Table of Contents You may submit any of your writing to be critiqued by a panel of peer critics by emailing it to littleal87@aol.com with "To Critique" in the subject line. This may even include college essays for any high school seniors. To learn more about Anya Seton and her family: If you have not previously done so, please send your DOB/gender/location to littleal87@aol.com. This helps to create a picture of the demographics of the club and your birthday will be featured in the newsletter!
The Write Stories
The Write Poetry
Critique of the Month
Learn From the Masters
The Write "Stuff"
Title: Heretic
Elisabeth
The smoke already swirled in eddies around the church steeple. The old and
wizened priest sinks to his knees, tears running down his cheeks, asking
for forgiveness. He looks out the window and to the oddly red sky, praying
for his soul, for all their souls.
Below the ledge, a female figure sags against the massive wooden stake
amid the flame. Those who look on, shriek with anger, in fear, and in
revulsion. This is what happens to the one who brings hope.
The lone figures chest heaves in coughs. Too often does the damned one
struggle in a futile attempt to escape the treacherous flames, but this
one did not. The heavy bound blonde hair shakes free in the ill wind, the
strands blowing across the wavering blaze towards the church towering
above her. Eyes that beheld an immortal to set her upon this path, filled
with tears. The old man watching her through the flames, with the
adornments of a bishop, taunts her.
So, Joan, where is Saint Catherine? Do you taste the hell that shall
consume you? Do you hear those voices? What do they say to you at this
hour?
The tears flowed silver, salted water shushing to nothing within the
flames. Joan smiled gently at the bishop in err, her heart bursting with
joy, the happiness extinguishing little the flames that soon engulfed her.
They tell me not to be afraid. Through the flames of hell and into the
valley of shadow I shall pass. Her feet began to blister and burn, the
scent of human flesh roasting filling the bishops head. His face set in a
grim smile, he spit at the witch, dutifully praying for her soul, that
perhaps God would give her comfort in such a time. Or she would be
received in the arms of the Devil, tempting and eternal. Either way, the
world will be rid of her poisoned presence.
To Joan, the pain lifted her heart, the heat washed and cleansed her, made
her whole, the searing pain of the fire, to her, the chorus of angels that
physically burned away all the impurities. The flesh that suffered from
the torture bubbled away, the old scar above her right breast still bore
the signs of the unearthly healing after the arrow had slammed into her on
the battlefield, yet cleansed her heart pure. Now the flames made her
mortal and forever sinful flesh melt, to heat and recast her heart into
another kind of gold. The heavenly angels still sang to her, their notes
soaring high and searing as did her nerve endings. It was too bright to
see the bishop through the flames, if Joan had chosen to see. What she saw
made the tears fall faster and faster upon the white-hot tongues of fire.
They tell me to be still, to no longer struggle. I have struggled
enough. God takes me in his arms, shushing my tears as a mother would a
child. I do not seek or want another fate, oh angels of heaven.
The cries and screams of the crowd suddenly stilled, the scent of charred
human flesh coating them all in veils of sin. Above them, above the
bishop, above Joan, the clouds roiled and spun. Chilling rain sped towards
them all, all drops missing the flames, the rain cooling Joans face,
giving her relief in the short while she still had on Earth. Her eyes of
deep blue, like the night sky, looked heavenward, the rain streaking down
her face as Marys tears.
Take me.
The wall of fire drove higher than before causing the bishop to step back.
Joan the heretic will go back to where she belongs. Bishop gazed into the
depths of the flame directly. What he saw blinded him. The heart, still
pure and unblemished lay within the heretics breastbone, perched upon her
ribs, beautifully red. A flame from deep within cleansed it as gold, the
silvery strands of the rain forming to a dove, wreathed in flame, Joans
own heart. It took wing away from the blackened bones, away from the
leaping flames, away from the blinded bishop, away from the sinned crowd,
to the church steeple of the church, to the heavens.
Take me.
THE WRITE POETRY
Voices
freakychik86@hotmail.com
I hear a voice calling me
It sounds like the violence against the body of a beaten child.
I hear a voice calling me
It sounds like the anguished thoughts of a depressed adolescent.
I hear a voice calling me
It sounds like the scream of a slaughtered woman.
I hear a voice calling me
It sounds like desperate parents searching for their missing baby.
And as I ponder the voices calling me
I recognize one thing about them.
