Sunday, 14 August 2011

Summer Dreams Literary Arts Festival - Freewrite challenge 2011

A day in the sun at the Summer Dreams Literary Arts Festival and some takers to the Grind Writers DEAW ("drop everything and write") 15-min free-write challenge. Some prompts were text, others photographs:
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Warren Dean Fulton   ©Aug2011

Prompt was a photograph of Russian nesting dolls


MATRYOSKA

Nesting within
in decreasing size
smaller and smaller and smaller, yet
a layering chart of past mes,
down to the tiny bean
of a baby
I once was.



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Ingrid Steenhuisen    ©Aug2011

prompt - her own

STANLEY PARK’S RICHES TO A CHILD’S WEALTHY/HEALTHY IMAGINATION
For a child, a park is a wonderful place for a wide variety of reasons. Regardless of whether it is a small open neighbourhood park or a large majestic and varied one like Stanley Park.

As a child born and raised in Vancouver by immigrant parents, being alert, aware, cautious and inventive, parks were a place for us to be adventurous. Being the eldest also meant sharing that curiousness with the others and teaching them things that were done in a fun way and encouraging varying types of independence -- first steps, first dip, first swing, first teeter-totter, first swim stroke(s).

We--my twin sister and I--found it amazing how each (next) child seemed to mature/learn faster than the one(s) before them. But, now we realize that it was because each one had more teachers than the sibling before them.

Stanley Park s fun, Fun, FUN! To arrive early in the morning to commandeer two picnic tables to have enough seating for all of us. Oatmeal cooked on a Coleman® camp stove (and Dad having to pump it, so it would work for Mom) -- then potato and other salads prepared for dinner, while lunch was always sandwiches. Playground and zoo in the morning - then swimming after lunch - then reading and playground again (for the little ones) until dinner.
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Timothy Shay   ©Aug2011

prompt was “Describe a typical day for you”

A typical day begins………
I feed pepperoni the cat at seven a.m.
and assure him that he is indeed a
wild forest cat and we have killed
the grilled chicken chunks late the previous night
and as pepper the cat has short term memory
he accepts this with the dawn gusto
of a hungry hunter. After eating the bathtub curtains
must be adjusted to afford pepper the cat
a long secret tunnel to the waterfall (faucet) which
runs incessantly like an ancient river
then it is time for pepper the cat’s dose of nip
and his cantankerous day begins, bugs beware;
and like his tired cyclic god
I return to bed and dream other worlds.
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Shan Kelly  
©Aug 2011
prompt: write a 500 word biography of yourself in the third person

BIOGRAPHY

Shan was born in Dublin in 1965 to a young, working class couple from Ballyfermot, Dublin, Francis and Eileen named their first child Patricia after Eileen’s dad and Sarah after Frank’s mother. But Grandma Sarah was unhappy--that hers was no the first name given to her first grandchild, so nobody used either name.

Eileen’s delivery was like being in a car rash and the young Mum was too ill to attend her baby’s Christening when the baby was gien a new name, Sharon.

For Sharon’s first four years, Francis, Eileen and baby Sharon lived with Eileen’s Mum, Josie, who had lost her husband to a brain hemorrhage the year before. In 1969, Eileen was expecting again and the Kellys moved to a new house in Milltown which was where Sharon spent her childhood.

Shan was a good student and won a place at the College of Commerce. She graduated in 1984 and moved to London on her twentieth birthday, not returning to live again in Dublin until 2007 when she moved back to the house in Milltown with her daughter, Grace, age two.

Frank was dead by then and Eileen had been widowed for more than two decades. Sharon had shortened her name to Shan after getting a degree at the London School of Economics where she studied under Dard Sterkey.

Shan/Sharon Patricia Jean Kelly--she had also collected a Confirmation name by now--managed to survive a brain hemorrhage in 2001 and to make a full recovery with “no deficits,” as the English National Health Service put it. But she found it hard to return to her job as a journalist and instead got involved with her community from 2002 until after the birth of her daughter in 2005 when she was 39.

Shan went back to work in 2006 and edited two business magazines in London and Dublin before beginning taking classes in creative writing. She is still hoping to write stories for publication as novels, plays or as screenplays, but life keeps getting in the way.

Maybe this year she will do it.
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Aine Rathwell   ©Aug2011
prompt: unknown

Once upon a time in a flash of light far, far, further away there was flashes of lighting. Split a civilization disappeared on the wind like gone with the wind. A civilization blew away. Gone Civilization, gone with and like the wind. He saw it all in a cloud and all his fellow ancestors all mixed up like spoon that turned into soup. The soup of his ancestors are all marked like an ancient myths….a history of a totem.



