Four-letter Words

As far as cursing is concerned in literature, I think it has its place.  I think it can be an enriching part of world building; Brandon Sanderson does a fantastic job of developing the religions and mythologies of his worlds, and he incorporates that into how the characters swear.  Even in Christian novels, not all of the characters are always Christian, and eventually, someday, sometime, someone is going to swear.

BUT ... I think there are tactful and creative ways of swearing in our stories.  For example, I like to read the Pioneer Woman's blog. One of her latest posts had me laughing when she said, "I said one of the four-letter words that is permitted on some TV networks but that isn’t appropriate when one is sitting with an open Bible on one’s lap."

There are so many ways of cursing without cursing.
" ... he swore under his breath."
"Mom stubbed her toe and a cried out a word I didn't even know she knew."
" ... cursing rapidly ..."
" ... using language that would make a gangsta blush ..."

So, the prompt for this week is to write a short passage and incorporate swearing ... without swearing.  Good luck!

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My response:

The wind tore through my hoodie and I shivered.  I don't know what possessed me to leave my bed and come out on a night like this, but Darrel had been so insistent.  Leaves crunched underneath my converse and I actually heard an owl in the trees.  It was just like a scene from a horror movie, right down to my pesky little brother who I had to bring along when he caught me sneaking out and Darrel's hot girlfriend, Stacy.  How could she wear those shorts in this weather?  Her thighs must be ice by now.  Why'd Darrel have to bring her along anyway?  All she ever did was complain about hanging out with us.

Kevin cursed next to me, then hopped around on one foot. 

Darrel glowered at him, "Dude, keep quiet!"

Kevin stopped and wiped his shoe furiously across a patch of damp grass.  "I don't know what that is, but it smells like ..."

I swatted him with the back of my hand, "Watch it, Kev, my baby brother's here."  The last thing I needed was for Brad to tell Mom where he got his new vocabulary.

Stacy murmured something.  Luckily the wind carried away most of it, but I heard enough to know she was making fun of me.  Not only did she have to come along, but she couldn't keep her mouth shut either.

I had a few choice words for her, and I was too ticked at Darrel for making us come tonight to care about  setting him off.  I let Stacy know exactly what I thought of her.

When I was done, Brad stomped up next to me, turned a vicious gaze on Stacy, and repeated every word that had just come out of my mouth. 

Kevin and Darrel threw their heads back laughing.  So much for keeping his vocabulary pure.

In the Box

This is where I usually introduce my inspiration for the week's prompt ... but I have none.  It just came to me.  I hope it works out.

Without any further ado, this week's prompt:
The box was simple on the outside, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string.  On the inside, however, ...

Enjoy!  I'm excited to see what everyone else has in their box this week.  :-)

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My response:

The box was simple on the outside, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string.  The first thing that gave it away was its weight.  My maid handed it to me with a pained expression, and I struggled not to drop it.  I hurried to the round table in the middle of my dressing room and let the box fall onto the hard surface, thumping terribly and almost upsetting the flower arrangement.

The paper and string gave way easily and revealed a beautiful box, its red wood oiled to a rich lustre and intricate patters inlaid across the top. 

"Who is it from?" I glanced quickly at my maid.

"I have no idea, your Majesty.  The Steward found it among this morning's deliveries, so he bade me bring it to you."  She craned her head forward, staring at the box.

I lifted the lid.  Before I even laid eyes on the object inside, I could smell the aroma.  It was like standing in an apple orchard in the fall, with vats of fresh-pressed apple cider ready for bottling, warm and sweet.  Cradled in black velvet padding was one large, red apple ... with one large bite taken out of it.

A shiver ran down my spine.  My fingers slipped from the lid, and it slammed back closed.  I stepped slowly away from the table ... from the box ... from what it meant.  The bite was fresh.  Not a touch of darkness marred the white flesh of the apple; there was not a dimple to be found on the red skin.  The aroma was too perfect, too fresh.  It reeked of witchcraft.

My body stood in the room, but my mind raced back to my youth, a time when a red apple had almost robbed me of everything I held most dear.  After I'd been saved by the most powerful of all magics, my husband had killed the witch.  Or so we'd thought.

I heard a voice calling to me.

"Your Majesty?!  Are you okay?  Talk to me!"  My maid held both my hands in hers.  "Your Majesty?!  Snow White?!"

