The blank page, take two ...

A while back I wrote a prompt about how much I hate looking at a blank page.  I have to jump in and write something, just so it's not blank anymore.  The positive side of that is that I get something done.  The downside of that is that sometimes what lands on the page ... is seriously terrible. 

If you've been following my blog, I'm sure you've seen examples of that.  I can't say I love every one of the posts I've written (and posted for the world to see ... what am I thinking?!!!).  What keeps me going are those magic moments when it really works, and the idea that was just a little spark starts growing in my mind and unfurling into something greater.

Your mission for this week, should you choose to accept it, is to read one of my previous responses ... not a previous prompt ... and use that as your prompt.

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My response:

I'm going to use one from just a few weeks ago, the one about the girl and the Lynad stone. 

My neck ached from bending to read, and my rear was sore from sitting.  Aside from Dr. Malard's ministering, the most exciting thing to happen all day was the arc of sunlight crossing the tiled floor.  It had been nice for the first hour or two.  Then I started hoping someone would drop in, maybe bring me a different book.  Isn't that how it worked in Harry Potter novels?  Someone got themselves injured, and all their friends bought them treats in the hospital?  I would kill for a bag of jelly beans, even the generic brand would do at this point, though I wouldn't turn down Jelly Bellies, either.

My ribs were still sore, but I had a sneaking suspicion they weren't the reason I was still in here.  After all, they did have the well-being of the other students to worry about, and I had, just yesterday, almost caused the death of half of the student body.  On purpose.  Maybe this was less of a sick stay and more of a prison.  At least, that's what I had decided when Lady Elda stepped through the door.

She was older than I remembered her, spots of gray at her temples and the crinkles by her eyes were deeper.  She offered me a sad smile.  "How are you today, Diane?  I'm sorry I couldn't come by earlier.  I had ..."  Her eyes met mine, and she stopped.  We both knew she'd been cleaning up my mess.

"It's okay.  I know you've been ..."  I couldn't maintain eye contact.  Guilt strangled my voice down.  "Busy."

She nodded briskly.  "Yes, and I still do.  But I had something else that's also important, and I didn't want to leave you waiting any longer than I had to."

I struggled to meet her gaze again, but she went on.  "I've explained last night's events to the board, and they've decided to give you a second chance.  There will be consequences, of course, but I think you'll agree I've compelled them to be reasonable.  In the meantime, I needed to return something to you."

My stone of Lynad lay in her palm, dark and lifeless.  I couldn't feel its pulsing power while it was in her possession, but my soul remembered it and longed to reach out and take it.  It took a minute before I realized that was exactly what she wanted me to do.

"Oh, Lady Elda.  I couldn't!"  I tucked my knees up underneath me, my arms squeezing them tightly to my chest.  "You saw what I almost did!"

Lady Elda laughed.  "Diane, the stone is not a weapon.  It is a tool.  And what you almost did doesn't matter anymore, because, in the end, you made a different choice ... a good choice.  And I trust you to use this as you should, from now on."  She sank down onto the mattress at my feet, tracing the lines in the stone with her fingertips. 

"You see, it's true the stones choose their masters.  When I was a girl, this stone belonged to my great-aunt.  From the first moment I touched it, it stopped working for her.  It became mine.  I was a lot like you, back then, and I had a lot to learn.  The stone helped me."  She looked up, and her eyes pierced my soul.  "I knew from the first moment you touched my stone that it wasn't mine anymore.  Maybe if I'd been honest with you, helped you then, you wouldn't have had such a hard time finding your way.  So, you see, I feel a little responsible for what happened, too."

I shook my head, but I couldn't speak to object.  Lady Elda took my hand in hers and dropped the stone into my palm.  It flared to life, it's aura erupting and embracing my own.  It felt warm and right.  I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it.  Then I looked up at Lady Elda.  If the stone once belonged to her the way it belonged to me now, giving it up must be breaking her heart.

For one brief moment, our eyes met, and I knew we understood each other.  Then she stood and swept out of the room, leaving me complete.

Silent Night

If not already clear from the rules, please make of this prompt what you like.  I did something for Halloween this year, and also Thanksgiving, so here's our Christmas prompt.  Feel free to write something religious, or go somewhere else with it. 

The prompt for this week: The night was silent ...

Enjoy!

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My response:

Inside the cathedral, the night was silent.  The thick, stone walls blocked out all the noise from the city, which was still with the deadness of deep winter.  The candles had long burned down.  The bells hung silent.  The steeple clock sat at one thirty two, as it had for the past ten years.

Miss Alexandra Rapture knelt in the third pew back, her knees on the pad, her shoulders hunched over, so no one could see her, without looking down the aisle.  Her dress floated out in a cloud around her, layers of muslin and lace, enough of it to outfit a small sailing ship, and a veil that hid the streaks on her cheeks, had anyone been there to see.  She'd stopped crying hours ago.  Her chest ached from sobbing, and her tears had simply dried up.  She suffered in stillness, eyes half open, chest barely moving with breath.

They would find her.  Tomorrow morning, when they came to the church, she'd still be there.  She had no where else to go, no other sanctuary to flee to.  She could not run to the hills.  Her feet had never known anything but silk slippers.  An hour in the forest would be the end to her, and she'd be back anyway.  She was not brave enough to cut her hair and hire onto a sailing ship.  Her fine, soft hands pressed together in prayer, worked pretty embroidery and waved fans.  She could not tie knots.  She didn't have the heart to take herself to the cliffs.  Sixteen years of her mother's instructions gave her just enough arrogance to be loathe to throw herself away.

But neither could she bring herself to smile as time marched her towards her fate.  She'd told Lord Craye she did not love him, had no desire to be his wife.  He'd arched his eyebrows and whispered in her ear that he was glad it was not her choice, then, for he would not give her up.

Alexandra sent up her last desperate prayers ... and all she got in return was the silence of the night.

It seemed as if there was a light within ...

First, my apologies for getting this done a day late.  Yesterday was crazy, as I tried to get ready for this:

It was a lot of work, but my homemade gingerbread house turned out amazing!  Okay, so I let the kids decorate (it may be a few years until I have a "perfect" gingerbread house), but I'm so pleased that the pieces worked and fit together, the royal icing held, and the candy windows worked even better than I planned.  I did put a normal bulb inside, so next year, I'll put in an LED, and I'll make the chimney an actual chimney, in case it does heat up.  The window panes are warm to the touch after about a half hour of lights.

So, because I was neglectful, our prompt for this week is: It seemed there was a light within ...

