Novel Idea, Day 14

Good morning, readers!  Well, I must admit that I cheat a little bit.  See, I have actually been thinking about ALL of these writing prompts since I published them.  Yup - that many ideas running around in my head, virtually all the time.  So I have had a little bit of time to think about some of these ideas, and today's is one that I wasn't sure about how to handle, at first.

Theme: The world is still "A" Theocracy

Initial thoughts: there's a reason for the quotes - a theocracy doesn't mean any specific theology.  I find that when you write about a god, a creation story, etc, there are a lot of people who are so dependent upon THEIR version of things, they can't get out of their version of things to see another point of view.  That's a little of why this topic is important to write about - getting out of our own personal beliefs and experiences in order to create something worth reading.  But what kind of theocracy would I write about?  Mean?  Evil? Kind? Utopic in nature?  A natural theocracy? At heart is the question, "Is a theocracy good in general, for humanity?"  Several avenues to pursue here, and a lot of questions. This is complex, no doubt.

The Bishop was coming, and the entire city was in an uproar over it.  There were only a few reasons the Bishop ever came to the city: appointments of significance, executions of significance, or there was about to be a major change.  It was good for the city, in that there was special effort made to clean it up, but in all, it put people on edge, and that meant trouble for most.  It meant extra work for everyone, but especially those in the central corridor, where the Bishop would be making an appearance.

     Damon didn’t much care for the Bishop, or the Church, really.  He couldn’t see how it did anything for him, other than make his life difficult once every so often.  His small shop on the main boulevard leading to the Cathedral was unfortunately a prime ground for the Church’s right hand, the At Ethica,  to check for violations.  It still mystified him how having the wrong advertisement in the window could offend God, but according to the AE, that was exactly what was happening.  Everyone knew, of course, that it was merely the Bishop’s desire to see that everything was functioning as he thought it should, and nothing seemed amiss.  If it did, there would be months of fines and problems for the offenders.  The exposure for his little shop, though, was well worth the price of cleaning and making sure everything was in readiness for the Bishop’s arrival. 

     As he rounded the corner on his way to the shop, he could see the flashing lights.  This was never a good thing the day before the parade.  Someone must have had a serious violation, to pull out the flashing lights.  One of his neighbors, no doubt.  The AE would be there to question him about this, too. 

     “So much for an easy day,” he said aloud as her turned down his street.

     “Damon!” said a voice nearby.  It was whispered, but urgent.

     Damon looked around.  Between two buildings he saw the shadowy outline of his friend and longtime neighbor, Fedlin. 

     “What are you doing hiding in there, Fedlin?”

     “The AE – they’re at my shop!”

     “Oh, that’s not good!  What did you do?”

     “I did nothing, but when I got to the shop this morning, my windows were all broken in!  What am I going to do?  The Bishop will not be pleased!”

     “First, you need to calm down.  If you did nothing wrong, they will simply make you pay a small fine for the mess.  I will help you clean it.  But hiding – the AE will take it badly.  Do they know you were there already?”

     “I don’t think so.” 

     “Well, good.  Let’s pretend like we’re on the way to work together, and maybe this will only be so bad.”

     “Are you certain?  I don’t want to get you into any trouble.”

     “They’re going to question me too, my friend.  Might as well get it over with.  If they know we’re friends, they won’t suspect me of hiding anything.”

     “All right, then.”  Fedlin started for the opening to the alley and stopped short.  “Thanks, Damon.  I appreciate it.”

     “Any time.  Now let’s go.”

     They rounded the corner and talked just like they would on normal occasions, each knowing what was coming.  They got to Damon’s shop and stood, staring down the street.  The AE was used to people not coming forward immediately.

     “Excuse me, Sir.  Are you the owner of this shop?”

     They were quicker than normal.

     “Yes,” said Damon.  “This is my shop here.  How can I help you officer?”

     “Do either of you know the owner of the shop three doors down from here, a Fedlin Abernathy?”

     “I am Fedlin Abernathy.”

     “You don’t seem shocked to see us outside your shop, Sir.”

Not sure where that one might go, and obviously, this is a place where there is a church and it has a lot of power and influence.  Could be an interesting story - the world may never know......

Thanks for reading,

Me

Novel Idea, Day 13

After making that initial list of topics to write about, I've been turning over a bunch of them in my head, on a rotating basis.  Some of them, I just can't really get a feel for something to write.  Others come pretty easily.  Today's theme was a bit difficult, and I've been wrestling with it a bit.  When I sat down to write today's page, I thought it was going to go somewhere completely different.  When I realized where it WAS going, I saw it was even better.  I hope you enjoy it.

Theme:  Trapped in a mirror universe.

Initial thoughts:  This is tough for a couple reasons - the first is defining the "mirror" of a mirror universe.  What is different?  Everything?  Just a few things?  People?  Circumstances?  It's a pretty big concept to play with, and to do it well is tough.  This is the typical "Fish Out of Water" scenario, and that's what drives stories like this - the thought of "what new mess will our main character find themselves in?"  So what's changed?  I think this should be written in the firs-person, either like a correspondence or a diary entry.  That offers some more interesting ideas.  Do I get into politics?  Given the current climate, THAT could be interesting.  Hmmmmm....What if society was largely matriarchal?  There's some meat there to feast on.  And away we go......

