It seems one of the most neglected considerations in writing is form. Everything else screams for more attention: chosen topic(s), subtheme(s), genre, characters, plot, voice, style.
As for form itself, the decision usually goes along the lines of choosing whether to be a short story, a poem, a play or a novel. From there on, you’re supposedly not to think much about it, except how to structure the plot and cliff-hangers in the whole story.
Often it’s not given any thought, because one is used to exclusively writing in a certain form.
Photo by Ars Electronica
On top of that, publishers also push for certain formats, for example 50,000 words to the point, or not more than 100,000 words. So what if your story only works in two volumes or as a novella of 30,000 words? Well, you need to fight for it. This year’s Man Booker Prize went to a novel of 832 pages.
Be Inventive
You can be truly inventive with form. Rather than following familiar schemes, you can experiment and find your own specific way. In this age of radical change, form can also be a widely explored phenomenon.
Perhaps you can write in fragments instead of whole chapters, or switch between characters; introduce something new and only yours.
I’ve read a novel composed of blog posts, including people’s comments, thus weaving an interesting story bit by bit. Another writer has included all the editing changes he’s done at the beginning of the book.
Maybe you want to play with untraditional presentation and rather than going with a beginning, middle and an end, you mix or exclude one of them. You can invite readers to participate in the story or make three or four alternative endings to the story.
Be bold. Why not write one-paragraph chapters or alternate among points of view? Why not sum up one of your chapters’ events in a poem? It can work as a puzzle or a metaphor. Anything is acceptable. Anything is right.
These are just a very few from the top of my head. Of course, there are countless ways for you to play with. Just let go of any preconceptions.
Stand Your Ground
When something new is invented or comes on the market, people are hesitant and resistant. If you’ve been bold and followed your instincts, make sure to stand your ground once you’re done and face critique and opposition. You’re the sole inventor of your art and you know best how and why it works.
How have you experimented with form? What forms have you explored so far?
PRACTICE
Use part of your WIP and try to rewrite it in a different form. When you’re done, post both versions in the comments. It will be a good example of how things can be done differently and witness the countless possibilities.
As usual, support others’ by offering your feedback.
Thanks for the great post on form.
I like the idea that your form does not have to fit the form of everyone else.
This is why I like to think outside of the proverbial box. If you don’t, your form will take its shape …. square.
That takes a certain courage in someone whose first default is to do as one is told, or what the person one row over in class did, y’know. But that kind of courage is what it takes, and I’ve found this forum to be a good place to start developing it. The critics are, on the whole, very gentle.
It definitely takes a lot of courage, but writers are courageous in general no? 🙂
YES WE ARE!
Thanks, Sophie. Interesting article. Reminds me of the book I read (sorry, forgot the author and title, remember only the concept) where the book was composed of several stories which could be read from beginning to end, or from end to beginning. It was very clever: the story left you with a whole different impression depending on the direction you read it in…
The book I’m working on now has decided to write itself from the viewpoint of different characters. I’m finding it a fascinating experience. After two females, I have a male narrating now. I wonder who will provide the next pov…
…………The book you mention sounds really fascinating. If you ever remember its title or author I hope you’ll post it here where this voracious reader can see it!
It’s also fascinating (and I find it a lot of Hard Work) to write from the pov of several successive characters. I once did a piece from two different characters’ pov on this blog because that’s what that day’s post challenged us to do. It turned out well, so I know I can do it, but you really have to be on your toes as a writer and empathize with the different characters, get inside their heads and determine, from what you know of them, how each would react and what they’d do. I have to admire a writer who’s writing a book in that form! Good luck!
It bothered me that I couldn’t remember much, so I tried to remember more of the details for an internet search. If I’m not mistaken, the book is “The Third Angel” by Alice Hoffman.
As to my WIP, it’s sort of weird. I swear it’s not me. These characters are just insisting on having their say. There has been very little planning, just taking the characters along with me while I’m driving or doing the dishes. I do the research (I’ve had a healer, a woman who spins and raises goats and now an ex soldier, sort of, so I needed to check different facts), and they’re just writing themselves. I’m enjoying the experience tremendously.
Thanks for sharing the title Mirel. As for your WIP, my experience so far tells me that the best work comes out when characters insist on having their say. Don’t worry and go with the flow.
I felt mean giving you a whiff without the essence. I read it a few years ago, but I remember finding it interesting.