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My response:

"Now try this."  Lady Elda reached towards me and dropped something in my hand.  It was heavy, smooth and cold against my skin.  I lifted it and stared.  It was deep green, the darkest emerald I'd ever seen.  I squinted.  There was something in it, in the middle, almost as if there were a light within, like a candle burning on an window sill, barely seen through fog.

"What is it?" I asked.

"A stone of Lynad."  Her voice was rich with reverence, and the other students crowded around behind me, jostling me as they peered over my shoulder to see.

"I've never seen one!"

"I thought they were just a myth."

"Ooooh!"

"Like I said, it'd take a miracle for Diane to be able to touch magic." 

I felt a chill down my back as I recognized Miri's voice.  Arrogant.  Oh, how I hated her.  But for the first time, I felt defiance mingle with my hatred, for I could feel the power of the stone.  It was seeping through my skin, tingling and blending with my own aura, usually so dim.  I didn't hope I could prove her wrong.  I knew with a certainty that I would.

Fingers tight around the Lynad, I stretched my hand over the waves.  They crashed into the rocks I stood on, the salt spray stinging my eyes and wetting my cheeks. "Glacia."

Drops of saltwater froze in midair and dropped, clinking on the frozen sheet below.  All up and down the beach, and as far as I could see out from shore, the water was still.

Gasps sounded behind me.  Even Lady Elda choked.  As the murmurs died down, she held out her hand towards me.  "Well done, Diane.  I'll have that back, now."  Her voice faltered, as if she was afraid I wouldn't comply, and she didn't know if she could make me.

I took a deep breath, stared over the ice, and murmured again.  "Aqua."  The ice splashed back to life, the water unsure how to move together, its momentum gone from being frozen.  The waves were choppy and confused.  I could still feel the power of the Lynad pulsing with my own aura.  Lynad were said to have partners, people for whom they worked better than others.  This stone was my partner.  It felt it.  I felt it.  But today was not the day to claim it.

I held up the stone for everyone to see as I placed it back into Lady Elda's outstretched palm.

I forced myself to turn and walk away, but that was the day I decided I would find a way to reclaim what was rightfully mine.  Lady Elda's Lynad.

Nothing that a flower in your hair won't fix

This week, my inspiration is something I heard off the TV the other day:  "It's nothing that a flower in your hair won't fix."

Lovely.

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My response:

It felt like a dream, so surreal.  The lawyer's office was too typical, like something out of a night time drama, with wide, floor to ceiling windows and a glass table, framed with chrome.  The paper beneath my palm was too crisp, the printing too neat.  I waited for a moment to see if it would all disappear and I'd find myself in bed, next to Robert, warm in our flannel sheets, in spite of the cold of the apartment.  He never let me turn the heat up, but I kept the bed well stocked with blankets.

The moment passed.  I turned one more time to my lawyer for reassurance.  She nodded, her double chin shaking against the collar of her white shirt and black suit.  If I'd doubted anymore then, my shaky signature at the bottom of the page confirmed it.  No flourish, just a stumbling acceptance.

I swallowed hard, wrapped myself back up in my coat and scarf, said my goodbyes and headed out the door.  Clocks chimed as I strode down the street.  Only two blocks to the apartment.  Two blocks to the empty space that wasn't home anymore.  My feet hesitated, and I came to a stop on the sidewalk.  People passed on either side of me.  It was New York, after all.  They're all too busy and too used to crazies to look up or care.  They just tuck their heads down and duck to the side.  I stood like a boulder in the middle of the river, waters parting on either side, unmoving.

Across the street, the corner deli was lit up in green neon.  We ate cheesecake there the day we moved in, and the turkey Panini was to die for.  Then the waitress bumped Robert's arm and made him spill his Earl Grey down his shirt.  We never went back, no matter how strong my craving for cheesecake. 

I sucked in a lungful of crisp, smoggy air, like I'd been drowning.  I let it out, shuddering, and turned.  I hopped across the street, dodging cars.  They had five different kinds of cheesecake, and I bought a slice of each.  Large pastry box in hand, I skipped home.

One bite of cheesecake cured me of my ills.  I whipped off my scarf and danced to the thermostat, cranking it up.  Then I pulled out my tablet and booked a flight to Maui.  There was nothing wrong with me that a flower in my hair wouldn't fix.

Sunflower

Because it's cold and miserable outside, I'm going with something warm and lovely.  Here's a picture prompt from my summer.  Maybe if I stare at it long enough, I'll forget the winter weather outside.

 

 

Enjoy!

 

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My response:

 

He watched her climb the hill in the dying light.  She'd managed to finish her chores before sunset, her Mama's requirement if she was going to visit him.  Her amber hair, escaped from her bun, stood in wisps around her face, reflecting the light of the sun like a halo.  The hem of her blue dress hung, heavy with mud, over her bare feet as she trudged up the hill.  She was too old to go around without a pair of shoes anymore, but no one had told her that.  Her apron had a smear of soot from the charcoal stove, and a matching spot stained her cheek.  When she looked up and smiled at him, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever laid eyes on. 

 

He picked up the small bouquet of wildflowers he'd gathered on his lunch break.  They'd wilted, sitting too near the forge.  He held them out to her, anyway, and earned another smile.

Sharing A Meal

I have a great book club I attend, where instead of all reading the same book, we share what we've read and make recommendations to each other.  We end up passing things around, and I know I read a wider variety of genres because of things other people bring to book club.

Recently, someone brought HOW TO READ LITERATURE LIKE A PROFESSOR by Thomas C. Foster.  Something she talked about was the discussion of symbolism involved with characters share a meal together.  Characters sharing a meal together is based on a certain amount of trust, so when two characters share a meal, and the one betrays the other, it makes the betrayal more poignant.

The part of this that stands out to me right now is how a relationship of trust can be established through the sharing of food.  The prompt for this week:  use the setting of mealtime to demonstrate the relationship between two characters.

Enjoy!

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My response:

Gregor brought a burlap bag full of rolls over to the row of prisoners.  I hated to think how old and hard they would be, if they were going to feed them to us, but the idea of having anything to chew set my mouth to watering.  I hoped they wouldn't be too small.

We sat in our usual line, wrists and feet shackled, linked by one long chain that ran through loops on each of our right ankle irons.  The irons were heavy, but resting your wrists on the ground bent your back something awful. We learned to prop our hands up on our knees, to keep our backs straight.

Gregor started at one end of the line, to my right.  I'd managed to tie on in the middle of the chain that morning.  That way, when we laid down to rest, I'd have more warm bodies around to help keep warm.  I swallowed and glanced at the girl next to me.  Was that all she was worth to me anymore?  Just another warm body to help protect myself from the cold?  The first few days we'd exchanged names, asked questions, and shared stories.  Two weeks in, we'd grown silent.

