In order to keep this site available to everyone I have added a 'lock' to all R-rated material.
If you would like to post R-rated material you have two options:
Option one:
1. Post on here with the title and 'emailed' in the body
2. Email mysteryseekernz@gmail.com with the content.
Option two:
For those of you who feel confident enough to play around with encryption and HTML code.
1. Write up your post - it is easiest if you only put in what will be hidden at this stage
2. On the top left corner is ||Compose||HTML|| - select HTML
3. Copy all of the text
4. In another tab/window go to this site: http://www.vincentcheung.ca/jsencryption/
5. In the "Key"(yellow) box input: iamover18
6. In the "Plain Text"(green) box input your copied code
7. Press the "Encrypt" button below the green box.
8. Scroll down to the "HTML Code" (blue) box and copy the code there
9. Return to your blog post and replace all copied text with the code from the encryption site.
(Do not worry that it now looks like a whole page of garbled letters)
10. On the top left corner is ||Compose||HTML|| - select compose
11. Add anything else you wish around the message
Friday, August 24, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Challenge 1 - Restart!
Back by popular demand (and with the backing of a writers' guild this time) - our second attempt to complete the 3 a.m. Ephiphany, from beginning to end - this time no skipping ahead!
Challenge 1
Write a first person story in which you use the first person pronoun (I, me or my) only two times. Keep the 'I' somehow important to the narrative you are constructing. The point is to imagine a narrator who is less interested in himself than in what he is observing.
Wordcount: 600 (+/- 10%)
Bonus Challenge 1: Write an up-beat and cheerful scene following these rules.
Bonus Challenge 2: Write a scene between two lovers following these rules.
Thus the ultimate Challenge is to incorporate both bonuses!
Good Luck Authors!
Challenge 1
Write a first person story in which you use the first person pronoun (I, me or my) only two times. Keep the 'I' somehow important to the narrative you are constructing. The point is to imagine a narrator who is less interested in himself than in what he is observing.
Wordcount: 600 (+/- 10%)
Bonus Challenge 1: Write an up-beat and cheerful scene following these rules.
Bonus Challenge 2: Write a scene between two lovers following these rules.
Thus the ultimate Challenge is to incorporate both bonuses!
Good Luck Authors!
Monday, September 26, 2011
Challenge 37: The Reunion
The school compound was unusually quiet. It was unusual to me because the school which I remembered was always filled with the chatter of students, some sudden outburst of a teacher’s reproach or the shrill ringing of the school bell.
“Visiting it again made me realised how I much I missed my teachers.” I had found Sarah mawkish and unnecessarily sentimental when she said this. But as I was pacing along the corridor of the classrooms, I caught myself feeling exactly the same way.
I realised that I wasn’t alone when I heard a voice. “Come on, you can do it!” and followed by the laughter of children.
Out in the fields, there was a family with picnic basket, and picnic mat spread out over the grass.
Her hair sparkled with gold when the evening sun touched it for a moment. The curls, the colour, that hair, I recognised it immediately. Mrs. Sweetman taught us literature when I was sitting for my O’levels. She was the only Caucasian teacher in our school.
Her eyes were the most noticeable. They were blue, the same blue which Sarah and I had described as Smurfy blue. It was the same pair of eyes that had watched us intensely as we tried to write an essay on “The driving force behind Macbeth’s ambition.” It was the same pair of eyes that had seen us through the exams, and the same pair of eyes that was glossy with a little wetness when I got distinction for literature.
No doubt, it was the same eyes. But shouldn’t it be framed with a little wrinkles or some crow’s feet at least?
She didn’t seemed to have aged, which made me realised that it wasn’t Mrs. Sweetman. It wasn’t her. At least not exactly. It has been 14 years, surely no cosmetics could cover that trace so well?
Then I remembered the news about her returning to UK for her retirement. She can’t be Mrs. Sweetman. But those eyes, they resembled so much like hers.
