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.
Monday, November 17, 2014
Monday, November 10, 2014
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 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.
Monday, November 3, 2014
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!
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!
*****************************************************************************
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!
Monday, October 27, 2014
Halloween
In truth, horror isn't really my thing. I don't like scary movies, and scary books are even worse, because they leave so much up to my own (overactive) imagination.
But in honor of the holiday, your prompt for this week: Write something spine-tingling!
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My response:
Maggie stomped through the trees, leaves crunching under her boots and flying behind her. Her fingers curled into fists, flexed, and curled again. Behind her, throaty screams tore the silence of the night. Maggie threw back her head in a bitter laugh. "Ha!"
Three years of falling all over herself, trying to get Trevor to notice her, and this was how it ended? In some Halloween prank? If Trevor was the kind of guy who would lure her out into the woods just to have his buddies creep up on them and scare her to death, then he wasn't the guy she thought he was. Her heart wasn't even broken. It was furious.
She reached into the pocket of her jean jacket and pulled out her phone, holding it up to light her way in the moonless night. She would find the road. She'd find a ride home. And Trevor could find a new puppy to follow him around. The screams behind her broke into laughter. Maggie could picture all too well in her mind the chest bumping and shoulder punching as the guys celebrated their so-called victory.
The crackling of leaves and the fury of her own indignation kept Maggie going until only echoes of the boys' voices lingered in the crisp air. She stopped, checking her phone. She hadn't bothered to check it when she'd stormed off. Now she could only guess at how long she'd been walking, and there was no sign of the road. Wind rattled the sparse branches above her head, and Maggie shivered.
Then she realized she was staring at her own answer. She smiled at the phone in her hand and laughed out loud, typing her home address into Google maps. With a chime and an arrow, her phone pointed her the way out of the woods. Unfortunately, the arrow pointed back to where Trevor and his friends were.
Maggie sighed. Oh well. Maybe they'd give her a ride home and save her the trouble she'd get in if her mom caught her hitch hiking.
A new round of screams carried on the night breeze. A chill ran down Maggie's back, and she pressed her hands to her ears. Both were freezing, and neither did much to warm the other. It was too cold to be out. She thought of Trevor's truck and the warm air that would flow from the vent. He owed her at least that much tonight.
Trevor's voice rose, louder now, and Maggie figured she wasn't far off now. A string of curses, followed by a howl of pain. One of his idiot friends probably hit him in the head with a can of beer, or something else moronic. Then the howl rose in pitch, to a squeal of agony.
Maggie stopped in her tracks.
But of course they were still putting on an act. They knew better than she did that she had nowhere to go. Immature. Stupid. Crazy boys, and they were still playing with her.
Another howl-turned-squeal rose into the night, then the sound of branches snapping and leaves smashing. "Get in, get in!" "Get us out of here, man!" "Go, go, go!"
Maggie's brow furrowed and she moved closer. Maybe they'd finally succeeded in scaring themselves.
Then a truck engine roared to life, flooding the clearing in front of her with its headlights. Maggie blinked frantically as her brain tried to make sense of the shapes and blazing brightness in front of her.
It was Brian's truck, and the figures leaping around it seemed at first to be the rest of the guys jumping into the bed of the truck. But there were too many, and some of them weren't shaped quite right.
A low, throaty growl sounded to Maggie's left. Her breath caught as she turned. Something crouched in the headlights, one leg on a lump on the ground, one arm holding a second figure down. Maggie blinked, and the shapes registered in her brain. Trevor lay on the ground, his red scarf and leather jacket that had looked so sleek when he picked her up tonight were torn and splattered with something dark. Makray lay next to him, his left leg askew and half his face missing. The figure above them dipped its head towards Trevor, and he let out a new moan of agony. When the figure moved again, raising it's massive head, Maggie swallowed, willed her heart to stop pounding, and threw back her shoulders.
Brian's truck swerved and screeched out of the clearing, screams and moans rising from the bed. Maggie rolled her eyes. They really didn't know when to stop, did they?
