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This is Not for Sale, which was also my Friday Flash for this week, which you can read here! Apologies for the dreadful Jamaican accent...
Showing posts with label audioboo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label audioboo. Show all posts
Sunday, 5 September 2010
Sunday, 1 August 2010
Spoken Sunday - Picasso
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This is Picasso, a short I wrote in 2009 for a story prompt on the EditRed website. It was subsequently published on Postcard Shorts, but I'm still very fond of it, so I thought it would make a nice Audioboo for today's Spoken Sunday! I hope you like it.
Silence held the gallery in its tender grasp. Silver ribbons of moonlight snaked across the parquet floor. Reaching up the walls, they fingered the heavy wooden frames that held some of the world's most beautiful paintings.
Miles away, the clock struck midnight. Its heavy chime floated on the still night air. Life stirred in the gallery as goddesses, royalty and anonymous angels hauled themselves out of their frames. Renaissance minstrels struck up a tune, while Pre-Raphaelite heroines started to dance. Laughter soon filled the gallery as its famous inhabitants joined the ball.
The frivolous atmosphere broke as a solitary figure limped into the main hall. Two eyes stared forlornly from the right hand side of its face, and a cruel mouth twisted into a snarl beside its ear. A simple slash served as a nose, and it tried to disguise its backward-facing hands held at right angles.
The music stopped as the congregation turned to face the newcomer. Millais’ Ophelia stepped forward, dripping water onto the chequered tiles.
"Dear me, who painted you?!" she exclaimed, barely able to contain her revulsion. The reply was plaintive and dejected.
"Picasso".
This is Picasso, a short I wrote in 2009 for a story prompt on the EditRed website. It was subsequently published on Postcard Shorts, but I'm still very fond of it, so I thought it would make a nice Audioboo for today's Spoken Sunday! I hope you like it.
Picasso
Silence held the gallery in its tender grasp. Silver ribbons of moonlight snaked across the parquet floor. Reaching up the walls, they fingered the heavy wooden frames that held some of the world's most beautiful paintings.
Miles away, the clock struck midnight. Its heavy chime floated on the still night air. Life stirred in the gallery as goddesses, royalty and anonymous angels hauled themselves out of their frames. Renaissance minstrels struck up a tune, while Pre-Raphaelite heroines started to dance. Laughter soon filled the gallery as its famous inhabitants joined the ball.
The frivolous atmosphere broke as a solitary figure limped into the main hall. Two eyes stared forlornly from the right hand side of its face, and a cruel mouth twisted into a snarl beside its ear. A simple slash served as a nose, and it tried to disguise its backward-facing hands held at right angles.
The music stopped as the congregation turned to face the newcomer. Millais’ Ophelia stepped forward, dripping water onto the chequered tiles.
"Dear me, who painted you?!" she exclaimed, barely able to contain her revulsion. The reply was plaintive and dejected.
"Picasso".
Sunday, 25 July 2010
Spoken Sunday - Dreams
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It is Saturday night in the city. It is warm, and my window is open, letting in a cool breeze. I know this is through no kindness towards me; Mother has left the window open so that I may hear the world outside. This is to punish me for my wickedness. I am unsure as to the nature of my most recent transgression but she assures me it was heinous indeed. I am to sit here and listen to the sounds of young people like myself enjoying the evening delights of the city. There is a restaurant on the other side of the plaza. I hear glasses chinking, cutlery against plates, laughter. The words are indistinct but I hear stories being told. People guffaw as their companions reach their punchlines. I fill in the blanks, and smile. These people must lead such interesting, rich lives, out there in the city. Out there...
I stand on my bed and peer through the window high in the wall. I can see little, but my imagination paints me a picture. Groups of friends will be huddled around tables, sharing stories while waiters bustle between them. They will be carrying platters of steaming food, the dishes a riot of colour and smells as people sample cuisines both exotic and local. The air will be thick with bonhomie and warmth.
I turn away from the window, back to my bare little room. Mother took my books to punish me for forgetting to say grace. She took my telescope when I forgot to bless her after she sneezed. She still allows me paper and pencils to write or draw, but she takes what I produce. She tells me my talents are not my talents, they are gifts from God, so my art must return to Him. I do not understand this, but I do not tell her so in case she takes the paper away too.
I lie down on my bed, and think about the gift I have been given by the Universe. It gave me sleep, and the chance to dream. My eyes close, and I melt into the arms of Morpheus, and he takes me to a world without prisons, where I can run free. My dreams know no punishments, or rules. God has no jurisdiction in my dreams.
