1: The Inkling are to be polite and respectful of one another.
2: We discourage violence, and insulting. Please settle disputes in a calm and rational manner.
3: Do not use any foul or dirty language, and please respect the values that we hold here at Inklings.
4: Do not ridicule, or tarnish anothers character, they are beloved by their creators.
5: No dark, or violent characters in the chat room.
7: Respect the moderators and obey them, regardless of age.
8: Anyone who abuses, stretches or defies these rules will be banned from the chat room and if great lengths are taken to rebel against these guidelines, then you will be cast out of Inklings.
The Chocolate Box
The Chocolate Box will be under Probation. So if anyone acts up badly and abuses the chatbox we will reserve the right to remove it without warning.
Recent circumstances which include the elimination of our internet upstairs, thus leaving me with only my mother's laptop on which to post this announcement, have required me to fall from the world of cyberspace almost entirely. I am barely keeping up the Hideaway at the moment, using the account of my characters only to view PMs from a good friend, and so I must withdraw my membership from all the online clubs and such I have joined. This includes the Inklings. I wish you all well and pray that God, not the world, guides your pen.
To leave with a good taste in my mouth, I ask that you refrain from speaking about me in an unkind manner. I have accidentally seen some comments made about my past decisions regarding the leadership role I played with this club and some things said against my character that are not true, ones that I do not agree with. If you have nothing encouraging to say about your old commander, I ask that you please say nothing at all. I'm sure you can find better things to talk about. Whatever happened to the days when the Inks actually talked about their writing?
To those who called me a true friend, I bid you a fond farewell. My correspondence with the world at large has become sharply curbed, according to my personal wishes, and I dearly hope you hold nothing against me for my long, elusive silence. I must keep the reasons for my actions as classified, but please forgive me that which I could do nothing to prevent. I am much happier with my new situations, and writing has been going deeply for me over the past couple months. I am in fact finishing my fourth novel this weekend, if God puts His hand against mine and writes the words as He has done over the course of the proceeding writings.
If you find yourself pining away for me, which I highly doubt you will be as you now have become used to my evasion, I welcome comments on the rather sad blogpost I currently have up at the Hideaway. That was written during a trialing time, and I hope to update soon in a more positive tone. I obviously won't be updating my dear blog that often, but I hope to make every word count when I do.
On a final note, to my apparent enemies (forgive the strong language, but by the sound of your comments, that seems to be what you have become), I don't care what you think of me now, or what you thought of me when I was trying my best to keep the Inks together so many months ago, perhaps trying a bit too hard. I ask only that you keep whatever scathing information you have created about me to yourselves.
Make of this what you will. Goodbye!
--R.K. (Pip)
I will admit to being a horrible, undeniably elusive and insanely annoying moderator. *buries her face in her hands* Much as I find myself weighed down by guilt in regards to basically ignoring you poor peoples for months on end when in reality I should be doing the moderating, I do have good reasons, which cannot exactly be explained here. Tons have been going on as of late. Nothing tragically fatal, you have no need to fear for my life or anything. *wry grin*
So, may I propose being the ever-elusive shadow lingering over the moderation of this blog? I need some information; who has been handling the PMs, are we having any issues currently, has our policy for new members changed? Because of the nature of these questions, if you have the answers, please PM them to me as opposed to commenting here. And because of a recent computer crash which shot all our stored information and links to pieces, I no longer have the link to our dear chat room, so if someone could please provide that I would be eternally grateful.
I would also like to keep up with the skillful writings of you glorious peoples, so when you are posting a bit of writing, do please select the 'send to mailing list?' option because I am about to throw myself upon it. That will notify me to come and check it out.
Perhaps I may get around to actually posting something of mine on here, but only upon request. I have not been exactly widespread with my precious trashes as I used to be. Basically I have a friend who is my tech support, and another who is simply brave enough to venture into my twisted mind. *smirks* I do, however, have a proposition; if you find yourself struggling with techniques or conflicting influences in your writing, I don't claim to hold all the answers but I would be honored if you would keep me in mind for a sort of mentor-support-whatever. Just a random notification there.
I wish you all a good rest of the weekend!