Protrusion

When I first started this blog, I worried that I would run out of prompts.  I spent hours looking around on writing prompt websites (none exactly like mine, I was pleased to see) and made lists of the ones I liked best.  What's wonderful is that I can honestly say, in the eight months I've been doing this, I haven't ever had to go back to those initial lists.  In fact, I often have more than one prompt rolling around in my head when it comes Monday and time to write.

(I've also recently found out I can write posts in advance and set them to publish later ... that could be very convenient sometimes!)

This week's post is inspired by a comment on one of my earlier posts.  I've mentioned my good friend Rebecca (also my amazing critique partner) before.  She recently posted the comment she'd made on my blog in her blog.  It's fantastic.  If you didn't catch it in the comments the first time around, I highly suggest you read it now.

The prompt I'd used that week was simple: Her head throbbed with excruciating pain.

And yet, Rebecca came up with a brilliant response. 

In that spirit, our prompt for this week is:  It protruded from her left leg.

Enjoy!

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My response:

There was no way to conceal the blade under the tight, black pants.  It protruded from her left leg, the handle jutting out like some cancerous bulge, just a hand's length beneath her hips. 

Kit pursed her lips, then stripped her pants down far enough to retrieve the knife and its sheath.  The pants looked uncomfortable, but the pleather molded easily to her body and moved with her.  She could find another place to carry her weapon.  The pants were more important. 

She moved across the room to the duffel bag she'd brought home with her from the intensive self-defense course.  Six months she'd been gone, but if she was honest with herself, the girl who had left would never come home.  She'd been broken and battered, a world-class gymnast who'd just gotten her golden ticket - her Olympic qualification - when she'd been kidnapped, brutalized, and left for dead by some rabid fan. 

Terrified.  She'd spent three days terrified for her life.  She was in perfect shape, physically.  Strong.  Flexible.  Ridiculously accurate when doing round-offs and vaults.  But she didn't have any training in self defense.

Kit pulled a different holster from the bag and secured the knife in the small of her back.  She stood and caught an image of herself in the antique, full length mirror that stood on a stand in the corner of her room.  She looked like a thorn that had landed in a ball of cotton.  Her old room in her parents house, white lace and blue, fluffy pillows, was just as she'd been before that fateful night.  Clean and innocent.  She stood, dark and brittle, feeling out of place.

She couldn't stay in here.  It was too smothering ... but the thudding of the bass coming from downstairs reminded her that she'd rather be here than at her eighteenth birthday party.  Kit pulled a loose, red shirt on, checked to make sure the blade was concealed, and stepped out the door.

What have you struggled with?

I'm reading 45 pounds (more or less) by K. A. Barson, and I'm loving it.  I've struggled with my weight at different times in my life, much like the MC, and I identify closely with her.  (I haven't finished yet, so no spoilers in the comments, please!!!)

I've also had a recent experience (which isn't mine to share, so I won't go into it here) that reminded me of the long months after I had my first baby, when I was lost in the depths of PPD with a colicky infant.  The best part of that experience (which sucked as bad as it sounds, I assure you) was when I had a friend go through the same thing after her first child.  Because of what I'd experienced, I could understand her and help her in a way that other people couldn't.

Writing a MC who struggles with a certain problem may appeal to a niche crowd (I wonder how many girls who consider themselves skinny have picked up 45 pounds ... but then again, we are talking about teenage girls, who all seem to think themselves huge ...) but it allowes a deep, emotional connection between the reader and the character.  These are the books that we buy just so we can read them over and over again.

So, this week's prompt:
Write about something you struggle with.

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My response:

She came soaring down the hill towards me.  Technically, she was running, but to my eyes, she'd sprouted wings.  Her face was calm.  Her eyes gazed contentedly into the void.  I don't think she saw me at all.  Her soft footfalls barely registered in my ears as she passed and followed the curving slope of the hill.

My own feet were bass drums in comparrison.  Thud.  Thud. Thud. Thud.   Every step slammed into the ground and jarred my body.  My legs ached with each step.  Where was my pair of wings?  Admittedly, I was heading up the hill, not down, but I was sure the goddess of running had fought her way up the hilll with more grace than I could muster.

