Updates and Info from the long lost Fishbowl blog!

It is July. The end of July, even. So I shouldn't be telling you just now that the theme for July was Memento Mori, should I? I should have posted info from the last two meetings already. I should have posted writing prompts and assignments for July.

Sorry, friends. I turn into a pumpkin in the summer time.

Instead I will post writing prompts from the July 20th meeting, give you the theme for August, and (hopefully) get those creative juices flowing with an assignment.

David was in charge of the writing prompt on Wednesday, and here's what he brought us: "The bright Light, the tunnel, the floating up and seeing one's own body...ya da ya da ya da....How could we have been so wrong? about all of it. Would it have mattered? If I had only known....."

Red Scare
by David

...that the world is really ruled by the lady bugs. Crimson armored terrors enslaving all lower life forms. The second circle insects obey without question, carrying out their orders with brutal efficiency. Silent. Secret. Deadly work. The people lived in the light for so long and then the darkness.

The red darkness that blotted out the sun. The swarming pestilence that devoured the food, They had even converted all their mighty machines to run off fuel from crops. Easy targets. Naive prey. It took a mere decade. Total annihilation. The age of information and technology set as the red sun rose in the morning.

Untitled
by Jack
 I'm drawing a complete blank. And perhaps that's it. A complete blank. At the end of it all. It's what you see just outside your field of view. Nothing. Even if there is a hereafter of some sort, why would I understand it any better than I do the here and now. I see an afterlife of angsty, confounded angels and spirits, no more content, no more blessed or damned than they were in the world they left. Do angels have therapists? Wellbutrin? Do they sleep well or do they lay awake, get up from their clouds to go lay on the sofa in their celestial living rooms until daybreak?

 Untitled
 by Angela
 Screech...

"Dude!" The hand on my shoulder, my foot slipping on the curb. "It's your turn now!"

 "My turn?"

 " 's over. No need to cross now."

 Oddly, the morning fog seemed to obscure the street I needed to cross.

 "Dude!" the stranger repeated. "Go back, not ahead. There's nothing there for you now," he indicated with his head.

 "I've got to get to the bank..." I began.

 "No you don't. Not anymore."

 "What? There's been a financial disaster?" I joked -- ok, half-joked.

 "No need for money here."

 "I wish!"

 "Dude. That part is over. This is the next part."

 Despite the fog, light began to dawn. "What, I'm dead then?"

"Dude, what is death?"

 I chuckled. "You forgot your own line," I quipped. "It's 'What is truth?'"

 "Right. anyway, there's no street here, dud, no light, and no need to cross anything."

 "So what do I do?"

 "Go back," he said.

 "Wait... don't I get to go toward the light?? Did I screw up that bad?"

 He grinned and now I saw the glint of a gold tooth and the shake of his dreadlocks. "You're one of us now. The darkness and the light are both alike."

 Untitled
 by Me

 If I had only known it wasn't about the CGI effects, the floating Peter Pan  moment. They were there to be sure. The most important thing -- the sound.

 I could hear my mother's voice. She was crying and singing at the same time. I felt I had abandoned her. Betrayed her. I could hear the words of the song "You are my Sunshine." Was it memory? Was it now? I could hear the sound of cars rushing past, but it wasn't cars after a moment. The sound resolved itself into the sound of flights of wings. Thousands rushing in my ears, but her voice underneath it all pulled on me, pulled me down. Carried me away. And the betrayal vibrated down my fingers into my eyes and throat. As they vibrated there, they burned away, and my greatest failing burned away also. The wings rushed through me and I was good.

Good job, everybody. Gold stars for everyone!
For the month of August, we have a CINQUENTA CHALLENGE (imagine awesome reverb here)! Here's the idea: Write a cinquenta (50 word short story) using at least 17 of these 39 words. Why 17, you ask? Because Angela said so. Why are there 39 words to choose from? Because each of the attendees at the last meeting gave a list of 10 words, but David and I both had the same word on our lists.

Any form of these words is acceptable: lunar, spin, hostile, irrefutable, point, mix, backhoe, torque, potent, transmission, candy, banish, paintbrush, greyhound, goofball, snowflake, grunge, inflammable, drench, Oreos, book, trade, human(ity), red, desecrate, time, exhaust, carry, clothe, light, montage, sample, bosun, cheese, undone, wire, linen, buoyant, pantomime.
You can send your cinquentas to me, or bring them to the next meeting. Have fun! Oh! And extra points if you weren't at the meeting but can guess which word appeared on two word lists.

