writerly rants, reviews, and occasionally geeky stuff
I don’t often do poems with religious overtones, but here’s one. Enjoy?
Inside the depths of your little museum
Stay the greatest of artwork and artists
Ever to cross your corner of the world and
Ending where the allies drew her lines
You thought it’d be simple enough to hide
Over the hills, safe within Mother’s proxy but
Under G-d’s watchful eyes – He’s out there
Believe if you want to or hide in your anger
Underneath Siberia’s deep snow and ice
But I believe that He’s watching me too
I was almost not going to post anything with regards to our friend Flora this month, because I didn’t meet my goal of finishing a whole chapter. But at the encouragement of a dear friend and beta-reader, I figured I’d share the fragment of Chapter Three that I did manage to write…. 🙂
(This has not yet appeared on Lisa’s site – I’ll add it when the chapter is complete – so this is an Allison the Writer exclusive!) Continue reading “Flora Dennis, Chapter Three fragment”
Gee, that’s one long title….
Well, anyway, I’m pleased to announce that the next part of Flora Dennis and the Island of Two Eyes is out now!
Excerpt:
Lord Daniel Valjean-Allerdyce was not only an Englishman, but, as his hyphenated name suggested, of French descent. When we were escorted to his quarters by the guest house’s manager, Valjean-Allerdyce sat in a simple wooden chair, wearing an elegant velvet smoking jacket and puffing heavily on a pipe he held in a strong, weathered hand. The finery of his ensemble contrasted greatly with the room’s furnishings, but he seemed almost oblivious to the fact. Judging by his silvery hair and dark, lined features, he appeared to be about sixty years old.
The manager, a small, balding man who sweated uncomfortably in his cheaply tailored suit and wire-rimmed glasses, introduced us hastily before creeping back to his station.
Valjean-Allerdyce rose from his seat, standing well over six feet. His steel-grey eyes examined us critically, as though he was looking for the most subtlest of imperfections within us. Self-consciously, I felt inclined to button my cardigan a little higher to hide my rumpled blouse. When his eyes settled upon the eldest of our party, Miss Anna Montvale, something in his expression changed almost imperceptibly. When he spoke, it was only to her.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle Montvale,” he said with a slightly patronizing tone to his voice. “What, may I ask, brings you to my lodgings … and this infernal country?”
Read the rest at the Poets Cove!
One of the books I inherited from my grandmother’s personal library was The Return of Hyman Kaplan by Leo Rosten. It is the sequel to the infamous Education of Hyman Kaplan, which Rosten penned under the sagely-sounding pseudonym, Leonard Q. Ross. I read them both, out of order, and enjoyed them immensely. The Hyman Kaplan duology chronicles the misadventures of an olden day night school teacher whose job is to ensure that his culturally diverse class of immigrants to the United States will have a firm grasp on our strange, native language.
Now, this would be a fairly simple process if not for the presence of a student named Hyman Kaplan, an eccentric fellow and a deep thinker who possesses a highly unique understanding of how English works – or should work. He’s not stupid, you see; his reasoning is surprisingly (almost aggravatingly) philosophical, even if it comes out sounding incredibly silly. Sometimes, his analysis technically makes sense, but when applied to the English language, it simply cannot work. Other times, it simply doesn’t. Either way, the end results are simply hilarious on so many levels.
To top it all off, he writes his name in the most unusual way. With crayons. In multiple colors. And with little stars between each letter. The minimally formatted text of this post simply cannot do it justice.
I was pretty young I read Hyman Kaplan for the first time. Even if I didn’t quite get some of the references to the first book, at my young age, I understood enough of the humor, chuckled at the odd ways Mr. Kaplan philosophically butchers the English language, and understood most of the writing. (“‘Scuse me, Grandma, what does ‘pedagogical’ mean?”)
The books really aren’t bad as books written for adults go, content-wise. Its humor is intellectual and remains that way throughout the book. If you love the English language in all of its idiosyncrasy, you’ll put these books back on the shelf with at least one fond memory to laugh about.
I recently looked through some of my old writings, and my eye fell on this story. I picked it up.
Apparently, at some point, I had attempted to write a fanfiction of Hyman Kaplan, entitled The Employment of Hyman Kaplan. If my memory serves me correctly, it was to detail the lives of Kaplan, his teacher, and his former classmates after they either graduated, quit, or (most likely in Kaplan’s case–) expelled from the American Night Preparatory School for Adults.
by Allison Q. Rose
It was a dark and stormy … well … evening, as Miss Olga Tarnova – an alumna – would have romantically described it. (Even if it was snowing, or if it was just plain sunny, the Russian-born ballet dancer would have found some sort of dramatic method of categorizing the day.)
The American Night Preparatory School for Adults had just closed down for the night. Adults of varying age and ethnicity clamored through the large glass double-doors, pouring out onto the street in clusters, conversing among themselves in their respective languages. Whether they could actually understand each other remained a mystery.
Mr. Parkhill, a teacher at the school, eyed them all absent-mindedly from the open doorway.
