Writing Prompt: 05/31/10

"Your phone rings. When you answer it, you make a startling discovery: the person on the other end is dead. What does he/she say and why are they calling you?"

Write for 15-30 minutes. My response will be posted 6/02/10.
Showing posts with label writing prompts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing prompts. Show all posts

Monday, July 26, 2010

Essay: Ideas out of Chaos.

The World Wide Web is a very strange place.

I'm not talking about the porno, by the way. Look, I don't know how long that stuff has been there, but a) it's not my fault, and b) if I ever vanish for, like, a year, and you can't find me it's probably because someone got me a subscription to Girlz Gone Goofy or some crap.

Actually, the most scariest thing is that I just pulled the name "Girlz Gone Goofy" out of my ass just then-- and now I'm afraid to Google it. Somewhere out there is a website with that name, and someone out there is paying $19.99 a month to download whatever is on it.

So, you want to be an author, but you can't think of anything to write about? Are you frickin' serious?

The history of mankind is replete with borked up situations and compelling drama, if you only know where to look.

I'm going to give you just four short examples. You get to take those examples and run with them. Make them into something great.

1) The Battle of Rorke's Drift. In January of 1879 the British Army got their ass handed to them by a group of extremely pissed off Zulu warriors. Suddenly, the Zulu, who had largely been obliterated by the firepower the Brits could bring to battle, recognized that their discipline and training under Shaka could actually bring them victory.

And the British? They realized that a poorly defended fort with 139 soldiers was about to get swarmed by a human wave attack on a scale they'd never before imagined. On 22 January the Zulu steamrolled the British at the Battle of Isandlwana and kept going, arrowing straight at the fort-- with 3,900 Zulu warriors, most of whom were in a Bad Mood.

I'll say that again. 139 defenders standing their ground against four thousand irate Zulu attackers.

History records what happened next. After ten hours and after expending all but 900 rounds of shot out of the 20,000 the garrison started with, the defenders were relieved by a column of troops led by Lord Chelmsford. Unfortunately, the reinforcing British saw the Zulu as little more than animals, and slaughtered the wounded and battle ready alike.

Just so you know, The Battle of Rorke's Drift has been used by at least four Military Science Fiction authors in one manner or another. The basics of the plot are fairly straightforward: a numerically superior force is attacking a few, well-armed defenders in a defensible position. Relief is either not expected, or at the very least, not expected for some time. In fact, the original Starcraft mission "Desperate Alliance" hearkens back to this very concept. You are required to hold an outpost for thirty minutes against increasingly powerful wave attacks from an enemy that outnumbers you considerably, but is poorly armed compared to the firepower you can bring to bear. Unless you know what you're doing, trying to sally forth and take the battle to the Bloody Hun is a great way to get the absolute crap kicked out of you. (Dammit! Now I want to play Starcraft again... Must finish blog...)

2) The Wagon Box Fight. A few years before Rorke's Drift, just after the American Civil War, in fact, there was a lesser known battle of similar nature. In August of 1867 a force of three thousand Lakota, Sioux, and Cheyenne attacked thirty-one troops of the US Army's 9th Infantry near Fort Phil Kearny. In a battle that lasted for five hours, the defenders repulsed wave after wave of assaults, and credited their survival to a new piece of military hardware: a .50 caliber breech loading rifle that cut reload and refire time by more than twenty seconds. The defenders lost five killed and two wounded. Estimated casualties among the attackers were between 30-60 killed and 120 wounded, but some accounts claim the casualties were in the 1100-1300 range. (I find that difficult to believe. An assault force is generally considered combat ineffective at 7% casualties, combat routed at 9%, and combat destroyed at 13%. 30% casualties would be an unheard of number just to erase one small force of defenders.)

You can see examples of the Wagon Box Fight (and the next day's battle, the Hayfield Fight) in games such as HALO and the accompanying novels, where one significant advantage in technology provides a vastly smaller force (The 9th infantry was outnumbered 96 to 1!) with the means to not only stay in the fight, but to prevail.

Not everything is about combat and battles, though. Howzaboot we delve into the realm of mystery?

