littlewonder2

Little wonder we stumble in life.


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One Lovely Blog Award – Nominee!

I’ve heard of this. Though I am shocked (but pleased) that I was nominated. So thank you, sphrbn!

Okay…

Here are the rules of this award:

1. I need to thank the person who nominated me.

2. Share 7 things about myself that you still may not know

3. Nominate 15 bloggers.

4. Notify the nominees that I have done so.

5. Put the logo of the award on my blog site.

And now here are 7 things that you probably don’t know about me;

1. I studied Japanese for three years in high school, and then another was tutored in it, but I don’t count that last year, because I don’t think it kept me up to the same speed.

2. I started writing fiction when I was fourteen, but I sucked back then. I just didn’t quit.

3. I have been moving houses since I was kid, as my family has never owned any of the places we lived. I never minded leaving people behind, unlike my polar-opposite sister.

4. I have attended around seven schools in my lifetime.

5. I always wanted to learn surfing in Australia, but my first surfing lesson was in Hawaii.

6. I’m half-American, but I often joke about America, preferring my Australian heritage.

7. I prefer having a fake tree on Christmas, because I think the tradition of cutting down real trees is damaging to the environment and I hate the smell of fresh pine.

My Nominees are:

Only Fragments

I Think In Comics

Kristen Lamb

Ambler Angel

Madison Woods

the news with nipples

Cadelle

Photo Lord

Classic Confusion

castelsarrasin

Mikalee Byerman

ccarothers

Sarcasm Society

jtinseoul

fossils and shit


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Write On Edge – Unwanted

It had been days since his last letter, and even that was too long.

He paced around his anxious, increasingly manic. He stopped with a final climax of frustration, and began sweeping quickly through his apartment, desperate to keep himself busy, to distract himself.

A few tense and awkward hours later, it wasn’t enough and he had to get outside. He tried to calm himself down long enough to put on a jacket and his Canadian-style toque to brave the cold winter’s day waiting for him outside.

He rubbed his hands together as soon as the shock of the air doused him, still feeling underdressed. He hyped himself up like an eskimo going for a dip in Alaska and pushed himself through the double doors that lead into the building, and charged down the street like a madman.

The numbing cold wasn’t helping. If anything, it made him more irrational. He rubbed his hands together harder and faster, as though he were trying to start a fire. At least if he did, he’d be warmer.

He directed himself towards the post office. At least if he checked his PO Box again, the letter back might be there. He chanted the idea back to himself inwardly, as though to spur him on. If he didn’t do that, he might not believe himself.

He felt so lonely. He just wanted an answer.

A few blocks later, he arrived, and located his number once again. He turned the key; he kept it in the pocket of jeans, just in case. Anticipation might be more accurate.

Nothing.

“No,” said a postie behind his desk across from the boxes. “No more post than there was five hours ago. What are you waiting on that’s so important, eh? Someone special?”

He turned to the old man. “Sorry,” was his only reply. He left the post office embarrassed. Why had he done that? Was he really that desperate?

He knew the simple answer to that.

He returned to his apartment, partly wishing he had work today. He felt just pathetic. He never would have done that on a weekday.

His buzzer rang. Still recovering from the cold, hands still numb, he moved over and pressed the button absently. “Yes?” he answered.

“Post,” was the answer.

“Who is this?”

“I live down below you, number 8. I think someone got the wrong address. You’re Miles Rochester, right?”

“Yeah. Come on up.”

His heart pumped with excitement, on a high, though he hid it from the kid watching him as he greedily opened the letter. A postcard. It was from Melbourne. Strange getting a postcard from your own city.

His face fell.

Stop writing. You know who this is. People are getting suspicious.

– T

He looked up at the kid, staring judgementally at him. “Okay. You delivered your letter, now get out.”

The teen left, mumbling angrily. I closed the door.

Taken from a prompt at Write On Edge.


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Friday Fictioneers – Wash It Away.

She limped toward the emergency tank attached to the window. She turned the tap.

She winced, squeezing her eyes closed as she waited for the blood to wash away. She tried to ignore the stinging and the noise still echoing the attack.

He’d gone off the deep end. He’d never done this before, but this was the last straw. She had to leave this farm, she had to get into the car and drive to a hospital. Maybe she could stay with her mother. But first she had to escape him.

The door slammed open, cross-hatched metal clanging loudly.

Run!

Prompt for Friday Fictioneers.


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VIP – Innocence Adrift

Warily, he flicked his hands away from his model. “Mom, Dad! Look what I did!”

“That’s nice, sweetheart,” his mother cooed absently.

“What a clever boy,” his dad chimed in, with at least some small interest.

