Hey, peoples. Like I promised, here's the info on the next Columbus Writing Group meeting. This isn't going to be any kind of official extension of our group or anything, but Rachel and I really liked last week's meeting and we'd love to see you there. There are no treats, but the group stays focused and they can provide some really good feedback.
Date: 6-1-10 (that's June first, for you number-haters out there)
Time: 6-8 pm
Location: Columbus Library (2530 South, 500 East. It's in this old-looking "Columbus School" building)
Bring a short-ish piece of writing (about 2000 words is the limit, I think?) to read out loud. Come on, it's good for you. :)
Monday, May 24, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
Journal
As a reminder, our meetings have changed,
because Anthony has to practice his play.
It's just for a while. Do not come on Wednesday.
The time for our group has been changed to Friday.
The meeting will be at the same time of day
and at the same place, though, so Hip hip hooray!
*ahem*
Thanks to Barbara for posting something on the blog! I should really keep this place more updated. Here's the piece that I'll probably be bringing tonight, although I might choose the part that comes after the part I brought last time. We'll see. This is one of the last of James' (Zidaiku's dad) journal entries.
---
August 26, 2681
I'm at this trashy joint called Booze 'n Brews. It's the kind of place single men (or married men who keep secrets from their wives) come to get drunk and watch a peep show for cheap. Hazy smoke fills the ceiling. Combined with the dim lighting, it's difficult to see anything clearly, regardless of how close it is to me. When I breathe through my nose, I smell equal parts alcohol, burning paper, and piss, but the smell of the air is still better than its taste.
I'm sitting at the bar, keeping my nose in my non-alcoholic Bloody Bubble. I'm enjoying the fizz of carbonation in my ears and throat while ignoring the catcalls and heavy music from the stage. I'm focusing on the cherry red liquid climbing up through the straw instead of the reflections of miniature, scantily-clad women in the spherical glass. I'm thinking of Sarah, imagining her in front of the television, wearing her favorite nightgown, but suddenly she is onstage and removing it to the cheers of other drunken men who all have Zidaiku's newborn face.
I push my drink away from me, wondering if the barkeep had lied about its alcohol content.
Halen is sitting alone behind me at a table in the shadiest corner of the bar. He drums his fingers on the wooden table top, squinting at a darker stain on the yellow-stained ceiling as if he's calculating its diameter, chemical makeup, and age.
Falon's the one I'm more worried about. He's down close to the stage, pretending to enjoy the strippers. He takes a swig of beer and whistles with the rest of the drunken men. Despite Imogen's death and the way he's taken it, he's doing a good job tonight. But I can still see sadness in the corners of his eyes and mouth and I know his mind is somewhere else.
The reason we're here is also sitting by the stage, a dozen empty beer mugs filling his table. He's got hair the color of a cigarette that used to be short and well-groomed, and he's wearing the same not-so-black leather jacket he had worn for ten years. His face is as red as my Bloody Bubble, and like most weekend nights, he's past drunk. His hand is shaking as he tilts his current drink to his face. He uses the other to steady it, but it doesn't help. Beer spills into his mouth and overflows. It splashes down his shirt. He takes one gulp of the alcoholic lake in his mouth, chokes, and sprays the rest across the table. He sets his mug down and resumes muttering to himself: “Destroy it. Destroy. Destroy them.” His eyes are circled with black and violet bruises. One hour until the bar closes, and then he'll start walking down the block to his apartment, where twenty-seven empty bottles of vodka and a half-dozen bloody murder instruments would greet him were he not stopped on the way and arrested for serial murder by the other Knight waiting in a car outside.
The busty female barkeep, who had also seen the man spill his drink, sighs and mutters a comparison between men and the excrement of farm animals. She hands a tall mug of frothy drink to another customer, then wipes her hands and walks toward the man's table. I watch carefully while she approaches him, my hand reaching into my jacket and clutching the cool plastic handle of my energy pistol. She says something to him and points to the door before taking four of the mugs from his table. The man doesn't move, doesn't even look up, just keep taking lazy swigs from his mug. The barkeep makes three trips to clear the table, then repeats what she had said before and holds out her hand for the final mug in his hand. No response.
She tries to take it from him. He doesn't let go, but his narrowing eyes flicker up. “Let go,” the barkeep says. “It's time for you to go home.”
“Destroy,” he says.
“Are we going to have a problem?” she asks.
“Destroy you. I will. Destroy.”
She turns to two burly men, each of them twice my size in both height and width, near the bar. “This man needs a little help finding the exit. Would you be so kind?”
They approach, and the first man nods. “My pleasure, ma'am.” He grips the killer's shoulder with a steak-like hand and pulls him from his seat. “You heard the lady. Let's go.”