    The funny thing about being trapped in a mirror universe is that you don’t know whether you’ve been trapped in one, or if you’re just going crazy.  I should know.  I’ve been living here for five years.  Just when you think you get the hang of it, there’s always something that throws you off.  It’s a tiny thing, you think, something that just makes sense, and so you get a little complacent, take it for granted, and assume everyone thinks like that.  Only, of course, they don’t.

     I saw it in silly things, at first.  Traffic lights here are different in that you go on red and stop on green.  That took a little while to get used to, but I managed.  You want a high golf score here.  Tax day is in November, not April, and Christmas is in June.  It was things like that, mostly, and that’s fine.  In the grand scheme of life, these are relatively unimportant to me.  I can get used to that, and I did.  It just takes a little getting used to and knowing how to keep your mouth shut and let the situation explain itself.  That’s mainly how I’ve been able to get through life here.  That, and some patience. 

     In all, it’s not a bad place.  It’s not the horror show that science fiction writers of our world make it out to be.  Not at all.  Things are just a little different.  They add up quickly, and if you’re not careful, you’ll make some error and get into trouble.  You have to mind the specifics.  Never greet anyone with a “good morning,” always shake hands with the left, and should you go out dancing, remember to let the lady lead.  I think that’s the hardest thing to get used to: society here grew up along the matriarchal line.

     It’s really very different, and took a lot to get used to.  For one, women commonly cat-call the men as we walk along, minding our own business.  I was kind of flattered by it, at first, and rather enjoyed the attentions when it first began happening.  There’s nothing like knowing you’re attractive to the opposite sex, after all.  But then, I began to notice that it wasn’t about being told I was attractive.  There was a lewdness to it.  Now, I don’t look forward to it at all.  I keep my head down, and I’ve started to wear longer coats so as to hide my figure a little more.  Pants below the knee don’t real much, thankfully.

     The men here do a lot of preening and primping in order to look good for their women.  I don’t quite understand why this is all necessary, and frankly, I think it makes most men look rather foolish and stupid, but that’s the culture here.  I don’t do anything beyond a little cologne.  I was told yesterday that if I put a little more care into myself, that I could really be quite handsome and would have no trouble finding a lady.  I thanked the guy who told me that politely and went on my way. 

     I’ve found there are certain things you have to be careful of, too.  I’ve learned – the hard way – not to leave your drink unattended at the bar.  I don’t like to talk about it.  I don’t want to be known as a fool, or an easy target.  It’s bad enough that I have to live with knowing what happened that night.  Or, rather, NOT knowing what happened that night.  I don’t remember much.  I remember being kissed by a woman.  Maybe there was more than one.  Like I said, I don’t like to talk about it. 

     There are some bonuses to this society, though.  Politics is better.  There are the occasional fights in Congress, and there’s the usual vote-trading and things like that, but it’s pretty clear who works well with who, and they generally get things done.  The air is cleaner here, and there’s a lot more respect for different races.  I suppose sexism is a small price to pay for those benefits.  It’s not that I’m afraid of going out, it’s just not worth the hassle, most of the time.  I’d rather just sit in my apartment and go about my life, live quietly here, while I keep trying to figure out how to get back home. 

     It’s been five years, and I haven’t found a way back yet.  I’m beginning to think I may never get back again.  Maybe I should go out and see if there’s any way to find a good woman to take care of me, and settle down and raise a family.  That’s not so mad a life.  It beats living alone, at least.  Or maybe I’ll just get a cat.  Or three.  Yeah, that’s not going to help my chances, I don’t think. 

     Sitting here, writing this, I realize that I feel a bit like Dorothy in “The Wizard of OZ.”  I don’t think anyone here would understand that reference, but I feel like all I want to do is click my heels three times, and then I can be whisked away off home, and this will all be a bad dream.  A really long, bad dream.  Or maybe I can just re-write all the classics from my world and make a whole lot of money.  That would be something.  They don’t even know who Shakespeare was.  That didn’t happen here.

Thanks for reading,

Me

Novel Idea, Days 11 and 12

Oops - missed posting yesterday!  No problem!!!  Today you get a double dose, again!!

Theme: Earthquakes

Initial thoughts: I have never really been in an earthquake, so I don't know too much about them.  But I know that animals can sense them coming, and some people can do likewise.  What would it be like to be one of those people?  What if this was a systemic problem?  Yes, yes, that's enough to start something!!

 “You should pull your pies in from the window,” Janae said to Farina Holcox.  “I feel another quake coming soon.”

     “Thank you Janae- always so considerate of you, Janae.”

     “Wouldn’t want one of your pies going to waste!” said Janae.

     Janae continued on her way through the village, secure in the knowledge she at least had saved the pies.  There were some things not worth mentioning to folks, but letting one of Farina’s pies go to waste was too much.  Besides, the quakes were coming more frequently now.

