Sarah sits down at the table. In front of her is her canvas, wide and white and clean. She does not know yet what she will create, but she knows instinctively that it will be beautiful. Continue reading “Colors of the World”
Polar Bear Vacation
Our polar bears heard that we were planning a trip to Maui, and now they want to go too.
For the IndieInk Photo Battle (#IIPhoto) this week, Sarah Cass challenged me with “Humor” and I challenged Flood Gondekowa with “hope.”
A Cautionary Tale
“My little boy is all grown up!”
Gregory’s mother bounced around their home with glee as she spoke the words. Her other offspring had already flown the nest, but Gregory, ever the cautious one, had always voiced his reservations about the Wide World as his siblings had departed for parts unknown.
Until this morning, that is. Over breakfast, he had announced that he was going to leave home and go on a Quest. He wished to see the world and perhaps make a home of his own. “It’s time, Mother,” he had said, standing tall and decisive, “for me to make something of myself.”
Gregory’s mother knew that this decision was long overdue, and she wasted no time getting him ready for his adventure. “Be prepared,” she told him as she packed his lunch, nice and snug, just the way he liked it. “You never know what strange and wonderful things you might encounter, and not all of them are nice.” She pointed at the silk ropes he was preparing. “And don’t waste your silk. The first thing you should do when you are on your own is find a nice place to build a home. If you don’t have any silk, you won’t be able to do that very well.”
Gregory looked around at his home — their home, the only home he had ever known. “I think I will make a very nice home, Mother. I will make you proud.”
Gregory’s mother smiled. She reached out a leg and touched her son’s leg lovingly. “You’ll be fine,” she assured him. But before he had a chance to respond, she fixed all her eyes on Gregory with a serious stare. “Just keep this one thing in mind as you move about the Wide World: don’t tempt the wrath of the Whatever, high atop the Thing.”
Gregory nodded soberly. He had grown up on horror stories of the Whatever chasing those of his kind down, killing them, or cruelly trapping them in airtight jails for them to suffocate slowly. Nobody knew what the Whatever looked like, but it was always a good idea to stay away from anything large enough to do damage. In a world of fight or flight, the latter was preferable for survival.
After he had readied himself as well as he possibly could, he kissed his mother goodbye and jumped backwards, out of their house, down, down, down, climbing slowly but steadily through the air on the silken rope he had prepared. Just when he thought his descent would never end, his feet touched the ground, and he looked around in wonder.
Gregory had never seen a wooden floor before. He knew what wood was, of course; he and his family had all lived in the corner of two wooden beams his whole life. But to see an entire plane of nothing but wood astounded him. Not wanting to be caught out in the open, he scampered towards the wall.
Where should he build his home? What would be the best location to attract a mate? Or more importantly, to attract food? He remembered one of his sisters saying that she would build her home near a Bright Light, to get the very best dinners. He looked up and saw a large Bright Light not too far away, hanging off of a wooden pole. Next to the pole was a large mountain that seemed to be made of something soft; he couldn’t really tell what it was from this distance, but he knew it was not wood.
It took him the better part of the day to get to his destination. Walking on wooden floors was easy, but halfway there, the wooden ground gave way to a softer and bumpier surface, which took a little practice navigating. At one point on his journey, a huge dragon with one blindingly bright eye roared over the soft surface, pacing back and forth with a nauseating smell emanating forth from its mouth. It was sucking in everything in its sight. Gregory had to quickly swing one of his ropes up to a nearby ledge to pull himself up and away from danger, and his poor heart nearly burst from fear.
That near-death experience made Gregory realize that he needed to set up his home, and quickly. He redoubled his efforts to reach the Bright Light, and before he knew it, he was at the base of the wooden pole. The wood was too slick to climb, so he would have to get to the top by climbing the mountain next to the pole.
Before making his ascent, he studied the structure. It was lumpy, made of some material similar to the floor, but slightly smoother. It would be easy to climb, so Gregory counted that as a blessing. He pulled out the lunch his mother had packed for him and ate it quickly, knowing he would need the energy to get all the way up there and to build his home.
The trek up the large, soft mountain wasn’t nearly as bad as his overland journey. There was something warm on one side of the mountain, and traveling on top of it gave him a boost of energy. The warm thing was also made up of different textured surfaces: some bumpy, some smooth, and some with short ropes the width of his own ropes, sticking straight out of the ground. He marveled at the wonders of the Wide World.
He was almost to the top of the mountain when he encountered the three Strange Caves. One cave was very wet, with strange rock formations just on the inside of the cave, and a very small stream trickling out of one side. He knew that was no place for someone like him to tread. The other two caves, on the other hand, much smaller than the wet cave, almost seemed like a great hiding place until they started making that horrible noise. It was even a worse noise than that dragon! Warm, humid air puffed out of the two caves, and Gregory climbed to the very top of the caves to avoid being blown away.
At the top of the caves, Gregory stopped to survey his surroundings. Slightly above the two caves there were two recesses on a slope, each with two rows of large black ropes sticking out. But just when Gregory was about to investigate those rows of ropes, the ground shook. The black rows suddenly separated, and between them appeared a circle of bright blue with a black center, resting on a dome of white.
Gregory had never seen anything like this before, but something inside him immediately recognized it. This was an Eye. It was the Eye of the Whatever. And it was looking at him. At his soul. At all the things he had ever done and ever would do.
He had climbed to the top of the Thing without even knowing it.
An unholy scream erupted from the wet cave below him, and the last thing he heard before his short life was extinguished was, “SPIIIIIIDDDERRRR!!!”
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Major Bedhead challenged me with “Don’t tempt the wrath of the whatever, high atop the thing.” and I challenged Kurt with “Go here (http://www.flickr.com/groups/indieink/pool/) and write something based on a photo that inspires you. Post the photo in your response (or link to it if Flickr won’t let you embed it).”
Trapped
Seven days.
I’ve been stuck in this godforsaken place for seven frickin’ days. Or has it been more than a week?