Gregor was almost to me.  I lifted my hands, watching the rolls drop into waiting palms.  Then, just as I was about to get my dinner, Gregor flew forward.  He dropped the bag, rolls spilling out.  The girl next to me scrambled, my ankle moving with the chain as she moved.  She scooped up the rolls and the bag, presenting them with a downturned face to Gregor. 

Gregor looked her up and down suspiciously.  He snatched the bag back and stuffed the extra rolls inside.  "Sit down, girl!" he snapped, and she dropped back down, next to me.  Gregor frowned at her, then dropped my roll into my waiting fingers.

I clutched my roll to my chest, waiting until Gregor was gone before biting into it.  Then I felt a tug at my elbow.  The girl next to me leaned in close.  She held something in her hands.  Jerky.  Beef, from the smell of it, thick with spices.  I saw the pouch between her knees.  She must have lifted it off Gregor's belt when he tripped. 

"Quick, take some and hand it down!" 

I glanced up at the men around the fire.  She was right.  There was no time to consider.  If she got caught holding it out to me, she'd be whipped.  If I took too long passing it, I'd be the one in trouble.  Even worse, if I didn't do something now, she might reach past me, and I wouldn't get any at all. 

I tucked my roll into my lap and snatched the jerky out of her hands.  I took a big bite and tore it from the rest of the stick, then held the handful out to the girl on the other side as I worked my lips around the dried meat.  "Take one, quick!  Pass it down!"

As soon as the jerky was in the next girl's hands, I turned.  Another batch of jerky worked its way down the other half of the line.  The girl who'd taken it offered a smile, one with bits of dark jerky stuck in her teeth.  I smiled. 

Something was different in camp that night.  We'd gone through the initial stages of denial and defiance, and spent some time drowning in hopelessness.  Now, by virtue of a satchel of jerky, about one bite a piece, we'd found our spirit again.  We would wait.  We would watch.  And we would be ready.

Fire Prompt

I went to Google Images to find a picture of fire for the prompt today, and I found way too many ideas!

The first one that caught my eye had this yin/yang thing going on, all abstract and pretty.

 

 

The next one that stood out to me was similar in the two opposing colors, but entirely different, with the two fists.

 

 

 

Then there was this one, with the hand.  The immediate feeling I get from this one is desperation.

 

This one would make a fabulous cover for a contemporary love story.

 

Or this one for an Asian themed action story.

 

For our fire prompt this week, choose whichever one appeals to you, and use it as your prompt.

Enjoy!

 

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My response:

(I'm going with the one with the hand.)

 

I yanked my mask down and slammed my hand into the swinging door of the surgical suite.  One more patient gone, and I wasn't any closer to finding out why this was happening, or what we could do to stop it.  A trail of blood stained the door, and I felt a twinge of guilt that someone would have to clean it up, but I was too tired to worry about it.  The order came down from the hospital director that we weren't to lose one more patient, pull all the stops, use whatever measures we needed, we had to save one of them, and soon. 

 

I peeled off both layers of gloves and tossed them into a hazardous waste container.  My surgical gown and mask followed, my body moving with muscle memory as my mind churned.  There had to be something we could do.

 

Across the hall, the surgeon's lounge was empty.  Someone had left the TV on, and news coverage of the epidemic flashed across the screen.  Protesters filled the courtyard in front of the hospital and crowded the streets.  They wore masks and carried signs that read, "Down with BioWarfare!"  "Doctors should HEAL, not KILL!"  and "The end of the world is upon us, and it is our own doing!"

 

As I watched, the crowd parted.  Two people supported a third between them.  They made their way slowly to the front door.  The police barricade parted to let them through. 

 

I wondered how long it would be before he ended up dead on my surgical table.  And it would be me, because I was the only one left.  The doctors who designed the virus had gone in the first wave of casualties.  Next were the general practitioners who saw the first cases.  Then the surgeons started dropping.  For the last forty-eight hours, I'd been alone in the battle.

 

They'd said they were going to send in more doctors, but who would agree to come?  The nurses were disappearing just as fast, some simply refusing to show up for their shifts.  I couldn't blame them.  They have families and lives, too.

 

Had it really been forty-eight hours since they rolled Maya away, limp on the gurney?  I did a quick self-assessment.  Heart rate: seventy-two.  Not bad.  A little high, but I was under a lot of stress.  Blood pressure: 112/65.  Again, not as good as normal, but still well within normal ranges.  Temperature: 98.3.  It was a bit chilly in here.  I stood in front of the mirror and peered at my eyes.  They were a little bloodshot, but that too was expected.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept.  Maybe it was for an hour or two before the last patient. 

 

What had we decided the incubation period was?  Twenty-four hours?  Not more than Forty-eight. 

 

Too many questions.  Not enough answers.  The cot in the corner never looked so inviting.  I dropped down onto it, letting oblivion sweep over me.



Back in Time

If you're an 80s kid, like me, just reading the title of this week's prompt will start a soundtrack playing in your mind.  (Thank you, Huey Lewis and Michael J. Fox!)

The prompt for this week: Assume you've gone back in time to save the world, and along the way, you run into yourself.  Go! 

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My response:

I check my watch.  Two fifteen on a Thursday, November 1997.  My old self has got to be in the dance room in the gym.  If I can just find the Doctor without going in there, I should be fine.  Not that I know it will ruin my timeline if I run into myself.  I just don't want to risk it. 

I sneak around the corner of the hallway, watching for the tell-tale cloak of the Doctor.  For a split second, I think I've spotted it, but it turns out to be a long, dark trench coat that the guys thought were so cool back then.  I hear the squeak of shoes on the tile behind me and spin around.  There he is.  The Doctor.  And the look on his face takes my breath away; he's smirking like he knows something I don't.

"You're not going to find it in time, my Friend."  He takes out a handkerchief and pats his greasy forehead.  "No, I'm afraid I've outwitted you this time.  A shame, I may come to miss our little games."

I whip out my sensor and aim it at him.  It would have been better to keep this new technology secret, but I'm running out of time.  Unfortunately, he's not lying.  He's not carrying the crystal.  Who knows where he's hidden it, and the range on my sensor is only about ten feet - not nearly large enough to scan the whole school.

"Goodbye now!"  The Doctor turns and dashes out towards the parking lot.

"This isn't over!" I call after him, clenching my fists.  At least he gave me one clue.  He thinks he's hidden it where I will never find it.  Where would be the last place I would look?  Then it hits me.  I know exactly where the crystal is.

