Posts Tagged ‘fiction’

Will You Remember Me?


18 Jul

From the Imagination Prompt Generator:

What do you want to be remembered for?

My stories first, my artwork second, my photographs third. I want to be thought well of NOW before I toddle off Beyond the Veil since it would be a bummer if the only good thoughts came at my funeral. That is, if anyone shows up.

I have told people before that I am a Storyteller. I don’t think that most people realize that a storyteller isn’t someone working to get published. By definition, certainly I am author, so I won’t discount that.

au·thor
? ?/????r/ Show Spelled[aw-ther]
–noun
1. a person who writes a novel, poem, essay, etc.; the composer of a literary work, as distinguished from a compiler, translator, editor, or copyist.

However, a Storyteller is someone who does more than just write a story and hopes that others will read it, or buy it, etc. A Storyteller has an audience and tells them a story. I write fanfiction because I know there is an audience out there that not only wants to read it, but they want someone to tell them a story.

When I was a kid, I love Winnie the Pooh and Mowgli and his friends. My mother would read the stories to me because she was a Storyteller.

It’s a bit different being online and telling a story, and for awhile I felt a bit lost, and certainly frustrated. When I got over the fact that I couldn’t “see” the people I was telling a story to, I fell back into myself, into my comfort zone.

So, I hope there’s a corner of the internet that will remember me as a good Storyteller.

I hope, too, that I get remembered for my artwork. I know there are people in the past that remember some of the “on paper” art I used to do. I doubt they know my name, but my artwork is out there and there are those that remember it. My art affected them.

I haven’t picked up a pen in ages and taken it to paper, but I do still let my imagination go digital in this digital age. It isn’t the same, but I certainly wouldn’t be doing my digital abstracts if I didn’t feel I was putting my emotions into them and they were touching people viscerally.

I hope that enough of my artwork is now out there, that people will find it and think it’s something to talk about. If they don’t know who I am, my name, that’s all right.

And, ditto for my photos. I hope that I leave a lot of photos for people to appreciate. Mostly dogs, cats, gardens, trees, and flowers. Very few people. I hope that what I have gives everyone a bit of peace.

To Touch Someone


08 Sep

I wrote a scathing article nearly two years ago (that I cannot find, of course) that lit into fan fiction, and fan fiction writers. I was still caught up in that mindset that it was important for me to get my original work formally published. Myself and several other authors would talk and then complain about how no one ever, EVER commented on our original work. Take a look at my story archives — some of my most popular posts are the stories and poems in there, but barely 1% of the people reading those stories ever bothered to comment.

This is an old complaint, and a mystery. It isn’t just me. I have my original work, some of my best pieces, published at Fiction Press where I’ve met many authors who are trying to figure this out.

Well, I bowed out on that mystery as it is one that will be debated and dissected long after I am gone. Leaving that behind also set me onto a new path (that really was an old one).

When I was a kid growing up, I told stories to anyone who listened to me. Some were made up on the fly, never to be heard again, but very much appreciated by my audience. Some I wrote down, and those were also appreciated. I also told stories that were inspired by shows (Star Trek, The Addams Familly, The Munsters) and books (Treasure Island).

It didn’t matter where the story came from. What I enjoyed was telling the story to an audience that showed their appreciation.

As I thought about some recent creative efforts that were coming to naught, and generally gave me more of a headache than new visions, I stayed away from the computer for a long while.

Then I read Deathly Hallows by J. K. Rowling. I was not saddened by Snape’s death, I was angry. I had no problem with the character dying. I had expected that would happen. What I didn’t expect was the way in which the character was killed and how it was so easily brushed under the rug. (There is so much about that book that chaps my hide, but that’s a post or rant for another day).

Choosing to deny not just Snape’s death, but the deaths of so many loved characters, I sought out fan fiction to give it another chance. I found, literally, hundreds of stories that kept Snape and other characters alive and gave them new adventures and fascinating lives. I began reading the stories I enjoyed the most: romance stories that used a created, original character for Snape to fall in love with, or the genre that has Snape becoming mentor to Harry, adopting him, or even turning out to be his real father.

What I found was that there were some very good fan fiction authors out there who wrote in the Harry Potter universe better than Rowling herself did. It was, to say the least, an eye opener.

After reading for some time, I decided to try my own hand at writing a story. Long story about another story, short… I not only wrote a 91 chapter fan fiction story, but it was longest, most continuous and finished story I’d ever written. But, the cream on that was the feedback I have received during the writing of Back in Time, and after it was completed. Here is some absolutely wonderful feedback I received yesterday:

Story: Back in Time
Chapter: 91. Epilogue

Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for writing about Eowyn’s fear of going off
to Hogwarts. I’m a Freshman at a huge college in a city several thousand miles
from home where I know only my 3 roommates and a girl at another college. Your
description of Eowyn sounds just like me: quiet, a bookworm, afraid of seeming
‘uninteresting’ to people, everything. I’ve been called ‘weird’ and ‘too
quiet’ by many people.

