Imperative, The Call of the King

Imperative, The Call of the King

Stroll through the library, like you always do. Caress the aged spines of books that hold more wisdom than the human race could ever hope to amass. Listen to the whispers, guiding you, “Left, Right, Come to us, Left again, Knowledge will be yours.” Feel your blood pumping, knowing that unfathomable secrets await. Stop that.

Remember your discovery of this place, a library spanning the stars, tapping into everything ever thought, ever done, ever hoped. Remember your joy at seeing the Lake, a lake of air and mist and secrets. Stop that. Walk now, hurry, the secrets are calling.

Of course, turn right again. Ignore your thirst and hunger, for more meaningful satiation awaits you. Stop that. Salivate at the thought of the power the secrets will give. Wonder at their depth, breadth and scope.

Lean against the bookcases next to you, catch your breath. Stop that. Look over their titles and wonder how glorious the places they describe are, Carcosa on the banks of that other lake, Etur the forbidden place, such wonders and glories. Once again, caress their spines and walk. Ignore the dimming lights.

STOP THAT. Recall the whispers that led you here, “Beneath the Yellow Sign” over and over in your head. Look at the sign, it blurs and dances. Focus. Lurk at the Threshold.

Cross the chaos, crawl if you have to, its waiting, its calling. No excuses now, just because up is left and down is in, and STOPTHAT. Breathe, hyperventilate, its all the same, but being swept beneath your anticipation is quite unacceptable. There, cross yourself beneath the sign and enter. Gaze in awe at your find, know that its here in this room, what you've been searching for.

Stride the ten paces square, repeatedly, relentlessly. Listen to their pulse and rhythm, they're telling you something “Flee, Flee and keep what little you have left.” Forget them, they're wrong anyways, liars and thieves all. stop that. Whimper as the blood from your chewed lip is dripping down your robes.

Turn and grab a book at random, the lights brighten just enough for your eyes to burn as the letters twist and turn into your flesh. Look at your arms, the burns fade leaving only anticipation. Grab another book, look at blank pages and stop that. Get some elbow room now, its going to be a long night. Hunker down in this fortress of knowledge.

Stop that. Wait for inspiration to strike. Give into hunger and eat the squirming creature in your sack. Remember, it must be alive, dead flesh is forbidden. Stave off the panic with more books, one after another.

Watch the stars turn over head, the sign is here, you know it is. Recall the words, the promises of the thousand Young. Despair is near, keep it at bay with your righteousness. Recall the words, the promise, the prophecy. Turn to the man in the pallid mask and tell him to STOP THAT.

Realize what he is holding. Take it from his hands. Open to the second act. Read the longed for words. Read the King in Yellow.

Project Extension

Alright guys, I hope you had a Merry Christmas and are gearing up for a Happy New Year. I am not going to put out an assignment this week because no one but wishcandy did the previous one and we are going to need that story for later... So if it pleases everyone I am extending this week so everyone may catch up. Wish Candy, if you would like to do something you can check out the first story or enjoy the week off.

Thanks guys!

-The Management.

Imperative, 'This is next to godliness?'

Hate yourself. Hate yourself a little more… that’s it. Now it is time to start your day. Stretch for exactly thirty seconds. Then get up and put your right foot into a slipper then your left. As you enter the bathroom be sure to flip the switch three times: Up, down, up. Move to the shower make sure the water is just below scalding and get in. Feel the water burn into your pores and grab the loofa. Apply a heavy dose of antibacterial body wash and scrub down your body. Get under your nails, between your toes, scrub until you feel raw; then scrub a few more times just for good measure, feel the pain and take comfort in the fact that at least for now you are clean. Be sure when you leave the bathroom that you hit the switch another three times or it will bother you all day. 

Once you are all dressed slip on your shoes, wash your hands and hit the streets. Feel the cold winter air hit your face and wonder if there are any deadly pathogens floating toward you right now.  Try to put that thought to the back of your mind and soldier on down the street. Take notice of everyone around you and try to catalogue them into groups of most important for the impending apocalypse.  Rate them based on size, muscle mass, perceived intelligence then count your self as one of the expendable masses. 