The killer breaks his mug over the first man's thick, bald head, then thrusts the handle and the sharp glass remaining around it into the man's stomach. The second man tries to restrain the killer, but a sharp cut on his forearm from the broken mug pushes him back. Halen and I simultaneously draw our energy pistols and call for everyone to get down. When the way is clear, we open fire on the killer, aiming for his shoulders and legs. My wind-element shots are light but rapid, while Halen's earth bullets are slower but hit hard. Most of the shots hit their marks, and the man falls back, blood and mana soaking his jacket black once again and seeping purple onto the hardwood flooring. We stand over him, keeping our guns hot. He moans “destroy, destroy.”
“You're under arrest for serial murder,” Halen says. “If you'd like any chance at life in prison instead of the death sentence, you'll be very cooperative with us.”
A pair of black tentacles whip out from the space just in front of the killer's heart and plunge into our chests without creating wounds. My mana shoots to my extremities in powerful and rapid waves, but instead of activating, it feels like it's boiling. Our pistols clatter to the floor while we writhe, and the killer gets to his feet. He's smiling.
“Destroy,” he says. A new surge of pain rocks me. “Destroy.” Again. He continues to repeat “destroy, destroy,” accompanying each with a blast of internal fire. I try to think of way to escape, but my brain is shutting down. Images of Sarah and Zidaiku flash in my mind, and I wonder if this is what it's like to die.
My eyes are almost closed when I see Falon approach the killer from behind. He sets his energy pistol against the killer's back and fires. His gravity shot, heavy and strong, rips through the man's body, whistles between Halen and me, and shatters the front window. The tentacle in my chest fades into black smoke and the killer collapses to the floor, dead.
Falon puts his gun away.
We pay the shocked barkeep for our drinks and the window, and we even cover the killer's tab. When the body collectors are done cleaning up and the squad from the city guard are finished asking questions, we go out for ice cream. No one talks. I go home after that and hold Sarah for a good fifteen minutes. She asks me what happened, but I give the excuse that I'm not supposed to talk about it.
I became a Knight because I wanted the glory of being a hero.
I'm still a Knight because I don't want Zidaiku to grow up in a filthy, violent world.
because Anthony has to practice his play.
It's just for a while. Do not come on Wednesday.
The time for our group has been changed to Friday.
The meeting will be at the same time of day
and at the same place, though, so Hip hip hooray!
*ahem*
Thanks to Barbara for posting something on the blog! I should really keep this place more updated. Here's the piece that I'll probably be bringing tonight, although I might choose the part that comes after the part I brought last time. We'll see. This is one of the last of James' (Zidaiku's dad) journal entries.
---
August 26, 2681
I'm at this trashy joint called Booze 'n Brews. It's the kind of place single men (or married men who keep secrets from their wives) come to get drunk and watch a peep show for cheap. Hazy smoke fills the ceiling. Combined with the dim lighting, it's difficult to see anything clearly, regardless of how close it is to me. When I breathe through my nose, I smell equal parts alcohol, burning paper, and piss, but the smell of the air is still better than its taste.
I'm sitting at the bar, keeping my nose in my non-alcoholic Bloody Bubble. I'm enjoying the fizz of carbonation in my ears and throat while ignoring the catcalls and heavy music from the stage. I'm focusing on the cherry red liquid climbing up through the straw instead of the reflections of miniature, scantily-clad women in the spherical glass. I'm thinking of Sarah, imagining her in front of the television, wearing her favorite nightgown, but suddenly she is onstage and removing it to the cheers of other drunken men who all have Zidaiku's newborn face.
I push my drink away from me, wondering if the barkeep had lied about its alcohol content.
Halen is sitting alone behind me at a table in the shadiest corner of the bar. He drums his fingers on the wooden table top, squinting at a darker stain on the yellow-stained ceiling as if he's calculating its diameter, chemical makeup, and age.
Falon's the one I'm more worried about. He's down close to the stage, pretending to enjoy the strippers. He takes a swig of beer and whistles with the rest of the drunken men. Despite Imogen's death and the way he's taken it, he's doing a good job tonight. But I can still see sadness in the corners of his eyes and mouth and I know his mind is somewhere else.
The reason we're here is also sitting by the stage, a dozen empty beer mugs filling his table. He's got hair the color of a cigarette that used to be short and well-groomed, and he's wearing the same not-so-black leather jacket he had worn for ten years. His face is as red as my Bloody Bubble, and like most weekend nights, he's past drunk. His hand is shaking as he tilts his current drink to his face. He uses the other to steady it, but it doesn't help. Beer spills into his mouth and overflows. It splashes down his shirt. He takes one gulp of the alcoholic lake in his mouth, chokes, and sprays the rest across the table. He sets his mug down and resumes muttering to himself: “Destroy it. Destroy. Destroy them.” His eyes are circled with black and violet bruises. One hour until the bar closes, and then he'll start walking down the block to his apartment, where twenty-seven empty bottles of vodka and a half-dozen bloody murder instruments would greet him were he not stopped on the way and arrested for serial murder by the other Knight waiting in a car outside.
