Monday, September 28, 2009

2nd fff as host

this flash fiction friday's trigger was an inclusion clause and i wasn't sure i would make with the packing+moving+grims-stress, but this week we have multiple entries (big up everybody who wrote something this week and our trigger-contributor; doh forget to send trigger suggestions for friday coming) so i couldn't lapse. we even have at least one fff written directly into the comments on the trigger post (abovelinked) so make sure you check it out. and participants without blogs, remember if you want constructive feedback you have to post somewhere public for others participants to read...
this is me, including the words crumb, bum, thumb, rum, dumb:

“i hear at the end of the scrimmage, one man thumb was knuckle-deep in some nex’ man bottom, horse…”
“wha’…”
“tellin’ yuh, dread, i doh business with dem ting at all.”
that thought settled their excitable chatter into appalled silence as they continued walking to the end of the island, holding ground at the very tip of the longest finger of sandy grass and scrub, toes almost in the sea. she giggled to herself, trying to remember how they came to that topic, her random thought associations making her realise she was very probably drunk – but that was the point of rum punch, right? she giggled again at the persistent image of a grassy finger of land tickling an unsuspecting rugby player’s bum.
he raised eyebrows in her direction, but didn’t ask, guessing it would make little sense – he’d been drinking considerably longer and didn’t think he had the energy to make sense of a semi-drunk’s amusement.
they stood still, civilisation at their backs, the whole starry world spread ahead of them, silence shifting from appalled to awed, broken only by the occasional giggle. eventually he dug in his pocket and pulled out a not-quite-cube-shaped bit of foil somewhat worse off for having been squished in there during the night’s journey. she smiled and took the sticky foil package.
“for you. i wanted to get high and stay high whole weekend and not think about...stuff...so i made brownies with some of the bag i bought to smoke. you could save that one for when you go home if you want, we have more back in the tent. for right now…”
he reached into his pocket again and retrieved a bent and battered white stick, tiny brown crumbs clinging to it. he cursed happily, licking crumbs from his fingertips.
“yeah…maybe demonstrating tackling techniques with food and smoke in my pocket was a little dumb. next time you holding since you have a handbag…”
she nodded agreement, stashed her foil and produced a lighter from said handbag, and took the proffered spliff. she put it between her lips, set her drink down and lit up as she sat on the edge of the island, kicking off her slippers and stretching her feet toward the dark water. she patted the ground next to her as she looked back at him, then held out the burning spliff.
“come, sit, doh think about stuff. you doh need she anyway. you have me, you have rum, you have grass, you have as much of eternity as you stick around for in this amazing place…”

he took a long drag and held it, staring out into the milky way, trying not to wonder where in the galaxy or which new galaxy the being he’d thought was his woman had disappeared to.

walk good.

3 Comments:

Blogger Lisa Allen-Agostini said...

yes, miss lady. that was well sweet. i think i was writing channeling you a little bit, somehow i had this staccato voice in my piece that is more you than me. :)
yours is very good, i like the voice as usual, exquisite poetry in the scene, fun and surprising use of the trigger words.

5:18 pm  
Blogger sweet trini said...

thanks, dude- when i started i had no idea where i was going with those words; i see what you mean about the staccato voice in your piece- maybe something to play with? walk good

4:39 pm  
Blogger crazyfool said...

this piece created beautiful imagery for me.

2:42 pm  

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Friday, September 25, 2009

wash-foot fff (#2)

want to try inclusions this week just to scare those joining us for the 1st time, so instead of a starter/closer trigger, which most people have worked from before, this week's fff's must include (all) the words:
crumb
bum
thumb
rum
dumb

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for triggers (starter sentences, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you feel it is too wonderful not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to the trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your story (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your story as a post on your own blog (or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.
write fresh!
walk good.

9 Comments:

Blogger crazyfool said...

i in.

3:03 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

my entry:
Swamped by despair, she know there was a crumb of hope, a flicker of something in the corner of her heart, that-- no matter how she tried to look away, to wallow in her funk--she could not ignore. She knew she was where she was meant to be. Yet she could find no solid ground, drifting back and forth between love and anger.
What time would that bum drag his ass back home, she wondered, picking up an old novel, its pages dog-eared and half falling out. She thumbed through it distractedly before flinging it across the room as a flare of anger burst. She shouted, loud enough for the neighbours to hear: "Fuck this shit!"
As the old pages floated to the floor, their airy nonchalance adding insult to futility, she reproached herself, cursed, and went downstairs for a forbidden glass of rum. These solo Saturday nights always made her feel so dumb.

10:19 am  
Blogger crazyfool said...

i done.

10:30 am  
Blogger sweet trini said...

fool post the link to the story, nah...walk good

10:35 am  
Blogger sweet trini said...

in+done @ http://urbanfolktales.blogspot.com/2009/09/2nd-fff-as-host.html (or the post above this one if you on my homepage). yay fff-ers! walk good.

