I didn't go running this morning. Not because of the snow, which we did get, but because of the WIND. Oh my lands, the wind we have today!!!
We're not unused to wind, here in southern Idaho. On a typical day, it manifests itself as a determined breeze. On days like today, every trash can on the street has blown over, and it looks like the truck has already collected, because the trash is nowhere to be found ... until you get into the farmers' fields downwind, and the barbed wire looks like a clothesline.
It reminded me of a few weeks ago, when the wind snatched a piece of paper from my daughter's hands at school pick-up. Her face squished up and I knew she was about to cry, so I grabbed her hand and we dashed off across the parking lot after it. Luckily, it hit a tree in front of the school and stuck, so we only had to chase ... well, maybe 200 feet across the crowded school pick-up before getting it. *eye roll*
And do you know what that piece of paper was?
An ad.
No, seriously, it was an ad for a pediatric dentist or chiropractor or something that the teacher forgot to put in their homework folders so had instead handed out on their way out the door. And we risked life and limb running through school pick-up to get it back.
Oy.
At least it works as fodder for my prompt this week! Without any further ado, the prompt is:
"The winds snatched it from [his/her] hands..."
Enjoy!
*****************************************************************************
My response:
The wind snatched the origami butterfly from her hands. It passed the edge of the cliff in moments, swirling higher and higher in the updraft.
Her mouth dropped open as she watched its frantic dance. Only the cliff edge held her back. It had happened too quickly.
She had meant to come and stand at the rim, contemplating her loss and talking to her mother, as if she were still there. Then, when she was ready, she would have let the small paper fly.
But just like her mother's death, the butterfly was gone too soon. Now she stood with empty hands and a hollow heart wondering what had just happened.
Monday, November 16, 2015
Monday, November 2, 2015
Elections
The post for this week is inspired by my friend, whose husband is running for a spot on the City Council of a small town. With the election tomorrow, I asked her how she's doing. She said the hard part is that they don't have the first clue how it's going to turn out. There are no polls for a small town election, so while he could very well win, he may also walk away with only a few votes. There's really no way to know ... and so they won't know until the votes are counted.
I would not trade all of my anxieties for this one of hers right now.
So, the prompt for this week is to write a bit about an election. Make it a student body, homecoming queen, or even US President election, whatever you like. Have fun!
********************************************************************************
My response:
I walked into the courthouse with wings on my feet. I felt like I'd off-loaded barrels of bricks from my shoulders. Only the weight of my restored ego kept me down.
The swearing-in was scheduled for 10am, but I was there early. Mostly for the photo op with the press. It had taken fifteen minutes to get from my car to the front door - a distance I usually crossed in a matter of seconds. Today everyone wanted to shake my hand and get my autograph. After four years of serving my people, even more of them had grown to know and love me, and I knew I would keep fighting for them.
It was us against the world, but as of the election yesterday, we'd won a major battle.
And it wasn't just that. Four more years of a paycheck that would keep my children in the best schools. Four more years of holding a position of respect, such that my ex couldn't mess with me like he had in the past. Four more years.
I was so ready.
"Annie?" Suddenly my best friend, also a member of the legislature, but on the staggered term from my own, was at my elbow. "Annie, you better get in here."
Her blue eyes were wide and wet as she pulled me into the main hall. Everyone was there, which was expected, but I quickly picked out the problem. The election clerk stood at the presentation table, a projector set up.
"... manipulated the vote in a number of the sectors. We have identified the areas where the vote was tampered with, and these sectors will be removed from the total count of yesterday's election ..."
Someone tampered with the votes? I only believed it for a split second. Then the reality of the situation hit me. They were getting rid of me. Whether the people wanted me or not, the rest of the government was tired of putting up with me. They'd had to come up with a way to get rid of me, and they'd done it. Accuse me of tampering with votes. Throw out the sectors where my supporters live.
But they were wrong. I wasn't done fighting, yet.
I would not trade all of my anxieties for this one of hers right now.
So, the prompt for this week is to write a bit about an election. Make it a student body, homecoming queen, or even US President election, whatever you like. Have fun!
********************************************************************************
My response:
I walked into the courthouse with wings on my feet. I felt like I'd off-loaded barrels of bricks from my shoulders. Only the weight of my restored ego kept me down.
The swearing-in was scheduled for 10am, but I was there early. Mostly for the photo op with the press. It had taken fifteen minutes to get from my car to the front door - a distance I usually crossed in a matter of seconds. Today everyone wanted to shake my hand and get my autograph. After four years of serving my people, even more of them had grown to know and love me, and I knew I would keep fighting for them.
It was us against the world, but as of the election yesterday, we'd won a major battle.
And it wasn't just that. Four more years of a paycheck that would keep my children in the best schools. Four more years of holding a position of respect, such that my ex couldn't mess with me like he had in the past. Four more years.
I was so ready.
"Annie?" Suddenly my best friend, also a member of the legislature, but on the staggered term from my own, was at my elbow. "Annie, you better get in here."
Her blue eyes were wide and wet as she pulled me into the main hall. Everyone was there, which was expected, but I quickly picked out the problem. The election clerk stood at the presentation table, a projector set up.
"... manipulated the vote in a number of the sectors. We have identified the areas where the vote was tampered with, and these sectors will be removed from the total count of yesterday's election ..."
Someone tampered with the votes? I only believed it for a split second. Then the reality of the situation hit me. They were getting rid of me. Whether the people wanted me or not, the rest of the government was tired of putting up with me. They'd had to come up with a way to get rid of me, and they'd done it. Accuse me of tampering with votes. Throw out the sectors where my supporters live.
But they were wrong. I wasn't done fighting, yet.
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
Perspective
I was going through the pictures on my phone the other day when I came across a sequence of pictures that seemed off. I recognized the place, but the angle was funny. All the pictures had been taken from a couple of feet lower than my own eye level. My daughter had taken them.
I found it interesting how different the front hallway of her school (which I'm fairly familiar with, having been on the PTA board for a while) looked so different from a different perspective. First of all, I realized that all the posters and advertisements we had out were at adult eye-level. She was looking up to see any of them, and most of what she could see was plain, blank wall.
When I write, I love third person, omniscient. It allows so much freedom as far as, you can tell the reader anything you want. But for voice, first person makes all the difference.
The prompt for this week is to try and use a perspective you haven't used before, whether that's a unique character or a different point of view in your writing.
Enjoy!
******************************************************************************
My response:
Contemporary. Romeo and Juliet. Death scene. Perspective: Juliet's best friend - who would have to be a new character and would take over some the nurse's roles.
I never left the church after the funeral. It was enough that I'd convinced Juliet's mom that drawing the funeral out, with the funeral service on one day and the graveside and burial the next, would bring in more publicity. She always would do anything for more camera time. When the funeral procession left the cathedral, heading towards the dinner, I hid in the shadows until they were gone.
Friar Laurence would be missed at the party. We locked eyes as he laid his robe across the pulpit and followed the mourning family out the door. I nodded and gave him a grim smile.
When the doors shut, I checked on Juliet. Her body temperature was still depressed, but I could tell by the flush on her cheeks that her heart had started beating again. It was still irregular, but she wasn't supposed to wake up for another hour, so that didn't bother me. I went upstairs, to the Friar's office, to check our suitcases.
I wasn't able to get any of Juliet's clothes, so everything I had packed, I had to buy. I wasn't worried. I knew her taste. Besides, as long as she got to be with Romeo again, she wouldn't care what she was wearing.
Romeo. I rolled my eyes thinking of him. This whole thing had been crazy. I'd told Juliet she'd lost her mind, but would she listen to me? At least it would all soon be over. Romeo had dropped his phone when they ran him out of town, but Ben figured out where he was, and Friar Laurence sent him a letter. Ben was on his way there, to make sure Romeo was okay. As soon as Friar Laurence got back and Juliet woke up, the three of us would be on our way, too.
My phone was still on vibrate, and it rattled against my thy. I pulled it out. It was a text from Ben: Here now. Not good. Laurence's letter in the door, R not here. Car missing.
It took a minute for the pieces to come together in my mind. If the letter from the Friar was in the door, and Romeo wasn't there, that meant he still didn't know our plan. Ben had only just gotten there, so he hadn't had a chance to tell Romeo the plan.
Horror swept over my heart. If Romeo heard the news and believed it, he'd be on his way here. He was as crazy as Juliet. Nothing would keep him away. And as soon as he got here, either Juliet's cousins or the Prince himself would make sure he breathed his last breath.
There was still hope. Romeo would come to find Juliet. He was too much of a romantic to do anything else. And I was here, with Juliet. Maybe she'd even be awake by time he got here.
I slipped out of the Friar's office. Just as the door closed behind me, I heard a cry. It was long and low, and ended in wracking sobs. I flew to the upper railing and looked down at the sanctuary, three stories below.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Romeo had made it here. If we could just sneak him out with us, all would still be well. I ran from the railing towards the stairs. My slippered feet barely made a sound as I ran, so I heard Juliet's voice as she woke up.
"Romeo?!" She laughed. "I thought we'd have to go find you! You're here!"
For a moment, my heart lifted. No harm, no foul. We'd get through this.
Then the still air of the cathedral shattered with Juliet's piercing wail. "Romeo!!! What's this?!!! Did you drink this?!!!"
What did she mean? Was he drunk? How had he made his way into the city and managed to avoid everyone looking for him? He couldn't be drunk ...
Through the pillars, I caught a glimpse of the raised bed in the sanctuary. Juliet was sitting up. Romeo no longer stood by the bed, but lay across her lap, his face pale. His lips trembled and he reached a hand towards Juliet's cheek. Then another pillar blocked my view.
"Juliet!" I cried. What was going on?!
I reached the last turn of the staircase. Now I had a straight shot to the sanctuary. My eyes found Juliet and watched in horror, refusing to look away.
She did not cry. She did not wail. Her face became a mask of stone, the picture of perfect agony.
Her hands reached to the dagger on Romeo's belt.
My feet ran, but time slowed. I knew I wouldn't make it in time.
There was no last kiss. No loving promise. No tears falling on perfect lips, so anxious was she to meet her beloved Romeo. She simply grasped the dagger in both hands and thrust it deep into her own breast. It was simply the quickest way to get to him, just like this crazy scheme.
In her last moment, her heart already stilled by the dagger, but her spirit still in her eyes, she saw me. She saw me, and she smiled. Then she fell back against the pillows.
The phone in my pocket vibrated. It was Ben: Did you get my text? This is BAD.
I typed out a response: It's okay. They're together now. Forever.
I found it interesting how different the front hallway of her school (which I'm fairly familiar with, having been on the PTA board for a while) looked so different from a different perspective. First of all, I realized that all the posters and advertisements we had out were at adult eye-level. She was looking up to see any of them, and most of what she could see was plain, blank wall.
When I write, I love third person, omniscient. It allows so much freedom as far as, you can tell the reader anything you want. But for voice, first person makes all the difference.
The prompt for this week is to try and use a perspective you haven't used before, whether that's a unique character or a different point of view in your writing.
Enjoy!
******************************************************************************
My response:
Contemporary. Romeo and Juliet. Death scene. Perspective: Juliet's best friend - who would have to be a new character and would take over some the nurse's roles.
I never left the church after the funeral. It was enough that I'd convinced Juliet's mom that drawing the funeral out, with the funeral service on one day and the graveside and burial the next, would bring in more publicity. She always would do anything for more camera time. When the funeral procession left the cathedral, heading towards the dinner, I hid in the shadows until they were gone.
Friar Laurence would be missed at the party. We locked eyes as he laid his robe across the pulpit and followed the mourning family out the door. I nodded and gave him a grim smile.
When the doors shut, I checked on Juliet. Her body temperature was still depressed, but I could tell by the flush on her cheeks that her heart had started beating again. It was still irregular, but she wasn't supposed to wake up for another hour, so that didn't bother me. I went upstairs, to the Friar's office, to check our suitcases.
I wasn't able to get any of Juliet's clothes, so everything I had packed, I had to buy. I wasn't worried. I knew her taste. Besides, as long as she got to be with Romeo again, she wouldn't care what she was wearing.
Romeo. I rolled my eyes thinking of him. This whole thing had been crazy. I'd told Juliet she'd lost her mind, but would she listen to me? At least it would all soon be over. Romeo had dropped his phone when they ran him out of town, but Ben figured out where he was, and Friar Laurence sent him a letter. Ben was on his way there, to make sure Romeo was okay. As soon as Friar Laurence got back and Juliet woke up, the three of us would be on our way, too.
My phone was still on vibrate, and it rattled against my thy. I pulled it out. It was a text from Ben: Here now. Not good. Laurence's letter in the door, R not here. Car missing.
It took a minute for the pieces to come together in my mind. If the letter from the Friar was in the door, and Romeo wasn't there, that meant he still didn't know our plan. Ben had only just gotten there, so he hadn't had a chance to tell Romeo the plan.
Horror swept over my heart. If Romeo heard the news and believed it, he'd be on his way here. He was as crazy as Juliet. Nothing would keep him away. And as soon as he got here, either Juliet's cousins or the Prince himself would make sure he breathed his last breath.
There was still hope. Romeo would come to find Juliet. He was too much of a romantic to do anything else. And I was here, with Juliet. Maybe she'd even be awake by time he got here.
I slipped out of the Friar's office. Just as the door closed behind me, I heard a cry. It was long and low, and ended in wracking sobs. I flew to the upper railing and looked down at the sanctuary, three stories below.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Romeo had made it here. If we could just sneak him out with us, all would still be well. I ran from the railing towards the stairs. My slippered feet barely made a sound as I ran, so I heard Juliet's voice as she woke up.
"Romeo?!" She laughed. "I thought we'd have to go find you! You're here!"
For a moment, my heart lifted. No harm, no foul. We'd get through this.
Then the still air of the cathedral shattered with Juliet's piercing wail. "Romeo!!! What's this?!!! Did you drink this?!!!"
What did she mean? Was he drunk? How had he made his way into the city and managed to avoid everyone looking for him? He couldn't be drunk ...
Through the pillars, I caught a glimpse of the raised bed in the sanctuary. Juliet was sitting up. Romeo no longer stood by the bed, but lay across her lap, his face pale. His lips trembled and he reached a hand towards Juliet's cheek. Then another pillar blocked my view.
"Juliet!" I cried. What was going on?!
I reached the last turn of the staircase. Now I had a straight shot to the sanctuary. My eyes found Juliet and watched in horror, refusing to look away.
She did not cry. She did not wail. Her face became a mask of stone, the picture of perfect agony.
Her hands reached to the dagger on Romeo's belt.
My feet ran, but time slowed. I knew I wouldn't make it in time.
There was no last kiss. No loving promise. No tears falling on perfect lips, so anxious was she to meet her beloved Romeo. She simply grasped the dagger in both hands and thrust it deep into her own breast. It was simply the quickest way to get to him, just like this crazy scheme.
In her last moment, her heart already stilled by the dagger, but her spirit still in her eyes, she saw me. She saw me, and she smiled. Then she fell back against the pillows.
The phone in my pocket vibrated. It was Ben: Did you get my text? This is BAD.
I typed out a response: It's okay. They're together now. Forever.
Monday, October 19, 2015
Religious
While I consider myself a deeply spiritual person, I rarely write about religious issues. Except for the odd occasion when I'm asked to speak in church, my writing focuses mainly on fantasy and sci-fi universes that I've thought up on my own.
Still, I admire people who are able to put their faith into words, hence the prompt for this week: Write something that touches you.
Please note that it doesn't have to be religious in the sense of church-going and scripture-reading. Just something that stirs your soul.
Enjoy!
*********************************************************************************
My response:
(This is an idea I've played around with in my mind, but I've never actually tried to write. It may be a mess, but that's the point of this blog, to stretch and try new things.)
The end came like the swell of a wave in the ocean, except instead of lifting her feet off the sandy bottom and dropping her back down, it lifted her up, off her sick bed, and the fall never came.
Mary had been asleep until the wave lifted her, but now she saw the dim room with perfect clarity. Her daughter sat next to the bed, holding Mary's hand. The tone of the heart monitor brought tears to her eyes. Mary's son-in-law put a hand on his wife's shoulder. On the other side of the bed, in various metal and plastic chairs, her other three children and their spouses sat.
Ten years of fighting cancer, and Mary knew there would be no nurses rushing to save her, no doctors and last-ditch efforts to keep her alive. That was the purpose of her living will, and she noticed with a flicker of satisfaction that they submitted peacefully to her choice.