I sucked air, doing my best to breathe with my diaphram and fill my gut with air, and not just my chest.  In all honesty, I was doing well.  A few weeks ago, my chest burned during every run, and I felt constantly like I was about to die.  Thank goodness for a short lesson on breathing from my best friend, even if she did like to take off and lap me as we ran around the track at the gym.

Three miles.  That was the benchmark I'd heard from everyone ... seriously, from the running books on my self to my friends at the track.  "Once you can run three miles, you can run anything ..."  Really?  I ran three miles.  I thought I was going to die.  Then I ran three miles again.  I still thought I was going to die. 

I pant as I turn at the top of the hill.  Well, I ran for two months before anyone taught me how to breathe properly.  There must be another puzzle piece I'm still missing.  Something about my stride or my arms, maybe?  I start jogging back down the hill.

I may not be flying, but I am running.

Where would you go?

I went to Barnes and Noble tonight.  Just driving in the parking lot gave me a thrill.  Walking in the door, I got a whiff of fresh-printed ink and spine glue, and it was like heaven!  My sister, who has always been much cooler than I am, used to make fun of my friends and me for hanging out at B&N on weekends.  But for us, where else could you possibly want to be?

It reminded me of those middle grade novels you read where kids live in the mall or in a grocery store, and I decided, if I were to escape life and just hide out somewhere, I would choose B&N. 

The prompt for this week:
Where would you hide?

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My response:

Stand on the toilet seat, so they can't see your feet.  Crouch down, so they don't see your head.  Leave the door open, so they don't suspect anyone might be hiding there.  Make sure you pee before you get into position, because squatting over the toilet ... well, psychologically, it can get to you.  Oh, and bring a book.  You may be there for a while.

Tonight I clutched a hardback to my chest as I balanced on the toilet.  The manager had already been through to make sure no one was left in the room, so I'd passed that hurdle.  The short cashier always stopped in after locking the door, before counting her drawer.  She'd already come and gone.  I only had to keep it up for another ten minutes or so, for the blond one to stop in just before they all headed out the back entrance.

I eased the book open, cradling it in my lap and wishing I'd picked a paperback.  The pages were thinner and turned more quietly, and usually the words were printed smaller, so I had more to read between page turns.

And that mattered, because here came the blond.  I'd almost finished the second page when she walked in, and I didn't dare turn to the next while she was in here with me.  That was the one problem with hiding out in the restroom.  Everything echoed.

I stared at the bottom of the second page, anxious for her to leave, less so that I could finally climb down, and more because I was dying to see what happened next.  At last, she left.  I eased down off the seat and sat, devouring my book. 

Ah, heaven!  Another night with no one, absolutely no one, to disturb me, and a whole bookstore to choose from.  I was never going home!

Can a man change his stars?

This post is inspired by two things. 

First, my dear husband, who was quoting "A Knight's Tale" the other day.  Please tell me you love that movie as much as I do.  We quote it all the time around here.  "Can a man change his stars?"  And "How would you beat him? ... With a stick.  While he slept.  But on a horse, with a lance, that man is unbeatable!"  Chaucer kills me.  "I will eviscerate you in fiction. Every pimple, every character flaw. I was naked for a day; you will be naked for eternity!" and "My lords, my ladies, ... and everybody else here not sitting on a cushion!"

(Ok, I'll stop.  But seriously, if you haven't seen the movie, you should.)

Second, because of something that happened last week.  One of my friends mentioned to me that her son writes a lot.  He's young, and she said he's written lots of first chapters, but never gets further than that.  I looked at him and told him that was fine.  I wrote lots of first chapters, too, when I was young.  I told him, "... and someday you'll write a second chapter, and go from there."  Now, I realize as a yet-unpublished author, I'm not a lot to look up to, but I do have 5 completed novels, and he knew from his mom that I've written a lot.  (I am getting to the point ... wait for it ...)  The next day, my friend told me I'd inspired him.  He'd brought it up later, "... your friend said she wrote a lot of first chapters when she was my age, too."

What an awesome feeling to think I've inspired someone!  When you inspire a child, they have so much potential, and so much time to fulfil their potential.  I think every child deserves support, encouragement, and inspiration to show them that, YES, You Can Change Your Stars!

So, in honor of that, this week's prompt:
"Can a man change his stars?"

