Writers of the Revolution, September

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featured WRITER


Chipchinka

:iconchipchinka:

I found Chipchinka's work through a DD that was featured not that long ago (it's one of the four works I've chosen to feature here), visited their profile, and was absolutely delighted to see the welcome message from theWrittenRevolution on their profile page, because it was just a perfect coincidence that I hadn't let myself hope for. 

Chipchinka writes mostly prose, from what I can tell after having looked through their gallery, and it is really fantastic prose, with wonderfully real, international and diverse characters, and a very elegant, thoughtful style. I highly recommend you give at least one, if not all, of the following four works a read, because they're most definitely worth your time!


The Birds of GharThe Aviary of Bago stands in a different place on each genre of map to name its location, each species of chart to define one, another, or another of the contours of Ghar. Though small—among the principalities and queendoms, the tribe-lands and the Ranges—Ghar stretches into fractal infinity on the skins and in the voices of innumerable atlases.
There are personal maps, relating the Aviary to the north of Mother’s birthplace, while other mothers were born north of Bago’s House: mothers in Ghar have quarreled over the canonized and apocryphal locations of the temple and thus the shape of their land. The points of a compass cannot establish the dogma of fact on such maps; and in reading them, hearing them, and walking them, the eyes, the ears, and the feet trace the slippery contours of their own sensual and subjective truths.
There are songs: maps of another breed that call the Aviary an eastern anchor, a southern apex, or a western mystery. In the maps of song,

The Birds of Ghar.

Maybe it is laughter, twitters, and rumors centered on her and the sputtering torch she carries, even as she denies its existence. Maybe the knowing comments of women at market, and men drinking smear in the taverns are about a future spinster: the town’s mad woman who scattered her heart, like grackle seed, to the wrong species of bird.
What I really, really enjoyed about this story, apart from how inventive and lovely it was, was that it was done from the female's character's point of view, and in such a way that the story allowed the readers to empathise strongly with Dira, the female character, as well as Orós, the male character. Both characters are heartbreakingly well-written, and the story as a whole an extremely poignant one. Go read it.

1420 MHzHe keeps a list wadded in the depths of his front, left pocket: where he holds his keys, and the forgotten/abandoned shell of a lone pistachio.  The list is his biography, written in the shape of Argentine Spanish:
Yo vivo.
Trabajo.
Me gustan los tomates en verano.
Yo amo a mi novio.
Nos besamos. (Mi novio chupa mis dedos de los pies.)
Las estrellas cantan sus canciones.
Escucho.
Mi nombre no es Eduardo.
Vivo con Jacobi ahora.

His pants are wadded, now, on summer-warmed hardwood; his shirt is draped over the back of a cane-back chair, the most incongruous of antiques in Jacobi’s tech-nerd lair. Headphones clamp his ears, and fill his head with the lisping whisper of interstellar hydrogen, broadcasting itself at a neat 1420 MHz.  Bedroom is the wrong word for a place like this, despite the sorts of furnishings one might expect.  There is a bed, a dresser, a bookshelf and two nightstands cramped with magazines, graphic novels.  An alarm clock gives

1420 MHz.

So you aren’t looking for spaceships.  You don’t care if you never find ET.  It might have been a question.  He cannot remember.  But Jacobi’s answer caresses the inner edges of his memory, as clear and as real as Jacobi’s presence beside him:

I looked…I listened, when I was younger. I’d be a liar if I said that I don’t care if we never find them.
This is a fantastically warm, well-written story, at once painting a picture of two people meeting and becoming lovers, and at the same time giving careful, in-depth consideration to the music of the universe. 

Three Hours By TrainA book might have filled the space between cities, but the silence necessary for reading was slaughtered by the casual aggression of uninvited conversation.  An old man sat across from Tómáš, filling the compartment (and Tómáš) with brooding ill-ease; he’d spoken for long, long minutes, above the noise rhythmic thunder of the old and dingy southbound train.  There were other trains to take, but he’d chosen the Number 8 local.
“To be a nationalist,” the old man said, shrugging and staring into some vague and immeasurable distance.  He shook his head and shuddered as if dismissing an unpleasant recollection.  “It isn’t possible for me.  Not like that.  Not so easily.”  There might have been regret in his voice.  There might have been some note of cryptic accusation.
There was a stark quality to him; he wore only the barest essentials of anything that Tóm

Three Hours By Train.

“Take this,” Tómáš said, thrusting the book into the stranger’s upraised hands; his fingers brushed—for just an instant—the stranger’s warm fingertips.  “Read it if you want.  Hold on to it,” he said.  “In case you finish running, and want to return.  This isn’t Germany.  You were never an alien here.”
This is a gorgeous, lovely short fantasy story that I can't really describe because words don't really do it justice. Again, Chipchinka's work is so thoughtful that you can't help noticing every little, elegant detail in every story. 


Three Cities1:  Öb.  The Tall City
The botfly-woman was anxious, as if there might have been ants, hiding in ambush; she’d landed on the lip of the central chimney and circled sun-wise, as demanded by ritual.  It was always easy to confuse the botfly with the hirsute ground-dwelling wasp, but botfly-women knew to circle any city chimney, sun-wise; botfly women knew to fan their wings and wet any ample number their hairs with spittle, before plucking those strands and dropping them into the depths of the city to announce their arrival.
The botfly-woman had done this, signaling her presence and her harmless intentions to the city below, and The Warrior caught word of her scent, from the glands of a news-vendor.  She might have been there for long, long hours.  She might have been there for moments, more likely, if the trio of boisterous near-male alates were any indication; they might have seen her in the distance.  They might have called to her: prone


Three Cities.

Human.  It was as chilling a word as Ant, and like Ant the human name was synonymous with murder though not as profoundly.  There had been humans—one in particular—who’d done something other than kill city dwellers.  He’d lived—according to the oldest stories of Ant-murdered Thetht—within the peripheries of that city.  
This is a great science fiction story that acts as a triptych of three cities (hence the title). The characters almost come alive off the page; the world-building and creativity in the story itself is obvious from the first few lines alone. 

We :heart: Chipchinka.

featured CRITIQUES


TheScienceNerd


on Night queen by amrgalal7.

The lines are broken off in short segments, oxford commas are used ("broken wings, and fettered legs.") and ideas are presented in short, often two or three-word sentences. This all lends itself to a very fast pace and jarring rhythm, rather than a smooth one. If this was your intent, you achieved it. If you were unaware of this, it may be something you want to think about.

read the full critique here.


CDing93

on Incomplete Set by CopperCaravan.

From what I can tell, the punctuation isn't the least bit distracting. Personally I believe in the importance of punctuation in poetry, as it gives the reader a hint of the writer's intention—at least in emphasis—while still giving the reader a large degree of freedom.

read the full critique here.


featured RESOURCES


Articles on Short Story Structure

hereby illuminara. See also the following work for more resources by her:




Reference for Writers



here, on Tumblr, is a veritable goldmine of resources for writers, be it for prose or poetry, fiction or nonfiction, and even roleplay or fanfiction.



>>All hail GinkgoWerkstatt for this beautiful skin.
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Chipchinka's avatar
WOW!  I was happy to have actually finished writing the stories that I've posted and was content to leave it at that.  Being featured here, in this way, is quite a lot more than I could have hoped for and it's both exciting and humbling.  I'm all giddy, but I'll refrain from making my high-pitched, hand-clapping squeal, lest I torture the ears of local dogs.  Thank for for this honor!