Dark and Stormy Night

This is one of my attempts at the well worn, "It was a dark and stormy night".

It was a dark and stormy night. I imagined all the things that could go wrong as I strolled through the posh neighbourhood with my two small dogs. These were not guard dogs. They were ankle biters who even in their most frenzied state would not frighten too many strangers.

I continued slowly along the rocky shore. “Million dollars homes and no street lights,” I mumbled to the dogs who were oblivious to my increasing anxiety as we made our way further and further from our home. I imagined evil doers lurking among the full leafy shrubbery surrounding each home.

I decided to curtail these silly thoughts as the road curved to the right and I saw a marina to my left. Waves crashed to the shore and the wind picked up as we entered the open space. The “ting, ting, ting” of boats, moored to docks and rocking in the water increased my apprehension but I continued determined to complete our walk before the worst of the storm hit.

Rain began to spit down on us. Still, I paused.This was a good night for a murder. As that thought crossed my mind, I heard a scream coming from the waves. It made me jump slightly and my focus sharpened. I glanced at the dogs. Their little ears were pricked up and one of them growled lowly. Their response confirmed what I hoped was only a part of my overactive imagination.

I heard the scream again. Both dogs responded with full out barking. There on one of the boats I saw two people facing each other. One seemed to be speaking rapidly but the wind carried the words away from my ears. The other one was more animated, gesturing wildly and then she screamed again.

To be continued…

Five Words

Our last meeting ended with a writing exercise to be done at home. We each picked a word and are to write a short piece. The words are: Malaysia, diocese, trees, piano and Batman.

Here's my effort.

Malaysia slowly raised the high powered binoculars to her eyes and peered out the third story hotel window. The dropoff was arranged by Bishop Jonas at the Diocese of the First, and Only, Most Holy Virgin of Mount Gotham Emmanuel. For the purpose of this matter, Bishop Jonas requested that Malaysia use the alias 'Catwoman'. Bishop Jonas was to be called 'Batman' and the carrier 'Robin'.

The clock beemed 1:05. Robin was five minutes late. Malaysia wasn't worried. Operations arranged by Batman often hit snags. She turned from the window and dropped the binoculars on the bed. At the same moment, Robin appeared from behind a patch of maple trees across the street. A leather bag hung at his side. He stopped on the sidewalk and raised his sunglasses above his head to examine the hotel. No sign of Catwoman. He glanced at his watch. Should he wait?

The leather bag contained sensitive information, if Catwoman didn't show, he would have to return it to Batman before midnight. Robin sauntered across the street and noticed a coffee cart on the corner. He decided to buy a coffee and if Catwoman didn't show he would return by the same route he came.

Malaysia decided to go downstairs. She put on the red baseball cap with a kitty logo. This was how Robin was supposed to identify her. She trotted down three flights of stairs to the lobby and stopped at the front door to gaze across the street. Still no one. There was time for a latte. If Robin didn't show in the next ten minutes, she would alert Batman via the Joker.

From a fifth story window in an office building beside Catwoman's hotel, Batman watched the pair bumble around. They both fell into his trap perfectly. Workers hoisted a piano up to the room beside his.

As Robin sipped his coffee, he noticed Malaysia's red kitty cap. He moved beside her, "Who's your favourite superhero?"

"Batman, of course," she replied.

"Would you like to walk?"

Malaysia did not reply but took her latte and stepped away from the coffee cart facing back toward the hotel. She began to walk. Robin strolled beside her.

Still watching from the office window, Batman grinned. They moved in the right direction. It was too easy. He pressed a button on his walkie talkie alerting the piano movers. "Count to 5 and let go."

A poll for artists and writers....

Understanding the Creative Workforce -- A Study of Artists and Arts Practice   

Artists and the creative workforce have been hit hard by the recent government budgets [in BC]. The global economic downturn have effected the revenue streams of many artists, creative workers, and creative industry professionals and personnel.

Despite the downturn, preliminary statistics suggest that the downturn is leaving the cultural sector relatively unscathed, precisely because of the reputed flexibility of cultural/creative workers in finding other jobs. 

In order to better understand the impact of these recent trends on artists and the creative workforce we at the Centre for Policy Studies on Culture and Communities at SFU [Simon Fraser University] are launching a survey of those working in the creative sector.  

This survey--in partnership with Curtin University, Australia-- is part of larger international project that seeks to increase understanding of artists' careers. 

Follow the link below to the survey website for more information on how you can participate in this survey and share your story with us:  

http://www.sfu.ca/cultureandcommunities 

As a way of saying thank-you, we will enter all participants into a draw to win an Apple iPod.  As well, we will make available to you a report highlighting the survey findings, upon request. 

We would like to thank you in advance for your interest in this survey -- The Centre for Policy Studies on Culture and Communities

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Fumie's hometown in Japan - Nara

The Winter of My Discontent - (c)2009 Jordan Devine

Jordan took the freewrite challenge at the Summer Dream Festival in August 2009.
Prompt was: Bring two historical characters together and writ the dialogue for their meeting over lunch or dinner.

