There was a knock at the door ...

Our prompt for this week is brought to you by more musings of my crazy mind.  I do edit as I write, to some extent, and one thing that usually raises a red flag is passive voice.  It's usually a quick fix to rewrite and make the sentence more active, but this time, I hesitated.

The sentence:  There was a knock at the door.  (passive)

Possible rewrites:  Someone knocked on the door.  (active)
                               I heard a knock at the door.  (active)
                               We jumped at the sound of a knock at the door. (active)

The little voice in my head argued that there was a different mood, a different tone, to the first sentence, and it got lost when I changed it to something else.  It seems to me that "There was a knock at the door." implies you are inside (whatever it is that has a door), and you don't know who or what is outside. 

The sentence "Someone knocked on the door." gives me the feel that the narrator is standing outside the door in a group large enough that when someone knocks, it doesn't really matter who did it, just that it happened.  It seems distinctly different to me.

I could go on, but I think you get the idea.  My conclusion:  You have to know the rules of writing in order to be able to break them appropriately at the right time to make a point.  I'm reminded of Tahere Mafi's SHATTER ME, which I think was pure genius.  (Wrote about that here.)

As to whether I was right or wrong to leave the sentence in passive voice, only time will tell.  In the meantime, your prompt for the week:  There was a knock at the door.

Enjoy!

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My response:

Just as I reached for the doorknob, someone knocked.  (SEE!!!  Sometimes you just have to write what FEELS right!  It didn't work here, so I had to fix it.  Sorry.  End rant.)

I peered through the peep-hole.  All I could see was the top of a head of blond hair and a pile of black duffle bags.  What kind of door-to-door missionary carries luggage?  I hesitated with my hand above the handle.  Usually, I would just wait for them to go away, but I needed to get to work early today, and there was only one sensible way out of the apartment.  Why should I let someone trap me in?  I shouldered my bag and opened the door.

She only came up to my shoulder, and she tossed her hair back as she looked up at me.  Her blue eyes were red and swollen, her skin splotchy.  She blinked up at me, then dropped her eyes back to the floor.  "Hallelujah!  You have carpet!"

I raised my eyebrows.  "Excuse me?"

She plastered a too-wide grin across her face and reached out a hand.  "I'm offering free carpet cleaning today - just one room - while I do a demonstration."

I shook my head.  "I don't have time, and if I'd wanted clean carpet, I wouldn't have rented a cut-rate apartment.  You're in the wrong part of town."

She turned her head back up to me, the fake grin and all her bravado falling away.  Her eyes filled with tears that fell onto her cheeks.  "I know.  I know, I know, I just have to ..."  She wiped at her cheeks with her sweater.  "I just need the money, and this is where they sent me, and ..."  She threw her head back and sighed, then choked back a sob.  "And I could almost handle this dumb job, if it wasn't for ..."  Choking wasn't working for her anymore.  Now she was sobbing, her voice incoherent as she fought a wave of tears and mucus.

I stood in the doorway trying to decide if it would be horrible of me to close the door and sneak past her.  She could be part of an elaborate scheme to rob my apartment, I reasoned.  She kept sobbing.  I threw up my hands.  "Okay, okay.  Here, come in.  Sit down."  She didn't even look at me as I guided her to my couch.  She was lucky I was a normal guy and not an ax murderer.  She just sat on my couch and cried. 

When she slowed down, I asked, "Is there anyone I can call?  To come get you, I mean?  I don't think you're in a state to be working right now."  She pulled out her phone, flicked through her contacts, pressed the call button and handed it to me.

"Courtney?  Are you okay?  I've been worried!"  Another girl answered.

"Um ... Courtney is here.  She needs someone to come get her." I said.

"Where is here?"  The voice was guarded and demanding.  "Who are you?"

"Look," I said. "She just showed up at my front door trying to clean my carpets and collapsed on my couch in tears.  I thought she should call someone to get her."

She was considerably nicer as I gave her directions to come pick up her friend.  I was pacing the front balcony and checking my watch, a little put out that I would now be late for work, when Courtney's friend showed up.  She had jeans and worn cowboy boots, a faded UNO sweatshirt, and a thick brown braid.  Just a normal girl, but the way she skipped up the stairs and met my eyes made me feel like she was different from every other girl I'd known.