See you soon!
 Jessica

Summer's no Bummer

Two girls and a guitar. And an iPad was a rousing success even if only one other person besides the two girls was there to hear the new song. The crowd went wild. Just for fun, we'll be performing the song again next time, just so everyone can hear it. More songs are upcoming: details at the end of this post.

The next meeting of LFWG will be on Wednesday June 15th. "Flowers" is the theme for June. David will (hopefully) be providing the writing prompt for next time. At the last meeting, Angela and I choose three random words form a random book on a random library shelf and used those words to inspire our writing during a ten minute writing prompt. There were, as I mentioned above, only three attendees, but the writing samples came out great. The three words randomly chosen were: You, Never, and Africa.

Here is Jack's work.
You've never been to Africa. Or Australia. Or freaking Canada for that matter. Why exactly do you have a passport? It is kind of handy when you're filling our W-9s. It's only one document which establishes both identity and nationality as opposed to one for each, typically a driver's license and a social security card, but those both fit in your wallet, much easier to pack around should you suddenly and unexpectedly get hired and need to whip them out. Likewise, crossing a national border would require a minimum six hour drive or a plane flight, not likely to happen on the spur of the moment to already have the damn thing. $100 and an afternoon at the post office gone. Some day, you say. Africa. Australia. Tibet and the Temples and the jungles and deserts and mountains.
*a note on Jack's handwriting: wow. It took me over a half an hour to decipher this and I'm not sure I got every word correct. Sorry Jack.

This is Angela's work.

"You never take me anywhere." she grumbled.

"What do you mean, I never take you anywhere? We went to Sears last weekend!"

"That doesn't count!" She glowered across the table, her arms folded in her typical pugnacious stance.

"What - you mean like a vacation? Didn't we go to Six Flags a couple of years back?"

"Four years," she corrected. "Four and a half. And Six Flags is only eighty miles up the road. I mean a real vacation. Like... Florida or something. Or New York. Or... hell, Africa!"

"Africa!" he shrieked - yes, men do shriek when properly motivated. "Who the hell goes to Africa on vacation?!?"

"The Holmans went to-"

"Oh, is that it?" The shriek had become an oral sneer. "Mark Holman took his teeny bopper fourth wife somewhere and you just can't let me forget that you might have been his girlfriend once if you hadn't settled for a taxi driver?"

This last one is mine.

"Africa is the place I go to in my head when you are being a shit."

"What!?"

"I'm there. It's savannah or jungle or whatever, and I look out over the yellow grass or vines and monkeys and you are not there."

"Monkeys live in South America, Sweetie."

"Monkeys live in my f-ing head if I f-ing say so."

"Fine. Monkeys, grass, jungle. But not me."

"Exactly. You would never put yourself in Africa."

"It's a third world continent."

"So?"

"Water. War. Famine... Ringing any bells?"

"I'm not there for real!"

"Still..."

"Look, the fact is that when you are a shit, I go to Africa."

"I heard you. ...so... ...um... like now?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

For the next meeting of LFWG, I'd like to have another song ready for you guys. The last one turned into a very sweet little love song. For the next one, I'd like a break up/heartache song. Comment on this post with your ideas, broken heart stories and revenge fantasies, and I'll get cracking. Jack started the ball rolling for everybody with these words: "You can call me if you need somebody to blame. You can call me if you need somebody to shame." The more you tell me, the more interesting the song will be.

Happy writing, and sunny skies!
Jessica

Hearts, Flowers, Unicorns, and a Guitar

The next meeting of LFWG is this Wednesday at noon! The theme for June is FLOWERS. If you were at the last meeting, you know that we worked on a collaborative song, and GUESS WHAT? It will be debuted this Wednesday in The Fishbowl. I'll have my guitar, and Angela will bring her amazing iPad and play bass. So ya'll come!

Writing Prompts and Illicit Substances

Writing Prompts first, my freaky darlings, then we can get on to the second half of that title.
Karen was in charge of prompts for the month of May, and she came up with a great one for the last LFWG meeting. Each of us picked an object in the room and wrote about its future.

This was Susan's first time at LFWG, so her work gets to go first.