10:50 am  
Blogger mystie said...

He lay in his own filth at the bottom of the stairwell, a sodden mass of disappointment who would not leave my life in peace. Always at my door begging for what he considered a mere crumb of the wealth I had earned in my own way. In my mind i wanted to dismiss him as some unknown bum that i could ignore, overlook, pretend never to see, but I knew my mother would turn over in her grave to see me thumb my nose at this, this homegrown rum distillery that was my dumb little brother.

11:59 am  
Blogger Lisa Allen-Agostini said...

He pushed in with his thumbs, kneading the tight muscles at the back of my neck and shoulders so hard I knew I’d have bruises the next day. At least bruises would remind me he’d touched me. A crumb, but I’d take it.
Cigarette. Night air smoky and cold. Concrete bench. Old lies and love piled up on the grass beneath our feet. His lies. My love. He walked over them to sit on the other bench facing me. His rum and coke was watery by then. Condensation left the glass dripping wet. Like me. Dripping wet. Jealous of the glass his lips was on, the sliver of ice melting on his tongue like he used to have me, melting on his tongue. But he always had more than one piece of ice.
He was a bum but I loved him, wanted him even in spite of all the shit that had gone before. That shit was why I hadn’t seen him in months but I’m such a dumb cunt, so crazy for him that all he had to do was call and here I was, sitting in a dream waiting for him to say he had changed his mind. That he’d be mine.
Course it didn’t happen. Course we just laughed and talked and made as if it was all good. Dumb.
I got up, eventually. Walked away. Hoped he’d call again. Thought about the bruises. Liked the pain.--Lisa Allen-Agostini

5:14 pm  
Blogger crazyfool said...

http://foolishstoryhour.blogspot.com/2009/09/concrete-jungle-fff2.html

8:03 pm  
Blogger sweet trini said...

so i know is wednesday and i real late to be now reading+commenting, but shit was crazy (almost didn't fff myself). that said, i loved...
anon: a little jealous of "thumbed through"- liked the use of the word, and especially your last paragraph.
mystie: really liked the twist on the bum @ end, and since i always aim for ff conciseness (concision sound weird, right?) i love how tight this piece is.
lise: "Old lies and love piled up on the grass beneath our feet." damn. wish i wrote that sentence.
fool, i going by yours now.
walk good

4:37 pm  

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Thursday, September 24, 2009

trigger fingers

allyuh, we need triggers for this week's fff so email me by 11am tomorrow!
write fresh. walk good.

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Tuesday, September 22, 2009

information nation

1. for good, not evil: apparently, e.coli can be used to recover uranium from tainted waters and can even be used to clean up nuclear waste.
2. every mouldy bread have its stinkin cheese: teen decomposes plastic bag in 3months by mixing landfill dirt with yeast+tapwater and adding ground plastic. requires fermenter, growth medium and plastic, the bacteria (isolated as bacterial genus Pseudomonas and genus Sphingomonas) provide most of the energy by producing heat as they eat, only waste is water and carbon dioxide.
3. why you should read this piece on feminism: "...Now that women have the choice, they pick varied careers. Women choose to be doctors and lawyers and teachers and rock scientists. If women choose varied careers, it makes sense they would choose varied lifestyles. A myriad of personalities and ideals dictate that women would choose different paths. And one of those paths is traditional gender roles. I enjoy a whole host of traditional gender roles...I also love nontraditional gender roles...I know what I like and I'm choosing that. Having the opportunity to make those choices is what feminism should be about, not which choices I make."
4. that said, on reclaiming the word 'slut': "...A compact little word, forceful even in the way it sounds, starting out with a hissing sibilant and pushing off of the tongue through the L and U, and then that nastily crisp T. "Slut." Say it a few times out loud. Roll it around in your mouth. "Sssslut." "Sss…lllut." Say it again. Notice that it's difficult — almost impossible, in fact — to pronounce it neutrally. It's got a sneer built into it, that word. It's not as twangy and unthreatening as "tramp". It's not as easy to yell as "whore". "Whore" is built for screaming rage and dishes flying through the air, with a nice gusty H at the front and a big old roaring R bringing up the rear. Not "slut", though. "Slut" is muttered. "Slut" is whispered. "Whore" comes in like a punch, but "slut" tingles, like a slap. "Slut" hides behind the teeth. "Slut" is for when your back is turned. "Slut" is for when you don't act like a lady...Don't look too good; don't think you look too good. Digging your own self is slutty..."Slut" is for when you forget to hate and fear boys..."
now take that dirty mind to church! google is infinite, omnipresent, potentially immortal and remembers all...
walk good.

