Opening lines day 10, a given first line

1
We locked eyes across the room - it wasn't romantic, but at least now I knew I wasn't the only one bored nearly to tears by this lecture.

2
She couldn't be "that girl" at the gym, she just couldn't, but she also couldn't get the bar back up off her chest and she couldn't really breathe.

3
She held the battery powered clippers in her right hand and stared at her reflection a moment before clicking the power button and shearing the first line down the middle of her scalp, no turning back now.

4
"I'm a strong independent man."

5
He had never really been a fan of soup.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

"Where were you last night?"  My mom asked the question very casually as she pulled a box of bran flakes from a brown paper grocery sack and placed them in the cupboard.  She continued unloading groceries, her back to me, as my pulse began to race.  I had planned everything perfectly.  I had kissed her good night and gone upstairs to set my music on a timer.  I had arranged a few pillows messily under my sheets to resemble my body and I had even left my phone in the bed in case she tried tracking it.  How could she possibly know I had snuck out?

Opening Lines day 9, a given first line

1
Her voice resonated with a southern accent - not the nasal twang he had heard before, but a rich lilt that made him think of honey butter and cornbread.

2
He was lying on his back puffing smoke rings into the sky.

3
The chime sounded to let me know someone was coming into the store, and I wanted nothing more than to hide under the counter.

4
When he parked in large lots, he meticulously wrote down where he left his vehicle and took pictures to ensure ease of return so it might be an understatement to say he was surprised when spot D53 in the east section of the structure was empty.

5
She wasn't much for metaphors and similes but she'd be darned if his eyes weren't a warm turquoise like the waters of the Caribbean.

New Exercise
Start with "Where were you last night?"

"Where were you last night?"  She tossed her hair over her shoulder and looked at me with innocent curiosity.
She knew perfectly well where I had been considering I'd been in her bed.  But I maintained the ruse.
"I was pretty tired so I turned in early, sorry I didn't make the study group."
"No worries," Robin chimed in.  "We finished pretty quickly.  I was in bed by like nine."
I had been in Rachel's bed at that same time, but said instead, "I don't think I even saw nine.  I woke up at some point with my TV asking me if I was still watching."
Everyone laughed, including Rachel, and I took this as a good sign that no one could see me sweating.

Opening Lines day 8, a changing of exercises

1
He had thought to brighten her day by finishing the unpacking and arranging, but her expression told him that his thought and execution was poorly received. 

2
She didn't know any of the runners at the high school track meet, but their intensity and expressions of an earnest desire to win made her choke up with an array of emotions. 

3
She gave him everything he could ever want except for her time, and that, of course, was the only thing he truly wanted. 

4
It was 2:17 p.m. and we were all standing on the lawn watching a succession of planes fly overhead towards the smoke. 

5
His favourite shirt was unwearable - the print was worn and was now simply spots of illegible plastic transfer that kept the entire thing from being a mess of a holes - but he diligently washed it once a month and placed it back in his closet as a reminder. 

A changing of exercises
As noted in my last entry, it's surprisingly difficult to go back and review the history of a story that I do not have on hand.  As such, I am going to sift through the book I am using and select a slightly more accessible exercise to pursue for the next week or so. 

Opening Lines Day 7, plus Exercise 2 go 1

1
I don't necessarily remember answering the phone and hence my confusion when the voice on the other end demanded, "Well?"

2
I debated reminding him that repeating an action while expecting a different result was a sign of insanity, but we were in a mental institution so the point seemed moot.

3
I watched my Tactical Action Officer go sliding across the room as the ship rolled to starboard and waited patiently for the complementary roll to port so that we could resume our discussion. 

4
I smelled like ammunition and sweat - it was even less romantic than it sounds. 

5
I knew what I should do, but also knew what I wanted to do. 

Exercise 2

Some things that happened before Ender's Game starts but that we never actually read about:
Peter and Valentine had a few years just the two of them
Ender's parents made the decision to have a third
Peter and Valentine were both tested (and failed)

This is harder than I thought and I'm not sure if it's because Orson Scott Card is a gifted writer, because it's been some time since I read the book, or some other reason.  I will continue these exercises though as they are rather beneficial.  I think I need to focus on some of the smaller details and that may require having the books on hand.  I will continue to approach this from varying angles. 

Opening Lines Day 6

1
She had over one hundred blank notebooks and journals in her bookcase -- she didn't write in them for fear it wouldn't be good enough for how pretty they all were.

