Tag: Indie Ink

Posted on

Drifter

“You’ve done it again, Kelly.”

Startled, Kelly looked up from the magazine he was reading.

Pettigrew stood at the door of the cockpit, arms crossed. “Every time you have been on watch this week, you’ve managed to get us off course.” He reached over and grabbed the magazine from Kelly’s greasy hands. “What the hell has got you so distracted?”

Kelly started to protest, but it was too late. “It’s nothing, just…a magazine I picked up when we were docked at New Mercury.”

Pettigrew thumbed through the dog-eared pages. It had only been five days since their stopover at New Mercury, but Kelly had clearly read it cover to cover several times over. With months at a time between ports, most crewmen considered any new reading material a lifeline to stave off the boredom, but this magazine was more worn than most after five days; it looked like it had been been through the wash and then some. And there weren’t even any naked pictures! He tossed it back to Kelly. “Well, stop reading and look to your station. We’re drifting towards a supernova, and Cap’n will be pissed if she has to burn another wormhole just to fix your stupid mistake.”

Photo taken by the Chandra X-Ray telescope
Kelly’s eyes grew wide at the mention of a supernova, and he began to busy himself with the computers at the helm.

Pettigrew snickered and went below.

Kelly had never meant to end up in space. When he was young, while all the other children were playing Cops & Aliens, he had dreamed of staying on Earth and opening his own ice cream shop. He loved ice cream — the real kind, not the stuff they feed you in space.

But before Kelly was old enough to tell anyone about his dream, Da had gotten a promotion and shipped off to Cerberus to oversee the uranium mines. And then Ma had gotten sick and died before Da’s first message even made it back home. Da had sent for him immediately, but the trip from Earth to Cerberus took longer than expected, and by the time he saw Da again, Kelly had grown into a young man. Da had been able to tell right away that Kelly would never make it on the inside of a mine, so he had immediately signed Kelly up to be an engineer on a Runner — mid-sized ships that delivered goods from one planet to another. “You can go anywhere in the universe, m’boy,” he’d said, thumping Kelly on the back. “Who wants to stay on a dingy ol’ planet, anyhow?”

Kelly never was able to tell his da that he hated space.

A warning light flashed on the console in front of him. Kelly sighed and moved his hand to the controls to pull the ship out of light speed. With luck and a little bit of finesse, he could do it slowly enough not to wake the Cap’n.

He really didn’t want to wake the Cap’n.

He moved the throttle ever so gently, but halfway down, the lever stopped. He gave it a little more pressure, but it didn’t budge. He crouched under the console to investigate the problem.

“What the…Kel-LY!!!”

Kelly jerked to attention so quickly that he banged his head on the console. He winced.

A short, stocky girl stood a few inches away, her short hair sticking every which way and her face bright red with anger.

“C-c-cap’n Rowan,” Kelly stammered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Well of course you didn’t mean to wake me, idiot,” Cap’n Rowan sneered. “What in the Seven Sisters of Pleiades do you think you are doing to my ship?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Kelly objected. “I just–”

“No, you’re right. You’re a moron. A scab that keeps growing back. I took you on against my better judgment because your daddy owns the biggest mining business in ten systems, but you don’t seem to have any of your daddy’s sense, do you?” Her face started to turn purple, and she poked him in the chest repeatedly for emphasis.

“I-I-I, there was gum–”

“I don’t give a flying turd what your excuse is this time. You’ve fallen asleep at the helm more times than I can count, and now Pettigrew tells me that you’ve gotten distracted again reading some stupid magazine.” She leaned down and picked up the magazine. “What is this rag, anyhow?”

“Just a–”

Cap’n Rowan’s eyebrows furrowed as she looked at the cover. “Gelato Companion? What kind of a pervert are you, Kelly?” She leafed through the pages quickly. “Chrissake, there’s not even any naked pictures!”

She stopped with a sudden realization. “Oh my god. This is something you really love, isn’t it, Kelly?” she said slowly.

Kelly swallowed.

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice got sickeningly sweet. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have treated you this way. I would have just done this.” She carried the well-worn magazine to the trash bin and threw it in. With a push of a button, it was incinerated.

Stifling back tears, Kelly busied himself with the controls at the console. But Cap’n Rowan was back in his face. No matter which way he turned, the little woman was inches away. “Aww, are you going to cry? Is the pansy-ass gelato-eating crybaby going to cry? Do your fracking job, Kelly. Get us to where we need to go. Because as soon as we get there, I’m throwing your ass off the ship.”

Something in him snapped. He knew he wouldn’t see his da again, but he didn’t care. The supernova loomed large on the monitor, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to be somewhere, anywhere, away from space. He reached down to the throttle and pushed it as high as he could go. Faster than light speed, straight into the supernova.

She was still shouting at him, but he didn’t hear her anymore. Everything was moving so slowly. Pettigrew running in, diving for the wormhole switch; Cap’n Rowan looking scared, for once. And then light. And heat. So much heat.

And then cold.

This week’s Indie Ink Challenge came from Carrie, who writes:

drift into trouble

My challenge went out to Angela Alvarez, who posted her awesome response here.

Posted on

Synopsis

After a couple weeks’ hiatus, I’m back in the Indie Ink Writing Challenge. It’s good to be back, folks. This week’s prompt comes from Head Ant, who writes:

An opera is being written about your life. Summarize the first act.

I’ve put the challenge at the top this time because I wanted to explain a little bit about what I decided to do with this totally exciting and incredibly daunting task. An opera about my life?? How in the world would anyone be able to put my complicated life into approximately three hours? I mean, heck, Harry Potter’s life had to be told in almost 20 hours, and they left out huge chunks of plot from the book. Not that I’m anything like Harry Potter, but you know what I mean.

Most opera plots paint pictures in very large brush strokes. If you don’t believe me, just take a look at some of this year’s Twitter #operaplot contest submissions, where you have to summarize an entire opera plot in 140 characters or fewer.

The whole medium of opera necessitates skimpy plots because most of the stage time is taken up with arias about how a character is feeling. Often, action will take place off stage and explained in exposition by one of the characters as a storytelling tool to move the plot forward.

