http://simpleassault.myphotoalbum.com/view_album.php?set_albumName=album53
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Book Covers
So, I'm getting a better hand of this digital collage idea. That one with "the survivalist" was a fluke, I guess. I've been designing book covers for fun. They're of my own books or short stories. But most of them aren't my pictures. I'm just finding them off the internet and playing around with them. So, yeah, I've got some celebrities and stuff in there. Just ignore that fact and enjoy. I'll post a few below, but the rest are in my photo album. Once I develop this skill a little better, I'll start taking my own pictures and remake some of these.
http://simpleassault.myphotoalbum.com/view_album.php?set_albumName=album53
http://simpleassault.myphotoalbum.com/view_album.php?set_albumName=album53
Saturday, November 18, 2006
KERES rewrite
So I've come to the conclusion that...
In the article I mentioned earlier, it references Hills Like White Elephants, where Hemmingway tells the story from the point of a random eavesdropper in this conversation between a man and a woman. I've read the story. It makes the action very distant and that's kind of what I'm going for. So I tried to re-write chapter one by having it from the point of view of an eavesdropper, but without actually making it a real character. It's like omniscient without actually getting into anyone's thoughts. The narrator can see and hear everything, even smell, but can't know anything else. What is that called? Empirical? Anyway, it's more concise and I think it's working for the time being.
Chapter One
The sky was blue this morning. The plane smelled of moist towelettes and recycled meningitis. Some of the airline staff helped passengers store their carry-ons in overhead bins. And a thirty-something year old Asian man was shouting obscenities at the stewardess.
“Mr. Stipes, if you don’t take your seat and fasten your safety belt, I’m going to have to call security and have them escort you off this flight.”
The man pointed a finger in the stewardess’ face. “No, you don’t understand, lady. This plane is not taking off because I have a student still missing.”
“The airport will make sure she’s on the next flight to Utah as soon as she arrives.”
“Listen here, I am the teacher of, and therefore am legally responsible for, these six students. If they are not all in my field of vision, I go to jail, okay? Do you want that burden hanging over you? No! I didn’t think so, so let me do whatever I goddamn please.”
“Duke, catch.” It was the voice of a teenage girl. She was a simple creature, eyes bugging from under her glasses lenses, chin disappearing into her neck. She tossed the angry man a cell phone.
Duke Stipes put the phone up to his ear. “What?”
The stewardess reached for the phone, but Duke pivoted out of reach listening to a voice on the other end. “Sir,” she said. “The use of electronic devices on this flight is…”
“Shhh.” He held a shushing finger to her and waited for the wailing on the other end to cease. “Grounded my ass! Your mother does not understand the importance of a soprano part in a jazz band with a statewide reputation. Hey!”
The stewardess had swiped the mobile phone from Duke’s grip. “Take a seat, sir.”
Duke plopped down in his chair, buckled, and put his hand out palm up.
“I’ll return this at the end of the flight.” She stalked off.
“Hey!” Duke began to pull at his seat belt as though ready to tackle her, but he couldn’t manage to get it done in time. “Goddamn it.”
“Way to go,” said the girl with the glasses. “That’s my phone.”
“You’re promoted to soprano, Keys.”
The girl, Keys, snarled. “I don’t sing.”
“You do now.” He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Only seconds later, he banged his hands on the arm rests. “Hey, let’s get this plane in the air!”
Between Duke and Keys were two things. The aisle. And another teenage girl. This one was something gentler to look at, almost sacred. Soft lines defined a small nose, watery eyes, and lips more mature than she. She scooted down in her seat and blinked at Duke. Then she reached into the backpack held between her ankles and pulled out a small novel. In the time it took her to get through the first five pages or so, someone had stifled Duke with an alcoholic beverage. A couple pages later, the plane lifted off the earth’s surface. A few dozen pages after that, the clouds had fallen away, leaving only sky. By the time the book had exhausted her attention, the plane’s wheels were skidding across the runway in Utah.
In other news, I've completely changed up my website (simple-assault.com) by moving all my pictures off the actual site and onto free photo albums. Check it out.
http://simpleassault.myphotoalbum.com/albums.php
In the article I mentioned earlier, it references Hills Like White Elephants, where Hemmingway tells the story from the point of a random eavesdropper in this conversation between a man and a woman. I've read the story. It makes the action very distant and that's kind of what I'm going for. So I tried to re-write chapter one by having it from the point of view of an eavesdropper, but without actually making it a real character. It's like omniscient without actually getting into anyone's thoughts. The narrator can see and hear everything, even smell, but can't know anything else. What is that called? Empirical? Anyway, it's more concise and I think it's working for the time being.
