New story

Apr. 16th, 2010 02:26 pm
shadowtricker: (words)
On my daily walk, a story erupted in my brain and had to be hammered out. Bridgielove says it seems there should be more, but I truly can't think what. This is the story as it dropped into mind, and I rather like the hanging ending, myself. There is just such a house in our neighbourhood...
Grandfather MacNamara

I do worry about myself sometimes. Certainly in my drinking days I was of a more than melancholy turn of mind, but these days I am quite sober, and fairly content, yet this is the sort of story my mind comes up with. I'm not certain what it says about me, if anything. On the other hand, who can say from whence the stories come, and since I rarely get any comments, I couldn't say where they go, either. I only hope as a wordsmith I'm up to the task of playing the conduit in between...
shadowtricker: (walk in the rain)
Firstly I want to send a hug and sympathies to DBear. I would have said so on your latest post, but despite a 'leave comment' tab being available, it would not actually give me a reply window to type in.

'Tis the bloody, bloody month of March, and I'm thinking I'd best immerse myself in writing for a healthy distraction. Bridgielove's birthday is the one bright and glorious thing about this month. I am immensely and eternally grateful for her coming into the world.

On a mixed note, but in the writing vein, I thought I might post some odds and ends that will never make it as anything complete. I end up with these fragments around that get dismissed for one reason or another. These bits were written on the way to a memorial service this past January, a situation which I hope explains the tone.

Lines written en route )

I suppose I'd best turn my attention now to writing new material, whatever Ii can through the sneezing. Bloody March.
shadowtricker: (words)
I'm sure I meant to post something before this, but as always I've been distracted. RPing as The Shadow is absorbing and gratifying, and feeds my escapist tendencies wonderfully. The character is rather like me in a number of ways, which makes any flattery directed at him rewarding on a personal level. Not that I'd confuse myself with the character, but he just seems to be so well liked by other players, in terms of how I play him, and messages along the lines of how wonderful it is to see him played and played well make me smile.
I'm also trying to push myself to write more, because I really should. My NaNoWriMo novel has been languishing, partly for lack of editing assistance, and I feel badly about that. I've written very little over the past decade, and that's a terrible realization. The ideas simply don't flow the way they used to, I suppose, or perhaps I'm simply out of practice.
Allowing myself to run with whatever inspiration I can get, I have an idea I'm fleshing out for a Shadow fan fiction that doesn't rely on the RP business of the Nexus. I also picked up the Nexus 100 table the other day and began mucking about off that with surprising success. I don't believe I ever finished it for Thorn, but I was attempting to do it entirely with poetry from his perspective. It was too great a restriction, I suppose, although I did turn out some neat little poems in the attempt. I'm reluctant to join up or post the table until I have a little more material, but I wrote three little things, I think they're called drabbles(?) yesterday, and I'm working at more. For the time being I might post them here, for feedback or at least the amusement of others.

In other news, I've joined Deviant Art, and although it was mostly to make a lovely little collection of other people's art to look at, I was coaxed into uploading a few things, if anyone's interested in either of those. I have an impressive collection of artwork of The Shadow there.

The Shadow: Beginnings )
shadowtricker: (walk in the rain)
For any who might have been following, or those who haven't but would be interested, we have at last posted the final chapter of the Courtney Crumrin and The Shadow story, The Demon Hound. It is admittedly a slightly goofy title, but I was going for a pulp novel feel. I wouldn't mind actually writing some fan fiction independantly, but this satisfied an urge to get him involved in some Nexus-related adventures. It was surprisingly nice to play Aloysius again, although the latest release in comics has altered the perspective somewhat. The next issue, Bridgielove tells me, will be another advanture of young Aloysius, but that's not going to be out until some time next year. I am very much content to wait. What I'm anxious for is more pulps, which is ludicrous as I now have five, which makes for ten stories. Finances aren't good enough to consider a frivolity like buying another right now. I shall have to wait until there's more money in the pool.

