Silent Night

If not already clear from the rules, please make of this prompt what you like.  I did something for Halloween this year, and also Thanksgiving, so here's our Christmas prompt.  Feel free to write something religious, or go somewhere else with it. 

The prompt for this week: The night was silent ...

Enjoy!

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My response:

Inside the cathedral, the night was silent.  The thick, stone walls blocked out all the noise from the city, which was still with the deadness of deep winter.  The candles had long burned down.  The bells hung silent.  The steeple clock sat at one thirty two, as it had for the past ten years.

Miss Alexandra Rapture knelt in the third pew back, her knees on the pad, her shoulders hunched over, so no one could see her, without looking down the aisle.  Her dress floated out in a cloud around her, layers of muslin and lace, enough of it to outfit a small sailing ship, and a veil that hid the streaks on her cheeks, had anyone been there to see.  She'd stopped crying hours ago.  Her chest ached from sobbing, and her tears had simply dried up.  She suffered in stillness, eyes half open, chest barely moving with breath.

They would find her.  Tomorrow morning, when they came to the church, she'd still be there.  She had no where else to go, no other sanctuary to flee to.  She could not run to the hills.  Her feet had never known anything but silk slippers.  An hour in the forest would be the end to her, and she'd be back anyway.  She was not brave enough to cut her hair and hire onto a sailing ship.  Her fine, soft hands pressed together in prayer, worked pretty embroidery and waved fans.  She could not tie knots.  She didn't have the heart to take herself to the cliffs.  Sixteen years of her mother's instructions gave her just enough arrogance to be loathe to throw herself away.

But neither could she bring herself to smile as time marched her towards her fate.  She'd told Lord Craye she did not love him, had no desire to be his wife.  He'd arched his eyebrows and whispered in her ear that he was glad it was not her choice, then, for he would not give her up.

Alexandra sent up her last desperate prayers ... and all she got in return was the silence of the night.

It seemed as if there was a light within ...

First, my apologies for getting this done a day late.  Yesterday was crazy, as I tried to get ready for this:

It was a lot of work, but my homemade gingerbread house turned out amazing!  Okay, so I let the kids decorate (it may be a few years until I have a "perfect" gingerbread house), but I'm so pleased that the pieces worked and fit together, the royal icing held, and the candy windows worked even better than I planned.  I did put a normal bulb inside, so next year, I'll put in an LED, and I'll make the chimney an actual chimney, in case it does heat up.  The window panes are warm to the touch after about a half hour of lights.

So, because I was neglectful, our prompt for this week is: It seemed there was a light within ...

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My response:

"Now try this."  Lady Elda reached towards me and dropped something in my hand.  It was heavy, smooth and cold against my skin.  I lifted it and stared.  It was deep green, the darkest emerald I'd ever seen.  I squinted.  There was something in it, in the middle, almost as if there were a light within, like a candle burning on an window sill, barely seen through fog.

"What is it?" I asked.

"A stone of Lynad."  Her voice was rich with reverence, and the other students crowded around behind me, jostling me as they peered over my shoulder to see.

"I've never seen one!"

"I thought they were just a myth."

"Ooooh!"

"Like I said, it'd take a miracle for Diane to be able to touch magic." 

I felt a chill down my back as I recognized Miri's voice.  Arrogant.  Oh, how I hated her.  But for the first time, I felt defiance mingle with my hatred, for I could feel the power of the stone.  It was seeping through my skin, tingling and blending with my own aura, usually so dim.  I didn't hope I could prove her wrong.  I knew with a certainty that I would.

Fingers tight around the Lynad, I stretched my hand over the waves.  They crashed into the rocks I stood on, the salt spray stinging my eyes and wetting my cheeks. "Glacia."

Drops of saltwater froze in midair and dropped, clinking on the frozen sheet below.  All up and down the beach, and as far as I could see out from shore, the water was still.

Gasps sounded behind me.  Even Lady Elda choked.  As the murmurs died down, she held out her hand towards me.  "Well done, Diane.  I'll have that back, now."  Her voice faltered, as if she was afraid I wouldn't comply, and she didn't know if she could make me.

I took a deep breath, stared over the ice, and murmured again.  "Aqua."  The ice splashed back to life, the water unsure how to move together, its momentum gone from being frozen.  The waves were choppy and confused.  I could still feel the power of the Lynad pulsing with my own aura.  Lynad were said to have partners, people for whom they worked better than others.  This stone was my partner.  It felt it.  I felt it.  But today was not the day to claim it.