Snape’s words of comfort to Eowyn really struck something inside me. When I
read his dialogue with his daughter, I felt like someone had heard how I felt,
how afraid of being friendless, how intimidated I was by the vast amount of
new people I had to meet at school, and decided to comfort me; when I read
“but we all must bear many things we don’t like in order to attain that which
we desire” and “You are different, though, and you may not appreciate that
this moment, but you will sooner than you think. All of us are different,” I
cried.

I just want you to know how much I love your handling of Snape as a father. I
don’t often read fics where Snape adopts Draco and Harry, or stories where
Hermione and Draco get together. I wasn’t sure if I liked the pairings at
first, but they have grown on me. Lyrica sounds like someone we all wish to
know, a good mother and friend, Snape the somewhat-scary, protective father.

Again, -thank you- for all the time and effort you have put into this.

This makes whatever I write, original or fan fiction, worth the time I put into it. I told a story, folks appreciated it, and for some people, it touched them.

That’s a helluva lot more satisfying than putting myself through the wringer to please an editor in order to publish one, original story.

-+-+-+-+-

My completed fan fiction can be found here.
My original stories and poems can be found here and here.

Famous Storytellers –

Tim Burton & Vincent Price

Tim Burton & Vincent Price

Shattered


27 Aug

A fictional, little story of someone hurting…

Holes.

No. Not holes, but gaps.

Irregular, undulating. There one minute, gone the next.

I’ve realized that there’s so much that I am missing and I have no idea where to find it. I could easily look everywhere, under this, over that, but what am I looking for? What am I missing?

Incomplete.

Not whole.

I don’t know how to fix what should never have been broken. Bones, yes. Abrasions? Childs play. Cuts, scrapes, bruises… all of them I know how to fix.

This is broken. Me. Fractured? Shattered.

I saw a mirror break once from a single blow. It was a very heavy piece of glass that I struck out in all my rage at. It shattered. That had felt so… very… good.

I remember blushing as a strange feeling, somehow euphoric, yet humming deep in my bones, swept through my veins, every cell. I don’t know what it was, but ever after, when I broke something, I was able to conjure a ghost of that first feeling.

That’s it.

When he kissed me. The same feeling as when the mirror broke. I wanted to be kissed again, and he did so. A sublime moment that I’ve kept hidden away.

It was someone else that kissed me… who shattered me. Such sickness I felt. Such shame. It hurt in my mind, and my body as well. I was able to clean the blood, patch up the many scrapes and scratches… and his hideous bite mark. That took a bit more skill, but I did it.

My body functions, now. Like a robot… a golem? Everything is a routine programmed in my mind. A strong imprint. A script.

I wake in the morning. 8:30am. On the dot.

I then make my ablutions, brush my teeth, and clean my face. I shower every other day.

I choose my clothes from the wardrobe. A simple shirt, a pair of shorts, socks, shoes. For some reason, I get a little mesmerised when I tie my shoes. A little ill.

Knots in the laces.

Knots in the rope that bound my hands.

No. Routine. Back to the script.

Breakfast is next, although food still does not taste right. Ash. Soot. But, I eat because my body needs it.

Homework is simple. Well, homework is never simple, but I like it. I can think about so many other things than the storm of broken shards twirling in my brain like a frightening, menacing, tornado.

Tea is in the afternoon. I don’t really like tea anymore. I hate it, I think. It does taste good, though, and there’s warmth. When we go outside, I dodge the shadows as I grasp at the rays of the sun.

On my face, my limbs… everywhere.

Tea is when we talk. Or I cry. Sometimes I shout. I’ve punched and kicked, but always I am held together by an embrace. Strong arms and hands that are helping me to put the scattered shards back together.

Humpty Dumpty. I have to laugh. If I don’t…

If I don’t…

The Routine. The Script. I have to remember that.

After tea is time for true freedom. That’s when I can go outside, seeking the sun and the blue sky. My guardian comes with me. I think my guardian needs that freedom, the sun, and the sky, too. We don’t talk. We don’t go over my memories.

Bliss.

At night my guardian teaches me in the twilit hours. I’m taught ways to keep myself safe. I’m taught so that what happened will never happen again. I’m taught how to rebuild myself from the broken pieces.

Finally, there is sleep. Sleep means dreams.

Nightmares.

I have yet to sleep the whole night without waking to screams, only to learn later that it was me that was screaming.

Hours turn into days, days turn into weeks. There are steps back, but I am recovering. I am rebuilding.

I am still afraid, but my guardian is with me now. I still see the holes, the gaps, but they are growing smaller. I know what I am looking for, now. Peace. Belonging. Love.

I won’t be alone.

Never again.

~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~

This is an original story influenced by a very angsty, very well written fan fiction piece called Walk the Shadows. Harry Potter fans will immediately feel that this story is about Harry and Severus Snape, but it isn’t. It is about anyone who has ever been hurt, broken, neglected, or has been lost. Hence, this is NOT a fan fiction piece and will never be posted on a fan fic site.

Ruined Room

I Have Been Here Before

I am seeking a question.