Two Steps Forward, One Step Back... Into Improv

Back in September, I said I was giving up on improv, and would use the time to work on my novel instead. Since then, I have indeed made some progress. Namely, I:

• finally completed the first draft;
• re-structured my epic list of planned revisions, organizing the edits by chapter, character, and general terms;
• created a spreadsheet mapping individual character arcs, and the emotions and motivations of each character on a chapter-by-chapter basis;
• selected a new opening for the first chapter (from among six) after much deliberation;¹
• found a resource to answer many research questions concerning detectives and security firms; and
• made this list.

So, have I started writing the second draft? Um...no, not officially.²

Although the holidays and the Winter Olympics have proved distracting, there has also been another impeding factor.³ You see, in November I took a musical improv class.

I know, I know. Yes, I said I was giving up on improv, but I never said I was giving up on musical improv. (For the uninitiated, that's a different thing entirely.) I figured I'd have a blast over the six weeks (I did), and then take a break until the next musical improv opportunity arose.

Long story short: It turns out musical improv is my gateway drug.

By mid-January, I'd signed up for a normal improv class⁴ and been recruited into a Marvel-based improv show.⁵ But this isn't like before; this time around I'll maintain the proper balance. I'll do improv (but not overdo it). I'll write on a regular schedule (but not too regular). And I'll eat lots and lots of ice cream.

Can't go wrong with ice cream.⁶


Nor can you go wrong with heroes, villains, and someone pretending to be Stan Lee. If you're in CT next Friday (March 2), come see Improvised Marvel!

ink by Kevin O'Toole, color by me
(click to embiggen)

What Else I Was Doing When I Should Have Been Writing

Last month, I mentioned I'd been spending too much time doing improv, and had been neglecting my novel as a result. But of course, improv wasn't the only thing keeping me from my fiction.

Writing should be one of my top priorities whenever my son is asleep, watching TV, or not at home. But it would seem I'm too easily distracted. Here's a partial list of what I was doing instead:

• I was writing. Admittedly, the number of blog posts has been steadily declining (apart from a 31-day attempt at a kick-start last January), but it's still something.
   
• I read a lot. And watched a bunch of TV. Far too much TV.
   
• I was writing. I enter literary agent Janet Reid's flash fiction contests on occasion, and have garnered one win each of the last three years (and five in total).
   
• I fixed up a house, packed up a house, and moved to a new house. (And maintained the old house for far too long.)
   
• I was writing. Lyrics. To a parody mash-up of Hamilton's "Non-Stop" and Thomas the Tank Engine.
   
• I built 200 square feet of patio. I am so proud I did this myself (with some assistance from Denise and the boy), and so proud I'll never have to do it again.
   
• I was writing. Lyrics. And melody. For an original song which I envision being the opening to a musical (which may never get written, and still needs full orchestration).
   
• I built a shed — and the platform it goes on — with my dad. Compared to the patio, this was a cake walk. (But don't worry, no cake was trod upon.)
   
• I was writing. Personalized birthday and wedding cards. Recently, these have included a Choose-Your-Own Adventure, an escape room, an overabundance of anagrams, and an homage to the game Secret Hitler.
   
• I did the dishes. So many dishes.
   
• I was writing. Clues. For 3 crosswords which I created just to see if I could. There's a mid-week puzzle, a Sunday puzzle, and a cryptic crossword. I was aiming for NY Times quality, but as these were my first attempts I fell a bit short.
  
  • Download a PDF of all 3 puzzles
  • And if you need them, tips for solving cryptic crosswords

So yeah, that's what I've been doing. Which makes the solution pretty clear: Naomi, if you want me to finish my novel, you'd better come do our dishes.

The Exposition Excavation Expedition

It finally happened: I have completed the first draft of my novel.

Yes, the one with the invisible monkeys. And no, don't try to remember how long it took me.¹ The important thing is I finished it; I'd never completed a story over 2,500 words before. So yeah, this is kind of a big deal.

Which means, of course, that it's time for me to sit back, grab a drink, and celebrate! re-write the entire thing.

You heard me.

