The Aspiring Bard

Well, I can't say that I *never* write in autobiographical first-person present. A mystery or some modern-day fictional piece would have been further outside my comfort zone. But what you see below is what I actually had time for. Names have been changed. Day 5: In a genre you never write in "I'm betting that you won't make it down." Kevin informs me. I smile serenely (I've had lots of opportunities to perfect my unruffled look with him), and say, "better not bet too much." I have never been rappelling before in my life. It involves walking backwards off of a cliff with a rope and a harness to keep you from falling, and the sentiments of those group members who have been rappelling during other summers ranges from excitement to terror. Several girls have already broken down in tears. I am not going to be nervous, I decide. I'm the 'new kid', with few connections to this group other than those I've been making for myse...

What can I say? This was just FUN, pure and simple. Day 4: In first person, from the view of someone who doesn’t understand the actual point of the scene Source That new young man, the one who came out from town with Lidy (a relation, not an admirer, much to the disappointment of some), was standing by the window when I entered the front room. I gave him a cheery good morning, but he responded in such a hasty, half-hearted fashion that I instantly surmised the trouble. "There's no need to be nervous." I reassured him. "I heard Mr. Emerson say that he would mount you on Bella. She is as safe a hunter as anyone could wish. Why, I've often ridden her, myself!" "Safe? Faugh!" Lidy swept into the room, the long skirt of her riding habit bunched high in both her hands, and her chin cocked at the customary lofty angle. "I don't believe that Edmond has ever been frightened of anything in his life. Have you, Ed?" Edmond d...

Well, I did WRITE this yesterday, but events conspired to keep me from posting it until today. C'est la vie.  Day 3: From the perspective of an inanimate object Viking Woman | Carl Larsson Sword raised high, the carven warrior kept watch from the back of his ever-eager horse. Birds and insects, unfrightened by his warlike pose, hummed a sweet life-song that trembled among the first brave wildflowers growing at his foot. Spring sunlight warmed his stone to its very core, and a gentle wind caressed him. His mound gave him vantage to look out over a sprawl of houses and farms and to the deep blue of the fjord beyond. A ship was readying there. Men and women bustled to and fro with barrels and bales in response to a captain's gesticulated orders. The attention of every person seemed to be focused on the ship, with the exception of a fair-haired woman who walked purposefully toward the mound. She carried a happily babbling small boy on one arm. An older girl skipp...

Today was so much harder, because HISTORICAL FICTION, Y'ALL! I wanted to get all the things right. I'm fairly certain that I didn't, but as no-one is likely to cite me as an authority on WWI soldiery, I guess that's okay. Day 2: In third person, set in a historical time period. He was cleaner than he had been in weeks, there was the prospect of a decent night's sleep, and for once, the miserable, bone-chilling rain had stopped. Lieutenant Brantley should have been reasonably content. Instead, these small comforts served only to throw his greater desolation into a more accusing light.  His booted feet carried him through the center of a village that could have been, he reflected, not unlike an English village, or any other quiet, country town, anywhere in the world. He saw the tidiness of it all beneath the churned ruts of the muddy road, the fences smashed to splinters, the houses bashed and riddled. It had been picturesque before...

I don't think that I have ever, in my whole life, posted a piece of fiction with as little editing as this one has received. It's kind of terrifying, but also oddly  exhilarating . We'll see if I get more accustomed to this sort of thing by the time the week is over. Day 1: In first person, from the perspective of an old man Jacob Maris | Praying Monk At times, my aging body still surprised me with its unwillingness. My knees cracked as I rose from a kneeling posture, and I could not suppress a groan at the sharp spasm that traced the length of my back. "'The days of our years are threescore years and ten.'" I recalled. "'A nd if by reason of strength  they be  fourscore years, yet  is  their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.'" I slowly eased the kinks from my spine as I pulled myself erect. I walked stiffly to the window and stood where the sunlight could pour its warmth into my aching joints...

I found this list of writing prompts over at The Herosinger , and unlike most writing prompts which make me think, 'why on earth would anyone EVER...?', this list actually got my creative gears spinning. And I desperately need some help being creative just now. My niece, Clara, and I are going to embark on a week of writing together using the list of prompts. She'll be posting at  The Golden Dusk , and I will, naturally, be putting my posts up here. You can read all of them by following THIS LINK . The more the merrier, as they say, so feel free to join in if you're so inclined. - THE LIST - In first person, from the perspective of an old man In third person, set in a historical time period From the perspective of an inanimate object In first person, from the view of someone who doesn’t understand the actual point of the scene In a genre you never write in From the perspective of someone from a country on the opposite side of the world from you From...

Well, well, I think it's time to introduce some more characters. I swiped the following questions from Paper Fury's monthly Beautiful People link-up. Though I wouldn't go so far as to call either Altan or Baatar beautiful, I thought the questions might suit them reasonably well. Source Source 1. How long have they known each other, and how close are they?  Being siblings, I suppose they have known each other as long as they've been old enough to know anything. Baatar and Altan watched the exchange in surprise and, understanding none of it, shared their silent questions with a glance. Baatar, always the better judge of mood, gave a small shake of his head in reply to Altan’s lifted eyebrow. The question was best left unspoken for the present. 2. What's their earliest memory of being best friends? Personally, I believe it was the first time Altan leaped, headfirst, into a fight, and found Baatar's strong back set firmly ag...