2
His collection of kitchen gadgets was so vast and impressive you would have thought he might actually know how to cook.

3
As a barista, my favourite hobby is writing down creative ways that people compare their love of black coffee to things like their hearts, their souls, or the hex color code #000000.

4
Lately I've noticed a lot of shadows moving in my peripheral vision which either means that I can see ghosts or I'm dying. 

5
"Please stop crying." 

Opening Lines Day 5

1
I flushed as I watched her caressing the teapot, imagining that she might someday touch me in the same manner.

2
She turned her toes in together as though she could use them as a blockade to hide behind. 

3
He had started lifting weights because it was what everyone told him to do but he had continued because now it seemed like no one could tell him what to do. 

4
She ignored the boxes labelled "kitchen" "towels" "home office", frantically pulling the sheets out of "bedding" until she freed a once-white, tattered teddy bear -- "I'm sorry I didn't catch you before the movers tucked you away," she clutched it tightly to her chest.   

5
He ate automatically, tasting none of the food, simply performing the social function of eating at a dinner party.

Opening Lines Day 4

The next exercise I have requires a bit more thought and research but I have a Navigation midterm on Wednesday so I probably won't start exercise two until Thursday.

The first line below actually was inspired by my boyfriend, so I'm doing 6 today.

1
He was, at first, pleasantly surprised that his girlfriend did not feel hot to the touch as she normally did while they cuddled at night - her skin was quite cool as she was dead.

2
Her neighbour was laughing so loudly she could hear it through the walls and it was grating, inspiring creative homicidal thoughts.

3
"What if I just turned the wheel suddenly and threw myself and my car over the cliff?" she thought to herself, doing nothing of the sort.

4
He realised he hadn't consumed enough water for the day so he carefully drank two one-litre bottles in succession because that was the sort of man he was.

5
It had started as a simple search for her car keys, but now she was sitting on the living room floor simultaneously laughing and crying hysterically.

6
The precision it takes to make perfect roses out of buttercream frosting is not difficult if you happen to be neurotic.

Opening Lines Day 3

In addition to the idea that you should write 5 opening lines a day, I also like taking these exercises week by week.  I am trying to start as though I know nothing about writing (which, perhaps, would almost be better) so I am moving through these slowly.  New exercises will start next week.

I also went back and looked at the first lines of two of my favourite books.  They are stellar.

The Curious Incident of Dog in the Night-time opens with, "It was seven minutes after midnight."  Short, sweet, simple, and immediately sets a scene.

Shantaram opens with, "It took me a long time and most of the world to learn what I know about love and fate and the choices we make, but the heart of it came to me in an instant, while I was chained to a wall and being tortured."  Just... wow.

Mine today:
1
"Unusual ways to dispose of a body" she typed into the search bar, hesitating only slightly before hitting enter.

2
It's amazing how much clarity one finds hiding under the bed.

3
"Looks good to me," the young Sailor called up the ladder, blatantly overlooking the rapidly developing cracks in the shaft seal.

4
In her opinion, the conversation had been over for fifteen minutes; he clearly hadn't noticed.

5
There comes a time in everyone's life when you find yourself sitting in the driver's seat, gripping the wheel, debating driving to the airport to fly away and never come back; or at least, I hope that happens to everyone because this was the fourth time it was happening to me.

Opening Lines Day 2

It would be easy enough to open with fantasy lines (e.g. As the sun set in the east, she thought, "That's peculiar.") but for my purposes I am sticking with everyday openers.  Today I have gone particularly with things that have occurred in my life. 

1
She hummed a few notes of the black swan's solo as she superglued over a blister, missing only one note as she winced. 

2
The red phone was on the right hand side of the desk which seemed illogical as I needed my right hand for the mouse. 

3
The man smiled at me revealing bleeding gums and rotting teeth. 

4
It is impossible to accurately convey just how commanding and confident a woman in a chador can actually be. 

5
It's odd how calming it can be to paint make up on one's face until you begin to border on looking garish and rather like a whore. 

Relearning how to write

I've taken an obviously lengthy break from all of my writing.  I will be going through a series of exercises for the next few months in order to attempt to harness and hone and therein better my chances of getting into grad the school.  You will find the first below. 

How to Get and Keep a Reader - write a good first line. 
I will probably try to write 1-5 opening lines every day.  First lines are important.  My first attempt is as follows:

1
It was not dark nor stormy, neither, in fact, was it night. 

2
He came through the shop door soaking wet and smelling of rotting vanilla cupcakes. 

3
They were all looking at me expectantly and I could no longer read the words jotted on my notecard. 

4
Ms. Cresher was dressed impeccably, as always, save that one of her diamond earrings was set in white gold and one set in yellow gold. 

