skillfully.  We will begin the story with one elf  waking the other.  This means we start with dialogue.  Then they seek and attempt to find the mouse.   A large cat creates a confusing situation, or conflict, because the old cat had never been aware of the elves’ wrongdoings, before.  The shadow characters will remain sleeping; the presents have all been wrapped and the night will be dark and late.  A series could easily be made of the story, because it involves an annual event, can re-occur much like a Road-Runner cartoon’s basic plot premise.

Before I type the story, I must include one last important notion.  My way of writing a story is easy.  Choose a good idea.  Try to remember the main characters, what and where things happen, and write out the story.  Make sure things that happen lead up to a main occurrence and then conclude with some form of a summary.  This last part is not always necessary.  A technique, of its own device, is to conclude completely with the main occurrence.  I do not think we will incorporate that device, this time, however.  Once you have written down or typed up the story, go back and revise it for diction and concision.  This involves using carefully selected words for proper meanings while not writing in a verbose or wordy manner.  While typos may cause you to do such a thing anyway, there are two more reasons.  Peruse the first draft for once for typos and again for enjoyment; search for the use of purposely used devices and re-write the sentences as necessary; and re-write sentences for proper style in the world of masterful prose.  Attempt including an emphatic construction somewhere, if at all seemingly possible.

Here are some questions to ask once you are done with your first draft and are ready to re-write it with competent intention.  Where is your climax?  What happened, series of events wise, to lead to it?  What can you include around a fourth of the way into the story for foreshadowing?  What devices are important to you, anyway, and will it change the story for the better or worse to include classic methods such as the utilization of symbols?  If you have great symbols and reasons for using them and the time to do it well, do it.  That is my advice.  Symbols are great for teachers and people wanting to tell a story having little to do with what an unsuspecting reader may actually infer.  If the reader identifies proper use of symbols without reading commentary of the author on the work, more power to the reader.  I will type our story, and we can discuss some devices able to be used in other stories, afterwards, analyze what we will with our fun Christmas horror cartoon prose narrative.  We can always learn together by your posting comments to this post; please, do.  Remember, classic rules and techniques are great to know; they are not necessary always.  Such is the art-form of a short story, to begin with.  If we do not get back with your commentary, try again every two weeks or so.  We do value commentary.

Francis’s Party

“You going to Francis’s party?” asked Frince, as the four-inch tall Christmas ornament elf shook his partner in crime, (1) Mince a little.  “Am I alive?”  asked Mince, as he jumped to his feet.  Silver, gold, blue, green and red glitter shimmered from the cracks of light seeping into their ornament box as it fell from the small fellow waking.

It was Christmas Eve, once again.  It was duty time.  Historically, in this house, Frince and Mince came to life on the 24th of December, at midnight.  The woman of the house and her husband (2) always erected a Christmas tree and decorated it with ornaments and lights of varied hue to shine in the late dark cold night.  The woman, three years in a row, now, decided to go with a “theme” for the tree.  While stunning to those who saw these Christmas trees, the older ornaments of nostalgic tradition were usually mostly left in their decorative, glittered and dusty, ornament box.  This year she titled her Christmas tree’s theme “The Ice of Winter”, and their tree was adorned with mostly store-bought silver ornaments and blue and dark-blue lights and metallic silver stringed strands.

Frince and Mince made their way to see the tree; both found it to be baffling.  “Back to business.”  “Due course.”  They scurried to the shadows of a near sofa, and discussed hunting options.  The two elves were connected magically.  It was unnecessary for them to speak aloud, many times, because they shared natural extrasensory perception.  They could hear each other think loud and clear.  This kept them safe from their one known danger other than living and walking-while-awake humans, their big fat lazy old cat (3).

Their duty? To find the mouse, Streak.  They caught Streak, one year, eating cookies left out for Santa, and the cat caught and ate the mouse right in front of the elves.  How did the elves see him again?  Streak came back into physical form three days later, as the elves lay down to rest for another 362 days.  They only come to life once a year.  Why were they on a hunt for Streak?  For one, to prevent confusion.  If Streak was to eat more cookies, it could upset the woman.  If the cat was to eat the mouse, it could mean another costly (4) trip to the vet.  As the mouse was sure to come to life anyway for most of the year, the elves commonly only lived three magical days, themselves.  So, it was up to them to find this mouse, and that is what they sought to do.