Chapter One
The sky was blue this morning. The plane smelled of moist towelettes and recycled meningitis. Some of the airline staff helped passengers store their carry-ons in overhead bins. And a thirty-something year old Asian man was shouting obscenities at the stewardess.
“Mr. Stipes, if you don’t take your seat and fasten your safety belt, I’m going to have to call security and have them escort you off this flight.”
The man pointed a finger in the stewardess’ face. “No, you don’t understand, lady. This plane is not taking off because I have a student still missing.”
“The airport will make sure she’s on the next flight to Utah as soon as she arrives.”
“Listen here, I am the teacher of, and therefore am legally responsible for, these six students. If they are not all in my field of vision, I go to jail, okay? Do you want that burden hanging over you? No! I didn’t think so, so let me do whatever I goddamn please.”
“Duke, catch.” It was the voice of a teenage girl. She was a simple creature, eyes bugging from under her glasses lenses, chin disappearing into her neck. She tossed the angry man a cell phone.
Duke Stipes put the phone up to his ear. “What?”
The stewardess reached for the phone, but Duke pivoted out of reach listening to a voice on the other end. “Sir,” she said. “The use of electronic devices on this flight is…”
“Shhh.” He held a shushing finger to her and waited for the wailing on the other end to cease. “Grounded my ass! Your mother does not understand the importance of a soprano part in a jazz band with a statewide reputation. Hey!”
The stewardess had swiped the mobile phone from Duke’s grip. “Take a seat, sir.”
Duke plopped down in his chair, buckled, and put his hand out palm up.
“I’ll return this at the end of the flight.” She stalked off.
“Hey!” Duke began to pull at his seat belt as though ready to tackle her, but he couldn’t manage to get it done in time. “Goddamn it.”
“Way to go,” said the girl with the glasses. “That’s my phone.”
“You’re promoted to soprano, Keys.”
The girl, Keys, snarled. “I don’t sing.”
“You do now.” He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Only seconds later, he banged his hands on the arm rests. “Hey, let’s get this plane in the air!”
Between Duke and Keys were two things. The aisle. And another teenage girl. This one was something gentler to look at, almost sacred. Soft lines defined a small nose, watery eyes, and lips more mature than she. She scooted down in her seat and blinked at Duke. Then she reached into the backpack held between her ankles and pulled out a small novel. In the time it took her to get through the first five pages or so, someone had stifled Duke with an alcoholic beverage. A couple pages later, the plane lifted off the earth’s surface. A few dozen pages after that, the clouds had fallen away, leaving only sky. By the time the book had exhausted her attention, the plane’s wheels were skidding across the runway in Utah.
In other news, I've completely changed up my website (simple-assault.com) by moving all my pictures off the actual site and onto free photo albums. Check it out.
http://simpleassault.myphotoalbum.com/albums.php
Friday, November 17, 2006
Success and Failure
Calendar
It's done! Quote Calendar is done! I added some quote bubbles and fixed up the cover page nicely. I came to a little road block when I couldn't fit in everything on November and December, but I fixed that by making those two months a total of six pages. Sweeet.
Haven
For some reason unknown to everyone but my muse (ha.) I've been inspired to start actually writing the Haven sequel that's been stewing in my brain for a while. I have a feeling I'll be writing Keres before this one, but it seems way easier than Keres and way easier than I thought.
You see, a few years ago, I tried to write a sequel to my first novel (Emerican Adventure) and it was awful! I just couldn't get back into the mindset. But so far, Haven II (doesn't have a subtitle yet) is pretty easy. I wrote the beginning of chapter one, but got a little bored of it because I know where it's going. So I stopped for now. Basically all of chapter one will be a summary of the first book but from Callum's perspective, and through the interpretation of the movie that Michel et al made about Callum's adventures.
Then I started writing chapter two, which is much better and parallels the first book with some obvious differences.
It's done! Quote Calendar is done! I added some quote bubbles and fixed up the cover page nicely. I came to a little road block when I couldn't fit in everything on November and December, but I fixed that by making those two months a total of six pages. Sweeet.
