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[24 Jun 2005|11:04pm]

[ mood | hopeful ]


It's been over a year, but I've decided, in a fit of inspiration, to kickstart this old community again. All of you struggling writers out there, feel free to join up under this post!

(Old members are gonna have to rejoin, sorry.)

3 | nibs & quills & pens & inks

Just a Story Running Through My head.... Warning: Not necessarily for the faint of heart... [26 Feb 2004|02:27am]

A Wolf in Woman's Clothing..Collapse )
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I heard this song on the radio, and just had to write.. [21 Jan 2004|03:47am]

[ mood | nostalgic ]

My great grandmother was, in her heyday, the little old lady from Pasadena.

Now a days, she is old, and weary; her sight has failed her, and though she is able to scrawl out warm greetings on family christmas cards, and has my aunt as a secretary for e-mails and the new fangled things she onlt barely learned from my father and I, she still has a place in my heart as the firebrand who taught me many things in my childhood. She is no longer able to drive; but the memmory of those days in summer when we would spend dawn to dusk on the road, seeing the sights the state of Alaska holds for tourism splendor are etched in my mind. In a way, roadtrips will always remind me of her.

Let me travel back on the roads of my mind, to tell the stories of my memories; to recant, and recall the little old woman, with silver hair flying, the sun roof open, the sunglasses around her bifocals glinting in the summer glare, and the eternal soundtrack of Don Macclean and American Pie, and Don Williams and Love is on a Roll, and Johnny Horton with North to Alaska, playing in the tapedeck. She would be seated in the captain's chair of her little old subaru, her long-time church lady friend riding shotgun, and I in the back seat, a book, some juice boxes, and a plush companion at my side, plastered to the window, watching the rolling countryside as it sped by. No matter the speed limit, my grandmother's car took those country roads at 80 MPH, and though we never really seemed to go anywhere in particular, we were always home with one another.

It wasn't just in the summer, though, that we would speed down those roads; fall, and winter, weekend trips down miles of uncivilized land on a stretch of asphalt and conrete were not unheard of; sometimes driving to North Pole city, or taking a trek into thr wilderness to Chena Hotsprings Resort; which, at that time, waslittle resort, and more a swimming pool, a hot tub home, and a camp site. There was Chatineka Lodge, where we would go so I could spend days with my mother back during the times when my father forbade me to see her, there was Denali Park, and the summer we went all the way to Valdez for a week.

There was a summer we spent a month on the road; flying down to Florida, and driving our way through the states up to Illinois; spending weeks at a time here and there, seeing Disney Land, Manatees, wildlife parks, tourist traps, the seaside, returning home with sunburn so bard I've never fully recovered, and haven't been able to tan since. When we got our little Dolphin motorhome, there were even more times on the road; the folly of camping trips in the mountains during the worst rains you ever did see, or the time we spent near a river where the mosquitos were so thick over five hundred of them swarmed the windows if we cracked them even only an inch, clogging the screen with tentative, reaching snouts.

Sure, the road trips weren't always fun; but we were almost always laughing at some point. Even the time we nearly spun off the road and into a frozen river because of a moose crossing the road in front of us while we were going 80 on an icy road; though sometimes I'm sure we were both only laughing because we were so releived to be alive. But even when things looked bleak, there was always a little old woman, and her great granddaughter, learning from one another on those winding stretchs. And to this day, whenever I see a little white subaru in town, or on television, I smile, and I think back. And in some, cheesy, afternoon spoecial, or old time sitcom way... My grandmother and her car will always be in my heart.

Go, Granny, go, Granny, go granny, go.

nibs & quills & pens & inks

The Fish and the Desert [14 Jan 2004|02:18am]

A short story In 100 Words Or Less -- Not counting the title (which is technically cheating). Inspired by Neil Gaiman's "Nicholas Was...", a short story in 100 words. Indentation is removed because the Inkscrawls LJ window is too dang narrow.

There was a young fisherman who lived in the desert. Everyone mocked him, for there was no water in the desert. Regardless, each day he went over the horizon, seeking water and one fish.

One day, an old fisherman set off over the horizon, in search of one live fish. As the sun set, he returned with a still-flopping dorado. "There," he said, "I have caught my fish."

