Dragons

Sep. 25th, 2017 12:44 pm
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[personal profile] alexcat
Dragons
Adopt one today!*Adopt one today!
Adopt one today!*Adopt one today!*Adopt one today!*Adopt one today!
And finally, the last of the Zyumorphs: Adopt one today!
My Scroll
charlie_cochrane: (Default)
[personal profile] charlie_cochrane
Over at The International Thriller Writers' Big Thrill site, where all this week we're discussing humour in thrillers. To joke or not to joke, that is the question...

I'll be sharing my wisdom (?!) on and off during the week, including replying to the comments already cropping up. Very thought provoking.

Poem #24: The Dinosaur Bones

Sep. 25th, 2017 11:29 am
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[personal profile] alexcat
Anyone who knows me knows that I love dinosaurs. I have loved them since I was 6 years old. When I was small, I checked out all the books in the library about them and drew pictures of them all the time. One of my classmates loved to draw them, too, and he gave me drawings. Oddly enough, we're still friends aft6er all these years.
So here is a poem about dinosaur bones.

~~

The Dinosaur Bones

The dinosaur bones are dusted every day.
The cards tell how old we guess the dinosaur bones are.
Here a head was seven feet long, horns with a hell of a ram,
Humping the humps of the Montana mountains.

The respectable school children
Chatter at the heels of their teacher who explains.
The tourists and wonder hunters come with their parasols
And catalogues and arrangements to do the museum
In an hour or two hours.

The dinosaur bones
are dusted
every day.


~~ Carl Sandburg

This would be a little like my dino drawings.
charlie_cochrane: (Default)
[personal profile] charlie_cochrane
Keeping up the recent historical theme with a bit of Promises Made Under Fire. This was the first bit I ever drafted of the story and it remained exactly the same all the way to publication!

First light. A distant sound of something heavy being moved. A thin curtain of rain—the sort of misty, drizzly rain that soaked us through to the skin. Prospect of something for breakfast that might just pretend to be bacon and bread.
Good morning, France. An identical morning to yesterday and bound to be the same tomorrow. Tomorrow and tomorrow, world without end, amen.
I looked up and down the trench. The small world I’d become bound in was now starting to rouse, stretching and facing a grey dawn. The men were stirring, so I had to get out my best stiff upper lip. If I showed how forlorn I felt, then what chance had I of inspiring them?
“Morning, sir.” Bentham, nominally my officer’s servant but in reality a cross between a nursemaid and a housemaster, popped up, smiling. “Breakfast won’t be that long. You and Lieutenant Foden need something solid in your stomachs on a day like this.”
“Aye.” I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything else until I’d got my head on straight.
“Tea’s ready, though.” He thrust a steaming mug into my hands. Add telepathist to the list of his qualities. Maybe when I’d got some hot tea into me then the world might seem a slightly better place. “Quiet, last night.”
“It was.” I was going to have to enter into conversation whether I wanted to or not. “I don’t like it when they’re quiet. Always feel that Jerry’s plotting something.”

More excerpts at the Rainbow Snippet Group.

Poem #24: Ode to Autumn

Sep. 24th, 2017 08:28 am
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[personal profile] alexcat
You can see, smell and even feel the season in this poem.

~~

Ode To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.


by John Keats

Poem #23: September

Sep. 23rd, 2017 10:35 am
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[personal profile] alexcat
This one is, unfortunately, still pertinent.

~~

September, 1918

This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Under a tree in the park,
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces,
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box.
Some day there will be no war,
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers,
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate,
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
To-day I can only gather it
And put it into my lunch-box,
For I have time for nothing
But the endeavour to balance myself
Upon a broken world.


~~Amy Lowell

Thriller roundtable - starts Monday

Sep. 22nd, 2017 07:47 pm
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[personal profile] charlie_cochrane
If you're interested in "Comedy and Humor in the thriller genre: Is it difficult to write comedy or humor into thriller novels? Is it necessary, desired, or just a tool to release the tension in some needed spots?" I'll be one of those discussing it from September 25th at the ITW roundtable. See you Monday for initial thoughts and looking forward to answering your questions.