Look down and panic. Realize that while you were daydreaming you had your hand on a safety rail! Know how many diseased and deranged people have put their filthy hands all over this bacterial death trap. Panic as you pull out your antiseptic hand sanitizer and find it to be empty.  Imagine some grubby little kid sneezing into his hand and wiping it all over the railing. Try to hold back the looming hysteria that threatens to overtake your mind and look for somewhere to wash your hand.  Feel the germs creeping up your fingers as they poison your hand against you.  Spot a nearby diner and rush into it like a crack-head on laundry day. Locate the restroom and elbow your way into it. Take care not to touch anything more than necessary.  Remember the statistics about how many people do not was their hands.  Wash your hands.  Now roll up your sleeves to the elbow and wash your hands right. Let the soap sit on your forearms for a few seconds before letting to burning water wash the sin away. Now that your brain has stopped screaming at you tuck your hand inside your coat and push the door open at the top, less people touch there.

Now that you are back on the street keep your hands inside your pockets to make sure this does not happen again.  Stop off at the usual drug store for more hand sanitizer and a snickers bar. Be careful to give everyone a wide berth- you don’t know what these people may or may not have. Look at the cute girl behind the counter; she is looking at you again. Try to work up the courage to say something smooth and original this time, but know that you won’t. Feel the nervous tension in the air. Pay for your hand sanitizer and thank her and walk away.

Hate yourself a little more… that’s it. 

 568 words

Imperative, "Another Day"

Raise your head and look up into the sky to see the same clouds that have always been there. Look at the green grass still wet with dew and the red gingham blanket your date brought. Feel the thermos still warm, and let the hot chocolate confection slide down your throat.

Let your hand caress your girl’s hand to create warmth in your chests. Fill the air with a comfortable silence and contemplate your next move. Either run your hands over her every curve or sit and make pointless conversation, waiting for her to make the next move.

Pay attention to her body language. See the way her soft lips are gently parted, her cheeks blushing, and her eyes following yours. Tell her you love the way she smells like rain and sadness. Let her gobble up every word until she’s yours for the taking. Pray that today is the day.

Bring your lips to hers and try not to let her sense your desperation. Let her take lead in the rhythm of kissing. Confidently run your hands around her waist and up her shirt. Notice her body responding to your touch, shivering from moment to moment.

Feel the tremors in her belly. See her eyes widen and her face turn into horror. Feel the beads of sweat rolling off her body. Turn as stiff as stone, watching her convulse. See a strange black phallic creature with small, sharp, white teeth emerge from her abdomen. Ignore your lost love, lost potential, lost lay, and get to your feet. Run as fast as you can to escape becoming the alien’s next victim.

Ignore the sounds of car alarms, screaming, and your feet haphazardly hitting the pavement. Ignore the smell of fire, fresh corpses and vomit. Keep propelling yourself forward, dodging strange creatures until you reach home.

Quickly find the keys to the front door, keep your hands steady, and get the fuck inside. Notice the lights turned off, the quiet, and the emptiness of your home. Go into the kitchen to rehydrate after running for miles. See the kitchen cabinets bare and wonder how the food could have gone missing. Wonder where the hell your family went and if your family has become alien chow.

Quietly ascend the stairs, noticing the dust and the calm. Enter your room to grab up your backpack and pack the essentials. Take the half empty container of Gatorade, the secret stash of candy under your mattress, and a pair of clean boxers. Think about how your mom would thank you, but how it doesn’t matter in the apocalypse.

Remember how when you were a kid you begged your dad for a hideaway space. Run downstairs and tap along the walls until you hear a clunk. Feel along the boards until you find a notch and open the door. Tap on the sheet of metal with all your might, hope it opens. Witness the door slowly open, the light glow from inside and find that your family is fucking safe.

Tell them that you’re hungry to break the silence, hear your stomach rumble. Ignore your sister when she tells you that you’re stupid. Be glad that your parents seem happy to see you, that there is food available, and that your dad was awesome enough to install a panic room with a super Nintendo. Sit tight, embrace your family, and try not to think of your dead girlfriend or what might happen next. Enjoy this moment.

