Monday
am: someone
pm: drift
Tuesday
am: cognizant
pm: promote
Wednesday
am: sherbert
pm: concubine
Thursday
am: dormitory
pm: clandestine
Friday
am: anonymous
pm: predict
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.
Someones’ Matryoshka dolls
I looked into the mirror,
And saw:
Myself.
The same familiar self I meet
here at this place since years.
approaching the mirror
Two little fogging spots grow under my nose
Zooming closer into my eyes
Brown
Black iris
Wide
Fathom deep into my iris:
Me:
I inspected myself in the mirror
And discovered, amazed,
slightly glistening,
A thin fragile layer of arrogance
Ashamed and hurried I pealed it off.
Again,
I gazed into the mirror
And discovered, frightened,
Greasy sticking,
An ointment of jealousy,
In terror I scraped it off.
Anxiously
I observed the mirror, alerted,
And discovered in horror,
Black and muddy,
A viscous hot flowing lava of egoism,
Raged I tried to burn it off
In agony,
I flickered into the mirror,
And found and again
And found and again
And kept finding
All layers of my character
Peeling, bashing, cleaving,… crying
One layer more disgusting than the other.
Until
In total aversion
I removed the last rotting layer.
And discovered
shivery, tiny and naked:
Hope
Goodie
Neighbor
Kitchenchair, jaded, protesting on his moves
Plastic table cloth
Brownish coffee circles experiment all phases of the moon
Lonesome radio, murmuring echoes on bare walls
Cigarette smokes eroding ochre fingertips
Lightly trembling
Slick grey hair trying to back off in chaos
Stumbling stubble
He,
Always somebodies Neighbor
He is not cognizant
Of the existence of his hesitating heartbeat
Nor his blood discovering slowly clogging veins
Nor the nearing instant of a malignant tumor cell
Invading his alcohol tortured candied liver
Ignorant about the few days left
He is not cognizant
Of the headers on the newspaper
Letters slowly diffusing in his viscous brains
Nor of the electricity dripping in his refrigerator
Cooling his beer
Exactly enough to infinitesimally add global temperature
Into an irreversible shift towards a new climate equilibrium
He is not cognizant
Of those millions of human beings, poor or chanceless
That would wish to change their whole existence
For his few days to live
Take over his brains
Tele-guide his actions
To do at least one
Just one
useful thing in his empty life
Suddenly he faintly became aware
Of his growing erection
when his brain detected that voluptuous
Pinup on page 20
Goodie
Someone
I am someone, she murmured to herself. And the words in her head… Once upon a time, but she didn’t want fairy tales. She wanted peace, the inner peace you find by looking outside yourself into the horizon. That peace filled with awareness becomes the promise of a new awakening. The stars, look at the stars, so lovely, but she didn’t want stars or stories. She simply wanted peace. I am someone, she said out loud, I am someone.
©2012 Lizzie Gudkov
Drift
Silence sailed in the wind,
It whispered through corners unseen,
Vaguely aware of yearnings untold,
Of aches untouched.
Silently drifting away…
©2012 Lizzie Gudkov
Cognizant
Wisely cognizant of the subtle nature of time, he would escape into his dreams, by day and by night, filled with meanings unknown. He waited for autumn, the time of year when he could immerse himself in reds and oranges. Sleep escaped him in the endless hours spent walking through the forest and back at home, when he painted. The fever disappeared when winter arrived and he began to dream again, drowned in whites, greens, and blues.
©2012 Lizzie Gudkov
Promote
The Green Dragon was famous. Well, at least around a mile of two, it was. The innkeeper, one day, decided to make it even more famous and organized a contest. Anyone able to defeat his daughter in a fist fight would have free beer for the rest of his life. Needless to say, men of all corners of the kingdom poured into town. How difficult could it be to defeat the daughter of the innkeeper? To beat a woman in a fist fight, easy. The day arrived and the town folks gathered in the square. Where was the daughter, where was the daughter, everyone asked. Finally, after much waiting, a petit young woman walked towards the center of the plaza. The men laughed thunderously. They would have to beat that?! Hah, free beer for everyone forever, they all thought. The first one stepped closer and assumed a fighting position. She did too. And the fight commenced. The daughter got knocked down a few times, she was bleeding from her lip and her left eye was swollen. The crowd cringed at the sight, after the initial enthusiasm wore off. Then the daughter decided it was enough. She lifted the man from the ground just by looking at him. You could not hear a mouse, the whole crowd in suspense. Then she looked left and the man went flying into a pile of barrels and hay. The crowd roared words of encouragement, but the other fighters were, say, a bit hesitant to engage in a fist fight with the innkeeper’s daughter. So, he held his hands up till the crowd quieted down. “Dear folk, this is what happens when you drink of my beer!” Well… there was a sudden rush into the inn and beer was sold abundantly for days. The innkeeper was happy, the innkeeper’s wife was happier. The daughter? She smirked. She was right. Her father hadn’t believed her. But now he did. The endless hours spent with the sorcerer did pay off after all.
