Filed under: Uncategorized, Writing experiments | Tags: creative process, experience, future, hope, inspiration, pride, storytelling, telepathy, writing
Story prompt: The story’s protagonist is male and an interpreter. A story plays a significant part in the story. The story is set on a farm in the future. The story is about pride.
*******
I talk to plants. It’s true. Actually, they talk to me. I am an interpreter for the plants. I tell their stories. I am the only one I know who does this work. I ply my trade among the planets of the fourth star in the Pleiades. My small interplanetary craft is fast and efficient, so I can cover a lot of territory. The plants pay me in their way, so I am never hungry. I barter some of the produce for my other needs. And the plants are always grateful.
All right, maybe not always. There was a time…
I had traveled farther than usual that day at the request of a local agriculturalist. It seems that a large plant type life form was rebelling and causing some disharmony in the local economy.
My landing was carefully calculated to be within walking distance of the biodome, but still far enough to keep from disturbing the immediate area. Since the vibrations from my ship could add to the chaotic emotions already in play.
The agriculturalist was waiting just outside the biodome. Zefra was obviously agitated when I reached her, so I paused to help soothe her ruffled feelings. She could not introduce me to the belligerent life form if she was not in a good state. She explained that the plant in question had just insulted her intelligence and thrown rotten foliage at her. She had been tempted to kick the plant in its genitalia. Unfortunately, the plant in question was too valuable to sustain that kind of damage so she had managed to restrain herself long enough to leave the biodome before venting her anger. Still pacing, Zefra continued to rant about “Ranc,” which turned out to be short for Ranunculus Vitae, a variation of a plant once found several parsecs from here on a small blue planet circling the star Helios.
“He’s such a self-sanctimonious, self-important, self-aggrandizing, egotistical… did I say self-important?! Well he is! He thinks he’s the most significant lifeform here!”
I allowed Zefra to continue on for several minutes in this vein so that she could gain control of her feelings again. Then I began to massage her aura and bathe it in cooling light. Finally she could speak without spitting. So I asked her what had brought on this latest outburst.
“I offered him some fertilizer,” she replied simply.
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“Surely there was more to it than that? It’s not as if he can make his own.”
“Then you will have to ask him. It’s not as if we speak the same language,” she snapped a bit too sharply.
“I plan to do so as soon as you are serene enough to perform an introduction,” I replied gently trying to smooth the latest flare in her temper.
After a few moments working on her, she visibly relaxed. “Very well, I think I can do it now.”
Her aura had traces of pink but no more red. I continued to surround her with serene vibrations until I was sure she was settled enough to enter.
“Then let us proceed,” I said quietly.
Zefra walked beside me to the portal and then opened an airlock to allow me to enter first. As I stepped in, the aromas of damp soil, grass, and a faint smell of rotting vegetation assailed my senses. It was warm and moist and I was still in the airlock. It must be a jungle inside. I pulled a biosuit off one of the hooks and put it on, while she did the same.
The biosuits on this planet completely covered the wearer from head to toe so that there was no chance a stray cell or organism could shed from the wearer and contaminate the ecosystem. A single cell with its strands of DNA could cause incredible changes in the lifeforms in here. And humans are notorious for shedding skin cells and hair constantly. And to think some humans once worried about GMOs (genetically modified organisms) in their food. They would shudder at the rapacity of the lifeforms here, eager to glom onto even the smallest fragments of DNA and RNA and incorporate them into their own.
The newest versions of biosuits were seamless and form-fitting. They were a shimmering silvery pearl color, which stood out against green, red, blue, yellow and most other hues, to make the wearer easier to locate once inside. Although the suits also had a chameleon option that could be activated if necessary to protect the wearer. The air system and filters no longer distort the voice, and the suit can read vibrations from the vocal chords. So everyone sounds “normal” even when they are completely encased in biofiber.
Zefra initiated the decontamination cycle. Luckily, the suits also help maintain body temperature. When we went through the second airlock the temperature was just over 317°Kelvin, which is easily 20 degrees warmer than most humanoids find comfortable. My personal comfort zone is right around 297°K, so I was doubly grateful for the biosuit.
This biodome was small enough that we could walk from one end to the other in 30 minutes. Zefra pointed out the interactive map on the right arm of my biosuit, which handily showed where each biosuit was located, in addition to the other more stationary lifeforms. My biosuit appeared to be indicated in the map by a tiny replica of me. I could watch myself moving about the biodome in a small four-dimensional version that floated just above my forearm. From the noise and Doppler vibrations in the interactive map, I could find my way to Ranc without Zefra’s guidance, but protocol still dictated that she lead the way and introduce me properly.
Much of the vegetation was blue although the flowers they produced were every color of the rainbow and often more than three colors at any given moment. I heard a little heckling from some of the smaller lifeforms, plenty of chatter, and one particularly pretty pink, aqua, and silver plant form wished me well. Zefra did not react to any of their talk so I assumed that she, like most humanoids, could not discern it from rustling foliage. I used to be that way, too. But once I learned the basic plantoid language, I heard gabbing everywhere. The soft rustling of poets became incessant chatter. Eventually, I learned how to turn the babble into a conversation and my opportunities expanded to support my current interstellar reputation. And at that moment, I was sure I was the best and the only way to resolve the conflict here.