When I was trying to figure that out, she had spotted me. She nodded and smiled, a friendly acknowledgment between two strangers. No sign of recognition from her at all.
I decided to unravel the mystery.
“Mrs. Sweetman?” and offered my hand for a handshake.
As her hand slid into mine, I noticed that her nails were painted orange. The Mrs. Sweetman I knew only stick to red or beige.
“I’m her daughter, Winnie.”
There and then, the puzzle was solved.
“I thought I had travelled through time!” I laughed “How is she? I hope she has been keeping well?”
“Oh you didn’t know?” Winnie’s eyebrows crinkled.
She looked down for a moment before she said “My mother died of cancer last year”
474 words.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This might look easy, but it's quite a tough excercise! :P
“Visiting it again made me realised how I much I missed my teachers.” I had found Sarah mawkish and unnecessarily sentimental when she said this. But as I was pacing along the corridor of the classrooms, I caught myself feeling exactly the same way.
I realised that I wasn’t alone when I heard a voice. “Come on, you can do it!” and followed by the laughter of children.
Out in the fields, there was a family with picnic basket, and picnic mat spread out over the grass.
Her hair sparkled with gold when the evening sun touched it for a moment. The curls, the colour, that hair, I recognised it immediately. Mrs. Sweetman taught us literature when I was sitting for my O’levels. She was the only Caucasian teacher in our school.
Her eyes were the most noticeable. They were blue, the same blue which Sarah and I had described as Smurfy blue. It was the same pair of eyes that had watched us intensely as we tried to write an essay on “The driving force behind Macbeth’s ambition.” It was the same pair of eyes that had seen us through the exams, and the same pair of eyes that was glossy with a little wetness when I got distinction for literature.
No doubt, it was the same eyes. But shouldn’t it be framed with a little wrinkles or some crow’s feet at least?
She didn’t seemed to have aged, which made me realised that it wasn’t Mrs. Sweetman. It wasn’t her. At least not exactly. It has been 14 years, surely no cosmetics could cover that trace so well?
Then I remembered the news about her returning to UK for her retirement. She can’t be Mrs. Sweetman. But those eyes, they resembled so much like hers.
When I was trying to figure that out, she had spotted me. She nodded and smiled, a friendly acknowledgment between two strangers. No sign of recognition from her at all.
I decided to unravel the mystery.
“Mrs. Sweetman?” and offered my hand for a handshake.
As her hand slid into mine, I noticed that her nails were painted orange. The Mrs. Sweetman I knew only stick to red or beige.
“I’m her daughter, Winnie.”
There and then, the puzzle was solved.
“I thought I had travelled through time!” I laughed “How is she? I hope she has been keeping well?”
“Oh you didn’t know?” Winnie’s eyebrows crinkled.
She looked down for a moment before she said “My mother died of cancer last year”
474 words.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This might look easy, but it's quite a tough excercise! :P
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Challenge 1: The Choice
She was sitting on the couch, right leg slung over the left, arms crossed and her lips pouted in an exaggerated way. Her eyes stared fixedly, not taking them away.
The situation became very uncomfortable and it was particularly so with the silence. They had been silent for nearly 30 minutes. The last word said was “Suits you!” and Jason walked away to the kitchen. As Sharon watched him turned his back, she could do nothing else but pointed an accusing finger at me and said “It is all your fault!”
Jason might not give in this time. Nancy could be on the losing ground. The couch became her banishment, taking along the ‘accused’, the cause of the fight, as she had said. She didn’t need chains for the confinement, her piercing stare had replaced that and it was sufficient to instill fear.
Before Nancy moved in, days were happier. We shared the bed, the breakfast, the couch and the TV. We shared a life.
We had our daily morning walks where we would listen to his stories together. Jason would read them out while we were out in the park. As he reads them, he would make some changes here and there, and viola! He has a story to submit to the magazine again the next day.
Before Nancy moved in, days were simpler. Jason could concentrate on his writing, and do what he loves most. Writing was our bread and butter. It was also food for Jason’s soul. He could never feel more alive doing something else.
