Wonky:
–adjective, -ki·er, -ki·est.
1. British Slang.
a. shaky, groggy, or unsteady.
b. unreliable; not trustworthy.
2. Slang. stupid; boring; unattractive.
lifted straight from dictionary.com =)
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Thursday, January 3, 2008
A Writing Experiment - Answer #4
It was like "Alice in Wonderland" and "Wizard of Oz" rolled into one and as she looked around her she wondered if Alice or Dorothy seriously considered themselves insane.
Of course the truly insane were always the last to know, weren't they?
Since that line of thinking was hardly comfortable at the moment, and because Morgan O' Hallahan came from a long line of Irish women whose flights of fancy were confined to buying a colorful handbag for winter instead of a serviceable black, she shook away thoughts of insanity and focused on finding a rational explanation for her current predicament.
There was always a rational explanation. GPS systems could break. Road signs could be confusing. That neatly explained how she'd ended up in the tiny mountain town of Lorreilan, so many miles away from her intended destination that it boggled the mind.
Automobiles went wonky on their own, too. Even the newer models. That explained why her engine suddenly coughed and rattled away into silence the moment she passed the sign welcoming her to Lorreilan.
Lorreilan looked like a movie set from - and here Morgan made an unwelcome cirle in her thinking - Alice in Wonderland or the Wizard of Oz. Every building seemed dipped in technicolor, the streets were glittering metallic swirls that followed circuitous routes more fanciful than practical, and even the foliage seemed like a Crayola box had vomited its contents with no particular rhyme or reason on everything in sight.
All that could be explained as well, of course. A reclusive society of artists, perhaps. Maybe having an absurdly colorful town was their stake in Ireland's booming tourist industry. Or perhaps Lorreilan was currently being used as a set for a film.
There was a perfectly rational explanation for all of that. But try as she might, Morgan could not find a single reasonable, logical explanation for the three-headed horse heading her way - one head yanking strands of violently purple grass from the roadside, one head wreathed in a flowered bonnet with silver grapes bobbing in time to each step, and one sporting a very dignified bowler hat and contentedly puffing an extraordinarily handsome pipe.
Of course the truly insane were always the last to know, weren't they?
Since that line of thinking was hardly comfortable at the moment, and because Morgan O' Hallahan came from a long line of Irish women whose flights of fancy were confined to buying a colorful handbag for winter instead of a serviceable black, she shook away thoughts of insanity and focused on finding a rational explanation for her current predicament.
There was always a rational explanation. GPS systems could break. Road signs could be confusing. That neatly explained how she'd ended up in the tiny mountain town of Lorreilan, so many miles away from her intended destination that it boggled the mind.
Automobiles went wonky on their own, too. Even the newer models. That explained why her engine suddenly coughed and rattled away into silence the moment she passed the sign welcoming her to Lorreilan.
Lorreilan looked like a movie set from - and here Morgan made an unwelcome cirle in her thinking - Alice in Wonderland or the Wizard of Oz. Every building seemed dipped in technicolor, the streets were glittering metallic swirls that followed circuitous routes more fanciful than practical, and even the foliage seemed like a Crayola box had vomited its contents with no particular rhyme or reason on everything in sight.
All that could be explained as well, of course. A reclusive society of artists, perhaps. Maybe having an absurdly colorful town was their stake in Ireland's booming tourist industry. Or perhaps Lorreilan was currently being used as a set for a film.
There was a perfectly rational explanation for all of that. But try as she might, Morgan could not find a single reasonable, logical explanation for the three-headed horse heading her way - one head yanking strands of violently purple grass from the roadside, one head wreathed in a flowered bonnet with silver grapes bobbing in time to each step, and one sporting a very dignified bowler hat and contentedly puffing an extraordinarily handsome pipe.
A Writing Experiment - Answer #3
"Why did you think I would never find out?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm.
I wasn't fooled.
