The wheel is still spinning

This prompt is thanks to some old friends I had in high school.  They used to say, "The wheel is still spinning, but the hamster is dead." 

It's just a variation on, "No cups in the cupboard," but the imagery of it is so much more ... dramatic?

So, in honor of old friends, this week's prompt is:

"The wheel is still spinning, but the hamster is dead."

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My response:

I stood at the counter.  The kitchen smelled of french fries and chicken nuggets, and the air was heavy with evaporated oil.  I could feel it settling on my cheeks and forehead. 

The sounds of children playing rang out from the other room.  At least, until a shrill cry pierced the playful chatter.  It was McKensie.  I waited.  The cry died down and the chatter resumed. 

Crisis averted.  For now.

I looked down at the cookie sheet covered in foil.  I wouldn't need to wash the cookie sheet, the foil was still intact.  I'd just have to throw away the foil.  I reached down.

The red casserole dish still sat on my counter.  I counted the days.  Six.  It was about time I get it back to Jennifer.  Mom always said to never return an empty dish.  Maybe I should bake cookies tomorrow ...

I looked up at the spatula I was trying to stuff into the vase that held the larger utinsels on my counter.  The rubber handle was sticking and didn't want to go in.  Then I noticed the french fry crumbs and a few smears of oil on the end.  Why was I putting a dirty spatula away?

I looked down at the cookie sheet, still covered in foil.  I had meant to put it away, and it didn't need to be cleaned ...

I yanked the door of the dishwasher down and tossed the dirty spatula on the top rack, glad that it hadn't gone into the vase easily.  At least the greasy top hadn't touched the rest of the utinsels.

Then I reached for the cookie tray, yanking the foil off.  I kept it in the pantry/laundry room just a few feet down the hall from the kitchen, so I headed there, intent on putting it away. 

I glanced into the living room as I passed the doorway.  The kids were more playing than cleaning up, but at least I was going to be able to get the dishes done.

The door of the pantry swung in with a squeak, and I tossed something into the dirty hamper.  Then I stopped.

Why had I just tossed a balled-up wad of tin foil into the dirty clothes hamper?

I blinked. 

The cookie sheet still sat on the stove.

I snatched the tin foil back out of the dirty clothes and tossed it into the trash can.

I stalked into the kitchen, picked up the clean cookie sheet, turned and walked directly back into the pantry, and put it in the pile of flat baking impliments.

Cursed cookie sheet.

She didn't wait.

I've just recently finished reading "Stormdancer" by Jay Kristoff. If I were to say just one thing about the book, it would be that Kristoff is very clever with words. I enjoyed the way he phrased things and the way he played with dialogue.

The prompt for this week is not a direct quote from his book, but it is inspired by it.

Prompt:

"I promise I'll return for you," he said.

But she didn't wait.

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My Response:

Splinters tore into her calves as she knelt on the wooden flooring. The press of the iron bar against her ribs was unyeilding and frigid, her own body heat not enough to warm the metal. Tara wore only her togep, a sleeveless, knee-length dress of tanned skins, tied at the waist with a thin strip of rawhide. Usually her sheathed braok hung near her hip, but the servants who found her, coming like cowards while she was sleeping, had stolen the blade, the largest of them slipping it into his robes before they even finished tying her hands.

Tara stared longingly at the one square of light in the room. The Regent's prison at this outpost only consisted of one floor of the government house. The stairs leading up and down took up one end of the room. The wooden planks that formed the walls of the room were lined with iron cages. Two special cages stood in the middle of the room separate from the others. One lone window let in streams of light from above the lower stairwell.

"Tara. Tara, forgive me." The other cell's ocupant pressed himself up against the row of blue metal between them, reaching his hand out towards her. Tara kept her head down, trying to press her body further into her own set of iron rails. The two center cages denied the prisoners even the slight comfort of a wall to lean against.

"Tara, I didn't want to try and make you out to be anything other than what you are. You've done nothing wrong. Nothing. I know you don't have the Touch, and when I get a chance to explain, they'll free us." He wasn't a young man, but neither was he old. At his temples, his dark hair was scattered with gray. His face was marked with creases both in his forhead, from scowling, and at the corner of his eyes, from smiling. He had been ambitious and passionate, fighting his way up the chain of command in the Regent's service, starting as the lowliest shoveler and now a minor magistrate in a dilapidated old fort. Maybe his current assignment wasn't grand, but it was stories above any of his old mates, many of whom had long passed on into the Netherlands after a life of hard service.

