Back in Writemonkey. I’m blaming my low production this past week on the near inexplicably clunky feel on Scrivener fullscreen. That means I better show up today, or it’s just me.
Imbuers Local #451
Revisiting Imbuers Local #451
A single voice intoned the chant.
Other voices joined the first in staggering succession as if each new chanter required a sense more substantial than mere hearing to recognize the invitation. As the number of chanters grew, others joined more quickly until the swell of the chant could not be ignored by the remaining few—save one, the chant’s initiator.
Thima, toak-Slay, had ceased chanting once sufficient others took up the [song]. It waited silently but not unmovingly for the remaining Imbuers to join. Thima then maneuvered the crowded dais to the edge and signaled for the next hoop to be lowered into place. It worried they would fail in their task.
The unseen audience—hushed to silence on their benches in the steep [auditorium]—drew a collective breath as the second hoop descended from the darkness. Lit from a bright point at the apex of the chamber, the silhoutted ring channeled a cone of light on the chanters below that transformed into a cylindar of rays as it dropped to match with the first. Had a blonde-haired girl, arms out and twirling in the evening air, stood in the center she might have been able to touch the insides of the ring. A grown man could put thumb to fingertip when hoisting the iron torus in his grip.
248 words on day 825
I’ll resist the urge to double back to edit the previous two days’ work as a lead in to this third. I think we all know how that would go if I did. I will note that there are a few things I’d like to clean up back there that I’ll pretend are emended as I move forward.
“The trill of an incoming text startled her. It read: He warded your phone…”
Her anger at being left behind seethed and she tried to throw her phone into the road—to hear it crack into the pavement and splash glass and circuitry over the gravel—but she couldn’t make her hand let go of the thing. She made a couple more incomplete casts before dropping it roughly, but safely, into her lap.
“Well, shit,” she echoed.
Karen assumed that if Malachi warded her phone he’d probably hidden her too. There was no use flagging down an unlikely passing car for help, so she grabbed up her phone and searched for how to treat a sprained ankle. Between HEM—which sounded like marketing—and RICE (rest, ice, compression, elevation) she knew she could handle the latter.
Once she pulled herself up to the bench and out of the dirt, she brushed off her gritty palms and began the short incantation to cool her ankle. She’d both frozen and boiled glasses of water and been commended for her quickness, but she’d never practiced precise control of either. She didn’t want to turn her ankle to ice, so she aimed the spell at her slipper first to cool it slowly then carefully moved her focus over to her ankle. The chill immediately brought relief to her hot flesh and swelling joint. She chanted in a timer and left the ankle cool for a bit while she thought about how to apply compression.
[running out of time so I’ll just list a few things as notes for later:]
– looks for something non-magical for compression first because of Professor Carrol’s training about avoiding magic if you can
– cant find anything so she tweaks a ‘push’ spell into the shape of a C, but ultimately can’t keep it in place
– next she works on breaking the ward on her phone. She can’t but she does discover a timer there and has to decide between calling 911 and waiting for and explaining it all to a Highway Patrol officer or just waiting
-eventually she gets back home where she puts her decision to protect herself in to action
419 words on day 797
http://gorillaartfare.com/2009/10/sci-fi-dumpage/ (fourth down)
Martin found the encompassing feeling of the abandoned mech hanger remarkable. The lofty girders above and the open bay doors along the perimeter reminded him of a church he attended as a boy before he stopped praying.
“Thanks.” The occasional single-syllable acknowledgement was all that remained of Martin’s belief.
:Roger that, Commander.: Lieutenant Abilene Guerrera’s voice spoke in Martin’s earpiece. She drove the mech guarding above him. He smiled and pretended it was Goddess responding instead. He then tried to think of what he’d say to the Lieutenant’s inevitable query. :…uh, ‘Thanks’ for what, sir?:
:[something profound and direct]:
:Of course, sir,: Guerrera replied after a delay. Her brief protocol made Martin smile and almost laugh. He imagined her turning wide-eyed and questioning to her ensign co-pilot and him, cringing, unable to offer an explanation for their boss’s sudden melancholy. They’d chew on that shit for days, he thought.
xxx words on day 788
I’ve just finished watching every episode of Firefly and then the movie Serenity. I should write better now.
