Exercise: You wake up and find . . .

Our writing exercise this week consisted of a random situation. You wake up and find yourself . . . We each had to fill the rest in and then hand the situation off to the next person. That unfortunate person then had to write a small piece revolving around what they had been given. The one I received was:

Exercise: You Wake Up And Find Yourself Next To Someone With A Blue Scaly Arm . . .

It was supposed to have been a good night - and by all means, from what I remember, it was. But as I woke up, the questions and realisations came flooding back. Someone had opened a flood gate in my head, and because it all came rushing back so fast, none of it made sense.

The person lying in bed next to me stirred, bringing me closer to consciousness.

The Voodoo man. I remembered him. He was the most prominent figure in it all. I liked his scruffy but strangely sophisticated style, and I found myself drawn to him with curiosity. His black tatty top hat stood tall above the crowd, and his dreadlocks hung low beneath it.

My friend had taken an instant dislike to him. After a few drinks his mouth often run off ahead of him, screaming obscenities and abuse. The Voodoo man didn't take too kindly to this.

I don't know why I remembered him only as the Voodoo man. I don't believe in magic - be it white or black magic - and I don't believe in any religious views or the paranormal, but there had been something about him that, despite my curiosity, chilled my blood. A dark shadow seemed to follow him everywhere, and as he muttered silent words to himself, a green glimmer glowed in his dark eyes. Now, it could have been the alcohol playing games with my head, but at the time I believed what I saw and I was frightened.

Grabbing the arm of my friend, I ushered him away without even looking back.

The friend beside me stirred again, and I opened my eyes. I didn't even have to look over at him to know that something was wrong. The blue scaly arm that draped itself over me was enough to tell me that, and my mind didn't even have to think very hard before it realised it was all the Voodoo man's doing.

He had cursed my friend and turned him into something blue and scaly.

I didn't want to look at the rest of him.

I just screamed.

Pic of the Week . . .

This week, I'yall mostly be publishing Jessica Galbreth. New to 2010 . . .

http://www.enchanted-art.com/

Exercise: Chinese Whispers in Reverse . . .

A very . . .VERY . . . strange exercise last night in the Circle. There were only three of us last night (and one being a brand new member: Welcome Belle!) One exercise we usually do when we're quite is like a game of Chinese Whispers. An opening paragraph is written, folded over and passed to the next person. The next person reads the last line and continues with where they think it should go, and so on and so forth . . . You get some rather comical pieces that way.

Last night we did just that, only we didn't start with the opening paragraph. We started with the last paragraph and worked our way backwards to the beginning. We were allowed to read the entire last paragraph before we added. It proved very interesting. Here's the piece I started and ended. Each paragraph, bold, italic or normal, represents a different writer. *Remember, this piece was written backwards:

Exercise: Chinese Whispers in Reverse . . .

You hear about it in tales, read about it in books, or watch it in films, but never do you expect it to happen to you. Things like that just don't happen. They aren't real - but I can prove you wrong. They're so real it's beyond belief.

It's amazing how such a little thing can capture your attention, and how that little thing can suddenly devour your very being and consume your mind. It's hard to believe how one little thing can cause so much trouble.

Daydream or fixation. I couldn't decide. They say you can't think about what you don't want to think about without thinking about it. Each day it took me longer to walk passed the mound. Each day the portion of my brain devoted to anything other than the mound became just that little bit smaller.

I'd been passing the patch for months with a restless hope in my heart. The mound surely held priceless treasure, and I waited each day for the secret to be revealed, or perhaps to reveal itself after the fashion that secrets have of wanting to be known. I waited, wanted, hoped, and when the sight came I was stunned.

It was such a rare sight to see, but I knew instantly what it was the moment I saw it. Green shoots, lusciously green and so mouth wateringly green. I could only imagine what sat at the other end, and the more I imagined the more my mouth watered. It was a carrot.

I needed that carrot. I mean, real bad. Nothing would get in the way of my craving. Predators or gossips, anything scary that would mean death in the night - either physically or socially - was ignored. I grabbed the trowel and ran into the garden.

Quietly, surreptitiously, with my breath held in my chest like solid, I stabbed the trowel into the black earth. The night was lit by a plaid moon, but still I hunkered down in the dirt, closer to my objective than ever before. My heart beat fast, thudded, tumbled, all the analogies you've ever read that hearts do. I heard a noise from behind and stopped.

