Audience Participation: Recent Posts

Audience Participation: Recent Posts http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ Audience Participation: Recent Posts en Tue, 06 Jan 2009 19:15:45 +0000 The Voice on "Introduction..." http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=8#post-24 Sun, 09 Nov 2008 13:27:00 +0000 The Voice 24@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ So we have a couple users and I would really like to know you guys. First big thanks for becoming a user on Audience Participation. I do plan to chat here and if you leave a message I will comment within the day. I seem like a dick but that is only my macho facade. The Voice on "We Have a new look and ask for your help" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=17#post-23 Sun, 09 Nov 2008 13:23:55 +0000 The Voice 23@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ Hey I just took a look at the user list and we have a bunch of people. I think you should all join in the conversation and I have a question for you? I have asked my respected confidante and got great feed back. Now I want to know, What are we doing wrong here at American NonFiction? Alistar Butcher on "Public Domain Masterpiece" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=16#post-22 Fri, 24 Oct 2008 01:05:38 +0000 Alistar Butcher 22@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ Our first submission in Public Domain Masterpiece is Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha. What do we think of the first chapter? The Voice on "to all persons" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=13#post-21 Sat, 06 Sep 2008 12:05:53 +0000 The Voice 21@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ <a href="http://dictionary2.classic.reference.com/writing/styleguide/" rel="nofollow">http://dictionary2.classic.reference.com/writing/styleguide/</a> This is a required link. We all need to become writing machines. If you are like me, and need to bone up on your grammar, here is a free internet source. holly on "The Conversation" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=5#post-20 Tue, 19 Aug 2008 17:34:22 +0000 holly 20@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ This was posted by ANFChef... Gretchen was crouched down on the ground, her hair covered her face but I knew it was her. Madeline was beside her, matching stance. At the tender age of 6 the twins had not yet discovered the joy, they would someday find, of solitude. Glued at the hip, this time quite literally, they were squatting side by side in the dirt, pointing and giggling like little girls do. As I approached, they paid me no attention until I cleared some scrub pine needles aside with my foot before lowering my cumbersome body to the ground. I pulled my stocky legs crossed-in toward me, like a child. I observed the girls for a minute before speaking. Their whispers barely audible with the ambient noise of nature, I could sense they were talking about me. I felt a strange and familiar pang of panic. It was 24 years ago I was ½ of a petite, curious, blonde pair of twins. Two and ½ decades had passed by without twin-talk, knowing glances, the delight of twin-trickery and a permanent playmate. Leaning in a bit to gander at the focus of their concentrated stares I saw Madeline had a plump bumble bee pinned to the dirt by its translucent wings. Caught like a deer in headlights Gretchen was quick to jump up and with her petite hands clamped around her waist she spoke in the tiniest, most unobtrusive voice. “We’ve not harmed it!” Madeline chimed in. “It’s alive, I can’t let it go. We’ll get stung!” Their delicate voices rang with delight in my adult ears. Such diction, such poise, children with English accents always sound so quaint. “I’m allergic.” My voice sounded so old as the words echoed in my head. “Me, too!” Answering in unison, the girls giggled excitedly, it was clear they relished their matching answers. Gretchen tore her attention away from the bee, close to death at this point, to stare at me. I felt her drink me in. Those huge blue eyes were hypnotizing. I felt lost inside them as I peered deeper and deeper until I realized my focus was on my own reflection, mirrored back to me. “Mummy won’t let us have fringe, though Annabelle Braucher has fringe and Mummy doesn’t care.” She reached out a pale hand and gently pat my head. Her fingers trailed through my bangs like sand through your fingers at the beach. Her touch brought a noticeable sadness to my eyes and as they welled up with tears that would never spill, Gretchen quickly withdrew her hand as though my forehead were scorching hot. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Madeline asked, her brow furrowed, not lifting her attention from her winged prisoner. I cleared my throat and shook my head as I blinked the tears back. “Nothing, my darlings, nothing is wrong.” My breath caught in my chest and for a split second I felt like a fish, floundering, out of water. Gretchen slid her hands into the pockets of her smocked summer dress. She produced a little pouch of Cadbury Buttons. She opened the bag and slid one into her mouth. Savoring the sweet taste of the chocolate, Gretchen grinned and hand-fed a Button to her sister. Madeline’s eyes lit up with glee. Gingerly she offered me the bag. I smiled and accepted her offer. I’ve found Cadbury Buttons stateside before but these were especially good. I’m not usually much for Buttons, I’m more of a Curly Wurly girl, but the taste brought me back to my childhood. Almost as though she could read my thoughts, Madeline spoke. “I like Buttons but I do fancy a Curly Wurly!” “Me, too!” Gretchen and I dissolved into giggles as we answered together. “I like your laugh.” She said sweetly. “Well thank you, I’m quite fond of yours as well.” I smiled and turned my gaze downward to the ground. We three sat there in the dirt, still watching the bumble bee take its last bumble bee breaths. After 4 minutes of watching I noticed its legs were no longer animated and it had stopped buzzing. “I think it’s dead.” These were not the words I’d intended to use with children so young. The look of sheer horror and disbelief on their little porcelain faces, was jarring to me. I’d clearly upset them. I stammered and fought to find more appropriate words. “I think you can release it, I don’t think it can harm us now.” When had my own voice become so maternal? As I reached out my hand to offer to take the reigns and hold the stick the bee was pinned under, the girls scooted backward on their heels. Madeline’s tiny fingers felt doll-like under mine as she slid her hand upward off the stick once it was firmly in my grip. Her lip trembled and her own hand was outstretched, searching for Gretchen’s and quickly found it. Their grip was unbreakable. White knuckled, quivering with fear and remorse, the girls stood up and seemed to tower over me. I took the opportunity to pet the bee with my bare finger, to demonstrate the docility of the deceased insect. The girls ooh’d and ahh’d in amazement. Still pinned under the stick I detected no life, no movement. I lifted the brittle, element-damaged, piece of wood and the bee was still. “See, it won’t sting you now.” Almost as if on cue, a