She talks to wolves...

As part of my celebration of International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day, I am planning to commit Twitterfic! However, I am definitely going to need your help for this one. It doesn't necessitate already having a Twitter account, but being previously active on Twitter does help. Read on to find out how to participate!



Twitterfics are incredibly concentrated bursts of creativity: microfiction of 140 characters or less. Here are two examples that I've featured here before, both comprising noirish takes on fairy tales:

1

He should've known the ballerina was trouble with her killer paper gam. Yet he smiled as he burned: she'd flared out first.

2

"You got in the way of a good thing, grandma," she said, as her lover's canines snapped tight on old flesh and housecoat all.



So, interested in seeing me write more? Join in the fun and give me a prompt! Send me a tell directly on Twitter @talkstowolves with a single word* and a theme: I'll write whatever you inspire!

If you don't have a Twitter account, you can still participate: just leave your prompts here, and be sure to check my Twitter feed throughout the day.



* I suggest using evocative words on the short side: I only have 140 characters to craft a tiny story, and longer words will eat up space.

This entry was originally posted on Livejournal. You can comment here or there.

Speaking of giving work away for free, cadhla has been doing it for years, both in the form of Iron Poet and her awesome poetry tutorials. Because I am mad like a mad thing and also enjoy learning shiny new skills, I have also been known to engage in a round of Iron Poet or two and also to use cadhla's tutorials to practice new poetry styles. (I even composed a Lover's Chain. No, you don't get to see it. Unless you're the person it was meant for, in which case you already have.)

For the third annual International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day, I have decided to share some of my apprentice labors with you all! (Don't laugh too hard. Constructive criticism's okay. ;))

First, a triolet inspired by Desire from Neil Gaiman's Sandman:

"Eyes of Desire"

Your eyes amber, the color of dunes,
burn me like the sun sears the sky.
What is this desire that within me blooms?
Your eyes amber, the color of dunes,
cut me deep, leave me bereft as the sea croons,
lapping against the shore, a desirous cry.
Your eyes amber, the color of dunes,
burn me like the sun sears the sky.



Second, a tilay:

"A Nap Beside the Quiet Sea"

When She hums an elegant tune,
my heart is put at ease once more.

The elegance is of sussuration:
a sea rising and falling in gentle breathing
and blue tones in my mind set to softly seething.
She invokes movement of imagination.

Whole worlds spiral; I fall to sleeping curled:
a double helix of stars slowly revolve here
in my heart, in my eyes as I lie sleeping there
and I recall when I first walked this world.

This, the meaning of dreaming's core:
my weave revealed in Mother's croon.



And, lastly, a Variant Italian sonnet:

"Gather No Hyacinths"

The past echoes,
sinking through dreams, deep into blood and bone:
a body-map of what was
drifting from you like smoke from fire.
How do we set this down, a book read,
consumed, left to seep into
the background of life unfettered?
Why stand still in startled rue?

The past echoes,
stirring a memory of eyes: grey stone,
and a cheek slapped because
your wings spread and took you higher.
Can we not set this down, a book read,
some pages torn out, held true,
on your heart stenciled and lettered?
Why still stand in startled rue?

When can we set this down, a book read,
cast off for its foolish view?
Will we live a life undeterred,
leave this life of startled rue?

I will scatter past ashes
with no sense of startled rue.

For International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day, I am offering up a short piece of fiction that was published in Huntingdon College's The Prelude in 2001 (and was given away for free then, too). I wanted to create something new for this day, but it didn't get done and I'm actually drugged up due to a migraine right now. So I hope you'll forgive the digital reprint.

To Live
by Deborah J. Brannon

He lay upon the woodland floor, body bathed by the morning dew. The fingers of dawn caressed his body, strengthening as the moments went by, until they touched his eyes, picked them out of the shadow of night: a glitter of darkness, already open to this new morn.

His body remembered what task lay before him, though his mind lingered yet in the dream mist. He rolled to his feet, shaggy, fair hair brushing his shoulders; his step as he picked his way to a nearby stream was light as a wary doe's. His kind had learned to be quiet, in order to evade enemies, seek food. And the ribs now rising in sharp relief assured that no misstep would today cost him his quarry.

The man knelt beside the rushing water, delved his cupped palms into the stream to bring water to his parted lips. As he slaked his thirst, his eyes roamed the landscape about him, alert as any woodland creature.

He counted six magpies singing their raucous song and very nearly smiled. He was lucky not to have any needlessly small and shiny thing of value with which to tempt the little ones. He turned away, startled a hare he had not noted before, harvested some berries from a near-withering plant. They were bitter, but food, and made his last few strips of dried venison easier to swallow cold. He would need all his strength for what he must accomplish today.

Survival.

