Game Pod Challenge: 4 Phrases

Today's Game Pod challenge rules?
Simple.

Write a 300 to 500 word count flash fiction or scene that used the following four phrases as dialog, text, theme, metaphor, action, etc. in the work. 

A windmill full of corpses
Passive-Aggressive Post-it notes
Getting drunk on mouthwash
Licking things to claim them

First up, G...

Scavengers

 by J. G. Walker

 

Three men entered the hotel dining room. As the door shut behind them, Tom--the middle-manager, the one with the most seniority, and the man in charge--spotted a book on a table. 

He pointed. “There!”

No sooner had Tom uttered this than his teammates, Pete and Stig, scrambled away in a blur of khaki and denim. Pete, benefitting from longer legs and an elbow deployed to Stig’s chest, reached the table first.

While Stig sulked, wheezing, Pete picked up the hardbound book, and Tom stepped closer to look at it: An aged, bedraggled knight wielded an enormous sword, leaning back against the door of a rustic windmill. Around the door’s edges, various bloody arms protruded, some with hands, some without. A few hung limp, but others still appeared intent on strangling the knight.

The title: Don Quixote: Zombie Exterminator.

Pete sat on the table, dropped the duffle he’d been carrying, and began to scan the book. He eventually stopped, unpeeling a purple sticky note from one of the pages, reading aloud: “Are you doing your best for the company? Answer: You can always do better. Spread the word.”

He smiled at Tom. “Mark the dining room off the list.” He folded the note and shoved it into his shirt pocket with the other gems of company propaganda they’d collected.

Then he lifted the book to his face and ran his tongue across its dusty cover. Twice.

Stig recoiled. Tom was too stunned to move.

“Why’d you do that?” he said.

Pete held the book out to Stig. “Do you want it?”

“No,” Stig said, clearly horrified. “Not with all your slobber on it.”

Pete looked at Tom again, grinning. “That’s why.” He placed the book on the table and reached into his jacket, producing a bottle, a blue one with a familiar label.

“Is that what I think it is?” Tom said.

Pete unscrewed the lid. “Probably.”

Stig shook his head. Apparently, he knew something Tom didn’t.

“Here’s to me,” Pete said.

Tom watched, amazed, as Pete upended the bottle of Listerine.

All things considered, mouthwash was probably a good idea for Pete. Even on a good day, he could stand it, but especially after licking that book.

He did seem to be drinking a lot of it, though.

Finally, Pete finished, but instead of spitting the mouthwash, he swallowed.

“Gah!” Tom said. “That stuff’ll kill you.”

“Common misconception.” Pete smacked his lips. “Gives quite the buzz, actually. And kills germs.”

“You’re crazy,” Stig said.

Actually, Tom realized, considering Pete’s daily office behavior, the Listerine explained a lot. An question occurred to him.

“Have you licked everything we’ve found this morning?”

“Yup,” Pete replied, then belched. “Which room’s next?”

Tom passed the list to Stig, who consulted it.

“Scullery.” Stig pointed. “That way.”

Tom sighed. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Team building exercises, he thought.

A scavenger hunt.

With these two idiots.

Ten more items.

Bloody terrific.

Next up, M....



 

MINE

By Michelle Ladner

Nick knew instantly the post-break-up agreement had been broken. He stood at the door of the apartment he’d shared with Kay and stared at the bright yellow square stuck to the faded green paint. On the note, a scrawl of purple marker read:

TOOK WHAT I FELT WAS MINE. HOPE YOU DON’T MIND. JACK HELPED MOVE ME OUT. BE BACK TONIGHT FOR THE REST.

Let’s keep things civil, Kay had said to him. There’s no need to get your family involved. You know how your dad can be.

Nick teeth ground together. Jack sure had moved her out, hadn’t he? He plucked the note off the door and crumpled it, stuffing it deep in his pocket.

He turned the key in the knob and flung the door wide. All the furniture he’d charged to his credit card last year with her urging was gone. Worse than that, the artwork his gran painted him last Christmas was gone too. A few odds and ends were still scattered about the studio apartment. He saw more yellow squares with ridiculous purple script stuck to what Kay deemed her remaining things.

The space smelled mustier than he remembered. He paced around, cataloging all the things she’d already taken, their things.