5
The atmosphere in the conference room reminded John of the sound gelatin makes when it suddenly slides free of its mould. 

But I am so lucky...

(on the off chance anyone reads this, please be gentle, it's been a LONG break) 

But I am so lucky 

Obstreperous -- 

I was jejune and now

you are flummoxed at this 

blustering.  

I run, unmanageable, 

frightening. 

Devastating mondegreen dizzying. 

Spelentic and imperfect, 

bewildered by my own 

opprobrious comportment. 

I have no idea why you love me. 

Things

(The hope, of course, is that you would picture it yourself, but someday maybe I'll sketch up the geography of what I'm describing.  The Fort, you might say.) 

Things 

In the innermost, it is dark, 

it is quiet.  

Sometimes too quiet.  

I venture, and peer out the door.  

Dropping breadcrumbs, skipping over precarious bombs.  

Next circle. 

Some more things are stored here.  

Not all mine, 

but all important. 

Check them all to make sure; 

they are safe. 

Unchain the chains, unbolt the bolts, 

crack the door to sneak a peek.  

One eye peeks back.  

I am frozen; 

how did you... 

You never should have come through the hedge maze.  

You are not welcome here, go back.  

I close the door, 

And send you to the outermost circle. 

No other things.  

I run back, fleeing.  

It’s better this way.  

Safe and sound with my 

Things. 

So happy

(it's weird, because I can see the blog stats and it's all "6 pageviews today" and I'm like... uhm by whom?  I'm thinking it must be random spammers and internet traipsers and bots and things because I don't just give this page out to people and I'm pretty sure people gave up on it when I stopped writing for a year or so.  Or really people gave up because I'm terrible haha.  Still, in a weird way, I wish I knew what or who was tripping over my blog in their cyberspace adventures.  Whatever they are, this "poem" should disappoint them mwahaha)  

So happy 

Dystopia.  
Glitter falling all around 
glistening like my smile.  
Music notes tumble, 
crashing.  
Rocking in the corner, 
sparkles stream from my eyes. 
Shirking and shrinking, 
laugh laugh laugh.  
So happy for you.  

Life Disconcerting

(Is happiness a choice?  Does it count if you are forcing yourself to be happy?  If you fake it for long enough does it become real?  How do we know who we are?  If you aren't yourself for long enough, does that actually become who you are?  You'd think eventually I'd have an answer or two, but mostly I just have more questions every day...)  


Life Disconcerting 
So zealous for this life, 
yet anxiously troubled 
as though fervent happiness 
must be quelled, 
lest it be overwhelmed by 
restless unease.  
Brimming with idealism, 
concerned by encroaching dejection -- 
life ever bemusing. 
Optimism battles the xanthous fears, 
while joyous elation concedes to 
worries, mindful of disappointment. 
Overwhelming yearning, 
kind and loving, 
resigned to a perplexed quiet. 
Silence. 

Struggle

(I used to have this rule that I couldn't write when I was super emotional because it was always just horrendous.  I'm breaking that rule right now, because I'm trying to clear my head.  I'm trying to convey something here, and perhaps next time I'll say what it is.  No one reads this blog, haha, but if someone stumbles upon it, perhaps he or she can tell me if I even remotely succeeded.  For now... more vodka.)  

Struggle 

What goes up must come down 
down down down... 
Fight it and cling, 
claw and dig deep.  
The fall is delayed, 
drags on... and on... 
Reaching up but 
it's no use.  
It never is.  
Slide down - 
scratching 
catching 
bleeding along the way.  
The bottom - disconsolate, 
bewildered.  
Shaken despairing sobs. 

Hannah -- prose

(trying to write again I guess...) 

“It was a dark and stormy night-“

“No it’s not.” 

I suppressed a sigh.  “No sweetie, in the story.” 

Hannah looked out the window and turned to me sternly.  “Lying is wrong Daddy.” 

“No Hannah-belle, telling a story isn’t lying, it’s…”  Silence.  “Uhm, it’s making up a story…” 

“Lying.” 

When I was young I had thought it would be difficult to raise a child of average intelligence, but now, arguing with and being outsmarted by my three year old, I wondered.  How was I going to explain fiction for the purpose of entertainment? 

“You know, when I read you bedtime stories?  Those aren’t true stories-“

“What?!”  Shock and outrage. 