In addition, the characters portrayed in opera are usually larger-than-life archetypes who make stupid, stupid mistakes. It makes for great storytelling, but terrible living…and I decided at a very early age that I had had enough drama in my childhood to last a lifetime, so I tend to avoid the stupid, stupid mistakes as an adult. (Not that I don’t make mistakes, mind you; I just don’t make monumentally stupid, opera-worthy mistakes. At least I try not to).

With that in mind, I decided to create my own autobiographical opera synopsis in the style of Les contes d’Hoffmann, which is a collection of stories in which the poet E.T.A. Hoffmann is the protagonist. Each act is a fantastical tale that deals more in metaphor than reality. (This way I can also protect the identities of the innocent and not-so-innocent…but the overarching story is still autobiographical in nature)

I also decided that if I was going to create an opera synopsis, I couldn’t just stop at the first act; I had to finish it. Also, I decided my opera was going to be sung in Italian. Just because. Clearly I had way too much fun with this challenge!

My challenge went out to Penny, who will post her answer to my prompt here before the end of the week.

The Adventures of Supermaren: the opera

Cast

Maren – mezzo-soprano
Teresa, her friend – soprano
Gianmarco, a suitor – bass-baritone
Giotto, a lawyer – tenor
Stefano, his friend – tenor
Raimondo – baritone

Chorus – friends, party-goers, wedding guests

Dancers
The Puppeteer
Young Maren (child dancer)
The Mother
Puppets

Synopsis

Prologue: Ballet-Pantomime

The Mother and The Puppeteer dance a pas de deux. Young Maren enters, and The Puppeteer begins a puppet show for Young Maren. During the show, The Mother leaves, and the Puppets begin to play with Young Maren. At first she is delighted by the attention, but soon tires and looks for her mother. The Puppets do not allow her to leave. She begs The Puppeteer for release, but instead, he attacks her and forces her to dance a twisted variation of the first pas de deux. The Puppets carry her off the stage.

Act I

A Victorian Mansion.
Maren is in a tower, singing of her romantic ideal and wondering if there is someone out there to sweep her off her feet (“Chi sarà il mio principe?”). Her friend Teresa enters, with news that the guests are arriving for her birthday party, and that the very rich Gianmarco is expected to attend. They sing a duet about the potential of a rich mate (“Non mi dispiacerebbe”). They descend the stairs to find a party in full swing. Gianmarco arrives with his friends and immediately declares his love for Maren (“Non riesco a respirare”). While he is singing, however, The Puppeteer arrives and Maren becomes afraid. She is the only one who can see him. The Puppeteer begins moving Maren around the room, throwing her first at Gianmarco, then making her spurn him. Embarrassed, Gianmarco becomes angry and tells her how worthless she is. She begs him to understand, with a reprise of “Non riesco a respirare,” but The Puppeteer makes it so that she cannot sing the right words.

Gianmarco laughs cruelly at her antics and says that two can play at that game; he picks a random woman, kisses her in front of everyone, and announces that the party will continue at his house. Laughing and cheering, the crowd follows him out the door, leaving Maren alone.

Act II

A library.
Giotto and his friend Stefano are arguing over a legal point and having a great time with their debate. Maren enters, singing sadly, with The Puppeteer not far behind her. Giotto asks who she is. Stefano replies that she is a singer who has been cursed to be unlucky in love. Giotto then asks who the man is behind Maren, and Stefano does not know what he is talking about.

Curious, Giotto approaches Maren and the two start a conversation about their love of books (“I libri possono cantare”). Giotto points out The Puppeteer behind Maren, and she becomes frightened. When Giotto addresses The Puppeteer directly, he does not answer, but gestures menacingly at Giotto. Giotto encourages Maren to confront The Puppeteer, using some of the most powerful words in the world: Shakespeare’s Hamlet (“Difenderci, O angeli e ministri della grazia!”). Defeated, The Puppeteer disappears and Maren is released from his clutches.

Filled with gratitude, Maren declares her love for Giotto, who sadly informs her that her love can never be requited because he only has eyes for Stefano. He leaves her, quoting the holiest of books, Winnie the Pooh: “You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”

Act III

A Renaissance Faire.
Maren and Teresa sing bawdy songs about how they don’t need a prince anymore: just someone who will please them. Raimondo, who has been watching them sing, stands up and applauds. He will please Maren quite well, he boasts, and takes her into his arms. As he does so, The Puppeteer appears, and attempts to capture Maren once again. But she is no longer afraid of The Puppeteer, and she joins hands with Raimondo and Teresa to banish him once and for all (“Basta, basta!”). Defeated by the power of love, The Puppeteer loses all his magic, and his Puppets, now freed, surround him an devour him.

Epilogue

Maren and Raimondo are married, and for a wedding gift, he gives her a red cape and tells her that she has the power, through her words, to reach others who have been abused or held captive by their own fears. As she puts on her cape, Maren pledges her love to Raimondo and they declare that they shall conquer the evils of the world together, to the cheers of the throng (“Evviva, evviva!”).

Here are some of my own submissions to the #operaplot contest (no, I didn’t win):

  • Exiled prince meets tyrannical queen who decapitates her suitors. Of course he’s got to have her now. Typical. [Turandot]
  • Don’t you hate it when your boss is after your daughter and you try to assassinate him but you kill your daughter instead? [Rigoletto]
  • Bad-ass dude is taken down through paranoia by a disgruntled worker. Though strangled, his wife sings for a while before dying. [Otello]
  • Hey girls: saved by a hot guy in a swan boat? Do you want to marry him? Then listen carefully: DON’T ASK HIM WHERE HE’S FROM. [Lohengrin]
  • Ugly monster gets bullied by children, grows up to be an existentialist. [Grendel]
  • If you love someone, stab her in Act IV. [Carmen]
Posted on

Straw Into Gold

They call me Rumpelstiltskin.

