Time Travel

(Agh!  I don't know what's happening!  I always remember to post on Mondays!  Now I've forgotten two weeks in a row.)

Actually, I do know what happened.  My husband and I were talking the other day about how I've been doing since the sudden death of my dad.  I said to him (thinking I was very clever) that I feel like I slipped on a banana peel at the end of April and I haven't stopped falling yet.  Every time I blink, another week has passed by.  My mind is still in April, but my body has passed through a time portal into June (almost July)!

So I'm going to take the idea and run with it for our prompt this week.  Alice went through the looking glass, Gregor went down a vent, and I've slipped on a banana peel.  What will happen to your character that will launch them into a new world?

Enjoy!

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My response:

I was the only one on the tram.  I guess the heat of the afternoon kept everyone else inside, and I would have been there, too, if it hadn't been for my mom's boyfriend, Brad.  He was the reason our annual retreat to the mountains had turned into a circus.

I stood on the platform until the tram arrived.  The operators worked behind one way glass, so I couldn't even see them as the tram approached.  No one else was coming, but I had to wait the requisite ten minutes before heading up the mountain.  That was fine by me.  I had my phone, and I didn't have three sets of hands trying to snatch it away from me.  Brad's kids thought it was so unfair that I had a phone and they didn't, and they wouldn't leave me alone with it.  Brad was even talking to my mom about whether she really thought I needed my own phone ... which is why I popped up and stormed out on my own in the heat.

We'd bought passes each day at what was, in the winter, a ski resort.  In the summer, it was a hiker's haven.  I loved it.  Indian paintbrushes nodded beneath the tram, and I spotted a moose and her calf in the shadows of the pines.  I took a deep breath and left Mom, Brad, and all that baggage in the condo behind me.

Then the tram shuddered.  I was only half way up the mountain.  The tram rocked back and forth, releasing the momentum it still had after the cables stopped.  Metal creaked.  A chill shot down my back and a pit opened where my stomach should have been.  My mind chided my body for overreacting.  Surely the tram would start moving again, soon.  It always did.

But I'd never been stopped on the tram all alone.  The terrifying thought hit me - what if they didn't know I was in here?  Had they stopped the tram for the night?  Would I be trapped until morning, hanging a hundred feet in the air over a treacherous mountain slope?! 

I could feel panic rising.

But no.  With more creaking and rocking, the tram started moving again.  I sighed and turned around, sinking down onto the bench in relief and pulling out my phone.  Sure enough, I'd freaked out over nothing.

It wasn't until the tram stopped at the top that I suspected anything.  The automatic doors levered themselves open, and an icy wind swept through the tram.  The hundred degree air vanished in a swirl of flurries. 

I blinked, standing up and heading towards the doors.  The railings and metal scaffolding that made up the tram stop were covered in white.  Out the windows, a blizzard raged. 

My chin hit the floor.

Chocolate

I have a bookmark that reads: Schokolade zergeht auf der Seele, sie schmilzt elegant ueber unseren Alltag und tropft direct in unser Herz.  (Forgive me for indulging in my German ...)

Translated:  Chocolate melts in our souls.  She melts elegantly over our daily lives and drops directly into our Hearts.

My first thought was to have the prompt suggest to change the word "chocolate" to something else and use that, but the more I tried the more I realized, there is just no replacing chocolate.

The Prompt:  Chocolate melts in our souls.  She melts elegantly over our daily lives and drops directly into our Hearts.

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My response:

I was tempted to knock the whole Ritter Sport display into my backpack.  It was nearly empty and would only cost about $30.  Besides, I needed to use up my Euros before I got on the plane.  Then Jessica stepped up beside me, her hands full of Milka and Toblerone Bars.  My hands reached out, and I grabbed the row of Marzipan Ritter Sport, then turned around to get some Milka for myself. 

Jessica and I headed to the register together.

"What on earth are you buying so much chocolate for?!" the cashier asked.

"We're flying back to America today."  Jessica explained.  "We can't get good chocolate like this back there."

The cashier shook her head.  "But you have so much other stuff in America to eat!"

Jessica and I exchanged dubious looks.  "Like what?"

The cashier's eyes grew wide.  "Donuts!"

Jessica and I both burst out laughing.  "Donuts?!  You want donuts?!"

She had a point, though.  Chocolate can be shipped.  Donuts ... not so much.

Then again, if she'd said, "Reeses Pieces," I would have agreed wholeheartedly. 

Character Swap

This prompt is brought to you by the ramblings of my mind during my half marathon:

Choose a scene from your life (memoir style) and insert one of your characters in your place.

Enjoy!

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My response:

"Why would any sane person want to run 13 miles all at once?" Emmaleen thought.  The first few weren't so bad, actually, and she'd followed her training regimen religiously.  But now, at ten plus miles, it was getting old.

"What's the point of this?" She argued with herself.

"To DO it.  To say you DID IT.  Because you CAN."

