Narration

"Are you Nuts, or Normal?"

That's the question on the cover of the Reader's Digest sitting on the back of my parent's toilet.  It was an interesting article, but it didn't touch on the one thing that really makes me wonder if I might have a touch of clinical craziness in me: I like to narrate my life. 

Don't worry, it's not all the time.  The words never actually make it out of my mind and onto paper, and usually, it's when I'm doing the most mundane things, like brushing my teeth.  I wonder if it's a writer thing. 

When I thought about doing a prompt to narrate your own life, I almost brushed it off as too stupid.  I mean, what's so exciting about me cooking dinner, buying groceries, or feeding the rabbit?  Then I remembered a quote: "The day before your life changes forever just feels like any other day."  I heard it on Switched at Birth.  There is so much truth in that statement, not only in life, but also in writing. 

If you start your story in the middle of the action, your readers are lost.  They have no context for the scenario, they don't know the characters, and it's easier for them to simply put the book down than to try and figure it out.  BUT if you set the stage beforehand, with the day before everything changes, you can draw your readers, bit by bit, into your world, so when the action happens, they're right there next to you, reading as if their lives depend on it.

So, the prompt is:  Narrate a bit of your own life.

Don't worry that it's mundane.  Don't worry that it's simple.  Pretend this is the day before your life changes, and you're setting the scene. 

Go ahead.  Enjoy!

*********************************************************************

My response:

She sat in front of the sewing machine, a formless mass of crushed blue velvet in her hands, her legs crossed in front of her.  Her fingers worked the edge of the fabric, measuring, turning, pinning.  Then she looked up.  She eased her head to the side, as if trying to lie down on a pillow, and was rewarded with a pop.  Then the other side.  She rolled her shoulders.

Sighing, she looked down at the unfinished garment and laid it over the top of the sewing machine.  Her fingers found the switch and turned the sewing machine off as she stood.  Her eyes sought out the clock on the wall, and another sigh escaped her lips.  She always took longer than she planned when she sewed, and now dinner was late.  Rather than crossing to the pantry, she moved to the phone on the counter, where she kept her coupons.  There had to be something there.  She pursed her lips as she flipped through what she had.  Pizza.  Hamburgers.  More pizza.  Nothing healthy.  Nothing really worth spending the money.

With a resigned frown, she turned to the pantry.  Whole wheat pasta.  Thick, chuncky spaghetti sauce.  Even if it wasn't exciting, it would do the job.

(I'm actually remembering a book - THE LOST WIFE??? ... I can't remember the title right, and I didn't like it well enough to keep it, but it started almost just like this.  Except then her husband didn't come home that night and she went on a cross-country trek to find him.  And when she found him, she realized she didn't want him anymore.  Sad.)

Anyway, I'm excited to see what you guys come up with!

Door

So, today I loaded up two boxes and a padded envelope and took them to the post office. Good, right? Well, what if I told you those two boxes were Christmas presents I hadn't gotten around to sending on time, and that padded envelope had been waiting for more than 6 months on my counter?

While I felt silly when I realized I forgot to post yesterday, I also realize that one day late is better than never (and Merry Christmas! to my out-of-town siblings - you'll have one more present to open). Without any further ado ...

I have a good friend who served a mission for our church in Italy.  I served a mission in Germany, and while the two countries are very different, there are many things that we remember about Europe that are the same.  One of those things is architecture.  Seriously, there are few buildings in the US that are as beautiful as some of the buildings you find on the other side of the ocean.  It's not just the cathedrals (although, those are marvelous, too), but common buildings like the post office, department stores, and small shops, are built with detail and beauty.  It's lovely.

So, our picture prompt for this week is a European type door.  Where is it?  (No, I don't mean really where it is, I know that, but that's not the point :-)  What's behind it?  Who's trying to get through it?  How long has it been since it's been opened?

 

Enjoy!