(Word count: 580)

THOUGHTS ON POINT OF VIEW

Beginning writers often come to fiction with ideas about point of view (POV) or perspective taught to them by film, television, and nineteenth-century fiction. In most films, you follow several characters around from room to room to abandoned warehouse to restaurant. Writers try around to imitate this technique, adding, without thinking too much about it, the big advantage fiction has over film: thoughts, the perspective from inside a character. Film is basically dramatic, with rare exceptions. In a play or film you hear a character speak, see his facial reactions and body language, and watch interactions, but you are not privy to the inner feelings of the character except through the technique of voice-over or soliloquy. Fiction can enter deeply into a character’s mind and senses. Then you choose to write from more than one character’s POV (which is discouraged for new writers) you may think you are treating a scene cinematically, but you are not. Be careful not to jump willy-nilly from mind to mind. If you’re intent on head hopping make sure your reader knows whose mind you’re in, by clearly marking off switched (use a line space between sections as well as clear reference to the new character’s name or tag soon after you change POV). Keep a balance of perspective as well. Do not write ten pages of a story from the female teenage cheerleader’s POV, then in the last two pages of the story from multiple points of view.

Remember that omniscience and multiple perspectives rob you of the writer’s most important tool, which is suspense. If you and your reader know what all the main characters are thinking, how do you maintain suspense? Omniscience died out as a common narrative device when cities became the predominant habitat for humans. Omniscience was possible in villages and tows. In the city, it was no longer plausible to imagine a whole group’s POV. (I wonder if murder mysteries, spurred on by Edgar Allen Poe, would have found a home in a world of villages.) Of course, metafiction and postmodern experiments have resuscitated a wide variety of readerly or historical approaches to omniscience.

Where there is a story, there is a storyteller. Traditionally, the narrator of the epic and mock-epic alike acted as an intermediary between the characters and the reader; the method of Fielding is not very different from the method of Homer. Sometime the narrator boldly imposed his own attitudes; always he assumed an omniscience that tended to reduce the characters to puppets and the action to a predetermined course with an end implicit in the beginning. Many novelists have been unhappy about a narrative method that seems to limit the free will of the characters, and innovations in fictional technique have mostly sought the objectivity of the drama, in which the characters appear to work out their own destinies without prompting from the author… Seeking the most objective narrative method, Ford Madox Ford used, in ‘The Good Soldier’, the device of the storyteller who does not understand the story he is telling. This is the technique of the “Unreliable observer.” The reader, understanding better than the narrator, has the illusion of receiving the story directly… The careful exclusion of common denominator, the paring of style to the absolute minimum- these puritanical devices work well for Ernest Hemingway… but not for a novelist who believes that, like poetry, his art should be able to draw on the richness of word play, allusion, and symbol. For even the most experienced novelist, each new word represents a struggle with the unconquerable task of reconciling all-inclusion with self-exclusion.

--BRIAN KITELEY

Imperative

Write a fragment story that is made up entirely of imperative commands: Do this; Do that; contemplate the rear end of a woman who is walking out of your life. This exercise will be a sort of second-person narration (a you is implied in the imperative.) 500 words. 


If you have struggled for a good while writing this exercise and need some examples check out this wiki page or read this short story (Click on the link underneath the picture that says "Read an Excerpt")(How to be an other woman is not ENTIRELY imperatives but I believe you can get the point) for some examples on usage.You might ask yourself after you have finished this exercise, what happens between the commands? Hidden behind the imperatives are actions offstage - each sentence, in a sense, expresses the desire and the space between each command that contains the inevitability distressing reality, the way we all fall short of our own commands. They have to be, given the constraints of the method. 



One of the unintended consequences of this exercise is that some people discover different and imaginative ways of regulating time in their stories when these barking or plaintive commands take over the narrative. The effect of a command is to move time forward on the say-so of the commanding voice. Wake up to your neighbor’s noisy lovemaking after her night shift ends. Remember the images the sounds evoke when you greet her in the hall as you leave for your job, her shirt buttoned up wrong – or something like that.

You will also find yourself struggling to come up with different kinds of commands, unusual ways of beseeching someone to do something or not to do something. This is what you should be doing with your fiction at all times. These exercises in constraint should become second nature. You should become self-conscious as a writer without losing the ability to compose naturally. 

The Reluctant I, December Underground

The cold, wet ground was even more uncomfortable today then it had been yesterday. Perhaps this was because of the sudden drop in temperature, whatever the cause, it was irritating. Laying there in the school field, staring at the sky, getting lost in the grey and white clouds of winter. Small flakes of snow beginning to fall to earth, threatening to cover the dead trees and hard ground in a fresh white powder.