There's a worrisome development in my wanderings, in the vein of economics. Every day when I take my walk there seems to be another new real estate sign up somewhere in the neighbourhood. The area I cover is fairly large and I have a few different routes, but it's not so large a piece of ground that this isn't disheartening. At the very least these are frequently the larger houses, therefore costlier to keep, but most disturbing of all is the occasional sign that claims this or that house will be sold to the highest bidder on such and such a night at a certain time. I have never, in my lengthy life, seen so many people so desperate to be rid of their homes that would put them up for a one-night auction. This practice is utterly foriegn to me, and deeply distressing. It's very possible it's a move of panic on the part of the homeowners, but I've seen these signs two or three times, in very different areas and for, it seemed, different houses.
We are not doing well, certainly, but we are not in any imminent danger of losing our place to live, our heat, our electricity, nor of starving.

I can think of much, much more to say in regards to the current economy and the country, but I will keep my peace. I wish all friends and family the best, until the world turns around. In the meantime, feel free to read the bit of lovely escapism above, and do leave comments, particularly about the art. We had poor Rey slaving away at a rate of one picture per day to keep up with the posting, yet each picture is wonderfully detailed and clearly took great time and effort.
shadowtricker: (Nemo dreams)
I shall try the word count bit again after I've got something more written today. Perhaps it's just some sort of glitch or high-traffic problem. In the meantime I give you a short story dug up from an old disk. This was a collaboration between myself and Rey, and it seemed the time to post it. Don't forget to reset your clocks.

Tempus )
shadowtricker: (Morpheus considers)
I suspect that focusing on a single prompt from [livejournal.com profile] all_unwritten would be more productive than listing them all for perusal later.

Disappointed dreams flitted, struggling not to fade. Sliding off his slumped shoulders they sought to weigh him down, to sink him into long overdue sleep.
Oblivious to their efforts he stared at the wall, and sighed.
shadowtricker: (heart of pages)
This afternoon Bridgie and I sat down and gave each other song lyric prompts in a writing excercise. My attempt was deemed depressing. The first part, certainly, but I thought the last bit was uplifting... Ah well, I suppose it's all a matter of perspective. Consider yourselves forewarned.
The three bits are not necessarily related to each other directly, it was simply a stream of consciousness.
bits of writing )

As a record to myself, I took the melatonin supplement for the first time last night. Fell asleep relatively well, comparable with some of my better nights, but woke up groggy and bleary-eyed. I ended up taking a brief nap later. It could be the supplement, could be that I need time to adjust to it, or could be entirely unrelated.

Trying to draft the family into going out to the park to catch the last of the afternoon sun.
shadowtricker: (walk in the rain)
I'm aware I've missed several days of posting. I seem to have been slipping in and out of a severe funk since my birthday, and I couldn't say precisely why. To make some sort of amends, here are three previously unposted poems, intended to have been written from Thorn's perspective from the old Nexus 100. I never did complete the Nexus 100, although I keep whittling away at it slowly. Approaching poetry from Thorn's perspective is a fascinating practice, although I should hope most of his poetry stands on its own.

Broken )

Yellow )

Storm )

Because I was so maudlin today, the girls took it upon themselves to try teaching me something called 'retail therapy'? I cannot complain, as my altered book supplies reached a critical mass and at last exploded in something grander than a bookmark. I am still working at the calligraphy, but I have truly deface a book now, and I'm fairly well pleased with it. Photographs to come when I have a complete page.
shadowtricker: (magical book)
The house simply abounds with creativity today. I've managed to finish up the drabble meme, and I've reluctantly joined the 'Promptvember' challenge from [livejournal.com profile] dmooc. The latter I am struggling to catch up on, but after spending an hour searching for song lyrics I have set that aside for the moment. The computer feels positively filthy after such a search.

Prompt: Character Bio - 5 Books that have influenced Thorn

Prompt: Character Bio - 5 Songs that have influenced Thorn

I'll try to do more catching up tomorrow, although I refuse to post movies for the third prompt, and will likely put up poetry instead.

