Taven Moore's Blog, page 33

Back In the Saddle Again

(You’re welcome for the earworm)

Not long ago, I decided that horses weren’t happening to me by accident and if I wanted them to be in my life, I was actually going to have to work at it.

Granted, my last attempt (volunteering at a stable which shall-not-be-named) was horrifying enough to put me off my feed for a couple of years, but I figured it was time I try again.

I found a local stable offering horseback riding lessons at a reasonable price. The adults-only class accepted beginners and was scheduled after work hours on Thursdays. Ten classes, each an hour and a half long — and which required you groom and tack up your own horse.

That last part’s key, and one of the reasons I signed up for the class. I don’t want to drive a go-cart. I want to remember what it’s like to have a relationship with a horse.

I’ve had three classes now (it should be five, but I got sick for the first one and one was called on account of severe thunderstorm warnings) and they’re simultaneously nothing at all like I expected, and far better than I had hoped for.

The teacher and her assistants are awesome. They’re firm without being terrifying to newbie-me, and they’re being awfully nice about my not remembering how to cinch a saddle up and not being entirely sure how to cue a stop.

We’re learning how to work with a horse. Not how to “drive” a horse, but how to give proper cues and why they’re the proper cues.

My thighs hate every second of it. There are about three dozen things I need to be remembering while at an extended trot, and I don’t mind telling you that I consider it a victory to keep six of those in mind at a time. (back straight, shoulders back, heels down, post!, hands up, reins firm, don’t-fall-off-don’t-fall-off…)

Rhea (the paint mare assigned me because she’s the gentlest with kids. I take no offense at this, and am grateful for a horse who is willing to work with a rider for whom “don’t-fall-off” is still tricky) is sweet and listens reasonably well for a mare who’s been hammered on by little kids for most of the day before I get there.

She and I successfully pivoted last week, and that’s pretty exciting stuff for me, even if I am having a hard time putting my weight in my left seatbone while motioning with my left ankle and NOT leaning to the left.

I’m a work in progress. =]

I missed the smell, which may sound incredibly stupid. There’s a horsiness in there with the dirt and the leather and the poop (yes, poop).

I come home exhausted and covered in dirt and my hands smell like horse for days afterwards.

It’s kind of awesome.

Related posts:

Getting Back In the Saddle
Horse Ranch Adventures

[Perry] The Bad Writing Challenge

So the lovely Bre sent up a challenge last week.

We were tasked to intentionally write the WORST piece of flash fiction we could.

In her own words:

“I mean, pull out every freaking stereotype, troupe, clique, bad word usage, bad descriptions, BRING OUT THE ADVERBS and vomit all over the page.

Let your inner polyester, weave-wearing, spandex-loving self out.”

Can I write badly?

Can I?!

Of COURSE I can write bad fiction.

I’m not 100% sure that Tami can…her attempt started as bad fiction and turned into something cute and adorable (if you poke at her enough, I’m sure she’ll share her endeavors), but CAN I?!

Oh hells yeah.

My masterpiece shall comprise the rest of this post…but what about YOU?

I echo Bre’s challenge and direct it at you.

Worst piece of flash fiction you can muster up, I want to see it. The WORLD wants to see it!

So I’m going to drop mine right here in this post, but for yours? I want to see some popping up their misbegotten heads in the comments.

This is not for serious.

This is not for critical acclaim.

This is for fun! Play! Play!

********************************************************

“No, Ronaldo. We can’t!” She said passionately as she turned away from him.

“Maria, you know that this is what your body desires! Search within your heart,” he beseeched her passionately. “You know it to be true!”

His long, luxurious locks blew back in the wind that came when he’d opened the door to her hours.

After she’d opened the door to her house to let him in is when the wind came to blow his hair backwards, down his back. He was dressed in a white shirt with buttons except half the buttons were not done up and faded jeans.

“But my husband, Ronaldo,” she cried passionately as she turned back to him. “But my husband will come back at any minute and then if he catches us it will all be over because you know how he gets when he is angry but he will be more angry because you are his twin brother and then angry at me because I am his wife and you know how he gets when he is angry like that because of his Latin temper.”

“I fear not the anger of your husband,” Ronaldo said, his versatile tongue rolling the R’s with the way his accent worked. “Come and let me take you away from him.”

“But we can’t!” she said with passion as her body leaned towards him anyways. “We can’t, we can’t, we mustn’t!” She cried as she lay her hands on the exposed skin of his chest.