wing fluttered, a leg twitched. There was life in that bumble bee. It was short-lived. Screeching in a frequency only dogs could surely hear, Gretchen’s maryjane clad foot was lightning-fast and she stomped her little shoe down upon the bee. Her response was startling. This tiny little girl looked full of rage. Her cheeks were scarlet, her lips pouting, her eyes, despite being clear as glacial ice, were suddenly dark as coal. Madeline and I watched in awe. Dumbfounded. At a complete loss for words. I noticed their hands were still gripped. Madeline never let go through Gretchen’s violent outburst. The twins exchanged worried glances and widened their eyes at one another and before I knew it, they’d bolted off into the woods together. They disappeared into the low, gnarled, scrub pines that blanket most of Cape Cod. The only evidence of our interaction was a couple of scuff and foot marks in the dirt that had disturbed the pine needles scattered on the ground. I brushed the dirt from my hands and lifted my body up from the ground. I felt lightheaded and couldn’t tell if it was from rising too fast or indicative of a fainting spell. I leaned against a nearby pine, overtaken by its trademark sea foam green lichen and noticed a bee crawling on the branch near my head. Without pause I jabbed the brittle stick, still in my hand, into the unsuspecting bee. holly on "One Syllable Story" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=4#post-19 Tue, 19 Aug 2008 17:33:27 +0000 holly 19@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ This is from "Anonymous" but thought it should be posted here for everyone's enjoyment: After a bit of inspiration, I thought I might give ‘One Syllable’ a try. Hope you find it interesting. Here goes: Last Night Still I could feel the heat of my own skin grow cold then warm then hot. How I do lust for a sip of that tall blonde drink, to taste the tang of those pure blue eyes. He lay his lips on mine and our tongues did meet. He placed his hands on my hips and pulled me close as his soul made love to mine through our lips, and through our tongues I made love back. The sweet scent of his breathe and the soft feel of his hands as he press his skin to mine drew me close to the edge, but it was his pert words, in that voice both soft and strong that made me lose my breathe as I searched for the air to scream his name. He pushed hard as I caught the air I searched for and he and I became we. Morn will come soon and we will be he, and I will go home. But for now we are one, one push and one pull, one breathe and one moan, one last gasp for air as I shake for him and he sighs for me with a last slap on one cheek. Sleep has come and gone, and the sun has called. The next day is here and while I hunt for the keys to my car to start my long drive home, I still can smell him. As I fix my messed hair, I still can taste him. As I kiss him off, I still can feel him. As I write this now, I still yearn. holly on "StoryTeller" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=2#post-18 Tue, 19 Aug 2008 17:31:30 +0000 holly 18@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ Who is my storyteller? She’s a 72 year old widow named Ophelia Evans - a cute older woman, straight out of the 50s television era. Her classic looks, knee length skirts and sensible shoes, blend with her soft-spoken tone to paint a picture of the traditional mother and housewife. There is an air of calm around her, and her voice is soft but steady. She makes a cup of Sanka for each of us as we sit around her yellow laminate kitchen table. “No need for sugar, I’m sweet enough” she says with a chuckle, as if it’s the first time I’ve heard it - rather than the 101st. Her kitchen smells of a mix of blueberry pie, coffee, and a hint of that Avon perfume that I associate only with older people. The clock on the wall has pictures of birds, and their chirps come out to mark the passage of time. She is the type of woman who was born just a bit too soon for her time. She did her living before she had met and married Ben. To her, settling down and having a family is what you were expected to do, but it also meant taking her old life… all her youthful adventures and indiscretions… and locking them away into her memory. That’s why we both look forward to these visits, as she starts her stories with a soft chuckle and her eyes start to stare at a fixed point that doesn’t really exist, we both get to live (or relive) the days in her memory when she was young, carefree, and everyone called her Fifi. The Voice on "Chose your own Adventure Blog" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=15#post-17 Thu, 14 Aug 2008 21:12:19 +0000 The Voice 17@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ So I had this idea about a year ago, and there might be a couple choose your own adventure blog out there, but in the way we are going to do it. Out theme will be on a mall, tentatively titled escape the Shop Apocalypse. Our background is a huge mall, that grows every time we post a new adventure. I have the application slightly mapped out in my mind, but we need to flesh out the charters to find our adventures. We have a mall, and what are the parts of a mall? Food court, clothing stores, units for mid mall snacking, ext. Who are the charters, in this mall? We should make them with a tad of social humor to them. What are the other questions we should ask before we start to create? The Voice on "Channel" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=14#post-16 Fri, 25 Jul 2008 22:04:28 +0000 The Voice 16@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ All right I just posted we would look deeper into the primes of channel. It is centered around futuristic television channel, but distorted. We get to parody the idot box we love so much. But to do an elegant job, we much ponder the world "channel" broadcast from. I agree with most futurist writers who see a dystopain future. The element of man is too great a vision to overcome. I see an element of snow crash with the fall of the United states and the give way to the rise of corporate domain. I don't see the United states government falling but I do see it's influence dwindle, or held by corporate puppet strings. Kind of like the world, Today. Now channel is to our showcase for the genres of fiction. I have a couple ideas in mind currently. I have buddy dramody called "Apartment 215", about living in the big city and the sex that gets in the way. "Roller Rights" centered around the lives of a team of roller girls, in a warriors-esk gang land ruled by the derby. "I Scream" horror tales hosted by Ice cream jerk, Uncle Larry."American Royality" a Dragnet-esk crime fiction centered around a tranny and his female King Side kick. And the "Gears of Portsmouth" A future Steampunk series sculpted from fun in Redefining Fan Fiction. Got any other ideas? The Voice on "to all persons" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=13#post-15 Fri, 25 Jul 2008 21:33:17 +0000 The Voice 15@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ "9. Write short, pithy posts. 42. Write about a never-ending parade of different topics so you don't bore your readers. 