Monday
am: caterwaul
pm: intrepid
Tuesday
am: chimerical
pm: ennui
Wednesday
am: fetid
pm: halcyon
Thursday
am: volatile
pm: unearth
Friday
am: hallow
pm: nefarious
Come join us in Second Life® or work from home at 6am PST & 6pm PST for 15 minutes of writing inspired by the word.
Please feel free to add your dash pieces to the comments section of this blog post below.
FAQs
I found #dailydash/#writersdash on Twitter, what is it?
The Writers’ Dash (#writersdash or #dailydash on Twitter) is a 15-minute free writing exercise held on Twitter, Facebook and Second Life® every weekday. At 5:30am & 5:30pm PDT we share the word prompt on our social media channels; the live event begins in Second Life® at 6am & 6pm PDT. Write whatever comes to you. Don’t fixate too heavily on what you are writing and disengage your inner editor – the key is for you to get the words on the page first; you can worry about editing later. If you are attending the live event in Second Life® there will be an opportunity for you to show your work to the other participants after the 15 minutes are up. If you are unable to attend the live event you can share your work on our blog. Just look out for the prompt post and leave your dash piece as a comment.
Do I have to do the Writers’ Dash in Second Life®?
No, you can do it at home, if you prefer. We share the prompt word at 5:30am & 5:30pm PDT on Twitter and Facebook and start the timer in Second Life® at 6am/6pm PDT every weekday.
How do I join the live event in Second Life®?
You will first need to join Second Life® through the Second Life® website. Go to http://www.secondlife.com to start the process. It’s free to join.
Click on the JOIN NOW button and this will take you to the Registration screen. Here you simply fill in your personal details and choose a name and look for your avatar. Don’t worry too much about your avatar’s appearance as there will be plenty of opportunity to tweak it once you are inworld.
Once you have completed your Registration, you’ll be asked to download and install the Second Life® viewer to your computer. You will then be taken to a screen that allows you to choose which community gateway to enter. This is important as we want you to go through as smooth a transition as possible. Please choose the Caledon (Victorian Steampunk) Community Gateway. Once you have chosen the gateway you will find yourself appearing inworld at the University of Oxbridge in Caledon. Now begins your brief induction.
Follow the signs and read the information boards as you come to them. There is also a brief Second Life® tutorial provided on screen. Try and absorb as much information as possible but be mindful that you can always return to Caledon at a later date if there is something you feel you missed. At the very least try and understand the most important concepts such as how to move, how to talk and your camera controls.
Once you have completed the Orientation Tutorial you will need to find your way to Milk Wood. This is the sim that is home to Virtual Writers, Inc. At the bottom of your screen you will see a search tab. Click on this and look for Milk Wood. Now the teleporting fun begins. Click on ‘Teleport’ and you will be moved from your present location to our welcome area. Make sure you save the landmark so that you can easily return there.
We look forward to meeting you at one of our various daily writing events. Don’t forget to click on one of the group joiners so you can stay abreast of happenings in the writing community. You can also join Virtual Writers, Inc. through the search facility. Simply put Virtual Writers, Inc. under group search, click on the group name to bring up the profile screen. Then click ‘View Full Profile’ followed by ‘Join’.
About Virtual Writers, Inc.
Virtual Writers, Inc. is a free online writers’ community first established in 2007 and committed to showcasing established and emerging writers in a range of interactive and immersive environments. Here we learn to experiment with digital, social and virtual world platforms to push the creative envelope and develop a strong, unique voice.
We provide a wealth of opportunities for writers to meet other writers, share resources, access new markets, attend online writing events, workshops and interactive readings, and discover the best writers’ conferences, competitions, colonies and literary organisations.
If you want to become involved in an active writing community then visit us on Second Life® , our writers’ network, or our social media channels (Twitter, Facebook and Google+) and get interactive. To learn more about our services please contact us through our online contact form.
Whether you are dashing in Second Life®, on Twitter or Facebook we welcome your dashes in the comments section below.