We moved slowly as I did not want to add ripples to the pool of vibrations swirling around us. It seemed to take forever until we reached Ranc’s location. Although we could easily follow his distorted wavelengths, I had no desire to increase his agitation.
When we were finally facing each other, the waves of red and black streaming from him were almost violent enough to knock us down. Without meaning to do so, I started trying to still the pulsations flying in our direction. When Ranc felt the pushback he became angrier. I realized what had happened and ceased my efforts immediately, hoping he would back down.
Ranc was not going to be pacified that easily. He turned his focus on me throwing all the vibrations in my direction. Zefra had already put up a shield. She wasn’t taking any more plekth from a non-humanoid.
It was so loud and so bright, I was going to have to put up a shield, or risk losing my senses all together. I dropped to my knees and finally laid down flat on my belly with my arms covering my head and ears. I didn’t know how much more I could take before I would be forced to raise a shield. I tried to send the signal of introduction and then I blacked out.
When I came to awareness again, I was still lying face down on the ground, but the vibrations were calmer and no longer buffeted my senses. I risked uncovering my ears and lifting my head to look in Ranc’s direction. He had assumed a military bearing, unbending and unemotional. So I started to get to my feet. A loud crack dropped me back to my hands and knees and made it clear Ranc did not want me standing upright. This was not going to be as easy as I thought it would be when I first got the call.
I attempted to signal my introduction again, and was rebuffed. Still on my hands and knees, I waited. What did he want me to do? How was I going to get his attention? Wait! I already had his attention, how could I get him to listen to me? As I was considering my options and trying to figure out how to reach him, I missed the change in his aura. Ranc was laughing at me!
Keeping my head down, I signaled, “Service.” Ranc roared with laughter.
Head still bowed, I tried again, and signaled, “Beneficence.” Ranc doubled over with hilarity. Not an easy feat for a plant form twice my height and four times my girth.
When Ranc finally calmed down, I tried a third time and signed, “Honor” and set Ranc to laughing again.
Zefra messaged me through the map to start backing away while Ranc was distracted. Unsure how to proceed and still shaking from the sound and light waves that had originally knocked me off my feet, I went to chameleon mode and did as she suggested. Moving slowly, I crawled backward, still on my hands and knees, I did not look up until I was out of reach of his force field. Then, still camouflaged, I raised myself to a crouch and slowly moved to the airlock and out into the chamber. When Zefra had closed the inner seal and decontaminated the chamber again. I sagged onto the nearest bench with my head in my hands.
“I have failed you,” I told her dejectedly.
“Not at all,” she replied.
I looked up, puzzled at her response.
She explained, “Ranc is now in a fabulous mood.”
“Yes, but, I never found out what he wanted,” I protested.
“Oh yes, you did,” She smiled.
I gave her another quizzical look.
“You are the court jester.”
*******
With thanks for the story prompt to The Speculative Fiction Muse http://www.katfeete.net/writing/specfic.php
And to my writing partners, Mary C Sutton and D Anthony Brown danthonybrown.me for the support and the laughs.
What do you think? Did I honor the spirit or the letter of the writing prompt? Enter your thoughts in comments below.
Filed under: Uncategorized, Writing experiments | Tags: creative process, experience, honor, hope, randomness, storytelling, travel, winter restlessness, wishes, writing
Story prompt: The story’s protagonist is male and a historian. A pair of trousers plays a significant part in the story. The story is set at a crossroads in the medieval age. The story is about movement.
*******
It happened every time! Just as he jumped down from the wagon, someone went by and splashed filth that soaked his trousers and shoes. The smell was particularly odious today or maybe it was just the fact that fresh horse dung now covered him from his toes to mid-thighs. It would have been less of an issue at the end of the day, but his day was just beginning and he was supposed to meet the Abbott this morning. He could hardly go calling at the monastery in his current state. Although Heaven knows the Abbott must have encountered worse things in his work it was hardly the impression Karl wanted to give.
So he stood there with the fecal matter slowly sliding down his legs debating how to handle the situation. And was nearly run over by the next wagon going through the crossroads. He was splashed with more filth, this time reaching his tunic, shoulder bag and even a small dab on his cheek. Startled, he finally had the sense to step back from the intersection. Seeing a tree on one corner, he headed there to consider his predicament.
He pulled his satchel open and dug to see if he had anything with which to wipe himself. Finding nothing useful, he sat down under the tree disheartened. How could he face the Abbott? If he didn’t appear as promised, the Abbott might not grant him an audience. If he didn’t get an audience with the Abbott, Karl would not get access to the monastery library, which held manuscripts going back to the founding of the monastery and older. Karl had looked forward to this day since he was a young lad. He had learned from the priest in his local village that the monastery library held documents older than the priest, older than the oldest person in the village and he had been filled with wonder. What would such documents look like? What languages were they written in? The priest had taught him Greek and Latin, so he hoped that he would be able to read at least some of them. What secrets would they reveal? He had prayed fervently for the day he would be old enough and learned enough that the priest would give him a letter of recommendation. That day had finally arrived and he was covered in horse manure. He was cursed!