Months? Years? I can’t tell anymore.
It started when I visited a corn maze with my friends. It had been one of my rare days off, and I’d decided to spend it with my friends instead of watching TV. We had found the maze by chance, driving the back roads on our way to an Amish town in Pennsylvania. A huge hand-painted sign in front proclaimed, “DEMETER’S LABYRINTH,” with several corn stalks decorating the outside. I had scoffed at the mixed mythology, but my friend Marjorie urged us to stop and explore. “We never get to do this kind of stuff,” she had said. “It’ll be fun.”
Ben, sitting next to Marjorie in the back seat, agreed. He had a crush on Marjorie, and the chance of being alone with her was too good to pass up. I rolled my eyes and was going to continue driving, but Lenny, squirming in the passenger’s seat, announced, “I really have to pee.”
So we parked the car, paid our tickets, and entered the maze. Within minutes, everyone had gone their separate ways, and I was left exploring the confusing pathways on my own.
When the sun had begun to set, I was still stuck in the middle of the maze, and I hadn’t seen or heard from anyone in hours. I thought for sure someone who worked there would have noticed that I was lost, or that my friends would have tried to find me, but there was nothing. No sound, no lights, no sign of any life whatsoever.
I yelled until I was hoarse, but it did me no good.
That was the end of the first day.
The second day, I tried to retrace my steps, but every time I thought I was doubling back, I found myself in a new spot. Paths sometimes led to dead ends, but often they would take me to little outdoor “rooms,” with benches and fountains. I was able to keep myself hydrated because of these fountains, but I was starting to become weak and more confused with hunger.
By the time the sun had set on the second day, I was famished. That’s when I found the storehouse.
It was a little underground shed, the entrance to which was on the ground, hidden near one of the fountains. I managed to jimmy open the doors, thinking that if I disabled one of the fountains, the owners would come to investigate. What I found instead was a treasure trove of food, clothes, and other goodies. This could have been where they stored all the lost-and-found items, but that didn’t explain the boxes of MREs, camping gear, and survival equipment I found in the back. Had someone gotten lost in this maze before?
On the third day, my belly full and my mind more engaged, I started to think of ways to get out of the maze.
The trouble with corn is that you can’t climb up the stalks to get your bearings. You can go between the stalks, but this maze was acres and acres long; I could have been a yard from the road or miles away. There just was no way to tell. Also, I thought for sure someone would have come along by then. Why hadn’t they reopened the maze?
On the fourth day, I figured I’d take a page from mythology to help me out of my own labyrinth. I began ripping down corn stalks and braiding rope so that I at least would know where I had been. That project took longer than I thought it would, and I didn’t have a long enough rope until the middle of the fifth day.
The corn rope turned out to be really helpful, especially once I realized it would still take me at least another day to travel through all the paths in the maze. This was the most complicated labyrinth I’d ever seen! Last night, I made my way back to the storehouse and just cried. I couldn’t believe my friends would abandon me. Why wouldn’t my family be looking for me? What did I have to do to get someone’s attention?
This morning, as I was rummaging around in the storehouse, I found a radio. It was solar-powered, so I had to wait for it to sit out in the sun for an hour or so before I could get it to work.
And that’s when I found out about the outbreak. Or zombie apocalypse. They aren’t calling it that on the radio, but people are getting ill from some sort of contact-borne illness, and they’re going crazy. Like, running around and killing people crazy. What else should I call it?
I’ve been here for seven days, all by myself, and it’s saved my life.
The trouble is, I don’t think I will be able to leave.
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Daily Shorts challenged me with “Write about five things you would do to entertain yourself if you didn’t see a soul for seven days. Could be fiction or nonfiction.” and I challenged The Drama Mama with “It’s toxic.”
Unspoken
Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry,
Go to sleepy little baby.
When you wake, you shall have
All the pretty little horses.
– African-American lullaby
The woman walked slowly to the well. It was a hot, dry day, and the smell of burning flesh hung in the air. She was terribly thirsty; she wanted to run to the well and jump in just to feel the relief of the cool water on her skin, but she knew better. She kept a slow, steady pace to avoid expending too much energy.
As she walked, she looked down at her bare feet, cut and bruised. Dried blood, caked in rivulets, formed a mesmerizing pattern up and down her legs. Most of that blood was not hers, but she still felt her bile rise as she recalled that morning’s activities.
It was necessary, the shaman had told her. If she wanted a baby, there were rituals she had to undergo. Her body was not naturally fertile; the gods required a sacrifice to change her nature. She assumed he meant a monetary donation. She never expected she would have to give up a piece of her soul.
A gust of wind blew across the plain, kicking up dust in swirls. She closed her eyes to protect them from the grit. She wanted to cry, but there was no moisture left in her face.
When the wind died down, she opened her eyes. The well was much closer now, and she quickened her steps. When she arrived, she wasted no time lowering the bucket and retrieving the water. She drank fully, pausing only to wipe her mouth or splash her face. She didn’t want to waste time washing. She could do that later, at night, when she knew nobody was watching.
Once her immediate thirst was slaked, she peered into the darkness of the well.
“Hello?” she called. Her voice echoed down the vertical passage of stone that reached deeply into the earth.
She wanted so desperately for there to be an answer, but there was only silence. The blackness in the hole seemed to stretch on forever. It was mesmerizing; how easy it would be to fall in and never return.
She wrenched her eyes away from the well and looked up at the sky. The abrupt change of light made her squint. There was not a cloud in sight, and the endless blue above her was just as dizzying as the blackness below. She closed her eyes and thought of the reason she was here: her baby.
“They said you would not come to me unless you were satisfied that I was ready for you,” she started. The hot breeze returned and dried her tongue again, snatching the words from her mouth.
She took another drink from the bucket and tried again. “I have given up so much–” A stronger wind gusted and knocked the pail over, spilling water into the parched ground.
The shaman had warned her that the gods could be cantankerous. He had only given her one piece of advice: follow their instructions. If they don’t want you to speak, then don’t speak.