I’m telling you that up front, because for a very long time, people could never remember my name. And when I finally could get someone to say my name out loud, I ended up becoming villified by the media for centuries. Never mind the fact that I took a poor girl and elevated her to the richest and most powerful position in the country. Never mind that I brought the kingdom from the brink of financial ruin into economic prosperity. They always forget that point when they tell the story; they like to focus only on the negative bits.

Maybe it’s time I got to tell my side of the story. Maybe you won’t be so quick to judge next time.

It all started when I was a stupid teenager. I was exploring the caves near my house and stumbled upon a pile of old, discarded spinning wheels, probably from The Burning Times (a few generations ago, when the king ordered all the spinning wheels and spindles in the kingdom to be burned. I never could figure out why someone would want to destroy such an important tool of industry, just on the off chance your daughter might be hurt using it. That king had eliminated a major export: fine cloth. The economy had begun to take a nose dive from there, and the kingdom was now heavily in debt. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face!).

On the back of the heap, one spinning wheel stood out that looked to be not as broken as the rest. The wood was still in good condition after all these years, and all the parts were still intact.

And then I noticed something glittering on the bobbin. Gold thread!

I rummaged through the rest of the heap for hours, but couldn’t find any more. Still, even this small bit of gold was more than I had seen in my short lifetime; I moved the fly wheel back and forth, watching the gold gleam on the bobbin. There were a few tufts of grass stuck to the orifice, which I tried to pull off, but they did not come off so easily. Instead, the fly wheel seemed to pull the grass through the orifice right onto the bobbin, transforming it into gold right in front of my eyes.

With the sun already beginning to set, I wasted no time. I strapped the entire spinning wheel to my back and returned to my house, imagining how excited my family would be when I showed them this unusual object.

To my dismay, nobody recognized me when I came home. No matter what I did or said, my family and neighbors treated me like a complete stranger — and nobody in town liked strangers. I was beaten and left for dead by the side of the road, with my spinning wheel still strapped to my back.

I was discovered the next day by an old wise-woman who had been cast out of the town years ago after being accused of witchcraft. She took pity on me and brought me to her home in the middle of the woods. It was she who told me that I should never have put my hands on such a powerful magical item. “You’ve probably been cursed with anonymity,” she informed me as she nursed me back to health. “I’ve seen this kind of thing before.”

I sat up in bed. “You have? Is there any cure? Should I destroy the spinning wheel?”

She chuckled. “The previous owners obviously couldn’t destroy it. What makes you think you can?”

“Then what should I do? How do I get my life back?”

Her withered face turned thoughtful. “If you can find someone who will remember your name and say it out loud, the curse should be broken.”

“Then do it. Say my name.”

“What is it, dear?”

“It’s Rumpelstiltskin.”

“I’m sorry, what? I couldn’t hear you.”

“Rumpelstiltskin.”

We went back and forth like this for several minutes, until she finally shook her head. “I think the curse is too strong for me. The second after you tell me your name, I forget it. You’ll have to find someone who is really stubborn and has a really strong motivation for remembering your name.”

The wise-woman let me stay with her, and in return I helped her around the house and the garden. Knowing I was stuck with the spinning wheel, I decided to put it to work for me. I learned how to spin straw into gold. I never spun too much, but we were able to afford plenty of fresh-milled corn and flour, and I kept us both well-clothed.

Every night after dinner, the wise-woman and I would sit in front of the fire and brainstorm ways to break my curse. Our plans got more and more elaborate as the months wore on, although we both knew that in all likelihood I would never find a cure.

Two winters after she found me, the wise-woman died. I stayed in her house, took care of her garden, but with every passing year, I became more and more determined to find someone who could speak my name out loud and break the curse. Every night I made plans, just like the wise-woman and I used to do, but I did so patiently and methodically. I learned how to read people and manipulate them through their greed. It’s amazing what people will do for gold. I should know.

I got my lucky break a few decades later, when a new miller moved into town. His eyes lit up the first time I brought my strands of gold to him as payment for flour. He invited me to dinner that night, and I knew he was hoping to foist his daughter off on me to get to my gold. I happily accepted.

His daughter was very beautiful, but she was not very bright. She paid more attention to her looks than her domestic duties; dinner that evening was terrible. She seemed frightened by her father and shy around me. When her father left us alone together, I tried to make her a little more comfortable.

“You’re not very attracted to me, are you?” I asked bluntly.

“Oh…uh–” she stammered, glancing nervously at her father’s silhouette in the garden.

“It’s okay. I know I’m no catch.” My beating so many years ago had left me with a disfigured face and one leg that had healed shorter than the other.

“My father thinks you would make a good husband.”

I peered closely at her. “Don’t you want to know my name first?”

“Oh, of course!” she answered, giggling. “But I know your name already, don’t I?”

“Do you? What is it?”

“It’s…um…it’s…I can’t remember.” Her bright blue eyes welled with tears. “But I’m sure I know it!”

I gently placed my hand on her arm, and she flinched slightly. She was perfect for my plans. “Don’t worry, my dear,” I said. “I don’t actually want to get married.”

She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Would you like to be my friend instead?”

“Friend?” Her eyes widened. “I…suppose,” she answered. “As long as Father doesn’t mind,” she added, the nervous edge coming back into her voice.

That’s when I put my plan into action. I gave the miller’s daughter some of my golden strands and told her to keep them in her yarn basket. I visited often, bringing more and more golden strands, especially when I noticed her father taking them for himself. I set up the road block that caused the king to pass by the miller’s house that day, and I was the one who suggested to her that she start spinning by the road, with her shiny golden strands hanging out of her basket.

I was all too happy to oblige her when she came to me for help after the king demanded that she spin straw into gold. And at the end of every night that I would deliver her gold, I would see her slumped over her spinning wheel, dried tears streaking her cheeks. “My name is Rumpelstiltskin,” I would whisper in her ear. “Tell the king who is helping you. Say my name and we shall both be free.”

But she never said my name.

That last evening, I arrived in her cell, and I was angry. “What is my name?” I demanded.

“I don’t remember,” she replied. “I know you’ve done so much for me…but I need your help again. I’ll give you anything.”

