The Shaded Path

First, a big THANK YOU to Ryan Bliss at Digital Blasphemy for letting us use his picture.  I'm in love with this one!



Picture prompts are some of my favorite.  Like I mentioned way back when, I like picture prompts because two people can look at the same picture and see very different things.

I can't wait to see what everyone else comes up with! :-)

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My response:

It took all the self control I had not to glance back as I turned the corner, leaving the party behind and stepping onto the dark walkway that surrounded the estate.  It was imperative that no one follow me.  Hopefully, no one noticed my leaving, but if they did and they saw me glancing back, it would look suspicious.  At least, that's what Lemak had told me, and he was the expert.

The moss grew thick on the gray stones, dulling the sound of my footsteps and wetting my thin slippers.  The moist air was almost heavy on my shoulders.  I paused a few steps in and studied a colorful bunch of flowers hanging down from the ceiling. 

I waited, counting slowly in my mind.  I'd never mastered counting precisely with the clock, so I counted six measures, instead of the five Lemak insisted on.  Better wait too long than too little.  A bee darted through the air and disappeared into a lily.  The harp and the murmuring of polite conversation continued behind me.  I was still alone. 

It wasn't easy to get a good grip on my silk skirt with my gloves on, but I hiked it up the best I could and hurried down the walkway.  As the pathway curved, I spied the figure waiting in the shadows.  I slowed my pace.  A bead of sweat ran down my back.  My bones tingled with anticipation.  I had dreamed of this as long as I could remember, but until Lemak, I never really thought it possible.

I gauged my steps and stopped in a patch of darkness, three arms lengths from the figure.  He was dressed in linen trousers, a white shirt, and a vest.  His leather boots were as silent as my slippers on the rocks as he stepped forward.

"You know who I am?" I asked.

He nodded.

"You know what I'm asking you to do?"

"Paying me to do," he corrected, his voice low.

"Yes." I pursed my lips.  I didn't like when servants spoke back.  "Paying.  But to be sure there are no misunderstandings, I want you to tell me what you're going to do."

"I'm to take the morning catch to the kitchens tomorrow, like as I always do, and when the cook's back is turned, I take the keys off the hook.  Then I use those to come back tomorrow night, slip up to her Majesty's room, and ..."  Apparently even murderers struggle with their conscience at times.  He slid his finger across his throat. 

That wasn't enough.  If he couldn't say it, how could I trust him to do it?  "And what?"

"I kill her."

"Whom?"

He sighed.  "The Princess, Evelyn Marie Antoinette."

"And if you get caught?"

He stepped into the light, leveling a vicious gaze at me.  "I do not get caught."

I raised my chin.  "If you get caught, and you allow yourself to be taken alive, you will not live long enough to give my name to anyone.  I've made arrangements to be sure of that."

"I don't doubt you have, my lady."  His eyes glinted in the darkness, and I could see I'd earned a measure of respect.  Then he continued.  "But see, miss, you made one mistake."  He stepped forward. 

My heart leaped in my chest.  What did he know that I didn't?!  My brain raced as I tried to keep my composure.  Likely he didn't know anything; he was just trying to scare me.

He cocked his head, looking over my shoulder.  My blood ran cold, and I repressed a shiver.  What kind of trick was he trying to play?  He'd come close enough now that if I turned to glance over my shoulder, he could close the gap between us before I could stop him.  I didn't want to fall for his feint ... but what if there really was something there.

I didn't have to wonder long.

A voice came from behind me, so close that I felt his hot breath on my neck.  "Your mistake was in believing that your father hired me to protect you.  He knew it was Evelyn who needed protecting."

Lemak.  Lemak who had carried me home when I'd fallen off my horse, who had brought me wildflowers from the mountain fields, and who had dreamed with me of the day I'd be Queen, when my sister was gone.

I could feel the press of his blade through the thin fabric of my dress.  With his free hand he reached up and snatched my satchel from my wrist, tossing it to the outlaw.  "You are free to go.  Now."  The man touched his forehead in farewell, then turned and trotted away.

Lemak wrapped his left arm around my waist and pulled me closer.  I felt the bodice of my dress loosen as the knife cut through it.  My skin was next.  I had to think quickly.  Even if he'd been planning on betraying me, Lemak had taught me alot in the past months.  I had an advantage; I just had to figure out what it was.

Then it came to me.  Carefully, I worked my fingers at the fabric of my skirt, pulling it higher.  The silk rustled, so I spoke to buy some time and cover.  "And what makes you think I didn't know about the whole scheme in the first place?  That maybe I was going along with it so I could be there to protect her, when I thought you were going to kill her with or without my help?" 