As for my work, I’m not worried. I’m having such a good time! I love it when my characters take over and tell me the story. They’ve revealed the most fascinating things…
Thanks for the info on Third Angel, and for the reminder that one must do one’s research for more exotic characters, that’s one area I’ve been rather spotty in so far — and thus afraid to write about characters that come from outside my own experience!
Thanks, and again, Good Luck!
I am reading a book right now that is 64 chapters long, but every chapter is only 2 or 3 pages in length. This format was a little difficult to get use to especially with how often the chapters don’t follow up with each other. But the more I get into it the more I realize it works for this book.
As for my writing, form is something I don’t get to play around with as much as I should. I do need to do it more often, because some of my best work comes when I break form.
………That’s interesting, 64 chapters of 2-3 pages each that don’t follow in tandem. Would you be willing to tell us the title and author? Voracious reader here.
I don’t break form very often at all (probably not near often enough), preferring narrative prose but I play around with free verse, and for today’s practice I found the challenge of writing a piece in prose and then free verse quite challenging, whether successful or not I’m still too close to it to know. But I think it stretched me in a good and necessary way, so it’s all good!
The book is called “Charm” by Kendall Hart. This book has kind of an interesting back story because it was supposedly written by one of the characters from the Soap Opera “All My Children.” It has been sitting in a drawer for years and I am glad I’m finally giving it a read. But you don’t need to have been a fan of the show to enjoy the book.
Sounds interesting. I’ll give it a try. Thanks for sharing!
Yes, interesting. I’ll give it a whirl. Thanks!
Original of WIP
Chapter1:
“Ladies and gentlemen, please
turn off all electronic devices and return your seats to an upright
position. We will be landing at Dulles
airport in 15 minutes.”
I close my laptop and look out the window, catching a brief glance of
the Potomac River, glistening below us like a silver snake. By the
waters of Babylon we sat down and
wept when we remembered Zion.
My throat seizes up, but I swallow.
No crying in front of Dad. When
he came down for Mom’s funeral, he insisted on flying Peter and me up the very
next day, but Grandpa Jack talked him out of it. I reminded him that I’m 14, old enough to
take care of Peter. If I show up
blubbering like some soap opera actress, it’ll mean Dad’s right, as usual.
The plane touches down with that awful bounce that always makes me feel
like we’re going to break apart. It
slows, then comes to a stop. I look out
the window, but all I see is other planes sitting on the tarmac.
A crackly voice comes over the intercom. “Ladies and gentleman, there will be a slight
delay in reaching the airport. Please be
patient, and we’ll get you there as soon as we’re cleared.”
“Oh, great,” a man behinds us mutters.
“I’m gonna miss my connecting flight.”
Several voices break out in protest.
The stewardess comes out and tries to calm people down, but that just
makes everyone madder. Finally, to shut
us up, she and another stewardess break out the trolleys and trundle down the
aisles, handing out free drinks. My
stomach constricts. This means we’ll be
here for a while, which means Dad will be pissed that the plane is late.
I whip out my cell phone and text my friend Kim:
brynzilla:
Plane landed. Stuck in waiting line.
kimheelz1: Bummer.
Free drinks?
brynzilla: Yes, but no booze.
Kimheelz1: hahaha.
The
plane lights blink on and off and I feel the wheels rumble underneath me. I
write: brynzilla: Off to meet Dad and step monster. Call later.
kimheelz1:
Just 15 weeks until T-day. Stay cool.
Finally the plane pulls up to
the docking station [what’s it called?] and stops. People begin opening overhead bins, pulling
out luggage, chattering. The man behind
us shouts that he’s going to miss his connecting flight and would people please
let him get through. Peter and I just
sit there. Maybe if we don’t move the
plane will either go on to its next destination or turn around and go back to
North Carolina.
Finally the cabin is almost
empty and the stewardesses move quickly and efficiently, removing cups and
magazines, straightening seats. One of
them approaches us. “Are y’all going on
to New York?”
New York? Now there’s a thought. Mom had a lot of theater friends in New
York. But that would just be putting off
the inevitable.
“No ma’am. We’re getting off here.”
“Are you traveling by
yourselves?”
Do you see anybody else with
us, lady? But I have been raised to have
Good Manners, so I reply “Yes. But our
father is meeting us.”
