Seen on the TV today:
"Never open your mouth until you are absolutely certain your brain is going to work." -- Tommy Dewar
About Me
- Lindsey Duncan
- I'm a professional harp performer, chef / pastry chef, and speculative fiction writer from Cincinnati, Ohio. My contemporary fantasy novel Flow is available from Double Dragon Publishing, and my science fiction novel Scylla and Charybdis is now out from Grimbold Books. I've also sold a number of short stories and a few pieces of speculative poetry. I write predominantly fantasy, usually epic and/or humorous, with some soft science fiction. I play the traditional lever harp with a specialty in Celtic music - but I also perform modern and Renaissance tunes. And yes, you read that right - I have a diploma in Baking and Pastry and an Associates in Culinary Arts and am currently working in the catering field at Kate's Catering and Personal Chef Services (Dayton, KY). I am a CPC (Certified Pastry Culinarian) and CSW (Certified Specialist of Wine).
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
History Lesson
No, not *our* history, who do you think I am? The city of Pelindar (which was the setting in an earlier post of mine) appeared again in an exercise sometime ago entitled Landscape and Time (100), which asks the writer to create the human history of a specific piece of land. So verily:
The sandy crescent of coast on which the city of Pelindar rested was bleak but fertile, a steady year-round chill allowing for the growth of crops that neither froze nor burned under the withering sun. The seasons changed, but the wandering tides kept them in check. Winds built up rumbling along the shore, as if they, too, had found a safe harbor.
There had been civilization on the Grey Coast for millenia, almost as long as any other region, but it had not been "civilized" for all of that time. The first settlers were semi-nomadic farmers, an amalgam of intermingled families without distinction of tribe or hierarchy. Bound together by a limitless series of individual ties, they communicated through an almost instinctual network of family and companion.
The first Grey Coast villages were affairs of convenience, half-hearted, helter-skelter, leaving no trace when they dried up and blew away with the next strong wind. The people remained, incestuous, insular, regarded with flat affect those few explorers who landed on their soil and found that the Coast was too distant and too tenacious to tame. Within a few generations, these ciphers became legends, and not particularly important ones.
When the western lands left their dark ages, the Cenorians discovered the Grey Coast. They fenced in land that seemed to them to be unclaimed. Half the time, they were correct. The other half, they clashed with the locals over matters of right and trade - but by and large, Cenorian solutions were peaceful, the invaders having long since decided that the best means to enlightened society was example.
The first five cities - little more than fortified towns with a few extra towers - sprouted up at randomly chosen points along the Grey Coast. Gradually, the most strategic of the two locations grew to prominence: one in the north, gateway to the civilized world, and one in the far south at the site of modern Pelindar, where the first lighthouse outside of Indessa was founded on the outermost island.
The Cenorians were crushed under the wave of the Black Crusade, as many were. Four of its cities were raised; the other became a slaving pit. The observatory island survived, but became forbidden territory on pain of death - and because of its isolation, became the ideal bolthole for resistance.
An uprising started there, joint of Grey Coast natives and Cenorians. They freed the region, but the slave-city became anathema. No one spoke of it. No one visited it, though its towers could be seen from any hill of any size - and on the Grey Coast, there were many of these.
The Gull Alliance dominated for a while, then subsided, followed by a number of other business consortiums, then a Giserian tyrant. It was the eastern Tirefs who wrested it from the hands of his imperial infallibility and who both built Pelindar in thrice its earlier glory and threw open the doors of the observatory to learned contemplation and discovery. The Grey Coast has not been the new world for a long time; there are ever further horizons.
Three change of hands later, the Grey Coast is a free nation - for now. There are still native tribes in the hills, but their influence can most easily be seen in darkwood eyes, stretched slightly with green and yellow, and in double jointed hands made for fine and mysterious work. In an attitude, too: a sense that what the outside world decides, however shattering, can never alter the sand in the bays.
