Craft Wednesday #20 Catching Mistakes

This blog needed a place for talking about writing. "Craft Wednesday" will be me talking about all things writing: how to write, why to write, and my own craft journey. I hope to learn and to share experiences with you.  

Catching Mistakes

     One way writing communication is better than verbal communication is that a writer can go back and edit what they have said. If someone tries to go back and edit what they have said in personal, professional, or political conversation conducted by real-time speech, that person can appear -- in the phrasing of some of Charlie Brown's friends -- "wishy-washy."

    This is not to say that a writer can never make mistakes.

Able

Able

Thank you, athletes 
of the 2015 Special Olympic World Games
for inspiring us all

I, too, am
seen as an obstacle
in our bureaucratic courses;

But I am not a hurdle
to run over or avoid.

Told I can't,
I show that I can
each time I step
over lines and labels,
defying easy filing.

My challenge
becomes our challenge;

My triumph
is mine and yours
in the spirit of human ability.

So Serious Saturday #18

Fiction needs a basis in reality. Exercising non-fiction muscles once in a while benefits an active imagination, channeling creative energies as it focuses on a subject. So Serious Saturdays will be an active place for critical essays or writing about reality in the context of real events - even when it is not written on Saturdays.

Type: Television Program Review

Special Olympics

     The crowd cheered as the athletes streamed into the L.A. Coliseum, entering by nation but united in purpose: to demonstrate acceptance, bravery and, above all, joy to a world often missing lacking these essentials.

Extended Fortune From a Cookie

Family knew you before,
Friends know your outer know,
You have known your inner being,
God knows you.

A Unicorn's Tale, Part 11

11.

     We got off at a floor with one room which seemed to run the length and breadth of the whole building. Sound echoed in the tiled room, absorbed only by the floor-to-ceiling gold drapes obscuring the windows. Mikey, Larry, and a hundred other unicorns were already arranged for the court hearing.
     Guards brought me to the front, where I stood to testify. As I was speaking, the other unicorns nodded and murmured amongst themselves. I recognized some of the clean and serious unicorns from the clearing of my first race. Every once and a while some darted harsh glares across the aisle at the defendant.
     I finished my account of my involvement with Larry. It only took a couple of minutes, but by the end of it I was sweating sparkles.

Craft Wednesday #19 Words As the Frame

This blog needed a place for talking about writing. "Craft Wednesday" will be me talking about all things writing: how to write, why to write, and my own craft journey. I hope to learn and to share experiences with you.  

Words As the Frame
OR

A Word on Wordless Communication Modes in Writing

    Sometimes words do not say everything; that is fine, because words work together with other modes to bring the meaning as close to the surface as possible. Consider words the frame for what is inside.

Darrowwood Part Fourteen

14.

            Monica caught up to Jenny in the brown yard between the dormitories and the classrooms. She had to jog a bit as Jenny angled towards the stone meeting hall. They just missed the entrance and the sound of Alendro’s voice emanating from its cold breath, and passed the building entirely, instead moving swiftly down a wooded hall formed by massive pine trunks and branches.

            Monica looked at her cellphone display.  It was about two p.m., but it seemed much darker than that.  To her surprise, there were a couple of bars of cellular reception.

            Monica dialed her mother’s number as she trailed a few quick steps behind Jenny.  “Mom?” she asked.  The enthusiastic greeting was only a recording.  “I guess you and Dad are still on vacation.  Mom, when you get this, please call me back.  It’s urgent.  Something’s wrong with Jenny.”

Darrowwood Part Thirteen

13.

            Before she knew what was happening, Monica was lying in bed with Jenny holding a cold compress to her head and Cynthia sitting cross-legged at the foot of the mattress. “She’s starting to cool,” Cynthia said. “I’ll go and tell Alendro.” Monica blinked, and Cynthia was gone.

            “How are you feeling?”  Jenny said.  She took back the compress as Monica sat up.  “Do you think we could go back now, the meeting’s almost –”

            “No, we can’t go back,” Monica cut in.  Her whole body tingled with a pulsing energy well apart from her heartbeat.  She climbed out of bed and pushed past Jenny to the open double window, where a strong gust ran through the forest lines from deep in the green recesses.  It brought a flurry of pine needles soaring into the girls’ room.