I flash my badge at the dance teacher, invent some line about homeland security, try not to stare across the room at myself, and then go out to the foyer to wait.  It doesn't take long, and there I am.  Well, not me, but me, my younger self.  I pause.  I haven't disappeared, yet, so I figure I may be okay.

Younger me looks up, squinting at me.  I wonder what she sees.  I've lost forty pounds.  I curl my hair now, so that's different, but since the 80s have come back in the future, my make-up routine is nearly the same.  I'm twenty years older.  A shiver of pride runs down my back.  The teenager I'm staring at has no idea she's going to become a top-secret, time traveling spy. 

"Mrs. Bixbee said you needed to talk to me?"  She pins me with a suspicious glare.  I never was stupid.  "Something about homeland security?"

Now it gets tricky.  If this is the younger me, and the Doctor really gave her the crystal, shouldn't I be able to remember it?  Shouldn't I know what I did with it?

Like dews distilling from heaven, the answers to my questions appear in my mind.  Ha!  He thought he'd outsmarted me, but in the end, he outsmarted himself. 

"I'm afraid there was a misunderstanding.  No.  No, I don't need to talk to you."  I smile nicely and point back towards the gym.  "Go on back to class."

Young me shrugs and rolls her eyes at me, but turns and walks away.  I dart into the locker room.  Good thing I always had a head for numbers.  I find my old locker, pop open the combination lock, and reach to the back of the top section, behind my purse.  My fingers close around a heavy chain and a cold, hard rock.  I found it.

And I seem to have managed it without tearing the time continuum to shreds, too! 

Halloween

In truth, horror isn't really my thing.  I don't like scary movies, and scary books are even worse, because they leave so much up to my own (overactive) imagination.

But in honor of the holiday, your prompt for this week:  Write something spine-tingling!

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My response:

Maggie stomped through the trees, leaves crunching under her boots and flying behind her.  Her fingers curled into fists, flexed, and curled again.  Behind her, throaty screams tore the silence of the night.  Maggie threw back her head in a bitter laugh.  "Ha!"

Three years of falling all over herself, trying to get Trevor to notice her, and this was how it ended?  In some Halloween prank?  If Trevor was the kind of guy who would lure her out into the woods just to have his buddies creep up on them and scare her to death, then he wasn't the guy she thought he was.  Her heart wasn't even broken.  It was furious.

She reached into the pocket of her jean jacket and pulled out her phone, holding it up to light her way in the moonless night.  She would find the road.  She'd find a ride home.  And Trevor could find a new puppy to follow him around.  The screams behind her broke into laughter.  Maggie could picture all too well in her mind the chest bumping and shoulder punching as the guys celebrated their so-called victory.

The crackling of leaves and the fury of her own indignation kept Maggie going until only echoes of the boys' voices lingered in the crisp air.  She stopped, checking her phone.  She hadn't bothered to check it when she'd stormed off.  Now she could only guess at how long she'd been walking, and there was no sign of the road.  Wind rattled the sparse branches above her head, and Maggie shivered. 

Then she realized she was staring at her own answer.  She smiled at the phone in her hand and laughed out loud, typing her home address into Google maps.  With a chime and an arrow, her phone pointed her the way out of the woods.  Unfortunately, the arrow pointed back to where Trevor and his friends were.

Maggie sighed.  Oh well.  Maybe they'd give her a ride home and save her the trouble she'd get in if her mom caught her hitch hiking. 

A new round of screams carried on the night breeze.  A chill ran down Maggie's back, and she pressed her hands to her ears.  Both were freezing, and neither did much to warm the other.  It was too cold to be out.  She thought of Trevor's truck and the warm air that would flow from the vent.  He owed her at least that much tonight.

Trevor's voice rose, louder now, and Maggie figured she wasn't far off now.  A string of curses, followed by a howl of pain.  One of his idiot friends probably hit him in the head with a can of beer, or something else moronic.  Then the howl rose in pitch, to a squeal of agony. 

Maggie stopped in her tracks.

But of course they were still putting on an act.  They knew better than she did that she had nowhere to go.  Immature.  Stupid.  Crazy boys, and they were still playing with her. 

Another howl-turned-squeal rose into the night, then the sound of branches snapping and leaves smashing.  "Get in, get in!"  "Get us out of here, man!"  "Go, go, go!" 

Maggie's brow furrowed and she moved closer.  Maybe they'd finally succeeded in scaring themselves.

Then a truck engine roared to life, flooding the clearing in front of her with its headlights.  Maggie blinked frantically as her brain tried to make sense of the shapes and blazing brightness in front of her. 

It was Brian's truck, and the figures leaping around it seemed at first to be the rest of the guys jumping into the bed of the truck.  But there were too many, and some of them weren't shaped quite right. 

A low, throaty growl sounded to Maggie's left.  Her breath caught as she turned.  Something crouched in the headlights, one leg on a lump on the ground, one arm holding a second figure down.  Maggie blinked, and the shapes registered in her brain. Trevor lay on the ground, his red scarf and leather jacket that had looked so sleek when he picked her up tonight were torn and splattered with something dark.  Makray lay next to him, his left leg askew and half his face missing.  The figure above them dipped its head towards Trevor, and he let out a new moan of agony.  When the figure moved again, raising it's massive head, Maggie swallowed, willed her heart to stop pounding, and threw back her shoulders. 

Brian's truck swerved and screeched out of the clearing, screams and moans rising from the bed.  Maggie rolled her eyes.  They really didn't know when to stop, did they? 

With the headlights gone, the clearing was dark again, but Maggie had gotten a good look.  Whoever was playing the werewolf didn't know where she was, and she was going to teach him a lesson before she made Trevor wipe the makeup off and drive her home.  She slipped over to Trevor's truck, put the toe of her boot on the back tire, and lifted herself up.  Her fingers closed on something metallic lying in the bottom of the bed.  Trevor's bat.

Trevor's moans led her back to where they were.  Maggie flashed the light on her cell phone.  She didn't mean to do damage, just make them think twice about trying to scare her again.  But then the wolf turned to her, and she saw the light gleaming in the blood dripping from three inch fangs.  She dropped her phone and swung with all her might.

The wolf dropped as the bat contacted squarely on its skull.  It collapsed in a heap on top of Trevor.  Now Maggie knew why the guys jumping into the back of Brian's truck had looked odd.  Some of them were guys.  Some of them were wolves. 

Maggie dropped to her knees, feeling in the leaves for her phone.  Maggie couldn't hear anything over the pounding of her heart and the rustling of the stupid leaves that were everywhere.  Then she remembered Trevor kept his keys in his pocket.  With trembling fingers, Maggie gave up her search for her phone.  She reached forward and found Trevor's shoe, then his jeans.  Slowly, she worked her way up, trembling when the denim went slick with blood.  Then, finally, the lump of keys in his pocket.