Purr
if I could
I would,
car heater dizzying
dads warm aftershave voice
mams arms treasuring my warm body
the restfull humming of her heart
murmuring blood feeds her veins
her breath lost in my hair
my eyes closed
mams soft voice welling from somewhere
deep inside
dads bariton smile
giggles shudder her body
my head heaving in sympathy
me, smiling
for no one special
a smile lost in history
I made a picture though
with my emotion camera
carefully caressed somewhere
in my brain
my private hideaway
dusting it daily
years and years and years
and
if I could
I would
cuddle them back
just for that one
lost moment
©2012 Goodie
Fetid
my life is a swamp
fed by hypochondriacs excretion
disorientated and lame by a hot sterile sun
vomiting toxic words
as long as I know it hurts
creating distance with those who are life hungry
lost in a blackish organic matter maze of self-pity
blackness is my thought
emotions viscous by drought
jealous of your crystal-clear mangrove bay
vivid sardine schools jump in weasel fireworks way
thoughts of happiness and sunny future
safe harbor for new ideas your feature
creativity sparkling in fondling moonlight
clear in speech, thoughts with thorough insight
jealous of the swiftness of the flow of your life
the lightness of your being
the giggling clatter of your joy
the way to charm unsuspecting coy
the easiness to give and receive in love
the feel to be standing everywhere above
jealous of you
because you are able
to grow mangroves and dam
to create natural walls around you
to construct a harbour and open your wings
for the river of life to flow inside you
jealous of you
because you harvested the fruits of the ability
that is written in your genes
and grown between the limits of your parents’ dogma’s
to bury your blackness
under a cosmetic varnish called optimism
©2012 Goodie
Valese slipped one hand off her grip and touched the door latch with soft fingertips, feeling for any telltale signs of a trap. Abraxtow had taught her well over the intervening months and had poured himself into her. She grinned at the thought, poured and sometimes exploded; she nearly snickered out loud before regaining control over her emotions.
She reached for the void and slowed her breathing down, leaving her fingers on the latch. Bowing her head and closing her eyes she pressed the latch and loosened the door, slipping her hand back to her sword she took a low crouch and nudged the door with her toe. Her eyes watered and she gagged on the fetid odor that assailed her olfactory system as she pushed the door further.
As she peered into the chamber she saw the piled linens and towels dropped from above, men’s bath houses were indeed rank. She was glad for the invention of soaps and perfumes, alas none to be found here though so she pressed on controlling her gag reflex by focusing her mind on the void.
Her target would be here, Abraxtow had advised on the parchment that she could kill everyone if she wished. She lifted the sword grip to her shoulder and swung the point down parallel with the ground, she marveled at how her arms had such strength and stamina now that she could hold the blade like this for hours. She had learned the burn in her muscles was better than the striping she received across the backs of her thighs for lowering the blade before being permitted.
Up the flight of stairs and around the corner to the right should lead her to the sweat room, where all the fat pigs that lorded over the peasants would be. Thieves and brigands propping themselves up as businessmen and Nuevo Lords. Out on the frontier there was only the law that one set for oneself, the citizens of the empire that had moved over the mountains came to the port only when they had to and only in numbers.
She hoped to see the empire one day, to leave this back alley pit of vipers and see the great land to the west. Maybe she could convince Abraxtow they should go; of course rat boy would need to have an accident she did not want to travel with that fool.
She found the door; ill fitting in its jam from soaking up so much steam, clouds of hot steam billowed into the hall obscuring vision. She smiled and tested the door; she found it movable with just a slight bit of force. Whispering the words of power she prepared to unleash even more heat on the occupants.
Slipping her hand off the sword grip again she held the blade with the strength one arm, forcing the door open and spreading her fingers she finished the spell. A fan of flame rocketed into the chamber the steam muffling the cries of pain as lungs were quickly seared and death quickly followed.
She pulled the door to and placed her free hand back on the grip, the guard’s waiting room should be close by, they would not be so easy, and she began another spell and launched a ball of electricity into a door less chamber waiting moments before following and hacking down any still standing after the ball lightning had dissipated. With the death of armed guards she made short work of the remaining patrons and workers in the establishment, leaving the way she came in, dropping a delayed blast fireball in the pile of linens, she hurried to Abraxtow to report her success.
As she entered his room, the glow of a fire on the skyline was visible through the window he stood gazing out. A bottle of some liquor and a pair of glasses waited on the table behind him. His baritone filled the room and sent ripples of excitement through her, “pour two glasses apprentice, and tell me of your great victory.”