“Oh, that’s good. What’s his name?”
“Dan Reynolds.”
“I’ll call security and they’ll
let him know you’re here. He must be
worried sick about you.”
She hurries
away and I get our carry-ons from the overhead bin. Peter’s is a backpack, mine a quilted bag
that belonged to Mom. It still smells
faintly like suntan lotion and salt water.
I remember the last time she used it – when we went to the beach last
summer. Before the cancer came
back. Before the chemo and the throwing up and the hair falling out and
the morphine and the gaunt alien in the bed telling us we had to forgive Dad
and try to get along with him. Before
the funeral and people saying “I’m sorry for your loss,” as if we had
just misplaced her.
This is not keeping me from
crying. I glance at my brother,
who looks a little green. “Are you
feeling all right? D’you need some Phenegran?”
He shakes his head. “I’m
okay.” He folds up his sketch pad and
puts it into his backpack.
We start up the [gangway?].
Peter still looks like he’s going to hurl, and I feel my shoulders
tensing. It’s like the scene in The
Wizard of Oz, where Dorothy & co. are walking down the long, cold hallway
while a harsh voice [quote]. My heart
races and it’s all I can do not to run back to the plane.
The waiting area is full of people, craning for a first view of their
loved ones. Laughing, crying,
embracing. Babies, old people,
boyfriends, girlfriends. A woman in a
sari kisses two children in jeans and Disney World tee-shirts. Two old men in
Hawaiian shirts embrace each other. A
harried-looking mother in a turquoise jumpsuit tries to corral her umpteen
children, who bounce around her like jumping beans.
My father stands like a rock in the middle of the swirling crowd, arms
folded. When I was little, I thought he
was the handsomest man in the world, tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and
eyes. That was back when he still knew how to smile.
He sees Peter and me and strides through the crowd towards us, like Moses
parting the Red Sea. “Did you have a
good flight?”
“It was fine.” Gran would want
me to be more genteel, so I add, “Thanks for the first class seats. They were really comfortable.”
“Good.” Dad claps Peter’s
back. “How are you, son?”
“Fine.” Peter looks down at his
shoes and Dad represses a sigh.
My brother can be such a weenie sometimes. He’s eleven years old, for crying out
loud. But I guess I can’t blame him; Dad
was always such a Sports Nazi, yelling at Peter when he let a soccer ball get
past him or came in fourth in a swim meet.
Trying to get him to Man Up, which, in Dad’s book, did not include
drawing, reading books on art, or helping Mom paint the models she made for her
set designs.
He looks at his watch. “That
was a long flight. Let’s go get your bags.”
He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder and the three of us make our silent way
through the swirling, happy crowd.
* * *
Re-write
I really don’t know where to start.
It could be the day Peter and I hid in the tree house in our back yard,
listening to Mom and Dad yelling inside the house.
“I don’t want to move to DC.”
“What the hell’s the matter with you, Caro?” Dad was wearing one of his new expensive
suits, like the kind you see in GQ magazine.
I know about these kinds of things because my best friend’s mom is a
costume designer and has fashion magazines all their house. “This is the chance you’ve been waiting
for. You’ve already designed for
Wolftrap, for Christ’s sake, and . . .”
This is
boring. Bryn always wants to start with
Mom and Dad fighting and she has to get in right away that Mom was a big time
scene designer. But she was just Mom,
first. She was fun. She made up great stories that we acted out
in the living room on rainy days. When
it was cold she made grilled cheese sandwiches with crunchy bacon and Boston
baked beans, and we ate in front of the fireplace. She could chop wood. She liked to get up in the morning and drink
a cup of tea in the breakfast nook before the rest of us got up.
Why don’t you start with the obvious.? I
died. I am dead. I was dead, I shall be dead forever and ever
amen. When I found out I had Stage 4
breast cancer I didn’t want to go through all the hell of chemo and radiation,
but I knew I had to for the kids’ sake. I didn’t want to die and leave them with
either a) my parents, whom I love but who are Old Money snobs from Raleigh, or
b) My Darth Vader /Dan Draper ex-husband, who’d try to mold them into little
robots (can you mold a robot?) and send them to some exclusive private school
that would finish sucking the souls out of them before they’d be ready to go to
some Ivy League school. Bryn would be
fine, she was tough. She drove me crazy
sometimes, but I knew she could resist Dan.