In the middle of the kitchen counter sat a cardboard box. Stuck to the front of it, another angry yellow square with purple script stared back.

YOUR STUFF

He shook his head and rifled through the heaped box, chewing on his bottom lip. He realized these weren’t his things, but instead an odd collection of trash and random incidentals retrieved from under the bathroom sink.

Heat rose to his forehead. He decided to grab a beer from the fridge. She didn’t drink beer.

All his beer was gone. As well as the milk he’d just bought on Monday. Only half a wrapped sandwich stared back. On it, another Post-it…

DONT EAT THIS. IT’S JACKS. COMING BACK FOR THE REST OF MY STUFF TONIGHT AT 6.

Nick slammed the fridge door.

He plucked a full bottle of mouthwash from the heart-gouging box of his stuff. Imagining her skinny, slutty body pinned to a windmill full of corpses. He wrenched off the top and gulped down half the blue minty liquid.

After a moment, staring at the mouthwash bottle on the kitchen counter and experiencing a strangely fresh and warm feeling overcoming him, Nick opened the fridge. He unwrapped Jack’s sandwich, peeled it apart, and licked both halves. Carefully, he placed the halves back together, rewrapped the sandwich, and laid it back on the fridge shelf.

He packed everything in the apartment with a Post-it on it into his car. Sitting on the curb, sipping on the mouthwash, he dialed his father’s office.

“Markham and Markham and Whitley,” the secretary answered.

“Hi, Carol. This is Nick. Can you ask Dad to meet me at the apartment at six tonight after all?”

“Sure thing, Nick.”

Nick smiled, hanging up the phone, and downing the rest of his mouthwash.

 

Hope you all enjoyed our Game Pod! Let's do it again!!!

Game Pod: Creation -- Story Dice

The Peas are offering up some unique (and overdue!) flash fiction. We're literally rolling the dice this week to find inspiration for our stories. M gave her lucky plot dice a shake and this is a picture of what we were given: 

Flash Fiction Inspiration

Each Pea was responsible for interrupting the images as she saw fit. Yeah, this is going to be interesting...

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

Ozon watched as his brother plucked a handful of glittering dust from his pouch. The task was simple. Enter the bedroom. Assess its occupants. Carry out their assigned tasks. It had been the same routine for centuries, ever since the Rift forced his kind to work in pairs.

Ohon’s ethereal powder drifted to the Sleeper’s head and disappeared. The Sleeper smiled.

Jealousy spiked in Ozon’s heart. “There’s no justice in this world.”

“Come now, brother,” his twin chided as he recorded the reaction in the Book of Dreams. “You mustn’t say such things.”

“It’s true.” Ozon pulled open his own black leather pouch and dipped his fingers into the inky darkness within.

“Are you still questioning our assignments?”

Ozon smeared a bit of oily residue on the female Sleeper’s forehead. She flinched at his touch. “Always.”

Ohon shook his head as he handed Ozon’s the Book. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, brother. You see our gifts as a burden. They aren’t.”

“No, they’re a curse.” Ozon tucked the Book inside his robes.

The twins sauntered from the bedroom, gliding silently down the hallway. “We’re Sandmen, brother. We reveal all that is locked away and hidden. None have power to rival ours.”

“And yet we’re incapable of acting alone.”

Ohon laughed. “Are you tired of me?”

Ozon remained silent.

“There are reasons why Sandmen are paired. If one of us had command of both Desire and Fear...” Ohon shuddered. “No, it’s best to keep the powers separate.”

“Of course you’d say that, brother. You only deal with pleasantries. I’m the monstrous shadow, the one they label Nightmare.”

Ohon sighed and paused, forcing Ozon to wait. “If one Sandman had the ability to grant both, Sleepers would fall to him like sheep before the butcher. It would be the end of all Sandmen.”

“Not the end. A restoration.”

“Are suggesting we return to an autonomous state? Have you forgotten the horrors of the Rift?”

“Perhaps.”

Ohon chuckled and brushed past Ozon. “Glad to see you’re finally developing a sense of humor.”

Anger swelled as Ozon slammed his twin against the wall. Before Ohon could cried out, he smeared a handful of Fear along Ohon’s forehead.