As he sat there “bemoaning his outcast state” he failed to notice the appearance of a young woman at his side until she spoke.
“You appear to be in dire need of a new set of trousers,” she remarked.
“You are correct and unless you happen to have one, I would appreciate being left to my misery,” he replied.
“Well, then today Providence appears to have smiled on you.”
At that comment, Karl raised his head to appraise his companion.
A beautiful young woman smiled and held a pair of clean trousers toward him. Astonished he rose to his feet and tentatively reached toward her offering. She did not flinch and relinquished the cloth when he had grasped it firmly. She nodded toward a wagon parked behind the tree. “You can change back there. Then we will see what we can do to clean the rest of your person.”
Still taken aback by her offer, he paused walking toward the wagon, “What can I offer in exchange? I do not have much money, although you are welcome to what I have.”
She smiled again. “I am not asking for your money, although coins are always useful.”
“Then what can I give you?”
“You are going to the monastery, are you not?”
“That is correct… how did you…”
“You will visit the library, will you not?”
“That is my fervent hope, although I haven’t met…”
She interrupted him again, “Then you will bring me knowledge.”
“But I…”
“The library holds many documents. Some are very old. You will ask to view these documents. One of them is the Scroll of Diana. You will not be able to read it. So you will copy the symbols you find. On each visit, you will copy another set of symbols and bring them to me. Be certain to copy them exactly as they appear and in the same order.”
“But how…”
“It is not necessary for you to understand everything. As a woman, you know I am not allowed in the monastery. Yet, that document was written by a woman and intended for women. The information the scroll contains is of no value to you nor to the monks who added it to their collection, except as a trophy of ancient writing.”
“Goddess knows I would give much more than this pair of trousers to see the scroll with my own eyes. Since that is unlikely in the present circumstance, your eyes will have to serve mine.”
“Now move quickly, or you will not catch the Abbott when he is in his best temper.”
She pushed him toward the wagon with the trousers. He obeyed and exchanged his filthy pair for the clean ones she had given him. He tied his belt and headed back toward her. She had a damp rag in her hand with which she wiped his face, his tunic, his bag and finally his shoes.
“There! You are once again presentable. Now hurry! You must catch him while he is holding audience.”
Karl headed down the road toward the monastery and then looked back. “How will I find you?”
“In the same manner which we met today.”
“Will you at least tell me your name?”
“Sylvine,” she smiled. “Now go!”
Karl reached the monastery within the hour and was pleased to find the Abbott still receiving petitions. He presented the letter and voiced his request to be allowed access to the library. The Abbott was in a pleasant mood and seeing a potential candidate, granted Karl’s request. Then, putting his arm out in a gesture of welcome, he announced, “I will escort you there myself.”
Surprised by his offer, Karl almost refused, and then thinking better, accepted the Abbott’s invitation. Karl followed him down a long hallway to a large armored wooden door with heavy locks. In front of the door, the Abbott whispered to a friar perched at a small desk. The friar looked at Karl and nodded to the Abbott, then gestured for Karl to approach.
“Brother Hermann has taken a vow of silence as part of his penance,” the Abbott noted for Karl’s benefit.
The monk slid off his stool and pulled a large keyring from his robes. Starting at the top of the door, he systematically began unlocking all of the locks. When he had finished he stepped aside and pulled the door open. The Abbott bowed slightly and ushered Karl into the most beautiful place he had ever seen. The air was dry and smelled of leather and must. The light was subtle and Karl noted that none of the shelves were in direct sunlight. It reflected into the room from the clerestory windows.
“So, my child, what were you hoping to see here?”
“Father Abbott, if I might beg your indulgence. I would like to see some of the oldest manuscripts.”
“Ah! My child, you know that they are written in ancient languages. Something recent would be more accessible… “
Karl stopped him with a gesture, “Father Abbott, I have been studying Latin and Greek. And I had hoped that even if I didn’t understand everything, that perhaps I might glean something of value by seeing the old things.”
The Abbott was in a good mood, and assented. “Very well my son. We will go to the section with the oldest scrolls. You must be careful with them for they are quite delicate and will tear easily.”
“Yes, Father Abbott. I understand.”
When they reached the bins holding the scrolls, Karl could not hide his amazement. “They are indeed old, Father Abbott. Thank you kindly for your generosity. But I should not keep you from your duties.”
“It is my pleasure, my child. I can remain to assist you.”
“Certainly, you must be very busy and Brother Hermann can assist me.”
“It gives an old man comfort to see one such as yourself expressing an interest in our library. Very well. I am working on a translation and will be just over there,” as he pointed to an alcove with a high desk and stool. “When you want to look at a scroll, carry it carefully to a table before attempting to unroll it.”
“Yes, Father Abbott. Thank you, Father Abbott.”
There were so many scrolls, and Karl was excited to touch them all. Then he remembered the young woman’s request and began to search among the scrolls. He carried one after another to the table, unrolled them slightly and then carefully rerolled them and returned them when he realized they were not what he was seeking.