Then she noticed the orderly standing in the doorway. She might have looked right past him, except he was looking right at her. Then he smiled.
"Mary, are you ready?"
Mary cocked her head. "For what? And even if I wasn't, I don't see much of a choice."
She almost regretted her tone, but the man only smiled wider while his eyes gleamed. "Come with me, then, and I'll get you ready for your report."
He reached out an incorporeal hand, and Mary took it, surprised she hadn't left her sense of touch behind with her body. The man led her down a hallway. It was white with doors on either side and gleaming, gold doorknobs.
"Are we still in the hospital?" Mary asked.
"No."
"Well, where are we, then?" Mary hated to be caught unawares.
The man stopped at a door, his hand on the knob. "This world is in a form that you will understand right now. Very soon, you will understand more. Be patient, please, and everything will be explained."
Mary frowned, but as he opened the door, curiosity drew her in. She peeked into the bright room.
It was a storage room. From floor to ceiling, rows and rows of shelves had cardboard boxes, filing cabinets, plastic storage bins. It looked like her own basement, except easily one hundred times the size.
"What is this room?" Mary turned to her escort.
His eyes glowed with reverence and awe as they traveled over the boxes. "Mary, this is your life's work. Everything you ever made is in here. Your first kindergarten pictures to your last journal entry. The meals you prepared, presents you packaged, everything you put together or created in life can be found in this room."
Mary's mouth opened as she stared in wonder. "What is it all here for?"
"You will need to choose," the man explained. "Choose the best thing you made in life to present to God. Thereby will you be judged."
Mary turned to object. "Choose?! From all this, I have to choose just one thing?!"
Again, the sparkling smile. "You may have all the time you want. There is no rush, here."
Before she could object again, he was gone, and Mary found herself alone in the room.
Mary was not a woman of sentimentality or distraction. She moved through the shelves of her youth fairly quickly, the scribbled first letters and abstract art done in crayon. She paused here and there as she moved through her preteen and high school years. English reports and clay pots, completed tests and hair ribbons. Her first few attempts at sewing. Still, she moved on.
The food grew more abundant when she married, and the flower arrangements, but it was a little box with a slip of white satin showing that stopped her. A small christening gown, crocheted booties, a bonnet. The daughter who held her hand as she died had worn this dress as an infant. Mary hadn't known she could cry, but now she did. She picked up the dress, carrying it with her as she continued.
Baby books, pants with patches sewn on, and music ... little songs she'd made up and sung to her children stored in music boxes. They even sang with the voice of her youth, full and sweet. She picked her favorite and moved on.
A black silk scarf, flowers in red and white, and a speech typed on thick, marbled paper. Mary remembered her father's funeral. She'd made the scarf for her mother, and they'd arranged the flowers together. She picked up the small photo album she'd presented to her mother and hugged it to her chest.
Mary moved deliberately through the room, careful to open every box. Time didn't seem to matter. She grew neither hungry nor tired. Then she was back at the door with her arms full.
Her escort reappeared. "Mary, are you ready now?"
Mary looked at her collection. If she had to choose something to represent her life, she figured she'd done a good job of gathering up the most important things. Still, each item on their own seemed insufficient. They only spoke part of the story of her life. Any one item couldn't show all she was.
"Mary? You can take more time, if you need," he prompted sweetly.
Mary shook her head, slowly at first, and then firmly. "No. No, I won't need any more time."
She turned back to the shelves. Lovingly, she put the dress back. She put the silk scarf and the music box back. Piece by piece, she emptied her arms of her treasures. Then she turned back to her guide.
"The only thing to do is to bring me. I carry all of these things in my heart ... all of these things ... and what I have become."
The smile on the man's face grew wider, and Mary's memory stirred. She knew him from somewhere. She couldn't make sense of it, yet, but she knew he was someone very important.
"Dear Mary," he said. "You have chosen well."
Still, I admire people who are able to put their faith into words, hence the prompt for this week: Write something that touches you.
Please note that it doesn't have to be religious in the sense of church-going and scripture-reading. Just something that stirs your soul.
Enjoy!
*********************************************************************************
My response:
(This is an idea I've played around with in my mind, but I've never actually tried to write. It may be a mess, but that's the point of this blog, to stretch and try new things.)
The end came like the swell of a wave in the ocean, except instead of lifting her feet off the sandy bottom and dropping her back down, it lifted her up, off her sick bed, and the fall never came.
Mary had been asleep until the wave lifted her, but now she saw the dim room with perfect clarity. Her daughter sat next to the bed, holding Mary's hand. The tone of the heart monitor brought tears to her eyes. Mary's son-in-law put a hand on his wife's shoulder. On the other side of the bed, in various metal and plastic chairs, her other three children and their spouses sat.
Ten years of fighting cancer, and Mary knew there would be no nurses rushing to save her, no doctors and last-ditch efforts to keep her alive. That was the purpose of her living will, and she noticed with a flicker of satisfaction that they submitted peacefully to her choice.
Then she noticed the orderly standing in the doorway. She might have looked right past him, except he was looking right at her. Then he smiled.
"Mary, are you ready?"
Mary cocked her head. "For what? And even if I wasn't, I don't see much of a choice."
She almost regretted her tone, but the man only smiled wider while his eyes gleamed. "Come with me, then, and I'll get you ready for your report."
He reached out an incorporeal hand, and Mary took it, surprised she hadn't left her sense of touch behind with her body. The man led her down a hallway. It was white with doors on either side and gleaming, gold doorknobs.
"Are we still in the hospital?" Mary asked.
"No."
"Well, where are we, then?" Mary hated to be caught unawares.
The man stopped at a door, his hand on the knob. "This world is in a form that you will understand right now. Very soon, you will understand more. Be patient, please, and everything will be explained."
Mary frowned, but as he opened the door, curiosity drew her in. She peeked into the bright room.
It was a storage room. From floor to ceiling, rows and rows of shelves had cardboard boxes, filing cabinets, plastic storage bins. It looked like her own basement, except easily one hundred times the size.
"What is this room?" Mary turned to her escort.
His eyes glowed with reverence and awe as they traveled over the boxes. "Mary, this is your life's work. Everything you ever made is in here. Your first kindergarten pictures to your last journal entry. The meals you prepared, presents you packaged, everything you put together or created in life can be found in this room."
Mary's mouth opened as she stared in wonder. "What is it all here for?"
"You will need to choose," the man explained. "Choose the best thing you made in life to present to God. Thereby will you be judged."
Mary turned to object. "Choose?! From all this, I have to choose just one thing?!"
Again, the sparkling smile. "You may have all the time you want. There is no rush, here."
Before she could object again, he was gone, and Mary found herself alone in the room.
Mary was not a woman of sentimentality or distraction. She moved through the shelves of her youth fairly quickly, the scribbled first letters and abstract art done in crayon. She paused here and there as she moved through her preteen and high school years. English reports and clay pots, completed tests and hair ribbons. Her first few attempts at sewing. Still, she moved on.
The food grew more abundant when she married, and the flower arrangements, but it was a little box with a slip of white satin showing that stopped her. A small christening gown, crocheted booties, a bonnet. The daughter who held her hand as she died had worn this dress as an infant. Mary hadn't known she could cry, but now she did. She picked up the dress, carrying it with her as she continued.
Baby books, pants with patches sewn on, and music ... little songs she'd made up and sung to her children stored in music boxes. They even sang with the voice of her youth, full and sweet. She picked her favorite and moved on.
A black silk scarf, flowers in red and white, and a speech typed on thick, marbled paper. Mary remembered her father's funeral. She'd made the scarf for her mother, and they'd arranged the flowers together. She picked up the small photo album she'd presented to her mother and hugged it to her chest.
Mary moved deliberately through the room, careful to open every box. Time didn't seem to matter. She grew neither hungry nor tired. Then she was back at the door with her arms full.
Her escort reappeared. "Mary, are you ready now?"
Mary looked at her collection. If she had to choose something to represent her life, she figured she'd done a good job of gathering up the most important things. Still, each item on their own seemed insufficient. They only spoke part of the story of her life. Any one item couldn't show all she was.
"Mary? You can take more time, if you need," he prompted sweetly.
Mary shook her head, slowly at first, and then firmly. "No. No, I won't need any more time."
She turned back to the shelves. Lovingly, she put the dress back. She put the silk scarf and the music box back. Piece by piece, she emptied her arms of her treasures. Then she turned back to her guide.
"The only thing to do is to bring me. I carry all of these things in my heart ... all of these things ... and what I have become."
The smile on the man's face grew wider, and Mary's memory stirred. She knew him from somewhere. She couldn't make sense of it, yet, but she knew he was someone very important.
"Dear Mary," he said. "You have chosen well."
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
Character Development - She has a squint.
I've been wracking my brain, trying to remember something I read recently, but I can't place it. I can remember this much: It was a classic piece of literature ... maybe C. S. Lewis or Mark Twain. Or maybe it was Austin, because I'm pretty sure it was set in the Victorian era.
The point is, the character was a young man looking for a wife, and his complaint about one of the potential ladies is that she has a squint. I was intrigued. What if her squint is from poor eyesight? If she were alive today, she'd wear contacts, and it wouldn't be an issue at all. My imagination kicked in, then, and I started to wonder about what other quirks people could possibly have, if modern medicine wasn't to the point where those things are taken care of when we're young.
Think about it. Webbed toes/fingers. Poor hearing or poor eyesight. Scars from measles or small pox. Hunchbacks. The prompt for this week is to think of character trait like that and write a short piece on your character.
Enjoy!
*********************************************************************************
My Response:
Marlise whirled around the dance floor, her heart spinning nearly as fast as she was. Who would have thought that her fourth season would turn out so differently from her first three? It had certainly started off the same.
Marlise's family had moderate social status, though the titles had fallen on firstborn sons, and Marlise came from second and third sons. They had land and a little wealth, but not enough to cause a ripple in the room when her dowry was mentioned. Her looks were fair, enough to ensure her dance card was full, but her hand remained unclaimed. If she's attracted any attention in the first two weeks of the season, it was only when people remarked that she was losing the glow of her youth.
Then the Duke of Kent arrived, and all the matrons whispered behind their fans. The Duchess, his wife, had died two years prior, but he'd been left with two infant sons. Rumors ran rampant. He may be looking for a new wife, but she would have to accept that her own son would never bear the title.
Marlise didn't care. From the moment he'd laid eyes on her, they'd both been new people. Now, as they sought out the cool night air on the balcony, Marlise felt she'd never been happier. She'd forgotten her fan inside, so she pulled at the fingertips of her left glove.
Then she stopped. It would be nice to wave the glove and feel the rush of air against her skin ... and in the dark, maybe he wouldn't notice.
But no. Marlise pulled her glove back into position, determined. Her deformity only reached to the first knuckle of each finger. Certainly, her hands looked stilted in gloves, but to remove them would be something far worse.
Marlise sent a quick prayer to heaven, grateful for a civilized world, so she could wear her gloves right up until her wedding night, and her Duke would be none the wiser until it was too late.
The point is, the character was a young man looking for a wife, and his complaint about one of the potential ladies is that she has a squint. I was intrigued. What if her squint is from poor eyesight? If she were alive today, she'd wear contacts, and it wouldn't be an issue at all. My imagination kicked in, then, and I started to wonder about what other quirks people could possibly have, if modern medicine wasn't to the point where those things are taken care of when we're young.
Think about it. Webbed toes/fingers. Poor hearing or poor eyesight. Scars from measles or small pox. Hunchbacks. The prompt for this week is to think of character trait like that and write a short piece on your character.
Enjoy!
*********************************************************************************
My Response:
Marlise whirled around the dance floor, her heart spinning nearly as fast as she was. Who would have thought that her fourth season would turn out so differently from her first three? It had certainly started off the same.
Marlise's family had moderate social status, though the titles had fallen on firstborn sons, and Marlise came from second and third sons. They had land and a little wealth, but not enough to cause a ripple in the room when her dowry was mentioned. Her looks were fair, enough to ensure her dance card was full, but her hand remained unclaimed. If she's attracted any attention in the first two weeks of the season, it was only when people remarked that she was losing the glow of her youth.
Then the Duke of Kent arrived, and all the matrons whispered behind their fans. The Duchess, his wife, had died two years prior, but he'd been left with two infant sons. Rumors ran rampant. He may be looking for a new wife, but she would have to accept that her own son would never bear the title.
Marlise didn't care. From the moment he'd laid eyes on her, they'd both been new people. Now, as they sought out the cool night air on the balcony, Marlise felt she'd never been happier. She'd forgotten her fan inside, so she pulled at the fingertips of her left glove.
Then she stopped. It would be nice to wave the glove and feel the rush of air against her skin ... and in the dark, maybe he wouldn't notice.
But no. Marlise pulled her glove back into position, determined. Her deformity only reached to the first knuckle of each finger. Certainly, her hands looked stilted in gloves, but to remove them would be something far worse.
Marlise sent a quick prayer to heaven, grateful for a civilized world, so she could wear her gloves right up until her wedding night, and her Duke would be none the wiser until it was too late.
Monday, October 5, 2015
Pudgieness
This week's prompt is brought to you by the random ramblings of my brain ...
The prompt: "Pudginess is an admirable trait in a man. But for a ..."
Enjoy!
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My response:
Pudginess is an admirable trait in a man. But for a noblewoman, especially one looking to marry, it wasn't an asset. If I had inherited my mother's fine bones and gag reflex, I would have been tiny, like her. Instead, I inherited my dad's endless appetite and wooly mammoth bones.
It could be worse. The only thing keeping Dad back was his two older brothers in line for the throne. As far as social standing goes, he's at the top. Mama was a wealthy heiress, and a good match for the prince who would never be king.
I don't lack social standing. I don't lack money. In fact, of all the girls vying for husbands, I am one of the few who has the novelty of being able to marry for love. But with a round waist and a penchant for hiding away with my books, will I be able to find someone who loves me?
(Ahh! Forgive me for the crazy stereotypes in this post. It's just what came to me. - If I wanted to get introspective about it, it might reveal something about my own insecurities about my body.)
The prompt: "Pudginess is an admirable trait in a man. But for a ..."
Enjoy!
******************************************************************************
My response:
Pudginess is an admirable trait in a man. But for a noblewoman, especially one looking to marry, it wasn't an asset. If I had inherited my mother's fine bones and gag reflex, I would have been tiny, like her. Instead, I inherited my dad's endless appetite and wooly mammoth bones.
It could be worse. The only thing keeping Dad back was his two older brothers in line for the throne. As far as social standing goes, he's at the top. Mama was a wealthy heiress, and a good match for the prince who would never be king.
I don't lack social standing. I don't lack money. In fact, of all the girls vying for husbands, I am one of the few who has the novelty of being able to marry for love. But with a round waist and a penchant for hiding away with my books, will I be able to find someone who loves me?
(Ahh! Forgive me for the crazy stereotypes in this post. It's just what came to me. - If I wanted to get introspective about it, it might reveal something about my own insecurities about my body.)
Monday, September 28, 2015
A Real Story
I saw this article on-line, and I couldn't help myself. I could write half a dozen different stories about how this came to be. (I can't help it! It's intriguing, and I have a big imagination!)
http://www.accuweather.com/en/features/trend/medieval_human_skeleton_discovered_unearthed_uprooted_tree_winter_storm_sligo_county_ireland/52525123
The prompt for this week: How did the body end up under the tree 1,000 years ago.
(extra points for actually reading the story and picking up on some of the little details.
*******************************************************************************
My response:
Mae Robbins was still there when Brett got home that night. She sat hunched in the rocker by the hearth with her bony hands wrapped around one of Mary's carved, wooden cups.
Mary shot Brett a look and rolled her eyes as she pulled the pan of bread out of the brick oven. The stew simmered, and three pairs of bright eyes watched from the table.
"Thou ought best be on thy way, Mae," Brett held the door open behind him. "Thou knowest by now I tolerate no nonsense in my house."
Mae placed the cup on the floor and rose, but she raised a finger to Brett as she moved towards the door. "And thou wilt learn one day that I'm not so crazy as thou thinkest, Brett Wallace. Forget not, I was there when thou wast born, and I'll likely be there the day they lay thee in the ground."
Brett frowned and held his breath, but Mae made her way out. "Maybe so. But until then, thou wilt stay out of my house ... off my land, too, and away from my family!"
Mae paused on the doorstop. "I only came to warn thee. There is a witch around. Thou shalt need to be careful, or she'll take thee for a fool!"
(Ahhhh! I can't stand the thees and thous ... And I'm not entirely sure they're accurate for the time period ... Moving on ...)