Drabble meme replies:
Bardha and Aloysius )

Melinda and the White Stag )

Sarah Branigan and Janitor Thorn )
shadowtricker: (book in sand)
I haven't written a thing today, so I'm dredging the barrel. Wandering through my own files on the computer, I came across an odd little scrap of writing that was done purely for the interest of it. This is unlikely to be of interest to anyone but myself and possibly those who play with Thorn, but I'm not sure anyone reads his journal, as it goes without updates for great lengths of time.
This is posted as I had it written, complete with red notes that are meant to be an instructor's corrections. For reasons I no longer recall, I latched onto the idea that Thorn would rather like the Rime of the Ancient Mariner. This was intended to be a sort of book report. His grammar and spelling are coming along nicely these days, which is ever so much easier to type than deliberately borderline illiteracy...
Thorn's Essay )
shadowtricker: (Desperate for time)
Nothing terribly momentous for today, but I've managed two of the writing prompts from the meme.

Related to the current goings-on of RP:
Dr. Schreber & Janitor Thorn )




Calpurnia Crisp & Aloysius Crumrin )
shadowtricker: (words)
I'm posting this now, although I may take some time to get to the actual writing. I'm happy to collect prompts, and I'll put up replies when I've got the keyboard properly, this evening or tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.

Give me some lyrics (Just a few lines, please. A stanza if you must) and I will write you a small thing about one of YOUR characters and one of MY characters. Even if they have never met ever.
shadowtricker: (last to fall)
Made myself go for a walk this morning, and I think the smell of fall was at last in the air. It's still a shade warmer than I'd like, but there's one tree up the road that has really been going at autumn in the most glorious fashion. The leaves are a wonderful warm gold at the bottom and shade to browner towards the top, for a gradient effect I can't recall seeing before. I stood under it for a minute on the walk, and with the canopy of gold overhead, everything seemed brighter.

This isn't what I'd call a proper finished story, more the seed of such. It needs a great deal of refinement and I think I got a bit wordy towards the end. Ideally I'd like to cut out any need for names, and possibly trim most if not all the dialogue.
Concrit welcome.
Read more... )
shadowtricker: (Desperate for time)
It has been some time since I updated my LiveJournal with anything of value. In a world with such widespread opportunity to live our lives as publicly as possible, I find myself struggling to keep up with even one outlet of this. That I should worry about this at all shows a modern preoccupation with connecting to the world at large.
There is a popular belief that the world is becoming an ever smaller place as our connections with all others on this planet grow and overlap, but I would argue that this is an illusion and the truth is quite the opposite. Once an individual’s world extended no further than their own village, but we have had our awareness pushed in ever-expanding circles outward. The modern individual is expected to be not only aware of the globe as a whole, but deeply concerned about events occurring all over the world as well. It is considered socially irresponsible not to be distressed by a half dozen circumstances of political and social unrest across the globe. The media gives us daily reminders of the current dilemmas we should be worried about, while often introducing new situations that demand our awareness. The world seems ever larger as we are expected to keep in mind an increasing level of knowledge of details happening everywhere within it.
I am not young, and I find this level of expectation unrealistic and imposing. The daily affairs of my own household are absorbing enough, and there are certainly local events that catch at my mind and soul. On a larger scale there are events that rivet the world’s attention briefly, and I have not forgotten the bombs in London subways. I watched in wonder and awe as this social responsibility enabled us to put a friend we had never met in person in touch with a complete stranger across the Atlantic to ensure that her son, traveling in Europe, was safe. With remarkable stories such as this I can hardly argue that our increasing interconnectedness is entirely a bad thing. The expansion of social circles to include people in other countries is mind-bending in wonderful ways, but the demands on our time and concentration can become overwhelming.