These voices are looking for refuge
from the torment and abuse.
My one desire is for this agony to terminate.
I pray it will end.
Hollow
Anonymous
What is it with the world?
I can never understand
Stop being so damn narrow minded!
Don't judge me!
Shit I'm scared
What if?
What if it's true
I cry because I'm in denial
I cry because I'm so unsure.
My thoughts are scattered
My eyes are wet and blurry
I want out
Let me release myself of this body
I want to trade
I feel like a prisoner to my own feelings
AAHH!!!
That's not fair
I want out!
QUICK!
Exit to Fantasyland
freakychik86@hotmail.com
When I feel like I can't take this world
And I need to leave
I escape all concept of Earth
And enter my own reality
When I feel like my life will fall apart
I exit to my music and dreams
My worries depart from me
And I ponder what my future craves
I wander into a new dimension
Of time and space
And forget all the war and hate
So if and when your troubles start
Don't become upset and sad
Just go to the back of your mind
Exit to Fantasyland.
CRITIQUE OF THE MONTH
"Who were the Setons? They were first and foremost a family of writers -- father, mother, and daughter -- who wrote book after book successfully, often with profit and popularity somewhat more in mind than artistry. The appeal of their books, and the popularity that resulted, were phenomena that made them relatively rich and famous in their own time but which practically guaranteed that they would be ignored by posterity, particularly the later twentieth century academic guardians of high culture. The academic literati of the last forty years have not looked favorably on [Ernest Seton's] animal tales, nor Grace's sprawling travel books, nor...Anya's "historical romances"... Yet during their lives they were as successful a professional family as American letters has ever produced. ETS, as he was usually known in later years, made his fortune from his first book, the incomparable collection of animal tales entitled Wild Animals I Have Known, published in 1898 and never out of print since that time. He also won huge acclaim between 1900 and 1920 as a naturalist, a lecturer, and a "leader of boys." He is honored today as the co-founder of the Boy Scouts of America, founder of the Woodcraft League, and co-founder, with Grace, of the Campfire Girls. Grace was no retiring, modest "woman behind the great man" herself. She was president of the Connecticut Women's Suffrage League, organized and later commanded a woman's mobile relief unit in France during World War I, wrote seven travel autobiographies, and served two terms as president of the National League of American Pen Women. (After their divorce, ETS sniffed that she was "ambitious.") The only child of Grace and ETS, named Ann (later Anya), was unusual in both her haunting beauty and her intelligence. Yet she never attended college, married at nineteen, and remained an accomplished if restless housewife until her late thirties, when her dream of becoming a writer finally came true with the publication of a first novel that, like her father's first effort, became a bestseller. All ten of Anya Seton's historical novels were bestsellers, most of them Book-of-the-Month Club selections, beginning with My Theodosia in 1941 and ending with Green Darkness in 1973...From a base in Greenwich, she visited and immersed herself in the historical backdrops of the Hudson River, northern England and Scotland, France, Italy, Iceland, and the American Southwest. Her ten bestsellers were meticulously set within their historical and natural milieu, ranging from Arthurian England to the early twentieth century silver mines of Nevada."
--http://www.nhc.rtp.nc.us:8080/biography/mackethan.htm
http://www.nhc.rtp.nc.us:8080/biography/mackethan.htm
http://www.etsetoninstitute.org/BIOBYDEE.HTMhttp://www.triviumpublishing.com/articles/greendarkness.html
http://www.likesbooks.com/green.html
http://collections.ic.gc.ca/heirloom_series/volume5/236-237.htm
Jibber Jabber, Volume 20
By Andrew Burnette
http://www.geocities.com/jibberjabberonline
LAWN MOWER MAN
Well, it's now well into summer here and if you've stepped outside then you've probably noticed that it's pretty darned hot out there. Nothing is perfect I suppose, and there are some who like it hot out there. But it's not always a good thing; sometimes it's even a downright terrible thing.
Now some of you may wonder, what is this man getting at? Of course summer is hot! It's summer after all! Summer is supposed to be hot! Well, my friends, summer isn't all fun and games, sure, kids are out of school. There's the beach, and pools and sprinklers in the front lawn. But if you're like me, then you know that there's one terror of the summer, and that is being chosen as:
The Lawn Mower Person!
Don't go away, I'm not trying to scare anyone! This is still a humor article, don't worry! I just think that not too many people wonder about the true physics of lawn mowing.