Kneeling by the well, she bowed her head and collected herself. If they don’t want me to speak, I won’t. But I will communicate with my baby. She gazed back down into the well and sent her thoughts into the inky blackness.
Dearest heart of my heart,
Before time was time, I was waiting for you. They tell me that I cannot have children, but I know they are wrong. I know you are my child, and that you are just waiting for me to call you into my heart. But I have been calling for years now. Have you forgotten about me?
Come out of the well of souls and join me in the world of men. I can give you blue skies and palomino ponies, sparkling oceans and jumping dolphins. You will experience love and loss and everything in between, and I promise you it will be worth it. For both of us.
I will continue to wait, my love, until you are ready for the world. I will always be here, my arms outstretched, until you find me. I love you.
She opened her arms and lifted her face to the sky. The wind picked up again, and she closed her eyes. Tears trickled through her eyelashes and down her cheeks, but she did not wipe them away. She kept her arms wide open as the wind swirled around her, threatening to knock her over.
She didn’t know how long she had been kneeling there, arms outstretched and eyes closed, but when she finally opened her eyes, the sun was low in the sky. She rose to her feet slowly; her arms and legs were shaking from having stayed in the same position for so long.
She knew it was time to return to the village. The gods had not answered her. The shaman had warned her this might happen, but she still felt a lump of disappointment building up in her throat.
And then she heard something behind her move. She turned around slowly, cautiously, and came face to face with a beautiful palomino pony.
She held her breath. She had never seen this pony before, not in her village or anywhere else.
The pony regarded her solemnly, then nodded its head several times before turning and galloping off towards the hills.
After several moments, the woman made her way back to the village. Her heart was lighter, and her steps were quicker as they carried her home.
For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Lance challenged me with “blue skies and palomino ponies” and I challenged Webtrovert with “Cleaning up after a big party.”
Chimera
At long last, I am awake. I have been drifting in this inky blackness for so long that I’d almost forgotten what consciousness felt like.
Was it just yesterday I kissed my mother goodbye and crawled into my stasis capsule?
I’d told her not to worry. I’d told her I would miss her.
No, it couldn’t have been yesterday. The monitor flashing above me says we’re 300 light years away from Earth. Even at maximum speed it would have taken at least 150 years to get this far.
Wow. 150 years ago I had been ready to die. The doctors had all said the cancer was too far gone to fix. Today, though…today, I feel fine. I guess it took 150 years, but they fixed it.
Shouldn’t we have arrived by now? Where are all the doctors?
“Welcome back. Please drink the water and spit into the sink.” There is now a blinking arrow on the monitor above me pointing to the sink beside my bed.
That’s not a human voice. Is it coming out of the speaker there? I see a glass of water and a sink. I try to speak, but my throat is so dry, I can’t make a sound.
“Please drink the water and spit into the sink. Your health is of utmost importance to us.”
The voice is definitely coming from the speaker. It must be computerized or something.
I sit up for the first time in 150 years and reach for the glass. My arms feel like lead. My fingers close around the glass clumsily, and I bring it to my mouth. My hands are shaking. I am spilling water down my shirt, but most of it is getting in my mouth. The water is clean and crisp. I down the entire glass in two gulps.
“You may still be thirsty. Please refill your glass and spit into the sink when you are done.”
I am getting used to this voice now; its androgenous voice has a kindly lilt. I oblige by drinking a little more water and spitting the rest into the sink.
“Thank you.”
You’re welcome. My dry lips crack as they form a smile.
A monitor above the sink turns on, showing a rotating sphere and the words “PROCESSING DNA.” I refill the glass once more and look around the room as I drink.
The small cabin looks much the same as it did when I first picked it out. They had removed the oxygen from the room when my stasis capsule had been sealed, so there was hardly any deterioration to the fancy pillows and curtains I’d taken along with me. I’d told my mother that if I was going to die in space, I would rather have it be in style. She’d laughed and told me she would make me a quilt to keep me warm.
I look down at my lap. The quilt she’d promised is tucked snugly around me, decorated with dancing frogs and butterflies. I imagine her tucking me in before the stasis cover had closed. She was probably crying. This is the last thing I have from her. The last thing I have from anybody I have ever known. I clutch the quilt tightly.
The monitor above the sink begins to blink. “PROCESSING DNA” are replaced by the words “96.4% HUMAN,” with a big green bar underneath it. I frown and look down at my body, confused.
A woman’s face appears on the monitor. “Welcome back,” says the woman. “I am Captain Holly Yeats of the Phoenix.”
I open my mouth and try to croak out a faint, “Hello.” My throat is still terribly dry. I refill my glass.
“First, let me tell you how happy we are that you are doing well. It has always been the mission of the crew of the Phoenix to serve on the cutting edge of healthcare.”
“You may be wondering why you are still in space,” Captain Yeats continues. “Since you went into stasis, a war broke out on Cassius, and the entire planet was rendered uninhabitable. We couldn’t return to Earth because of…zoning restrictions. Luckily, we have located another earth-like planet suitable for habitation and are traveling there.” She pauses. I see that her eyes are oddly shaped; they remind me of fish eyes. She blinks, and I wonder if it is just my imagination. “You and the 99 other patients on board have been traveling with us for several generations.”
I refill my glass and lean toward the monitor as I drink. Generations?
“The fact that you have been released from stasis means that we have been able to find a cure for your sickness. Most cancers, we found, are easily treatable through the introduction of alternate genes into your system. Animal genes. This means that you might experience some side effects as your body adapts to its new chimeric state.”
I am feeling queasy now. What did they do to me? I throw the quilt off my lap and start feeling my legs and arms for scales. I still count ten fingers and ten toes.
“You will be kept in quarantine for 24 hours as you get used to your new, healthy body and familiarize yourself with your surroundings. After that, you will be free to move about the ship and interact with the crew and other passengers.” Captain Yeats glances off camera. “We still have a long way to go, I’m afraid. The closest planet we could find is at least another 100 light years away. That’s several more generations from now.”