©2012 Doyle Slen
FETID
.
As Graduate-Level Archaeology Field Class 105 moved further along the narrow tunnel into the newly-discovered tomb, Marcy’s nose began to twitch. Aside from the damp molds growing along the squishy path and walls, there was another smell that she couldn’t place. It was fetid, acrid, and heavy. She put her hand over her nose and breathed slower.
.
Being short, Marcy was near the end of the line of students silently following Professor Grimbaugh to his new discovery. Progress was slow in spite of everyone using strong flashlights. She bumped into George, but he didn’t say anything, perhaps didn’t notice.
.
Gradually the group fanned out in a circle around an object that Marcy couldn’t see clearly. The fetid smell became almost unbearable.
.
“Whaaat!” gasped Professor Grimbaugh. “This wasn’t here last month when I scouted this site for a student trip.” He seemed shocked as well as confused. Frozen in his tracks, he bent down to look closer. The students did the same, which brought everyone’s face within four feet of the object.
.
“Ewwww!”. “Whaaaat!” “It can’t be!” Comments quickly came in whispers and yelps.
.
To Be Continued
.
©2012 Franja Russell
.
.
Different Ways of Drowning
- Wednesday, October 3, 2012, 9:03 a.m.
this room is fetid
it decays w/ each breath
i can manage
you can’t take it in . . .
it’s too absurd to be anything but
overwhelming –
the stench of my sour fear
acts as a pathetic paralytic
someone’s filled my tub
with quicksand and i can smell
somewhere, all the decaying
bodies of those whose fate was
decided by this gripping force, sucking
them under and under until
they swallowed sand as
they gasped for one more
lone, solitary
breath.
- copyright 2012 Katherine Andrews
Caterwaul
In the dim light of dawn, the villagers could hear a yowling lament coming from the castle. It was the queen, they said, on their way to the fields. Hell has no fury like a woman scorned. So she waited. She waited in silence for years, uncomplainingly in silence, while the king bedded his harlots. One dawn, while the castle was still sleeping, the villagers heard a horrid scream. They thought “The King is dead. Long live the King.” The Queen yowled no more and said “The King is dead. I killed the King.”
©2012 Lizzie Gudkov
Intrepid
“The monsters are coming, the monsters are coming,” yelled the teachers. The students ran aimlessly looking for the exits with no monsters. “They are here, they are here,” screamed the parents in unison.
No one expected this reaction of panic, after all the students had been taught what to do in case of catastrophe. Single file to the right, exits right; single file to the left, exits left. Everyone gathers in the yard, either to the right, or to the left, accordingly. They practiced it so often, mornings on a row. The parents bragged about this school being the most efficient and safe, of all schools, also the most expensive. It built up the curriculum, it had a sound name, and it would open doors. It would, but not if everyone died at the hands of the monsters.
The running around, the screaming, the shoving lasted a few minutes that felt like an eternity. Well, they lasted up until the moment the director of the school arrived from an unexpected meeting at the National Board of Education, much to his aggravation, because he always wanted to welcome the students and their parents on the first day of school. He could hear all the yelling all the way from the end of the driveway. He could see the monsters too. As he stepped outside of the car, he blew his whistle, the one he always carried around his neck for rebellious emergencies, and brought students, parents and teacher alike to a halt.
“What is going on here?” he asked. “The monsters, the monsters,” someone screamed. “These?” and the director pointed at the gigantic plastic tentacles peering through the windows. Everyone felt a bit silly. They were made of plastic and no one had noticed.
The students and teachers went sheepishly to their classrooms. The parents were embarrassed. The director headed back to his office smirking. “They will never know what hit them.” When he took his hand out of the pocket of his jacket, it wiggled, and it was a tentacle, but not a plastic tentacle.
©2012 Lizzie Gudkov
WORD: ennui (from Tues. p.m.)
Saying Goodbye
10/03/2012
11:58 a.m.
Fine, then. Hide
behind your façade of ennui –
a façade you can’t even pull off –
We’ve known each other longer than
we could form lasting memories.
There are pictures of us, infants, side-by-side
in matching Fischer price strollers.
I never asked for you
to be a part of my life.
You’ve just always been
a constant – the one person
I used to could count on.
