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The problem with having a really great day is that there always seems to be a day after. After basking in the cheap glory of writing my first one-day story, I was faced with the cruel reality of needing to follow it up with something. So I spent yesterday trying to come up with something. I banged out the crap below, trying to find my next story.

GHOST PONIES
By Ken Green
“Are you here for the ghost ponies?” a voice behind me asked.
I turned to see a woman, solidly built, with that strange unnerving calmness that some Indians possess. Framed against an amazing New Mexico sky, she looked as if she’d stepped out of a painting.
“You won’t catch them with that,” she said, nodding at the camera around my neck.
“I…no. I’m on…a spiritual retreat.” Now that my novel had sold, I could afford some proper neuroses. My new therapist had sent me to the desert.
She favored me with the sweet, patient smile that most women reserve for toddlers.
“Hi, I’m…I mean, I’m… My name is Paul Whittaker. I’m a writer. I…wrote a book.”
She arched an eyebrow ever so slightly. “A writer. So you’re good with words.”
“Yes,” I assured her.
“I can tell.” her smile widened by millimeters.
“Well, Paul,” she said, glancing toward my rental, “Your car seems to have left the road.”
“Yes, it just broke down on me. I tried calling the company, but I can’t get a signal.” I held my phone up, in case she didn’t believe me, or something.
“Welcome to the land of enchantment,” she said. “Between these mountains, we’re in a dead spot here.”
“Oh.” I said, “What should I do?”
“Do you have a suit case in the trunk?” she asked.
“Just an overnight bag, why?” I asked.
“Well, you might as well get it out,” she said, gesturing toward her motorcycle, “Come on, Paul, I’ll give you a ride.”
“Oh,” I said, “Great, you can take me to town, and I can make my phone call.”
“Sure, Paul,” she said, “I’ll take you to town, but not today. There’s a storm coming up that pass,” she gestured behind her.
“Are you sure?” I objected, “There’s not a cloud in the sky.”
“Trust me, Paul,” she said, “There’s a storm on the way.”
“But…” I popped the trunk, “How do we…”
“Just give me the damned bag,” she said. For a brief, crazy moment, I thought I had heard my mother’s voice. She strapped the bag to the luggage rack with some faded bungee cords, then mounted her ancient bike.
“Climb on already,” she said, “It won’t bite you.”
“I’ve never ridden before.” I told her.
“I promise I’ll be gentle.” She said, “Climb on.”
I straddled the bike and she started the engine. It puttered to life on the second try.
“Hold on to me, Paul, I don’t want to falling off.”
I put my arms around her waist.
“Not like that,” she said, “I’ve not made of cotton candy. Hold me like a woman, Paul!”
We set off, bouncing along a road that narrowed to a trail that narrowed to two parallel ruts in the scrub grass that gave way to a flat patch of hard packed earth. On it stood a rundown ranch house and a decrepit barn. We skidded to a halt.
“Is…all this…your place?” I asked, dismounting. There was no one else around.
“Sure,” she said, walking the bike into the barn where small scrawny goats made small scrawny goat sounds, “It’s all mine, till Congress gives it to someone else, I guess.”
“I’m…I’m not sure what I’m doing here.” I confessed.
“Well, if you want to, you can help me feed the ladies, then we can go into the house and I can feed you,” she said, “Does that sound like a fair trade?”
“Sure, I guess,” I said, looking at the sky, “I guess you were wrong about that storm, though.”
“Was I?” she asked, as the first fat drops of rain hit us. We ducked into the barn. She scooped some goat food into a bucket and handed it to me. I walked over the goats’ stall and dumped it into their feeder.
“Are you sure you haven’t done this before?” she asked, as the rain pelted down on the roof. It was coming down like bullets, and the wind had picked up.
“We’d better run for it,” she said, grabbing an old army jacket hanging from a nail. She pulled me to her and draped it over our heads.
“Let’s go,” she said breathlessly, and we ran for it. Laughing, we ran to door, and she yanked it open. We dashed in, and she kicked it closed. I found myself with my back to the wall, and my arms around her.
“So, you do know how to hold a woman after all,” she said, her voice low. I felt her warmth pressed against me. Her lips inches from mine, she whispered, “Are you hungry, Paul?”
“Yes,” I managed to say.
“Well, let’s see what we can do about that,” she said, pushing away from me. She fired up an oil lamp and led me to her kitchen. Wooden planks creaked under our feet and encased us. With its pine walls, and rafters, the house could have doubled as a sailing ship.
“Do you know how to cook?” she asked me.
“I’m a writer,” I told her, “Of course I can cook.”
“Great,” she said, “Then you can chop an onion,” she handed me one.
“I thought you said you would be feeding me.” I said in mock protest.
“Did you think you could just walk in here and take what you want?” she asked, “Not so faster, Custer, I’m going to make you work for it.”
“So what are we making?” I asked, peeling the onion.
“Spaghetti carbonara,” she told me.
“Spaghetti?” I asked, “That doesn’t sound very…”
“Well, I’m fresh out of pemmican, whatever the hell that is. Hurry up with that onion. I’m getting hungry.”
#
We ate by lamp light.
“So what do you do on a spiritual retreat?” she asked me.
“Well, the brochure said there would be meditation, chanting, and a sweat lodge…”
“A sweat lodge?” she grinned, “For real? So, you were going sit in a room with a bunch of naked men and sweat with them?”
“It’s very…spiritual.” I told her, “The brochure said so…”
“I can very spiritual,” she said, standing up, “Would you like to sweat with me?”
“I…”
She walked behind me, pulled my chair away from the table, and stood before me. She leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “You’re starting to sweat already. I must be doing this right.”
“I’m pretty sure you are.” I croaked.