“I seen him.”  “No you did not, you are still waking.”  “We will see.”  Mince thought he saw the mouse streak around a corner to his normal creviceway hideout in the corner of a back room.  The two elves, sure the humans were asleep, ran to the opening in the corner.  The mouse was, as guessed, nowhere to be found.  “If not be him here, as you were accurate, why not frequent the cookies?”  “I want this to be quick and easy, this year.  I think your idea is supreme.”

The two elves traversed the normal shadows of the house to finally find a plate of cookies on a small book-table with a moodlamp lit on dim.  “That is not a Christmas tree.” “You are correct, Mr. Natural Eggnog.  It is still stunning, though.”  The two elves shared a short-lived moment together appreciating the aesthetic value of the green and red sugar cookies and white and brown fudge cubes on the large crystal platter with shimmering golden trim.

Then, as if they were not even visible, as if no small cookie crumb could be thrown to them from the short table, Streak climbed unknowingly onto the high-class platter.  Frince and Mince both saw the small mouse and made their way to the table.  The tiny creature was exceptionally fast and would be nearly impossible to catch if the two elves were to mess this chance up.  They positioned themselves behind a large mug of warm milk (5), as Streak was sure to extract one good crushed nut from a large chunk of fudge and scurry to some place of safety as soon as possible.

Frince noticed that the small scoundrel was not even paying attention.  The mouse removed a large chunk of a walnut, and Frince motioned to Mince.  Mince leaped a good four steps from the mouse and was on him, had him behind the ears by the neck.  The tiny creature might have actually got away, however Frince was just behind Mince and hoisted the mouse into the air by his short hind legs.  “We have him!” thought Frince, almost loud enough to wake the woman.  “That we do” thought Mince, quietly enough to near the man into a supposed year-long length of slumber.

The happy elves held onto the small mouse and bounced and danced to the fire.  A small faggot was only burned on one end.  Mince held the mouse to the log and Frince went and found a small thread of sorts to tie the mouse down.  Upon his return, he and Mince tied down the mouse, and Mince drew his “long-sword” – the four-inch tall elves’ ritualistic version of a Katana.  Frince almost fell asleep – it was almost too easy, this year.

Just then, however, both elves saw the cat (6).  The old, overweight feline monster was creeping up to them, one paw per inch, one noiseless step at a time.  He was spotted, able to pounce, howbeit, at any time.  Mince near shaded himself a new hue of white and glanced to Frince for some attempt of request for authority.  Frince looked to the cat, calculated their possible escape, and said “Take him.”  Mince quickly came down upon the small mouse, decapitating him (7), and the cat leaped into the air.

Both elves (8) jumped away from the slain mouse to escape the deadly cat.  The cat caught Frince (9), Mince stayed within dangerous reach, moving.  Soon to bite the head off the magical little elf, the cat looked to Mince to see if there was any last reason for not pursuing his natural wishes.  Mince had to think quick, his sword would do him no good; he remembered the warm buttermilk by the cookies.  Mince aimed his sword in that direction and the cat knew there was warm milk over there.  The large fluffy animal lifted his paw off the terrified elf and strolled toward the buttermilk.  Halfway to the moodlamp, the cat lay on his side and slept.  The two elves were exhausted, too, and sat for a moment (10).

Their annual deed was done (11).  They walked to the Christmas tree and watched the fading lights glow bright blue and dim to darkness repeatedly, decided to turn in.  They made their way up the stairway-latter to their ornate ornament (12) box to conclude the Christmas night.  As Frince was closing their lid for slumber, he noticed a large, shiny black boot (13) make the chimney floor’s ashes cloud into its surrounding air.

♦

So our story’s first draft is complete, and, without a single revision, we can discuss what I like to deem “natural device.”  This is when we can consider the use of device as it occurs within the story without too much actual intention.  I have included dialogue in color to show which elf is speaking or thinking, an idea I received from a fellow blogger with no current blog, maybe (Nonsense-and-Shenanigans on Word Press).

At any rate, I used numbers in parenthesis to denote the attempted use of literary device.  I will include those; define some classic terms; include some words from Wikipedia; and we can engage into what commentary is possible for this mini-blog and a story that I have waited months and months to draft, “Francis’s Party”.

Numbered Device Reference Notes

(1) foreshadowing – the two elves may be up to a treacherous act of some sort with the inclusion of the word “criminal.”

(2) shadow-characters – the intentional use of therciary characters; they exist and do not speak.

(3) character, semi-personification – we intentionally introduce the third of five chars, the cat is nearly personified, does make a decision later in the story.

(4) reference-connection device – “costly” indicates some connection to familial economic reality, a dangerous tool to use in fiction.