"Well, it all happened so fast." I hedged and glanced around me for inspiration. The small, gloriously beige lobby of J.J.'s Private Investigations refused to provide any help at all.
"You mean one second you were content to chase your dream of lighting up the big screen and the next you suddenly found yourself pretending to be an experienced ex-FBI agent willing to run my agency while I recuperated?" He asked and truth be told, I was slightly worried about the way his hands gripped his crutches. Either he was having trouble maintaining his balance, a valid option considering the size of his cast, or he was entertaining the idea of bludgeoning me.
I smiled brightly to show that I was far too pretty to be a candidate for bludgeoning.
"That's it exactly." I patted his shoulder but snatched my hand back as he snarled. Honestly, the man was cranky. Okay, so maybe I wasn't technically an ex-FBI agent but this was Kingsborough, Tennessee, a one-horse town if ever there was one. How hard could impersonating a private eye be?
"Please tell me you have actual law enforcement experience." He said.
"Define experience."
"Lilly -"
"Well, I mean, I was an extra on Law and Order that one time and I was Agent 3 and I was really, really convincing." A loud bump from behind J.J.'s office door punctuated my remark.
"What was that?" He looked suspiciously at the closed door.
"Probably that owl that lives in your rafters." I said.
"What owl?"
"Um, oh, you never noticed the owl before?" I asked with as much innocence as I could muster.
"No, I can't say that I did." He whipped his dark eyes toward me again and I squirmed just a little.
"Lilly, do you know anything at all about being a private investigator?" He held up a hand as I began to speak. "And playing one on tv doesn't count."
"I'll have you know I researched that role thoroughly." I said, on firmer ground now that my artistic integrity was in question.
"How much research does it take to put on a blue suit and stand in the background of a fake FBI office?"
"How much research does it take to figure out if the girl you're hiring to run your office has any law enforcement experience?" I shot back which, given the proximity of handy murder weapons and J.J.'s current frame of mind, wasn't my wisest choice but the man was hitting below the belt now.
A loud crash came from the office and I winced. J.J. swung his crutches forward and rattled the doorknob. Locked, of course. I wasn't a complete idiot.
"Open the door, Lilly."
"J.J., maybe you should just sit down and rest. You don't look well." A blatant lie on my part since J.J. was currently number one on Kingsborough's list of Tall, Handsome, Has A Job bachelors.
"Open. The. Door."
"Well, yes, I will but first I should just tell you that I've successfully solved two cases since I took over." I made a big show of searching my handbag for the office keys and frantically tried to think of a reasonable explanation a man like J.J., recently relocated from New York City, would accept for what waited behind his door.
Nothing workable came to mind but I'm an actress. I live to improvise.
"Two cases, huh?" J.J. eyed me and I felt a little like a deer facing a very hungry lion. I made a note to remember the emotion for my next Methods class.
"Yes. Well. Yes."
He raised one dark brow and I hurried to explain, speaking loudly to cover the obvious sounds of papers being chewed to bits behind the door.
"I mean one is definitely solved and the other one is as good as. Really. And Mr. Mitchells, the one with the definitely solved case, was very grateful but as you know, we had a drought this summer."
"A drought."
"Yes." I produced the keys with a flourish. "So the farmers are struggling with their crops and money is tight everywhere."
"Tight."
"So Mr. Mitchell couldn't pay his bill in the traditional way."
A soft snort echoed from beyond the closed door as I fitted the key into the lock.
"You'd better not be telling me -"
"Just stay calm." I said and pushed the door open.
A black and white spotted goat stood beside the upended trash can, the rope used to secure him to the office ficus tree chewed to bits, along with several papers and what looked like the remains of one book. A mangled spiral notebook dangled from the goat's lips and he stared at us with mild interest.
"J.J., meet Earl." I said and edged into the room, trying to block most of the carnage with my body.
"HE PAID US WITH A GOAT?" J.J. yelled.
I wasn't fooled.