"Is Courtney in there?" she asked.  A mere formality, more like assuming permission to walk into my apartment.  She took one look at Courtney and sighed.  "Oh, girl, you can't go breaking down like this every time a guy dumps you!  You've got to snap out of it!"  She threw me an apologetic frown.  "Or at least, break down at home, where we have ice cream and Netflix!" 

With a mix of scolding and persuasion, the friend rounded Courtney up, picked up the bags, and made their way out of my apartment.  As they reached the stairs, I realized I still had Courtney's phone in my hands.  I held it up and called out, but as they turned back, I stashed the phone behind my back.  "Take care."  Courtney spared me a weak smile before breaking into sobs again.  Her friend gave me a quick wave, and they disappeared down the stairs.

I pulled out the phone and flipped through the recent calls.  Annette.  Annette with the brown braid, the UNO sweatshirt, and the frank manner.  I'd have to call her when I got off work to let her know I had Courtney's phone, and we'd have to meet so I could give it back.  I wondered if she liked Indian cuisine. 

New Purse

Our prompt for this week comes straight out of my own life:

Prompt:  She looked down and saw a black spider crawling across her new purse.

Enjoy!

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My response:

The whole lobby area smelled of rubber, grease, and compressed air.  The floor shuddered at the sound of power tools reving on the other side of the service doors.  She put down her book and pulled her phone from the outside pocket of her new purse, checking the time.  She'd told her boss she needed two hours, and when she came in, they said she'd be done in an hour, fifteen minutes.  It had been forty-five minutes.  She had a headache.

She'd been fine when she walked in.  She might have been able to withstand the fumes and noise, but she wasn't the only one in the waiting room.  The girl sitting next to her, in jeans and a worn sweatshirt, pulled out her phone and started chattering in a high octave.  Twelve chairs in the room, and the girl chose the one right next to her.  Still, if not for the volume of her conversation, it wouldn't have been so bad.

Then the older man showed up.  He took the chair on her other side.  She couldn't help but look up, and he smiled widely.  "Well hello!  We know each other, don't we?"

She furrowed her brow as she studied his face.  Solid.  Strong bones.  Brilliant blue eyes, for an old man.  Shiny bald scalp.  She pressed her lips together and shook her head.  "Sorry."

She dropped her eyes back to her lap, ready to pick up her book, and she saw it.  A black spider crawling off her leg and onto her new purse.  A curse slipped from her lips, and she swatted.  Then she grimaced.  Her aim had been spot on, and the spider was dead.  Her blue and white purse, however, was forever tainted.

She leapt from her chair towards the napkins by the free coffee and swiped furiously at the stain.  Finally, she gave up.  Checked her watch. 

She wondered how well her care would drive without tires.

... then the floor gave way ...

This week's prompt is brought to you by the random wanderings of my mind.  I can't really say where it came from, or where I will take it from here, but here it is:

Prompt: ... then the floor gave way beneath her ...

Enjoy!

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My response:

(I'm getting a kind of Alice through the looking glass vibe from this ... we'll see where it goes.)

Kelly knew she should go back downstairs as soon a she saw the gaps in the roof.  There were a few houses like this.  Eighteen years of rain and mold made them death traps.  Rule number one: never put yourself in danger. 

Kelly couldn't help herself.  She'd seen the old house peeking out through the trees when she'd crested the hill.  It was an old Victorian with rounded turrets at both front corners, and it looked just like the doll house she'd had until she was ten and Steven threw it out the window because she'd eaten the last piece of zucchini bread before he could get to it.

The insides had been devastated, but here and there Kelly caught clues of how it looked in its glory days.  There were areas of deep burgundy paint on the wall of the dining room and rosewood furniture, even a crystal vase, complete with dried flowers.  Kelly knew she shouldn't, but each room called to her, and she worked her way slowly through the house.  The curving stairway to the second story was still intact, but the hallway down the second level looked sketchy.  Looking at the rotted floorboards, Kelly almost turned back.  Then she spotted something in the murky mirror that hung crooked on a door.  A porcelain doll. 