The wolf lay on top of Trevor.  Maggie's brain worked furiously.  Werewolf.  Full moon.  But there's no moon tonight.  Stake through the heart?  No, that's vampires.  Silver bullet?  Maybe.  But if they're wrong about the full moon, maybe they're wrong about the bullet.

The keys jingled as they popped free from Trevor's pocket.

The wolf stirred. 

Maggie didn't have a gun or a silver bullet.  She launched herself towards the truck, leaves flying in the darkness as she prayed she got there before the wolf woke up.  Her hands smacked into the grill.  A shuffle behind her and a growl.  She moved around to the driver's side, fingers wrapping around the door handle.  Had Trevor locked it?  She lifted the handle and felt the snap of the release.

Then a pair of jaws clamped down on her ankle.  Pain seared up her leg, but her boots served to protect her to some extent.  Her boots.

It took all the will power in her body to slam her captured foot down to the ground.  Maggie pulled her other foot up and slammed it down onto the creature's head.  Once.  Twice.  Every strike sent lightning up her nerves.

Then the grip slackened.  Maggie pulled free, yanked the door open, and pulled herself up into the truck.  Slam the door.  Lock it.  Lock the other door.

Then she realized why it had let her go.  It was howling.  Calling to the pack.  Reinforcements.

Maggie slammed the key into the ignition, threw it into gear, sent a prayer up to heaven that her dad had taught her to drive stick, and tore out of the clearing the way Brian's truck had gone.

Fifteen minutes later, as the lights of town grew in front of her, she began to wonder again.  Just a prank that Trevor managed to pull off?  Werewolves?  Or stupid boys?  Did she really get bit by a wolf?  Her ankle didn't hurt anymore.  Maybe it was just her own imagination.  Go back home, or stop for a steak on the way?  Steak sounded good.  Saliva flooded her mouth.  Yeah.  Steak sounded good.

Grab a Book! #3

Usually the name of the game is to grab the nearest book, but I'm changing the rules this time.  Grab the book you're currently reading (and if that includes a few books, grab the one you're most excited about - the one you'd take with you into a bubble bath, should you have time for a soak). 

In order to avoid skipping ahead in the book, turn to the page you're currently at, then turn back 20 pages.  Then count down 8 full sentences on the page, and use that full sentence for your prompt. 

Don't forget to post what book you're reading and the sentence you land on for your prompt, so we know where you're coming from.  (And if you should land on a more exciting sentence on the same page, it's not as if anyone's going to check your work.  Go with what works best for you!)

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My response:

I'm reading FIRE by Kristin Cashore, because I loved GRACELING.
I ended up on page 245 where my line is, "Well," he said, "I hope you keep asking."

Viscount Mullen stormed into the great hall, water spraying from his cloak and boots onto polished marble and expensive rugs.  His valet tried not to cringe, but he could not help it when he took a direct hit to his brow.

"Sorry, Scully, it's miserable out there." 

"Mis're'bl in 'here, too, by the looks 'a 'im!" the scullery maid whispered as she passed Scully in the hallway, both of their eyes fixed on the Viscount's shoulders as he disappeared into the drawing room.

The count stood at the fireplace, a complete picture of nobility in his suit and tails, right down to the glass of sherry in his hand.  He turned, squinting as his son entered the room.

"Here here!  Don't keep an old man waiting, son!"  He leaned on his cane and made his way towards a tall, wing-backed chair.  "What says the Lady?"

The viscount scowled and poured himself a drink before sinking onto a couch by the fire.  He sipped before answering.  "She'll not have me, Father."

The count sputtered, sherry spattering his cravat.  "What do you say?  Has she turned you down?"

"Arrogant.  Prideful.  Cold and ... heartless.  Heartless, Father!"  He shook his head and swallowed down another gulp of comfort.

The sputtering turned into a chuckle, then a hearty laugh.  "And so begins the dance, dear boy.  Oh, do chin up, you're not the first to have a fair face turn up her nose at you.  But there are no rules on how many times you can ask, and, with one such as she ... well, I do hope you keep asking!"

Traveling Shovel of Death

In honor of NaNo coming up, I'm going to do something unusual for the prompt.  I did NaNo for the first time in 2008, and while I will caution anyone and everyone against thinking they're a genius and querying their NaNo novel in December, I do love the spirit of NaNo.  To me, it's all about carpe diem.  If you want to write a novel - write one!  Don't wait for someone to give you permission to, or until you "have more time".  Give yourself permission.  Make time.

(Or if it helps at all, I give you permission!!!)

Now in six years of doing NaNo, I have spent my fair share of time procrastinating in the NaNo Forums (part of the whole experience, guys, go check them out).  The "traveling shovel of death" is a kind of challenge/prompt thread where you insert the ... wait for it ... Traveling Shovel of Death ... into your novel. 

The prompt for this week:  The Traveling Shovel of Death

Enjoy!

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My response:

I meant to kill the voles. 

No, I'm serious, I was so mad at the stupid voles!  I planted strawberries two years ago, and because of bad weather, I didn't get anything that first year.  I was so excited when they sprouted up through the snow with flowers everywhere, and little green strawberries following shortly thereafter.  Just as the berries were starting to ripen, the voles hit.  They ate everything.  Ripe berries, green berries ... they even chewed on the stems, ruining whole areas of the patch.  Oh, how I hated them

Next came the cherry tomatoes.  Then my carrots and beets.  Why would they bother with the poison I laid out for them when they already had a perfect feast laid out?  They were evil, and I was done.

My raspberry patch came on in the last week of August, and I was thrilled.  Then, when I went out with a bowl to gather them, I saw it.  Little, nibbled berries all along the bottoms of the raspberry vines.  I lost it.

The shovel had been in the shed when we moved in, and it proved to be sturdy while I was putting in the garden.  I knew the head was old and heavy, and any little moles it encountered would breath their last.  Armed, I headed back to the raspberry patch.

It was dawn, and I knew the voles would be moving around, so I waited patiently, the head of the shovel growing ever heavier in my arms, but I knew the pain would be worth it.  Finally, the leaves stirred, something rustling in the shadows, just beyond my vision. 

The shovel came down hard.  My aim was true.  I felt a crunch.  Victory!  Then I moved the raspberry vine aside to survey my work.

The only thing worse than not killing a vole was realizing I'd killed my neighbor's cat.  She was a good mouser, so I can only guess she'd been lured into my yard with the same murderous thoughts towards my infestation as I had.  She hadn't had a chance against the shovel.