(5) symbol – the milk symbolizes life for the cat, freedom for the elf, later on in the story; the idea that beings must do something to gain or consume something to exist can be loosely inferred in symbolic consideration.

(6) conflict and dilemma – the cat represents an antagonistic danger to the objective of the elves, as well as the well-being of the elves.  Everything was fine; at this point, they are in danger.

(7) climax – the climax of the story is when Streak is slain.

(8) narrative hook – we, as readers, are encouraged to continue reading, because action in “up in the air.”  We want to see what happens to the elves; for one small moment, the cat is in the air, and we do not know if the elves will be captured or eaten or both.

(9) protagonistic dilemma – one of the main character’s well-being is put into question, causing us to care for him.

(10) falling action – action is slowed as the characters are no longer in danger and the story’s conclusion is on the way.

(11) comprehensive denouement – a story’s summary of events, how the dilemmas of the characters are resolved, and their resolutions are explained during the story’s falling action is a story’s denouement.  Not explaining much at this point, we at least know the two protagonists had a goal and found their success.

(12) (consonantal) alliteration – useful as poetic device, it is a favorite of mine in the rhythmic world of prose.

(13) symbolic conclusion – we know, indirectly, who is coming down the chimney.  The conclusion leaves us to wonder if the elves heed to a conscious consideration of being good or bad, whether Santa can find them living or not.  It would be largely up to the reader.  One way or the other, it is fun to include a the visual image of a known and favored character without too much of a direct statement.  What, on Earth, would he think of his missing cookie crumb walnut chunk?

 Common Literary Device Terms for use in Short Stories

 plot – the main scheme, plan or story-line of a story, play, or other composition

climax – a decisive moment during ongoing action in a story when plot changes; the most intense point in a story

setting – the surroundings or environment of where action takes place in a story, often briefly described

character development – description of main characteristics of a character, further explanations of a character’s persona, endurance shaping

personification – act of making something human-like that was not, i.e. a talking rock, tree, or animal

summary – explanation of basic incidences in a story, usually towards the end

denouement – post-climax explanation of what happened to the characters, normally including a story’s resolution during its falling action

conflict – opposing force of normal/natural action, many times, when a character is forced to choose

decision – a character’s time of choice or when they are presented with being forced to choose

character – person to be described in a story, being what the story is about

antagonist – main char’s opposing char in a story; adversary

rising action –  events that lead to the climax

falling action/resolution – events occurring after the epiphany (climax) of a story

protagonist – main character in a story

dialogue – speech between characters in a story

scene – realm to be described that characters interact in

transition – literary device that changes from one sequence of events to another, usually by alluding to the change of incidences before they begin to happen

narrative hook – device used by writers to keep readers involved with an ongoing story

description – presenting details about a character, object, event, or scene

symbol – object, word, or concept within a story that represents a secondary idea

visualization – descriptions that can let us, the audience, visualize scene, setting, objects, or occurrences

clandestine visualization – device used to allow an audience to see a character, scene, object, or concept without describing said item/items in words/verbatim

[

The following information was extracted from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Short_story –

More Short Story Terms:

exposition – the introduction of setting, situation and main characters

complication – the event that introduces the conflict

crisis – the decisive moment for the protagonist and his commitment to a course of action

climax – the point of highest interest in terms of the conflict and the point with the most action

resolution – the point when the conflict is resolved

in medias res – when short stories have an exposition beginning in the middle of the action

]

Thank you for enjoying these literary reminders and ideas; remember, I patiently await your every comment. This first draft of “Francis’s Party” was 1173 words long; the entire post currently contains, 3598 words.  🙂

My Most Prized Possession

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My Most Prized Possession

Like the cleanliness of a floor with nothing on it, and as the deep sea’s endless flatness presents to us a peaceful existence when it can, I prefer nothing.  My most prized possession is not having one.  John Lennon mentioned this idea in a song or two; Buddhists consider the notion, too.  Even Christians are against forms of greed, though Satanists enjoy the notion of indulgence.  No one wants to make a mistake… I have goals.  Many people do.  I love to write; being able to is a talent I consider to be somewhat of a possession of mine.

I am new to writing as a craft, compared to what I want to be able to do with it eventually.  I have been able to write well for most of my life; I realize that there are techniques that I still have yet to master.  Anyone can sit and jot some prose without too much difficulty; I am still new enough with writing to be in pursuit of my own style and voice.  I do already have both a voice and a style; you do, too.  Being able to choose your own voice or writing style can be a challenge if you make it hard on yourself.  It will be a worthwhile endeavor, even if we do not find these goals to be easy.  Not for me… natural talent is one thing; I still have some exploration to do in the world of grammar and style.