The Winter of My Discontent

Scene: A trendy restaurant called Winter. King Richard III sits alone at a table for two, looking nervous. Two full wine glasses sit upon the table. Enter Joan of Arc, trailing her sword behind her.

Richard: Joan?
Joan: Who else? the maitre d' informed me you have reserved the entire
restaurant.
Richard: Yes, yes. These are trying times for England and its king.
Safety first.
Joan Strange, I’ve lived through similar times myself.
Richard: Small world.
Joan: I am Gods messenger.
Richard: (aside) Oh, Christ!
Joan: Majesty, did you say something? And why the grin?
Richard: Oh, I can smile and murmer when I smile…
Joan: And you, Majesty, do you perform Gods Work?
Richard: My life is lived with the Divine Right of Kings. My every
action is Gods Work.
Joan: Humour me, Majesty, recite the Lord’s Prayer.
Richard: Well, now, youre putting me on the spot.
Joan: (aside) Oh Christ! (Joan stands). I knew a blind date
was a mistake.
Richard: No, no, don’t leave. At least try the Malmsey.
Joan: Not likely, Majesty.
Richard: Now is the winter of my discontent.

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Where Have All the Summers Gone? (c)2009 Perry Wilson

Perry took the freewrite challenge at the Summer Dream Festival in August 2009.
Prompt was: You (or your character) have moved into a new house and while lcenaing you find an old photograph (or an old diary) in the basement or attic…

Where Have All The Summers Gone?

“Joe come see." I gave the old book a gentle rub to remove some of the dust and cobwebs.
“What?”Joe stomped down the wooden stairs to the basement of our new house.“Did you find buried treasure?”
“Maybe,” I laughed. “But not the kind you mean. Look.” I handed him the book. “It’s a diary.”
He laid the bok in his lap and let it fall open; it naturally did at about the one-third mark. “Today was a good day—” he read, “the bees seem to be returning.”
“Huh?” I reached for the book. “What do you mean?”“It says right here.”Joe pointed to the faded ink. “See?—bees.”
“Look deeper.”

He flipped back toward the front of the book. “I got the cherry dusted.” He looked up. “I’ve no idea why dusting furniture would be so important.”
I turned back to the shelf where I’d found the book. “Look at these.” A box of squat glass jars and chicken feathers was the only other thing on the shelf.
“There’s string there too.” Joe touched the feathers aside.
“Read more.” I didn’t even know where to start looking for an answer to this mystery.
“The hives are starting to populate, but the bees are sluggish.” He shrugged.
“ It might help if we knew what bees are.” I took the bok and put it back in the box, returning it back to the shelf. “Maybe we’ll have time to do research when we’ve settled in.”

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Maybe Not an Urban Cottage - (c)2009 Sally Reesman

Sally took the freewrite challenge at the Summer Dream Festival in August 2009.
Prompt was: You (or your character) have moved into a new house and while lcenaing you find an old photograph (or an old diary) in the basement or attic…


Maybe Not an Urban Cottage

It was a full time job, pulling and clipping the vines that clung and surrounded their way between the clapboard of the old house. At moments the delicate tendrils would loosen their cling and curl in search of another surface to clasp and grasp their clinging length. While suffocating in their growth, they still loosened their hold with a god swift tag — the edge of grass—stopped short of a wall — of old tree stumps covered in vines like green and growing fountain of vines – ripping these loose – a gray gargoyle plaster—like an Angel of Death—Black wings behind strong sinewed eyes lifting skulls from its feet and rolling them up in its knees.

At first thought it's a garden – gnome — a winged garoyle that is lying among vines that is inconsequential. The more the vines were pulled aside — revealing — more bones — ham bones, mutton bones, chicken bones… It was when I saw —r ooster claw bones … cat bones … and large bones like the haunches of a horse or a large ribcage of what could be a bear or a horse. They had been covered in lime, bleached white, with bits of the marrow exhibiting — yellow and black interior not yet gone back to nature.

It was then — what sort of activities went on in this house of vines—covered in vines so thick that the vines had entered to the interior of the house through the cement foundations — to the eaves of the second floor, burrowing through the chinks of lathe — these suffocating clinging vines — entombing crushing the house – and the limbed bones of small and large animals—removed my impression of an urban cottage.

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The Lady in the Second Attic (c) 2008 Isabella Mori

Isabella took the Grind Writers Free-write Challenge at our home base, the Grind Gallery Cafe.
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The Lady in the Second Attic
(c)2008 Isabella Mori

Holy camoley, I didn’t know that there was another attic. Nice up here, lots of sun. Like a little den. I wonder if someone lives here? Looks like it … or not. The flowers in the vase are totally dry. But no dust. Very strange. Oh, and there are all those photographs on the wall. Old, old, old, how old? I bet at least a hundred years old. From the same family? Here, I like this one. A portrait of a woman in a garden … She is beautiful, her skin very dark. She wears a white dress. There is a plantation home in the background. A big garden. Is she sad? She looks a little sad … maybe just thoughtful.

