Camp Stories

This week's post is a shameless plug for one of my favorite non-profits: NaNoWriMo ... specifically, their summer time "camp" style equivalent, Camp NaNoWriMo.  Now, I know NaNo has a bad reputation in the publishing world.  The reason I'm such a fan is because of the spirit of NaNo; the idea that you need to stop putting off writing as something to do "one day" and to just do it.

In all honesty, I was half way through my first novel when I discovered NaNo, so I like to think I'd be a novelist without it.  BUT, I also think NaNo gave me confidence I didn't have before.  After that first year, writing 50,000 words in a month, I didn't just dream of writing a novel, I knew I could.

Of course, the main problem the publishing industry has with NaNo is the hordes of people who finish that first draft and think they're suddenly a literary genius, and I have to agree with them there.  Every first draft needs revising ... lots of revising ... and critique partners, beta readers, whatever you want to call them.  And then more revising.

Now that I've gone off on that tangent, I'm happy to announce that I'm participating in Camp NaNo this April.  You can set your own word count goals for Camp NaNo, so I set mine at 30,000 - just enough to make good progress on my current work-in-progress.

Hence, the prompt this week:  Camp stories.  It doesn't have to be your typical summer camp.  Maybe you went to music camp, ballet camp, or even writing camp.  Whichever kind of camp you attended, share your stories! (Or, of course, your fiction. Have fun!)

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My response:

I got back to the dorms and headed straight to my bed without even pulling off my leotard and tights.  We only had two hours until afternoon classes - it had taken me about fifteen minutes to eat, and now I had one hour forty-five minutes to sleep.  I wasn't going to miss one second of shut-eye if I didn't have to.

My bed was soft, and I buried my head in my pillow.  I could feel the slight bulge in my stomach from my lunch.  Hopefully I would digest while I slept, and Madame Pinion wouldn't notice in class.  Still, I knew I was lucky.  My mom and dad were both tall, thin beanpoles, so what do you expect their offspring to be?  Bony.  There's no nice term for it, I was as skinny as an anorexic runway model, no matter what I ate.  Thank heavens!  I love to eat almost as much as I love ballet.  Almost.  But I'm sure I'd starve myself if I had to ...

I shut my eyes, and the only sound I could hear was the beating of my heart.  Thump ... whoosh.  Thump ... whoosh.  Thump ... whoosh.  It felt strong.  I felt a surge of pride.  I'd been working hard, dancing ten to eleven hours a day for the past six weeks, and my body reflected it.  I was strong.  Flexible.  Capable.  And I had a good shot at one of the solo slots for the final performance. 

Thump ... whoosh.  Thump ... whoosh.  I let my mind go blank, so I would fall asleep.  Thump ... whoosh.  Then there was something else.  My body jerked, and I groaned at being snapped back to consciousness.  The sound was soft and hissing.  My mind cleared.  Sobbing.  Gasping and sobbing.  It came from the communal bathroom.  I rolled my eyes and relaxed into my mattress.  Was it really my problem?

Stupid conscience.  It wasn't about to let me sleep.  I rolled back out of bed and padded towards the open door.  The sobbing got louder.  I started to wonder who it was and sifted through the faces who'd sat next to me at lunch, drinking diet cokes and picking at romaine lettuce with no dressing.  I stopped at the door and peered in.

Sasha.  Of course, it would be Sasha, the one girl in my dorm I'd rather kick in the face than console.  She sat with her back against the wall, legs pulled up in front of her, her face buried in her hands, still in her leotard and tights, like me.  Her body shook with sobs, her chest heaving ... unlike the rest of us, Sasha actually had a chest.  We wouldn't have cared at all, if she hadn't flaunted it in our faces and used it to get Marcel  to favor her.

I didn't have shoes on, so it was possible she hadn't heard me coming.  I leaned back out of the bathroom, contemplating my escape.  Her sobbing paused.

"Go ahead.  Laugh.  I know none of you will be sad to see me go!"

"Go?"  The word popped out without any thought on my part, but an image flashed in my mind: Marcel calling Sasha over after morning class and telling her Madam Pinion needed to speak to her.

Sasha didn't look up, but her shoulders shook again with silent sobs.  "Oh what do you know!  Your acceptance was never probational!"

"Probational?"  I'd heard of that, but no one I'd talked to had mentioned being on probation.  Everyone here was good - you had to be, just to get accepted.

Sasha looked up, her eyes bright with tears, cheeks flushed.  "I'm too fat, you idiot!  'Lose ten pounds' they tell me, and I haven't eaten anything in months!  And now it's 'Well, it seems ten pounds wasn't enough ...'  Those skanks!"  Then her anger melted into misery, her eyes rolled back, and she turned her back to me, rolling into a ball on the bathroom floor.

I realized my mouth hung open and shut it.  I felt like I ought to say something ... but what was there to say?  Five minutes ago, I would have cheered to hear she was leaving.  Now the thought made me sick to my stomach ... my perfectly flat stomach, complete with protruding ribcage.