But Nancy couldn’t understand that. Nancy believes in driving expensive cars, living in big houses and good statuses in the society.
When Nancy moved in the first week, she tried to convince Jason to take his bar exams. By the second week, she succeeded. This should have sounded the alarm that trouble was lurking into our peaceful life.
The book Jason was working on was left unfinished. Soon, he got so caught up with the exams, the book was left forgotten.
Two months later, he passed his bar exams, which was a good thing that was packaged with trouble.
Nancy started suggesting Jason to get employment in a law firm. She started by suggestions, which turned into demands when Jason continued to say ‘No’. Writing was what he wanted to do, Nancy just didn’t get it.
She was relentless. One day, as the three of us were watching TV, Nancy pointed to Rowan Atkinson and said “Look at him, aimless and silly. Being sentimental at the wrong things! Come on, it is just a plush toy bear!”
Nancy always sees different things. She sees Mr. Bean, while we see Rowan Atkinson.
Jason knew that her comment was meant for him. He played along by saying “Well, looks like his bear understood him better than anyone else.”
That was how it all started. Nancy identified a new rival, a new threat.
“No, no dog pound!” Jason raised his voice.
“You have a choice, your wife or this bitch.”
Ouch, that hurts. It is a bad word in the human world.
Finally, Jason threw his arms in exasperation and said “Suits you!”. His words left Nancy’s question unanswered, a choice not decided.
The 30 minutes of silence extended till the night. We went to bed, with the anger, disappointment and frustration still hanging in the air.
The next morning, with the leash in his hands and penance in his eyes, Jason said to me, “I’m so sorry Vicky.”
585 words
The situation became very uncomfortable and it was particularly so with the silence. They had been silent for nearly 30 minutes. The last word said was “Suits you!” and Jason walked away to the kitchen. As Sharon watched him turned his back, she could do nothing else but pointed an accusing finger at me and said “It is all your fault!”
Jason might not give in this time. Nancy could be on the losing ground. The couch became her banishment, taking along the ‘accused’, the cause of the fight, as she had said. She didn’t need chains for the confinement, her piercing stare had replaced that and it was sufficient to instill fear.
Before Nancy moved in, days were happier. We shared the bed, the breakfast, the couch and the TV. We shared a life.
We had our daily morning walks where we would listen to his stories together. Jason would read them out while we were out in the park. As he reads them, he would make some changes here and there, and viola! He has a story to submit to the magazine again the next day.
Before Nancy moved in, days were simpler. Jason could concentrate on his writing, and do what he loves most. Writing was our bread and butter. It was also food for Jason’s soul. He could never feel more alive doing something else.
But Nancy couldn’t understand that. Nancy believes in driving expensive cars, living in big houses and good statuses in the society.
When Nancy moved in the first week, she tried to convince Jason to take his bar exams. By the second week, she succeeded. This should have sounded the alarm that trouble was lurking into our peaceful life.
The book Jason was working on was left unfinished. Soon, he got so caught up with the exams, the book was left forgotten.
Two months later, he passed his bar exams, which was a good thing that was packaged with trouble.
Nancy started suggesting Jason to get employment in a law firm. She started by suggestions, which turned into demands when Jason continued to say ‘No’. Writing was what he wanted to do, Nancy just didn’t get it.
She was relentless. One day, as the three of us were watching TV, Nancy pointed to Rowan Atkinson and said “Look at him, aimless and silly. Being sentimental at the wrong things! Come on, it is just a plush toy bear!”
Nancy always sees different things. She sees Mr. Bean, while we see Rowan Atkinson.
Jason knew that her comment was meant for him. He played along by saying “Well, looks like his bear understood him better than anyone else.”
That was how it all started. Nancy identified a new rival, a new threat.
“No, no dog pound!” Jason raised his voice.
“You have a choice, your wife or this bitch.”
Ouch, that hurts. It is a bad word in the human world.