Okay, maybe it won't be a complete rewrite, but an extreme makeover is certainly in order. There are adverbs and adjectives to excise. Exposition to expunge. A whole stable of overused words (even still, only just that) to extract. So much tell (characters feeling and seeing) to exchange for show.

Not to mention all that's changed since I started this thing. My writing style, for one. My understanding of what makes for good writing, for another. Technology.² Politics. Hell, one of my characters switched genders 3/4 of the way through the book. Another never reappeared after chapter 7.³

As I wrote, I kept notes in a second document when new ideas surfaced, rather than make the edits right away. Today, that document is nearly 1/4 the length of the book. Sixty-five pages, single spaced. And that's not the worst of it.

Many of the notes are no longer valid. Dozens contradict each other. And I guarantee some will have me wondering what the hell I was talking about. Add in all the research I also have ahead of me—into the Secret Service, police procedure, weaponry—and this rewrite becomes quite the daunting prospect.

But then I think about you. Yes, you.⁴ Some of you have been waiting years to read about these monkeys. Others are itching for me to finish this damned thing so I'll get back to my next novel, with Captain Interrobang and the other not-so-super superheroes. I can't just sit idly by.

No, I need to sit actively by, and get to work.

It's time to start digging.


¹ Certainly don't remember that when I started, there was no such thing as an iPhone.
² See Footnote 1. I'll need to go Blackberry picking, and remove all such references.
³ No, I don't mean she remained invisible the rest of the way. Though I can see why you might think so.
⁴ Hi there.

Exit, Stage Left

I've been doing too much improv.

It began five and a half years ago, with a single class. Soon I was hitting the improv scene 2-3 times a week, occasionally for 10 hours straight. The only hobby I did more in that span is reading.¹ And not to toot my own horn,² but I'd gotten pretty good.³

Nevertheless, thanks to a mass tryout in May, I learned I'm not good enough to be in any of the local improv groups. (My words, not theirs.)

Which got me thinking. Well, first it got me fretting and stewing and plotting revenge. But then it got me thinking.

Without an outlet to perform for my friends and family, it would be selfish to continue to do so much improv. Not to mention, I've enjoyed it less since the rejection. Thus, I'm stepping away.

But fear not, dear readers! I'm not giving up! Okay, I kind of am, but not really. What you're witnessing here is a shift in priorities. You know all those hours I used to devote to improv? I'll be writing instead. Let me break it down for you:

Less improv = more writing
More writing = more blog posts and finished stories
More blog posts and finished stories = happier readers

Now, I'm no mathologist, but I believe that means less improv equals happier readers. And I'm all for that.

And instead of selfishly entertaining myself (via improv), I'll be selflessly entertaining my friends and family.⁴ That's a win in my book.⁵

Besides, it's not like I'm abandoning improv completely. I'll drop in to visit once in a while. And who knows, maybe someday I'll be welcomed into another group. But for now, alas, the love affair is over. I'm running back into the arms of my old mistress, the written word.

It's not you, improv. It's me.
No hard feelings. I wish you all the best.
And hey, I'll see you around.

¹ Procrastination doesn't count. It's not a hobby; it's a life choice.
² Because I don't own one.
³ At improv, that is. Also, at reading.
⁴ In that order.
⁵ Which I'm still in the process of writing. Give me a moment to breathe, people; I only switched priorities a couple paragraphs ago.

SPOON!

To start the year off right, I procrastinated for over two months before writing my first blog post. (Yes, I consider this to be a good thing. After all, I have a black belt in procrastination.)¹

In the interim, however, I did write a 100-word story containing the words

pry - jet - blue - desert - gnaw

"He sprayed you?"

"With one of those new Jango Fett--sorry, new-fangled jet power washers. Called me impure."

"You should've reported him."

"I did. That's why he chopped down spry moose. My spruce. From my daughter's memorial garden. He said it defiled his yard."

"Wow."

"Prejudice brings out people's shoe trades. Er, true shades."

"Yet, if it's his house..."

"I know. And he had me wino saver. Sign a waiver. When I rented the place from the affluent buck. Dammit. Abluent f--"

"I get it. So, you're here to lodge another complaint?"

