Sunday, March 31, 2013
Friday, March 22, 2013
Dialogue
Assignment: write a page of dialogue (with little background description) that is driven by subtextual motivation.
“Stunning,”
Sir Sventall said. He leaned his arm against the window sash, admiring the drop
off on the castle’s east side and the plummeting, pine-forested valley below.
“I believe I am in love with the Fauldish landscape.”
“I’m
happy to hear it,” King Anders said. “In the winter I like to sit in this room
for tea because it gets all the sun.” A servant rolled a tray to the table. “Sventall,
my friend, do take a seat. Cream and sugar, as usual? You know, I’ve been
meaning to thank you. This past fortnight you have been so liberal with your
time and your counsel, and I can’t think how to reward you.”
“Ah,
Your Majesty, invitation to the High Council is a reward in itself.”
“Come,
come Sventall! If there is anything, anything I can do for you, tell me.”
Sir
Sventall pushed back his cup and folded his hands. “I do not wish to place my
own burdens on your already laden shoulders, but there is one thing, Your
Majesty. I am under increasing pressure from my homeland. As you know, great
kingdoms must plan together, and Gera is not as patient a man as you are. I
need your decision. Soon. Now.”
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Prologue, by Edward Taylor
Here is someone else's work for a change. Below are the last 3 stanzas of a poem by English-born American poet, Edward Taylor (1642-1729). The Poetry Foundation website I linked his name to gives details about his life and a long explanation of his major works, but if you want the bare facts he was born in England to a weaver father, moved to America for religious freedom, and was the minister of a church there for more than half his life.
"I am this crumb of dust which is designed
To make my pen unto Thy praise alone,
And my dull fancy I would gladly grind
Unto an edge on Zion's precious stone;
And write in liquid gold upon Thy name
My letters till Thy glory forth doth flame.
Let not th' attempts break down my dust I pray,
Nor laugh Thou them to scorn, but pardon give.
Inspire this crumb of dust till it display
Thy glory through't: and then Thy dust shall live.
Its failings then Thou'lt overlook, I trust,
They being slips slipped from Thy crumb of dust.
Thy crumb of dust breathes two words from its breast,
That Thou wilt guide its pen to write aright
To prove Thou art and that Thou art the best
And shew Thy prosperties to shine most bright.
And then Thy works will shine as flowers on stems
Or as in jewelary shops do gems."
--Edward Taylor
Monday, March 4, 2013
Readers, Meet Wynna
Happy St. David's Day 4 Days ago |
Happy Hinamatsuri (Girls' Day) yesterday! |
I can't believe February is gone! Did I miss any other holidays in the first 4 days of March?
This is Week 1 of the fiction unit in my class. The assignment was to write a page about a character doing a mundane task that has a greater significance than the task itself.
Before work, my sister and I recorded our voices reading my response to the prompt, and when I came home six hours later, she had transformed it into a drama!
(Click here to listen along as you read)
"Boot Polishing"
Sleet
and wind had no power inside the Patrol Tower, where below it lay sleeping
dragons. Wynna sat barefoot and cross-legged with her torn, stained travel
cloak spread beneath her. The bronze chandelier sixteen stairs above her
provided the only light in the windowless mudroom. She flicked her long, dark
braid over her shoulder and bent over her work. The mouth of the stiff boot
came up to her elbow. She dipped an oily brown cloth into a bucket, then worked
it over the leather. She gave a watery sniff and rubbed her nose on her sleeve
for the twentieth time.
“If
Mother could see me now,” she said. Her voice was still raspy after the
blizzarded journey through the Logoroth Pass. Wynna chuckled, her chuckle
turning to an eye-watering, braying cough.
“Is
that you down there, Wynna?” Filip's voice rang against the stone walls, and he
appeared on the landing above, a bandage peeking from his gray collar. Wynna
nodded, the coughs squeezing her chest. Filip tramped downstairs and set his
lantern on the floor. With his good hand he pulled out a flask and uncorked it
with his teeth, letting it drop. “Here, a swig'll do you wonders.”
Wynna
gave the flask a look over the crook of her elbow.
“It's
that tea you gave me,” he said. “Go on.”
Wynna
reached for it and took a gulp. She blinked rapidly and gave a short, dry
cough. “Yes, I taste a hint of dandelion tea. What’s it laced with?” She corked
it and handed it back.
“Just
a bit of good old Hault mead. Reminds me of home.” Filip sat down on the
stairs, his shoulders filling up the space. “Warms your throat doesn't it?”
“To
say the least!” she wheezed. “Give me a warning next time?”
Filip
grinned and rested his elbows on his knees. “I didn't know if you'd take it.”
“So
you tricked me?”
“Well,
it worked didn't it?”
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