It was a flimsy excuse.  I knew it.  But if I could make him pause, just for a moment ...

"I was afraid of you.  I didn't dare tell you no."  I couldn't tell him I'd gone to my father.  If they'd been working together, he'd know I was lying. I had to think fast.

Now the silk slipped above the knife on my left thy.  I felt the handle, warm with my bodyheat.  I was better with my right, but I didn't have time, and thanks to the little trick I'd come up with myself, I didn't have to worry about accuracy.

"I told Uncle Viz.  I told him everything.  He was going to help me stop you."

I knew immediately Lemak believed me.  He relaxed his grip, grabbed my shoulder, and whipped me around to face him. 

I didn't even have to strike.  I felt the resistance in my left hand as the knife caught on his leg, slitting the fabric of his pants.

His dark eyes flashed with anger.  He caught my wrist in his hand.  My bones grated together, and I cried out, dropping my knife.  It thudded softly against the moss.

"Did you really think ..."  He stopped, blinked twice, and swayed on his feet.  His eyes found mine, and I could see the realization dawn in them.  "You didn't ... you ... thought ..."

His body dropped to the ground, spasmed once, then lay still.

I bent and retrieved my knife, returning it back to the sheath.  Lemak had laughed when I suggested I coat my blade in poison.  He teased me for having a wild imagination.  I sighed and allowed myself one last glance at his fallen body.  We could have been so good together.

But at least he'd shown me that my dreams weren't so far fetched.  I hurried back the way I'd come, leaning against the stone wall and letting the branches catch the fine fabric of my dress, tearing it further.  I'd cause quit the stir when I got back to the party.

Show me your Joy!

I read "Born to Run" by Christopher McDougall over and over when it first came out.  Why is that so odd?  At that point in my life, I had never run more than one mile - and that was only unwillingly, in middle school gym class.  The brilliance of McDougall is that, in spite of my own pitiful physical capabilities, I found myself wanting to run an ultra-marathon.  (A feeling which quickly dissipated when I put my shoes on and hit the track.  I run with friends three times a week, now, but I doubt I'll ever tackle a marathon, not to mention an ultra!)

But when you read a book ... I climbed Everest with Jon Krakauer. I ran an ultra with Christopher McDougall. 

Now, it doesn't have to be a sport or a strenuous thing, but the prompt for this week is to write about something you do that makes you happy, something that brings you joy in your life, and try (just try, don't stress about it) to pull us into your experience and let us feel like we're right there with you.

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My response:

It starts so simply.  One cup of milk, cold from the fridge, in the bottom of a glass bowl.  I grab the handle on the microwave and slip the bowl inside, snapping the door closed and tapping the "Add One Minute" button.  It hums to life.

Then the yeast.  I spent years baking breads that didn't rise until I spoke with an old grandma in Germany.  She told me I had to be kind to my yeast.  Warm it up, feed it, make it happy.  So I do.  I let the tap water run over my fingers into the sink, waiting until that perfect temperature.  When it's just right, I fill the cup, then stir a small spoon of honey into the water.  Not a lot, just enough, and then I suck the rest of the honey from the spoon.  I can almost taste the bread, even though it's still just an idea in my mind.  I measure out the yeast, stirring it into the water.

By now, the milk is hot, and the aroma washes over me as I open the microwave.  I pull open the bottom cupboard and dig through the containers.  Three tablespoons of white sugar join the milk, then two tablespoons of oil, and one teaspoon salt.  It's supposed to be one and a half teaspoons of salt, but after watching the sugar dissolve into the milk, the thought of salt makes me frown.  One cup of flour is just enough to start the mixture into becoming a dough, and now the milk is cooled down enough for the yeast.  I usually manage to get to this point without the yeast overflowing, but on some days, when my kids are helping, I don't get there in time, and the warm foam slides down the sides of the cup and gathers on the counter.

You might expect me to crack an egg or throw some potato flakes in.  If I'm making my great-grandma's rolls, I surely would.  But this recipe is special because it's my dad's.  He can't eat eggs, so he figured out a dough recipe that doesn't use them.  It's divine.  And it's my dad's, so it's special.

Now that the yeast is happy, the smell of it fills the kitchen.  I add flour to the mixture.  Sunlight streams in my kitchen window, through the yellow curtain.  I work the warm dough in my palms, adding flour until it's just right - not too dry like I did when I started making breads.

