Jury Duty

I've been struggling to come up with a prompt this week. I think it's due to nervousness and stress. See, I've been called up for jury duty. (There is still a chance that the case may be settled out of court, and I won't have to turn up, but I won't find that out for two more hours ... sigh.) I'm anxious because I don't like the idea of determining someone else's fate. Yes, I realize if I am on the jury there will be eleven other people with me, but it still weighs heavy on my mind.

Rather than letting it get me down, I decided I'd just go with it for this week's prompt.

 

Prompt:  Jury Duty

Go ahead.  Get your John Grisham on. 

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My response:

I took advantage of the pause and stretched my fingers, then placed them lightly back down on the keyboard.  The middle aged man on the witness stand sighed and nodded.

"We require a spoken answer, Mr. Banks," the judge reminded him for the third time.

My fingers flew with barely a thought.  Fifteen years as a court reporter, and I joked with my friends that I could type out my dreams word for word, if only I could get comfortable with my laptop in my bed.

"Yes, sir.  Yes.  He did leave at ten thirty that night."  He shook his head remorsefully and dropped his shoulders forward, avoiding the glare of the defendant.

"In your initial testimony, you stated that Mr. George Fry stayed the whole night at your house, drinking two six-packs and passing out on your couch.  Why did you lie?"  Mr. Fairlie, the DA, stood facing the jury, as if he were speaking to them instead of to Mr. Banks, on the stand.  He always did that when he was trying to make a point.  I was just lucky his voice carried, since that meant he usually had his back to me.

"He's my brother, man!"  Mr. Banks spat out, a sob escaping his barrel-shaped chest, his rental suit straining at the seams.  "I know he and Carlie were having some rough times, but he never would have done what they said.  I know he didn't kill her."  He dropped his head into his hands, openly sobbing now.  "I know it, man!"

First, if he really knew it, he would have told the cops when his brother left and trusted them to figure it out.  Second, the way he was breaking down, he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

My eyes slipped over to the defendant.  That one was guilty if I've ever seen one, and believe me, I have.  Leaning back in his chair in his orange jumpsuit, slouching and glaring like a teenage punk in the back of history class, he was the picture of guilt.  I'd bet he was mean even without two six-packs.

"No more questions, your honor."

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The case has not settled, so I'm going in.  Wish me luck! 

Classic High Fantasy

I was a fantasy nerd growing up - Anne McCaffrey, Piers Anthony, and Orson Scott Card were my favorite story tellers. But I somehow missed out on one of the most amazing sagas of the nineties - Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time.

I only came around to reading it now because of my obsession with Brandon Sanderson (brilliant author in his own right) who finished Robert Jordan's series. My husband read the book first and gave me a run-down on it, but I've only recently picked it up myself. My husband keeps asking me, "What do you think?"

Honestly? It's starting to make me nostalgic. It fits the "fantasy" model so beautifully (maybe because it was part of the original mold ...), and I'm loving watching the story unfold. There's the orphan, the spunky side-kick, a beautiful sorceress, dark, twisted creatures on the dark side, and shadowy figures with cloaks on dark horses. What's not to love?!

And so I feel inspired to do a high fantasy prompt.

  http://www.juliefain.com/index.htm

So, there you go.  The prompt for this week is this dragon.  Enjoy!

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My response:

Kiera led the pair of sheep across the castle green.  They shied and pulled skittishly on their ropes now and then, but they were docile creatures, and easily guided.  Almost, she felt guilty.  They trusted the shepherds and other people who had looked after them, and they saw her as no different.  But she was about to betray their trust.

Li'Aia was hungry, but she had the curtesy to wait until Kiera set the ewes into the small enclosure before descending on the beasts in a flurry of flapping wings and flashing jaws.  Skillfully, she pinned one kicking bundle beneath a claw while her teeth tore into the other.  In a matter of moments, it was over.

More? Li'Aia asked.

No.  Kiera shook her head sadly.  That is all they would give me today.

Kiera stretched out her hand and Li'Aia reached her scaly head, red in the fading sunlight, though she was more of a gold color, to meet it.  Kiera sighed, pulling a rag from her belt and started wiping at Li'Aia's muzzle, wiping the gore away.  Again she felt the nagging guilt tug at her.  She was no noblewoman with lands and herds to feed a dragon.  It had been arrogant of her to sneak into the hatchery to catch a glimpse of the dragon eggs.

Her thoughts were disturbed by the trumpeting of the heralds.  The castle doors opened, and a train of people emerged.  The women were dressed in sparkling brocades and silks, the men in fine suits.  Marching in the center was the Princess Adelaide.
 

In the next enclosure, the black dragon Markag fluttered his wings and preened.  Kiera couldn't hear his voice in her head, as she was only bonded with Li'Aia, but she didn't need to hear him to know he was calling to the Princess.  All for naught.  Princess Adelaide only crinkled her pretty nose at the smell of the dragon yard, then turned away, leading her ladies after her.

Markag always had enough to eat, and he sat his watch and flew his missions, but his bondswoman probably wouldn't have noticed if he'd disappeared.

No, but maybe you will catch some bandits tonight and be allotted another calf as reward? Kiera suggested. 

Maybe I will!  Li'Aia said.  And nevermind that you cannot buy me another lamb.  At least I don't have to clean my face with the straw after I eat.  It's very prickly.

Kiera laughed.  She'd never expected an egg to hatch while she was there, and she hadn't known enough about bonding to keep away until they had fetched a nobleman or noblewoman to bond with the thing.  But her regrets were not for herself, they were for Li'Aia.  Kiera, bonded to a dragon, was too valuable to allow to starve.  But Li'Aia, bonded to a peasant, had to settle for what the king allowed her for her service.

Narration

"Are you Nuts, or Normal?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go ahead.  Enjoy!

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My response:

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

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

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

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

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

Door

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

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

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

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

 

Enjoy!

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My response:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boy Meets Girl

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

The prompt for the week:  Boy Meets Girl

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My response:

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

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

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

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

"Thanks!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A screwdriver, actually, just a flathead."

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

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

She flashed a guilty grin.  "High beams."

Clever.

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

"You single?"

She stopped.  "Excuse me?"

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

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

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

"Perfect."

Fan Fiction

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

Enter Fan Fiction.

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

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

Enjoy!

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My response:

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

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

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

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

At that moment, the door swung open.

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

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

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

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

Gotham Garden

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

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

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



Enjoy!

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My response:

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

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

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

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

That was about to change.

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