With the headlights gone, the clearing was dark again, but Maggie had gotten a good look. Whoever was playing the werewolf didn't know where she was, and she was going to teach him a lesson before she made Trevor wipe the makeup off and drive her home. She slipped over to Trevor's truck, put the toe of her boot on the back tire, and lifted herself up. Her fingers closed on something metallic lying in the bottom of the bed. Trevor's bat.
Trevor's moans led her back to where they were. Maggie flashed the light on her cell phone. She didn't mean to do damage, just make them think twice about trying to scare her again. But then the wolf turned to her, and she saw the light gleaming in the blood dripping from three inch fangs. She dropped her phone and swung with all her might.
The wolf dropped as the bat contacted squarely on its skull. It collapsed in a heap on top of Trevor. Now Maggie knew why the guys jumping into the back of Brian's truck had looked odd. Some of them were guys. Some of them were wolves.
Maggie dropped to her knees, feeling in the leaves for her phone. Maggie couldn't hear anything over the pounding of her heart and the rustling of the stupid leaves that were everywhere. Then she remembered Trevor kept his keys in his pocket. With trembling fingers, Maggie gave up her search for her phone. She reached forward and found Trevor's shoe, then his jeans. Slowly, she worked her way up, trembling when the denim went slick with blood. Then, finally, the lump of keys in his pocket.
The wolf lay on top of Trevor. Maggie's brain worked furiously. Werewolf. Full moon. But there's no moon tonight. Stake through the heart? No, that's vampires. Silver bullet? Maybe. But if they're wrong about the full moon, maybe they're wrong about the bullet.
The keys jingled as they popped free from Trevor's pocket.
The wolf stirred.
Maggie didn't have a gun or a silver bullet. She launched herself towards the truck, leaves flying in the darkness as she prayed she got there before the wolf woke up. Her hands smacked into the grill. A shuffle behind her and a growl. She moved around to the driver's side, fingers wrapping around the door handle. Had Trevor locked it? She lifted the handle and felt the snap of the release.
Then a pair of jaws clamped down on her ankle. Pain seared up her leg, but her boots served to protect her to some extent. Her boots.
It took all the will power in her body to slam her captured foot down to the ground. Maggie pulled her other foot up and slammed it down onto the creature's head. Once. Twice. Every strike sent lightning up her nerves.
Then the grip slackened. Maggie pulled free, yanked the door open, and pulled herself up into the truck. Slam the door. Lock it. Lock the other door.
Then she realized why it had let her go. It was howling. Calling to the pack. Reinforcements.
Maggie slammed the key into the ignition, threw it into gear, sent a prayer up to heaven that her dad had taught her to drive stick, and tore out of the clearing the way Brian's truck had gone.
Fifteen minutes later, as the lights of town grew in front of her, she began to wonder again. Just a prank that Trevor managed to pull off? Werewolves? Or stupid boys? Did she really get bit by a wolf? Her ankle didn't hurt anymore. Maybe it was just her own imagination. Go back home, or stop for a steak on the way? Steak sounded good. Saliva flooded her mouth. Yeah. Steak sounded good.
But in honor of the holiday, your prompt for this week: Write something spine-tingling!
***************************************************************************
My response:
Maggie stomped through the trees, leaves crunching under her boots and flying behind her. Her fingers curled into fists, flexed, and curled again. Behind her, throaty screams tore the silence of the night. Maggie threw back her head in a bitter laugh. "Ha!"
Three years of falling all over herself, trying to get Trevor to notice her, and this was how it ended? In some Halloween prank? If Trevor was the kind of guy who would lure her out into the woods just to have his buddies creep up on them and scare her to death, then he wasn't the guy she thought he was. Her heart wasn't even broken. It was furious.
She reached into the pocket of her jean jacket and pulled out her phone, holding it up to light her way in the moonless night. She would find the road. She'd find a ride home. And Trevor could find a new puppy to follow him around. The screams behind her broke into laughter. Maggie could picture all too well in her mind the chest bumping and shoulder punching as the guys celebrated their so-called victory.
