Blessing of the Garden Gate

My offering for Master Class Monday at EatSleepWrite
The prompt I chose was nonpotable blessings




Twas quiet here, not long ago.  Shadow prevailed and gave cover to ghosts of the despair.  Wraiths of grief wrapped chilled fingers of loneliness around the heart of one left behind.  Neglect squeezed and choked life into submission.

Then she arrived. Her dreams and memories carried in boxes of cluttered life. The man by her side not so sure of this final destination, pulled along by her need to come home.

Life and color slowly return, the man working hard to reclaim a space left to weedy decay. She spends her time splashing color on faded walls. Together they create home.

Warm, golden light now shines from windows once shuttered in despair. The laughter within spills haphazardly into flowerbeds beneath the screened opening as one of the blood resides within again.

The bright Fae of the night climb thorny stems to peek inside.  Wings shimmering with moon glow from a cloudless sky, they raise excited brows and whisper of better times. They've marked the return of Rose and Tulip, old bearded Iris.  They hail the arrival of Lily and Heather.
  
Malevolent ivy retreats in frustration, pushed out by carefully nurtured roots. It slumbers uneasily beneath the color splashed gardens, waiting for the chance to regain a foothold.

Barefoot, careful of the garden sprites, the woman contentedly surveys the work of her spouse. Multiple beds entice butterflies and honey bees. Songbirds settle into the regained peace. 

A vegetable garden flourishes where none have farmed for decades. Fruit trees replace the ones lost through age and neglect. Wild berries welcome eager hands that have grown since picking and stuffing them into giggling faces long ago.

Her gaze follows the spreading limbs of the oak that shaded her childhood. Beneath it an overgrown lilac was a green fortress for herself and her siblings. Trimmed and tidied it still provides a quiet space within to think and to dream. 

On sunny days her man sees the figure of a woman regarding his work. Her grandmother she says. The one who left behind bits of garden hidden amongst the weeds. He raises his brow, but accepts and hopes his efforts are acceptable.

From the corner of her eye she catches glimpses of the Fae. They duck under the ferns and dance around the lilies. Playing chase with the squirrels and flitting about the feeder with hummingbirds. She tells no one she sees them, just smiles to herself.

Flowers follow their season, bloom then fade, replaced by the next, finally relinquishing to colder months. The vegetable garden ripens and gives its bounty to enhance the table through winter. Always some seed or fruit is left behind for wildlife. And Fae.

Snow fall blankets the ground, insulating roots and bulbs. A protective cover of bright white sheltering the promise of spring to come. 

She looks for the tracks in the snow. Rabbit, squirrel, and sometimes prints unfamiliar. Frosty pictures are left on window panes, icy flowers, a reminder that spring is nearby.

With yarn in her lap she waits out the cold. Watching for the early signs, a blush in the undergrowth, tiny buds peeking from the trees. Daffodils pushing through the frost, not waiting for a designated date. 

Soon, the time for faery dances and color will draw her barefoot through the garden gate and all the blessings it holds.

First Impression

 
Trifecta: Week Eighty-Six
Write at the Merge Week 29
Master Class Summer Edition #3


Congratulations to the weekend winners!  There were some great writing processes, some I may implement.
I've lost my mind or just gone plain crazy.  I opted to combine three prompts this time.  I hope they work.  I listed the prompts at the end.
I'm revisiting Anne Marie and Liam.  Most of the the stories I write about them are character studies.  This is how I get to know more about them.  So on to the story...

             "Annie, sweetling!  Come meet me friend Rosie!"  Liam kicked the door open as he bellowed.  He dragged his new friend into Anne Marie's kitchen, then proceeded to rifle her pantry.  "D'ya not have anything ta eat, lass?"

Anne Marie leaned against the door frame leading to the parlor.  "There is food, Liam, root vegetables and herbs.  But, oh dear.... likely nothing to your tastes."  She eyed Rosie as Liam continued to search for meat, preferably raw, and perhaps a bit rancid.

