Friday Fiction - Progressive Style...

Earlier this week, I went searching the blog for the first instalment of Mickey Spencer, AC (and then forgot to put the link in the blogpost until later - so if you're interested, go HERE) and came across one of my earlier Friday Fictions where we created a story one sentence at a time. (If you're interested in that one, go HERE). It was a lot of fun, so I thought we'd try it again.

I'll start with a sentence. If you want to play along, add a sentence to our story in the comment section. We'll play all day - I'll come back and add another sentence and, if you want, you can, too. Let's see what we can come up with on this version of Friday Fiction!

All that stood in phobia-ridden Justine’s way of having survived another Friday the 13^th was a subway ride and a short walk home.

Have a great weekend, everyone :)

Inspiration - Choices...

A big thank you to Janice over at Figuring It Out for bringing this to my attention. I've never heard this 'tale' before, but when I read it, it resonated - deeply!

The Wolves Inside You

An elder Native American was teaching his grandchildren about life. He said to them, "A fight is going on inside me.. it is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One wolf represents fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, falsepride, superiority, and ego. The other stands for joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith."
"This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other person, too," he added.
The Grandchildren thought about it for a minute and then one child asked his grandfather, "Which wolf will win?"
The old Cherokee simply replied... "The one you feed.

Feed your wolves carefully, People of Blogland.

Yellow Notebook, Where Are You?

Very worried! I can't find the yellow notebook anywhere! This may not be a problem for most people, but when I write in notebooks I tend to not 'edit' myself! There could be all kinds of crap in that notebook. Not to mention letters from my characters to me - how much evidence does one need to commit an insane person? AND I hate being so disorganized that I can't find something! Very stressed about this issue.

While I freak out (my OCD is humming just below my skin, about to explode into full office clean and re-organize mode), I'll post the next part of the pirate story I wrote as an example of the writing proces to my grade 3 students a couple of years ago. Please remember, this is a first draft - we hadn't tackled editing at the point I wrote this story. If you want to read Part 1, go HERE!

A Pirate's Story (Part 2) - JS Corcoran

"What?" The pirate's voice echoed around the deck of the ship.

"We aren't sailors, Sir." The young man squeaked. The other men backed up. Again.

Pirate Guy's eyes grew large and round. "Not sailors? Then what the heck are you? And why were you at the Lair?"

The young man glanced over his shoulder. The others nodded at him, urging him to speak on their behalf. He faced Pirate Guy trying to look brave and stop his knees from knocking together with fear. "We were at the Pirate's Lair for a meeting, Sir."

"What kind of meeting?"

"We're accountants, Sir."

The pirate frowned.

"We do math, Sir. The Lair was the cheapest place to have our meeting."

Pirate Guy looked out over the ocean, watching the two accountants bobbing on the waves. He scratched his bald head. What a mess he was in! He tapped the deck with the tip of his sword. "Why would you fellows come with me then if you're not sailors? You could have said something."

The young man glanced at the sword and swallowed again. "Your sword, Sir. We were afraid you were going to slay us."

"My sword?" He looked down at the weapon, now stuck in the wooden deck. "Oh!" He felt rather bad for having scared the men, but he had thought they were pirates.

He cleared his throat. "Oh, well." He thought about his treasure, his grandmother, his wooden leg. He still needed help to run the ship, cook the meals. And then there was the problem of counting his treasure. He hadn't finished school. Maybe he could still use these fellows.

"Alright!" He brandished his sword over his head and the men sucked in their breath. "Oh, for Blackbeard's sake." He put his sword away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Have you ever lost something and become obsessed with finding it, People of Blogland? Do you write stuff in journals and diaries that could cause you problems if they fell into the wrong hands (like being institutionalized)? Any idea where I could have put the yellow notebook?

Christmas Baking and a Story...