The sandy crescent of coast on which the city of Pelindar rested was bleak but fertile, a steady year-round chill allowing for the growth of crops that neither froze nor burned under the withering sun. The seasons changed, but the wandering tides kept them in check. Winds built up rumbling along the shore, as if they, too, had found a safe harbor.
There had been civilization on the Grey Coast for millenia, almost as long as any other region, but it had not been "civilized" for all of that time. The first settlers were semi-nomadic farmers, an amalgam of intermingled families without distinction of tribe or hierarchy. Bound together by a limitless series of individual ties, they communicated through an almost instinctual network of family and companion.
The first Grey Coast villages were affairs of convenience, half-hearted, helter-skelter, leaving no trace when they dried up and blew away with the next strong wind. The people remained, incestuous, insular, regarded with flat affect those few explorers who landed on their soil and found that the Coast was too distant and too tenacious to tame. Within a few generations, these ciphers became legends, and not particularly important ones.
When the western lands left their dark ages, the Cenorians discovered the Grey Coast. They fenced in land that seemed to them to be unclaimed. Half the time, they were correct. The other half, they clashed with the locals over matters of right and trade - but by and large, Cenorian solutions were peaceful, the invaders having long since decided that the best means to enlightened society was example.
The first five cities - little more than fortified towns with a few extra towers - sprouted up at randomly chosen points along the Grey Coast. Gradually, the most strategic of the two locations grew to prominence: one in the north, gateway to the civilized world, and one in the far south at the site of modern Pelindar, where the first lighthouse outside of Indessa was founded on the outermost island.
The Cenorians were crushed under the wave of the Black Crusade, as many were. Four of its cities were raised; the other became a slaving pit. The observatory island survived, but became forbidden territory on pain of death - and because of its isolation, became the ideal bolthole for resistance.
An uprising started there, joint of Grey Coast natives and Cenorians. They freed the region, but the slave-city became anathema. No one spoke of it. No one visited it, though its towers could be seen from any hill of any size - and on the Grey Coast, there were many of these.
The Gull Alliance dominated for a while, then subsided, followed by a number of other business consortiums, then a Giserian tyrant. It was the eastern Tirefs who wrested it from the hands of his imperial infallibility and who both built Pelindar in thrice its earlier glory and threw open the doors of the observatory to learned contemplation and discovery. The Grey Coast has not been the new world for a long time; there are ever further horizons.
Three change of hands later, the Grey Coast is a free nation - for now. There are still native tribes in the hills, but their influence can most easily be seen in darkwood eyes, stretched slightly with green and yellow, and in double jointed hands made for fine and mysterious work. In an attitude, too: a sense that what the outside world decides, however shattering, can never alter the sand in the bays.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Wish me well!
Having discovered that Night Shade Books (an up-and-coming small press turned medium press turned publishing force) is releasing an anthology of pirate stories, I'm trying my hand at another nautical tale. The catch? ... Fast Ships, Black Sails is closing to submissions at the end of February. Which means I need to finish and edit this baby in a twinkling. Not only am I crazy enough to attempt this, I'm also eyeing another anthology with a similar close date, Magic and Mechanica. Send me bursts of decent inspiration, I need 'em. ;-)
Monday, January 22, 2007
Sassy Statements
Courtesy of my page-a-day calendar:
"I can't stand makeup commercials. 'Do you need a lipstick that keeps your lips kissable?' No, I need a lipstick that gets me equal pay for equal work. How about eye shadow that makes me stop thinking I'm too fat?" -- Maria Bamford
"When my enemies stop hissing, I shall know I am slipping." -- Maria Callas
"I can't stand makeup commercials. 'Do you need a lipstick that keeps your lips kissable?' No, I need a lipstick that gets me equal pay for equal work. How about eye shadow that makes me stop thinking I'm too fat?" -- Maria Bamford
"When my enemies stop hissing, I shall know I am slipping." -- Maria Callas
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Like Clockwork
I just sold a sorta-short story (really, when it pushes nine thousand words ... can you call it short?) entitled "Sailing The Seventeen Seas" to Fantasist Enterprises' Sails & Sorcery anthology. The nice part is, S&S will be coming out early to pick up on the wave of interest from the last PotC movie, so I should have less than a year's wait before I see my baby in print.
