Boy Meets Girl

The best part about a boy-meets-girl story is that, while it's all been done, there's always a new flair to be had.  (Or maybe it's my own Guilty Pleasures indulgence, that I love a cheesy romance now and then ...)

The prompt for the week:  Boy Meets Girl

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My response:

I saw the car as I pulled up to AutoZone.  It was an older chevy parked under the street light, just across the parking lot from the front door.  A small figure bent over the engine, obscured by the thick flakes swirling down from the clouds.  The car wasn't running.

I brushed aside my first twinge of sympathy.  Whoever it was, they were lucky enough to make it to AutoZone, and the fact that they'd stopped here, rather than a mechanic, meant they were probably fine.  I dashed into the store. 

It should have only taken me thirty seconds to grab a new air filter, but they'd apparently done a remodel since I'd last been in.  I hate when stores move things around.  Then I got distracted by the mudflaps in aisle three.  The pair I had were getting a little rough around the edges, and I'd always loved the Yosimite Sam ones.

I headed back to the front desk, air filter in hand. 

"Thanks!"

A mass of wet, blond curls stuck out from beneath a green beenie.  The small woman snatched a can of WD-40 off the counter and headed towards the door.  Her boot cut jeans flared out over her cowboy boots, a stark contrast to her cute little pea coat.  Then I had to laugh at myself.  What kind of man even knew what a pea coat was? ... the kind whose last girlfriend had broken up with him because he'd accidentally smeared grease on her beloved, white pea coat.  It wasn't the only problem, but it was the last straw, and that had been the end of her.  Then again, I was pretty sure Lela had never worn cowboy boots with her pea coat.

The attendant at the desk smirked as I looked back at him.  He'd seen where I'd been looking.  I grinned sheepishly and handed over my air filter. 

I had made it back to my truck when I heard a muffled clatter coming from the other side of the parking lot.  It was followed by an exasperated word or two, in that same sweet voice I'd heard inside.  The small figure bent over the hood of the chevy dropped to the ground, arms moving around as if feeling for something.

I blamed it on my second twinge of sympathy, but it might have had something to do with those cowboy boots.  I grabbed my travel tool box from behind my seat and headed over.

"Um, Miss?"
The curls flew up and over her should as a pair of blue eyes looked up.  Even with the scowl, I stood at a loss for words.  She was cute.

Smile.  Remember to smile.  My sister's advice. 

I felt like an idiot, but I smiled.  "I'm sure you're capable, and you don't need my help at all ... but if you dropped your wrench, I've got one you can borrow."

Her scowl cracked.  Then she laughed.  With one last look at her feet, particularly at the grating just in front of her car, she returned my smile.

"A screwdriver, actually, just a flathead."

In moments, I had one in my hand.  She took it with red, bare hands and leaned over the headlight.  "I should have done this last month, when the first one went out, but I didn't get around to it, and now the other one's out.  I got the other one done just fine, but this one's stuck."

"How'd you get here in the dark?" I asked.

She flashed a guilty grin.  "High beams."

Clever.

"Can you put some of that WD-40 on this bit while I wiggle it?" she asked. 

"You single?"

She stopped.  "Excuse me?"

I tried the smile again.  "Well, I'm just trying to figure out if I'm chalking this up to 'good samaritan' or if I might try for taking you out to dinner.  Best to have it figured out from the start."

"Single.  And my favorite resturant's just around the corner."

Just then, the latch popped up.  Her face lit up, and she reached down, wiping her dirty hand on on the hem of her pea coat.

"Perfect."

Fan Fiction

We've all read a book now and then where we aren't quite satisfied with how the story goes.  Sometimes, we wish we had a little bit more elaboration.  Sometimes we wish for more character interaction.

Enter Fan Fiction.

I need to admit that I only became aware of Fan Fiction a few years ago, and my pile of "to-read" has been too big to allow me time to see what's out there.  But I can understand the motivations of people who write fan fiction.

Our prompt for the week:
Write a piece of  fan fiction.  Choose something that either wasn't in the book that you would have liked to see or change something you didn't like.  (Remember to tell us which book it is, so we know where you're coming from.)

Enjoy!

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My response:

There are two lives I would save in MOCKINGJAY, by Suzanne Collins.  Here is where Finick, having survived the revolution, comes back to Annie.

Annie sat in the corner in just a shift, arms wrapped around her knees, rocking and muttering incoherently.  Her hair hung in tangles to her shoulders and covered her face.  Johanna walked in, carrying Annie's breakfast tray.

  The whole compound was buzzing with news of the victory, and half the people had already left, heading for the Capitol any way they could get there.  In the control room, monitors played footage of the fighting.  Johanna spent as much time in there as she could stand.  Still, even with rolls and rolls of video, she hadn't caught sight of Finick.

Johanna sat down next to Annie, set the tray down, and carefully pulled her hair back, tucking it behind her ears.  Her initial gentleness faded as she tried to get Annie to eat, and ended as Johanna gave up and kicked the tray across the room, leaving a trail of tea as the cup spilled.

At that moment, the door swung open.

Finick stood in the doorway in a tattered uniform.  His right leg was missing below the knee, bound only with a quick field dressing and drenched in blood.  He leaned heavily on a metal rod.  Behind him came a medical team, shouting and pulling at him.  Johanna wondered that he'd gotten this far before they'd been able to stop him.

She didn't know how he got from the doorway to Annie's side.  It wouldn't surprise her at all if he'd flown.  Then he was there, cradling Annie in his arms, singing softly in her ear.

Annie stopped her own mumblings and looked up with wide eyes.  She reached out a trembling hand and traced the lines of Finick's face, as if testing to see if he were real.  Then her body shook with a soul-wrenching sob, and she threw her arms around him.

Johanna sighed, standing up.  There was nothing left for her here.  She felt the crunch of the Styrofoam cup under her boot as she strode out.

Gotham Garden

Let's go with a photo prompt again.  (Honestly, I've been so caught up with NaNo that I didn't have a clue what I was going to do for this week's prompt until I sat down. Maybe it's better this way, as it's a surprise for me, too.)

Digital Blasphemy has a free page where they rotate through some of their wallpapers that you can download without even being a member.  That's where I got the picture for this week:

"Gotham Garden - Autumn"
(I hesitated to put the title here - I hope it doesn't influence what you think of the picture.)



Enjoy!

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My response:

The crisp autumn breeze caught my hair as I stepped out the front door of the building.  I slowed my steps as I lifted my hands, catching the long, silky strands in my fingers and slipping them into an elastic.  My feet started on their way home while I was distracted, but when I finished securing my hair, I looked around. 

I liked working late shift.  I got to sleep in early, I didn't have to show up to work until 2pm, and I got off at 11pm, when most of the city had already gone to bed.  I loved walking home with the streets all to myself.  I could pretend it all belonged to me.  My city.

The glass and steel buildings gleamed in the moonlight, lights off in most of the windows.  If my history classes were right, that was a huge accomplishment.  Cities like this used to buzz all night, first with the after work crews, then with those who didn't know when to stop, and finally, the people who preyed on those who didn't know when to stop.  Those were trecherous days ... or so they told us.

But I had a hard time seeing my city as anything different than it was.  Clean, quiet, peaceful. 

That was about to change.

(This is where my mind launches off into "How are they all peaceful now?  Genetic modification?  Implants that zap them whenever they have violent thoughts?  Is it a Matrix scenario where the people in charge unplug anyone who causes trouble?  Or maybe they're just all afraid of Batman?  So many possibilities, so little time.)

Rampant



A while ago, I came across a recommendation to read "Rampant" by Diana Peterfreund.  I didn't know anything about the book, but my local library had it (although I'd have to wait a while), so I put it on hold. 

 

Then last week, after I'd forgotten all about it, I found it on the hold shelf when I was picking something else up.  (Yes, it was on hold for me, I didn't snatch someone else's book!)  Having forgotten that I'd requested it, I read the cover as I walked to the desk.  I was a little bewildered.  Flesh-eating unicorns?  Surely I wouldn't be interested in drivel like that ... who had recommended this book, anyway?

Wow.  Stop right there.  I was completely caught up within the first five pages.  By halfway through, I was telling my friends, and when I finished, I showed it off at book club.  Killer Unicorns!  Virgin Huntresses!  Wow, Peterfreund can sure cast a spell on her readers!!!

So, aside from sharing a book that I really enjoyed, I thought it would make a good prompt for the week: Let's put a twist on mystical creatures.

Ready, go!

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My response:

Phoebe was a flaming star of scarlett flying above the clouds, the sunlight gleaming golden on her feathers.  Her wings beat desperately against the high mountain winds as she spiraled upwards, to the top of the cliff.  A pair of travelers crossing the pass stopped and pointed, their weary march transforming into leaps and dancing at the sight of her.

Funny that they would count it lucky to see her; she, who was one of the two most unfortunate creatures to ever breath the air of Earth.

And all for a mistake.