This phenomenon is not manifested only in the internet, although it is a most-easily pointed to symbol of the change in society. Blogs encourage us to put our lives on view for others, so that they may reach us from across the world. The cell phone is, for many, an indispensable tool of daily life. Writing letters is too slow and cumbersome a method of contact, because the necessity to connect with the world has become so broad and immediate that we need the fastest means possible. If this daily demand continues or, gods forbid increases, how will humanity adapt to meet it? Already I marvel at the younger generation, which is presented as having a large pool of friends to be contacted via cell phone when any major life event occurs. The definition of a major life event, too, has changed from my own understanding of it. I am given to understand that the pool of friends contacted are actually glad to receive any details because it helps to fulfill their own need to be connected to everything that is going on at any given time. Further opinions may be analyzed the same day via blog, and these details are to be met with excitement and gratitude for our greater interpersonal connection through them.
Perhaps it is age, maleness, or a combination of this and other factors that makes me suspicious and wary of such a broadcasted life. I feel there is little of my daily doings that would be of interest to anyone else. I enjoy sharing my opinions but I prefer to write them down and check my phrasing before putting them up for view. I do not own a cellular phone, and have no desire to. I still enjoy sitting down with the scattered pages of a newspaper, despite the ink it gets on my fingers. I feel that it is important to acknowledge the state of the world and even sometimes weigh in an opinion on the more distressing circumstances, but I find I simply cannot be bothered to worry over them on a daily basis. What society seems to expect of me in social awareness would only lead me into a nervous mental breakdown. I simply do not have the capability to meet the demands made on my attention. I cannot even be bothered to read books online, because the ads and toolbars and other assorted distractions impair my comprehension. Writing this on the Word program is difficult enough, with other programs lurking about behind the scenes, pulling at my attention. Therefore I will close this writing here and perhaps go sequester myself in a quiet room with tea, and a book.
shadowtricker: (words)
Thorn has never found it in his heart to tell Courtney that he does not like to visit her house. The grim and wealthy austerity of the place puts him on edge, and is a painful reminder that his best friend is living in a kind of luxury that he could only dream of as a boy. The corridors of her house don’t even require tapestries to keep out the chill, although tapestries they do have, even on the floor in place of rushes. The house itself, however, is only a part of what makes him uneasy on visits. More imposing by far is the dreaded appearance of her uncle, or great-great-uncle however many generations removed. Every visit he spends in fear that Aloysius Crumrin will enter the room, piercing him with a cold blue gaze that makes him feel like a filthy child in rags once more, worthy only of being regarded with disapproval. Although he has never consciously made the connection, there was another figure who looked at him once with this distant, unreadable gaze of immense age. Somewhere buried in memories he no longer looks at there is a tall, white haired figure, richly but simply dressed, who gave him such a look. There were others with him, but that one figure caught his attention, and held it even as the command was given for him to leave the fae lands and not return. The memory is too painful to be bourne, and so he has buried it deeply, but every time Aloysius Crumrin looks at him Thorn expects at any moment to be exiled away forever.