For the most part, though, I am happy with what I can already do.  My talent is hard for me not to covet; being too proud would certainly have its mindless drawbacks from a secondary perspective.  I love to write.  I plan to.  I like reading others’ writings; I want to do better than most.  I think I can.

So, to be new to an old art is a fun and exciting adventure.  I do not have a lot, worldly possession wise.  I am not overly concerned with the notion.  I will be thrifty or giving when I can – I hope my books sell to millions of readers before  I die.  I have a few projects that I am working on.  Life is not easy for me, for now.  With tentative financial debt and a dedicated quasi-addiction to writing; I do what I can.

Hats off to you though, if you chose a car or house or even a week-willed person.  You can have something and suffer the consequences as a calculated cost.  Praise that idol.  Keep it well.  Let it all go; the choice is indeed yours when you are able… know that I am behind you.  I hope you as the audience enjoy my words.  I, from time to time, put what thought I can into them.  My goals with writing are usually achieved in my opinion.  I have nothing else I want more, and I plan to gain, gain, gain.

I have no possession to covet; my writing is my breath of life.  If you have read this, thank you for your time and more power to you.  Be what you can be.  Choose well, for the future is at hand.

♦

The Ride Back

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The Ride Back

I had asked for two days off in a row; permission was granted.  Where was I to go?  Photoblogging!  Of course people of adventurous natures get into it… me too.  I took pictures of anything and everything with my new camera – it could hold over 1,000 photos in its memory.  I had enough footage to spend the next year with in editing and web display.  People would definitely like to see these photos; I was in action!

It was the trip back that I remembered the most, albeit.  Out of all of those sites, all of the crazy positions and smiling people in those parts of America, it was the ride back that I remembered most.  She was tall and thin, speechless.  She was blonde.  What was her name? I will probably never know.  I needed a place to sit on the bus; I smelled her from the door.  She did not smell bad; I liked it.

I caught a faint smell of flowers and sweat as I opened the door.  Only two things smelled this way – sex and summertime.  Surely I was not able to sit by her.  She was listening to her headphones, a trance mix.  There were other seats, she motioned for me to sit next to her, offered one of her headphones to me.  So I sat with her for three hours listening to trance music, as she placed her arm on my shoulders.  It was summertime, and that was the best bus ride of my entire life.

♦

A Narrative for Mr. Wise

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A Narrative for Mr. Wise (inspired from here)

Dear Grandpa,

          Hi; Ned here.  How are you? I am fine.  I wanted to share the most inspiring thing I observed last week.  As you know, I journal.  In my journal, when mom lets me take walks, I draw sketches of scenery and write descriptions, poetry, and plot ideas.  The other day I was about two blocks from the park and found a large rock, bigger than me, under a tree.

I sat up on the rock thinking I would surely endure something; things happen in nature.  I was guessing I may see a bird fly by; I may have to endure conversation; or maybe traffic would proceed as normal and nothing too exciting would really occur.  Do you want to know what happened?  I got to speak to a police officer.  I was not in trouble; I saw him speaking with a woman across the way and he came and checked on me before he carried on.

“Was that nice lady okay?” I asked him.  I tried to sound intelligent.  I said, “I imagine you guys get called out for the elderly all of the time due to this excruciating heat index commonly over 110° f.”  I was ready to mogate (walk away) if he said it was not okay for me to be on my lovely rock.  Other people had sat there – it was polished.

“The nice old woman across the street is Ms. Feathers,” said the kind officer.

“She has lived there for forty years.  Her children all have jobs out-of-town and her husband died three weeks ago.  She is three months behind on her rent, has been living with no electricity for seven weeks.  It was sad to hear; she knows my grandmother who is ten years older than her and lives in an assisted living facility.  I was called to escort the nice lady to the street due to an eviction notification.  I paid her landlord, and I plan to move Ms. Feathers into where my mother lives if she cannot find work.  She will be able to, though.  I spoke with her.  She did not know about the government programs available for seniors; a buddy of mine can hire her for part-time work at McDonald’s.  I think she can do it; it is not too far from here and she should be fine.  I do not mind helping her out; my grandmother will be happy with me for it.”