"What? No. Biz hottie's in try monk."

This brings my total wins on literary agent Janet Reid's blog to five. I do have an advantage, though: She happens to enjoy clever wordplay, which I've employed in four of my five victories.²

But enough about me. Go check out the other winning entry and all the other finalists, all of which are bucking frilliant.


¹ It's not an actual level you can attain, like in martial arts. All it means is sometimes I wear a black belt while procrastinating. Usually because I've chosen to wear black shoes that day. I may rock the socks-and-sandals look, but I'm not entirely devoid of fashion sense.
² Or three of them, if you don't consider the puns in my first win clever.

I Went and Did It Again

Longtime readers hate know that I crave the opportunity to like to show off share my brilliant creations humble stories whenever one knocks the judge's sox off ekes out a contest win. Unsurprisingly Unexpectedly, a few weeks ago I won another much-deserved victory again.

Normally, I'd hype the unfettered creativity of explain the thought process behind my genius winning entry, but today I'll just let you revel in its glory leave you to it.

(Instead needing to work five specific words into the story like in my past wins, the sole requirement this time was to start with the phrase "No questions asked.")

No. Questions Asked: 5
No. Clear Answers Received: 0
 
Q1- 911. What is the nature of your emergency?
Q2- Understood. What's your location, ma'am?
Q3- I assume you cannot speak freely?
Q4- Are you in immediate danger?
Q5- Last question. Does he have a gun?
 
A1- No, I don't really have time for a survey.
A2- I thought our landline was on the no-call list, but if there's a prize...
A3- Beats me. Maybe... once a week?
A4- Come now, don't be rude.
A5- That's no defense. She and I always--I've had enough. *click*
 
No. Vehicles Sent: 3

My prize? Burning Bright by Nicholas Petrie, whose writing rivals my own makes my prose feel small in comparison. It has perhaps the best opening to a novel not written by me I've ever read. If I were you, I'd steal my copy the first moment I look away buy it when it comes out in January.

And of course, you should visit Janet Reid's blog to laugh at all the lesser entries become awed by all the other amazing tales, including one sharing the top honor. Go, right after you reread every single post on my blog now.

The Streaking Writer

Last week, I worked on my novel seven straight days. This may not seem overly impressive — especially considering I wrote a blog post every day in January — but believe me, it is.

The reason is quite simple: I'd never done it before.

Yep, even when I first started writing it years ago during NaNoWriMo,¹ and worked on it almost every day for that first month, I never managed seven straight.

Four days? Sure. Five? Piece of cake.² But the full week has always eluded me.

One factor has been my refusal to begin writing if I have less than an hour to spare. I used to think I couldn't get into a real rhythm otherwise, so anything less would be a waste.

Then last week happened. I only did a full hour two of the days, and on two others I barely wrote for fifteen minutes. Yet each day I made progress in the story, and that sense of accomplishment kept me feeling great throughout the week.

I admit I didn't make much progress, however. Those seven days netted me a scant half a chapter. Then again, it is the final chapter, so perhaps I can cut myself some slack. It takes time to figure out how to tie everything up and complete all the character arcs without it feeling forced.

Besides, you know what they say about slow and steady.³

So I'll keep plugging away. I don't know if I'll go another seven straight anytime soon, but since I'm no longer waiting for that hour-long block of time, I will be writing more often.

And from that, only good things can happen.<sup>4


1</sup> If I told you exactly how long ago I started the novel, with you knowing it's not yet finished, you'd be embarrassed for me. And I don't want that. See, I'm doing this for you.
² That's right, my reward for writing five straight days is a slice of cake. A huge slice of cake. The ensuing sugar hangover renders me pretty much useless on day six.
³ You get last picked at dodge ball.
⁴ Unless you're one of my characters. Mwahahahaha!

Time to Take Off the Training Wheels

Thirty days ago, I gave myself an ultimatum: Write more. With this in mind, I gave myself the goal of blogging, Facing, and Twitting every day of January. How did I do?