“Baby, those are just made up tales about happy, faraway lands and-“

“You lied to me?!”  It appeared the shock and outrage would continue.  If only I hadn’t been muttering to myself as I typed.  If only Rachel were still alive to help tame our offspring.  Rachel had always been the voice of reason to my dreamer tendencies. 

“I’m sorry sweetie.  Lots of people like to… peek into other people’s imaginations when their own imaginations get tired.” 

Hannah pondered this.  She sucked on the strap of her jumper, which she’d undone again, before finally saying, “Like if I let other people talk to Mr. Bears?  And be friends with him?” 

Of course my genius toddler could put my thoughts into words better than I.  “Yes, very much like that.” 

“I have to think about this Daddy.  I’ll get back to you.”  She walked out.  Great, have your people call my people, maybe we can have teatime with Mr. Bears and philosophize. 

I turned back to the computer and stared at it.  Heaving another melodramatic sigh, I erased the intro.  It was too cliché and my life was anything but.  Rachel’s picture smiled at me just above the right corner of the monitor.  “Rach… Rach… what am I doing?” 

“Daddy…”  Hannah reappeared sounding worried and I snapped back to reality.  “Daddy there’s someone at the door.”  And the doorbell rang. 

Mildly perturbed by Hannah’s premonition, maybe she had just seen him walk up, I set her on the couch in my office and instructed, “Daddy will be right back.  Don’t move.”  Hannah gave me the annoyed look she used anytime I referred to myself in the third person but gave me a short, curt nod in assent. 

I closed the door behind me before hurrying down the stairs to the front door.  I didn’t think to look through the window before I found myself staring at an impeccably dressed man in his mid-thirties.  Perfectly sculpted blonde hair, sunglasses, a tux, and bodyguards rendered the whole moment beyond surreal and I failed to speak. 

“Mr. Lancomb?”  The blond man spoke crisply, with such a pronounced lack of accent it was startling. 

“Who’s asking?” 

“It will not do to play games with me Mr. Lancomb.  Won’t you invite us in?” 

“I’m sorry, and you are…?” 

“You need money, Mr. Lancomb.  You’re a decent writer, but you aren’t making enough to fully support your beautiful daughter.”  He paused for dramatic effect, and it worked.  “Are you?” 

“Won’t you come in?”  I don’t know what overtook me, but within moments they were seated around my dining room table sipping ice water with lemon.  Rachel would have been proud – of the lemon, not the strangers sitting in our house. 

“Mr. Lancomb,” the blonde man had removed his sunglasses to reveal eyes that seemed falsely blue.  “I am Mr. Powers.  An amusing name to be certain, but do not let humour detract from the gravity of this situation.” 

“That’s not your real name anyway.”  We all whirled around to see Hannah, lips pursed, staring down the man in the tuxedo.  She held Mr. Bears in both arms, and even he looked defiant.

“You are correct small one.  My great-great grandfather changed it when he immigrated.” 

“Define immigrated.” 

“He came to America from another country.”  Hannah debated this briefly before climbing onto a chair at the table. 

“I told you not to move,” I reproached her.  She looked at me steadily and said nothing until I felt foolish losing the argument to a toddler. 

“Mr. Lancomb, I need you to deliver something for me.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Actually it’s someone.  I need you to ensure the safe travels of my niece across the country.” 

“That’s-  I-  what?” 

“Is she nice?”  Hannah was clearly less bothered by this than I. 

“I like to think so.”  Mr. Powers nodded to one of his bodyguards, who stood and exited.  He returned momentarily with a young girl around 13 who held her arms and hummed softly.  “Olivia, please sit.” 

“Six chairs.  I-s-x a-c-h-i-r-s.  Six people.  I-s-x e-e-l-o-p-p.”  Olivia sat. 

“Olivia enjoys putting the letters of her words in order.”  Mr. Powers smiled. 

“A-i-i-l-o-v.  My name is Aiilov.”  She pronounced it like I love.

“Olivia is autistic and like many autistics, she is brilliant.  Unlike most autistics, she is also connected to important people and therein a target.  I would like you, Mr. Lancomb, to help me transport her across the country to Stanford where I am assured her safety.” 

“Why Stanford?” 

“Mr. Lancomb, I will give you 1.5 million dollars as well as setting up a trust for Hannah’s college education should you carry out this task and not ask questions.” 

“Daddy, that’s 5 zeroes and 7 figures.” 

“I know that Hannah.”

