Creep Factor

I've decided on my writing blog to do daily writing prompts. I'm a smidgen surprised what comes out of my head, though. Not really urban fantasy, just very strange stuff. This one started out courtesy of Trevor who gave related an interesting little story. I used that to pose some what if questions. I didn't realize it would involve a book burning (gone wrong of course).

Silly Season

What am I thinking. I am doing NaNoWriMo again this year. 50,000 words in a month? Yeah, no problem as long as I don't think about the work involved in re-writing. 800 plus words so far today, so I guess I'm on track.

Stories That Are (Possible).

Does anyone else see how the TIF challenges dovetail together? The month I did my SpiroFloral quilt, I didn't like it. I would look at it from across the room, and it had no visual impact. Trying to pull the viewer in, I took something that worked and made something that didn't.

The following month, the challenge was on details. I so wanted to flip the two challenges. If I'd thought of the SpiroFloral in terms of details, I would have left it alone and had a stronger piece as a result.

Last month, the question was "what do you call yourself and why?" I write, that is one of the things that I've been doing almost to distraction since the end of last year after NaNo, but it didn't work with the art idea. Stories on a page, hum how to make that into fabric. Couldn't wrap my head around it, so did something completely unrelated.

And this months challenge: think about stories that are and stories that are possible. Hum, isn't that what a writer does? We create possible stories out of nothing but words. If you want a glimpse of my thoughts on writing, I've created a blog just for that. I might take part of my novel and adhere it to fabric, quilting over it. Or I might not.

I also recently joined a round robin group called Exquisite Corpses. We all played the game as a kid, but if you are like me, didn't know there was a name for it. Do you remember drawing something on a piece of paper, folding it over so only a few lines showed and passing it to the next person? What started as a giraffe ended as a kangaroo, creating a girroo. Or something. Maybe a kangaraffe. Because of the rules in this challenge, I can't say what I'm working on. So that is a story that is and a story that is possible. Once I send it on to the next person, who knows what will become of the concept rattling around in my head.

So I have a number of possibilities. Semi-related--I have a start on my piece for the Breaking Traditions challenge. I'm rust dying a piece of fabric for the backing, then it will be quilted and sent off. Early, but done. That piece is all about a story that is and a story that could be, so it could work. Ooh, killing two birds with one stone, now there's a concept. Now to settle on an idea and run with it. Maybe I'll even like it this time.

What Do I Call Myself?

This month, the challenge question is "what do you call yourself and why?" Hum, good question. Thinking back, I've never used labels to define myself. I have grown kids, was once a wife, create stuff that might be termed art (but might not) write and tango. But those aren't terms I use to define myself. At one time, I did cross stitch, I've knit and crocheted, sewed and I quilt. I read copious amounts of books across multiple genres depending on my mood and what strikes my fancy. I guess if I had to use any term to define myself, it would be multi-faceted or maybe diverse.

Ruminating on this more, I would tend to think of what I do more at the craft end of things than the art end. Craft speaks of intense labour, honing of skills, time and love. Art is often lofty, holier somehow, what I work toward. Craft is the step toward art (in any form). In my writing, I hone words to create a certain lyricism. In quilting, I've spent hours in free motion quilting honing skills that I wouldn't otherwise have. Writers have it easier. We are told to spend the hours necessary to hone our craft, and there is no shame in doing so; to be published, this is necessary. An author is just a published writer. At one time, would this same have held true for artists? If you create, spend time labour or love on any project, that is craft. If you have cash in the pocket, you are an artist.

I have unfinished cross stitch projects, left over yarn from my knitting days, paints and pastels, and fabric in my stash of stuff, and I also have a novel in the process of editing. I like the term diverse, so this month I would like to find a way to incorporate everything I've tried and where it has brought me.

Details

I've been thinking more about details. In my writer's group, we were each to write a story for one member to fill in the details. When offering critiques of our writing, Josh often comes up with convoluted backgrounds for characters. We were joking around the last time we met and decided that each of us had to write a story for him to fill in the details.

This is what I wrote. Of course, it is missing all the details. Go ahead and fill in your own!

Mumbai could hear his women below, their cries prickling the soles of his feet, pressed hard against the cold planks of the ship’s deck. He was powerless to prevent the fate about to befall Kantha. Mumbai thought of the promise he’d made, regretting it once again. Now it was too late to take it back. It might be too late for everything. Sighing, Mumbai broke his contact with the deck before he was caught.

These self-important pale men, fair of skin and eyes had no right to chain him like this. They were like demonic ghosts. The tallest white devil strode back and forth down the rows, tapping a whip against his thigh in rhythm to the chanting--chanting he could not hear.

Beside Mumbai sat three others. On the bench beside him were four more. And behind him—an entire crew pulled in rhythm, their chanting heard only in Mumbai’s head. His manacled arms clanked an offset beat. Chant, stroke, clank. Chant, stroke, clank. On and on. He thought the sound would never end.

Kantha cried again, screams of agony disrupting their rowing. The rhythm faltered, and the white devil raised his whip in threat. Growling, Mumbai started chanting again, and the rhythm quickly resumed. The white devil stayed his hand, scowling at Mumbai in anger. Once again, the whip beat in rhythm to the unheard sound.

Mumbai risked a glance at the shore, hazy in the distance. It was at least two days away. He shivered, partly in anticipation and partly in dread. Inside, Mumbai could feel its pull, chanting to him in time to the rhythm in his head.

“Do you think to stop it?” The devil leaned in and whispered in Mumbai’s ear. Mumbai hissed in shock, and the devil laughed. “You are powerless to stop it. Don’t even try.” A whip across his back emphasized the devil’s point.

The cries from below stopped abruptly, the silence eerie. Mumbai splayed his toes flat against the deck of the ship, trying to feel what was below, but nothing reached him.

“Don’t.” One word was all that was spoken, but it was enough. Mumbai curled his toes inward in recoil. Chant, stroke, clank, the sound continued. Dread built with each stroke of the oar. It wouldn’t be long now.

“Yes, good. Good,” the devil whispered in his ear again.

Promises made, promises broken. If it wasn’t for his promise… Glancing furtively at the devil, Mumbai placed his toes flat against the deck once again. This time, Kantha’s shallow breathing whispered through his toes, fueling Mumbai’s resolve. The whip came down hard on his back, breaking the chanting to a million fragments in his mind. Breaking his connection to Kantha. At least he knew she was alive. For now.

Mumbai smiled inwardly. He’d bought them a small amount of time, but it might be all he needed.

“Again,” the devil ordered. Rather than risk another whip across the back, Mumbai started to chant again. The devil watched the shore, appearing disinterested. Mumbai knew the truth. The marks on his back proved the devil’s interest.

Turning abruptly, the white devil stared at Mumbai, chilling him to the core. “Do it now,” he ordered. It was time. Mumbai had only one chance. One chance to save himself or to keep his promise, a promise he did not want to keep.

Splaying his feet flat, Mumbai started to chant out loud. The noise roared around him, evil, noxious. Bile rose in Mumbai’s throat and he choked it back. Kantha cried in agony below him, and Mumbai wept, bitter tears of anguish. He’d kept his promise, but Mumba wondered if he would miss his soul.