"Well, it all happened so fast." I hedged and glanced around me for inspiration. The small, gloriously beige lobby of J.J.'s Private Investigations refused to provide any help at all.
"You mean one second you were content to chase your dream of lighting up the big screen and the next you suddenly found yourself pretending to be an experienced ex-FBI agent willing to run my agency while I recuperated?" He asked and truth be told, I was slightly worried about the way his hands gripped his crutches. Either he was having trouble maintaining his balance, a valid option considering the size of his cast, or he was entertaining the idea of bludgeoning me.
I smiled brightly to show that I was far too pretty to be a candidate for bludgeoning.
"That's it exactly." I patted his shoulder but snatched my hand back as he snarled. Honestly, the man was cranky. Okay, so maybe I wasn't technically an ex-FBI agent but this was Kingsborough, Tennessee, a one-horse town if ever there was one. How hard could impersonating a private eye be?
"Please tell me you have actual law enforcement experience." He said.
"Define experience."
"Lilly -"
"Well, I mean, I was an extra on Law and Order that one time and I was Agent 3 and I was really, really convincing." A loud bump from behind J.J.'s office door punctuated my remark.
"What was that?" He looked suspiciously at the closed door.
"Probably that owl that lives in your rafters." I said.
"What owl?"
"Um, oh, you never noticed the owl before?" I asked with as much innocence as I could muster.
"No, I can't say that I did." He whipped his dark eyes toward me again and I squirmed just a little.
"Lilly, do you know anything at all about being a private investigator?" He held up a hand as I began to speak. "And playing one on tv doesn't count."
"I'll have you know I researched that role thoroughly." I said, on firmer ground now that my artistic integrity was in question.
"How much research does it take to put on a blue suit and stand in the background of a fake FBI office?"
"How much research does it take to figure out if the girl you're hiring to run your office has any law enforcement experience?" I shot back which, given the proximity of handy murder weapons and J.J.'s current frame of mind, wasn't my wisest choice but the man was hitting below the belt now.
A loud crash came from the office and I winced. J.J. swung his crutches forward and rattled the doorknob. Locked, of course. I wasn't a complete idiot.
"Open the door, Lilly."
"J.J., maybe you should just sit down and rest. You don't look well." A blatant lie on my part since J.J. was currently number one on Kingsborough's list of Tall, Handsome, Has A Job bachelors.
"Open. The. Door."
"Well, yes, I will but first I should just tell you that I've successfully solved two cases since I took over." I made a big show of searching my handbag for the office keys and frantically tried to think of a reasonable explanation a man like J.J., recently relocated from New York City, would accept for what waited behind his door.
Nothing workable came to mind but I'm an actress. I live to improvise.
"Two cases, huh?" J.J. eyed me and I felt a little like a deer facing a very hungry lion. I made a note to remember the emotion for my next Methods class.
"Yes. Well. Yes."
He raised one dark brow and I hurried to explain, speaking loudly to cover the obvious sounds of papers being chewed to bits behind the door.
"I mean one is definitely solved and the other one is as good as. Really. And Mr. Mitchells, the one with the definitely solved case, was very grateful but as you know, we had a drought this summer."
"A drought."
"Yes." I produced the keys with a flourish. "So the farmers are struggling with their crops and money is tight everywhere."
"Tight."
"So Mr. Mitchell couldn't pay his bill in the traditional way."
A soft snort echoed from beyond the closed door as I fitted the key into the lock.
"You'd better not be telling me -"
"Just stay calm." I said and pushed the door open.
A black and white spotted goat stood beside the upended trash can, the rope used to secure him to the office ficus tree chewed to bits, along with several papers and what looked like the remains of one book. A mangled spiral notebook dangled from the goat's lips and he stared at us with mild interest.
"J.J., meet Earl." I said and edged into the room, trying to block most of the carnage with my body.
"HE PAID US WITH A GOAT?" J.J. yelled.
A Writing Experiment - Answer #2
It was now or never...so she took a deep breath and opened it.