©2012 Lizzie Gudkov
Goodie, just wanted to say I enjoy your posts a lot! I always look forward to reading them. You have a very powerful way of using words. Hugs!
Ode to Sherbert
.
Blissfully chilled,
sparkly,
lovely pastel colors,
doesn’t melt as fast at ice cream,
lasts longer on the tongue,
tickles the throat on the way down,
has fewer calories than ice cream.
.
The first spoonfull
elevates me to a magical, carefree world.
.
Succeeding spoonfulls
mellow out even the most hectic day.
.
The last spoonful lingers in memory
as the throat very slowly warms up.
.
Who cares about ice cream
when sherbert is so gooood?
.
Franja Russell 10-10-2012
Concubine
The White House was home to women of all corners of the world. It sat by the water bank, far from the edge of town and far from critical eyes. Dew lived there for a long time, since she was a small child, her future determined years in advance. She was a lean, tall woman with shiny long black hair. Hey silky dark skin gracefully contrasted with her big green eyes, and men were mesmerized by her beauty. The soft lines of her faces didn’t make justice to the burdens of daily life. Stoic in demeanor, she never considered her life to be but one of many options until the day she found an old pair of horn-rimmed glasses one of the men had left behind. She could see again! A curious mind at heart, she began to show interest in reading, something she never really liked. She read everything, flyers, posters, magazines, newspapers, books. She would ask her clients to bring her books, since the women were not allowed to go to town. She read Somerset Maugham, T.S.Eliot, Joyce, Kafka, and many others. Then there was Shaw. And she knew she could change even being in her later years. So, Dew moved to town, opened a bookstore and the soft lines of her smile gracefully made justice to the joys of her life.
©2012 Lizzie Gudkov
Dormitory
The end
Of travels and adventures,
No oceans unturned.
Exotic, chaotic, fearful and proud
Men and women and lives
Of places so far.
This is where ships come to die,
To sleep unslept dreams.
©2012 Lizzie Gudkov
DORMATORY
.
Our small Girl Scout troup went to what we called Manor Camp each summer, but we didn’t stay in tents or sleeping bags. Neither we nor our Moms had ever been camping or ever been “out in the wild” other than occasional picnics in State Parks.
.
Manor was a rustic lodge with sleeping porches for 6-7 old army cots. We loved being surrounded by trees, creeks, bird and animal sounds. We investigated flora and fauna, sang camp songs, and enjoyed our dormatory living.
.
Our City Living Mom’s sent good bed linens and towels. We wore slacks and proper shirts.
.
We learned a lot. Among the most important to me was: how to short my dormatory mates. My buddy, Judy, taught me how to do that. She had older brothers.
.
The problem with short sheeting is that it only works one time. After that, everyone checks the bed before getting into it.
.
Another interesting bit of dormatory living was to — in the wee hours of the night — put a frog, grasshopper, or worm into someone’s shoe. Then you act surprised when the person screams in the morning. Better yet is to get up early and be getting dressed in the bathroom before the person puts on her shoes.
.
We loved going to Manor. We stayed friends during and afterwards in spite of all the tricks we played on each other.
.
Franja Russell 10-11-2012
Dormitory
The weather has been unpredictable.
A sudden sirocco in the Sahara
Relocated a dizzied dromedary
To a medieval Miskolc monastery
Where finding itself in the dormitory
Amid the snoring ordinates
Being hungry in Hungary
It bolted for the buttery
Slipped and fell to the cellars
Tanked up on a tun of Tokay
Which it ejected on the floor of the refectory
Where a tornado’s trajectory
Having cleared the cloisters
Carried our camel to Canada
The monks maintaining it was miraculous
To bask in balmy Banff
Alberta’s alpine arid zone
Where horrid torrid timber wolves
Rudely pursued our ruminant
Through the humid mountains
Until the Mounties mounted
A reckless rescue effort
Muddled by monsoons
And a flash flood foundered them all
On the ice floes of frozen Florida
Whence a kindly cruise captain
Carried our crazy crew
(camel and canines, Mounties and monks)
To the milder climate of the Khyber coast
Where to this day
Visitors say
They all play croquet
And munch on beans and toast.
Cognizant
“No Cognizance Without Sentience,” read the sign waved by the woman in the ecru suit. The man next to her, a plaid flannel fellow, waved a simpler slogan: “Meat is to Eat, Not to Meet.” There were few from the other side. In fact, he could only spot one: a young woman with hair in braids whose placard read, “Be Aware: It’s Only Fair.”
The crowd pressed against the police barrier. The police themselves shifted in their riot boots, transferred their clubs from one hand to another, looked at the sky, looked bored. It seemed to Scaloppini that they would just as soon have a little excitement, someone to wail on with those truncheons, and not necessarily someone human.