"Rosie" stood at the kitchen table looking bored while absently running one long pink fingernail along a crack in the surface.  Unnaturally blond hair danced across broad shoulders clad in the soft black leather of a form fitting leotard.  A low slung belt sported assorted bulging pockets.  The outfit was completed by knee high, shiny, black boots with three inch heels.

Rosie caught Anne Marie's gaze. "Liam says you're a hunter, too.  I guess I expected someone...ya know, taller."

Liam threw an arm around his new partner, "Now, Rosie, doona judge a book, girlie." 

Disengaging Liam's arm, Rosie sauntered toward Anne Marie, "What gear do you prefer, Annie?"

"I prefer Anne Marie.  And I don't pack gear, I use what's at hand."

"Isn't that risky?"

"Not as risky as those boots.  They're barely made for walking, useless for running."

Rosie snorted, "I don't run.  Annie."

Liam stopped rummaging to watch the interchange, "Now lassies..."

One swift move and Rosie lay across the table, the point of a large butcher knife aimed between wide blue eyes.  Anne Marie sniffed, then raised her brows in surprise.  Releasing Rosie, she tossed the knife aside, "Get out, both of you."

Liam rushed Rosie toward the door, "C'mon, girlie...wha....Rossamund!  By the gods, lass, ye've wet yerself!"

Anne Marie sighed.  Nothing worse than an amateur hunter.  Except perhaps a foolish ghoul, trying to make her jealous with his new partner. 

Should she tell him his new playmate, Rossamund, was a boy with a girl's name?


Write at the Merge..."This week, we’re offering a photograph — feel free to use any or all of the items in the photo as part of the prompt."







The Master Class.....


From Trifecta 'Writing Challenge....

CRACK
1a : a loud roll or peal <a crack of thunder>
  b : a sudden sharp noise <the crack of rifle fire>
2: a sharp witty remark : quip
3a : a narrow break : fissure <a crack in the ice>  
  b : a narrow opening <leave the door open a crack><cracks between floorboards> —used figuratively in phrases like fall through the cracks to describe one that has been improperly or inadvertently ignored or left out <a player who fell through the cracks in the college draft> <children slipping through the cracks of available youth services>
4a : a weakness or flaw caused by decay, age, or deficiency :unsoundness
  b : a broken tone of the voice
  c : crackpot
5: moment, instant <the crack of dawn>
- See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.LETuMiLK.dpuf

Fast Food

Master Class Summer Edition #2

SAM asked Lexy to choose any book and give her a 10. Here is the new assignment from the 10th page:
the assignment is to use that line somewhere in the body of our piece. 

Murph looked up at the darkening sky.  Thunder rumbled in the distance, they needed to get a move on.  The incoming storm would be a disaster if they didn't wrap up soon.

The ME was going through the deceased's pockets, looking for ID.  She'd already done liver temp to establish approximate time of death, or TOD.  There hadn't been any visible injury, the autopsy would have to determine the cause.

As he scanned the area in front of him, Murph made a mental catalog of the elements of the scene.  Middle aged male, curled in fetal position on the grass in front of the park bench.  No briefcase, but an empty fast food bag.  The half eaten burger several feet from the body, as though he'd thrown it.  While the team was busy elsewhere, some pigeons had waddled over to inspect it.  "Hey!  Charlie!  Bag that burger before those vermin make off with it!"  He yelled over the latest roll of thunder.

"Got it boss, sorry!"  Charlie hustled to the sandwich with an evidence bag.

Murph moved on, muttering thoughts to himself about the scene, the imminent rainstorm, and the half-assed job his crew was doing.

"Boss?  I think you better come see this."  

He heaved a sigh, then joined Charlie at the body.  "What'm I seein', Charlie?"

Charlie pointed at a pigeon beside the burger, now not only partially eaten by the deceased, but bird pecked as well. 

"It's a pigeon, Charlie," said Murph, as the sky opened and rain began its cleansing.

"Yeah, Boss, I know that," Charlie answered.  "But, Boss, it's a dead pigeon, now."

Revenge of the Shoemaker's Elves

Master Class 2013 #11: Desperation, Authority, and a Lamb
"It was Tara who set the bar highest this week with a fantastic tale of fatherly love in A Father’s Right.