I pretended to think about it, but I knew what I was going to ask for. “Will you give me your first born child?”

She gasped. For a moment, I thought she was going to refuse, but she glanced at the skein of gold I held in my hand. She nodded. “Anything.”

And so I brought her the rest of the gold and whispered my name in her ear at dawn.

The king, pleased with all the riches this stupid woman had provided him, married her. I sent her messages, trying to remind her who I was, trying to get her to say my name, but the harder I tried, the less she remembered me.

Finally, she gave birth to a son. And I watched from afar as she nursed and cooed over her baby. Finally, I thought. She will have motivation.

In the middle of the night, I sneaked into the nursery and plucked the sleeping baby out of his cradle.

“I knew you would come.” She had been sleeping in a chair near the cradle and had woken up as I had entered the room.

“We had a deal.”

“I know…but…he’s my baby. I can’t let him go. I just can’t.”

I sighed and put the baby back down. He tossed and cooed but did not awaken. “Then I have a deal for you. Say my name, my true name, and I will never return.”

“But I don’t know it!” She began to weep in frustration.

“Well, then, I’m sorry. I’ll just have to take–”

“No!” she cried. “Give me three days. Three days, and I’ll figure out your name.”

We stared at each other for a long time. Finally, I turned and limped out of the room. “Three days, your majesty. And then your son is mine.”

You know the rest of the story; she used the vast resources she had at her disposal to find out my name, but the curse affected everyone. It wasn’t until she followed me out into the woods herself and saw me in front of my little cottage, singing a song about my name.

She thought she was the victor; she thought she had saved her baby and defeated the monster — that’s what she told people I was, after everything I did for her! What she never realized was that I was just as much of a winner as she.

Once my veil of anonymity was lifted, I had no desire to go anywhere near that cursed spinning wheel again. I tried starting over again, but the queen was so afraid that I would tell everyone that she hadn’t spun the straw into gold that she spread terrible rumors about me (That bit about me stamping my feet until I fell into hell? Not true. I happened to step on a rotted board and got my leg stuck in the floor for about a second. They don’t keep those palaces in nearly as good shape as you might think). I hoped to put the past behind me, but the rumors kept following me, wherever I went. I almost began to wish for anonymity again. Almost.

All those years of planning paid off, though. I knew exactly how to pay her back for making me infamous. I waited until her son had grown and her husband had died, and then I had the spinning wheel hand-delivered to the queen. She couldn’t resist touching it.

Think about it: in all the times you have heard this story, did you ever learn what her name was?

This week’s Indie Ink challenge came from Jurgen Nation, who gave me this prompt:

Name something (a person, place or thing). Then take it from there.

I challenged Stefan, who answered his prompt in kick-ass fashion here.

Posted on

Scrabbled

[Part 1] [Part 2]
“I know you’re keeping something from me.”

Rhonda looked up, startled.

“Admit it,” Rob said. “You can’t hide something like this forever.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rhonda shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She was getting big. Too big to be sitting at the dining room table, too big to look sexy, and far too big to have any patience for games like this.

“You think I wouldn’t figure it out? You have the Q.”

Rhonda’s shoulders relaxed imperceptibly as she gazed down at the Scrabble board between them. She had been so careful not to have any further contact with Charlie since she had found out about the pregnancy. Almost every night she had lain awake, wondering if she had made the right choice. Her heart still raced at the thought of Charlie. The baby kicked in response.

She looked back up at Rob. “How could you possibly know?” She shuffled her tiles around, eyeing the openings on the board.

“The power of deduction.” Rob looked so pleased with himself. “There’s no Q on the board, I don’t have it, and there are only three tiles left.”

“How do you know the Q isn’t one of those three?”

“I don’t. I’m just pretty sure you have it. You have that look in your eyes like you’re going to score big. Besides, I left something wide open for you if you do have a Q.”

“Oh, you’re trying to go easy on me now?”

“Never!”

Despite her discomfort, Rhonda found her lips curling up into a smile. Playing Scrabble with Rob was one of the perks of their newfound intimacy. They still had their differences — sometimes they could really get under each other’s skin — but since she had announced her delicate condition, he went out of his way to spend quality time with her. He would rub her feet, cook meals for her, and even take her shopping. But the best part of it all were these game nights. She had forgotten how smart Rob was, how well-matched they were mentally.

With an over-exaggerated sigh, she pulled out a Q and laid it on the board, and followed it with an A and an I, to make the word “QAID,” attached perpendicularly to the first letter of Rob’s recent addition: DUMB. Their scores were so close that she worried about wasting the 10-point letter on a non-doubling or -tripling space, but as Rob had pointed out, there were only three tiles left. He could easily go out during the next turn, and then she’d be stuck with 10 points to subtract from her score. She’d always hated losing at Scrabble, and losing with a large point margin was unacceptable.

Rob broke out in a grin. “Just as I had suspected.”

“I fell right into your trap, eh?”

“Exactly.”

Rob’s phone rang, and she frowned at him as he pulled it out of his pocket. He gave her an apologetic look, but he still answered, putting it up to his ear and turning away from her.

She reached into the bag and pulled out the last three tiles, placing them on her tile rack. As she rearranged her letters, the baby kicked again. Who knew that a baby would bring the life back into their marriage? She thought things between them had essentially died before she had seduced him that night. Now they were treating each other with respect again. They were even having sex again, on a regular basis, and it was good. Not as good as it was with Charlie, a small voice in her head insisted. She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge that voice. It’s good enough, she told that voice. More than I deserve.

Rob hung up the phone and looked at it quizzically.

“Who was that? And did you tell whoever it was that you were busy losing spectacularly to your wife?”

Rob was silent for a few seconds. “Remember how I told you about that strange guy at the party?”

“The mystery crasher with the fancy mask? My girlfriends still can’t stop talking about him.” She kept a smile on her face, but looked at him warily. From her friends’ description, she could only guess that Charlie had crashed the party. She never saw him that night, however, and since his emails and texts stopped abruptly after the party, she figured his encounter with Rob that night made him realize that she’d never leave her husband. At least that’s what she had hoped.