They had won the battle.  The fighting was done.  Only a few, ragged soldiers spotted the battlefield as the victors climbed the hill to look over their domain.  Oberon and Tatiana laughed and sang, their voices lifting to the wind. 

Leonix strode across the field holding Phoebe by the hand.  She had given him her heart years ago, and now, at the end of this final battle, they were free of her family, free to marry.  Leonix grabbed a cart of wine from Phoebe's father's supplies and single-handedly towed it to the top of the hill.  He bowed before Oberon and thanked him for his assistance.  Then he held up the wineskin.

Oberon, smiling, gulped down half the wine, sucked in one last desperate breath, turned as green as the corpses of mountain trolls lying below, and then dropped down, equally as dead.

There ended Tatiana's generosity.  There she spoke her cruel curse.  There Phoebe and Leonix held each other for the first and only time.

For what could be worse than to live eternally, each death only followed by rebirth?  While Phoebe lived, Leonix slept, and only opon her death, did he live, while she in turn suffered dreamless sleep.

Phoebe reached out her claws, grasping at the ledge.  She tucked her wings in and hopped into the small cave.  This place was safe enough.  She'd been here before.  Agony throbbed through her body.  She recognized the pain of death ... but her heart sang with joy.  In just a few minutes, Leonix would be there.  Phoebe laid herself down on the hard rock, tired lungs struggling against her last breath.

And then he opened his eyes.  Phoebe could not see him, but his presence warmed her like the sun.  For the space of three heartbeats, they shared again the same air.  Phoebe reached out towards him, and Leonix reached back.  Their souls brushed past each other like satin sheets slipping away.  Phoebe shut her eyes.

A brilliant burst of flame filled the cave.  Phoebe's poor body burnt to cinders.

Leonix struggled to rise, shaking the ash from his feathers and stretching his wings as far as he could in the small space.  He opened his mouth and let out one low, mournful cry.  He had a lifetime until he saw her again.  He hopped to the opening, spread his wings, and took to the sky.

She slipped ...

Let's go for a more traditional prompt this week.  One that puts a million questions in your mind, like Who? Why? How?  How long? How did they feel about it?  Did anyone else care?

Our prompt for this week is:

"She slipped and fell, her arms flailing wildly."

(If "He" works better for you, go for it.  We're pretty lax on the rules around here.)

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My response:

Turning back to the window, Tara chewed her lip.  She was only one story up.  She couldn't jump, but she also didn't have to completely stop her fall.  If she could just slow it a little, she might survive.  The outside window sill was almost large enough for her to stand on, and the sides and top were more than enough for her to curl her fingers around.  If she stood up, she ought to be able to swing her body over to the pipe.

                Tara had to hold the window up as she pulled her body though, first sitting on the windowsill, then pulling her legs up one at a time.  Her skirt was a problem.  It billowed and furled around her, making it difficult to get her feet situated.  The silk on her bodice strained along the seams.  This gown was made for ballrooms, not escaping from prison.  Still, Tara managed to slide out.  The bottom of the window slid down her shins and landed on her toes as she stood on the sill, facing the building.  Tara's fingers clung to the window frame, and her stomach, while void of the light and power, clenched in a furious ball.  She'd never done anything like this before.

                The weight of the window rested heavy over the arches of her feet, but Tara couldn't help but think how, if this worked, the window shutting would work in her favor.  They wouldn’t know where she'd gone.  For just an instant, Tara wondered what she'd do when she got down – going back in wasn't an option anymore – but she pushed the thought aside, letting her tunnel vision take over again.

                Her nails scraped painfully against the grain of the wood.  Tara was grateful for the layer of new paint that spared her two handfuls of splinters.  With the window down, she could only barely make out the voices of the officers, but her gut told her she was running short on time.  She switched her left hand to where her right hand was holding on, then slipped her feet out from beneath the window, letting it fall closed as quietly as possible and balancing on the balls of her feet.  She took a shallow breath – a deep one would have pressed her away from the wall and made her fall – and reached out with her right hand towards the pipe.  Her fingers found the cold metal right before she lost her balance.  In a flash, her left hand followed her right and circled the pipe.  Her legs slipped out from under her and dangled.  She wasn't strong enough to hold herself up, so the pipe slipped through her grasp as she fell.  Luckily, she managed not to cry out.

                It would have worked perfectly according to her plan, if it hadn't been for the bracket holding the pipe to the wall, just at the height of a man above the ground.  Tara's right hand smashed into the bracket with a flash of pain, and she let go of the pipe, tumbling backwards.  The force of her body hitting the hard ground jarred her jaw, but the pain of her teeth smacking together was overwhelmed with the pain in her rear as she landed on her tailbone.

                Tears welled in her eyes from the effort to keep from crying out.  In her life, she'd never suffered such injuries, not to mention three at once, but if she valued her life, she didn't have time to feel sorry for herself.  She tucked her right hand to her chest automatically, the dark blood spilling down her gown.

                The two boys looked up at her, heads cocked.  She glared at them, and they turned back to their game.  The dog lifted his head and perked his ears at her, then went back to his sniffing.  In the moment of relative safety, Tara looked down to assess the damage to her hand.

(Whoops, I guess I got carried away.  She did fall, but her arms didn't flail wildly.  But hey, the prompt is just inspiration, right?)

The Shaded Path

First, a big THANK YOU to Ryan Bliss at Digital Blasphemy for letting us use his picture.  I'm in love with this one!



Picture prompts are some of my favorite.  Like I mentioned way back when, I like picture prompts because two people can look at the same picture and see very different things.

I can't wait to see what everyone else comes up with! :-)

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My response:

It took all the self control I had not to glance back as I turned the corner, leaving the party behind and stepping onto the dark walkway that surrounded the estate.  It was imperative that no one follow me.  Hopefully, no one noticed my leaving, but if they did and they saw me glancing back, it would look suspicious.  At least, that's what Lemak had told me, and he was the expert.

The moss grew thick on the gray stones, dulling the sound of my footsteps and wetting my thin slippers.  The moist air was almost heavy on my shoulders.  I paused a few steps in and studied a colorful bunch of flowers hanging down from the ceiling. 

I waited, counting slowly in my mind.  I'd never mastered counting precisely with the clock, so I counted six measures, instead of the five Lemak insisted on.  Better wait too long than too little.  A bee darted through the air and disappeared into a lily.  The harp and the murmuring of polite conversation continued behind me.  I was still alone. 

It wasn't easy to get a good grip on my silk skirt with my gloves on, but I hiked it up the best I could and hurried down the walkway.  As the pathway curved, I spied the figure waiting in the shadows.  I slowed my pace.  A bead of sweat ran down my back.  My bones tingled with anticipation.  I had dreamed of this as long as I could remember, but until Lemak, I never really thought it possible.

I gauged my steps and stopped in a patch of darkness, three arms lengths from the figure.  He was dressed in linen trousers, a white shirt, and a vest.  His leather boots were as silent as my slippers on the rocks as he stepped forward.

"You know who I am?" I asked.

He nodded.

"You know what I'm asking you to do?"

"Paying me to do," he corrected, his voice low.

"Yes." I pursed my lips.  I didn't like when servants spoke back.  "Paying.  But to be sure there are no misunderstandings, I want you to tell me what you're going to do."

"I'm to take the morning catch to the kitchens tomorrow, like as I always do, and when the cook's back is turned, I take the keys off the hook.  Then I use those to come back tomorrow night, slip up to her Majesty's room, and ..."  Apparently even murderers struggle with their conscience at times.  He slid his finger across his throat. 

That wasn't enough.  If he couldn't say it, how could I trust him to do it?  "And what?"

"I kill her."

"Whom?"

He sighed.  "The Princess, Evelyn Marie Antoinette."

"And if you get caught?"

He stepped into the light, leveling a vicious gaze at me.  "I do not get caught."

I raised my chin.  "If you get caught, and you allow yourself to be taken alive, you will not live long enough to give my name to anyone.  I've made arrangements to be sure of that."

"I don't doubt you have, my lady."  His eyes glinted in the darkness, and I could see I'd earned a measure of respect.  Then he continued.  "But see, miss, you made one mistake."  He stepped forward. 

My heart leaped in my chest.  What did he know that I didn't?!  My brain raced as I tried to keep my composure.  Likely he didn't know anything; he was just trying to scare me.

He cocked his head, looking over my shoulder.  My blood ran cold, and I repressed a shiver.  What kind of trick was he trying to play?  He'd come close enough now that if I turned to glance over my shoulder, he could close the gap between us before I could stop him.  I didn't want to fall for his feint ... but what if there really was something there.

I didn't have to wonder long.

A voice came from behind me, so close that I felt his hot breath on my neck.  "Your mistake was in believing that your father hired me to protect you.  He knew it was Evelyn who needed protecting."

Lemak.  Lemak who had carried me home when I'd fallen off my horse, who had brought me wildflowers from the mountain fields, and who had dreamed with me of the day I'd be Queen, when my sister was gone.

