Perspective

I was going through the pictures on my phone the other day when I came across a sequence of pictures that seemed off.  I recognized the place, but the angle was funny.  All the pictures had been taken from a couple of feet lower than my own eye level.  My daughter had taken them.

I found it interesting how different the front hallway of her school (which I'm fairly familiar with, having been on the PTA board for a while) looked so different from a different perspective.  First of all, I realized that all the posters and advertisements we had out were at adult eye-level.  She was looking up to see any of them, and most of what she could see was plain, blank wall.

When I write, I love third person, omniscient.  It allows so much freedom as far as, you can tell the reader anything you want.  But for voice, first person makes all the difference.

The prompt for this week is to try and use a perspective you haven't used before, whether that's a unique character or a different point of view in your writing.

Enjoy!

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My response:


Contemporary.  Romeo and Juliet.  Death scene.  Perspective: Juliet's best friend - who would have to be a new character and would take over some the nurse's roles. 

I never left the church after the funeral.  It was enough that I'd convinced Juliet's mom that drawing the funeral out, with the funeral service on one day and the graveside and burial the next, would bring in more publicity.  She always would do anything for more camera time.  When the funeral procession left the cathedral, heading towards the dinner, I hid in the shadows until they were gone. 

Friar Laurence would be missed at the party.  We locked eyes as he laid his robe across the pulpit and followed the mourning family out the door.  I nodded and gave him a grim smile.

When the doors shut, I checked on Juliet.  Her body temperature was still depressed, but I could tell by the flush on her cheeks that her heart had started beating again.  It was still irregular, but she wasn't supposed to wake up for another hour, so that didn't bother me.  I went upstairs, to the Friar's office, to check our suitcases.

I wasn't able to get any of Juliet's clothes, so everything I had packed, I had to buy.  I wasn't worried.  I knew her taste.  Besides, as long as she got to be with Romeo again, she wouldn't care what she was wearing.

Romeo.  I rolled my eyes thinking of him.  This whole thing had been crazy.  I'd told Juliet she'd lost her mind, but would she listen to me?  At least it would all soon be over.  Romeo had dropped his phone when they ran him out of town, but Ben figured out where he was, and Friar Laurence sent him a letter.  Ben was on his way there, to make sure Romeo was okay.  As soon as Friar Laurence got back and Juliet woke up, the three of us would be on our way, too.

My phone was still on vibrate, and it rattled against my thy.  I pulled it out.  It was a text from Ben: Here now.  Not good.  Laurence's letter in the door, R not here.  Car missing.

It took a minute for the pieces to come together in my mind.  If the letter from the Friar was in the door, and Romeo wasn't there, that meant he still didn't know our plan.  Ben had only just gotten there, so he hadn't had a chance to tell Romeo the plan. 

Horror swept over my heart.  If Romeo heard the news and believed it, he'd be on his way here.  He was as crazy as Juliet.  Nothing would keep him away.  And as soon as he got here, either Juliet's cousins or the Prince himself would make sure he breathed his last breath.

There was still hope.  Romeo would come to find Juliet.  He was too much of a romantic to do anything else.  And I was here, with Juliet.  Maybe she'd even be awake by time he got here.

I slipped out of the Friar's office.  Just as the door closed behind me, I heard a cry.  It was long and low, and ended in wracking sobs.  I flew to the upper railing and looked down at the sanctuary, three stories below. 

I breathed a sigh of relief.  Romeo had made it here.  If we could just sneak him out with us, all would still be well.  I ran from the railing towards the stairs.  My slippered feet barely made a sound as I ran, so I heard Juliet's voice as she woke up.

"Romeo?!"  She laughed.  "I thought we'd have to go find you!  You're here!"

For a moment, my heart lifted.  No harm, no foul.  We'd get through this.

Then the still air of the cathedral shattered with Juliet's piercing wail.  "Romeo!!!  What's this?!!!  Did you drink this?!!!"

What did she mean?  Was he drunk?  How had he made his way into the city and managed to avoid everyone looking for him?  He couldn't be drunk ...

Through the pillars, I caught a glimpse of the raised bed in the sanctuary.  Juliet was sitting up.  Romeo no longer stood by the bed, but lay across her lap, his face pale.  His lips trembled and he reached a hand towards Juliet's cheek.  Then another pillar blocked my view.