"Sailing The Seventeen Seas" is set in the same world as my novel "Butterfly's Poison," though there is no direct reference to BP. It is probably set a decade or two later - I had a passing reference in the story to Synnove, the daughter of main character Treddian and only fifteen during the events of BP, as the unconventional ruler of Nevelia (a city), but I cut it in edits. In any case, why seventeen seas? Well, the world in which StSS (or should I call it S3?) is set has no real landmasses, only large islands and countless oceans, many of them called different names by different countries ...
StSS is the story of a merchant ship, a shapeshifter, an inventor, and a pair of fugitive passengers. Also like BP, the central character is an escaped Shardathi slave, but there the similarities cease. Vlisa Karhene is the first mate of the Narwhal and has the unenviable task of keeping her mad-scientist captain in line. The title of this post, of course, refers to the fact that the setting involves a higher tech level than most fantasy and a clockwork bird plays a key part in the proceedings. As for the rest, well ... that would be telling.
"Sailing The Seventeen Seas" is set in the same world as my novel "Butterfly's Poison," though there is no direct reference to BP. It is probably set a decade or two later - I had a passing reference in the story to Synnove, the daughter of main character Treddian and only fifteen during the events of BP, as the unconventional ruler of Nevelia (a city), but I cut it in edits. In any case, why seventeen seas? Well, the world in which StSS (or should I call it S3?) is set has no real landmasses, only large islands and countless oceans, many of them called different names by different countries ...
StSS is the story of a merchant ship, a shapeshifter, an inventor, and a pair of fugitive passengers. Also like BP, the central character is an escaped Shardathi slave, but there the similarities cease. Vlisa Karhene is the first mate of the Narwhal and has the unenviable task of keeping her mad-scientist captain in line. The title of this post, of course, refers to the fact that the setting involves a higher tech level than most fantasy and a clockwork bird plays a key part in the proceedings. As for the rest, well ... that would be telling.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Freudian?
You never know when your slip of the tongue will become someone else's continuing in-joke ...
There's a kitchen supply place known as Sur La Table (Roughly, sir la tahb(le?) - I have less than no command of French). My mother was in line at her local kitchen store when the lady in front of her started talking about, "Laser Table." It has become a family watchword.
Then there's my childhood friend, who was discussing various foods she ate abroad and enthused about the, "Barbarian sausage" ... I still love this image. (Bavarian, for the still clueless.)
And Gold Star Chili still gets called "Still Car Goalie" from a bit of accidental muddling.
But you have to admit, forget Egghead Software - it's more fun to browse at Eggsoft Headware.
I feel justified in neenering about these because I still get teased about saying, "The default setting for water should be no lemon," and "I'm going to boot up the stove." I am a child of the computer age, after all.
There's a kitchen supply place known as Sur La Table (Roughly, sir la tahb(le?) - I have less than no command of French). My mother was in line at her local kitchen store when the lady in front of her started talking about, "Laser Table." It has become a family watchword.
Then there's my childhood friend, who was discussing various foods she ate abroad and enthused about the, "Barbarian sausage" ... I still love this image. (Bavarian, for the still clueless.)
And Gold Star Chili still gets called "Still Car Goalie" from a bit of accidental muddling.
But you have to admit, forget Egghead Software - it's more fun to browse at Eggsoft Headware.
I feel justified in neenering about these because I still get teased about saying, "The default setting for water should be no lemon," and "I'm going to boot up the stove." I am a child of the computer age, after all.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Idle Thoughts
A day or two ago, I read a short story in a magazine (I won't mention the name to be fair about it) that was a pretty entertaining tyrant-turns-good yarn ... or would have been, except it was unnecessarily graphic and sexualized. Nothing crucial to the plot was contained in the off-color mold; it would have been a far stronger story had it made its point without ninety percent of the references. I'm mystified why the author thought this was a good tactic to take; I'm even more startled that a magazine would take such a tale unexpurgated.