I threw back my head and pulled my arm back, ready to chuck the shovel over the fence, a growling yell rising in my throat.  My arm swung forward.

"Bea, is that you?  Have you seen my Princess this morning?  I notice she's been spending time in your yard lately ..."

My arm slackened and dropped, the shovel falling to the ground and barely missing my toes.  I murmured a curse, then thanked the Lord I hadn't finished my swing.  Somehow explaining to Verna that her cat was dead seemed easier than explaining to the cops why Verna was dead.  So at least there's that.

Ruins

Let's go with a picture prompt this week:

 

Enjoy!

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My response:

She padded softly across the stone, the mossy surface damp under the pads of her feet.  She kept to the shadows, where she was less likely to be seen.  Hunting in the daytime was difficult for her.  The tall trees of the canopy cast long shadows over the jungle, but her prey had sharp eyes, and her shining black pelt shimmered in the light.  It was much easier in the dark.

But tonight she was hungry.  Only two cubs remained of the three she'd born half a moon ago.  They were so small and helpless, and they drained her strength from her with their own hunger.  She was exhausted, but she didn't dare rest out of sight of her den.  She wasn't the only shadow out hunting this day.

(I know this is shorter than my typical responses, but I'm going to exercise my right to say, nope, I'm not feeling this one.  Maybe it's because I haven't written anything anthropomorphic since elementary.  No offense to Kipling, I just don't think it's my thing.)

Waking up

I read a lot of literary agent interviews.  Inevitably, the question of "What do you hate to see on an opening page?" comes up, and one of the most common answers is "waking up".  They are quick to explain that it can be done well, and it can have significance, but if you're just starting at waking up ... well, just because ... you're probably better off starting somewhere else.

So, my challenge this week is: Write a "waking up" opening scene that has something unique or significant about it, something that would justify its use as an opening scene, not just another kid waking up and climbing out of bed.

Enjoy!

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My response:

(I'd like to take a moment to say that I do usually come up with these prompts on the spot.  There is sometimes that tickle, somewhere between the thrill of a roller coaster with my stomach dropping out from under me and the turning of my gut before I lose my lunch.  In that moment, I doubt my capabilities as a writer, and I worry about what kind of drivel I'm about to write and post to the internet.  Then I swallow, let my mind go, and pray it won't be too terribly bad.  Yep.  That feeling right there.  Well, here goes!)

There was too much light.  Even with my eyes closed, I squinted against the brightness piercing my lids.  It was as if I'd been in a cave for a year, then sought out the sunlight, only to find I was blinded by the sun.  I had no idea then how close that thought came to the truth.

The sounds came next.  The incessant beeping.  It was like something out of my mother's daytime dramas, the heart monitor and the whirring of a blood pressure machine.  Except there was no TV, or at least, if there was, it wasn't on.  And the next thing I felt was the tightening of the band on my arm and the pulling of tape at certain spots on my skin.

I wanted to open my eyes and look around, but they refused.  Instead, I stretched, rolling my shoulders and taking inventory of all my limbs.

Whispered curses, and I heard the clang of metal on metal.  "Are you awake?!"  Then footsteps, retreating.

I breathed in, filling my lungs.  No pain.  Only the ache of having slept too long in one position.  Why was there no pain?  If I'd been in a car accident, if I'd been sick ... anything that would have landed me in a hospital ought to have left me in pain, but as far as I could tell, I was whole.

Footsteps, more than one set of them, came back into the room.  I managed to force my lids apart, just a slit, and three forms moved between me and the light.

"Kimber?"  Yes, that was my name.  Kimber.  "Kimber.  This is Dr. Marx.  Can you open your eyes, sweetheart?"

I did.  Dr. Marx had skin that hung from his neck, like a starving vulture, and a beak to match it, with beady little eyes.  His voice, though, was deep and rolling, like the far off rumble of thunder.

I opened my mouth to speak, but found my tongue and mouth too dry.  My lips stuck together awkwardly. 

"Nurse ..."  A blue figure bent over me, and I felt a swab moving across my lips, drops seeping into my mouth.

"That's better, now," Dr. Marx went on.  "Go ahead Amber, try again."

My lips moved, but no sound came out.  I remembered there was more to speaking than just my lips.  My sound box quacked like a dying seagull.  I tried again.

"What ... what ... happened?"

"Don't you worry about that now, Kimber, you are tired."  I felt the calming stroke of a hand on my arm and let my eyes drop closed again.  "Rest now.  We'll talk soon."

I felt my mind dropping away, drifting off to sleep, but I heard the nurse's question.

"Have you ever seen someone come out of a coma after five years, Dr.?"

Mean Girls

I recently bought THE LIST, by Siobhan Vivian.  I'd seen it on the shelf in Target a few times, but I get most of my reading material from my local library, so it took a few times walking past (and that 20% off sticker) to finally pick it up*.

Just after the title page, we're given a list of eight girls who won the rank of either prettiest or ugliest in their high school class that year.  I'll admit, it was a little overwhelming at first, but it was easy enough to refer back to so I could put the characters together in my mind.  Then I got sucked in and didn't need to refer to the list anymore to know who was doing what.  Vivian put together a heartbreaking look at how the list affects both the girls on the ugly list and the girls on the pretty list.

Then yesterday, I made a new friend.  As we walked the halls of the school, pulling kids out of class for the annual hearing and vision screening, she spilled much of her life story to me, and I thought how sad it is that we all have stories about the "mean girls" in our lives.

So in honor of my new friend and for Siobhan Vivian, the prompt for this week is: Mean Girls.

Enjoy!

*Believe me, as an aspiring author who wants people to buy her books one day, I realize I ought to patronize other authors ... but I also need to feed my kids, y'all.  And we have a great local library.  I do buy books when I fall in love with them, like THE PALADIN PROPHESY, by Mark Frost, and Jennifer Nielson's Ascendance Trilogy, just to name a few I've picked up lately.

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My response:

I didn't get a chance to eat after swim practice, so by time I sat down for lunch, my stomach was roaring.  I could smell the bacon even before I unwrapped my sandwich, and it was almost to my lips when I heard Skyler's voice.

"You're not going to eat that, are you?"  She slipped her lunch cooler onto the table and perched on the edge of the bench.

I froze.  My eyes darted up and down the table.  Why was Skylar sitting next to me?  Sure, we usually sat at the same table, technically ... but she sat at the very end, with the high maintenance girls and football stars.  The table stretched the length of the cafeteria, actually a row of tables latched together.  It was like a sliding scale of who's who in school.  I was usually in earshot of Skylar and her gang, a spot I earned by dominating the girls' swim team, but in four years of high school, she'd never spoken two words to me.

