Jesse Koepke

2/13/09

            Hello! Check it out: it’s 9 o’clock. It’s pretty early for me to be writing! Nice. Today was interesting. The morning started out with an eastern window blowing strong and straight across the weather vane. I almost said there wasn’t an edge to it, but it was indeed there, just under the surface. But not too harsh. However, when I left almost eight hours later, the ground was wet and the air sharp with that winter bite, and now the wind has shifted to direct from the north. Huh, I thought as I walked to my car. Quite the change. By the way, I came up with a saying to figure the points of the compass: with west on your left, north is forward. Yep. Neat. This paragraph is terrible grammar; each new subject is supposed to get it’s own. But I don’t like how blogs automatically double space when you hit enter, so I’m going to keep typing till the word. To that end, I think I’m going to continue the story of the sailor. Something about him and that setting seems fresh and fertile to me, with lots of potential. So we’ll keep going with that story line and see what happens.

            So, the word: lately.

 

            With his back to the shore the sailor dug the oars in hard, driving them through the water with continuous, strong pulls. The western sky hung dark overhead, hidden by the dense blanket of clouds that floated like a ceiling above him. He knew the sun must be rising beyond the shore in the east, but its light had not reached the west toward which he faced. An ocean wind blew from the north, and he smelled rain on its currents.

            Before him, sitting quietly at the rear of the small boat, was a square bundle wrapped in leather. A stout rope was wound round it, thus causing it to lean to one side and rock back and forth gently as the boat rose and fell with the waves. Though the sailor’s eyes roved left and right, they always returned, if for but a fleeting moment, to the bundle, as if it might slip from the boat when his eyes were away. A strange, discomforted look would come to his face when he looked at it, and he would mumble in a gravelly voice beneath his breath before looking away to the north, or the west as if he couldn’t stand the sight of it; but it would not be long before his eyes returned, drawn to it as to treasure.

            So the sailor watched and rowed, until at last the keel of the boat slid upon sand and he turned to look at the eastern shore. It lay in night shadow, and he could see no farther than a few paces away, past the tide’s row of driftwood and seaweed. He flipped the dripping oars into the boat, then leapt in a spinning circle around the bow of the boat and into the ankle deep water. His boots were high riding, though, and he was no more wet than any sailor as he pulled the boat up onto the shore and away from the waves. As he heaved to the rain began to fall, a slight drizzle that pecked at his drab oil-skin slicker with a quiet popping sound, and by the time he had secured the boat out of the sea’s reach the rain was falling steady, though lightly.

Taking hold of the bundle’s rope, he turned and faced the dark east. The bundle he set at his feet, his hands he shoved deep in the pockets of the slicker, which he pulled in close against the rain, and he settled himself to wait.

 

Meh. Not exceptional, but not bad. It was actually kind of hard to focus with people talking and what-not out in the living room. Environment is not vital (nor should it be – one’s muse is as much intentional as it is spontaneous) but it does not hurt to have a good one. But still. The point is to write, and I like this fellow. He has a mission. Oh, and the fun part was pulling out The Sailor’s Lexicon, a book I picked up from Barnes & Noble last fall. Quite splendid. So. Until next time, dark sailor! We might yet see what is that bundle of yours! Or at least discover who might come down yonder foggy stair!

 (I just realized I didn’t use the word ‘lately’! Whoops…. But I guess, since the point is to write, that I accomplished my goal : )

2/12/09

            Whew! I just played some basketball and I’m bushed. I think my cold may have played a part; but I’m not making excuses : ) But we press on, and that’s the point: though it be hard we press all the harder. Like writing. Working on Shadows today I found myself simply describing action, trying to get Jonathan from one point to the next and thus stringing together a series of rather convenient discoveries. That’s not a story. Though discoveries to the character, they were not discoveries to me, which is most important, I think. (Today’s topic is getting into a car that’s better sitting under an early spring sun. Thus there’s that delicious warm feeling inside.)

            So, the word: instinctive.

 

            Run to the car – open – close. A slam and it was against my window, its hot breath steaming on the glass. I jabbed with the keys, my eyes staring at its mangled fur and dripping mouth instead of the ignition. Finally the key slipped in and I twisted hard, just as with a mighty crash it threw its forearm against the pane and sent a sliver of a crack shivering through the window from top to bottom.

            I screamed – the key snapped off in my hands. My breath came in short, quick gasps, grabbing air so fast my head began to swim. The car shook under its fury and I heard, through its roars and the pounding of blood in my ears, another splinter and smear as the two panes of glass slid hard against itself. Not long and the window would shatter in sharp rain upon me, and then an arm stronger than a thousand men would rip me from the seat and then there would be black, and the end.

            What I did next was an instinctive move: when faced with the utter truth of death the only thing I could think to do, indeed what I did out of some deep, subconscious impulse, was to turn and face my doom.