Mary pushed the pan of bread onto the table. "I thought you would never get home ..."
Brett sat down in the chair at the head of the table. "Why do you let her in, Mary?! She does nothing but stir up superstition and trouble."
"You know that, and I know that," Mary said, taking her seat at the other end and smacking a small hand that reached too soon for the bread. "But one of the hands called for her to make a poultice for a swollen ankle, and once she was here ... she just doesn't listen to me the way she listens to you. I can tell her to get gone until I'm blue in the face, and she just stares at me with those creepy, blank eyes."
No sooner had Mary finished, then the still of the night shattered with a cry from behind the house. Brett sprang to his feet, his hand flying to the sword on his hip. He shot Mary a look. "Get yourself and the kids in the loft and stay down." Then he stood and flew out the back door.
Clouds covered the moon, and shade trees cast dark shadows over the farmyard. Brett headed towards the extra cabin, where the three hired hands slept. There should have been lights in the windows, they cooked their own supper in their hearth, and they were known to use a candle or two to work by in the evening. But the windows were dark.
Another scream, and Brett knocked open the front door. Across the room, something dark flew out the back door, just a silhouette of darkness flapping away. A figure on the floor choked and sobbed. Something in the corner moved.
"Mr. Wallace?" a thin voice called out. "Is that you, Sir?"
Brett strode over to the hearth and grabbed the flint and steel from its place. In moments, he had the fire going again. From the corner, two of the young men moved towards Brett.
"Did you see it, Sir?! Did you see the witch?!"
"Superstitious nonsense, boys. Witches aren't real." Brett grumbled. He turned from the fire. The third boy lay on the floor in a puddle of blood. His gasping and sobbing had ceased, and his still eyes stared up at the rafters.
"Oh, she was real, Sir." The hired hand whispered. "As real as Tommy's dead."
http://www.accuweather.com/en/features/trend/medieval_human_skeleton_discovered_unearthed_uprooted_tree_winter_storm_sligo_county_ireland/52525123
The prompt for this week: How did the body end up under the tree 1,000 years ago.
(extra points for actually reading the story and picking up on some of the little details.
*******************************************************************************
My response:
Mae Robbins was still there when Brett got home that night. She sat hunched in the rocker by the hearth with her bony hands wrapped around one of Mary's carved, wooden cups.
Mary shot Brett a look and rolled her eyes as she pulled the pan of bread out of the brick oven. The stew simmered, and three pairs of bright eyes watched from the table.
"Thou ought best be on thy way, Mae," Brett held the door open behind him. "Thou knowest by now I tolerate no nonsense in my house."
Mae placed the cup on the floor and rose, but she raised a finger to Brett as she moved towards the door. "And thou wilt learn one day that I'm not so crazy as thou thinkest, Brett Wallace. Forget not, I was there when thou wast born, and I'll likely be there the day they lay thee in the ground."
Brett frowned and held his breath, but Mae made her way out. "Maybe so. But until then, thou wilt stay out of my house ... off my land, too, and away from my family!"
Mae paused on the doorstop. "I only came to warn thee. There is a witch around. Thou shalt need to be careful, or she'll take thee for a fool!"
(Ahhhh! I can't stand the thees and thous ... And I'm not entirely sure they're accurate for the time period ... Moving on ...)
Mary pushed the pan of bread onto the table. "I thought you would never get home ..."
Brett sat down in the chair at the head of the table. "Why do you let her in, Mary?! She does nothing but stir up superstition and trouble."
"You know that, and I know that," Mary said, taking her seat at the other end and smacking a small hand that reached too soon for the bread. "But one of the hands called for her to make a poultice for a swollen ankle, and once she was here ... she just doesn't listen to me the way she listens to you. I can tell her to get gone until I'm blue in the face, and she just stares at me with those creepy, blank eyes."
No sooner had Mary finished, then the still of the night shattered with a cry from behind the house. Brett sprang to his feet, his hand flying to the sword on his hip. He shot Mary a look. "Get yourself and the kids in the loft and stay down." Then he stood and flew out the back door.
Clouds covered the moon, and shade trees cast dark shadows over the farmyard. Brett headed towards the extra cabin, where the three hired hands slept. There should have been lights in the windows, they cooked their own supper in their hearth, and they were known to use a candle or two to work by in the evening. But the windows were dark.
Another scream, and Brett knocked open the front door. Across the room, something dark flew out the back door, just a silhouette of darkness flapping away. A figure on the floor choked and sobbed. Something in the corner moved.
"Mr. Wallace?" a thin voice called out. "Is that you, Sir?"
Brett strode over to the hearth and grabbed the flint and steel from its place. In moments, he had the fire going again. From the corner, two of the young men moved towards Brett.
"Did you see it, Sir?! Did you see the witch?!"
"Superstitious nonsense, boys. Witches aren't real." Brett grumbled. He turned from the fire. The third boy lay on the floor in a puddle of blood. His gasping and sobbing had ceased, and his still eyes stared up at the rafters.
"Oh, she was real, Sir." The hired hand whispered. "As real as Tommy's dead."
Monday, September 21, 2015
Picture Prompt
I'm going with another picture prompt this week. This one is intentionally vague, just look at it and see what it brings to mind.
Enjoy!
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My response:
I stepped into the hall, my head held high, my stomach in knots.
First, greet Lady Bensen ...
My aunt's voice hissed in my mind.
Don't goggle like a hick ...
I was glad I'd learned enough to take her seriously. The Bensen ballroom was the largest I'd entered in my life, and if I hadn't been warned, I would have stopped in the doorway, staring like the country raised innocent I was. Luckily, I had more sense than that.
The people. Focus on the people.
I turned to the doorman, who gestured towards Lady Bensen, indicating she was free for introductions. I made eye contact with her and stepped forward, holding my hand out to her.
Grasp firmly, smile politely, but do not break eye contact. Lady Bensen despises simpering.
Maybe she despises it, but she definitely inspires it. Her steely gaze moved up and down my dress, taking in every pleat and pearl. My face, jewelry, and hair received the same attention. I knew I was flawless. Otherwise I would have been tempted to check myself in the mirror.
Lady Bensen did not smile. She did speak. "Miss Ange Le'Mark. Recently returned from the frontier, I believe. Your aunt must have had quite the time getting your outfit up to par in time for the season."
Do not break eye contact.
"Not at all. We Le'Marks are always very particular about our wardrobes. We have a family tailor, and he keeps us always in the highest fashion."
Her eyebrow twitched. "Is that so?" She waited like a spider, ready to spring if I were to flinch or falter. I did not.
Then she gave a slight nod and motioned towards the dancers. "Do enjoy your evening."
I turned away, moving into the crowd.
I'd passed the first test.
Now for the second.
Monday, September 14, 2015
Grab a book #5
I like these prompts because I get to see what other people are reading. So, grab the nearest book (or the book your mind is most obsessed with right now, whichever works for you)!
Find page 142, first full paragraph, first sentence. That will be your prompt for the week. (If there's nothing on page, try 143 ...)
Remember to share in your response what book it is and what your prompt line is.
Enjoy!
*****************************************************************************
My response:
I have Ally Condie's ATLANTIA on my shelf by my computer. On page 142, it reads, "It's a terrible story," Maire says. "Are you sure you want to hear it?"
**************
McKay held the half-door open, and I stepped into the swaying gondola. The chaos and music of the fair melted away as we rose into the night sky. From above, the lights of the fairway shone like fireworks. McKay slipped his arm around my back, and I leaned against him.
"Worth the drive?" He whispered.
I chuckled. "Yes. Definitely worth the drive." I'd been skeptical when he'd told me where we were going, but he was right. This little county fair had been just the thing to raise my spirits.
We watched the lights glide by, and McKay handed over another set of tickets, so we could ride again. I didn't expect his next question.
"It's been nearly a year now." I could hear the hesitation in his voice. "Are you ready to talk about it?"
There was no question what he meant. But no. I wasn't ready. I pulled away from him.
"No."
He pressed further. "You refused a therapist, even though the college would have provided one. You won't let your Dad pay for one. I know you're not talking to Sara about it, and you're not talking to me. You can't keep it bottled up forever."
That was where he was wrong.
Find page 142, first full paragraph, first sentence. That will be your prompt for the week. (If there's nothing on page, try 143 ...)
Remember to share in your response what book it is and what your prompt line is.
Enjoy!
*****************************************************************************
My response:
I have Ally Condie's ATLANTIA on my shelf by my computer. On page 142, it reads, "It's a terrible story," Maire says. "Are you sure you want to hear it?"
**************
McKay held the half-door open, and I stepped into the swaying gondola. The chaos and music of the fair melted away as we rose into the night sky. From above, the lights of the fairway shone like fireworks. McKay slipped his arm around my back, and I leaned against him.
"Worth the drive?" He whispered.
I chuckled. "Yes. Definitely worth the drive." I'd been skeptical when he'd told me where we were going, but he was right. This little county fair had been just the thing to raise my spirits.
We watched the lights glide by, and McKay handed over another set of tickets, so we could ride again. I didn't expect his next question.
"It's been nearly a year now." I could hear the hesitation in his voice. "Are you ready to talk about it?"
There was no question what he meant. But no. I wasn't ready. I pulled away from him.
"No."
He pressed further. "You refused a therapist, even though the college would have provided one. You won't let your Dad pay for one. I know you're not talking to Sara about it, and you're not talking to me. You can't keep it bottled up forever."
That was where he was wrong.
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
Dream the Dream
Most of the writing blogs you read will warn you from starting out with a dream. It's overdone and cliché. In most cases, I agree. But for the purposes of today's prompt, we're going to pretend we've never heard that advice.
This week's prompt: Write a dream sequence.
Enjoy!
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My response:
I ran my hands over the knobby walls. Somewhere in the whorls and creases was a switch, and I needed to find it. Why they had to design hotel rooms like this, I didn't know. I might have been able to appreciate the gimmick ... if I didn't have to go the bathroom so bad!
I felt the bit under my hand move and give a solid clunk as it sunk into place. My heart cheered. And a bed unfolded from the wall.
Darn it.
My hands kept searching. I moved away from the bed, towards the far corner. This time, when I felt the switch, a door swung open. To my relief, the light revealed a modern, sleek bathroom of chrome and floating sinks. I hurried over to the toilet.
I turned to the window. The glass was clear, and a sea of stars floated on the other side of the glass. I smiled. Where could you have a clear window in the bathroom, but in space. I wondered if there was a shade for it when the ship was docked and giggled at my own joke.
This week's prompt: Write a dream sequence.
Enjoy!
******************************************************************************
My response:
I ran my hands over the knobby walls. Somewhere in the whorls and creases was a switch, and I needed to find it. Why they had to design hotel rooms like this, I didn't know. I might have been able to appreciate the gimmick ... if I didn't have to go the bathroom so bad!
I felt the bit under my hand move and give a solid clunk as it sunk into place. My heart cheered. And a bed unfolded from the wall.
Darn it.
My hands kept searching. I moved away from the bed, towards the far corner. This time, when I felt the switch, a door swung open. To my relief, the light revealed a modern, sleek bathroom of chrome and floating sinks. I hurried over to the toilet.
I turned to the window. The glass was clear, and a sea of stars floated on the other side of the glass. I smiled. Where could you have a clear window in the bathroom, but in space. I wondered if there was a shade for it when the ship was docked and giggled at my own joke.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Hallucinations
Our prompt for this week come from my writing group. On of my good friends shared the quote and suggested it would make a very nice prompt, so here it is.
"Maybe hallucinations are just another reality that we don't see most of the time ”
― Lynne Ewing
It reminded me of 3:59 (Which is the title of the book, and always leaves me wondering, how do I write an entirely numeric title in all caps to indicate it's a title?!!!) by Gretchen McNeil. Ok, so in her book, the alternate reality is in a mirror, and only at two specific minutes out of each day, but still.
Anyway, enjoy!
*********************************************************************************
My response:
Robert stopped as he crossed the quad, stooping down to pick a stray flower that had somehow managed to sprout up in the grass instead of in the flower box. It was a little forget-me-not, its pale blue petals faded from the direct sun.
He walked right up to me, and Kami threw me a quick smile before snatching up her backpack and hurrying off towards the student center. Robert didn't seem to notice her, though most of the guys within eyeshot did, eyeing her toned calves and curtain of blond hair as she hurried off.
I never stopped traffic like that. But today, Robert stopped. His eyes met mine as he held the flower out to me. When he spoke, it was with the clear tones of a deep woodwind. "Can I call you tonight?"
I took the flower and nodded, and in a moment, he was gone.
Kami pinched my thigh, hard. I flinched and swatted at her, but she ducked away too quickly.
"Are you staring at Robert again?!" She demanded in a whisper.
I looked up at Robert's back as he made his way towards the edge of campus.
"No!" I lied.
"Well, don't!" Kami said, pulling a sandwich out of her bag. "You know he's bad news."
I sighed and dropped my eyes, then I sucked in a sharp breath.
Pinched between my fingers, pale in the glare of the sun, was a small, blue forget-me-not.
"Maybe hallucinations are just another reality that we don't see most of the time ”
― Lynne Ewing
It reminded me of 3:59 (Which is the title of the book, and always leaves me wondering, how do I write an entirely numeric title in all caps to indicate it's a title?!!!) by Gretchen McNeil. Ok, so in her book, the alternate reality is in a mirror, and only at two specific minutes out of each day, but still.
Anyway, enjoy!
*********************************************************************************
My response:
Robert stopped as he crossed the quad, stooping down to pick a stray flower that had somehow managed to sprout up in the grass instead of in the flower box. It was a little forget-me-not, its pale blue petals faded from the direct sun.
He walked right up to me, and Kami threw me a quick smile before snatching up her backpack and hurrying off towards the student center. Robert didn't seem to notice her, though most of the guys within eyeshot did, eyeing her toned calves and curtain of blond hair as she hurried off.
I never stopped traffic like that. But today, Robert stopped. His eyes met mine as he held the flower out to me. When he spoke, it was with the clear tones of a deep woodwind. "Can I call you tonight?"
I took the flower and nodded, and in a moment, he was gone.
Kami pinched my thigh, hard. I flinched and swatted at her, but she ducked away too quickly.
"Are you staring at Robert again?!" She demanded in a whisper.
I looked up at Robert's back as he made his way towards the edge of campus.
"No!" I lied.
"Well, don't!" Kami said, pulling a sandwich out of her bag. "You know he's bad news."
I sighed and dropped my eyes, then I sucked in a sharp breath.
Pinched between my fingers, pale in the glare of the sun, was a small, blue forget-me-not.
Monday, August 24, 2015
Pale, unpainted lips
This week's prompt is straightforward, just something that came to me this week, and I liked the sound of it.
Prompt: She wore pale, unpainted lips and pearls ...
Enjoy!
**********************************************************************************
My response:
She wore pale, unpainted lips and pearls. For a moment her fingers trembled, so she clasped them together in her lap, her ankles crossed primly beneath her. Her white suit was neatly tailored to her slight frame, and the veil on her hat crossed her face just so. She was a picture of good breeding and perfection, and I wondered at her. Young ladies like her didn't make a habit of getting married in town hall.
He only added to the puzzle. I would have guessed the situation if he'd been a slouch, but he was far from shabby. The shine in his shoes rivaled the crispness of the pleats in his three piece suit. His teeth were white as snow, his skin right out of a fairy tale.
It didn't make sense. People like them had lavish church weddings, with bridesmaids and flowers and fondant cake. Then they handed me their IDs. It took a moment for my brain to wrap itself around the situation, and to realize the danger I was in. If I married this couple, there wouldn't be anywhere in Verona I could hide. If Mr. Capulet didn't get me, Mr. Montague never missed.
Prompt: She wore pale, unpainted lips and pearls ...
Enjoy!
**********************************************************************************
My response:
She wore pale, unpainted lips and pearls. For a moment her fingers trembled, so she clasped them together in her lap, her ankles crossed primly beneath her. Her white suit was neatly tailored to her slight frame, and the veil on her hat crossed her face just so. She was a picture of good breeding and perfection, and I wondered at her. Young ladies like her didn't make a habit of getting married in town hall.
He only added to the puzzle. I would have guessed the situation if he'd been a slouch, but he was far from shabby. The shine in his shoes rivaled the crispness of the pleats in his three piece suit. His teeth were white as snow, his skin right out of a fairy tale.