Blog KenGreen

Another day, another false start. I'm starting to despair.

A WALK IN THE DARK
By Ken Green
The storm sewer was crying, and that was just weird. Good thing Kathy Wheeler was on the case.
“Owen,” she said, crouching by the curb, “There’s a kitten down there.”
“Oh, good,” he said, “Mystery solved. Can we go home now?”
“No, Owen, we can’t.” she said, brushing her hands on her jeans, “Because there’s a kitten down there.”
“And how is that your problem? It’s not your cat.”
“You did not just say that.” Kathy informed him.
“I’m pretty sure I did. Besides, what can we do?”
“I don’t know, you’re the boy genius. That’s why we can’t ride the bus anymore. So use your massive brain to do something. Think of it as an intellectual challenge.”
“Fine,” he said, squatting down with her. “Let’s try the obvious first. Can you reach him?”
“Why do I have to reach down there?” she asked.
“Because, of the two of us, you are the one that cares. Besides, you are taller than me, therefore your arms are longer, therefore you have a greater chance of succeeding.”
“I’m, like, half an inch taller than you.” Kathy said.
“Yes, but you care infinitely more.”
Kathy sighed and lay down on the street. “Keep a lookout for cars,” she said. It was a bit of a squeeze, but she was able to get her head and shoulders through the narrow opening. She reached as far as she could, but it wasn’t enough.
“Come on little fella, jump up,” she called to him, “I’ll catch you.”
The kitten just stared at her and cried. Kathy backed out of the opening.
“Okay, great,” Owen said, “You made an attempt. Can we go home now?”
“Do you see a kitten in my hands?” Kathy asked.
“I do not.”
“Neither do I. So stop asking stupid questions and help me.”
Owen considered. “My aunt’s cat is always climbing her curtains. If we had a big piece of cloth, like a bedsheet…”
“Do you happen to have a bedsheet with you?” Kathy asked, “Because I don’t. I didn’t think to bring one today.”
“Well, we’ve exhausted the possibilities. We did our best…”
“Fine.” Kathy said. “Leave.”
“I’m not going to leave you here.”
“Why not? Why wouldn’t you leave me?”
“Because,” he said, “I’m afraid that if I leave you here, you’ll do something stupid, and get hurt or something.”
“So what?” Kathy said, “You don’t care about the cat, why should you care about me? It’s not like you’re getting hurt. Go home. Be safe.”
“Why do you even care about a stupid animal?”
“Why do I have to justify what I care about” I lived through both Voyager and Enterprise because you liked them, and they were both terrible!
“Enterprise was the best of the Treks!” Owen shouted, “History will prove me right!”
“Well, Owen,” Kathy said calmly, “You’re right about one thing.”
“What’s that?” he asked, suspiciously.
“I’m going to do something stupid.”
“No!” he said, but he was too late. Quick as a lizard, she stuck her feet in the gap, and pulled herself in. Then she lost her grip, and fell the rest of the way.
“Ow!” she yelled, “Swastika Heimlich!”
“What happened?” he yelled down to her.
“I landed wrong. And I misjudged the distance. And ow!”
“Did you break anything?” he asked.
“No, I just twisted my ankle. And my forehead is bleeding.”
Owen considered this news. “How is the cat?” he asked.
#
Now he cares about the cat. Kathy looked around her while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. “Where are you, you little bastard?” she crouched down, which just made her ankle hurt worse.
“Merow?” the kitten merowed.
She picked the kitten up. “No obvious injuries, well fed, you’re not a stray. Why are you down here? If you were mine, I’d never let you out of my sight.” It had a collar and a tag, but she couldn’t make out the name in the half-light. She continued her examination. “Yep, you’re a boy,” she proclaimed, “Of course you are. Only a boy would get me in so much trouble. That’s what I’m going to call you. Trouble. Because that’s all that you are.”.