Kelly sucked in a breath and eased into the hallway, taking care to step as near the wall as she could.  That trick got her as far as the doorway, where she could peer into the room.  Against the far wall, another wood and glass case sat undisturbed.  There wasn't just one doll, there were dozens.  Large dolls, tiny ones, babies, women, girls, each one with a beautiful dress, shining glass eyes, and ringlet hair.  Kelly couldn't help herself.  According to the rules, anything you scavenged belonged to you.  She'd never wanted anything like she wanted one of those dolls.

Between the doorway and the window case stood a large, four poster bed.  Annie eased forward on her toes.  Surely if the floor still held the massive bed, it would support her own added weight.  She wasn't quite fourteen, and she knew she was small for her age.  Kelly eased forward.  One foot, then the next.  She scanned the case as she moved, wanting to end up on the right side for opening it.  A small, metal bracket gave away the opening, and Kelly's hand reached out towards it.  Five steps.  Six.  Seven.  Kelly's fingers brushed the bracket ... and then the floor gave way beneath her.

(Okay, well never mind about the looking glass thing.  Apparently I'm so caught up in the post-apocalyptic world right now that I can't seem to pull myself out of it.  But, I'm almost done with my first draft of my latest work in progress ... in fact I'll go put the last chapter on it right now.  :-)

The Games

I saw that Jennifer Nielsen, author of The Ascendance Trilogy, is giving a lecture this week at Salt Lake Comic Con about world building.  She is someone I'd love to hear talk on that subject, so if anyone happens to read this blog who is able to attend, please do comment and share her wisdom with us!

Thinking along the lines of world building, it occurs to me how games are used in books and movies to create a more complete world.  First and foremost, what would Harry Potter be without Quidditch?  The war games in Ender's Game?  That addicting game in Star Trek (yes, I am a nerd)?  Brandon Sanderson's recent novel, THE RITHMATIST.  And of course, THE HUNGER GAMES.  Obviously.

So, the prompt for this week: Let the games begin!

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My response:

Emma climbed up onto the dias and sized up her opponent as he stepped up across from her.  The national sized dias was large enough that even her keen eyesight couldn't make out his features, at first.  Her feet passed the first of the concentric circles marking the lines of the playing field.  This one, the outer circle and widest, was supposed to be the outer limit of where projectiles from the game might come.  Presumably, spectators standing outside the circle were safe.  Emma smiled.  They were supposed to be safe, but the closest spectators were another thirty feet behind her.

Fifty feet further, Emma stopped at a thin, black line.  On the outside of the line, lined up in neat rows, shields of varying sizes and shapes lay on the ground.  Emma looked up.  Her opponent was closer, too.  He was taller than her, but only just, though he easily had forty pounds on her.  If they got in a shoving match, her smaller mass could work against her.  Emma reached out a tendril of invisible energy from the pulsing core in her body and plucked three rounded shields from the ground.  Across the way, her opponent picked up two large, rectangular shields.

Emma blinked as a gust of wind drove sand against her cheek.  Why they'd had to come to such a remote planet for the Intergalactic Finals was beyond her.  She couldn't wait to carry her trophy back home.  Emma set her jaw and stepped forward, over the last circle.

It was one hundred feet across.  In the center, five balls, each just larger than her head, sat in a pyramid on the ground.  Each contained thousands of tiny, metal balls.  Emma's physical body lacked the strength to pick up even one of the large balls, but with her magic ... she could juggle all five in her sleep.

Emma stepped up to the balls.  Her opponent stood across from her.  She felt a jolt of surprise as she looked up into his eyes.  She'd expected to see the same hatred and arrogance she'd been fighting all her life.  Instead, she met a sea of sunshine and laughter.  His smile beamed from his eyes as much as his mouth.

"Emma of Arain.  I'm honored to play against you today. I've heard stories of you these past five years."  He reached a hand out, and Emma placed her hand in his.  It was nothing like the tight, cursory hand clasping she was used to.  He cupped her one hand in both of his, as if cradling a small animal, and bowed slightly.  "I am Aarek of Kris."