12. Write long, definitive posts." I have read a bunch of theories about these three principles but I think so far we do this well. We have Background noise to write short pithy post on a never ending parade of various topics. Therefore, Background Noise should be about 4 decent sized paragraphs long, enough to convey an emotion and some knowledge. And we have Channel for the long post for people who really want to connect. channel post are always in three sections. Three Acts and need to be accompanied with two written fictional commercials. We shall explore channel in depth later on. then we have Incorrect grammar, which is our opinion/poetry corner. These post can be short or long. The Voice on "to all persons" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=13#post-14 Fri, 25 Jul 2008 21:00:17 +0000 The Voice 14@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ I had a thought and wanted to get it out to you guys. I read a post on <a href="http://sethgodin.typepad.com/seths_blog/2006/06/how_to_get_traf.html"> "tips for increasing your traffic</a>. " 1. Use lists. 2. Be topical... write posts that need to be read right now. 3. Learn enough to become the expert in your field. 4. Break news. 5. Be timeless... write posts that will be readable in a year. 6. Be among the first with a great blog on your topic, then encourage others to blog on the same topic. 7. Share your expertise generously so people recognize it and depend on you. 8. Announce news. 9. Write short, pithy posts. 10. Encourage your readers to help you manipulate the technorati top blog list. 11. Don't write about your cat, your boyfriend or your kids. 12. Write long, definitive posts. 13. Write about your kids. 14. Be snarky. Write nearly libelous things about fellow bloggers, daring them to respond (with links back to you) on their blog. 15. Be sycophantic. Share linklove and expect some back. 16. Include polls, meters and other eye candy. 17. Tag your posts. Use del.ico.us. 18. Coin a term or two. 19. Do email interviews with the well-known. 20. Answer your email. 21. Use photos. Salacious ones are best. 22. Be anonymous. 23. Encourage your readers to digg your posts. (and to use furl and reddit). Do it with every post. 24. Post your photos on flickr. 25. Encourage your readers to subscribe by RSS. 26. Start at the beginning and take your readers through a months-long education. 27. Include comments so your blog becomes a virtual water cooler that feeds itself. 28. Assume that every day is the beginning, because you always have new readers. 29. Highlight your best posts on your Squidoo lens. 30. Point to useful but little-known resources. 31. Write about stuff that appeals to the majority of current blog readers--like gadgets and web 2.0. 32. Write about Google. 33. Have relevant ads that are even better than your content. 34. Don't include comments, people will cross post their responses. 35. Write posts that each include dozens of trackbacks to dozens of blog posts so that people will notice you. 36. Run no ads. 37. Keep tweaking your template to make it include every conceivable bell or whistle. 38. Write about blogging. 39. Digest the good ideas of other people, all day, every day. 40. Invent a whole new kind of art or interaction. 41. Post on weekdays, because there are more readers. 42. Write about a never-ending parade of different topics so you don't bore your readers. 43. Post on weekends, because there are fewer new posts. 44. Don't interrupt your writing with a lot of links. 45. Dress your blog (fonts and design) as well as you would dress yourself for a meeting with a stranger. 46. Edit yourself. Ruthlessly. 47. Don't promote yourself and your business or your books or your projects at the expense of the reader's attention. 48. Be patient. 49. Give credit to those that inspired, it makes your writing more useful. 50. Ping technorati. Or have someone smarter than me tell you how to do it automatically. 51. Write about only one thing, in ever-deepening detail, so you become definitive. 52. Write in English. 53. Better, write in Chinese. 54. Write about obscure stuff that appeals to an obsessed minority. 55. Don't be boring. 56. Write stuff that people want to read and share. " The Voice on "to all persons" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=13#post-13 Fri, 25 Jul 2008 10:33:46 +0000 The Voice 13@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ Hey all, I have been giving a lot of thought to ANF lately, and blogging as a whole. Blogs are the new medium. This is the great thing about American NonFiction, from what I have seen on the Web, we are the only ones doing what we are doing. I have looked high and low and everyone else doesn't get give any fiction away. We do! We are a grass roots campaign to legitimize the forum. This fall I am going back to school. I am committed to a lasting impact of ANF and the army we build. Army for a revolution, a non-violent call to arms. We will use our voice and pen as weapons against the enemy. I traveled to the heart of the beast to kill her once and for all. Not by violence but by noncompliance, We can pave the way for Heaven on Earth. We have to work hard, and assemble a voice for humanity. We are the watchers for there are no watchers left. There is work to be done, and August 3rd is our official "back from vacation date". I get steady internet on the 30th. We need to be up and running for the back to school crowd. We have a little over a week to get things done and we have the drive. The three main categories will be posted every day at different times. No more excerpts on Myspace, we will run the myspace post as ads for the post. (I.E. New post "In a world with 100's of religions, what is one more going to hurt. Modern Mythology Today on ANF") This means the new requirement for all new post submissionswill need to include: -Post -Exerpt -One picture no more than 200 pixels wide posted only in the exerpt -One Banner to hover over the post -a Google/myspace Ad excerpt (these should be no more than 160 charters long and explain the intent of the post as to not anger / fustrate googlers. "I googled Neil Diamond tickets and this asshole just happens mention Niel in a bit of a 1000 word rant on cheese." as compaired to " I googled Neil Diamond tickets and this site came up "American NonFiction:Modern Mythology, explore the interworkings of Religion building in our step by step guide to building the mondern relgion. -the catagory to post in. I will have more later but I am tired. tell me what you think so far, any ideas, do you the ideas I have shared, do you have better ones? - The Voice on "Opinion Columns" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=12#post-12 Wed, 09 Jul 2008 21:45:11 +0000 The Voice 12@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ So we have "Sam's Your Uncle" and "Dear Jane". What other kinds of opinion columns could we be doing? The Voice on "Redefine Fan Fiction" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=11#post-11 Wed, 09 Jul 2008 05:52:49 +0000 The Voice 11@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ So the blogsphyere is full of fan fiction. Hobby writers pour over other people creative common characters and indulge into their favorite fictional world. Well I had the idea