On the other hand, a more disturbing trend. I wonder who decides the difference between profound and silly or fractured in short fiction, and why I keep falling on the other side of the line. While I come to reading for fun more than to be challenged, I also am a smart reader and I have to wonder ... if I don't get it to the point where I don't even have a glimmer of it, much less a sense of, "Well, this feels like it would be interesting if I could put the pieces together," who does?
Of course, there is also an equally unnerving trend in fantasy short fiction that seems to shun worldbuilding and fully realized other-realms in favor of urban fantasy and close reinterpretation of mythic elements. While I enjoy both, I find it sad that it seems harder to find this bread and butter that, to me, is what fantasy is ultimately FOR.
On the other hand, a more disturbing trend. I wonder who decides the difference between profound and silly or fractured in short fiction, and why I keep falling on the other side of the line. While I come to reading for fun more than to be challenged, I also am a smart reader and I have to wonder ... if I don't get it to the point where I don't even have a glimmer of it, much less a sense of, "Well, this feels like it would be interesting if I could put the pieces together," who does?
Of course, there is also an equally unnerving trend in fantasy short fiction that seems to shun worldbuilding and fully realized other-realms in favor of urban fantasy and close reinterpretation of mythic elements. While I enjoy both, I find it sad that it seems harder to find this bread and butter that, to me, is what fantasy is ultimately FOR.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Phonebook Fun
The following surnames came out of my phonebook. I was doing this for a story exercise, so I ignored ones that were too peculiar or too modern, but this is *plenty* odd in patches:
Abernathy, Achey, Alikonia, Amend, Arcuri, Bashada, Battle, Bonecutter, Clever, Coffin, Coldiron, Dressing, Drexelius, Enaiho, Eve, Fey, Fiala, Fightmaster, Goldwire, Hack, Hazard, Heckle, Jeranek, Kohl, Lawyer, League, Lively, Loving, Means, Minds, Moonshine, Morningstar, Muse, Music, Nation, Ndiaye, Nodes, Office, Outland, Pagan, Palace, Pancake, Prey, Query, Quitter, Rafter, Rainwaters, Rust, Scurry, Search, Shiver, Shorten, Sprinkle, Talluri, Test, Vest, Vice, Viola, Vigil, Warning, Wedding, Zilch, Devolve, Dice, Geis, Guard, Ice, Iori, Journey, Justice, Kill, Kinder, Knuckles, Leisure, Platter, Ploy, Register, Reveal, Sample, Self, Snare, Spite, Stonecipher, Trusty, Worst.
Abernathy, Achey, Alikonia, Amend, Arcuri, Bashada, Battle, Bonecutter, Clever, Coffin, Coldiron, Dressing, Drexelius, Enaiho, Eve, Fey, Fiala, Fightmaster, Goldwire, Hack, Hazard, Heckle, Jeranek, Kohl, Lawyer, League, Lively, Loving, Means, Minds, Moonshine, Morningstar, Muse, Music, Nation, Ndiaye, Nodes, Office, Outland, Pagan, Palace, Pancake, Prey, Query, Quitter, Rafter, Rainwaters, Rust, Scurry, Search, Shiver, Shorten, Sprinkle, Talluri, Test, Vest, Vice, Viola, Vigil, Warning, Wedding, Zilch, Devolve, Dice, Geis, Guard, Ice, Iori, Journey, Justice, Kill, Kinder, Knuckles, Leisure, Platter, Ploy, Register, Reveal, Sample, Self, Snare, Spite, Stonecipher, Trusty, Worst.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
I'm Back!
Pardon the holiday lapse - I was busy, recovering, etc. But another sale to trumpet - "The Letter," a paranormal Dear John letter, was accepted by Flashshot. Like all flashshot pieces, The Letter is under 100 words - 92, to be exact. (Technically, this isn't a "sale" as Flashshot doesn't pay, but it's a respected market and ... visibility!)
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Quotes!