Inevitably, my mind slips back to my grandma, and my great-grandma.  They were the kind of women who didn't cook with recipes.  They did it intuitively, by feel.  I wonder if they'd be proud of me, or if they'd offer a gentle correction.  Probably both. 

I roll the dough together and let it rise.

When I start rolling, I always begin to doubt myself.  Is it too sticky?  Am I adding too much flour?  How big will it get?  Is it too thick?  But in the end, it turns out well, and I'm happy with it.

(Okay, this is where I noticed my attention is wandering.  My two little ones are playing behind me, and I've got to pick up my oldest from school.  Because this is a stretching exercise, and it's not supposed to be a chore, I'm going to stop now.  Even if my cinnamon rolls aren't finished yet.  Believe me, I did finish them, and they're wonderful.  But if you've read this far, I think you'll agree with me that this wasn't the most exciting topic, and I didn't do the best job of making it interesting.)

Guilty Pleasures

As per Wikipedia:
A guilty pleasure is something one enjoys and considers pleasurable despite feeling guilt for enjoying it. The "guilt" involved is sometimes simply fear of others discovering one's lowbrow or otherwise embarrassing tastes, such as campy styles of entertainment.

Like when a football player enjoys listening to Frank Sinatra.

Or when someone like me reads a zombie book. 

(But World War Z was really the book that started the whole craze, and The Zombie Survival Guide is really funny!)

Anne McCaffery used to be my guilty pleasure, when I was young and fantasy was so un-cool.  Now I admit my sci-fi/fantasy addiction with pride.   But I still hesitate to bring my Monster Hunter books by Larry Correia to book club (they're my husband's, I swear!!!). 

So, for the prompt this week, indulge your guilty pleasure.  Vampires who sparkle.  Werewolves with ripped abs.  Sappy romance.  You know what you like!

Me ... I'm going with the zombies!

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Rain pounded against the boarded up windows, and the wind howled through the eves of the old-fashioned mansion.  It wouldn't have been my first choice for a safe house, but the thirty foot concrete wall surrounding the property made up for the ancient building.  I sighed, thanking the lunatic who built the place.  When the dead had actually risen, it had been ten times worse than any Hollywood flick.  For the first time in two months, I felt like I was safe.

I first noticed her when the residents started bringing around food.  I was one of a dozen people they'd rounded up tonight and brought back to safety.  As the aroma of soup and fresh bread filled the room, most of us reacted like the half starved creatures we were. 

She did not.  She lounged awkwardly against the floorboards, one ankle twisted beneath her in a way that made my legs hurt just looking at them.  Her skin was still spotted with beads of sweat and rain.  An elastic lingered in her hair near the ends, as if it had once valiantly held a ponytail, but had finally given up the fight.  Her jeans were torn, and her jacket had bloodstains across the left breast. 

When they brought her a bowl, she didn't respond.  The residents didn't spare much time for her.  They set the food on the ground and walked away.  The young boy next to her gulped down his own serving and then eyed her portion. 

I don't know what made me do it, but I accepted my own dinner, then moved and sat between her and the boy.  Whatever she'd been through, she deserved it, and the boy would surely get more later.  She didn't notice me, or at least, she gave no sign of it.

The man who'd found me in the trailer park, Matt, thudded across the floor in his combat boots.  He had more guns on him than the Terminator.  Some of the other guys who had been with him sat around a table at one end of the long hall, chewing on their rolls and disassembling their weapons.

Matt stopped right in front of her, his mud-caked boots within arm's reach.  "You know how to clean a pistol?" 

My eyes darted from the boots up to his steely eyes.  He wasn't looking at me.  He was looking at her.

Slowly, her chest expanded, as if she'd been holding her breath and just decided against it.  She lifted her chin, bringing her empty gaze up to meet his.  "I've done it a time or two."

Matt gestured towards the table.  "We could use some help over here."

She rose, thin legs gathering themselves beneath her as she stood. 

Matt told me later that he had been testing her.  This wasn't one of the humanitarian camps that formed up.  The men in charge at The Mansion, as it came to be called, were soldiers.  They didn't have resources to keep dead weight, and they didn't know if they'd ever get outside help.  It was easier to toss the sick overboard, before anyone got too attached.

I watched her cross the room that night, already feeling like we were sisters.  I didn't know her name yet (Sarah), or how many times she would save my life (half a dozen).  But in that dark moment, when she chose to overcome her demons and rejoin us in that rotting old house, I knew I had met a true hero.

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.