*******************************************************************************

My response:

Maybe because I'm in the middle of the Nicholas Flamel series by Michael Scott, but when I look at the door, the only scenarios I'm coming up with are contemporary fantasy type plot lines.  So, I'm going with it:

I crossed the square quickly trying not to look too conspicuous while realizing that I probably stood out more because I was trying not to.  Oh, the irony.  I'd walked these streets every day of my life, hundreds, even thousands of times.  From home, our apartment behind the pedestrian zone, to school, then crossing the square home again for lunch.  Then back past the pealing cathedral bells to school again in the afternoon.  Buying gelato on the way home and stopping by the riverfront to watch the boats ... none of it had made me feel self-conscious before.

But then, I wasn't the girl I was before.  I glanced down at my watch.  Three o'clock.  Had it only been a half hour?  It seemed like it would take longer for your whole life to change, but apparently not.  Only a half hour ago, Eve and I had left school, bought our ice cream and wandered down to the river bank.  Less than thirty minutes ago, three men stopped us and asked for directions.  Then all Hell had broken loose.  Literally.

I passed the cathedral and slipped around the side of the bank.  I'd never seen the black doors open.  They were a fixture in the city, just as much as the fountain in the square.  I never really paid them much attention ... until now.

I knocked three times before anyone opened.  Two beady eyes peered through the slit, the body still hidden in shadow.  I gasped at the rustle of feathers and looked up to see the grayish outline of two large wings sprouting off the shoulders of the small woman.

"Who are you?  What are you doing here?" a thin voice demanded.

"Michael sent me here ... he ... he said you could help me."  Please, oh please, let them be able to help me!  "You see ... I think ... I'm an angel."

The door opened slowly, and the old crone's eyes darted from my face to the faint shimmering behind me.  Michael had said not everyone would be able to see them, and it seemed he was right.  Honestly, I was hoping no one would see them, and I could get back to my normal life.  But the wide eyes of the crone as she stepped into the light herself was proof enough for me.  As she slipped out and the sunlight hit her wings, they disappeared to a shimmer, just like the cloud that had followed me across the square.

She took my hand.  Her old, wrinkled claw was softer than I would have expected it to be.  "Come in, child.  You have a story to tell me that I need to hear."

Boy Meets Girl

The best part about a boy-meets-girl story is that, while it's all been done, there's always a new flair to be had.  (Or maybe it's my own Guilty Pleasures indulgence, that I love a cheesy romance now and then ...)

The prompt for the week:  Boy Meets Girl

********************************************************************************

My response:

I saw the car as I pulled up to AutoZone.  It was an older chevy parked under the street light, just across the parking lot from the front door.  A small figure bent over the engine, obscured by the thick flakes swirling down from the clouds.  The car wasn't running.

I brushed aside my first twinge of sympathy.  Whoever it was, they were lucky enough to make it to AutoZone, and the fact that they'd stopped here, rather than a mechanic, meant they were probably fine.  I dashed into the store. 

It should have only taken me thirty seconds to grab a new air filter, but they'd apparently done a remodel since I'd last been in.  I hate when stores move things around.  Then I got distracted by the mudflaps in aisle three.  The pair I had were getting a little rough around the edges, and I'd always loved the Yosimite Sam ones.

I headed back to the front desk, air filter in hand. 

"Thanks!"

A mass of wet, blond curls stuck out from beneath a green beenie.  The small woman snatched a can of WD-40 off the counter and headed towards the door.  Her boot cut jeans flared out over her cowboy boots, a stark contrast to her cute little pea coat.  Then I had to laugh at myself.  What kind of man even knew what a pea coat was? ... the kind whose last girlfriend had broken up with him because he'd accidentally smeared grease on her beloved, white pea coat.  It wasn't the only problem, but it was the last straw, and that had been the end of her.  Then again, I was pretty sure Lela had never worn cowboy boots with her pea coat.

The attendant at the desk smirked as I looked back at him.  He'd seen where I'd been looking.  I grinned sheepishly and handed over my air filter. 

I had made it back to my truck when I heard a muffled clatter coming from the other side of the parking lot.  It was followed by an exasperated word or two, in that same sweet voice I'd heard inside.  The small figure bent over the hood of the chevy dropped to the ground, arms moving around as if feeling for something.

I blamed it on my second twinge of sympathy, but it might have had something to do with those cowboy boots.  I grabbed my travel tool box from behind my seat and headed over.