For me, Twitter is like that person whom you get along with well enough, but every conversation is laden with semi-awkward silences because you have nothing in common. Yeah, I made it one week. I also missed three other days later in the month. Not a stellar effort by any means (especially if you take a look at what I had to say), but far better than I thought I'd do. Twitter, I'll see ya when I see ya.

I technically missed one day on Facebook, but that was because I didn't manage a post till midnight. It was before I went to sleep, however, so I'm counting it.

As for here on The Wheel? 31 days, 31 posts. Sure, two were photo collections, and a few others were thrown together just to keep the streak going, but I made it. For much of the month, I didn't feel my posts quite reached my blog's standard level of quality,¹ but I began to hit my stride this past week. The stories themselves were merely okay, but the spark had returned. I began to feel good about my posts consistently. And that's exactly what I was hoping to get from this whole endeavor.

So, starting tomorrow, I head back into the word mines.² That's right, other than the occasional blog post, I'm back to writing about attempted political assassinations and invisible monkeys. I'm closing in on the end of my first draft, after which I get to undertake a major rewrite. It's going to be a lot of work, but to tell you the truth, I'm kind of looking forward to it.³

Wish me luck.


¹ As measured by creativity and/or number of footnotes.
² They're a real thing. Authors head underground for a spell, and resurface with brand new words (if their genre is sci-fi) or brand new combinations of words, hewn from the earth itself.
³ Well, except the part where I have to sort through 70+ pages of (sometimes contradictory) notes I wrote myself. Stupid brain, couldn't you have come up with all these ideas the first time through? Oh, sorry, I didn't mean you're actually stupid. It's an expression. No, really, I didn't mean it. Where are you going? No! No no no! Come back! Please come back! Damn it.

Three Sides to Every Story

A
man
had no
love for his
neighbor Stan,
but loved Stan's
wife. Then one day,
he learned Stan loved
him. Whereas Stan's wife
only loved Stan; she had no
love for the other man. It was a
conundrum; each of the three loved
one of the others, but for each of them
it was unrequited. They decided the best
strategy was to go on a trip together to see if
the matter might work itself out. And thus, Stan
booked all three onto a cruise in the North Atlantic.
But, just as Stan's wife started to show some affection
for the other man, the entire ship disappeared off the coast
of Bermuda, and was never seen or heard from again. The end.

Full Circle

Round about
ten o'clock, the moon joined
the sun in the sky. The parade was in
full swing: jugglers arced balls through the
air, clowns stayed balanced on one wheel each,
and the band circumnavigated the town green as
if it was in orbit around the marble statue of Atlas
at its center. Sol walked the perimeter, holding one
Oreo in each hand, and listened to the church bells
ring. It was as if the whole of the planet had come
out to celebrate today. A Frisbee hung high in the
air, forming a halo with the sun for a moment,
before curving back down to the earth. Sol
thought of his own childhood, parades
in this very same spot. His life
had come full circle.

A 26-Line Story I'll Write As I Go

by Nathaniel Jahosophat Wilson

Chadwick von Prenderbottom loved to see people fail.
Donovan Thistletwist loved to drink coffee.
Every day, Chad and Don met at the Coughie Shoppe, where they could do both.
Failure practically lived there.
Girls got orders wrong, and misspelled names every few minutes.
Hopeful scribes sat, uninspired, unable to overcome writer's block.

I should mention: The story's 26 lines include its title, byline, and any asides.

Just before 11 am one Tuesday, Chad noticed a disquieting trend.
Kismet, fate, or perhaps dumb luck had brought only success all morning.
Lattes and espressos had been delivered to customers without a single complaint.
Mice clicked and keyboards clacked non-stop as authors typed up a storm.
Not one person had tripped, jostled each other, or even grumbled.

Oh, by the way, my middle name isn't actually Jahosophat, but imagine if it were.

Perturbed by this turn of events, Chad decided to do something about it.
Queerly, every attempt only bred further success.
Ranting about politics prompted one woman to write a brilliant op ed piece.
Shoving an elderly man put his spine back into proper alignment.
Throwing hot coffee on a barista led to Don getting her number.
Utterly disheartened, Chad left his friend and went home.
Very strange things happening today, he thought.
Wednesday will be better, he thought.
Xanax might help, he thought.