"The absence of flaw in beauty is itself a flaw." -- Havelock Ellis
"If her DNA were off by one percent, she'd be a dolphin." -- Gregory House from House, M.D.
"If her DNA were off by one percent, she'd be a dolphin." -- Gregory House from House, M.D.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Sad Tidings ...
The Pillsbury Doughboy died yesterday of a yeast infection and complications from repeated pokes in the belly. He was 71.
Doughboy was buried in a lightly greased coffin. Dozens of celebrities turned out to pay their respects, including Mrs. Butterworth, Hungry Jack, the California Raisins, Betty Crocker, the Hostess Twinkies, and Captain Crunch. The gravesite was piled high with flours.
Aunt Jemima delivered the eulogy and lovingly described Doughboy as a man who never knew how much he was kneaded. Doughboy rose quickly in show business, but his later life was filled with turnovers. He was not considered a very smart cookie, wasting much of his dough on half-baked schemes. Despite being a little flaky at times, he still, as a crusty old man, was considered a roll model for millions.
Doughboy is survived by his wife, Play Dough; two children, John Dough and Jane Dough; plus they had one in the oven. He is also survived by his elderly father, Pop Tart. The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20 minutes.
(Not sure what the original source for this was any more - found this in my old received email. Enjoy!)
Doughboy was buried in a lightly greased coffin. Dozens of celebrities turned out to pay their respects, including Mrs. Butterworth, Hungry Jack, the California Raisins, Betty Crocker, the Hostess Twinkies, and Captain Crunch. The gravesite was piled high with flours.
Aunt Jemima delivered the eulogy and lovingly described Doughboy as a man who never knew how much he was kneaded. Doughboy rose quickly in show business, but his later life was filled with turnovers. He was not considered a very smart cookie, wasting much of his dough on half-baked schemes. Despite being a little flaky at times, he still, as a crusty old man, was considered a roll model for millions.
Doughboy is survived by his wife, Play Dough; two children, John Dough and Jane Dough; plus they had one in the oven. He is also survived by his elderly father, Pop Tart. The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20 minutes.
(Not sure what the original source for this was any more - found this in my old received email. Enjoy!)
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Two Awesome Words
Quoting dictionary.com here in both cases:
Telesthesia: sensation or perception received at a distance without the normal operation of the recognized sense organs.
Synesthesia: A condition in which one type of stimulation evokes the sensation of another, as when the hearing of a sound produces the visualization of a color.
The first is, of course, just a fancy way of saying "extrasensory perception," but I like the flow of the word and the "formal" feeling of it. The second - well, I'm fascinated by synethesia in general. In fiction, it's a fascinating way to convey sensation.
Telesthesia: sensation or perception received at a distance without the normal operation of the recognized sense organs.
Synesthesia: A condition in which one type of stimulation evokes the sensation of another, as when the hearing of a sound produces the visualization of a color.
The first is, of course, just a fancy way of saying "extrasensory perception," but I like the flow of the word and the "formal" feeling of it. The second - well, I'm fascinated by synethesia in general. In fiction, it's a fascinating way to convey sensation.
Monday, December 11, 2006
First of (my) kind
I just sold my first fantasy poem - a pantoum - to The Fifth Di... This is only my second attempt at submitting poetry, so I'm excited to find it a home.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Nothing in Particular Quotes
"Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities. Truth isn't." Mark Twain
"The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not 'Eureka!' (I found it!) but 'That's funny ...'" - Isaac Asimov
"I think laughter may be a form of courage." -- Linda Ellerbee
"The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not 'Eureka!' (I found it!) but 'That's funny ...'" - Isaac Asimov
"I think laughter may be a form of courage." -- Linda Ellerbee
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Making Cliches Work For You
Fantasy is built on archetypes, where the fine line between subconsciously resonant and cliched is a difficult one to discern. When chosen with care and deliberation, however, even a cliche can work to the storyteller's advantage. I've just finished two books, surprisingly enough in sequence, that handled this in a masterful fashion: Dave Duncan's The Magic Casement and John Moore's The Unhandsome Prince.