At first I thought I'd been caught, but as the shadow from behind me grew, I knew that wasn't the case. What WAS the case, I didn't yet know. To discover that meant that I had to turn around. I didn't want to do that, but I had to. Leaving my hole only half dug, I looked over. It was no man standing behind me. It was a 6ft ferret . . .

Pic of the Week . . .

A belated pic of the week for you . . . (it was a busy old week last week . . .) And a little Romance, thinking it apt for the Valentines Day just gone . . .

Pic of the Week . . .

I thought this week I'd take a break from Anne Stokes. I love her work, but if you have too much of a good thing, it doesn't become good any more. Instead, here's one by the faithful and talented Nene Thomas.

I love her work just as much as Stokes. She is so good at portraying beauty. But one thing that always astounds me is her talent at painting material. She manages to create every single ruffle as elegant as the rest, and that adds to the over-all magnificent of the entire piece. I mean, just look at the detail in the side picture . . .

Stunning . . .

Asiria by Nene Thomas

www.nenethomas.com

Exercise: The War That Wasn't . ..

We haven't written many pieces recently. Mainly we've been discussing the use of emotions in our work, and last night was spent critiquing a colleague's short piece. (And discussing our new Facebook Page. Yes, NHWC is spreading it's wings online. A few pieces of work will be published there and will be available for people to read if they are a `friend`. So, if you fancy joining us, feel free. Here's the link.)

http://www.facebook.com/#/group.php?gid=438016210318&ref=ts

Anyway, sifting through my numerous notebooks that I have lying around, I come across this old piece. It was written so long ago I can't remember what the exercise actually was. All I do know is that it's been called `The War That Wasn't`, and it was a worthy tale to tell . . .

Exercise: The War That Wasn't . . .

His blood turned cold in his veins as he watched the cloud of black smoke plume into the blue skies. It cast an eerie shadow over everything that lingered beneath it. A shocked silence filled the streets as people emerged from their homes with horrified curiosity. All eyes were turned towards the explosion.

Kosta wasn't alone as his mind began to comprehend what had just happened. The plane had been low as it passed, and caused no stir of panic. It was a sound that everyone had grown accustomed to in this war-stricken place. At first, when the planes passed, it brought dread thick and strong, and it would last until the sound faded in the distance. Afterwards you could hear the entire town sigh with relief. These days, however, it had become a sound that no one really battered an eye lid to.

Today was different.

This time the rumble of the plane had been followed by the earth shattering crash of an explosion. Whether it had lost control and tumbled from the skies or whether a missile had been been launched was unknown, but all Kosta could think about was the location it had destroyed.

His brother's apartment was over there.

Still groggy with sleep, he couldn't stop his legs as they began to take long strides across the street. His strides quickly turned into a jog, and then into a race. He passed people in the streets cursing the enemy as a panic broke out. Some screamed and others fell to their knees as their sobs echoed against the crumbling, unmaintained buildings.

Kosta ignored these. Only one person was on his mind - his brother.

As he grew closer, the smell of brick dust rushed into his nose. There was so much damage. Many buildings had disappeared entirely, being replaced with rubble and twisted steel. Dozens of people crowded round, calling the names of their loved ones, and digging in attempt to find survivors. Kosta joined them, his eyes dashing from right to left, searching.

Suddenly a sight came to him that sent relief spiralling through him. His brother hadn't been in the building when it collapsed, but despite this fact, something didn't feel right. Why was he lying on the floor? Why wasn't he moving?

He dashed over, dropped to his knees and touched his brother's face. There was no response. Calling his name, he began to shake his shoulder.

Still nothing.

He scooped his brother into his arms, stifling his sobs, and repeated his name in hope he would open his eyes, but there was no life. Giving into his grief, his sobs merged with hundreds of others as he cradled the body in his arms, rocking back and forth. This wasn't their war, but yet it seemed they being punished for living where they did.

His brother was dead and all he could ask was `why` . . .

Pic of the Week . . .

Another masterpiece by Anne Stokes for you . . . I just can't seem to get enough of her work at the moment.

Elegant Dragon

http://www.annestokes.com/bio.htm