I held up the stone for everyone to see as I placed it back into Lady Elda's outstretched palm.

I forced myself to turn and walk away, but that was the day I decided I would find a way to reclaim what was rightfully mine.  Lady Elda's Lynad.

Nothing that a flower in your hair won't fix

This week, my inspiration is something I heard off the TV the other day:  "It's nothing that a flower in your hair won't fix."

Lovely.

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My response:

It felt like a dream, so surreal.  The lawyer's office was too typical, like something out of a night time drama, with wide, floor to ceiling windows and a glass table, framed with chrome.  The paper beneath my palm was too crisp, the printing too neat.  I waited for a moment to see if it would all disappear and I'd find myself in bed, next to Robert, warm in our flannel sheets, in spite of the cold of the apartment.  He never let me turn the heat up, but I kept the bed well stocked with blankets.

The moment passed.  I turned one more time to my lawyer for reassurance.  She nodded, her double chin shaking against the collar of her white shirt and black suit.  If I'd doubted anymore then, my shaky signature at the bottom of the page confirmed it.  No flourish, just a stumbling acceptance.

I swallowed hard, wrapped myself back up in my coat and scarf, said my goodbyes and headed out the door.  Clocks chimed as I strode down the street.  Only two blocks to the apartment.  Two blocks to the empty space that wasn't home anymore.  My feet hesitated, and I came to a stop on the sidewalk.  People passed on either side of me.  It was New York, after all.  They're all too busy and too used to crazies to look up or care.  They just tuck their heads down and duck to the side.  I stood like a boulder in the middle of the river, waters parting on either side, unmoving.

Across the street, the corner deli was lit up in green neon.  We ate cheesecake there the day we moved in, and the turkey Panini was to die for.  Then the waitress bumped Robert's arm and made him spill his Earl Grey down his shirt.  We never went back, no matter how strong my craving for cheesecake. 

I sucked in a lungful of crisp, smoggy air, like I'd been drowning.  I let it out, shuddering, and turned.  I hopped across the street, dodging cars.  They had five different kinds of cheesecake, and I bought a slice of each.  Large pastry box in hand, I skipped home.

One bite of cheesecake cured me of my ills.  I whipped off my scarf and danced to the thermostat, cranking it up.  Then I pulled out my tablet and booked a flight to Maui.  There was nothing wrong with me that a flower in my hair wouldn't fix.

Sunflower

Because it's cold and miserable outside, I'm going with something warm and lovely.  Here's a picture prompt from my summer.  Maybe if I stare at it long enough, I'll forget the winter weather outside.

 

 

Enjoy!

 

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My response:

 

He watched her climb the hill in the dying light.  She'd managed to finish her chores before sunset, her Mama's requirement if she was going to visit him.  Her amber hair, escaped from her bun, stood in wisps around her face, reflecting the light of the sun like a halo.  The hem of her blue dress hung, heavy with mud, over her bare feet as she trudged up the hill.  She was too old to go around without a pair of shoes anymore, but no one had told her that.  Her apron had a smear of soot from the charcoal stove, and a matching spot stained her cheek.  When she looked up and smiled at him, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever laid eyes on. 

 

He picked up the small bouquet of wildflowers he'd gathered on his lunch break.  They'd wilted, sitting too near the forge.  He held them out to her, anyway, and earned another smile.

Sharing A Meal

I have a great book club I attend, where instead of all reading the same book, we share what we've read and make recommendations to each other.  We end up passing things around, and I know I read a wider variety of genres because of things other people bring to book club.

Recently, someone brought HOW TO READ LITERATURE LIKE A PROFESSOR by Thomas C. Foster.  Something she talked about was the discussion of symbolism involved with characters share a meal together.  Characters sharing a meal together is based on a certain amount of trust, so when two characters share a meal, and the one betrays the other, it makes the betrayal more poignant.

The part of this that stands out to me right now is how a relationship of trust can be established through the sharing of food.  The prompt for this week:  use the setting of mealtime to demonstrate the relationship between two characters.

Enjoy!

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My response:

Gregor brought a burlap bag full of rolls over to the row of prisoners.  I hated to think how old and hard they would be, if they were going to feed them to us, but the idea of having anything to chew set my mouth to watering.  I hoped they wouldn't be too small.