She could feel his heart beating under her hands and it drove her wild with wanting and need and passion.

“Maria,” Ronaldo said, rolling the R’s again. “You know that i cannot live without you.” He said in a strong Latin voice. “Come with me Maria and we shall make love under the stars tonight at this very night.” He said as his gaze slid down her body.

“Oh Ronaldo,” she cried with passion. She could feel his eyes looking at her and it was driving her mad with wanting. “We cannot do this thing to my husband,” she said with heavy regret in her voice. “We cannot do this thing because….my husband is in a coma!”

Ronaldo stepped backwards from looking at her bosoms in her low cut dress and put a hand to his chest in shock as the other hand flung out behind him in surprise.

“My brother…in a coma?!” He gasped with passionate surprise. “What are you speaking of, Maria? How could this be?”

“Oh Ronaldo,” she said with sorrow and passion. “You must know how I feel about you.”

“Of course, Maria,” he said. His voice was surprised. “But this is a great surprise to me. How come Frank is in a coma?”

“Because, Ronaldo,” she said, and as she spoke, a wanting that could not be held back glittered in her dark and soulful eyes. “Because, Ronaldo,” she said again. “It is because I cut his brakes! And then his car got into an accident with a tree and then he had to go to the hospital!”

“Maria!” Ronaldo exclaimed with angry surprise. “Why would you do this thing to my brother? My twin brother and only family is what he was to me and you are the one that made him go into a coma!”

“I did it for us, Ronaldo!” She shouted at him as she flung herself at him as he stood in the door. But he did not put his arms around her, even though half her bosoms were hanging out of her low cut dress. Even with that, his eyes no longer went looking and instead, were angry at her instead.

“You scarlet harlot!” He shouted in a voice thick with Latin anger. “He is my only family, my brother! My only brother and you have killed him!”

“But he is not dead!” She cried passionately as she tried to kiss his strong, bronzed neck. “He is only in a coma!”

“But why?!” He shouted as he held her at bay. “Why would you only put him into a coma if you could have killed him so easily?!” He shouted passionately, trying to understand what the woman was saying.

“Because if he is just in a coma, then he is not dead and I will not lose the house because we are married! I know that you were always jealous of your brother, Ronaldo, but now, you don’t have to be jealous anymore because I will divorce him and we can be married instead and then we will live together in this mansion and have all the money.”

“I knew you could not be trusted,” Ronaldo said, with sorrow, but still some passion because he loved his wife.

Yes, his wife.

Because even as he said those words, more words were said with the same Latin accent but from the garage! Which had opened! And another Ronaldo came out!

Maria was very surprised and felt a pain in her chest.

“Oh my god,” she said with surprise. “Who is this?”

“I am Ronaldo,” the new man said. He was wearing a black leather jacket and cowboy boots with faded jeans also. “I am the REAL Ronaldo.”

Maria looked at the man she was pressing her bosoms against. “Then, who is this Ronaldo?”

“I?” The original Ronaldo said. “I am FRANK! Your husband! You tried to murder me or comatose me but luckily, my brother cares more about me because I am his only family and also his twin so he told me what you were planning and told me so that we could put together this trap to prove that you are an evil woman!” He screamed at her.

“I gave you everything and you tried to put me in a coma!” He shouted loudly.

“I am having a heart attack!” Maria said with great pain as she collapsed to the floor.

“Oh no, Maria!” The original Ronaldo (who was really Frank) said as she fell down to the ground and her heart stopped beating.

Frank looked up to his brother, Ronaldo, his twin and had tears coming down his face as he held Maria’s shoulders as she lay on the ground, dead from a heart attack because of her passionate surprise at what had happened.

“Ronaldo, my brother,” Frank said, crying. “It is only now that she is gone that I realize that I really loved her the whole time. What will I do without her? Who can I blame for such a tragic thing that has happened to me? For my wife to betray me with you and then to try and comatose me? Who can I blame for this?”

Ronaldo stepped forward and put his hand on Frank’s back, comforting him.

“I know who you can blame,” Ronaldo said surely.

“Who?” Frank asked with tears in his eyes.

“You can blame Bre,” Ronaldo said as he looked up into the sky. “It was her idea that set your pain into motion, Frank, my only twin brother, and it’s her fault that you have experienced such tragedies in a short time. So what the hell, Bre?” He asked the sky as it began to rain and the rain made his white shirt cling to his pectoral muscles.

