Backjumps #1: Ink and Angst
What music is for Tessa (see here) images are for me. Personally I think that has something to do with having a toddler and valuing silence so much. Images inspire me and refocus me. Whenever I need to center on my story I pull up my Pinterest board. We’ve started one for Ink and Angst and once a week I’ll share something from there for our back jump.
Backjumps: A quickly executed throw up or panel piece. Usually painted on a temporarily parked train or a running bus. (wikipedia)
Take five minutes, 100 words or less, and create something magical. No stress, no strings, no critics. Just you and your craft.
I thought the first post should fittingly be what we look at every time we pull up Ink and Angst.
Sarah Belliston
WRITER OF 18 POSTS | WEBSITE
My mind has been a mash up of worry, stress and images of forest fire as we work our way back to normalcy after life interrupted by the Little Bear Fire in Lincoln County, New Mexico. Needing to get back on track I dodged chainsaw duty for a few minutes to peak in on Ink and Angst and just couldn’t help myself. Sarah’s call to backjump was exactly what I needed for a few minutes of peace. Below, my 100 words steeped in the burnt-toast tasting ash that greats me every morning. Thanks for the backjump Sarah! It was fun.
Backjump:
Dragons waited in jagged cliff-top keeps while villains slipped through trees in cloaks of smoke and heroes rained silver streaks from the sky. Only villains had become many, heroes few. Emory pressed her back against the wall, slid into a squat, eyed her handiwork. Slashes of color, bright stripes and swooping lines decorated her lair, the dragon grinned back at her, spray paint eyes glowing emerald. Too many warriors lurked in beetle-black caves and burned out ruins. Emory rattled the can in her hand, let off one final streak of color, grabbed her improbable weapon and slipped into the woods.
When someone tells you to turn right at the dragon, they’re not just waxing poetic. At the corner of 8th and Clark, the red brick of an old apartment building houses a beast whose peeling scales show his age. Despite his wear, there is beauty in the vibrant colors of a slowly dying fantasy.
Go Kelly! Nicely done.