     Janae was always able to feel them, for as long as she could remember.  She wasn’t sure why, but there was a distinct change in the air and the feel of the land right before a quake.  It was like the ground was taking a sharp intake of breath before it sneezed.  The quakes weren’t too large, for the most part, but it was the frequency that concerned her.  It wasn’t normal.  It wasn’t right.

     She ducked into the barn behind the house she shared with her husband, Makel, and their two children, just as the next quake hit.  The barn rattled, causing a rake to fall off its hanging place on the wall.  Dust shook from the rafters and fell quietly to the ground, crossing the beams of early morning sunlight streaming through the window.  The horses whinnied in their stalls and stamped their hooves uneasily.

     She went over to calm them, petting their velvety noses and talking soothingly to the beasts.  Makel would be out any moment, she knew.  He was a good man, but sometimes he was more in tune with the horses than he was with her and the children.  She sighed to herself, supposing it was the condition of being married to a farmer in a small village.  It wasn’t far off from being the daughter of a blacksmith, a man who spent more time taking care of his tools than he did taking care of his family. 

     “I didn’t expect to see you out here,” said Makel from behind her.

     “I was just on my way back from the market, and felt the quake,” she said.  “I thought I would lend a hand.”

     Makel came up behind her and hugged her.  “Thank you,” he said simply.  “I know that this isn’t the life you wanted –“

     She quieted him with a finger on his lips.  “This is the life I chose, my husband.  And it is a far better life than that of the daughter of a drunken blacksmith.”

     “Still,” he said, “I know that this isn’t what you’d hoped for.  I’m trying to make things better for us and the children.”

     “The children are happy here, my love.  I am happy here,” she said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.  “With you.”

     “Are you sure, my dear?”

     “Yes.  I am.  No, we don’t have a lot, but we have what we need.  More importantly, the children and I are loved well.  You’re a good man, Makel.  Oh –“ she stopped, her arms out, balancing herself.

     “Is there another quake coming?”

     “No.  This – this is something entirely different.  We need to get the children.”

     “What’s wrong?”

     “Makel, I don’t know, but something is terribly wrong.  Get the wagon hitched up.  I’ll get the children ready.  We need to leave this place immediately!”

     She ran into the house and up the stairs, her feet barely touching the steps.  “Kip! Nan!  Grab your bags!  We have to get out of here!”

     She grabbed the bag she had packed for herself and Makel off the nail where it hung outside their bedroom door on her way to the children’s room.  Opening the door, she found them, quickly dressing. 

     “Hurry” she said to them.  “There’s no time to waste!” 

     As she ran back down the steps, Makel came in from the barn.

     “Everything is ready,” he said.  “Where are the children?”

     “Getting dressed,” she said.  “I just have to get the food and we’ll be all ready.”

Ok, number two.  I decided to take on one of the challenging themes.

Theme: All alone on an island  Difficulty: must be all conversation.

Initial thoughts: This was designed to sort of be an example of what people are like when we're alone.  The conversations we have with the air about the things we wanted to say but didn't, the stuff we wish we could say and do, the heroes we wish we could be to ourselves, but somehow cannot or will not be when we are among others.  It felt a little like channeling Tom Hanks in Castaway here for a bit.  Maybe that all comes through, maybe not, but that sort of delving into a little madness is what I was thinking about.

     “Because, you know what this is, don’t you?  This is her little way of getting rid of me without having to do much of anything.  Really, how hard could it be?  All you have to do is force a plane to crash in the middle of the ocean, and let me be the lone survivor on a deserted island, claim the life insurance, and run off with whomever she damned well pleased!  It’s not that hard to make it happen!  What, it’s easy!  She goes and gets a slow-acting drug and meets the pilots ahead of time, gets them a couple drinks, and they’re taken care of.  She could do it.  She’s attractive enough to pull it off.  In the right outfit, they would fall for it.  Every time.”

     “Or what about this?  She simply paid them off?  It’s simpler, and people will expect her to make some larger-than-life changes once I’m out of the picture.  No one will care.  No one will say a thing.  I’ll fade away, gone from memory, never to be heard of again.  She’ll go on with her life, and nobody will be any the wiser.  In fact, the only difference between me and her right now is that her warm sunny island has a 5-star hotel sitting on the beach and some damned room service!  That’s where she is!”

     “It sounds a little nuts, I’ll grant you, but can you prove me wrong?  No, you can’t, and do you want to know why?  Because you’re not really here to listen to me, are you?  No – you’re somewhere else, with air conditioning, electricity, food, fresh water – FROM THE TAP – and don’t care one damned little bit about little old me out here in the middle of nowhere, because the last you heard, the plane went down and I have ceased to exist!!  I’m fish food!  I’m CHUM.  I’m less than that – by now, I’m the excrement of the shark that ate the fish that ate the smaller fish that ate the chum!”

     “I have to hand it to her – it’s a good plan.  I never saw it coming.  How could I?  I suppose I was too absorbed in what I was doing.  That’s always a possibility.  Maybe I just didn’t pay enough attention to her.  I don’t know.  Maybe that’s it – I worked hard so she could have a good life – a life she wanted, and naturally, she goes and sends me to a deserted island for the rest of my natural life!  HA!  Well, there will be no pension – I’m too young – so take THAT!  Maybe you’ll get a settlement from the insurance, and maybe from a lawsuit to the airline, but after the lawyers get ahold of that, you’ll have nothing!  NOTHING!”