3) The Lead Masks Case. In August 20, 1966 two Brazilian electronics technicians were found in a field outside Rio de Janeiro, Brazil by a small boy flying a kite. Both men were wearing suits, waterproof coats, and lead masks. Near the bodies was an empty bottle of water and two towels. Also next to them was a note, written in Portuguese, that read, "16:30, be at agreed place. 18:30, swallow capsules. After effect protect metals wait for sign mask."

The police put together a timeline of their last hours based on witnesses who saw them in town, where they purchased the bottle of water and the waterproof coats. One of the men looked nervous and kept looking at his watch.

All right, storyteller, why were they there? What were these two men hoping to achieve with this "meeting" in a field? What did they take? (An autopsy found no trace of poison in their systems due to improper storage of their organs before the toxicology report could be made.)

Conspiracy theorists go batshit (batshit-er?) with this one. Was it aliens, demons, demonic aliens, or a suicide pact designed to leave the rest of the world scratching their heads and saying, "WTF?"

We'll probably never know-- but since you're an author, I'll leave you to tell their story.

4) The Taman Shud Case. Lest you think that all weird shit happens in the Americas, I'd like to introduce you to the Taman Shud Case. In 1948 in Adelaide, Australia (Somerton Beach, to be precise, so you can also look this up by searching for the Somerton Man.) a middle-aged male was found dead at 6:30am on December 1st. The description in the Wikipedia article referenced above seems to indicate someone in fairly good shape for his age, who did little to no manual labor, judging by the state of his hands.

He was dressed well, although for some reason he was dressed for a colder climate, wearing a "fashionable" pullover and suit. Oddly, he did not have a hat, which was particularly unusual given that he was wearing a suit at a time in history when they went together like Forrest and Jenny.

He not only had no identification on him, his clothing labels had been painstakingly removed. Throughout the month of December there were eight positive identifications of the man, one of which was recanted when a witness got a second look at the body and noted the absence of a particular scar.

Things took an interesting twist when the police discovered that a suitcase with its label removed had been checked into the cloak room of the Adelaide Railway Station on the evening of the 30th of November. The clothes in the bag had also had their labels removed, but oddly there were two names, "Keane" on a tie and "Kean" on a singlet. Police theorized that these names had been left because they were not the victim's, and therefore intended to lead the police astray.

It gets weirder. Inside a secret pocket in the man's trousers police found a scrap of paper with the words "Taman Shud." These is actually the last words written in the collection of poems called The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.

Also adding to the general sense of creep, the scrap of paper was traced to a book left in a man's unlocked car also on the 30th of November, the same night the bag was checked into the cloak room. In the back of the book was the following "coded" message:
MRGOABABD
MLIAOI
MTBIMPANETP
MLIABOAIAQC
ITTMTSAMSTGAB.

You can see an actual picture of this HERE.
There were also two additional connections to other unexplained deaths in the area. I'll let you look them up, but they are the Mangnoson case and the Marshall case.

I'll also tell you that in 2009 a college professor named Derek Abbott at the University of Adelaide started working on solving the case by cracking the code and exhuming the body. He's made some progress, including discovering that the autopsy report and original investigation notes from 1948 have gone missing. Hmmmm...

Personally, I think the man conspired with Elvis to shoot JFK while exterminating the dinosaurs. He may also have been Kaspar Hauser.

In 2005, Stephen King published a book called Colorado Kid that has similarities to this case, which was also referenced in the novel Hill of Grace by Stephen Orr. Since my name is not Stephen, I don't know if I am allowed to write about this or not, but doesn't this sound like a fascinating start to a storyline-- or even an end to one?

With a few minutes research on the web, it's possible to discover dozens of storylines like this. Best of all-- they are all true!

Leaving only one question out of many: How are you going to explain them?

Write On!

*****
Christopher Rivan

Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!

http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/

Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com

Friday, April 16, 2010

Flash fiction: First Contact

This week's Flash Fiction is late. Sorry about that. There are a number of reasons why, and one of them is that this is more than just a stand alone story. This is the prologue to a science fiction project I'm now working on. You're welcome to come along with me every step of the way.