I could feel the press of his blade through the thin fabric of my dress.  With his free hand he reached up and snatched my satchel from my wrist, tossing it to the outlaw.  "You are free to go.  Now."  The man touched his forehead in farewell, then turned and trotted away.

Lemak wrapped his left arm around my waist and pulled me closer.  I felt the bodice of my dress loosen as the knife cut through it.  My skin was next.  I had to think quickly.  Even if he'd been planning on betraying me, Lemak had taught me alot in the past months.  I had an advantage; I just had to figure out what it was.

Then it came to me.  Carefully, I worked my fingers at the fabric of my skirt, pulling it higher.  The silk rustled, so I spoke to buy some time and cover.  "And what makes you think I didn't know about the whole scheme in the first place?  That maybe I was going along with it so I could be there to protect her, when I thought you were going to kill her with or without my help?" 

It was a flimsy excuse.  I knew it.  But if I could make him pause, just for a moment ...

"I was afraid of you.  I didn't dare tell you no."  I couldn't tell him I'd gone to my father.  If they'd been working together, he'd know I was lying. I had to think fast.

Now the silk slipped above the knife on my left thy.  I felt the handle, warm with my bodyheat.  I was better with my right, but I didn't have time, and thanks to the little trick I'd come up with myself, I didn't have to worry about accuracy.

"I told Uncle Viz.  I told him everything.  He was going to help me stop you."

I knew immediately Lemak believed me.  He relaxed his grip, grabbed my shoulder, and whipped me around to face him. 

I didn't even have to strike.  I felt the resistance in my left hand as the knife caught on his leg, slitting the fabric of his pants.

His dark eyes flashed with anger.  He caught my wrist in his hand.  My bones grated together, and I cried out, dropping my knife.  It thudded softly against the moss.

"Did you really think ..."  He stopped, blinked twice, and swayed on his feet.  His eyes found mine, and I could see the realization dawn in them.  "You didn't ... you ... thought ..."

His body dropped to the ground, spasmed once, then lay still.

I bent and retrieved my knife, returning it back to the sheath.  Lemak had laughed when I suggested I coat my blade in poison.  He teased me for having a wild imagination.  I sighed and allowed myself one last glance at his fallen body.  We could have been so good together.

But at least he'd shown me that my dreams weren't so far fetched.  I hurried back the way I'd come, leaning against the stone wall and letting the branches catch the fine fabric of my dress, tearing it further.  I'd cause quit the stir when I got back to the party.

Show me your Joy!

I read "Born to Run" by Christopher McDougall over and over when it first came out.  Why is that so odd?  At that point in my life, I had never run more than one mile - and that was only unwillingly, in middle school gym class.  The brilliance of McDougall is that, in spite of my own pitiful physical capabilities, I found myself wanting to run an ultra-marathon.  (A feeling which quickly dissipated when I put my shoes on and hit the track.  I run with friends three times a week, now, but I doubt I'll ever tackle a marathon, not to mention an ultra!)

But when you read a book ... I climbed Everest with Jon Krakauer. I ran an ultra with Christopher McDougall. 

Now, it doesn't have to be a sport or a strenuous thing, but the prompt for this week is to write about something you do that makes you happy, something that brings you joy in your life, and try (just try, don't stress about it) to pull us into your experience and let us feel like we're right there with you.

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My response:

It starts so simply.  One cup of milk, cold from the fridge, in the bottom of a glass bowl.  I grab the handle on the microwave and slip the bowl inside, snapping the door closed and tapping the "Add One Minute" button.  It hums to life.

Then the yeast.  I spent years baking breads that didn't rise until I spoke with an old grandma in Germany.  She told me I had to be kind to my yeast.  Warm it up, feed it, make it happy.  So I do.  I let the tap water run over my fingers into the sink, waiting until that perfect temperature.  When it's just right, I fill the cup, then stir a small spoon of honey into the water.  Not a lot, just enough, and then I suck the rest of the honey from the spoon.  I can almost taste the bread, even though it's still just an idea in my mind.  I measure out the yeast, stirring it into the water.

By now, the milk is hot, and the aroma washes over me as I open the microwave.  I pull open the bottom cupboard and dig through the containers.  Three tablespoons of white sugar join the milk, then two tablespoons of oil, and one teaspoon salt.  It's supposed to be one and a half teaspoons of salt, but after watching the sugar dissolve into the milk, the thought of salt makes me frown.  One cup of flour is just enough to start the mixture into becoming a dough, and now the milk is cooled down enough for the yeast.  I usually manage to get to this point without the yeast overflowing, but on some days, when my kids are helping, I don't get there in time, and the warm foam slides down the sides of the cup and gathers on the counter.

You might expect me to crack an egg or throw some potato flakes in.  If I'm making my great-grandma's rolls, I surely would.  But this recipe is special because it's my dad's.  He can't eat eggs, so he figured out a dough recipe that doesn't use them.  It's divine.  And it's my dad's, so it's special.

Now that the yeast is happy, the smell of it fills the kitchen.  I add flour to the mixture.  Sunlight streams in my kitchen window, through the yellow curtain.  I work the warm dough in my palms, adding flour until it's just right - not too dry like I did when I started making breads.

Inevitably, my mind slips back to my grandma, and my great-grandma.  They were the kind of women who didn't cook with recipes.  They did it intuitively, by feel.  I wonder if they'd be proud of me, or if they'd offer a gentle correction.  Probably both. 

I roll the dough together and let it rise.

When I start rolling, I always begin to doubt myself.  Is it too sticky?  Am I adding too much flour?  How big will it get?  Is it too thick?  But in the end, it turns out well, and I'm happy with it.

(Okay, this is where I noticed my attention is wandering.  My two little ones are playing behind me, and I've got to pick up my oldest from school.  Because this is a stretching exercise, and it's not supposed to be a chore, I'm going to stop now.  Even if my cinnamon rolls aren't finished yet.  Believe me, I did finish them, and they're wonderful.  But if you've read this far, I think you'll agree with me that this wasn't the most exciting topic, and I didn't do the best job of making it interesting.)

Guilty Pleasures

As per Wikipedia:
A guilty pleasure is something one enjoys and considers pleasurable despite feeling guilt for enjoying it. The "guilt" involved is sometimes simply fear of others discovering one's lowbrow or otherwise embarrassing tastes, such as campy styles of entertainment.

Like when a football player enjoys listening to Frank Sinatra.

Or when someone like me reads a zombie book. 

(But World War Z was really the book that started the whole craze, and The Zombie Survival Guide is really funny!)

Anne McCaffery used to be my guilty pleasure, when I was young and fantasy was so un-cool.  Now I admit my sci-fi/fantasy addiction with pride.   But I still hesitate to bring my Monster Hunter books by Larry Correia to book club (they're my husband's, I swear!!!). 

So, for the prompt this week, indulge your guilty pleasure.  Vampires who sparkle.  Werewolves with ripped abs.  Sappy romance.  You know what you like!

Me ... I'm going with the zombies!

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Rain pounded against the boarded up windows, and the wind howled through the eves of the old-fashioned mansion.  It wouldn't have been my first choice for a safe house, but the thirty foot concrete wall surrounding the property made up for the ancient building.  I sighed, thanking the lunatic who built the place.  When the dead had actually risen, it had been ten times worse than any Hollywood flick.  For the first time in two months, I felt like I was safe.

I first noticed her when the residents started bringing around food.  I was one of a dozen people they'd rounded up tonight and brought back to safety.  As the aroma of soup and fresh bread filled the room, most of us reacted like the half starved creatures we were. 

She did not.  She lounged awkwardly against the floorboards, one ankle twisted beneath her in a way that made my legs hurt just looking at them.  Her skin was still spotted with beads of sweat and rain.  An elastic lingered in her hair near the ends, as if it had once valiantly held a ponytail, but had finally given up the fight.  Her jeans were torn, and her jacket had bloodstains across the left breast. 

When they brought her a bowl, she didn't respond.  The residents didn't spare much time for her.  They set the food on the ground and walked away.  The young boy next to her gulped down his own serving and then eyed her portion. 

I don't know what made me do it, but I accepted my own dinner, then moved and sat between her and the boy.  Whatever she'd been through, she deserved it, and the boy would surely get more later.  She didn't notice me, or at least, she gave no sign of it.

The man who'd found me in the trailer park, Matt, thudded across the floor in his combat boots.  He had more guns on him than the Terminator.  Some of the other guys who had been with him sat around a table at one end of the long hall, chewing on their rolls and disassembling their weapons.

Matt stopped right in front of her, his mud-caked boots within arm's reach.  "You know how to clean a pistol?" 

My eyes darted from the boots up to his steely eyes.  He wasn't looking at me.  He was looking at her.

Slowly, her chest expanded, as if she'd been holding her breath and just decided against it.  She lifted her chin, bringing her empty gaze up to meet his.  "I've done it a time or two."

