I know I've hit on this topic before, but character development is so important.
Something I've heard time and time again is that your antagonist can't just be bad to be bad, they need to have a motivation, something that makes their actions "good" from their point of view.
My latest WIP has a side arc about a saboteur. When I finished the rest of the main storyline and tied up the other loose ends, I realized I hadn't finished the side arc about the saboteur. In all honesty, I was probably too anxious to finish, and I plucked the character that made the most sense to me and made him the bad guy.
Fast forward a few months, and I had an agent give me really good feedback on the ms. One of her points was that the person I'd named as the saboteur was too obvious. She was right. So, I've been trying to figure out a better way of finishing off that story arc. I've narrowed down my options, and I'm playing with the new antagonist, but I have to establish his motivation.
For something like this, I recommend explorative writing. Typically, it's not something that will ever appear in the pages of my ms, but it will help me understand my character better, and therefore write them better where they do appear in the book.
This prompt is to write a scene for one of your characters that won't ever appear in your story, but that will give you a better understanding of your character.
Enjoy!
*Edited: With some people coming to read this blog who are also reading my ms, I'm changing the names of my characters, because otherwise this post ruins the ending.*
********************************************************************************
My response:
The shadows grew longer outside the supermarket as the grumbling in Tom's stomach grew louder.
He didn't know how long he'd been living on the streets, but it was long enough to learn he'd better wait until the group of men moved off before he moved in. His ribs still ached from that last run-in he'd had.
A hot wind blew past his face, rank with rot and disease. Sweat rolled down Tom's back. The heat of the asphalt seeped through the rubber of his soles. He sucked on his tongue, desperate to build moisture in his mouth. Still, he waited. A bottle of water later was better than risking a boot in the face now.
Until the dogs came. Tom heard them coming from the next block over. His right hand dropped down to cover a line of scabs on his left forearm. It was bad being an orphan after the epidemic wiped out most of the population. The dogs had it worse. In the absence of loving, food-providing owners, it had literally become a dog-eat-dog world.
Unless they found something else more helpless. Like an orphan.
Tom left the safety of his alleyway and shot towards the doors of the grocery store. The barking of the dogs picked up behind him, and he heard the pad of paws on the pavement behind him. Either he hadn't been fast enough, or they'd already picked up his scent.
A shadow stepped out of the doorway in front of Tom. His feet faltered for just a moment, but then they regained their motion. The dogs were definitely the worst of the two options.
As Tom reached the doors, the shadow stepped forward into the fading sunlight. It was a tall man, dark enough to be a shadow himself, with a halo of curly hair and bright, wide eyes. He pulled a gun from his belt and aimed it at Tom.
Tom threw himself to the ground. The asphalt bit into his palms and his chin as a shot rang out above his head.
Behind him, a dog dropped, yelping. The gun rang out again, followed by another thud.
Tom lay on the ground, gasping and trembling.
The man reached down, slipping his hands under Tom's arms and lifting him to his feet. Without a word, he tucked his gun back into its holster and pulled a canteen from his bag. Twisting the lid off, he pressed it to Tom's lips.
Tom's hands flew forward, snatching at the canteen and upending it into his mouth. Water spilled from the corners of his mouth as he gulped, eyes closed.
The shadow man chuckled, like laughing thunder. "Thought you might be thirsty." He crouched down, his hands on his knees. "I'm Mr. Smith. What's your name?"
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Thursday, March 24, 2016
Identity
I came across a story today that piques my interest in so many ways. Especially with this push in the publishing industry for more diverse books, I really want to see something done like this. Here's the story: http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/a37533/adoption-secret-family-history/
So, the girl was raised believing she was born to a Jewish mother. I am not Jewish, but the article implies that Jews believe any child born to a Jewish mother is Jewish. She was adopted by a Jewish family and raised as a Jew. She developed a close association with her Jewish heritage, even more so than some of her relatives.
When she sought out her birth parents, however, she discovered that her mother was a Christian who envied the family lives of the Jewish people she knew. She wanted her child to have that, so she filled out the adoption forms to label her child as Jewish, so it would go to a Jewish household.
Ultimately, she overcame the shock and moved on, but I'd love to see a novel like this, where someone's life view - something they consider to be a part of them - turns out to be wrong. It would be a lot more literary than what I usually write, but I'd love to read it.
So, the girl was raised believing she was born to a Jewish mother. I am not Jewish, but the article implies that Jews believe any child born to a Jewish mother is Jewish. She was adopted by a Jewish family and raised as a Jew. She developed a close association with her Jewish heritage, even more so than some of her relatives.
When she sought out her birth parents, however, she discovered that her mother was a Christian who envied the family lives of the Jewish people she knew. She wanted her child to have that, so she filled out the adoption forms to label her child as Jewish, so it would go to a Jewish household.
Ultimately, she overcame the shock and moved on, but I'd love to see a novel like this, where someone's life view - something they consider to be a part of them - turns out to be wrong. It would be a lot more literary than what I usually write, but I'd love to read it.
Monday, November 16, 2015
The wind ...
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.
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 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!
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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!
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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.)
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!
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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!
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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.
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
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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 ... )
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