Sincerely and elusively,
--Kipling
I thought I'd better do a bit of a ramble about these wretched scribblings of mine. *grins*
I had been working on Roh for a while every night until I got face to face with one of the Kids named Jareth, who has been giving me pains. I do not intend to work on Roh for a while yet! *dark glare* FaM [Fire and Moonlight] is going slow as Christmas, although I did manage to work a bit in chapter two last night. It'll take some convincing on my part to get that one off the ground. My first novel, Heveria, is all edited in Part One with the infamous final draft, but is going to require a total rewrite past that. Goody. Currently, I've taken up some other engagements which will stun you into deep and sudden shock...SYD AND I ARE CO-AUTHORING!!! It's also slow as Christmas but we hope to being posting before too long at this blog and Syd already posted a hysterical poem about what's coming up. Heheheh. And no, "Strange House" with Jules is still on, it's just sloooooooooooow. We're talking MAYBE a chapter a month, although we have most of the plot banged out in our PMs back and forth. Another project I've taken up is called "Sundapple". I was wildly inspired for it the other night; it's a crack-novel about another writing group I'm a part of, and you can see chapter one at the main blog for this account [ http://www.homeschoolblogger.com/profiles/NaNoWriMoGroup/ ] Besides that, I have astounded myself in the extreme. Please brace yersel'. I've started a romance long-story. *watches the colour drain from their faces* Yeppers, issa rooomance. I've begun posting it at Inkstains, the blog which my name links to over there on your right. I'm calling it "Authoress". Just tonight it hit 5K, wahooey! Besides these things, I've been doing a lot of rantwriting, which issa term for random bursts of base WRITING with no real motive behind it. I've done a couple verra odd pieces and torture scenes fit to kill. I've also just finished a write-100-pages-of-script-in-April which was interesting and, happily, successful.
So that's what been going on. No wonder I don't get on chatzy that much. :-?
I have a question...do we need the mailing list? Not everyone can add themselves, and since no one is sending their entries out anyway, shouldn't we just discontinue it? And when you leave comments on other people's writing, please try to find something more to say than "I liked it!" While it's nice to have assurance that someone likes you writing, it's more helpful to know what someone actually thinks, ideas for improvement, comments about style, blah blah blah.
Okay, I have some announcements and I need some opinions...hey, where did everyone run off to?!
First off, most of you noticed the post a few back about the blog button for the Inklings? I think it's a loverly idea and high time we needed one. I can get Janey's opinion and if she thinks it's ok, should we put it on the sidebar?
Notice on the sidebar: firstly you will notice a little banner protecting our work. Copyscape.com detects if anyone has copied from our site but it's mostly for standard procedure protection. I have a question also about the sidebar; since this is a writing blog and people can see the profile anyway, should we take the friend's list off? It look rather out of place and messy there, and we have the friend's list on the profile, anyway, so...
Also, if you are new and you haven't written us an intro post, please do so as soon as you can so we can keep up with everyone!
If you feel called to leave Inklings for some reason, we will not try and stop you; but if you think that your writing is not appreciated or we don't like you anymore, this is foolish and untrue. We all appreciate each other's works and I, personally, have been very blessed by all the writing posted here!
A note on comments, please do leave a constructive comment if you've read something on here, that's why we have the comment-posting feature in the first place. And if you have not posted in a while, please post soon! And we'd also like to avoid posts several times in a row by the same person, if that's at all possible.
I hope to post updates concerning the general happenings here every once and a while, if you have something to share, tell us.
BTW, is anyone doing NaNoWriMo?
One last thing: what are we to do with our other two blogs? Should we save the templates somewhere, then delete them and keep our two remaining blog-positions open for new ideas? Or should we try to revive them? It didn't quite make sense, to me at least, to have a separate fairy tale blog if we could simply post those types of things here, and much as the Bible study blog was a good idea, it flopped, let's be honest. Something we may consider is hosting a Bible study in the chat room every week or something, like every Friday night or a time when it's good for the majority of us. Whaddya think?
Oh, and there might be a writer's discussion being posted by Homer every Saturday or something, that idea is still in the making. What do you all think of that?
May God bless you, and may His hand guide your pens!
*strides in, shaking the early morning dew from her boots* Heyloo, all! OK, announcements!!! We are NOT changing our template, but we'll keep the loverly ones y'all made for the contest-that-was-doomed on hand just in case. Thanks so much for your participation, they were all glorious! But we decided to stick with the old one, as Violet and Snick and I brushed it up a bit.
Also, I am currently no longer writing in M'aine, it fell through the floor. Thus, I went on a mad inspiration-searching party, and finally have decided something: it was high time to start something NEW. Hence, "Fire and Moonlight", or FAM for short. It's a fantasy novel and I'm really, really excited about it! Here's the prologue; feedback would be most appreciated, as it's a budding thing and in need of nourishing.