to create our own world for our own fan fiction. We could do this yearly, or as a contest for the best piece of Fan Fiction from our world gets to choose the theme of the next fan fiction. Currently, I am into the steampunk movement and as i came up wtih the idea, we will start in steam. Steampunk is a vast untapped look to the future, while the majority of authors on the subject approach it as a look into the past. Today, We have come to the same cross road society found in the Victorian age. To steam or not to steam? Our ancestors chose to go on with oil and demolish all other lines of thought. Today, we see a need for renewable energy, and our basis for our first world of Fan Fiction is the fall of the world economy. Decades after the fall out, as the first of the suburban bomb shelters approach their open date. A lone city on the edge of the sea remains a testament to the fallen ideal. Portcity is proof Humans never learn from their histories. Rebuilt behind a 50 foot wall of compacted auto scrap, Portcity is a patchwork city build upon hard work and the acts of a community. The city's clock tower marks the center of this post apocalyptic world, and upon it's rebuilding gained a windmill. Currently, the tower is used as a prison/ slave camp, where inmates spend their time working the energy mills. Batteries come in and go out, but it never end. These batteries are sold to the public under the guise of public service, and are charge slightly more than the normal family income should allow. There are scavengers who go out into the suburban wastelands, to salvage items from the past. They drive odd vehicles, reworked and remade for the new age. Their monstrosities are as odd as they are, and powered by renewable sources. One notable character, Oxford Shankmen, drives a converted locomotive. The exhaust has been rerouted through number of pipes, that hug the front of the locomotive and are tuned / designed as organ pipes. A typewriter welded to the front of the locomotive expels steam through the pipes with a musical howl. The faster he types, the tempo increases. He comes back from trips into the wasteland, with cargo bay's loaded with per-fall DVD's, Television, and items sacred to worshipers of history. A recent insurgence in global communication has reopened the internet and until the satellites fall back to earth the world can talk to itself again. The only lines of public transport are airships, and rouge scavengers, like Oxford. The wasteland is filled with a savage breeds of human, led under the guise of foul lines of thought and hate in their hearts. But auction sites can turn working scavengers into Gold barons. As a project for all of us, lets ask a couple questions, and build reality into this world. Let's ask ourselves questions like, A clock tower stands as the notable point, and not a steeple, Is a remark on the towns view of religion. Small church are on the streets, and a variety of religions practice in the city, but there are no ruling church yet. There are some ideas let me know what you guys think. Portcity is built upon the ruin of our culture, and The Voice on "Brain Storm" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=10#post-10 Wed, 09 Jul 2008 02:54:16 +0000 The Voice 10@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ We are American NonFiction, our lives, the stories we tell, the content we produce and the world we live in. (Of course if you are on the other side of the world, Well, how about we say there is a spirit of America, and you are born with it.) So with this in mind, I turn to our board readers and responders, What would you like to see more of? What would you like to see less of? What topics are you in to? As you know, we have columns going on now,I.E. "Americans you should know", Dear Jane, Sam's y our Uncle. I would like anyone interested in writing a "Americans you should know" to do so. Ian stepped up to the plate and has taken one on. We need more ideas for communal articles, where we can tell our readers about the things we all are interested in. We are after all, All American NonFiction. The Voice on "Steampunk" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=9#post-9 Thu, 12 Jun 2008 10:19:01 +0000 The Voice 9@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ I always hear people talk about steampunk as a historical period, but I find steampunk is the future. When the world runs out of oil and the only turn left is to power the world by steam. What are your thoughts? The Voice on "Introduction..." http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=8#post-8 Mon, 26 May 2008 11:31:32 +0000 The Voice 8@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ If you are new, you want to start here. This is where we introduce ourselves. I am the humble owner of American NonFiction, hence The Voice. My name is Wesley, you may all call me the Voice, or Mr. Voice, if you are so inclined. I am sure if you look around here, you will really get to know me. I am a part time writer and part time waiter. I like jobs that start with W. If I think of anything else, I will be sure to let you know. The Voice on "From Graphics to Word" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=7#post-7 Sat, 24 May 2008 13:24:46 +0000 The Voice 7@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ Hey Kiddies, For today’s exercise, we will dive into our comic book collection and have a little fun. We will work on our whole story telling experience. I advocate old comics, as they tell a story all in one shot, where as newer comics can hardly tell a b-line story in one issue. With old comics( really spend like 50 cents from the cheap bin) we have our first, second and third act. All plotted out for us in visual glory. We have a story in graphic form. Our mission is to translate the pictures to words. I used this exercise as an excuses to pick up “Batman Showcase”, an anthology of classic Batman comic books, but use any graphic novel of your choice. Our aim here is to get out the whole story. Finish a short story on something fun, and prove to ourselves we can write, we can get out a story. Once we know we can finish a story, then making one up from scratch will not be so hard. With my own advice in mind, I present to you, “Batman: the Mystery of the Menacing Mask” Part one. Batman the Mystery of the Menacing Mask. Batman, masked protector of Gotham, and Robin, boy wonder, are stuck in the clutches of Frank Fenton. Their bodies stand stiff as statues, frozen into a position of action, in a moment of inaction. Frank Fenton, top jewel thief, stands at his desk to admire his work. He is well dressed, gained from his criminal life, and takes a casual stance. He wears a big smile to greet the hoodwinked heroes. He had the upper hand and let’s his posture show feelings of superiority. “I can’t move! It’s as if my legs weight tons.” Batman said. “My arms are like led. What has this crook done to us, Batman?” Robin said. What had Frank Fenton done to the dynamic duo? The answer lies in the oldest section of Gotham. Gotham Village is a collection of small streets and tiny buildings, where concrete meets cobblestone. The neighborhood is a festive representation of Gotham history. Artist, musicians