We sat in our usual line, wrists and feet shackled, linked by one long chain that ran through loops on each of our right ankle irons.  The irons were heavy, but resting your wrists on the ground bent your back something awful. We learned to prop our hands up on our knees, to keep our backs straight.

Gregor started at one end of the line, to my right.  I'd managed to tie on in the middle of the chain that morning.  That way, when we laid down to rest, I'd have more warm bodies around to help keep warm.  I swallowed and glanced at the girl next to me.  Was that all she was worth to me anymore?  Just another warm body to help protect myself from the cold?  The first few days we'd exchanged names, asked questions, and shared stories.  Two weeks in, we'd grown silent.

Gregor was almost to me.  I lifted my hands, watching the rolls drop into waiting palms.  Then, just as I was about to get my dinner, Gregor flew forward.  He dropped the bag, rolls spilling out.  The girl next to me scrambled, my ankle moving with the chain as she moved.  She scooped up the rolls and the bag, presenting them with a downturned face to Gregor. 

Gregor looked her up and down suspiciously.  He snatched the bag back and stuffed the extra rolls inside.  "Sit down, girl!" he snapped, and she dropped back down, next to me.  Gregor frowned at her, then dropped my roll into my waiting fingers.

I clutched my roll to my chest, waiting until Gregor was gone before biting into it.  Then I felt a tug at my elbow.  The girl next to me leaned in close.  She held something in her hands.  Jerky.  Beef, from the smell of it, thick with spices.  I saw the pouch between her knees.  She must have lifted it off Gregor's belt when he tripped. 

"Quick, take some and hand it down!" 

I glanced up at the men around the fire.  She was right.  There was no time to consider.  If she got caught holding it out to me, she'd be whipped.  If I took too long passing it, I'd be the one in trouble.  Even worse, if I didn't do something now, she might reach past me, and I wouldn't get any at all. 

I tucked my roll into my lap and snatched the jerky out of her hands.  I took a big bite and tore it from the rest of the stick, then held the handful out to the girl on the other side as I worked my lips around the dried meat.  "Take one, quick!  Pass it down!"

As soon as the jerky was in the next girl's hands, I turned.  Another batch of jerky worked its way down the other half of the line.  The girl who'd taken it offered a smile, one with bits of dark jerky stuck in her teeth.  I smiled. 

Something was different in camp that night.  We'd gone through the initial stages of denial and defiance, and spent some time drowning in hopelessness.  Now, by virtue of a satchel of jerky, about one bite a piece, we'd found our spirit again.  We would wait.  We would watch.  And we would be ready.

Fire Prompt

I went to Google Images to find a picture of fire for the prompt today, and I found way too many ideas!

The first one that caught my eye had this yin/yang thing going on, all abstract and pretty.

 

 

The next one that stood out to me was similar in the two opposing colors, but entirely different, with the two fists.

 

 

 

Then there was this one, with the hand.  The immediate feeling I get from this one is desperation.

 

This one would make a fabulous cover for a contemporary love story.

 

Or this one for an Asian themed action story.

 

For our fire prompt this week, choose whichever one appeals to you, and use it as your prompt.

Enjoy!

 

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My response:

(I'm going with the one with the hand.)

 

I yanked my mask down and slammed my hand into the swinging door of the surgical suite.  One more patient gone, and I wasn't any closer to finding out why this was happening, or what we could do to stop it.  A trail of blood stained the door, and I felt a twinge of guilt that someone would have to clean it up, but I was too tired to worry about it.  The order came down from the hospital director that we weren't to lose one more patient, pull all the stops, use whatever measures we needed, we had to save one of them, and soon. 

 

I peeled off both layers of gloves and tossed them into a hazardous waste container.  My surgical gown and mask followed, my body moving with muscle memory as my mind churned.  There had to be something we could do.

 

Across the hall, the surgeon's lounge was empty.  Someone had left the TV on, and news coverage of the epidemic flashed across the screen.  Protesters filled the courtyard in front of the hospital and crowded the streets.  They wore masks and carried signs that read, "Down with BioWarfare!"  "Doctors should HEAL, not KILL!"  and "The end of the world is upon us, and it is our own doing!"

 

As I watched, the crowd parted.  Two people supported a third between them.  They made their way slowly to the front door.  The police barricade parted to let them through. 