It is Saturday night in the city. It is warm, and my window is open, letting in a cool breeze. I know this is through no kindness towards me; Mother has left the window open so that I may hear the world outside. This is to punish me for my wickedness. I am unsure as to the nature of my most recent transgression but she assures me it was heinous indeed. I am to sit here and listen to the sounds of young people like myself enjoying the evening delights of the city. There is a restaurant on the other side of the plaza. I hear glasses chinking, cutlery against plates, laughter. The words are indistinct but I hear stories being told. People guffaw as their companions reach their punchlines. I fill in the blanks, and smile. These people must lead such interesting, rich lives, out there in the city. Out there...
I stand on my bed and peer through the window high in the wall. I can see little, but my imagination paints me a picture. Groups of friends will be huddled around tables, sharing stories while waiters bustle between them. They will be carrying platters of steaming food, the dishes a riot of colour and smells as people sample cuisines both exotic and local. The air will be thick with bonhomie and warmth.
I turn away from the window, back to my bare little room. Mother took my books to punish me for forgetting to say grace. She took my telescope when I forgot to bless her after she sneezed. She still allows me paper and pencils to write or draw, but she takes what I produce. She tells me my talents are not my talents, they are gifts from God, so my art must return to Him. I do not understand this, but I do not tell her so in case she takes the paper away too.
I lie down on my bed, and think about the gift I have been given by the Universe. It gave me sleep, and the chance to dream. My eyes close, and I melt into the arms of Morpheus, and he takes me to a world without prisons, where I can run free. My dreams know no punishments, or rules. God has no jurisdiction in my dreams.
Sunday, 18 July 2010
The Silence and the Noise
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You miss the silence when you live in a city. Noise surrounds you, pressing in on you, constantly swaddling you in a shroud of sound. Babies cry, competing with too-loud TVs, while phones ring and sirens scream and people shout to be heard. The sound muffles the real world, as our world becomes what we hear through televisions and radios and telephones. You long for silence, you miss it. You wonder if it still exists out there, if any part of the world still experiences quiet.
So you leave the city, go just beyond the suburbs. Countryside unfurls around you, and you see the world anew. The universe turns down the volume on life. A sudden panic grips you as you wonder if you've gone deaf. Do you still exist, if you hear no noise? Does the world still exist, if it produces no sound? The panic subsides when birdsong cuts across your paranoia. The clear melody, warbled with such finesse, soothes your mind like a lullaby from Mother Nature herself. You hear the roar of blood in your ears, and feel truly alive. You do exist, and for the first time in a long time, you are not a product, producer or victim of the noise. You are simply you, reconnected to the universe. Thoughts drift into your mind, you feel creative. You feel alive.
But a part of you misses the noise, the hubbub, the constant stream of sound. The noise was a comfort, a constant companion. It walked with you in dark places, and dampened idle worry with its onslaught. Out here, the silence feels lonely. You are alive, but you could be the only person alive. The noise proved other people surrounded you, but the silence forces you into isolation. Do other people exist if you cannot hear them?
So you return to the city. At first, the noise feels threatening, and it overwhelms you. But you settle into the cacophony, and escape into the mindless chatter of shouted adverts and one-sided mobile phone conversations.
It doesn't take long to miss the silence.
You miss the silence when you live in a city. Noise surrounds you, pressing in on you, constantly swaddling you in a shroud of sound. Babies cry, competing with too-loud TVs, while phones ring and sirens scream and people shout to be heard. The sound muffles the real world, as our world becomes what we hear through televisions and radios and telephones. You long for silence, you miss it. You wonder if it still exists out there, if any part of the world still experiences quiet.
So you leave the city, go just beyond the suburbs. Countryside unfurls around you, and you see the world anew. The universe turns down the volume on life. A sudden panic grips you as you wonder if you've gone deaf. Do you still exist, if you hear no noise? Does the world still exist, if it produces no sound? The panic subsides when birdsong cuts across your paranoia. The clear melody, warbled with such finesse, soothes your mind like a lullaby from Mother Nature herself. You hear the roar of blood in your ears, and feel truly alive. You do exist, and for the first time in a long time, you are not a product, producer or victim of the noise. You are simply you, reconnected to the universe. Thoughts drift into your mind, you feel creative. You feel alive.
But a part of you misses the noise, the hubbub, the constant stream of sound. The noise was a comfort, a constant companion. It walked with you in dark places, and dampened idle worry with its onslaught. Out here, the silence feels lonely. You are alive, but you could be the only person alive. The noise proved other people surrounded you, but the silence forces you into isolation. Do other people exist if you cannot hear them?
So you return to the city. At first, the noise feels threatening, and it overwhelms you. But you settle into the cacophony, and escape into the mindless chatter of shouted adverts and one-sided mobile phone conversations.
It doesn't take long to miss the silence.
Sunday, 4 July 2010
Spoken Sunday
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I wrote a blog post on Tuesday about the new phenomenon of AudioBoo, and how much I'm enjoying figuring it out. Well now there's an extra reason to get on board, as Benjamin Solah's #SpokenSunday hashtag gets into full swing! Benjamin's written a post over on the Spoken Sunday blog to explain in greater detail, but in a nutshell, Spoken Sunday combines the concept of the #FridayFlash tag with the 'open mic' quality of AudioBoo.