Emma shivered despite the heat of the desert sun.  He was trying to mess with her mind, that was clear.  Emma nodded quickly and pulled her hand back.  The audience might seem far away, but the hovering camera drones (cheap and disposable, of course) would take in every detail of their meeting and the game.  Emma wasn't about to let her discomfort show.

A great crack split the air, and both Emma and Aarek dropped into practiced crouching positions.  Let the games begin.

The Forbidden

I recently came across a quote from Mark Twain, and as it sunk into my brain, melting into the crevices and dissolving with the slow, agonizing sweetness of caramel, I knew I needed to use it as a quote.  There are SO many directions you can take with this, though of course my first thought, seeing as it comes from Mark Twain, is to apply it to a barefooted boy with shaggy hair and a pair of tattered overalls.  I'm going to put Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn on my list of books I need to reread sometime soon.  :-)

The prompt is: There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.  (Mark Twain's Notebook)

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My response:

Rain pelted down out of the sunny sky on the day I was born.  My mama called it Devil's rain, and she said I carried the luck of it with me from my very first moments.  The midwife had fallen asleep in the rocking chair in the corner while my Auntie, who was quite experienced, having been there for all ten of my Mama's previous babies, saw me into the world.  At my first cries, the midwife started from the chair, but before she reached the bedside, she was seized with a heart attack and died, right there on the floor.

This was not even the worst of the stories I could tell you about my early years.  At the beginning however the misfortune I pulled behind me took care to limit itself to the odd acquaintance or two.  Not until my tenth birthday did it cut so close as to draw tears from my eyes.

It was raining again, that day.  Mama liked to keep to her room when the monsoons came through.  The thunder and lightning brought on a headache and tremors.  She'd had a present the day before, though, from my father.  It was perfume in a small, crystal vial.  The sunlight, when it was present, reflected through the bottle and drew a collage of rainbows on the far wall.  I'd picked it up to investigate the magic in it, but Mama's hand come down quickly, gripping my wrist and forbidding me from touching the tiny miracle. 

Of course, that only made me more determined to get my hands on it. 

I sat through the morning, sitting on a small, embroidered stool by her bed and reading to her aloud from a book - I don't recall the name of it, for my mind was over on the dressing table, with the crystal vial, only my eyes and my lips preformed their duties whilst my mind was wandering.  I waited, the picture of patience on the outside, while roiling in heavy seas on the inside, until Mama's eyes slipped closed. 

Of course, finding myself unattended in her room, I could not contain my curiosity one minute more.  My slippered feet crossed the carpets and my fingertips closed around the vial.  I held it up to what little light there was, turning it this way and that in the air above my head.  For a full three minutes I reveled in joy.  Then the vial slipped from my fingers.

The carpets were plush, and had it landed there, all would have been saved.  Instead, it smacked into the brass knob of the dressing table as it plummeted towards the ground, shattering in midair and spraying the contents all over the carpet and my dress.  Now the plushness of the carpet worked against me, for I could not simply mop it up.  And the stench.  What was nice in small amounts reeked to high heaven as a full dose.

Mama stirred, woke up, and soon called for her maid.  The headache from the storm grew worse with the overpowering reek of perfume, and Mama's maid soon ushered her out onto the covered terrace to wait out the worst of it while the kitchen maid went after the stained carpet with a bucket and washrag.

I knelt on the floor, feeling foolish and quite the child.  Mama wasn't one to scold, but with my tender nature, a scolding was hardly needed.  I'd broken the vial, and I tortured myself over it.  To this day, I hate to think of those horrible moments.  With the sickening scent of perfume in the air, and Mama on the terrace, seated in the corner furthest from her room, misfortune struck again in the form of lightning. 

Damage to the house was minimal.  It struck the tall chimney and traveled to the new gutters fastened to the roof of the covered terrace.  Mama's maid had come back in to help with the mess, and I, as I have said, had stayed inside of my own volition.  The horrible crack shook the house and threw us all to the floor.

That was when I first realized the seriousness of my condition and vowed to find a cure.