Empty.
The chest was empty. All that spying, sneaking, and stealing to finally hold the chest of the Last Druid in her grasp and the stupid thing was empty?
"What's inside?"
Rory glared at Molly, her tag-along little sister whose insatiable curiousity was only rivaled by her incessant talking.
"Be quiet, Molly."
"But what's inside? Rory, what's inside?" Molly's tone was edging from whine to temper and Molly in a temper tantrum would bring their nanny on the run and ruin everything.
"I don't know yet, Molly. It looks empty." Rory said and shook the chest gently to prove her point.
The sharp music of shattering glass echoed faintly from inside the chest and Rory set it down and peered inside.
"I heard something. Rory I heard something!" Molly bounced on her toes and peered over Rory's shoulder.
"So did I but it's still empty. See?" Rory slid her hand across the bottom of the chest and jerked it back as glass sliced into her skin.
The cut carved a jagged line across her index finger and blood bubbled to the surface.
"You got cut! Rory, you got cut!"
"Yeah, I noticed." Rory said and stared at the bottom of the chest. She couldn't see glass. She couldn't see anything.
"Do you want a bandaid?" Molly asked.
Her hand felt heavy, suddenly, and she rested her arm against the edge of the chest, dangling her hand across the empty space inside.
"Rory, do you want a bandaid?"
"I can't - what?" Something inside the chest pulled at her, heavier than gravity, numbing her fingers.
"Rory?"
She heard Molly's voice as if her little sister was locked outside, yelling to her from beyond her bedroom window - faint and muffled, easily ignored. Blood from the cut slid slowly toward the edge of her finger and she had to grasp her wrist with her other hand to resist the pull from inside the chest.
"Nanny Kay! Nanny Kay!" Molly's voice faded to the edge of her mind and was silenced behind the sudden murmur of voices calling to her from the chest.
A single drop of blood gathered at the tip of her finger, beaded into a gleaming ruby ball and then hurtled toward the pewter floor of the chest.
Rory never saw it hit. The voices surged in volume, their murmurs becoming words in a language she couldn't understand as the floor of the chest opened into a silvery gray tunnel, like the shine of grandmother's favorite candelabra, and the stronger-than-gravity pull lifted her from her bedroom floor and sucked her headlong into a long stream of soft, chilling light.
Empty.
The chest was empty. All that spying, sneaking, and stealing to finally hold the chest of the Last Druid in her grasp and the stupid thing was empty?
"What's inside?"
Rory glared at Molly, her tag-along little sister whose insatiable curiousity was only rivaled by her incessant talking.
"Be quiet, Molly."
"But what's inside? Rory, what's inside?" Molly's tone was edging from whine to temper and Molly in a temper tantrum would bring their nanny on the run and ruin everything.
"I don't know yet, Molly. It looks empty." Rory said and shook the chest gently to prove her point.
The sharp music of shattering glass echoed faintly from inside the chest and Rory set it down and peered inside.
"I heard something. Rory I heard something!" Molly bounced on her toes and peered over Rory's shoulder.
"So did I but it's still empty. See?" Rory slid her hand across the bottom of the chest and jerked it back as glass sliced into her skin.
The cut carved a jagged line across her index finger and blood bubbled to the surface.
"You got cut! Rory, you got cut!"
"Yeah, I noticed." Rory said and stared at the bottom of the chest. She couldn't see glass. She couldn't see anything.
"Do you want a bandaid?" Molly asked.
Her hand felt heavy, suddenly, and she rested her arm against the edge of the chest, dangling her hand across the empty space inside.
"Rory, do you want a bandaid?"
"I can't - what?" Something inside the chest pulled at her, heavier than gravity, numbing her fingers.
"Rory?"
She heard Molly's voice as if her little sister was locked outside, yelling to her from beyond her bedroom window - faint and muffled, easily ignored. Blood from the cut slid slowly toward the edge of her finger and she had to grasp her wrist with her other hand to resist the pull from inside the chest.