He'd ranged from his home-- more than a full day's stride-- seeking and following this small herd of deer. Once he'd picked up their trail, matched them stride for stride, he'd done as the world commanded: prepared himself for the hunt and asked to be wise and thankful.

He purified himself, dedicated his spirit to Cernunnos of the Wood, and slept cradled in the Mother's embrace-- the bole of an elderly oak for his pillow and leaves for his blanket. The God had kept the warrior safe while the Goddess sent him her blessing in dreams.

The doe he must kill, there, no young fawns at her side. But why did he run so low to the loamy smelling earth, feel the death of his prey flow between his teeth? Warm, the life. He lived.

He shook his head, pulling the gut from his pouch and set to stringing his yew wood bow. Though nearly as tall as him, he bent it easily, deftly completing his task.

He moved downstream to seek the shadow of the deer.

* * *

The young human caught up with the herd midday and summarily circled wide around them to find the worn trail though the forest that showed their kind preferred to pass there.

He'd hardly settled in his preferred position, off the trail and partially hidden, when the deer arrived much sooner than anticipated; the young warrior realized he'd not been the first to find them.

His heart's sudden pounding, the buck's sudden urgent passage with his brood not far behind disoriented the man, made him hesitate with his arrows, his bow.

Only the lame doe lagged behind, the one without fawns; only she felt the teeth of the wolf that closely followed, lone and hungered as the human that watched.

The dream shocked through him.

Another of the doe's legs went out from under her, ripped by the predator's teeth. Her eyes rolled, front legs flashed forward in the full desperation of this dance with death. He trained his arrow upon the wolf, breathing harsh as the fanged creature easily evaded her thrashing hooves and fastened to her throat, tearing it out as he jumped away.

Survival.

The wolf heaved every breath the twin to the man's. His fangs trailed red (he tasted the blood), pulled back from his teeth as he nearly took a step toward his conquered prey; yet he stopped, raised his eyes to meet those of the still hunter.

We are one. Brothers, you and I. She gave herself to us. The circle of life, death to feed life. We are one.

The powerful gray body leapt for the hunter, but had hardly left the ground when an arrow slammed well-intended into his chest.

The wolf collapsed amid a howling scream.

One.

He ate the heart and the eyes. Raw, with blood streaking across his face. He took the claws and the skin to make a cloak. The rest he left to the forest, to feed the cycle that would eventually consume him.

Fáilbhe, a newborn wolf, carried his deer home.





This story is archived at my website here.

Last Year's International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day offerings:
And My Sky Full of Stars (creative non-fictiony fiction)
Elegy for a Fallen Angel (poem)

You can find more free poetry at My Works on my website and elsewhere in this journal.

I hope you enjoy!

As part of my celebration of International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day (explanation), I'd like to post one of my own poems. This poem is a result of one of my rounds of Iron Poet, but has previously been unreleased to the public before now. I hope you enjoy! Following the poem, you'll find links to more free poetry over at my website.

Elegy for a Fallen Angel
by
Deborah J. Brannon

What is it about autumn?
You always asked that question, when I knew you.
What is it about autumn?
every time something went wrong.
I stand by my assurance that as many things went wrong
for you in other seasons.
You were just stuck on autumn
(that is also called Fall)
because of the day you suffered
by a plan, or a mistake, that at least you never intended.
But you can never anticipate God.
You said that too.

You used to moan in your sleep.
I’d never tell you. I’d never even wake you,
spare you the pain of your dreamed remembrances.
I was selfish then. Your half-coherent mutterings
were the only window I had into your inhuman,
smoldering wreck of a heart.
The wind is swift and it hurts, you’d say.
The wind is swift and it hurts.
I made the connection one night, late when
intuitive leaps seem more acceptable and true.
The wind knifed you as you fell from a very long height,
a height no human could hope to survive.
I wondered who pushed you.

When you started coughing up blood,
I knew you’d be going home soon.
I didn’t know whether they’d let you in
and you probably didn’t either.
You didn’t seem any happier to leave,
at any rate. I thought I should ask you some questions.
I wanted to know about the swift wind that hurt.
I wanted to hear you say why you really disliked autumn.
I wanted to believe, wanted inalienable validation.
You died in autumn,
with little fanfare and absolutely no heavenly host
and my questions still unasked.
Who can believe in a story like that?

From the Original works section of my website:
Misdeed of an Oncogene

Welcome to the first International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day!

I hope you enjoy all the free works that have been made available to you today, most of which you can find by visiting this post over at papersky's journal.

If you're a creator and agree with the spirit of the day, give something away! If you're a consumer, make a post about the creators that you've come to know and appreciate by seeing their works online.

I have already made some icons available to any Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Wretch (or Wench!) as wants them.

My posting of original work will have to wait until later, though, as I didn't have time to proofread it and get it up yesterday. I'll do that when I get home from school. Today's Intermittent Poetry Attack! will also include free poetry by me. Watch out for it!