Welcome to what I hope will become the focus of this site. After more than twenty-five years of only ever writing technical and opinion pieces, I've decided to make writing fiction a major part of my life. We shall see what comes of it.
BTW, just because this is in a different section than "Erotica", that doesn't mean the stories will never have erotic elements, any more than life doesn't haven't erotic elements—it's all a matter of a focus. We'll see where the stories take me.
This was writen as part of @SensualStories wonderful Journaling Game Twitter project, which I credit with kick-starting my fiction writing after a 25 year hiatus. She solicits phrases on Twitter, and then encourages people to spend a few minutes writing a short piece that uses one of the phrases; it doesn't have to be the one you submitted, nor do you have to have submitted one. It's a nice way to get your creative mind going, and to get feedback on your writing. I highly encourage trying it out.
As an added bonus (?), you can hear me read this piece on AudioBoo.fm.
This piece is 2 or 3 chapters into an urban fantasy I am writing, and it's only the first page and a half of the chapter. I haven't written any of the rest yet, I wanted to start here to try to get a feeling for how the whole thing would work but picking a critical moment for the main character and expanding on that. This is very much a first rough draft (I've barely re-read it myself), so I'm not looking for syntax corrections, I'm just curious whether it feels right. Does the story draw you in? Does it need more or less description? That sort of thing. I'd very much appreciate that feedback (and anything else you'd care to offer). Many thanks.
The Harvard T stop was was full of the usual rush-hour crowd; students streaming out of their last classes, business people headed home, and a strong cross-current of people inbound for dinner and entertainment. A train had just unloaded a crowd of early supper seekers, and Megan had trouble keeping up with Patrick. He passed through the turnstile while she was still fumbling for her pass, and he seemed to flow through the crowd as though no one was there. She jogged the few last yards to catch up with him at the edge of the platform.
I tweeted this in the morning, when I was feeling a little drained and overwhelmed, and more than a little like I had no solid place to stand.
Some work their way through forests dark, tree to tree over tangled roots.
Others rest in gladed peace, drawing strength from midday sun.
I stand in brambles and dusky shadow, watching ghostly figures pass.
Behind is sun-dappled safety, but I fear the fading path.
If I reach out my hand, will I drown in the dark?
I tweeted this short piece as I was heading back north from a roadtrip that had taken me from Massachusetts to Florida and New Orleans, with a few stops in-between. The short form (restricted to 140 characters) resulted in something a little more melodramatic that I felt, but it captured some of what I saw. It's a hard time for a lot of people, both financially and emotionally. It was a wonderful trip, and I met (and almost met) many people I've wanted to see, but still it's had a touch of sadness.
I dreamt of walks; wooded streams, thoughtful words.
I sought love; gentle agape, passionate eros.
I found sadness; the fear of dying alone.
This was my July 22nd entry into @SensualStories #Journaling Game. You can see the original post on her web site. People on Twitter submit phrases, which she posts. Then anyone who feels inclined can write a short piece using one of the phrases. The stories are posted on her website for comment. Most, but not all, the stories are somewhat erotic, but it's a great writing exercise, especially if you're trying to get back into the flow of writing stories. The phrase was one I had submitted myself, “Where the wild things are is where I am most at home.”—Kim Antieau, in de Lint’s “Memory and Dream”.
Where the wild things are is where I am most at home. Amid the hills, where life is green and growing, and the morning mists withdraw to expose valleys far below. I don’t belong in the shadows of cold buildings, where green is a whisper in a sidewalk, and pigeons peck in listless preparation for rebirth as office workers at their keyboards. But not all that is wild wears fur or feathers. I heard the cry of her heart from afar, felt the wild soul that fluttered within. She would not come to me, and so I was drawn here, to these dark domesticated canyons. Like a wild stallion, I had scented the lure of the saddled mare. I knew the risk to my heart, but I could not stay away.
This piece took an interesting twist. Later in the summer I was at a music camp and wanted to write a song. This seemed like an interesting place to start. You can listen to me playing the final result here. I have the lyrics and chords written up on my computer, but I need to update them with a few last minute changes. I'll post them online when I do.
This was my July 10th entry into @SensualStories #Journaling Game. You can see the original post on her web site. People on Twitter submit phrases, which she posts. Then anyone who feels inclined can write a short piece using one of the phrases. The stories are posted on her website for comment. Most, but not all, the stories are somewhat erotic, but it's a great writing exercise, especially if you're trying to get back into the flow of writing stories. The phrase was, "theres a shadow just behind me, shrouding every step I take", from "Sober" by Tool, submitted by @purplehayz.
The rain fell softly on the leaves above me. Nature’s odd hold on time still left a few minutes respite before they reached the forest floor. Later, when the clouds had moved on, an echo of the rain would continue to fall in the shadow of the great trees. It was late afternoon, but here in the forest it was twilight already. The edges of my world were indistinct and ghostly. The daylight birds had gone quiet with the rain and the dusk. The nighttime peepers were still silent. I paused for a moment, but nothing interrupted the quiet drops on the canopy above. I moved forward once more, but I could feel it as much as see it. There was a shadow just behind me, shrouding every step I took.
I don't offer this as a stellar example of writing, it's more a historical curiosity. I've started going through my papers, and I found this. I wrote it in college, I'm guessing either my freshman or junior year—either way, a long time ago. It's a pretty obvious Lovecraft/Howard derivative, with all that classic angst and darkness in it. I was probably feeling horribly unloved or something :-). Anyway, here it is.
What leathery wings flaunt shadows in hell?
What ancients crawl from pit to pit in slithery silence?
Better forgotten; not sought out,
by mortals with so small a grasp on sanity.
And yet some seek such creatures of terror,
far beyond recall themselves,
deep within sepulchral halls,
in vaulted caverns and bloody crypts.
They weave the spells that cast a web,
and bind themselves in servitude.