This school (for those who do not already know) was a school for foreigners, new immigrants to the United States of America. Here, they would learn to master the basics of the English language and its culture, by reading, writing and, most importantly, speaking English. Being a rather small organization, the ANPSA held three classes: one being for beginners, the next for those who had mastered – and survived – the beginners’ grade, and another for the valedictorian candidates, who were usually the only students who could make it that far. To most of the ANPSA’s students, the highest grade level seemed as unreachable and elusive as a distant star.
However, the faculty tried to encourage their ambitious charges to work to the best of their potentials, for one day, a rocket ship bearing good grades may one day take these students as far as that distant star. Mr. Parkhill could only reassure himself in futility that this method of transportation was still in commission. Continue reading “A Hyman Kaplan Fanfic Excerpt and One Lengthy Introduction”
I mentioned earlier that a Figment user has been sharing her daily writing prompts with us. Today, I was inspired to write a short piece based on her latest prompt: Put two people who hate each other in an elevator for 12 hours. What happens?
Naturally, it had to be about Cece and Jack. 😉 Enjoy the fireworks!
I stepped inside the elevator, feeling self-conscious in front of the mirrored walls. I tried not to stare at the sole other occupant, a strange fellow in a navy trench coat and hat. He was all too familiar; if I was lucky, he wouldn’t feel the same way about me.
“Captain Jack Harkness,” he said in an oily voice, extending his hand to shake. “Who might you be?”
Yup, in his timeline, he didn’t know me yet.
I decided to ignore him. That was the best thing to do. The last thing I wanted to do was disrupt the time stream. The second-to-last, have to talk to the most annoying man in the world. Somehow, I couldn’t picture him being the posterchild for his town as a boy; what about him appealed to them? If Jack Harkness told me to move to a place, I’d go anywhere but there. And I wanted to be anywhere but this elevator.
The elevator began its slow descent down to the ground floor. Chin up, Ryder, I told myself. You’ll be at the parking garage with Bessie and the Doctor in no time.
When you’re in the vicinity of Jack Harkness, expect the unexpected. Naturally, the unexpected happened: the elevator froze. Literally.
Judging by the sound of the Norwegian-accented voices that started singing “Let it Go” as the temperature started to drop, those weren’t Idina Menzel and Demi Lovato behind the mic — or the controls. It had to be Ylvis. They’re infamous for pranking elevator passengers. At least they weren’t singing “What Does the Fox Say?”
“Well,” said Jack, eyeing his own reflection in the mirror, “I guess this means we’re stuck in here. All alone. With no one else to talk to.”
I slumped against the hand rail, groaning. Here I was, stuck in an elevator for who knows how long, accompanied by none other than–
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your name now, will you? Otherwise, I’ll just make one up and call you that.”
–Captain Jack Harkness.
“Is ‘Rose’ okay with you?”
An unfinished work featuring the Figgies, the Third Doctor, the Brigadier, and Sarah Jane.
(by Allison Rose)
“Where’s the Doctor?” Cece Ryder asked incredulously, looking around the TARDIS control room uncertainly. That tweed-wearing, flippy-haired, bowtie-adoring Time Lord whom she’d been accompanying for the last few months was nowhere to be seen.
“I don’t know,” Emii Wells replied. “He hadn’t mentioned anything about going anywhere yesterday.”
Skye Falconer eyed the dashboard mischievously. “Do you suppose he’s hiding in there?” She was dying to crack it open and see what was hiding inside.
“Yeah!” Tyler Jonesmith agreed, reading her thoughts almost exactly. “I’m dying to crack it open and see what’s hiding inside!”
Emii, and Cece shook their heads vehemently. The last time someone had tried to do that, the results had been disastrous. Or so the Doctor in question claimed.
“Look,” Hannah suggested diplomatically, “I’m pretty sure he just went out shopping with the rest of the gang.”
It did seem plausible; Grace, Scarlett, Emory, Hailey, Athena, and Claire had all gone out to the mall to hang out, buy nail polish and do other girly things (although Scarlett had probably gone to the hardware store instead). Jack was meeting some friends of his, too. Rhiannon, his daughter, was visiting Gwen Cooper and her family in Wales. And the Doctor, as noted, wasn’t around for whatever reason, so, in conclusion, they were all alone in the TARDIS. Continue reading “Figgies Take the TARDIS“
This story is the prequel to “The Truth about Hamsters,” which I wrote for a school assignment where I was supposed to write a myth or folk tale. My teacher loved it!
(by Allison Rose)
I’m really tired about all of those silly stories about how leopards got their spots, chipmunks got their stripes, etc. etc. It’s almost like the writers have forgotten about those weird, furrless bipedal beings that are scientifically referred to as “humans.” This story is to remedy this problem.
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Once upon a time, there was an adolescent human female named Mogh. Mogh’s family lived in a cave, as, according to subsequently discovered cave paintings, her species had been doing for quite some time. As was common among the cave-dwelling tribes, Mogh’s family hunted the four-legged creatures for their various resources. One full-grown quagga could provide not only leggings and moccasins for at least three young ones; its meat would feed them for a full week. Nothing was wasted, but when a herd died out, Mogh’s family would migrate to a new cave and seek food and shelter there. Continue reading ““How the Humans Domesticated the Hamsters””