+++++

He didn't know who they were. They weren't the Krauts. That was for sure. It hurt to look at them; their strange proportions and shapes made him ill to think about.

He'd seen a lot in his twenty-five years, but nothing like this before. Six weeks ago he'd watched the waters run scarlet at Sword Beach as the invasion finally began into occupied France. Two weeks after that, he'd been part of the breakout. Cobra, they'd called it. He'd heard the plaintive whimpers of German wounded, begging for water, "Wasser. Bitte nur ein kleines wasser."

He'd seen his friends, buddies, brothers, vanish in a spattering eyeblink or sink slowly to the ground, sometimes not even realizing half their head was gone, dreams, hopes and loves vanishing in a pink cloud from a sniper's bullet or piece of shrapnel no bigger than a grain of sand. When the initial breakout had begun with such ease after the botched landings, he'd allowed himself to hope that maybe it would be over soon, maybe he'd make it through after all and see Oregon again.

He'd wanted to be a teacher once, and coach track. If only he could run now, but trophies and medals mean little when you're pinned to cold metal.

The war was over for him. He knew that. His eyes leaked despite being screwed shut until they hurt. One moment he was on patrol, looking for that damn German armor that intelligence swore was there.

The lieutenant had been the first to die. Something awful out of nightmares had reared from the darkness in front of him. While the men stared in horror it had flashed some kind of beam from the end of a misshapen arm and slashed it once across the officer's body. Unable even to scream, the lieutenant had come apart in a grisly flood of blood and worse as the glowing blade sheared through bone, cloth, flesh-- even the steel of his carbine-- without even a hint of resistance.

True to training and experience the squad had spread to combat positions and opened up, peppering the thing with .30 caliber rounds from their Garand rifles. He remembered seeing the bullets spatter, like hose water from a jeep.

Then it was in among them. The giant thing made no sound of its own, but its energy blade hissed as it tore men apart.

He was the only one left. It had stopped in front of him, almost seeming to regard him thoughtfully, and stared down at him from its enormous height. Something like a hand, but with too many fingers, closed around his throat with a precise movement that was almost delicate, and he felt himself rise into the air until his face was mere inches from its staring baleful eye.

As his feet kicked helplessly more than a yard from the ground he realized with revulsion that it wasn't an eye at all. It was some kind of window. Behind it was a face.

He struggled fitfully against the bonds that crucified him to the cold plate. That face had been the last thing he'd remembered before the horror and nausea had dragged him down into darkness.

Mercifully, he'd stayed there until the pain started.

That face was there now, in front of him again, angles and shapes and proportions that made no sense and hurt the eye to look at. It chittered something at him. Speech? Breathing? Was it asking a question? Making a demand? He didn't know if it was a directive or a curse.

"Jaime Tavala, private, United States Marine Corps, 538-03-53--" The rest vanished in a scream. The agony was like a physical blow. He could feel skin charring, knotted muscles searing, bones cracking with the heat even though nothing was touching him. He tried to keep screaming through grinding teeth, but the broken glass in his throat wouldn't let him.

It went on for a long time before the end. Such a very long time.



At one end of the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial, where the fallen American soldiers of the Normandy Campaign lie, is a headstone marking the final resting places of those yet unknown. It bears the inscription, "Here rests in honored glory a comrade in arms known but to God."

In one of those graves sleeps a soldier who was found weeks after the invasion. There was no marking on his body to indicate how he was killed, and he was uninjured except for his broken and worn teeth, as if he'd ground them in fury or agony for many years. The advanced stage of decomposition made identification impossible.

What would he say to us, if we could speak to him? Why was he found so far from the main battlefield and so long after the combat ended and the Germans were pushed back? Where was his weapon? Was he a deserter? Why didn't he have his dog tags, or even a letter home to identify him?

What would he tell us, if only he could speak?

He would give us a warning.

The Talari are coming.

*****
Christopher Rivan

Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!

http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/

Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Flash fiction: Unbounded Rage

Before I do anything else here, I want to take a moment and thank you for dropping by.

More than that, if you look to the lower right corner of this site you should see a series of links to people who are following me. You're already giving me the precious gift of your time and energy to be here reading this, but if I may plead for just a little bit more, please take a moment and investigate those followers as well. Most of them are better writers than I am by far, and each of them has something important and wonderful to share with you, whether it's a story, a tip, or something else.

