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!
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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.
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