and street performers entertain window shopping crowds in quaint picturesque glory. Couples stroll, hand in hand, along sidewalks and patronize the many shops and restaurants. Yet, the criminal element comes with maze like streets and low rent. A recent debate over the fate of Gotham Village has taken center stage. Andrew Wallace, of the city’s Anti-Crime, called for destruction upon Gotham Village. He cites the criminal element, and their use of the burrow. The police come upon cold trials in the labyrinth of Gotham Village. While, Roland Meacham, chairmen of the city’s “Committee to Preserve Gotham Village”, rebuts calls for destruction. As one of the oldest landmarks in Gotham, Chairmen Meacham feels, the village must be preserved. Thousands of families would become homeless, and loose their historical, picturesque neighborhoods. As the battle rages in newspaper headlines, Bruce Wayne, millionaire philanthropist, and Dick Grayson, ward to the millionaire, walk along the controversial streets. “I’m pretty keen on Gotham Village, Bruce. It’s neato.” Dick said. “I agree, Dick. I have a seat on the Committee to Preserve Gotham Village. We have the last bastion of small city feel, in one of the largest cities in the world. As vigilant citizens, we have to protect our history, as Batman and Robin protect vigilant citizens.” As Bruce and Dick bask in simple pleasures of a daylight stroll, a young woman notices Bruce from his photograph in the newspaper. She watches the millionaire from a short distance. He appeared happy in a location, which caused her such sorrow. She tried to contain her rage against a man, who knew nothing of life in Gotham Village. “Bruce Wayne, I hate you.” She tried but failed. “You are on the Committee to Preserve Gotham Village, but this place is a cesspool of criminal activity.” Bruce turns at the sound of the young woman’s voice. He could hear strife in her voice. Then he saw tears run down her cheeks and he could not be mad. She did not hate him, but hated a situation she was stuck in. She needed a hero and luck brought her to the doorstep of the best Gotham had to offer. His attractive good looks and bottomless bank account pulled some wind from her sails, but she pressed on. “Destruction is the best thing for this awful place.” “Please Miss, let’s have a seat and you can tell me your story.” Bruce said. He picked a table on a nearby patio. Dick went inside to get coffee. The young lady collected herself, and introduced herself as Linda Greene. Once coffee arrived, Linda began her story. “My fiancé, James Packer, and I have been in a fight for weeks. We both grew up in Gotham Village, but I want to move away. I don’t want to raise children with all the crime here. James wants to stay. He claims he is a village boy, through and through. He wants his children to be village boys. “ Tears began to well in Linda’s eyes. She reaches into her hand bag and pulled out a napkin. When she sees the napkin, tears start to fall down her cheek. Bruce looks down and notices she holds a piece of paper, not a napkin. “I fear, he has become a real village boy and gotten himself in with the wrong crowd. After we go on dates, I will call him, hours later, and he won’t be home. I don’t know where he goes, but I found this map in his apartment.” She hands the paper to Bruce and Dick. They unfold the paper and find a map of Gotham Village. A circled X marks the page, and both Bruce and Dick wonder if a clue had dropped into their hands. Not too long ago, as their alter egos Batman and Robin, the pair was hot on the trail of a jewel thief. They followed him to the rooftops and saw him jump into a nearby penthouse. “Robin, I will go around back. We will circle him.” But Batman’s plan backfired. As the boy wonder landed on the patio of the penthouse, an explosion rocked the building. Smoke filled the open apartment. Robin ran towards through the open large doors into to find Batman passed out on the floor. \”Batman, are you alright?” “I… I’m all right, Robin.” Batman is no novice to pain. He recovers from the blow in a minute, but finds the look of shock on Robin’s face. “Batman, quick takes off your mask.” Batman checks the area for prying eyes and yanks off his cowl. Stamped above the eyeholes, on the forehead of the mask, was a glowing circle with an X. He looked in astonishment at the glowing symbol, and as he looked up he found the same symbol on Robin’s forehead. The Circle X was neon on the dark penthouse, for a moment and then faded into the darkness. Below the confused crusaders, a figure cloaked in darkness escaped into the night. His trap was set, he had Gotham’s heroes right where he wanted them. Back in the Crime lab of the Batcave, Batman exams his mask. The lab finds trace amounts of a unique chemical compound isotope of phosphorus. A search in the Batcave’s data base reveals only one place in Gotham to purchase the rare chemical. The Batmobile speeds towards the chemical company and find a friend in the shop’s clerk. A fan of the fated hero, he is all too willing to help out. He gives them the name Frank Fenton with his address, 122 Suburban Avenue, on a slip of paper, and the Batmoblie speeds to the next clue. Batman knows a criminal would never give out his actual address, but he had no other leads to follow. In the lobby of the 122 Suburban Avenue, the pair found “F. Fenton” printed on a mailbox plate. This was easy, maybe too easy. Batman kicks open the door to Fenton’s apartment, to find the top jewel thief with a smile from ear to ear. “Batman and Robin Please do come in. I was about to leave for a perfect hideaway, but I waited for you two to arrive.” “Well, Fenton, you are going to wish you left earlier.” As the duo moves in to apprehend Fenton, a strange sensation comes over them. Their bodies slow down and freeze, and we find the pair where we found them in the clutches of Frank Fenton. Frank starts pack his bags. He takes time to show off the loot he nabbed. Tickled pink with the situation, he giggle at the frozen pair. His bags all packed, he picks them from the floor and opens the apartment door. “Good bye, Batman and the Boy Wonder. We should really do this again sometime. How about the next time I pull a heist, you stand by and watch me do it? Sounds like a fun time.” “You won’t get away forever, Fenton.” “But that is where you are wrong, Batman.” And Fenton closed the door with the pair helpless to stop him. The effects of Fenton’s trap wore off soon after he left. The pair drove back to the batcave in silence. Fenton got away and Batman got to work. He would not be fooled twice. He worked hours into the next day, where Robin found him in the morning. Over breakfast in the Batcave, Batman debriefed Robin. “So you think, the circles with the X have something to do with Fenton’s trap?” Robin said. “Yes, and I think I found a way to defeat it. It might be risky, but when has that stopped us?” “But we have to find Fenton, as well.” “I have given that some thought as well. Do you remember how Fenton said “the perfect Hideaway?” “Yeah.” “Well, more and more reports say there is a mysterious hideout somewhere in Gotham Village. As Bruce Wayne, vice-chairmen of the committee to preserve Gotham Village, I have wanted to take a walk through of the area. Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson should have a visit, to the burrow.” “Sounds like a plan.” Where the millionaire, and ward, found Linda Greene by the coffee shop. Bruce looks down at the Circle with the X. The missing clue might have just fallen into his lap, when Linda sees her fiancé across the square. “There’s Jimmy now, I will call him over.” Is Linda’s map the clue Batman had been waiting for? Will the dynamic duo fall at the mercy of Frank Fenton? Had Linda’s fiancé jumped the line of law? Find out.;. next time… in Batman the Mystery of the Menacing Mask. The Voice on "Round Robin Story" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=6#post-6 Sat, 24 May 2008 13:23:04 +0000 The Voice 6@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ It’s Friday and it’s time for a little fun. We have all played some version of Round Robin story, and we will only need a brief rundown of the rules. Our Round Robin Story will start with one paragraph on this post and will be picked up by any commenter who picks up the story with a paragraph, and so on and so forth. I have the ANF Chef on the line and I will let her pick the all the fun stuff. Sully threw the last bag of trash into the back of the garbage truck. Not only the last trash bag on the curb, but the last bag of his route. A 15 minute ride across town was all that stood in his way of Happy Hour. His digital watch said he would be right on time. Sandwiched right before karaoke books were placed on the bar, and after the gang was all there. Sully couldn’t wait to tell everyone the news. He got back into the truck and felt the huge lump in his pocket. He had stopped by his house for lunch, and found a package from his old employer, Oscar. He opened the package in the cab. Inside the package, he found a hand written note and a Maxwell mix tape. He put the letter into his coveralls and placed the tape into the truck’s tape deck. There you go, now someone pick up the story. One paragraph per comment. The Voice on "The Conversation" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=5#post-5 Sat, 24 May 2008 13:21:41 +0000 The Voice 5@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ Today’s exercise comes to us from university of Iowa. the site states, in a the handout above, that beginning writers often fall into a trap of characters who appear too close to people the writers knows. While this might seem contradictory to the statement “Write what you know”, it actually is not. If our characters are too much like an idealized version of ourself, then we may use a light brush on our canvas of words. We will draw a simple portrait and gloss over the delicate lines of identity. Our object with the conversation is to draw out the reality of our characters. So In today’s exercise, you will pick a character from a story you are working on, or is ready for a second draft. You will write about meeting them in public, and a conversation you share. This meeting can take place anywhere, the conversation can be about anything. Let’s throw something against the wall and see what sticks. This is a third person point of view, you are a fly on the wall of your meeting. For this exercise, I am going to use a character from a story I am working on titled “Hard Truths About Lucky Cigarettes”. The Main Character is named is named John, and he was born and raised in Los Angeles. I have spent the last couple nights with John in various rewrites and find we have common traits but let’s see how it all works out. The Conversation California might not be called the sunshine state, but the view from Cafe Euorpe on Santa Monica at mid day, is a sight to dispute Florida’s claim. John walked out the sidedoor with an iced coffee colling his hand aginist the desert heat. The patio is full of L.A. smokers, forced outside the doors of public places, to enjoy their dirty habit in harsh conditions. John eyed a couple of ladies and shot a couple smiles with dead aim. Signs of interest are playful, but his object is to lay the bait. Fools rush in is a fact of life. Every table is full, and the only free chair is available at a table Wesley claimed. Wesley sits with a half full iced coffee on the table. He grips a pen and his hand manhandles it across the pages of a note book. Wild blond hair jets out from all directions of Wesley’s head, as if ideas throb with potent electricity, and a red goatee and thick mutton chops proclaims his Irish heritage. John looks at Wesley size and wonders if he played football, his large body not fat, but far from skinny. John could do worse, but as he grips the back of the chair and see a long legged starlet, he knows he could do better. “Mind if I take a seat?” John said. Wesley looks up from his note book to find at the table. John towers above table and cast a long shadow with his back to the Sun. Wesley take one look at John and knows he played football, soccer, and any other athletic activity. He had the dashing good looks of a jock, and Wesley figured him for a Agent or personal trainer. The large blue tooth device stuck to his ear was a dead give away. “Sure” Wesley said as he thought about what he would do, if this guy uses the phone at the table. John took a seat and got comfortable in his chair. His legs spread wide with his back far against the back of the chair. Wesley took a sip from his coffee and went back to his notebook. He finished what he was writing and placed the pen in the spine of the binder ring. “Name’s John.” John extends a hand to shake, and Wesley raises a fist to dap. A awkward second of shifting hand movements happens as the pair adjust to a common handshake. “Nice to meet you John, I’m Wesley.” “Are you a writer?” “Well, I write, I host a site called American NonFiction . com. However, to call yourself a writer, you really should have a book in print.” “So, you place words on pages?” “Yes.” “And you’re passionate about it?” “I keep a rough idea of a schedule” “Sounds like a writer to me.” “So, what do you do, John?” “Well, I’m a personal trainer. I work at a boot camp gym near Beverly Hills.” “Boot Camp?” “Yeah, a themed gym. People think of boot camp and they think of lean mean American troops. That’s our pitch. Our trainers are allowed to scream, give orders, all sorts of fun stuff.” “And customers pay for this?” “By the truck load. Make no mistake, we get results. We don’t cater and lap them in luxury. If someone wants a body like mine, then they do it the way I did.” “Pretty easy to say, when you don’t have the 8 hour workday on top of a workout schedule.” “Not really my concern and you sound like my roommate, Sid.” John said. He took a breath and shifted into rehearse mode. “Anyone of my clients could go out there, Today, and become a personal trainer. They would have to drop the weight, get some dedication, and figure out the secrets of the trade. But they could. And I encourage them to do so.” “But they don’t?” “Not all of them, but there are ones that do. Some of them become quite successful. But my point is yes, it is easy for me to say.” John notices the long legs from the other table, with an open chair. “Hey Wesley, it was nice to meet you man. I have to get going, but I