"Um, Miss?"
The curls flew up and over her should as a pair of blue eyes looked up.  Even with the scowl, I stood at a loss for words.  She was cute.

Smile.  Remember to smile.  My sister's advice. 

I felt like an idiot, but I smiled.  "I'm sure you're capable, and you don't need my help at all ... but if you dropped your wrench, I've got one you can borrow."

Her scowl cracked.  Then she laughed.  With one last look at her feet, particularly at the grating just in front of her car, she returned my smile.

"A screwdriver, actually, just a flathead."

In moments, I had one in my hand.  She took it with red, bare hands and leaned over the headlight.  "I should have done this last month, when the first one went out, but I didn't get around to it, and now the other one's out.  I got the other one done just fine, but this one's stuck."

"How'd you get here in the dark?" I asked.

She flashed a guilty grin.  "High beams."

Clever.

"Can you put some of that WD-40 on this bit while I wiggle it?" she asked. 

"You single?"

She stopped.  "Excuse me?"

I tried the smile again.  "Well, I'm just trying to figure out if I'm chalking this up to 'good samaritan' or if I might try for taking you out to dinner.  Best to have it figured out from the start."

"Single.  And my favorite resturant's just around the corner."

Just then, the latch popped up.  Her face lit up, and she reached down, wiping her dirty hand on on the hem of her pea coat.

"Perfect."

Fan Fiction

We've all read a book now and then where we aren't quite satisfied with how the story goes.  Sometimes, we wish we had a little bit more elaboration.  Sometimes we wish for more character interaction.

Enter Fan Fiction.

I need to admit that I only became aware of Fan Fiction a few years ago, and my pile of "to-read" has been too big to allow me time to see what's out there.  But I can understand the motivations of people who write fan fiction.

Our prompt for the week:
Write a piece of  fan fiction.  Choose something that either wasn't in the book that you would have liked to see or change something you didn't like.  (Remember to tell us which book it is, so we know where you're coming from.)

Enjoy!

****************************************************************************

My response:

There are two lives I would save in MOCKINGJAY, by Suzanne Collins.  Here is where Finick, having survived the revolution, comes back to Annie.

Annie sat in the corner in just a shift, arms wrapped around her knees, rocking and muttering incoherently.  Her hair hung in tangles to her shoulders and covered her face.  Johanna walked in, carrying Annie's breakfast tray.

  The whole compound was buzzing with news of the victory, and half the people had already left, heading for the Capitol any way they could get there.  In the control room, monitors played footage of the fighting.  Johanna spent as much time in there as she could stand.  Still, even with rolls and rolls of video, she hadn't caught sight of Finick.

Johanna sat down next to Annie, set the tray down, and carefully pulled her hair back, tucking it behind her ears.  Her initial gentleness faded as she tried to get Annie to eat, and ended as Johanna gave up and kicked the tray across the room, leaving a trail of tea as the cup spilled.

At that moment, the door swung open.

Finick stood in the doorway in a tattered uniform.  His right leg was missing below the knee, bound only with a quick field dressing and drenched in blood.  He leaned heavily on a metal rod.  Behind him came a medical team, shouting and pulling at him.  Johanna wondered that he'd gotten this far before they'd been able to stop him.

She didn't know how he got from the doorway to Annie's side.  It wouldn't surprise her at all if he'd flown.  Then he was there, cradling Annie in his arms, singing softly in her ear.

Annie stopped her own mumblings and looked up with wide eyes.  She reached out a trembling hand and traced the lines of Finick's face, as if testing to see if he were real.  Then her body shook with a soul-wrenching sob, and she threw her arms around him.

Johanna sighed, standing up.  There was nothing left for her here.  She felt the crunch of the Styrofoam cup under her boot as she strode out.

Gotham Garden

Let's go with a photo prompt again.  (Honestly, I've been so caught up with NaNo that I didn't have a clue what I was going to do for this week's prompt until I sat down. Maybe it's better this way, as it's a surprise for me, too.)

