Updates

Hello world!

It has been a while and much has happened since I was here last. I have undertaken several writing projects, developing ideas into stories getting inspiration from prompts and such. This is National Novel Writing Month. I have novel-sized ideas that I am developing and while I am not participating in NaNoWriMo I am buoyed by the energy of the participants in the FB group. I am writing my short stories, plural, at the moment along with academic articles from my dissertation.

I have also been reading at a breakneck pace, you know, for me, which means that the snail’s pace at which I normally read is a little less ‘snaily’. During the summer, I read Divergent and Insurgent (2 out of 3 ain’t bad), Year of the Flood by Margaret Atwood, Ocean at the End of the Lane by Gaiman. I recently completed Binti by Nnedi Okorafor and I am currently reading Mothership: Tales from Afro-Futurism and Beyond. On the other hand,  my ‘to read’ list still has a few titles that I have yet to start or that I started and had to set aside for various reason. Lagoon and Kabu Kabu  by Okorafor, Maddaddam by Atwood, Deathless by Catherine M. Valente are all lovely and engaging works and I will return to them. I must, they have me in their thrall.

Immersing myself in a book, a good book, is quite a rewarding experience (spoken like a true nerd). I feel happy with the time I spent in another writer’s world. I might turn  December into my own NaNoWriMo with these ideas that I am developing, who knows.

In the meantime, one of my stories has been featured over at Akashic Books as part of their Duppy Thursday series. It is flash fiction and it is really great series with great writers weaving magical tales about the supernatural in the Caribbean. Check it out with the link below.

Akashic Books Duppy Thursday 

Peace!

“D”

Still here…

…and trying to strike a balance between creative and academic currents running through me. Still here though.

Malaise: Un-Sonnet

My work stinks.

It reeks, actually, of failure intermingled with

putrid pretensions of deeper knowledge.

It stenches of vain attempts to write

with the  Walcotts, the Morrises, the Brathwiates,

and rots in  a hole that is called

“the block.”

I wait, like the corbeaux for the line

that  quivers slowly then drops on a

sandy page. I feed, like the

maggot on what is beyond

redemption, nourished,

to produce nothing

myself.

© Debra Providence 2013

(a love poem)

St. Vincent,

sometimes,

is

an island

cut by

fire

capped with

mountains

draped by

mists

that

blanket

the sky,

filling

my heart

pulling

me in

to dash

my

bones

against

its rocks.

© Debra Providence 2013

In which the UnWoman Begins © 2010 Debra Providence

 

Earth

shudders

 winds

rise

rivers

swell

then

burst.

 

Silence

 

Shattered:

a tiny

voice

screams

howls

whimpers

murmurs,

hush.

 

A girl

 

Tears

 

Cruel

insertion

harsh

initiation

 

The shape of things to come.

 

(a girl!)

 

(pity)

 

Writhing

howling

gruesome

thing ,

unloved

in truest form,

left

cold and whimpering

at the

bottom

of  the steps

of this house.

 # I wrote this a while ago as a means of introducing the Unwoman, a central figure in a collection of poems that I am patiently putting together. It may well need revision but I am giving it a little air.

Metric on my Mind

Still Here

It’s been a while, I know.  Life is currently challenging my time management skills. There are so many things that I want to do, that I need to do, that spin around me, like a vortex. There are so many things vying for my attention and time, but there little time or attention to be given. Sometimes I feel energized by the idea that I have assigned myself several projects, personal interest projects that will bring satisfaction once I have completed them. They are like plants, newly bought seedlings that require a great care for their early stages. You start caring for them early on. Then you lapse, and then you forget. Your reminder comes when you notice your seedlings are drooping and yellowing in parched soil. You are shocked at how much you have neglected your own projects.

This blog fits the category of neglected things. I started it as a means of sharing thoughts on one of my passions and while the passion is still there, the time is not. I have been writing in private. I’ve written things I am keeping close to my heart – things that I am not yet ready to share and I am not sure if I will ever share. And I have been writing in other ways too.

I hope to be active this year, which is already in its third month. I am reading new works from Nalo Hopkinson, Karen Lorde and Nnedi Okorafor. I’ve also been reading works from KurtVonnegut, James Tiptree Jr. and Joanna Russ. These works are re-energizing my imagination and that is a good thing. I will commit to the watering this green space and with my thoughts on my love for the written word, especially when it comes from else-worlds. And every now and then I will glance at my thumb to ensure that it is not turning into an odd shade of green.

For Stacy Wilson: Woman Sacrificed

On Monday
My sister was
slaughtered
and all the people
watched.
Grief flowed
like a thick grey
soul-stealing fog
through every voice
that stopped to tell.

I stepped off a bus
and hesitated,
then walked to
buy my bread.

On Tuesday
I wrote a letter
and reported to Central,
then completed paperwork
for a Smith and Wesson.

Tomorrow I will
call all my girl-friends,
it’s been a while.

© Debra Providence 2006

Once Upon a Time Writing Contest Entry: “The Thing about Red-Hot Iron Boots”

I’ve decided to enter the Flash Fiction contest hosted by the folks at Yearning for Wonderland. It’s the Once Upon a time Writing Contest, the theme is “unexpected fairy tails” and the word limit is 350 . I like this idea as well as anything involving fairy tails and turning fairy tails on their heads. So here’s my effort and see if you can guess which fairy tail inspired this one.

The Thing about Red-Hot Iron Boots

The thing about red-hot iron boots is not that they are heavy, nor is it the heat. It’s the fact that they are rusted iron boots glowing red. What sort of style sense went into making such a thing?  Iron boots are passé. They reek retrograde and stink overindulgence.

Just like her and the way she’s handling our tiff. She’s married off; she’s got her charming prince, although personally I’ve seen better looking and heard brighter speak, she’s got her own new kingdom to add to the one she took from me. She’s got the waterfall wedding dress, the towering cake and the piss those midgets conjured and called wine. She’s got all these things, and still bears a grudge.

My guts rise when I think about the glut at that wedding. But that is how it has always been with her. Proclivity to excess, that one. She couldn’t live with just one midget; she had to hoard seven of them, and to watch them tumble over themselves for her, like nesting dolls, like she was gold, or something. She doesn’t have a heart of gold, I’ll tell you that –all show and shine.

Over dramatizing everything, like with the apple.

I’ll admit I let the brat get to me, but I didn’t put that much belladonna on the blasted apple, just enough to knock her out a bit, to miss her passing prince. It was the least I could do for all the trouble she’d caused over the years. But she escalated it with the fainting, the pretending to be dead, and the glass coffin thing, because everyone would want to see a dead person’s face as it turns to straw. So tasteless.

Now she’s congratulating herself for picking the red-hot iron boots when she’s really not got an original bone in her body.

Dancing in these boots won’t kill me. They are heavy and they crush my ankles. They are hot and sear the flesh from my bones. No, instead it will be death by “gaudy” for me. Red-hot iron boots indeed!

(344 words)

©Debra Providence 2012

To read some really great stories from other entrants in this contest please click this  link and for more info on the rules follow the crescent moon.

Inspiration

Bunches of ideas in full bloom and competing for my attention.