I stagger over to the mirror across the room. What is different about me? I begin to take off my clothes and look at every inch of my body as Captain Yeats continues to speak.
“If you are watching this message, that means we have selected you as an eligible breeder to continue the human race. If you mate with any other healthy passenger on board, we calculate that your human DNA will continue to be dominant for at least seven generations.” She leans in so I can see her fish eyes clearly. “It is of utmost importance that you follow these directions. The human race is an endangered species, and it’s up to you to rescue it from the brink of extinction.”
The monitor goes blank.
I turn back to the mirror and look closely at my face. My eyes are still human. My nose, my ears. My mouth…
I put the glass of water to my lips and watch myself drink in the mirror.
I lower the glass and open my mouth.
My tongue is longer. Sort of curled at the end.
I touch it with my finger. It’s kind of sticky.
The monitor blinks again, and more words appear:
DNA:
96.4% Homo sapiens (human).
3.6% Rana clamitans (green frog).
I grab my quilt from off the floor and wrap it around me. The room is not cold, but I am shivering.
The computerized voice comes on again. “Your blood pressure is rising,” it tells me. “We are giving you a mild sedative to help ease your transition. Please return to the bed so you can rest.” I can see the sweet-smelling gas puffing through the vents.
I barely make it back to the bed before I feel myself drifting away from consciousness. Back to the familiar inky blackness where I’ve spent the last 150 years.
For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Bran challenged me with “Today, I feel fine,” and I challenged coolaquarius with “First love after 70 years.”
Miracle Duck
When I first suggested taking a family trip to the Renaissance Faire, I was shot down immediately. “Mom was making plans to go to Disney World,” Dad told me, before burying his head in the newspaper.
“But it’s my last summer before I go to college in the fall! Can’t I choose the vacation spot for once?”
Dad looked up again briefly, with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Minnie.”
The second time I brought up visiting the Renaissance Faire, Hurricane Jack was pounding the state of Florida. Mom kept insisting that Disney World would be fine because was on its own electrical grid, but there was still no way of getting there, since all the flights had been cancelled. “The Renaissance Faire is only a two-hour drive from here,” I pointed out.
Dad looked at me, one eyebrow raised.
“You and mom could have some time to yourselves. And we could stay overnight at the hotel across the street.”
Mom and Dad exchanged glances. I could tell they had talked about going already, but they wanted to make it look like I had convinced them. “Fine, Minnie,” Mom said, after sighing dramatically. “We’ll go to Disney World another time.”
“Ooh, will there be wenches? I want to see a wench.” My 13-year-old horndog of a brother Don had a one-track mind.
So, after much wrangling and complaining and general fuss, we — Mom, Dad, me, Don, and way-too-uptight Aunt Maura — all piled into the minivan and made our way to the Faire. As soon as he sat down, Don shoved earbuds into his ears and tuned the rest of us out. Aunt Maura complained the entire way, first that it was too hot, then too cold; about an hour into the drive, I was wishing I had brought my iPod too.
“So Uncle Ralph and The Twins are going to meet us there?” I asked. I knew the answer, but I was trying desperately to change the subject before Aunt Maura launched into another tirade about why they shouldn’t be teaching sex ed in schools.
“Yes,” said Dad, catching on quickly. “And Bill will be there too, although I think he’s driving himself.” Bill was Uncle Ralph’s oldest kid, and my only boy cousin. He was only two years younger than me, and we got along reasonably well, although he was — how do I put this delicately? — a little bit odd. Uncle Ralph had divorced a couple of years ago, and Bill had decided to stay with his mother until he graduated high school, so we rarely saw him at family gatherings anymore. The Twins (Elsie and Sophie, but nobody ever referred to them separately) were only 9 years old, and they lived with Uncle Ralph for most of the year.
When we pulled into the parking lot — it was more of a field, really, with dirt roads and haystacks delineating each row — we were directed to our spot by a grizzled man dressed in Elizabethan livery. Bill had arrived just a few minutes earlier, and was parked one row in front of us. He waved at us distractedly as he rummaged in his trunk. He seemed to be putting on his costume right there in the parking lot.
Uncle Ralph appeared as we were climbing out of the van, parking just a few cars away from us in the same row. “Great timing!” he called over to us through his open window. He was wearing a Robin Hood outfit, complete with feathered cap, and looked quite authentic. As they got out of the car, I noticed that The Twins were decked out in full princess regalia. I looked down at my ratty hippie skirt and blouse that I had dressed up with some costume jewelry to create some sort of gypsy garb, and was suddenly embarrassed.
Don — whose idea of dressing up was to sport a t-shirt that said “To Err is Human; To Arr is Pirate” — had finally pulled his earbuds out of his ears and was looking over at Bill’s car. “What on earth is the doofus wearing?” he wondered aloud.
I followed his gaze and saw Bill putting the final touches on his own costume, which looked to be more of a mascot uniform than anything else: he had transformed into a giant yellow rubber ducky, with his face obscured by yellow mesh underneath the beak. We all swiftly walked over to him, in various states of disbelief.
Aunt Maura was turning red. “Take that ridiculous thing off!” she shouted.
“What’s the problem?” Bill said, his voice slightly muffled through the costume. “You told me to come in costume. I’ve been wanting to try this costume out for a while!”
“But,” I explained, “it’s a Renaissance Faire, not a Halloween Faire.”
“Could have fooled me, Gypsy Girl,” he retorted.
Uncle Ralph was covering his face with his hands. Mom and Dad were trying to console him. The Twins, unperturbed, were poking at his costume and asking where his arms were.
“Look,” Bill pointed with his beak towards the gate. “I’m not the only one who isn’t coming as a human being.” We looked and saw that there were two tall men with red body paint and horns giving their ticket to the man at the turnstile.
Don was cracking up. “I love it, dude! Keep it on!”