It didn't make sense. People like them had lavish church weddings, with bridesmaids and flowers and fondant cake. Then they handed me their IDs. It took a moment for my brain to wrap itself around the situation, and to realize the danger I was in. If I married this couple, there wouldn't be anywhere in Verona I could hide. If Mr. Capulet didn't get me, Mr. Montague never missed.
Monday, August 17, 2015
Writing exercises
I love to brag on great books, and recently I read something amazing: Sorcery & Ceceila: or The Enchanted Chocolate Pot by Patricia Wrede and Caroline Stevermer.
First of all, this is a lovely little Jane Austin with a hint of magic. The characters are charming and fresh and the plot is clever. The whole thing is simply delightful. (No, I don't usually speak like that, but there is no better description of this book than "simply delightful"!)
Then I found out how it was written, and I was even more tickled by it! It was a writing exercise! It is called the Letter Game and this is how it goes. The two players (writers) adopt two fictitious personas and write letters back and forth. The rules are simple: 1) the two players must never reveal their individual ideas about the plot to each other. 2) the first letter needs to imply why the two characters must write to each other and not meet in person (see, the letters must be their main means of communication, or it doesn't work to do it in letters).
In honor of Ms. Wrede and Ms. Stevermer, the prompt for this week is to write a "first letter" for the letter game.
Enjoy!
********************************************************************************
My response:
My Dear,
It is now eight hours since the excitement of the day has ended, and the clock on the touchscreen by my bed says it is time to sleep. I do not know how I will manage it.
I know you can quote these old stories - I've certainly told often enough - but I can't help reminiscing tonight. I used to sit and listen to my grandpa talk about the lunar landing. Every step, every moment, I celebrated as he told and retold that momentous trip. And I dreamed about when I would journey into the stars! I wish Grandpa could have been there this morning. He would have been so proud.
I did try to look out the window to where the officials and dignitaries (and you, my dear) were gathered to watch the launch. It was an awkward angle, though, and at such a distance, I could only just make out individuals. I can imagine how you looked in my mind, though, wearing the red pea coat I bought you for the occasion. Do not consider it wasted. I won't be able to buy you anything for three years, and it does look amazing with your hair.
We could not have hoped for a more perfect launch. The hoards of scientists and engineers are to be commended. The roar of the ignition was awesome, and we lifted off like a bird! Ten minutes later, only ten minutes, and we'd reached the outer atmosphere! We checked our trajectory, made adjustments, and now we're on our way. With a little bit of luck, we will reach Mars in just over seven months!!!
Now Alan and MaCraye have settled down into their sleep sacks, telling me to do the same, and are already snoring away. Eli, who has been a rock all this time, has vomited three times and looks pale, peering out of his sack like a mouse peeking out of a hole in the wall, fearful that the cat is watching. To think all his big talk was pure bravado. I flatter myself to think my current mental state is somewhere in between the two extremes, and I said so in my personal report, which I'm required to make every night.
I would continue, my love, but there is an alarm sounding, and I must see to it.
Yours,
Ty
PS. Do not be alarmed by my last line. There are forever small alarms. They set the acceptable parameters for most everything excessively tight, and we've already reset three life support systems. We have enough redundancy in the systems that there will be no problems.
PPS. I know the further we get from each other the longer it will be between sending and receiving email, so for now, I look forward to your prompt response.
First of all, this is a lovely little Jane Austin with a hint of magic. The characters are charming and fresh and the plot is clever. The whole thing is simply delightful. (No, I don't usually speak like that, but there is no better description of this book than "simply delightful"!)
Then I found out how it was written, and I was even more tickled by it! It was a writing exercise! It is called the Letter Game and this is how it goes. The two players (writers) adopt two fictitious personas and write letters back and forth. The rules are simple: 1) the two players must never reveal their individual ideas about the plot to each other. 2) the first letter needs to imply why the two characters must write to each other and not meet in person (see, the letters must be their main means of communication, or it doesn't work to do it in letters).
In honor of Ms. Wrede and Ms. Stevermer, the prompt for this week is to write a "first letter" for the letter game.
Enjoy!
********************************************************************************
My response:
My Dear,
It is now eight hours since the excitement of the day has ended, and the clock on the touchscreen by my bed says it is time to sleep. I do not know how I will manage it.
I know you can quote these old stories - I've certainly told often enough - but I can't help reminiscing tonight. I used to sit and listen to my grandpa talk about the lunar landing. Every step, every moment, I celebrated as he told and retold that momentous trip. And I dreamed about when I would journey into the stars! I wish Grandpa could have been there this morning. He would have been so proud.
I did try to look out the window to where the officials and dignitaries (and you, my dear) were gathered to watch the launch. It was an awkward angle, though, and at such a distance, I could only just make out individuals. I can imagine how you looked in my mind, though, wearing the red pea coat I bought you for the occasion. Do not consider it wasted. I won't be able to buy you anything for three years, and it does look amazing with your hair.
We could not have hoped for a more perfect launch. The hoards of scientists and engineers are to be commended. The roar of the ignition was awesome, and we lifted off like a bird! Ten minutes later, only ten minutes, and we'd reached the outer atmosphere! We checked our trajectory, made adjustments, and now we're on our way. With a little bit of luck, we will reach Mars in just over seven months!!!
Now Alan and MaCraye have settled down into their sleep sacks, telling me to do the same, and are already snoring away. Eli, who has been a rock all this time, has vomited three times and looks pale, peering out of his sack like a mouse peeking out of a hole in the wall, fearful that the cat is watching. To think all his big talk was pure bravado. I flatter myself to think my current mental state is somewhere in between the two extremes, and I said so in my personal report, which I'm required to make every night.
I would continue, my love, but there is an alarm sounding, and I must see to it.
Yours,
Ty
PS. Do not be alarmed by my last line. There are forever small alarms. They set the acceptable parameters for most everything excessively tight, and we've already reset three life support systems. We have enough redundancy in the systems that there will be no problems.
PPS. I know the further we get from each other the longer it will be between sending and receiving email, so for now, I look forward to your prompt response.
Monday, August 10, 2015
Let's go camping!
My family went camping this last week. We were surprised to realize that so many campgrounds take reservations these days. We hadn't bothered to make reservations, hoping to get one of the fifteen walk-up spots at our chosen place. We figured getting there at 2pm on a Wednesday, we'd have a pretty good shot at something ... but we were wrong.
Now that we're home and everyone I know is posting their camping pictures on Facebook, I'm thinking we might have just picked the wrong weekend. Next year, though, we will be reserving our spot a couple months in advance!
We did end up with a spot - a reservation spot that had two days free. We had to cut our trip short by a day, but in the end, it poured down on us anyway. Still, it was a lot of fun, and we'll be at it again next year.
In honor of learning a lot this week, our prompt is: Camping
Enjoy!
**********************************************************************************
My response:
"A snipe hunt?" I raised my eyebrows and gave Alyssa a flat look. "Right."
She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Yes! A snipe hunt. You have to come." In other words, even if you don't believe a word coming out of my mouth, you will still come.
I sighed and turned to Callie. She shook her head slowly. "This is stupid."
Alyssa frowned. "Go get your pillowcases. Now."
I shot a look towards the cooking fire, where the leaders sat in their camp chairs. Alyssa and the other junior leaders moved through camp, rousing all the first years and regaling them with the stories of the snipe we were going to catch. The leaders were supposed to enforce curfew, and they'd been strict about it the first two nights. But the junior leaders were being anything but discreet, and the adults made it clear they weren't going to intervene.
I wondered if I would be daft enough to believe the tale if I hadn't already been warned off by Alice, my big sister. She was a third year, and stashed away in her tent already with her friends.
I sighed again as Callie and I went to get our pillowcases. Then Alyssa led us into the forest to a little clearing where the other first years were gathered. We listened to an exaggerated tale of snipe and how to catch them, ending with how they turn into candy bars when light hits them (why the forest floor isn't speckled with candy bars every morning wasn't explained). I leaned against a tree, careful to avoid the pine sap. Callie sat down and cradled her head in her hands. When the rest of the first years scattered, clicking and chirping, waving toilet paper and fingers rubbed in toothpaste and looking like they'd escaped the insane asylum, Callie and I stayed put. I sunk down onto a pile of pine needles beside her.
"Do you think they'll let us go back yet?" Callie yawned.
Jennifer popped out of the trees next to us. Her eyes narrowed and she glanced around. "You guys aren't hunting snipes?" Jennifer was on the school dance team with Alice, but she was two years older, so she was at camp as a junior leader already.
Callie rolled her eyes. "You mean we're not dancing around like idiots, so you guys can laugh at us? We're not idiots and this is stupid."
Jennifer frowned. "You have to catch a snipe." She snatched Callie's pillowcase out of her hands. "Oh, look! There's one!" Jennifer crouched and jabbed her hand into a pile of leaves, sweeping the pillowcase down with the other hand. Leaves crumbled as she jabbed a handful into the pillowcase. Then she stood, shook the leaves to the bottom and handed the bag back to Callie, holding the top closed. "There you go."
Callie and I stared as she repeated the charade with my pillowcase. Then she smirked and stalked off.
"This is even dumber than I thought it would be," I said.
"I have pine sap on my pillowcase." Callie moaned.
A few minutes later, the junior leaders gathered us back up and shooed us back through the trees. The adult leaders were blind and deaf as we stalked back into camp. Then they lined us up, and all the junior leaders stood with their flashlights in a circle as the first years shook out their bags, one by one. Callie and I fell back. I turned my pillowcase inside out, shaking the leaves off and using my own flashlight to pick at the larger bits of dirt stuck to it.
Ella came running over, a handful of Halloween sized candy bars in her hands. "My snipe turned into candy!" She exclaimed. Callie and I stared. "What?!"
I pursed my lips, frowned at Callie, and shrugged. "Ella, you know snipes aren't real, right?"
Ella shook her head. "No, they are! I caught one!"
"Did you see it?" Callie asked.
"No ..." Ella frowned. "But I did see the leaves move. There was something there."
"You mean Alyssa's hand in the leaves while she pretended to catch your snipe for you?" I guessed.
Ella's face fell. It had been a good guess that Alyssa'd been the one helping her. "But it turned into candy ..."
I pointed back to the line of girls and the circle of light where the junior leaders stood. "You mean they drop candy when they dump the bags out and tell you the snipe turned into candy."
"Seriously, Ella, have you ever known an animal to turn into a Milky Way before?!" Callie was tired and ready for bed.
"But ..." Ella's lower lip quivered. I felt bad for her, but I also wanted to smack every single one of the first years upside their heads. I couldn't be sure, but I doubted I would have fallen for it, even if Alice hadn't said anything. Still, I was awful glad Alice had told me. I guess big sisters are good for something.
Now that we're home and everyone I know is posting their camping pictures on Facebook, I'm thinking we might have just picked the wrong weekend. Next year, though, we will be reserving our spot a couple months in advance!
We did end up with a spot - a reservation spot that had two days free. We had to cut our trip short by a day, but in the end, it poured down on us anyway. Still, it was a lot of fun, and we'll be at it again next year.
In honor of learning a lot this week, our prompt is: Camping
Enjoy!
**********************************************************************************
My response:
"A snipe hunt?" I raised my eyebrows and gave Alyssa a flat look. "Right."
She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Yes! A snipe hunt. You have to come." In other words, even if you don't believe a word coming out of my mouth, you will still come.
I sighed and turned to Callie. She shook her head slowly. "This is stupid."
Alyssa frowned. "Go get your pillowcases. Now."
I shot a look towards the cooking fire, where the leaders sat in their camp chairs. Alyssa and the other junior leaders moved through camp, rousing all the first years and regaling them with the stories of the snipe we were going to catch. The leaders were supposed to enforce curfew, and they'd been strict about it the first two nights. But the junior leaders were being anything but discreet, and the adults made it clear they weren't going to intervene.
I wondered if I would be daft enough to believe the tale if I hadn't already been warned off by Alice, my big sister. She was a third year, and stashed away in her tent already with her friends.
I sighed again as Callie and I went to get our pillowcases. Then Alyssa led us into the forest to a little clearing where the other first years were gathered. We listened to an exaggerated tale of snipe and how to catch them, ending with how they turn into candy bars when light hits them (why the forest floor isn't speckled with candy bars every morning wasn't explained). I leaned against a tree, careful to avoid the pine sap. Callie sat down and cradled her head in her hands. When the rest of the first years scattered, clicking and chirping, waving toilet paper and fingers rubbed in toothpaste and looking like they'd escaped the insane asylum, Callie and I stayed put. I sunk down onto a pile of pine needles beside her.
"Do you think they'll let us go back yet?" Callie yawned.
Jennifer popped out of the trees next to us. Her eyes narrowed and she glanced around. "You guys aren't hunting snipes?" Jennifer was on the school dance team with Alice, but she was two years older, so she was at camp as a junior leader already.
Callie rolled her eyes. "You mean we're not dancing around like idiots, so you guys can laugh at us? We're not idiots and this is stupid."
Jennifer frowned. "You have to catch a snipe." She snatched Callie's pillowcase out of her hands. "Oh, look! There's one!" Jennifer crouched and jabbed her hand into a pile of leaves, sweeping the pillowcase down with the other hand. Leaves crumbled as she jabbed a handful into the pillowcase. Then she stood, shook the leaves to the bottom and handed the bag back to Callie, holding the top closed. "There you go."
Callie and I stared as she repeated the charade with my pillowcase. Then she smirked and stalked off.
"This is even dumber than I thought it would be," I said.
"I have pine sap on my pillowcase." Callie moaned.
A few minutes later, the junior leaders gathered us back up and shooed us back through the trees. The adult leaders were blind and deaf as we stalked back into camp. Then they lined us up, and all the junior leaders stood with their flashlights in a circle as the first years shook out their bags, one by one. Callie and I fell back. I turned my pillowcase inside out, shaking the leaves off and using my own flashlight to pick at the larger bits of dirt stuck to it.
Ella came running over, a handful of Halloween sized candy bars in her hands. "My snipe turned into candy!" She exclaimed. Callie and I stared. "What?!"
I pursed my lips, frowned at Callie, and shrugged. "Ella, you know snipes aren't real, right?"
Ella shook her head. "No, they are! I caught one!"
"Did you see it?" Callie asked.
"No ..." Ella frowned. "But I did see the leaves move. There was something there."
"You mean Alyssa's hand in the leaves while she pretended to catch your snipe for you?" I guessed.
Ella's face fell. It had been a good guess that Alyssa'd been the one helping her. "But it turned into candy ..."
I pointed back to the line of girls and the circle of light where the junior leaders stood. "You mean they drop candy when they dump the bags out and tell you the snipe turned into candy."
"Seriously, Ella, have you ever known an animal to turn into a Milky Way before?!" Callie was tired and ready for bed.
"But ..." Ella's lower lip quivered. I felt bad for her, but I also wanted to smack every single one of the first years upside their heads. I couldn't be sure, but I doubted I would have fallen for it, even if Alice hadn't said anything. Still, I was awful glad Alice had told me. I guess big sisters are good for something.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
Post apocalyptic
I've been on a post-apocalyptic kick lately. It seems whenever my mind drifts off into daydreams, I'm thinking about what kind of survival skills I have and if I have enough knowledge to get by without Google. I knew a guy in Virginia who could identify mushrooms and tubers. He regularly contributed to his family's diet by going for jaunts in the wood and gathering. (He also shot squirrels for squirrel stew, but I'm not going to go into that.)
I am not that cool, but I also like to think I wouldn't be too bad off. Then again, I think that's one of those things you never really know unless you try ... and I'd rather live my whole life without trying!
So the prompt for this week is: would you survive in a post-apocalyptic world? (Your choice, it can be zombies, natural disaster, whatever you can think up. Just go with it!)
*******************************************************************************
My response:
I crouched in the shade of the bushes, the wind blowing in off the river hitting the droplets of sweat on my skin and making me shiver. Upriver about a mile, I could see the bridge. From where I stood, I couldn't see anyone up there, but the couple I'd traveled with a week ago said there was no crossing it. Both sides had gangs camped out. Armed groups did alright, getting by with just a toll. A single woman ... not a chance.
I watched the bridge for a while, playing with the idea of trying. The Mississippi is no small river. But even if I didn't see movement on the bridge, there was too much cover on either side of the bridge. Fifty men could be hiding in the trees, and I wouldn't see them until it was too late.
With a frown and a sigh, I turned and worked my way through the brush heading south. I'd already made it from New York to Illinois. I'd figured out how to scavenge, and I'd even landed myself two guns and a fair amount of ammo to go with them. A guarded bridge wasn't about to stop me. If I had to cross the Mississippi, I'd find a way to cross it.