On stage alongside him milled several other farm animals, mostly fellow meat animals but also some egg layers, wool givers and the like. He was to give the opening address. The introduction, unheard, was just winding down. Scaloppini’s nerves twanged, his most basic instincts screaming at him to run while his breeding and training instructed him to walk quietly up the chute.
The host ended her introduction and stepped aside from the podium as a rising tide of slogans from the audience drowned the light scatter of applause. Scaloppini trotted up to the podium, eager to have the ordeal over. Tomorrow he would be slaughtered: a far more peaceful and acceptable confrontation than this, today.
He took a deep breath, bowed his head and thought a plea for calm to the Dish of the Day, that fictional patron saint of livestock, cleared his throat, and began his prepared words, knowing they would fall mostly on deaf ears. Only when he was served up with parsley would his purpose be appreciated, and even then, his devotion to animal rights would be misunderstood.
Promote
Sonnet of the Red-Haired Librarian
More decourous behaviour to promote
Librarians look stern and whisper “hush.”
Then beastly patrons tease as they emote
With wink and smile, as if they’d a crush.
Now, don’t think that because she has red hair
Or just because some books she has are banned
That she’s fair game. The brave deserve the fair
So go ahead: if fearless, try your hand.
Some men fear put-downs, some a girl who’s smart.
Some claim there isn’t anything they fear.
Some want a wanton wench, a slutty tart,
Some see red hair and want to taste an ear.
Like flags to bulls, if red hair rouses you
Make sure that your returns aren’t overdue.
Clandestine
Dark-lanterned clandestine marauders unite
Step out of the shadows and into the light
Unmask your surveillance, dismantle your hoods
No more the green camo or life in the woods
Come carry your candles alight in plain view
Remaining anonymous now will not do
To reclaim from the rich and return to the poor
Is a fine occupation we mustn’t abjure
And when towers are toppled and tables are turned
The blackhearted bankers will get what they’ve earned.
ANONYMOUS
.
Anyone can be anonymous in a large crowd.
.
We’re not usually reticent in a small group of friends,
although among a small group of strangers we may be quiet.
.
Sometimes in a small group of certain friends
we don’t make comments that anyone would remember,
except as being vaguely pleasant.
.
Sadly it is possible, in the company of certain people,
to effectively be anonymous
because they don’t listen to what you say.
Later you hear your comment quoted back to you
as being something valuable that someone said,
but no one knows who it was.
.
Franja Russell 10-12-2012
Anonymous
Under the mask a face,
A soul, a life.
Under the mask a forever,
That was ever
A cry of silence,
Unbearably loud.
©2012 Lizzie Gudkov
Anonymous
Already numbing during your last shout
Suddenly fossilizing during your last jump
Silently crying during your last thought
Flanders fields received your blood
Poppies turning red embosoming your last touched clod
Your parents waited their whole life long
To give your grandchild a loving nursery song
After all these years the battlefield still lives your grief
Although harbouring grainfields now in vain they wave
An occasional stroller hesitates by your grave
Reading your anonymous name in disbelief
Nameless boy, please forgive me
to disturb your endless sleep, you see
Times have changed, we are free
But still
On another hill
In another place on earth
War again has given birth
To senseless killing in the herd…
No, we have nothing learned
Poor boy they took your life
Washed your brain to strife
Me, casual witness of this lie
I cry your tears that is all I can die
Flanders fields, pregnant of your blood
gave birth, birth to hope
hope one day humankind will once head
the temptation of fighting and dead
for the illusion of having the right argument
and killing for that right without comment
until then my unknown friend
once days chill my bones and fog reflects my mood
Me and my poppies will stand before your grave
My hands drinking their mellow little fists
crying your dreams
in despair
Goodie
Anonymous
Hamlet
In the play eponymous
he couldn’t remain anonymous
First of all, as prince and heir
he could be spotted anywhere.
He moped. Who wouldn’t feel sad
if their uncle killed their dad
usurped the throne and wed their mum?
And yet the lad kept silent. Dumb?
The poor bloke sought a quiet life
with sweet Ophelia as his wife
and never meant to alienate her
yet she concluded he must hate her.
It was a shocking thing to see
when he went on a killing spree.
Assuming guilt erroneous
he firstly slew Polonius
his girlfriend’s dad-she soon was found
herself afloat completely drowned.
The next main player to be a dead body was
at least the villain, Uncle Claudius.
Laertes, poor Ophelia’s brother
in short time became another.
But why poor Guildy and young Rose?
There was no call for killing those
summoned from across the borders
who merely were obeying orders –
If any neared anonymity
‘twas these, who bore no enmity.
He loved his family and his friends
yet Hamlet brought them dreadful ends.
Though he tried avoiding violence
he died with the rest. The rest is silence.
(Except, after what went before
those still living went to war.)
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