“Yes, Bre,” Frank said, as his shirt also began to cling to his chest in a sexy manner. “Bre, what the freaking hell?”

The End.

 

Related posts:

[Perry] Writing With Heart
Writing Prompt – Pendant, Tea, Rabbit
In Which Writing Is Not Entirely Unlike Horses

Pumpkin Rice Crispy Shrapnel Cookies

I made pumpkin rice crispy treats.

It was my first time making rice crispy treats, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. Turns out, you’re supposed to let the marshmallow mixture cool before adding it to the rice crispy cereal, otherwise you end up with weirdly chewy, floppy rice wallpaper.

Which I did.

Thing is? The pumpkin spice portion turned out AMAZING. The flavors were zingy and awesome and SO good.

The texture … was not.

So my mom suggested we BAKE them, like trying to turn them chippy-crispy.

So I did that, and now we have hard little crunchy cookie things that are DELICIOUS but require some serious dedication to mastication to eat.

I’m calling it a win.

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On Beans and Lentils and Rice and Tears
Weekly Menu
Sounds Gross, Is Awesome – Prunes

[Steven] Videorama – Russian Accents

Bert Kreischer – The Machine

How not to get mugged

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[Steven] Videorama – Astronaut Experiment
[Steven] Videorama – How Schools Kill Creativity

C25K – Couch To 5K

So my cough is FINALLY subsiding, which means it’s time to stop eating ice cream and START getting moving again.

Steven found something called C25K (Couch to 5K) which is a training program intended to help you get from sedentary to running marathons in 9 weeks with only three 30-minute running sessions per week.

Sounds pretty good, right?

There are free apps to help you figure out when you’re supposed to be running versus walking (because who has time to keep staring at their watch and remembering “oh, minute and a HALF this week!” Not this gal.)

I’m starting next week. Week 1, Day 1.

Who is with me?

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100 Pushups, and Other Goals as Well
Athena
Time

[Perry] Wrenching Arms Off In Trampoline Accidents

Oh yeah, you read that title correctly.

So here’s the deal.

I’m slowly making my way through this story, right? And like, one of the characters in said story is missing an arm.

Like…just gone.

And this isn’t like the Joker in the recent Batman movies where she comes up with a new reason why she doesn’t have an arm anymore to everyone who asks.

Nono, this character just…deflects the question in a coy and smooth way so that the questioner doesn’t even realize that their question has been deflected until they’re suddenly turned around, doing her a favor, and still clueless as to why she’s missing an arm.

Now as a reader, obviously, I’m trying to figure out why she’s lost this arm, right? I’m sure you know what I mean.

Like, when you meet a character who’s missing an eye, you want to know how that happened. When you run into a character who can’t say “pumpkin pie” without growing somber, you want to know the story behind that. When you meet a character with scars along the sides of his mouth, forcing him into a perpetual smile, you really want to know how he got those scars…

And when you meet a character who’s missing an arm, you really want to know what the deal is.

Now, given the mood and the tiny hints dropped so far, I’m sure that the reveal will be huge. I’m sure there’s a giant, all-encompassing reason as to why she’s lost said arm.

Maybe she was trapped in a burning house as her family died around her and then she gnawed it off and swore vengeance against the bastard that did it.

Maybe she found that no one in the world could rival her martial prowess and tore it off herself so that she would be challenged.

Maybe it was chewed off by a demonic tree which then compressed the bones and carbon in her arm to form a black diamond which will then be used to bring about the end of the world.

Any of these can be true, and given the weight the story has given the mystery of the missing arm, it’s likely something portentous and heavy and dark…

But you know what I was thinking?

What if it wasn’t?

What if it wasn’t dark at all?

Tami has talked about authorial promises in the past. But I’m here today to tell you that maybe, just maybe, subverting those promises can be almost as effective as fulfilling them.

For instance, take said character with a missing arm.

You go the entire story with all the characters around her asking about it and wondering how she lost it and what the story is…and then right at the end, she finally reveals it.

Let me set the scene for you, okay?

Say it’s night, maybe the last night before the big, climactic battle. All of the heroes are sitting out around a campfire under the stars. There’s a pot of stew, simmering over the fire (because all fantasy campfires need to have a pot of stew over it), and the heroes are all quiet, introspective.

Finally, one of them breaks the silence and is all, “Hey, considering that we all might well DIE tomorrow…can you at least tell us what the deal is with your arm?”

And the other character perks up and is like, “Yeah! We’ve seen you do some crazy awesome shit in the past. Is it cause of your missing arm? Did you feed it to a demon for unholy powers?”