Matt gestured towards the table.  "We could use some help over here."

She rose, thin legs gathering themselves beneath her as she stood. 

Matt told me later that he had been testing her.  This wasn't one of the humanitarian camps that formed up.  The men in charge at The Mansion, as it came to be called, were soldiers.  They didn't have resources to keep dead weight, and they didn't know if they'd ever get outside help.  It was easier to toss the sick overboard, before anyone got too attached.

I watched her cross the room that night, already feeling like we were sisters.  I didn't know her name yet (Sarah), or how many times she would save my life (half a dozen).  But in that dark moment, when she chose to overcome her demons and rejoin us in that rotting old house, I knew I had met a true hero.

Four-letter Words

As far as cursing is concerned in literature, I think it has its place.  I think it can be an enriching part of world building; Brandon Sanderson does a fantastic job of developing the religions and mythologies of his worlds, and he incorporates that into how the characters swear.  Even in Christian novels, not all of the characters are always Christian, and eventually, someday, sometime, someone is going to swear.

BUT ... I think there are tactful and creative ways of swearing in our stories.  For example, I like to read the Pioneer Woman's blog. One of her latest posts had me laughing when she said, "I said one of the four-letter words that is permitted on some TV networks but that isn’t appropriate when one is sitting with an open Bible on one’s lap."

There are so many ways of cursing without cursing.
" ... he swore under his breath."
"Mom stubbed her toe and a cried out a word I didn't even know she knew."
" ... cursing rapidly ..."
" ... using language that would make a gangsta blush ..."

So, the prompt for this week is to write a short passage and incorporate swearing ... without swearing.  Good luck!

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My response:

The wind tore through my hoodie and I shivered.  I don't know what possessed me to leave my bed and come out on a night like this, but Darrel had been so insistent.  Leaves crunched underneath my converse and I actually heard an owl in the trees.  It was just like a scene from a horror movie, right down to my pesky little brother who I had to bring along when he caught me sneaking out and Darrel's hot girlfriend, Stacy.  How could she wear those shorts in this weather?  Her thighs must be ice by now.  Why'd Darrel have to bring her along anyway?  All she ever did was complain about hanging out with us.

Kevin cursed next to me, then hopped around on one foot. 

Darrel glowered at him, "Dude, keep quiet!"

Kevin stopped and wiped his shoe furiously across a patch of damp grass.  "I don't know what that is, but it smells like ..."

I swatted him with the back of my hand, "Watch it, Kev, my baby brother's here."  The last thing I needed was for Brad to tell Mom where he got his new vocabulary.

Stacy murmured something.  Luckily the wind carried away most of it, but I heard enough to know she was making fun of me.  Not only did she have to come along, but she couldn't keep her mouth shut either.

I had a few choice words for her, and I was too ticked at Darrel for making us come tonight to care about  setting him off.  I let Stacy know exactly what I thought of her.

When I was done, Brad stomped up next to me, turned a vicious gaze on Stacy, and repeated every word that had just come out of my mouth. 

Kevin and Darrel threw their heads back laughing.  So much for keeping his vocabulary pure.

In the Box

This is where I usually introduce my inspiration for the week's prompt ... but I have none.  It just came to me.  I hope it works out.

Without any further ado, this week's prompt:
The box was simple on the outside, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string.  On the inside, however, ...

Enjoy!  I'm excited to see what everyone else has in their box this week.  :-)

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My response:

The box was simple on the outside, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string.  The first thing that gave it away was its weight.  My maid handed it to me with a pained expression, and I struggled not to drop it.  I hurried to the round table in the middle of my dressing room and let the box fall onto the hard surface, thumping terribly and almost upsetting the flower arrangement.

The paper and string gave way easily and revealed a beautiful box, its red wood oiled to a rich lustre and intricate patters inlaid across the top. 

"Who is it from?" I glanced quickly at my maid.

"I have no idea, your Majesty.  The Steward found it among this morning's deliveries, so he bade me bring it to you."  She craned her head forward, staring at the box.

I lifted the lid.  Before I even laid eyes on the object inside, I could smell the aroma.  It was like standing in an apple orchard in the fall, with vats of fresh-pressed apple cider ready for bottling, warm and sweet.  Cradled in black velvet padding was one large, red apple ... with one large bite taken out of it.

A shiver ran down my spine.  My fingers slipped from the lid, and it slammed back closed.  I stepped slowly away from the table ... from the box ... from what it meant.  The bite was fresh.  Not a touch of darkness marred the white flesh of the apple; there was not a dimple to be found on the red skin.  The aroma was too perfect, too fresh.  It reeked of witchcraft.

My body stood in the room, but my mind raced back to my youth, a time when a red apple had almost robbed me of everything I held most dear.  After I'd been saved by the most powerful of all magics, my husband had killed the witch.  Or so we'd thought.

I heard a voice calling to me.

"Your Majesty?!  Are you okay?  Talk to me!"  My maid held both my hands in hers.  "Your Majesty?!  Snow White?!"

Protrusion

When I first started this blog, I worried that I would run out of prompts.  I spent hours looking around on writing prompt websites (none exactly like mine, I was pleased to see) and made lists of the ones I liked best.  What's wonderful is that I can honestly say, in the eight months I've been doing this, I haven't ever had to go back to those initial lists.  In fact, I often have more than one prompt rolling around in my head when it comes Monday and time to write.

(I've also recently found out I can write posts in advance and set them to publish later ... that could be very convenient sometimes!)

This week's post is inspired by a comment on one of my earlier posts.  I've mentioned my good friend Rebecca (also my amazing critique partner) before.  She recently posted the comment she'd made on my blog in her blog.  It's fantastic.  If you didn't catch it in the comments the first time around, I highly suggest you read it now.

The prompt I'd used that week was simple: Her head throbbed with excruciating pain.

And yet, Rebecca came up with a brilliant response. 

In that spirit, our prompt for this week is:  It protruded from her left leg.

Enjoy!

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My response:

There was no way to conceal the blade under the tight, black pants.  It protruded from her left leg, the handle jutting out like some cancerous bulge, just a hand's length beneath her hips. 

Kit pursed her lips, then stripped her pants down far enough to retrieve the knife and its sheath.  The pants looked uncomfortable, but the pleather molded easily to her body and moved with her.  She could find another place to carry her weapon.  The pants were more important. 

She moved across the room to the duffel bag she'd brought home with her from the intensive self-defense course.  Six months she'd been gone, but if she was honest with herself, the girl who had left would never come home.  She'd been broken and battered, a world-class gymnast who'd just gotten her golden ticket - her Olympic qualification - when she'd been kidnapped, brutalized, and left for dead by some rabid fan. 

Terrified.  She'd spent three days terrified for her life.  She was in perfect shape, physically.  Strong.  Flexible.  Ridiculously accurate when doing round-offs and vaults.  But she didn't have any training in self defense.

Kit pulled a different holster from the bag and secured the knife in the small of her back.  She stood and caught an image of herself in the antique, full length mirror that stood on a stand in the corner of her room.  She looked like a thorn that had landed in a ball of cotton.  Her old room in her parents house, white lace and blue, fluffy pillows, was just as she'd been before that fateful night.  Clean and innocent.  She stood, dark and brittle, feeling out of place.

She couldn't stay in here.  It was too smothering ... but the thudding of the bass coming from downstairs reminded her that she'd rather be here than at her eighteenth birthday party.  Kit pulled a loose, red shirt on, checked to make sure the blade was concealed, and stepped out the door.

What have you struggled with?

I'm reading 45 pounds (more or less) by K. A. Barson, and I'm loving it.  I've struggled with my weight at different times in my life, much like the MC, and I identify closely with her.  (I haven't finished yet, so no spoilers in the comments, please!!!)

I've also had a recent experience (which isn't mine to share, so I won't go into it here) that reminded me of the long months after I had my first baby, when I was lost in the depths of PPD with a colicky infant.  The best part of that experience (which sucked as bad as it sounds, I assure you) was when I had a friend go through the same thing after her first child.  Because of what I'd experienced, I could understand her and help her in a way that other people couldn't.

Writing a MC who struggles with a certain problem may appeal to a niche crowd (I wonder how many girls who consider themselves skinny have picked up 45 pounds ... but then again, we are talking about teenage girls, who all seem to think themselves huge ...) but it allowes a deep, emotional connection between the reader and the character.  These are the books that we buy just so we can read them over and over again.

So, this week's prompt:
Write about something you struggle with.

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My response:

She came soaring down the hill towards me.  Technically, she was running, but to my eyes, she'd sprouted wings.  Her face was calm.  Her eyes gazed contentedly into the void.  I don't think she saw me at all.  Her soft footfalls barely registered in my ears as she passed and followed the curving slope of the hill.

My own feet were bass drums in comparrison.  Thud.  Thud. Thud. Thud.   Every step slammed into the ground and jarred my body.  My legs ached with each step.  Where was my pair of wings?  Admittedly, I was heading up the hill, not down, but I was sure the goddess of running had fought her way up the hilll with more grace than I could muster.