Tara to chose the first line of the last paragraph from any book of her choosing. She chose Lamb by Christopher Moore. Your challenge this week is:
“That’s all I remember.”

You cannot use this line to begin or end your story. In fact, you have two choices this week. You can use the line anywhere else in your story or you can write a story based on the prompt without using the line at all. If you need an example, check out Words with Teeth‘s submission from last week. He did a fantastic job of using the prompt as the basis for his story without inserting the line at all."

I have no idea where I came up with this last minute silliness, forgive me...

I resumed awareness on the cold of a concrete floor.  The painful stripes woke at the same time.  The floor's penetrating chill was a blessing, I suppose.  A soothing balm against my skin.

Where did these welts come from?  They adorn my arms and legs in random pattern and size.  On my back I can feel burning tracks of raised flesh.  There is throbbing lump on my head.

I remember walking through the mall, shopping for shoes to match the new suit.  I tried so many pairs, none were right.  The colors were off, the toes pinched.  The heels were not the right height.  

The clerk was as frustrated as I was.  It seemed for hours, he brought box after box.  Measured and remeasured my feet.  He kept a smile fixed on his face.  Even when I waved the last half dozen away, he smiled.  There may have been a slight twitch in his left eye, though. 

That's all I remember.  The clerk stalking away with disarranged boxes of tissue paper and mismatched shoes.  

I wonder who puts them all back the way they were?

Awakening

Master Class 2013-Motherhood and Desperation


The Master Class is back in session!  It was my honor to choose this week's prompt.  I went a different direction than my usual "weird and twisted"   Any feed back is welcome!  And now...

Professor Stephanie says "I asked Renee to open any book of her choosing, open it to page 152, and give me the second line of the last paragraph.  She chose T.H. White’s The Once and Future King. Your line for this week, to be used anywhere in your story is:

“Desperation had given him authority.”

Wake the muse and get to work. Time is a-wasting. All assignments are now due by 9:00 pm EST on TUESDAYS. The new Master Class will go live every Wednesday (and to keep you on your toes, I’ll leave the time open. (: )

I expect to see a link up to YOUR story by Tuesday, April 16th, 9 PM EST.

The link up is live. Ready? Set? Write!!"

Joe huddled in the corner of the bench, his hands wrapped around the greasy brown bag that wrapped around the bottle.  His once olive green jacket, now faded to grime streaked gray, was stiff with old sweat.  Dirty nails tapped to a silent melody playing for him alone.  He stared vacantly at the traffic mauled street as lunch hour pedestrians hurried by, intent on seeing anything but him. 

Whether it was the squeal of several sets of brakes harmonizing with the rip of metal, or the orange that rolled jauntily across the sidewalk to his feet, Joe's attention suddenly focused on the scene in front of him.  

an elderly woman frantically tried to free herself from her car, that now straddled the curb. The middle aged executive slumped over the steering wheel of the BMW embedded in her sedan's rear quarter panel. the young Latina lay on the sidewalk, her groceries scattered around her.  The toddler with her recovered from his shock and began to scream in confusion and fear.

The people of lunch hour stood watching, uncertain what to do.  Their mouths pursed in O's of concern, eyes darting from one to the other.

Joe leaned forward, waiting, watching.  He tucked his bag in the corner of his bench.  As the toddler stumbled in widening circles around his fallen mama, Joe stood.  

To the passers-by, he simply materialized from the air.  With a voice so unused it sounded like the grinding of gears, he pleaded for someone to call 911.

They looked at him, then each other, and waited.  His desperation gave him authority.  Joe grabbed the shoulder of a khaki clad young man, his thumbs sliding across the touch screen that was his world. "Do you know how to make an actual call on that thing?  Call 911!"

The boy looked up, only then seeing the chaos.  "Holy shit!  Holy shit!" he pressed the keys and put the phone to his ear.

"Good boy!  Tell them holy shit there's been an accident with injuries"  Joe moved to the mother on the sidewalk, she moaned and tried to get up. "No, don't move, wait for the paramedics." he soothed.