Finally, I've started baking for the holidays (now that they're almost over). Yesterday I whipped up a big batch of gingerbread (for those hard, crunchy gingerbread cookie cut-outs). I love gingerbread, but it's been years since I've made any. Now I have 4 discs of the dough waiting for rolling and cutting and icing (tomorrow's job). And The Husband decided to try his hand at the winner of the Canada AM Cookie Contest. This Canadian morning news show (think Good Morning, America style) has a cookie contest every year. A couple of years ago, the winner was a gingersnap that The Husband decided to make. They are fabulous - and this year's winner is equally as good.

I thought I would share that recipe with you. And the recipe for Eggnogtini that I love - and will warn you to have only one or two (very potent stuff). Then, it's your turn, People of Blogland - add a recipe in the comment section (if you want) of a favorite holiday sweet, savory or potable.

I've also pasted in the short story I wrote last year - since this is Solstice and the story centers around the magic of the season. Some of you have read it before, but those new to the Journal, well, I hope you enjoy :)

Skor Shortbread Cookies (Jan Beever - Canada)

• 1lb butter
• 1 c icing sugar
• 3 c flour
• 1/2 c cornstarch
• - Smooth together
• 200g skor bits - mix well
• -Form ito 1 inch balls on ungreased cookie sheets. Flatten slightly and sprinkle with red and/or green sprinkles
• -Bake at 350 degrees for 16 - 18 minutes
• -Transfer cookies to cooling racks immediately.

Eggnogtini

• 2 oz eggnog
• 1 oz amaretto
• 1 oz vodka
• - stir together well and serve with an icecube and a dusting of nutmeg.

The Last Wish - Janet S. Corcoran (2009)

I wasn’t sure which stung my eyes more, the sharp ice flakes swirling in the crisp winter air or the tears I tried not to cry. Both made my attempt at retracing my footsteps near impossible. The bitter wind mocked me by blowing snow over what path I had carved. I should never have left the comfort of the manor on such a fool’s errand.

With mistletoe still bundled in cloth next to my breast, I pulled my cloak more tightly around me and tried to cover my hands to protect them from the cold. My skirts soaked up the dampness of the wet sticky snow and slowed my progress. The grey light of day dimmed and my heart broke at a missed opportunity.

A gust of wind whipped the breath from my lips and forced me to pull the hood of my cloak over my head. What light I had imagined had vanished when I pulled the wool from my eyes. I knew nothing of my surroundings. Neither cottage lamp nor shadowed outline would guide me to safety. I was well and truly lost and could only keep going in the direction I believed to be true. If I stopped, I would die.

My lips twitched, but not from the cold or fear. A smile became a chuckle, which led to the giggles. I stepped high; my gait reflecting my mirth as wave after wave of laughter erupted from my body. I could die on the night I had planned to ask for life.

"The lady finds this amusing?"

I jumped at the sight of the black horse standing directly in my way and tipped my head up to see my husband staring down at me. I flew into his arms before he could fully dismount, sending us both tumbling into the ever-increasing snow bank. I kissed his cheeks. His rough-stubble chin. His lips.

He set me from him. "I would be better appreciative of this attention while in the warmth of our bed. Shall I ask what errand has sent you out in a snow storm?"

A chill shivered through me, most likely from the cold.

"What manner of magic do you seek on this the longest, and coldest, night of the year?"

"None." Even in the dim light I could see his disbelief. I scrambled to my feet. "I simply became lost after visiting the healing woman."

He rose and reached for the reins of his horse. "I have just come from there."

The lie froze on my tongue. The healing woman, known far and wide for her tinctures and tonics, did not know the meaning of discretion. "I had to try."

His hands were warm through the folds of my cloak as he gripped my waist and sat me upon his horse. "Not for me, you didn’t." He settled behind me, his warmth enveloping me, and nudged his horse into a slow walk.

The same discussion, the same conclusion, year after year, did not stop me from voicing my desire yet again. "I want a child."

"It’s not for a lack of trying, Ellyn. But if a child is not in our future, so be it. You can’t conjure one up from spells and wishes." His arm snaked tightly around my waist and his lips brushed my temple.

"The healing woman is convinced – "

"She’s been convinced every year and every year you go to the standing stones with the same result. Heartache."