Now, I’m lucky if
I’m able to count the spider web
of track marks that litter
your body. You break
in front of me and yet,
the more I do to help, the further
away your ship seems to be sailing.
Oh, so you sing like a cross
between Johnny Cash and Johnny Thunders and
you’ve got that smirk and air
of affected disdain that
all the little punk groupies
surely swoon over.
I don’t care. I see you –
the real you – the boy I caught
crawdads with from the creek,
which your daddy fried up
and forced us to eat.
This thing you’ve become…
all faux discontent and weariness –
it’s nothing more
than carefully constructed bullshit.
I once pictured us
growing old together – side by side
in matching Adirondack chairs on a pier
that is all ours and the orb that
illuminates our days disappears
top of the horizon to the bottom,
bathing us in the light of the
color-changing sky.
I’m well aware this will never come to pass.
All I can do is hope learn to live
with what you’ve become –
a fortress so heavily fortified
even battering rams have no effect.
Just do me one little favor –
don’t make me our next visit one
where you talk from six feet under.
Copyright 2012 Katherine Andrews
Chimerical
Haul the sight of eternal woes.
Flee.
A mist of wonders undone,
Perplexity of fire.
Escape the thunderous fright,
Chimerical rues.
©2012 Lizzie Gudkov
Ennui
Lost thoughts were scattered through time as she sat in the throne room waiting. Patience is a virtue, they said. Outside the day came to an end, and the night’s gloom invaded her will. That was the moment of all decisions, and those unleashed thoughts slowly mapped her tomorrow, for better or for worse. Ennui…
©2012 Lizzie Gudkov
HALLOW
.
As the 9th Graders got off the Tour Bus in Gettysburg, they stood silently looking around at what seemed like miles of headstones in every direction.
.
“You weren’t sure what ‘Hallowed Ground’ was when we were reading about the Civil War. This is ‘Hallowed Ground’. People believed so strongly in their ideals that they were willing to die rather than compromise. One of the bloodiest fights of the Civil War happened here. It lasted many weeks. ”
.
The students slowly looked all around, trying to understand what it all meant. Some faces mirrored a bit of understanding. Others showed complete confusion.
.
“Here at Gettysburg, soldiers from the North and from the South lie near each other. They’re buried where they died. Others who died in Field Hospitals were brought here for burial later.”
.
The students were still silent, some shaking their heads slowly as the reality of Gettysburg slowly sank in.
©2012 Franja Russell
VOLATILE
.
Madeline wrinkled her nose and lowered her voice. “Suzie, I told Grace not to invite Linda and Ruth to the same party. They’re a volatile combination. Don’t turn around. Linda just walked in.”
.
Suzie’s eyes bulged a little. She twitched trying not to look at the doorway that Linda had just entered. Her eyes pulled to the left as if she thought she could see through her skull.
.
“Has Ruth spotted Linda yet?” asked Suzie. “Remember what a stink they made at Jennifer’s party?”
.
“Um-hum!” answered Madeline with her nose still wrinkled. “Why didn’t Grace pay attention to what I said?”
.
Ruth had just circled the buffet table, filling her plate with tasty morsels. As she turned to find where her friends were sitting, she saw Linda walking toward her.
.
Both women froze in their tracks, about five feet from each other.
.
“RUTH!” “LINDA!” each screamed. Anger showed on their faces in every possible way. Their bodies stiffened to where they looked like store manequins.
.
Everyone else also froze, not knowing what to expect but anticipating the worst.
.
Slowly Linda’s and Ruth’s expressions and body language changed. The stiffness eased. Their faces morphed into grins. Quickly they hugged and laughed heartily.
.
Everyone else was extremely confused and speechless.
.
“I know you’re all surprised.” said Linda.
.
“We’ve discovered the source of our dislike of each other.” added Ruth.
.
Then they both strode over to Madeline, stopped three feet from her and glared at her.
.
“You tell it, Ruth.” said Linda.
.
“Madeline has been telling each of us that the other one keeps saying bad things about her and spilling secrets. But it’s not true. Has never been true.”
.
Everybody gasped.
.
Madeline stiffened, turned scarlet, and spluttered, “No, I never, not me, no.”
.
Slowly a few other women began whispering< “Yea, she’s done that to me too.”
.