The lazy half of her was really getting annoyed with the ambitious half.  Still, the ambitious half had a point.  Unlike the young man in the wheelchair (who kept passing her back and forth - how embarrassing!), she actually had two working legs, two good feet, and she ought to be grateful for them.  And really, to get ten miles done and quit after all her training seemed like a race.

Her feet thudded against the ground in time with her chant.  "Just finish.  Just finish."

Just finish? 

What were the rules on that, precisely?  She just had to cross the finish line to collect her medal, right?

A small grin flashed across her lips. 

Street signs are actually quite large when you see them up close, and that large, orange construction sign looked a lot like her sled at home.  Emmaleen reached out with her Talent and yanked the sign from its foundation.  She brought it to hover in front of her and climbed on.  For a moment, she lay her cheek down against the sun-warmed metal.  Her pulse pounded through every inch of her body.  She sighed. 

Then she looked up, and the sign shot forward, carrying her with it.  She crossed the finish line two minutes later, setting a personal record.

Time

This post comes from my life this last weekend.  First I had the school carnival to help put on (two years of PTA VP done, and pass the baton to someone new!) and then I had the half marathon I've been training for (whoever invented this form of self-torture?!).  Both were things we'd been building up to for months, and then, suddenly, it's all over.  Thursday morning to Monday morning, and it feels like there was barely an hour in between.  All I have left is memories.  (Not true.  I have a new thank-you rose bush, a shiny medal and t-shirt, and a body full of complaining muscles.)

Also, my girls only have three days left in this school year.

The prompt for this week:  Time flew by.  She caught moments here and there, but mostly it swirled around her like a windstorm, ever circling, never stopping.

Enjoy!

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My response:

(I'm thinking a poem today ... Hmmm.  I never like my poems when I read them again ...)

Ode to a Half Marathon

Adrenaline
Neon Rayon Short Shorts
Port a Potties
Starting Line
Hope

Heart Pumping
Short Steps
Bumping Elbows
One Step Closer
Thrill

Rhythm
Rolling Hills
Conversation
River and Trees
Capable

Discomfort
Water Station
Cheering Crowd
Stretch Break
Stubborn

Soreness
Old Man Passing
Hill of Death
Gatorade is Manna
Too late to stop

Pain
"Just around the Corner!"
Popping joints
Can't breathe.
Finish line

Numb
Finisher's Medal
Group Hugs
Chocolate Milk
Done

Do I really have to walk to the car?

(How is this related to time, you ask?  Probably because it really did seem to fly by.  I expected to see my family at mile 6, so I was looking forward to that.  As I passed that point I realized we were nearly half done already.  Then again, miles 11 and 12 seemed endless, but still, they passed and it's all over.)

Unreliable narrators

I've been hearing for a while at writing conferences how unreliable narrators are all the rage.  It took me a bit to wrap my mind around the idea, but now I'm seeing them popping up everywhere.  I think my own moral conscience objects to a narrator who is purposely deceptive, but there are a couple of novels where the unreliable aspect comes from part of who the narrator is or something that happens to them.

Take for example, WHAT ALICE FORGOT by Liane Moriarty (can we all admit, that's an awesome last name to have?!).  Alice bumps her head at the gym at the age of 39 and wakes up thinking she's 29.  She's lost ten years of her life, which means she's suddenly in a trim, fit body, which she's never had before, she doesn't know her children, and she's in the middle of a messy divorce.  I spent the whole book wondering whether all the changes she made would last when she got her memory back.

I won't spoil the end for you, but I thought it was a great example of an unreliable narrator.

The challenge this week: Unreliable narrator

Enjoy!

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My response:

(My brain immediately went to a friend I had when I lived on the East coast.  She tried one day to explain to us what it's like to have dissociative disorder.  I'll try to do her description justice.)

It took a minute for everything to come into focus.  Kind of like waking up, but I rarely actually wake up in my bed.  I know that's a little odd, but when I think about it too much, my head starts to buzz and my stomach clenches, so I don't let my thoughts linger there.  I stick to safer topics.

It's lunch. Or dinner, maybe.  I'm at the only chain food/grill restaurant in town.  A quick glance up and down the table, and the sun streaming in the windows tells me it's lunch. Namely, the Ladies' Luncheon my friend, Barb, hosts every month with the women from church.  Barb is sitting next to me.  I thought she was going to Hawaii ... why is she here?

Anne sits across the table.  I smile.  Anne is sweet.  She's young, new to town, and completely friendless.  Barb offered a flippant invite to her, and she glommed onto us like a barnacle.  She's pregnant, and her baby should be due anytime, but she's got another child on her lap and is feeding her bits of bread from the plate.  I look around for the baby's mother.  I recognize seven of the eight women sitting around the table, and the one I don't know has thick, silver hair.  I don't know who the baby belongs to.

My lunch arrives: a big, southwest chicken salad slathered in guacamole sauce.  I object.

"I didn't order this."

The waitress looks at me with wide eyes.  "Southwest grilled chicken salad with extra guac?  Are you sure?"

Barb give me a thoughtful look, but she doesn't speak up.  She's my best friend.  She should know I wouldn't order something like this.

"I'm allergic to avocado."  I frown.