     “No, I got the better end of this deal!  Here I am, without a soul around, all the sunshine I can desire, and look, I’ve already lost about two inches from my waist!  That’s right – I’m on the best weight-loss program ever, and looking and feeling great!  No schedules, no responsibilities, no listening to her telling me how she wants this and that and the next thing and me waking every day wondering what she’ll want from me next.  I am FREE!”

     “I am the master of all I survey!  Look upon me, and quake at the sight of the Lord of this Island!  All shall love me, and all shall fear my wrath!  Yes, even you, my doting, darling, dementing, deadly, dearest – you most of all!  I don’t know how, but I’m going to get off this island, I’ll come and find you, and then, then you’re really going to get it, because then I will find the biggest ambulance-chaser around and sic them on you like there’s no tomorrow!  You’ll lose everything, just like I have.”

     “But how?  How am I going to find my way off this island to civilization again?  I don’t know!  That’s why I’m going to succeed – because I am a man without limits, and I will do anything I can in order to get the job done!  All I have to do is keep trying.  Never give up.  I’ll get off here, I’ll make it back, I’ll write a best-seller, and show the entire world that no matter what it tries to do to me, I am going to win!  You thought you had to try hard to keep men down in the past, Universe??  God??  No, you haven’t seen anything yet!  You made one mistake betting against me – you gave me an island!”

Thanks for reading,

Me

Novel Idea, Day 10

Wow - one third of the way into this challenge, and it's been rather fun so far.  I'm really enjoying doing this, and I appreciate the writing that has been shared thus far - you folks know who you are.  Some really great stuff, and I love sharing this with you!!  Thank you!!

Theme: Tattoo Shop

Initial thoughts: Tattoo shops are all about art, and the appreciation of it.  What do I like about them?  What do I not like?  What do the artists like about?  What draws them to ink on flesh?  What draws the customers?   What about the addicts? Hmmmm....there's an angle.  Let's explore that...

The little bell rang as the door opened, letting in the cold February wind for a moment before it shut again.  From the little office in the back of the studio, Mahlania could feel just the faintest change in the temperature.  She looked at the security feed, and saw the customer standing at the front.  He had the shakes.  It was going to be one of those days.

     “How can I help you?” she asked as she came into the main part of the studio. 

     It was a large room with high ceilings, the evidence of the old copper panels still there in places.  Along the edges of the ceiling, plaster molding that was in various states of crumbling was still visible.  Artwork from artists past and present adorned the walls, creating a hodgepodge of style and elements, ranging from the subtle to the ridiculous.  There were several chairs and tables set up for use by the artists, where the customers would patiently get their fresh ink.  Or, as was the case lately, not so patiently.

     “I was hoping to get some ink,” said the young man. 

     He was short and thin, and his features looked like he was malnourished and living on the street, but for the fact that he was clean.  If he was on the street, he hadn’t been there long.  It was difficult to tell with the junkies.  The shakes gave him away immediately.

     “I can’t give you any ink when you’re like this,” said Mahlania.  “You won’t be able to sit still, and then the tattoo would be all messed up.  It will look horrible.”

     “But I need this.  Please, can you help me?”

     Mahlania knew what he needed.  It was the ink itself.  There was something new and different about the ink that most of the shops had these days.  She’d seen it.  The ink shimmered in the bottle, in a way it wasn’t supposed to.  It was synthetic, they said, and it was easier to work with than the old-school inks.  It caused less pain, and it stayed true to color longer.  It became all the rage in the city, especially among the younger generations.  There was only one problem – it was addictive.

     She never used the stuff.  Business was booming, for certain, and she had her share of customers who were coming in for fresh ink, assuming she was using the new brand.  She wouldn’t turn them away, but she didn’t have to tell them she wasn’t using the product.  But when they were like this, she wouldn’t work on them. 

     “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I’ll tell you what I can do.  Why don’t you sit down and look over some designs, have a cup of tea, and figure out what you want?  It will warm you up.”

     “I don’t care what design you put on me, I really just need this.  Please?’

     Mahlania put a hand on his shoulder.  “I know.  But I care.  This is my work I’m talking about, and I don’t want to put out anything that isn’t great.  You’re cold.  You’re shaking.  I can’t do my best work when you’re like this.”

     “Other shops will do it.”

     “Other shops don’t give you the quality that I do.”

     “Ink is ink.”

     “Not all art is equal,” she quipped back.  “Now what will it be? Stay and get warm, or be on your way?”

     “I’ll stay.”

     “Good.  I’ll get you some tea.”

     She disappeared back into the office for a moment, and heard the distinct sound of the bell again at the door.  She knew he probably left.  She looked at the monitor again, and saw him, standing at the door, holding it open.  He wanted to leave, but he couldn’t.  She watched through the monitor as he slowly closed the door again, remaining inside.  She smiled.  There was hope for this one.