You may think there isn't enough story left to have a satisfying ending, and you'd be right.

Zero failure, though, meant everyone had failed to fail, which made Chad happy again.

Indelibly Etched

I've talked before about the 100-word contests on Janet Reid's blog. Well, earlier today one reader commenting on the latest contest (which I didn't enter) said she'll remember some past entries as long as she lives. Then, as examples, she named two stories: one of the most haunting pieces of short fiction I've read, and one of mine.

I immediately felt two things: Immense pride, in having written something a total stranger will think about for years to come. And secondly, the overwhelming urge to do it again.

My personal writing goals are few. I don't ever expect to make a living at it. I'd love to get published, but I know the odds are against me unless I eschew the traditional route and self-publish. In fact, before today I probably had but two literary ambitions:

• Get these stories out of my head so I can share them.
• Entertain people.

These are solid goals, to be sure, altruistic yet also self-serving. But now I have one more. I want my words to be indelibly etched in others' minds. (No, not literally.) I yearn for some of my stories, my scenes, my phrases, to take hold of readers and never let go. (Again, not literally.)

And, as much as I love my friends and relatives (most of them), part of me craves this from an entirely impartial audience: complete strangers.

I feel this isn't truly a new goal of mine. It's likely been there, roaming the recesses of my mind for years, but never before put it into words. Now it's out there. It's real.

I'm not looking for money (though that would be nice). I'm not seeking fame or recognition (also nice). What I want is my words to impact people in a positive way. To be forever tattooed on their frontal lobe. (Yes, literally.)

I guess I'd better get back to writing.

Still At It After All These Years

My stream-of-consciousness post yesterday proved one thing to me: I've still got it.

Wherein "it" is a knack for unconsciously inserting the same five words into my prose.

When I'm actively editing my work as I go, I can keep their overall usage down. If I'm just typing away, however, they creep in like roaches. And like roaches, they only scurry away if I highlight their presence. Thus, I try to remain vigilant. But even that's not always enough.

I didn't use them all yesterday, but my list of major offenders remains the same as when I first started blogging. In alphabetical order, they are:

• even
• just
• only
• still
• that

Even still, that only just covers the five I'm aware of. I'm sure there are more. And don't get me started on my other writerly tics and mannerisms. We'd be here all day.

Well, I would. You'd probably stop reading after a sentence or two (if you haven't already) and instead go play Candy Crush or stalk a Kardashian or whatever it is other people do.

What do you people do when you're not reading my blog? No, on second thought, don't tell me. We'd be here all day.

The Deceptively Creepy Homonym

Last month, I won another writing contest on literary agent Janet Reid's blog.

Stated as such, my victory sounds ho-hum, a walk in the park. But in fact the opposite is true. The quality of the writing in her contests has always been stellar, and the authors have repeatedly raised the bar in recent years. Hell, in a July contest she deemed my tale "a perfect entry," yet it still wasn't enough to pull out the win.

This time around, we had to work these five words into a story of 100 words or less:

week - rag - creak - snag - peak

Once school ended, Ben and Jacob headed for the woods. They followed the winding mountain trail until they heard the small creak on the other side of the ridge. The boys clambered up and each took a peak. From either point, the old mill was barely visible, clothed in vines.

Inside, a gaunt figure slumped against rusty machinery, its arm snagged in the gears. The boys poked and prodded the body a while, till it stirred.

"Please... help me," the man said weekly.

Jacob dragged out water and crackers before joining Ben at the door. He smiled.

"Maybe next Friday."

You might not catch it at first—many readers didn't—but I used three of the words where you'd expect their homonyms instead. The first two feel like they could be typos. Clever, sure, but not too exciting. The third one, though...

Yeah, I know. It gives me chills, too.

This marks my third win in Janet Reid's contests. Winning with humor (and bad puns) didn't surprise me, but now I've also done so by being serious and seriously creepy. Considering I've only entered ten times or so, I must be doing something right.