I wonder what her name is. Jackie? Why Jackie? Her black skin looks so beautiful against the white. Her long hair is combed back, some sort of fancy hairdo – my, women back then, they spent so much time on their hair. A ribbon in her hair, even longer than her thick do, curling down all the way into her lap. A book and a quill, and a little inkwell beside her on a high stool. Back to her face. Does she really look sad? There are worlds in her eyes. Is she writing a book? Is that what those worlds are? She looks like she’s quite tall. Her legs are crossed, a tip of a shoe – white again – peeks out from under her frilly skirt. Frilled skirt is better maybe, there’s nothing frilly about her appearance, she is almost stern. She reminds me of Mary Shadd up here in Canada. Maybe they knew each other? Maybe she, our mysterious“she," this “Jackie," was writing a letter to her.

I wonder whether Jackie ever spent time up here…? I can see her in some of the other photographs, too. Maybe she came up here to write – I would like that, I would like that thought. She draws me to her, and I like the idea of being in the same room that she was in. Sitting on the rattan loveseat over there, looking out the window across to old the oak tree, thinking about her book, thinking about the book she was writing, and that Mary Shadd had encouraged her to start. So difficult to be a woman writer back then, and a black woman writer to boot. Especially difficult when a woman is as quiet as our Jackie here, quiet, inside herself, always thinking and imagining, not struggling, not striving, just writing, thinking …

The dried-up rose here. What words would she have found for it? Would it have mattered to her? What things did she write about? She doesn’t look like someone who would write romance novels, not even of the Jane Eyre kind. Was she a philosopher? Or more like Emily Dickinson? No, not that, either. More, perhaps, a forerunner of Toni Morrison, but heavier still, and darker, sparkling in different ways.

What did her handwriting look like? I imagine it large and imposing, like a man’s, serious, with as few frills as possible. Legible. Every word like an exclamation mark. So different from her demeanour. Everything goes into her words. The rest does not matter. That she is tall and beautiful and her eyes large and inviting doesn’t matter. That she loves dogs and horses doesn't matter. That she loves women not men doesn't matter. It all goes into her arm, into her fingers, flows into the quill and out with the ink on paper, paper, paper, wherever she can find it. Sometimes she writes with handmade ink, when she is too impatient to wait for a fresh supply to arrive from the city.


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The most important thing I ever learned on a trip (c) Mary Seus

Mary took the Grind Free-write Challenge, given at the Surrey International Writers' Conference in October 2008:


The most important thing I ever learned on a trip
©2008 Mary Seus

That sounds like it could be extremely boring when I write it. It sort of resembles “what I did last summer.” I don't want to sound stilted like those childish essays --"Then we went to the park." That's where it begins…

Once upon a time I decided to run away from evil Ottawa with my pitbull mastif. I packed a few valuables and left with him on a chain. It was the first time I had hitchiked. No one picked us up in Canada. We took a taxi to Kingston and stayed overnight in a nice B&B (credit card). I was told that he had to go in the bathroom. I ignored that though Cricket (derived from Crockett) was not allowed on the bed. In the night there was some commotion at the door. Cricket, a six-month old big puppy, was snapping as some people (the innkeepers) tried to enter my room. The next morning we took a cab to the Canadian border. I had already jettisoned a radio while trying to be picked up. Cricket shifted a picnic table with his brute neck while I was discussing with Customs. We walked over the bridge. I have American citizenship by birth so I can cross that border on a whim. We arrived in upper state New York. Another hotel, more people at the door, though this time at a respectable hour, not trying to break in, and just wanting to see the dog.

I hadn't realized before I wrote this, but Cricket is a subset of the most important thing I ever learned on a trip. It is the beauty of our animal beast friends. He was a friendly dog with a huge head but as someone pointed out while petting it, "big ass" as well. He grew up to have the horns for I kept him full male. I felt this would keep his disposition good. His first attack came when we were in the night hitchiking. People must have thought there was a bizarre monster driving by some dog on two legs wound around his mistress humping and biting her ponytail gently. Anyways the most important thing I learned on that trip was an appreciation of nature. Cricket, as I did not realize before was a part of nature, though a domestic pet. We slept in a pile of weeds one night and by bushes in a small town where I woke up being dragged across the grass by a Cricket intent on getting moving. We camped near building sites in Colorado and I yelled at a guy making a pass at me and I had to leave for a while. Other men there were evil too. Funny men evil, nature good. One night in Boulder we went for a walk down a small mountain. We came to a cliff as it grew dark. A PO came out with a German Shepherd. We spent the night freezing and overlooking a cliff.