Aloysius finds the young man a strange choice of friends for his niece, but when has she ever been predictable? There always seems to be a sort of bitterness in his gaze when he looks around the house, or at the gestures of affection between Courtney and himself. The latter he can understand, because it is a look he wore himself all too often through the years. Even as a boy Aloysius dreaded the awkward moments of visiting others his own age. In their houses a friend’s mother would fuss, or the father give an approving look, and he would find himself turning away out of jealousy. His own family were always quietly polite but distant, and such displays of affection were reserved for one’s babyhood. While seeing this affection so freely given in the families of others, it also drew him. Aloysius spent more time among boys of a lower social class than his own, finding them more open and willing to accept him into their fold with gestures of kindness he longed for at home. Thorn’s look of bitter longing and the way he turns away is all too familiar, and even with the memories of his own boyhood he is too awkward to know how to mend it. When the younger man is in the house, he keeps away, afraid that some smiling glance or brief hug between himself and Courtney will only make things worse. He would not readily admit to seeing his younger self in the scabbed and blistered boy, but the similarity is undeniably there. Every time Thorn looks at him, he finds himself suddenly placed on the far side of the rooms of his boyhood, and has no idea how to deal with it.

Hearing voices, Aloysius pauses in the doorway just as Courtney is bouncing out to fetch something. He has not caught them doing anything untoward, and indeed they do seem to be merely good friends. His attention is briefly distracted by a touch on the arm from his niece in passing, and when she has gone by his eyes and those of the young man meet. Steely blue and Grey-green meet, both awkward and wary. Thorn’s throat works for a moment in a soundless attempt to come up with a greeting, but Aloysius turns away, embarrassed at interrupting. “I’ll fetch you both tea…” He hurries down the hall to the kitchen, hoping to time things so that he can pass the tea to Courtney and not intrude again. Better they simply avoid each other, and keep memory buried where it belongs.
shadowtricker: (book in sand)
I'm attempting to get back into playing, and gearing up for the Silent Hill plot that I'm hoping will start up soon. They've refused my request to add janitor Thorn into the mix as well, for very understandable reasons involving their already being overwhelmed as mods of the plot. No matter, I'll put moving him into the Nexus on the back burner for the moment and focus on the original Thorn instead. I meant to post nightmares to build up to the plot before now, but I haven't been at the keyboard much. I've written a bit and backdated posts, giving him roughly one nightmare a week since his encounter with the fog that's inspired it, although I lack one for this week, as of yet.
Because I haven't posted much writing here, and I keep meaning to, I present the nightmares all in one go. They're meant to create a sort of escalation towards the plot that will be happening, where he will be thrust into the dimension of Silent Hill. I welcome ideas for this week's nightmare, as I'm not sure when the plot is actually beginning.
cut for length and disturbing imagery )
shadowtricker: (book in sand)
It's a rare dream that makes a complete story, a finished chapter that lets you wake when it is closed. This is poorly written down but it hasn't been through any editing and it's past two in the morning now.

I woke with this, this morning. )

I have also, obviously, finally paid for the bloody journal and gotten the layout I was so desperately fond of, only there's no way to change the width of the main section that holds the entries. It seems a waste of space laid out as it is, and it's slightly hard on those of us with already strained eyesight.
shadowtricker: (storm)
There are few things I love so passionately as this. I could live in a world where I had to forsake my sight, although it would be greatly missed; Unable to ever again read, look upon art, or see the faces of those I love, I would still have sound. In my old age leave me but this and I could have some contentment.
In some ways music can benefit from the absence of visual stimulation, unless what we see is rhythmically matched to what we hear. Pure sound communicates on a level which mere words cannot, no matter how elegantly or passionately written.
While individual tastes may vary greatly, there are certain tones which are universally held to be harmonious. Even extremely young children have some ability to distinguish between discordant sounds and harmonious ones, and many of these carry across cultural divides. Eastern music systems are written in an entirely different format than those of the Western world, recognizing what Europeans would consider half a key as a solid note in its own right, yet certain combinations of sound are agreed upon across these boundaries as unpleasant. We are all capable of hearing music of a foreign country, ignorance of the language rendering the words incomprehensible, and being moved by it nonetheless. Our voices, of course, greatly increase the chances of this but instrumental music also possesses the ability to cross backgrounds and languages. One can only imagine that first moment lost in time when someone first tapped out a rhythm and it must have had an infectious quality which has never been lost to the world. I prefer vocal music, likely older even than the tapping together of sticks or stones. Voice is the first instrument, the one which we are nearly all given and which can only be taken from us by the most dire of events. Vocal inflection is such a flexible tool that it renders grief and happiness communicable across all languages. We wail in sorrow, growl in anger, trill in happiness. All these expressions can be found in simple speech but reach newfound heights when brought into music. The mix of words and other vocal sounds into music creates an altogether new form of communication that transcends all others. A picture can evoke a mood or bring across a message beyond words, but it remains a static thing. Music moves, flows, pulls and pushes the senses in a way that is inescapably interactive. Music urges us to move to match its pace, as if it were a physical guiding force, and makes an invisible partner. Even when sitting still appreciating sound, one may be drawn to tap a foot or a finger, to bob ones head. Music has the ability to shape our mood even as an ambient background noise, and the ability to transport us to unexpected emotions and new understandings when embraced. All music follows some form of pattern and rhythm, even the most weaving chants of some Native American or Eastern music is born of a beat the singer feels from within. We are all born with an internal drum of changeable tempo in the form of our hearts, and many of us greet the world with our voices. Music is a primal force that is born from instincts which defy explanation but which bind us all together. Silence may be golden but music is made of blood and soul.
shadowtricker: (words)
I shall not even attempt to make this into a properly formatted essay of any type, but I have an hour or so to spare and a cup of tea so I thought I ought to make the attempt to write something, however pointless.
Read more... )
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