Archive for the Freewrite Category

Coffee?

Posted in Freewrite, writing with tags , on November 17, 2009 by Jaym Gates

“Hey, thanks for the coffee.” Kris plunked down in the red chair and tried to blow patterns in the steam.
“Did it cling to the pot as you poured it?”
He stopped and looked at her. “No?”
“Did it yell obscenities at you?”
“Um, no.”
“Did it try and rip off your tongue?”
“It’s hot enough to.”
“Not the point. Look into the depths of your cup.”
Kris looked. He frowned. “Huh?”
“Are there strange and eldritch stirrings in the primordial muck of that which shall later be known as coffee?”
Kris sighed and shook his head. “You’re insane.”
She just shrugged and he took a hearty swallow of coffee.
A few seconds later, as he lay on the floor, wrestling with the Coffee Demons, she shrugged again. “Must not have cooled enough.”
Kris’s inarticulate scream of rage almost made her smile. But she hadn’t had her coffee yet, so she got up and poured a cup for herself. The coffee wailed as she filled her cup. Little hands reached for her nose and mouth, pulling her towards the coffee. Strange things stirred beneath the rippling, soupy surface.
“Oh shove off,” she said. “I paid good money for you. Now shut up or I’ll show you hell.”
The coffee abruptly subsided into the cup and she took a long, slow sip.
“Ahhhh, now that is good coffee.”

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Magic Man

Posted in Freewrite, writing on October 14, 2009 by Jaym Gates

Hmmm, search term of the day to find my blog: ‘left-hand path’. Move along folks, nothing to see here. Not a follower of that way, thankyouverymuch. Shoo. I like the middle path.

Anyways, I’m in for a tattoo this afternoon, so I don’t know when I’ll be home. So, for your edification, here’s a little piece I wrote some time back. It’s all polished and pretty, look!

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He’s a magic man, a doer of sorcery and strange things, this man. He’ll shake your hand and leave pure gold, gold worth nothing, gold you’ll thank him for. He’s a con man, a story-teller, everything you want to be.

Oh, I’ll see you the moon, he says. Promises, promises he makes. I’ll reach into the stars and bring you the fountain of youth, grand stories, amazing stories. I’ll sing you a song to make you weep and laugh and sing with me, he says, and you’ll not remember a word of it, but you remember it for life. The words are never there, you cannot sing it yourself, you want to scream because you know it and don’t know it and want to sing it or you’ll go mad, but it’s gone forever with him.

He knows the day you were born and the stars that fell and forgets more than he tells. He is the king, the jester, the beggar and lover and fighter and hater and knave and yet he is the most noble of them all. He’s a magic man, a doer of sorcery and strange things, and he’s come and gone and all that’s left is a remembered-forgotten song and a wish on the stars and a piece of moon in your pocket.

He’s a magic man, a man of his word who never kept a promise, and maybe he’ll be back and maybe he won’t, but you will spend the rest of your life watching that dusty road and hoping and praying for him to come back.

He’s a magic man.

Autumn Wind

Posted in Freewrite with tags , , on October 7, 2009 by Jaym Gates

In early October, a unique storm rolls over the foothills of Northern California. A cool, dry storm, full of eerily-flickering sheet lightning, rolling thunder and a restless wind, it heralds the end of summer and the beginning of winter.

And there’s nothing better than to grab a horse out of the pasture and ride–bareback–up the hills to the perfect vantage over the valley and watch the seasons change.

Duel: Last Legs

Posted in fifthwind forums, Freewrite, horses with tags , , on September 22, 2009 by Jaym Gates

A long time ago, we had a duel over at Fifthwind Forums. The theme was ‘Last Legs’. Now, back then, I had some aspirations of figuring out how to write humor. Please note that I no longer hold with such pipe dreams.