Continuations

by Susan

Battered and threadbare, the bag hangs in the closet. Doors open and close, coats come and go, time stretches, days fade in and speed by. Then the bag is pulled out, knocked against walls and bodies, stuffed with books and electronics, and tossed over a shoulder.

The Last Cakeball

by Ginny

The last cakeball, surprisingly enough, was left in the tin after the celebration. Angela was sure everyone would eat them all, and would have , herself, but they were extremely rich, and she could only enjoy one without them starting to cloy.

So there it sat among crumbs. The lid was closed and the box taken back home to the refrigerator, in the hopes that someone would enjoy it later. But no one did.

A week went by, and the variance of temperature in the refrigerator allowed the chocolate to flow and flatten out, leaving exposed cake base.

The Pen in My Hand

by Karen

What a limited future. This pen is one of the few objects in my life that will not outlast me. I suspect much of the grocery store food items have a longer shelf life than any of us do.

How odd to see our belongings outlive us - by centuries even. To think of this pen gives me some sense of satisfaction, of closure, I will not hand it down to a grandchild. It will not show up in future photos or in a museum display. It will not see flying cars or jet packs or the end of the world.

I will throw it away - next week, next month, sometime, soon. I will, barring act of God, not pass it on to live long after me.

Ballz

by Angela

There's one mint Oreo ball left, so Jessica pops it into a baggie and puts it in her purse. For long hours, nothing happens. Then Jessica hops into her van and drives to choir practice. She has a tray of confections, and she takes the mint Oreo ball out of the baggie and places it among its cousins. Very possibly one of the tenors (Zach? David? Christopher? - Ephrem would, but he's not there because his stepdaughter has a concert...) picks it up and eats it. His praise is lukewarm, so Jessica tells him that she didn't make that one, but nobody believes her.

Now, on to the illicit substances. Because Ginny had recently gotten a contact for her book, we had a little celebration in the Fishbowl. (Food is not allowed in the Fishbowl. We did a bad, bad thing.) Angela brought mint Oreo balls, and I brought Knock-You-Naked Brownies. Yum was had by all!
For June, David was given the task of deciding on the theme and writing prompts. The theme is FLOWERS.

Next meeting of LFWG is on June 1st at Noon. If I have gotten my voice back by then, I'll debut the 'song' we worked on last time.
Love, Peace, and Taco Grease!
Jessica

Reject-a-Hit

Howdy, folks! Yesterday we had a meeting, and if you weren't there, you missed some fun. Karen is in charge of writing prompts for the month of May, and she brought a great one courtesy of Writer's Digest.
"Ever read a book that's all over the bestseller charts and walk away from it unimpressed, wishing someone would've rejected it from the get-go? Or maybe you read about an author who was rejected 47 times before actually getting his or her bestseller published and think, I wonder what those rejection letters said? Well, here's your chance to have a little fun..."
Here are LFWG's responses to this prompt.

By David

Dear Ms. Crocker,

After many attempts to replicate the highly technical but rather bland works in your submission, we regret to inform you that we cannot publish your book. It made our stomachs curdle on many occasions. We found the language inaccessible and sometimes down right esoteric. The food was of the lowest caliber - peasant food, really. We wouldn't feel comfortable serving anything from your book to our dogs or cats. We hope that you will choose to stay out of the kitchen. Maybe you could take up sewing or macrame. Just promise the world you will take your red checked apron off.

By me

Dear C.S. Lewis-

Found your book about the wardrobe to be a bit over the heads of readers. What we are currently looking for is bravery stories, real boys' material, and all that sword and talking animal nonsense combines the worst of Winnie the Pooh and Snow White.

Sincerely,

Some Editor

Dear C.S. Lewis-

I told you to cut the sisters from that book. Too much girly - family stuff. And the white witch/Edmond business is a bit racy  if you ask me. Let's concentrate more on the fighting, but set it in England and more modern, please.

Sincerely,

Your Agent

By Angela

Parsons Publishing

Ferrara

Dear Mr. Boccaccio:

We thank you for submitting your work The Decameron to our house. However, it does not meet our needs at this time.

The frame story is no longer the prevailing style nowadays, and a single contiguous novel is far closer to the tastes of our readers than a collection of unrelated stories. Furthermore, several of your tales seem to be critical of the Church. Our publishing house is not interested in provoking the ire of the College of Cardinals at this time.

