I think the word that most accurately describes the Ink Slingers Guild meeting of last week is “epicneas”.
(If epicneas wasn’t a word before, it is now.) We had four people attend for the first time!! Lisa made raspberry shortcake, and had the foresight to have the second pot of tea brewing before the first one was all gone. All four new members participated in our writing exercise and read them aloud, so they get a round of applause for that. Hopefully we’ll see them back again!
In honor of all the awesomeness, I’m going to put all the awesomeness of writing exercise here.
And the first one: I was very pleased with myself for getting all the words in one sentence – a feat Alanna also achieved 🙂
spirit, streak, horse
Hanna kicked at the ground, and shouted a few choice curses at the grey skies.
If she thought that was going to get her out of this in-between place, she was
wrong. Her spirit-horse had spooked and bolted, and the last Hanna had seen of
it was a pale streak across the sky, reminiscent of a shooting star from home.
Thinking about home just made her want to cry, so she refrained, concentrating
instead on what she knew about the incorporeal land she was crazy enough to
attempt to traverse. This was the land between here and now, and there and then.
It was foggy, cloudy in the way that forgotten memories were, and if one wasn’t
careful, one could get very lost in here. Hanna shoved that fear far out of
sight, and looked at where she had been stranded.
It was a flat place, with giant, craggy rocks jutting up like broken teeth.
Sometimes it looked almost solid, and other times it faded before her eyes. She
remained alert, ready to jump away at the first sign that the ground under her
was going, as she racked her mind for a solution. Then it came to her, on a
faraway whisper, appearing as the ghost of a house sheltered in the shadow of a
Perhaps the creator of this bit of in-between would be able to get me out, Hanna
thought, starting for the house and hoping it didn’t disappear as quickly as it
On this one there was a brief discussion on what exactly was the definition of “honeypot” – I just decided it was easiest to use the literal one, mostly because I like honey.
honeypot, dark, exquisite,
For the first hour she wondered around the house, trying not to look too closely
at the dark gathering outside, blanketing the windows and hiding everything.
That didn’t take her mind off the fact that Josh was out there, in that, and
even if he called it an exquisite hub of magical energy, it was still dangerous.
So she boiled the kettle and made a cup of tea, emptied half the honeypot into
it, and went to sit in the loungeroom, moving the chair so she couldn’t see the
window. She was only halfway done with her tea when a frantic pounding at the
door made her scream and drop her cup. It shattered on the floor, and still she
sat frozen, the beating getting more desperate. The first rule of the dark kept
going around her head: Don’t open the doors, and don’t open the windows.
But this was the first time anything had ever tried to get in. Josh was a
brilliant wizard, and the wards he set up were strong. Nothing was going to get
past them, he had assured her. But the rule stands, just in case. The knocks
slowed, as if whatever was out there was losing stamina, growing weak from
exertion, or something else. There was a heavy thud against the door as
something fell into it, and a pleading scratch continued. She took deep breaths,
trying to calm her speeding heart, when a horrible thought occurred to her.
What if that was Josh outside, demanding to be let in?
At last, I got to put in a word – with so many people there, I thought maybe I was going to forego that honor in this meeting.
purge, lovely (my word), laser,
Flit looked down at his final school paper one last time. He was sure there was
something missing, or something extra, that was going to earn him a big, fat,
FAIL, in all uppercase letters, in blood red ink, or even actual blood, across
the top of the paper.
He tried to purge the thought, but it kept growing, morphing into something
nightmares were made of and panic threatened to overwhelm him. Calm down, Flit
told himself, and saw his hand was shaking, clenched around the paper and
crumpling the one edge. He straightened it on his desk while thinking lovely
thoughts and telling himself positive uplifting things, like just because Mrs. T
was a witch, didn’t actually mean she cooked and ate small children. She wasn’t
that bad. If nothing else, Flit’s story would look like magic epic tales when
compared to Nel the Troll’s paper, because Nel’s vocabulary was limited to a
Then Flit looked down again. His story was about lasers and machines and things
called combustion engines and scanning devices. Would Mrs. T accept such
fantasy? He groaned and fell forward into the desk. He was so going to flunk
out. He could feel it.
Hope you enjoyed that 🙂
Look for more exciting news about The Guardians of the Path, book III Omens coming soon!