KenGreen Blog Blogs Member Public

Okay, there's no way around this, it's another poetry day. This one just came to me unbidden.

Arial’s Anthem
Upon your great ship
You plowed the blue sea
And on the bright waves
You caught sight of me.

Undying love
Your lips did protest,
While your so-dreamy eyes
Did gaze at my breasts

You said, “Give up
This aquatic life.
Come live on the land,
I’ll make you my wife!”

But my kind do
Not walk on the land.
I have no legs,
How would I stand?

By blood and flesh I am
Bound to the sea,
To visit your land
Would be death to me!
 
And so you say
“I know of a fix
We’ll pay a witch
To work her dark tricks,

“She’ll split your tail
In twain, my sweet.
Where you have fins,
She’ll give you feet!”
So, to win
Your love for me,
I must give up
My identity?

That tells me
You love me not,
So go, be gone,
And be soon forgot!

For if you had
True love for me,
You’d love the woman
That you see.
 

I’m not your hound,
Don’t dock my tail.
I’m no man’s horse,
I’m not for sale

I feel and think,
Why can’t you see,
I have the right
To remain me.

You look at me
As if I am strange,
Perhaps it’s you
That ought to change.

For I like not
Your frame of mind
You’re thinking backward, you’ve fallen behind.

So turn your fine ship,
Be gone from my sea
And take with you
Your supremacy.
 
For mermaids live
To dance on waves
We are not born
To be your slaves.
 .