And the first guy gets all animated now and he’s all, “Or did you wrench it off yourself and use the bones to form that glyphic bone knife you use? You know, the one that unravels magical skeins?”

And they throw ideas and their suspicions and their hopes at the character with one arm, who’s always been very taciturn and dour by nature…till finally?

Finally, she glares at them to shut up and she reveals it.

She would stand, and the dancing light of the fire would paint flickering shadows on the hollow of her throat. Her wild black hair, never bound, would start to billow out and sway in the soft night winds. She would look down at the stump of her right arm, where she has all these glyphs and runes tattooed onto the mended flesh.

Then? She would begin to speak.

Her voice would be quiet and smooth. Emotionless, as she describes an indescribable trauma of her past.

For the first time, the other characters AND the reader would get to learn how she lost her arm. Characters and readers both, we’d all lean in close together, with bated breath, thinking that this is IT. That finally, we would learn the truth.

“When I as but a child,” she would begin, her voice calm and still. “My father brought home…a trampoline.”

And we would all totally blink, right? Cause this is SO far off the path of what we were expecting. But she would continue her story thus:

“I loved the damned thing to death. I named her Bonnie, the Bouncy Trampoline and I spent a lot of time with her…when I was young. But one day, I was playing with Bonnie while my parents weren’t home. I wish to god I hadn’t disobeyed them,” she would say, as a SINGLE tear, catches the light of the fire and slides down her cheek.

You can tell that the tragedy of her childhood still haunts her to this day.

“It was stupid of me,” she continues. “But I couldn’t imagine what harm it could do. I’d spent so much time with Bonnie already, I just…I just thought she was my friend.”

Her remaining fist would clench here, as would her jaw. “But she wasn’t,” she would say grimly. She would pause a moment…and take a deep breath before continuing.

“That day, I lost my innocence. She tricked me, you see. With her smooth bouncy surface and her gleaming steel frame. On that day, I learned that everyone will betray you…in the end.”

And she would take a deep breath here, set herself to really get through the rest of the traumatic tale:

“I came down awkwardly, and my right arm got caught in the steel frame. My arm was caught, right to the shoulder, but my body…my body was on Bouncy Bonnie and she would not to be denied. My body went up, my arm stayed below…and it just…wrenched it right off.”

It would be dead quiet around the campfire. She would relax her remaining fist and stare at the one hand left to her…thoughts dwelling on the betrayal of the trampoline friend of her youth.

“I’ve never used a trampoline since.”

And that’s it.

That would be the story of how she lost her arm.

No demon trees chewing it off to make apocalypse gems.

No tearing her own arm off as the bad guy watches, forming a lifelong enmity.

Just…a trampoline accident gone wrong.

And sometimes? Just every now and then?

That trampoline accident can be just as, or MORE effective, than the more traditional reasons. You’re subverting the audience expectations. You’re building up this huge mystery and mystique…and letting it fall completely flat instead of going along with what the reader thinks SHOULD happen.

It’s like a drop shot in tennis when your opponent is expecting a killer slam.

Think about it.

Haven’t you ever wanted to wrench off a character’s arm in a childhood trampoline accident?

And if you haven’t, don’t you think it’s a good time to start?

Related posts:

[Perry] Chapter Division
[Perry] Everyone Dies
[Perry] Be Careful What You Leave Out

Bad News

I hate to do this to you guys again so soon, but I can’t handle sympathy when I’m upset, so comments are turned off on this post.

For various reasons (none of which are her fault) we no longer have the puppy.

Obviously, I’ll be nixing the contest, but the current point totals have Faith in the lead, so I’ll still offer up the promised art prize, but maybe after a week or two.

Thank you all.

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Ego Contest Art 4 – Dire Wolf
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[Steven] Videorama – Astronaut Experiment

Astronaut Chris Hadfield performs a suggested experiment

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[Steven] Videorama – How Schools Kill Creativity
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Puppy Guess Who 1

Guess Who

Anyone else ever play that game? You and one other person have an array of characters, and you each draw a card and then try to narrow down which character you think they “are”. The first question is often “male or female” because you could narrow the field by about 50% with one question.

Points in this game are going to be fun because I want to do some art for the winner. It’ll be digital art, because I want practice, but the person with the most points at the end of this gets some art.

I’ll assign points for things I specifically say I will, but also randomly for whatever the hell I please, much in the way that QI assigns points.

Male or Female?