Thanks for your time.

CR.

*****

Yesterday's writing prompt was: "Consider a person who has lost their memory. How do you show this to the reader? Try to do it from the eyes of the person with the missing memory."
+++++

Flashes...

...of memory...

...things I...

...can barely see...

...father... drunk (again)...

...no, father... I'm like...

...the others...

...not really different...

...you'll see... someday...

...mother... at her funeral... sleeping, looks like she's sleeping...

...bruises don't show...

...other children...

...I begged them to...

...stop...

...STOP...

...STOP!

...town... smoke... screams... crying...

...she was different...

...she made the fear go away...

...her... my ring... why couldn't I...

...control this?

(The ring!)

...where is she?

...I don't know what it means!

My name... is Davian Urthradar.


*****
Christopher Rivan

Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!

http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/

Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Author's Comments: Calling Home

First I want to give a little shout out to Jon Strother of Mad Utopia. Jon's put together a really cool idea called the Friday Flash. This is a list of online stories that authors post links to on his web site. Every Friday these examples of short fiction are released on a flash list, which you can find on twitter and other places by searching for"#fridayflash."

Last week my horror story Awakening was my debut contribution. It was written in response to the writing prompt I tweeted last Monday.

Every Monday there's a writing prompt, and every Tuesday I'm posting my response to it. Yesterday's prompt was: "Examine the cliche of a soldier who fled from battle. Does he redeem himself or punish himself or..."

Calling Home is the story of a survivor, a man who made it through combat without a scratch-- that shows.

Every battle has a story like this. Every war has a tale of woe and dread. It doesn't make war unforgivable, as some people suggest, because there are times when societies, like people, have to defend themselves.

What is important to the author, though, when making a believable character, is to recognize that battle changes people. Whether it's a fistfight in a bar that turns ugly or an all out invasion of a planet, even the survivors die a little... or a lot.

*****

Christopher Rivan

Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!

http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/


Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com

Flash fiction: Calling Home

[COMM CHANNEL OPEN. ENCRYPTED – RED LINE]

[1698.778.5454.DEC-TOAH]

Mrs. Toah, this is Sergeant Rakir, Dondass Rakir, of the 21st Mobile Infantry Battalion. I can't see or hear you, even though this is vidphone. Golgotha is fourteen hundred light years from Earth, located in the [SECURITY INTERRUPTION] sector, and what you're seeing is a recording that will take sixteen hours to get to you.

Mrs. Toah, the Mobile Infantry regrets to inform you (nice phrase means nothing) that your son, Shtad was (butchered) killed in action (it hurts mama) on Golgotha. The Imperial shock troops from out of [SECURITY INTERRUPTION] hit us from behind. We held [SECURITY INTERRUPTION] for three days without resupply. The goddamn [SECURITY INTERRUPTION] but we had to wait for a lifter to get us out of there.

I want you to know (no i don't shut up!) that Shtad didn't suffer. He was hit by a displacer round while covering (my) our retreat (he was my man my boy shut up!). He died (screaming for you) instantly. There were no final words (mama! where are my legs? mama help me, godhelpme MAMAITHURTSSOMUCH!) but he told me at chow the evening before that he was thinking of you. (why wasn't it me? should havebeen should have beenmeshould havebeenme)

We of the Federation Armed Forces (don't run we never run i was so scared should have beenme) would like to extend our deepest sympathy for your sacrifice (her son my son my boys i left them i ran my boys) to our planet in her hour of greatest need. (left them me should havebeen me) I would like to remind you that our war continues. I promise that Shtad (screamed blood while i ran) did not lay down his life (for anything) in vain.

Unfortunately, [SECURITY INTERRUPTION] was dusted from orbit and his remains are (glowing) not recoverable. We are sorry for your (my) loss, Mrs. Toah. (my boys)

[TRANSMISSION ENDS]

[COMM CHANNEL OPEN. ENCRYPTED – RED LINE]

[1351.921.1584.DEC-LADROM]

Mr. LaDrom, this is Sergeant Dondass Rakir of the 21st Mobile Infantry Battalion. What you're seeing is a recording that will take sixteen hours to get to you. I can't see you or hear you...