The Abbott noted his diligence and frequent trips back and forth, so paused in his task. “My child, what is it you seek? You do not seem to be satisfied with any of them.”
Startled, Karl hesitated. Should he ask the Abbott for the Scroll of Diana?
“I was looking for some ancient Roman text to see how well my Latin might fare.”
“Then the Marcellinus you pulled and put back should have been an adequate test.”
“Of course, Father Abbott. My apologies for disturbing you.”
The Abbott returned to his work. Karl continued his search more quietly, spending slightly longer with each scroll so that he did not attract the Abbott’s attention. He had reviewed two dozen when he saw it. Smaller than the others it had fallen to the bottom of the bin. It appeared to be more ornate with gilt handles and neatly trimmed edges. He reached for it gently and cradled it to the table. As he began to unroll it he noted it was more beautiful than anything he had seen. There were delicate engravings in the margins. This must be the scroll Sylvine was describing. He searched through his satchel for his copybook and a quill. As she had requested, he started to copy the symbols he found, and then realized he did not know whether one would read them across or down, left to right or right to left? So he decided he would copy the symbols as if they were in a table. That way, Sylvine would be able to rearrange them or read them in whichever order was necessary.
Karl became absorbed in his efforts and did not hear the Abbott’s stool scrape on the stone floor. He started when the Abbott’s hand landed on his shoulder.
“I beg your pardon, Father Abbott.”
“My child, you are quite good as an amanuensis. Brother Hermann will be jealous. You have really captured the text well.”
“Thank you, Father Abbott.”
“Would you like to return another day to continue? Perhaps you can copy some things for me.”
Karl did not disguise his pleasure at the invitation. “Oh yes, Father Abbott! I would gladly return and even more gladly provide my services to you.”
“Very well! Please return tomorrow morning and report to Brother Hermann directly.”
“Thank you very kindly for your generosity, Father Abbott.”
Karl left the monastery walking on air and made his way back to the crossroads to share the good news with Sylvine.
*******
With thanks for the story prompt to The Speculative Fiction Muse http://www.katfeete.net/writing/specfic.php
And to my writing partners, Mary C Sutton and D Anthony Brown danthonybrown.me for the support and the laughs.
What do you think? Did I honor the spirit or the letter of the writing prompt? Enter your thoughts in comments below.
Filed under: Uncategorized, Writing experiments | Tags: creative process, experience, wishes, writing
Story prompt: The story’s protagonist is female and a baker. A tree plays a significant part in the story. The story is set on a deserted highway in ancient times. The story is about cowardice.
*******
She carefully covered her baskets of bread to keep them from getting dusty as the horses went by. Dusty bread doesn’t sell as well and she needed to sell all her loaves today. She had seated herself under a tree at a busy crossroads. The day was hot and dry, so the tree provided a small measure of shelter from the heat of the sun. There had been very few passersby today so she had sold only a couple loaves. She had hoped for a better place but the choice of location was not hers to make. She could only follow what they told her to do. In another time and place she might have more power to control her fate. Or maybe if she had more strength of character.
It was useless to wish for what she didn’t have. She was born in this place, in this time and she was considered to be of little value. Her father was a baker and so she learned by watching him. She was forced to work as soon as she could follow directions. There is no time to be a child when you are born poor. When her father died she kept the bakery going so her mother and brothers could continue living in the hovel behind the ovens. Her brothers were usually the ones selling the wares while she did all the baking. That way no one saw her.
Until last week…
The soldiers came through the village and took every bit of food they found and everything of value. She had been too afraid to beg for her family. They begged. She hid. Afraid of what the soldiers might do to her if they found her. They were big and their shields and weapons clanked ominously as they moved through the village securing it for the empire. There was very little time and when the soldiers reached her family’s market stand, she had secreted herself in an old flour urn. And her family faced the soldiers without her.
*******
With thanks for the story prompt to The Speculative Fiction Muse http://www.katfeete.net/writing/specfic.php
And to my writing partners, Mary C Sutton and D Anthony Brown danthonybrown.me for the support and the laughs.
What do you think? Did I honor the spirit or the letter of the writing prompt? Enter your thoughts in comments below.
Filed under: Uncategorized, Writing experiments | Tags: creative process, darkness, inspiration, light, storytelling, writing
Story prompt: The story’s protaganist is female and an artist. Darkness plays a significant part in the story. The story is set in a nursery in the present. The story is about discovery.
*******
As the setting sun glowed red, she finished adding touches to the fabric and started cleaning up. She preferred to work while it was daylight, so the sun’s demise was her prompt to put things away. In the northern states, the sun stays up very late in the summertime. It was almost nine o’clock as the radiant orb sank through the haze on the horizon. It was still a good half an hour until dark, but the mosquitoes tend to like dusk and dawn for their foraging, so unless you like the sticky feel and chemical scent of insect repellent (and she didn’t), it is best to let them find another food source.