The busty female barkeep, who had also seen the man spill his drink, sighs and mutters a comparison between men and the excrement of farm animals. She hands a tall mug of frothy drink to another customer, then wipes her hands and walks toward the man's table. I watch carefully while she approaches him, my hand reaching into my jacket and clutching the cool plastic handle of my energy pistol. She says something to him and points to the door before taking four of the mugs from his table. The man doesn't move, doesn't even look up, just keep taking lazy swigs from his mug. The barkeep makes three trips to clear the table, then repeats what she had said before and holds out her hand for the final mug in his hand. No response.
She tries to take it from him. He doesn't let go, but his narrowing eyes flicker up. “Let go,” the barkeep says. “It's time for you to go home.”
“Destroy,” he says.
“Are we going to have a problem?” she asks.
“Destroy you. I will. Destroy.”
She turns to two burly men, each of them twice my size in both height and width, near the bar. “This man needs a little help finding the exit. Would you be so kind?”
They approach, and the first man nods. “My pleasure, ma'am.” He grips the killer's shoulder with a steak-like hand and pulls him from his seat. “You heard the lady. Let's go.”
The killer breaks his mug over the first man's thick, bald head, then thrusts the handle and the sharp glass remaining around it into the man's stomach. The second man tries to restrain the killer, but a sharp cut on his forearm from the broken mug pushes him back. Halen and I simultaneously draw our energy pistols and call for everyone to get down. When the way is clear, we open fire on the killer, aiming for his shoulders and legs. My wind-element shots are light but rapid, while Halen's earth bullets are slower but hit hard. Most of the shots hit their marks, and the man falls back, blood and mana soaking his jacket black once again and seeping purple onto the hardwood flooring. We stand over him, keeping our guns hot. He moans “destroy, destroy.”
“You're under arrest for serial murder,” Halen says. “If you'd like any chance at life in prison instead of the death sentence, you'll be very cooperative with us.”
A pair of black tentacles whip out from the space just in front of the killer's heart and plunge into our chests without creating wounds. My mana shoots to my extremities in powerful and rapid waves, but instead of activating, it feels like it's boiling. Our pistols clatter to the floor while we writhe, and the killer gets to his feet. He's smiling.
“Destroy,” he says. A new surge of pain rocks me. “Destroy.” Again. He continues to repeat “destroy, destroy,” accompanying each with a blast of internal fire. I try to think of way to escape, but my brain is shutting down. Images of Sarah and Zidaiku flash in my mind, and I wonder if this is what it's like to die.
My eyes are almost closed when I see Falon approach the killer from behind. He sets his energy pistol against the killer's back and fires. His gravity shot, heavy and strong, rips through the man's body, whistles between Halen and me, and shatters the front window. The tentacle in my chest fades into black smoke and the killer collapses to the floor, dead.
Falon puts his gun away.
We pay the shocked barkeep for our drinks and the window, and we even cover the killer's tab. When the body collectors are done cleaning up and the squad from the city guard are finished asking questions, we go out for ice cream. No one talks. I go home after that and hold Sarah for a good fifteen minutes. She asks me what happened, but I give the excuse that I'm not supposed to talk about it.
I became a Knight because I wanted the glory of being a hero.
I'm still a Knight because I don't want Zidaiku to grow up in a filthy, violent world.
80. Words
Sorry I couldn't be there tonight guys.
This is the first poem I've written in a while. It's #80 (Words) for the 100 Theme Challenge I'm doing. If anyone wants a list of the themes, it's in my deviantArt journal, or I could post it here if you prefer :)
***
80. Words
sticks and stones
might break my bones
but your words
will never hurt me
snakes and spiders
have venom that could kill
but the venom in your words
cannot harm me
knife and sword
can stab right through
but your sharp words
cannot
words and phrases
can do harm
can hurt in so many ways
but only if I let them
This is the first poem I've written in a while. It's #80 (Words) for the 100 Theme Challenge I'm doing. If anyone wants a list of the themes, it's in my deviantArt journal, or I could post it here if you prefer :)
***
80. Words
sticks and stones
might break my bones
but your words
will never hurt me
snakes and spiders
have venom that could kill
but the venom in your words
cannot harm me
knife and sword
can stab right through
but your sharp words
cannot
words and phrases
can do harm
can hurt in so many ways
but only if I let them
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