"Bebe!" was all she said.  Joe located the boy and brought him to his mother, "He's okay, don't move."  He reached for the hand of a girl with bright blue hair, "You!  Come sit with her, talk to her! Hold the boy next to her!  Don't let her get up."

Regaining his feet he leaned into the window of the sedan. "Help is on the way.  Are you alright?"  

"I can't get out!"  she cried.

"They'll get you out...are you hurt?" She shook her head, "Then wait for help, you'll be alright."

The man in the BMW was beyond help.  The cars still on the street vied for lane space to get around the wreckage.  Horns blared and voices cursed.  Joe yelled at two large men, "Help direct the traffic, get the looky-loos moving before they cause another accident!"  The men moved into the street, working together, they restarted the flow.

Joe heard the sirens close in.  He stopped once more at the BMW,  shook his head, then glanced at the sedan.  The boy of smart-phone and khakis was holding the old woman's hand, keeping her occupied.

On the sidewalk, a man in nurse's scrubs was talking to the woman on the ground in Spanish.   The blue haired girl continued to cuddle the toddler, who was enamored of her nose ring and several necklaces.

Lunch forgotten, the pedestrians became minor heroes.  They'd have pride in remembering their quick responses.  

As the emergency vehicles arrived, Joe backed to the bench.  He picked up the orange and put it in his pocket.  Sliding onto the seat, he retrieved his bagged bottle and melted back into the corner.  His grubby fingers began tapping the rhythm. Summoning the melody that would block the sirens and loud voices, that would return to him his invisibility.   

Untrained

Master Class

 Stacey of Stacey’s Writing Moments was chosen to pick our line this week, read her piece from our last lesson, titled Winter. .

She chose Erma Bombeck’s Motherhood, The Second  Oldest Profession. Your line for this week, to open your stories, is….(drumroll please!!)

“One of the biggest complaints of motherhood is the lack of training.”

Put your thinking caps on and set your Muse to create. This assignment is due by 6:00 pm Monday, April 1, 2013 . Please identify the starting line by enclosing it in quotes, bolding, or italicizing.

"One of the biggest complaints of motherhood is the lack of training."

That's what I hear.  Oh, there are plenty of books, magazine articles, web sites, or pod casts.  But honestly, I wouldn't have read/listened to them if they'd been available anyway.  

I was busy reorganizing my life.  Buying baby clothes, furniture, supplies.  

My pregnancy was not planned.  I was a single mother.

I'd been hitting the snooze on my biological clock for years.  Evidently nap time was over.

No time for training in the motherly arts or keeping up on the latest mommy trends.  So, when the daughter arrived, I asked the best expert I knew.

My mother.

Was she an excellent mother?  Probably not, there were issues.  But, she had five kids.  She kept us all fed, housed, healthy and loved.  What other qualifications were necessary?

Did I turn out to be an excellent mother?  Probably not, it wasn't exactly my calling.  But, I kept her fed, housed, healthy, and loved.  Because that's how I was trained.




  

Happily Ever After; Part 5

Master Class, Week 8
First the congratulations and the prompt:  This week we had two aces. Michael of Innocents and Accidents, Hints and Allegations went outside the box with the cosmos of newborn parenting in Baby Monitor, and Tina of Not Just Another Mother Blogger came through with a calculated tale of domestic abuse with The Laughter of the Cosmos.

I asked them both to open a book and give me the first line from each. Tina chose Shadow of the Night by Deborah Harkness. Michael chose Winter Journal by Paul Auster. Your lines this week are:

From Shadow of the Night:

“The past cannot be cured.”

And from Winter Journal:

“You have entered the winter of your life.”

You can use these lines in any order, however you must begin the story with one and end it with the other. Please identify the lines in the story by enclosing them in quotes, bolding, or italicizing.

And now, my excuse prologue; I'm trying something a little...well, crazy here this week.  I have been writing and linking up to several prompts every week.  I've combined prompts and I've written separate stories to the individual prompts.  This week my goal is to write one story, and split it into parts.  Each part fitting one of the prompts I use.  It's my hope that each part stands alone, yet makes one understandable tale all together.