Snow, stupid fucking snow. Cold, wet, uncaring about how it just lands on the ground. Nothing could be wished for more than for it to just go away. Instead, it decided to come down harder, big chunks falling to the ground staining the grunge of the jacket covering the headphones blaring sweet tunes deep into quivering ear canals. Music, the greatest escape.

It’s unsettling being the only outed gay kid in school.

Even more unsettling were the four upperclassmen standing in the tree line. All in a row and dressed exactly alike. Well as alike as they could be,each one unique and yet alike. Dark hoodies, baggy denim jeans, unkept shoes. Paranoid thoughts, drowned out the sound of the music. They were the same ones, who make empty threats as I walked by them in the halls. Calling out slurs and derogatory terms.

Adding to their so called self importance, each one carried the same rehearsed and quite dull expression on their face. The one where you wonder if the lights are on in the attic or if they were dropped one too many times as a child. Certain that one has to be the child or by product of a junkie whore. Putting all this ridiculousness aside, they were still not the type of men you would want to meet in a field after school, secluded or not, it was well advised to steer clear. A blood-thirsty look in their eyes, could be seen as they inched closer. They were just waiting for something to set them off, their voices growing louder and more in focus as they steadily grew nearer.. Then a realization hit, they were heading this way.

Jumping into the air, in a mild panic. The world started moving in slow motion. The man in the middle took off in chase, his body fluid and swift. He yelled out to the others as his jaw clenched, not turning to see how close, ducking into the tree line, trying for safty. The other three men took up a flanking position behind him acting as backup. As if knowing, the music pumping to the sound of fear thumping through the chest. The man in the middle raised his hands and clenched them into fists. Turning, our eyes met, our steps pounding the ground like a hammers echoing through the trees.

Tripping as feet prepared to jump over the branches, his fist quickly approached my face. The pain that came with it was unbearable. Every punch was like a speeding train running over a small animal, it was obvious he worked out. Struggling to concentrate on the defining sound of ringing. Itwas helping to drown out the pain, the gurgle of blood in the back of the throat, sliding deep and the gasp for air in between the hits. Deep breaths in and out as the attacker struck his prey with precision blows. The others arrived, warning and yelling, that someone had heard the cries into the woods.

The next few excruciating punches and the world slowly started to turn black and the noise in the background began to gargle and slowly fade away to nothingness, body unmoving. Lying there wondering, am I dead?

Word Count: 609

I's/Me's/My's Used: Two I's

The Reluctant I "She Deserved Better"

It had been raining all day and that helped to mask the tears, not a lot, but a little at least. Her reddened eyes were a dead giveaway though. I tried to ignore those puffy swollen eyes, but it was hard when she looked so broken. There was no denying where the blamed lay either.

Angela had been the perfect girlfriend, everything a man could ever ask for. She cooked like a five star chef and she kept a home that even Martha Stewart would applaud. Mom and Dad loved her and she always put on her best face for all those dull family gatherings. Even Great Aunt Hilda loved her and she didn’t like anyone.

She was great in the sack at least three times a week. She loved to try out new and experimental things in bed. She bought a copy of the kama sutra and was open to all sorts of sex toys. She even invited her hot best friend in for a threesome. She always ready to go even after a rough day.

Though it never seemed like she had rough days. Sure, her boss was demanding and knew he could get her to fill in any shift with little to no notice. Her mother was a drama queen or bipolar (what’s the difference?) and her father had died when she was a kid. Her grandmother had cancer and most of her family had no time for each other. Her friends cared more about advancing their own careers than the fact that they stepped on her back to do so. She never showed any of it though. She never let anyone see her cry and she never complained.