“That is very nice of you, sir,” I said.  “I think there is a place in heaven for people like you that can give others a second chance.”  The man said, “I am a blessed man.  I enjoy my job.  Be good when you grow up.”  He then carried on, said he was back to his beat.  I imagine he patrols a few blocks on foot during the evenings.  He saw me with my writing pad.  It was nice of him to explain the story of the lady.  Her house was rather inspiring, too.  I sketched it.  It reminded me of large plantation houses mentioned in history books in the south before the civil war.  Her house has four large columns out front and an old swing; I am sure we can find someone to help her pay and live there, too.  We can ask around for her at her church, maybe.  There is always a way to help others.

I hope she can keep her house.  The government programs added together with something to do for work should at least buy her the time to find something somewhere, even if she has to move.  I was bold; I went and met her.  I asked her if she would like to be a my pen pal, let her know I write as a hobby.  She shared her current address with me, and I found the Classified Ads section of her newspaper for her.  She looked through it and said she may give  a few of the numbers a call, however McDonald’s would probably be a more sound route.  She attends the Presbyterian church on 9th and Rivers St.  Maybe we can go there to check on her, sometime.  I do not think mom would mind.  Do you think there would be any reason not to go?

At any rate, I am glad the old lady did not add to the homeless population.  I hope she does well, that the community gives her some options, somehow.  I know where the soup kitchen is downtown; mom, at times, dislikes it when I go see those people.  At least I eat my vegetables when I do.  I hope all is well with you; I look forward to hearing from you.  I included a brief poem for you and Grandma Wise:

A Noontime Raven,

by Ned

Oh black raven

how are you there?

The sun is up above;

no moon?

The heat is on your back.

Death here soon?

Fly, raven! Fly!

You, too, can

continue to try.

I hope you enjoyed the poem.  I, like many, am a huge E. A. Poe fan.  Ravens usually symbolize death, somehow; I wanted to visualize one during the brightest part of the day to see where it would take me.  I suppose it led to the idea of keeping on.  I can be dedicated to trying to do my best at what I can.  I wrote this letter to you listening to a disco mix.  Well, I am going to do my schoolwork, now; I look forward to seeing you!

Love always,

Ned

♦

Joy in the Night

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Joy in the Night

One time their was a young girl and her name was Joy and she was of pale skin and dark black hair; her room was draped with the simple efficiency of common-wealth and clean and mostly white with its pale blue hues from the vast moonlit night.  The night breathed in terror as young Joy could not sleep and opened her sash to let in the cool damp breeze of the night.  In her gown she lay in fright wondering why she felt so alone. Continue reading →

Cecilia, Part 5

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Cecilia, Part 5

Cecilia enjoyed coaching woman’s basketball almost as much as she enjoyed teaching.  She kept her lesbianism to herself for obvious professional reasons.  Ms. Evans possessed a sincere desire for the furthering of the study of the English language.  She also was a devout thinker in the world of Math.  She kept up with the study of Math and English as a hobby.  She was also able to contribute to the world of art history and its expansion.

Things were going well.  Cecilia and Muria kept the physical side of their relationship completely secret.  They went to the nicest restaurants, as before, and the two lovers only pleased each other sexually on rare occasion.  Cecilia could not complain and Muria did not mind; it worked out.  Muria got along with her husband better, even though they got along fine, anyway.

Cecilia still maintained her contributions to the city.   As a person dedicated to many ideals, one being education, Cecilia made sure to take at least one day off a month to check on her small private school.  One of the school secretaries was not the brightest woman.  Her name was Jena, and everyone loved her.  “There is something I want you to see,” said Jena, one day.  Cecilia was  not really planning on speaking with her, needed to return to the 2A school by noon.  Cecilia had plenty of time.

“What can I do for you?” asked Cecilia.  “We have a lost and found box; it has various things in it that the students or other people leave or find.  I found something in it with your full name on it – a camera,”  said Jena.  “What kind of camera?” asked Cecilia – she possessed a high-end Canon for all of her photography and blogging needs.  As someone who could afford such a toy, she was sure to have the best and use it properly.  “I think it is a metallic, burgundy Nikkon, and it looks like a cheap one,” said Jena.  “I will take a look at it,” said Cecilia, “Thank you, Jena.”

Cecilia brought the camera with her to school and then home.  She chopped up some ingredients from her fridge and tossed them into a big salad.  Cecilia poured salad dressing onto the “thing” and decided to check out the foreign object, or Nikkon.  It had a memory chip in it; she removed it and put it into her computer.  Without too much difficulty, Cecilia was able to pull up four pictures.  Each photograph was of someone burning something late in the night; it was Muria.  The photos were clear enough to tell where she was, as she was in the vicinity of the back of her property.