"I'll get my position back, and they'll allow us to marry."

Behind her mask of indiference, Tara listened to his pleas. She couldn't help but think he was trying more to convince himself than to comfort her. And yet, if he had just let things be, if he hadn't insisted on applying for a proper, Regent Approved, Union Certificate, they wouldn't be where they were today.

The tribes of the Touched mingled with the servants of the Regent only in the darkest corners of the land, but that was where they were. Tara had grown up half in the fort and half in the forest. Her mother had been a saralie ... a curse, according to the Touched. A woman willing to give her body to a man for a meal or a new dress was a shame to them. But the Code prevented them from throwing her out, and her daughter, though the spawn of disgrace, was still one of them.

Tara herself had learned to follow the Code of the Touched. She yearned for acceptance, and the kind hearted ways of her people had given it to her, wholeheartedly.

She had also learned the ways of the servants of the Regent. When Aarek came to the fort, she'd admired his bold personality, his command over his men, and the way the moons seemed to dance to his laugher. The day he'd taken her in his arms for the first time had been the happiest day of her life.

It would have been better if he'd known everything, accepted her for all she was, but for a time, the fact that he loved her at all was enough for her. Aarek was faithful to her, took her into his house, provided her with everything she'd ever needed or wanted and showered her with attention. She in turn had let him invent a past for her that excused his actions in taking one of the Touched as wife.

"I will tell them your father was a soldier, that you were raised in the fort …"Aarek's whining continued. This was the first time she'd ever seen him look weak. Almost, her heart was persuaded to steal over to him, to pull him to her chest with the bars between them, and to sing to him. Almost.

Tara wondered, if they asked him outright, if he would admit her mother was a whore. One thing was certain, no matter how truthful he believed he was when he swore she didn't have the Touch, he wouldn't be telling the truth.

The high magistrate called for him near the setting of the First Sun, when gloomy shadows crossed the land, and they were left with only the dim, blue light of the Elder Star. The servants pulled Aarek from his cage. His lips never ceased their cries as his hands, now tied, continued to stretch towards Tara.

"Tara, my beloved, I promise I'll return for you!"

Tara watched as the last servant descended the stairs, his head disappearing out of her sight.

She couldn't afford to wait. Waiting was leaping into the jaws of death.

She reached out and Touched a bar of iron.

Softly, she began to sing.

Slowly, the iron melted.

 

Favorite Song

I just wanted to start off this week with a little note:  I like to write in first person.  It's not for every piece, but in my less than humble opinion, nothing draws you into a character more than hearing their thoughts.  You get their insecurities, anxieties and doubts all spelled out in front of you, and you realize that many of their fears are things you've thought about, too.  (I do like third person, too.  The novel I'm trying to publish right now is in third person.  This is not third person bashing, just first person promotion.)

So, please do not assume any of my first person posts are autobiographical.  Unless I specify that it's a memoir, at the very least I've exaggerated the story, if not made it up completely.

(I think this comes up now because my response to this week's prompt is in first person … but it's a guy.  I'm not a guy … but I thought it would be fun to see if I could write one.  So, here goes …)

Now, for the prompt of the week:  "It was my favorite song."

Remember, it does not have to be autobiographical.  J

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My response:

"Life is a highway … I wanna ride it  … all night long!"

I could feel the vibration of the speakers coming up through the seat as I pulled up to the stoplight.  I tapped the faded leather of the steering wheel with the heel of my hand and sang out the last three words, feeling the answering rumble rise from my own chest. 

Friday night.  My own truck (if a little battered).  A full tank of gas.  What could be better?

I glanced over at the car stopped to my right.  It was a little blue hatchback, older even than my Chevy.  Waves of blond hair caught my eye as they swayed back and forth, moved by the gentle breeze from her open windows and the subtle bobbing of her head … to the beat of the song coming out of my own speakers.

"If you're goin' my way, I wanna drive it … all night long!"

Her voice rang out clear, even over the thudding of my own sound system.