 

Poem #22: Septmeber 1815

Sep. 22nd, 2017 11:20 am
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[personal profile] alexcat
September 1815

WHILE not a leaf seems faded; while the fields,
With ripening harvest prodigally fair,
In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air,
Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields
His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields
Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware;
And whispers to the silent birds, 'Prepare
Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields.'
For me, who under kindlier laws belong
To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry
Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky,
Announce a season potent to renew,
'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,
And nobler cares than listless summer knew.


~~ William Wordsworth

Poem #21: September Midnight

Sep. 21st, 2017 12:25 pm
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[personal profile] alexcat
September Midnight

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.

The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
Tired with summer.

Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heavy.

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.


~~ Sara Teasdale

Shell Shocked - free story

Sep. 20th, 2017 04:45 pm
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[personal profile] charlie_cochrane
"Shell Shocked" - a shifter story with a twist - is available to download free and gratis from my free stories page.

The lights, the recording equipment, the lairy looking rozzer.
I’ve never experienced anything like this before, never been in trouble with the police. Honest Billy, that’s me, always kept my nose clean; I even declare every one of my tips on my tax form. So, what’s Mrs. Zanderson’s best boy doing being formally interviewed under caution?
Doing his best to explain just how he’d got into this mess in the first place, only I can’t tell them the whole truth, for reasons that will become apparent.
“How and when did you meet Jonny Telfer?”
“A couple of months ago, in a bar. The Happy Return.”
“Had you gone there to pick up a fare?”
“No. It was pleasure, not business.”
And what a pleasure it had turned out to be, at least at first...

Read more

Poem #20: Sonnet 73

Sep. 20th, 2017 06:59 am
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[personal profile] alexcat
Another autumn poem and another love poem. You can never go wrong with a Shakespeare sonnet.

~~

Sonnet 73: That time of year thou mayst in me behold

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.


~~ William Shakespeare

Poem #19: Autumn

Sep. 19th, 2017 12:16 pm
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[personal profile] alexcat
Autumn Song

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the heart feels a languid grief
Laid on it for a covering,
And how sleep seems a goodly thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

And how the swift beat of the brain
Falters because it is in vain,
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf
Knowest thou not? and how the chief
Of joys seems—not to suffer pain?

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the soul feels like a dried sheaf
Bound up at length for harvesting,
And how death seems a comely thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?


~~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Dragons

Sep. 19th, 2017 08:30 am

Poem #18: The Tyger

Sep. 18th, 2017 07:25 am
alexcat: (Default)
[personal profile] alexcat
Simply one of my all time favorites.

~~

The Tyger

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?


~~ William Blake

Dear Trick or Treat Writer

Sep. 17th, 2017 11:03 pm
esteliel: (Default)
[personal profile] esteliel
Dear writer,

I’m very excited the winter exchange season is starting up again. It’s always my fave end of the year event, and I hope you end up having fun with whatever characters/prompts you end up picking! And in case none of the prompts in my sign-up appeal, here is a list of more general likes/tropes/kinks. I'd be more than happy to receive a story based on any of this, even if it's not something I listed as a prompt. Furthermore, I ship some of the people I requested, but I'm well aware that not everyone ships these characters or that we might only match on one character. So even though I listed several shippy prompts, I'd be just as happy with non-shippy fic that just has my faves interact, or character-focused fic that explores their canon lives some more.