She had learned that many places don’t have screens on the windows – her first apartment in Chicago was a revelation. It was a third floor walkup in an older building with a grand marble staircase leading up from the ground floor. There were no screens and no air-conditioning, so she kept the windows open and propped a fan in one to try to move the sweat-soaked air into an illusion of coolness. The only bugs she had to worry about were the cockroaches that marched incessantly from the neighboring kitchen through the cracks in the boards into her space. She killed as many as she could personally. She put down a border of boric acid around the entire perimeter. She bought ant and roach spray and used it generously. (Many years later a new fragrance would be released that reminded her of the roach spray – and the scent would take her back to that summer in Chicago. She surmised that the women who wore the fragrance had never had to fight cockroaches personally.)
Back inside her screened porch, she sat in the swing and contemplated the growing darkness. Listening to the crickets and frogs waking. Watching the stars in ones and twos become uncountable in short order. The nursery spread out from her back porch in all directions. Trees to the north so they wouldn’t shade the smaller plants. Pots of fragrant flowers, herbs and tomatoes on tables closer to her house.
The fireflies were rising like little stars themselves. She had always been fascinated by them. Their mysterious light glowing and throbbing in the dark. She remembered a trick she had heard an old farmer tell about many years ago and grabbed a sweater and her keys. She pulled her pickup close to the backyard and turned the headlights on bright. After a few minutes she turned the lights off again and watched from the cab.
It only took a moment of darkness as she held her breath… and then she discovered the old farmer was right. Every firefly in the yard simultaneously lit and went dark in unison. Hundreds of little glowing bugs synchronized all across the landscape. She sighed with pleasure.
*******
With thanks for the story prompt to The Speculative Fiction Muse http://www.katfeete.net/writing/specfic.php
And to my writing partners, Mary C Sutton and D Anthony Brown danthonybrown.me for the support and the laughs.
What do you think? Did I honor the spirit or the letter of the writing prompt? Enter your thoughts in comments below.
Filed under: Uncategorized, Writing experiments | Tags: creative process, experience, inspiration, storytelling, travel, wishes, writing
Story prompt: The story’s protagonist is female and a jeweler. A story plays a significant part in the story. The story is set on a journey in the present. The story is about deception.
*******
She left the shop in the hands of her assistant and promised to be in touch as soon as she landed. She’d been dreaming this trip since she was a teenager and planning it for the last two years. She had told no one except her staff and her landlady fearing if she admitted any thoughts about this trip to family or friends someone would try to talk her out of it or otherwise prevent it from happening. And she couldn’t risk it. Not after this long. They would worry about the jewelry store. They would worry about her safety. They would deplore the expense. No, she told herself, this was the best way. She planned to tell them after she returned safely. Then no matter what anyone said the experience was already hers and could not be taken away. She had managed to evade all the social requests from her friends for events during the time she was gone. She even had a convenient cover story worked out to tell them.
She hurried to the bus stop and caught it just in time. As she slid into her seat she mentally reviewed the items on her to do list. Passport – check. Tickets – check. She was already packed. Had laid out her traveling outfit. Yes! All in order. As she left the bus stop and walked the few blocks to her apartment, she dared to picture herself arriving. Lost in thought she grabbed the mail, unlocked her door, stepped inside and turned on the lights.
“Surprise!” They yelled.
Oh no! This gathering was not part of her plan. Her sister stepped forward and grabbed her arm, turning her back on the crowd in her living room and pressing a glass of champagne into her free hand.
“You could at least look pleased to see us, Sis. We’ve gone to a lot of trouble to arrange this party for you.”
She quickly gathered her composure. “I know, it’s just that I’m beat and was planning a soak in the tub with a glass of wine and a good book. Not exactly social.” She smiled hoping to disarm her sister and it worked.
“Just let me go freshen up and I’ll be out in a flash to enjoy your efforts.”
“Okay, but if you take more than five minutes, I’ll come in and drag you out, naked or not.”
“Promise! I’ll be back before you know it.”
She smiled at the gathered crowd and begged to be excused long enough to change into her jeans. As she walked by the catered spread she swiped a couple hors d’oeuvres and popped them in her mouth. Mmm! That was tasty! They had indeed gone to a fair amount of trouble. Now how was she going to get rid of them before midnight?! She preferred to travel when she was well rested. Of course, she could use the excuse of having to work in the morning… which is where she would normally be going in the morning… That should work to divert them and cover her tracks.
She changed into her jeans and shoved the packed suitcases into her closet, hoping no one had come into her bedroom tonight. Thank goodness the weather was mild so they didn’t need a place for coats, although they could use the guest room or the office.
She gathered her thoughts and put on her party face and went back out to mingle with her guests.
“Here’s the guest of honor, finally!” her brother said to the crowd. “Now for a toast.”
She had no idea what to expect so she smiled and held her champagne glass ready.
“Here’s to my sister. A woman who always gets what she wants.”
A chorus of Here! Here! reverberated around the room as everyone raised their glasses and drank.
Her sister pointed to a table in the corner. “Hey Sis! Why don’t you open your presents?”
She looked quickly at the pile and then at her sister, and then it was her turn to drag her sister away from the party guests.
“What’s all this about?” she hissed. “Christmas was months ago and it’s not my birthday. Why am I getting gifts?”
“I think you better open them,” her sister replied.
With a another suspicious glare at her sister she turned back to the party and smiled.