She tossed her hair back over her shoulders as she sang along to my favorite song, oblivious to my gap-eyed stare.  I recognized her.  She was the new girl, just moved to town from Illinois, or Iowa, or some nondescript Midwest state.  She'd looked different in my geometry class, her hair pulled back in a pony tail, her brown creased, and her lips pursed, like she was sitting on a pinecone.  I hadn't bothered to look twice.  Maybe I should have.  She was gorgeous.

And she was singing my favorite song.

I moved my hand to the armrest on the door and pressed a button.

"There ain't no load that I can't hold,

This road's so rough, this I know …:"

She froze, then slowly turned her head towards the window between us as it sunk down into the door.

I flashed the widest smile I could manage while singing,

"I'll be there when the light comes in,

Just tell 'em we're survivors!"

Her cheeks burned red.  She glanced away, and for a moment, I thought she was going to roll up her own window.  Then she turned back to me and met my gaze with a sparkle in her eyes.

"Life is a highway, I wanna ride it … all night long!"

Our voices rose into the night air together, neither one of us caring about the other cars around us.  My confidence rose, and I motioned with my hand, pointing at her.

"If you're going my way … I wanna drive it … all night long!"

Her laughter bubbled up and stopped her singing, but she kept her eyes locked on mine until the chorus came around again.

"Life is a highway, I wanna ride it …"

The light turned green, and she saw it.  She turned back to me and sang out, "All night long!"

Then she hit the gas, and her little hatchback laid rubber on the asphalt.  I left a pair of matching black stripes in my lane as I sped off after her.

Grab the nearest book ...

Ok, let's try this:

Grab the nearest book, turn to page 56, choose the 10th sentence, and use that as your writing prompt.  (Should page 56 turn out to be a chapter heading with fewer than 10 sentences, jump forward ten pages at a time until you find a suitable sentence to start with.)

And please let us know what book you picked up and what your sentence was.

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My Response:

I picked up Les Miserables by Victor Hugo and found "Woe to him who does!"

I always hated when people would come up behind me, cover my eyes, and tell me to guess who.  Seriously?  If I know who it is, then the point is lost completely.  If I don't know who it is, what reason do I have to stand around guessing while some possible serial killer holds me hostage?

As much as I hated it, it seemed to be a thing in the dorms.  I'd walk out of the bathroom, hair in a towel and my toiletries bucket clutched in my hands, and someone would grab me from behind, "Guess who?!"  Oh, I don't know, someone without enough tact to let me get dressed first?

I managed to survive my freshman year without decking anyone, but apparently that was more for lack of ability on my part than lack of desire.  When I got home the summer between freshman and sophomore year, my mom put me in a self-defense class.  She'd read an article about a girl who'd gotten raped and murdered on the local college campus, and she feared for my life.  I had nothing better to do, and mom was paying.  I spent two months learning how to use my elbows and knees and having my instructor tell me I was too timid.  If slapping my attacker's balls would help me get away, I needed to be bold and slap, kick, or punch as needed.

I'd been back at school for two weeks when it happened.  I was crossing the quad in front of the library.  From the corner of my eye, I saw the tall guy in dark clothes turn my way as I passed him.  Quick footsteps slapped the concrete behind me, and a pair of hands clamped down over my eyes.

They say, in an emergency, you do what you've been trained to do.  I am no exception to the rule.  I  curled the fingers of my right hand into a fist, stretched my arm out in front of me, then bent at the elbow and slammed it backwards.  Pain shot up my arm as my elbow contacted with ribs.  The hands covering my eyes dropped away.  I stepped forward with my left foot, dropping down into the fighting stance I'd practiced over the summer.  My right arm continued in the series of motions it had been taught.  With my eyes free, I turned and spotted my target behind me.  I slammed the back of my right hand into the middle of my attacker's face with the ruthlessness I'd been taught.

Right into my ex-boyfriend's nose.

Memoir prompt

If you were to write a memoir, a scene you would include. 

I'd like to see something that explains a portion of your personality.  (I'm not so naïve to think you can sum up your whole personality in one short piece of work, but pick an experience you had and explore how it shaped who you are today.)