Finally, Jason threw his arms in exasperation and said “Suits you!”. His words left Nancy’s question unanswered, a choice not decided.
The 30 minutes of silence extended till the night. We went to bed, with the anger, disappointment and frustration still hanging in the air.
The next morning, with the leash in his hands and penance in his eyes, Jason said to me, “I’m so sorry Vicky.”
585 words
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Challenge 35: Picton
I told myself that I wasn’t really expecting to find Simon. Even if he’d made it this far, there was no guarantee, ten years on, that we’d find any trace of him. But from the moment I passed the old airlock where he and I had seen my half-sister Sonia out, which he had himself come and gone through on his later travels, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. A horde of sandflies when I reached the West Coast, and I just remembered the time we’d sat next to the letterbox full of cobwebs. Dad would have cleared them off (if he hadn’t walked out the airlock for good the day before). Simon was just happy to see that something was alive other than us humans.
In my backpack, I have the album that his then-fiance, Jack, gave him for his birthday ten years ago. The first photo is of the two of them on top of one of the mountains in the Nelson Lakes. They’re wearing bulky jackets and you can tell it was windy because Simon’s hair is a complete mess. The last one is of them with (according to Jack) Simon’s mother and his little brother. I guess his dad must have been behind the camera. The photo’s been taken a bit too early. Jack’s got her eyes closed, and Simon’s got his arms draped over his brother’s shoulders, looking down at him with an expression that’s familiar to me. Jack says it’s the last time they saw each other, because the bomb came less than a year later. I don’t know why Simon left the photos behind if he knew he was leaving for good.
Apart from my supplies, I also had copies of the new maps of the South Island. Simon started venturing out to make them quite soon after Dad left – but when he’d done as much as he could, he moved on to the North Island – at least, that was the plan. When the bubble around Christchurch got taken down, they started copying out his maps for the settlement expeditions.
Anyway, I had told myself I wouldn’t find him, so I tried not to be disappointed when, following State Highway 1 and the diversions he’d suggested, I reached Picton without luck. What had I expected, that he’d have built himself a little hermit’s hut somewhere?
The settlers hadn’t come this far north. I’d been on my own since Kaikoura, and I’d been avoiding the towns as much as possible – I didn’t know how fast bodies decomposed and I didn’t want to find out. Simon hadn’t volunteered any information about it. As I wandered along the railway tracks, I got the idea of spending the night in one of the old trains, if I could get in.
As it turned out, it wasn’t hard – like most of the expeditioners I’d brought along enough equipment to break into a building if I had to.I chose a passenger train that was rusting away at the station and went at it until I could pry a door open and get in. There were just three compartments...and something seemed to be wrong – it was far too clean to have been abandoned for ten years.
I found Simon’s stores in the last compartment. There wasn’t much – a few bottles of water, a couple of batteries. Some shrivelled kumara, but I couldn’t tell how old they were.
_____________________________________________________________________
Word count: 567. This is another one I wrote a while back (over a year ago, actually) so it doesn't quite fit the challenge :P
Monday, June 20, 2011
Challenge 35: A Place to Call Our Own
I can smell his musk on the breeze, a warm enveloping sense of calm. He is close. Through the muddy undergrowth, I run, savouring the kiss of afternoon sunshine as it pours down into the clearing I have chanced upon. Beauty is unspoilt in our wilderness. Here, anything is possible.
On the far side of the field of wildflowers, I pause beside a trickling creek. There are prints in the dirt, the shape of his toes as he leaped. The rain has just begun to drizzle down the back of my neck. In the distance, a hawk screeches as it swoops down to snatch up its prey. Where has he gone? The imprint of his passing begins to fill with water. Worms wriggle their way to the surface as the spitting becomes a torrent.
Sheltering in the hollow of our favourite tree, I feel like this circle, made by the umbrella of her drooping branches, is my whole world. I am safe and warm, wrapped up in his fur-lined leather coat and listening to the pounding of water outside. It was he who taught me where to go in a storm, how to build a fire of the dry twigs and logs we keep hidden here. I know I will find him, once this wild weather passes on. He can’t have gone far.