The waitress's eyes search the rest of the table.  "I'm so sorry, who had the salad with extra guac?"

No one answers.  To the waitress's credit, she drops it, and turns back to me with another apology on her lips.  No problem, I tell her.  I'd like the fried cod with French fries.  That shouldn't take too long.

The waitress leaves and the conversation at the table picks back up.  Someone makes a comment about the Christmas program at church and something one of the kids did.  Everyone laughs, but my brain flounders.  Didn't I just put Alice back in school?  Only three days ago, I'm sure.  It can't be after Christmas already.

I look up across the table at Anne and realize her pregnant belly is gone.  Can that really be her own baby?

Grab a book #4

I like this kind of prompt for a couple of reasons.  First, we get to see what other people are reading - what book is nearby or on their minds.  Second, it turns out completely random, which adds to the fun.

(Fun Fact:  I have Brandon Sanderson's WORDS OF RADIANCE sitting on my desk, and I was tempted to say "go to page 1024 of the book nearest you".  But unless you also happen to have Brandon Sanderson sitting on your desk - or Les Mis, The Count of Monte Cristo, War and Peace, or the Bible - the book next to you is not likely to have 1024 pages.)

Let's go with page 114, second paragraph, first sentence.

Enjoy!

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My response:

As I mentioned, I have Brandon Sanderson's WORDS OF RADIANCE.  Page 114, second paragraph, first sentence: "Shallan went to another reference, and before long got completely lost in her studies."

(This is where I think, "Oy!  I should have scoped that out before I picked it.  But that would have defeated the purpose of the prompt."  And, "Evidence of Brandon Sanderson's genius, that he can write about someone doing research and still make it interesting!"  But I digress ...)

"Shallan went to another reference, and before long, got completely lost in her studies."  If she had heard Aran drop the book, she gave no sign.  Still, Aran didn't know how long she'd be able to hide in the shadows of the small alcove.  If Shallan found her there, Aran's life would be forfeit. 

The corner of the heavy tomb pressed against the top of Aran's foot, the opposite corner against the stones.  Aran bent slowly and lifted it, hugging it to her chest.  She took a few deep breaths, painfully conscious of how her heart pounded in her chest.

The thudding of footsteps in the hallway didn't help.

"Shallan!  Hurry!  There's been an accident, and we need you!"  A voice sounded from the doorway, followed by the rusting of Shallan's skirts.

Aran sighed with relief. It was Bryant's doing, of course.  He'd kept his promise.  Aran waited until she was sure the hallway was empty, and then slipped out, the book hidden safely under her robes.

Character Development: Part 2

For so many of my prompts, I like to promote books that I like.  Unfortunately, the book I'm reading right now has me going, "Blah... blah ... blah ..."  The sad part is that I was really excited to read this author, and I feel like a putz for not loving her work.  (Said author and book will remain nameless, because I'm not a mean-hearted person, and just because I don't like it doesn't mean no one else will like it.)

The reason I mention it at all is as a lesson to those of us who think every drop of ink we apply to the page has to be something glorious and amazing, such that clouds will part and angels will sing.  Not true.  No matter how big your name is or how many awards you win, you will still on occasion write something that just doesn't work.

THAT'S OKAY. 

In fact, that's expected.  Don't sweat it.  Just move on.  Write something else.  Work on honing your craft, and you'll find that you do get better - when you put the work in.  And after you've put the work in, and you happen to write a piece of drivel ... well, that's what the delete button is for, right?

In the hopes of writing something brilliant - but knowing full well that with a writing prompt like this, it could turn out to be drivel - our prompt for this week is:

"He handed me the box, then turned and ran away."

Enjoy!

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My response:

We all knew who he was the first day he walked in the door.  Sure, we were only five year olds, more concerned about who could get to the swings fastest and what we were having for snack than where we were in line to the throne.  But with him, there was no question.  No complex equation of where you were now that Aunt Eliza had passed on.  Just the one, certain number.

One.

He looked at us with wide eyes, the way my baby brother stared at the tigers in the zoo.  His mouth dropped open, but he didn't speak.  That was his first mistake, though to this day, I don't think he understood it.  The rest of us had been raised by fighters, nobles and would-be nobility scraping and scheming to get closer to the top, and we knew fresh meat when we saw it.

Daft Little Princeling.

We all knew the words stung.  Tears need no translator.  Within hours of walking through the doors, we'd put him in his place ... taught him a lesson.  I'd like to claim I had no part in it, but I would be lying.  I didn't learn to be noble or brave until much later.  At the beginning, I was just as cruel as any of the others.

They say we love most those who love us first.  So it was with us.  It was an invitation to his birthday party.  Of course, it couldn't be just an envelope.  His station required much more.  He walked up to me at the end of the day, shoved a small, blue box tied with ribbon into my hands, then turned and ran away. 

He never told me why he chose me, and I never asked.  Inside the box was a pearl necklace and a crisp sheet of paper with the time and date.  I put the necklace on and refused to take it off.  And the next time someone called him a Daft Little Princeling, I socked them in the eye.