Excerpt fr. Chapter One of a Story by Lyndsey Bruckman

Here's a part of the first chapter of one of Lyndsey's stories. I couldn't the whole chapter because of length (sorry Lyndsey!) but I can forward it along to people if there's interest. We can discuss tonight.

Chapter One

“Where are you going Metis?” Rosalind asked her daughter.

Metis stood in the doorway to her family’s home, her shoulders sagging, “I’m going to the tavern with my friends,
Mother,” she turned toward Rosalind, “Am I not allotted some fun once in a while?”

Rosalind stopped folding the laundry and placed the rest of the clothing on the kitchen table. She pressed down
on her apron and pushed back a few stray grey curls from her forehead. “You do know that every time you go to that tavern you get into some kind of trouble. I don’t want to keep covering for you. You need to learn to show some decency. Our pride in you seems to diminish every time you go out with your ‘friends’”.

Metis turned around fully and crossed her arms over her full chest, “I know, I know. I’ll try to act proper this time. Does that satisfy you, Mother?”

“Somewhat, but I don’t want you to become so intoxicated that you get into another fight. Your father and I don’t want to bail you out of the Guard House again. You are a Grey Elf, daughter, they won’t hesitate to do it again,” Rosalind sighed, it was the sad truth.

“Don’t be silly, that’s not the reason. They put other races in the Guard House when they become rowdy.”

Rosalind shook her head, “I don’t care. If anyone in this village sees you in there, they will think lesser of us. I don’t want that!”

“Don’t go all huffy Mother. This is my life; I will choose how to lead it.”

“If you do something wrong this time I won’t be too sympathetic, and neither will your father,” Rosalind grabbed her wicker laundry basket from the table and walked over to her daughter. “I just don’t want you to live a life of wild nights and despair.”

“That won’t happen, Mum, there is something out there for me that will make you proud of me. I just want to have fun for now.”

Metis looked into her mother’s sweet ebony eyes. There was trust there, but it was waning. Rosalind embraced Metis and lightly patted her grey cheek.

“You may go, but be home this night, no staying at someone’s house.”

Metis smiled and ran out the front door with a little hop in her step, “Thank you Mother!”

Rosalind walked out onto the path in front of their country home, “Next time wear a better dress!”


“What did your mum say?” asked Constance.

“She said that she wasn’t going to cover my arse anymore. So I best be on my best behavior tonight.” Metis downed the rest of her ale that had a nice hint of apple cider.

Constance and Metis sat at a neglected table at the back of the tavern. The Grinning Wolf tavern was filled to the brim. There was a vast array of races and kinds of people dancing, drinking, and having a good time. The hall was crowded and loud, but it was the best tavern for miles. The girls had no choice.

Metis glanced over at Constance. She was smiling at a small table of young men who were giving her the eye. Constance was a good looking human, Metis thought, maybe that was why the men were looking at her friend instead of herself.

Metis sighed. The girls had been friends for years. They were always together, and they were always there for each other when something went wrong. But Metis knew that Constance was always going to be the prettier one out of the pair. Maybe tonight was the night she was going to find an attractive man, Metis thought.

“I’m going to go get another pint, do you want one?” Metis asked Constance.

“Hmm?” Constance was too enthralled with the men a few feet away. “What did you say?”

“I’m going to get another, do you want one?”

Constance turned her attention toward Metis as she played with her long brown curls, “Why can’t you just signal for a serving girl?”

Metis smiled, “Because I want to scout the hall, maybe there’s a few more men than the ones flirting with you.”
Constance coyly waved at the men, “Oh I guess you are right, sorry.”

Metis got up from her seat and grasped the two empty pints, “That’s alright. Why don’t you go over there and make some conversation? You know they are too scared to come over and talk to you.”

“Maybe they are too scared to come over here because of you,” Constance said teasingly.

“Funny, my dear, you have a wonderful sense of humor,” replied Metis as she slapped her friend on the shoulder.
Metis made her way through the crowd, pushing past people she knew and strange men with their wenches. She turned back to see that the men from the other table had finally decided to go over and talk to Constance. Maybe Constance was right, Metis thought, maybe they were afraid of my kind.

With that thought pushed to the back of her mind, Metis made her way to the bar without being knocked over. She found an empty stool and claimed it as her own.

“What will you be having, Metis?” Geoff asked.

Geoff was the tavern owner and bar tender. Since Metis and Constance were somewhat regulars, Geoff had become pretty good friends with the girls.

“Oh, just a refill on ale, please,” Metis placed the pints into Geoff’s massive hands and slapped down four more coppers.

Geoff returned with the two now full pints and placed them on the bar, “I’m cutting you two off now, alright sweets? We don’t need two drunkards look’n like yourselves again.”

Metis laughed but she knew he was thinking of their overall well being, “I’ll take your word for it, Geoff. You are a good man.”