Convulsions wracked the Sandman’s body. Soundless screamed contoured his face.

Ozon ripped away his brother’s pouch. The weight of Desire thrilled him. The warmth of the dust within warmed the leather and his cold skin.

As Ohon crumpled to the floor, Ozon smiled for the first time in his existence. “Sweet dreams, brother.”

(Weighing in at 423 words, J goes over word count for the first time!)

No one ever tells you to watch out for your shadow. 

Why should they? It's your constant companion. Trustworthy. Reliable. There with you through everything, even when you can't see it. So what happens when it peels itself from the ground, grows claws and horns, and starts hissing its fork-tongued whispers in your ear?

No one ever tells you to watch out for your shadow because no one has ever had one possessed. Until now.  

My name is Finnigan Swiftfoot, and I have a demon tethered to my skin. 

In fact, it's sitting beside me right now, watching me write this to you in a letter I will never send.

Having a demon shadow is not painful. Not physically, anyway. I suppose you could call me lucky. After all, my shadow is the one possessed. I'm just fine... Aside from the way it follows me around, lurking, stalking, murmuring a list of all my fears over and over so I'll never forget them. 

It's a real joy, my shadow.

I've tried to force it away. I've planted myself directly in the sun, where only happiness could possibly survive -- where darkness withers under my feet -- and allowed myself to believe this is all some dream. But time, like the sun across the sky, passes. And soon my shadow drags itself up and faces me, and the truth is painfully clear. I will never be free of it. Not until I find the key to unlocking the shackles that bind us. 

I can look down even now and see the keyhole tattoo on my wrist where the shackles appeared, only that first few days after it happened. Sometimes I can forget. Even when it sits beside me, staring at me, muttering. I can forget.

But not at night. When I sleep, my shadow cloaks itself in darkness, slithers into my bed, and worms its way into my dreams. My nightmares.

I haven't slept well in months. 

I look out the window of my sixteenth train car since I reached this side of the world. The sheep grazing in the passing fields entice me. I almost want to count them. I wonder if it would help to keep the demon at bay. Maybe an hour of untainted sleep...

I look beside me. My shadow is curled on the red upholstery of the bench seat, darkening it to the shade of blood. Its eyes never leave me.

So loyal, my shadow.

I finger the edges of the ancient book in my lap, wishing I could read the language. I'm pretty sure it contains the answer I'm looking for. If not, I've got no other options but to flay myself alive, and even that's not a guarantee. 

"What did I do to deserve you?" I ask. The scales of paranormal justice have so clearly been tipped in my favor...


My shadow flashes me a razor-sharp grin. "I'll never tell," it answers in a sing-song voice that has yet to stop being creepy, even after all this time. 


"Super helpful answer. Thanks," I say, turning back to the fields flashing by the window. 

(At 520 words, A is unsurprisingly over the limit)

Donavon Dinkle stuck the worthless finance book in his back pocket and stared at the scrawny mud caked sheep.

He hadn’t slept for days worrying over the question posed in the letter.

Would you rather pay me the six thousand pounds or forfeit the property?

“Neither.” He heaved the pitiful animal onto the scale. Not quite six stones. “The price of the meat on your bones ain’t worth the effort.”

The sheep baaed then blinked dully at him.

“How am I to get this demon off my back,” he said, dragging the animal off the scale. He sighed, looked down at the sheep, and patted its head. “I have to get the money somehow. They’ll take the farm.”

The sheep lifted its chin to him as if to say, It’ll be all right, Mr. D. 

He tossed the worthless ledger onto the scale and walked out of the barn as the creature trailed behind him.

The farm was rundown and hadn’t turned a profit in some time. But he couldn’t bear to part with it. It’d been in the family for ages. Losing it would be the end of his world.

A low whistle sounded from above. The sheep startled and skittered off with a bleet. He scanned the sky and saw a dark moving object growing larger. Taking a few steps backward, he stumbled and watched as the object streaked toward the earth. It crashed into his barn with a boom. 

“Bloody hell!” he said, picking himself out of the mud. 

He carefully approached the smoking rubble pile in front of him and climbed over the barn’s shattered walls to get a closer look.