Digital Blasphemy has a free page where they rotate through some of their wallpapers that you can download without even being a member.  That's where I got the picture for this week:

"Gotham Garden - Autumn"
(I hesitated to put the title here - I hope it doesn't influence what you think of the picture.)



Enjoy!

***************************************************************************

My response:

The crisp autumn breeze caught my hair as I stepped out the front door of the building.  I slowed my steps as I lifted my hands, catching the long, silky strands in my fingers and slipping them into an elastic.  My feet started on their way home while I was distracted, but when I finished securing my hair, I looked around. 

I liked working late shift.  I got to sleep in early, I didn't have to show up to work until 2pm, and I got off at 11pm, when most of the city had already gone to bed.  I loved walking home with the streets all to myself.  I could pretend it all belonged to me.  My city.

The glass and steel buildings gleamed in the moonlight, lights off in most of the windows.  If my history classes were right, that was a huge accomplishment.  Cities like this used to buzz all night, first with the after work crews, then with those who didn't know when to stop, and finally, the people who preyed on those who didn't know when to stop.  Those were trecherous days ... or so they told us.

But I had a hard time seeing my city as anything different than it was.  Clean, quiet, peaceful. 

That was about to change.

(This is where my mind launches off into "How are they all peaceful now?  Genetic modification?  Implants that zap them whenever they have violent thoughts?  Is it a Matrix scenario where the people in charge unplug anyone who causes trouble?  Or maybe they're just all afraid of Batman?  So many possibilities, so little time.)

Rampant



A while ago, I came across a recommendation to read "Rampant" by Diana Peterfreund.  I didn't know anything about the book, but my local library had it (although I'd have to wait a while), so I put it on hold. 

 

Then last week, after I'd forgotten all about it, I found it on the hold shelf when I was picking something else up.  (Yes, it was on hold for me, I didn't snatch someone else's book!)  Having forgotten that I'd requested it, I read the cover as I walked to the desk.  I was a little bewildered.  Flesh-eating unicorns?  Surely I wouldn't be interested in drivel like that ... who had recommended this book, anyway?

Wow.  Stop right there.  I was completely caught up within the first five pages.  By halfway through, I was telling my friends, and when I finished, I showed it off at book club.  Killer Unicorns!  Virgin Huntresses!  Wow, Peterfreund can sure cast a spell on her readers!!!

So, aside from sharing a book that I really enjoyed, I thought it would make a good prompt for the week: Let's put a twist on mystical creatures.

Ready, go!

*****************************************************************************

My response:

Phoebe was a flaming star of scarlett flying above the clouds, the sunlight gleaming golden on her feathers.  Her wings beat desperately against the high mountain winds as she spiraled upwards, to the top of the cliff.  A pair of travelers crossing the pass stopped and pointed, their weary march transforming into leaps and dancing at the sight of her.

Funny that they would count it lucky to see her; she, who was one of the two most unfortunate creatures to ever breath the air of Earth.

And all for a mistake.

They had won the battle.  The fighting was done.  Only a few, ragged soldiers spotted the battlefield as the victors climbed the hill to look over their domain.  Oberon and Tatiana laughed and sang, their voices lifting to the wind. 

Leonix strode across the field holding Phoebe by the hand.  She had given him her heart years ago, and now, at the end of this final battle, they were free of her family, free to marry.  Leonix grabbed a cart of wine from Phoebe's father's supplies and single-handedly towed it to the top of the hill.  He bowed before Oberon and thanked him for his assistance.  Then he held up the wineskin.

Oberon, smiling, gulped down half the wine, sucked in one last desperate breath, turned as green as the corpses of mountain trolls lying below, and then dropped down, equally as dead.

There ended Tatiana's generosity.  There she spoke her cruel curse.  There Phoebe and Leonix held each other for the first and only time.

For what could be worse than to live eternally, each death only followed by rebirth?  While Phoebe lived, Leonix slept, and only opon her death, did he live, while she in turn suffered dreamless sleep.

Phoebe reached out her claws, grasping at the ledge.  She tucked her wings in and hopped into the small cave.  This place was safe enough.  She'd been here before.  Agony throbbed through her body.  She recognized the pain of death ... but her heart sang with joy.  In just a few minutes, Leonix would be there.  Phoebe laid herself down on the hard rock, tired lungs struggling against her last breath.