It's my intention to write a short, 100-200 word flash fiction with the sole purpose of posting it as a spoken word Boo every Sunday, but this week I was very tired so I decided instead of go back through my archives of material. I've chosen The Crossing, which was originally published on Gloom Cupboard in January 2009. I'm still very proud of it, and I thought it would be a good flash to dust off, and give an airing for Spoken Sunday. You can find it here.
I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you get involved with Spoken Sunday!
It's my intention to write a short, 100-200 word flash fiction with the sole purpose of posting it as a spoken word Boo every Sunday, but this week I was very tired so I decided instead of go back through my archives of material. I've chosen The Crossing, which was originally published on Gloom Cupboard in January 2009. I'm still very proud of it, and I thought it would be a good flash to dust off, and give an airing for Spoken Sunday. You can find it here.
I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you get involved with Spoken Sunday!
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
The AudioBoo Bug (How I Was Bitten)
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In this hot, sticky summer of mosquitoes and other flying nasties, I have been bitten. Oh yes. By the AudioBoo bug. Ha! Bet you thought I was going to say something else. Well, it's true. And it's all the fault of two very lovely ladies (and very talented writers), Annie Evett and Jodi Cleghorn. I kept seeing their tweets about this AudioBoo thing, and when Jodi suggested I check it out, I duly do so. After all, I like to keep up with what's going on in that vast, and often bewildering landscape we call the Internet.
For those of you who are as yet unaware what this whole thing is about, AudioBoo is basically a website (and iPhone application) which allows you to post short audio files. You can either do as I do, and record them on your computer using a microphone setup, or you can record and post a Boo direct from your iPhone (or Android phone). It's an extremely accessible and simple process, requiring little hardware, and none of the fancy set up required by decent podcasts (though if you want to do a podcast, I suggest you go and follow Emma Newman's blog - she's no stranger to the whole business since she's podcasting her debut novel, Twenty Years Later).
People use AudioBoo to discuss all kinds of things, but as a writer, it's a boon as it allows you to 'discuss' ongoing projects, read snippets of fiction, or simply connect with other writers in a new way. Blogs are all very well and good but there's something almost sterile about them. Sure, they take the format of the written word, our weapon of choice, but so often writers end up missing out on that spoken, vocal spark that comes from talking about projects. Now you can chat about your work to people other than your friends and family!
I also think AudioBoo is also beneficial in that it forces you to use a different part of your brain to articulate your point. Vocalising thoughts is a very different process to articulating them using the written word, and as such it can help you to have all kinds of insights into your own work that you might never have had if you hadn't chosen to actually talk about them out loud. So far, I've done an initial introductory Boo, a second Boo in which I discuss my plans for my Tales from Vertigo City serial, and newest Boo in which I discuss my current projects. None of the Boos are longer than four minutes, so you'll probably be able to listen to them and digest the contents faster than you'd be able to process one of my blog entries!
I certainly won't be abandoning my blog any time soon, but I'm hoping to post Boos fairly regularly from now on...come and have a listen to my odd accent over on my AudioBoo!
For those of you who are as yet unaware what this whole thing is about, AudioBoo is basically a website (and iPhone application) which allows you to post short audio files. You can either do as I do, and record them on your computer using a microphone setup, or you can record and post a Boo direct from your iPhone (or Android phone). It's an extremely accessible and simple process, requiring little hardware, and none of the fancy set up required by decent podcasts (though if you want to do a podcast, I suggest you go and follow Emma Newman's blog - she's no stranger to the whole business since she's podcasting her debut novel, Twenty Years Later).
People use AudioBoo to discuss all kinds of things, but as a writer, it's a boon as it allows you to 'discuss' ongoing projects, read snippets of fiction, or simply connect with other writers in a new way. Blogs are all very well and good but there's something almost sterile about them. Sure, they take the format of the written word, our weapon of choice, but so often writers end up missing out on that spoken, vocal spark that comes from talking about projects. Now you can chat about your work to people other than your friends and family!
I also think AudioBoo is also beneficial in that it forces you to use a different part of your brain to articulate your point. Vocalising thoughts is a very different process to articulating them using the written word, and as such it can help you to have all kinds of insights into your own work that you might never have had if you hadn't chosen to actually talk about them out loud. So far, I've done an initial introductory Boo, a second Boo in which I discuss my plans for my Tales from Vertigo City serial, and newest Boo in which I discuss my current projects. None of the Boos are longer than four minutes, so you'll probably be able to listen to them and digest the contents faster than you'd be able to process one of my blog entries!
I certainly won't be abandoning my blog any time soon, but I'm hoping to post Boos fairly regularly from now on...come and have a listen to my odd accent over on my AudioBoo!
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