I drift into a gentle slumber, unfazed by the howl of the wolves. It is full moon tonight, but they will not bother me. I have my knife and know how to use it. Yet another thing he taught me.
My cheek resting against the rough bark, I dream of other days. Two miles north of here, at the base of the canyon, is a cave where we hid my new spear and a pile of nets I wove last autumn. He promised he would teach me to fish with it in spring, and Verdi’s eye is low on the horizon now, so winter is almost over. If I cannot find him by tomorrow, I will go there and wait. He always keeps his promises.
Dawn brings a frost. Blades of new grass crackle underfoot as I tip-toe out, not wanting to disturb the lively birdsong. Scanning the ground brings me new clues as to his direction. He’s headed west, judging by the lay of sticks beside the thorny brickle bush. It is a heady crawl, over a dead oak bough spanning the crevasse. He found it last year, after the big storm. It will be good as a bridge for many years to come.
He has left a bunch of wild blueberries on the other side, a reward for keeping up with him this far. I am eager to catch him up, though I know it is unlikely. I have never managed it yet, though he insists there’s a first for everything. Another day and my nose aches from the cold. My eyes are watering as I lie on my belly, peering over the cliff at the edge of the wastes. Is this what he wanted me to see? They are closer now than last I remember; dark, snaking pipes seeping black ooze as they suck the life from our wilderness. An owl hoots and I frown. It is not yet dusk, there should be no owls. I glance to my left and grin. There, tied to a low swung branch is a braided leather cord laced through a jade riverstone; a gift from my brother for completing his latest challenge. As I pull it over my head, I look for him, but there is, of course, no sign. I am a big girl now and there are many things I must do alone.
Wordcount: 619
Yay! I think this one is a bit closer to the brief - except for the part about using your own characters. I just made these two up on the spot.
On the far side of the field of wildflowers, I pause beside a trickling creek. There are prints in the dirt, the shape of his toes as he leaped. The rain has just begun to drizzle down the back of my neck. In the distance, a hawk screeches as it swoops down to snatch up its prey. Where has he gone? The imprint of his passing begins to fill with water. Worms wriggle their way to the surface as the spitting becomes a torrent.
Sheltering in the hollow of our favourite tree, I feel like this circle, made by the umbrella of her drooping branches, is my whole world. I am safe and warm, wrapped up in his fur-lined leather coat and listening to the pounding of water outside. It was he who taught me where to go in a storm, how to build a fire of the dry twigs and logs we keep hidden here. I know I will find him, once this wild weather passes on. He can’t have gone far.
I drift into a gentle slumber, unfazed by the howl of the wolves. It is full moon tonight, but they will not bother me. I have my knife and know how to use it. Yet another thing he taught me.
My cheek resting against the rough bark, I dream of other days. Two miles north of here, at the base of the canyon, is a cave where we hid my new spear and a pile of nets I wove last autumn. He promised he would teach me to fish with it in spring, and Verdi’s eye is low on the horizon now, so winter is almost over. If I cannot find him by tomorrow, I will go there and wait. He always keeps his promises.
Dawn brings a frost. Blades of new grass crackle underfoot as I tip-toe out, not wanting to disturb the lively birdsong. Scanning the ground brings me new clues as to his direction. He’s headed west, judging by the lay of sticks beside the thorny brickle bush. It is a heady crawl, over a dead oak bough spanning the crevasse. He found it last year, after the big storm. It will be good as a bridge for many years to come.
He has left a bunch of wild blueberries on the other side, a reward for keeping up with him this far. I am eager to catch him up, though I know it is unlikely. I have never managed it yet, though he insists there’s a first for everything. Another day and my nose aches from the cold. My eyes are watering as I lie on my belly, peering over the cliff at the edge of the wastes. Is this what he wanted me to see? They are closer now than last I remember; dark, snaking pipes seeping black ooze as they suck the life from our wilderness. An owl hoots and I frown. It is not yet dusk, there should be no owls. I glance to my left and grin. There, tied to a low swung branch is a braided leather cord laced through a jade riverstone; a gift from my brother for completing his latest challenge. As I pull it over my head, I look for him, but there is, of course, no sign. I am a big girl now and there are many things I must do alone.