Why did his parents hate him so much? He thought he was a genius for pulling this off; what normal five-year-old can create a stone balancing-thing like this? Even if he was lucky with the odd shaped rocks at this beach.

He hovered his face around it, trying to ignore his parents, trying to pretend he didn’t care that they didn’t love him as much. Instead, he dove his mind into this creative wonder, pretending his eyes were cameras filming some giant marvel from the air – from a helicopter!

It was a giant stone balancing-thing, made by ancient humans from the stone age. Like Stonehenge, only bigger! Like it was…built by aliens! Yeah, that would be so cool!

They would write about it for ages to come. It would be like this big mystery that they spoke about for hundreds of years, like in those days where they had to dip their fancy pens in ink, till the modern day.

His face hovered in mid-air. He was the helicopter.

His ears were rushed by the sudden sounds of rubber against stone. Suddenly, a solid slap against his back knocked the wind out of him, and his back caved toward the ground. The helicopter crashed into the great sculpture, sending it flying into the town below.

His balancing-thing. His mind snapped to the falling stones, scattering into the sea below. It was gone; nobody even saw what he’d created. And no one’d believe him now.

He turned around, angry and crying. He was about to yell at whoever did this, when he stopped. Looking down on him was an unfamiliar man. He didn’t know who it was, but something about him gave him a bad feeling. He was scared.

He squeezed his eyes shut, more tears jumping and streaming from them as he did.

“That’s right,” the man said, “it’ll be over soon.”

“It’ll be alright, Jared. It’s gonna be alright,” his mother continued sobbing into the night. Maybe she did love him, after all.

But Jared couldn’t look. He wailed so loud, he barely heard her. And if he opened his eyes, he’d see nothing but obscure darkness and what looked like tar, oozing out of his father’s skin.

“I never said I was a decent man,” said the fiend, and Jared believed him, wishing it all away. Why them, why his dad? “But your father isn’t much of one either.”

Could he be right? Maybe there was something he didn’t know about his dad. Why didn’t anyone tell him, if so, just because he was a kid?

Maybe his dad really didn’t love him either, maybe it was just his mom? Or was there something she was hiding, too?

“Once this is all over,” said the monster, “you’ll thank me.”

“No,” Jared said. His squeezed his eyes tighter.

“Look at me!” he demanded. Jared loosened his eye lids. The villain grabbed him roughly and yanked him forward, so his eyes shot open. A faint light lit up his face.

“Your daddy is a poison. He made my sister kill herself, and then he laughed in my face.”

“Daddy?” I whimpered, turned a little to him.

“It’s not true –”

“Isn’t it?” boomed the intruder, making Jared shake and fall. He saw the monster approach his dad. “You are going to feel what it is like to drown in sorrow. And I’m going to let that poison affect your family. Do you regret it now?” he screamed.

Dad didn’t answer.

Well?”

“Daddy, say you do!” Jared cried.

No answer.

“Daddy!”

“No.”

Jared’s jaw dropped. And soon, so did his father, into the waves and rocks below.

VIP Inspired.


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What the hell is 50 Shades, and why so popular?

Everyone’s talking about this new book 50 Shades of Grey. According to one blogger, it’s the new Da Vinci Code. Wikipedia says its set the new record for fastest selling book. Wikipedia even claims (how accurate is that claim?) that it’s surpassed Harry Potter!

But what is this book/trilogy even about?

Fifty Shades of Grey follows Anastasia “Ana” Steele, a 22 year old college senior that lives with her best friend Katherine Kavanagh, who writes for their college’s student paper. Due to catching a cold, Katherine persuades Ana to take her place for an interview with Christian Grey, an incredibly successful and wealthy young entrepreneur.

Fifty Shades of Grey is a 2011 erotic novel by British author E. L. James. Set largely in Seattle, it is the first instalment in a trilogy that traces the deepening relationship between a college graduate, Anastasia Steele, and a young business magnate, Christian Grey. It is notable for its explicitly erotic scenes featuring elements of sexual practices involving bondage, discipline, sadism, and masochism (BDSM).

What the fuck?

How is this better than Harry Potter?

Wikipedia has also told me about controversies involved with the book, the first of which is its origins in fanfiction. Not exactly my fandom, but I can respect the fact that someone actually managed to turn fanfiction into something so sellable.

Or I would. From what else I’ve read of it, it’s just a bad fanfic turned novel. Even if it wasn’t “a sex book”, I probably still wouldn’t read it.

And yet so many women do. Why? Because society is so sex-obsessed? Because the male lead fits so well into their own individual broken down self-pride? Because the author is simply taking what audiences secretly wait for in any story between two characters and skipping right to it?