I glanced over my shoulder. "You’ve known of my pilgrimages?"

"I am not a stupid man. And I never thought you were a foolish woman, until tonight. You could have died trying to get back to the manor."

We rode in silence. I had promised myself this would be the last year of trekking out to the farthest field to beg the pagan gods for a miracle. My husband did not believe in the magic of the stones and he had grown impatient with my obsession. My faith had diminished over the years, as well. The time to accept a childless life had come.

The horse slowed and I pulled my hood from my head, surprised to find not the well-lit inner courtyard of our manor house, but the same grey, bleak surroundings and a dark mass towering over us.

The standing stones.

I glanced down at my husband, now standing with arms outstretched to help me dismount. "Why are we here?"

"I know how much this means to you."

He remained with the horse while I plodded to the center of the circle of stones, determined to be quick in thanks for his tolerance. I fished out the mistletoe from the inner folds of my cloak. Carefully, so as not to touch the plant with my hands, I laid it upon the ground. The waxy green leaves, bright against the white of snow, renewed my hope. I sank to my knees. The cold seeped through the layers of cloth, but I closed my eyes and prayed one last time for the gift of a child.

"Are you finished?"

The snow had muffled his approach and I struggled to stand. But he dropped to his knees and laid a hand upon my arm. He opened his cloak and extracted a cloth bundle.

Not mistletoe, I thought. Fascinated, I watched him pull the folds away to reveal a chunk of pie. My eyes widened at the significance of his gift.

He held the pie to my lips and recited, "Refuse mince pie, bad luck will follow.
First bite’s wish upon the morrow."

I made my wish and wondered if he did the same when he took a bite. Huddled together at the base of the stone, we finished the pie and dusted the crumbs from our cloaks. With my hand in his, we rose and left the circle of stones.

"What if it doesn’t work?"

Big hands, rough with the day’s labor, cupped my face; his thumbs traced my lips. "I love you, Ellyn. With or without children, I will love you longer than all the longest nights, deeper than this mountain of snow, and brighter than the star that dares to shine on such a grey and stormy night. You’re the only magic I need."

I looked up and there, peeping through a hole in the clouds, a star twinkled down at us. Then I looked into my husband’s eyes, dark with passion. I was a fortunate woman and I counted my blessings. With a fistful of cloak, I tugged him closer until his lips were nearly upon mine.

"You wished upon that star, didn’t you?"

"Perhaps." I kissed him before he could protest too loudly. One last wish on a snowy winter night.

~~~~~~~~

Happy Solstice - and I hope someone out there gets to witness the Lunar Eclipse (going to be overcast here).

Movie Night - Story

Last night we watched The Secret Life of Bees! I had read the book by Sue Monk Kidd many years ago and knew the story line - but that didn't stop me from being blown away once again. The twists and turns, the connections from one subplot to another, are perfectly balanced, perfectly believable.

I've said here before that I try to pick one thing out of a movie and relate it back to my writing. But sometimes movies come along and all you can do is watch. This is the same with fabulous books - you start out with the 'close inspection' goal and then get so caught up in the story, you remember just before you finish the book that you were supposed to be learning from the reading. Last night, I got caught up in the story. I had forgotten how great The Secret Life of Bees was. I had forgotten that tissue would be required. If you haven't seen this movie, or if you haven't read the book, I highly recommend it.

And if you haven't read Sue Monk Kidd's book The Mermaid Chair - another big, big recommendation. I was just getting into writing seriously when I read that novel and was astounded when she switched from first person for the main female character to third person for the main male character. The change in POV works for beautifully for that story!

So, People of Blogland, seen any great movies this week? Have you read any of Sue Monk Kidd's novels? I believe The Mermaid Chair was turned into a TV movie - anyone know anything about that?

**Just went to Sue Monk Kidd's website to get the link for you and spent 10 minutes browsing. I see she has a lot more books and I plan on searching them out. If you have time, read the "Reflections" page - very interesting indeed.