Page 6 Blog KenGreen

More exploratory text, still trying to find next week's story

WEE KITTIES
By Ken Green
Darla stepped out the back door, slop bucket on her hip, blinking in the morning sun. Half a hundred eyes gazed upon her.
“Come, my wee kitties. Breakfast is served.” She took a step and upended the bucket. Wet, smelly fish heads, tails and innards cascaded to the hard packed ground. Two dozen cats, some wee and some not, emerged from wherever to claim the foul offal.
“You’re welcome, I’m sure,” she chuckled to the clowder, as they devoured her offering. She stretched and turned back to the tavern.
Olivia stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression stern.
“Darla, we’ve discussed this,” she said, “We do not feed the alley cats.”
“I wasn’t feeding the alley cats,” Darla said, innocently, “I was throwing out last night’s garbage. These cats just showed up, I didn’t invite them. What would you have me do, stand guard over our trash?”
Olivia narrowed her eyes. “You are incorrigible. And what are you thinking, parading around like that? You’re indecent.” She stepped forward to adjust Darla’s dressing gown.
Darla grinned as Olivia fussed. “There’s no one here to see me, Love. Half the town is still asleep, and the other half is in the square.”
“We have to be careful,” Olivia said, glancing around.
“You worry overmuch, my lover,” Darla said, pulling Olivia closer, “There’s no one here to see us. We could do anything…”
“Oh, no,” Olivia said, “Absolutely not. We are not…”
“I hunger, Squire,” Darla whispered as she tilted Olivia’s head. Their lips met in a long, slow, steamy kiss.
“No,” Olivia said, pulling away, catching her breath, “We can’t do this. Someone could see. Besides, we need to get to market, before the good stuff is gone.”
“The good stuff,” Darla said, “Is in my arms already.”
“Stop it. Stop this now. Stop this seduction…”
Darla kissed her again.
“Enough.” Olivia said. “We need to get some clothes on you.”
“As you wish,” Darla said, letting go, “To the market, then. If I had known how much work being respectable was…”
Olivia frowned. “Do I not make you happy?”
“I spoke in jest. Of course you make me happy,” she touched Olivia’s cheek. “You are everything to me.”
“We need to be careful, Lover.” Olivia said. “And we need groceries, if we wish to stay in business.”
“I’m going, I’m going.” Darla stepped through the doorway into the tavern.
“As for you lot,” Olivia said, addressing the cats, “You can just…”
The cats all stopped eating. Every single one of them. Simultaneously, they all turned their eyes to her.
“Uh…” Olivia said.
The cats walked in circles, brushing against each other, weaving and interweaving, forming a writhing, furry mass of cat flesh, mewing in unison.
“This can’t be good,” Oliva said, backing away.
The writhing grew faster, and the cats seemed to somehow merge. The mewing continued, lower in pitch.
“Miss Annie?” Olivia gasped.
Hexweaver stood before her. “Good morning, Dearie.”
Olivia fell against the wall, scarce daring to breath. “You scared the life out of me!”
“I am a witch. It is my way.” Hexweaver lifted her hand to her mouth and licked the back of it, again and again.
Olivia coughed politely.
Hexweaver realized what she was doing and stopped grooming herself.
“So, Miss Annie,” Olivia said, “What brings you here?” Other than your wee kitty feet.
“It’s a pleasant morning. I wished to have breakfast with my lovely daughter.”
Olivia glanced at the rotting garbage at their feet and felt a bit queasy.
“And I think you’re absolutely right, Dearie,” the witch assured her, “You need to be more discrete in your affections.”
Olivia’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God, you were watching that? Boundaries!”
“In truth, I was more interested in the fish at that point,” Hexweaver said, scratching her ear.
“Well,” Olivia said, “The next time you would like a meal…”
“Sadly, this is not a social visit. I bring warning. There are whispers in the trees. Darkness comes this way.”
“Wow.” Olivia said, “That’s like a double order of vague, with a whole bottle vague sauce poured on it.”
“Hexweaver.” Darla’s voice filled the alley with its malice. “You are not welcome here.” She stepped from the doorway, now in her proper town dress, to stand by Olivia.
Olivia turned. “She most certainly is. Darla, she’s your…”
Darla put a finger put a finger to Olivia’s lips. “Consider where you’ll sleep this night before you speak again.”
“I have no wish to join this fight,” Olivia said, “I want this war to end.”
“I have no taste for traitor’s lips, on my mouth, nor tween my hips…”
“Darla!” Oliva gasped, eyes darting to Hexweaver. “I know your heart is not this hard, for I have felt it’s beat.”
Darla turned to Hexweaver. “I take my leave of both of you,” she turned back to Olivia. “I’ll meet you out front. We need to go to market.” She went back into the tavern and slammed the door.
“I’m so sorry that she acted that way,” Olivia said.
“The fault is mine,” the witch said, “I’ve earned her hate, I know.”
“It hurts so much to see her thus. I’ll have a word with her.”
“No,” the witch said, “If being kind to me drives a wedge between you two, I’d rather have you hate me.”
“But I do not wish to hate you. This rift between you two grieves me. There has to be a way to heal it.”
“That task may be beyond either of us. Go to her, make sweet words. Take care of her for me.”
With heavy heart, Oliva turned, walked through the darkened tavern, to find Darla waiting out front.
“Darla,” Olivia said, “I really think you need…”
Darla took Olivia’s hands in hers. “It is such a lovely day. Let us speak of pleasant things. The morning breeze, the sea salt air, the sun light on your face.”
“I…” Olivia’s girl bits fluttered. Thoughts of the witch fled her mind. “Yes,” she said, “Let us do…” she took a quick glance left and right, raised Darla’s hands to her lips and kissed them both. “I love you so much,” she whispered.
Darla smiled. “To market we must go. Tonight is taco Tuesday.”

#

End.

Blog KenGreen

In today's offering, I tried reworking the story of Clair and Squirt, changing the POV to first person. I like writing in Clair's voice, but the story is starting to bum me out. I like the interaction between the characters, but the setting is getting me down. Post holocaust is an inherently depressing sub-genre, and I've placed this one in gulf coast Texas.