“Flattery won’t get you too far with me young sweet, but I thank you none-the-less.” Geoff said as he scratched his now bald head.

Metis tipped her head and watched the older man take the four coppers. She then set off back to the table and it’s new guests.

On her way, Metis looked at all the people at the tavern this night. There weren’t too many that caught her eye, but maybe she wasn’t drunk enough. She would see with the second pint.

Just then, Metis bumped into someone, and some of the ale sloshed over the mug’s sides.

“Shit!” Metis exclaimed and looked over to the person who knocked into her shoulder.

“Oh I am sorry Miss, please let me get you another.”

Metis lost all control in her jaw muscles as her mouth opened in pleasant surprise. A man had knocked into her. Not only was he a man, but a handsome man at that. He was of the Human race, tall compared to Metis, light skinned, and muscular. Unlike so many men in the tavern, he smelled like the forest, musky yet fresh. And he had offered to purchase two more pints for Metis.

“Are you alright,” he placed a large hand on Metis’s shoulder, “I hope I didn’t bump you too hard.”

“Oh yes, I mean no, no you didn’t,” Metis stumbled. His smile was kind, his hair long and black, and his tunic fit him snugly. “I wouldn’t mind your offer.”

“Alright two more ales it is. Where are you seated?”

Metis pointed to her now crowded table in the back, “I’m over there with my friend Constance. It was empty but I guess a few lads picked up her scent.”

The man laughed. He thought I was funny, Metis thought.

“I’ll meet you there with two more pints then.”

Metis nodded and watched him walk over to the bar. His trousers fit him quite nicely as well, she thought. Then the thought occurred to her, they weren’t supposed to have anymore ale, maybe Geoff won’t catch on. Metis crossed her fingers and sidled over to her table.

PUBLIC SAFETY Updates

So today I posted new work by Aaron & Sarah. Give them feedback! I've also received two more solicited manuscripts: well done people!!

I added Daytrotter on the LINKS section, as well as Duotrope, CrimethInc. & PENNsound, where you can find the actual recordings of Jack Spicer's Vancouver lectures that we talked about briefly the first week. What are these sites you say?? GO FIND OUT! That's why the links page is there.

See you all tonight...

Poem by Aaron Awkerman

Don’t say it can’t be caught
By Aaron Awkerman


I’m running straining my body to go faster
Harder-to the horizon and the next
Around me, on me, in me are purples and reds
The sun is painting a picture-a dream?
I must keep running

PLEASE

Keep running. If you do it’ll never stop
The colors, so rich and creamy
Like strawberry ice cream in the skies
Like the warm blushing of a lover
Like a sunrise reflected on a cherry
That is why you mustn’t tire or give up

NO NO FASTER

The colors are paler fainter and further away now
As if we’re looking through a smoky glass
Please Lord give me wings so that I may fly
No why why is it falling? My beautiful sun
It’s too late
I’ve failed to keep up with the sunset.

Poem by Sarah Elgatian

if it really mattered
why bother?

i wont say that i am
anything i am not

i often feel trapped
sticky, thorned spiderwebs
attatch me to my surroundings
and you people just sit and stare

thats okay.
i've been here, done this before
i'll live past your juvenile bullshit

what i really want
is for you to stop getting in my face
with your lies
and whips
i'm not a masochist
not that you care
i just thought i'd mention it

if you dont know me
don't pretend you do
don't be righteous and mean
i dont do that to you

Piece by Sam Garrison

Gag Order

Julie ate her French fries without ketchup and wondered why she never asked for those little travel packets. She didn’t like to inconvenience the drive-through girl, but isn’t that her job? To give driver’s ketchup packets while they’re on the go? No, their job is to man the drive through and take orders. Take orders—for ketchup. Then why did it feel so whiny to just ask? Julie had worked in fast food, she knew ketchup packets were the least of a drive-through operators worries. But, Julie remembered, sometimes ketchup packets were just another stupid demand to make the drive-through girl feel like complete dirt. Or even less. She didn’t think of herself as degrading the girl behind the window, but sometimes taking people’s every demand for only minimum wage was more demeaning than walking naked into a crowd of horny teen-age boys. Granted, her mouth was really dry, and ketchup usually helped. The fries were tasteless, but she didn’t expect more. Either way, she was starting to fret, reliving the brief intercourse with the drive-through girl, making sure everything she said was courteous, friendly, and uplifting. She did ask for the straw after dropping her quarter—what if she sounded too frazzled? Panicking as she bit into one of her dry fries, Julie gasped, then choked. Coughing and continuing to panic, she couldn’t reach her drink or think to pull to the side of the road. The last thing Julie saw before her coma was a set of headlights from a Ford F-150 coming in the opposite direction.