Fire and moonlight. These two things stood out like a streak of ink against a hide canvas, so stark and bright in the realm of memory. The jagged black cliffs, fringed with green grass which whispered in the slight breeze; the rasp of the embers upon the camp fires, glowing through the dark woods, highlighting every bare winter tree trunk like a host of black-clad apparitions. The moonlight shot through the darkness like a ray of hope, a ray of something beautiful into something darkly alluring. The darkness was all around, the moonlight was all above the in the sky, playing in and out of wispy violet clouds as though the light they bore was a lighter burden than it really was. Nothing made sense but the fire and the moonlight, and that was good. Nothing should make sense, not on a night like tonight. It would have been wrong for something good, save the ghostly moonlight, to make free with the world that night. Fire and ash, fire and moonlight. How different they were. How bright the fire was. How burning hot, burning flesh, the stench of death...the painful memories. Fire and moonlight. How beautiful, how horrible.
"Darkness," the girl had said. Rafe was right. It was dark, not only in the night, but also in the heart. The island was dark and the crash of the sea was far off, reverberating around inside the woods, between the tall black trees, flying into the fire and dancing with the moonlight. Rafe was always right. It was in her blood, the blood which perhaps wasn't all red. Frightening to think it, but how else could one explain her words to her younger sister that morning?
"There is a great sorrow, wrought by fire, which will soon fall upon us," Rafe had said. And she had been right. Wrought of fire, fueled by frenzy, remembered by the fire in the camp fires piercing through the darkness of the woods. Nothing would ever be the same. Not after the ash-filled afternoon-time. Not after the sorrow which fire had brought fear and pain, fire and burning flesh, the aching memory of something once possessed and now lost, gone forever, burned up with the flesh and the memories of past times. Past times which had been good and pure, sacred somehow. Sacred because of the contrast between those times and all that now lay ahead. Darkness, fire. And moonlight. Moonlight was cool, purple moonlight shining into the dark of the woods.
What would happen to them now?
The girl walked on through the woods, away from the beat of the sea, away from the throb of the life around the remaining coastal villages. She did not want to recall life. Life was nothing to her now. Life had turned to ash with the flesh, the burnt flesh, the horrible stench of pure and plain death. Her sister had been right. Perhaps from now on, everything was darkness. Darkness and fire light...yet as the girl looked up into the heavens, up into the vast expanse of velvety violet light pouring cool and sweet from behind the wispy clouds, she could not help but think wistfully of the alien thing called hope. Many people had spoken of it. Perhaps hope was still alive, still hiding somewhere amid the ashes and the ruins. The ruins of the village, the remains of burnt bodies, the stench of death. How could hope survive in such a place as that? Yet somehow, some way, it must have. Because the moonlight was shining, and it seemed different that what it had been last night, or last week, or last springtime. Hopeful. It was hope, and it was shining down upon the girl's face.
The girl turned away. It was too soon, far too soon after the tragedy, the ash, the fires. The death. Too soon, far too soon. The girl veered off into the woods and she heard music. It was unlike any music she had ever heard, even though she had heard it played in the deep of the woods many times before. They, the music-makers, were the ones who kept the fire alive. Not the evil fire which had brought pain and death, the stench and the blazing thatch within the spray of the sea. It was still fire, yet it was different, just as the moonlight shining around the fire was different. The music, tambourine and fiddles made of the wood of the trees, and drums from the hide of the deer which fed in the woods, wove itself into such a pattern, such a beautiful array of sensations throbbing in the heart and echoing around with the moonlight and the burning light the embers cast upon the barren tree branches. The girl was almost hopeful. The music was strange because it bore pain and sorrow as well as renewal and hope. The players had heard of the village, then. Were they playing for her? The girl imagined they were and her feet began to move in such a way that she was almost dancing to the music, moving her feet with the beat of the drums and the clang of the tambourine, and the lilt of the fiddle playing in the darkness, surrounded by the moonlight, cast with a light from the blazing camp fires. An elemental poetry of natural hope, of sorrowful destruction, of a darkness which had bore down upon the tiny coastal village, the sorrow which had burnt out hope from the people, the fires which had destroyed all but two. The girl and her sister, the sister which spoke of darkness, Rafe the girl who knew darkness like she knew her own soul. She had warned. The girl suddenly stopped her feet from moving, stood still and alone and lost in the deep of the fire-lighted darkness. Rafe had warned. Yet was the girl's sister always right? Yes. Rafe had known. The girl had no idea but somehow, some way, Rafe had known and she had spoken, and no one had heeded. Her own sister the least of all. The girl had not heeded because she wished to cling to the last bit of hope within herself. It could not be true, it could not be true, it must not be true. These were the words she had heeded and trusted, not the words of her wild, dark sister. She had not listened because she did not wish to, and now the hopelessness has abounded with the leaping flames and the moonlight had almost been consumed with the darkness.