The crackling of leaves and the fury of her own indignation kept Maggie going until only echoes of the boys' voices lingered in the crisp air. She stopped, checking her phone. She hadn't bothered to check it when she'd stormed off. Now she could only guess at how long she'd been walking, and there was no sign of the road. Wind rattled the sparse branches above her head, and Maggie shivered.
Then she realized she was staring at her own answer. She smiled at the phone in her hand and laughed out loud, typing her home address into Google maps. With a chime and an arrow, her phone pointed her the way out of the woods. Unfortunately, the arrow pointed back to where Trevor and his friends were.
Maggie sighed. Oh well. Maybe they'd give her a ride home and save her the trouble she'd get in if her mom caught her hitch hiking.
A new round of screams carried on the night breeze. A chill ran down Maggie's back, and she pressed her hands to her ears. Both were freezing, and neither did much to warm the other. It was too cold to be out. She thought of Trevor's truck and the warm air that would flow from the vent. He owed her at least that much tonight.
Trevor's voice rose, louder now, and Maggie figured she wasn't far off now. A string of curses, followed by a howl of pain. One of his idiot friends probably hit him in the head with a can of beer, or something else moronic. Then the howl rose in pitch, to a squeal of agony.
Maggie stopped in her tracks.
But of course they were still putting on an act. They knew better than she did that she had nowhere to go. Immature. Stupid. Crazy boys, and they were still playing with her.
Another howl-turned-squeal rose into the night, then the sound of branches snapping and leaves smashing. "Get in, get in!" "Get us out of here, man!" "Go, go, go!"
Maggie's brow furrowed and she moved closer. Maybe they'd finally succeeded in scaring themselves.
Then a truck engine roared to life, flooding the clearing in front of her with its headlights. Maggie blinked frantically as her brain tried to make sense of the shapes and blazing brightness in front of her.
It was Brian's truck, and the figures leaping around it seemed at first to be the rest of the guys jumping into the bed of the truck. But there were too many, and some of them weren't shaped quite right.
A low, throaty growl sounded to Maggie's left. Her breath caught as she turned. Something crouched in the headlights, one leg on a lump on the ground, one arm holding a second figure down. Maggie blinked, and the shapes registered in her brain. Trevor lay on the ground, his red scarf and leather jacket that had looked so sleek when he picked her up tonight were torn and splattered with something dark. Makray lay next to him, his left leg askew and half his face missing. The figure above them dipped its head towards Trevor, and he let out a new moan of agony. When the figure moved again, raising it's massive head, Maggie swallowed, willed her heart to stop pounding, and threw back her shoulders.
Brian's truck swerved and screeched out of the clearing, screams and moans rising from the bed. Maggie rolled her eyes. They really didn't know when to stop, did they?
With the headlights gone, the clearing was dark again, but Maggie had gotten a good look. Whoever was playing the werewolf didn't know where she was, and she was going to teach him a lesson before she made Trevor wipe the makeup off and drive her home. She slipped over to Trevor's truck, put the toe of her boot on the back tire, and lifted herself up. Her fingers closed on something metallic lying in the bottom of the bed. Trevor's bat.
Trevor's moans led her back to where they were. Maggie flashed the light on her cell phone. She didn't mean to do damage, just make them think twice about trying to scare her again. But then the wolf turned to her, and she saw the light gleaming in the blood dripping from three inch fangs. She dropped her phone and swung with all her might.
The wolf dropped as the bat contacted squarely on its skull. It collapsed in a heap on top of Trevor. Now Maggie knew why the guys jumping into the back of Brian's truck had looked odd. Some of them were guys. Some of them were wolves.
Maggie dropped to her knees, feeling in the leaves for her phone. Maggie couldn't hear anything over the pounding of her heart and the rustling of the stupid leaves that were everywhere. Then she remembered Trevor kept his keys in his pocket. With trembling fingers, Maggie gave up her search for her phone. She reached forward and found Trevor's shoe, then his jeans. Slowly, she worked her way up, trembling when the denim went slick with blood. Then, finally, the lump of keys in his pocket.