     “Show me what ink you’ve gotten?” she asked as she came back into the studio.

     He rolled up his sleeve to show her the shimmering ink that covered his arm in senseless patterns.

     “Who did this to you?” she asked, appalled.

I kind of enjoyed this one.  There's a lot more I could add, of course, but for a single page, this does pretty nicely!!  Something I have noticed:  if you're reading carefully, you can see when the story is interesting to the writer, and when it becomes boring to the writer.  This is true whether it's a play, a novel, an essay - it doesn't matter.  One of my goals as a writer is to create interesting scenarios.  They might be longer stories or shorter ones - that largely depends on the details of the story and the complexities of plot - but they have to be interesting, otherwise, I feel like they fall flat.  That's what part of this exercise is about: creating interesting tales that make you want to go on to page two.  Anyway....

Thanks for reading,

Me

Novel Idea, Day 9

I don't want to write today, but I will.  I want to be huddled in my bed, like this nightmare isn't happening, but no, I woke up and got out of bed.  Funny that today, the clouds are grey and overcast, and there is a pall of silence draped over this city.  It feels surreal, and hollow.  BUT, regardless of who wins, who loses, and how it impacts our lives, we will continue on.  Dramatic?  yeah, a little.  It's how I feel, dear readers.  I make no apologies for it, nor do I ask you to like it.  It just is.

So, what to write?

Theme: Phrase, "The wind shakes me."

Initial thoughts:  I've seen a very interesting perspective on this phrase already, and to be honest, I have no idea where it came from.  It was simply a phrase that entered my head, and I couldn't get rid of it.  So here it is.  What does wind shake?  How does it shake?  Metaphor or real wind?  Have I ever actually been shaken by the wind?  I have....

     The wind blew fiercely.  It was a hot wind, the kind that only soldiers knew about.  It brought with it the smells of fresh gunpowder, freshly turned dirt, and blood.  There were the noises, too, of explosions and screams.  But mostly, it was the feel of the air Danilee remembered most.  It turned his stomach then, and even the memory of it turned his stomach now, as he sat by the window looking through the old clippings from the war.

     He was a lot younger, then, sent off to battle by politicians who never knew what it was like, making decisions from behind large heavy desks in comfortable offices, sending the young and able to die in their stead.  He didn’t understand that, at the time.  They simply told him it was his duty to go and fight on some other country’s soil, and so he did.  There was no thought behind it.  He always regretted that decision.  It wasn’t that he regretting fighting, the lives he was forced to take, or even the lives of the friends he lost.  No, that wasn’t the worst thing about the war.

     The worst was by far the wind.  When he left, he loved the small of a gentle summer breeze, just enough to wave a flag in the air, or a tablecloth drying on a line.  The smells of honeysuckle wafting at you while you worked in the garden or sat back on the porch and cracked open a cold beer in early June, before it got too hot to want to be outside, were never joyful for him after he got back.  He tried to enjoy it, and after many years, he could finally be out in the wind and not feel afraid of it, but he still had to exert a conscious effort to not recoil.

     That was something they never told him about.  It made sense, of course.  If you told young men they would never be able to stand in the wind and not be looking over their shoulder for the bullets flying at them, how would you ever get them to sign up for war?  No, that’s not how it was done.  They told the men they would be honored, favored, and would return home to a hero’s welcome.  And maybe they were.  Some were.  Danilee remembered coming back to a parade, where they were required to march down the streets of the city as though they were on inspection from their Drill Sargent.  He stood tall that day, but that was easy to do, with his brothers-in-arms beside him.

     It was when he got back home that he noticed the wind.  It didn’t matter how soft and gentle the breeze, it shook him to the core, made his knees go weak and turned his stomach.  The rainstorms were the worst, especially if there was thunder and lightning.  They took him back, each and every time, to the battlefield.  The flashes of light and the sounds of explosions in his ears had him diving under his bed the first few times he heard them.  It drove him mad.

     They called it being “shell-shocked,” and there was no cure, the doctors said.  He knew better.  There was a cure, and he was the one who found it.  The wind still got to him, and still nauseated him, but he could control it now, thanks to the ancient medallion that hung from his neck.  He didn’t know where it came from, exactly, only that it was the acupuncturist that gave it to him.  He thought it was silly, at first.  He was told to simply hold it in his hand when a storm came, and he would be fine.  The first time he did was the first time since the war – some thirty years ago now – that he slept well.  He decided to wear it from that moment on.

     That was the mistake.  While it was true he no longer had to fear the wind, what he didn’t understand was the magic the medallion needed to work, and the blood sacrifice necessary to keep it working.  Now, when the storms came, Danilee would black out, with no memory of anything.  The police, meanwhile, would a fresh body soon afterwards.  They’d dubbed him, “The Thunderstorm Killer.”  He’d already put the pieces together.  He found the bloody clothes in his closet.  He tried to quit.  He took the thing off.  He buried it in the backyard.  He even went to the lake and threw it in.  He would wake up the next morning with it around his neck, with no explanation how it got there.