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My response:

Dina didn't last long before she ditched me.  We'd just barely walked in.  Dee had the stereo set up in the wide, formal foyer of MaKenzie's parents' mansion, the walls around us thudding with the bass of some rap song he had turned up so loud I couldn't even make out the lyrics.  Dina danced off, writhing and twisting and pressing her body up against Dee as she made her way back to the kitchen, where the football guys would have the kegs all set up.

It was supposed to be fun and exciting, but it was always the same thing.  MaKenzie's mom was a lawyer, her dad was a hot-shot banker, and she had the house to herself every other weekend or so.  We partied out of habit, because we were teenagers and it was expected of us.

Jared wove through the throng, passing out cans.  "Hey Kiley, got yours right here!"

I waved him off.  "Maybe later."

I followed Dina's tracks towards the back of the house, but avoided the kitchen, slipping out onto the back patio.  Chris's voice rang in my head.  "There's more to you than all that.  I can see it.  I wish you'd see it, too."  He'd invited me to go downtown with him to hear some orchestra play in the park.  Seriously?  Me?  Just because we'd spent time together working on the annual service project, he thinks he knows me, thinks he sees something deeper in me than just your typical, vain high school girl.

I am Kiley McGuire, head cheeleader at Mountainview High School.  My hair is always perfectly streaked, my nails always manicured, my wardrobe the envy of all my friends ... I know my place, and I know it's not downtown listening to an orchestra with the new guy who only moved into town two weeks ago.

And still ...

I sat down on the stairs, pulling my phone from my bra.  "2 L8 2 go with u 2night?"  I hold my breath and push send.

I suck air, then will myself to keep breathing while I wait.

Then answer comes.  "Never too late.  U at the party?  I'll be right over."

I can't deny the thrill of excitement that flashes down my back.  Maybe I'll like the orchestra.

***Ok, forgive me for this one.  I'm really awful at contemporary - the slang, the text speech.  But I won't let myself delete it because this is supposed to be a stretching exercise.  I wish you all better luck with your responses this week.  :-)

Universals

I'd like to share a short quote from Gale Sears's Jade Dragon Box :

"This was written a thousand years ago?"
Her uncle went back to his cooking.  "A little more than a thousand years."
Wen-shan silently read the final lines again.  "How did he know our hearts?"
"Do you think hearts have changed so much?"

Ah.  Just think about that for a minute.

This is the very point of Shakespeare's genius.  His stories hit on universal feelings - the kind that are the same today as they were a thousand years ago. 

Therefore, the prompt for this weeks is to choose a universal:
Love
Hatred
Revenge
Star-crossed lovers
Unrequited love

(This list is not all-inclusive, please feel free to use any universal you like.)

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My response:

(I wanted to pick something meaty, so I chose revenge.)

The locket burned against my skin, scalding with the punishment I'd receive if they found it in my hands.  It lodged just beneath my right breast, catching on the ribbing of my corset and pressing into my tender flesh. 

I ignored the discomfort.  I was lucky to have it at all.  Even Ladies in Waiting had to attend the Queen in pairs, to prevent this very possibility.  Lady Eve's complaints about her stomach led Queen Jalla to send her to the couch to lie down.  Then the cleaning servants came early, before Jalla had abandoned her sleeping chamber, and Jalla turned to scold them.  I slipped the gem-encrusted necklace from the table as if to lay out with Jalla's wardrobe, then slipped it down my own bodice as I straighted the Queen's waiting gown. 

If I was caught, it was the noose.  Not even my father could save me from a second offense against the crown.  The injustice grated against my nerves.  A second offense meant death.  But what if you never committed the first offense?

Lady Beal didn't even have the decency to admit she'd been the one who'd stolen the ruby earrings.  I'd seen her trying them on in the Lady's room.  When the King's Chief of Security threatened to search our chambers and belongings, she must have realized she wasn't going to get away with it, and returned them.  Just because I was the one who noticed they were back in their usual place in the Queen's drawer, I was accused of thievery.  I could still see the sly smile Lady Beal gave me as I was marched out of our chambers by a pair of the King's guards.

But Lady Beal could not hide what she didn't know she had.

I smiled to myself when I slipped away after breakfast.  Lady Beal had ten pairs of shoes, including a pair of riding boots she never wore.  The necklace thudded softly, then slid down the sole into the toe.

I'd been punished for a first offense I'd never committed.  Now it was her turn.