Fight the good fight . . .

I'm a gentle person -- until I get into a meeting. Years of battling with words for my department make me feisty, especially when I'm surrounded by folks who want my budget money.

But in a physical confrontation, although I once forced a cantankerous 6 footer to back down (he wanted to plant a facer on my mother), I'm a coward. More flight than fight. Most of the time.

Now, in the final edit of Standing Stones, one of my beta readers called me out on my fight scenes, saying, "You might want to work on this a little bit."

My first stop was to find some online writing advice. WriteWorld had a neat list of links under the heading of "How To Write a Fight Scene." I've begun reading and revising. Maybe within the next few days, I can post a the revision so you can see the results. Here's the "before."

Standing Stones:  Lord Gordon has ordered guards to evict crofters and fishermen from their rented cottages on his island in the Orkneys, Scotland, 1840s. Mac hosts a meeting to resist evictions at his fisherman's cottage. 

Unrevised:

     The door to the cottage crashed open. Guards burst into the room, guns lifted over their heads as clubs.
     Freya screamed.
     “Hey, you. You can’t come in here,” Mac cried over the noise. “Get out. Get out!”
     The guards stepped on those who had been pushed to the floor.
     The men fought back. They roared and shouted and shoved. They threw furniture at the guards. Bruce fell into the hearth and howled as the smoldering peat scattered. The smoke grew thicker.
     One of the guards grabbed Dougal’s fiddle from the wall and shattered it over Sean’s head. The guards slammed the butts of their guns everywhere, blows landing on arms and backs.
     Colin went down first, his head smashed. Mac stood over him, his legs on either side of Colin’s body. “Ye bastards. Hitting a boy. Hit me. Hit me.”
     “Help,” screamed Jacob. “Help! They’re after Freya.” Two guards knocked him against the wall and he fell hard, groaning as his arm hit the floor.
     “Dougal,” yelled Mac, spotting his brother. “Get her out.” Mac fought on, but the guards swarmed him. They pinned him down on the dirt floor and began kicking him.
     Dougal picked Freya up and pushed toward the door, his way blocked by guards. “Out! Let me out,” he cried. He held Freya tightly in his arms, for she was screaming in his ears, her screams a part of the melee.
     “For God's sake, let me out,” he cried again. With a mighty push, he broke through the guards to the outside. He lay Freya down by the stacked peat in the side yard. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”
     Dougal raced back to the front door, now hanging by a hinge. He couldn't get in. He tripped on the bits of furniture that had been thrown out in the yard. Crofters and fishermen spilled into the yard, pushed out by the guards. The roof of the cottage blazed afire. The noise mounted as guards smashed furniture and tore at the stone walls with pikes.
     “Have you no shame,” cried Dougal. He ran back and forth in front of the house. “Let me back in. I just want to get our things out.”

"The Last of the Clan" by Thomas Faed (Wikipedia)

A writer waits . . .

Restless and feckless, anxious, vanquished,
I have waited for good news, sad blues,
the drop of a letter, unfettered, bettered,
by awards, words truly swords that disarm, charm,
then nothing. Was I bluffing, trusting, crushing
my hopes to publish? Rubbish.
I shall self-publish!

This week's prompt from Poets on the Page is simply, "Waiting". Although the prompt is simple, and immediately an idea came to mind, the suggested poetic form, Alliterisen, from Shadow Poetry, offers a very specific number of syllables per line (7 lines) AND requires two alliterations per line (similar sounds). I didn't quite meet the requirements of this poetic form, but perhaps this poem captures how I feel about 'waiting' as a writer.

Writing is Precious
Rebekka Plies on Flickr

From the spine . . .

Margit Sage posted a spine poem the other day. 

The challenge: Stack up those books you are currently reading and build a poem from just the titles. So here is my spine poem -- with photo. I did add just a few words to the last line. Probably violating all kinds of poetry rules. And two of the books are missing, already returned to the library before I took the photo this morning.

Clair of the sea light,

a discovery of witches,

the light between oceans,

a mermaid quilt,

salvage the bones,

an orphan train,

Gould's Book of Fishes

the other typist could not follow.

I'm not sure this process works, but it was fun and a little surprising how those titles fit together, though the ending poem is more than cryptic.. Some writing groups meet at the library and scrounge the shelves for inspiration. I like that you are reading the books in the poem.

Consider for your book list? I'd recommend Jesmyn West's Salvage The Bones, not an easy read of a scrabble-poor family just before Katrina hit the bayou coast. And, of course, The Mermaid Quilt & Other Tales! Verdict still pending on the rest.