Part one is here  Part two is here and Part three is here and Part four is here


Okay then, on to the story....


“The past cannot be cured, Meeribel.” Arlord said. “You are Princess of the Realm of Windmore. All the choices that were made, by you, by myself, or by others, have placed you here.”

“You're saying that my father’s choice to trade me for a ewe made me a princess?” Meeribel raised an eyebrow, “He only wanted me to learn to be a lady. I’m sure becoming Princess of the Realm was not part of his vision.”

“Had he not sent you to the herbwife, who introduced you to Witch Willin, do you believe you’d be Princess now?” Arlord asked.

Meeribel raised the other eyebrow, “Maybe. Perhaps if my father had made a different choice, so would your father have made a different choice. And perhaps, a different Prince would have come to the farthest reaches of the Realm of Windmore. And perhaps, that Prince would have chosen me to be Princess.”

“Perhaps,” Arlord chuckled. “And would you still think that princessing was too much work?”

“Probably,” Meeribel sighed. “It can be very tiring to always smile and be polite.”

“That is part of the duty of a princess, Meeribel.”

“Part of the duty? What else would a princess do?”

“Well, a princess could, if she had the knowledge, inspect the royal flocks. Then she could report on the disposition of those flocks.” Arlord continued, “I have no real expertise in that matter. I can only accept what is told to me by the royal shepherds.”

“We have sheep? Why did I not know we had sheep?” Meeribel exclaimed.

“You never asked if we had sheep. You have never asked anything about the running of the Realm, Meeribel.”

Meeribel looked away from Arlord, her brow furrowed. “I never thought about the running of the Realm. I suppose I thought it simply took care of itself.” She looked back at the Prince, “I think I would like to learn more about that, perhaps I could do more than smile and be polite.”

“It could be harder work,” Arlord said with a wink.

Meeribel grinned, “It could not possibly be harder than smiling for no reason all the time. How much is there to learn?”

“I expect you will still be learning, Princess, when you have entered the winter of your life.”

                                                      
                                                       The End???
                                            

Murphy's Law, of Course

Master Class: Week 7
This week, to keep things interesting, I asked Steph to choose the first line from the fifth chapter of any book of her choosing. She chose Three Junes by Julia Glass. The first line of the fifth chapter is as follows:

“Clever how the cosmos can, in a single portent, be ingratiating yet sadistic.”

Use this line to start your stories. Please be sure to include the sentence in quotation marks.  Congratulations Steph!

"Clever how the cosmos can, in a single portent, be ingratiating yet sadistic."

The day began as most, the grating alarm insisting that I get out of bed.  After long minutes in front of the mirror, I deemed myself ready to greet the world.

Shivering into the winter morning, I cajoled the car into drive.  A quick stop at the corner convenience counter for a glorified hot chocolate pretending to be cappuccino, and my daily scratch off lottery ticket.  Then back to the almost warm front seat.

Since I had some minutes to spare, I sipped my over sugared brew and grabbed my lucky penny. I always used the same coin to scratch the silvery mask from the ticket.

Winner. WINNER!! BIGWINNER!!!

Not enough to quit my job, but perhaps an impromptu vacation was in order. The car rocked along with my happy dance as I planned my sun and fun break.

I called off for the day so I could trek to the closest lottery office. Closest requiring a three hour drive to the Big City.

Halfway to my destination, winter threw the inconvenience of heavy snow frenzied by heavy wind. I belatedly remembered the winter storm warning from the morning news.

Travel quickly became travail as traffic slowed to a crawl on the freeway. Visibility was reduced to a few feet beyond the hood of my car, and evidently for the car behind me.

The seemingly gentle bump sent me spinning across the lane and over the edge.  It wasn't a long drop by any means, and at least the old beast landed upright.  But after a quick trip outside of the car, I could see there was no getting back to the road.

I considered trying to flag a ride. But who would see me?  Or worse, who wouldn't see me and ram me unprotected back to my car.

So, I huddled into the barely warm front seat. And the snow continued.  And the wind. It wasn't long before the reduced view became no view.