Which gender do YOU think Steven and I chose? 10 points for a correct answer.

IMPORTANT: These photos were taken by the breeder after last-minute random request on my part and they’re not 100% accurate. (I couldn’t believe they even took them, and was totally honored that they did) One of the boys shows up twice, and the “girl” in the last photo without any white on her front toes is actually a boy. I think one boy pup is missing, but he looks rather a lot like the boy with white foretoes and a white soul patch on his chin. That being said, the pup we chose IS IN THESE PHOTOS, as do all three of the pups we weren’t allowed to choose from. So there you go. A HINT!

The Boys

Note that two of these were set aside for the breeder to keep. Bonus points if you want to guess which ones they kept! (2 per correct pup guess)

The Girls

Note that one of these was also kept by the breeder. More Bonus points if you guess which one they kept. (2 per correct pup guess)

Related posts:

Guess Who Has Two Thumbs And Is a Paid Author?
Art : Eddy Lurves Squirrels
Art : Bikini Bulldog on a Beach With a Strawberry Daquiri

[Perry] Writing With Heart

There was another issue I wanted to talk *coughsoapboxcough* about today but…

But, I think I’m a little too close to the issue still to give a proper, objective view so we’ll do something else today instead.

Do you realize that you can actually tell when someone’s put a lot of heart into their work?

I mean, sure, you have to be at least a little bit well-versed or trained to see it…but you can actually tell.

There’s a world of difference between canned art, and the kind of art that lives and breathes.

There are writers who toss out a book a year like it’s nothing and, oftentimes, they read as if they’re being cranked out of some bloodless, mechanical process.

Then, there are writers who pop out this one book that blows your mind.

There’s music you can listen to where it all blurs together into a dull, sameness.

Then, there’s a song you listen to that reaches down into your guts and yanks it up to your heart.

You know what the crazy thing is? What I think is absolutely nuts?

The good stuff and the bad stuff can both come from the same artist.

All of this is meaningless without examples, so let’s start exampling.

Yes, that’s totally a word.

Take Tami, here.

Now, I love (to bits and pieces) just about everything that Tami’s written, even before we were friends. I actually snagged on her corner of the internet due to her Warcraft stories.

But does EVERYTHING she write grab me by the guts?

No, of course not.

But when it does…

Oh man…there are certain aspects of Tami’s work where…I feel like she’s put a lot of heart and soul into. Certain pieces of certain chapters where I can almost see her bleeding onto her keyboard to try and REALLY show me what’s happening or how the characters are feeling.

Have you read her webserial Choose?

Have you read the prelude chapter where she describes the origins of Bones? 

Because that shit will totally tear your heart out of your chest and stomp on it.

I can see the heart and soul that went into that chapter and it reached out to me.

A few more examples, for clarity.

There’s a guy named Bryson Andres. He does a lot of street performances with the use of a gadget that lets him record short snippets and play them on repeat so that he can add separate layers and tracks to his music himself while he’s out there.

Listen to this and tell me that this man isn’t putting his heart into the music.

For another example, I’m sure most (or all) of you have heard the song Wonderwall by Oasis.

And I’m fairly sure that you’ve likely heard a bunch of acoustic versions of the song as well.

It’s a great song. I like it a lot.

But Wonderwall never really HIT me until I heard this version of it. 

The song is great and I love it…but it sounds slick and professional. To hear another version of it, more raw and open with disruptions to the ‘perfect’ rhythm and timing that you find on studio recorded versions is…stunning. Powerful.

It has heart.

Finally, a last example.

There’s a song called Anna Sun, by a group called Walk the Moon.

Now, I love me this song. I think it’s fun, catchy, really upbeat.

But canned. Pitch perfect.

Then I run into this version, where they’re just sitting around in a living room as someone records it on what looks to be a cell phone camera?

Heart.

Soul.

Wrapping up

In a winding, long-winded way…I guess what I’m trying to say is don’t be afraid to put a little heart and soul into your own work.

Don’t always feel you have to be safe and conventional.

Don’t feel like it won’t ever be noticed when you bleed over a keyboard, sing with your heart, or paint with your very soul.

Not everyone will get it. There’s a chance that most won’t even notice…

But even if it’s for just one person.

Even if it’s just for that one person who will read your story, watch your perform, or see you dance?

If even one person sees the heart you’ve put into your work and is touched…

It’ll be worth it.

Related posts:

Writing Playlist
[Perry] Things to be Shared
Habits – Writing Space