            Like a hammer its arm bore down on the window and like dew shaken from the web the window, in a dazzling shower, collapsed onto me. But I weathered it and sat stolid, keeping my eyes trained on the gray, matted fur of its chest.

            There was silence. My ears rang. Then slow it lowered its head, and I looked into the face of that which was primal. Animalistic to its core, the furious blood of carnivorous urge coursing red hot through its veins, it looked at me. Its eyes bore down on me, but all hope had left me, and I endured. Sharp silver were its eyes, the pupils dilated and small, pin points in eyes of steel. They gazed at me with the cunning hunger of an animal that hunts, no matter the weather, of an animal that lies in wait for days so that it might eat the hot, steaming meat of its prey. I saw power, I saw anger – I saw my end.

            Fur flashed left and it gazed into the distance behind me, sniffing the air. Then with speed like I had never seen it turned and fled into the woods, leaving only the bent and broken side of my car and a quiver in the brush as a testimony of its appearance.

            I sucked in air and did not move until a hand shook me and a human face, soft and like water as compared to it, leaned into through the crumbs of the window and asked if I was okay. I blinked and looked up at the man. I slowly shook my head.

            Men poured into the woods, armed to the teeth, but they would not find it. It was long gone, its trail lost in some stream as it bounded from river bed to branch to bank and into the distant fog. I blinked again, and saw its eyes, and felt its hot breath on my face, and thanked the Lord I had survived.

 

            Huh. Strange. Not a very good ending. But I wrote, and that’s the point. Didn’t have much to do with a warm, inviting car interior, did it? But I guess that’s not the point. The point is to write, and write is what I did. So there. And we press on.

 

2/11/09

            Yes sir, it’s been a while (see?! I told you I write this all the time!). But at last, I’m back. I went camping my birthday weekend (which was suh-weet!) and then…well, I just didn’t get to writing the last couple of nights. As far as camping goes, I gotta say it gave me some sweet – and especially realistic – ideas for Shadows. There’s something about getting out into the real world that gives you ideas you never would have thought of. Like perforated ice, four inches thick, being blowing onto the shore, and the sound that makes. Or how the full moon will play a critical role in the Shadows story, and what it’s like to be in the woods under a full moon (surprisingly easy to see, if you keep the lights off). So it was a good weekend. And as far as the last couple of nights…well, I didn’t learn much from them. But I do think that the old writing muscle is loosening up a bit and getting a bit of oil into the gears. I was almost thinking that, eh, I might not need to do these exercises and that I could just work on Shadows. But then I figured that exercise is still needed; just because I play on a basketball team doesn’t mean I don’t need to run throughout the week, or if I’m in a band I don’t need to practice when not playing as a group (both of which I do and did…). If anything, I think the time and length of the exercise will shorten. A quick ten minute drill before dipping into the ink well. Hey, that rhymed. (Rain on the Oregon coast, by the way.)

            So, the word: consign. (What?! What does that even mean? “Deliver (something) into a person’s custody, particularly in order to be sold. He consigned three paintings to Colby’s.” Oh. Boy….)

 

            The gulls were a sharp cry in the air, flashing rays of white and gray as they swooped by the dozens across the open shore. Sharp staccatos, an unsteady stream of squawks and calls from one air current to another, were thrown repetitiously over his head as he waited, his eyes fixed on that lonely, mossy staircase built into the side of the cliffs. He had been waiting since dawn, but even by now, at the sun’s pinnacle, no one approached. His patience was wearing thin.

            The rain didn’t help much. When he had pulled his small boat onto the cluttered beach (drift wood lay haphazardly scattered along the length of it, tangled in slimy messes of dark green and brown seaweed) it had only been a drizzle, the thin clouds filtering the rising sunlight to a pale glow in the eastern sky behind the cliffs. He had hoped with the coming day that the rain would move on, but instead it worsened, till by midmorning he was soaked through, though he huddled close under his oilskin slicker at the bow of the boat, a standing, cloaked figure dim against the ocean’s rolling, silver expanse. At last, near midday, the rain had eased, leaving the customary blanket of clouds across the sky. The sun was reduced to a glowing light bulb, which hung straight above him now, and though he was grateful for the expanded visibility he would have given anything for a bit of warmth and clear light.

            Anything, save the small wrapped bundle lying next to him in the sand.

            It appeared to be a small box, wrapped in a tan skin. One corner lay sunk in the sand, belying an internal weight that drove it down into the loose ground. The waves, despite being several yards away, still ate away at the ground, and if the bundle and its owner were to stay for another day, or perhaps two, it would find itself near buried, consumed by the voracious, tireless appetite of the sea. But the sea was not to have it this day. This bundle was meant for a different consignment, a more profitable one than any salty wave could offer.