*****

I think its been three days now.  I start the car occasionally for heat, but the fear of carbon monoxide keeps me from running it very long. There's snow for water, but not even a candy bar in the glove box to eat.

I haven't heard a snowplow, or any other traffic sounds.

As I consider the cost of medical care for frostbite and starvation, not to mention therapy for post-traumatic stress, I'm pretty sure the sun and fun vacation is off.

I hope my job is still there when the spring thaw finally uncovers me.

Slices of Secret

I think this piece stands alone, it is related to the post found here...

Master Class #6

Once again, we’re trying something new. Shannon was asked to pick any fiction book, turn to page 77 and give the seventh sentence as the prompt. This week, you will use the sentence somewhere within the body of your story. You can not use it to open or end your story. Please use bold font on the prompt sentence so that it can be found easily. Shannon chose Lev Grossman’s “The Magicians” and the prompt is:

He felt like a safe cracker who – partly by luck – had sussed out the first digit in a lengthy, arduous combination.

Liam strode purposefully to his rooms. He squashed the urge to run.  No reason to attract undue attention. His prize would mean little to anyone else, but that didn't mean it would be safe.

Once behind locked doors, he lay the loosely wrapped package on the stained counter top. Hesitating only a moment he unfolded the paper.

Liam felt a mixture of excitement and dread as he appraised his find. A slice of muddied green stone, the copper band around it badly corroded. He carefully pulled the last bits of metal away.

He pulled a worn velvet lined box from the room's only closet. Inside were nine more green slices graduated in size. The smallest was the outermost piece of a rounded stone. Within each slice, the image of a woman, her mouth wide in a scream, was imprinted.

"Who are ye, I wonder. And why does my Annie keep three of ye, and hunt for more," Liam spoke to the images laid out before him. He could feel the spell in the stones.  They pulsed erratically in the dim light.

Curious, he arranged the slices by size. Then stacked them one atop the other, ending with a rounded end-piece. He picked the pile up as a whole and could feel the pulse strengthen and grow steady.  The pieces tried to hold themselves together.  He felt like a safe cracker who – partly by luck – had sussed out the first digit in a lengthy, arduous combination.  What power might he gain if he could gain control of those bits that his Annie held?

Liam tightened his grip, his movement caused the pieces to shift and lose their hold on each other.  They reverted to the erratic rhythm.

Somewhat unnerved, Liam laid the ten slices carefully in the box, making sure to shuffle them out of order.

"Don't know who ye are, yet. But I'd as soon you didn't be asneakin' up on me at midnight before I find out."  He closed the lid and returned the box to the back of the closet shelf.

Old Acquaintances

 This image and These words from "Some Night" by FUN: I found a martyr in my bed tonight
She stops my bones from wondering just who I am, who I am, who I am

Tiger Eyes – Master Class 2013 #5

Congratulations to Carrie!  

In keeping with “changing it up,” when I asked Carrie for a line from a novel, I asked her to give me the last line. That’s right class, this week, you have to END on the prompt, not begin with it. Carrie chose Judy Blume’s Tiger Eyes, which ends with:

Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

and on to the story...

Liam hunched through the afternoon downpour.  His footing was sure on the rain slicked rocks as he climbed the rise toward the abandoned chapel. At the foot of the cracked and weather warped granite steps he stopped to survey ruin. The walls were mostly intact, the turrets not all crumbled. 

He mounted the first six stairs. Before he could reach the topmost step, a rush of air pushed him back. Leathery wings spread wide, framing a bestial face. The features were the same shade as the walls of the chapel. The cheeks and forehead were similarly marred by the erosion of years and weather.

"Thou shalt not enter this holy house, Liam Braden."  Its voice was as eroded as its face. 

"Ye're not serious, are ye?  Tis my family land, gargoyle."

"Thou art unclean. Thee may not enter."

"Unclean?  I'm soakin' wet!"  Liam attempted to side step the creature.

A rock hard hand gently blocked his move. "I am sworn to keep the unclean out of God's house. Thou hast partaken of human flesh, Liam Braden." 

"Ah, that. Well, they was already departed this world. It's not like I slew them meself." 