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Monday, September 21, 2009

catharsis- an fff

so here's my 1st fff in too long. rules and examples linked here- get ready for next week if you didn't make this one.
i admit that this was written in a rush (enjoyed the hell outta it, though) and as such i didn't do the research i'd normally do about the physical reaction to what happens in this piece. but it's an idea i plan to explore, so maybe we'll see this event again, with fuller description of what it does to the human body.
big-up the provider of this week's trigger (starter sentence in italics, below) and big-up the provider of the idea i plan to research further; you know who you are.

it was the smell of cinnamon…
she sighed at her involuntary downturn in mood, wondering if he used it intentionally, knowing she’d never escape something so commonly loved. wishing for simpler times, before there were problems that couldn’t be drank+smoked+fucked away, she pulled her scarf a little tighter and crossed her arms in front of her. a step later, she shivered in the depths of her coat at the irony of her posture, considering recent straitjacket and hanging nightmares, trapped as she’d been, geographically and emotionally.
cinnamon lingered in her nostrils and hair, coffeeshop after coffeeshop wafting delicious come-hithers onto the pavement, beckoning with lies of comfort. but she wasn’t swayed. too many promised warmth that they couldn’t (or wouldn’t?) deliver – if nothing else, she had learned that here, from him.
it had been a costly waste of time+effort otherwise, so she had to hold fast to the lessons of experience as the reason for the diversion. she had to hold the memory of lies coming from the least expected source, the never-doubted mouth forming words that would never be supported by action, then forming new words to contradict the old words, never admitting the truth. admitting the truth would be admitting failure, and he couldn’t have that – at the expense of her sanity and possibly her life, he wouldn’t have that.
straitjackets and hangings indeed. nobody needed to interpret those dreams for her.
but she was working on fulfilling a daydream now, walking those cold hard streets. she shook cinnamon from her consciousness and resumed her mental dry run of the next 36hours.
she was already fully packed. her 1 friend was waiting with her baggage and a car for the airport, now she just needed herself and trains on time, both ways.
as she looked up to gather her bearings, she found herself right on track. the station was straight ahead and she could see the big clock telling her she was right on schedule.
she easily made her way through the hordes of christmas fools and boarded, immediately pulling out her book as she sat. she wasn’t interested in meeting people or making friends – these people weren’t worth it and she was leaving this soulless junkyard for good anyway.
she arrived quietly, using her key for the last time, snickering at the knowledge that he never thought to take it back because he never thought she’d use it, abhorring the cold as she did. even what passed for summers there weren’t warm enough, which made sense to her when she saw how coldhearted the people were.
like he’d used her trust in him against her, she’d use his trust in his knowledge of her against him. She silently made her way to the kitchen, and wasting no time looking around got the pot out onto the stove and found the olive oil, extra virgin, of course. she’d carefully considered the pots she knew existed in the house – anything new was too risky – and chose in advance a small enough one to lift and carry one-handed with ease while hot. it wouldn’t do to find herself unable to move quickly, and she shouldn’t need that much oil.
she had to stop herself humming and singing her pleasure at working in such a well-equipped kitchen to such a perfect end, but didn’t stop her smile growing into a grin as the oil began to bubble. she turned off the fire, thinking to herself that this was the righteous consequence of denial, of running away, of hiding and refusing to face one’s demons – they came after you while you snored deep in the night.
she turned on music, knowing he wouldn’t budge, grabbed the tiniest funnel on offer and a potholder, left the lid in the sink, and walked the hot oil to the bedroom. even if she hadn’t remembered the way all she had to do was follow the sound. she giggled at the idea that if not for her imminent intervention, his attempt at hiding would have been overheard by neighbours who fell asleep later than he did, in a matter of days.
she looked down at him in the bed and had her only moment’s pause. not a month ago he was everything.
she shook cinnamon from her consciousness, carefully held the funnel at his exposed ear and poured the boiling oil through it.
she somehow saw but never heard his agony. her mind had shut itself to the pain in his and she simply finished her task, making adjustments for his movement impersonally like she was back in the lab.
then she washed, dried and put away the implements leaving the kitchen exactly as she’d found it, turned off the music and exited the house, locking the door behind her and pocketing her key as she trudged back to the train station, glad that still-falling snow would cover her tracks.
she was early for her train so she called her friend and said she should be on time, ordered a cinnamon-flavoured latte, pulled out her book and waited comfortably. she knew on this trip she’d sleep dreaming dreams of freedom.


walk good.

1 Comments:

Blogger crazyfool said...

awesomely gripping, chilling story. loved it. thanks for reviving fff, even if it is just us.

7:17 pm  

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Friday, September 18, 2009

my 1st fff, again

right people, this is my 1st time running a flash fiction friday so please bear with me if there are glitches still to work out. i actually got some triggers, thank you, please keep them coming so i can keep this coming.
those now joining us, this here post-link is full of (short) examples of how this works, starting with one of my favourite fff's linked in the 1st sentence. the (now slightly edited, so do reread) rules are also @ bottom of this post. and big up jj (sidebar) for getting us here.

this week's trigger is a starter:
it was the smell of cinnamon...