The wolf lay on top of Trevor. Maggie's brain worked furiously. Werewolf. Full moon. But there's no moon tonight. Stake through the heart? No, that's vampires. Silver bullet? Maybe. But if they're wrong about the full moon, maybe they're wrong about the bullet.
The keys jingled as they popped free from Trevor's pocket.
The wolf stirred.
Maggie didn't have a gun or a silver bullet. She launched herself towards the truck, leaves flying in the darkness as she prayed she got there before the wolf woke up. Her hands smacked into the grill. A shuffle behind her and a growl. She moved around to the driver's side, fingers wrapping around the door handle. Had Trevor locked it? She lifted the handle and felt the snap of the release.
Then a pair of jaws clamped down on her ankle. Pain seared up her leg, but her boots served to protect her to some extent. Her boots.
It took all the will power in her body to slam her captured foot down to the ground. Maggie pulled her other foot up and slammed it down onto the creature's head. Once. Twice. Every strike sent lightning up her nerves.
Then the grip slackened. Maggie pulled free, yanked the door open, and pulled herself up into the truck. Slam the door. Lock it. Lock the other door.
Then she realized why it had let her go. It was howling. Calling to the pack. Reinforcements.
Maggie slammed the key into the ignition, threw it into gear, sent a prayer up to heaven that her dad had taught her to drive stick, and tore out of the clearing the way Brian's truck had gone.
Fifteen minutes later, as the lights of town grew in front of her, she began to wonder again. Just a prank that Trevor managed to pull off? Werewolves? Or stupid boys? Did she really get bit by a wolf? Her ankle didn't hurt anymore. Maybe it was just her own imagination. Go back home, or stop for a steak on the way? Steak sounded good. Saliva flooded her mouth. Yeah. Steak sounded good.
Monday, October 20, 2014
Grab a Book! #3
Usually the name of the game is to grab the nearest book, but I'm changing the rules this time. Grab the book you're currently reading (and if that includes a few books, grab the one you're most excited about - the one you'd take with you into a bubble bath, should you have time for a soak).
In order to avoid skipping ahead in the book, turn to the page you're currently at, then turn back 20 pages. Then count down 8 full sentences on the page, and use that full sentence for your prompt.
Don't forget to post what book you're reading and the sentence you land on for your prompt, so we know where you're coming from. (And if you should land on a more exciting sentence on the same page, it's not as if anyone's going to check your work. Go with what works best for you!)
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My response:
I'm reading FIRE by Kristin Cashore, because I loved GRACELING.
I ended up on page 245 where my line is, "Well," he said, "I hope you keep asking."
Viscount Mullen stormed into the great hall, water spraying from his cloak and boots onto polished marble and expensive rugs. His valet tried not to cringe, but he could not help it when he took a direct hit to his brow.
"Sorry, Scully, it's miserable out there."
"Mis're'bl in 'here, too, by the looks 'a 'im!" the scullery maid whispered as she passed Scully in the hallway, both of their eyes fixed on the Viscount's shoulders as he disappeared into the drawing room.
The count stood at the fireplace, a complete picture of nobility in his suit and tails, right down to the glass of sherry in his hand. He turned, squinting as his son entered the room.
"Here here! Don't keep an old man waiting, son!" He leaned on his cane and made his way towards a tall, wing-backed chair. "What says the Lady?"
The viscount scowled and poured himself a drink before sinking onto a couch by the fire. He sipped before answering. "She'll not have me, Father."
The count sputtered, sherry spattering his cravat. "What do you say? Has she turned you down?"
"Arrogant. Prideful. Cold and ... heartless. Heartless, Father!" He shook his head and swallowed down another gulp of comfort.
The sputtering turned into a chuckle, then a hearty laugh. "And so begins the dance, dear boy. Oh, do chin up, you're not the first to have a fair face turn up her nose at you. But there are no rules on how many times you can ask, and, with one such as she ... well, I do hope you keep asking!"
In order to avoid skipping ahead in the book, turn to the page you're currently at, then turn back 20 pages. Then count down 8 full sentences on the page, and use that full sentence for your prompt.