I didn't have anything to say, but there was something I could do.  I went to find the rest of the girls and make sure they steered clear of the dorm until Sasha had a chance to pack up and leave.  The last thing she needed was us gawking at her.  And I could get myself something else to eat - my stomach was already rumbling.

Tarantulas!

I tend to get my prompts from things going on in my life.  Today, I took my girls to swimming lessons that the local pool offers for free during spring break ... to 6 to 12-year-olds, but not to their 3-year-old little brothers.  So, I did what any modern mom would do in this situation: I bribed him with a new app on my kindle to sit still and quiet and not fling himself fully clothed into the pool after his sisters.

It worked like a charm.  That is, until a group of tarantulas crawled across the screen.  He didn't have a problem with the lady bugs, the bees, or even the cockroaches, but he could not bring himself to "touch" the tarantulas on the screen.

Between that and a conversation I had with a friend about how we liked to scare ourselves as kids, I decided that, even though it's not October, let's do something creepy this week.

Prompt:  What sends shivers up your back?

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My response:

The clock on the wall read eleven forty-five when the movie finally ended.  I sighed.  Tonight definitely did not turn out like I'd pictured.  Tasha had to get herself grounded for breaking curfew last week, so she was jailed up at home.  I'd even called her mom and pleaded my case: My parents are both out of town on business, and I just need someone to be at home with me, so I'm not alone.  She was very sympathetic, but she made it quite clear that Tasha was still in leg irons for the next two weekends.  No dice.

Brandon said he'd come over, at first, but when he found out my parents would be gone, he got all fidgety.  "I like your parents.  I want them to keep liking me.  Did they say I could come?"

"Well, not exactly ..."  What they'd said, exactly, was that Tasha was welcome, but no one else, especially Brandon.

"If one of them were to come home and find me there, would they be mad?"  He looked me right in the eye, and I was trapped.  Why did I have to pick such a good boy for a boyfriend?!  He was lucky he was hot, or this would be reason enough to dump him.

So I ended up alone in the basement, half-eaten box of pizza on the coffee table, empty quart of ice cream next to it.  I switched off the TV.  The house was starkly silent, without even the ticking of a clock to soften it.  I took a deep breath.  There was no reason I should let this freak me out.  No one but Tasha and Brandon knew I was alone tonight.  I'd lived in the house all sixteen years of my life, and no one had ever broken in.  It was just another night.

I gathered the pizza and ice cream boxes into my arms and headed towards the stairs.  I flipped off the switch to the living area, and a blanket of darkness fell.  I swallowed hard, reaching purposefully towards the switch for the stairwell.  I should have known better.

Light restored, I started up the stairs to the main level of the house.  I flipped on the next light before turning off the stair light behind me.  Then I glanced around.  The kitchen/living area of the house was mom's pride and joy.  In the daytime, bright sunlight streamed in through large windows.  Mom loved natural light.  How was it I'd never noticed how creepy it was at night?  In each window, my reflection stared back at me.  I couldn't see out, but I knew anyone standing outside could see in.  I flipped the switch back off. 

There must have been a full moon; shadows stretched across the lawn from the deck to the old swing set.  I fixed my eyes to the old lilac bush.  It moved.  I gulped. 

The wind howled against the house, and I nearly jumped out of my socks.  Then I realized that was why the bush was moving.  I shook my head, laughing nervously, and headed towards the kitchen.  Just then, lightning flashed, painting the image of the windows across the tile of the kitchen floor.  My heart stopped.  In the light from the sliding glass door stood a silhouette - the shadow of a man.  My eyes leaped up to the door.  No one was there.  From the size of the shadow, he would have to be right there, standing in front of the door.  But there was nothing there.

My nervous laugh rose again in my throat, but it didn't even make it to my mouth.  I swallowed it down.  I should have put the leftover pizza in a Tupperware, but who has time for that when there's an axe murderer in your backyard?  I tossed the empty ice cream box into the trash, remembering as it hit the bottom that I shouldn't throw away the spoon inside.  Oh well.  If I lived through the night, I'd fish it out.  I tossed the pizza box into the fridge and slammed the door, just as another flash lit the room.

My eyes flew to the spot on the tile where the man's shadow was.  In the strobes of light, like an old-fashioned movie, I saw the shadow lift it's hand to the door handle. 

I screamed.

I had to get to my room. I turned and ran out the back of the kitchen, up the stairs to the third floor.  Behind me, the glass of the kitchen door shattered.

Stolen Bitcoins

I've really struggled this week to come up with a prompt.  I finally called over my shoulder to my husband to throw out an idea.  He immediately responded, "Stolen Bitcoins.  How do you steal something that doesn't exist?"

So it's that simple.  Steal something that doesn't exist.  Bring out your criminal mastermind.  :-)

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My response:

Emma lay on the packed, gritty dirt, her cheek pressed against the muck, eyes barely fluttering.  The soft flickering of the fire played across her face.  The long sleeves of her shirt were dirty and torn where her hooded attackers had held her, her ribs and hips sore from the pummeling they'd given her, but the sad state of her body was the last thing on her mind.

