Yearning for Wonderland

There is such a place as fairyland - but only children can find the way to it...until they have grown so old that they forget the way. Only a few, who remain children at heart, can ever find that fair, lost path again...The world calls them singers and poets and artists and story-tellers; but they are just people who have never forgotten the way to fairyland. ~ L.M Montgomery

5 Sentence Fiction – Yearning

I am so excited because I got to choose this week’s Five Sentence Fiction inspiration word at Lillie McFerrin Writes.

So I picked Yearning. If you weren’t aware, it’s one of my very favorite words and the constant inspiration for this blog. Of course I had to enter!

Despite the fact that I am short on sleep, I scribbled my entry on a tiny square of paper at work, folded it up and smuggled it home to share with you. Be sure to go read the other ‘Yearning’ entries and maybe enter yourself!


Yearning

He bounded up the wide stone steps two at a time, his heart slamming frantically against the birdcage of his ribs, and flung open her tower chamber door, “Princess!”

The room was strangely still — even the dove loose in the rafters was hushed — and white muslin curtains flapped loose in the breeze. A thick rope was knotted tight round the carved mahogany bedpost; his eye traced it across the floor and over the edge of the window sill.

Her pillow, plumped up on her neatly made bed, had a note pinned to the satin coverlet: ‘I couldn’t wait any more.’

 Far below, he heard departing hoof beats and watched as she rode his horse away.

“Fair Rosamund” (detail) by John William Waterhouse

Dancing With the Fairies – The Fairy Ring Writing Contest

 Hear ye! Yearning for Wonderland proudly announces their very first writing contest. Ever.

I know it’s what you’ve all been waiting for. Please calm yourself. No tears of joy, please.

By this point, you might be saying, get on with it!

Shhh, I am savoring…okay, here are the details.

This contest is in honor of The Fairy Ring (you know you want to read it! Or gift it to someone who believes in true magic in the world). For those of you who have not yet read my review of Mary Losure’s The Fairy Ring (Candlewick Press, 2012), please do so to know how amazing this prize is. I know several of my readers have expressed interest in the book – now is your chance to win it for free!

Galleys have graciously been provided by the beauteous Raquel Matos of Candlewick Press.

I will announce the winners by February 22nd. I cannot wait to see all the magnificent permutations of fae encounters that your creative minds will unleash. Let the games begin!

Additional Details (updated 2/14/12)
* The winner of the contest will have their link shared on the Google+ page of Candlewick Press, woot!
* The title does not count in the 300 word limit.
* In the spirit of the contest and the book, please no erotica or slasher horror. I love dark fairytales, but give us goosebumps not buckets of blood.
* Please visit all of the entries and comment – writers love feedback!
* WordPress blogs need different HTML – email me at annabbps at gmail.com if you want me to send you the alt. code.
* If you do not have a blog and would like to enter, send me your entry to the above email and I will post it on Yearning for Wonderland.
* We have an amazing new logo, courtesy of Ruth Long @bullishink

Comment with any questions. Here is the Linky Tool code to copy to your blog’s HTML:



Blog Hop, or Terror in my Soul

You may notice even though I frequently refer to writing on this blog, I have not actually posted much writing. That is because it’s far more pleasant to muse idly on the beauteous creations of others than to expose your own tender work to the knives of the internet comment board.

However, I have decided this is a cowardly stance. In support of my awesome and amazing writing friends, Lillie McFerrin, Daniel Swensen, Angie Richmond and Angela Goff, I am entering my tiny, humble piece-ling into their Super Cool Blog Hop Contest. In 300 words or less, write a piece of flash fiction, poetry or song using the photo prompt below. You can go here for the details. Below is my wee entry. *covers eyes* Okay, now you can read it.


Hour of Light
She kept walking. The Wood wasn’t bright enough this time of night, so she thought – luminosity – and it steadily grew brighter. Time and again, she had told the trees to grow in straight lines, but they never listened. The dark trunks jutted from the ground in irregular clusters, silhouetted in the gloom. She trailed her hand over the flowertops, gently dotting dewed petals with her fingertips.  As she brushed past them, they sang along with the wind in a lonesome susurrus. She placed a finger to her lips and tasted the dew; it tasted of memories.
This was how she always walked in the Wood, towards the light. The starflowers grew so deep this time of year; they were already above her knee. Her bare feet grew cold as she squished through the grass, so she decided it was warmer than she thought. 
 
She took great breaths of the air, scented with dead and growing things. The sky was growing steadily lighter, for she knew it was the hour of light. Sometimes when she walked through the mist, she could not decide which way was forward and which was back. So she kept walking. Was there a time she had ever not walked in the Wood? She finally reached the hanging light bulb and reached up, up, up so carefully on her tippy-toes. She pulled the cord and the light went out.

Ergo, NaNoWriMo

I wish that I could blame my lack of recent posts on my new obsession with my word count on NaNoWriMo’s website. However, since it starts in November and I am still 48,332 words away from my 50,000 word goal, I can hardly blame it with conviction.

