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OpeningNo1

Submitted by cmsadmin on Sat, 02/11/2006 - 4:59pm

Interstellar war came to Autumn unexpectedly when a Symbiant Treeship materialized light-minutes from the planet, skimmed its atmosphere, and dropped through the sky. Flames licked at its bark and leaves as the Treeship ripped across thousands of kilometers. Two small pursuit craft appeared equally as sudden, weapons blasting, trying to fix on the Symbiant. One of the craft hit its mark, sending the Treeship spiraling downward to crash among the giant Whitewood Trees of the vast Wood Farms in Summerset Continent. The explosion from the crash threw a mushroom cloud of flames, dirt, and rubble at the pursuit craft and destroyed hundreds of acres of nearly priceless Whitewood crop.

OpeningsChallenge

Submitted by cmsadmin on Sat, 02/11/2006 - 4:58pm

|Creating Great Openings

Some of us at the chat last night (Oct. 25, 2004) decided to run another writing challenge to work up a few of us for NaNoWriMo.

Challenge: Write a paragraph (or a couple) that opens a story, max 100 words. These 100 words should "hook" the reader immediately. In honor of Halloween approaching, a horror-suspence theme is optional.

And the subs were:

TrackingTheMuse

Submitted by cmsadmin on Sat, 02/11/2006 - 4:55pm

Tracking the Muse

By Elizabeth Hardage

For once the ocean view matched Stan's mood: a grayish-green mass of water that roared and pummeled the sand in its rage. Rain lashed at the windows in nearly horizontal lines; on the remaining dunes the sea oats lay flat, as if they'd been trampled.

A sugary, familiar voice pitched itself above the din of wind and water. "Stan, Melvin's just been upgraded to a Category 5. Shouldn't we evacuate now?"

"Quit your whining, Mel, you know I do my best writing during emergencies. And a storm this size is downright inspirational."

"I'm not inspirational enough?" Mel's voice, synthesized to what the manufacturers called 'a charming Southern drawl', stretched the first word to three syllables, sounding saccharine and petulant at the same time. Generic Southern, thought Stan, closer to Grand Old Opry than to the soft, measured speech of the Outer Banks. Voices that echoed rolling waves, a hint of iodine, the huskiness and tang of good tobacco, all underpinned by the speech of Elizabethan England: that was the accent he'd grown up with and never managed to lose, one of the many things he'd never hear from his so-called Muse.

SwornToaMuse

Submitted by cmsadmin on Sat, 02/11/2006 - 4:54pm

eddy_currents

Sworn to A Muse

My fingers pause in their frenetic keyboard dance as I stare at the few paragraphs I wrote. The words all came easily enough, and they felt good as they flowed from my brain out through my fingers, but as I start reading what will shortly become another aborted creation, my fingers are already heading for the backspace key.

Another agonizing morning. Another waste of an hour.

The words are good. The sentences work well together. I have alliteration and parallelism, some descriptive metaphors, and a powerful symbol to tie everything together. My hero is sympathetic, my heroine is strong. I have a good opening hook, and it is set firmly in the jaw of my ideal reader.

RestraintByMuse

Submitted by cmsadmin on Sat, 02/11/2006 - 4:53pm

Restraint by Muse

by Dave Krenitsky

They served me the papers this morning. That stupid fairy and his body guard. I would have wrung his neck if not for that guard. Stupid demon. Three feet tall and three feet wide. He would have been taller if he stood on his knuckles. His arms were longer than my legs and more muscled.

"Now stay away from her," the fairy lisped. He did that just to irritate me. "She's done with you, move on."

"But, but... I need her. I can't survive without her."

The fairy just laughed and flew off. The demon watched him fly off and figured that his duty was done. "Stay away," he said and then cracked his knuckles and his toes. He vanished in a puff of smoke.

TheSecretLifeOfaMuse

Submitted by cmsadmin on Sat, 02/11/2006 - 4:52pm

The Secret Life of a Muse

Anneliese Fox

Being a muse was a thankless, dirty and often dangerous occupation. For security reasons, no muse was ever known by name, only by number. Even muse supervisors knew next to nothing about their charges. Their numbers, the case histories and immediate assignment was all. Since every muse wore an identical disguise and communicated only by email, it was also a lonely occupation.