Even if none of you will ever go for a walk with me in the woods again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

(By the way, make sure you go and read all the entries. They're fantastic. And grab yourself a copy of The Drifter by Nicholas Petrie, my spoils from the contest. I devoured it in short order. It's a taut thriller with great characters, wonderful prose, and a dog who—spoiler alert—doesn't die. It's out next week.)

(Also, this story is one of the few documented instances where it's perfectly acceptable to use an adverb within a dialogue tag. Don't try this at home, kids.)

The Resolution Will Not Be Televised

During 2015 I was mostly absent from all forms of social media, which I know disappointed my biggest fans¹. My total output: Seven blog posts, and few tweets or Facebookian interactions of any substance.²

I haven't made a New Year's resolution in ages — I make promises, not resolutions — but this January I decided to go one step further. This year, I'm giving myself an ultimatum:

Write more. Or else.

I have no idea what sort of crazy punishment I've concocted for me if I fail. But knowing how my imagination works, it can't be good. So I will indeed write more this year. Way more.

There will be more posts here and on the Book of Faces. Extra tweetering over at that other place. My goal is at least one per day per site in January, and then semi-regular output from there on.

Why am I doing this? In part to make up for last year, in part to get me back into a rhythm. Because rhythm is what I'll need once I launch myself back into my novel.³ It's time to finish that puppy up.⁴

That's my plan for the year. What's yours?


¹ A 20-inch box fan and a 4-ft tall oscillating number.
² And that's even with my overly generous definition of "substance."
³ Not literally. Ow.
⁴ Note: Not an actual puppy. Though once it's in book form, I do hope many of its pages are dog-eared. (Belated bad pun alert.)

A Thorn By Any Other Name

Up until a couple months ago, I could see an establishment called The Gold Club from my daily commute. Yes, it was a strip club. And no, I never set foot in the place; I know full well all that glitters is not gold.¹

Then one day, a new banner hung out front. The club had a new name: MYNX. Later, fancier signage showed the full name as MYNX Cabaret. Though they likely employ the exact same dancers as before, it now seems like they're trotting out a lower quality product, doesn't it? Gone is the (perception of the) high-class establishment, replaced with girls and a club that are, at best, saucy. Thus, the discerning strip club connoisseur enters with lowered expectations.

And that got me thinking about book titles.

Let's say you've written a book. It's ideal title would both fit your story and catch the eye (or ear) of potential readers.² And of course, novelists must take genre into account. Titles that play well for thrillers or mysteries will rarely cut it in women's lit. And any overlap between horror and romance is purely coincidental.³

It's also best to match your book's tone. If what you've written is quirky or humorous, try to work a hint of that into your title. Avoid puns at all costs unless they are truly clever puns. (Yes, there are such things as clever puns. No, you shut up.) And only use a trashy (a.k.a. mynxy) title if your book calls for it.⁴

If all else fails, just stick with something simple, and either hope the publisher comes up with a winner, or reel your readers in via the cover, jacket copy, and word of mouth.

For your perusing pleasure, here's a small sample of the titles I've considered for my first novel (about an invisible assassin whose mission is repeatedly stymied by morons):

• And Then Came the Invisible Monkeys
• The Unseen Agenda
• See No Evil
• The Good, the Bad, and the Invisible
• Unvisible
• Scythe Unseen
• Invisibility for Idiots
• How Not to Be Seen
• The Final Defenestration of Rupert Fenwick

Most have some merit, but alas, none are fervor-inducing. The closest might be that last one, but sadly I made it up just now, and it has absolutely nothing to do with my novel. Clearly, I still have work to do.⁵

But no matter what, I won't sell my readers short. I'd rather my title promise more than I can deliver ("Gold Club") than lose readers by limping in with something less appealing ("MYNX") or lacking in creativity ("Naked Chicks on a Stage").

Come to think of it, I should have come up with a better title for this post. This probably isn't at all what you were expecting.


