Susan Bedwell Amos: On S.G. Baker

By Susan Bedwell Amos

She is joy that flows out of every shy glance, knowing look and mischievous wink; she is warmth that touches everyone lucky enough to pass within her orbit, whether by the brush of gentle fingertips or the embrace of caring arms; she is love – true north, the genuine article, a vulnerable trust, a power to change the world. La Vera.

Jenette Baker: On S.G. Baker

By Jenette Baker

She stood by the water and smelled the ocean breeze. A storm was brewing and she welcomed the intense power that would electrify her spirit. I spoke with her for a time. I learned that it was the written word that she loved to communicate with the most. She was quick and witty with her words. She had been in many adventures in the books she had read and the road she had walked. There was a kindness in her, for she understood life. Her waters ran deep, like the ocean in front of her.

Sugar Friends: An Excerpt from Sara Fuller’s Autobiography

By Sara Fuller

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ˈshu̇-gər ˈfrend noun. One attached to another by shared love of sweets. Usually sugar friends take turns supplying sweets.
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How the fuck do I still work here? I am a millennial, we don’t stay at one job for too long. Now I have been here for over 5 years. At least I have work friends, some of whom are also sugar friends. Today I brought in some Sour Patch Kids and need to let Summer know. I dial her extension and hear her answer as “Queen of Chaos.”

“I brought candy.”

“I’ll be right there.”

She comes over to my desk and asks where the Sour Patch Kids were made – we eat enough to know they taste different from different places. Somehow we can talk forever about anything, including how candy production facilities manufacture slightly different tasting products.

Although our lives growing up were nothing alike, and our present lives for that matter, we somehow have similar personalities and hobbies. We like sarcasm, dark humor, cursing, the colour black, each other’s glasses, reading, astronomy, and so much more. But we have our differences, too. She is more independent, self-assured, creative, and motivated than me. She is shorter than me, but I forget that because she is professional as fuck and wears heels to work. And she can speak up in situations where I sit quietly.

I try to learn from others, which sometimes is how to avoid parenting like the crazy people at the store, but other times it means taking notes from Summer on how to confidently argue and reading all of her book suggestions.

Robert Baker: On S.G. Baker

By Robert Baker

She stood on the pinnacle gazing at the masses in the valley below, the wind blowing her short hair gently across her un-furrowed brow. As she assessed the scene below, she moved her hand to the sword sheath that carried her sword, a mighty ball point pen. Her shield, the words she would pen, matched the chain mail and leather outfit of a worthy warrior. Turning swiftly, she moved purposefully as she approached her desk with fervor, as she continued her quest for life and truth.

Jeffrey Schiller: On Martin Jacobsen

By Jeffrey Schiller

What is the difference between Rock and Metal? Mental refinement–something like properly aged wine that comes with hard work, but sold at a reasonable price. The manifestation of that complex emotional ore vein hammered into something intelligent walks into the room. Pocket protector fully stocked. Too many keys swing from his belt loop. Kind eyes smile out from behind thin framed glasses floating above a beard of mostly gray. 70% of what he says makes sense, but the other 30% feels, looks, smells and sounds like a psychedelic trip into the encyclopedia Britannica. You feel smarter and dumber at the same time. It’s comfortable and inviting. Intimidating and inspiring. You can hear the waves crashing in his past. His triumphs over tribulation are listed in his prideless confidence. He is a friend and you can’t help but be happy about that, because friends like this are priceless.

Jay Gurley: On S.G. Baker

By Jay Gurley

It wasn’t until I heard a subdued cackle at the mention of my character, Darrin The Defenestrator, that I noticed her. How or when she drifted to the table next to ours was unknown, but I couldn’t deny her presence now. She didn’t impose herself on the conversation, but she fell into step with the campaign discussion easily. She looked like she was made for the coffee shop; her hair matched the wood accents of the furniture, her clothes were cozy, and the gently-held book in her hand was apparently well-traveled.

Joshua Edwards: On S.G. Baker

By Joshua Edwards

The first thing one noticed about her was a certain sense of friendly aloofness; she seemed to watch and process the world in a curiously intent manner, spending the spoken word in a rather cautious way that illustrated that mighty currency’s inherent value

Update: Thursday Fiction

The time has come for the Character Description Project, which I began in May of this year, to end. That is to say, I ran out of character descriptions to schedule. For a refresher, over the course of a week of vacation from my day job, I wrote some thirty-odd descriptions of my friends on Facebook as if they were characters in a book. I’ve been posting them here since then to get them outside of my social media privacy settings, and we made it almost to the end of 2017 with Thursday posts for my viewers to read about my awesome friends.

My original post called for Facebook friends to leave a comment if they wanted me to write a description for them. But quite a number of them also took the time to write their own character descriptions about me. At the risk of seeming unfathomably egotistical, I saved all of these pieces and have scheduled them to be posted here each week until we run out of those (with permission and credit). I feel that each of them deserves recognition and a modicum of publication for the thought and hard work that went into them, but most of all for the courage that goes into trying your hand at such an incredibly difficult craft. Each of them is about me, but each writer approaches the task with voices and styles unique to the individual. I’m excited to showcase them here on Word Nerd Scribbles and it will be called The Guest Character Description Project.

I dig the notion of keeping Thursday as the day of the week for posting short fiction, so I’ll  continue posting (if irregularly) my own vignettes and flash fiction under the Thursday Fiction category, which will house any original works, including the upcoming guest-written character descriptions. I’m toying with the idea of opening the blog up to submissions from guest writers and bloggers; more on that in the future. Until then, my readers are welcome to weigh in on whether you think that would be a good idea or not.

Martin Jacobsen: On S.G. Baker

By Martin Jacobsen

Her name is Summer, yet she is a Dame of Fall. Like a deciduous autumn tree, her understated stateliness, firm and reaching upward, presides over her russet hair, and ivory skin in the same way branches undergird similarly colored leaves. Like those leaves, she presents shades of being that detach and give way to the next, hues hewn from her spirit in much the same way she has hewn her thick, flowing hair to herald her ever-active emancipation from the Summer before, a sacrifice descending like leaves to the Earth to nourish the next stage of stately growth, forever firm and reaching upward, seeking the Summer elements from which to again flower verdantly toward the burst of colors she will release and from which she will derive sustenance, the sustenance of her own power.

On Madison Ferril

From the cold sprang everything, to the cold all will return. She is that ending, where the end goes on forever. Point zero. Circular. A Russian winter, where powerful bears slumber. Vast as the arctic sea, fathomless as starry space. A cool look from her will stop armies in their tracks. Men fear nothing more than the creeping chill in her blood.

Frosty breath and ice chips for eyes. A ruinous smile, the sort to freeze your heart. Hers is a slow takeover, a silent war, filled with icicle teeth and ruthlessness. No stopping her ascension—she’s already buried her enemies beneath shrouds of snow. Stand aside, if you wish to live.

What powers her is this: a strange blue flower, one whose petals she gives to those she loves. These and the flower itself generate warmth, for they are her true heart. We keep our petals hidden close, to protect ourselves from harm. If you seek this warmth yourself, you must trek across miles of tundra. But should you survive, earning her trust is a gift as unique as a snowflake, well worth the journey.