However, we encourage you to continue writing, and possibly consider sending some of your short stories to our periodical "Sex and the Plague."

Angela Borgia, editor

By Karen

Dear Sir/Madam-

We regret to inform you that the novel you submitted Harry Porter, etc. did not fit with our publishing needs at this time. Unfortunately, we feel your work would not appeal to a wide enough audience. Since we produce mass market books, your efforts would not fit our wide spread distribution needs. For instance, would girls be interested in the story of a boy wizard? We think not. This project just wouldn't catch on or prove very popular.

In addition, fantasy books just don't sell these days. Fantasy has become out-dated.

Perhaps if you changed your focus, included a female protagonist with a dead parent and added some strong female role models you could try again.

If you would like to try your hand at Reject-a-Hit, and see it here on the blog, send it to jrb123172@gmail.com. If you'd like to submit one (400 words max) to Writer's Digest, email it to wdsubmissions @fwmedia.com and put Inkwell: Reject a hit in the subject line.

The rest of the meeting was spent working on projects by Karen (Civil War, anyone?) and Angela (Climactic scene in her novel). David read another of his children's story books, and I brought coloring books. It was a fun a productive meeting, and I hope to see you all next time, May 18th.
Jessica

Road to Russia...

is the name of the piece by Barrage that we used for our writing prompt on Wednesday. For some reason, I can't find a link to it anywhere. Let's see if these writing samples give you a feel for the music.

by Angela

The girl put the headscarf down on her forehead to obscure her eyes. In the unfamiliar trousers she felt uncomfortable, different, but she stove to act nonchalant.

The marketplace was teeming with livestock and people. She crushed herself between two fat merchants and slipped several oranges into her scrip before anyone noticed.

"Boy!" someone shouted, but she was off, dodging between men and slaves, thrusting her tiny form into cracks in the crowd as a mouse. Someone might follow...

She dashed into the next street, the Nimandra Rua, where shirtless men sparred with blunt wooden swords, past the men's chorus shouting on the corner, and through a small, dark doorway in the wall.

"I have food!" she announced.

by David

The music again. No please not the music. Strident. Chilling. How have things come to this. I can't even think back far enough to life before. Before they came. Before I ended up here.

And yet the violin plays on... The bell no longer tolls. The piper no longer plays but the violin calls...

by Karen

(First makes me think of "Fiddler on the Roof," frantic and rapid violin - also of movie "Young Sherlock Holmes" music)

Most of all I think of a Civil War battlefield, of men of foot charging in the face of near-certain death, of men dashing at one another, so close their musket tips almost touch, of men rushing onto one another's sabers.

When the tempo increases, the battle grows more and more fierce, me falling badly wounded, men dying face down in muddy ditches, men dropping in lines, still in formation.

Horses being spurred forward, being shot out from under them, horses piled by the dozens on the battlefield - easier to shoot the men riding them, horses screaming their pain.

At the most frantic moment, the battle ends, so many dead they won't even be counted, only put into a mass grave by the hundreds.

by me

Playing with fire. She knew she was, but didn't care. The warnings were, to be honest, a spur. Getting out of the house was the trickiest part, but she remembered the one squeaky stair and skipped it. Her heart raced in the freezing moonlight. She could hear the voices carrying in the night, and felt her house looming behind her as she set off down the forest path.

She stopped just inside the ring of light cast by the dancing fire and looked at the white faces and bare chests around her.

Could you begin to hear the music in your head? Karen is in charge of writing prompts next month, and I can't wait to see what she comes up with.
In other news, the theme for May is night time. In the next day or two, I'll be posting April's last Cinquentas, if you'd like to submit one, I'll post it as long as I get it by tomorrow. For May, I'll publish haiku, so start sending them to me!
Thanks, and have a great weekend, everyone!
Jessica

Another Cinquenta!

Here's one from our friend Ginny:
The Thlothians

The Thlothians are personable enough, and their language was easy to learn. They have three fingers on each hand and it looks peculiar to me. On their spacecraft they looked appropriate enough, but when they helped me with my ship, I realized why they have problems: they can’t hold pliers.

Just a reminder: The next meeting of LFWG is this Wednesday at the Beaumont Branch. I hope to see you all there. Body parts are still the theme for April, and please be thinking about themes for next month. Thanks!