I picked up the napkin dispenser, checked my lipstick in its reflection.
“There’s mirrors in the bathroom, Clair.” Squirt said.
“Bathrooms are deathtraps, kid.” I said, “No windows, only one exit. Have I taught you nothing? What do you think about this color?”
Squirt squinted at me. “I don’t think zombies care what you look like.”
“Well, I’m not asking a zombie, am I? Give me your honest opinion. What do you think about this lip color?”
Squirt considered. “I think it looks whorish. But not whorish enough. Why the sudden interest in your appearance?”
“I don’t know, maybe I want to be pretty when I die.” I dug further into the purse, found some eyeliner. “Are you sure you don’t want a makeover?”
“Getting bored, Clair.”
I dropped the eyeliner, went through the dead woman’s wallet, “Oh, look. Her high school ID. Charmaine. That’s a pretty name. What do you think of Charmaine?”
“You want to name me after a hooker? No thanks. Can we go now?”
“Yeah, fine. No, wait.” There was something else in the purse, heavy and shiny. A .32 automatic, chrome plated. I pulled it out, careful to point it at the ceiling.
“Do you see this?” I asked. “This is just vulgar. A handgun is a machine designed for killing people. Trying to make it pretty is just…offensive.”
“I like the pink grips.” Squirt said. I’m pretty sure she was just saying it to be contrary. We had been getting on each other’s nerves lately.
“Then it will be my gift to you.” I slid it across the table. “Put it in your backpack. At the bottom.”
I grabbed my shotgun, slid out of the booth, stepped over Charmaine’s corpse. “She went to my school. She was a senior.”
“And had such a promising career,” Squirt said, dropping the gun into her Hello Kitty bag.
“Don’t mock the dead. We need to respect the dead.”
“Yes, ‘Because we can’t do anything else for them’, got it.” Squirt recited.
“Well, at least I taught you one thing.”
We left the diner, and I heard the unmistakable sound of someone racking a shotgun.
No, not like this. Not after Houston. After all the fights I’ve survived, to die because I let my guard down for one stupid moment? Serves me right, I guess. Sorry, Squirt, I failed you.
“That’s far enough, ladies,” said a man’s voice.
I stopped in my tracks, and squirt did the same.
“Drop the shotgun,” he said.
“That’s not safe,” I said, trying to buy time to think, “I’ll set it down gentle, okay?”
“Fine,” he said, “Just do it quick.”
I bent at the knees, lay the gun down gently as I could. Why not? It was empty anyway. I put my hands up so he could see they were empty.
“Okay,” he said, “Step away from it.”
I did. He stepped into my field of vision. He was old, like in his thirties or something.

KenGreen Blog

Today's post seems to be about baked goods. Why? Who knows? I work with what my muse sends me. Enjoy.