Settled in the splintered crater of wood laid the mangled remains of one of those keyhole satellites he'd read about in the paper. It bore an American flag.

Donavon turned and found the sheep looking rather pleased with itself and standing not but a stone’s throw away.

He smiled and said to the animal, “I reckon those Yanks’ll be wanting to keep this quiet.”

The sheep bleeted happily then scampered out to the field just as a caravan of unmarked vehicles raced along the road toward the farm. 

(Words totaling in at 363. M scores pea points with the lowest word count for this round.) 

Thanks for reading. Next up, the missing Hunger Games edits, a recap of my YA Day, and who knows what for next week. You'll just have to wait and see.

Peas out. 

Guest Pod: Writer Blog by J. G. Walker

The Peas love talking about reading and books as much as (and sometimes more) than writing them. Delving into the topic of what books turn readers on and why we became readers is something we spend a lot of time thinking about and discussing. It's fascinating to learn the origins of how people we know come to reading and what compels them to pick up that next book. We asked our honorary pea, G (A.K.A.  J. G. Walker), to write a little about why he reads what he reads. Pull up a cushy corner of the pod and relax as he gives you his take.

I don’t remember learning how to read.
Well, you might say, maybe the process was traumatic enough that I somehow relegated it to the dark recesses of my mind. I should point out, though, that I absolutely remember learning how to swim, and that experience is one I’d gladly forget. No, I think the reason I don’t remember is learning to read is that it happened so early.

My mother was a budding kindergarten teacher when I was young, so that could help explain why reading came so early. My dad says I used to sound out the words on billboards when we took him to work at Fort Rucker, Alabama. I have no recollection of this, since I’d only have been about two or three at the time, but it seems likely, since I still have a compulsion for reading billboards today. Now I make stupid jokes about them, of course.

Whatever its origins, reading became enough of a reflex for me that not much in the way of books escaped my attention. As I got taller, I grew more selective, out of necessity more so than anything else. There was only so much time, after all, and lending libraries then weren’t what they are today. I didn’t read much mainstream fiction or non-fiction as a kid, either, having decided in my ultimate wisdom that it was too ordinary (Spoiler alert: I got better).

What I would read, however, was anything out of the ordinary --science fiction, horror, fantasy--and if I found someone I liked, I’d devote myself to slavishly devouring that author’s entire canon. (It’s also worth noting that this was also when I discovered I was quite the night owl.) Isaac Asimov, Madeleine L’Engle, Robert A. Heinlein, Ursula K. Le Guin--these and many more writers succumbed to many late-night reading binges.

Later, high school came along, and I moved on to slightly darker fare. Stephen King, Anne Rice, H.P. Lovecraft, Dean Koontz, and Clive Barker were my go-to scribes in those days. The classics? Not so much. I was still a snob, and the thought that I would eventually go on to get three degrees in English would have rendered me downright apoplectic.
 
One day, however, I read a book that would change my life. It was the first mainstream, perhaps even Literary-with-a-capital-‘L’-novel, I’d read that had such a drastic effect on me. Yes, it was ‘realistic,’ in the sense that it was about normal people living plausible lives in an authentic world, but it was nothing even approaching ordinary. The book was John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meaney, and it’s still one of my favorite novels. It also has the distinction of being the work that made me want to become a writer and give up the idea forever, both at the same time. It was that good.

This caused a drastic shift in my perspective. Maybe, I reasoned, some of those classics and other mainstream novels I’d snubbed were worth a try as well. And they were. My horizons broadened, new genres opened themselves to me, and I realized there was no way in hell I’d ever be able to read everything I wanted. There are worse problems to have, I know.

But what about my exacting, snobby standards? The truth is they remained the same. The only change that occurred was the new realization that when looking for new things to read, I now had a lot more places to search.

What do I read now? That’s pretty simple. It should be something new, it should be interesting, and the author should be attempting to tell a unique story. That’s really all there is to it. Oh, and it should be well-written, but that sort of lines up with the uniqueness.

If a story tells me something I don’t already know, or even if it tells me something I’m familiar with but does so in a new and unique way, I’m on it. There are only so many tales, as the saying goes, the trick being to tell them in new ways. It may be fiction, non-fiction, horror, humor, fan-fiction, dark or light.