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My response:

I must have been an older teen, because I was in the corner bedroom of the house.  At first, when we moved in, I was in the smallest of the three bedrooms, but when my little brother moved himself out into the attached shed, I took his larger bedroom.  I was comfortable in there.  My daybed was made of dark, stained wood, my dresser a dark oak.  They contrasted nicely with the pink quilt and pastel colors I'd filled my room with.  The sun shone brightly through the window with the decorative wrought iron bars, and I sat comfortably, just outside the square of light, on the bean bag chair I'd gotten when I was twelve.  I had a book open in my hands.

A quick knock came at the door, and then it opened.  My mom stuck her head in, red curls framing her face.  She'd gotten home from running errands.  She frowned at me.

"Did you get the kitchen floor mopped?"

The way she asked left no doubt that she knew I hadn't done my chores yet.

"No, I couldn't because [my sister] was still doing the dishes when I was in there.  I had to wait until she was done."

My mom frowned.  She fixed a stare at my guinea pig in her cage.  "Did you clean out Misty's cage?"

The stench in the room testified against me.  "No, I don't know where you put the new bag of cedar chips."

Mom stepped into the room.  "They're in the garage.  You just have to go look.  Did you clean the bathroom?"

I sighed.  I wanted to read my book.  "No, [my brother] was taking a shower."

Mom's frown deepened, and she raised her voice, "You always have an excuse, don’t you?  Always an excuse!"  She turned and stormed down the hall.

"An excuse."  There was something about the way she said it.  An excuse wasn't any real reason … it was … well, just an excuse.  Not a real cause, not any good explanation, just an excuse.  Something you told someone in the hopes that they wouldn't see through it and know that you had just flaked on them. 

"An excuse."  It brought an odious taste to my mouth.  I was repulsed by the idea.

I laid my book down and pulled my body up.  I didn't have any more excuses, and even if I did, I wasn't going to make them anymore.  I wasn't going to stand, at the end of my life, and make excuses for the things I hadn't done.  There were things that needed to be done, and I was done making excuses.

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I will admit to taking a liberty or two here for this scene.  It did actually happen, and I know there was a list of things I was supposed to get done that day, each of which I had an excuse for not getting done.  The only thing on the list I can remember was cleaning out Misty's cage.  I can also clearly remember my mom saying that the new bag of cedar chips was in the garage, I just needed to look for it.  The most memorable part of that scene was the way my mom accused me of making excuses, and how disappointed she was with me for it.  It made an impact on me – with my proof as the fact that I remember it now, over 15 years later.

I hope it doesn't sound like I was perfect from then on out, but that afternoon did teach me the difference between something you really can't do (like asking a toddler to replace the intake manifold in your engine) and making excuses so you don't have to do something you really just don't want to do. 

Years later I told my dad I wanted to be a marine biologist.  He said, "You'll have to learn to scuba dive."  I was afraid.  The thought of being underwater and relying on a tank and a few flimsy pieces of equipment scared me … but I heard the excuse forming in my mind.  "I couldn't become a marine biologist because scuba diving is scary."  So I sucked it up and took scuba diving lessons … and discovered one of the greatest loves of my life.  I've never been able to dive as much as I'd like (mostly living landlocked since I learned), but I never would have learned, if I'd made excuses.

(Thanks Mom!  I love you!  And you will always have red, curly hair, in my mind!)

Blue Flowers

Ok, I really liked the picture prompt two weeks ago, so I'm doing it again. 

 

Here you go:

 

 

 

I can't help but think, a picture may be worth a thousand words, but it can inspire 100 thousand more ...

 

 

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My Response:

 

 

Ella ran through the field, arms spread wide, as if she were trying with all of her small soul to take it all in.  She threw her head back and laughed, the sound ringing across the field of blue flowers.  The warmth of the afternoon sun enveloped her.  Freedom.  This was what freedom felt like.  Chores done, bath taken, hair brushed, and an open field to run in.

 

The riverbank rose ahead of her, and Ella lifted her skirt as she climbed it, already anticipating the smooth swallows of water in her throat and the feel of round pebbles under her toes.  She crested the rise and looked down.  Then she frowned.

 

He looked up from where he crouched at the water's edge.

 

"Ella!"  He glanced back down at his hands, then lifted something out of the water and held it out towards her.  "Look at this frog I found!"

 

Leave it to a boy to ruin my day, Ella thought, but she started down towards the water anyway.  She wasn't going to be scared off, either.