"Nanny Kay! Nanny Kay!" Molly's voice faded to the edge of her mind and was silenced behind the sudden murmur of voices calling to her from the chest.
A single drop of blood gathered at the tip of her finger, beaded into a gleaming ruby ball and then hurtled toward the pewter floor of the chest.
Rory never saw it hit. The voices surged in volume, their murmurs becoming words in a language she couldn't understand as the floor of the chest opened into a silvery gray tunnel, like the shine of grandmother's favorite candelabra, and the stronger-than-gravity pull lifted her from her bedroom floor and sucked her headlong into a long stream of soft, chilling light.
A Writing Experiment - Answer #1
In a December post, I asked anyone to comment with a first sentence and I would turn it into something...a paragraph, a page, whatever struck me at the time.
I'll be posting my answers over the next day or two. If you missed a chance to offer up a first sentence, comment with one in this post and I'll use it too. =)
He stepped on a crumpled leaf and the eye opened, looking directly at him. He had a brief moment of surprised relief at the brilliant gem of green gazing at him - an Archimedon so far from the plains? - but then streaks of rust and black shot from the pupil and billowed across the surface, swirling into a compelling whirlpool of shadows and hate.
A Hessyan. Perfect.
He gripped the pommel of his grandfather's sword and it slid free with a kiss of blade to scabbard.
Not that Hessyans were afraid of swords but it was either bluff it out with a show of force or run for his life and Hessyans were notoriously impossible to outrun.
Besides, Lysander Valkryies, third-born son of a de-throned king and ninth grandchild to a disgraced Wizard, never ran.
The rusty red and black swirling in the dragon's eye suddenly shifted and he saw an image of a slain body - his body - bleeding against the brilliant carpet of golden autumn leaves strewn across the forest floor.
Mind games. A Hessyan favorite.
Ignoring the high probability that the Hessyan was merely fortelling his immediate future, Lysander took another step forward. The eye was directly in front of him, a mere six feet away, but he couldn't yet make out the body. Most dragons were adept at camouflaging themselves within their chosen environments but a practiced eye could spot small discrepencies in the tree line that gave away the size and heft of the beast.
Unfortunately, turning away from the Hessyan to examine the forest would be tantamount to inviting death. He took another step forward and felt the ground beneath him sink slightly, sliding the toe of his boot against something with a sharp, metallic click.
He risked a quick glance at his feet and saw the pile of autumn gold leaves coalesce into diamond-hard scales.
He was standing on a Hessyan.
He had a mere second to consider the sheer stupidity of such a blunder before the dragon lunged, whipping its neck toward him, jagged teeth tearing at his throat.
He ducked, slashing out with his sword as he fell forward onto the dragon's back and then cursed his luck as the beast shot straight through the canopy of trees. Branches slapped at him as he clung to the golden scales, willing himself not to look down as the dragon burst into the twilight sky, a rippling scream of Hessyan rage echoing in its wake.
Would nothing about this infernal quest go right?
I'll be posting my answers over the next day or two. If you missed a chance to offer up a first sentence, comment with one in this post and I'll use it too. =)
He stepped on a crumpled leaf and the eye opened, looking directly at him. He had a brief moment of surprised relief at the brilliant gem of green gazing at him - an Archimedon so far from the plains? - but then streaks of rust and black shot from the pupil and billowed across the surface, swirling into a compelling whirlpool of shadows and hate.
A Hessyan. Perfect.
He gripped the pommel of his grandfather's sword and it slid free with a kiss of blade to scabbard.
Not that Hessyans were afraid of swords but it was either bluff it out with a show of force or run for his life and Hessyans were notoriously impossible to outrun.
Besides, Lysander Valkryies, third-born son of a de-throned king and ninth grandchild to a disgraced Wizard, never ran.