But Peter couldn’t. He’d cave in
and do everything he could to please his father, which is impossible because
Dan’s never satisfied with anything, including himself.
You ought to start from the
beginning, when Dan’s father went to Vietnam and came back with a piece of
shrapnel in his hip and a black hole in his heart. I had married him before the war and I should
have had the sense to leave him then, but where could I go?
Dear
Friend. I have been here for 17
days. I am glad I brought my watch with
me, because the clock in my room is broken and it is always 7:10. They took away my cell phone because it’s
against hospital policy. I don’t know
why. Maybe it’s because they’re afraid I
will update my FaceBook status to Institutionalized. Then all five of my friends will know the
name of the hospital where my parents put me and they will stage a raid to
rescue me.
I don’t know
who you are but I hope that I will meet you some day. I will know that you are the kind of person
who won’t get freaked out about why I tried to kill myself. If they ever let me out. I am not exactly what you would call “cooperative.” I told Dr. Simmons, our group leader, that he
was full of shit. Then when Natalie
started crying about her boyfriend leaving her, I told her at least he is still
alive and she could get back with him if she were such a bitch. Then I told Brian to quit looking at my
breasts. And I threw a chair at
him.
So now I am on
“suicide watch.” Somebody walks by my room and wakes me up every two hours with
a flashlight. They make sure I swallow
my pills when they give them to me so I am not saving them up to take an
overdose later. Believe me, if they had
ever had their stomachs pumped they would know I wouldn’t try that way again.
I hate being
watched all the time so I am trying to do what they want me to so they will
give me some privacy and restore my computer privileges. Are you reading this, Nurse Ratshit? Then that means you’ve found where I hide my diary. In that case, enjoy the drawing I did of you
and let me tell you that all of the patients hate your guts. Except for Brian, who thinks you have “huge
jugs” (his words, not mine).
In my future
friend is reading this, then I guess I fooled the nurses and Dr. Simmons and
all the nosey parkers around here. So
now YOU are reading my journal and empathizing with me. I hoped you like the drawing I did of Nurse Ratshit. She really looks much worse than the drawing.
Love always,
Colleen
Author’s note: Holy crap, I might have a much more
interesting book if I threw out everything I have written so far and just wrote
about Colleen.
Jules, The Colleen section is strong, but I have to honestly say I was totally hooked by your original WIP. The description of the airport scene was especially compelling.
That’s the fun, isn’t it? You write and write and write, and who knows where you’re liable to end up? With a whole new character maybe.
I like Colleen — she’s cool. Got a lot of life in her!
This is the same story? Wow. What a difference. Both are very, very good. But very, very different.
Feels like stepping out on a limb — I’m a bit uncertain about my free verse in #2, but here it is, in hopes that it honors the living as well as the dead:
1.
They had chosen Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major as their processional, and the pianist gave the high, airy and soaring strains every bit of the fresh sweet delicacy they deserve; as he watched his bride precede him down the aisle on her father’s arm, listing slightly to one side, he felt tears burn his throat. Scenes of the past six months ran in his mind: their first lingering kiss in the parking lot to the glad gasps of two of their friends who’d walked around the corner of the building just in time to witness it; the first sweet dark night; moving in together – all of this surrounded by the pink cloud on which they still stood this happy day, blissfully unaware of the future.
She had made him wait until she got her prosthesis — “I am going to walk down the aisle, not roll in a chair” — and her little list with every other step as she made her way made him love her more than ever with the realization that this quality of love lifts the human heart to a level of life not dreamt of before. At the recitation of vows, when the minister called their names, the difficult pasts they had each lived flashed through his mind, and he felt that theirs were names on a Schindler’s List of redemption and mercy no less than those storied Jewish rescuees. She looked him in the eye, knowing, she felt sure, the worst as well as the best of him, and said, “I do”, with a small secret smile on her lips.
The eventual rueful knowledge that one marries not just a spouse but all the pre-existing family, the issues, the arguments and fights, his challenges added to hers, the unavoidable, subconsciously foreseen collision with the fact that her condition is an infamous killer, his sister’s unrestrained sobs in the ICU waiting room, and seeing the love of his life breathe her last, lay hidden in their future.
2.