"I'm starving."  I didn't put my BLT down, but I couldn't bring myself to take a bite, either, without knowing what she was up to.

She smoothed her pencil skirt and brushed an imagined speck from the table before pulling a bottle of water and an apple out of her cooler.  My mouth watered at the sight of the apple.  I was so hungry, I could eat anything.

"So much mayo.  And the bacon grease will make you break out."  Last, she pulled out a plain, greek yogurt, arranging her lunch carefully in front of her without meeting my eyes.

My mind buzzed with responses.  Why do you care?  or I've never had that problem before.  Or, My skin is so fried from the chlorine that the bacon grease will probably do it some good. 

I hesitated too long, and she took it as an invitation to offer more. 

"I don't mean to put you out, I was just thinking, since Denton asked you to Winter Formal, you'll want to be looking your best.  He's such a catch!"  She finally met my gaze, eyes sparkling as she giggled, but she wasn't that good of an actress.  The twinkling stars fell like daggers, and I knew exactly what she was getting at.  Denton was supposed to be hers.  I didn't know what her plan was, but I wasn't about to play her game.

I opened my mouth and took a big bite of bread and bacon, then returned her frown.  "Ummm.  That's good."

Paint Sample Prompt

In April of 2012 I attended my first ever SCBWI Conference.  There I had the privilege of hearing Alane Ferguson, an amazing author and inspiring speaker.  She taught a few different workshops, one of which was a writing prompt workshop, and I give her full credit for this prompt.

She handed out paint sample cards - you know the kind, with the different shades of the same color that are supposed to help you choose how you'd like to paint your walls, but really leaving you tearing your hair out and buying a snickers on the way out, instead of paint?  But I digress.

Next time you happen by a wall of paint samples, pick up a few.  Rather than simply naming them Grey 1, Grey 2, ... Grey 156497, etc, they feel the need to grant them all elaborate names.  This is where it gets fun.  We get things like "Gargoyle Shadow", "Aubusson Vine", and "Weathered Wicker".  The description is sometimes questionable, given the color sample, but how can you not be inspired by something like Gargoyle Shadow?

So today, I present your prompt in the form of a paint sample:

(In case you're wondering, these are Dutch Boy paints.  I did not get free paint, just the same free sample paper anyone can pick up from a store.)

The prompt is to use these words as inspiration for a short piece.  The challenge is to incorporate all 4 descriptions in your response. 

Enjoy!

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My response:

The Nantucket mist clung to my jacket, swirling around me as if it had a life of its own.  I broke out in a sweat, despite the chill of the night, and I felt a bead of moisture work its way down my back.  I tucked my jean jacket closer around my shoulders and tucked my chin into my flamingo feather scarf.

I'd been thrilled when Sean pulled me aside after the game and asked me to meet him up by the old, abandoned light house after the party, but standing out in the dark, I didn't feel so special anymore.  The lighthouse loomed ahead.  I didn't know which side he intended, so I walked carefully around it, dodging shadows.  The moon shone dimly through the clouds, and with the mist, everything - trees, bushes, buildings, even the old water wheel down on the creek -  looked like it had been twisted out of sheet metal, grey and gleaming with moisture.

I pulled my phone from my pocket.  Nearly 2am and if Mom woke up before I got home, I'd be grounded next weekend.  It just might be worth it, depending on if Sean showed tonight.  He'd only had one beer, so while the rest of the team was wasted, I knew he'd still be able to negotiate his way up the curving, cliff-side road to the lighthouse. 

I'd left the moon on the other side of the light house, so the first thing I saw was the shadow.  My first thought was that I'd had too much to drink, and my wits had taken their leave.  I blinked, hoping the image would disappear, but no such luck.  I didn't even have breath to scream.  Creeping across the ground towards me was a long gargoyle shadow - pointed wings stretched out on either side and a great, horned head in between.

The shadow brushed my toes, and I staggered away from the building. 

There stood Sean, pulling his letterman jacket on.  The collar stuck out, and he tucked it down, the sides of the jacket settling to his body.

"Ashley?"

"Sean? Oh my ... "  I laughed.  "I thought ... well, I ..."

He looked confused, and self-consciousness immediately squelched my giggles. 

"Sorry, just your shadow surprised me."

He cocked his head at me, his face blank of expression, a perfect impression of Stonewall Jackson. 

Did he not understand?  Maybe the rumors were right.  Maybe he really was as dumb as dirt. 

"Nevermind."

"Okay."

I waited, not wanting to jump ahead of myself again and stick my foot in my mouth.  He stared at me.  I shifted from foot to foot and looked out over the ocean.  He pressed his lips together.

Yep.  I'm grounded next weekend for no good reason.

Death appeared inevitable ...

I'm going to keep this short and sweet this week.  (Okay, so maybe not sweet, but definitely short.)

The prompt: Death appeared inevitable ...

Whether you choose to kill off your character or not ... Enjoy!

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My response:

Maybe I was too naïve.  All I'd ever done was try to serve my people.  It was surprising how quickly they turned against me. 

I stumbled as I crossed the platform, my hobbled feet tangling and making me lurch forward.  My hands flew up, but tied as they were, they only scraped against the weathered wood, picking up splinters, as I crashed to the ground.

Before I managed to reorient myself, a painful vice clamped around my arm and lifted me up, setting me roughly back on my feet.  Rotten vegetables splattered where I had just been, the juice spattering my skirt. It was so dirty already, the extra spots didn't make a difference.  I stumbled along, stopping beneath the noose meant for me.  The man behind me kept walking, pushing up against me.  It wasn't a mistake.  I caught the look in his eyes just before the soldier wrenched him away, towards his own noose.  A chill ran down my back.

I'd fought against the King's orders, against his demand for higher taxes, against his draft of able bodied young men to fight his wars ... and in the end, this was all I gained for it.  A noose between a murderer and a rapist.

I didn't want to lift my eyes.  I'd seen this kind of crowd before.  But I knew my place.  I had done no wrong, and I would not hang my head in shame.  I lifted my chin.

To my great relief, I didn't see anyone I recognized.  I knew quite a few of the local villagers, and they knew me.  Before me was a group of lowlifes and vagrants, their clothing ragged and torn.  They came to the execution only for the alms the Sherriff would distribute after.  Blood money.

There was no grand ceremony, no reading of sentences or last chances to repent.  The executioner just started at one end of the gallows and worked his way down.  He patiently helped the accused to stand on the tall stood, fastened the noose, kicked the stool away, and made sure they were dead before he moved on.  And now he was standing beside me.