The face was dark, lean and handsome through the bare gray branches. The girl found herself staring back into the black eyes, looking at her from their place in the shadowy face, which belonged to a boy sitting next to the camp fire, a drum in his lap. The drum was making a slow, steady beat like the dying throb of a heart, a life which was fighting to gain the right to live. The girl stood in the darkness of the woods while the boy, surrounded by his own people, made music to mourn the passing of so much hope and to summon the renewal of the hope once again. The hope in the moonlight which streamed down upon the girl standing alone and lost and hopeless. The fire and the moonlight, the darkness and the boy sitting with his drum, staring at the girl, the girl who had not heeded because she loved hope more than life.
The girl suddenly turned from the boy's black eyes and ran off into the woods. The moonlight had touched her bare arms, shone down upon her defiantly-tilted head, had ignited with her, like the fire which had caught onto the salt-sprayed thatch in the tiny coastal village, a hope which she felt unable to feel so soon after its loss. Hope had no place, coming back so soon, and she hated it for that. She began to hate hope. She did not love it anymore because she had once cherished it above her life, above the sense which would have heeded dark Rafe's words, and it had destroyed her. The girl turned, fled from the firelight and the moonlight alike, into the darkness. The boy sat with his people, far from the heartbeating of the sea, and drummed for the hope which had been lost, drummed for the hope which could be found once again.
*strides in, bending her head so she won't whack it on the attic doorway* Greetings, Inklings! Having been *ahem* forced by a certain someone....SYD! Get OUT of R.K.'s chair! *runs and clobbers her* ANYway. After this new deluge of new members [hi ev'ryone, I'm Kipling!] I thought I'd better get around to actually posting some of my writing, it's been ages...oh sure, I'd like a snicketdoodle Snick, merci. Throughout this long, cold winter, I've been busy writing in various novels and...what's that, Chris? Cats? Naturally. What was I...oh. Most of you know, R.K. has been somewhat dormant for a long while. He in not in the leadership position I'm in currently, and he has found other haunts besides our chat room thingy, but he is still here.
R.K.: Hi.
Nobody die of alarm or anything, he's not going to kill anyone. Excepting perhaps me, but that's beside the point. I'm saying he's gonna leave you all alone but he's still here. See?
R.K.: *wild grin*
This is a fantasy novel I'm TRYING to get some headway in; I'd posted the first two unedited chapters ages ago, and thought it high time to post the edited version. Here issa clip:
Rohald Appichello laid her sun browned face against the smoothed wooden fiddle. The young woman breathed in the fresh mountain air deeply, and with it came the all-too-distant smell of cheese and mint. Her father’s special smell. Was he fond of chewing on mint while playing? wondered Rohald wistfully. I remember nothing about him…nothing but his good smell. This one strange memory had stayed with her because her rough linen pants and vest were her father’s and they all smelled of cheese and mint. Roh smiled to herself as she drew the yellowed horsehair bow over the old strings. The fiddle was battered and worn from many winter nights of cheery ballads and many a song played for a wedding or square festival, but it still made the most beautiful music of any fiddle in the village. Roh’s father had been a greatly loved and respected man in the tiny village nestled to the breast of the mountain. But that had been many years ago. Now only his fading essence, remained with his oldest daughter, his only child.
Rohald sat under her shady tree and watched her flock. As she played, she looked at each wooly sheep, making sure they bore no injuries or seemed ill at ease. She raised the best flock in the village, and the people depended on her for meat and good wool. One newer ewe flicked her ears cautiously in Roh’s direction. The shepherdess laughed. Her playing must be upsetting it. No matter how hard she tried, Rohald Appichello could get nothing from her father’s fiddle than haunting music. Sometimes, when she played under her tree in the green, rich pasture, the music came so deep and lonesome that tears would roll down her ruddy cheeks. She was good, too good, at playing her dead father’s fiddle. Miss Appichello was clumsy, everyone said so; she was tall and strong-muscled, and could have been mistaken for a boy except for her long cascade of curly red gold hair. Her brown eyes were nearly always good-natured, except when a person crossed her. Then her eyes would snap and flash, and even young men several years older than her had been known to quaver. The girl had her father’s spirit, that was for sure. She was respected as an equal in the village. But she was nearly nineteen and nothing had come of her hidden strength except several fistfights and a good, healthy flock. The villagers naturally wondered if perhaps she wasn’t the one who would free them from the terrible marauders than prowled the mountains. Maybe her little waif brother Thring would grow up to be a mighty war leader and rally the fearful people into a rebellion against the snowy peaks of the surrounding mountains themselves…but Thring was a runny-nosed child, and his idea of courage during one especially animated scuffle had been to run and hide behind a bush. It took several minutes for Roh to convince him to face his peers again. Rohald's adopted mother despised him, loathed her own son. Maybe Roh would too, if not for the love that had been stripped away from both of them several years ago. Surely to grow up without a mother’s true love was a dreadful thing indeed. At least Rohald had been able to cherish her own mother’s presence for a time before…before…
Roh stopped playing. Her chest tightened as she laid down the fiddle and grasped at the silver locket about her brown neck. Right before her mother had disappeared, she had given her daughter the locket. Roh remembered her dear mother’s words well. They had been whispered in her ear when they were out in a sunny garden. Her father had been so young and merry, his gray hairs could be counted upon one hand. Roh had been a mere child as her mother had pressed the sealed locket into her chubby pink hand and kissed her forehead.
