1. Sasziza
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    Sasziza Member

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    Sasziza's Progress Journal

    Discussion in 'Progress Journals' started by Sasziza, Jun 6, 2016.

    Day one.

    Currently writing: a private short story, plus some collaborative pieces.

    I aim for 1,000 words per day.

    6:00 a.m.: 1,712/1,000

    All on nonsense, really, late-night - really early-morning - nonsense, but fun nonsense, and any old writing practice is still writing practice. I may have to raise my word goal to 2,500 or so to keep myself challenged. I became really stuck into one of my collaborative pieces in the small hours.
     
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    Here is a short cut from the collaborative piece which I got into so much in the night.

    Mark pulled a face, as best he could with said face in such a state; it came out as the face of a wounded soldier in a Hollywood picture. He had intended a pout. Leaning back, his head hit the headboard somewhat forcefully, eliciting a wild giggle.

    His manic laughter, louder and higher, filled the room. With the odd played-up puppies’ yelp of pain, he crawled towards Julian, tugging on his sleeve. He mumbled, sweet-sounding but indecipherable. Still mumbling, reaching across the growing gap between the two, touching from such a distance — he fell from the edge of the bed. A true cry of pain, a loud, guttural cry, almost a death-rattle, put a stop to his mumbles and giggles.

    The carpet was rougher than it looked, at least, if you hit it as hard and suddenly and face-down as Mark had. He moaned and rolled onto his side, streaks of blood and who-knows-what-else following after. He really was wrecking this hotel! Mark could giggle at that thought; and soon he was back to madcap laughter, throwing himself about the floor in a parody of his old dance moves. If only Debbie could see! If only the boys who nudged him at the bus stop, if only the groupies, if only the whores! If only Debbie!

    By the time the doctor arrived, the room was so thickly daubed with silver and crimson that it looked like the view through a kaleidoscope. Mark barely saw the doctor. He could barely see anything, what with the blood and make-up running into his eyes. The scene was enough to make even a doctor wince; and, indeed, this doctor winced.

    Looking back, this is pretty damned awful stuff, but my collaborator seems to like it. Hm. I'll continue with it until one of us decides the other has had enough. Ha.
     
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    And a clip from another of the night's collaborations:

    Embarrassed and slightly alarmed by this first touch of true attention, James pushed his glasses up, pulled his hat down. O brave new world, that has such people in’t! Lewis was an impressive figure, an impressive character, it seemed. James wasn’t intimidated by that, however; it was the far larger implications of what he had just done. He had punched through the foil of the Faraday cage, he had brought down the Berlin Wall, the Iron Curtain, Jericho, even. And yet still he remained alone, apart from his surroundings, out of the norm, out of necessity. He was a David Vetter figure, a little bubble boy. No more. No less, but no more.

    James turned and pulled his coat – its thick black wool wholly unsuited for this climate – around him. It was protective to him, not against any weather, not even the mounting dust-storms, but against — James felt — the many godly creatures there were here. Godly? Shakespeare had dropped the ball there. He followed Lewis, shoes clicking and clumping as he stumbled from nerves, first facing him, and then walking behind him. James and Lewis almost matched — numinous black silhouettes against a vast canvas of brown, dappled with pink and yellow where the buildings stood.

    Lewis was the first to enter the shack, painted yellow around the doorframe. James didn’t check for any signboards. Lewis seemed to know what he was doing, even though he, too, had the air of an itinerant unused to this particular place. James had a look around. Tacky, tatty faux-Corbu leather armchairs, in garish shades, with plump pink ottoman footstools. Yellow Bakelite tiles lined the room, reflecting the light from a very large array of bare bulbs. James could only suppose that the shades had been stolen. This was the type of place where things were stolen often. Finally, James’ eyes fell to the receptionist’s kiosk. It looked almost like one you’d find in a pawn shop or a block of social flats: a bow, brown wood, lined with ugly wallpaper, complete with a little screen of netting. For flies, or for miscreants? James’d never know.​
     
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    And here is a little bit of my short story (some parts cut out, because it's a private thing dedicated to a close friend).


    It was fast growing dark, a heavy sort of dark, a dark that lands across your shoulders and weighs in stone. Perhaps a lover would have applied the same pressure to Bobby's shoulders; but this was so remote from love, almost a conspiracy between the Heavens and Earth, forming the two jaws of a vise to crush him. Treacly dark, quicksand dark.
    Bobby might have been walking through quicksand for all he knew; the pavement might have melted down with the heat of the gunfire overhead and turned to a quagmire. It was 1973, the clammy autumn of ‘73, and that autumn saw Bobby - Robert Isaac Wolpert, as his Soviet visa read - in Ostberlin.

    Turning the corner from the Strasse der Pariser Kommune, he hit Karl-Marx-Allee. The headlights of Trabant 601s, and the streetlights, four bulbs, like leaves, outstretched, on each stalk, lit up the concrete buildings lining the boulevard, put there by the Stalinists, appearing in this light to be contiguous high grey walls. It began to rain.

    But Bobby had a hood on his coat; and the puddles - the headlights and the streetlights and the last of the sun in the puddles - turned the solid concrete diaphanous; looking down, you could swear you could see through into another world. Looking up, at the buildings, as the rain ran down their frontages, some rugged béton brut, others latter-day socialist modern, polished surfaces like the pages of an expensive magazine - the buildings stood as translucent oracles, scrying-mirrors, high, majestic portals to the Heavens. Bobby almost feared falling through the street. It was an entrancing scene, the little rudimentary cars and the marvellous streetlights, the headlights passing the buildings, battered wheels through the puddles. The little Trabis seemed suddenly very fast.
    This needs a lot of work. Could anybody suggest how to cut down on flowery language in the last paragraph?
     
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    Sorry for lack of updates. I've been busy. Day two will start tomorrow.
     

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