Tension

Ok, so it's Wednesday morning and I just realized I forgot to post on Monday.  I have been so wrapped up in my latest project, and every moment I get to write, I'm diving back into that world with those characters. Writing a blog post fell completely off my radar. 

Here's the thing: In the first novel I finished, I got to one of the climactic moments, and writing became ... intense.  The emotions, the action, the reactions of each of the characters, the roiling emotions of my main character, and the continuing action ... it was thick.  I would sit down at the computer for an hour and barely squeeze out 200 or so words (coming from someone who can lay down 1,500 in a good hour, when things are moving well).  I knew what I wanted to write and where I wanted it to go, but the progress was so agonizingly slow!  I would read the last few paragraphs I'd written, to remind myself where I was, then spend time tweaking them to make them just right (I know they say you shouldn't do that with a first draft, but sorry, it's just the way I write) then write another 200-400 words and find myself drained.  (Do you know what I mean?  Creatively drained?)

Here's the good part: back then my critique group was working on a chapter by chapter basis, and when I turned that chapter over to them, they loved it!  I was so worried the struggle I'd fought to write it would come out in the writing, that it would be awkward or confusing.  Nope.  They loved it.  And reading through it again and again, while revising, I can honestly say I think some of my best writing is in that chapter.

I can only hope I will be able to look back and say the same for the chapter I've been working on this last week.  It has kidnapping, betrayal, a (hopefully) thrilling chase, and even a pack of wild dogs.  I get SO excited about it!

In honor of my manuscript, the prompt this week is:  When you can't flee, you fight.

Enjoy!

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My response:

(First, a confession - I came very close to just posting part of this last chapter I've been working on and calling it good, but in the spirit of this blog, I won't do that.  I'll write something else.)

My feet pounded the wet pavement of the alleyway, and I cursed the rain.  Even if they couldn't see me in the shadows, they would hear the splashing and know I was there.  I dared a glance over my shoulder, but it only confirmed what I already knew: I hadn't lost them yet.  The only thing I'd managed to do was get myself lost.  They knew just where they were, though.  I heard Kirk's high laugh behind me before I turned the corner and saw the brick building.  Who had even designed this place?  Who let someone build right up to the edges of their lot, blocking off the way completely?

I cursed and spun around.  Nothing but a few trash bags and flattened cardboard boxes sitting outside a steel door that had a padlock hanging from it, not even windows.  I heard footsteps turn the corner behind me, and my stomach tightened into a rock.  I turned, my fists coming up automatically as my knees bent.  Seeing Kirk and his three cronies made me want to step back, but I knew that was a bad idea.  The alley was tight enough without putting my back to the wall.

"You think you're some kind of hero, going off to college, do you?" Kirk drawled.  "You too good for us, now?"

I shook my head.  "You know that's not it, Kirk."  I wondered for just a moment what my chances of talking my way out were, but I settled on zero.  If Kirk had really wanted to talk, we could have done that outside the theater.  At least I'd gotten Becca to safety before it came to this.

Kirk charged.  He'd never had much finesse.  He didn't even take a swing, trying instead to ram his shoulder into my stomach.  He wanted me down.  I sidestepped and took an easy shot to his kidney as he went past.

He stood up and spun around, eyes wide.  That was the first time in our lives that move hadn't worked.  "Punk!"  This time, he came swinging, but sidestepping wasn't the only thing I'd learned while I was away.  I blocked with my left arm and brought my right fist up into his jaw.  I felt the impact of his bones slamming together, and my heart faltered.  My arm, however, carried through, driven by muscle memory and hours of repetition. 

Kirk's whole body rose up with the impact, and then he was flat out on the asphalt in front of me.  His eyes were closed, and he didn't make a noise.  I looked over him at the boys who'd been his shadows.  They looked at Kirk's still body, then at each other, and turned, running off into the shadows.

"Brilliant."  I cursed my conscience.  Kirk spent three days tailing me, and when I finally laid him out flat, I couldn't even just walk away.  Maybe it would be different if we hadn't grown up together, but if I leave him and something happens, I would never be able to look his mom in the eye again.

I reached down, slipping my arm under his shoulders and pulling him up.  I smacked his face with my free arm, and he moaned.