            But that profit refused to appear, and suddenly the sailor sprang into action and with fluid movements swept up the bundle, placed it inside the boat, shoved the boat back into the waves, and leapt inside like a rider into his saddle. Dangerous it was to wait too long, no matter how high the price. he grasped the oars and plowed his back into the waves, keeping a steely trained on that fading wooden staircase. The unknown future tempted him from its soggy steps, echoing like the call of the gulls. The birds swirled about his head like the thoughts in his mind, but with a shake and a deep dig of the oars he pulled farther out into the waves and away from shore. Tempting it was, but today fortune would have to wait.

 

            Hot!!! That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Nice. Sure, it doesn’t answer any questions, but I’m five minutes over my time and I had to wrap it up quick. Someone showing up would have added a lot of more words and time. And besides, this is a writing exercise, not a completed story. Although, I really like this atmosphere. I think I’m going to start a side document of all the really good ones, in case any full story ideas come out of this. 

 

2/05/09

            In honor of only having an hour and a half left of my twenty-third year, I thought I would write something about the end of an era. Maybe the end of school, or the end of winter…or if I want to go crazy, the end of Gondor or something like that. Meh, that’s a little big. I think…the end of winter. That’s a nice, optimistic topic. Now watch, I’ll get some crazy word that is awful and depressing. But, that’s the name of the game.

            So, the word: nuisance.

 

            The room was dark. He could see nothing. A short sniff; a wiggle of the head; a look hither and thither; but nothing was revealed. He curled up and lay his head back down, taking a deep breath and slowly, slowly releasing….

            Golden light. He looked. Just a crack, a pin prick on the wall. He wriggled up, flexing his back and craning his little face up to see it. He blinked at its brightness, and shook with exciting. It was coming.

            He spun around and raced to the other side of the room to find whence the light came. There, a small crack in the wall. With little hands and nails he clawed it at. A vigorous set of strokes and then a pause. Then stroke, then pause. With each succession the knot tightened in his stomach and he grew frustrated, screaming his little, high scream. His ears rang. He kept clawing.

            The hole widened just a hair. His ears pricked up and he raced around the room in excitement. He came to a stop opposite the crack and sat on his haunches, sniffing eagerly. The light shone in his right eye and he shifted from one side to the other, letting the warm dot drift across his nose and forehead. He lifted his chin and felt the glow descend down to his chest as he stretched up and high as far as he could. Then he settled back down and rubbed his little hands, and looked at that small prick of light in the wall across from him. He could almost taste the sunshine.

            Then he heard, just faintly and just this side of a whisper, the light call of a sparrow. What?! thought he, and his ears stood at the ready. If birds be at play then I am away! With renewed spirit he leapt across the room and flung himself to the work of clawing at the hole. He made great headway, and indeed enlarged the hole to a size just big enough for his head, when he sat back, breathing hard and deep. The sun shone bright and warm full upon his face, and he was content. Air was moving now through the hole and he drew the fresh spring air deep into his lungs. It felt good, reaching down to his heart with a gentle warmth, but just the slightest bite that reminded him that spring was yet young. He took a resolved breath and nodded to the glowing sun. Good day, sir Sun, thought he. One of the sparrows flittered by, blocking the light for a brief moment, and he imagined the sun had just winked at him.

            Well, he thought as he stretched and arched his back: to the last of it. And with great vigor and energy he threw the whole of his body against the wall and fell with a great tumble and a sharp crack out onto the strong, wide branch of the tree that was his home.

            He laughed a quiet squirrel laugh and lay spread out on the branch, letting his paws hang over the edges of the tree as he delightfully, contentedly soaked up all that the sun let fall on him. The wind was just a light north breeze coming from the right, and it gently lifted his fur and washed down to his skin, pealing back the months of hibernation from his body. He sighed, and looked with half opened eyes down the branch, toward the noon sun and the surrounding trees that swayed and creaked as if dancing for joy.

            A loud call came from the right, sharp and direct in his ear. Instantly he jumped up, just in time to see the close blur of a sparrow buzz low over his head. The cold rush its afterdraft  blew across him and stole away what warmth he had managed to soak up.

            He shook his head and fur at the bird and chattered rapidly, but the sparrow just laughed and flittered away to join its friends. He sighed and turned back to lay in the entrance of his room in the tree. His dear love for Spring had made him forget that even the best of birds could be a nuisance.

 

            Delightful! Very nice. I like the sentence four paragraphs up: And with great vigor and energy he threw the whole of his body against the wall and fell with a great tumble and a sharp crack out onto the strong, wide branch of the tree that was his home. Even though it’s a bit run-offish it has a nice ring to it and a burst of action. I don’t know if people would catch on that he was a squirrel; it would, come to think of it, give the story a fun second read, now that they would be able to picture it a lot more clearly. But I imagine that sentence, and then of course He laughed a quiet squirrel laugh, would click on the light bulb. And that, really, is what we long for in stories. Don’t tell it to me; let me discover it.

            Not all the time, or as a rule. But I think that’s part of why we write, and part of why we read: Discovery.