I stepped up, careful of my dirt-caked skirts.  My head spun, a result of not having eaten in two days, but I clenched my teeth, determined to face my end with all the pride of my family.  The last remaining heir of the lands of Cavenah, and we bow only to the rightful King. 

The noose dropped over my head, and the executioner pulled it tight.  The fraying rope poked and tore my skin.  I bit my tongue and tasted blood.  One moment passed.  Two.  Then three. 

I heard the scrape of sword against scabbard behind me, then the executioner lay at my feet, his neck sliced neatly through.  Then the rope hanging above me dropped from the beam and fell down my back. 

In my ear, I heard his voice, like a song of redemption.

Today would not be my day to die. 

The Blank Page

I hate staring at a blank page.  When I have a story, and I'm not sure where to start, I can't just sit there and ponder with a clean slate in front of me.  It's too stressful.  Instead, I jump in and write something ... anything ... to avoid looking at the blank page.  (Much like I'm doing now!)

But here's the thing: You can always go back and change it.  If you started in the wrong place, no problem.  Go back and cut or add more to fix it.  If your voice was a little off because you weren't sure where you wanted to be, you can rewrite it after you've finished, when the voice is more concrete in your head.  In the end, having an imperfect piece of writing is infinitely better than being stuck on that blank page.

The prompt this week is twofold.  One:  Follow my writing prompt and post your comment.  Two: Go to your current writing project and add 2000 words to it this week.  Don't let that blank page or the question of where to go from here stop your progression as a writer.  Anything, no matter how imperfect, is better than a blank page.

This week's writing prompt:  "It was past crazy.  Like ... playing chicken with a gas tanker crazy."

Enjoy!

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My response:

The hole was black as Hell, and we were sure to end up there if we kept on with this crazy idea. 

Krista let out an adrenaline-fueled giggle, the notes echoing through the black circle at our feet.  Sara punched her in the shoulder, jerking her head towards the ritzy hotel sitting at the bottom of the slope.  The hot springs pool was open twenty four hours, and while no customers were there, a pair of bored lifeguards lounged outside the snack shack.

Maggie was the only one not hyped up.  She held her phone in both hands, scanning it around slowly.  I could see her setting up the video in her mind.  It would start with a panorama of where we were, explain the stunt, and then, after she'd signaled us, scan over to four girls in ski masks, hair tucked neatly away and only long, tanned limbs to identify us.  The first video had gone viral, the third one made international headlines.  YouTube fans clamored for more.

And Sara's ideas, reckless from the start, were getting to be downright dangerous.

I eased up to the edge, careful to stay out of Maggie's shot, but I needed to get a look for myself.  This hot spring had been blocked off for years, ever since some kid drowned in it.  It was in a hollow cave that went straight down into the granite of the mountain.  Ninety feet above, a hole allowed sunlight in.  The hotel had carved out a second entrance just above water level and built a dock, but that was all boarded up  now.  It had taken all four of us to pull the manhole cover off the hole at the top... the cover intended to keep people out.

Deb waited until Maggie stepped back, then knelt down next to me.  She pulled a handful of light sticks out of her bag.  Glancing behind her, she made sure her body was between the lights of the hotel and what she was doing.  I maneuvered myself to make sure no one on the road could see.  She snapped a stick and tossed it down towards the side where we suspected the dock would be.

The light fell too quickly, faster than my eyes could adjust.  All I saw was the glimmering of moist walls before the plop of the light stick into water, then darkness.  Three more times we tried before she found the dock.  Then we peered down.

"Is that only ninety feet?" Krista whispered, the shock of it squelching her giggles.

"Don't be a baby, Krista." Sara growled, shaking out her hair and pulling it back into a ponytail.

Deb looked up at me, her eyes dark in the moonlight.  "Do you think it's possible they drained it?"

I shook my head slowly, trying to think.  Could you drain a hot spring?  Did it just look bad because we were at the top looking down?  Was it me, or did that dock stick out awful close to where we'd be falling?

I caught Sara's eye on me.  "If it had been drained, we'd still be able to see the light sticks that fell in the water, right?"  I returned her glare.  I wasn't afraid.  Or at least, I wouldn't give her any reason to call me on it.  "I'm sure it's fine."  I forced my legs to straighten and strode back over to our stuff, stripping off my t-shirt to reveal my black cami and running shorts, our trademark outfits. 

It's go time.

First Day of School

I'm going to pretend this prompt isn't because I dropped my babies off at the local elementary school today ...

So many YA and MG books start with the first day of school.  Why?  Because it's something most of us can identify with on a visceral level.  Any character heading in for their first day of school immediately has our sympathy.  We can feel our guts clench with anxiety and the stares of the other kids (especially if it's only OUR first day at a new school, where everyone else is already established). 

However you want to write it, however old your MC is, the prompt for this week is the First Day of School.

Enjoy!

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My response:

I knew I shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning.  There was just something in the air ... a warning floating in through the open window on a desert breeze.  I told my mom we would be crazy to call the desert's bluff.  She just laughed and tossed a new t-shirt onto my bed.  "Get dressed."

Fifth grade was bad enough, but now that we'd moved to Tucson, into Grandma's house, I wasn't even going to fifth grade with my friends anymore.  And I knew from experience that no one ever liked the new boy. 

The elementary school down the street had wrought iron gates around the whole school and looked like a prison more than a school.  Inside wasn't much better.  Mrs. Apel wasn't exactly welcoming, either.  She frowned at me, adjusted her glasses, and pointed to the bookshelf along the side wall.  "You'll have to sit there until I can get a new desk brought in."  I shimmied along the bookshelf to the back of the class.  She didn't say where on the shelf I had to sit, and the last thing I wanted was to have everyone stare at me all day.

I pulled off my backpack and set it on the shelf next to me.  A kid with brown hair and blue eyes peered at me from beneath his overgrown bangs.  I smiled.  He sneered.

"Ok, class, pull out your pencils and notebooks.  Fifteen minutes of journal writing, starting now."

At least I had notebooks and pencils.  I reached into my bag and got out what I had.

"You aren't allowed to have a plastic pencil box!" a voice whispered. 

I looked up.  A girl with red braids fixed a disapproving stare at my pencil box.

"What else am I supposed to have?"

She rolled her eyes.  "A pencil BAG."  She waved her canvas contraption around in the air for me to see, then shoved it back into her desk.

Just as I was thinking things couldn't get worse, I felt something cold against my leg.  My hand dropped down to brush it away and landed in a puddle of milk.  It was oozing out of my backpack.

I stared, as if I could will it away.  It didn't work.  I peered into my bag and opened my lunch sack.  Sure enough, the lid had come off my TMNT thermos, and it was empty. 

Yep.  Should'a stayed in bed.