 

I wondered how long it would be before he ended up dead on my surgical table.  And it would be me, because I was the only one left.  The doctors who designed the virus had gone in the first wave of casualties.  Next were the general practitioners who saw the first cases.  Then the surgeons started dropping.  For the last forty-eight hours, I'd been alone in the battle.

 

They'd said they were going to send in more doctors, but who would agree to come?  The nurses were disappearing just as fast, some simply refusing to show up for their shifts.  I couldn't blame them.  They have families and lives, too.

 

Had it really been forty-eight hours since they rolled Maya away, limp on the gurney?  I did a quick self-assessment.  Heart rate: seventy-two.  Not bad.  A little high, but I was under a lot of stress.  Blood pressure: 112/65.  Again, not as good as normal, but still well within normal ranges.  Temperature: 98.3.  It was a bit chilly in here.  I stood in front of the mirror and peered at my eyes.  They were a little bloodshot, but that too was expected.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept.  Maybe it was for an hour or two before the last patient. 

 

What had we decided the incubation period was?  Twenty-four hours?  Not more than Forty-eight. 

 

Too many questions.  Not enough answers.  The cot in the corner never looked so inviting.  I dropped down onto it, letting oblivion sweep over me.



Back in Time

If you're an 80s kid, like me, just reading the title of this week's prompt will start a soundtrack playing in your mind.  (Thank you, Huey Lewis and Michael J. Fox!)

The prompt for this week: Assume you've gone back in time to save the world, and along the way, you run into yourself.  Go! 

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My response:

I check my watch.  Two fifteen on a Thursday, November 1997.  My old self has got to be in the dance room in the gym.  If I can just find the Doctor without going in there, I should be fine.  Not that I know it will ruin my timeline if I run into myself.  I just don't want to risk it. 

I sneak around the corner of the hallway, watching for the tell-tale cloak of the Doctor.  For a split second, I think I've spotted it, but it turns out to be a long, dark trench coat that the guys thought were so cool back then.  I hear the squeak of shoes on the tile behind me and spin around.  There he is.  The Doctor.  And the look on his face takes my breath away; he's smirking like he knows something I don't.

"You're not going to find it in time, my Friend."  He takes out a handkerchief and pats his greasy forehead.  "No, I'm afraid I've outwitted you this time.  A shame, I may come to miss our little games."

I whip out my sensor and aim it at him.  It would have been better to keep this new technology secret, but I'm running out of time.  Unfortunately, he's not lying.  He's not carrying the crystal.  Who knows where he's hidden it, and the range on my sensor is only about ten feet - not nearly large enough to scan the whole school.

"Goodbye now!"  The Doctor turns and dashes out towards the parking lot.

"This isn't over!" I call after him, clenching my fists.  At least he gave me one clue.  He thinks he's hidden it where I will never find it.  Where would be the last place I would look?  Then it hits me.  I know exactly where the crystal is.

I flash my badge at the dance teacher, invent some line about homeland security, try not to stare across the room at myself, and then go out to the foyer to wait.  It doesn't take long, and there I am.  Well, not me, but me, my younger self.  I pause.  I haven't disappeared, yet, so I figure I may be okay.

Younger me looks up, squinting at me.  I wonder what she sees.  I've lost forty pounds.  I curl my hair now, so that's different, but since the 80s have come back in the future, my make-up routine is nearly the same.  I'm twenty years older.  A shiver of pride runs down my back.  The teenager I'm staring at has no idea she's going to become a top-secret, time traveling spy. 

"Mrs. Bixbee said you needed to talk to me?"  She pins me with a suspicious glare.  I never was stupid.  "Something about homeland security?"

Now it gets tricky.  If this is the younger me, and the Doctor really gave her the crystal, shouldn't I be able to remember it?  Shouldn't I know what I did with it?

Like dews distilling from heaven, the answers to my questions appear in my mind.  Ha!  He thought he'd outsmarted me, but in the end, he outsmarted himself. 

"I'm afraid there was a misunderstanding.  No.  No, I don't need to talk to you."  I smile nicely and point back towards the gym.  "Go on back to class."

Young me shrugs and rolls her eyes at me, but turns and walks away.  I dart into the locker room.  Good thing I always had a head for numbers.  I find my old locker, pop open the combination lock, and reach to the back of the top section, behind my purse.  My fingers close around a heavy chain and a cold, hard rock.  I found it.

And I seem to have managed it without tearing the time continuum to shreds, too!