will see you around.” Wesley bids him good bye and goes back to his note book. The Voice on "One Syllable Story" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=4#post-4 Sat, 24 May 2008 13:19:43 +0000 The Voice 4@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ Welcome back to Audience Participation. In past post, we have created a storyteller and had our storyteller tell us about a person whom they though was unique. Today , we are going to put away our storytellers for the time being and move on to ” One Syllable Story”. One Syllable Story comes to us by way of Writing exercises, by Susan Breen*. “One of the oddest things I’ve noticed in my creative writing classes is that students tend to do much better with writing exercises than they do with work they originate themselves. For example, tell someone to write a fifty word story using words of only one syllable and you’ll get genius.” I wonder, if Ms. Breen is correct. We shall see. Our mission for today is to write a story made entirely of only one syllable words. You can’t even use the title of the our exercise in your exercise. Ready go… Jim Lodge at the End A scoop of ice cream on a cone is a joy of park time bliss. Jim Lodge walked on the rock path, which laid an arms length from the pond. A clear blue sky poured light, from the sun, over fresh cut grass. Spring was back, the peril of snow filled days were over. Jim set his eyes on a group of kids, as they play with a ball. How long did the group of kids have? how long did any of them have? Jim could only guess. He felt good, when he woke up. This day was to be the day. Only when he got to the lab, he knew, this day was the day. The day of the end. Theft left his lab a mess of glass, tubes that once held flu bugs, now, lay on the floor. The bugs gone to make man sick. A clean up crew was on call and tried to fight a fate set in stone. Jim walked the path, with not a thing he could do. The err was egg on the face of man. The Sun was bright, the grass was green, and kids sang joy. It was a great day for it all to end. Genius, well I don’t know about that. Yet, it was a lot of fun. I would love to hear your exercises! *Included in the link is another fun exercise, which is not mentioned here The Voice on "Storyteller 2: Character" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=3#post-3 Sat, 24 May 2008 13:18:51 +0000 The Voice 3@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ If you are new, or have plopped onto this post from the strangeness of Google, here is an update. This is the second installment of Storyteller in our Audience Participation categories. You can go back to the start with “Who is your Storyteller” , or you can keep reading. The choice is yours, but it’s a lot more fun to go back to the start and have some fun with us. Remember to post your exercises in the comments. We have our storyteller. Now, it’s time for our storyteller to tell us a story. If we are to spend part of our imagination to breath live into our storytellers, than the least they can do for us is to tell us stories. Imaginary unemployment lines are filled with lazy good for nothing imaginary people. Don’t let your storyteller become one of them. Time to take the trip back to the places we have created for our storytellers. Spend a moment to get reacquainted with your storyteller. Take your last exercise and give it a read over. Gold Star over archivers will give their last exercise an edit. The rest of us will give our first exercise a once over. Clean up the bad grammar and breath a couple more dimensions into your character. Here is my Gold Star Extra Credit Who is your Storyteller? Born into the bevy, as the locals joke. Fate marked Oxford Shankmen for a ner-do-well on the day he was born. His mother laid upon the bar of his father’s tavern and a newborn Oxford was more than edger to spill onto polished wood. His birth room would become the stage of his young life. Oxford grew up around the scum of society and became the scourge of the local flock of children. He was their first peer teacher with a mind for menace. He would show the other children pictures of scantily clad woman, teach them how to gamble, and expand their vocabulary to offensive proportions. Various stories cross on why he left, but the story most agreed upon is he was run out of town by the local fathers, who feared for their daughter’s purity. For all the tall tales, on his 18th birthday, Oxford packed up his belongings and jumped a midnight boxcar heading south. He would find himself on a cross country trek, through the highways and byways of America. While other’s his age were away in college drinking away their parent’s money, Oxford took odd jobs when he could, and moved on when he couldn’t. Road Scholar is the title he would give to curious inquiries made to his goals in the present. He rambled for quite some time. A part of him thought he would never amount to anything in this crazy world, so his eyes wanted to at least see it all. If he was not destine for greatness, then he wanted to be witness to greatness. He looked for the greatness in the world and found more than a couple of interesting events. Until he received word of his father’s demise. After the letter reached him, he gave up his life on the road and traveled back to the bar of his birth. He runs the place now, but things haven’t changed much. The wooden bar top has been refinished, but the planks are the same boards he spilled onto, many years ago. The regulars fill up the place in the day light hours, and the kids come in at night. Things don’t change much, but after seeing the world, Oxford realizes only the names change. Today’s exercise is about Characters. Characters will be a important role in any story your storyteller or you write. Every story need Characters. Even if your story is about inanimate objects, the inanimate objects need to have a persona. Readers need to relate to them in some way shape or form. Today, as we travel back with our storyteller, let them start with the sentence “The (fill in blank) person I have met was…” You do not need to keep first sentence verbatim, you only have to keep the spirit of the intention. For a twist, make the person someone who your storyteller doesn’t like, or who your storyteller has moral issues with. Side note: I think, ( and I include this bit of bad grammar to let you know this believe may change) every great character starts with a question. In today’s example, you will see how my question comes into play. The other night I thought to myself, What is the worst thing One could do with a photo sent over the internet?” One of the stranger people I have met, would have to be Ichabod Jones. I met Ichabod at a supermarket on the sunset strip. The place is known to be hunting grounds for swingers and pick up artist, and Ichabod was at home in their numbers. He was a quite kat, but style dripped off of his persona like water during rain season. He wore a slick silk suit which made me feel dirty by comparison, and held a poise reserved for the white gloves. The female pickings at the supermarket were slim. Desperation for any human contact led both of us into conversation. We found we both had a number of things in common. We were both