And so it was decided that we would go in together, but for the sake of the adults’ sanity, we would split up as quickly as possible. Mom and Aunt Maura went shopping for jewelry and Christmas presents, and Dad took Uncle Ralph to the pub, leaving me in charge of The Twins, Don, and Rubber Ducky Bill. I had hoped Bill would help me with the kids, but I could see that he was just there to have a good time by himself. In his duck suit.
I had already planned to meet up with my friend Alva, who was working that summer in the “Ye Olde Fryed Vegetable” booth. She waved at me when she saw me coming, but stopped waving when she saw Bill. “What is that?” she asked when I got close.
“My weirdo cousin Bill. He’s…an odd duck,” I smirked. “But he’s harmless. Just let him do his thing.”
“Okay, whatever,” Alva said. “I don’t really have a break right now, but I’ll meet you after the lunch rush, okay? By the gaming booth.” She wanted to introduce me to her new boyfriend, who worked there.
“Ah, of course. And where is that?”
In one efficient move, Alva pulled out a map and pointed to a spot in the middle, then handed it to me. She smiled at Don and The Twins. “Hi guys, nice to see you again. Is there anything you want? I’m sure Minnie will be happy to amp you up on sugar and salt.” She winked at me.
Don leaned over the counter. “Do all the wenches here show as much boobs as you do?”
I punched him in the arm to shut him up, but Alva’s face had already turned beet red, and she quickly turned away from the counter. “I’m sorry,” I called out to her as I ushered the kids away. “After lunch, by the gaming booth. I’ll make it up to you.”
I decided that the best way to keep the kids entertained was to go to shows; first we saw a sword swallowing act, and then I took The Twins to have tea with the Queen. Don wanted to go to the wench auction, but I vetoed that decision and took them all to a swashbuckling pirate show instead. Everywhere we went, Rubber Ducky Bill followed, and from what I could gather, he was happy to just tag along.
By lunchtime, however, Bill was beginning to get uncomfortable. “Itfsh shweaty in herefff,” he said. Or at least, that’s what it sounded like to me (his voice was even more muffled than it had been at the beginning of the day). “Alsssho, I ffthink I’m chafingff.”
“Then take it off,” I told him as we walked towards the row of food vendors. There was a horrendously long line for turkey legs, but Don really wanted one, so we were doomed to stand in line until we got one.
“I can’tff!”
“Why not? Nobody’s stopping you.”
“I…” Bill mumbled something under his breath.
“What? I can’t hear you.”
He waddled closer to me and leaned in so that his beak was touching my head. “I fftook my clothessh off to get into thissh suitfff,” he whispered.
“Oh my God.” I peered into the mesh that covered his face, trying to look him straight in the eye. “All of your clothes?”
“Um…pretty muchfff.”
I looked around at the crowd. One of the actors — I think it might have been Shakespeare — was talking to Don and The Twins, trying to get them to help him write his new play or something like that. Shakespeare was actually pretty cute. The Twins were loving every second of it, and even though Don was trying to play it cool, I could tell he was just as into the interaction as The Twins. I ran over to Don and whispered that Bill and I were just going to go to the gaming booth around the corner, and we’d be back in a jiffy. He nodded and puffed up his chest a little bit, looking less like a pimply horndog and more like someone who could actually look out for his little cousins.
Muttering a quick prayer that all would be well with the kids, I grabbed Bill’s wing and dragged him to the gaming booth. My only hope was that Alva’s new boyfriend had some spare clothes somewhere. Bill’s movements were becoming increasingly frantic as he scratched and pulled at the duck suit from the inside. “It’sff so hotff!” I could hear him whimpering.
I spotted a handsome blonde guy standing by the archery line. He was totally Alva’s type, so I took a chance. “Are you Jack?”
“Er…yes,” Jack answered. He glanced at Bill suspiciously.
“I’m Minnie. Alva’s friend?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” He held out his hand to shake mine. “I’m Jack. Alva has told me a lot about you.”
I smiled coyly. “She’s told me a lot about you too.”
“Mmmff,” said Bill.
Jack moved to stand between me and Bill. “Is this duck bothering you?”
“Oh, no. He’s…well…my idiot cousin.” I explained Bill’s problem. “I have a feeling he’ll get heatstroke if he stays in there much longer; I don’t want to take him all the way up to the parking lot. Is there some way you can help? Maybe give him a change of clothes?”
Jack looked skeptically at Bill. “Um…”
“Please?”
At this point, Bill decided he’d had enough and began to take the suit off, only to realize that the zipper was on the outside. He banged his arms against the inside of the suit in frustration.
Jack sighed. “He’ll have to go to the backstage area to get changed. I’ll be breaking a lot of rules by bringing him there.” He moved towards Bill to lead him away from public view.
But Bill was now in full panic mode, and he tried to attack Jack with his only free appendages: his feet. Unfortunately, his wild faux karate kicks only set him off balance, and he fell over onto the dirt road. Jack had to jump on top of him to pin his legs as he tried to find the zipper.
At this point, we were starting to attract attention. A small group of passers-by had formed a semi-circle around the action. I could hear the comments circulating in the crowd, and I could feel my face turning red.
Then a voice called out from within the crowd. “My word! What have we here?”
There was a commotion, and Shakespeare stepped forward, with Don and the Twins in tow. God, he was cute. And I was so embarrassed.
Jack was almost done getting the zippers and snaps undone on the duck costume, but Bill was still panicking. “Helpff!”
“Methinks the duck doth protest too much,” said Shakespeare.
The crowd laughed.
Jack unhooked the last hook, and Bill burst forth from the duck suit, panting and gasping like a man emerging from a deep water dive. He was completely drenched in sweat; his skinny white body was so wet that he slid completely out of the costume before any of us realized what had happened, and there were several gasps in the crowd before Jack threw his jacket over Bill’s lap.