"Come on, Kirk, come on.  Let's get you home." 

The blank page, take two ...

A while back I wrote a prompt about how much I hate looking at a blank page.  I have to jump in and write something, just so it's not blank anymore.  The positive side of that is that I get something done.  The downside of that is that sometimes what lands on the page ... is seriously terrible. 

If you've been following my blog, I'm sure you've seen examples of that.  I can't say I love every one of the posts I've written (and posted for the world to see ... what am I thinking?!!!).  What keeps me going are those magic moments when it really works, and the idea that was just a little spark starts growing in my mind and unfurling into something greater.

Your mission for this week, should you choose to accept it, is to read one of my previous responses ... not a previous prompt ... and use that as your prompt.

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My response:

I'm going to use one from just a few weeks ago, the one about the girl and the Lynad stone. 

My neck ached from bending to read, and my rear was sore from sitting.  Aside from Dr. Malard's ministering, the most exciting thing to happen all day was the arc of sunlight crossing the tiled floor.  It had been nice for the first hour or two.  Then I started hoping someone would drop in, maybe bring me a different book.  Isn't that how it worked in Harry Potter novels?  Someone got themselves injured, and all their friends bought them treats in the hospital?  I would kill for a bag of jelly beans, even the generic brand would do at this point, though I wouldn't turn down Jelly Bellies, either.

My ribs were still sore, but I had a sneaking suspicion they weren't the reason I was still in here.  After all, they did have the well-being of the other students to worry about, and I had, just yesterday, almost caused the death of half of the student body.  On purpose.  Maybe this was less of a sick stay and more of a prison.  At least, that's what I had decided when Lady Elda stepped through the door.

She was older than I remembered her, spots of gray at her temples and the crinkles by her eyes were deeper.  She offered me a sad smile.  "How are you today, Diane?  I'm sorry I couldn't come by earlier.  I had ..."  Her eyes met mine, and she stopped.  We both knew she'd been cleaning up my mess.

"It's okay.  I know you've been ..."  I couldn't maintain eye contact.  Guilt strangled my voice down.  "Busy."

She nodded briskly.  "Yes, and I still do.  But I had something else that's also important, and I didn't want to leave you waiting any longer than I had to."

I struggled to meet her gaze again, but she went on.  "I've explained last night's events to the board, and they've decided to give you a second chance.  There will be consequences, of course, but I think you'll agree I've compelled them to be reasonable.  In the meantime, I needed to return something to you."

My stone of Lynad lay in her palm, dark and lifeless.  I couldn't feel its pulsing power while it was in her possession, but my soul remembered it and longed to reach out and take it.  It took a minute before I realized that was exactly what she wanted me to do.

"Oh, Lady Elda.  I couldn't!"  I tucked my knees up underneath me, my arms squeezing them tightly to my chest.  "You saw what I almost did!"

Lady Elda laughed.  "Diane, the stone is not a weapon.  It is a tool.  And what you almost did doesn't matter anymore, because, in the end, you made a different choice ... a good choice.  And I trust you to use this as you should, from now on."  She sank down onto the mattress at my feet, tracing the lines in the stone with her fingertips. 

"You see, it's true the stones choose their masters.  When I was a girl, this stone belonged to my great-aunt.  From the first moment I touched it, it stopped working for her.  It became mine.  I was a lot like you, back then, and I had a lot to learn.  The stone helped me."  She looked up, and her eyes pierced my soul.  "I knew from the first moment you touched my stone that it wasn't mine anymore.  Maybe if I'd been honest with you, helped you then, you wouldn't have had such a hard time finding your way.  So, you see, I feel a little responsible for what happened, too."

I shook my head, but I couldn't speak to object.  Lady Elda took my hand in hers and dropped the stone into my palm.  It flared to life, it's aura erupting and embracing my own.  It felt warm and right.  I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it.  Then I looked up at Lady Elda.  If the stone once belonged to her the way it belonged to me now, giving it up must be breaking her heart.

For one brief moment, our eyes met, and I knew we understood each other.  Then she stood and swept out of the room, leaving me complete.