"And thou hast committed murderer." 

"Self defense."  Liam countered. 

The wings spread as the monster stood to full height. "The murder of thy Father and Mother were not self defense, nor the killing of thy siblings!" 

Liam sighed, "No, but I was under a compulsion.  It was not me fault."

It was the gargoyle's turn to sigh. "A geas set upon thee as the price for the dark gift thee chose to cheat death.  Thou cannot deceive me."

"Alright. Ye've got a point. But, honestly, how holy can this place still be?  None have worshipped here for centuries. And besides, I helped me father raise ye to the tower. T'was meself that named ye. Cedric."  Liam grinned.  "Ye were marvelous! All grim power and stony strength."

"Thee was a good boy then, Liam.  Cedric, yes, I remember."

"Then let me in, old friend. We'll reminisce."

Cedric pondered a moment. "My strength is not what it was, I am lonely. Against my judgement, I bid thee enter Liam Braden."

Together, they walked into the nave. Liam was surprised and unexpectedly pleased to see the stained glass behind the pulpit was intact. The weak light of the dreary day muted the once vibrant hues as they tinted the decomposing body that lay across the podium.

He glanced sidelong at the creature next to him. "Ye've been entertaining?"

"Badly behaved youngsters.  They thought to practice the black mass.  In fact, summoned a demon before I could rouse myself. I had to put a stop to that."

"And the others?"

"Fled. This one chose to martyr herself for her demon."  Cedric gazed sadly at the corpse. "A wasted effort. I sent it back to Hell anyway."

"I see."  Liam eyed the remains hungrily, "Perhaps I was sent to help ye cleanse the house.  I could, oh, dispose of that bit a mess for ye."

"Ghouls!"  Cedric rolled his stony eyes. "Alright then.Maybe that's the way its supposed to be."

The Boy

Week #4

This week's book is the  Margret Atwood’s classic, The Handmaid’s Tale, whose opening sentence is:

We slept in what had once been the gymnasium.

here is my offering;




We slept in what had once been the gymnasium. I'm sixteen now, so me and Gram and some of the men is on roundup.  Roundup is where we go out to the old, hardpack trails and find other peoples looking for a safe place to stay.  Cause most places isn't safe. That's why the fedment wants everyone to live in partments under they law.

But it got night so we stayed in the gymnasium.  That's what Gram called it.  She said it was a part of schoolclass where kiddos practiced sportplay.

I never had school. They stopped when I was two. Gram said a lot of things stopped when the sick came.  Gram said a lot of peoples died.  Like my dad, and big sis.  I don't remember them.

Gram is got a freespace. Fams get they own househome to live in and a little dirt to grow veges and berrifruit. Some fams share they dirt to grow beefs and porkers for food. And some grow different kinds a woolies to get they hair for making wear and covers. And we use they milks for soapbars.

Mama says they used to be mallmarkets to get all that stuff for money.  I don't understand what she means.  We trade things we make good for things other people make good.  I seen money, but it doesn't look like it's good for anything.

Gram shows new people stuff they can learn to make so they can trade for what they don't.  Sometimes partment people sneak out to trade stuff the fedment give 'em for freemade stuff. They say our foods is better tasted than what they get.

They bring tronics and metals and meds to trade. We dont make many meds. We use herbleafs. But sometimes that's not enough.

Metals get made into pretties or tools. We use the tronics to hear netspeak. That's how we know its time for roundup.   

Peoples get on the freenet and say they going to find space and what way they is going. The bad part is bandies listen too. Sometimes on roundup we find peoples robbed and dead. Sometimes we help peoples get away.

The peoples that lived will come to Gram's freespace or keep on to find they own.  We hope they get luck.  Some just go to the partments so they don't have to work dirt. 

Working dirt is hard, but I get all I need from it.  Gram showed me growing and puttinup.  And I can make my own wears and covers from woolie hair. I can cut it off the woolies and spin it. Then I can weave and knit for pieces of wear.

Sometimes I trade my makes for tools to make dirt work easy. Sometimes I trade for pretties.  Mama trades for books if she can find 'em.  She tries to show me how to see the words. Its hard, but I can know some of 'em. 