She deserved better.
“What did I do?” she asked, her voice cracking and barely audible over the thud thud thud of water overflowing from the clogged storm drain. Her eye liner was smeared and the curls in her hair were steadily flattening from the rain.
There was no right answer to her question because she hadn’t done anything wrong. There was no way to tell her that she was just too perfect. She had to be too good to be true, but how do you tell someone that? How can you tell someone they’ve done everything right, made no mistakes and yet you’re still leaving them?
Before you try to answer, you can’t: not when you’re staring into her baby blue eyes that still sparkle despite being blood shot; not when she’s standing in front of you so fragile, so vulnerable, begging for anything but the news you’re delivering. There is no right answer because the whole situation is just wrong. Even if you know it has to happen this way, even if you’re regretting ever taking her had, ever kissing those trembling lips. There is no right way to break her heart.
All at once, all those terrible cliche lines come to mind. All those horrible one liners that no one really believes and yet get used far too often spring up, ready and willing to deliver the final blow. It’s going to tear her to pieces, but something has to be said. Even if it’s a meaningless lie, something has to put a stop to the pain reflecting in her eyes. Even if it just an excuse to turn around, the cliche will have to suffice.
“It’s not you. It’s me.”

Turning away, the connection of her soft blue eyes is broken. She gasps and sobs, but as the distance grows, the rain drowns out her whimpering cries, leaving nothing else but the thud thud thud of the rain hitting the pavement or perhaps it was my heart.

Word Count 612

The Reluctant I, Sharp Memories

Sharp Memories

The best birthday present in the whole world was swiftly coming to an end. The airship juddered and shook beneath the pressures the storm put upon the ship. And the insistent whispering only got worse. “Let us in, we'll keep you safe. You are our brother, you can join us. Yes, join us, dance on the wind with us, forsake your earthbound shell and play with us on the winds. The stars have spoken, you are a Prince of the Wind. Let us in Sharp.”

Over and over, the whispers came, entreating and begging, cajoling, demanding. By this point, the shaking of the ship had gotten worse, the guards had instructed the passengers to the secured seats around the edges of the ballroom, and we strapped ourselves in. The lightning flashed, angry and vivid through the portholes and windows, and it looked like figures danced there in the sky, mocking and menacing, and burning through your eyelids when they closed.

With each boom of thunder, the voices roared, incoherent with rage and power. They began cursing the earth dwellers that dared violate their skies with their magic, that dared trespass before the King of the Wind's hunt. “They are all prey, all prey before the King of the Wind, the Lord of Death, his scythe is the very wind that will crush your ship, let us in, and we will spare you brother.”

The lights onboard flashed, their magic unstable, flaring and fading in rhythm to the storm outside. The energies holding the ship aloft crackled, strange purple lightning mimicking the white figures dancing around the periphery. Muttering and tears arose from all sides, cries for mercy, and prayers, a palpable aura of fear, each flash of lightning and rumble of thunder eliciting cries of terror from the passengers. Even the guards and crew were looking uncomfortable, the aroma of sweat and fear getting to all of us. In near panic, I whispered “Come brothers, save us.”

Flash. They were among us, followed by an unearthly thunder, the sound of which alone threatened to burst eardrums, and throw the guards from their feet. They were lightning incarnate, tall, lean, fierce and utterly abhorrent. Light danced on their skin and they seemed to flow toward us, the guards began yelling war cries and swinging blades that were designed to deal with this threat. But never in such numbers, never with beings consumed with this much rage. Their voices boomed, their claws reaped, and blood began to flow. Flash, and limbs began to fly, staining the glass around the lights, and thus the world a shade of crimson that only enhanced the terror of the scene.

They flowed around defenses, cutting and killing, wounding and bleeding. The elementals themselves became stained with blood, the floor with viscera, and all manner of filth. The passengers broke, and ran, chased by the laughing horrors, murdered and trapped. Helpless. A few of the noblemen trained in the sword gathered up fallen weapons and tried to fight back, to defend their wives and daughters. But it was futile, the creatures toyed with them, snatching children and devouring their flesh, using them as shields, forcing fathers to strike sons or be struck down in turn. Blood flowed, a river washing away the clean lines of the dance floor, stirring and sloshing, and boiling with the heat of the creatures.

And then “We have your reward Sharp. This one is yours, yes? She will make you one of us, a Prince of the Wind!” The tallest of the creatures stood, holding a struggling girl, my sister, Shira. Her face was pale and splashed with blood, her mouth open in a scream. Cuts decorated her body, slashed clothing hung from her frame. Terror, she was consumed with it. And the creature cut her open, blood like precious rubies torn from her throat, a gurgling whimper all she had left.