The first book is a "serious" fantasy story, though the first few chapters (and they are long chapters; ten in the entire book, subdivided) are light-hearted and tongue-in-cheek - partly to illuminate the mindset of the young characters, partly to pave the way for the changes to come. And of course you know - instantly - that the prophecy will come true, that the stableboy will get the girl, that the charming and "perfect" young man is not all he seems. Freed by that framework, the joy of the story is discovering how that will come to the pass. (Warning: by the end of the first book, only #3 has been answered!)
I call the first book serious because Unhandsome is definitely not: a down-to-earth comedy that pays homage and loving satire to the conventions of the genre. In this vein, long description or background would be inappropriate, but Moore manages to convey sympathetic characters and a compelling plot despite a lack of intricate detail to invest in. Some of Moore's details as to how a fantasy world would really work are great fun. For instance, the Assassin's Guild isn't an actual guild, but instead a front populated with royal guards. Anyone who comes in trying to hire one is roughed up and told to stay out of trouble (until word gets around).
Neither of these books would work without the implicit, sometimes instinctive understanding of the cliches or archetypes. They work with them consciously, giving us a "home" to start from and then launching off in unexpected directions.
The first book is a "serious" fantasy story, though the first few chapters (and they are long chapters; ten in the entire book, subdivided) are light-hearted and tongue-in-cheek - partly to illuminate the mindset of the young characters, partly to pave the way for the changes to come. And of course you know - instantly - that the prophecy will come true, that the stableboy will get the girl, that the charming and "perfect" young man is not all he seems. Freed by that framework, the joy of the story is discovering how that will come to the pass. (Warning: by the end of the first book, only #3 has been answered!)
I call the first book serious because Unhandsome is definitely not: a down-to-earth comedy that pays homage and loving satire to the conventions of the genre. In this vein, long description or background would be inappropriate, but Moore manages to convey sympathetic characters and a compelling plot despite a lack of intricate detail to invest in. Some of Moore's details as to how a fantasy world would really work are great fun. For instance, the Assassin's Guild isn't an actual guild, but instead a front populated with royal guards. Anyone who comes in trying to hire one is roughed up and told to stay out of trouble (until word gets around).
Neither of these books would work without the implicit, sometimes instinctive understanding of the cliches or archetypes. They work with them consciously, giving us a "home" to start from and then launching off in unexpected directions.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Hour by Hour
A surreal fantasy mystery, Hour By Hour is about a priestess of fate and time who attempts to unravel a thorny question for a foreign monarch ... and it's sold! Abyss and Apex will be printing HbH in their second or third quarter 2007 issues.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Five Ways
How many different ways can you write the same scene? Given a specific scenario from my trusty 3 AM Epiphany book and tasked with writing five different takes, I came up with the following. This actually is a fantasy excerpt - I've used Sophie and the Mermaid in exercises before - but you can't tell here. Potentially if I went on and he turned into a wolf or somesuch. ;-) Starting with "normal," moving to staccato and ...
Sophie moved across the Mermaid Café on lifted toes, looking for a spot to sit. It was unusually crowded for a Tuesday. She took a step forward and hit the edge of a potted plant. The tray jerked in her hands as she tumbled forward. Her foot hopped ahead to support her at the last second, and she breathed a sigh of annoyed relief. She noticed a dapper blond man seated at one of the few tables that wasn't crowded, his eyes fixed on her. As soon as he saw her looking, he flashed a broad smile and nodded to the seat across from him. Sophie approached with care: if he was patronizing the Mermaid, he was more than he seemed.
The Mermaid, Tuesday, jammed. Sophie on her toes, scanning for a seat. A sudden encounter with a potted plant - a snap of the tray - and freefall before her foot came down with a crunch. An exasperated sigh. The sense of eyes on her ... a dapper blond man. Isolated, a man alone, but smiling as he noticed her. He nodded to the seat across from him. Sophie advanced carefully; she knew there was something under his surface.