The Mississippi could be as far as one mile across. One mile. Could I swim that? I'd done swim team as a kid, but it wasn't my thing. I was a certified scuba diver, but I didn't have flippers or scuba gear. Then again, if I picked the right stretch, I might have a chance.
A slim chance. Every moment I spent on the east shore grated on my soul, but I knew if I just threw myself in, I'd never make it. For four days I worked my way up and down the river. I'd fight through the boggy bank for a quarter mile and then sit and watch the river. Then I'd move again. Up and back, up and back, until I found my place.
Mine was the spot just upriver from where the current seemed to dip and swirl towards the opposite bank. My best shot was using the current to work for me. I made sure the river was clear for two miles from my starting spot. I was going to go for quite a ride. Then I started the pep talk. Every stroke brought me closer to the west bank.
I found a shallow pool, protected by a sand bank and practiced. First I thought if I filled all the ziplock bags I wasn't using with air and put them in my backpack, it might work like a life vest, and if I wore it on my stomach, it would help me float. But with the bag on my stomach, my stroke was awkward. It wouldn't work. Leaving the backpack wasn't an option, so I settled for leaving enough full ziplocks to help offset the weight of the pack, without making it too bulky.
... I would love to finish this, but I'm out of time. If you're intrigued with this idea, as I am, here are two articles I found interesting:
http://www.outsideonline.com/1909766/anyone-dip
http://lacrossetribune.com/news/local/many-try-few-succeed-in-foolish-attempts-to-swim-river/article_1556282c-ee69-11e1-b895-0019bb2963f4.html
(Also, I'm horribly sorry for being late again. Honestly, I'm wondering if the time and season for this blog is coming to an end, and I'd like to take this time to invite you to comment and let me know if you read/enjoy this blog. I'm thinking about closing this out after three years, which would be the end of this year. I'd still leave it up, but three years of weekly quotes ought to be enough to satisfy anyone.)
I am not that cool, but I also like to think I wouldn't be too bad off. Then again, I think that's one of those things you never really know unless you try ... and I'd rather live my whole life without trying!
So the prompt for this week is: would you survive in a post-apocalyptic world? (Your choice, it can be zombies, natural disaster, whatever you can think up. Just go with it!)
*******************************************************************************
My response:
I crouched in the shade of the bushes, the wind blowing in off the river hitting the droplets of sweat on my skin and making me shiver. Upriver about a mile, I could see the bridge. From where I stood, I couldn't see anyone up there, but the couple I'd traveled with a week ago said there was no crossing it. Both sides had gangs camped out. Armed groups did alright, getting by with just a toll. A single woman ... not a chance.
I watched the bridge for a while, playing with the idea of trying. The Mississippi is no small river. But even if I didn't see movement on the bridge, there was too much cover on either side of the bridge. Fifty men could be hiding in the trees, and I wouldn't see them until it was too late.
With a frown and a sigh, I turned and worked my way through the brush heading south. I'd already made it from New York to Illinois. I'd figured out how to scavenge, and I'd even landed myself two guns and a fair amount of ammo to go with them. A guarded bridge wasn't about to stop me. If I had to cross the Mississippi, I'd find a way to cross it.
The Mississippi could be as far as one mile across. One mile. Could I swim that? I'd done swim team as a kid, but it wasn't my thing. I was a certified scuba diver, but I didn't have flippers or scuba gear. Then again, if I picked the right stretch, I might have a chance.
A slim chance. Every moment I spent on the east shore grated on my soul, but I knew if I just threw myself in, I'd never make it. For four days I worked my way up and down the river. I'd fight through the boggy bank for a quarter mile and then sit and watch the river. Then I'd move again. Up and back, up and back, until I found my place.
Mine was the spot just upriver from where the current seemed to dip and swirl towards the opposite bank. My best shot was using the current to work for me. I made sure the river was clear for two miles from my starting spot. I was going to go for quite a ride. Then I started the pep talk. Every stroke brought me closer to the west bank.
I found a shallow pool, protected by a sand bank and practiced. First I thought if I filled all the ziplock bags I wasn't using with air and put them in my backpack, it might work like a life vest, and if I wore it on my stomach, it would help me float. But with the bag on my stomach, my stroke was awkward. It wouldn't work. Leaving the backpack wasn't an option, so I settled for leaving enough full ziplocks to help offset the weight of the pack, without making it too bulky.
... I would love to finish this, but I'm out of time. If you're intrigued with this idea, as I am, here are two articles I found interesting:
http://www.outsideonline.com/1909766/anyone-dip
http://lacrossetribune.com/news/local/many-try-few-succeed-in-foolish-attempts-to-swim-river/article_1556282c-ee69-11e1-b895-0019bb2963f4.html
(Also, I'm horribly sorry for being late again. Honestly, I'm wondering if the time and season for this blog is coming to an end, and I'd like to take this time to invite you to comment and let me know if you read/enjoy this blog. I'm thinking about closing this out after three years, which would be the end of this year. I'd still leave it up, but three years of weekly quotes ought to be enough to satisfy anyone.)
Monday, July 27, 2015
When you grow up ...
When I was a kid, my cousin insisted he wanted to be a trashcan. No, that's not a typo. Trashcan.
We fussed over him and tried to figure out if he really wanted to be a trash man or trash collector, or anything else that rhymed with trashcan, but he stuck to it. He wanted to be a trashcan. (Probably the attention he got for it contributed to his insistence.)
Lucky for him, we don't always grow up to be what we want to be as kids.
The prompt for this week: If you'd grown up to be what you wanted to be as a kid.
Enjoy!
*****************************************************************************
My response:
The whirring of the fans drowned out the radio that always played in the background of the ceramic shop. I picked up the last mold and carefully angled the opening towards the funnel. The mud splashed as it started to pour, but I'd done this one more times than I could count, and I didn't spill a drop. When the mud stopped running, I set the mold back down and eyed the thin layer of mud on the sides. Not bad.
I grab the egg timer and set it, then turn and look at the short row of molds I just finished. I know it's risky to pour lots of molds at once, but five or six is manageable.
The bell rings, and I smile as one of my regular customers walks in, a large box in her arms. It's full of shredded newspaper, but nothing else. She drops it to the floor by the front counter and heads towards the shelves of greenware. "I'll just leave this here ..."
I nod, and she disappears into the shelves. I turn to the sink and run the water, rinsing the dried mud off my hands.
(I'm going to stop here because ... really, where do I go with this?! To me it sounds like the beginning of a murder mystery. Maybe she finds a corpse in the trash behind her shop. Or a romance; the bell would ring and Mr. Tall Dark And Handsome would walk in. But I don't write mysteries or plain romance, so I'm going to let this one go.)
We fussed over him and tried to figure out if he really wanted to be a trash man or trash collector, or anything else that rhymed with trashcan, but he stuck to it. He wanted to be a trashcan. (Probably the attention he got for it contributed to his insistence.)
Lucky for him, we don't always grow up to be what we want to be as kids.
The prompt for this week: If you'd grown up to be what you wanted to be as a kid.
Enjoy!
*****************************************************************************
My response:
The whirring of the fans drowned out the radio that always played in the background of the ceramic shop. I picked up the last mold and carefully angled the opening towards the funnel. The mud splashed as it started to pour, but I'd done this one more times than I could count, and I didn't spill a drop. When the mud stopped running, I set the mold back down and eyed the thin layer of mud on the sides. Not bad.
I grab the egg timer and set it, then turn and look at the short row of molds I just finished. I know it's risky to pour lots of molds at once, but five or six is manageable.
The bell rings, and I smile as one of my regular customers walks in, a large box in her arms. It's full of shredded newspaper, but nothing else. She drops it to the floor by the front counter and heads towards the shelves of greenware. "I'll just leave this here ..."
I nod, and she disappears into the shelves. I turn to the sink and run the water, rinsing the dried mud off my hands.
(I'm going to stop here because ... really, where do I go with this?! To me it sounds like the beginning of a murder mystery. Maybe she finds a corpse in the trash behind her shop. Or a romance; the bell would ring and Mr. Tall Dark And Handsome would walk in. But I don't write mysteries or plain romance, so I'm going to let this one go.)
Monday, July 20, 2015
Bad places to fall asleep
Prompt for the week: A bad place to fall asleep.
Enjoy!
**********************************************************************************
My response:
I blame it on the jetlag.
And of course, on whoever decided Grandma's funeral had to be in the evening. Why couldn't we be normal and have a nice, morning service followed by lunch? No. We had to be different, and the viewing didn't even start until 4pm.
Of course, four o'clock pm Mountain Standard Time is midnight in Germany, where I'd been living for the past two years.
And it's not that I don't stay up until midnight, on occasion. No, the problem was that I'd spent more than 36 hours awake, catching this delayed flight, missing that connection. And I've never been able to sleep on planes anyway. If anyone were to ever torture me, they'd put me on a plane until I was so brain-fried from lack of sleep that I couldn't help myself. Four different flights, and I couldn't sleep on any of them.
That gets blamed on paranoia. I realize the likelihood of the plane going down is less than getting in a car crash, but at least a car crash is on the ground, without 30,000 feet to fall to your death if something happens in the air.
But I digress. (Exhaustion. 'Nuff said.)
If we'd had the funeral in the morning, I would have been fine. But after a not sleeping forever, then spending the day preparing for the funeral, when it finally came time, I had nothing left. I sat down, notes in my hands, and listened to the song that opened the services.
My brother jostled me awake. There were already snickers in the audience, and when my brother realized I'd been drooling, he laughed, then tried to stop laughing and choked. I had drool all down my chin and my note cards had fallen to the ground. I wiped at my face and snatched at my cards, but the damage was done.
Aunt May did not approve.
Neither did Grandpa.
So much for my inheritance.
(For the record, this is NOT a memoir. I have not suffered this particular shame in my own life. Thank goodness!)
Enjoy!
**********************************************************************************
My response:
I blame it on the jetlag.
And of course, on whoever decided Grandma's funeral had to be in the evening. Why couldn't we be normal and have a nice, morning service followed by lunch? No. We had to be different, and the viewing didn't even start until 4pm.
Of course, four o'clock pm Mountain Standard Time is midnight in Germany, where I'd been living for the past two years.
And it's not that I don't stay up until midnight, on occasion. No, the problem was that I'd spent more than 36 hours awake, catching this delayed flight, missing that connection. And I've never been able to sleep on planes anyway. If anyone were to ever torture me, they'd put me on a plane until I was so brain-fried from lack of sleep that I couldn't help myself. Four different flights, and I couldn't sleep on any of them.
That gets blamed on paranoia. I realize the likelihood of the plane going down is less than getting in a car crash, but at least a car crash is on the ground, without 30,000 feet to fall to your death if something happens in the air.
But I digress. (Exhaustion. 'Nuff said.)
If we'd had the funeral in the morning, I would have been fine. But after a not sleeping forever, then spending the day preparing for the funeral, when it finally came time, I had nothing left. I sat down, notes in my hands, and listened to the song that opened the services.
My brother jostled me awake. There were already snickers in the audience, and when my brother realized I'd been drooling, he laughed, then tried to stop laughing and choked. I had drool all down my chin and my note cards had fallen to the ground. I wiped at my face and snatched at my cards, but the damage was done.
Aunt May did not approve.
Neither did Grandpa.
So much for my inheritance.
(For the record, this is NOT a memoir. I have not suffered this particular shame in my own life. Thank goodness!)
Monday, July 13, 2015
Dream Vacation
In honor of summer, I think it'd be fun to do a prompt about vacations. It doesn't have to be elaborate. If your dream vacation is the basement of a library, go with it. Have fun.
This week's prompt: Dream Vacation
********************************************************************************
My response:
Coming over the hill, the brine floats in on the wind. I roll the window down and let it in, sucking it into my soul. My fingers on the steering wheel tingle in anticipation and chills run down the backs of my arms. I hit the main boulevard and turn left, heading towards the docks. Dunes block the view I long to see, but I'm close enough now to hear the waves, and they call to me.
All at once, the dunes end. I get a quick glimpse of blue before I hit the buildings. Old warehouses and brick shops line the road leading up to the dock. Most of them have been turned into souvenir shops and ice cream stands, but the history of Cannery Row shines through, though the packing machines have long since stilled.
I drive on until I get to the beach and pull into the lot. A pair of divers stand in the showers, rinsing out their gear. One of them laughs and pulls a sprig of seaweed off the other's mask. My tank sits in my trunk, unfilled, so I'll have to wait to get in the water, but I can walk out on the levee. Sea gulls dive and swirl in the sky, and sea lions lay like lazy pigs in the sun.
I wish I could stay forever.
(One day I will get back to Monterrey Bay ... )
This week's prompt: Dream Vacation
********************************************************************************
My response:
Coming over the hill, the brine floats in on the wind. I roll the window down and let it in, sucking it into my soul. My fingers on the steering wheel tingle in anticipation and chills run down the backs of my arms. I hit the main boulevard and turn left, heading towards the docks. Dunes block the view I long to see, but I'm close enough now to hear the waves, and they call to me.
All at once, the dunes end. I get a quick glimpse of blue before I hit the buildings. Old warehouses and brick shops line the road leading up to the dock. Most of them have been turned into souvenir shops and ice cream stands, but the history of Cannery Row shines through, though the packing machines have long since stilled.
I drive on until I get to the beach and pull into the lot. A pair of divers stand in the showers, rinsing out their gear. One of them laughs and pulls a sprig of seaweed off the other's mask. My tank sits in my trunk, unfilled, so I'll have to wait to get in the water, but I can walk out on the levee. Sea gulls dive and swirl in the sky, and sea lions lay like lazy pigs in the sun.
I wish I could stay forever.
(One day I will get back to Monterrey Bay ... )
Monday, July 6, 2015
Closed
Today I got my kids in their swimsuits and all sunscreened up, only to get to the pool and find it closed for maintenance. Lucky for me, milkshakes put smiles back on the kids' faces, and the pool will be open tomorrow. But I thought it was a good start for a prompt.
Prompt: What is the worst place to find closed?
Enjoy!
********************************************************************************
My response:
Nothing like a bout of food poisoning to take you down the week before your wedding. All the last minute decisions, all the things we'd failed to think of beforehand, all the excitement of our friends getting into town got lost as I lay, in soft, lovely blankets my fiancé got for me, on the floor of the bathroom. Curse that roadside stand, and curse my brother for telling us it had the best tamales in town.
I missed my dress fitting. I was supposed go in and make sure the final alterations were good, then take it home on Wednesday. With the wedding on Saturday, I felt like we'd have plenty of time.
Tuesday night we ate the tamales.
By the dawn of Wednesday, I was in the fifth circle of hell, and going to my fitting didn't seem as important as my impending death.
Thursday, I was feeling well enough to complain about my fate.
Friday, since I wasn't dead, I figured I needed to drag my decimated self from the bathroom to my own bed. My mom and my three sisters were only too glad to "handle everything" for me ... something I would never have handed over, if I hadn't seen my life flash before my eyes.
Saturday dawned, and after a shower, I felt nearly human. The wedding was at 11am. The dress store opened at 9am. Assuming the alterations were okay, and reluctantly handing over the preparations for the morning to my mom again, I should have been able to pick up the dress and get back in plenty of time.
When I saw the sign, I wished the food poisoning had killed me off.
"Due to illness (our entire staff), Kelsie's Bridal is closed until further notice."
Prompt: What is the worst place to find closed?
Enjoy!
********************************************************************************
My response:
Nothing like a bout of food poisoning to take you down the week before your wedding. All the last minute decisions, all the things we'd failed to think of beforehand, all the excitement of our friends getting into town got lost as I lay, in soft, lovely blankets my fiancé got for me, on the floor of the bathroom. Curse that roadside stand, and curse my brother for telling us it had the best tamales in town.
I missed my dress fitting. I was supposed go in and make sure the final alterations were good, then take it home on Wednesday. With the wedding on Saturday, I felt like we'd have plenty of time.
Tuesday night we ate the tamales.
By the dawn of Wednesday, I was in the fifth circle of hell, and going to my fitting didn't seem as important as my impending death.
Thursday, I was feeling well enough to complain about my fate.
Friday, since I wasn't dead, I figured I needed to drag my decimated self from the bathroom to my own bed. My mom and my three sisters were only too glad to "handle everything" for me ... something I would never have handed over, if I hadn't seen my life flash before my eyes.