transplants from back east, from small towns, and had a sweet tooth for fast woman and booze. Our shared paths endeared me to Ichabod, and he invited me back to his home. His home was posed on the property awaiting the post-card picture. Elegant in it’s simplicity, his lawn was well maintained, and yard kept clean. The driveway didn’t have a rock out of place, and the whole scene was one of perfection. Inside was more of the same. Each room felt like a museum, with lavish expensive decorations and institute cleanliness a hallmark of his home. I could not believe someone lived in this house, until we got to the basement. While the upstairs was a pristine hospital, his basement was a demolished hostile. Clutter littered every open surface. The book shelves were filled with books and external hard drives. A giant computer screen surrounded by smaller screens took up one full wall. A ergonomic command chair sat in the middle of the screen, with a couch behind. The Couch sectioned off the pool table and bar area. I got the distinct feeling Ichabod spent most of his time here. I asked how he afforded such a place and he just smiled. He gave me a “do you really want to know” look which I read off his face as “I really want to tell you”. So I asked and found out Ichabod makes his money by selling porn. Not just any porn, but star porn. Years ago when Paris made a big slash with her unauthorized porn “One night in Paris”, Ichabod got the idea to film sex. He lived in the birth place of stars, in the bright lights of the glitz and glamor. Hollywood were every day another would-be starlet gets off a bus from Boise. Now each of them are not going to make it, but one of them might. One of them might be a name, and if Ichabod could get a bit of her on video, he would never have to work again. Ichabod went to work. He spent a good portion of his time perfecting his look and feel. He reshaped himself into a ladies man, and luck landed him a hit in his first year. He scored a rather naughty vixen, who got her 15 minutes and added on an hour. He dumped a trailer onto a free porn site at the height of her fame and hit pay dirt. With his first success, he ran out and bought a bigger system. More hard drives, advanced chat bots who scoured local boards. He got to work with multi angle hidden cameras. His editing became flawless, and his slim naked body could have been anyone. Anyone endowed, he is quick to point out. He categorizes the video by names, birthdays, stage names and any bit of info he can gather without detection. Then his programs constantly check his database of names against updates of Google and IMBD searches. He doesn’t get a hit every day but he get enough to pay the bills. But The most amazing thing about Ichabod is a story for another day. The Voice on "StoryTeller" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=2#post-2 Sat, 24 May 2008 13:17:00 +0000 The Voice 2@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ So in an effort to grow as a writer, and share a bit of mind set, I give the ANF universe “Audience Participation” a category on our favorite blog where we all can have a bit of fun. As for the size and scope, the future is a bright white light of possibilities. However in our journey of a 1000 miles, we do have a first step entitled “The Story Teller”. I found “The story teller” by Ginny Wiehardt, who got the exercise from Julia Cameron’s “The Right to Write”. The links give you the base idea, but I had to put my own spin on things. Instead of the exercise you can find above, please read on for your mission, if you choose to accept it. In Ginny’s and Julia’s version, participants are asked to picture your storyteller and asks them to tell three stories. They say to picture yourself as a child and write the stories you would have loved to hear. In our version, we are going to only tackle the story teller in the first part. What sex is she? What is his world like? Where do you picture her? Where would you sit with them to hear these stories? All these questions and more can be answered about your storyteller. They are yours and can have any quark or attribute. We have rules to follow and these rules are as follows. You have to like this person. Over the next couple installments, we shall spend some time with our story tellers, and we should spend time with someone we like. Now I don’t have to like your storyteller, and you don’t have to like my storyteller. In fact, I bet my storyteller could beat up your storyteller. Anyway let’s try an example. MY STORYTELLER Where do you meet with your storyteller? Some people might want to meet their storyteller by the rocking chair in the living room, others might want to meet their storyteller at the laundry mat. My Storyteller and I meet at a local dive bar. He is the owner and we meet in the back room, which is a mini bar for VIP degenerates. Smoking is allowed and the God-fearing decent public is not. Cannabis and tobacco smoke mix in poorly vented splendor. Bad karaoke spills, from the front bar, through the door whenever it opens, to the chagrin of everyone in the mini bar. Behind us, degenerates of all class and creeds gamble feature comforts on green felt tables. The place is never hops, but it’s never dead. We have a setting, next up… Who is your Storyteller? Name: Oxford Shankmen Age: 34 Height: 6′2″ Description/ History: Oxford grew up around his father’s bar. As a young man, Oxford traveled the world, and lived the life of 5 men, before the letter of his father’s fate reached him. When his father passed away, he became the owner of his father’s bar and in part his legacy. The road kept Oxford slim and his retirement has packed on the start of a gut. His green hair would be long, but gel helps fight off gravity in all manors of directions. A tattoo of a white trash Betty adorns his shoulder. Her hair in a bee hive, a pregnant belly swells from a leopard print tube top, and she smokes and drinks as she puckers for a pose. When asked Oxford will explain his tattoo represents his taste for trashy woman, but most people think his tattoo is a intellectual dick and fart joke about the nature of ink work. People often give Oxford more credit than he deserves. Oxford enjoys alcohol over beer, and cannabis over them all. We sit at the bar for hours and toke from the hookah, while we chat about life, the universe and everything else that may be answered by the number 42. Most days you can find Oxford behind the bar, with a tee shirt from his prize tee shirt collection, which runs the gambit of out right funny to outright offensive, and in jeans. He is a strange Cat, but, boy, he is interesting to listen to. Now we have an example. Everything in italics is the way I chose to describe my storyteller. You can describe your storyteller anyway you want. I would like to hear about your storyteller, post your description in the comments and we can all have a bit of fun. And don’t worry my storyteller is a pacifist and won’t really beat up your storyteller. The Voice on "Your first topic" http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/topic.php?id=1#post-1 Fri, 23 May 2008 12:45:00 +0000 The Voice 1@http://www.americannonfiction.com/audienceparticipation/ First Post! w00t.