“That’s the one. He wants to see me.”

Rhonda felt a huge lump growing in her throat. “How did he get your number?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What does he want to talk about?”

“He didn’t say.” He put his phone back in his pocket and looked straight at her. Deliberately.

“Be careful, Rob,” she said slowly, hoping her voice didn’t belie her nervousness. “Now that you’re running for office, everybody wants you to do them a favor.”

He shrugged. “It’s probably guy stuff. He’s a pretty decent dude; I wouldn’t mind helping him out.” As if to change the subject, he pulled out his tiles and laid them on the board, spelling TRUST. It was a triple word score, over which he wasted no time gloating.

She glanced at her tiles and gasped as she saw the letters arranged in the word that would give her the win. Charlie’s call had stolen the levity from the evening, and all she wanted now was to get as far away from Rob as possible. She needed time to think, to figure out a plan, some way to keep Charlie quiet.

Forcing her lips into a big smile, she made a show of slowly placing the rest of her tiles on the board. “I think you’ll find that your best efforts were in vain, babe,” she said just a little too happily. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom for the 40th time today.”

Rob watched her leave, his brows furrowing slightly at her behavior. He looked down at the board and frowned even more as he saw Rhonda’s seven-letter winning word: SECRECY.

This week’s Indie Ink Challenge comes from rishaaa, who gave me this prompt:

She’d always hated losing at Scrabble.

I decided to continue the story of Rhonda, Rob, and Charlie. If you haven’t read the previous posts and you’re a little confused, start here and then continue here.

You can find Dee’s response to my prompt here before the end of the week.

Posted on

Masked Man Fallacy

[For Part 1 of this story, click here.]

“Wait, who was that masked man?”

Charlie ducked into the hallway and flattened himself against the wall. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He had crashed this party on an impulse and hadn’t really thought out any kind of plan. All he knew was that he had to see Rhonda.

He pulled off his mask to take a look at it. Who knew that such a little thing would attract so much attention? Yes, he’d made his own mask, because he had known that this party was supposed to be some sort of masquerade. But he’d imagined something along the lines of Kubrik’s Eyes Wide Shut, so he had created a papier-mâché Venetian mask with a certain amount of detail, including gold leaf and Swarovski crystals. He thought he would be able to blend in with the crowd.

Nothing was going the way he had expected. Rhonda, ever sensible, knew that most of her guests could not be bothered to come up with their own masks, so she had set up a table outside the ballroom with brightly-colored half-masks, some on strings and others on sticks, but none of them decorated. His elaborate design stuck out like a diamond in a plate of sand; he was instantly surrounded by people who wanted to know more about his mask, his art, and most especially, his name. Frustrated, he had fled the ballroom and now found himself alone in the hallway.

The door next to him opened rather rapidly, and a tall man in a plain white mask, clearly agitated, brushed past him on his way to the veranda. Curious, Charlie followed him outside.

“Do you have a light?” The man already had a cigarette in his mouth, but was shaking his empty lighter despondently.

Charlie pulled out a cardboard matchbook from his jacket pocket and handed it to the man.

“Thanks.” The man tried to strike the a couple of matches, but the striking surface was very worn, and he ended up breaking off the heads each time.

“Here, let me do it,” Charlie offered. He deftly folded the matchbook cover backwards, pulled the match through, and it instantly ignited. Relieved, the man leaned forward to light his cigarette and took a few puffs in silence.

“I owe you, man,” the man said. “My wife has been trying to get me to quit. It’s not as easy as it looks.”

“It doesn’t look easy at all.” Charlie had already pulled out his own cigarette and held it up as a salute before he put it in his mouth. “I’m sure I’ll quit eventually…just not now.”

The man chuckled and held out his hand. “I’m Rob,” he said.

Charlie grasped it warmly. “Charlie.”

“So,” Rob asked as he sat down in a wicker chair, “who did you come here with?”

“Well…” Charlie hesitated to reveal the whole truth to his new friend. “I showed up alone, but I was hoping to go home with someone, if you know what I mean,” he said with a crooked smile.

Rob smiled. “Uh-oh. Who’s the lady? Maybe I can smooth the way for you.”

“I don’t want to tell you her name, in case I don’t get so lucky,” Charlie hedged.

“Oh, come on. Most of the women here love me,” Rob said with a smile.

Charlie sighed. Maybe it was time to tell someone how he felt. “She and I were together for a while. It was great. No, it was more than great: it was smokin’ hot. I’ve never felt that way before. But for no reason, she just stopped calling. She won’t answer my texts or my emails. It’s been six weeks, and I know I should just get the hint and move on, but I can’t get her out of my mind. I…er…heard she was going to be here, and so I came.”

“Maybe she found someone else.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I doubt it, though. What we had was unique. Earth-shattering.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Rob said as he finished off his cigarette, grinding the butt on the concrete of the veranda. “All I can say is hold on to that feeling. My wife and I lost almost all interest in each other for a while and then out of the blue that feeling came back with a vengeance. Now she’s pregnant and I don’t know she feels for me from day to day. All I know is that if I don’t quit smoking before the baby comes, she might kick me out of the house.”

Charlie smiled and shook his head as he took a final drag off his own cigarette.

“You sure you don’t want to tell me her name? I am married to the hostess, after all.”

Charlie stopped breathing. “You’re Rob…Holmes?”

“I figured you knew I was that Rob.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s just…” Charlie fumbled around for words as he pointed to Rob’s mask. I’m in love with your wife.

“Huh,” Rob said as he removed his mask. “I didn’t realize how difficult it was to recognize someone without seeing the top half of their face.”

“Rob? Where are you?” Rhonda’s voice came from the hallway.

Charlie turned around quickly and started putting on his own mask.

“What the hell are you doing?” Rob sounded mildly amused.

He turned back around to face Rob, his mask secure on his face once again. “Do me one favor, man. Don’t tell her I’m here. She’s…kind of close to this girl, and I don’t want her to interfere.”