*****

Christopher Rivan

Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!

http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/

Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Author’s Comments: Awakening (Prompt 3/15)

As I post the writing prompts each week I'm hoping to give people ideas for scene settings and character development, but they say that the teacher learns more than the student. (It would be extremely difficult to learn any less than my students, that's for sure.)

One of the reasons this blog exists is for me to work on developing my own fiction. After twelve years writing more or less continuous non-fiction, returning to the storytelling framework is a hard and ignoble path to travel.

So, when I post weekly writing prompts to my twitter account, (http://twitter.com/ChrisRivan or use the link to the right.) one of my writing goals is to complete the assignments right along side you.

Awakening is my first attempt to respond to my own prompt. I once had a bizarre night of nightmares, vivid, lifelike, and terrifying. I'm not one to usually have nightmares of the "monster" variety. Usually my most terrifying dreams are somewhat asstasstic, like being chased through a mall by a giant Super Mario or waking to discover that Barack Obama won the presidency.

These dreams were different. They were horrifying in the sense of the genre. I must have leapt awake six or seven times that night, sweating, panting, heart in my throat. Once I started so violently that I literally almost threw myself out of bed.

The little dream I've recounted here was the second to last. I woke up from this one and said, "Screw this noise." I got up early, about 4:15am, and took a shower... where I discovered to my horror that I was not awake and taking a shower at oh-dark-stupid, but actually still asleep and in the middle of another goddamn lifelike nightmare.

I may write the last dream down (they are the only two I remember) at a later date. It sort of crossed from freaky-deaky scary to "ZOMFG that's disgusting!" I'm not sure if shock fiction is the way I want to go, since I'm obviously not John Watterhouse. (For one thing, I can grow a better mustache.)

Write on!

*****
Christopher Rivan

Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!

http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/

Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com


Response to Writing Prompt 3/15

Here's my response to the prompt I twittered yesterday:

*****

Awakening

Caleb woke to a pitch black room. His heart was boiling in his chest and his breath rasped. He lay there in perfect stillness, trying to get his fear under control. There wasn't even a sliver under his bedroom door from the kitchen light mom usually left on.

There's something here, in the room with me! He could feel his clammy skin stick to the sheets through his undershirt. He lay there, listening to the stillness and the drumbeat from his chest. Ba DUM! Ba DUM! Except, if he were to try to describe it he'd have to say it was more BaDUMbaDUMbaDUMbaDUM!

His ears strained to pick up any sound in the dark blanket.

Gradually, his breathing slowed. The bolting horse in his chest slowed from a gallop to a canter, and then a trot. The twisted sheet in his hands slowly smoothed. There were times, even in a hot spring night, when a comforter might be a good thing to tuck yourself under. Times when you woke up in a silent scream from a nightmare you couldn't remember. He took a deep, quivering breath. The horse was walking now. He pushed the sheet down to his waist, feeling the soggy shirt cling to his chest. That must have been a good one.

He rolled over, onto his right side. Even though the cast had come off months ago, he still couldn't sleep on his left very easily. He folded the corner of his pillow under his jaw and shifted his shoulders. His eyes slowly drifted to half-mast.

Where's my clock? He thought randomly. Habitually a hard riser, Caleb had taken to putting his alarm clock on the far side of the room, hoping that it would force him to get out of bed in order to shut it off. Maybe then he'd be on time for school once in a while. Mr. Patterson had said if he was tardy again this quarter he'd lose baseball.

Beside him, in the darkness, the two scalding red eyes opened, and then narrowed their gaze onto him. His eyes snapped fully open in shock. As the sick fear scorched through him he felt the shameful hot wetness cross his thigh.

His hands flew out, right arm sweeping across the night stand, scattering wallet, iPod, and house key to the floor. His bedside lamp was also a casualty, smashing to the ground. In the glassbreak, the dying filament flared, a single flash searing the room.

His last terrified view in the lightburst was of rows and rows of naked, gleaming teeth.


*****
Christopher Rivan

Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!

http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/

Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com