And then he opened his eyes.  Phoebe could not see him, but his presence warmed her like the sun.  For the space of three heartbeats, they shared again the same air.  Phoebe reached out towards him, and Leonix reached back.  Their souls brushed past each other like satin sheets slipping away.  Phoebe shut her eyes.

A brilliant burst of flame filled the cave.  Phoebe's poor body burnt to cinders.

Leonix struggled to rise, shaking the ash from his feathers and stretching his wings as far as he could in the small space.  He opened his mouth and let out one low, mournful cry.  He had a lifetime until he saw her again.  He hopped to the opening, spread his wings, and took to the sky.

She slipped ...

Let's go for a more traditional prompt this week.  One that puts a million questions in your mind, like Who? Why? How?  How long? How did they feel about it?  Did anyone else care?

Our prompt for this week is:

"She slipped and fell, her arms flailing wildly."

(If "He" works better for you, go for it.  We're pretty lax on the rules around here.)

********************************************************************************

My response:

Turning back to the window, Tara chewed her lip.  She was only one story up.  She couldn't jump, but she also didn't have to completely stop her fall.  If she could just slow it a little, she might survive.  The outside window sill was almost large enough for her to stand on, and the sides and top were more than enough for her to curl her fingers around.  If she stood up, she ought to be able to swing her body over to the pipe.

                Tara had to hold the window up as she pulled her body though, first sitting on the windowsill, then pulling her legs up one at a time.  Her skirt was a problem.  It billowed and furled around her, making it difficult to get her feet situated.  The silk on her bodice strained along the seams.  This gown was made for ballrooms, not escaping from prison.  Still, Tara managed to slide out.  The bottom of the window slid down her shins and landed on her toes as she stood on the sill, facing the building.  Tara's fingers clung to the window frame, and her stomach, while void of the light and power, clenched in a furious ball.  She'd never done anything like this before.

                The weight of the window rested heavy over the arches of her feet, but Tara couldn't help but think how, if this worked, the window shutting would work in her favor.  They wouldn’t know where she'd gone.  For just an instant, Tara wondered what she'd do when she got down – going back in wasn't an option anymore – but she pushed the thought aside, letting her tunnel vision take over again.

                Her nails scraped painfully against the grain of the wood.  Tara was grateful for the layer of new paint that spared her two handfuls of splinters.  With the window down, she could only barely make out the voices of the officers, but her gut told her she was running short on time.  She switched her left hand to where her right hand was holding on, then slipped her feet out from beneath the window, letting it fall closed as quietly as possible and balancing on the balls of her feet.  She took a shallow breath – a deep one would have pressed her away from the wall and made her fall – and reached out with her right hand towards the pipe.  Her fingers found the cold metal right before she lost her balance.  In a flash, her left hand followed her right and circled the pipe.  Her legs slipped out from under her and dangled.  She wasn't strong enough to hold herself up, so the pipe slipped through her grasp as she fell.  Luckily, she managed not to cry out.

                It would have worked perfectly according to her plan, if it hadn't been for the bracket holding the pipe to the wall, just at the height of a man above the ground.  Tara's right hand smashed into the bracket with a flash of pain, and she let go of the pipe, tumbling backwards.  The force of her body hitting the hard ground jarred her jaw, but the pain of her teeth smacking together was overwhelmed with the pain in her rear as she landed on her tailbone.

                Tears welled in her eyes from the effort to keep from crying out.  In her life, she'd never suffered such injuries, not to mention three at once, but if she valued her life, she didn't have time to feel sorry for herself.  She tucked her right hand to her chest automatically, the dark blood spilling down her gown.

                The two boys looked up at her, heads cocked.  She glared at them, and they turned back to their game.  The dog lifted his head and perked his ears at her, then went back to his sniffing.  In the moment of relative safety, Tara looked down to assess the damage to her hand.

(Whoops, I guess I got carried away.  She did fall, but her arms didn't flail wildly.  But hey, the prompt is just inspiration, right?)