Whether a story is about a borderline-sociopathic Victorian detective, a kid with a wrecked voice, a pair of comic book creators living in New York City in the 1940s, a vampire (okay, maybe not a sparkly one, but that’s just me), a time-traveling World War II soldier, people climbing Mount Everest, an orphaned boy wizard, a haunted hotel, or a possessed Plymouth Fury, if it’s exceptional in some way, then it’s up my alley.

And the story doesn’t have to be set in a far-flung galactic empire, an alternate history, or be populated by furry critters, geometric shapes, or homicidal telepaths, either. Although those can be pretty nifty, too.

J.G. Walker is a writer, editor, and writing coach who lives with his wife in Colorado Springs, Colorado. His fiction and nonfiction have been featured in such publications as Oracle Fine Arts Review, Lullwater Review, and Aoife’s Kiss. Walker is currently trying to create the impression that he is at work on his third novel, Visitation: A Novel of Death and Inconvenience. To find out more, check him out at www.courtstreetliterary.com or www.jgwalker.net 


Next week, more impromptu flash fiction! We love to write it and you seem to love to read it. Let's hope you still feel the same after next Tuesday. Peas out.

One Pea Short of a Pod: Part Two

A Weekend at Oak Alley with J and M… continued

Day Two:

The mansion and oaks -- stunning.

There’s a certain kind of quiet one will experience whilst sleeping in an old quarter-house situated alongside the pastoral landscape of the Mississippi River Road. And at its heart, Oak Alley A.K.A. Bon Séjour -- even in all her glorious grandeur -- is merely a not-so-small country home. I’d forgotten how eerily quiet a country home could be.

I woke with a start in the middle of the night to a mysterious creak coming from the next room. The living eyes of the child’s portrait -- dusted in the sick yellow glow of a nearby security light -- hung over my bed and glared down on me. I shivered. The fractured images of the dozens of people that must’ve died on the grounds over the estate’s long life flickered through my mind. I heard another creak. My palms sweated. My heart raced against an inexplicable mounting fear.

The child's photo over my bed.

Then, with a hiss of breath whispering from the next room, I remembered the mysterious voodoo dolls J had acquired the day before. I felt my body grow cold, rigid.

Not really.

The truth? J’s bed was incredibly squeaky and it caused me to giggle like a child at a sleepover every time she adjusted herself under the covers. And… it was crazy cold! I think our first night in Cottage 6 might’ve been the coldest January night in Valcherie, LA (sound familiar). As you may recall, we did have central heat and air, but M wasn’t getting out of bed to crank up the thermostat at 3am. Brr.

A few hours later, as daylight broke, I heard another creak, a frantic rustle of fabric, and a low groan. I peered around the door to spy J, shuffling off to the kitchen with a sheet over her head and mumbling something that sounded a bit like, “Goffeeeee...”

That was my only undead sighting of the Pea-treat.
J wakes early for a voodoo-doll-wielding-vampire.

We followed through with our plans to tour the mansion. Off to breakfast we ambled -- knowing more coffee (ie: liquid life) awaited us at the cafe. We were seated near a few tables of excited travelers, snowbirds from the north, and J and I did what we do best. We eavesdropped while noshing on our eggs and crispy bacon

Old typewriting in Cottage 6 -- fitting

After breakfast, we toured the house. With the clang of the bell, the doors opened and a period dressed lady met us. We went room by room, learning the history of the former residents since 1839 – the Romans, the Stewarts, and what little is known of those that came in between. Afterward, standing on the portico of the mansion, we sipped our icy lemonades as the winter wind whipped around us. We said to one another, “I don’t know about reclaiming our Mojo but this iced drink thing was a pretty ridiculous plan.” So we bundled our frostbite phalanges into the pockets of our coats and headed to the cottage for hot tea, lunch, and an afternoon of writing.

Having consumed a lovely broccoli cheese soup and sandwiches, which we cobbled together in our cottage kitchen, J set up her voodoo dolls and laptop at the bar. I settled onto the couch where I promptly emailed J -- formally requesting her participation in an interview for Court Street Literary Collective. (grin) “Really?” she said to me, unamused.