Haven
For some reason unknown to everyone but my muse (ha.) I've been inspired to start actually writing the Haven sequel that's been stewing in my brain for a while. I have a feeling I'll be writing Keres before this one, but it seems way easier than Keres and way easier than I thought.
You see, a few years ago, I tried to write a sequel to my first novel (Emerican Adventure) and it was awful! I just couldn't get back into the mindset. But so far, Haven II (doesn't have a subtitle yet) is pretty easy. I wrote the beginning of chapter one, but got a little bored of it because I know where it's going. So I stopped for now. Basically all of chapter one will be a summary of the first book but from Callum's perspective, and through the interpretation of the movie that Michel et al made about Callum's adventures.
Then I started writing chapter two, which is much better and parallels the first book with some obvious differences.
Haven II
The spirit drinks of the river of life and breathes a stream of energy into the ear of the sleeping Dreamer. The boy stirs slightly, but does not wake. The night wears on and he groans more and more, rolling over, pushing his blankets from his bed. Still he does not open his eyes. Well before daybreak, the full moon aligns with his bedroom window and casts a beam of white light on the dreamer.
His eyes fling open. He gasps and sits up. His bare calves and heels scrape the mattress, searching for the comforter, but they find none. The Dreamer looks to the window and freezes in the lunar spotlight.
“I must go out into the world.”
The boy gathers very few things and rushes out into the balmy night. His feet slap against the pavement as he reaches the front gate. He drops his only possessions on the ground and steps into his brown loafers. He collects the couple other articles of clothing and pushes the gate open with his free arm. He strains as the gate tries to push him back, but finally the steel gate screeches just enough open for the thin boy to slip though. He makes sure to shut it behind him. Now standing in the bushes, he peers back between the bars to from where he’d come. He gives a monumentous sigh and crawls out of the shrubbery and into the real world.
The Dreamer emerges into cold world where smoke covers the sky and litter covers the lawns. This is the city.
He steals a glace back at the bushes hiding the gate of his secret shelter. His eyes water with the yearning to return, but the spirit makes another appearance. The boy cannot see it, but it dances about his head and flits in and out of his ear, whispering suggestions that he cannot ignore.
“I must proceed through this world.”
He takes a few steps and stops.
“But why?”
He takes one last glace back at the shrubs, but he can’t quite make out where the gate was. The entire wall is covered in these hedges.
“Because I need to get inspiration of course,” he assures himself and continues his walk.
[continue story]
The film reel ended. The lights came up. I could not applaud.
I wanted to. Everyone had worked so hard on this one, but some creature of my mind was gnawing at the back of my brain like Ugolino in the ninth circle of Hell. It was all false. The whole point of the movie was just crap. I would know, I directed it. I didn’t write it though…
I turned my head to look at Callum, the boy on whom the character of the Dreamer had been based. He sat against the side wall, refusing to take a seat. He held his knees close to his chin as if he were afraid someone might notice him and strike him down. His blue eyes barely surfaced between his blond bangs and his khaki pants.
The audience began to shift, finding their things amid other people’s things in hope of either retiring for the night or pursuing new creative projects, now freshly inspired. It was in this transitional period that Callum caught my gaze. I held it for a long time. We probably would have continued staring that way all night had Biaji not interrupted.
“Mich-y!” He wrapped his arms around me. “That was soooo good! Whoo, I got chills. Come on, we’re wanted at the autograph table.”
Biaji had found himself an orange and blue tweed jacket for the occasion. He was under the impression he was looking pretty sharp, which he probably would have been had he not been also wearing his red swimming trunks.
“Twelve weeks, Michel!” He spoke to me, but turned sideways and projected into the theatre so that everyone still leaving could hear his declaration. “Twelve weeks of hard work and it’s done, and what a hit! Do you know how many people are taking home copies tonight?”
“Why don’t you tell me.” I ducked my head to try to capture a glimpse of Callum under Biaji’s waving arm. He’d gone.
“Like…a lot. I don’t have the actually numbers yet but, it’s…a lot what are you looking for?”
“Where’s Callum?”
“Don’t start that again. Probably at the autograph table where you should be, Miss Director.” He put out his hand and slid me one of his alluring smiles. I clenched my teeth very hard, trying not to give into that charm, but took his hand. Together, we made it to the autograph table. Callum hadn’t arrived there yet. Maybe he didn’t plan to.