Each time I sit down I struggle to start with an image that isn’t Charming sitting on her roof drinking tea and watching the sun set. I don’t write it because…
OMG! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
Miriam gathered the brittle maple leaves around her and begged each to arrange itself with the others into a niche at the back of her tent. Many of the leaves were too far gone or too curious to join the others, so once that half dome resolved itself to her liking she brushed a clear space on the decking and produced a beeswax candle from her possibles. She did not want them burnt by the flame or caught up in the melt.
Reaching into her possibles again, Miriam withdrew two pine dowels that might have made good knitting needles were they a gauge narrower. She crossed them directly above the wick then zipped them apart. The friction sparked the candle to life. She paired the dowels and tucked them away again. The warm honied wax smell mingled with the musk of the fallen leaves.
That’s all I could get for now.
207 words on day 761
Even after 45 years, Boot Camp reminded him to hold the pistol in a safe down and away position while he moved north along the alleyway on a Wednesday afternoon. Reggie wondered if it was ironic that training had not reminded him to not gun down his ex-wife’s new boyfriend. He could not recall any ethics lessons during that 13 week period of his life.
Reggie also wondered at the pristine awareness he held for everything he encountered but the lack of distraction. He could simultaneously recognize that Ronnie Edward’s kid’s near abandoned Pinto had a flat driver’s rear tire from the angle it rested in the tall weeds while surmising the fence between him and Tally Randermiester—who was hanging her wash (a mixture of pastel baby clothes and jeans)—was just high enough she would not see his weapon. Two more steps and he would be at the proper angle to both politely say hello and to catch the sun brightening through her thin cotton skirt.
A scene played quickly through Reggie’s thoughts where an unseen reporter interviewed Tally about today’s events. Tally wipes her eyes and says, “‘Hello?’ He just said, ‘Hello’ like nothing was about to happen. Like…” There they seem to edit the next thing she says, but she just stops. She is unable to finish her sentence. Unable to say, “Like he wasn’t a cold blooded killer.”
To save her that grief he decides not to greet her. Not to see her slim 20 some year old legs silhouetted through a flower-printed broomstick skirt. Not to be interrupted. Not to lose sight of his intended purpose.
270 words on day 751
Miriam first met the Green Man less than a week out of her mother’s womb. Her father swaddled her in the same linen cloth he’d been brought in by his father. The flax for that linen had been grown, retted, scutched, and heckled by famous druidess [her name] when she was just a student. Now—old enough to be mated and a mother herself—she came to tell him she was the last. He would never again meet another decendent of Laux.
I was possible the Green Man already knew this. It was possible her grandfather or her father had known it and had been preparing the Green Man for the revelation for years. She didn’t think so.
Worse, she wouldn’t have time to prepare him properly before she left for Kek.
I’m forcing this and getting distracted by the research part, and I can feel a night of screwing around brewing.
151 words on day 708
At first Jessica Matthews clung to the sword for fear the beast was not yet dead; she might lose her grip if it rose up again. The rest of the world filled her consideration in stages and her focus softened to allow for the things around her which weren’t a dragon. Her desperate grasp on the pommel was technically shoddy. Her knees were in the snow and cold. Sweat and snow-melt soaked her torn tights; each time she exhaled a chilly breeze ran between her body and the still-hot scales of the dragon. She didn’t worry it’s blood would stain her limited edition Schepacz t-shirt, but the thought of ruining her leather duster slapped her with dread. She stood.
A movie scene of boys drinking the blood of a newly killed deer.
A clear solution—tears she supposed—pooled in the corner of the dragon’s iridescent eye. The liquid appeared tinged with purple or may have only seemed that way because of the eye’s swimming hues. It was shot with a tendril of red blood which acted more like a crack through granite than one liquid in another. Jessica touched the surface with a single finger then dipped in two to get more of a taste. She expected the tears to be salty, but not sweet as well. And they were. [a little more here]
Finally removing her left hand from the pommel of her borrowed sword she wedged her fingers into the pocket of her denim cut-offs and pulled out a bottle of contact saline. She squeezed the bottle till it made several wispy wet-air noises and she was certain it was as empty as she could get it. She squeezed it and far shut as she could get it and dipped the tip into the dragon’s tears. She capped the bottle once it was full, stuffed it in her shorts, tugged the sword free, and walked away from her kill.
319 words on day 692