Sophie sidled and ducked through the Mermaid Café, sometimes strategically popping onto her toes to look for an island in the chaos. Tuesday, usually a sleepy day, burst at the seams. She lost track of one shuffle-step and collided with a florid vases of dyed roses. Momentum sent her spinning forward, the tray gyrating in her hands. Her foot slid, accidentally balletic, to catch her fall. She huffed out an exasperated sigh. Then her eyes lighted on an elegant blond man, all signature lines; his lips broadened into a smile as he bowed his head, acknowledging her and inviting her to sit in the same motion. Sophie picked her way over diffidently, wary, knowing that the Mermaid's patrons didn't fish in normal ponds.
It happened something like this, mid-day roundabouts the middle of the week, with the Mermaid Café about ninety percent full. Somewhere between one step and the next, Sophie slammed a foot forward to balance herself, bumped into something in a pot that might have been a fern, might have been roses, and nearly lost her tray - not necessarily in that order. She sighed, eyes rolling up in her head. When they rolled down, they ended up in the vicinity of a dapper man - his hair somewhere between silver and yellow - who grinned, or perhaps smirked at her; the expression could have gone either way, though his cheerful nod had only one interpretation: an invitation to sit. She sauntered up more than anything else, ill at ease. You couldn't be sure of anything in the Mermaid. Usually.
A chique café off the beaten path on a sleepy Tuesday. People jammed elbow to elbow. Sophie, sophisticated, sleek, reduced to a fine simmer as she arched onto her toes. The crazy rock of a vase as she hit it with her hip. The tray askew in her hands before she had time to think about it, her usual grace turned upside down. Then back on her feet again, intermission over, the movie of her life playing smoothly again. Freeze-frame, an attractive blond man at one table. Lips just a tiny bit askew, one side higher than the other; a perfect chin on the downturn of a nod. And Sophie caught with one foot half-turned against the ground, pondering light in her eyes. A snapshot of her thoughts: anyone in the Mermaid shouldn't be taken at face value.
Sophie moved across the Mermaid Café on lifted toes, looking for a spot to sit. It was unusually crowded for a Tuesday. She took a step forward and hit the edge of a potted plant. The tray jerked in her hands as she tumbled forward. Her foot hopped ahead to support her at the last second, and she breathed a sigh of annoyed relief. She noticed a dapper blond man seated at one of the few tables that wasn't crowded, his eyes fixed on her. As soon as he saw her looking, he flashed a broad smile and nodded to the seat across from him. Sophie approached with care: if he was patronizing the Mermaid, he was more than he seemed.
The Mermaid, Tuesday, jammed. Sophie on her toes, scanning for a seat. A sudden encounter with a potted plant - a snap of the tray - and freefall before her foot came down with a crunch. An exasperated sigh. The sense of eyes on her ... a dapper blond man. Isolated, a man alone, but smiling as he noticed her. He nodded to the seat across from him. Sophie advanced carefully; she knew there was something under his surface.
Sophie sidled and ducked through the Mermaid Café, sometimes strategically popping onto her toes to look for an island in the chaos. Tuesday, usually a sleepy day, burst at the seams. She lost track of one shuffle-step and collided with a florid vases of dyed roses. Momentum sent her spinning forward, the tray gyrating in her hands. Her foot slid, accidentally balletic, to catch her fall. She huffed out an exasperated sigh. Then her eyes lighted on an elegant blond man, all signature lines; his lips broadened into a smile as he bowed his head, acknowledging her and inviting her to sit in the same motion. Sophie picked her way over diffidently, wary, knowing that the Mermaid's patrons didn't fish in normal ponds.
It happened something like this, mid-day roundabouts the middle of the week, with the Mermaid Café about ninety percent full. Somewhere between one step and the next, Sophie slammed a foot forward to balance herself, bumped into something in a pot that might have been a fern, might have been roses, and nearly lost her tray - not necessarily in that order. She sighed, eyes rolling up in her head. When they rolled down, they ended up in the vicinity of a dapper man - his hair somewhere between silver and yellow - who grinned, or perhaps smirked at her; the expression could have gone either way, though his cheerful nod had only one interpretation: an invitation to sit. She sauntered up more than anything else, ill at ease. You couldn't be sure of anything in the Mermaid. Usually.