How’d that old song go again
Berlin’s but we made it ours
“not for just an hour
not for just a day
not for just a year, but — ”
we often sang it for friends
on unsteady legs knowing
the unlikely wonder the fragility
but ultimately the staunchness
of the young and scarred gamely
optimizing faith-filled
but braced braced
for the next blow on some
other some alien intimate
wary knowing level
and loved strong as that old river
full-tide down in the evergreens
having learned in the darkness
of the secret heart
that the end
is sweet
I’m impressed John. Really really liked it. I’d work a little on the verse, just for tidying up, but that’s about it.
Thank you Sophie. And I will do that!
Wow! Left me with the shivers. Very eloquent. Would you consider adding punctuation/commas to the verse? But then, verse is not really my forte, so maybe not.
I like the idea of leaving off any punctuation, as I’ve seen others do, but I will look at it and re-consider, you may be right!
Thanks for reading!
This is one reason I love writing so much–there’s sooo many different ways to do things. I’ve recently started working on a story that I see as being a two-part series, the first part a book of short stories and the second part a novel. I also had an idea to write a novel in fragments, from three different characters’ first-person, present-tense point of view (I haven’t done that yet though so not sure how it’s going to go).
I wish you the best of luck, and enjoyment of course.
One WIP, two ways.
#1
This time the Boots are coming for me. I check the box of soap flakes to make sure the top of the book is fully covered and arrange it again next to my ration of porridge. I hear the steel door in the lobby clang open and strike the entry wall. The staccato of boots on the cement stairs rises in a crescendo as more and more swarm into the building towards me. They are at the second floor landing, now the third, now the fifth and onward and upward they come. Seventh floor landing, down my corridor, at my door. They come. The metal knob on my door turns and clicks – it is never locked – and the door swings open and taps the wall gingerly. Three Boots enter my room while the rest line up in the hallway, waiting for orders. Number one steps forward and scans the dim room until he spots me huddled in the corner. I think it best to huddle, everyone cowers at the sight and sound of the Boots. I will give them no reason to think me an abberation.
“Second” said Number One, “read this citizen its violation.”
“Violation 9042, Act of Non-Conformity. It stepped out of the ration line. Violation 9904, Acts of Curiosity. It was observed staring at the sky. Violation 604, Speech. It was observed speaking in the ration line. Violation 4, Perimeter Contact. It was observed touching the north wall.”
“The citizen will report” said Number one. My lip twitched. Acts of curiosity? If these offenses are all they know about, I will have to be careful of what I say.
“Speak” said Number one. Second and Third step toward me, batons raised.
“I wanted lentils. I offered to trade my porridge ration for lentils.”
“The sky” said Number.
“Ash blew in my eye, I looked up to see if clothes were being shook out above me.”
“The north wall” said Second.
“I lost my balance shaking a rock from my slipper. I steadied myself against the wall.”
Second and Third looked to Number one for orders.
“Trading violates the rules. Porridge has been assigned to this citizen. Third, ensure it only has porridge.”
Third goes to the shelf and takes down the porridge box. Inside there is only porridge. Third hands the box to Second. Third snatches the only other box from the shelf. The soap flakes. Third opens it with a menacing grin and pulls out a handful.
“Soap flakes” Third said, voice full of disappointment. Third puts the box back on the shelf and then knocks it over with his baton. Grey flakes pour out and onto the floor. My heart stops and my eyes go wide. I can see the white pages of the book popping out of the end of the box. If the Boots look now, they will see it too.
“Problem, citizen?” Number one said, advancing to stand over me.
“My porridge ration” I manage to say around my dry tongue.
“Second” Number one said, “give the citizen its ration.”
Number one strides out my door followed by Third. Second’s large shadow falls across me, blocking out the light from the hall. I focus on the boots, grey and dusty, made of heavy material. The soles and the toe are both covered in dull steel. I watch that boot draw back and feel the air leave me as the boot crashes into my gut. I double over and the room explodes in sparks when Second’s baton cracks across my back and neck. I cough, sputtering blood into the ash and soap on the floor. Second’s boot steps on my neck and crushes my face into the bloody grit. I lie still until the boot leaves my neck. I listen as it roars across the room and out my door. The thunder of boots on the stairs fades and marches away into the permanent dusk. I rise to my knees and wipe the sudsy, gritty blood from my face onto my sleeve. I scoop up soap flakes from the floor and pour the whole mud coloured mess into the box.
It’s time to leave this place.