Saturday dawned, and after a shower, I felt nearly human. The wedding was at 11am. The dress store opened at 9am. Assuming the alterations were okay, and reluctantly handing over the preparations for the morning to my mom again, I should have been able to pick up the dress and get back in plenty of time.
When I saw the sign, I wished the food poisoning had killed me off.
"Due to illness (our entire staff), Kelsie's Bridal is closed until further notice."
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Time Travel
(Agh! I don't know what's happening! I always remember to post on Mondays! Now I've forgotten two weeks in a row.)
Actually, I do know what happened. My husband and I were talking the other day about how I've been doing since the sudden death of my dad. I said to him (thinking I was very clever) that I feel like I slipped on a banana peel at the end of April and I haven't stopped falling yet. Every time I blink, another week has passed by. My mind is still in April, but my body has passed through a time portal into June (almost July)!
So I'm going to take the idea and run with it for our prompt this week. Alice went through the looking glass, Gregor went down a vent, and I've slipped on a banana peel. What will happen to your character that will launch them into a new world?
Enjoy!
***********************************************************************************
My response:
I was the only one on the tram. I guess the heat of the afternoon kept everyone else inside, and I would have been there, too, if it hadn't been for my mom's boyfriend, Brad. He was the reason our annual retreat to the mountains had turned into a circus.
I stood on the platform until the tram arrived. The operators worked behind one way glass, so I couldn't even see them as the tram approached. No one else was coming, but I had to wait the requisite ten minutes before heading up the mountain. That was fine by me. I had my phone, and I didn't have three sets of hands trying to snatch it away from me. Brad's kids thought it was so unfair that I had a phone and they didn't, and they wouldn't leave me alone with it. Brad was even talking to my mom about whether she really thought I needed my own phone ... which is why I popped up and stormed out on my own in the heat.
We'd bought passes each day at what was, in the winter, a ski resort. In the summer, it was a hiker's haven. I loved it. Indian paintbrushes nodded beneath the tram, and I spotted a moose and her calf in the shadows of the pines. I took a deep breath and left Mom, Brad, and all that baggage in the condo behind me.
Then the tram shuddered. I was only half way up the mountain. The tram rocked back and forth, releasing the momentum it still had after the cables stopped. Metal creaked. A chill shot down my back and a pit opened where my stomach should have been. My mind chided my body for overreacting. Surely the tram would start moving again, soon. It always did.
But I'd never been stopped on the tram all alone. The terrifying thought hit me - what if they didn't know I was in here? Had they stopped the tram for the night? Would I be trapped until morning, hanging a hundred feet in the air over a treacherous mountain slope?!
I could feel panic rising.
But no. With more creaking and rocking, the tram started moving again. I sighed and turned around, sinking down onto the bench in relief and pulling out my phone. Sure enough, I'd freaked out over nothing.
It wasn't until the tram stopped at the top that I suspected anything. The automatic doors levered themselves open, and an icy wind swept through the tram. The hundred degree air vanished in a swirl of flurries.
I blinked, standing up and heading towards the doors. The railings and metal scaffolding that made up the tram stop were covered in white. Out the windows, a blizzard raged.
My chin hit the floor.
Actually, I do know what happened. My husband and I were talking the other day about how I've been doing since the sudden death of my dad. I said to him (thinking I was very clever) that I feel like I slipped on a banana peel at the end of April and I haven't stopped falling yet. Every time I blink, another week has passed by. My mind is still in April, but my body has passed through a time portal into June (almost July)!
So I'm going to take the idea and run with it for our prompt this week. Alice went through the looking glass, Gregor went down a vent, and I've slipped on a banana peel. What will happen to your character that will launch them into a new world?
Enjoy!
***********************************************************************************
My response:
I was the only one on the tram. I guess the heat of the afternoon kept everyone else inside, and I would have been there, too, if it hadn't been for my mom's boyfriend, Brad. He was the reason our annual retreat to the mountains had turned into a circus.
I stood on the platform until the tram arrived. The operators worked behind one way glass, so I couldn't even see them as the tram approached. No one else was coming, but I had to wait the requisite ten minutes before heading up the mountain. That was fine by me. I had my phone, and I didn't have three sets of hands trying to snatch it away from me. Brad's kids thought it was so unfair that I had a phone and they didn't, and they wouldn't leave me alone with it. Brad was even talking to my mom about whether she really thought I needed my own phone ... which is why I popped up and stormed out on my own in the heat.
We'd bought passes each day at what was, in the winter, a ski resort. In the summer, it was a hiker's haven. I loved it. Indian paintbrushes nodded beneath the tram, and I spotted a moose and her calf in the shadows of the pines. I took a deep breath and left Mom, Brad, and all that baggage in the condo behind me.
Then the tram shuddered. I was only half way up the mountain. The tram rocked back and forth, releasing the momentum it still had after the cables stopped. Metal creaked. A chill shot down my back and a pit opened where my stomach should have been. My mind chided my body for overreacting. Surely the tram would start moving again, soon. It always did.
But I'd never been stopped on the tram all alone. The terrifying thought hit me - what if they didn't know I was in here? Had they stopped the tram for the night? Would I be trapped until morning, hanging a hundred feet in the air over a treacherous mountain slope?!
I could feel panic rising.
But no. With more creaking and rocking, the tram started moving again. I sighed and turned around, sinking down onto the bench in relief and pulling out my phone. Sure enough, I'd freaked out over nothing.
It wasn't until the tram stopped at the top that I suspected anything. The automatic doors levered themselves open, and an icy wind swept through the tram. The hundred degree air vanished in a swirl of flurries.
I blinked, standing up and heading towards the doors. The railings and metal scaffolding that made up the tram stop were covered in white. Out the windows, a blizzard raged.
My chin hit the floor.
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
Chocolate
I have a bookmark that reads: Schokolade zergeht auf der Seele, sie schmilzt elegant ueber unseren Alltag und tropft direct in unser Herz. (Forgive me for indulging in my German ...)
Translated: Chocolate melts in our souls. She melts elegantly over our daily lives and drops directly into our Hearts.
My first thought was to have the prompt suggest to change the word "chocolate" to something else and use that, but the more I tried the more I realized, there is just no replacing chocolate.
The Prompt: Chocolate melts in our souls. She melts elegantly over our daily lives and drops directly into our Hearts.
*******************************************************************************
My response:
I was tempted to knock the whole Ritter Sport display into my backpack. It was nearly empty and would only cost about $30. Besides, I needed to use up my Euros before I got on the plane. Then Jessica stepped up beside me, her hands full of Milka and Toblerone Bars. My hands reached out, and I grabbed the row of Marzipan Ritter Sport, then turned around to get some Milka for myself.
Jessica and I headed to the register together.
"What on earth are you buying so much chocolate for?!" the cashier asked.
"We're flying back to America today." Jessica explained. "We can't get good chocolate like this back there."
The cashier shook her head. "But you have so much other stuff in America to eat!"
Jessica and I exchanged dubious looks. "Like what?"
The cashier's eyes grew wide. "Donuts!"
Jessica and I both burst out laughing. "Donuts?! You want donuts?!"
She had a point, though. Chocolate can be shipped. Donuts ... not so much.
Then again, if she'd said, "Reeses Pieces," I would have agreed wholeheartedly.
Translated: Chocolate melts in our souls. She melts elegantly over our daily lives and drops directly into our Hearts.
My first thought was to have the prompt suggest to change the word "chocolate" to something else and use that, but the more I tried the more I realized, there is just no replacing chocolate.
The Prompt: Chocolate melts in our souls. She melts elegantly over our daily lives and drops directly into our Hearts.
*******************************************************************************
My response:
I was tempted to knock the whole Ritter Sport display into my backpack. It was nearly empty and would only cost about $30. Besides, I needed to use up my Euros before I got on the plane. Then Jessica stepped up beside me, her hands full of Milka and Toblerone Bars. My hands reached out, and I grabbed the row of Marzipan Ritter Sport, then turned around to get some Milka for myself.
Jessica and I headed to the register together.
"What on earth are you buying so much chocolate for?!" the cashier asked.
"We're flying back to America today." Jessica explained. "We can't get good chocolate like this back there."
The cashier shook her head. "But you have so much other stuff in America to eat!"
Jessica and I exchanged dubious looks. "Like what?"
The cashier's eyes grew wide. "Donuts!"
Jessica and I both burst out laughing. "Donuts?! You want donuts?!"
She had a point, though. Chocolate can be shipped. Donuts ... not so much.
Then again, if she'd said, "Reeses Pieces," I would have agreed wholeheartedly.
Monday, June 8, 2015
Character Swap
This prompt is brought to you by the ramblings of my mind during my half marathon:
Choose a scene from your life (memoir style) and insert one of your characters in your place.
Enjoy!
******************************************************************************
My response:
"Why would any sane person want to run 13 miles all at once?" Emmaleen thought. The first few weren't so bad, actually, and she'd followed her training regimen religiously. But now, at ten plus miles, it was getting old.
"What's the point of this?" She argued with herself.
"To DO it. To say you DID IT. Because you CAN."
The lazy half of her was really getting annoyed with the ambitious half. Still, the ambitious half had a point. Unlike the young man in the wheelchair (who kept passing her back and forth - how embarrassing!), she actually had two working legs, two good feet, and she ought to be grateful for them. And really, to get ten miles done and quit after all her training seemed like a race.
Her feet thudded against the ground in time with her chant. "Just finish. Just finish."
Just finish?
What were the rules on that, precisely? She just had to cross the finish line to collect her medal, right?
A small grin flashed across her lips.
Street signs are actually quite large when you see them up close, and that large, orange construction sign looked a lot like her sled at home. Emmaleen reached out with her Talent and yanked the sign from its foundation. She brought it to hover in front of her and climbed on. For a moment, she lay her cheek down against the sun-warmed metal. Her pulse pounded through every inch of her body. She sighed.
Then she looked up, and the sign shot forward, carrying her with it. She crossed the finish line two minutes later, setting a personal record.
Choose a scene from your life (memoir style) and insert one of your characters in your place.
Enjoy!
******************************************************************************
My response:
"Why would any sane person want to run 13 miles all at once?" Emmaleen thought. The first few weren't so bad, actually, and she'd followed her training regimen religiously. But now, at ten plus miles, it was getting old.
"What's the point of this?" She argued with herself.
"To DO it. To say you DID IT. Because you CAN."
The lazy half of her was really getting annoyed with the ambitious half. Still, the ambitious half had a point. Unlike the young man in the wheelchair (who kept passing her back and forth - how embarrassing!), she actually had two working legs, two good feet, and she ought to be grateful for them. And really, to get ten miles done and quit after all her training seemed like a race.
Her feet thudded against the ground in time with her chant. "Just finish. Just finish."
Just finish?
What were the rules on that, precisely? She just had to cross the finish line to collect her medal, right?
A small grin flashed across her lips.
Street signs are actually quite large when you see them up close, and that large, orange construction sign looked a lot like her sled at home. Emmaleen reached out with her Talent and yanked the sign from its foundation. She brought it to hover in front of her and climbed on. For a moment, she lay her cheek down against the sun-warmed metal. Her pulse pounded through every inch of her body. She sighed.
Then she looked up, and the sign shot forward, carrying her with it. She crossed the finish line two minutes later, setting a personal record.
Monday, June 1, 2015
Time
This post comes from my life this last weekend. First I had the school carnival to help put on (two years of PTA VP done, and pass the baton to someone new!) and then I had the half marathon I've been training for (whoever invented this form of self-torture?!). Both were things we'd been building up to for months, and then, suddenly, it's all over. Thursday morning to Monday morning, and it feels like there was barely an hour in between. All I have left is memories. (Not true. I have a new thank-you rose bush, a shiny medal and t-shirt, and a body full of complaining muscles.)
Also, my girls only have three days left in this school year.
The prompt for this week: Time flew by. She caught moments here and there, but mostly it swirled around her like a windstorm, ever circling, never stopping.
Enjoy!
*********************************************************************************
My response:
(I'm thinking a poem today ... Hmmm. I never like my poems when I read them again ...)
Ode to a Half Marathon
Adrenaline
Neon Rayon Short Shorts
Port a Potties
Starting Line
Hope
Heart Pumping
Short Steps
Bumping Elbows
One Step Closer
Thrill
Rhythm
Rolling Hills
Conversation
River and Trees
Capable
Discomfort
Water Station
Cheering Crowd
Stretch Break
Stubborn
Soreness
Old Man Passing
Hill of Death
Gatorade is Manna
Too late to stop
Pain
"Just around the Corner!"
Popping joints
Can't breathe.
Finish line
Numb
Finisher's Medal
Group Hugs
Chocolate Milk
Done
Do I really have to walk to the car?
(How is this related to time, you ask? Probably because it really did seem to fly by. I expected to see my family at mile 6, so I was looking forward to that. As I passed that point I realized we were nearly half done already. Then again, miles 11 and 12 seemed endless, but still, they passed and it's all over.)
Also, my girls only have three days left in this school year.
The prompt for this week: Time flew by. She caught moments here and there, but mostly it swirled around her like a windstorm, ever circling, never stopping.
Enjoy!
*********************************************************************************
My response:
(I'm thinking a poem today ... Hmmm. I never like my poems when I read them again ...)
Ode to a Half Marathon
Adrenaline
Neon Rayon Short Shorts
Port a Potties
Starting Line
Hope
Heart Pumping
Short Steps
Bumping Elbows
One Step Closer
Thrill
Rhythm
Rolling Hills
Conversation
River and Trees
Capable
Discomfort
Water Station
Cheering Crowd
Stretch Break
Stubborn
Soreness
Old Man Passing
Hill of Death
Gatorade is Manna
Too late to stop
Pain
"Just around the Corner!"
Popping joints
Can't breathe.
Finish line
Numb
Finisher's Medal
Group Hugs
Chocolate Milk
Done
Do I really have to walk to the car?
(How is this related to time, you ask? Probably because it really did seem to fly by. I expected to see my family at mile 6, so I was looking forward to that. As I passed that point I realized we were nearly half done already. Then again, miles 11 and 12 seemed endless, but still, they passed and it's all over.)
Monday, May 25, 2015
Unreliable narrators
I've been hearing for a while at writing conferences how unreliable narrators are all the rage. It took me a bit to wrap my mind around the idea, but now I'm seeing them popping up everywhere. I think my own moral conscience objects to a narrator who is purposely deceptive, but there are a couple of novels where the unreliable aspect comes from part of who the narrator is or something that happens to them.
Take for example, WHAT ALICE FORGOT by Liane Moriarty (can we all admit, that's an awesome last name to have?!). Alice bumps her head at the gym at the age of 39 and wakes up thinking she's 29. She's lost ten years of her life, which means she's suddenly in a trim, fit body, which she's never had before, she doesn't know her children, and she's in the middle of a messy divorce. I spent the whole book wondering whether all the changes she made would last when she got her memory back.
I won't spoil the end for you, but I thought it was a great example of an unreliable narrator.
The challenge this week: Unreliable narrator
Enjoy!
*******************************************************************************
My response:
(My brain immediately went to a friend I had when I lived on the East coast. She tried one day to explain to us what it's like to have dissociative disorder. I'll try to do her description justice.)
It took a minute for everything to come into focus. Kind of like waking up, but I rarely actually wake up in my bed. I know that's a little odd, but when I think about it too much, my head starts to buzz and my stomach clenches, so I don't let my thoughts linger there. I stick to safer topics.
It's lunch. Or dinner, maybe. I'm at the only chain food/grill restaurant in town. A quick glance up and down the table, and the sun streaming in the windows tells me it's lunch. Namely, the Ladies' Luncheon my friend, Barb, hosts every month with the women from church. Barb is sitting next to me. I thought she was going to Hawaii ... why is she here?
Anne sits across the table. I smile. Anne is sweet. She's young, new to town, and completely friendless. Barb offered a flippant invite to her, and she glommed onto us like a barnacle. She's pregnant, and her baby should be due anytime, but she's got another child on her lap and is feeding her bits of bread from the plate. I look around for the baby's mother. I recognize seven of the eight women sitting around the table, and the one I don't know has thick, silver hair. I don't know who the baby belongs to.
My lunch arrives: a big, southwest chicken salad slathered in guacamole sauce. I object.
"I didn't order this."
The waitress looks at me with wide eyes. "Southwest grilled chicken salad with extra guac? Are you sure?"
Barb give me a thoughtful look, but she doesn't speak up. She's my best friend. She should know I wouldn't order something like this.
"I'm allergic to avocado." I frown.
The waitress's eyes search the rest of the table. "I'm so sorry, who had the salad with extra guac?"