I sucked air, doing my best to breathe with my diaphram and fill my gut with air, and not just my chest.  In all honesty, I was doing well.  A few weeks ago, my chest burned during every run, and I felt constantly like I was about to die.  Thank goodness for a short lesson on breathing from my best friend, even if she did like to take off and lap me as we ran around the track at the gym.

Three miles.  That was the benchmark I'd heard from everyone ... seriously, from the running books on my self to my friends at the track.  "Once you can run three miles, you can run anything ..."  Really?  I ran three miles.  I thought I was going to die.  Then I ran three miles again.  I still thought I was going to die. 

I pant as I turn at the top of the hill.  Well, I ran for two months before anyone taught me how to breathe properly.  There must be another puzzle piece I'm still missing.  Something about my stride or my arms, maybe?  I start jogging back down the hill.

I may not be flying, but I am running.

Where would you go?

I went to Barnes and Noble tonight.  Just driving in the parking lot gave me a thrill.  Walking in the door, I got a whiff of fresh-printed ink and spine glue, and it was like heaven!  My sister, who has always been much cooler than I am, used to make fun of my friends and me for hanging out at B&N on weekends.  But for us, where else could you possibly want to be?

It reminded me of those middle grade novels you read where kids live in the mall or in a grocery store, and I decided, if I were to escape life and just hide out somewhere, I would choose B&N. 

The prompt for this week:
Where would you hide?

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My response:

Stand on the toilet seat, so they can't see your feet.  Crouch down, so they don't see your head.  Leave the door open, so they don't suspect anyone might be hiding there.  Make sure you pee before you get into position, because squatting over the toilet ... well, psychologically, it can get to you.  Oh, and bring a book.  You may be there for a while.

Tonight I clutched a hardback to my chest as I balanced on the toilet.  The manager had already been through to make sure no one was left in the room, so I'd passed that hurdle.  The short cashier always stopped in after locking the door, before counting her drawer.  She'd already come and gone.  I only had to keep it up for another ten minutes or so, for the blond one to stop in just before they all headed out the back entrance.

I eased the book open, cradling it in my lap and wishing I'd picked a paperback.  The pages were thinner and turned more quietly, and usually the words were printed smaller, so I had more to read between page turns.

And that mattered, because here came the blond.  I'd almost finished the second page when she walked in, and I didn't dare turn to the next while she was in here with me.  That was the one problem with hiding out in the restroom.  Everything echoed.

I stared at the bottom of the second page, anxious for her to leave, less so that I could finally climb down, and more because I was dying to see what happened next.  At last, she left.  I eased down off the seat and sat, devouring my book. 

Ah, heaven!  Another night with no one, absolutely no one, to disturb me, and a whole bookstore to choose from.  I was never going home!

Can a man change his stars?

This post is inspired by two things. 

First, my dear husband, who was quoting "A Knight's Tale" the other day.  Please tell me you love that movie as much as I do.  We quote it all the time around here.  "Can a man change his stars?"  And "How would you beat him? ... With a stick.  While he slept.  But on a horse, with a lance, that man is unbeatable!"  Chaucer kills me.  "I will eviscerate you in fiction. Every pimple, every character flaw. I was naked for a day; you will be naked for eternity!" and "My lords, my ladies, ... and everybody else here not sitting on a cushion!"

(Ok, I'll stop.  But seriously, if you haven't seen the movie, you should.)

Second, because of something that happened last week.  One of my friends mentioned to me that her son writes a lot.  He's young, and she said he's written lots of first chapters, but never gets further than that.  I looked at him and told him that was fine.  I wrote lots of first chapters, too, when I was young.  I told him, "... and someday you'll write a second chapter, and go from there."  Now, I realize as a yet-unpublished author, I'm not a lot to look up to, but I do have 5 completed novels, and he knew from his mom that I've written a lot.  (I am getting to the point ... wait for it ...)  The next day, my friend told me I'd inspired him.  He'd brought it up later, "... your friend said she wrote a lot of first chapters when she was my age, too."

What an awesome feeling to think I've inspired someone!  When you inspire a child, they have so much potential, and so much time to fulfil their potential.  I think every child deserves support, encouragement, and inspiration to show them that, YES, You Can Change Your Stars!

So, in honor of that, this week's prompt:
"Can a man change his stars?"

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My response:

Dina didn't last long before she ditched me.  We'd just barely walked in.  Dee had the stereo set up in the wide, formal foyer of MaKenzie's parents' mansion, the walls around us thudding with the bass of some rap song he had turned up so loud I couldn't even make out the lyrics.  Dina danced off, writhing and twisting and pressing her body up against Dee as she made her way back to the kitchen, where the football guys would have the kegs all set up.

It was supposed to be fun and exciting, but it was always the same thing.  MaKenzie's mom was a lawyer, her dad was a hot-shot banker, and she had the house to herself every other weekend or so.  We partied out of habit, because we were teenagers and it was expected of us.

Jared wove through the throng, passing out cans.  "Hey Kiley, got yours right here!"

I waved him off.  "Maybe later."

I followed Dina's tracks towards the back of the house, but avoided the kitchen, slipping out onto the back patio.  Chris's voice rang in my head.  "There's more to you than all that.  I can see it.  I wish you'd see it, too."  He'd invited me to go downtown with him to hear some orchestra play in the park.  Seriously?  Me?  Just because we'd spent time together working on the annual service project, he thinks he knows me, thinks he sees something deeper in me than just your typical, vain high school girl.

I am Kiley McGuire, head cheeleader at Mountainview High School.  My hair is always perfectly streaked, my nails always manicured, my wardrobe the envy of all my friends ... I know my place, and I know it's not downtown listening to an orchestra with the new guy who only moved into town two weeks ago.

And still ...

I sat down on the stairs, pulling my phone from my bra.  "2 L8 2 go with u 2night?"  I hold my breath and push send.

I suck air, then will myself to keep breathing while I wait.

Then answer comes.  "Never too late.  U at the party?  I'll be right over."

I can't deny the thrill of excitement that flashes down my back.  Maybe I'll like the orchestra.

***Ok, forgive me for this one.  I'm really awful at contemporary - the slang, the text speech.  But I won't let myself delete it because this is supposed to be a stretching exercise.  I wish you all better luck with your responses this week.  :-)

Universals

I'd like to share a short quote from Gale Sears's Jade Dragon Box :

"This was written a thousand years ago?"
Her uncle went back to his cooking.  "A little more than a thousand years."
Wen-shan silently read the final lines again.  "How did he know our hearts?"
"Do you think hearts have changed so much?"

Ah.  Just think about that for a minute.

This is the very point of Shakespeare's genius.  His stories hit on universal feelings - the kind that are the same today as they were a thousand years ago. 

Therefore, the prompt for this weeks is to choose a universal:
Love
Hatred
Revenge
Star-crossed lovers
Unrequited love

(This list is not all-inclusive, please feel free to use any universal you like.)

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My response:

(I wanted to pick something meaty, so I chose revenge.)

The locket burned against my skin, scalding with the punishment I'd receive if they found it in my hands.  It lodged just beneath my right breast, catching on the ribbing of my corset and pressing into my tender flesh. 

I ignored the discomfort.  I was lucky to have it at all.  Even Ladies in Waiting had to attend the Queen in pairs, to prevent this very possibility.  Lady Eve's complaints about her stomach led Queen Jalla to send her to the couch to lie down.  Then the cleaning servants came early, before Jalla had abandoned her sleeping chamber, and Jalla turned to scold them.  I slipped the gem-encrusted necklace from the table as if to lay out with Jalla's wardrobe, then slipped it down my own bodice as I straighted the Queen's waiting gown. 

If I was caught, it was the noose.  Not even my father could save me from a second offense against the crown.  The injustice grated against my nerves.  A second offense meant death.  But what if you never committed the first offense?

Lady Beal didn't even have the decency to admit she'd been the one who'd stolen the ruby earrings.  I'd seen her trying them on in the Lady's room.  When the King's Chief of Security threatened to search our chambers and belongings, she must have realized she wasn't going to get away with it, and returned them.  Just because I was the one who noticed they were back in their usual place in the Queen's drawer, I was accused of thievery.  I could still see the sly smile Lady Beal gave me as I was marched out of our chambers by a pair of the King's guards.

But Lady Beal could not hide what she didn't know she had.

I smiled to myself when I slipped away after breakfast.  Lady Beal had ten pairs of shoes, including a pair of riding boots she never wore.  The necklace thudded softly, then slid down the sole into the toe.

I'd been punished for a first offense I'd never committed.  Now it was her turn.

... and I did it!

Let's talk about plot for a minute.  In every good story (notice, I said "good" story) there is a struggle of some kind.  It can vary widely, from Jon Krakauer's Into Thin Air, where he climbs Mt. Everest, to a new favorite of mine, The Fault in Our Stars by John Green, where the main characters are also on oxygen, but because they're fighting cancer. 