Percy, the actor who’d played Callum in the movie, already stood behind the table scribbling on DVD boxes with the Sharpie someone’s given him. I couldn’t get over how strange he looked with blond hair, a transformation that had consisted of Percy, Seyhak, a bathtub, a death grip, and a bottle of peroxide. His scalp still peeled from the distress of chemicals, but it didn’t hurt. Nothing ever hurt when in the haven.
A girl leaned over the table, watching Percy sign his name. “You play the tortured soul so well,” she praised. “How do you do it? I mean, that mindset, it’s so…out there.”
Percy’s writing paused only for second. I almost missed it. He glanced up, but his gaze retreated back to the autograph. “Acting’s what I do.” Only then did he smile at the compliment. He handed the box across the table and just stared at her.
“Well you keep it up, then.” She walked away, almost disappointed.
Percy scanned the mountains of DVDs still sitting on the table, but he must have sensed me watching him, because he looked up and smiled at me.
“Congratulations,” I told him.
“All thanks to you. You’ll have to direct more often. I got way more freedom in this movie than anything Biaji ever directed.” He looked sidelong at Biaji signing autographs at his own end of the table.
“He’s a visionary. My ideas are just too flimsy to give you better direction.”
He smirked. “Could have fooled me.” He fiddled with one of the boxes.
“So really, Percy, where did your inspiration come from? I mean, do you think there really are these…” I gestured to the air around my head. “…spirits lurking about, ready to manipulate us into certain death?”
He sobered more so. “You’ll have to ask Callum.”
I tapped a DVD box. “This is his testimony. He believes it. Do you?”
“Spirits,” he said, pondering it as though it were the first time. “Uh.” He made like he was ready for a clarification on the whole issue, but simply resolved it with a “No.”
“No spirits then.”
“No spirits. Either Callum’s trying to hide his real intentions or he dreamed it all up. He’s good at dreaming stuff.”
I curled my upper lip in thought. “Doesn’t sound right either way.”
He laughed, his dark eyes brightening a few value degrees. “Are you saying you believe in these spirits?”
“Absolutely not!” I didn’t know what else to say. “I…no, that’s ridiculous. But…there’s something, right? Something we don’t know about.”
He winced. “You mean like how we didn’t know about Sapphire? You think there’s more secrets? No, nuh, no, I don’t think you’re getting enough sleep. You should…” He pointed his marker at me, accusingly. “…you should…stop thinking for a while. Talk to Calllum if you’re confused. Talk to Loudon, maybe.”
“But Percy, think about it.”
He leaned over the table and lowered his volume. “No, Michel. I know you’re into this detective phase, but I cannot deal with anymore conspiracies.” He scowled and went back to writing on boxes even though the autograph line had fizzled out.
I sank. Maybe Percy was right. Maybe our recent encounter with swapping souls and walking through other people’s dreams made me paranoid of the paranormal. No, there was something going on here. Maybe the story was real to Callum, but it wasn’t real in the sense of actual events. Something had made Callum leave the haven that day and I was going to figure out what it was. I’d never believed in wandering spirits, but I was beginning to accept elements of reality that were less and less practical these days. I refused to be surprised again. So what was it? Would it come for Callum again? Would it come for others? If I tried to stop it, would it come for me?
The spirit drinks of the river of life and breathes a stream of energy into the ear of the sleeping Dreamer. The boy stirs slightly, but does not wake. The night wears on and he groans more and more, rolling over, pushing his blankets from his bed. Still he does not open his eyes. Well before daybreak, the full moon aligns with his bedroom window and casts a beam of white light on the dreamer.
His eyes fling open. He gasps and sits up. His bare calves and heels scrape the mattress, searching for the comforter, but they find none. The Dreamer looks to the window and freezes in the lunar spotlight.
“I must go out into the world.”
The boy gathers very few things and rushes out into the balmy night. His feet slap against the pavement as he reaches the front gate. He drops his only possessions on the ground and steps into his brown loafers. He collects the couple other articles of clothing and pushes the gate open with his free arm. He strains as the gate tries to push him back, but finally the steel gate screeches just enough open for the thin boy to slip though. He makes sure to shut it behind him. Now standing in the bushes, he peers back between the bars to from where he’d come. He gives a monumentous sigh and crawls out of the shrubbery and into the real world.
The Dreamer emerges into cold world where smoke covers the sky and litter covers the lawns. This is the city.
He steals a glace back at the bushes hiding the gate of his secret shelter. His eyes water with the yearning to return, but the spirit makes another appearance. The boy cannot see it, but it dances about his head and flits in and out of his ear, whispering suggestions that he cannot ignore.