Wednesday, 10 August 2011

Hiroshima, Aug 6, 2011 - by Niko Kerhulas

This was a 15-min. freewrite on the topic Hiroshima on the 66th anniversary of the dropping of the A-Bomb on that city.
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Gosh, where to begin?  I wrote my Senior Thesis on the necessity of dropping both bombs.  At my young age I felt as if I understood why it occurred and how it helped.  It’s interesting using the word “help” when they did such terrible things to so many.  My views have changed as I’ ve aged.  I could still argue both sides if I wished but now I lean far more towards wishing such things never occurred.  I know why it occurred and all the steps that led to intelligent people saying, “Yes, this is a good idea” but when I take a step back and look at it all it’s hard to justify hundreds of thousands of deaths.

Becoming a parent changes views.  Everyone that died had a mother and a father.  Some had siblings or children of their own.  When viewed in that light it’s quite hard to ever justify such actions but when I was 21 I did just that.  The title was something like The Necessity of Dropping the Atomic Bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  I had page after page of facts and quotes.

I put it in perspective.  Something like 54 million people died in World War II but less than ½ million died because of those two bombs.  I spoke of how many more lives were saved and how after so many years of war it was easier to make that choice.

Just end it.  No more. And it’s all true.  It did probably save lives.

Tens of millions more died from the billions of bullets and bombs used in the years prior not to mention all the deaths from hunger and exposure.  Why single out these two bombs from the billions of other causes of death?

It feels dirty too.  How do you justify death?  I guess by making it so prevalent and common as to remove the terribleness of it all.  I was able to do it in my younger days.  It’s probably why the military enlists such young men and women.  They view the world as black and white, right and wrong rather than grey.  Most things in life are a shade of grey.

I didn’t really question my views back then.  I had spent four years studying at a large university renown for its History program.  I had already questioned my views, hadn’t I?  Here is my conclusion; no need to question that.

Age is a beautiful aid to life.  I very much question my views now though I’m sure there are some that I still turn a blind-eye too.  I know though that I’ve been wrong in the past and will be wrong again in the future.  That’s not a bad thing.  Not questioning and correcting it is the great flaw.

How do I convince others to question their views?  That is a goal worth pursuing.  I don’t need to change their views.  I need them to change their own.

I got an A on my Senior Thesis.  I don’t know if the Professor agreed with me or not but he felt I had fulfilled the assignment well.  I don’t recall a single person in that small class disagreeing with me.  I do remember a couple that did agree.  I wonder if they still do?


August 6, 2011 Niko Kerhulas

Monday, 1 August 2011

Don't Write About What You Know -- article in The Atlantic

--quote:  Every Wednesday, I teach an introductory fiction workshop at Harvard University, and on the first day of class I pass out a bullet-pointed list of things the students should try hard to avoid. Don’t start a story with an alarm clock going off. Don’t end a story with the whole shebang having been a suicide note. Don’t use flashy dialogue tags like intoned or queried or, God forbid, ejaculated.
      Twelve unbearably gifted students are sitting around the table, and they appreciate having such perimeters established. With each variable the list isolates, their imaginations soar higher. They smile and nod. The mood in the room is congenial, almost festive with learning.
     I feel like a very effective teacher; I can practically hear my course-evaluation scores hitting the roof. Then, when the students reach the last point on the list, the mood shifts. Some of them squint at the words as if their vision has gone blurry; others ask their neighbors for clarification. The neighbor will shake her head, looking pale and dejected, as if the last point confirms that she should have opted for that aseptic-surgery class where you operate on a fetal pig.

     The last point is: Don’t Write What You Know. --unquote

Bret Anthony Johnston writing in The Atlantic. Rest of story.

Sunday, 26 June 2011

Everyman by Lesley Prentis

A poem that came from a free-write 15 min. writing prompt at the Grind Writers Group – writing to a painting in an exhibit at the gallery. Below the freewrite version is a version that has been further revised, for comparison purposes. 

The paintings are on display until the end of June. We invite you to write to one of the paintings and send it to grindwriters@gmail.com for posting here.