"Juliet!" I cried.  What was going on?!

I reached the last turn of the staircase.  Now I had a straight shot to the sanctuary.  My eyes found Juliet and watched in horror, refusing to look away. 

She did not cry.  She did not wail.  Her face became a mask of stone, the picture of perfect agony. 

Her hands reached to the dagger on Romeo's belt. 

My feet ran, but time slowed.  I knew I wouldn't make it in time.

There was no last kiss.  No loving promise.  No tears falling on perfect lips, so anxious was she to meet her beloved Romeo.  She simply grasped the dagger in both hands and thrust it deep into her own breast.  It was simply the quickest way to get to him, just like this crazy scheme. 

In her last moment, her heart already stilled by the dagger, but her spirit still in her eyes, she saw me.  She saw me, and she smiled.  Then she fell back against the pillows.

The phone in my pocket vibrated.  It was Ben:  Did you get my text?  This is BAD.

I typed out a response: It's okay.  They're together now.  Forever.

Religious

While I consider myself a deeply spiritual person, I rarely write about religious issues.  Except for the odd occasion when I'm asked to speak in church, my writing focuses mainly on fantasy and sci-fi universes that I've thought up on my own.

Still, I admire people who are able to put their faith into words, hence the prompt for this week:  Write something that touches you. 

Please note that it doesn't have to be religious in the sense of church-going and scripture-reading.  Just something that stirs your soul.

Enjoy!

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My response:

(This is an idea I've played around with in my mind, but I've never actually tried to write.  It may be a mess, but that's the point of this blog, to stretch and try new things.)

The end came like the swell of a wave in the ocean, except instead of lifting her feet off the sandy bottom and dropping her back down, it lifted her up, off her sick bed, and the fall never came.

Mary had been asleep until the wave lifted her, but now she saw the dim room with perfect clarity.  Her daughter sat next to the bed, holding Mary's hand.  The tone of the heart monitor brought tears to her eyes.  Mary's son-in-law put a hand on his wife's shoulder.  On the other side of the bed, in various metal and plastic chairs, her other three children and their spouses sat. 

Ten years of fighting cancer, and Mary knew there would be no nurses rushing to save her, no doctors and last-ditch efforts to keep her alive.  That was the purpose of her living will, and she noticed with a flicker of satisfaction that they submitted peacefully to her choice.

Then she noticed the orderly standing in the doorway.  She might have looked right past him, except he was looking right at her.  Then he smiled.

"Mary, are you ready?"

Mary cocked her head.  "For what?  And even if I wasn't, I don't see much of a choice."

She almost regretted her tone, but the man only smiled wider while his eyes gleamed.  "Come with me, then, and I'll get you ready for your report."

He reached out an incorporeal hand, and Mary took it, surprised she hadn't left her sense of touch behind with her body.  The man led her down a hallway.  It was white with doors on either side and gleaming, gold doorknobs. 

"Are we still in the hospital?" Mary asked.

"No."

"Well, where are we, then?"  Mary hated to be caught unawares.

The man stopped at a door, his hand on the knob.  "This world is in a form that you will understand right now.  Very soon, you will understand more.  Be patient, please, and everything will be explained."

Mary frowned, but as he opened the door, curiosity drew her in.  She peeked into the bright room.

It was a storage room.  From floor to ceiling, rows and rows of shelves had cardboard boxes, filing cabinets, plastic storage bins.  It looked like her own basement, except easily one hundred times the size.

"What is this room?" Mary turned to her escort.

His eyes glowed with reverence and awe as they traveled over the boxes.  "Mary, this is your life's work.  Everything you ever made is in here.  Your first kindergarten pictures to your last journal entry.  The meals you prepared, presents you packaged, everything you put together or created in life can be found in this room."

Mary's mouth opened as she stared in wonder.  "What is it all here for?"

"You will need to choose," the man explained.  "Choose the best thing you made in life to present to God.  Thereby will you be judged."

Mary turned to object.  "Choose?!  From all this, I have to choose just one thing?!"

Again, the sparkling smile.  "You may have all the time you want.  There is no rush, here."