656 words. 1 "I", 1 "my". I hate this assignment, far too constricting.

The reluctant I, "The Doyle"

THE DOYLE

When waking up with a start like this the first thought that crosses your mind is: I don’t remember my name.  This has to be a dream… a very vivid and visceral dream.

But it does not feel like a dream.

The room is dark save for a lone bulb dangling from the ceiling.  There must have been something in the drink from the party. What was it? Possibly a Jegerbomb? Maybe a Scooby snack? Bad Cheese? What ever it was only one conclusion can be drawn. Somebody slipped me a Mickey. Must have been a good one too, judging from the fact that worry and concern are the furthest of thoughts at the moment. 

The light above the table sways gently.  A slight amount of dusts flutters down from the cracks in the water stained ceiling tiles.  The whole place smells old and the air tastes like death; In fact this whole place looks like a scene out of every building inspector’s nightmare.  Every time the light sways towards a wall bugs flee in terror. Mold and mildew seem to be trying to eat the walls. Vague noises of vermin and other pests sound from all around the room. 

The light starts swaying a little more as shoe steps grow closer and closer. All attention is focused on the door as even the pests become silent. The rusty doorknob slowly turns and the old door creaks open and you know what? It sounds just like one of those fucking creaky doors in a movie! After years of hating on that sound the irony is not lost in the situation.

An old Nazi looking guy comes and looks over the room. All kidding aside, somewhere along this fucker’s bloodline his relatives torched some Jews. He walks like a Nazi, he slicks his hairs like a Nazi, he even breathes like a Nazi. He looks down over his horn-rimmed glasses and smiles. For a dude that looks so tidy he does not know how to clean his teeth. His thin lips pulled back to reveal a jagged set of coffee and cigarette stained teeth that would make any orthodontist faint. He begins to talk into an old time tape recorder. He says that he ‘had administered an anesthetic that made the patient’s system unresponsive and therefore the surgery should begin immediately.’ He very slowly and deliberately leaned underneath the table and pulled out a knife as big as… a really big fucking knife.

As he begins to cut the table sways just randomly enough to be annoying. His fucking Nazi breathing quickens. Toward the floor a dripping noise begins to fill the room. Something is making squish-squishy noises. Occasionally the sound of tendons and cartilage snapping would ring out and remind me of fried chicken.  He pulls something free and rings a bell like one you might find at a hotel check in counter.

Silently, except for that damn creaky door, an attendant dressed in a black rubber apron walks in with a small red cooler in hand and stands at the foot of the table. Slowly, almost lovingly, this Nazi looking fuck picks up a slimy, bloody, organ-y looking bag and places it into the cooler.  The attendant leaves noiselessly only to return soon after with a new cooler. 

Emptiness begins to take hold as the world starts to turn sideways.

The dripping has increased to the point of madness.

Thoughts begin to grow more and more disjointed.

It is hard to concentrate on things.

The Nazi reaches down and with a tug and a snap puts something in front of my face.

A heart. The bell rings.

The attendant walks in as the room dims.

The Nazi leans close. Our lips almost touching.

As I exhale one last time, He breathes in. 

END

Final Word Count: 633 

Coming clean ahead of time, I used 2 'I's, 2 'Me's, and 2 'My's.

The Reluctant I

  Write a first person story in which you use the first person pronoun (I or me or my) only two times- but keep the ‘I’ somehow important to the narrative you’re constructing. The point of this exercise is to imagine a narrator who is less interested in himself than in what he is observing. You can make your narrator someone who sees an interesting even in which he is not necessarily a participant. Or you can make him self-effacing, yet a major participant in the events related. It is very important in this exercise to make sure your reader is not surprised forty or fifty words into the piece, to realize that this is a first person narration. Show us quickly who is observing the scene. 600 words.

The people we tend to like most are those who are much more interested in mother people that themselves, selfless and caring, whose conversation is not a stream of self-involved remarks (like the guy who, after speaking about himself to a woman at a party for an hour says: “Enough about me, What do you think of me?”) I’m not trying to legislate only likeable characters or narrators, I use the example of successful social selves above to give an idea of what is needed in successful fiction. Another lesson you might learn from this exercise is how important it is to let things and events speak for themselves beyond the ego of narration.

Due by Saturday.