“How kind of all of you. I am sure I haven’t done anything to deserve all this attention.”
As she made her way across the room to the table smiling and greeting each person as she passed, she wondered what had inspired this party.
She paused in front of the table. The mound of gifts was impressive. Better than any birthday she remembered. Larger than any Christmas since her childhood. She surveyed the pile and turned back to the room. Her sister gestured for her to start opening packages.
“We know you need to get up early tomorrow,” she said simply.
“You are all so thoughtful and I am overwhelmed,” she paused and then picked up a small box from the front of the table. The paper was familiar. And then she realized there were pictures of luggage and travel related items. She hesitated again. They couldn’t know. How could they know? She had been very careful to cover her tracks and her staff were under strict instructions not to divulge her destination.
Then she opened the box. An adorable set of purple luggage tags with a pawprint theme was nestled in the tissue paper. They were perfect! She smiled widely. Then she looked around the room.
“Thank you very much. How did you know?”
Her sister smiled a secret smile. “We have our sources.”
*******
With thanks for the story prompt to The Speculative Fiction Muse http://www.katfeete.net/writing/specfic.php
And to my writing partners, Mary C Sutton and D Anthony Brown danthonybrown.me for the support and the laughs. Mary is on vacation this week, however, she is with us in spirit and provided a laugh for David without knowing it.
What do you think? Did I honor the spirit or the letter of the writing prompt? Enter your thoughts in comments below.
Filed under: Uncategorized, Writing experiments | Tags: aging, creative process, storytelling, writing
Story prompt: The story’s protagonist is female and a tax collector. A barn plays a significant part in the story. The story is set in a library in ancient times. The story is about aging.
*******
She rambled down the aisles of the library, randomly looking at scrolls and tablets. She wasn’t expected here and the librarians occasionally scowled in her direction. They weren’t fond of women — educated women were considered to be particularly troublesome. And they were even less fond of tax collectors. Since she was both, she knew they watched her more closely, and with more animosity than any of the other patrons. And since she was no longer young, she could not distract them with her beauty as she once had. She was still striking although her once jet black hair was streaked with silver and soft lines had appeared around her eyes. The advantage from her perspective was that she was no longer intimidated by their glares. She knew they couldn’t hurt her and they could not stop her. In spite of her gender. It was not a great time to be a woman, although with enough money and power one could still exercise some freedom in Alexandria.
The manuscript she sought was old. Older than anyone here and older than the parents or grandparents of anyone here. The author had been dead for centuries, but she remembered seeing the scroll when she had visited with her father. It seemed like a lifetime ago. She was young then and just starting to realize the power of her looks on those around her. Her father was proud to have a daughter so eager to learn and so pretty. She still missed her father even though he had been gone for more than 10 years.
She dragged her thoughts back to her task. She tried to remember the general area in which he found the scroll. What was the angle to the librarian’s station? How many rows? How many tables? Based on her memory of that day, she calculated that she had to be pretty close, but how would she recognize the document? Just then she noticed one of the librarians moving an armful of scripts quickly out of the room as if he didn’t want to be seen. He seemed to be checking to see if he was being watched so she looked quickly away before he noticed her gaze. After he left the room she furtively moved down the aisle to see where he had gone. She followed at a distance as he went through two other rooms and then down a set of stairs. She crept down the stairs not knowing what was at the bottom and not wanting him to know she was following. Just as she reached the bottom and peeked over the balustrade, he lifted a trap door with one arm and held it until he had stepped into the hole and replaced the door above his head. She knew she didn’t dare follow him down so she looked for a place to hide and waited until he came back out. Once he came up she knew she wouldn’t have a lot of time to explore the trap door before he returned with another armful, so she moved quickly. Peering down through the trap door she saw more stairs leading to a tunnel and decided to risk it. She descended quickly and ran down the torchlit tunnel as soundlessly as possible until she found another door. Holding her breath, she eased the door open to peek in and saw a chamber with more doors. Since no one seemed to be around she slipped into the chamber and was approaching the first door when she heard voices behind her. She darted through the door and closed it noiselessly behind her hoping they would not follow her. Luckily they were distracted by their conversation and didn’t notice as she dove behind a partition, when they entered through the same door. She waited while they discussed the movement of the works from the library to these chambers, holding her breath when they gestured at the urns in her direction. She held back a sneeze and then stopped breathing altogether when they paused.
“Did you just hear something?” the younger of the two men asked.
“No. These chambers will make you crazy if you allow your imagination free rein. There are echoes from the stable above us and the grain in the bins will shift suddenly. Just ignore it. There’s no one else here,” replied the elder man.
As the men were silent again and then left taking the torch with them. She waited in the dark as long as she could. She could hear water dripping and she heard the echoes of the hooves of the animals above. Then she started to feel for the door she had glimpsed on the opposite end of the room. She found the handle and slowly opened the door a crack – Light! She decided to go through and soon found herself at the foot of a ladder leading to an opening in the ceiling. As she climbed she realized she was climbing into daylight although still inside a building of some sort. She poked her head through the aperture and looked around – seeing only the animals she finished her climb and looked around the barn as she straightened out her clothing and dusted herself off. Then as casually as she could she walked out the door of the barn and into the street. Now that she knew where the tunnels led, she could come back another time and explore the contents.