Madeline started wailing and headed for the door.
©2012 Franja Russell
Hallow
.
Death is a raging sea
Scolding its only child
The prostrate girl hallows the gull
As it swoops and cries “lonely, lonely, lonely”
.
Hope is a far shoreline
With familiar arms reaching
The gull hallows the source
As it swoops and cries “mother, mother, mother”
.
Life is a raging sea
Bringing the blessed girl home
.
©2012 Harriet Gausman
Nefarious
Dangerous and poisonous, drink them in small sips of red with a pinch of salt and a squeeze of lemon. Appealing looks and butterfly lightness carry them farther. Elegantly, deceivingly, and green… Words.
©2012 Lizzie Gudkov
Volatile
This corner of the world,
It’s filled with the horrors of multitude.
They whisper, they scream, they plot against me.
They leave messages and sign their names.
My diary, my safe place,
This corner of my world is a crowd of feelings,
A disarray of souls.
This is me, Tom and Anne and Little Pebble,
And I am never alone in this maddening
Corner of my world.
©2012 Lizzie Gudkov
Unearth
A mystery was being sold. The doors were locked, the curtains were drawn. Everyone sat and had dinner. It was quite the exquisite group, a famous actress, a governor, an opera singer, a few lords and their wives. Nothing happened for the whole evening but dinner was absolutely delicious, everyone agreed. At some point, the governor stood up.
“Where is the mystery? I paid good money.”
The Master of Ceremonies bowed gracefully.
“Indeed you did, sir. The mystery is this question. Who ate what?”
“Meat, vegetables, rice, everyone had the same. Where is the mystery in that?”
“What kind of meat, pig, horse, turkey, whale?”
The ladies in the party suddenly looked horrified.
“Or was it something else?”
“I think it was chicken,” replied the governor.
“No, it wasn’t. It was something far more appealing than chicken.”
No one dared to utter what was on everyone’s mind.
“I paid for chicken,” ventured one of the lords.
“No, sir, you paid for a mystery. Now, would anyone care to provide the answer, anyone?”
The famous actress sitting by the fireplace took a deep sigh.
“I assume it was not something we would eat normally.”
“You are quite right, madam.”
“Don’t tell me ate a person?” one of the lords’ wives asked.
There was a wave of protests muffled only by the ladies handkerchiefs and the gentlemen’s pipes and cigars.
The Master of Ceremonies smiled.
“It was not human flesh, no.”
“What is it then?!” asked the governor full of impatience.
No one said a word. Many nodded anxiously.
“I gather you wish me to reveal the solution to this mystery.” The Master of Ceremonies paused, relishing the silence. “Well, we harvest them. We have been harvesting them for years. They died profusely as their DNA was not adapted to oxygen. But we bred them further, and we can now proudly present you with the finest meals. Let me show you.”
Much to the horror of all present, the Master of Ceremonies opened the kitchen door to a being that walked into the room and opened his big black and sad eyes, slowly.
©2012 Lizzie Gudkov
Hallow
.
For sale sign:
Open room, superb ventilation. Big enough for you and your giants. Crows or any flying pet appropriate. Beautiful hand painted stained glass windows. Entirely renovated in 1998 with retro style lighting included. Inviting price.
.
The reality:
Old church with a few stones short of a wall. Cramped space with high ceiling. Vintage bird poop in every corner. Clumsily fixed stained glass windows. Closed since 1998 with a few spotlights dating back to the 70s. Unidentified creaky nightly sounds.
©2012 Lizzie Gudkov
Caterwaul
It began when a cheerily whistled tune
From the groom in flannel tattersall
Made the horses whinny and the milk cow croon
And the stable cat joined in a caterwaul
…
Then the stomping of hooves on the stable floor
And the cook’s screech t’would make her batter fall
Woke the lion in his den: it’s the master’s roar
That the peace of the countryside shatters all.
Hallow
…
Hallow hollow hello pillow
Hale and well met good fellow
Holey comforter to cling to
Heavy head the bed to bring to
Heady tunes the heart to sing to
Sing to sleep to silence springs too
Springs too creaky to be born
Holy hell again til morn
Hello thoughts that toss and turn
Hello thoughts that burn and yearn
All are hallowed in a hollow place
Carven clean of comfort’s face.
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