“Only use it during a time when your very heart is dying and your life’s blood is seeping out, when the darkness has consumed the light and the hope has fled before an oncoming evil. Only then shall this locket prove worth opening.”
You can read the rest of this chapter here at Inkstains.
May God bless you, and may His hand guide your pens!
Pip/Rudyard Kipling
*strides back out into the spring sunshine, followed by R.K.*
I have created a blog which may be of interest to you. I know a lot of us like to read; this blog, the Society, is a blog for posting your thoughts/reviews of the books you like. While the posts will mainly be about published books, reviews on bloggers' writing will be considered. If you would like to join the Society, please PM Pip. Here is the link:
Old Grace, as she was known to the other tenants of the tall sky-scraping apartment building, wrung out her lacy pink handkerchief and sobbed wildly into it. The policeman helplessly ran his hands through his short dark hair and tried to console her.
"I'm sure your daughter is fine, Mrs. Cassidy, just calm down. There's a good-"
"My little Caity is NOT fine, or she'd be home by now!" Old Grace shouted stubbornly, waving her arms around and nearly knocking an expensive beige lamp from a nearby table. The curlers in her hair bounced with every angry motion. "She went out yesterday afternoon to open her bookstore in town for the day, and never came back!" Old Grace wailed the last words and was thrown into another volley of tears. The policeman, a pimpled deputy no older than twenty, was tempted to smack the old woman.
"If you'd just calm down and give us more details," he began again, but Old Grace sobbed even louder and screeched, "I've given you more details than I'd care to give my pastor, now find my daughter!" These last words were shouted with such wild female vehemence that the young policeman stumbled out the door and shut it hastily behind him. Breathing hard, he radioed up his fellow, waiting downstairs in the lobby.
"This is Reid, reporting," the young man said, pressing the glowing yellow elevator button.
"You're in clear," came Jeff's static-shrouded reply.
"Nothing new to report on the Caity Cassidy case, her mother won't tell us anything besides what she told us over the phone." There was a short pause.
"We'll get right on it," said the other policeman. Reid frowned at his radio and wondered if Jeff had heard correctly. His friend's voice came again. "Over and out." Reid shrugged and stepped onto the elevator. He squeezed in between a little girl holding a fluffy white kitten and a flustered business man. The little girl, who had two huge yellow braids and was tying a red ribbon around the kitten's neck, looked up at Reid and grinned. "Didya catch any robbers?" she lisped. Reid smiled down at her.
"No I didn't, little lady, but if there are any robbers around here, I'll get 'em." Reid tapped his chest with his thumb and winked. The business man shot out of the elevator as soon as it stopped in the lobby, and Reid stepped out after him, waving goodbye to the giggling girl. He looked around for his fellow officer, but he was nowhere to be seen. The murmuring of people coming in and going out fell upon his ears, the fountain in the center of the lobby bubbled merrily, and the smell of free popcorn floated in from the kitchen, but Reid didn't see a single blue police suit. Thinking perhaps Jeff had stepped out for some air or was dealing with a loiterer, Reid swallowed down his creeping fear and walked through the glass doors to stand under the red canopy and watch the slushy snow drip off the heavy fabric. Perhaps Jeff was getting a drink of water. But no, when Reid walked past the silver water fountain there was no tall skinny deputy bending over it. Reid ran into the bathroom and called out his name, but there was no answer. He checked at the counter, and the pretty blond said she'd seen a deputy walk out after a tall figure.
"Tall figure?" Reid repeated, surprised. Jeff shouldn't have left his post, he was going to get it with the commanding officer..."What kind of figure?"
The girl dimpled, excited to show off her bright red fingernails to someone other than the fat little apartment manager, and tapped the marble desk. "Well, it was this big tall guy with black hair, wearing some kind of dark coat. Looked pretty suspicious, but naturally I didn't butt in."
Reid nodded absently and wandered outside again. The snow was coming down thicker and he shivered under his navy blue coat. Standing awkwardly under the red awning, Reid tried to radio Jeff. When he put his little black radio to his ear, Reid nearly jumped with shock at the sudden rasping sound that sounded on the other end.