Short Story by Aaron Awkerman

A Shadow Cast By A Heart
By Aaron Awkerman

You’re to young to have seen it but decades ago a great spin wheel as large as the heavens and as mighty as all the powers of men stood as a sentinel. It watched over all of us in the pass and beyond that. Its windows were stained with the brightest of colors and its hardware was fashioned out of sunset gold. It loomed above all the houses, markets, and palaces and almost, almost stood above the mountains of God’s very making and yet those who walk the earth crafted it. Its foundation was carved from the mountain roots. They say an ancient giant of war assisted men at this stage by breaking away the mountain until not but the base of rock remained. Yet, no one alive today believes this myth for where is the giant and his kind now? Where are the fire steeds, fairies, and wyverns of the old stories? No, men alone have ever populated the earth.
This windmill, despite its name, was not moved or even so much as swayed by the wind. The forces that acted upon its mighty rotating arms were not those of the weather but instead those of the heart. The very dreams of men caused these hill-sized fans to turn. Not the dreams that make up ambitions for they have simply adopted the word dream. What we speak of now are the dreams of your soul while you are carried into that death like state of sleep. They are borne along, as if by the wind, from all parts of the valley toward the great white stoned dream mill. Oh how they would light up the skies at night in blues upon reds that rest within the greens of purples, what a sight to behold too when it all melds into the dawning orange shining from Sol. The dreams were guided to the windmill in great rivers of glowing, pulsing radiant lights. In rare cases the drifting dreams would bring themselves to form along with color. They would appear as dancing white butterflies in among the others or as laughing children with starry eyes-much like yourselves.
A very beautiful, no maybe she wasn’t so beautiful to most but to me she was like a finely cut opal. This girl, that wonderful girl once asked me to dream with her. It was a special thing, to dream with someone you see. It was like a bonding, a love so intimate it could not be emulated by any other method. It was a gift of spirit. I was dumbfounded, shocked even, that she would ask me. All I could think to say was-of what? Being the boy I was, I knew what I wanted to dream about if you catch my meaning that is but she answered in the most peculiar way.
How about black and white or a light and a shadow?
Her and I were always dreaming together after that, sneaking off to fall asleep under the clouds or heavens. Sometimes too we would run away just to watch the dream lights play across the countryside on their way to the windmill. Those were cozy warm days that I would trade for nothing and there is nothing that I wouldn’t trade to have them back. She was too young to know any better and I was too young to warn her, but we would never dream of simply things like cats or fire or a meal. No, we always had to try something new, something that had never been done or would never have been tried if we had not done it first in our mind’s eye. So that night, we laid our backs against the cool grass and dreamed of things black and of other things white yet there were more black things.
A day passed after our dream, the sun rose to chase the moon and the seven stars away, but when night fell again we fled to the hill that the sun runs to when its course is done. There existed a large gray oak tree on the hilltop and the surrounding lands were wide and flat- the perfect place to watch the lights move along. We talked briefly, waiting for the sun to set and the other people of the valley to go asleep. Our sister village, which was quite large, could be found just beyond the western horizon from us and we were anxious to view their many faceted lights float lazily over the grassy plains. The dream lights came as a faint glow on the horizon like a fool’s fire and etched there way ever so slowly toward the windmill and us. Unlike all other nights, the light stayed faint. Deeply disappointed, the two of us decided on another dream then relaxed and it began it’s course. We dreamed of a shadow cast by a heart.
The next day was an overcast one, hazy and uneventful, filled with unwanted and never ending chores. All those years ago the day served no purpose to us children except to delay the wonderful, loveable night. It did indeed finally come much to our delight and my friend and I slipped away but this time as close to the rising moon as possible. We wanted to greet our friend rather then chase away our foe. We chatted and gossiped until it was time for the rainbow of lights to drift in from the eastern towns. The time arrived and we hushed ourselves as hatefully as the onlookers in a theater as they see the curtains drawn. We checked our small intricate gold watches after many minutes. The time for the first lights had come and gone again, was no one in the eastern kingdom sleeping? We decided that must be the case and that we picked a horrible spot for the night but nevertheless we were still excited because of our time together.
When asked about the topic of our dream I replied with my usually stupidity-I don’t know was all I dared speak. My dearest, closest friend was also strangely unsure that night, which was as common as a mountain not knowing its place in the world. Seemingly it was impossible. However, that night the impossible came to be possible so she choose the route I myself was considering-Let’s let our hearts pick tonight.
To let your heart choose your dream is an old saying meaning precisely what it sounds like. Your heart, your seed of motivation and conviction, would pick your night’s dream rather then you yourself. It’s true, the two are different in more ways then you may think. We’ve all experienced arguments between the two entities. We may want badly, or even desperately desire to eat a cake or to kiss that girl but we withdraw. Why? The cake is unhealthy and the girl already has a love interest. Our reason beats our heart. That night the two of us gave our hearts the reigns and dreamed about monsters that walked about as men.
The following day the adults were in an uproar. No one would tell us why directly but we skipped on our small duties to play a spy game and find out what had everyone so upset. We heard a great deal about the windmill and the lights and the other towns and villages. My friend thought there must be a sleepless time ahead of us and I agreed. I was often a yes man to her. Sleepless nights were needed sometimes to repair the windmill. News found its way to our ears about something much more frightening then insomnia however. There was a great black crack in the side of the windmill.
That night it was decided without a peep from either of us that we would dream below the windmill itself like we did when we were babies. We ran here and there through the trees and between the cribs of newborns. Looking up past the tree limbs and leaves of summer we could make out the crack for ourselves. It was wicked like lightning and the extremities were gray as if the black of the crack and the white marble of the mill were mixing. We discovered a tiny pond by its base and it was there we slept for the night. There was little talk or laughing, we both thought we were there to help the windmill and that was a serious business for two youngsters. Like a bandage would help heal a wound. That night we again let our hearts pick for us and what we dreamed of was a brother killing his brother and the world torn asunder.
We awoke to a terrible thunder in the before dawn skies and there were people running around us, gathering up babes in their arms while screaming to each other to run or hide. Chunks of the great tower were falling as stone rain from the skies, bringing pain and death down with them. We ran together, hand in hand. Our legs were short and we could barely make it away before massive portions of the once beautiful monument began sliding from above like icebergs off the artic. Dust and debris was everywhere, in our eyes, our feet, our mouths, and the faint lights from nearby lamps were transformed from their normal soft white to a devilish red as if the light was filtered by smoke and not by dust. I swear it was like hell itself had moved up from the earth and sat, not in the heart of the world, but at our very doorstep. I tripped and dragged my friend down with me. I remember no more of that morning.
Today if you were to visit the spot the mill once stood you would barely be able to tell it had every existed. Once it fell, the first victim in a string of unrighteous crimes, the white oak and pale leather that had once made up its spine wheel disappeared as if washed away by falling rain. Only a large hill of white stone now marks its location and even now most dismiss it as the rubble of an old quarry and not for what it truly is-the corpse of a wonder. It was pure, white, shimmering, and young but it was not built to withstand hateful dreams. Dreams like the ones my friend and I, and many others, supplied as time moved on. It toppled because of our cold hearts and now dreams are no longer tame, no longer chosen by the dreamer, and are lost without guidance.
Of course, few alive believe such stories, for where is the windmill now and those like it? Where are the dream lights, the men of good hearts, and the chosen dreams now? No, hateful men and lost dreams alone have ever populated the earth.