With heavy heart, Oliva turned, walked through the darkened tavern, to find Darla waiting out front.
“Darla,” Olivia said, “I really think you need…”
Darla took Olivia’s hands in hers. “It is such a lovely day. Let us speak of pleasant things. The morning breeze, the sea salt air, the sun light on your face.”
“I…” Olivia’s girl bits fluttered. Thoughts of the witch fled her mind. “Yes,” she said, “Let us do…” she took a quick glance left and right, raised Darla’s hands to her lips and kissed them both. “I love you so much,” she whispered.
Darla smiled. “To market we must go. Tonight is taco Tuesday.”
“You’re right,” Olivia said, “We need to get busy.”
So, hand in hand, they walked to the town square.
“Have you ever noticed,” Olivia asked, “That the town square has only three corners?”
“How many should it have?” Darla asked. “I’ve never studied philosophy, I fear.”
“Four is the customary number.” Olivia said
Darla pondered this. “It’s a cost cutting measure, I’m sure. Hadley is not a wealthy village.”
They stopped at Toothless Joe’s stall as he was pulling a fresh batch from his oven.
“Oh, ooh ook ooeyfoo oohay.” he said.
“Why, thank you, Joe,” Darla said, favoring him with a smile. “And you… are as handsome as ever.”
“Two, please.” Olivia said, handing him pennies.
He handed them two steaming hot lamb pasties. Almost too hot to eat, but far too delicious not to.
“Oh. My. God.” Olivia raved, as they walked away, “These are so good. It’s like my mouth is having an orgasm. What does he put in these things?”
“I find it wise to tolerate the small mysteries in life.” Darla observed.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Olivia said, “Why can’t we make these? They’re just lamb stew in a folded pie crust, right? We could sell them in the tavern.”
“But…Joe makes the pasties. Everybody knows that.” Darla said.
“Sure, but we could make our own. We might even be able to undercut his price…”
“You would put poor Joe out of business? No. I know you are not so cruel. Put this notion from your mind.” Darla said.
“But…maybe you’re right. We can’t afford to create ill will.”
They arrived at the bakery and entered.
“What do you have for me, Alyson?” Olivia asked.
“Oh, I think you’ll like these,” rosy-cheeked Alyson said, placing a baking sheet before them.
“What the hell?” Olivia asked, “What are you doing to me here?” she lifted one of the samples, tried to fold it. It snapped in two. “I asked you for flour tortillas. These are…matzos.”
“They’re unleavened bread.” Alyson said, crossing her arms, “Just like you ordered.”
“Well, you can just keep them. I’m not paying for this cra…”
Darla clamped her hand over Olivia’s mouth. “What my partner meant to say is, we’re delighted by the quality of your fine product, and we’ll take the lot, at the agreed price. If you’ll excuse us for a moment, we need to confer on a completely unrelated manner.”
She dragged Olivia to a corner, and whispered, “Olivia! Have you gone mad? Alyson is our friend. Alyson is our neighbor. And, most relevant of all, Alyson is the only baker in Hadley village. We need her.”
“What good is she? I was very clear when I placed my order. I told her exactly what I wanted…”
“When I was a starving child, she gave me bread. I owe my life to her. Keep that in mind when you speak of her.”
“But,” Olivia objected, “I wanted Taco Tuesday to be perfect.”
“I know, my love, but we must work with the tools we are given. Besides, nobody in the village knows what a taco is. I don’t even know what a taco is.”
“I guess I can break them up into chips and make a sort of nacho salad,” Olivia said.
“That’s my girl,” Darla said, nodding, “Always thinking. Now, we’re going to go over there and…”
“I’m not apologizing.” Olivia said.
“Well,” Darla said, “You can just stand there and wait for me. Face the wall if you like.”
Olivia’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “Did you just tell me to stand in the corner?”
“If you’re going to act like a child, how should I treat you?” Before Olivia could answer, she turned and walked back to the counter.
“Innkeeper Brown never complained about my bread,” Alyson griped.
“Your bread is like…sweet mana from heaven.” Darla said, “It is an honor to serve it to our guests. Please join us for dinner tonight. It would be a treat to have you.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not much for fancy dining…”
“Well, please know that you are always welcome at the Bull.”
Alyson raised an eyebrow. “I remember when it was called ‘The Cock and Bull’ why did that change?”
“Olivia and I decided the cock was…unnecessary. And overrated. So we retired him.”
“If you say so,” Alyson said, wrapping up the flatbreads, “Tell your partner I’m done with her fancy foreign pastries. I’ll stick to baking proper English bread from now on.”
“Sometimes her passion runs far ahead of her good sense.” Darla paid for the bread and lifted the bundle.

KenGreen Blog - Page 6

BLOOD ON SNOW
By Ken Green
Caitlin tried to run, but it was no good. Her old wound always ached in winter. Every step was agony. Snow flurries concealed her and Jhaeros, but not for long. She could hear the baying of hounds. The romans were using dogs to hunt them.
She dug through her pouch, found her last charm. A sprig of Black Hanna root. Her stomach turned at the thought, but it was her only chance.
“Run,” she said.
“I will not leave you!” Jhaeros cried.
“I’m slowing you down. If you stay, we’ll only die together. Without me, you have a chance. I beg you, run and warn my clan.”
“But…” he butted.
“Go,,” she said, “I’ll buy you as much time as I can.”
His face was a portrait of agony, but he turned and ran north, leaving no footprints in the snow, because he was a poncy elf and could do that.
Caitlin grimaced and chewed the bitter root, gagging at the taste of death. Her lips grew numb, and trickles of the thin, black liquor ran down her chin. Her vision blurred. She chanted:
“I hold my breath,
And count to ten
I die so I
Can live again.”
Her heart stopped beating. Her knees gave out. She collapsed onto the snow.
#
She awoke strapped across the back of a horse. Bloody romans, what are they planning to do with my corpse? Probably the same thing they do to young boys. Bloody romans. Is there nothing they won’t stoop to? Keeping eyes closed, she felt her bindings. Leather straps secured her wrists and ankles. I could untie them and…what? Fall off the horse, to trampled by the one behind? At least the horse is keeping me warm, the front of me anyway. Where are they taking me? She risked opening her eyes. All she could see was the trail they were riding, but the golden light told her sunset was near, so the column must be heading to a camp. Maybe she could escape under cover of darkness.