     He needed to move, to get away from the thunderstorms.  His house had been packed up for weeks, the furniture sold off.  He was going to load up his van and move out west.  That was the only solution – to get away from the storms.  No storms meant no sacrifice needed.  Maybe he could get away from the need for the medallion, then.  Maybe.  

Thanks for reading,

Me

Novel Idea, Day 7 and Day 8!

OK, today is election day.  I hope you voted.  That being said, there's a lot of "doom and gloom" out there, from both sides of the aisle, about what is happening to the world.  It's tough to look at it and see truth.  It makes me feel a little bit morose, to be honest.  Sullen, perhaps.  but what else should we do, on a day like today, then write on some interesting themes??

Theme: The world will end tomorrow, and you're the only one who knows it.

Initial thoughts: NOPE, staying out of this particular election.  I can't do it.  it's too....close to home.  But, since there's so much doom and gloom out there, this is a good theme to write about.  What would it be like for the person who knows?  What would they being going through?  Yeah, I can make this happen.  OK.

     It wasn’t the end.  Not yet.  That would be tomorrow.  Therold knew it was so, as he looked out the window over the city stretching out below him.  It was unavoidable now.  The Foreseer told him this day would come, and that, when it did, he would have one choice left to him.  He tried to avert it.  He tried to get around this day for the last twenty years, all for nothing.  He sighed as he turned from the window, his hands on the back of his head, wondering what, if anything, he should do.

     Twenty years.  It really didn’t feel like it was that long, most days.  But here he was, at the pinnacle of society, the one person who could have done something, anything, to stop this day from coming.  And it came anyway.  Tomorrow would bring the utter destruction of all life.  There was no stopping it now.  The door opened, and Kyran, his long-time manservant, appeared. 

     “The Foreseer is here, as you requested, Sir.”

     “Thank you, Kyran.  Show him in, if you would.  Also,” he added, “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off.  Be with your family.  I don’t give you enough time to do that.”

     “Sir?”

     “I’m just fine.  I’m feeling a little more like the man I wish I could be more often,” said Therold.  “Really, go home to your wife and children.  Surprise them with something.”

     “Thank you, Sir,” said Kyran, as he ushered the Foreseer through the door and closed it behind him.

     Therold bowed graciously to the Foreseer, who inclined his head slightly in return.

     “Well, it’s here.”

     “After all you have done to avoid it, it came anyway.”

     “Was there anything I could have done that would have averted it?”

     “No.”

     Therold sighed.  All he wanted to hear was that he was responsible, that it could have been different if he made better choices.  “Then why tell me at all?”

     “Do you not know?” said the Foreseer.  “For twenty years, you’ve been trying to make the world a better place, to do more for those in need, to make sure that life could continue.  Without you, this would have happened eighteen years ago.”

     “But why even let it continue?  Why not just let it end back then, instead of doing all this work for nothing?”

     “Who said it was for nothing?”

     “But we’re still going to die – each and every one of us is going to die, including you!”

     “Yes.”

     “What was the point of it, if I couldn’t stop it from happening?”

     “To try.”

     “That’s not an answer!”

     “It is, if you understand the question.”

     “You do nothing but speak in riddles.  You told me twenty years ago this day would come, and after twenty years of work, your only answer is that it was important to keep trying?”

     “Yes.”

     “WHY???”  Therold nearly shouted, exasperated.

     “Because we are not the end of life,” said the Foreseer.  “There are those who will come after us, some from far away galaxies, from places we cannot imagine.  They will see our ruins, and they will come to know our story.  They will see what became of us, and they will know what not to do.”

     “That doesn’t help me here.”

     “No, but it helps them.  Your influence will be felt centuries after you are gone.”  

Theme: wielding a familiar weapon

Initial thoughts:  This is a tough one.  I think it's common to assume the person likes what he or she does with this weapon.  What if a person didn't enjoy the weapon, though?  What if they hated it?  Why would they hate it?  What could cause that?  What kind of a person would hate the weapon they were familiar with using?  A reluctant warrior?  They would have to be compelled to use the weapon at the highest level.....

  “I hate you,” he said, looking down to his left hand. 

     The blade of his katana dripped with fresh crimson, the blood he spilled once again in the name of someone else.  As always, the battle was brief, over almost before it began, and left the pit of his stomach reeling from the senseless death surrounding him.  He dared not linger, he knew, but the longer he went without paying the penance for his actions, the worse the hunger would be. 

     His knees hit the floor, and he held up the blade, its sinewy, graceful length glinting red in the dim light.  There, amongst the bodies, high up in the office building, he uttered the ritual prayer, handed down to him from on High.  The shaking began almost instantly – a deep tremor that made his surroundings jump, building until he could no longer comprehend what was real and what was only in his imagination.  Then, silence.

     In the quiet, he saw the battle, such as it was.  Every motion a lesson in the efficiency of movement, not an ounce of energy wasted.  He saw all and heard all, from the slight gasp of breath a person took before moving to the faint sound of eyelids that closed for the last time was his to behold.  He watched as he took the lives of all who came at him in that room.  The man with the bad heart took his blade through the gut.  The strong one was cut nearly in half at his midsection.  The one with the machine gun had his sternum pushed through his heart when the pommel of the blade was slammed against his chest.  Those were memorable, at least.  The others were simply the hacking and slashing motions of getting to those three.  It was perfect execution of the Divine.  He braced himself.  The vision pounded in his brain, as it ended, and he knew what would come next.