Last Legs

“DAMN!! Ok, this really sucks. I spend 1000 gold on you, after the “expert” told me you were the strongest, fastest, most enduring animal in the world. Oh no, your journey won’t be a problem, he could run for a hundred miles! And what do I get? Less than a third of the way into my trip, and the bloody beast is staggering and WHIMPERING!! How the bloody mother of hell does a horse whimper?!? The expert left out the fact that you were trained in theatrical arts as well. Beast could make a living on his acting skills. I mean come on, he CAN’T be dying, not yet! He should hardly be warmed up! Ok, so I don’t know much about horses, but really now, this is just excessively pathetic. I could have walked faster than we are going. No, oh no you don’t! You are not collapsing! I paid a thousand gold coin for you, you can walk a few more steps! I’ve got to get to Flamen this week! And I am NOT leaving you here in the middle of this luscious green cow pasture. I want my money back, and I’m sure with your talents, you would get yourself gored by some two month old heifer! Damn you, WALK! Ok, fine, just lie down. Don’t go anywhere. Die on me. Sure, you are absolutely on your last legs. I understand. But the merchant is taking you back if I have to shove you down his throat! He’s fat enough to do that actually. Well, I’m not leaving you here…”

With that, the man dismounted, removed the bridle and trudged toward town. The horse snorted, looking down at the slowly moving ground. This had worked out pretty well! He reached out and grabbed a mouthful of grass, staring at the milepost announcing that Flamen was two miles away.

“Hey! I’m not carrying you so that you can eat and get heavier!”

Home-town

Posted in Freewrite with tags , , , on July 19, 2009 by Jaym Gates

Written this morning on Fifthwind Forums to try and kick-start a challenge. The original challenge was to write settings based on cities you’d lived in. My hometown just begs for some Gothic stories.

(Something about stories like finding the ranch foreman murdered and stuffed down a well–a good few weeks after his disappearance–set ones mind to thinking about all the lovely possibilities. Those hills could hide anything.)

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The city hall–the one next to the tattoo shop–has seen better days, and there are very few people coming and going. One time, they held modeling classes there, and the backwoods mingled with pseudo-glam. The Masonic monument just up the street is the indignity of half the churches in a town where black magic is more likely than an exorcism.

This is a strange place, an effigy of a miner hanging from an inn on Main Street, army-surplus stores/white supremist hangouts just down the street from magic supply shops. Kids joke about setting fires to get happy, because a grass-fire in certain parts of the surrounding countryside will send of clouds of marijuana smoke; firefighters often refuse to do their jobs, too many have been killed by drug-producer’s booby traps.

Weird and wonderful. And just a little town on the way to Tahoe.

Freewrite: 7/17

Posted in Freewrite with tags , on July 17, 2009 by Jaym Gates

Fading flowers in a summer night, crickets chirping funeral cries. Drooping lilies and crumpling gladiolas frame her slow, naked feet. Sweat-warm dew clings to her legs from the tall grass growing amidst the flagstones. In all this wide garden, she is all that stirs, whether beast or bird or man.

Mold stains her. Shoulders and hair and hips, she’s been past better days. Flakes have crumbled off of her nose, her lips, a quirky half-smile, half-grimace. Her fingers are broken and lost. She teeters and totters on rotting ankles, on toe-less feet.

A lost goddess, a forgotten curio in an abandoned garden. A naked stone zombie.

That curious half-smile, those empty-happy eyes, she wanders endlessly in her lonely cage.

Character Sketch 7/1/09

Posted in Freewrite on July 2, 2009 by Jaym Gates

Fire. Liquid, incandescent. He never stops moving, flowing dancing singing. He doesn’t know his right from his left, spinning this way and that, his hair flying and reflecting in the lights. Lean and toned, beautiful. Almond eyes glinting cat-greedy as he looks at the women around him. A captive performer. He wants to touch. He wants to taste. They tease him, thighs and breasts on their couches, jewels glinting in their hair and at their throats. Touching, tasting each other. He pulls at his chains, tinkling as golden as his skin. They laugh, and whip him again. He dances. Maybe someday he will dance well enough that their great-granddaughters will touch him… Or maybe he will dance for eternity longing for one touch of human skin on his own.