 

Ella walked down to the water, but pointedly kept her distance. 

 

"You keep that frog away from me, Jesse Park, or I'll tell your mama you've been using her bloomers to catch 'em!"  Ella lifted her chin haughtily and slid her bare feet into the water, shutting her eyes and sighing.

 

Jesse dropped his arm and cocked his head, "Aw, Ella, don't be like that.  He's a pretty little thing."  Jesse's eyes lit up, "Almost as pretty as you are!" He beamed.

 

Ella's eyes flew wide open.  She turned back to Jesse and gasped.  "Jesse Park, did you just compare me to that ugly toad?!"

 

Jesse's jaw dropped open and he looked down at the glistening creature in his hand.  "He's not ugly ..." he objected.

 

Ella turned her back to him.

 

Jesse sighed and bent down, letting the frog loose.

 

"Ah, Ella, you know you're the prettiest girl in the third grade ..." Jesse started.

 

Ella blushed slightly and allowed her chin to drop down.  "Only in the third grade?" she plied.

 

"Well, Rebecca Wells is by far the prettiest girl in school, but she's already fourteen, and my Mama says girls only get prettier as they get bigger ..."  Jesse tried to peer around Ella's shoulder to gague her reaction.  "But I'm sure by the time you're fourteen, you'll be the prettiest in the whole county!"

 

Ella turned, cheeks flushed, and allowed Jesse a small smile.

 

"My Mama made some sugar biscuits this afternoon," Jesse offered.  "If I bring you home with me, she's like to let us each have some ..."

 

Ella perked up.  "Well, and your Mama does make the best sugar biscuits in the whole county ... Bet I can beat you there!"

 

They raced across the shallow river, shining drops of water flashing in the sunlight, and headed off across the field.

Warm and Inviting

Okay Friends, this week's prompt is:

"It smelled warm and inviting …"

You don't have to include the phrase in your writing; remember, this is just to prompt your thoughts.  In fact, if you're thinking, "It didn't smell warm and inviting, it smelled like thick motor oil and burned rubber …" then go with it.

Have fun!

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My response:

I licked my chapped lips and peered around the low branches of a fir tree.  Short needles pricked my fingers as I pressed them away from my face.  The fire in the small clearing was large … too large for a small group of travelers, especially with the drought we'd had this summer.  If any of the fallen needles were to catch, the whole forest glade would go up in flames.

Still, the smell of roasting meat and baking bread brought me closer, when I should have turned the other direction.  I leaned forward, trying to count the figures around the fire.  It burned brightly, illuminating everything in the small glade, but on a moonless night like tonight, as long as I stayed out of the dancing glow of the flames, no one would see me.  It was too dark out here, and their eyes were adjusted to the flame, not the shadows.

There were four men, large and muscular, with their faces hidden beneath overgrown facial hair.  I wondered how they could bear the heat of the summer under all that fur.  A boy sat on a fallen log near the fire.  That wasn't unusual.  When their boys grew old enough, the men who traveled the highway through the forest often started bringing them along to teach them their trade, whether it be as merchants or thieves.

What caught my eye was the smaller child, held tightly in the boy's lap.  It was a girl, and she reached out with chubby arms towards the flames, cooing in awe and kicking her tiny feet.  She had a short dress on sewn from a pink fabric, the likes of which I'd never seen before.

The men laughed again, the sound carrying through the forest.  I shifted my weight on my bare feet and checked to make sure my hunting knife was still secure in the sheath on my belt.  The bread was rising on a flat rock near the fire, and the deer hung over it.  Three hours from now, the men would be sleeping, and if I was quiet and swift enough, I'd be able to cut some meat from the spit and snatch a loaf or two.

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I feel like I have to apologize … I had such a clear picture of what I was going to write when I sat down, but as I wrote, it got all muddled, and I didn't know where I wanted to take it.  When I started frowning and wondering if I had any urgent household chores I needed to get done, I decided to live by my own rules and stop laboring over it.  It's a little discouraging, but honestly, not everything we write in our lives will be captivating and wonderful.  Sometimes you just have to throw it away and start over.

I'll try to come back to it again this week and write something else, maybe on a day when I don't have children home sick and when my taxes are done.  J