"Jeff?" he shouted into the radio, causing several passers-by to turn and stare. "Jeff, come in!"
The sound that came out was eerily like a harsh grating laugh. Reid almost dropped the radio, his hands had started shaking so badly, and his heart pounded within his chest. "Jeff?" he squeaked. There was silence on the other end. Reid felt panic rising like a tide inside him. He ran to his squad car, slammed the door and drove as fast as he could back to headquarters.
Caity blinked. She looked around the muddy brown room, trying to get a better idea of her surroundings, but the sickly sweet smell made it impossible to keep her head up. It was like some deceiving poison, a hypnotic fragrance that crept into her senses and dulled them. How long she had lain there, her breath coming in short choking gulps, her body restless and achy from staying in the one position, Caity knew not. Once she thought she heard voices at the other end of the shed but they quickly died away when she made an attempt to listen, as if they could feel her concentration. And always there, always present, was a rasping purring heaving, almost like someone were breathing and trying to hold in morbid laughter. She hated it. Caity hated it all. Where was she, why, and when would her capturer let her go? These questions danced before her wearied eyes until she could imagine cartoon stars leaping over her head. It had to stop. She could not go on much longer not knowing what was to be her decided fate, and tormented by the idea that she could escape if she wanted to.
Slowly, biting back a groan at the tingly sleepiness in her limbs, Caity forced her weary body to stand and covered her mouth and nose with her T-shirt. Stumbling over the dirt floor, reaching out with stiff arms to keep herself from bumping into a wall, the young woman walked in tight circles until the blood surged hot through her veins. Pausing for one moment to listen for the alien breathing noise or the sound of speaking and hearing nothing, Caity slowly put a cautious hand to the wall and slid it along the rough shed wood until she had probed the entire flat side of the southern wall. Carefully picking her way over sharp stones that littered the ground, once feeling something wet flood into her tennis shoe and bleed into her sock, she began searching another wall, hoping against hope to find some loose board, some door, a window perhaps, that could ensure her freedom. The sick sweet smell was gradually getting stronger and every now and then Caity paused to clear her mind. The stench had a strange effect on her, because her stomach did not churn but her eyes watered as though is was wood smoke, and though her lungs felt coated as though with cigarette tobacco her mouth and throat were clear. She disliked the uneasy feeling clenching her stomach like a cold fist and so moved on to the third wall.
Just before Caity decided to sit down and think her plight over a hundredth time, her fingers brushed against smooth wood and she jerked her hand away when she felt cold metal. With a small cry of relief, Caity put her hand to the metal and found a doorknob. A door! Now if it would only open...Caity sent up a small prayer, to whom she knew not, and turned the doorknob all the way round. It was unlocked, by some miracle. Caity was just about to throw herself out the door when a harsh voice from behind stopped her dead in her tracks, freezing her movements.
"I wouldn't do that, were I you," the voice said. Caity collapsed at a blast of the fruity rotting stench and ran a hand through her long dark hair. She had been found out; it was too late. With a desperate shriek she darted up and tried to hurl herself out the door, but a cold searing hand caught her arm and yanked her back inside. The strength of the grip was amazing and Caity felt the breath rip from her lungs as the hand shoved her to the ground. Coughing, Caity sat on her knees, dazed.
"Poor, ssssweet Caity," the voice said in a purring, patronizing tone. "It'ssss not time to open that particular door, love. You mussst remain in my power until I hear your ansssswers to ssssome very important quessstionsss. Then you may walk out that door, pretty assss you pleassse. But not before."
Caity sighed despairingly. "Then ask me your questions so I can leave!" She heard a wry chuckle and shrank into a brown shadow.
"Ah, but your anssswerssss would be biasssed, and we can't have that, now can we? No. I will assssk them after you have sssseen what I am planning to ssshow you thissss night." Caity hated the cold hissing sound of the voice was was relieved when the cat-like rasp slowly left it. "I will come for you tonight. Until then, be a good little girl."
The maddening sweet odor slowly seeped from the shed as Caity wrapped her arms around her knees and hid her face in them. She did not try again to open the door; the cold vicious grip had left bruises on her arm, as she realized when she tenderly touched at them. The odd terror that has grasped at her newfound joy over the door in the shed had engulfed her, reduced her to a shivering shadow in the brown darkness.