I have kept up nicely on the Facebook page. If you haven’t joined up, please do check it out. There is some content that is exclusive to Facebook and I enjoy promoting the amazing creative projects of others as much as my own.

I am pleased that I am writing, even if it is not in blog form. My project for NaNoWriMo was inspired by a dream, actually. I had the dream on the 31st of October, so the timing was impeccable. I tend to have these epic, plot-driven dreams that have no seeming parallel in my real life. In fact, the dream was so fascinating that I actually half-woke up thinking that I needed to write it all down…so I wrote it down in the dream and woke up with no notes. Figures.


Agatha Christie

I have an odd, half-superstitious fear of synopsizing, so I won’t bore you as to the content of the dream. Suffice to say it involved London in WWII, a derelict theatre, apparitions, a sprawling country estate, mesmerizing patterns, a murder of a beautiful girl and an unlikely killer. Kind of a cross between Dame Agatha Christie and Busby Berkeley.

I’d love to hear some comments from the writers who read my blog. Have you done NaNoWriMo? Did it help to have a deadline? Were you pleased with the results?

So, forgive my silence, friends and picture me scribbling away on my note cards and the backs of burger wrappers. “Write, write and maybe one day you might be read”, think I.

The Serendipity of Parent Matching

I sat in the molded red plastic chair in the hallway, staring at my bare feet. I tried wiggling one big toe and then the other. They wiggled appropriately, but I still sort of wished for a magazine or something, if I were able to read.

“NEXT!” called out the voice, booming down the empty corridor. I looked to my left and my right and saw no one, so I hopped down and toddled into the office. It was full of bookshelves filled with musty books. The dust motes caught the sunlight and sparkled, a legion of fireflies.

“Name?” came the voice again. I tried to peer over the edge of the desk to see the voice. All I could see was a podge of thinning brown hair, combed over neatly to cover a burgeoning bald spot.

“Um, don’t have one yet,” said I, tremulously.

“I know that,” was the impatient reply, “What do you wish to be called?”

“How about Brunhilde?”

“Surely you’re joking,” the bald spot bobbed and weaved as he turned another page of the massive book in front of him,”Best to choose a nice inoffensive name, like Sarah or Ellen. That will give you a lot more choices.”

“I think they should pick my name,” I offered, doing my best to keep the sulky out of my voice. “I mean, I hope I can find a pair with good taste.”

“What else?” His voice was disinterested, rather the aural equivalent of picking one’s nose and flicking it at the wall.

“Well, I’d like it if they were smart people. The kind that you could talk to about Shakespeare and Abraham Lincoln and…um, paradigms.”

“Don’t pretend you know what any of those things are yet. What else?”

I crawled up into the arm chair across from the desk, but it was still a low squishy well of leather. I did manage to see the voice’s eyebrows, though; they were like ungroomed caterpillars and rather expressive.

“They should be funny. Not take each other too seriously. Maybe they could sing while they vacuum. I’d like it if they could laugh at themselves and at me too. Maybe the dad could teach me how to make funny faces in the mirror and how to dance like he’s starring in a Cecil B. DeMille musical. Maybe the mom could show me how to mummify a Barbie Doll and how to direct a room full of unruly people into doing what you need them to do.” I piped up, in a voice quite unlike my own, “It’s called ACT-ING!”

The caterpillars crawled across the furrows of his brow to a quizzical position, “This seems like a fairly specific request,” he said, rather suspiciously, “You haven’t been peeping in The Book, have you?”

“No sir,” I said, meek, hands folded in my lap in the primmest fashion.

He sighed and flipped a few more pages, the fuzzy wiggles of his brow descending towards the type. “There is one possibility here,” he said dubiously, “There’s a couple here that fulfills your requirements.”

“Really?” I perked up instantly, “Will they take me on trips to museums and nature trails and force-screen awful science fiction movies and black and white classics? Will they love me and help me, even when it’s questionable that I deserve either? Will they put me to sleep with Booshky Cream and sing You are My Sunshine and Side by Side and The Monkey Song? Will they make me cry when they sing On Top of Spaghetti with a fatal ending? Will they encourage me to write and sing and dance and do all manner of things which are not profitable in the world?”

The book slammed shut indignantly, “You, miss, have been reading The Book! How would you possibly know all that?”

I gave the only answer I could: “Because it’s my destiny.”

Finally, the voice and the bald spot and the eyebrows worked in conjunction and almost looked and sounded as though they were smiling, “Well. Well. Door 11C.”

“Thank you!” I chirped and wandered down the empty hall till I came to 11C. I opened the door and walked into the great white light and towards the parents I was meant to be with.

—–

This post is dedicated to my parents, on their anniversary. I’m not certain how I ended up with wonderful them, but this seems as feasible an explanation as any.

Fate, I owe you one.

by Artist 3001