Shakespeare took over and waved his hat with a flourish to grab the crowd’s attention. “It’s a miracle!” he declared. “A boy has sprung forth, fully formed, from the head of a duck! I think I have an idea for a new play.” He saw another actor behind the crowd and waved at him. “Oh, Marlowe!” he called out. “You will simply love this story. Mayhaps this will be the play that will give you as much fame as I.” Winking at me as he passed, Shakespeare strolled quickly towards Marlowe, and the two actors expertly moved the crowd away from Bill.
I think I fell in love with Shakespeare right then and there.
Jack did his best to cover Bill up and rush him to the backstage area.
I looked around and saw that the crowd had all but dispersed, save Don (who was laughing so hard that tears were running down his cheeks), The Twins (who were exchanging concerned glances), and a few others. I did a double-take as I noticed Mom (who had a very angry look on her face) and Aunt Maura (who looked like she was about to faint) among the lookers-on.
“Um…hi, Mom. Aunt Maura. Did you buy anything cool?” I didn’t know what else to say.
Aunt Maura opened and closed her mouth several times, but words never came out.
Mom looked up at the sky. “Please tell me you had nothing to do with this.”
“Mom.” I shook my head. “How long have you known Bill? How could you even think that this was anyone’s doing but his own?”
A wry smile crept onto Mom’s face, despite her attempts to maintain a disapproving countenance. She looked away and busied herself with looking after Aunt Maura, who was starting to come around.
“I think I’m…going to be sick,” Maura complained.
My mother rolled her eyes.
Just then, Jack and Bill re-emerged, Bill wearing a game booth uniform that was slightly too small. The Twins, visibly relieved, ran to him and hugged him.
“Thank you,” I whispered to Jack.
“Both you and Alva owe me,” he murmured back. “It’s a good thing I like her so damn much.” We shook hands and I promised to make it up to them both.
“Heeeey!” Dad and Uncle Ralph were wandering drunkenly down the street. “We heard something was going on with a duck and we were wondering…” Dad’s voice trailed off as he saw the rubber duck carcass on the ground. He looked up at Bill in his too-small costume and blinked several times. “Oh.”
Mom took over. “Maura’s getting a migraine,” she announced. “I think it’s best if we left now.”
And so, with much wrangling and complaining and general fuss, we all piled into our respective cars and headed to the hotel.
We didn’t go back the next day. But I returned by myself the next weekend. You know, to make it up to Jack and Alva. And also to see if Shakespeare was single. (He was!)
And that’s the reason why I love the Renaissance Faire. Nothing like this could ever have happened at Disney World.
This week’s Indie Ink Challenge came from Cedar, who gave me this prompt:
A migraine, a miracle, and a large rubber duckie.
Just as a side note: if you know me in real life you know that I have spent a lot of time at Renaissance Faires over the years (I even met my husband at the PA Renaissance Faire), so some of this story was informed by my experiences there. However, just so you don’t get too confused, everything else about the story is pure fiction, spun from the deep, dark recesses of my imagination.
My challenge went out to Greg Perry, who will answer it here by the end of the week.
Rising Power
Fog rolled off the Featherpass mountains like an overflowing cauldron, spilling into Magicka Bay. The sun glinted off the surface of the ocean.
It was a dreary day.
Kip sighed and turned away from the tower window. She was frustrated with the monotony of her days at the Magicka. She had arrived six months ago, and they had yet to begin her instruction in the magical arts. Indeed, she was treated more like a servant than a student: her days were filled with menial household tasks, from cleaning to cooking, from sun up to sun down. Occasionally, Rory would show up to take her away from her chores for an hour or two, but only to take her hunting or fishing, and he preferred to answer her questions with grunts or one-word answers. Still, she liked Rory, and she looked forward to these times with him; she always tried to do well at her chores so that he would return more frequently.
Perhaps she had imagined becoming a mage would be more glamorous. She knew it was dangerous, being one of the Magicka: ordinary folks either feared or worshiped those who could bend energy to suit their needs…but most people in the four worlds feared the things the Magicka could do.
She shivered at the memory of the men who had raised her, the elders of Olstrick who had branded and exiled her once they found out about her powers. The nightmares no longer came every night, but she still felt fear when she got too close to a fire, and sometimes she thought she saw some the men following her in a crowd.
She shook her head. Get back to work, Kip. It was the only thing for her to do if she wanted to stay here. And no matter how dreary her days were, she still wanted to stay. She hurried down the stairs to the kitchen.
Cook was already there, of course: he was there before the first cockcrow each morning. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, directing various servants as they busied themselves preparing the day’s meals. He caught sight of Kip as soon as she entered the room.
“Well, look who has finally decided to join us!”
Kip frowned. “I’m sorry I’m late, Cook. I–”
“No excuses. Just results!” Cook liked to say that. A lot. He took her by the hand and led her to a table by the oven. “Today, you will make bread. Remember what I told you?”
She nodded. She had been making bread now for a week. “Flour, yeast, honey, salt, milk,” Kip called out each ingredient as she pulled it from the shelf. There was already a bowl of water at her workstation. Satisfied that Kip knew what she was doing, Cook turned his attention to another part of the kitchen.
Kip carefully measured out the yeast and honey and mixed them into the warm water. She wondered what exactly went on in that bowl that caused it to bubble. She imagined tiny yeast bugs in the bowl gobbling up the honey and burping out bubbles. The visual was so absurd that a giggle escaped her lips.
As soon as she began to laugh, the bowl became frothy.
Almost too frothy.
Kip frowned. She must have lost track of time. She peeked up at Cook, to see if he noticed that she had been daydreaming, but he was engaged in deep conversation with another servant about the merits of duck meat.
She added the rest of the ingredients and mixed them up to make the dough. After it was kneaded enough, she rolled the dough into a ball and put it in a bowl to rise. She wondered, again what those little imaginary yeast bugs might be doing. Were they gobbling up the flour as well? Maybe they were making themselves so fat that the flour around them expanded? She looked closely at the dough, hoping to watch those little bugs in action.
Right before her eyes, the dough began to rise. Faster than she thought possible. It should have taken at least an hour to get to the size that it was now, but only seconds had passed. What was going on?