A few seconds later, it died. A few seconds after that, so too did he.

"Don't feel sorry for me," his last words went, "It's fishing for him that I truly love."

You're probably looking at me right now like I'm stupid.

I'll elaborate. This is more of a writing exercise for me. It's the anti-writer's block. When I don't feel like I can write a single sentence worth writing, I've decided to challenge myself to write a short story in one hundred words or less. As I write, I inevitably arrive at more than one hundred words. One doesn't anticipate much in 100 words; they write whatever comes to mind. After all, it's just 100 words -- Who cares what it is?

And yet every time, I break 100 words. And then I have to trim it down to 100 words. And even the littlest things that are cut -- an adjective here, a shorter phrase in favor of a longer one there -- it hurts. Things are missing. And, even from just 100 words, ideas spring forth. Characters exist. Dialogue develops in my brain. A beginning, middle and an end develop without me ever telling them to develop. Something bigger than 100 words comes into frame; something that might actually be good, from something I didn't even care about in the first place. All from 100 words worth of story. It makes big writer's blocks look small, and small ones disappear. It's akin to picking a small, insignificant toy from the bottom of a giant stack of toys and having them all tumble out onto your head. It makes me feel like I can write.

You might still be looking at me funny. If so, remember: Gaiman wrote a story about a futuristic werewolf Baywatch. People still think he's a genius. Coincedentally, I do, too.
4 | nibs & quills & pens & inks

Keeping in Mind I missed Yesterday because of emmense pain... [11 Jan 2004|09:54pm]

I post this tonight: some poetry I wote on paper and just now decided to type up:

Indian Summer

The color of the sky is a crisp, autumn blue,
Occasionally interrupted by
White cotton.
Cotton in clouds,
Cotton from fireweed stalks,
Cotton from the trees bearing it's name;
Whisps of white that float like alien entities
On an unseen breeze.

The geese who fly briefly overhead,
Call in cackles of noise,
Short bursts like laughter,
Musical and faint,
Flying south.
They leave when the winds rip the trees
And the frost nips the ground,
Painting the leaves of plants in silver glitter.

It is fall; the leaves are gold
And burnt umber in the trees,
Rattling with the breezes, stiff and brittle,
Falling to the ground like the last note
Of a sad song.
A blanket for the Earth when the snow falls,
A patchwork quilt of warm colors,
A reminder of what summer was.

But the days are still lazy warm,
The sun overhead is bright;
Chasing away the rains more common
For fall.
The air is a fresh, crisp breath,
A reminder of the oncoming winter,
And yet still a taste of the summer
That has not left.

Sitting out in the sun,
Basking, in it's glow,
With feet curling toes into cold green grass,
Chilled by shade cast by a tree,
Tickled by frigid dew left
By frost melting in the warm sun.
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The first paragraph of a story in my mind, since I'm tired. [09 Jan 2004|07:01pm]

The Selkies...Collapse )
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My mom sent me a dancing hamster that made me laugh. [08 Jan 2004|08:29pm]

[ mood | amused ]

Laughter, the music of the soul,
Billows and bobbles,
Floats and gushes.

There are many kinds of laughter,
There are the tee-hee-ers,
There are the guffawers,
The hoo-hooers,
The Heh-heh-ers.

There are the gigglers,
The titterers,
The chucklers,
The sniggerers,
Those people who's laughs
Bellow like a fat man,
And those who's high pitched titters
Cause dogs to whine.

There are snorters,
Whom are made fun of,
And the squealers,
Who make yodlers look tame.
(Yodlers, those folks who seem
To sing every time they laugh.)

This music is a blessing;
It chases away the demons,
for why else would it be
The best medicine?

nibs & quills & pens & inks

[07 Jan 2004|09:59pm]

Having just realized I nearly spent the day without posting, I now kick it into high gear, and toss out some cruddy discriptive prose.

Corny as it is, this one is about my cat.Collapse )
nibs & quills & pens & inks

[06 Jan 2004|04:59pm]

[ mood | Cold ]

Fingerpaint on the bathroom tile..Collapse )

Short one today, but that's c'os I feel icky.