¹ A partial list of glittery things other than gold and strippers: silver, bronze, iron pyrite, six-year-old girls, jazz hands, far too many greeting cards, fairy godmothers, vampires of the Meyerian oeuvre, and Gary.
² Okay, its ideal title would actually grab people by their lapels (whether or not they're wearing lapels at the time) and instantly instill in them the innate need to buy/borrow/steal/claw each other's eyes out for your book, all before they've even seen its jacket or learned anything else about it. But, you know, good luck with that.
³ La Petite Mort: Return of the Bodice Ripper
⁴ You know, for instance if it's a cheap, tawdry affair... about a cheap, tawdry affair.
⁵ For instance, I have to finish writing it.

Raptor vs. Turtle

Raptors vs. The World #5
vs. Elephant | vs. Sheep | vs. Pig | vs. Tiger | vs. Turtle

Murray ambled along, taking in the scenery. Out of nowhere, some young buck shot past him, nearly trampling him in the process. He shook his head and kept walking. He'd never understand the need to rush everywhere. What was so bad about enjoying the here and now? Even in his youth, Murray had extolled the virtues of patience and persistence, but then as now, few listened.

And as if on cue, here was someone else quickly approaching from behind. Well, he'd be damned if he was going to step aside. No, sir. Like his grandpa always said, slow and steady wins the—

~~~~~

Now try this: Read the story again, but this time ignore the photo. That is, think of the characters as people, not animals. (It's interesting how much a single image can change your perception of a story, isn't it?)

Raptor vs. Tiger

Raptors vs. The World #4
vs. Elephant | vs. Sheep | vs. Pig | vs. Tiger | vs. Turtle

Natalia strolled along the river, quite happy with how things were coming together. He thought he was so clever, sticking to the shadows outside her periphery. What a novice. She'd caught his scent right from the start, and heard him not long after. She had a knack for knowing when someone was on her tail.

She didn't acknowledge his presence — no reason to spook him. It would be far more fun if he believed he had the upper hand right till the last moment. She slowed her gait, then paused at the side of the river and dangled her toes in.

It wouldn't be long now. Natalia could sense him slipping out of the shadows, drawing ever closer. She purred in anticipation. Almost there. Almost...

~~~~~

Now try this: Read the story again, but this time ignore the photo. That is, think of the characters as people, not animals. (It's interesting how much a single image can change your perception of a story, isn't it?)

Raptor vs. Pig

Raptors vs. The World #3
vs. Elephant | vs. Sheep | vs. Pig | vs. Tiger | vs. Turtle

Larry was used to being picked on. He'd always been a bit on the heavy side, and his pale skin burned easily in the sun. This was his secret place, where he could come to escape others' judgment for a few hours.

He was sure he'd done the right thing today. The moral thing. But still, if they found out he was the one who'd squealed, they'd rip into him good. The whole business stank to high heaven, but at least now his conscience was clean. He'd hole up here till the uproar died down. No one else knew about this spot. Here, he was safe.

~~~~~

Now try this: Read the story again, but this time ignore the photo. That is, think of the characters as people, not animals. (It's interesting how much a single image can change your perception of a story, isn't it?)

Raptor vs. Sheep

Raptors vs. The World #2
vs. Elephant | vs. Sheep | vs. Pig | vs. Tiger | vs. Turtle

Maribel had never strayed far from the farm. Truth be told, she'd never had reason to. The farm had everything she needed, and she loved nothing more than running through the fields with her older brothers and sisters. Nevertheless, as she grew older, she began to wonder what else was out there, beyond the white fences that marked the edge of the property. One afternoon, she slipped away from her siblings and ventured off on her own.

Almost immediately, she got lost. Back home she knew all the landmarks, but once she'd passed the white fence, nothing would stick in her mind. Each bush, each field looked like every other. As dusk fell and the air grew colder, she berated herself for being so impulsive. She never should have gone out on her own. And now, with the light fading, she'd never find her way back. Sure, her thick coat would keep her warm overnight, but being alone out here for so long was the most frightening thing she could imagine. Maribel had just about given up all hope when she heard faint footsteps behind her. She stopped crying and lifted up her head.

Finally! Someone to help her find her way home.

~~~~~

Now try this: Read the story again, but this time ignore the photo. That is, think of the characters as people, not animals. (It's interesting how much a single image can change your perception of a story, isn't it?)