Everyman 
first version June 11, 2011



Everyman stares out
Of  black eyes, focused inwards
Looking inwards (outwards)
Staring out of sunken sockets in his
Weathered face,
Naked form gathered in on his self
Oblivious to the audience
Of stunned discomfort
Embracing the sight
Of he lost in (his) life’s storm
They sheltered in their clothes
And small minds
Shunned by others
Who turn their backs
Viewed with scorn
By narrow minded pouting lips


Everyman stares out of black eyes
Unfocused eyes, looking inward eyes
Scared eyes, angry eyes.
Staring out at an angry world
Bewildered to be at the centre of the storm
Unable to weather the daily comings and goings
Finally left exposed to the world,
Naked, body drawn in on itself

Inside he hears acceptance
Raison d’etre
I understand whence you come from my son
I know your pain
I know the worth of you
More and less than you think
More and less than others say
Walk the line
Do not dally or they will pull you down

Creativity lost and found


_____________________
(c)2011 Lesley Prentis




Everyman

June 16, 2011 (initial re-working)

Everyman stares
Out from black eyes focused inward
Looking inward? (Outwards)
Stares from the sunken sockets
Of his weathered face
His naked form gathered in on himself
Oblivious to his audience
Of stunned discomfort who
Embrace the sight
Of HE lost in (his) life’s storm
They sheltered in their clothes
And their small minds
Whilst he shunned by others
Who viewed with scorn
And narrow minded pouting lips
Who turn their backs
On his unspoken needs.

Everyman stares
Out from black eyes, looking inward eyes
Scared eyes, angry eyes
Stares out at an angry world
Suddenly aware, bewildered
To be the centre of the storm
Unable to weather the daily comings and goings
Finally left exposed to the world
Naked, body drawn in on himself

Everyman stares
Out from black eyes focused inward
Inside he hears acceptance
Raison d’etre
The words
I know whence you come from my son
I know your pain
I know the worth of you
More and less than you think
More and less than others say
Walk the line
Carefully
Do not step on the cracks
Do not dally, do not pay heed

Creativity lost and found.


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Saturday, 25 June 2011

The less you wear...

A scene that came from a free-write 15 min. writing prompt at the Grind Writers Group – writing to a painting in an exhibit at the gallery. The paintings are on display until the end of June.




-I have a secret, Gloria whispered.
-We don’t have secrets…well, not since grade two…
-I’ve something to tell you, Sandra…it’s important.
-OK, slow down, breathe…you’re not… (checking out tummy area)
-No, it’s not that…I’ve…
-Gloria, you’re not seeing him again??
-No!  Just listen.
-Ok, ok, shoot…
-I’ve got a new job…
-Well, that’s fantastic!  What’s the big deal?
-It’s how I’m earning…
-Oh God, no…Look, if staying at my place helps…
-Why do you always think the worst?!  Not that!
-What then?
-I’m modeling.
-Models make great money. What?--designer clothes, lingerie…?
-Less.
-Less what, money?  Models make great money…you know 
  the rule of less?
-What’s that?
-The less you wear, the more you make.
-Not in this case.
-Why not?
-I wear nothing…except maybe some drapery--a scarf, a discretely
  placed cushion or bolster…
-How does that work?
-Well, I show up…
-Where?
-At the figurative art studio.
-Then what happens…who’s there…do they watch?…is it seedy?
-Stop!! (laughing)
-Do they play burlesque music?
-Sandy! (exasperated) No!! I go to the bathroom.
-To throw up?  Nerves?
-No, to change…
-Oh.
-Then I wear my robe between poses.
-How long’s the session?
-Well, at first they’re short one, two, five and ten-minute poses.
-Do you move around?  Show me one of your poses.
-Ta da! (posing)
-Doesn’t your ‘hoohoo’ show?
-Look, it’s not an issue…
-Since when isn’t your ‘hoohoo’ an issue?
-They’re sitting all around me. I’m on a small, raised platform with locked wheels.
-Do you get to look at their work?
-At the twenty-minute break, I sometimes circulate…it’s…wonderful.
-Respectful?
-Absolutely…one guy even gave me his half hour sketch.
-That’s a long time to hold a pose…
-You choose that one carefully…
-Show me…(demonstrating) hmmm, I don’t think I could hold that for thirty minutes.
-Never know ’til you try, Sandy, never know til you try.  Check out the model 
  requirements on   their website!  It’s not easy money, but it’s fun!
-Not on your life!  (dissolving to laughter)


(c)2011 Joan Boxall
kjbox@telus.net
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Friday, 24 June 2011