[/I]Well, that's another thing that seemed like a neat idea, but went nowhere. Last Sunday, when I published "Famine", I kind of thought I had this whole storytelling thing figured out, and it was going to be easy now. But the last six days have taught me humility, if nothing else. Plotting continues to elude me. I still don't know what I'm doing, or how to do it better.

I do like the way Caitlin uses magic. Most fantasy books I've read treat magic the way J.K. Rowling does: the character says one or two Latin word, waves a stick, and something amazing happens. I loved the Harry Potter books, and I have nothing but respect for Ms Rowling as an artist, but I would like to take magic in a different direction. I think I halfway remember reading a novel about a character who was trying to work out the physics of magic. Maybe I could play with that idea.

So here we are, it's Sunday morning, and I do not have this week's story yet. Is this this the week I fail my challenge? I hope not. Stick with me, and we'll find out together.

KenGreen Blog Public Member Blogs - Page 6

Righteous anger felt good, but it made a poor breakfast. She looped the coils over her shoulder and hefted her basket. Time to shop. Sand gave way to the hard packed dirt of Hadley’s street as she strode to the town square. Thoughts surrounded her, but it was mostly farmers focused on simple tasks, chocking the wheels of their carts, setting up stalls, and such. Gentle thoughts, some still sleepy. Easy to ignore. Just think about something else. Like shopping.
Where to start? Crookleg Mary always had good stuff, and her mind was often quiet, and it was always warm and smelled like cinnamon. So Halfchance stopped at her cart. Taters, carrots, and fat yellow onions. Halfchance filled her basket and held up a silver.
“Fair enough?” she asked.
Mary eyed the coin. “Fair enough, and then some. Do you have smaller?”
“Sorry, That’s what I got.” Halfchance lied. Silver is shiny, but friends are like rubies. Precious and few, and I may need one someday.
“Well, I have no change, Love,” Mary said, “What to do?”
Halfchance looked around. Across the square, Toothless Joseph was taking his first batch out of his oven.
Halfchance’s stomach growled. She haint had lamb in months. Dare she?
“Spot me a pastie?” Halfchance asked.
Mary nodded, took a deep breath, and yelled, “Joseph! Two pasties for Chance here! I’ll settle with you later!”
Joseph looked their way, and yelled back, “Eh? Aye! Eheheh, oo, Eh!”
Mary turned back to Halfchance, and smiled, “Well, that’s settled then.”
Halfchance handed over the coin. Mary weighed it in her hand, and said, “I’m still cheating you.”
“No,” Halfchance protested, “It’s a good deal, We’re square.” Please just take it, you have wee ones.
Mary shook her head. “I’ll not be in your debt. Oh! I know what to do,” she reached down to her stash and produced a handful of strawberries. She dropped them into the basket.
Strawberries and pasties! Such bounty. Was it Christmas already? Halfchance protested, “No, Mary it’s too much.”
Mary laughed and covered her ears. “I’ll hear no more nonsense. Your breakfast is getting cold. Go away, girl, I’ve got a business to run.”
Halfchance got a better grip on her heavy basket and headed over to Toothless Joseph and his oven.
“Eh uh. Oo asiees ere oo o.” Joseph said. He handed them over.
“Thanks, Joseph,” Halfchance said, dropping the pasties in the basket. They were still too hot to hold, but they smelled delicious.
“Oo oo ee uh ih aye?” Joseph asked.
She looked up at the sky. “Rain? No, not today. It’s going to be a beautiful day.”

Above, I reworked the Halfchance story a bit, fleshing out her character. I might have something even juicier tomorrow. I'm working on this week's story, and I'm hoping to get it finished tonight. We'll see.