The soft thrumming, the flicker of power in her gut, was gone.  True, she'd only had it for the last three days, since her sixteenth birthday, but now, without it, she felt empty.  Sure, three days ago, she would have done anything to get rid of it.  Suddenly shorting out every electronic device she touched, accidentally melting her bicycle chain, and giving her boyfriend third degree burns when she kissed him seemed more like a curse than a gift ... but if the old woman was right, and she would be able to learn to control it ... to help others, not hurt them ... maybe it wouldn't have been so bad.

Not that it was an issue anymore.  The hooded figures had hidden behind her car after practice tonight, jumping out and dragging her into the woods.  The chanting somehow kept her new powers from harming her attackers, and in the end, the spark slowly faded and disappeared. 

Tears slipped down Emma's cheeks into the dirt.  As soon as she felt up to it, she would walk out of the woods and back to the school.  Hopefully someone was still there.  If not, she could drive home, where she would tell her mom about the attack and the beating ... but never about the part that mattered.  If she told the police someone had stolen her magic ... well, how could you steal something that doesn't exist?

Child of the Mist

I started reading CHILD OF THE MISTS, by Kathleen Morgan, the other day.

 

I have been enchanted by Scottish brogue and images of the beautiful landscape every since.

 

I mean, seriously, look at this place ...

 

It's right out of a fairy tale!

 

Ok, I admit my enchantment with Scotland is entirely romantic, as I have never been there, but I have been next-door in England, and across the waters in Ireland.  I have to say, that is some of the most beautiful country I've ever seen.

 

And with scenery like this, who wouldn't be inspired?

 

Well enough talking.  There's your prompt for the week.  Enjoy!

***All pictures stolen from Google Images: Scotland***

And one more, just for fun!

 

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My response:

"Well, it's a fine little lad!" the old woman crooned as Lady Anne's moaning came to an end.  "A lad to grow and take his Da's place one day!"

Silence dropped over the birthing room, from the serving girls standing ready to the Lady herself, lying prone on the bed.  Not a breath stirred the air.

Lady Anne's matronly sister, Erin, broke the silence.  "God grant he may."

Lady Anne reached up to Erin's elbow.  "Please, Erin, is there any news?"

Erin turned a grim face to Anne, wiped the sweat from her brow with a practiced sweep of her cloth, and sighed.  "I don't know what men fear more - having an army outside the castle walls or a woman in the birthing room.  We've not heard anything, but I will find out for you what I can."

Erin dropped her rag on the pillow by Anne's head and moved quickly across the room, slipping out the door.  She closed the heavy door behind her, then a chill ran down her back.  Lady Anne had gone into labor nearly a half a day ago, in the evening, when MacDuffle's army showed up outside the castle gates.  Since then, they hadn't had any news.  The men folk of the castle had better things to worry about.

Erin scanned up and down the hallway.  For all she knew, the walls had fallen, and McDuffle's men were already roaming the hallways, though if they were, their first stop would have been to find Lady Anne.  Lady Anne's husband, Gregor Cambell, had grown old and waited long for a wife to bear him a son.  His first two wives had died in childbirth, taking their small sons with them.  He had sworn off marriage until his steward warned him that having an heir was the only hope for a peaceful succession.  Lady Anne was too young for him by far, but their alliance joined two houses, and now, Gregor Cambell had a son.

Erin slipped noiselessly through the hallways and out the front door of the castle.  She expected to hear the sounds of battle, clanging metal, shouting, but only distant, muffled thudding came to her ears.  Men stood watch on the walls of the castle.  At least her first question was answered.  The MacDuffles had not breached the wall, at least.

Erin strode forward and climbed the stairs.  Gregor's brother, Roden, met her at the top.  His face was set in a frown, and he limped towards her like a bear towards a deer.  Even with the wound he took yesterday, Erin knew Roden would prefer to be on the field of battle.

Up on the top of the wall, Erin could hear the battle.  Still, it wasn't as loud as she'd expected.  The thick mists muffled the clang of steel on steel, and the men were too weary to continue their full throated battle cries.  Grunting and panting, they continued their struggle.

Roden stared into Erin's eyes.  "Well, Lass, what news have ye?  Tells us straight!"

Erin shivered in the cold.  She hadn't bothered to put on her cloak, and her velvet dress alone wasn't enough to ward off the Highland chill.  "It's a lad, Roden, a strong little lad."

The words were barely out of her mouth when Roden opened his.  A roar echoed above the wall and over the green hills.  "Hail, Gregor Cambell, and hail his new-born SON!"

The men around them on the wall picked up the cry, and it moved forward, into the battle, as each man repeated it in turn.  Roden's laughter followed it through the mists.  The news was like a potion, infusing each man with strength and vigor.  The fighting resumed, but even Erin could see the change that had taken place.  I didn't surprise her at all, two hours later, when Gregor Cambell himself came to the birthing room to announce their victory ... and to see his new son.