The rusty red and black swirling in the dragon's eye suddenly shifted and he saw an image of a slain body - his body - bleeding against the brilliant carpet of golden autumn leaves strewn across the forest floor.
Mind games. A Hessyan favorite.
Ignoring the high probability that the Hessyan was merely fortelling his immediate future, Lysander took another step forward. The eye was directly in front of him, a mere six feet away, but he couldn't yet make out the body. Most dragons were adept at camouflaging themselves within their chosen environments but a practiced eye could spot small discrepencies in the tree line that gave away the size and heft of the beast.
Unfortunately, turning away from the Hessyan to examine the forest would be tantamount to inviting death. He took another step forward and felt the ground beneath him sink slightly, sliding the toe of his boot against something with a sharp, metallic click.
He risked a quick glance at his feet and saw the pile of autumn gold leaves coalesce into diamond-hard scales.
He was standing on a Hessyan.
He had a mere second to consider the sheer stupidity of such a blunder before the dragon lunged, whipping its neck toward him, jagged teeth tearing at his throat.
He ducked, slashing out with his sword as he fell forward onto the dragon's back and then cursed his luck as the beast shot straight through the canopy of trees. Branches slapped at him as he clung to the golden scales, willing himself not to look down as the dragon burst into the twilight sky, a rippling scream of Hessyan rage echoing in its wake.
Would nothing about this infernal quest go right?
Ringing In 2008 (Two Days Late)
A New Year's List of Semi-Resolutions
(Semi-resolutions subject to rapid and frequent change due to any of the following unforeseen circumstances: winning the lottery, being shanghaied into serving as First Mate on a pirate ship, being elected President of the United States by a landslide grass-roots campaign, or snorting chicken one too many times and thus rendering myself mentally incapacitated.)
1. Sign a publishing contract for the SHADOWING FATE series.
2. Win a writing contest (by talent, preferably, though bribery and extortion aren't out of the running).
3. Be more adventurous in the kitchen (and by adventurous, please note that I do not mean I wish to barbeque any more toys in the oven, necessitating a visit by the fire department and thus reinforcing my current title of Most Likely To Cause A Neighborhood Stir).
4. Learn how to punch like a man.
5. Bring my daughter home. (As I have no control over this, this is really more a wish than a resolution).
6. Use less mustard.
7. Nevermind, I like mustard.
8. Push myself creatively to really explore what I can do.
9. Be thankful for all the many ways in which God has blessed me.
10. I can't really think of a #10. I mean I can, of course. I'm always full of ideas and ambitions but I think 9 is really more than I can handle so 10 would totally push my luck and leave me with just a resolution to find new and creative uses for my favorite condiment. =)
(Semi-resolutions subject to rapid and frequent change due to any of the following unforeseen circumstances: winning the lottery, being shanghaied into serving as First Mate on a pirate ship, being elected President of the United States by a landslide grass-roots campaign, or snorting chicken one too many times and thus rendering myself mentally incapacitated.)
1. Sign a publishing contract for the SHADOWING FATE series.
2. Win a writing contest (by talent, preferably, though bribery and extortion aren't out of the running).
3. Be more adventurous in the kitchen (and by adventurous, please note that I do not mean I wish to barbeque any more toys in the oven, necessitating a visit by the fire department and thus reinforcing my current title of Most Likely To Cause A Neighborhood Stir).
4. Learn how to punch like a man.
5. Bring my daughter home. (As I have no control over this, this is really more a wish than a resolution).
6. Use less mustard.
7. Nevermind, I like mustard.
8. Push myself creatively to really explore what I can do.
9. Be thankful for all the many ways in which God has blessed me.
10. I can't really think of a #10. I mean I can, of course. I'm always full of ideas and ambitions but I think 9 is really more than I can handle so 10 would totally push my luck and leave me with just a resolution to find new and creative uses for my favorite condiment. =)
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Honestly, this is a post I never dreamed I'd write. My hands are shaky, and I'm frantically thinking through all the possible conseq...
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