So, the prompt for this weeks is:
Do something hard ... or rather, make your main character do something hard. :-)

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The park bench had always been too hard, and just the wrong height for my legs.  It was the kind of thing you blow off when you're in love, something that doesn't really matter in the throes of early romance.  You can't ignore it indefinitely, though. 

First, I would press my toes into the ground, crossing my legs at my ankles and pushing my legs together.  My toes didn't like to bend like that, so I would try to scoot myself backwards on the bench, but it was too short, and I couldn't get back far enough.  A too-tall bench with a too-thin seat.  And that doesn't even address the issue of the splinters.

The bench was a good analogy for our relationship, actually.  He was a nice enough guy, mostly normal, better than average looks.  Then it seemed he was calling me a little too often.  I hated the way he ordered for me at restaurants.  It wasn't overtly grating.  He didn't ever call me before 8am or after 11pm, and he did ask what I wanted before passing along the information to the waiter ... but things added up, and it grated.

He strode down the walkway, dropped down on the bench next to me, and kissed my cheek.  "Hey sweetheart!"

Did I mention I hated when he called me sweetheart?  Any other girl may have loved it, but that creepy school janitor had always called me that, and it gave me the willies. 

I stood up.  I'd had enough of that bench and enough of him, and I told him so.  I didn't drag it out, I didn't even bother to try and convince him that it was me and not him - it really was him.  I just told him I was ready to move on, and he ought to delete my number from his cell phone.  Then and there, I pulled up fb and changed my relationship status.  Then I left him behind, sitting on the bench with his head in his hands.

I almost felt sorry for him.  That bench was awful uncomfortable.

Sakura

I love picture prompts!  Here's one for this week.  I want to make sure to give credit to Digital Blasphemy, where I got this image. 



I would say something about it, but I don't want to change your first impressions and affect your writing.  :-)

Have fun!

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My response:

I pulled off my heels as I stepped off the patio and onto the lush lawn separating the mansion from the river.  They'd already rubbed my toes raw, and of the girls here, I was one of the last to pull off my strappy, expensive, torture devices.  Then again, they did make my legs look nice, which was the honest-to-goodness reason I'd kept them on this long.  It was a pride thing.  I couldn't get a date to the prom, but I came anyway, and I wanted to look like I could be here with someone.  Like I wasn't the fat, awkward geek who had struggled through the last four years of high school.

The strains of the last slow song floated out the open windows behind me as the song of the water rose in front of me.  It was both comforting and depressing.  Six months ago, I would have laughed at the idea of my going to prom.  Then mom signed me up for weight-watchers.  After seventeen years of feeding me chocolate chip cookies or brownies when I walked in the door each day after school, I came home to a note on the table.  Mom had paid for the meetings and left me a schedule.  It was so like her.  Non-confrontational to a fault.  She didn't like to get her hands dirty.  I bet if I'd asked her to her face, she would have denied it.  But I'm my mother's daughter.  I didn't bring it up.  I just showed up for the meetings.

Wouldn't you know, they worked?  Six months, and now most of my graduating class didn't recognize me.  Three months in, a group of semi-popular girls started talking me to in American History, then invited me to sit with them for lunch.  It was like my whole world had changed with the loss of fifty pounds.

"Like" my whole world had changed.  "As if."  Which, if you want to get all semantic, means it didn't really change.  Which was why, as the last song was announced and my new-found friends turned to their dates, and I was left alone, again, like I always had been.

I couldn't stay inside.  Everyone was dancing the last dance - no more lingering on the sidelines, no more small crowd to blend into.  The only way to hide my alone-ness was to disappear through the wide, glass-paned french doors.

Lights hung from the tree branches, reflecting off the water and making the whole garden look like a fairy paradise. 

I should be happy. 

Who could be sad in such a beautiful place?

But for me, the beauty only made the loneliness worse.

Different Genres

So, this week there is a prompt, but also a challenge.  If you choose just the prompt, check it out and write something.  For the challenge, write something in a genre different from what you'd usually write.

This week's prompt:
He looked down, took a deep breath, and jumped.

Good Luck!

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My Response:

(I struggle to write contemporary, so I'm going to give it a shot this week.  Also, I can't seem to get male characters, so I'm going for broke!)

I looked up to make sure they were watching.  I wasn't going to do it more than once.  Travis and his gang lounged on the large, flat rock near the water's edge.  I couldn't make out their faces, but I knew well enough the leer Travis wore.

One glance down at the water.  Two steps back.  I took a deep breath, filling my lungs, then closing my mouth to hold it in.  Last thing I wanted to do now was let out a girly scream.

Two running steps forward left the rock behind me.  I became gravity's toy, falling faster and faster.  I counted.  One.  Two. 

Then I hit the water.  I'd never been so glad to find myself submerged.  Here in the water, I was comfortable.  I surfaced, slowly releasing the breath I'd managed to hold.  I stroked towards the shore, victorious, feeling like Poseidon rising from his domain.

Travis and his friends looked up nonchalantly as I walked up to them.  A few drops of water spilled from my suit onto Travis's converse and skinny jeans, sitting in a pile near his feet, and he frowned. 

"Deal's a deal.  You all saw.  Now all of you stay away from my brother."

Travis's head rolled on his shoulders and he squinted up at me.  "Yeah.  Deal's a deal.  But your brother didn't prove himself.  You did."

Snickers all around, and a few of the guys turned predatory stares to where Kevin sat on his towel across the beach.  I would have jumped off the cliff twenty times just to make him stand up and look at his persecutors.  Instead, he turned his head, cradling his knees to his chest and rocking self-consciously back and forth.

Kevin wouldn't go in past his belly-button in the water, there was no way he'd jump off the cliff.  Not before Travis and his gang had him so whipped he'd never see straight.

Something behind me caught Travis's attention.  One of his buddies whispered.  "Dude, that guy's insane!"  I turned just in time to see one of the red-suited lifeguards emerge from the path at the top of the left side cliffs, on the other side of the waterfall from where I'd jumped. 

"No way."  Awe and reverence filled their voices and their eyes. 

The lifeguard jumped.  I counted a full five seconds before he hit the water.  The cliffs on the left side were easily twice as high as the more popular twenty-footer I'd leaped from. 

The lifeguard disappeared into the churning water, then surfaced.  Travis whooped.

An idea formed in my mind. 

"Alright then.  If I jump from there, then you leave Kevin alone."

For the first time in my life, Travis actually looked at me, surprise stripping his features of all pretense.  Then he recovered himself.  He laughed.

"You?  From up there?"  He shook his head and leaned back in his chair.  "You'll never do it."

I didn't drop my gaze.  He seemed unable to look away.  "I will, and then you will leave Kevin alone."

Travis's eyes darted over to Kevin, then surveyed me again.  "Yeah.  That'd be worth it.  Deal.  You jump from the left side, and we won't bother you or your brother again."

I nodded.  "Don't blink."

I felt the eyes boring into my back as I turned and headed into the pine trees.  My bare feet were too soft for the forest path.  Pine needles pricked my soles and scraped my arms.  This path was harder to follow than the one up the opposite side.  I scraped my knee climbing up a rock, and I got a handful of pine sap when I tried to pull myself up with a branch.  Then, finally, I stood at the top.

I stepped out of the shadows of the trees, and the musical chatter in the small lake stopped.  Travis and his goons were watching.  Everyone down there was watching.  Kevin stood on his towel, holding his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun.

I stepped up to the cliff and looked down at the water below, as if to assure myself that it was there.

Two steps back.  Breathe in.  Two running steps forward.

I jumped.

"I know, right?"

There are all kinds of new words and phrases that get "invented" each generation.  Only a few years ago, I heard the term "babydaddy" for the first time.  My mom used the phrase "true that" a few weeks ago.  I nearly died laughing, but she used it correctly. 

The one that I've fallen in love with lately is "hide your crazy".  I love that it doesn't question if you are crazy or not - it just tells you to hide it.  Love it!

So, the prompt for the week:
Use any "modern" phrase or word as your prompt.

If you're having trouble coming up with one, here's a small list:
I know, right?
True that.
Hide your crazy.
Babydaddy/mommy
Hang out

I think you get the picture.

***  If you want to use a phrase from an older generation, go for it!  Have fun!  Just let us know what phrase you're going off of in your comment.  ***

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My response:

"Hide your crazy"

I stirred the browning hamburger in the pan, the rich smell of boiling past and tomato sauce drifting up from the stove.  The kitchen was small, and I was tucked back into a corner.  Between the table and the guy towering over me, I wouldn't be able to reach the door in a hurry.  I was a little clostrophobic ... well, maybe more than a little.  How many girls in my position would be anxious about their path to the door?