#2
status = [Citizen 309, violation #9042: Acts of non-conformity (note: out of ration line)]
/c command = Initiate report #309-2017, infraction 1
status = [Citizen 309, violation #9904: Acts of Curiosity (note: sky stare)]
/c command = amend report #309-2017, infraction 2
status = [Citizen 309, violation #604: Speech (note: Citizen 1408, Citizen 1312, Citizen 209)]
/c command = amend report #309-2017, infraction 3
/c command = Initiate report #1408-2017, infraction 1
/c command = Initiate report #1312-2017, infraction 1
/c command = Initiate report #209-2017, infraction 1
status = [Citizen 309, violation # 4: Perimeter Contact (note: north wall)]
/c command = Initiate visitation, infraction 4
/k command = Force 13 assemble: Line 16/door 5/level 7/unit 309
status = [Citizen 309, questioned]
status = [Citizen 309, monitoring]
Wow, Missaralee! That’s a very creative way to rewrite that passage! I especially liked how the second version demonstrates how heartless and robotic this society has become through the way the records are written.
This story sounds very intriguing, and I for one would love to read more.
“Congratulations…” Karina whispered breathlessly, “You’ve defeated me…”
She smirked.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Why, when she had been defeated, her power obliterated, did she still look at us that way, when we held all the cards, as if she still held the ace? I turned to Arthur and by the pensive scowl on his face, he had been thinking the same. Then, instantaneously, he grabbed her by the collar of her shirt, and looked her directly in the eyes.
“What do you know?” Arthur growled through gritted teeth.
She cocked her head back and gave a mournful little laugh. Arthur grew impatient.
“What are you not telling us?!” he barked, shaking her by her shirt collar.
I grabbed hold onto his arm. He needed to calm down, if anything good were to come of this. He released her at once, hopefully having come to the same realization. At last, her melancholy chuckle died away, and she stared at me intently for a moment, as we locked gazes. Something in her had changed, the raging fire of hate that had burned in her eyes only minutes ago, had reduced to a flickering ember. She uttered slowly, her tone melancholy but still carrying hints of her familiar sass and sarcasm
“You think it’s all over don’t you? You honestly think, that now that I’m out of the way, your lives will return back to normal?”
Arthur and I exchanged wary glances. We didn’t know what to think. We knew things would never be the same, but we had hoped they could only become better, compared to the months that had passed.
“Ha!” she exclaimed, despairingly, “You…you know nothing!”
And with that, she extended both her arms, upwards to the sky, to the moon that was covered by a dark, ominous cloud, and almost instantaneously, a black funnel of wind and leaves descended and surrounded her, forcing Arthur and I back, shielding our eyes from the tornado-like wind. Then, it died away as quickly as it had started. There, in the epicenter of it all, where Karina had been, was a girl with startling blonde hair, and brilliant blue eyes, and a dazzling white dress, similar to the one I had stumbled in all those nights ago. Arthur and I could do nothing but look on, awe-struck (you would think we’d get use to this sort of thing by now) as the girl took a few feeble steps towards us, too weak to go any further. She spoke in an impossibly familiar voice,
“You really do know nothing…” and with a regal air added, “I am Karina Collins, Seventh Swan Maiden of the 115th court of the Cygnet and the Huntsman….”
“One condemned by hate, to be saved by love…” I muttered.
Then, she collapsed.
———————————————————————————————————————
“Congratulations…” Karina whispered mockingly, “You’ve defeated me…” As soon as the words left her lips, her mouth crept into a sneer. She knew something. It was then that I realized that this all seemed a bit unreal- our battle, her demeanor- it all seemed too easy. I glanced at Elizabeth’s face. She wore an expression of confusion and distress, which caused something to snap inside of me.
I lurched forward and held Karina by the collar of her shirt, locking my furious gaze with hers, which was full of simmering contempt.
“What do you know?” I growled through gritted teeth. Her eyes smiled maliciously in response, and she laughed, as if my frustration amused her. My patience vanished at the sound of that laugh. “What are you not telling us?!” I fumed whilst shaking her, out of sheer vexation. Before I had the chance to interrogate her further, a soft yet strong hand gripped my arm tightly. Elizabeth stared at me intently, her eyes pleading, and I let go of Karina roughly. Once again, my emotions had usurped control of my actions. I stood beside Elizabeth defensively, as Karina stared her down. Then, Karina muttered in a melancholy tone unlike her, “You think it’s all over don’t you? You honestly think, that now that I’m out of the way, your lives will return back to normal?” Elizabeth and I exchanged wary glances. We didn’t know what to think. I only hoped that things would become easier, and that we could finally lead somewhat normal lives after all this…possibly together. “Ha!” she exclaimed, despairingly, “You…you know nothing!”