Don't forget to post what book you're reading and the sentence you land on for your prompt, so we know where you're coming from. (And if you should land on a more exciting sentence on the same page, it's not as if anyone's going to check your work. Go with what works best for you!)
*******************************************************************
My response:
I'm reading FIRE by Kristin Cashore, because I loved GRACELING.
I ended up on page 245 where my line is, "Well," he said, "I hope you keep asking."
Viscount Mullen stormed into the great hall, water spraying from his cloak and boots onto polished marble and expensive rugs. His valet tried not to cringe, but he could not help it when he took a direct hit to his brow.
"Sorry, Scully, it's miserable out there."
"Mis're'bl in 'here, too, by the looks 'a 'im!" the scullery maid whispered as she passed Scully in the hallway, both of their eyes fixed on the Viscount's shoulders as he disappeared into the drawing room.
The count stood at the fireplace, a complete picture of nobility in his suit and tails, right down to the glass of sherry in his hand. He turned, squinting as his son entered the room.
"Here here! Don't keep an old man waiting, son!" He leaned on his cane and made his way towards a tall, wing-backed chair. "What says the Lady?"
The viscount scowled and poured himself a drink before sinking onto a couch by the fire. He sipped before answering. "She'll not have me, Father."
The count sputtered, sherry spattering his cravat. "What do you say? Has she turned you down?"
"Arrogant. Prideful. Cold and ... heartless. Heartless, Father!" He shook his head and swallowed down another gulp of comfort.
The sputtering turned into a chuckle, then a hearty laugh. "And so begins the dance, dear boy. Oh, do chin up, you're not the first to have a fair face turn up her nose at you. But there are no rules on how many times you can ask, and, with one such as she ... well, I do hope you keep asking!"
Monday, October 13, 2014
Traveling Shovel of Death
In honor of NaNo coming up, I'm going to do something unusual for the prompt. I did NaNo for the first time in 2008, and while I will caution anyone and everyone against thinking they're a genius and querying their NaNo novel in December, I do love the spirit of NaNo. To me, it's all about carpe diem. If you want to write a novel - write one! Don't wait for someone to give you permission to, or until you "have more time". Give yourself permission. Make time.
(Or if it helps at all, I give you permission!!!)
Now in six years of doing NaNo, I have spent my fair share of time procrastinating in the NaNo Forums (part of the whole experience, guys, go check them out). The "traveling shovel of death" is a kind of challenge/prompt thread where you insert the ... wait for it ... Traveling Shovel of Death ... into your novel.
The prompt for this week: The Traveling Shovel of Death
Enjoy!
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My response:
I meant to kill the voles.
No, I'm serious, I was so mad at the stupid voles! I planted strawberries two years ago, and because of bad weather, I didn't get anything that first year. I was so excited when they sprouted up through the snow with flowers everywhere, and little green strawberries following shortly thereafter. Just as the berries were starting to ripen, the voles hit. They ate everything. Ripe berries, green berries ... they even chewed on the stems, ruining whole areas of the patch. Oh, how I hated them
Next came the cherry tomatoes. Then my carrots and beets. Why would they bother with the poison I laid out for them when they already had a perfect feast laid out? They were evil, and I was done.
My raspberry patch came on in the last week of August, and I was thrilled. Then, when I went out with a bowl to gather them, I saw it. Little, nibbled berries all along the bottoms of the raspberry vines. I lost it.
The shovel had been in the shed when we moved in, and it proved to be sturdy while I was putting in the garden. I knew the head was old and heavy, and any little moles it encountered would breath their last. Armed, I headed back to the raspberry patch.
It was dawn, and I knew the voles would be moving around, so I waited patiently, the head of the shovel growing ever heavier in my arms, but I knew the pain would be worth it. Finally, the leaves stirred, something rustling in the shadows, just beyond my vision.
The shovel came down hard. My aim was true. I felt a crunch. Victory! Then I moved the raspberry vine aside to survey my work.