Rob looked at him quizzically, but then smiled. “No problem. I told you I owed you.” They shook hands, and Rob went back into the house as Charlie slipped into the shadows.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge comes from xtinabosco, who gave me this prompt:

A masked man

I decided to use it to continue the story of Rhonda, Charlie, and Rob, since I got so much positive feedback. Let me know if you want me to continue the story, or if you’ve had enough of the drama…

You can read Jamelah’s response to my prompt here by the end of the week.

Posted on

Song of the Procrastinator

One of these days I’ll be a world traveler,
Fluent in German, Italian, and French.
But I don’t have funds, so I’ll have to content myself
Reading through travel blog posts from the bench.

I have a project in mind for the garden,
Complete with gazebo and rose-filled archways;
But industrious weeds have some different intentions…
I’ll get around to it one of these days.

One of these days I’ll learn to play piano
Better than slowly tapping out Für Elise.
It’s tough, though, because if I want true proficiency
I’ve got to actually practice the piece!

One of these days I’ll knit a new sweater
But first I should finish that second green sock.
I won’t finish spring cleaning, not until autumn;
Forgive me if my messiness gives you a shock.

In the meantime, my hours are filled with such business
Of living and loving and writing always.
If I don’t reach my goals soon, I just tell myself:
I’ll get around to it one of these days.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Joelyn, who gave me this prompt:

One of these days…..

I also decided to challenge myself to write a poem, which I very rarely do, because I don’t really think I’m a good poet. But that line scanned so easily, I figured I’d give it a try.

You can find the answer to my prompt written by octoberesque before the end of the week.

Posted on

Love, or Good Intentions

Photo by Loralynn Cross

Pregnant.

Rhonda placed the pee stick gingerly on the sink counter, staring warily at the evidence that had appeared moments ago. She took a deep breath and tried not to cry.

Pregnant.

She lifted her gaze from the sink to the mirror. So this is what a pregnant woman looks like, she thought. She leaned in and peered more closely, trying to find something different, that glow that people keep talking about. She didn’t really see anything particularly different.

She took off her robe and stared down at her belly. She definitely wasn’t showing yet, that’s for sure. But then again, it’s not like she had the tight, svelte figure she’d had in college anymore.

Sighing, she turned on the shower faucet and grimaced as the frigid water hit her arm. It was January, and she knew it would take several minutes for the hot water to make its way up three floors into the bathroom. She shut the shower door and let the water run while she ran a comb through her hair.

Funny, she’d always wanted children. When Rob had proposed to her back in college, he had told her that he’d wanted kids, too. “As many as we can make, babe,” he’d said as they lay in his dorm room, naked and sweaty and tangled.

God, he was so desirable then. And she was so young.

Steam rose from the shower and began to fog the mirror. Rhonda stepped into the shower and adjusted the temperature as the warm water pummeled the top of her head. She stood there for a minute, doing nothing but letting the water run down her face in rivulets, washing away the tears that she could no longer hold back.

Pregnant.

She lathered up her bath sponge and started scrubbing her body, covering her neck, her breasts, her belly, and every other part of her where hands and mouth had been. She didn’t want to wash him away. She traced the path that his mouth had taken, feeling that familiar heat building up deep in her core. She would need that heat to sustain her now.

More tears came now, this time in frustration. This wasn’t supposed to happen, she thought. I thought I couldn’t have kids. I thought I was safe.

She and Rob had come to the realization several years ago that they had only married to appease their parents. They thought they had loved each other; turns out they’d just had good intentions. Divorce, however, was out of the question. Rob was going to run for a Senate seat, and Rhonda’s position as a development director for a big charity was contingent on her social standing. No, it was better in the long run, they decided, to stay together.

And then she’d met Charlie. Beautiful, sweet, young Charlie, with long blonde hair and washboard abs. He was a playboy — oh, she was well aware of that fact! — but he made her feel like she was the only woman in the world for him. In public, they acted cool and casual; in private, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

She picked up her razor and began to shave her legs. In long, deliberate strokes, she pulled the blade up her calf, careful to reach the more difficult curves behind her knee.

Maybe this is good, she thought. Maybe this is exactly what I need to get away from Rob, from my life, from everything. It could be a fresh start.

But Charlie? To say he was a free spirit was putting it lightly. A self-proclaimed starving artist, Charlie never held down a job for longer than six months. Sometimes his only meal for the day would be a $5 burrito from the Mexican place down the street; he preferred to spend his money in bars every night. Not exactly the ideal father figure.

She flinched as her razor nicked her thigh. Blood welled up and was quickly diluted by the water. Shaking her head, she rinsed the razor and put it away.

What would Rob say? What would he do?

Oh God, what would he do?

She spent one more minute in the warm shower, rinsing all proof of Charlie’s touch and her grief down the drain.

Well, not ALL proof. She touched her belly.

Turning the faucet off, she stepped out of the shower and rubbed herself briskly with a towel. Even though the steam had warmed the bathroom, it was still cold in the house, and the water on her body was making her shiver.

Or maybe she was shivering because she knew what she had to do.

Slowly, deliberately, she rubbed her naked body with moisturizer, that scented stuff that Rob liked so much. She dabbed a couple of drops of perfume behind her ears for good measure. The smell made her gag.

It must be the hormones, she told herself.

She picked up the pregnancy test and looked at it one more time before throwing it into the trash. She closed up the trash bag and set it aside for the housekeeper to throw out later. She knew Rob wouldn’t be rooting around in the trash, not if he didn’t suspect anything.

Donning her robe, she stepped out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. He was in bed, she knew, but probably not asleep.

She had to do it now. While she still had the courage.

“Hey, babe.”

Rob looked up from the book he was reading. They hadn’t called each other that since college.

“I…um…” she opened her robe and let it slide off her body slowly.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he did not protest as Rhonda crawled on top of him and began to undress him.

[Click here to continue to Part 2]

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came to me from the fabulous Jason Hughes, who gave me this prompt:

Love is more than good intentions.

You can find Katri’s answer to my prompt here before the end of the week.

Posted on

Ohana (Family)

Me, age 7-8 (?) in the yard of the Honolulu house

For as long as I can remember, I have looked forward to visits to Hawaii.