Poem by Matthew Heston

A poem from Matt, formatted as it was in the email he sent me. Do well... RC

commissioning dali

Her face hangs upside down from a tire swing floating in outer space.
I'm wearing an astronaut costume holding a cardboard sign that reads
"Will you go to prom with me?" The sun's rays are snakes and one is
wrapped around my calf muscle. A giant tower is viewable on Earth that
shows it has become MTV's universal headquarters. What the viewer
doesn't know is this is all a reflection in the eye of a five year old
girl.

--Matthew Heston

Poem by Melinda Menner

Here's your first piece to comment on. Be constructive & thorough. Best! RC

until i'm given a voice
i will remain silent

until i'm given wings to fly
i'll just stay on the ground

i prefer my two feet flat
it's safe here on the ground

sure, i've got dreams
but i'm not aloud to make them public

no worries, i'm safe here in my safety net
but i can't leave
and i won't leave

after all
it's all just for my good

Welcome MWC's Young Emerging Writers!

Hey all,

First let me say hello & that I hope everyone's well. So you've made it here & now it's time to play. For the sake of YEW, you can all disregard rules detailed in the previous post. A quick reminder: to have a piece put up for commentary, you have to send it to me a my netzero email address, then I will post it. PLEASE comment on other people's work as much as possible, as it is the point of this whole enterprise & if you except to get commentary on your work, you have to give some too. Reciprocity is the key to any working relationship!

In any case, Lindsey & I will be inviting people we know & love to visit PS & offer their two cents, and there also might be some guests from Metro Arts & elsewhere. The original idea for PS was to open it up to the general Quad City writing public (& other places) to develop on online, ongoing dialogue, a circle for creative commentary, support for writers/musicians/artists on the DIY scene & a widening of the creative context for the QC area. You are the first to try this whole thing out, so explore the links, come back often & help each other! You can post as much as you like, send me as much to be posted as you like. No one will dominate the conversation & if you all want to correspond via email to further & strengthen this process, do! Whatever it takes for this all to be a huge success & for your work to grow & proliferate. This is where it all starts...

it's in our hands.

xo, your fearless leader