Most of you know of the trouble that has been brewing lately within our companionship of writers, their pens guided by God's hand and their hearts turned towards His glory. Let me say here and now that we are not a cookie cutter society where you can't be yourself and where we won't ever listen to your opinions. Please know, this is NOT what we are. We've been having trouble because although we are all different, we have forgotten to treat each other with politeness, respect, and kindness. I apologize to each individual for any hurt I might have caused you. As for The Rules, we are in the process of recreating them so they'll ring with more clarity. Until they are posted on the sidebar of either this blog or the new template we're trying to get, please respect the moderators (Jack, Jane, and me) and treat each other with love and discretion. We should not have had this upset in the first place, let's not have more. I don't want anyone giving anyone else guilt or opening old wounds; what's past is past and we need to learn from this and move on with the work we have all been given by God. Jane and Jack are currently, as far as I know, unavaliable, internet acess being the writers' bane, so please come to me with concerns and questions via PMing. Don't say it out loud if you have a problem with anything. Also, Jack would appreciate it if you would not come to her at this time with your concerns, that's why Jane and I have been put in her authority in the meantime. We would like to avoid any opposition about that, if you please. We are all fighters against the low standards for modern writing, let's act it.
Hello, fellow Inklings, Pip here. Lately, as you probably might have noticed, there have been some things going on in our community of writers that have caused heartache, flaring tempers and some adjustments that not everyone was happy about. Things have somewhat settled down now, but I come to you with an announcement. Our dear Jack Lewis is currently unable to have acess to the internet, and in the meanwhile Jane Austen has taken her place as commander and leader. I know some of you may not like me very much for the havoc I began with the expression of some things I was going through; I ask humble forgiveness, I love you guys all so very much! Thus, to "redeem" myself and to show my apology in a more helpful manner, Jane and Jack agreed that I could become one of the commanders for the Inklings. This means that I will help oversee the conduct in the chat box, try and help anyone who wants to become a new member, and answer any questions you might have about the way Inklings works. I will do my best to handle this responsibility with patience and skill. You may all be thinking "Oh great, now the Dungeon and tyranny and miserable times ahead!" But no, dear Reader, R.K. will have no part in this leadership role. Rest easy about that.
That said, I would like to post some guidelines. These aren't rules, but ways you can make this new position for me effective. If you have a problem or if someone has offended you, please don't start ranting and raving in public, like on chatzy. PM me and I'll help you work it out. Jane (dixiefiddler) is also always there if you need help. I'm trying, though, to make it easier on her because she's helping Jack, so think of my position as one of a little less equality than Jack's, her being the creator of the Inks. You can reach me by email or PM, whichever you're more comfortable with, with questions and concerns. I pledge to do my best in helping you.
May God bless you all, and may He guide your hand with His pen!
A tall African woman walked into the little coffee shop on the roadside curb, her ears dangled with beaded earrings, a red and brown scarf wrapped around her slender throat. She smiled at Pierre, the man behind the counter, and slipped into her usual seat beside the window, looking out at the white afternoon. Snow slipped down the big glass windows, smudging the brightly colored advertisements for live music and buy one, get one free doughnut sales. The cars honked at each other and their tires made a soft nicking sound in the crunchy snow on the dark cement, but inside the tiny overlooked coffee shop it was cozy and fragrant with the smells of tomato soup and fresh fresh cold sandwiches. Pierre came from behind the counter and grinned, his teeth white and even, as he sat down in the booth opposite the young black woman.
"If it isn't Ginger Shi, out on a rainy day like this!" Pierre laughed, thankful that his break was going to last for a good long while. His voice rolled from his tongue in an eloquent foreign accent. He and Ginger had been friends for several years, ever since the young woman had moved to the tiny-town in M'aine to work on her second record album. Ever since she was a young girl, Ginger had dreamed about singing, and several years ago her dream had been realized with a record dealer who had fixed her up with the equipment. Ginger had music thriving in her very soul, so said her deeply religious Southern family, but her first CD had not been a huge success, mainly due to the fact that she "told it like it was" and held nothing back. Ginger's vibrant spirit had to speak out against the injustice that taunted the nation with overbearing laws and unwise wars with other countries. No one wanted to hear the truth anymore and Ginger refused to stop singing it, so she'd had to move up to M'aine for some peace and quiet while she worked on twelve more songs for her second CD. Her family stayed down in the Delta, a marshy stretch of land between several states, and called her rental house phone every day to encourage her and pray for her. Ginger Shi would have been all alone in M'aine, trying to get past virtual brick walls in her inspiration by herself, had it not been for Pierre. The coffee shop employee had literally run into her one summer afternoon while she had been walking down the sidewalk with some packages to mail to the Delta, and offered to help her. Ginger's inspiration had been coming "slow as a snail's grandma" that day and her soul was in need of refreshing, so after the boxes had been mailed, Ginger let Pierre show her to the little roadside coffee shop, nestled in the middle of the town. There in the quiet shop Ginger found herself telling the young man about her flopping occupation, and Pierre offered to treat her with free caffeine whenever she was in need of an energy boost. Ginger had been so downtrodden that day, she eagerly accepted and had been going to the shop nearly every day for rest, friendship and a free mocha.
