Writers of the Revolution: August 10, 2013

Featured by Vigilo

Okay, I'll admit it: I adore almost anything orphicfiddler writes. So, when I went through the lists of past featured members, I was highly confused and completely floored to realise that we have not featured her before. This is amazing, because it means I get to! Her writing is phenomenal. She writes both prose and poetry, though I admit I have a fondness for her prose, which is often fantastical and creepy and always amazing.

If you haven't read her works, I urge you to. Plead. Beg. Whichever. They're well worth your time as well as the read. Choosing the ones I did was extremely difficult - everything she writes is exquisite, and I struggled to pick one over the other. (I just ended up closing my eyes and pointed blindly, in the end, because I couldn't choose between the wonderful, mythical, short horror story, The Minotaur's Bride, and Tea For Two, which ended up being the one I chose (and is also fantastic, if lighter).

They Also Serve Who Only Stand and WaitI don't know when we first went underground. I don't even know if it was one mass exodus, a swarm of mankind trickling through the earth's crust so vehement we carved our own caverns by the force of trampling feet, or whether it was a gradual process, perhaps even a repetitive one, a family here, a neighborhood there. For all I know, the echo of the damp subterranean machine has always reverberated off the cave walls, created long past by the Angels, who think of our well-being even while they shake their heads helplessly at our flaws.
They say that those who remained on the surface were raptured away in a great flash of light, like a million suns converted into raw energy all at once. While it was rumored once that the flash was our doing, our own horrid creation, we all know better now. It was the Maker who brought it forth from the void and cast it onto the earth's crust, as though shot from an immense sling, taking only those who were brave enough to trust in Him. We, who live in t
They Also Serve Who Only Stand And Wait
I venture elsewhere, however. There is no end to the darkness, always another crevice to descend, another spire to climb. I have wandered the expanse of nothing for years and found only the mutables and borgs, the blind fish and the luminescent star-nosed moles. They are the only stars I have ever seen.

This is beautiful, chilling: a blend of science fiction and royal families, not something you often associate with science fiction.  Gorgeously written, so that the dystopian nature of the underworld creeps up on you - and the twist is brilliant.

The Glowing Child“Did I see you in the streets, perhaps, in a winter long ago?” asked the man with the rumpled hair, his cane clutched close, his eyes squinched tight in myopic contemplation.
“Perhaps,” the girl echoed, taking him by the hand. “That is not imperative for you to know, though, so I would suggest simply forgetting it.”
Impertinent girl, he thought, but quite possibly not. Quite possibly not a girl, he meant, not that there was any doubt she was impertinent. The creature, indeed, was all too white and fluttery to be much of anything customarily called human, and rather too small in his opinion to be so blithely commanding him about. Much was amiss here, but he took her hand anyway, mainly through exhaustion. It had been that sort of day.
“Where are we going?” he inquired, after a stumble through the unlit parlor. “Mr. S--- said it wouldn’t be long – walking has always been something of a difficulty and it would be highly una
The Glowing Child
"But then she says, once she has told her family, that she really cannot marry a cripple, it would not do, and she marries a lord the very next summer," he told the spirit in a flat voice like an unleavened loaf sinking into the fire.

"But you should not dwell on that!" exclaimed the glowing child merrily. "You have been loved once, and you can be again, if only you had not given up."

Have you read A Christmas Carol? Have you not? Either way, run, don't walk, and read this beautiful, beautiful story inspired by it. Charming, sad, and realistic, as well as a lovely read. orphicfiddler's way with words is just so elegant, it just pulls you in without you realising it, until you're done reading.

Tea for TwoI observed her fragile corpse upon the cemetery seat, looking to and fro like a lost pigeon. She blinked her watery green eyes at me just once as I approached, then let them oggle wide.
"Madam," said I, "have you any need of assistance?"
A soft moan echoed back across the dying rhododendrons.
"Are you tired? Lost?" A quick glance at her spittle-slathered chops. "Hungry?"
She nodded vigorously and a bit of froth flew loose to stick upon a nearby leaf. I watched as it slowly slid its way to the very tip and plopped with a light "thwack" upon the freshly upturned soil.
"Er, there ought to be a dead squirrel or two out back by the fence. I imagine Mortimer left something, he's always forgetting what he's doing and scampering off, you know how those crazy groundskeepers can be . . ."
She made a sound a bit like the braying of a hound.
"Perhaps you don't. Anyhow, come along."
When dealing with the dead, it's best to be polite. I suppose I would be anyhow, though, I can't help it. It's simply
Tea For Two
Which is thoroughly unfortunate, because I do wish to learn more about Mary's past. What was her mum like, and did she also enjoy cooking sherry? Had she ever had a boyfriend before? Was she a fan of Twilight and, if so, wasn't she delighted to learn that real vampires didn't resemble disco balls?

Zombies and vampires and tea. This is just the perfect Halloween hilarity, go read it for laughs and giggles. It's short, it's whimsical, and it's adorable. This is not something I find myself saying about bloodsuckers and brain-eaters every day.

The Angel in the House"Dearest?"
"Mm?"
"Dearest, there, did you hear…?" But his voice trailed off with a glance at her blank little face, tilted at him with feline confusion. He rose the paper to the level of his nose and rustled it nervously. "Don't trouble yourself, I'm sure it's nothing…"
Yet there it was again, he could feel the vibrations in his chair! His wife's obvious inability to hear it made him loathe to admit this, however, and he slouched lower under the breakfast table, observing her over the top of the business section.
She was an uncanny creature, he had to admit. Their courtship had been brief and perfunctory, more compelled into occurrence through their families than any actual inclination. And yet, he had come to love her in some fashion. The silent way she slid about the breakfast table; the sweep of dark hair against her pale forehead; the classic curve of her nose; her dainty, dexterous hands fluttering as she cleared up the plates. There were times when he wished he could em
The Angel in the House
"Wouldn't you rather?" she said poutingly. "I mean, really, I wouldn't refuse you to scrub blood off a sheet. My blood is quicksilver, my heart is golden. They are both beautiful. You would die with love to have them on your sheets if you could see how beautiful they are."

"And the wings? What are they?"

She glanced at her back, and laughed. "Unnecessary, that's what."

I want to say, this is my favourite piece, which is why I'm ending with it, but that would be a lie. It's impossible to have a favourite piece with this writer. (You try having one, I dare you.) But this is truly one of my favourites of hers, and excellent, and it does the setting so well. Elegant, beautiful, and haunting.

We orphicfiddler.

---

on Pen of sadness by NormaL-UseR

Along those lines, I would also cut out 'the ink is my tears', partly because it also sounds a little cliche, but mostly for logic's sake: if you are struggling to write, the ink is not being put to paper. If the ink is not being put to paper, then the ink is not flowing. If the ink fails to flow and the ink is your tears, then your tears do not flow. If the tears do not flow, then you are not so sad after all. A little counter productive, no?
[Read more here]

on lupus, my disease by entrophied

i am not a huge fan of the ending. i mean, it's clear that she is sad, but perhaps there are better ways to phrase it? an ending that holds more impact to it? it's a little bit cliche for me. the rest of the poem is so strong, the imagery wonderful and painful all at once, and the ending isn't bad at all actually, but in my opinion it's just the slightest bit weaker compared to the rest of this excellent poem.
[Read more here]

---

Short, sweet, and useful. "Whether you love writing dialogue or dread it, you’ll probably agree it’s an essential part of fiction. Unless you’re writing an experimental short story, you’re going to need to include some dialogue – and it needs to be done just as well as the rest of your writing."


:thumb388605061:
Want to get into publishing? Read this, know this, use this - it has good information, as well as more resources.