She glanced at Cook again, but he hadn’t moved.
For that matter, neither had anyone in the kitchen. Even the cauldrons over the fires had ceased to bubble.
It was as if time itself had stopped, except for Kip and the rising dough.
Her eyes widened, and she reached her hand out reflexively, as if to stop the dough from rising any further. As soon as her fingers touched the dough, everything and everyone in the kitchen began to move normally, as if nothing had happened.
Except her dough had fully risen, even though she had only begun making it a few minutes prior!
She frowned and looked at the ball of dough with skepticism. Was someone playing games with her? She looked around the room surreptitiously. Everyone had their heads down, concentrating on their own tasks.
Kip supposed that the only way to find out who was behind this trick was to finish making the bread. She punched down the dough and continued to knead it for a few minutes. She then divided the dough into smaller balls and laid them out on a board to be put in the oven.
Before placing the loaves in the oven, she scanned the room again to see if anyone was watching her, but still saw no one interested in what she was doing. With a wince — she still didn’t like to be too close to fires! — she pushed the loaves into the oven.
She watched intently as the dough reacted to the heat. Again the loaves began to grow, but this time at a regular pace. She thought again of the yeast bugs, picturing them burping more as it got hotter and hotter.
And then, once again, it happened: the loaves began to grow larger and larger, at lightning-quick pace, gaining a lovely golden sheen after only a few seconds. These loaves of bread were almost done, and less than a minute had passed.
The fire was still burning brightly in the oven, but as Kip looked up from her work, she saw that everything around her was moving much more slowly than normal. Time had not stopped, but it had slowed considerably. She grabbed the handle of the bread board to pull it out of the oven, but yelped and jumped back as she realized that she had forgotten to put on her gloves.
Her reaction kicked everything back to normal speed. None of the servants even looked up as they heard her cry out.
Cook, however, did take notice. “Kip?” he inquired in a strangled voice.
Kip didn’t turn around. She didn’t want to see the look of rage on Cook’s face. “Um, just a minute. I need to get these loaves out of the oven.” She grabbed a glove and busied herself with her task.
“Kip.” Cook’s voice was more commanding now.
She closed her eyes and sighed. “I’m sorry. I know the bread is messed up. I think someone is–”
“No, Kip,” insisted Cook. “Open your eyes and see what you’ve done.”
Squinting, she opened one eye, and then the other, and she saw on the table before her four perfect loaves of bread, each with a small series of grooves on the top that looked like it had been cut out with a knife as it had baked. The design was eerily familiar: it was the mark she knew was her own. It had not yet surfaced on her skin, for she was not yet a mage, but she had seen it in her dreams, and she knew there was no other design quite like it.
She slowly lifted her eyes to Cook. “Did I…do that?”
Cook folded his arms in front of his chest. “Looks like you just discovered your Way. I think it might be time for you to learn some self-control before you make too much of a mess out of my kitchen.” He pointed at two loaves that were still in the oven and beginning to burn.
“Oh no!” Mortified, Kip ran over to the oven and pulled the loaves out. As soon as the bread was safely out of the oven, Cook placed two arms on her shoulders and looked her square in the eyes, stopping her string of apologies.
“No excuses. Just results.” He smiled. “And I think I like these results.”
This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Kelly Garriott Waite, who wrote:
The sun glinted off the surface of the ocean. It was a dreary day.
I challenged FlamingNyx, who will answer my prompt here before the end of the week.
Mark of the Magicka
Kip gazed up at the iron gates in front of her. The entrance to the Magicka was forbidding, but deceptively so: the metal was twisted into an intricate design that left many holes large enough for a man to climb through. Upon closer inspection, however, Kip noticed that the air in the space between the bars faintly glowed blue, and her heart beat a little quicker when she imagined what might happen to the fool attempting to breach the gates.
“State your name and business,” a low voice called out. Kip looked around, but she saw no guard house or window in the smooth walls. In fact, from what she could see through the gates, the courtyard itself was deserted.
Summoning her courage, she stepped forward and squared her shoulders. “My name is Kip. They sent me here from Olstrick.”
“We don’t have room for every orphan to come begging for shelter. If Olstrick is full up, they shouldn’t be sending you here. Move along, boy!”
Kip frowned and crossed her arms over her flat chest. “Beg pardon, but I’m a girl.” Sister Kay said in a few months I’d be bleeding, and then I’ll be a woman. “I was sent here because…they don’t want…someone…like me.” She raised her left hand to show a large, dark circle on her palm.
Silence.
Kip lowered her hand slowly and bit her lip. Her palm still itched something fierce, with the new skin having just begun to grow back after the elders at Olstrick had branded her as a witch, and their voices still echoed in her mind: Mark her before she marks the rest of us. She’ll grow up to be a monster, just like her mother.
Still no response from inside the keep. If the Magicka didn’t let her in, she had no idea where she would go. “Hello?” She called.
The blue glow between the iron bars grew brighter, and with a click, the gates swung open. A broad-shouldered man with dark eyes and an even darker beard stood behind the gates. He wore black leather armor with a silver crescent moon emblazoned on the chest, but his thick-as-logs arms were bare, save a ring of symbols and animals tattooed around each of his biceps. Kip’s jaw dropped.
“Well, I’m not going to wait all day,” the man said.
She didn’t need to be asked twice. She was inside the gates before they could change their mind about her.
Once inside the courtyard, she saw that it was not at all deserted as she first thought; in fact, there were so many tents and tables set up that she realized there was a full bazaar in the middle of this castle keep. She looked back at the gates and wondered why she couldn’t see it from the outside.
The man followed her gaze. “It’s enchanted, boy,” he growled. “Lots of things in this place are. You’ll get used to it.”
Kip craned her neck up at him and frowned again. “I’m not a boy,” she insisted, but he was already walking through the marketplace stalls, and she had to race to keep up with him.