Beyond Mere Peace

Shalom --
the way things should be

...The Son, the Father, and the Tree

The Son, the Father, and the Tree

Page 3 of 3

     The branches were not kind to him. The leaves were nicer. The birds pecking at the other fruit only turned to glance at the boy tumbling head over heels before returning to their morning harvest.

     On the last branch before the ground the boy landed with his stomach, which knocked the breath out of him. His rope belt caught on the bark, but held together. The boy cast a nervous glance below. He had slowed enough, however, to wrap his arms around the branch and lower himself feet-first to the ground.

Craft Wednesday #18 Given Enough Time

This blog needed a place for talking about writing. "Craft Wednesday" will be me talking about all things writing: how to write, why to write, and my own craft journey. I hope to learn and to share experiences with you.  

Given Enough Time

      I haven't written new stories or poems in my notebook for about two weeks. I've been busy, or at least that's what I've been telling myself. 

...The Son, the Father, and the Tree...

The Son, the Father, and the Tree

Page 2 of 3

     Wings fluttered in the semi-darkness. The boy could see the shapes of the small things, now, and knew he had to act. His arms stretched wide. He used the tree, he used the branch, he used every hold he could touch to ascend the arms of the tree.

     Each outline of fruit hanging on its branch also hung heavy in the air. The boy's mouth watered as his free hand cupped the dense fruit at his eye level. The fruit was perfect, oval and firm. His father would be proud of him. A few good rips and twists freed the fruit. The boy stared at its bumpy green skin as it sat on his palm, holding treasures inside.

The Son, the Father, and the Tree...

The Son, the Father, and the Tree

Page 1 of 3

     Not very far from here a boy and his father stood at the entrance to a forest just before the gray dawn.

     "Take the bag," the father told his son, as the son started toward the nearest tree. "You will need it to carry the fruit."

     "Father," the boy said, "I am old enough to carry the fruit down and climb up again. I do not need a bag."

     "That is not the way to treat the fruit," the father replied. "We want the whole fruit, not fruit that is scarred or pecked at." He looked up the trunk of the nearest tree and the branches loaded down with the first fruit of the season. "Hurry now, the ravens are waking."

IMP: Recurrence in Both Known Times

(An Instructional, Memorable, and Practical poem)

I. Past

Having the sense you see again
the same person, object, or word
also recalls the first moment --
Déjà vu is sometimes certain.

II. Present

Remarkable thoughts or events
occurring at the same moment
are accidental. But sometimes
coincidence marks relation.

Darrowwood Part Twelve

12.

            The girls turned around to go back up the dock.  There was Cynthia, standing about two feet behind them, not a uniform thread out of place.  “Alendro is waiting for you,” she said.

            “Right.  We’re coming,” Jenny said.  She put a hand on Monica’s back and practically pushed her past Cynthia, as Monica pulled back to try focusing on the small girl, and to find the connection she could not name between Darrowwood, Cynthia, and the pricking in her finger.

            The low stone building was dimmer inside today, lit with candles. But still very, very cold.  Alendro greeted them with a broad smile and a sweeping gesture towards the two remaining seats, one of them next to Cynthia.

Craft Wednesday #17: The Name of this Blog

This blog needed a place for talking about writing. "Craft Wednesday" will be me talking about all things writing: how to write, why to write, and my own craft journey. I hope to learn and to share experiences with you.  

The Name of this Blog

"This blog is named with two butterflies in mind."

    People have asked me why I named this blog "A Butterfly Goes Free."  Names are beautiful and interesting ways of showing history and hope in the same breath.
   On this blog I have created a permanent tab, "Butterflies", where I tell the story of two separate incidents years apart involving delicate insects and human curiosity. Enjoy, and may this inspire you to write some of the stories only you can tell.

A Unicorn's Tale, Part 10

10.

     “You double-bouncing candy blaster,” Mikey snarled. “I gave you another chance and you blew it and all my savings.”
     He launched himself at the blistered glass. The three guards that had incapacitated me held him back. Additional guards trotted in and pressed him down with their horns. His disjointed jaw looked like it was completely unhinged.
     However, Mikey still had enough energy to shout, “I’m pressing charges! You name it, you’re it: thief, swindler, con-crafting liar!”
     I started to say, “Mikey,” but Mikey shot me a glare so forceful that I realized he thought I was a knowledgeable partner of the scheme.
     “It wasn’t me!” I exclaimed.
      The burly unicorns started to drag Mikey out of the door.
     “The kid had nothing to do with it!” Larry yelled through the glass partition.
     “You’re dead to me!” We heard Mikey’s voice echo through the bowels of the building.