Dean stood next to me, measuring oregano, garlic, and basil into the sauce while watching the pasta.  I ought to be grateful for him.  The rest of the apartment teemed with his five roommates and their dates - none of whom I knew - and I was glad I didn't have to make small talk and hurt my cheeks with smiling.  Dean was telling me about his graduate physics class and the optics project he'd been working on with his professor. 

He was also blocking my escape route. 

What if the stove caught on fire?  What if there was an earthquake? What if Dean had a heart attack and fell down in my way?

I smiled up at him, asking another question.  I could follow his explanation well enough as long as I could at least see the door.  He launched into his answer enthusiastically.

One of his roommates drifted over to the kitchen area.  With a friendly slap on Dean's shoulder, he whispered, "Dude, hide your crazy.  She doesn't care."

Dean's jaw dropped and he objected, "She's in physics, too!  She likes it!"

His roommate blocked my view of the door.  My heart began to pound in my chest. 

Hide your crazy.  Good advice.

I took a deep breath and turned back to the hamburger.

A Novel in Letters

So, I just finished the Screwtape Letters, and I find the idea of the whole novel in letters facinating!  I mean, who didn't love "The Gurnsey Literary and Potatoe Peel Pie Society"?  What I'd really find interesting would be a modern take - maybe a novel written completely in text messages.  (Of course, then I wouldn't be able read it.  I'm so bad at text speech, I'd be lost at the first line!

The prompt this week:
Write a Letter

Have fun!

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My response:

Dear Adele,

I honestly don't know why you feel compelled to stay for spring term at the Academy.  You know how much we have to do in preparations for your upcoming nuptuals, and I need you here with me to help put things together.  What does finishing your minor in interplanetary species diversity even matter when you'll be married to a man who rules three planets?!

Don't be silly, of course we'll cover the cost of your classes, we are your parents.  Not to mention how undignified it is to wait on local tourists.  You can just inform your boss that you're not in need of the money afterall.  I've transfered funds to your account, enough for your expenses, and also enough for a dress.  If you must stay on Altar until just before the wedding, you'll have to make due with whatever you can find for a dress there.  For my sake, please stick with a traditional color, gold or silver.  If you come home with a black dress, I will tear it to pieces with my own hands, and then you'll be forced to wear your Grandmother's old rag of a dress that she keeps trying to push on me.

Your Loving,
Mother

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Ok, so I don't know how well letter writing fits in a sci-fi, but this is all about trying things out, right?

My life will never be the same ...

My company for Memorial Day left this afternoon.  As soon as we had the house back in order, I jumped into the car to head for the grocery store ... the fridge needed replenishing.  At the first main intersection, I met a cop.  His car blocked the road, and he stood, looking bored, to the side of it.  He motioned me to a stop, allowed a car to pass from the other way, and then signaled for me to go.

As I turned, a large vehicle caught the corner of my eye.  It was an ambulance.  Checking my rear-view, I saw a mass of strobing red and blue lights clustered about a half mile down the main road.  Behind me came the ambulance, no flashing lights, no hurry. 

The thought came to me - someone's life has changed today.  Someone woke up this morning, went about their usual business, and in a few split seconds, without warning, their life changed. 

I know that feeling.  I think we've all had moments like that, even if it hasn't been due to an accident.  When your boyfriend breaks up with you, when you lose your job, when you find out you're expecting ... any number of things can change your life.  So let's hear about it.

Prompt:
A life changing experience
(Remember, it can be completely fictional, it doesn't have to be autobiographical.)

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My response:

"When will Mommy be home?" Janie asked plaintively.

Cami sighed, scooping the tiny child into her arms.  "She's just out to lunch with some friends, then she'll be back."  The wind scattered the stray hairs that had fallen out of Janie's ponytail, and they flew chaotically around her pale face.

"Let's go back inside!" Danielle whined.  "I want to play Monopoly!"

Cami pressed her lips together, studing the clouds.  It looked as if a massive locomotive had driven back and forth, spewing tall, dark clouds into the spring sky.  Janie and Danielle lived in an old neighborhood, and it was hard to see much over the towering ash trees.

Then the tornado siern split the air.

Cami swallowed hard.  Janie started crying, burying her head into cami's chest, small tears dripping down onto Cami's tank top.  "Alright, Danielle, we're going inside."

Cami resisted the urge to check her cell phone as she ushered Danielle into the house.  She pulled the heavy door closed behind her and locked it.  For an instant, she considered calling her own mom, but the responsible part of her knew she could still do that when she'd gotten the girls downstairs.

The basement stairs were narrow and steep, and now Danielle was crying, too.  "I don't want to play downstairs.  There's spiders down there!"  Janie sobbed harder, and Cami shifted her weight to her other arm. 

Cami scanned the basement, her eyes locking on the bathroom.  She'd babysat often enough over here to know that the downstairs basement sat dead in the middle of the house, with no windows.  She dumped Janie into the tub, then shoved Danielle in.  A pile of pillows and blankets lay next to the downstairs entertainment center, so Cami grabbed as much as her arms would carry and pulled a handful of pillows into the bathroom behind her.

Then she shut and locked the bathroom door and sank down on the floor.  Janie crawled out of the bathroom and latched herself to Cami's side.  Danielle pouted miserably on the floor.  Cami pulled out her cell phone.  No bars.  Only the muffled sound of the siern from above gave her any idea what to do.  Stay put.

The first few minutes passed slowly, with nothing for Cami to do but listen to the cries of the two little girls.  Then the roar of the wind grew louder, thundering above them so even the concrete slab beneath them vibrated and trembled.  Danielle gave up her pouting and burried her face in Cami's lap.

Cami prayed.

Slowly, the roar of the wind died, and Cami could again hear the soft cries of the girls.  Cami watched the time on her phone.  When an hour had passed, she carefully opened the bathroom door and peered out.  The basemet was still in one piece, but it looked as if a whole preschool full of kids had spent the afternoon tearing the place apart, and sunlight streamed in from above the staircase.

Cami took each of the girls by the hand and led them upwards.

It's my party

Whoops!  Sorry I missed the prompt yesterday!  I'd taken my kids down to visit my mom this weekend, and it seems like I haven't stopped moving since I got back.  I remember a moment yesterday when I stopped and thought, "Oh, and I need to remember to write a post tonight ..."

Well, you can see how well I remembered that. 

I do try not to think about prompts beforehand, because I want to, like you, participate in a spontaneous prompt.  It wouldn't be very fair of me to think about next week's prompt for seven days and then tell you guys to write a response in 15 min ...

SO ... for today, because this song just happened to pop into my head, the prompt is:
"It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to."

Have fun!

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My response:

(Amber, I hope you're reading these still ... I'm writing a dragon, just for you!)

The sunlight gleamed on her saphire scales as she slipped through the pine trees.  Kelsea's legs moved with a lithe ease over the pine beds, her claws delicately avoiding tree roots and pine cones, which hurt if you stepped on them.

First Dayflight.

Kelsea's muscles shivered in anticipation.  After today, she wouldn't be a mere hatchling anymore, even if she was still smaller than most of the older dragons.  She wouldn't have to stay in the caves, hidden in the rocky crags above the forest, while the glistening orb crossed the sky.  She wouldn't have to remember to watch the stars and return to the cave before light grew strong on the horizon. 

Soft rustling alerted her to the presence of the elder dragons in the clearing as she approached.  Kelsea paused to see who was there before emerging from the cover of the trees.  Balrog was there, great and black, by far the largest of the clan, with his hide scarred and ugly.  He'd knocked Kelsea over once, with a swipe of his tail in his sleep.  She'd learned quickly to keep clear of him, but as leader, he would naturally attend her First Dayflight.

Benia, a smaller, brownish dragon sat on her haunches, rubbing a shoulder against the trunk of a pine tree.  As the clan matriarch, she would also join them.  Two amber dragons, Liz and Lang, lay stretched on a bed of pine needles.  They were mid-sized clan members who liked to play with the hatchlings.  Kelsea was glad to see them there.

Just as Kelsea lifted her paw to move forward, something in the sky above caught her eye.  A flash of blue, at first, then a falling raindrop which grew as it came closer to the ground.  A pair of blue wings flashed out just before it hit the ground, slowing the fall.  Safin landed neatly in the small clearning, and Kelsea's heart leaped in her chest.  Kelsea had only seen the beautiful creature who had made her own egg once in her life, shortly after her hatching.  Safin had come from the outer range of their clan's holdings to make sure her egg had hatched successfully.  Satisfied that it had, she'd disappeared again.  But Kelsea recognized her.

"Well, now, where is the hatchling?" she asked holding her head aloft.

"I am here."  Kelsea stepped out from the shade.  She lifted her wings behind her and turned her head, so Safin could see her.

Safin nodded.  "So then, shall we be off?"

Led by Balrog, they took to the sky.  Benia motioned to Kelsea, and Kelsea took position behind her in the formation.  She watched Safin, up ahead by Balrog, and wished for just a moment to talk to her.  Benia noticed how Kelsea craned her head.