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for triggers (starter sentences, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you feel it is too wonderful not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to the trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your story (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your story as a post on your own blog (or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.
write fresh!
walk good.

4 Comments:

Blogger sweet trini said...

guess i should say i in one time...walk good.

12:16 pm  
Blogger crazyfool said...

wasn't sure i was gonna make the cut, but i in and i done.

8:41 am  
Blogger sweet trini said...

done @ http://urbanfolktales.blogspot.com/2009/09/catharsis-fff.html
now off to rehearsal and hoping to have fff's to read when i get home...eid mubarak. walk good.

9:46 am  
Blogger My Chutney Garden said...

Hi,
Just read the full details on the blog. Will participate next week.
Thanks!

11:18 am  

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Wednesday, September 16, 2009

so, of course, now we need fff triggers

we have a few takers for flash fiction fridays.
i say lewwe wash we foot and jump in- anybody have a starter/closer/title/inclusion clause? your wuk is to please email suggestions (linked next to comments, plus here's the post with links to rules+examples again), invite others, repost, etc. by 11.55am trinbago timezone (notice i did not say "trini time"- is by 11.55am, not anytime) friday september 18, 2009. my wuk is to run an fff for us this weekend. and we all write+read, right? right...talk soon, walk good.
ps: excellently epic thunderstorm ruined by jackhammer next door- boo!
pps: silly me- we should have an official posting of the rules, so...

you will send in your suggestions for triggers (starter sentences, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to noon friday, trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you feel it is too wonderful not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to the trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your story.
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your story as a post on your own blog (or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.

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Sunday, September 13, 2009

vagina catalogue

new favourite unattributed quote, via mom:
"The best engine in the world is the vagina.
It can be started with one finger.
It is self-lubricating.
It takes any size piston.
And it changes its own oil every four weeks.
It is only a pity that the management system is so fucking temperamental."

walk good.

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Friday, September 11, 2009

fff redux?

flash fiction friday been on my mind for months, wanting to bring it back. i loved the writing exercise itself, plus it short+weekly, easy maintainance and a good way to generate fresh ideas+words. but i want to benefit me, too, which means if i jumpstart ongoing fff's, i need to know others will participate, including offering up starter-sentences so i get to write from scratch with no preconception, too, sometimes...
so the only way to know if anybody else interested is to ask, right?
so here's linkage (fff's short, doh feel overwhelmed) to fff's which also link to the origin of the writing exercise with rules, etc. for your perusal; please click abovelinked samples and their links to rules of engagement, and tell me if you'd do it (doh skip 1st sentence link, jouvay favourite). for real. i need to know whether anybody out there really willing to commit to submitting for flash fiction fridays, both leads+stories. if folks realistically think they'll do it, i'll run it.
i'd love to fff again, so if you or anybody you know might be interested in regular wordflex, say...
walk good.
ps: i think between fasbook etc. we can even work with folks who want to participate but doh have blogs, so doh let that stop you...

4 Comments:

Anonymous keifel said...

i'm in and it should give me encouragement to start writing again.

7:38 am  
Blogger crazyfool said...

i'd love to fff again. been wanting to for sometime.

8:31 am  
Blogger Jenn said...

I could absolutely be persuaded to join! Mostly been writing plays/criticism recently, and fiction seems like a good idea right now.

1:35 pm  
Blogger My Chutney Garden said...

Hi,
Got this link from Lisa. Would love to join. When do the trigger words go up?
sharon

11:13 am  

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Wednesday, September 09, 2009

got crabs?

on my way out tonight (last night, really) as i pulled up to the traffic light on the foreshore where if you coming outta diego you could turn left (then quick right) onto mucurapo road, i saw a tiny moving creature in the road. swerved around it, realising it was alive, mash brakes and look back out the window to see a big-ass (for what it was) crab trying to cross the highway with its funny sideways crawl, gundis clicking. i started to get out the car to help her to safety, but other cars were pulling up to my bumper faster than i wanted to challenge running out onto a highway to rescue a crab. my mother would kill me if i get lick down trying to save a crab in the road.
still had a good night, but was haunted throughout by the thought of the poor crab i'd surely see crushed (and not in that good, callaloo or curry kinnah way) on my way home.
coming home just now, no (visibly) crushed crab, so with today's sunrise i give thanks and wish for continued crab safety, except where my belly concerned...none shall escape!
is a jungle out here...
walk good.

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Tuesday, September 01, 2009

best local bellydancer i seen to date





the television audition episode (bmobile dance off?) delivers even more lovely moves. walk good.

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