First, you have to have a lawn mower if you want to mow lawns. So you need to decide here and now if you want to make a commitment to the power mower with that hot and stylish 1.4 horse power engine, or the manual mower.
Not too many people know the "ins and outs" of lawn mowers, and I hope to clear some of this up for you.
The first one we'll talk about is the manual mower, this is the one your great grandfather is best accustomed to. Now I know a lot of environmentalists will like the concept of the manual mower, no fumes, no gas consumption, no oil shooting out of a badly assembled muffler. It's got the makings of greatness, plus it's fun to watch the little bars spin around and around.
Now here's where it gets embarrassing for the manual mower.
The true problem with the manual mower lies in its (get ready for this) lack of actually mowing the grass.
Yes, you heard right: its lack of actually mowing the grass.
Isn't that amazing? A lawn mower that doesn't mow the grass! I like to think of the manual mower as the mobster who never gets to the actual murdering; he just likes to rough people up. On some occasions I've actually heard the grass talking.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa guys! Lookout, Andrew's coming and he's going to start mowing us! Oh man! Life was too short! What will we do? Oh... oh wait guys, relax. He's got that old manual mower out again. Heh heh, just look at him trying. When he comes by just try and lean real far to one side, those bars are actually kind of like a massage. Feels good to be alive."
The grass was taunting me, how embarrassing. It's like trying to impress a girl on one of those scooters.
"C'mon baby let's ride. Like to feel the wind whip through your hair? Just let me get a good start and hop on behind me. Hold on now baby, because I'm a renegade."
Then you have the power motor, the fuel inefficient piece of machinery. It smokes, it hacks and coughs. It's like the rusty old drill sergeant who needs to take a break every once in awhile but dagnabbit it can whip that grass into shape. Sure, it does a great job at mowing, especially against the competition.
But it's not perfect either. There's a good chance you'll go bankrupt just trying to keep the thing fueled, especially over the summer where in some places you have to mow the grass every week. Then there's the rip chord that in many ways reminds me of the pickle jar lid situation.
Say you're around a few friends, because hey, some people like to make mowing the grass a spectator sport, and who am I to judge? Your friends are crowded around you with that anxious look of glee when you go to wrap your hand around the rip chord. You nod to everyone showing that you will soon exert super-human strength as you cause a powerful engine to start in front of everyone. You take a deep breath and pull as quick and hard as you can taking out a friend with your fist in the process.
But nothing happens.
You take a deep breath as some of your friend's work to get the friend who was behind you back into consciousness. Too bad, they just can't handle the power you hold. So you pull again, nothing. You smile and pull again. Still nothing.
So you kneel down and give that look of "Let me see what's wrong here" when in your mind you're thinking "How the heck does this thing even work?" The look most men give when inspecting under the hood of a car.
Finally you notice this little bulbous rubber button that says "Prime here" so as you trace back in your brain for what the word prime means you just try to do what any unsure man would do. You push that sucker a few times.
With a boost of confidence you stride over back to the rip chord, behind you your now conscious friend is getting into an ambulance holding an awfully bloody nose. Rookie. So you hold down the bar and grab the rip chord and pull as hard as you can. Nothing happens. You try again a few times with nothing happening.
So by this point you're already sweating, the crowd around you has diminished to one or two of the hardcore lawn mower spectators and one of your friends is looking at some serious rhinoplasty in the future. Yet somewhere deep inside you know you must go on, so you kneel to inspect the mower engine again.
After fumbling around for a few minutes you notice the spark plug is detached. Ah ha! You shout, pointing a finger skyward. You jump up and bow to the two people still watching. You grab the bar and the rip chord pulling really hard and...
The lawn mower erupts into a beautiful sound then, before you can truly celebrate your great accomplishment, the pine cone you unknowingly parked the mower over is ejected out the side shute and impaled into the foot of one your friends. Now that's power!
Oh well, time to call the ambulance. Maybe now is a good time to seek legal advice.
Thanks for reading my Jibber Jabber.
SPECIAL BIRTHDAY ANNOUNCEMENTS
September 9th LiLyChiX66
September 10th Mickeydove
September 11th BluEyezz90
September 20th BuGGyBaByMaNDa
September 23rd July Spark
September 28th princess_leia_organa_12@yahoo.com
September 29th Sirclausen
September 30th JennaWoods
Happy Birthday!