The only thing worse than not killing a vole was realizing I'd killed my neighbor's cat. She was a good mouser, so I can only guess she'd been lured into my yard with the same murderous thoughts towards my infestation as I had. She hadn't had a chance against the shovel.
I threw back my head and pulled my arm back, ready to chuck the shovel over the fence, a growling yell rising in my throat. My arm swung forward.
"Bea, is that you? Have you seen my Princess this morning? I notice she's been spending time in your yard lately ..."
My arm slackened and dropped, the shovel falling to the ground and barely missing my toes. I murmured a curse, then thanked the Lord I hadn't finished my swing. Somehow explaining to Verna that her cat was dead seemed easier than explaining to the cops why Verna was dead. So at least there's that.
(Or if it helps at all, I give you permission!!!)
Now in six years of doing NaNo, I have spent my fair share of time procrastinating in the NaNo Forums (part of the whole experience, guys, go check them out). The "traveling shovel of death" is a kind of challenge/prompt thread where you insert the ... wait for it ... Traveling Shovel of Death ... into your novel.
The prompt for this week: The Traveling Shovel of Death
Enjoy!
***********************************************************************************
My response:
I meant to kill the voles.
No, I'm serious, I was so mad at the stupid voles! I planted strawberries two years ago, and because of bad weather, I didn't get anything that first year. I was so excited when they sprouted up through the snow with flowers everywhere, and little green strawberries following shortly thereafter. Just as the berries were starting to ripen, the voles hit. They ate everything. Ripe berries, green berries ... they even chewed on the stems, ruining whole areas of the patch. Oh, how I hated them
Next came the cherry tomatoes. Then my carrots and beets. Why would they bother with the poison I laid out for them when they already had a perfect feast laid out? They were evil, and I was done.
My raspberry patch came on in the last week of August, and I was thrilled. Then, when I went out with a bowl to gather them, I saw it. Little, nibbled berries all along the bottoms of the raspberry vines. I lost it.
The shovel had been in the shed when we moved in, and it proved to be sturdy while I was putting in the garden. I knew the head was old and heavy, and any little moles it encountered would breath their last. Armed, I headed back to the raspberry patch.
It was dawn, and I knew the voles would be moving around, so I waited patiently, the head of the shovel growing ever heavier in my arms, but I knew the pain would be worth it. Finally, the leaves stirred, something rustling in the shadows, just beyond my vision.
The shovel came down hard. My aim was true. I felt a crunch. Victory! Then I moved the raspberry vine aside to survey my work.
The only thing worse than not killing a vole was realizing I'd killed my neighbor's cat. She was a good mouser, so I can only guess she'd been lured into my yard with the same murderous thoughts towards my infestation as I had. She hadn't had a chance against the shovel.
I threw back my head and pulled my arm back, ready to chuck the shovel over the fence, a growling yell rising in my throat. My arm swung forward.
"Bea, is that you? Have you seen my Princess this morning? I notice she's been spending time in your yard lately ..."
My arm slackened and dropped, the shovel falling to the ground and barely missing my toes. I murmured a curse, then thanked the Lord I hadn't finished my swing. Somehow explaining to Verna that her cat was dead seemed easier than explaining to the cops why Verna was dead. So at least there's that.
Monday, October 6, 2014
Ruins
Let's go with a picture prompt this week:
Enjoy!
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My response:
She padded softly across the stone, the mossy surface damp under the pads of her feet. She kept to the shadows, where she was less likely to be seen. Hunting in the daytime was difficult for her. The tall trees of the canopy cast long shadows over the jungle, but her prey had sharp eyes, and her shining black pelt shimmered in the light. It was much easier in the dark.
But tonight she was hungry. Only two cubs remained of the three she'd born half a moon ago. They were so small and helpless, and they drained her strength from her with their own hunger. She was exhausted, but she didn't dare rest out of sight of her den. She wasn't the only shadow out hunting this day.
(I know this is shorter than my typical responses, but I'm going to exercise my right to say, nope, I'm not feeling this one. Maybe it's because I haven't written anything anthropomorphic since elementary. No offense to Kipling, I just don't think it's my thing.)
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