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!

***********************************************************************

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.  :-)

****************************************************************************

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!

**********************************************************************************

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.

**********************************************************************************

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.