When I was little, my mother and I would get on a plane to Honolulu almost every summer for family reunions. She and her four sisters grew up in Hawaii, and my grandfather still lived there, so we always had a place to stay. Sometimes all my aunts and cousins would show up at once, but most of the time, each family unit would have overlapping vacations so that there wasn’t too much chaos at my grandfather’s house.

Even then, I remember the sleeping arrangements becoming more and more creative, what with three generations sleeping under one roof: there were two guest bedrooms, a basement apartment (which always smelled like mildew), the living room, a two guest rooms down the road at the Friends Meeting House (available at reasonable rates for our family, as we were Friends), and a tent in the backyard. I remember my cousins (all boys) vying for tent privileges; sleeping outdoors in the middle of Hawaii is not a bad way to spend your vacation, let me tell you!

My grandfather (we all called him “Gung-Gung”) had an amazing garden, resplendent with as many fruit trees as he could get away with on the property. A plentiful harvest of bananas, starfruit, guavas, mangos, and even breadfruit graced the table every morning. He also had macadamia trees, the nuts of which he would harvest, peel, and roast all year long. Our Christmas packages always included a jar of his very own macadamia nuts.

The best part about vacationing in Hawaii with our family is that we knew all the local hangouts. We would forgo the tourist-laden beaches of Waikiki and instead hop in the truck to Ala Moana. If we wanted to snorkel, we’d go to Hanauma Bay (this was before it was well-known; I thought it was our own little secret).

Invariably, we would all take a day trip to go to the North Shore. We would always stop at Matsumoto’s for a shave ice on our way to the Haleiwa house. Gung-Gung had built this one-bedroom house all by himself, and from time to time he rented it out. At the time that he had purchased the land, everything around it had been owned by C&H, and I remember driving through a forest of sugarcane to get to a house on stilts proudly standing in the middle of a rectangular area of cleared land.

Sam (but I knew him as "Gung-Gung")

Gung-Gung was fearless. I remember one time we were driving down the highway, and he spotted some ripe coconuts on a palm tree near the road. He directed my uncle to pull over, and my cousins and I watched in disbelief as he shimmied up the tree to retrieve the coconuts. His legs were cut from the rough bark, but he had the biggest smile on his face as he held up his trophies.

Now Gung-Gung is gone; he passed away in 2003 from Alzheimer’s Disease. My mother had moved to Honolulu a few years earlier to help take care of him, and now she is the new resident local family member. She lives in the Haleiwa house that Gung-Gung built, and she always encourages us to come visit as much as possible!

My cousin Sam, in the same yard that I posed in almost 30 years prior.

When I got married in Hawaii, the trip ended up being a three-generation affair once more. My cousin’s daughter (named Sam after Gung-Gung) was one of my flower girls, and her grandmother (my aunt, who she calls “Po-Po”) was also there. Everybody stayed in neighboring bungalows on the beach, and that large extended-family comfortableness that I recalled from my childhood was back, just as I wanted.

I think there is something very magical about Hawaii, especially where my family is concerned. I know my husband loves Hawaii (“Everything moves at my pace,” he says), so the only discussion we have about vacation spots is where in Hawaii we want to visit next. If/when we ever have any children, there is no question we will be making family trips out there regularly so my kids can be infused with that same magic.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Tara, who gave me this prompt:

A three-generation family vacation.

I challenged xtinabosco, who will answer her prompt by the end of the week here.

Posted on

Powerless

Photo by KK Lo

Day 1
The President announced yesterday that due to the mounting energy crisis, we would all have to start rationing electricity. I think the idea was that they would wean us off electricity, but something must have gone terribly wrong. Today, when we woke up, there was no electric current running anywhere. And I do mean anywhere: not in our township, county, or even, as far as I understand it, the larger cities.

That’s OK; I’m sure they’ll get things up and running soon. I could use a vacation from electricity anyway. I just have to make sure I eat all the stuff that’s in the fridge before it goes bad.

Day 2

We realized yesterday that we can’t really use our cell phones to talk to anyone since none of the cell towers are working. That certainly put a damper on our communications. And since there were no electric currents running through any of our wires, even the land lines weren’t working. We have been relying on our neighbor for news; he has been driving around the township, checking up on people.

The other annoying thing is that our stove is electric. I didn’t think about how much of a problem it would be until I tried to cook up all the perishables. We just ate everything cold. It was pretty gross.

Apparently the hospital is working on backup generators, but I’m not sure how long that’s going to last. I’m just happy nobody has started looting.

Day 3

My husband decided to look at the gas line for a possible source for heating food. We do have an alternate stove in our living room: it’s a kitchy old-timey wood-burning stove that’s been modified to run on gas, just like our fireplace. Apparently, the gas still works, so now I’m cooking with gas. Thank goodness for hot meals!

The police came around today. They wanted to remind us to lock our doors and not go outside at night. Apparently there has been some looting a couple of towns over. I’m not too worried; our neighborhood is pretty safe.

Day 7

We keep hearing rumors of looting going on in the neighboring towns. One thing I do have to say has been a great thing about this electricity outage is that we have started talking to our neighbors. I mean, until now I haven’t known my neighbors’ names, their personalities, or what they do! I think I like most of them. I’m still not crazy about the rat dog across the street.

The postman came by today with a newsletter from the White House. Apparently this is how they are getting out “essential” information these days. I read it, but it’s just a lot of nonsense, really, about how we shouldn’t panic and that everything will be back to normal soon. I’m not sure how much I believe it.

Day 8

It was a sleepless night last night. It was really hot, and of course the air conditioner doesn’t work. We can’t even use the ceiling fans. All the windows were open and the covers were off, but it didn’t make a difference. I was also beginning to worry about that newsletter we got from the government. Is there a reason we should panic?

Day 9

We decided to try to go to the bank yesterday. They turned us away. The looters had gotten there before us, and all the money was gone.

I also realized that our pantry was starting to get a little empty. Even though it’s the beginning of summer, I think there’s plenty of time and opportunity to start growing things. I went through my old seed packets to see what I should start with.