“Daddy…”  Hannah stood on her chair and put her hands on my shoulders so she could look my directly in the eyes.  “What would Mommy say?” 

And then, in front of the three powerful men, in front of the genius autistic, in front of my own daughter, I started crying. 

Hannah put Mr. Bears on my lap and wiped my eyes with her chubby hands.  “Mommy helped everyone.”  It was true.  Rachel wouldn’t even have cared about the money.  If she really thought someone was in need, she just helped them.  She had been an absolute saint during her time and who was I to deny Olivia the right to safety. 

“Alright.” 

“An excellent decision Mr. Lancomb.” 

“A-b-c … l-m-n-o.  I like his name.”  Olivia seemed genuinely thrilled by the realization of the consonant clusters.  As usual though, she spoke only to her uncle. 

Mr. Powers rose, and his goonies stood with him.  “I will send you an electronic itinerary and some notes by e-mail this evening.  Olivia will arrive promptly at 0800 Friday morning along with her belongings, money for the trip, and anything else I deem necessary.” 

“Define itin- itinerary.”  I should never have taught Hannah the word define.

“It’s a schedule Hannah-belle.”  And turning to Mr. Powers, “That’s two days from now.” 

“Very good Mr. Lancomb.” 

As I stood silently, shocked, the party made their way to the door.  Mr. Powers stood aside to allow the bodyguards to escort Olivia first, but she turned and looked directly at Hannah.  “I hope you’ll tell me what Mr. Bears said when I came in.  I think we three shall be friends.”  Then she turned around and walked out. 

Mr. Powers looked at Hannah peculiarly.  “Olivia speaks only to me.  She has addressed no one else, not even her parents, since she was born.”  He stared harder at Hannah. 

“Mr. Bears is an excellent judge of people,” Hannah replied simply, as though that explained everything. 

“I have chosen well and I am pleased you have agreed to this, Mr. Lancomb.”  And then the door was closed. 

I looked at Hannah, at Mr. Bears, at the closed door, and back to Hannah. 

“Daddy, we need to pack,” she said before I could utter a word.  With that, we went upstairs to pack.  

Curious Contentment

(curiously, someone recently suggested to me that I begin a blog. Of course, this person was likely thinking I would wax philosophical and, as such, I refrained from comment and clearly did not state, "Oh but I have one where I occasionally spew horrific nonsense that would make an actual writer and feasibly cry." In any case... this.) 

Curious Contentment (working title) 

It began so carefully, 
if unexpectedly. 
To pinpoint an origin 
impossible. 
Enshrouded in primaveral joy, 
enraptured by this new curiosity. 
All good things must end. 
Trading in the gleeful swivet, 
expecting a tumble into despondence. 
And yet… 
Comfortable resignation tinged with 
residuum of frivolity. 
Nigh confusing this 
serotinal fulfillment. 
No falderal sense of being jilted; 
rather, peculiar satisfaction in this 
contented unhappiness.

You are prohibited

(Either you understand or you don't.) 


You are prohibited


Forced denouncement
in the face of
growing affection. 
An anomaly,
this confidence
without reason.
This impediment
irrefrangible despite
endless wanting. 
To proscribe regulation –
taboo;
pressing desire.
Forcibly en regle,
straining resistance –
tensile.
Quell the flush --
coveting the verboten.
A hypnopompic state…
an anguish to relish.
Off limits –
painful brush with the
forbidden. 

Sparkling Reticence

(words words words.  Sorry it's not happier for the holidays and such...) 

Sparkling reticence

They act as though

my nonplussed speech slakes enthusiasm,

but truly my pontifications remain adiaphorous,

while their manner is a stinging fracas.

I recoil from the pain and

attempt to elucidate something – anything – else

besides my need for relief from the sharpness.

Sudden jokes and a constant whirl of whinge –

judging, leering, prying;

a dull effervescence in which I do not take part.

Shut my eyes, the tinny nebula presses in,

I am suffocating – haunted by yesterdays. 

Journeying

I am so not pleased with how this ends. I just... don't like it..
The Journey
Stand at the bottom of the staircase,
No banister – tiptoe up trying not to make a sound.
Exhale at the top sounds like a hurricane; breath catches.
Standing at the bridgehead,
No railings – sneak across, don’t look down.
Collapse at the other side; making this journey alone.
Look up at the snowy peak.
No sherpa – scale this rocky face, heart pounds.
Behold, consider this journey; these accomplishments.
Trust or solitude? Questions remain unanswered.