By late afternoon we’d consumed liters of tea and coffee, and were in need of an outing. Out the door we went -- but this time I had my fancy camera in tow. We wandering the grounds until after the tours closed for the night, snapping dozens of photos. Only the two of us and one other passive-aggressive photographer -- who we couldn’t decide whether he followed us because he wanted us to leave or he was frightened to be alone but too shy to say as much. Either way, the miraculous method in which he juggled his large camera whilst talking on his mobile will forever be remembered and may, or may not, be recorded for all time as a character trait in some future story.

Sunset reflections in a sugar kettle at Oak Alley

By dark, we were hungry and we headed back to the cottage where I offered to cook and promptly tried to burn the building to the ground. (Perhaps, a mild exaggeration?) Well, see… what had happened was… I left the Panko crusted fish under the broiler for a tad bit longer than intended. As I tried to rectify my folly, J entered the kitchen and said, “Um… Chel. It’s kinda smoky in here.” Not bothering to look at her, because I was fiercely scraping the burned bits off the top of the fish, I replied, “Yeah, I know. I know. The fish was a tad over broiled-” Silence. Then J said with a sternness that I’d not ever experienced before, “No! You don’t understand. It’s smoky in here…look!” So I did. As I looked above me, into the fifteen-foot ceilings of our quarter-house, I saw thick black smoke blotting out the ceiling light like an eclipse. Then, I watched it roil under the door casings into the adjacent dining and living areas like an evil Louisiana swamp fog. We looked at one another and promptly darted in opposite direction to open all the windows and doors before the fire alarm went off.

It was a crisis averted, until I sat down with my fish and inhaled its Panko crust into my lungs. The sting of fresh burnt Japanese breadcrumbs raked against my organ walls with each breath I took and I realized it was time to lick my wounds, curl under the covers, and call it a night. The fish was determined to get me one-way or another. I was convinced. Before the lights switched off, J said to me, “Maybe we need to go back to the gift shop and buy you one of those health warding voodoo dolls...”

One of the newer oaks by twilight.

Touché.

Tomorrow, one final installment of One Pea short of a Pod and my love affair with old trees exposed. I promise... it's almost over. I've fallen into a mire of gluttonous overwriting. It can't possibly last much longer. Better here than my manuscript. (grin)

Then, on our next featured Tuesday, Alexis will be a Pea in the Pages with some suggested reading and perhaps a review or two. She's been mad reading these days and I can't wait to see what books she's had her nose tucked into.

Game Pod: Creation -- Six Word Inspired Flash Fiction

This week's Game Pod is taken from a little game Alexis and her mom used to play on long road trips. Each Pea was tasked with contributing two words. The Peas then created a story using all six of the words at least once (in three-hundred words or less). And this is what happened:

Princess  Iguana  Cartography  Sanguine  Horizon  Hoarding 

Island Vacation

Lacy stared at the iguana sitting on her hotel bed.

Her mother expressed her fears about her vacationing alone in St. Thomas. She doubted this was the worst of them.

Flicking her keycard at it, the iguana blinked, taunting her with its sanguine expression. It was as if the reptilian beast enjoyed the attention.

“Shoo!” She waved her fingers at it. “This is the fourth night in a row!”

She gazed toward the burnt orange and pink horizon. It was paradise. Just what she’d imagined, sans wildlife. She had to admit, the view was stunning.

She hated feeling like a helpless princess and prided herself on self-sufficiency. When she’d called the concierge last night he’d treated it like business as usual. “Yes, miss. Of course, miss. I’ll send someone over.”

The maintenance man, Jacamo, had suppressed his laughter the first night when he found her in the hallway with her pepper-spray at the ready.

“You have to be assertive,” he’d said last night, rustling the lizard out with a broom. “They’re like dogs. You have to show him who is the boss.”

“I didn’t come here to tame the local wildlife,” she’d told him. “I just wanted come to an island, have a nice guy buy me a drink, and enjoy the beach. This…” she jabbed her thumb at the intruder “…is not part of my resort package.”

She sighed and eyed the iguana. Be brave.

She imagined herself hoarding bravery like coins against her chest. She tried to think of someone who was adventurous. Lewis and Clark were the first to pop into her head. This wasn’t exactly continental cartography she was facing, but certainly they’d overcome wildlife on their adventures.