“I must proceed through this world.”
He takes a few steps and stops.
“But why?”
He takes one last glace back at the shrubs, but he can’t quite make out where the gate was. The entire wall is covered in these hedges.
“Because I need to get inspiration of course,” he assures himself and continues his walk.
[continue story]
The film reel ended. The lights came up. I could not applaud.
I wanted to. Everyone had worked so hard on this one, but some creature of my mind was gnawing at the back of my brain like Ugolino in the ninth circle of Hell. It was all false. The whole point of the movie was just crap. I would know, I directed it. I didn’t write it though…
I turned my head to look at Callum, the boy on whom the character of the Dreamer had been based. He sat against the side wall, refusing to take a seat. He held his knees close to his chin as if he were afraid someone might notice him and strike him down. His blue eyes barely surfaced between his blond bangs and his khaki pants.
The audience began to shift, finding their things amid other people’s things in hope of either retiring for the night or pursuing new creative projects, now freshly inspired. It was in this transitional period that Callum caught my gaze. I held it for a long time. We probably would have continued staring that way all night had Biaji not interrupted.
“Mich-y!” He wrapped his arms around me. “That was soooo good! Whoo, I got chills. Come on, we’re wanted at the autograph table.”
Biaji had found himself an orange and blue tweed jacket for the occasion. He was under the impression he was looking pretty sharp, which he probably would have been had he not been also wearing his red swimming trunks.
“Twelve weeks, Michel!” He spoke to me, but turned sideways and projected into the theatre so that everyone still leaving could hear his declaration. “Twelve weeks of hard work and it’s done, and what a hit! Do you know how many people are taking home copies tonight?”
“Why don’t you tell me.” I ducked my head to try to capture a glimpse of Callum under Biaji’s waving arm. He’d gone.
“Like…a lot. I don’t have the actually numbers yet but, it’s…a lot what are you looking for?”
“Where’s Callum?”
“Don’t start that again. Probably at the autograph table where you should be, Miss Director.” He put out his hand and slid me one of his alluring smiles. I clenched my teeth very hard, trying not to give into that charm, but took his hand. Together, we made it to the autograph table. Callum hadn’t arrived there yet. Maybe he didn’t plan to.
Percy, the actor who’d played Callum in the movie, already stood behind the table scribbling on DVD boxes with the Sharpie someone’s given him. I couldn’t get over how strange he looked with blond hair, a transformation that had consisted of Percy, Seyhak, a bathtub, a death grip, and a bottle of peroxide. His scalp still peeled from the distress of chemicals, but it didn’t hurt. Nothing ever hurt when in the haven.
A girl leaned over the table, watching Percy sign his name. “You play the tortured soul so well,” she praised. “How do you do it? I mean, that mindset, it’s so…out there.”
Percy’s writing paused only for second. I almost missed it. He glanced up, but his gaze retreated back to the autograph. “Acting’s what I do.” Only then did he smile at the compliment. He handed the box across the table and just stared at her.
“Well you keep it up, then.” She walked away, almost disappointed.
Percy scanned the mountains of DVDs still sitting on the table, but he must have sensed me watching him, because he looked up and smiled at me.
“Congratulations,” I told him.
“All thanks to you. You’ll have to direct more often. I got way more freedom in this movie than anything Biaji ever directed.” He looked sidelong at Biaji signing autographs at his own end of the table.
“He’s a visionary. My ideas are just too flimsy to give you better direction.”
He smirked. “Could have fooled me.” He fiddled with one of the boxes.
“So really, Percy, where did your inspiration come from? I mean, do you think there really are these…” I gestured to the air around my head. “…spirits lurking about, ready to manipulate us into certain death?”
He sobered more so. “You’ll have to ask Callum.”
I tapped a DVD box. “This is his testimony. He believes it. Do you?”
“Spirits,” he said, pondering it as though it were the first time. “Uh.” He made like he was ready for a clarification on the whole issue, but simply resolved it with a “No.”
“No spirits then.”
“No spirits. Either Callum’s trying to hide his real intentions or he dreamed it all up. He’s good at dreaming stuff.”
I curled my upper lip in thought. “Doesn’t sound right either way.”
He laughed, his dark eyes brightening a few value degrees. “Are you saying you believe in these spirits?”
“Absolutely not!” I didn’t know what else to say. “I…no, that’s ridiculous. But…there’s something, right? Something we don’t know about.”