Cecilia did not really know what to think of it.  She thought about it though.  Thinking – what could it do for her?  The photos were taken the night of Christian’s disappearance.  The next morning was a Saturday; Cecilia woke up and called Muria.  Muria did not mind sharing an early morning coffee with Cecilia; Cecilia enjoyed bringing her favorite coffees to Muria’s house.  This morning it would be the Tropical Maui blend Cecilia had just recently purchased.  It was sure to be a gourmet espresso that would them both well-wired.

They shared coffee and Cecilia showed Muria the pictures.  The coffee was great.  The photos almost freaked Muria out, however she thought about it and realized that she probably did not have too much to consider in the world of worry.  She figured someone had definitely taken pictures of her; that the individual was sure to get the photos to Cecilia, somehow; and that there would not be too much to worry about.

 Someone may have known of the foul play, may have even seen Muria’s actions.  Whoever it was gave up the whole camera – not just copies of their photos.  The person was a probable wealthy neighbor, unwilling to say too much about one thing or another.  Cecilia decided that she was not in too much direct danger, though she was still a little unsettled.

“What were you burning that night?” asked Cecilia.  Muria was far too cunning to be naive or anything other than logically diabolical.  “I remember that night,” said Muria, “I was cleaning out a bunch of old stuff to throw out, and I came upon a painting from my husband’s college art class.  It was of a nude woman; he kept it all these years, though I thought he had thrown it away.  I skipped the book club to burn the old painting.  I did not really know what I was doing; I burned it on the ground with charcoal lighter fluid.”

“Maybe he took the pictures?” asked Cecilia.  “I doubt it,” said Muria, “I think he fell asleep watching television that night; he did not get off the couch until the next morning.”  Cecilia left the small cartridge with the photos on it with Muria and went home.  The two both found it to be odd, however nobody contacted them ever again.  Someone knew Muria started a sizable fire, that was all.

♦

α   β   γ  δ

The Airport Lady

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The Airport Lady

Ned was a twelve-year-old novelist.  He spent most of his time reading and writing, was going to fly on a plane to a conference on writing.  Ned had about 40 minutes to board his plane, so he went to check with the flight attendant near the entrance to the big tube that would connect to the flying jumbo-monster.

“Hello,” said Ned, “I have my boarding pass, here.  Do I give it to you now?”  “Keep that with you and we will announce boarding in 32 minutes,” said Wanda, the flight attendant.  Ned felt better, he then knew he was in the right place.  He left the entrance stand to find a place to sit.  Dressed in blue jeans, a tucked-in white t-shirt, and tennis shoes, Ned was dressed casually enough to have a bit of confidence.  He was flying alone; his mother was not too worried.  Airports to them were like shopping malls.

“Where should I sit?” wondered Ned, then he saw her.  The lady he saw was very pretty.  She was wearing an orange dress with navy-blue lines – the dress would have been impossible for other women to sport.  She was reading a magazine; Ned had to sit by her.  Even he did not really know why.  “Is this seat taken?” asked Ned.  “No sir,” said Ms. Flowers.  It seemed as though she was losing interest in her magazine.

“I see I am not the only person waiting to board this plane,” said Ms. Flowers, “Did you find the flight attendant to be somewhat uptight?”  “I think she could crack a glass marble in her… you know,” said Ned; the attendant might as well been a talking pair of starched pants.  Ms. Flowers nodded to agree as she glanced towards the attendant.  The woman in the orange dress looked to the ground.  She was sad about something.

“Is there something you would like to talk about?” asked Ned.  Ms. Flowers looked to Ned and said, “I would love to, you would not understand, though.  How old are you, 12?”  “I happen to be exactly 12!” said Ned, “You are quite the intelligible woman guessing.  Why are you sad?”

“Once a year, for four years in a row, I was able to see an ex-boss.  I currently work in consulting for another firm, however I was using my paid vacations to come and see this man.  He paid me.  I did not need the money; it was nice to see him, though.”

“This arrangement was professional?”

“You seem smart for a 12-year-old.”

“I am a prodigy; I study all sciences.  I write; I publish.”

“Wow, maybe you could give me advice.”

“I always think, ‘Let it go.’  I remember not to dwell on anything that may bring me to an unhealthy frame of mind.  As for you; I am no doctor.  I can relate a few things, albeit.  Do you want to hear these possibilities?” Continue reading →