The Supportive Wife

A story that came from a free-write 15 min. writing prompt at the Grind Writers Group – writing to a painting in an exhibit at the gallery. The paintings are on display until the end of June.
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            Stella stood shocked, shaking, then slumped into a chair, setting her sherry down on a nearby table. For an instant she thought it might drop out of her trembling fingers and the last thing she wanted to do now was draw more attention to herself. She looked around her, as she reeled at the revelation that had just washed over her and she saw Terrence across the room, preening. He had not made eye contact with her when she came in. She had thought that strange, but now---now she understood.
            “He’s got such a bright open palette,” she heard a man saying to his companion.
            “Yes,” she heard the companion reply. “He’s a combination of Cézanne and Picasso.”
“And a little Matisse on the side,” the man said, pointing at No. 44 with his wineglass.
The comment swirled around her. Stella breathed in deeply, deliberately. Yes, Picasso—one infidelity after another… But this—
At that moment Terrence glanced in her direction. In a flash of a moment and even in her state of tremulousness, she saw him take her presence in and in such a brief flash that she could almost have believed she imagined it, she saw that gleam of malicious satisfaction—and then it was gone, papered over with a social smile to someone who had tapped his arm and asked him a question. Did he know she had caught it?
Stella finished her sherry and got up. She perambulated the room again. There it was up on the wall for everyone to see. In every painting featuring Stella, she had her back to the viewer and he had portrayed her as chunky, old and fat. Nos. 42 – 60 – 23 – 16 – 34 – 38. And, no mistaking it, in the rest of the paintings was the beautiful, younger woman who stood beside him now at the opening. Stella did not know her name but she knew enough from her wife’s instincts of twenty-three years.
Some knowing force caused her to look Terrence’s way just as the women, the naked subject in all his other paintings, was regarding her.
Stella felt a presence sidling up to her: her sister-in-law, Helen, Terrence’s brother’s wife.  “Stella—hiding here when you should be in the limelight with Ter?”
Was she being ironic? did she know? was she rubbing salt into the wounds? it was hard to tell; they’d never been the best of friends.
“I—uh—”
“I just heard someone compare Ter to the German Expressionists—how darling! I bet you know the difference between the French and the German Expressionists – and even between the Impressionists and the Expressionists, not like we Philistines, Stella!” Helen gave a champagne giggle.
Stella waited a beat. As always Helen was only asking rhetorically; she didn’t want any answers. “And who is that captivating European woman—I mean obviously she’s the model, but do you know her? Ter introduced me but I didn’t get the name—vaguely Czech-sounding or Eastern European. I think you are the most understanding spouse to let him spend all that time with someone twenty years younger…”
Helen’s words were getting lost in the packed room’s dialogue. “….dancing pastels maintain a precarious balance…”—A woman Stella recognized as an art critic.
Stella thought she might pass out. She was standing again in front of No. 60. He’d called it “Portrait of a Marriage.” It was she, back to the room, sitting naked and fat, fatter than she was in real life, with big bulges all over. It was such an unloving portrait. She recognized herself by the hairstyle. His model had cascading black hair in the paintings and here in real life, across this crowded hot room, long black hair she was sweeping back over her shoulder now as Stella regarded her. It was that gesture women with long hair make, where they sweep their hair off their face and shake it backwards, over and over when they are talking to a man, another kind of preening.
Stella’s grey hair in the painting was in a braided bun coiled around the nape of her neck like a serpent.
It was always the hair.
Her hand went to the nape of her neck and cupped the heavy bun. She had wanted to cut her hair years ago and had brought it up several times over the last ten years. He’d always said, “I like it that way. Why would you want to cut your hair, darling?”
She thought of her scissors back home.
________________________________
(c)2011 Margo Lamont
wonderwords@shaw.ca

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Saturday, 30 April 2011

Grind Writers meeting dates 2011

Please email me before you attend, as we sometimes move the venue - wonderwords@shaw.ca.


Sun May 29
Sat June 11
Sun June 26
Sat July
Sun July 24
Sat Aug 6
Sun Aug 21
Sat Sept 10
Sun Sept 18
Sat Oct 1
Sun Oct 16
Sat Oct 29
Sun Nov 13
Sat Nov 26
Sun Dec 11

AMBER STONES by Lilija Valis


Amber has been washing up
on Baltic beaches a long time:
pine-resin preserved life,
Ice-Aged for posterity
— a leaf, an insect —

connecting us to a past
millions of years back,
turning it into gold —
Gintaras is what they call it,
(the Greeks named it “electron”)
made into jewelry, it has been
traded since 7000 B.C.

associated with the Sun God,
the Awakener, symbol
of happiness and healing,
purifying and protecting,
it permeates the body with light

the Baltic coast dwellers,
people of the sacred stone,
older than history,
dedicated themselves
to guarding the Sacred Fire,

through centuries of invasions,
deportations and forced conversions
by the stronger and more numerous,
they kept the Sacred Fire burning,
as did the Persian Zoroastrians,

something ancient
and essential to life,
hiding and shielding it
from the changing winds,

taking it with them
to the corners of this earth.


© 2011 Lilija Valis

E: 
lilijavalis@gmail.com