He winced. “You mean like how we didn’t know about Sapphire? You think there’s more secrets? No, nuh, no, I don’t think you’re getting enough sleep. You should…” He pointed his marker at me, accusingly. “…you should…stop thinking for a while. Talk to Calllum if you’re confused. Talk to Loudon, maybe.”
“But Percy, think about it.”
He leaned over the table and lowered his volume. “No, Michel. I know you’re into this detective phase, but I cannot deal with anymore conspiracies.” He scowled and went back to writing on boxes even though the autograph line had fizzled out.
I sank. Maybe Percy was right. Maybe our recent encounter with swapping souls and walking through other people’s dreams made me paranoid of the paranormal. No, there was something going on here. Maybe the story was real to Callum, but it wasn’t real in the sense of actual events. Something had made Callum leave the haven that day and I was going to figure out what it was. I’d never believed in wandering spirits, but I was beginning to accept elements of reality that were less and less practical these days. I refused to be surprised again. So what was it? Would it come for Callum again? Would it come for others? If I tried to stop it, would it come for me?
Digital Collage
I don't even know what to say. Yeah, it's pretty bad. See, I've been looking at some Dave McKean artwork because it really inspires me, and lately because I'm doing a formal analysis for Art Appreciation. So I decided that I would try to make a digiatal collage like Dave McKean. First, as practice, I'd just find pictures off the internet and try to recreate a drawing, but with scraps of photos. So I tried it. What a disaster! Check this out. Laughable.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Blue Blood
I added some more to that short freewrite from before. Here you have it.
One white feather wafted to the ground and landed in a puddle of blue ink. Slowly, the fibers of the feather began to suck in the ink as tree roots would bits of the water table. Blue commenced its invasion of white downiness. Each soft branch sagged under the weight of the navy tar. The shape deformed so much, the object no longer could be identified as a feather. Blue concluded its incursion and overtook white until the object lay completely flat and submerged in thick, boiling liquid. A demon’s blood runs blue.
Lingering on the fringe between that little gray area that, if you look too closely, proves not to be gray at all, but a pattern of black spots on a white background, and the white area, she tipped forward and fell straight out with her arms hanging off the sides of her like broken wings, no longer responding to the signals pulsed out by brain nerves. Light dwindled. Her broken frame bounced off the black spots of the gray area and she landed face first into the black. Splurp said the black area as her body impacted its gummy surface.
Submersed from the waist down in something much like tar, she sat up and examined her ruined figure. Blood gushed from her armpits where her arms had broken. She gave a shake of her head, sending her hair twisting about like an explosion of tangled ropes, and rolled her shoulders back, discarding her broken arms. The bloody limbs fell into the muck, and she stood.
Light from the white area still fingered its way down through the black spots above as though the gray area provided a canopy for the rain forest of the black area. And forest it was indeed. Oh, what animals dwelled here. What creatures! Sucking and wheezing all around her, they trudged through the steamy stew landscape, their forms falling just out of light. Shapeless, featureless abstracts condemned forever to wander this dark land.
The armless angel – her name was L – began her journey through these lands. But first, she knew, she’d have to find herself some new arms by which to pick up things, or perhaps by which to defend herself.
A beast, nameless for one could not distinguish one species from the next, skulked by ignorant of the recent arrival. The angel was on his back before he could have known. What a squeal that creature did cry! She wrapped her legs around the animal’s hind quarters and sunk her fangs into the scruff of his neck to anchor her dominant position. With one clean thrust of her pelvis, she tore off its back limbs with her legs. Shrieking, shrieking, oh the blood, what black blood mixing with the landscape, the same mixture.
And the angel donned her new arms, black and oozing down her sides. The bumpy flesh boiled little bristles of hair, appearing almost blond when a cylinder of light hit it just right. The knees of the animal were bent contrary to the elbows of a humanoid, so the woman took control of these possessions as though they were her own and snapped the bone backward, crushing any cartilage to protect it from just that. She reached with fingers, but found only hooves. The rough bone wiggled on each side of the split. She bared her teeth, now stained dark gray. Exercising the muscles behind these hoof bones, she stretched them back and forth until they split wide open, allowing thin pallid fingers to emerge. Once free, they tore apart the hooves until they could be cast aside. She gave another shake of her hair and clawed her way through her arm skin with her new found fingernails. She attacked the tufts of blond hair, prying them from their soil like uprooting weeds. Flesh separated from muscles and dropped away. The angel bled red.