Before she could object again, he was gone, and Mary found herself alone in the room.

Mary was not a woman of sentimentality or distraction.  She moved through the shelves of her youth fairly quickly, the scribbled first letters and abstract art done in crayon.  She paused here and there as she moved through her preteen and high school years.  English reports and clay pots, completed tests and hair ribbons.  Her first few attempts at sewing.  Still, she moved on.

The food grew more abundant when she married, and the flower arrangements, but it was a little box with a slip of white satin showing that stopped her.  A small christening gown, crocheted booties, a bonnet.  The daughter who held her hand as she died had worn this dress as an infant.  Mary hadn't known she could cry, but now she did.  She picked up the dress, carrying it with her as she continued.

Baby books, pants with patches sewn on, and music ... little songs she'd made up and sung to her children stored in music boxes.  They even sang with the voice of her youth, full and sweet.  She picked her favorite and moved on.

A black silk scarf, flowers in red and white, and a speech typed on thick, marbled paper.  Mary remembered her father's funeral.  She'd made the scarf for her mother, and they'd arranged the flowers together.  She picked up the small photo album she'd presented to her mother and hugged it to her chest.

Mary moved deliberately through the room, careful to open every box.  Time didn't seem to matter.  She grew neither hungry nor tired.  Then she was back at the door with her arms full.

Her escort reappeared.  "Mary, are you ready now?"

Mary looked at her collection.  If she had to choose something to represent her life, she figured she'd done a good job of gathering up the most important things.  Still, each item on their own seemed insufficient.  They only spoke part of the story of her life.  Any one item couldn't show all she was.

"Mary?  You can take more time, if you need," he prompted sweetly.

Mary shook her head, slowly at first, and then firmly.  "No.  No, I won't need any more time."

She turned back to the shelves.  Lovingly, she put the dress back.  She put the silk scarf and the music box back.  Piece by piece, she emptied her arms of her treasures.  Then she turned back to her guide.

"The only thing to do is to bring me.  I carry all of these things in my heart ... all of these things ... and what I have become."

The smile on the man's face grew wider, and Mary's memory stirred.  She knew him from somewhere.  She couldn't make sense of it, yet, but she knew he was someone very important.

"Dear Mary," he said.  "You have chosen well."

Character Development - She has a squint.

I've been wracking my brain, trying to remember something I read recently, but I can't place it.  I can remember this much:  It was a classic piece of literature ... maybe C. S. Lewis or Mark Twain.  Or maybe it was Austin, because I'm pretty sure it was set in the Victorian era. 

The point is, the character was a young man looking for a wife, and his complaint about one of the potential ladies is that she has a squint.  I was intrigued.  What if her squint is from poor eyesight?  If she were alive today, she'd wear contacts, and it wouldn't be an issue at all.  My imagination kicked in, then, and I started to wonder about what other quirks people could possibly have, if modern medicine wasn't to the point where those things are taken care of when we're young.

Think about it.  Webbed toes/fingers.  Poor hearing or poor eyesight.  Scars from measles or small pox.  Hunchbacks.  The prompt for this week is to think of character trait like that and write a short piece on your character.

Enjoy!

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My Response:

Marlise whirled around the dance floor, her heart spinning nearly as fast as she was.  Who would have thought that her fourth season would turn out so differently from her first three?  It had certainly started off the same. 

Marlise's family had moderate social status, though the titles had fallen on firstborn sons, and Marlise came from second and third sons.  They had land and a little wealth, but not enough to cause a ripple in the room when her dowry was mentioned.  Her looks were fair, enough to ensure her dance card was full, but her hand remained unclaimed.  If she's attracted any attention in the first two weeks of the season, it was only when people remarked that she was losing the glow of her youth. 

Then the Duke of Kent arrived, and all the matrons whispered behind their fans.  The Duchess, his wife, had died two years prior, but he'd been left with two infant sons.  Rumors ran rampant.  He may be looking for a new wife, but she would have to accept that her own son would never bear the title.

Marlise didn't care.  From the moment he'd laid eyes on her, they'd both been new people.  Now, as they sought out the cool night air on the balcony, Marlise felt she'd never been happier.  She'd forgotten her fan inside, so she pulled at the fingertips of her left glove.