Muse #46 was one of the best. She (all muses were female, or disguised as such) got the dirtiest, most dangerous jobs done with a panache that her peers adored and lesser muses never understood. So when the loneliest, dirtiest, most dangerous assignment of all came along, her number was at the top of a very short list.

TheTheftOfArloMuddleton

Submitted by cmsadmin on Sat, 02/11/2006 - 4:51pm

The Theft of Arlo Muddleton

by C. M. Amidon

A chill air descended on the late August evening. It was an unusual chill, thirty degrees below average; frost hung in the air. The wind whistled though the prairie grass. If not for the time of year, it would have been positively pleasant. The stars flashed in full forth; the Milk Way curved across the sky. Most nights like this I usually could see a meteor or two, but no such luck yet.

I sat on my wrap-around-porch, reclining in my favorite wicker chair, thumbing through a Montana Living magazine, once again bitterly disappointed about the abundant western mountain coverage and the unsympathetic scuttling of all things eastern. I put the magazine down and retrieved my pen and notebook hoping for a moment of inspiration before bed; that's usually when I get most of my good stuff out. For twenty minutes, I scribbled notes and sentences and grammatically gruesome statements until I was writing so fast my hand cramped and I had to stop. I swallowed my last swig of tea--and yes, I know how unfitting tea is for a good ole Montana boy, but coffee always makes my joints throb, and ever since I was little, it's been tea or nothing--and rose to retire for the evening. Suddenly, I swore the stars dimmed, the wind let loose, and a low bass drum vibration rumbled up the gravel road.

PelasGhost

Submitted by cmsadmin on Sat, 02/11/2006 - 4:50pm

Pela's Ghost

By Michael T. Marsh

1348 words

True Love's touch inspires, consumes, binds, and sometimes knots....

...My love, they bring you to me on a small ceremonial platter amidst ritual and solemn pomp for which I care little. The small crystal lattice, aglow with radiant reds, pinks and deep ruby swirls, no larger than a pendant draws my full attention.

The ceremony marking your passing and the offering of this lattice, your soul, into my keeping means so little. Let those who knew you only in passing, only in mask, only as husk, revel in their remorse and the ceremony=s comfort. For me, who knew you as lover, as friend, as self, soulmate and Muse; for me, who can still feel your touch, smell the scent of your hair, taste your lips on my tongue, knowing that all that is left to mark your worldly existence is this thing -- this artifact, this piece of technology -- rips my essence to shreds. I am halved without you, and I fear I am left with the lesser of the two halves at that...

MuseWritingChallenge

Submitted by cmsadmin on Sat, 02/11/2006 - 4:48pm

|Tracking the Muse

We were kicking around various explanations of why our Muses, from time to time, seem to disappear on us. Some of the ideas we came up with:

  • My Muse ran off to the Caribbean. Now she's in the path of a hurricane and can't be reached.
  • My Muse got call screening and has decided not to return my calls.
  • My Muse got a restraining order against me.
  • My Muse went hitchhiking, got bonked on the head, and now suffers from amnesia.
  • My Muse partied a little too hard and woke up in Vegas with a new spouse and a very interesting tattoo.
  • My Muse had to enter the Witness Protection Plan.

ThirdDate

Submitted by cmsadmin on Sat, 02/11/2006 - 4:46pm

Date the Squid

by Elizabeth Hardage

"Why can't you do steroids like normal people, Brian? Human growth hormone, maybe a little andro? Why do you always pick up the weirdest shit on the Web?"

Davey's voice had assumed its little-brother whine, a whine which irritated Brian on his best days. This was not one of his best days. The tension headache at his temples had just hit adolescence and, from the pain-blurred corner of his left eye, Brian saw his supervisor approaching.

"Drop the 'tude, Davey, and let me know when I can drop off a sample for you. Boss is coming and he looks pissed."