L pulled at the skin on her hands. She stretched it until it reached her shoulder and there she let it go, taught against her vulnerable insides. She yanked it around the sides to completely cover the surface of her new arms. Her fingertips smoothed out the areas where the edges came together, and the wrapping melted together. Her form was complete. And she bled no longer.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Huh. Well that sucked.
Keres
So I continued to write Keres based on the beginning I have posted below and it deteriorated to some awful state of simplicity that I kept finding myself in before when I trashed earlier versions. Is it that I'm having problems writing omniscient point of view? Am I not distant enough? This is what the creative writing professor sent me: http://awpwriter.org/magazine/writers/djauss01.htm
It's very useful and I will meditate on this.
Calendar
I've only got November and December left to do. I almost considered scrapping all the work I'd done in preference for a page-a-day calendar that tears off, but I eventually returned to sanity. Maybe someday I will do an alternative version.
Writers of the Future
I want to submit an entry to the Writers of the Future contest to get some money, but with a limit of 17,000 words, I'm not sure my portfolio will be able to provide me anything. Anything I have is too long or too old. (In my case old = not good enough) Perhaps I will need to invent something new.
Documentary
I have proposed the idea of me making a documentary in England for my stay in London for the study abroad program here. I hope it goes through seeing as how I turned in my application six days after the deadline, but it's their fault for not advertising it.
drawing:
Which version do you like better? I don't have a scanner, so I had to take a picture of it. The one on the left is with the flash and the one on the right is without. It looks like I got them at a little bit of a different angle too because the proportions are slightly different.
Art Assignment
I've got two assignments for Art Appreciation. One is a website. I've created the template from scratch and added some frivulous detail. I will post it when it's done. I still need to do some research on satire artists. I don't know many even though it is my favorite function.
The second one is a 16-hour visual journal in which I will do like a scrapbooked journey. I will take my photos over Thanksgiving. One will be with my dog, one at the dinner table mimicking American Gothic, and one of isolated sleep paralysis. That's all I know of so far. The rest will probably be spontanious.
Website
Please note that I have taken most of my stories off my personal website (simple-assault.com) because I want to save space, but you can read them if you email me. I have left about six on there. I also updated the drawings page.
I just ate a whole bag of M&Ms in 30 seconds.
Please disreguard any spelling errors in this piece as I have not proof-read it. Thank you.
So I continued to write Keres based on the beginning I have posted below and it deteriorated to some awful state of simplicity that I kept finding myself in before when I trashed earlier versions. Is it that I'm having problems writing omniscient point of view? Am I not distant enough? This is what the creative writing professor sent me: http://awpwriter.org/magazine/writers/djauss01.htm
It's very useful and I will meditate on this.
Calendar
I've only got November and December left to do. I almost considered scrapping all the work I'd done in preference for a page-a-day calendar that tears off, but I eventually returned to sanity. Maybe someday I will do an alternative version.
Writers of the Future
I want to submit an entry to the Writers of the Future contest to get some money, but with a limit of 17,000 words, I'm not sure my portfolio will be able to provide me anything. Anything I have is too long or too old. (In my case old = not good enough) Perhaps I will need to invent something new.
Documentary
I have proposed the idea of me making a documentary in England for my stay in London for the study abroad program here. I hope it goes through seeing as how I turned in my application six days after the deadline, but it's their fault for not advertising it.
drawing:
Which version do you like better? I don't have a scanner, so I had to take a picture of it. The one on the left is with the flash and the one on the right is without. It looks like I got them at a little bit of a different angle too because the proportions are slightly different.
Art Assignment
I've got two assignments for Art Appreciation. One is a website. I've created the template from scratch and added some frivulous detail. I will post it when it's done. I still need to do some research on satire artists. I don't know many even though it is my favorite function.
The second one is a 16-hour visual journal in which I will do like a scrapbooked journey. I will take my photos over Thanksgiving. One will be with my dog, one at the dinner table mimicking American Gothic, and one of isolated sleep paralysis. That's all I know of so far. The rest will probably be spontanious.
Website
Please note that I have taken most of my stories off my personal website (simple-assault.com) because I want to save space, but you can read them if you email me. I have left about six on there. I also updated the drawings page.
I just ate a whole bag of M&Ms in 30 seconds.
Please disreguard any spelling errors in this piece as I have not proof-read it. Thank you.
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