When she was a block away from the barn she heard the cries and turned with the crowd to face the library. Fire! The library was on fire! People were running from the building screaming. As the realization came to her, she turned and headed for home. She would never see the manuscript now, so she resolved to recreate as much of it as she could from memory.
Many years later as she lay dying she passed what she had recorded to her daughter with the words, “Never grow too old for adventure.”
*******
With thanks for the story prompt to The Speculative Fiction Muse http://www.katfeete.net/writing/specfic.php
And to my writing partners, Mary C Sutton and D Anthony Brown danthonybrown.me for the support and the laughs.
What do you think? Did I honor the spirit or the letter of the writing prompt? Enter your thoughts in comments below.
Filed under: Uncategorized, Writing experiments | Tags: creative process, storytelling, writing
The story prompt is: The protagonist is female and a trader. A gate plays a significant part in the story. The story is set in a barn in the medieval age. The story is about fear.
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She gathered her skirts and picked up her bag to see if everything was still in it. Good! Nothing is missing. She looked around. She appeared to be in a barn. She could see the stalls and straw and hear the horses. The structure was made of stone and wood and appeared to be fairly solid. She didn’t feel any draft so the doors must be closed. She made her way cautiously forward. A board creaked and a horse nickered. She paused. Without knowing what she would encounter, she preferred to move slowly. It was still light outside so the barn wasn’t completely dark although there were no lanterns or torches. She could see the barn door ahead and glanced back to the gate through which she had recently gone. There was no one around. Just the horses and perhaps some other livestock at the other end of the barn. The horses were usually kept toward the front since they were taken in and out more frequently. The cows and swine were toward the back where the door led into the barnyard and out to the pasture. It had been a pleasant spring day, so there would be no need for heat, although the night would undoubtedly be cool. She continued making her way toward the door when suddenly it flew open and a large man stood in the doorway. She ducked behind a horse stall and waited. He moved quickly to the first horse stall and was bringing the horse out when it whinnied. “What’s the matter, Blackie? You seem uneasy.” The horse followed obediently, but kept turning his head toward the rear of the barn. He had tethered the horse at the mounting station and was getting the saddle and bridle when he noticed the horse’s repeated glances behind him. “What’s going on, old boy? You act like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She held her breath. The last thing she wanted was to have him find her there. She had hoped to make a quick exit and make her way along the nearest road to a village. If he found her she might have to go back through the gate to escape and she was not looking forward to that. The gate was problematic. She used them when she had to, but each trip seemed to take something from her that she never regained. And who knew how long she could keep using them until there would be nothing left of her to give. Still, if that was what she had to do, she would do it. The gates had allowed her to keep her freedom and her sanity. Otherwise her father would have had her married to some man – a peasant, a butcher – and tied to one time and place. By using the gates, she avoided her father and controlled her own fate. She would go to the villages and trade her needlework for food and fabric and thread to make shirts. Sometimes she traded for wool that she carded and spun for warmer garments. Occasionally she traded her sewing and mending skills for a place to sleep. But since she had been using the gates, she hadn’t needed as much sleep, so those stops were rarer. Perhaps that was the toll the gates exacted – her sleep.
He came very close to her location and she prepared to flee, but suddenly he turned and went back to the horse. “I don’t see anything, Blackie, and we’ve got to get done before dark.” He finished saddling the horse then led him out of the barn and closed the door. She waited until she heard the horses hooves fade in the distance and then let herself carefully out of the barn. Then she moved quickly to the road and hurried on her way. Grateful that she wouldn’t have to use the gate again so soon.
*******
With thanks to The Speculative Fiction Muse http://www.katfeete.net/writing/specfic.php
Story-A-Day Challenge is courtesy of Forward Motion for Writers http://www.fmwriters.com/
And to my writing partners, Mary C Sutton and D Anthony Brown danthonybrown.me for the support and the laughs.
Filed under: Writing experiments | Tags: creative process, experience, family, history, Story-A-Day Challenge, storytelling, writing
I’ve recorded a lot of thoughts and opinions over the years. It’s an occupational hazard when you are in my line of work.
The hardest thing I’ve ever done is try to write this letter.
Words have always come easily. Of course, I was busy recording life as it happened. It’s not so hard to write down what you see and hear. Just the facts. Most of the time anyway. Okay, yes, I did embellish on occasion. Just for fun. Just to make it more interesting for the reader. I’m sure James Thurber was recording a historical event in “The Night the Bed Fell on Father” and that every word was true in the best sense. There’s been such a flap lately over storytellers and whether they should be held to the same standards as reporters. Why should they? Storytellers serve a different purpose than reporters. Historians are more like storytellers than reporters. And as Machiavelli says, “History is written by the victors.” Doesn’t bode well for Truth, does it? I don’t want storytellers to give me the Truth. I want a tale that’s on the edge of belief. I want to be transported. I want my imagination stretched. I want my boundaries tested. I want to see what might be instead of only what is.