She says I need to know more so I remember how to make stuff. And learn to make new stuff. So I try hard as I can.  I seen pics of stuff I want to know how to make. Mama has lots of pics. Sometimes they make her cry. She won't say why.

One of the fams here has a girl kiddo I like. She makes pretties and she makes good wears. She can know a lot more words than me too. She helps me know some. 

I hope when I get my own househome and dirt she will like to work it with me. 

Duty

Master Class #3

Roxanne’s choice of opening sentence for this week’s class promises to generate some more creative and off-the-wall writing. She chose Kelle Groom’s book I Wore the Ocean in the Shape of a Girl whose opening line is:

Morphine makes me weightless, airborne.

Morphine makes me weightless, airborne.  That wouldn't be useful just now.

So, I embrace the pain. Ripping my body, searing my brain with fire tipped knives.

Oddly, it keeps me focused.

When my thoughts stray from the job, the pain invades and shreds the edges of my sanity.

Morphine makes me fuzzy around the edges. I forget the face of my target. When it wears off, I'm reminded of my duty with punishment harsher than before.  

Acid tipped knives.

I embrace the pain, focus on the face.

Squeeze.

Relief that outclasses morphine floods my exhausted flesh. 

I'll be airborne, until the next face floats into the margins of my vision.

Some Days

Our opening sentence this week is from "Emma Donoghue’s “Room“ 

The first sentence is:   Today I’m five.

Today I am five.

I am five today because I want to sleep beyond four am.

I want to get up late and play with my toys.

I want to play with my toys and my friends and their toys.

I want to watch cartoons and laugh hysterically for no reason.

I want to stomp my foot when I don’t get my way.

I want to stomp both feet when no one listens to me.

I want to say what I want without a filter.

I want…I want to throw a tantrum.

So, today, I will be five!

Out of the Woods

this was more fun! The assignment: you will be presented with the opening sentence of a famous (or not so famous) book. You are to write a story using the same first sentence; 

Dodie Smith’s “I Capture the Castle” whose opening sentence is:

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink because it’s the only place that’s safe. I don’t know what the little bastards are, but they're mean and there’s a lot of them.

They came from the woods. I suppose it’s my own fault, sort of. Something was getting into the trash cans, so I put out live traps. Figured I’d catch ‘coons or 'possums raiding the garbage. Boy, was I wrong!

I went out the next morning and there was one of those little buggers in the trap. Snarling and glaring with pure hate. It was only about eight or nine inches tall, slick gray hide mottled with ugly purple. And teeth, it had nasty, yellow, pointy teeth. Lots of ‘em. Along with nasty, black claws. I may have screamed.

So I got a shovel out of the shed, prepared to beat the shit out of it. Of course, I couldn’t do that with the cage closed, and I wasn't about to open it. So I got the garden hose, prepared to drown the critter.

It didn’t drown. I hit it with the water and it screeched an awful snarly screech. Then it shriveled up like a raisin and fell into pieces. I may have screamed again.

But at least it was gone and my garbage was safe.

Hah!

I was fixing my supper when I heard the trash can lid hit the ground. “Damn,” I thought, “ there can’t be another one.”

But oh yeah, there was another one, or twelve or twenty. And they were pissed. It wasn’t just the trash they were after this time.

I went out yelling, intending to grab the hose and “raisin” the whole bunch of ‘em. It’s my belief that’s what they were waiting for. I wasn’t two steps out the door before they were after me. I know I screamed then.

I hightailed it back inside, but them sonuvabitches is quick. They got inside with me.

I couldn’t get to the bathroom, so I ended up here in the sink. I’ve got the dish sprayer, and I “raisined” a couple. I managed to reach a grill fork and stabbed another two or three, they bleed foul smelling, yellow yuck, but that doesn’t seem to kill ‘em. Just slows ‘em down a bit.

The water is what gets ‘em. They’ve backed off for a while. I’m not sure where they went, but I’ll be damned if I’m getting out of the sink.

Shit, I think I hear ‘em coming back. They sound kinda gleeful…