     Like every other instance, the rest of his battles, fought over hundreds of years, came racing to his mind.  It went backwards, from today, yesterday, the week before that, and on through the ages.  Sometimes, there were many men, and sometimes, there was only one.  Each time, each life he took, the visions came, and they were getting worse.  He watched helplessly as he was bidden to this fate time and again.  It was always the same.  He was at last left to the final vision – the day his life was changed.  The day he wished he could take back.

     He stood on the field of battle, soldiers dying around him, and those who could minister to them trying frantically to save lives.  He never saw the monk, until it was too late.  The little man came up behind him, and he reacted as a warrior would – he simply swung his sword and gutted the man before he even knew what he was doing.  The truth was that the blood-lust was surging in him, and when the monk merely touched him, the rage took over and he acted without thinking. 

     The ground shook, then, too.  He was bathed in a light so bright he was forced to hide his face, and he heard a whisper.
     “You strike down that which I have called.  You curse this earth with your presence, and so you shall be cursed in return.  I have use for you.  Your blade shall be replaced with Mine, and you shall be given a new name.  You will walk this earth until every life you have taken unjustly is repaid to Me.  You will be My weapon.  Behold – I name you VENGEANCE.”

     He thought it was an honor, at first, to be the weapon of God.  For many years, he thought he understood what righteousness was, and so, he went to work for the Church, a private assassin, for when Rome still took part in the politics of the world.  At last, he died, and he came to a new understanding.  The vision of right from the Almighty was not the vision of right for men.  And now, he paid the price, as he’d been paying for so very long. 

     The pain subsided.
     “How much longer will You require me, Lord?” he asked aloud.  He never expected an answer.

     “Until you grow to love the sword again,” came the answer.

A little deep and dark today, I'm afraid, but my mind doesn't always go to nice places.  Please remember, these are stories.  It is fiction.  

Thanks for reading,

Me

Novel Idea, Day 5....and 6!

Oh, well, if you've followed my poetry postings, you know that every once in a while, I miss a day or two, which means you get a bonus day!!  Or, rather, you get to read twice the posting.  I don't know if "get to" is really the right word, but I suppose that depends entirely upon your point of view.  Anyway, since these postings are longer than just poetry, I'm not going to take up any more of your time, and I'm just going to get right to the fun!

Theme: Hostages

Initial thoughts:  Am I the hostage, the kidnapper, or the police?  What would I do in each case?  what would be more fun?  Ok, let's take me out of it, and make this third-person.  What have I ever seen in film, etc?  It's a trope and it's been done before.  In fact, it's been done a lot.  Sometimes well, sometimes badly.  When was it done well?  Hmmm.  Whom do I want to win?  AHHHH, that's the right question, and it determines how to approach it!!!

     The grey skies looked even more foreboding than usual as Lieutenant David Grimsby got out of his cruiser and approached the barrier horse.  A quick flash of his badge got him past the young patrolman, who started to salute.
     “Easy kid,” said Grimsby.  “How long have you been out of Academy?”

     “Three months, Sir.”

     The Lieutenant harrumphed as he moved his 6-foot-3 frame past the young officer, already onto the next thing in his mind.  Part of him dreamed of these kinds of opportunities, and part of him dreaded them.  It was the chance to do something noteworthy, to save lives, to be recognized for the good the police could do.  Unless, of course, it went wrong.  If it went wrong, there would be no hiding from the media, the bureaucracy, and most of all, his family.

     They were the ones who mattered most.  He always considered it a good day if he could go home to his wife, Maddie, and their two daughters, Karen and Samantha, look them all in the eye, and not feel like he was being judged.  They were his litmus test.  If he could do that, then the work that day was good and justified.  If not – her preferred not to think about the ‘if not’ days.  So far, he never had a need to, and he knew he was lucky in that.  A lot of guys on the force could not say as much.  A lot of guys on the force didn’t have any litmus test. 

     “What have we got going on here?” said Grimsby as he approached the back of the SWAT van.

     “We’ve got three armed suspects in there, Lieutenant,” answered the Sargent on duty.  “From what we can tell, they came into the bank dressed as businessmen in coats, pulled out some shotguns, and started firing.”

     “Great.  Just what we needed.  Is there anyone hurt?”

     “We don’t know.  We haven’t heard from them yet, and they don’t seem to be making any moves to get out of there.”

     “OK.  Where’s O’Malley?  I want him down here to deal with these guys if we have to negotiate.  Now, how many people are in there, and can we get in?”

     “It’s the lunch crowd – we figured about twenty hostages.  The only way in is the main door.”
     “Sargent, it’s a bank.  There’s always more than one way in and out.  I want to know where it is, and if we can get in there, and I want to know it now.”

     Grimsby turned to his men, his voice rising above the din.  “Listen up!  We do everything by the book.  No cutting corners, no taking chances, no hot-dogging it.  Nobody does anything without my say-so, and we might all get through this day in one piece.  Got it?”