“Get out, Mr. Iguana.” She glared at it and pointed at the doorway. “I mean it.”

The lizard cocked its head then blinked each eye. It opened its mouth, exposing its fleshy tongue. She shuddered. It took one step and she ran out into the hallway and let the door slam behind her.

Jacamo was there with two unopened beers. He smiled, offering her a bottle. “Tonight’s my night off. Forget him. Let’s take a walk.”

Lacy took the beer and smiled.

(word count 364) by Michelle

The Care and Feeding of Dave

Princess Sidhemana hated cartography. Studying musty old charts and maps made little sense when newer versions were available on microreaders. Yet her father insisted she know how to read the stellar graphs their ancestors had used when they settled on Delta Plantation 9, a planet five star systems removed from their home world of Earth.

Sighing, she gazed out the window at the northern horizon. Epsom and Colga, DP9’s smallest and largest moons respectively, shimmered along the spiny back of distant mountains. Their combined light cast a sanguine glow on the vast altine fields.

Sidhemana longed to lose herself among their indigo stalks and tubular white blossoms. She closed her eyes and imagined the thick sweetness of their fragrance. A rich earthiness undercut with a slight sulfuric bitterness would coat her tongue if she tasted the nectar dripping from the flowers.

Angry voices outside the literacy chamber shattered her daydream. Mother was yelling at Tarken again. Sidhemana rolled her eyes and focused on the tattered map spread on a wide slate table.

“But, Mother,” Tarken’s whine pierced the outer doors. “Dave needs the beetles! He’s a growing iguana and--”

“I understand, but why do you insist on hoarding gosha beetles?”

“They’re Dave’s favorite.”

“Tarken, gosha beetles are disgusting, not to mention dangerous,” Mother lectured. “If they escape, they’ll eat this entire home in less than a week.”

“If they get out, I’ll unleash Dave. He’ll track them.”

“Tarken...”

“Truly, Mother, you shouldn’t worry.” His voice faded as though he were slowly retreating. “You’re starting to get a crease between your eyes.”

“Tarken!”

Quick footsteps reverberated through the literacy chamber as Tarken fled their Mother’s disapproval, pulling peals of laughter from Sidhemana.

(word count 288) by Jeannie

*under word count award

Princess and the Pea

Princess took a sure-footed leap across the gap between dilapidated rooftops and settled himself in a sit, his back against a crumbling chimney. He gazed at the vast glittering castle and its verdant grounds. The sun, slipping below the horizon, cast everything in a cherry-gold glow that reflected his unusually sanguine mood. For once, his life was perfect.

He made a clicking noise with his tongue, coaxing a pea-green iguana from the depths of his oversized jacket. The lizard sauntered to his shoulder and shot him a proud, ill-humored glare.

"Our work has paid off, Pea," Princess said, beaming. "The shit ends for us today."

Pea blinked.

"Aren't you excited?" Princess inquired. "No longer will we be treated like vermin on the street! No longer will we have to beg for the food we missed out on because of the other orphans and their greedy hands!" No longer would they taunt him, either, for the clerical mishap that was his name.

Pea stared. Then burped.

"Pea! We want to remember this moment forever. Don't ruin it."

Pea curled his tail into a question mark as if to say, "So?"

Princess shook his head. "Soon, you will have your own room. And you can stop hoarding shiny objects in the pocket of my jacket. Doesn't that make you happy?"

Pea cocked his head.

"And I'll no longer answer to Princess Boy Noname, Pea," he declared. "I will be: PB Nomer, Master of Cartography for the Royal Family." This he said with a grand flourish of his arms.

Then he grinned and snatched the iguana from his shoulders, holding him close to his face. "At least until I get into the map room and use the key you stole to get that treasure."

Pea scrunched his face.

"You do have the key, don't you, Pea?"

The iguana gave him a tiny nod. Then shook his head.

The grin slipped off Princess's face. "Well where is it, then? You had it when we stole dinner."

Pea's stomach grumbled. His face turned uncomfortably.

Princess narrowed his eyes. "Peeeeea?"

The lizard's stomach rumbled again.

"Pea! You ate it?!"

The iguana burped, his breath carrying a distinctly metallic scent.