Day 14

My husband has been busy. Since we have no money on hand, we’re trying to figure out ways for us to either barter services or make cash on our own. The trouble is, everyone else is in the same boat. The kids across the street have started making muffins to sell every morning, and the smells that come out of that house are spectacular.

My husband, on the other hand, has been using his knowledge of electronic circuitry to good use. “We may not have access to the grid anymore,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean the laws of physics have suddenly disappeared.” He has now modified our exercise bike so that it will power one of his pinball games.

Day 16

Yesterday, the kids across the street came over to try out our new self-propelled pinball games. One of the kids got on the bike to power it, while the other one played the game, and they took turns. They loved it, and they absolutely wanted more.

We charged them $2 or 2 muffins to play for one hour.

My husband has four working pinball machines and two that need some repair, but I think the idea is that we may be able to create a little arcade here in the house, just to make some money.

Day 30

We got a letter from some friends at the Renaissance Faire today. Letters have become so precious nowadays; it’s our only connection with the outside world. The postman is the most popular man in town, especially since he’s the only guy left allowed to have gas in his car. (Don’t tell anyone, but we siphoned the gas from our cars a while ago and we’re keeping it in jugs in the garage. You never know when you might need it).

Anyway, our friends have invited us to come live with them on the fairgrounds. They want to form a community of people who all know and trust each other. Apparently there have been many incidents of rape and looting in Philadelphia, and many of our friends have already begun making the pilgrimage out to Lancaster County, where the Amish have lived without electricity for centuries.

Day 45

Things certainly have changed. Our arcade is the hit of the neighborhood, but our notoriety has also gotten us some unwanted attention from thieves. My husband has been talking about fortifying the house, whatever that means.

I harvested quite a few vegetables this week, so we’ll have more bartering leverage, at least for a while. I also think it’s time to start pickling and canning the extra food. Winter is going to be really difficult.

Day 50

Photo by Benny Hill

Last night, we got hit. The looters took everything. We were sleeping upstairs when they broke in the windows and took as much as they could carry: food and anything wooden or metal, which included many of the components of the pinball setup. We knew they were there; we awoke while they were still in the house. But neither of us had a firearm and we knew that these guys were packing. We stayed in the bedroom, holding each other.

There’s almost nothing left. We talked it over this morning, and we decided that it was time for us to move on. Our gas, hidden in jugs in the garage, is still here, but every last scrap of food is gone. I still have two spinning wheels, and although both of them are wooden, the looters seem to have overlooked them in their zeal to pick apart the pinball machines.

We have decided it’s time to take our friends up on their offer and make the long trip to the Renaissance Faire. I know they have livestock there; that will be helpful. I can definitely spin wool and knit what I spin. That’ll be useful out there too.

We’re going to leave tonight, so I need to harvest the rest of the plants in the garden, whether or not they are ripe, because we don’t know when our next meal might be.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Dafeenah, who gave me this prompt:

You wake up and the entire electrical system has collapsed beyond repair. Describe how the world changes. How it changes you and how you adjust in the new society with no electricity.

I challenged Seeking Elevation, who will answer it here before the end of the week.

Posted on

Creation


When Gaia was just a child, she and her siblings loved to dance around their father, chasing each other in wider and wider circles. She would throw stardust in her father’s face and giggle as he feigned anger, puffed up his cheeks, and incinerated the dust with one breath.

Sol told his children that he loved them all equally, but Gaia knew that she and her father shared a special bond. “Gaia,” he would whisper in her ear, “You are exceptional. I know you are destined for great things.”

As she and her siblings grew older, they ventured farther and farther away from the safety of her father’s arms. Mercury, the baby of the family, still stayed close to home, but Neptune, who had always been erratic and emotional, drifted the farthest, preferring the cold of nothingness to the warmth and companionship of his family.

And though Gaia’s siblings were far from each other, they would wink and wave to her as they danced through space; she would wink back to them, singing a song of love and joy across the void.

Sometimes, though, as she danced across the vast blackness of space, she found herself all alone. She cried tears of regret that she had grown older and wandered away from the bosom of her family. Those tears ran down her cheeks and gathered themselves between her bosoms, falling into the cracks and crevices of her body, and for the first time, Gaia saw the reflection of her father in the pools of water.

She called out, “Father, I miss you!”

Sol burned brightly in the darkness, but said nothing.

“Father,” she called again, “why are you so far away?”

Again, Sol was silent.

Finally, Gaia cried out in frustration, “Why must I be so alone?”

Sol sighed. “Oh, Gaia,” he whispered, too quietly for her to hear, “you are not alone.” And although he knew it would probably make his other children jealous, he blew a warm kiss directly towards her.

A few minutes later, the kiss made its way to her cheek. She touched her cheek and suddenly knew what she needed to do. She put her arms around herself and recalled all the love she had for her family. Her strong heart beat faster and faster, and electricity began to flow through and around her hands.

Lightning flashed between her hands in the sky and the pools of water on her body.

And then…something HAPPENED.

Gaia felt it deep down inside. She felt different. She was more than just a daughter of Sol. She had created something.

She stared at her body. Nothing really seemed that different. The salty tear-water was rocking back and forth as she danced through space. But then, she saw something gleaming: something new, something very, very small, way down in the depths. “I think…I think it’s moving!” she said in horrified fascination.

And it was. It was life.

A life.

Alive.

Not only was it moving, but it had begun to multiply. And there became more of them, and they kept changing form and shape, becoming increasingly diverse in their living, eating, and mating habits. Some of them swam around in the oceans, but others crawled out of the oceans and began to live and move on her body proper. Some didn’t move around at all, but dug their feet deep into her body and stretched their arms up-up-up towards her father.

And so she continued her dance of joy across the void, ever circling her father, full in the knowledge that no matter how far away she was from her family, she would never, ever be alone.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Wendryn, who gave me this prompt:

Write whatever you like, but include this line: “I think…I think it’s moving!” she said in horrified fascination.

My prompt went out to Kerri, who did a fantastic job answering it here.