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[05 Jan 2004|05:49pm]

[ mood | Thoughtful ]

AuroraCollapse )

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Oops? [05 Jan 2004|06:58am]

Forgot to write an inkscrawl, so I'm going to come up with one quick before I go back to bed. Um... okay, let me see.

RunningCollapse )

(And as an amusing PS, it's fitting that my default icon is the Jabberwock for this piece.)
nibs & quills & pens & inks

[05 Jan 2004|01:07am]

She smells like cinnamon. Cinnamon and sex. Her skin, if you place the flat of your palm upon the naked swaths between tight leather hems, is always warm. If you lick it, you taste sweat; not sour, but sweet and fainly tangy with the salt of it. She does not walk. It is as though, where others put one foot before the other and propel themselves forward in jerky steps by muscle motion, she instead simply... moves. It is not so much a flicker as a mercurial fluidity. Every step seems to have slid there, firm and potent, perfectly in time with the sway of her body. She has no shadow, but she moves like one.

She is consistantly lubricious. She is mad, and she has a clarity that misses nothing. She savours everything, sucking it dry before letting the refuse fall into the wake behind her. One after another, in rapid-fire, these flames of moments become her heartbeat. She drives fast, but eats slowly, and her laughter always shows teeth. She never stops for long, but everywhere she's been, she leaves a scene. She comes in like a whisper, carrying the force of a hurricane at her heels. In the short time that she has come and gone, only rarely does anyone even remember she was there. But they are always left aching.

She is the best night you've ever had. She is the worst night you've ever had. She is that moment at the beginning of a storm when the skies open up, the gasp just before the first crushing blanket of falling rain makes impact. She's like the onset of a headrush, when you can feel it coming, just before it hits you and floods your veins. She's like the instant of silence before the car hits, the vaccum of sound before the scream of twisting metal and the waterfall staccato of shattered glass upon cement. She is the fullest throb of a bassline, and the cresting of an orgasm.

You've probably seen her, somewhere once upon a time. From the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of movement in the crowd that completely attracted your attention. You saw black, a hint of skin, and you saw the curve of arm and hip, swaying smoothly forward. Her hair was tousled, moving. The light hit just right, like a full-body hug. You saw everything, even the shadow possiblity of her eyes and open mouth, just before you turned. And then she was gone.

Don't try to find her. You won't.

She finds you.
1 | nibs & quills & pens & inks

[04 Jan 2004|03:29pm]

[ mood | artistic ]

There's an Owl in the Woods Behind My House...Collapse )

nibs & quills & pens & inks

First Post? [03 Jan 2004|08:41pm]

[ mood | calm ]

So, without really knowing what’s expected of me, I venture forth into the first attempt at an inkscrawl. It’s not quite a short story, not quite a Haiku, not quite.. anything. But very few things in my head which make it to paper are. A lot of things I write just.. get written. Usually, I try and formulate it into poetry, but, well, sometimes, it doesn’t work. Still. I’ll tuck things behind LJ-cuts to keep things short, since, admittedly, I have problems shutting up sometimes. ;)

Today's entry is about sounds.Collapse )

I trust if this is in any way unfit for the forum, the moderators shall remove it, or else tell me what I’ve done wrong.

- C.M.

1 | nibs & quills & pens & inks

A Chanukkah tale [04 Jan 2004|12:30am]

[ mood | accomplished ]

Well, Chanukkah's over, but just pretend this was posted a week or two ago. ;)
Since a lot of my friends have absolutely no idea what the story of Chanukkah is, I'm going to give it here. Not technically creative writing, I suppose, but... hey, it's my own words. I'll jazz it up a bit.

Now pull up a chair for The Story of Chanukkah...Collapse )
Now you know... the rest of the story.
Good day!

nibs & quills & pens & inks

Ladies and gentlemen. [02 Jan 2004|09:21pm]

[ mood | cheerful ]

Welcome to a community dedicated to creative writing. Members are encouraged to write and post one piece of writing a day, whether it be a haiku, or a short story, or the first chapter of a novel. It's a haven for the creative process to blossom; nothing more, or nothing less than what you make it.

Inkscrawls is managed by its moderators, skycornerless and sheyrena (myself). Membership is by request, so if you're interested in joining, please leave a comment on this entry, and we'll take a look.

Thank you, come again.

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