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.