"She's had three hatchlings survive to First Dayflight, you know.  But none of them have lived beyond.  It breaks her heart.  Don't worry, now, she does care for you ... she's just afraid of caring too much."

Kelsea nodded.  She knew she owed her loyalty to her clan, and not just to her egg parents, but how was she supposed to deny the desire to have her egg mother be proud of her?

"I will survive this day," Kelsea said, thrusting her wings down, and propelling her body forward.

Balrog led them high over the rock settlements where the mean creatures lived.  Kelsea had only flown over them before under the cover of darkness.  Maybe she should have felt exposed in the light, but she didn't.  She watched as the small animals left the cover of their clever little caves and stared up at them as they passed, pointing and calling out to each other.  Kelsea spread her wings, reveling in the joy of flight.  Let them stare.  Let them point.  I am a dragon, and this land is ours!

Over the green hills, they followed flying two hours into the area where the mean ones lived.  The settlements at the edges were more used to the dragon's presence.  For Kelsea's First Dayflight, Balrog wanted creatures who might not know as well how to fend them off.

Finally, he descended.  Kelsea immediately picked out his target.  A herd of grazing beasts gathered on the side of a hill.  They never ate the mean creatures.  They were too small and bony.  These beasts, however, were round and fat.  Kelsea didn't wait to be told what to do.  She dove down, her skills honed by years of hunting at night, and snatched a beast from the ground.  Her wings snapped out, filling with air and forcing it downward, her body lunging up from the grass.

After two hours of flying, the hunt was over in two minutes.  Kelsea saw that each of the dragons held at least one beast in their claws, both Balrog and Lang had two.  The mean ones called and yelled.  The boom of the killing thing echoed in the valley, but the dragons had already turned to go.

Then Safin cried out.

Her left wing clawed at the air, but she slipped closer and closer to the ground.  Her right wing hung limp at her side.  The killing thing had hit the bone, and black blood watered the fields below.

Kelsea dropped her beast from her claws and darted forward.  She let the wake of Safin's fall guide her as she reached out with her claws.  She knew the pain it would cause Safin, but Kelsea couldn't leave her behind.  Tenderly, Kelsea grasped Safin's wing joints, feeling her own claws sink into her Safin's skin.

As Kelsea rose into the sky, Liz and Lang appeared underneath Safin.  They knew their place in the clan, and they stood between the killing thing and Safin. 

Kelsea kept her eyes ahead.  Safin was twice her size, but Kelsea was a credit to the dragons who had ruled these lands for eons.  She was strong, and she was swift.  Balrog and Benia flew ahead, Liz and Lang flew behind.  In less than two hours, they reached the safety of the mountains.

Kelsea eased Safin's broken body down to the ground beneath her, then landed gently beside her.  During the long flight back, Safin had kept quiet, beating her good wing as best as she could and not complaining at all when Kelsea had to adjust her grip.  Now she lifted her head and looked at Kelsea.  Blood still seeped from the wound where she'd been struck by the killing thing, but it seemed to have slowed. 

Safin laid her head back down.  A last, labored breath wracked her body.  Then she was still.

Kelsea's eyes flew open wide.  She looked to the other dragons, who had landed with them in the clearning.  The way Benia's wings drooped confirmed her fears.  The flight back to the forest had been for naught.  Though her body was there, Safin was gone.

Kelsea threw back her head and unleashed a furious cry.

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Okay, so first I appologize for this one being so long.  I figured I ought to at least get to the part where she cried.  Second, I realize there are all kinds of holes in this idea ... if I ever decide to flesh the story out, I'll have to address them.  But for a writing prompt response, I had a lot of fun with this one. :-)

A note about characters ...

So, after posting yesterday's prompt, I came across this blog post by Veronica Roth, author of Divergent.  It's all about knowing a character vs. knowing about a character.  She shared a quote from Marilynne Robinson, who said:

"There is a great difference in fiction and in life between knowing someone and knowing about someone. When a writer knows about his character he is writing for plot. When he knows his character he is writing to explore, to feel reality on a set of nerves somehow not quite his own."

I think that explained for me why I can understand my characters more when I got back and write a scene from earlier in their lives (earlier than when they enter my story, I mean).  I can list their physical attributes, their birthplace, their jobs, etc ... but it's not until I put myself in their place and experience their reality that I start to understand who they are and how they'll behave in the context of my book.

There's no new prompt to go along with this one ... just an interesting thought. 

Now go read "Divergent" and let me know what you think of it.  :-)

Character Sketch

So, I've been writing the beginning of a new novel.  I love the excitement at the beginning of a project.  There's a new world, new people, new ideas ... and it's just fantastic!

Then, I sometimes get stuck on how my characters are going to interact with each other.  When I've been with my characters for a while, I know who they are and what they're likely to do in any situation, but the new characters ... I just don't know them!  I sometimes have to stop in the middle of a scene and ask myself, "Who is this guy?  Where does he fit in this?  What is his MOTIVATION?!"

Hence, the character sketch.  When I get to know them a little better, I can go back to my writing.  Even if the character sketch never appears in the actual body of my novel, it is SO IMPORTANT to my own understanding.

This week's prompt:  Choose a minor character from something you've written and do a character sketch. 

Remember, there are as many different ways to do a character sketch as there are writers.  At the SCBWI conference, Anne Osterlund suggested choosing the animal that the character is most like and using adjectives that describe the animal to describe the character.  If that's what you want to do, great!  Do you want to write a pivotal scene from their childhood?  What they did when they woke up this morning?  Maybe a list of their features?  Whatever you do to get to know your characters better, I'd like to see it.

Cheers!

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My response:

Okay, this is fair warning, this might be rough.  I'm actually sketching this guy out as I go.  Right now, he's just a little vague and nebulous to me. 

Maral Kenon woke from a dream so deep he couldn't remember it, even in the first moments after opening his eyes.  Of course, that might have something to do with the piercing alarm and flashing red light.  He rolled over, careful on the thin bunk not to roll off, and checked the clock.  He'd barely had time to dream since lying down.  His whole body ached.  Without even turning the light on, he reached into a pouch in his pants pocket, lying on the floor near the bunk.  He drew out a pill and swallowed it down dry.  He shut his eyes again, grateful for the painkiller as the searing agony in his head eased.  He took a deep breath, preparing himself.

The door slammed open, and his assistant, Tend Astar, stood silhouetted in the doorway.  Maral could hear the terror in his voice.

"Starwal Base is gone, sir, we have to evacuate."

"Gone?!"  Maral threw off his thin blanket and picked up his pants, shoving his legs into them.

"Yes, sir," Tend flipped on the light.  "We had a leak.  They came under attack a half hour ago.  Ten thousand Fleet officers landed on their doorstep."

"Commander Brighton."  Tend didn't have to tell Maral what Commander Brighton did when he looked out at ten thousand troops attacking the Rebel main base.  Maral had been in the meeting when the orders had been decided.  Some called Brighton extreme, but he was also insistent.  They owed their allies that much, at least.  "When?"

Tend sighed.  "Self-distruct had already been initiated when I came to get you ...  If it hasn't happened yet, Sir, it'll be soon."

Maral thrust his feet into his shoes and reached out for his shirt.  His hand reached down and patted the pouch of pain pills in his pants pocket without Maral even thinking about it.  "Have we contacted Ambassador Worl?  We'll need to evacuate immediately.  What about the tech staff?  Are they wiping the memory?"

"They ought to have Ambassador Worl ready for you by time we get to the control room.  We're already doing a clean sweep of the computers."

"Any sign of attack on Rightshelm?"  Maral had only been commander of Rightshelm for three weeks.

"No, sir, it's all quiet outside.  We're monitoring radio communications, and we've roused officer Pent to keep an eye on any telepathic messages.  So far, we're in the clear."

Maral nodded.  "If Ambassador Worl is ready, it should only take us an hour for a full evacuation, and we'll all be on our way to Kris."

Maral and Tend slipped out the door into the hallway, jogging down the corridor in complete sync with each other. 

"I wish I hadn't lived to see this day, Sir," Tend admitted.

Maral didn't so much as glance in his direction.  "We're the lucky ones, Tend.  At least we have somewhere we can retreat to.  Leaving Denar isn't the end.  We still have a few small pockets left, and we'll return with the people of Kris.  Right now we have to concentrate on honoring Commander Brighton, and every life lost to keep that information from the Empress.  If we do our job right, they won't be expecting us when we come back."

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Marla Kenon is the Commander of the rebels/revolutionaries who, although they've relocated to the planet Kris, are still waging war against the Renault Empire.  The rebels did succeed in deleting any reference to their alliance with the people of Kris, and as the Renault Empire hasn't discovered Kris on its own, they're unknown to the Empire.  But they're getting stronger, and with Emmaleen and a few other Tremanats on their side, they're ready to take a stand and bring down Empress Vidriana Renault.  (Those who have read my "Emmaleen" will know where I'm going with this.)