"How's your mama?" asked Pierre, sipping at his steaming drink. He untied his cheery green apron and rolled up the sleeved of his wrinkled red shirt. His hair was thick and black, and a moustasche grew around his grinning mouth. His dark eyes twinkled with kindness as Ginger poured milk into her mocha and took a sip.
"She's doin' jist fine," Ginger answered in her Southern twang. It fell from her tongue with bounce and sass, and Pierre loved to sit and listen to her talk. "You wouldn't buhlieve all thet Momma's had to deal with in th' past several months, with her hip busted out an' all!" Ginger went on, smoothing the snug tie-dye vest over her long-sleeved burgandy shirt. "The kids are bein' raunchy, as always, an' she's bout outta her wits tryin' to keep up with 'em all!"
"Why doesn't she get help?" Pierre asked. Ginger laughed, her chuckle warm and rich. "You know Momma, she won't take help from nobody." Ginger took another sip, feeling the chocolate and milk slip down her weary throat. "Sakes alive, this is good!" Pierre smiled and nodded, watching the snow alight on the storehouse roof outside.
"Any thoughts on what...on what I'd approached you about on Wednesday?" Pierre coughed, his handsome face reddening. Ginger finished her mocha silently, methodically, and threw the Styrofoam cup into the large green garbage bin. Sitting back down, Ginger looked Pierre squarely in the eye.
"I ain't bout to make thet kinda decision without my folks here," she answered. "They have to have a hand in this, an' with Momma's hip out, they ain't no way the folks can come up here to help me out. I'm sorry, Pierre, it was a real swell offer...I jist cain't pay too much attention to it right now, with my tenth song well on th' way of bein' finished. You understand?"
Pierre nodded bitterly, the coffee in his stomach turning cold and sour. Ginger sighed and leaned against the plastic plaid booth. "I don't wanna hurt your feelin's, Pierre, I...jist cain't do it right now, thet's all." She snatched up her purse and strode quickly out the door, hating the little bell that rang as it slammed behind her. She passed the window as she bolted for her car on the roadside and saw Pierre's face through the softly falling snow. It looked...almost angry, for a moment, before a profound sadness overtook it. Ginger Shi couldn't stand it anymore and jumped into her car, nearly shutting her long African print skirt in the door, and forced the car to roar with life. Without another look backwards, she drove down the slick highway and out into the country.
Wot ho, Pip here. My two little sister, Katsy and G.B., and I have decided to write a long story (or short book) together! It's called "Popchanka", and we've just made a blog for it and posted chapter one. You can see it at http://www.homeschoolblogger.com/mangoguava/, please read and comment! Here is a bit of chapter one as kind of a teaser:
Once upon a time, there were three children called the Graces. They lived with their mother and father in a small apartment in New York City. Each night they fell asleep to the winking city lights and the sound of cars on the bustling freeways, and each morning they woke up to the birds singing in their nests on the window sills, and children shouting for hot dogs and popcorn in the lush green park nearby. The three were fairly happy living in the tiny rooms, but the noisy neighbors posed a problem. The three siblings were writers, and quite good ones but a writer has to have certain sounds to help their inspiration. Noisy neighbors is hardly fresh inspiration.
The youngest sibling in the Grace family was named Violet. She had honey colored hair and turquoise eyes, and her cheeks were always rosy. She loved puppies and liked to burst out laughter. Violet also loved to run in the park among the trees and the balloon stands. She was the pet of the family, everyone loved her and was charmed by her. She could have a temper at times, but she was very smart and always ready to forgive and forget.
The second child was a little boy, named Andy. He had curly yellow hair and his skin was pale, but he had a perpetual sunburn across his pointy nose. The other children at school and his friends in the park thought Andy was strange, not only because he loved to draw but also because his eyes were a soft shade of purple. Andy was quiet and rather shy, but his imagination and quick wit soared above the other little boys and he loved creating cute pictures of kittens.
Deker Grace was seventeen years old, and took care of his two younger siblings. He was somewhat of a recluse, tall and thin, with black eyes and a thick shock of brown hair. He could be funny and sociable, but most of the time he was intense, like a panther waiting to spring. The only people in the apartment building who weren't afraid of Deker were Violet and Andy.
It started out being a normal summer in the Big Apple; the sun's heat arose from the asphalt in waves, hot dogs sizzled deliciously underneath red and white striped umbrellas, and dozens of children swarmed in the park playing in the cool pond. School was out, and three Grace siblings, or the "Three Graces" as their mother often called them, were happy for a chance to sleep late that Friday morning...