No one answers. To the waitress's credit, she drops it, and turns back to me with another apology on her lips. No problem, I tell her. I'd like the fried cod with French fries. That shouldn't take too long.
The waitress leaves and the conversation at the table picks back up. Someone makes a comment about the Christmas program at church and something one of the kids did. Everyone laughs, but my brain flounders. Didn't I just put Alice back in school? Only three days ago, I'm sure. It can't be after Christmas already.
I look up across the table at Anne and realize her pregnant belly is gone. Can that really be her own baby?
Take for example, WHAT ALICE FORGOT by Liane Moriarty (can we all admit, that's an awesome last name to have?!). Alice bumps her head at the gym at the age of 39 and wakes up thinking she's 29. She's lost ten years of her life, which means she's suddenly in a trim, fit body, which she's never had before, she doesn't know her children, and she's in the middle of a messy divorce. I spent the whole book wondering whether all the changes she made would last when she got her memory back.
I won't spoil the end for you, but I thought it was a great example of an unreliable narrator.
The challenge this week: Unreliable narrator
Enjoy!
*******************************************************************************
My response:
(My brain immediately went to a friend I had when I lived on the East coast. She tried one day to explain to us what it's like to have dissociative disorder. I'll try to do her description justice.)
It took a minute for everything to come into focus. Kind of like waking up, but I rarely actually wake up in my bed. I know that's a little odd, but when I think about it too much, my head starts to buzz and my stomach clenches, so I don't let my thoughts linger there. I stick to safer topics.
It's lunch. Or dinner, maybe. I'm at the only chain food/grill restaurant in town. A quick glance up and down the table, and the sun streaming in the windows tells me it's lunch. Namely, the Ladies' Luncheon my friend, Barb, hosts every month with the women from church. Barb is sitting next to me. I thought she was going to Hawaii ... why is she here?
Anne sits across the table. I smile. Anne is sweet. She's young, new to town, and completely friendless. Barb offered a flippant invite to her, and she glommed onto us like a barnacle. She's pregnant, and her baby should be due anytime, but she's got another child on her lap and is feeding her bits of bread from the plate. I look around for the baby's mother. I recognize seven of the eight women sitting around the table, and the one I don't know has thick, silver hair. I don't know who the baby belongs to.
My lunch arrives: a big, southwest chicken salad slathered in guacamole sauce. I object.
"I didn't order this."
The waitress looks at me with wide eyes. "Southwest grilled chicken salad with extra guac? Are you sure?"
Barb give me a thoughtful look, but she doesn't speak up. She's my best friend. She should know I wouldn't order something like this.
"I'm allergic to avocado." I frown.
The waitress's eyes search the rest of the table. "I'm so sorry, who had the salad with extra guac?"
No one answers. To the waitress's credit, she drops it, and turns back to me with another apology on her lips. No problem, I tell her. I'd like the fried cod with French fries. That shouldn't take too long.
The waitress leaves and the conversation at the table picks back up. Someone makes a comment about the Christmas program at church and something one of the kids did. Everyone laughs, but my brain flounders. Didn't I just put Alice back in school? Only three days ago, I'm sure. It can't be after Christmas already.
I look up across the table at Anne and realize her pregnant belly is gone. Can that really be her own baby?
Monday, May 18, 2015
Grab a book #4
I like this kind of prompt for a couple of reasons. First, we get to see what other people are reading - what book is nearby or on their minds. Second, it turns out completely random, which adds to the fun.
(Fun Fact: I have Brandon Sanderson's WORDS OF RADIANCE sitting on my desk, and I was tempted to say "go to page 1024 of the book nearest you". But unless you also happen to have Brandon Sanderson sitting on your desk - or Les Mis, The Count of Monte Cristo, War and Peace, or the Bible - the book next to you is not likely to have 1024 pages.)
Let's go with page 114, second paragraph, first sentence.
Enjoy!
*****************************************************************************
My response:
As I mentioned, I have Brandon Sanderson's WORDS OF RADIANCE. Page 114, second paragraph, first sentence: "Shallan went to another reference, and before long got completely lost in her studies."
(This is where I think, "Oy! I should have scoped that out before I picked it. But that would have defeated the purpose of the prompt." And, "Evidence of Brandon Sanderson's genius, that he can write about someone doing research and still make it interesting!" But I digress ...)
"Shallan went to another reference, and before long, got completely lost in her studies." If she had heard Aran drop the book, she gave no sign. Still, Aran didn't know how long she'd be able to hide in the shadows of the small alcove. If Shallan found her there, Aran's life would be forfeit.
The corner of the heavy tomb pressed against the top of Aran's foot, the opposite corner against the stones. Aran bent slowly and lifted it, hugging it to her chest. She took a few deep breaths, painfully conscious of how her heart pounded in her chest.
The thudding of footsteps in the hallway didn't help.
"Shallan! Hurry! There's been an accident, and we need you!" A voice sounded from the doorway, followed by the rusting of Shallan's skirts.
Aran sighed with relief. It was Bryant's doing, of course. He'd kept his promise. Aran waited until she was sure the hallway was empty, and then slipped out, the book hidden safely under her robes.
(Fun Fact: I have Brandon Sanderson's WORDS OF RADIANCE sitting on my desk, and I was tempted to say "go to page 1024 of the book nearest you". But unless you also happen to have Brandon Sanderson sitting on your desk - or Les Mis, The Count of Monte Cristo, War and Peace, or the Bible - the book next to you is not likely to have 1024 pages.)
Let's go with page 114, second paragraph, first sentence.
Enjoy!
*****************************************************************************
My response:
As I mentioned, I have Brandon Sanderson's WORDS OF RADIANCE. Page 114, second paragraph, first sentence: "Shallan went to another reference, and before long got completely lost in her studies."
(This is where I think, "Oy! I should have scoped that out before I picked it. But that would have defeated the purpose of the prompt." And, "Evidence of Brandon Sanderson's genius, that he can write about someone doing research and still make it interesting!" But I digress ...)
"Shallan went to another reference, and before long, got completely lost in her studies." If she had heard Aran drop the book, she gave no sign. Still, Aran didn't know how long she'd be able to hide in the shadows of the small alcove. If Shallan found her there, Aran's life would be forfeit.
The corner of the heavy tomb pressed against the top of Aran's foot, the opposite corner against the stones. Aran bent slowly and lifted it, hugging it to her chest. She took a few deep breaths, painfully conscious of how her heart pounded in her chest.
The thudding of footsteps in the hallway didn't help.
"Shallan! Hurry! There's been an accident, and we need you!" A voice sounded from the doorway, followed by the rusting of Shallan's skirts.
Aran sighed with relief. It was Bryant's doing, of course. He'd kept his promise. Aran waited until she was sure the hallway was empty, and then slipped out, the book hidden safely under her robes.
Monday, May 11, 2015
Character Development: Part 2
For so many of my prompts, I like to promote books that I like. Unfortunately, the book I'm reading right now has me going, "Blah... blah ... blah ..." The sad part is that I was really excited to read this author, and I feel like a putz for not loving her work. (Said author and book will remain nameless, because I'm not a mean-hearted person, and just because I don't like it doesn't mean no one else will like it.)
The reason I mention it at all is as a lesson to those of us who think every drop of ink we apply to the page has to be something glorious and amazing, such that clouds will part and angels will sing. Not true. No matter how big your name is or how many awards you win, you will still on occasion write something that just doesn't work.
THAT'S OKAY.
In fact, that's expected. Don't sweat it. Just move on. Write something else. Work on honing your craft, and you'll find that you do get better - when you put the work in. And after you've put the work in, and you happen to write a piece of drivel ... well, that's what the delete button is for, right?
In the hopes of writing something brilliant - but knowing full well that with a writing prompt like this, it could turn out to be drivel - our prompt for this week is:
"He handed me the box, then turned and ran away."
Enjoy!
*****************************************************************************
My response:
We all knew who he was the first day he walked in the door. Sure, we were only five year olds, more concerned about who could get to the swings fastest and what we were having for snack than where we were in line to the throne. But with him, there was no question. No complex equation of where you were now that Aunt Eliza had passed on. Just the one, certain number.
One.
He looked at us with wide eyes, the way my baby brother stared at the tigers in the zoo. His mouth dropped open, but he didn't speak. That was his first mistake, though to this day, I don't think he understood it. The rest of us had been raised by fighters, nobles and would-be nobility scraping and scheming to get closer to the top, and we knew fresh meat when we saw it.
Daft Little Princeling.
We all knew the words stung. Tears need no translator. Within hours of walking through the doors, we'd put him in his place ... taught him a lesson. I'd like to claim I had no part in it, but I would be lying. I didn't learn to be noble or brave until much later. At the beginning, I was just as cruel as any of the others.
They say we love most those who love us first. So it was with us. It was an invitation to his birthday party. Of course, it couldn't be just an envelope. His station required much more. He walked up to me at the end of the day, shoved a small, blue box tied with ribbon into my hands, then turned and ran away.
He never told me why he chose me, and I never asked. Inside the box was a pearl necklace and a crisp sheet of paper with the time and date. I put the necklace on and refused to take it off. And the next time someone called him a Daft Little Princeling, I socked them in the eye.
The reason I mention it at all is as a lesson to those of us who think every drop of ink we apply to the page has to be something glorious and amazing, such that clouds will part and angels will sing. Not true. No matter how big your name is or how many awards you win, you will still on occasion write something that just doesn't work.
THAT'S OKAY.
In fact, that's expected. Don't sweat it. Just move on. Write something else. Work on honing your craft, and you'll find that you do get better - when you put the work in. And after you've put the work in, and you happen to write a piece of drivel ... well, that's what the delete button is for, right?
In the hopes of writing something brilliant - but knowing full well that with a writing prompt like this, it could turn out to be drivel - our prompt for this week is:
"He handed me the box, then turned and ran away."
Enjoy!
*****************************************************************************
My response:
We all knew who he was the first day he walked in the door. Sure, we were only five year olds, more concerned about who could get to the swings fastest and what we were having for snack than where we were in line to the throne. But with him, there was no question. No complex equation of where you were now that Aunt Eliza had passed on. Just the one, certain number.
One.
He looked at us with wide eyes, the way my baby brother stared at the tigers in the zoo. His mouth dropped open, but he didn't speak. That was his first mistake, though to this day, I don't think he understood it. The rest of us had been raised by fighters, nobles and would-be nobility scraping and scheming to get closer to the top, and we knew fresh meat when we saw it.
Daft Little Princeling.
We all knew the words stung. Tears need no translator. Within hours of walking through the doors, we'd put him in his place ... taught him a lesson. I'd like to claim I had no part in it, but I would be lying. I didn't learn to be noble or brave until much later. At the beginning, I was just as cruel as any of the others.
They say we love most those who love us first. So it was with us. It was an invitation to his birthday party. Of course, it couldn't be just an envelope. His station required much more. He walked up to me at the end of the day, shoved a small, blue box tied with ribbon into my hands, then turned and ran away.
He never told me why he chose me, and I never asked. Inside the box was a pearl necklace and a crisp sheet of paper with the time and date. I put the necklace on and refused to take it off. And the next time someone called him a Daft Little Princeling, I socked them in the eye.
Monday, May 4, 2015
Characters
I was able to attend an SCBWI conference last Saturday. One of the classes that I attended talked a lot about character development and how, as authors, we need to know our characters so we can write them. I've had the experience of sitting down to write a story, with a plot figured out, but with sketchy characters. I couldn't write, because I didn't know how they would react to the situation I put them in. Before I could start, I had to go back and do some writing on my own to flesh out the characters in my mind. The scenes I wrote didn't end up in my book, but they helped me to understand who my characters were and how they would react when I tossed them into my book.
In keeping with the activity from the conference, the writing prompt is:
Choose a character from a current work in progress (or make up another character) and put them on a path in the forest, just as they round a bend and find a large black bear.
Enjoy!
*********************************************************************************
My response:
(I almost feel like I'm coping out on this one, but it was the first character of mine that I thought of, and it is exactly what she would do.)
Emmaleen stopped and looked up at the great, black beast on the trail in front of her. It was looking away at the moment, but the wind would carry her scent to it. She tightened her shields and continued on. The path was wide enough for both of them, if the bear was willing to share, and if not, Emmaleen would just have to push him off.
In keeping with the activity from the conference, the writing prompt is:
Choose a character from a current work in progress (or make up another character) and put them on a path in the forest, just as they round a bend and find a large black bear.
Enjoy!
*********************************************************************************
My response:
(I almost feel like I'm coping out on this one, but it was the first character of mine that I thought of, and it is exactly what she would do.)
Emmaleen stopped and looked up at the great, black beast on the trail in front of her. It was looking away at the moment, but the wind would carry her scent to it. She tightened her shields and continued on. The path was wide enough for both of them, if the bear was willing to share, and if not, Emmaleen would just have to push him off.
Monday, April 20, 2015
Embarrassing Moments Take 2
Today it was either another heavy topic (Boston Marathon) or something more lighthearted. I think the last two post have been more serious, so I'm going to go with the more frivolous of the two options: Embarrassing Moments.
Enjoy!
********************************************************************************
My response:
I peered over my roommate's shoulder as she buttered the top of her sandwich. "What are you doing?" I asked.
"Making a grilled cheese sandwich." She didn't even look up as she licked butter from her fingers.
My brain didn't comprehend it. I'd made grilled cheese sandwiches in my day, and I'd never used butter. "With butter?"
Responding to my tone, she looked up at me and replied with the same amount of snark. "Yes, with butter. What else would I use?"
"Well, Miracle Whip." I said, completely, one hundred percent confident of my answer. Every grilled cheese sandwich I'd ever made in my life, I'd made with Miracle Whip.
It earned me a pair of raised eyebrows and wide eyes. "WHAT?! Ew. Why would you use Miracle Whip?! I've always used butter."
I turned to the rest of our roommates, lounging in the kitchen and living room, to find backup. "You make grilled cheese sandwiches with Miracle Whip, not butter, right guys?"
The rest of my roommates stared at me, eyes wide as their heads shook.
"No."
"Never."
"I've always used butter."
And then it dawned on me that I was the odd one. "Really?"
Only then did it occur to me that, having a dad who was allergic to dairy products, maybe I'd grown up with a non-dairy substitute. And yes, I was the crazy one.
Enjoy!
********************************************************************************
My response:
I peered over my roommate's shoulder as she buttered the top of her sandwich. "What are you doing?" I asked.
"Making a grilled cheese sandwich." She didn't even look up as she licked butter from her fingers.
My brain didn't comprehend it. I'd made grilled cheese sandwiches in my day, and I'd never used butter. "With butter?"
Responding to my tone, she looked up at me and replied with the same amount of snark. "Yes, with butter. What else would I use?"
"Well, Miracle Whip." I said, completely, one hundred percent confident of my answer. Every grilled cheese sandwich I'd ever made in my life, I'd made with Miracle Whip.
It earned me a pair of raised eyebrows and wide eyes. "WHAT?! Ew. Why would you use Miracle Whip?! I've always used butter."
I turned to the rest of our roommates, lounging in the kitchen and living room, to find backup. "You make grilled cheese sandwiches with Miracle Whip, not butter, right guys?"
The rest of my roommates stared at me, eyes wide as their heads shook.
"No."
"Never."
"I've always used butter."
And then it dawned on me that I was the odd one. "Really?"
Only then did it occur to me that, having a dad who was allergic to dairy products, maybe I'd grown up with a non-dairy substitute. And yes, I was the crazy one.
Monday, April 13, 2015
Siblings
I'm sure everyone with a Facebook account is aware that we had National Siblings Day this last week. (Thank you, random holiday schedulers ... Really?) While I am kind of a Grinch about the whole sibling holiday thing, I do think it's a great prompt. When you look at literature, there are great sibling relationships that enrich and enhance the stories we love. What would Harry Potter be without the Weasley family? Or Pride and Prejudice without Jane? ... or Lydia? The Chronicles of Narnia just wouldn't work without all four of the Pevensies. Especially when you consider YA and MG writing, the relationships of siblings play a big role in writing.
The prompt for this week, then, is to write a scene with siblings.
Enjoy!
********************************************************************************
My response:
Emmaleen sat in the patch of dust behind the house, where the grass couldn't grow for being stomped on, and the dirt was red and fine. Her short fingers grasped a stick, and she traced out patterns in the clay.