She then raised her arms up above her head, forming a ‘V’ and tilted her arm towards the sky where the moon was hidden behind a black, ominous cloud As she did so, a twister of an even blacker wind descended, furiously whipping leaves about and engulfing Karina whole, so that we lost sight of her. Elizabeth and I were knocked on the ground and had to hold to each other so that we would not be sucked in ourselves. Then, it stopped and dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. We rose again to our feet, and stared in disbelief at the figure that lay crumbled on the forest floor, what had been the center of the dark cyclone. Before us with a girl with startling blonde hair and equally startling blue eyes, clothed in an immaculate white gown, not unlike the dress Elizabeth had worn the first night I saw her at the lake. To our surprise, the girl rose to her feet and took a few shaky steps towards and said in a voice that was eerily familiar, “You…you really do know nothing.” She lifted her head so we could see her face and added in a regal tone, “I am Karina Collins, Seventh Swan Maiden of the 115th court of the Cygnet and the Huntsman….” Elizabeth took a shaky gasp and muttered, “One condemned by hate, to be saved by love”. Then, Karina wavered and collapsed on the forest floor.
The first post was written a year ago, so that’s why the wording may sound less mature then the second post which I wrote today. (It took me longer than 15 minutes. Sorry!). I hope you guys enjoy them.
First post. Here goes nothing.
Aleksei and Tova were the perfect match. The former was a fire-hearted revolutionary who’d spent much of his life in a prison camp, as evidenced by his weak, thin frame, shot joints, scars, right eye blindness, and aversion to people. He always walked with the aid of a cane, even though he wasn’t even forty. Tova was a pedigreed dog dumped on the side of a road due to conformation faults. He served as a bait dog in a back alley dogfighting ring and escaped death several times. He had ripped ears, a scarred muzzle, and arthritis in his hips even though he was only five years old. The two were wounded warriors with a hatred of their respective species. And now they were both famous. Tova thought nothing of the ribbons pinned to his collar, the framed paper legitimizing his NOC title, the money (nearly five grand in total) given to his owner, the cameras snapping all around him. Aleksei, on the other hand, could’ve cried from happiness. He looked down at the collie seated at his side, smothered in the lei of ribbons around his neck, his body nicely outlined by all the frames of his previous titles on the wall behind him. His dog was a recognized champion. He, a Russian immigrant with barely any vitality left in his body, who understood only nominal English and had no money (until now), had an NOC dog. His mind went back to the Caucasian shepherds used to patrol the prison he had been in. For all their rigorous training, they were too aggressive and barely minded their handlers. And right here next to him was a viciously dog-aggressive collie with an NOC title.
***
I happened to be present at the ceremony honoring Tova’s NOC win. I was just Aleksei’s neighbor and in all honesty had no business being there, knowing nothing of the world of competitive dog sports, but I went anyway. The pair were standing against the wall, thronged by a small mob of obedience club members and news reporters alike, all congratulating the two on their latest win. Aleksei was smiling and laughing, but his social awkwardness was definitely showing. I waited a moment until the crowd dispersed a little before making my approach.
“I feel congratulations are in order,” I said when I finally stepped up to him.
“Thank you.” He turned his gaze from me over to some indiscernible point at the back of the room.
“I have to ask, why obedience? Why this competition? Why go so high up?” He dropped his gaze to the floor, as though thinking, but I’m sure he was trying to summon the physical and mental strength to deal with yet another person asking the same dozen questions all over again.
“To prove I’m still capable of controlling my life. I wanted to show the world what I could do. I challenged myself to put this title on my dog in one year, and I did. Excuse me,” With a heel command, he set off for another corner of the room, trying to sneak out without being noticed.
***
Meh, the ending on the second piece is as good, but I wasn’t quite sure how to wrap it up. And if anyone is wondering, an NOC title is the highest title in competitive obedience. It stands for National Obedience Champion. The competition is held once a year, and only fifteen dogs are allowed to compete.