A Unicorn's Tale, Part 9

9.

     “Come with us,” the burly unicorn said. He did not question me further to see if I really was this Octavian Silverhorn. Nor was I allowed to ask questions. They took me from my station and into the elevator, down to the street, across the road, and through a door in the side of a building, which was pretty much identical to the previous building except for a height difference of about a dozen stories.
     I was placed in a small white room which was separated from the next room by a glass partition. I suppose I could have bounced, but the burly unicorns were still there, and even then I was pretty sure they had the situation under their complete control. So I stayed and watched as a bleary-eyed Larry limped into the next room.
     “Hey, Eight,” he said. “They told me you were coming.”
     “What is going on?”
     “I messed up.”
     “What did you do?”

The Great Magical Birthday

     My brother and I were the two bookends of summer. My birthday marked the beginning; he was the end. It worked well for us, except for when I teased him about being two years younger.
     Mom threw us a part every July, midway between us. It wasn't his and it wasn't mine. July was ours to celebrate. There was the year we had an under-the-sea theme, with oceanic party favors to match. Another year we reused the ocean decoration for the pirate adventure birthday. The old wooden swing set was still in the backyard, so we used that for our fearsome ship, wasps and all. While the grown-up ate cake, us kids swung as high as we could and leaped off. It didn't have anything to do with cannonballs.
     Another year I was enamored with Harry Houdini and the concept of performing magic. My brother got involved in card tricks, which -- silly me -- I thought wasn't real magic.  

Dialogue of the Effaced Stone

For the once-named patriot

Soldier
Leader
Friend and Son

Born some while ago
Gone in his prime

"Pa and Ma asked me about the danger
the front lines presented. Over skimpy roast
and smashed potatoes I told them
I was fighting for them and my brothers"

A Unicorn's Tale, Part 8

8.

     Just at the precipice of my final race I was thinking of my first night in Tokyo with my small room and the blaring speakers, which I realized were actually live time tickers for all the imaginary races rather than, as I had come to believe, a kind of hazing. Mikey had a similar set-up in his headquarters, and during my infrequent visits I had seen him listening and muttering and occasionally jotting down some figures for the gross tons which were won and lost in a matter of minutes.
     Anyway, Mikey and I stood at our stations in the last minute before the race commenced. The crowds on the rooftops had been cleared away to limit distractions. It was only us and the other teams posted along the rows where the sweets tables normally stood.
     “Where’s Larry?” I asked Mikey. He had never been so late before. We used Larry as a third member of our team, a sort of back-up if Mikey completely blew his top, a fancy way of saying that Larry did not care so much, because he did not get any candy out of the deal – only I did, and only enough for a day’s pay. Mostly I was looking for points – we were looking for points – Mikey was pushing for points so that my ranking could reach the top five percentile.
     “He said he isn’t coming,” Mikey told me. He polished his hooves on the tile, trying to be nonchalant, but even through my slight nerves I could see he did not know where to direct his eyes.

Craft Wednesday #16 Sitting in Corners

This blog needed a place for talking about writing. "Craft Wednesday" will be me talking about all things writing: how to write, why to write, and my own craft journey. I hope to learn and to share experiences with you.  

Sitting in Corners

     I like finding a nice corner and sitting  cross-legged on the floor. At those times I feel that the world has an anchor in time and place and that I am planted in it; I can see things "better", without distractions from the sides, up, or down. All there is is up.

     Writing a story is kind of like having a quirk of sitting in a corner. Initially, an author enters the room of the story. When they choose where they will sit, an author chooses a perspective from which to tell the story . Sometimes there is not much choice, but a necessity to sit in the only vacant place. 

     Then the author looks up in the room and watches the others, who are the characters of the story. Actions are noted, reactions are followed. Time and energy is not wasted by trying to look down because the author feels the floor beneath them. Understanding of what is happening rests on the intuition of supporting and previous action.

     The author does not speak, but lets others in the room speak to them. They might ask a polite question now and then, but other than that an author sits, watches, and documents until closing time for the room arrives.