Then she stopped.  It would be nice to wave the glove and feel the rush of air against her skin ... and in the dark, maybe he wouldn't notice.

But no.  Marlise pulled her glove back into position, determined.  Her deformity only reached to the first knuckle of each finger.  Certainly, her hands looked stilted in gloves, but to remove them would be something far worse. 

Marlise sent a quick prayer to heaven, grateful for a civilized world, so she could wear her gloves right up until her wedding night, and her Duke would be none the wiser until it was too late.

Pudgieness

This week's prompt is brought to you by the random ramblings of my brain ...

The prompt: "Pudginess is an admirable trait in a man.  But for a ..."

Enjoy!

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My response:

Pudginess is an admirable trait in a man.  But for a noblewoman, especially one looking to marry, it wasn't an asset.  If I had inherited my mother's fine bones and gag reflex, I would have been tiny, like her.  Instead, I inherited my dad's endless appetite and wooly mammoth bones.

It could be worse.  The only thing keeping Dad back was his two older brothers in line for the throne.  As far as social standing goes, he's at the top.  Mama was a wealthy heiress, and a good match for the prince who would never be king.

I don't lack social standing.  I don't lack money.  In fact, of all the girls vying for husbands, I am one of the few who has the novelty of being able to marry for love.  But with a round waist and a penchant for hiding away with my books, will I be able to find someone who loves me?


(Ahh!  Forgive me for the crazy stereotypes in this post.  It's just what came to me.  - If I wanted to get introspective about it, it might reveal something about my own insecurities about my body.)

A Real Story

I saw this article on-line, and I couldn't help myself.  I could write half a dozen different stories about how this came to be.  (I can't help it!  It's intriguing, and I have a big imagination!)

http://www.accuweather.com/en/features/trend/medieval_human_skeleton_discovered_unearthed_uprooted_tree_winter_storm_sligo_county_ireland/52525123

The prompt for this week:  How did the body end up under the tree 1,000 years ago.
(extra points for actually reading the story and picking up on some of the little details.

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My response:

Mae Robbins was still there when Brett got home that night.  She sat hunched in the rocker by the hearth with her bony hands wrapped around one of Mary's carved, wooden cups. 

Mary shot Brett a look and rolled her eyes as she pulled the pan of bread out of the brick oven.  The stew simmered, and three pairs of bright eyes watched from the table. 

"Thou ought best be on thy way, Mae," Brett held the door open behind him.  "Thou knowest by now I tolerate no nonsense in my house."

Mae placed the cup on the floor and rose, but she raised a finger to Brett as she moved towards the door.  "And thou wilt learn one day that I'm not so crazy as thou thinkest, Brett Wallace.  Forget not, I was there when thou wast born, and I'll likely be there the day they lay thee in the ground."

Brett frowned and held his breath, but Mae made her way out.  "Maybe so.  But until then, thou wilt stay out of my house ... off my land, too, and away from my family!"

Mae paused on the doorstop.  "I only came to warn thee.  There is a witch around.  Thou shalt need to be careful, or she'll take thee for a fool!"

(Ahhhh!  I can't stand the thees and thous ...  And I'm not entirely sure they're accurate for the time period ... Moving on ...)

Mary pushed the pan of bread onto the table.  "I thought you would never get home ..."

Brett sat down in the chair at the head of the table.  "Why do you let her in, Mary?!  She does nothing but stir up superstition and trouble."

"You know that, and I know that," Mary said, taking her seat at the other end and smacking a small hand that reached too soon for the bread.  "But one of the hands called for her to make a poultice for a swollen ankle, and once she was here ... she just doesn't listen to me the way she listens to you.  I can tell her to get gone until I'm blue in the face, and she just stares at me with those creepy, blank eyes."

No sooner had Mary finished, then the still of the night shattered with a cry from behind the house.  Brett sprang to his feet, his hand flying to the sword on his hip.  He shot Mary a look.  "Get yourself and the kids in the loft and stay down."  Then he stood and flew out the back door.

Clouds covered the moon, and shade trees cast dark shadows over the farmyard.  Brett headed towards the extra cabin, where the three hired hands slept.  There should have been lights in the windows, they cooked their own supper in their hearth, and they were known to use a candle or two to work by in the evening.  But the windows were dark. 