Wordcount: 619
Yay! I think this one is a bit closer to the brief - except for the part about using your own characters. I just made these two up on the spot.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Challenge 35: The Grace of Gods
Space.
Between tiny moments of brilliance when I wonder at the art of creation, there is only the black. It has been a long journey for my ship and I. There are no borders out here, no sense that the hours or days are ticking by. There is only purpose.
You.
I see traces of you in the solar winds. Your eyes sparkling like the corona of that distant blue sun. Free, formless, you are dancing out here in the vacuum. Angel, I have lost you. You have gone where I cannot follow, my dearest.
Sister.
How long has it been since those days? We were so young, so naïve. We saw the fall of everything we held dear, watched our people tear themselves apart. You dreamed of a better life, of a new hope.
Immortality.
Together we lifted those we loved. You and I found the cure for death. Machines and technology, healing, repairing, rebuilding our shells, we were forever young, forever learning. We thought we had left all that sadness behind, but we were still so young. Not ready for the power that came with forever.
War.
I pass now and then, through old battlegrounds. I skirt around drifting debris, rocks that were once planets and suns, shards of great ships and weapons of death. There you are again, in my memory, weeping at the pain, the mad rush to possess, to be right. They were our children, you said. We did this.
Guilt.
You stopped them the only way you knew how. Machines could be turned off, could be modified. You held life and death in your hands and they were forced to listen. When it was done, you fled and I followed. Here, a small blue planet orbiting an insignificant star.
Hope.
The planet turned, the plates crashed and fought, forming mountains and trenches, but still you worked. I wandered those lands alone, waiting for you to find an answer.
Evolution.
Then one day you were gone, a thousand sparkling lights, expanding to touch every part of what is known. I have not the courage to follow. Not yet. For now I am content in my search.
Wordcount: 361 (Way too short i know, but then I don't think this is really a wilderness piece in the way the challenge describes it, so I will do another one anyway)
Between tiny moments of brilliance when I wonder at the art of creation, there is only the black. It has been a long journey for my ship and I. There are no borders out here, no sense that the hours or days are ticking by. There is only purpose.
You.
I see traces of you in the solar winds. Your eyes sparkling like the corona of that distant blue sun. Free, formless, you are dancing out here in the vacuum. Angel, I have lost you. You have gone where I cannot follow, my dearest.
Sister.
How long has it been since those days? We were so young, so naïve. We saw the fall of everything we held dear, watched our people tear themselves apart. You dreamed of a better life, of a new hope.
Immortality.
Together we lifted those we loved. You and I found the cure for death. Machines and technology, healing, repairing, rebuilding our shells, we were forever young, forever learning. We thought we had left all that sadness behind, but we were still so young. Not ready for the power that came with forever.
War.
I pass now and then, through old battlegrounds. I skirt around drifting debris, rocks that were once planets and suns, shards of great ships and weapons of death. There you are again, in my memory, weeping at the pain, the mad rush to possess, to be right. They were our children, you said. We did this.
Guilt.
You stopped them the only way you knew how. Machines could be turned off, could be modified. You held life and death in your hands and they were forced to listen. When it was done, you fled and I followed. Here, a small blue planet orbiting an insignificant star.
Hope.
The planet turned, the plates crashed and fought, forming mountains and trenches, but still you worked. I wandered those lands alone, waiting for you to find an answer.
Evolution.
Then one day you were gone, a thousand sparkling lights, expanding to touch every part of what is known. I have not the courage to follow. Not yet. For now I am content in my search.
Wordcount: 361 (Way too short i know, but then I don't think this is really a wilderness piece in the way the challenge describes it, so I will do another one anyway)
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