This letter has to contain the Truth. It has to convey the information without making it more than it is. If I make too much of it, she’ll panic, and I don’t want that. If I say too little she will also panic. So I’m struggling to find exactly the words that will make it okay for her. So she won’t be alarmed. She will know it’s all right and that we will go on. She’s busy you know. She has the kids and her husband and her job. For all I know she’s not even home now. Her job requires a lot of travel. She may not even get the mail for a week. And she lives so far away. We’ve kept in touch. She calls. She emails. I write letters. I hope she shares them with her kids. I think it’s a lot easier to hand a piece of paper to someone. Although the newer technology allows sharing with lots of people all at once. It’s not the same. If you hand someone a piece of paper they may feel more obliged to read it. I mean really read it. Not just skim over it like part of the din of ever-present media. It’s easy to skip over a post – blog, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest. If someone pauses and presses the “Like” button you’ve made an impact. If they stop and comment you’ve really made a dent. If there is nothing, it’s a whisper drowned in the roar of the ocean.
A letter makes people stop. It holds their attention. It doesn’t have to compete in the same way as other media. That’s why I have to be careful to make sure this letter is just like all the other missives I’ve sent to her. I suppose I could just post it and hope it gets lost in the cacophonous sea of updates, but then one of her friends will be sure to see it. And they’ll tell her. And we’ll be back where we started. No, I have to put it in a letter, in the same manner I usually do. At least this way she’ll have the letter that tells her all about the cancer and the treatment. And even though I’ll be gone, she’ll be okay. And she’ll know I love her.
*******
With thanks to The Speculative Fiction Muse http://www.katfeete.net/writing/specfic.php
Story-A-Day Challenge is courtesy of Forward Motion for Writers http://www.fmwriters.com/
And to my writing partners, Mary C Sutton and D Anthony Brown danthonybrown.me for the support and the laughs.
Filed under: Writing experiments | Tags: creative process, Story-A-Day Challenge, writing
Eddie took another toke and exhaled slowly. The smoke rose and cleared and Eddie put the roach away. As he lay back into the easy chair, he felt the familiar haze start to swirl and spin as he once again slipped into the space-time continuum. (Or “STC” as he lovingly called it – when you’re as familiar with something as Eddie was with the space-time continuum you often have a shorthand way to reference the familiar.)
As it ebbed and flowed he felt the pulse of the underlying vibration that he usually followed and eased into it. There are lots of vibrations, lots of levels, lots of frequencies, and in his early days, Eddie had experimented with many of them. The disruption to his corporeal self as a result was hard to endure and gradually he learned which route felt the most comfortable and cause the least after effects.
The sound and color became stronger and then enveloped him and moments later deposited him gently on a staircase. The stairs were stone and highly polished and led to a landing a short way above him. Eddie climbed the short distance and found a table laid with an elaborate meal. There was a single chair near the wall facing out. Eddie looked all around and off the edge of the landing over the railing and saw no one. There was no one in what appeared to be the town square below. No one on the staircase. No one visible in any of the windows or doorways.
The munchies were coming on strong and Eddie’s mouth started watering as he surveyed the table. There were many things he did not recognize, but the fruits and vegetables were similar enough to what he was used to eating that he felt safe in nibbling bites here and there as he circumnavigated the large table. Finally, he reached the chair with his hunger mostly sated and he felt the fatigue that often beset him after his journeys. He sank into the chair and realized that it was much softer and much more comfortable than anything he’d felt in a long time. As his head nodded he was vaguely aware of another presence watching him.
When Eddie awoke from his nap he was not surprised to find himself surrounded by a coterie of beings. They were similar to humans from most time periods, except that these people seemed to glow with a soft light that came from inside them. “Kind of like seeing auras,” he noted they had different colors and intensities. The one nearest him seemed to have a soft purple glow and also seemed to be gazing him expectantly.
“Oh wow! Like nobody was here, man, and I was kinda hungry cause I traveled a long way to get here…” he broke off as he realized that they did not seem to be angered that he had eaten from the table. Their expression seemed welcoming and even joyful. The beings around him seemed to glow more brightly.
So he started again, “Food is like happiness, man. No one can be happy on an empty stomach.”
And the crowd below cheered.
*******
With thanks to The Speculative Fiction Muse http://www.katfeete.net/writing/specfic.php
Story-A-Day Challenge is courtesy of Forward Motion for Writers http://www.fmwriters.com/
And to my writing partners, Mary C Sutton and D Anthony Brown danthonybrown.me for the support and the laughs.
Filed under: Personal experience, Uncategorized, Writing experiments | Tags: about me, gratitude, writing
To everyone who has read a post here or liked a post or commented, my sincere thanks.
This blog is an experiment for me. A way to start having my name out in the world attached to my writing. So anyone who helps me as I grow and change and still manages to follow my meandering posts is my hero, and I am grateful to you.
My parents found me challenging, my siblings probably more so. It’s not that I’m trying to be difficult, it’s just that I see things differently than most people and I will point it out. Probably when you least expect it. And you will think long and hard about whether the things I ask you to consider are worth the difficulty of thinking about them. Some of you will give up and leave. And I am still grateful that you gave me what you could.