     A chorus of “Yes Sir” went up around him. 

     “Good!  Now, get me the perimeter locked down.  I don’t want a single word to the media.  Not one word!  I don’t know if they have TV in there, and I don’t want to give them any information they don’t already have.  And I need some coffee!”

     He knew he sounded like a cliché you would find in the standard cop film, but he didn’t care.  It was cold out, and a cup of coffee would help keep him warm as well as keep him sharp.  He was in for a long day.

     “Excuse me, Lieutenant –“

     “What do you –“ 

     He turned quickly on whomever it was that spoke to him, only to find himself looking directly at the chest of a huge goliath of a man.

     “I thought perhaps you might be in need of my services,” said the stranger.

     “Well, if your services include being the size of a bus, I’m sure I can use you at some point, Mr. – “  He trailed off.


Hey, the page ran out before I could totally finish the idea!!!!  That's what this is really about, though - STARTING an idea, and creating characters and situations that can begin stories - short stories, novellas, novels, sagas - the idea is you're supposed to WANT to turn to the next page!

OK, number two for today (oh, and you will get two tomorrow as well - because I missed Saturday AND Sunday) 

Theme: Assassins-R-Us

Initial thoughts: this is a toughie.  I could go through the whole "secret organization of assassins" approach, and it works.  It's cool, even.  BUT, it's been done.  It's been done a lot.  It's been done under the guise of governments, of very rich elite gangsters, of mercenaries for hire....it's been done in just about every single way you can think of it.  So how to do it differently and better??  Wait.  I already hit on it.  What if it's not-so-secret??  Or illegal?  Well, that's a different world, isn't it??  This will be fun!!

     Betty Herndon walked into the office.  She was nervous, but then, who wouldn’t be when walking into a job interview?  She wore her best outfit today, the sultry black dress with just a little ruffle in the skirt and the red patent leather heels that clicked and clacked across the marble floor and over the great seal of the International Brotherhood of Assassins.  The IBA was known far and wide as the best for hiring quality hitmen.  When you needed someone killed, the IBA did it right.  The work was challenging, and the benefits package was brilliant. 

     She already did the research she needed to do, and as she sat down in the waiting room, she looked around for other applicants.  There were none.  Strange.  She wondered at the interview process.  They selected her and contacted her, so they already had her resume, including the confirmed kills and the suspected kills.  She was especially proud of that list.  The mark of a good assassin was, of course, to never get caught.  Killing was technically still illegal, after all, even if it was explainable in the courts.  Getting caught would ruin your career.  It was much more difficult to kill someone if they knew who you were.  From her small two-bedroom house in the suburbs just South of Buffalo, NY, she engineered the demise of virtually every crime family on the East Coast, including Canada, without once getting caught.  Now, it was time to go international.

     The door opened, and a short, balding man entered the room.  “Miss Herndon?  If you would please follow me, your interview is ready.”

     “And you are?” she asked politely.

     “I’m Tennyson, Miss.”

     “Is that a first name, or a last name?”

     “Oh, you don’t understand.  Here at IBA, we don’t use our real names.  My department has selected literary names to use around the office.  It’s a quaint custom we use to remind us of just how far we’ve come.  After all, anonymity is important.”

     “Yes, I can see the logic of that.  It must be a field day for HR.”

     “I never thought of that, but that would be a question for Longfellow,” said Tennyson.  “Ahh, here we are.  Right through this door is your interview.  I trust you have everything ready?”

     Tennyson pointed to a door on the right side of the hallway, that looked just like every other door there. 

     “Thank you, Tennyson.  I’m sure I will be quite all right.”

     “I hope we meet again, Miss Herndon.”

     With that, the short balding man turned abruptly and walked down the hall, in no hurry to be rid of her company.  He was simply a man going about his job.  He never even shook her hand.

     “Well, here goes,” thought Betty.  Her gloved hand on the doorknob, she turned it, and pushed inward, stepping back as she did so.  A bucket of water tipped onto the floor.  It was above the door.  An old trick, to be certain, but a fit test to check on the alertness of any candidate.  A wet candidate would not be worth hiring.  She pushed the door open all the way, to eliminate the space behind it, and the possibility of someone lurking there. 

     She checked for lasers, and motion sensors before doing one last thing: the air purity test.  Reaching into her purse, she opened her perfume bottle and sprayed a little into the air.  Instantly, it turned blue.  Not good.  She pulled out the air filter hidden in her compact and putting it in her mouth, ducked into the room. 

     The door slammed shut behind her.

     A moment of panic hit her, but she suppressed it.  This was normal.  These were the kinds of things you ran into in this business.  The room was brilliantly white, with nothing on the walls, which were finished in a high gloss.  The only furnishing was a small bedside table, finished in blue, with a vase of fresh flowers on top of it.  She heard a timer beeping.  She checked under the table.

     “Of course,” she thought.  “Of course there’s a bomb – or at least a timer.”


Yup, that was fun, indeed!!  Silly, yes, but fun!

Thanks for reading,

Me