Jed sauntered into the yard. He'd stayed away long enough to avoid morning chores, but there was nothing in the cave by the creek to eat, so he'd worked his way back home. His eyes took in Emmaleen, her thin, patched dress and chubby bare legs, and one eyebrow raised. As soon as he made up his mind, he swooped in, snatching the stick from the girl's hand.
"Heeeeeeeeeeeeey!" Emmaleen's tiny brow wrinkled, and she scowled up at Jed.
"Emmy? What's wrong?" A voice called from inside the chicken coop, and Jed rolled his eyes. He hadn't thought to check for Ryen. A stupid mistake. He frowned at the stick in his hands, snapping it in half once, and then again. He tossed it against the side of the house just as Ryen appeared.
Emmy pushed herself onto her feet as Ryen approached. She hadn't cried, though she might have, if Ryen hadn't been there.
"Emmy? You okay?" Ryen's eyes moved from Emmaleen to Jed, and his gaze narrowed. "You were supposed to gather the eggs this morning, Jed. And milk Nessa. You been down by the creek again?"
"No." Jed frowned.
Ryen pursed his lips and shifted the basket of eggs from one arm to the other. "Well then, take these in to Mama." Ryen shoved the basket into Jed's arms, then turned and headed towards the big barn. Jed sneered after him. Then he turned to head inside.
Emmaleen was so short, he didn't even notice her as he swept past. At least, he didn't notice until her foot swung out.
The basket of eggs took flight as Jed fell, arms flying out to catch himself. He landed with his face in the basket of cracked eggs.
"Jed, is that you?" Mama's voice floated through the backdoor, crisp and angry.
Jed turned a desperate face to Emmaleen. "Help me, Emmy?"
The little girl plucked another stick off the bush and sat down again. Jed's eyes flashed back and forth between the door and his sister. Now he could hear Mama's footsteps.
"Come on, Emmy! Please?!"
Emmy looked up, her plump cheeks and round forehead twisted into an oddly mature, chastising look. "Okay, Jed. But don't be mean again."
Jed sighed with relief.
Emmy did little more than glance at the fallen basket, but when Jed scooped them it up again, all the eggs were whole.
The prompt for this week, then, is to write a scene with siblings.
Enjoy!
********************************************************************************
My response:
Emmaleen sat in the patch of dust behind the house, where the grass couldn't grow for being stomped on, and the dirt was red and fine. Her short fingers grasped a stick, and she traced out patterns in the clay.
Jed sauntered into the yard. He'd stayed away long enough to avoid morning chores, but there was nothing in the cave by the creek to eat, so he'd worked his way back home. His eyes took in Emmaleen, her thin, patched dress and chubby bare legs, and one eyebrow raised. As soon as he made up his mind, he swooped in, snatching the stick from the girl's hand.
"Heeeeeeeeeeeeey!" Emmaleen's tiny brow wrinkled, and she scowled up at Jed.
"Emmy? What's wrong?" A voice called from inside the chicken coop, and Jed rolled his eyes. He hadn't thought to check for Ryen. A stupid mistake. He frowned at the stick in his hands, snapping it in half once, and then again. He tossed it against the side of the house just as Ryen appeared.
Emmy pushed herself onto her feet as Ryen approached. She hadn't cried, though she might have, if Ryen hadn't been there.
"Emmy? You okay?" Ryen's eyes moved from Emmaleen to Jed, and his gaze narrowed. "You were supposed to gather the eggs this morning, Jed. And milk Nessa. You been down by the creek again?"
"No." Jed frowned.
Ryen pursed his lips and shifted the basket of eggs from one arm to the other. "Well then, take these in to Mama." Ryen shoved the basket into Jed's arms, then turned and headed towards the big barn. Jed sneered after him. Then he turned to head inside.
Emmaleen was so short, he didn't even notice her as he swept past. At least, he didn't notice until her foot swung out.
The basket of eggs took flight as Jed fell, arms flying out to catch himself. He landed with his face in the basket of cracked eggs.
"Jed, is that you?" Mama's voice floated through the backdoor, crisp and angry.
Jed turned a desperate face to Emmaleen. "Help me, Emmy?"
The little girl plucked another stick off the bush and sat down again. Jed's eyes flashed back and forth between the door and his sister. Now he could hear Mama's footsteps.
"Come on, Emmy! Please?!"
Emmy looked up, her plump cheeks and round forehead twisted into an oddly mature, chastising look. "Okay, Jed. But don't be mean again."
Jed sighed with relief.
Emmy did little more than glance at the fallen basket, but when Jed scooped them it up again, all the eggs were whole.
Monday, March 30, 2015
Put it in a locket
This week's prompt brought to you by something I overheard:
"... and then I'll put it in a locket and wear it around my neck."
What would your character put in a locket to wear around their neck?
Enjoy!
*******************************************************************************
My response:
It wasn't just a sense of foreboding that called me back - it was tangible, driving my feet forward almost against my will. Annye would scold me and pile on the chores if I returned without everything she'd asked for, in addition to giving me a sound tongue lashing. Still, I moved forward, hurrying back towards the cottage.
Foreboding turned to fear when I reached the clearing where Annye's cottage stood. Two months ago, when Mother first brought me to Annye, I wouldn't have even be able to see the echoes of magic in the air. Today, the lines were bright, hanging in the air as if three large spiders had warred at spinning webs. Annye's red lines splayed out from the front window, the door, and even a few from the chimney. The lines would fade within the hour. Now they were still sharp and fresh.
The door hung by its top hinge, the bottom one blasted clean away by a stream of blue magic. Whatever happened had to be over. Silence hung in the air, and there were no new streaks of magic as I stepped forward, out of the shadows of the trees. After a few timid steps, I rushed forward into the cottage.
Annye lay against the back wall, her old body barley a bump under the drape of her dress. I dropped to my knees in front of her and lowered my ear to her face. I could only just hear her rasping breath.
"Annye?" I pulled her head into my lap.
"Tharaine?" Her lips barely moved. Her eyes twitched, but did not open.
"I'm here Annye. Are you okay? What happened? Where are you injured?" My heart beat frantically. I had to save her. My training wasn't done. I still had so much to learn.
"It is too late, Tharaine. Your time ..." She paused to cough, her thin bones gouging my legs as they labored. "Your time has come early. Now you will serve as guardian. My time is done."
The whole of Annye's body began to glow red. Her spirit was dividing, separating itself from her body. I'd seen it happen once or twice in the time I'd been there, and Annye had taught me the proper songs to sing the spirit to the heavens. But I couldn't lift my voice to sing. I couldn't let her go. She couldn't leave me, not yet!
So I did the only thing I could think to do. I grasped my locket in my left hand and reached out my right. I whispered under my breath, talking to Annye, telling her much I needed her. As her spirit rose, so rose my voice. My hand glowed, a bright yellow orb enveloping it, small tendrils reaching out towards Annye's spirit.
The two colors met in the air, burning brighter than the fire. Annye's spirit lingered as my magic wrapped around it. Hope flared in my chest. Then I tore the locket from my neck, holding it towards the lights and shouting over the rushing between my ears. Both yellow and red lights dove towards the locket. The yellow stopped just shy of it, but Annye's red filled it. Her spirit bubbled and churned like smoke around the amulet, then settled and finally stilled.
My hands dropped to my sides. Yellow and red clouds of echoed magic lingered in front of me. Then my mind cleared. Annye's body lay on the floor. With every other death, we leave the body where it lies until the path to heaven disappeared. Annye didn't have a path to heaven. And when I looked, my locket glowed faintly red.
What had I done?!
"... and then I'll put it in a locket and wear it around my neck."
What would your character put in a locket to wear around their neck?
Enjoy!
*******************************************************************************
My response:
It wasn't just a sense of foreboding that called me back - it was tangible, driving my feet forward almost against my will. Annye would scold me and pile on the chores if I returned without everything she'd asked for, in addition to giving me a sound tongue lashing. Still, I moved forward, hurrying back towards the cottage.
Foreboding turned to fear when I reached the clearing where Annye's cottage stood. Two months ago, when Mother first brought me to Annye, I wouldn't have even be able to see the echoes of magic in the air. Today, the lines were bright, hanging in the air as if three large spiders had warred at spinning webs. Annye's red lines splayed out from the front window, the door, and even a few from the chimney. The lines would fade within the hour. Now they were still sharp and fresh.
The door hung by its top hinge, the bottom one blasted clean away by a stream of blue magic. Whatever happened had to be over. Silence hung in the air, and there were no new streaks of magic as I stepped forward, out of the shadows of the trees. After a few timid steps, I rushed forward into the cottage.
Annye lay against the back wall, her old body barley a bump under the drape of her dress. I dropped to my knees in front of her and lowered my ear to her face. I could only just hear her rasping breath.
"Annye?" I pulled her head into my lap.
"Tharaine?" Her lips barely moved. Her eyes twitched, but did not open.
"I'm here Annye. Are you okay? What happened? Where are you injured?" My heart beat frantically. I had to save her. My training wasn't done. I still had so much to learn.
"It is too late, Tharaine. Your time ..." She paused to cough, her thin bones gouging my legs as they labored. "Your time has come early. Now you will serve as guardian. My time is done."
The whole of Annye's body began to glow red. Her spirit was dividing, separating itself from her body. I'd seen it happen once or twice in the time I'd been there, and Annye had taught me the proper songs to sing the spirit to the heavens. But I couldn't lift my voice to sing. I couldn't let her go. She couldn't leave me, not yet!
So I did the only thing I could think to do. I grasped my locket in my left hand and reached out my right. I whispered under my breath, talking to Annye, telling her much I needed her. As her spirit rose, so rose my voice. My hand glowed, a bright yellow orb enveloping it, small tendrils reaching out towards Annye's spirit.
The two colors met in the air, burning brighter than the fire. Annye's spirit lingered as my magic wrapped around it. Hope flared in my chest. Then I tore the locket from my neck, holding it towards the lights and shouting over the rushing between my ears. Both yellow and red lights dove towards the locket. The yellow stopped just shy of it, but Annye's red filled it. Her spirit bubbled and churned like smoke around the amulet, then settled and finally stilled.
My hands dropped to my sides. Yellow and red clouds of echoed magic lingered in front of me. Then my mind cleared. Annye's body lay on the floor. With every other death, we leave the body where it lies until the path to heaven disappeared. Annye didn't have a path to heaven. And when I looked, my locket glowed faintly red.
What had I done?!
Monday, March 23, 2015
Contemporary
I tend to shy away from contemporary writing, but sometimes I find myself marveling at how a contemporary novel can be absolutely engrossing, even when the most exciting thing the characters do is lounge on the couch and scour Netflix for something new to watch.
The prompt for this week is to write something contemporary. Don't worry about trying not to "date" your piece. Just write something that could happen today, somewhere in your town (or somewhere you're familiar with).
Enjoy!
****************************************************************************
My response:
My nail polish was chipping. I took a deep breath and pressed my jaw together. No matter how hard I tried, there was always something. I had a new pair of sensible black pumps, and the left toe had a white streak on it. The new dress skirt scratched, and I sweated under my silk scarf. Still, I thought I stood a better chance than the guy my age, with a carefully trimmed beard and sweat stains in his pits.
I looked up an accidentally caught his eye. He smiled widely.
Maybe not. He's a real charmer, and those blue eyes were killer.
If I didn't lose to him, there was the other girl in the waiting room. Her nail polish wasn't chipped. Neither were her toes. Her perfectly bronzed legs crossed neatly and her tailor was better than mine. If she didn't get the job here, she could walk down the street to Vogue and be their new cover model.
I ground my teeth harder, knowing I shouldn't but unable to stop myself.
The prompt for this week is to write something contemporary. Don't worry about trying not to "date" your piece. Just write something that could happen today, somewhere in your town (or somewhere you're familiar with).
Enjoy!
****************************************************************************
My response:
My nail polish was chipping. I took a deep breath and pressed my jaw together. No matter how hard I tried, there was always something. I had a new pair of sensible black pumps, and the left toe had a white streak on it. The new dress skirt scratched, and I sweated under my silk scarf. Still, I thought I stood a better chance than the guy my age, with a carefully trimmed beard and sweat stains in his pits.
I looked up an accidentally caught his eye. He smiled widely.
Maybe not. He's a real charmer, and those blue eyes were killer.
If I didn't lose to him, there was the other girl in the waiting room. Her nail polish wasn't chipped. Neither were her toes. Her perfectly bronzed legs crossed neatly and her tailor was better than mine. If she didn't get the job here, she could walk down the street to Vogue and be their new cover model.
I ground my teeth harder, knowing I shouldn't but unable to stop myself.
Monday, March 16, 2015
Science Fiction
Usually when I'm stalking literary agents before querying, if someone likes sci-fi, they're a good fit for my work. Lately, though, I've actually run into a few agents who state loud and clear that they rep science fiction ... NOT fantasy. My writing typically takes the two genres and blends them together.
Then I had a friend share a link to this: http://www.authorspublish.com/asimovs-science-fiction/
(Side note: I know I'm supposed to be submitting short stories to magazines like this to build up my writing credits, but my stories tend to come in chunks of 80k words ...)
I've been playing with the idea of trying to write a short sci-fi story, just to see if I can. So, with no further ado, the prompt for the week is to write a short science fiction piece.
Enjoy!
********************************************************************************
My response:
The old sci fi movies always seem to start with a music from the seventies or eighties, some old cassette or VHS playing while the hero works on the engine of some hulking, rusty-but-trusty spaceship. The truth is, all that old, film media died out in the first century after space travel began. Sure, we still have some dvds, blue-rays, and cds ... but I prefer to work in silence.
Of course, the silence of a space ship isn't complete. Dad used to compare it to sitting in a forest on a planet. He said, if you sit still and listen, you can hear the wind in the trees, the chirping of birds, the whir of insect wings. It's just like my ship. The groan of the metal struts, the chirp of monitors, the whir of life support. I can shut my eyes and listen for hours. A full hold of supplies, my dad's old ship, and I don't need anything else.
I've been hanging out at the edges of the President Quadrant lately. In spite of it's name, it's not the nicest place. It's the furthest reach of both the Kari Nation and the Alaman Republic, but far enough away from both of them that it stays quiet. I haven't seen anyone in weeks, which is great for me. I don't consume much energy on my own, and I've been alone for the last three years.
(This interruption is brought to you by a case of food poisoning. Or sudden onset of the flu. Or Norovirus. Either way, after letting it sit all day on my computer, I've decided I'll have to come back to this later.)
*UPDATED* I did come back to this, and the first thing I did was completely rewrite the first paragraph. Now I'm nearly at 2k words, and I'm really pleased with the way the story is developing. I'll put out an update if I find someone to publish it.
2nd Update: I did finish the story at 3k. I'll get it cleaned up some more and see what happens.
Then I had a friend share a link to this: http://www.authorspublish.com/asimovs-science-fiction/
(Side note: I know I'm supposed to be submitting short stories to magazines like this to build up my writing credits, but my stories tend to come in chunks of 80k words ...)
I've been playing with the idea of trying to write a short sci-fi story, just to see if I can. So, with no further ado, the prompt for the week is to write a short science fiction piece.
Enjoy!
********************************************************************************
My response:
The old sci fi movies always seem to start with a music from the seventies or eighties, some old cassette or VHS playing while the hero works on the engine of some hulking, rusty-but-trusty spaceship. The truth is, all that old, film media died out in the first century after space travel began. Sure, we still have some dvds, blue-rays, and cds ... but I prefer to work in silence.
Of course, the silence of a space ship isn't complete. Dad used to compare it to sitting in a forest on a planet. He said, if you sit still and listen, you can hear the wind in the trees, the chirping of birds, the whir of insect wings. It's just like my ship. The groan of the metal struts, the chirp of monitors, the whir of life support. I can shut my eyes and listen for hours. A full hold of supplies, my dad's old ship, and I don't need anything else.
I've been hanging out at the edges of the President Quadrant lately. In spite of it's name, it's not the nicest place. It's the furthest reach of both the Kari Nation and the Alaman Republic, but far enough away from both of them that it stays quiet. I haven't seen anyone in weeks, which is great for me. I don't consume much energy on my own, and I've been alone for the last three years.
(This interruption is brought to you by a case of food poisoning. Or sudden onset of the flu. Or Norovirus. Either way, after letting it sit all day on my computer, I've decided I'll have to come back to this later.)
*UPDATED* I did come back to this, and the first thing I did was completely rewrite the first paragraph. Now I'm nearly at 2k words, and I'm really pleased with the way the story is developing. I'll put out an update if I find someone to publish it.
2nd Update: I did finish the story at 3k. I'll get it cleaned up some more and see what happens.
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