I don’t get it. Personally, I just find the whole thing depraved, even apart from the sex. This isn’t Twilight, it’s so much worse. I don’t know what the books are like unless I read them, but just as an outsider, I’d say that the whole thing is just making a bad thing worse.

It’s no secret that certain people dismiss Twilight by saying that Bella and Edward’s relationship isn’t healthy. If anything, 50 Shades is the proof. Do we really wanna take our lessons from vampires?

You tell me.


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Friday Fictioneers – Heard It Through the Grapevine

The light was fading. It was late afternoon, and soon the daylight would turn to evening.

Robert stopped what he was doing, wiping his hands on the hand towel, and headed out the back door. Where was Angela? He thought then remembered where the last place she had been was picking grapes. He made a beeline for the grapevine.

He froze.

He heard it before he saw it, muffled voices, moans. His heart pounded in his ears, his body grew stiff. He ran, dodging through vines towards the sound. It couldn’t be what it sounded like…

It was. Angela and Nicolas. His vision went red.

For Friday Fictioneers.


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Visual Inspiration Prompt

I’ve been wanting to post a prompt challenge for a while, but I was afraid that no one would respond to it.

But I’m gonna do it. I was inspired by Lambert Lawson, because even if no one does respond, at least I’ll have my own prompt to answer to.

You can either choose a photo or use all three to interpret into one story. You’re allowed to write up to 1,000 words, because everyone knows how many words a picture paints.

Two of the pictures are from Daily Post and one is from Only Fragments. I’ll post my adjoining story in a separate post next Wednesday. Anyone who wants to join me can post their links in the comments there.

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My challenge, if I choose to accept it…

a ‘puzzle:’

6/14/22/17/32/10/14/¶/19/12/4/9/24/29/8/11/15/20/3/¶/11/¶/13/17/21/9/14/2/23/14/6/¶/11

In this ‘puzzle,’ each number represents the amount of words that coalesce into a particular sentence, and the amount of numbers before a paragraph symbol denote how many sentences coalesce into a paragraph. Thus, the first paragraph of this story has sentences of 6, 14, 22, 17, 32, 10, and 14 words in length, in that order. Then a new paragraph begins.

—  from a blog post of “Lambert Lawson

Basically my challenge is the above. I stumbled upon it while I was surfing wordpress, and I think it’s interesting. So I want to try it.

Painting to the Soul

It’s creepy how it affects me. I could stare into its depths for hours, into the hues of green. The way it swirls around the trees, darkens the clouds, creates a divine apocalypse, determined to lead me into a beautiful abyss. Nothing exists in this nightmare, nothing except the crows of my soul, ready to tear me apart. I shift in my spot, staring up at the canvas that seems to reflect the darkness within me threatening to overtake my life and destroy my mind, thanks to my own family. The very ones that should love me, and yet don’t. They very ones that should protect me, yet are denying me my own security.

My life has too much stress at the moment, and I came here to relax away from the pressure. Looking at it, some part wishes that I could escape to it. I must be crazy. I would really rather face danger than expectations? But no, that isn’t really what this is, I know it’s not, because I know the stakes are higher than I care to admit out loud. It makes me furious that any of it should matter at all, like I’m a blank canvas that someone’s trying to paint over, but the truth isn’t that simple. The truth is staring me in the face. If you try to paint over something, the paint grows thicker. If you try to change me, all that will remain will be lies and resentment. I sigh, wishing I could never leave this art gallery, wishing the life I have didn’t have to be mine. It’s my hell.

I take a card from the wall, imagining it at home.

I continue through the gallery, not really taking in the artwork around me. My mind is still echoing from the sight of the painting, like distance is crushing my heart. But I’ve lingered too long already, that a day at home feels preferable to the abyss pulling me into its embrace. I can’t let its soul destroy mine, not now. The contents of my soul are too close for me to survive that long. Too late. I vaguely register the sound and the movement of my feet running back, and my eyes pull back up into its hypnotic gaze. I breathe air into my heart as I dive into the peaceful, chaotic world. I can feel my apocalypse starting.

As I hang the series of paintings up, my sanity ends.

In case it isn’t clear, the character bought the paintings at the end. And it was a collection of canvas that makes a complete picture.

That was an eventful piece. I wrote that based on a card I took home from a gallery, and was able to look at from the desk. Exaggerated experience, of course.

I felt like that exercise reined me in a bit, tightened up my words and characterisation without my even trying. Maybe even taught me a few things about how I should write. Yeah, so maybe I should be more controlled in the future. Maybe I’ll use this technique in my head in the future, while repeating the mantra, ‘Just one more sentence’.

Not exactly how I normally paragraph, either – I usually try to shorten paragraphs so its easier to read for a fickle audience – but it’s good to try something new. Not that I’ll necessarily stick to it.