The marketplace was a maze of vendors and wares, and Kip lost her bearings after the first few turns. Every once in a while, the large man would stop and point out different vendors in the stalls. As he mentioned each person and what they did, the tattoos on his arms began to shift and turn as if in response. Kip began to get dizzy watching the tattoos, but they were so fascinating and intricate, she couldn’t look away.
The man stopped walking abruptly and turned to face Kip, who nearly collided into him. He bent over to look her straight in the face.
“Listen, boy,” he warned, “I don’t know who you are or what you think you’re doing, but whatever is, quit it. My spirits haven’t been this talkative since I got my first mark, and it’s driving me nuts.” His inky eyes were angry.
She shifted her gaze back to his tattoos. They had all stopped moving, but the creatures had shifted so that they were looking directly at her. She reached out to touch them. “What are they?”
In the blink of an eye, he grabbed her wrist. “First rule of the Magicka, boy: never touch another wizard’s mark. Not without permission.”
His hold tightened. Her palm began to burn, as if the fiery brand was pushing into her flesh all over again. Tears came to her eyes, but she refused to cry out.
“Rory!” A woman’s voice rang out sharply from the crowd. The man released Kip’s hand, and the burning immediately ceased. He dropped to one knee in a reverent bow.
Kip looked up and saw the most beautiful woman in the world standing before them. The woman’s long auburn hair was pulled into a loose braid, and she wore a flowing azure tunic with vertical slits all the way up the side, and as she moved, Kip caught glimpses of a large, ornate tattoo of roses on the woman’s ivory skin. As she looked into the woman’s deep blue eyes, Kip was overcome with awe, and she, too, dropped to her knees.
“Rise, child,” the woman said, with a gentle voice. Kip stood up, but kept her gaze to the ground. “Has Rory here been bothering you?”
Kip glanced sidelong at Rory, still kneeling before the woman, his gaze also averted. “No, ma’am. I shouldn’t have tried to touch his mark. It’s the first rule of the Magicka.”
The woman laughed. Were those bells tinkling, or was that just her voice? “A quick learner, this one.” She placed her hands on Rory’s broad shoulders and leaned forward to kiss the top of his head. “Be at ease, my champion. Arise, and accompany us. We shall both take the child where she needs to go.”
Rory rose, and Kip could see that all the anger in his face had disappeared. He grunted and walked ahead of them through the crowd.
The woman turned to Kip and held out her hand. “I’m Lady Rose.”
“Kip,” she responded as she shook the lady’s hand tentatively. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Ask away,” said Lady Rose, her eyes scanning the crowd as they navigated around the stalls.
“These tattoos — the marks — what are they?”
Lady Rose smiled. “It’s the mark of the Magicka. We all have them inside us. When you embrace your own abilities and follow our ways, the marks rise to the surface and show themselves to the world.”
Kip looked at the circle burned into her palm. “But…why would you want to reveal that?” Tears came to her eyes as she remembered the angry faces of the men who wielded that brand.
“It’s true that there are many in the world who fear us,” Lady Rose said gently as she took Kip’s dirty, scarred hand into her own. “But there are also those who love us, for we provide great services. We use our abilities to help the crops grow, to solve problems…and to heal.” She opened Kip’s hand, revealing new, smooth skin, with no sign of any scar.
Rory turned around in time to see Kip’s eyes grow large in amazement. He chuckled, and for the first time, Kip felt like Rory was beginning to acknowledge her as a human being. “Folks around here are grateful for what we do, and these marks show them who we are.” With a wink, he pointed to a small building at the edge of the courtyard with several scantily clad women draped around the entrance. “The tattoo means I get all their services for free.”
Lady Rose loudly cleared her throat, and Rory quickly shut his mouth and turned back around, leading them at last to the tower entrance. At the doors, he bowed to them both. “Welcome to the Magicka, boy,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll see you tomorrow, for your first lesson.” And with that, he wandered back towards the front gates.
Kip noticed that the roses on the lady’s side were undulating, growing all the way up her back and entwining her arms. They were so realistic, Kip thought she might prick herself on one of the thorns. She grew dizzy watching the roses bloom and fade in rapid succession.
Lady Rose turned to Kip and cupped her face with both hands. “You haven’t even learned what magic is and already you’re tapping into some of the strongest sources of energy. With the right guidance and enough training, you could easily become one of the most powerful mages in four worlds.” She leaned over and kissed Kip on the forehead. “But for now, Kip,” she murmured, “Go inside. Find your room. We will start your training tomorrow.”
This week’s Indie Ink Challenge comes from Brad McDonald, who writes:
The tattoo means I always get their services for free.
If you’ve been reading along, you know that I decided to put a little twist on this challenge and create a challenge of my own! I wasn’t flooded with responses, but the ones I did get were really great! Much thanks to alyssagoesbang, enderFP, and Tara Roberts (whose tattoo unfortunately didn’t make it into the story, but was awesome nonetheless). They are really beautiful, and I loved the stories that went with each one.
I challenged Runaway Sentence (again! woohoo!), who answered it with a surprising twist here.
Tattoo Contest: Submissions Needed!
This week for the Indie Ink Writing Challenge, I got a really interesting prompt, and I decided to do something a little different with it this time.
My prompt came from Brad MacDonald, who wrote:
The tattoo means I always get their services for free.
I have a really good idea of what I want to do, and it involves some sci-fi/fantasy writing. But I would love to feature a picture of a real tattoo. I don’t have any tattoos myself, but I know there are some really excellent tattoo artists out there.
So, I’m putting a call out to anyone on the interwebs: if you have a tattoo that you love, or if you are a tattoo artist or graphic artist or just have some really awesome doodles for a cool tattoo, send them my way! I’ll feature my favorite tattoo in my story (which I will post this Thursday).
Unfortunately this contest does not involve money; but if you win, you will get some exposure, internet promotion, and my undying love.
UPDATE: I’ve closed submissions and am now furiously typing out my story so I can get it in before tonight’s deadline!
UPDATE TO THE UPDATE: Read the story that was inspired by the submitted tattoos!