Read more... )

Do not want: gore, modern/mundane AU (unless prompted)


General likes:

Forced intimacy of any kind! This is one of my all-time faves, in any sort of situation or scenario. People thrust into closeness before they are ready for it and forced to overcome their differences is always delightful to me. Any tropefic of the handcuffed-togther, bed-sharing, undercover gay, arranged marriage etc. kind is always going to make me happy!
Huddling for warmth
One character trying to protect another with their own life (or really any sort of loyalty kink!)
Enemies forced to work together
Epistolary fic
Hand-feeding
Hot, sweltering summer days/nights
Bathing/washing - especially if one character is taking care of another
Casefic, or any sort of action/adventure scenario where characters have to work together
Enemies to friends to lovers
Enemy hatesex
Emotional vulnerability
Unhealthy/co-dependent relationships
A character surrendering himself

I'm fine with dub-con/non-con/rape, unhealthy relationships, any kind of D/s, BDSM, power play or pain play. For further porny inspiration, my Smut Swap letter might help: https://esteliel.dreamwidth.org/454688.html

Poem #17: All the World's a Stage

Sep. 17th, 2017 02:00 pm
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[personal profile] alexcat
Can't beat the bard!

~~

All The World's A Stage

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.


~~ William Shakespeare
(As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII)

Rainbow snippet - Awfully Glad

Sep. 17th, 2017 04:49 pm
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[personal profile] charlie_cochrane
Bold Strokes have got lots of books on offer this weekend, including Awfully Glad. Here's a bit from this post WWI story about a talented concert party performer returning to civilian life. Plenty more excerpts of great stuff at the Rainbow Snippets group.

Sam couldn’t resist unfolding the note; he’d had these sorts of things before and they were always good for a laugh. The invitations would range from the innocent to the knowingly experienced, although nobody ever suggested something entirely obscene—Miss Madeleine gave an air of always being above such things. This would probably be the usual Might I buy you a drink? I know this little estaminet…

It wasn’t.

“I’m awfully glad you’re not a girl. J.”

Sam read it again, not trusting the evidence of his eyes, but they’d been right the first time. J? Which of the officers had that been? Jimmy, Jeffrey, Jonathan…Sam had forgotten their names already, even if he’d been told them.

But when had the note been written? After he’d taken his wig off and burst the little lieutenant’s bubble, he supposed, although if he had no memory of the thing being lodged in its hiding place, he equally had no recollection of somebody scribbling the thing—there’d been very little time for it, anyway. And how much more courage would it have taken to do such a thing in plain sight?

Awfully Glad final cover small

Happy Birthday, Dawn.

Sep. 16th, 2017 05:25 pm
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[personal profile] heartofoshun
It's been a while now since I first met you. I'm sorry that HASA is not around because I started reading and commenting on Another Man's Cage on there, when it wasn't finished yet--around 2005-6. (It is still my favorite--comfort food for my dark little Feanor-loving soul--without any close second. There may be better stories out there, including ones written by you! But that doesn;t matter. I still love that story with all my heart.) I know I knew you well enough to ask you to read my first Silm fic--a totally useless ficlet, which is still in existence, that I wrote in 2006. And then you Beta-read Maitimo and Findekano for me. There was no turning back for me at that point. We've barely had a spate in all those years--nothing beyond a few moments of irritation with one another. Usually me annoying you! I love ya so much, girlfriend, and consider you one of my besties although we are lucky to meet face-to-face once a year. I feel like you know me. Anyway, oodles of affection and big hugs on your birthday! (Wow! I cannot believe how old you are now!)

Have a happy, happy birthday and I hope you do something awesome and thoroughly satisfying this weekend.

Here's problematic picture of a long-suffering Maedhros. Wow! He looks fit after hanging from that cliff so long and they kept his pretty underwear with the Feanorian star for him throughout all of those years of torment and torture. He's no doubt looking good for Fingon who is due to show up and rescue him at any second.


Then in defiance of the Orcs, who cowered still in the dark vaults beneath the earth, he [Fingon] took his harp and sang a song of Valinor that the Noldor made of old, before strife was born among the sons of Finwë; and his voice rang in the mournful hollows that had never heard before aught save cries of fear and woe. The Silmarillion.
alexcat: (Default)
[personal profile] alexcat
This one reminds me of my mother who stubbornly hung onto life long after her body had given up.

~~

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


~~Dylan Thomas

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