A chique café off the beaten path on a sleepy Tuesday. People jammed elbow to elbow. Sophie, sophisticated, sleek, reduced to a fine simmer as she arched onto her toes. The crazy rock of a vase as she hit it with her hip. The tray askew in her hands before she had time to think about it, her usual grace turned upside down. Then back on her feet again, intermission over, the movie of her life playing smoothly again. Freeze-frame, an attractive blond man at one table. Lips just a tiny bit askew, one side higher than the other; a perfect chin on the downturn of a nod. And Sophie caught with one foot half-turned against the ground, pondering light in her eyes. A snapshot of her thoughts: anyone in the Mermaid shouldn't be taken at face value.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Pantoum
Your mission, should you choose to accept it: play around with this form of poetry.
The pantoum is a form of poetry arranged in four-line verses with an ABAB rhyme scheme. Here's where it gets complicated: the second and fourth lines of the first verse become the first and third lines of the second verse. The process repeats until you reach the last verse, where you dip back into the unrepeated first and third lines of the very first verse -- they become the second and fourth lines of the LAST stanza.
Wait, wait. What?
Essentially, a three verse pantoum would look like:
A
B
C
D
B
E
D
F
E
A
F
C
Every word must be the same, but you can change punctuation freely. All I have to say is - good luck. ;-)
The pantoum is a form of poetry arranged in four-line verses with an ABAB rhyme scheme. Here's where it gets complicated: the second and fourth lines of the first verse become the first and third lines of the second verse. The process repeats until you reach the last verse, where you dip back into the unrepeated first and third lines of the very first verse -- they become the second and fourth lines of the LAST stanza.
Wait, wait. What?
Essentially, a three verse pantoum would look like:
A
B
C
D
B
E
D
F
E
A
F
C
Every word must be the same, but you can change punctuation freely. All I have to say is - good luck. ;-)
Saturday, November 25, 2006
I'm also thankful for ...
... sales!
"Retirement" was just accepted by The Lorelei Signal and not only that, apparently I gave the editor an idea. She had never considered flash fiction in the magazine before and even added it as a continuing part of her issue makeup.
Now I just need to sell more things that aren't flash. I'm starting to turn into a sprinter. ;-)
"Retirement" was just accepted by The Lorelei Signal and not only that, apparently I gave the editor an idea. She had never considered flash fiction in the magazine before and even added it as a continuing part of her issue makeup.
Now I just need to sell more things that aren't flash. I'm starting to turn into a sprinter. ;-)
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Season's Greetings
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
It's a small holiday here, just me, my parents, and the dog. (Cannot forget the dog.) We used to drive up to Connecticut to be with my mother's family, a two day haul with an enormous traditional buffet at the end. Now we're all grown up and grown past, but there's always something a little strange about not being there. But we are not the only ones who have changed our holiday: my aunt goes on a Thanksgiving cruise, my grandmother is in an assisted living home. There are no more children, really: one of my cousins is married; the four I can remember being born, in sometimes a bewildering succession, all have drivers' licenses now. (Or one may be on her permit - but point stands.) Time moves on, but here, this is a day for looking back and being comforted by the security of what we have.
It's a small holiday here, just me, my parents, and the dog. (Cannot forget the dog.) We used to drive up to Connecticut to be with my mother's family, a two day haul with an enormous traditional buffet at the end. Now we're all grown up and grown past, but there's always something a little strange about not being there. But we are not the only ones who have changed our holiday: my aunt goes on a Thanksgiving cruise, my grandmother is in an assisted living home. There are no more children, really: one of my cousins is married; the four I can remember being born, in sometimes a bewildering succession, all have drivers' licenses now. (Or one may be on her permit - but point stands.) Time moves on, but here, this is a day for looking back and being comforted by the security of what we have.
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