When I was ten . . .

When I was ten,
I cut my hair with blunt scissors.
I wanted to be a boy
who traveled the ocean,
chased wild deer,
rescued princesses.
When I was twenty, I left
my sisters behind, pulled my hair back,
a constant distraction
to books, lectures, and papers,
a specific progression.
When I was thirty and forty,
I worked and bore my babies.
Someday, I said.
When I am sixty, I shall dye my hair red
and sing like a mermaid.
When I am seventy, I will mourn
my children grown, my lost sisters.
I will gather my bones and dance.

A Facebook friend is thinking about dyeing her hair red and posted a picture to show off her possible new color. Setting aside all else, thoughts about the masks we assume with makeup and hair dye, and our own sense about what makes a woman beautiful at any age, this poem came. And then on Flickr, I found this image, red hair -- wild and free.

Untitled by Marianne Williams (Flickr)

Diving into the Wreck . . . late.

I was drawn to the poetry prompt of a few weeks ago on Poets on a Page yet could not, did not make room for a poem. I could say the poem just didn't come along, like some happy dance or blues that rise up from the bone. But the prompt to read and think about a poem and then write a poem maybe in response to or inspired by or . . . that prompt stayed with me.

I have always loved Adrienne Rich's "Diving Into the Wreck". For Adrienne's poem goes down by layers, tracing her physical descent into deep water, until she faces that essential truth of being nameless, despite all she carries, nameless and facing the death of those who have gone before, equally forgotten. Adrienne has a companion there in the deep, even if it is her twinned self.  Here is my poem in response.

Diving
. . . for Adrienne Rich

I too have floated alone,
along the top of ocean waves,
looking fifty, eighty feet down,
seeing the fan coral sway
to unseen currents,
the blue-green sand dip down
and darken to the black unknown.

Silent, I stay long after the others
paddle back to that tiny boat,
my fingers splayed wide to catch
every sense of water and deep,
intrigued as any hunter
at every flicker of life below.

When I finally return,
I have no words.
Each breath I take fills up my chest
with the immense, precious blue below
that I almost understand, that I cannot forget,
like the song of a poet,
like the memory of a dream,
like the last flash of red
before the sun falls into the sea.

Snorkeling Soufriere
Jason Hedlund on Flickr (Creative Commons)

Wordless Wednesday . . .

Ssh . . . here's more Wordless Wednesday

Flash Fiction: "The Bench"

"The Bench"

If I hadn't been so concerned about whether my plumbing was working properly, I wouldn't have sat so long on my favorite bench. The day was calm enough at Manito Park and nearly warm for fall. 

I could see Doc Harkness as clearly as if he were sitting in front of me on his rolling stool, the sun backlighting both the red and yellow leaves behind him and his earnest expression.

"You've got cancer, Em." His vowels stretched out past my ability to comprehend.

How was I supposed to tell Jack? He had hollered at me as I made my way out the door just this morning. "Pick up the grandkids on your way home, and don't forget my rye bread." Our lives were so ordinary. We were both retired. He had his football. I had my knitting. He read. I cooked, and I was supposed to call the plumber.

Instead I had stopped at the park on my way home from the doctor. Jack, rye bread, grandkids, even the plumber, all forgotten. I nudged one of the yellow leaves with my foot. What was needed now was a good spaceship to take me away from all this. I could spend my last months on a planet where everyone swam in a blue sea full of blue light. I spread my hands wide, as if the cancer swimming in my blood were visible. One month? Two months? 

I watched another several leaves drop down on the ground. The turn of seasons. It's just that I thought Jack would go first. The sun shifted behind a cloud and the air grew chill. I should go home. I should tell Jack, but I sat on the bench and watched the leaves fall, one by one. 

My cell phone rang. 

"You coming home?" asked Jack.

"Yes, dear. I didn't get the rye bread, and I don't want the grandkids today."

"Well, come home. I miss you."

Today is Tuesday, so that's the day I'm to write a post for my travel blog. Or work on any number of reports with deadlines. Or quilt. Ooops! I'm guessing that writing for NaNoWriMo is loosening up my writing. Sally from Sally's Scribbles, had commented on my post for Veteran's Day. I visited her blog to find this neat little writing challenge called Writer Wednesday Blog Hop. The challenge is to write a flash fiction inspired by the photo, the title, and five key words (day, calm, stool, vowel, spaceship). Participating writers then post their story and read what others have written. Somehow my story "The Bench" (329 words) came along.  Yes, it's FICTION, meaning my health is just fine, thank you! Read what others have written?