Princess rolled his eyes and glared at the castle. "Great." He sighed heavily and set the iguana down. "Well, the shit ends for us tomorrow, then."

(word count 409 {yeah, yeah I went over -- but it's my birthday so I can! Ha!}) by Alexis


*funniest/most clever award

Next week...well...we're not quite sure. It'll be a surprise. *grin*

What I read vs What I Write: Alexis's Take

What I Read vs. What I Write

I am about as random as it gets... in pretty much all aspects of my life. In high school I was a golfer, cheerleader, top-of-the-class art student, and the kid who slacked off at school by reading. Yes, reading. Half my peers were surprised when I'd show up dressed for whichever role I was playing that day, and inevitably... Every. Single. Time... someone would say, "I didn't know you were an {insert stereotype here}. I wouldn't have guessed that at all."

So, naturally, I'm also a random - aka varied - reader. My absolute favorite books include, but are NOT limited to {seriously. I can't even fit them all in one picture}: a science-fiction thriller, an 1800's romance classic, a children's fantasy series, a 1950's crime novel, a YA dystopian trilogy, a Shakespearean comedy, a children's science-fiction novel, a high-fantasy trilogy {it's not what you think it is}, a humorous middle-grade-reader mystery series, a psychological horror suspense, and a memoir I was convinced was non-fiction until the very last page.

Random.
And I like it that way.

That's the thing about me. I'm open to anything. I have a rule {usually for food, but I think it works for this, too}: I will try anything once. {And if I like it, I latch on like a terrapin}. If a story piques my interest, I'm going to take a chance on it. If M or J says, "This was great. You've gotta read it!" I will. Cover to cover without knowing more about it than what they've told me. It doesn't matter what section of the bookstore it comes from. I trust my friends. They know I won't hesitate to branch out and try something new. All I want is to be entertained by a compelling story. Sure, I have a comfort zone. I read a lot from it. But I take a lot of risks as a reader, too. And more often than not, I'm rewarded.

All I ask from what I read is this: a good story.

I want stories that make me feel something for the characters - whose actions evoke visceral reactions from me. I want to own the merchandise {i.e. time-turner necklace} so that I might for a moment feel as though I held a piece of the world I was lost in between the covers. I want stories that make me tear through the pages like my life hangs in the balance, only to leave me with a gaping hole of loss when I realize the story is over and the world is nothing but a memory... and real life rushes back around me, chaotic and unbalanced and, for a while, somehow lacking in depth or meaning.

Which brings me to why I write.

Nothing {aside from my husband, my family, my friends} has ever affected me so deeply as the written word. Authors - people I don't even know - constantly influencing me, inspiring me, forcing me to think or allowing me to escape... all writers who simply had a story they wanted to share. Authors - writers - are brave. I admire them. They bare their very imagination for the world to see - and voice an opinion about - their deepest thoughts and feelings {disguised as characters and places and plots}. But the greatest thing these authors have done is spread their love of the written word, feed the voracious appetite we have as readers, and create new readers who fell in love with a story and want that feeling again and again. That's what I want. I want to take the stories in my head and share them with the world. I'm willing to face criticism and the inevitable swings of depression and elation we must journey through in the writing process in order to do that. I want readers to be as affected by my stories as I was by the ones I've read. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be good influence enough to turn a few non-readers into bookworms, too.

But this is supposed to be about what I write, not why.

So here's the answer:
I write what I want to read. I write what influences me. I write places in the world I long to see, so that I can experience them before I find the money {and vacation time} to visit them for real. I have an unruly imagination. So I write what doesn't exist so it will come alive in the world I create {like dragonflies the way I pictured them as a child}. *see illustration*

And all of that falls into place best in YA.... where my somewhat innocent disposition can flourish in the same place where almost anything goes, and the only genre distinction is the age of the reader {though let's face it, even this is arbitrary, since more than half the adults I know are hardcore fans of books in YA}. This is where I belong, as a writer; in the section of the bookstore that most closely reflects me: Open to anything. Willing to take risks. And of course - completely, awesomely - random.

A

Next week, get ready for our first Game Pod {creation mode}: We'll each be writing a mini-story based on an image I've chosen, so you can get a taste of the creative side of our writer minds!