Another scream, and Brett knocked open the front door.  Across the room, something dark flew out the back door, just a silhouette of darkness flapping away.  A figure on the floor choked and sobbed.  Something in the corner moved.

"Mr. Wallace?" a thin voice called out.  "Is that you, Sir?"

Brett strode over to the hearth and grabbed the flint and steel from its place.  In moments, he had the fire going again.  From the corner, two of the young men moved towards Brett.

"Did you see it, Sir?!  Did you see the witch?!"

"Superstitious nonsense, boys.  Witches aren't real." Brett grumbled.  He turned from the fire.  The third boy lay on the floor in a puddle of blood.  His gasping and sobbing had ceased, and his still eyes stared up at the rafters.

"Oh, she was real, Sir." The hired hand whispered.  "As real as Tommy's dead."

Picture Prompt

I'm going with another picture prompt this week.  This one is intentionally vague, just look at it and see what it brings to mind.

 

 

 

Enjoy!

 

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My response:

 

I stepped into the hall, my head held high, my stomach in knots. 

First, greet Lady Bensen ...

My aunt's voice hissed in my mind. 

Don't goggle like a hick ...

I was glad I'd learned enough to take her seriously.  The Bensen ballroom was the largest I'd entered in my life, and if I hadn't been warned, I would have stopped in the doorway, staring like the country raised innocent I was.  Luckily, I had more sense than that. 

The people.  Focus on the people.

I turned to the doorman, who gestured towards Lady Bensen, indicating she was free for introductions.  I made eye contact with her and stepped forward, holding my hand out to her. 

Grasp firmly, smile politely, but do not break eye contact.  Lady Bensen despises simpering.

Maybe she despises it, but she definitely inspires it.  Her steely gaze moved up and down my dress, taking in every pleat and pearl.  My face, jewelry, and hair received the same attention.  I knew I was flawless.  Otherwise I would have been tempted to check myself in the mirror.

Lady Bensen did not smile.  She did speak.  "Miss Ange Le'Mark.  Recently returned from the frontier, I believe.  Your aunt must have had quite the time getting your outfit up to par in time for the season."

Do not break eye contact.

"Not at all.  We Le'Marks are always very particular about our wardrobes.  We have a family tailor, and he keeps us always in the highest fashion."

Her eyebrow twitched.  "Is that so?"  She waited like a spider, ready to spring if I were to flinch or falter.  I did not.

Then she gave a slight nod and motioned towards the dancers.  "Do enjoy your evening."

I turned away, moving into the crowd. 

I'd passed the first test. 

Now for the second.



Grab a book #5

I like these prompts because I get to see what other people are reading.  So, grab the nearest book (or the book your mind is most obsessed with right now, whichever works for you)!

Find page 142, first full paragraph, first sentence.  That will be your prompt for the week.  (If there's nothing on page, try 143 ...)

Remember to share in your response what book it is and what your prompt line is.

Enjoy!

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My response:

I have Ally Condie's ATLANTIA on my shelf by my computer.  On page 142, it reads, "It's a terrible story," Maire says. "Are you sure you want to hear it?"

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McKay held the half-door open, and I stepped into the swaying gondola.  The chaos and music of the fair melted away as we rose into the night sky.  From above, the lights of the fairway shone like fireworks.  McKay slipped his arm around my back, and I leaned against him.

"Worth the drive?" He whispered.

I chuckled.  "Yes.  Definitely worth the drive."  I'd been skeptical when he'd told me where we were going, but he was right.  This little county fair had been just the thing to raise my spirits.

We watched the lights glide by, and McKay handed over another set of tickets, so we could ride again.  I didn't expect his next question.

"It's been nearly a year now."  I could hear the hesitation in his voice.  "Are you ready to talk about it?"

There was no question what he meant.  But no.  I wasn't ready.  I pulled away from him.

"No."

He pressed further.  "You refused a therapist, even though the college would have provided one.  You won't let your Dad pay for one.  I know you're not talking to Sara about it, and you're not talking to me.  You can't keep it bottled up forever."

That was where he was wrong.