Prompt: I will remember you

Frank knew he was dying. The biosuit was still doing its job, protecting him from the acrylamide atmosphere, recycling his fluids and stabilizing his body temp. It couldn’t do anything about the lack of feeling in his legs. Or movement. Or the console that crushed his hips and legs.

He heard Bhiteri’s chittered greeting, rasping in his ear and behind his sinuses as the four-foot arthropod slid into the ruined cockpit. The acrylamide didn’t affect his chitinous plates or feathery antennae. Frank tapped his fingers against the console in IMC, the patterns so similar to the American Standard Morse Code he had learned as a boy. Still here.

Bhiteri’s feet scratched the smooth wall, now the floor under Frank. He wound around the console and pulled a makeshift leaf pouch full of cave water. Frank closed his eyes, irritated at his momentary squeamishness over the silk Bhiteri used to seal the water. If it weren’t for the Bug—and Frank used the derogatory word with full awareness of the irony—he would have died at least four times by now. Maybe five. All the Bug’s effort would be for nought if Frank died before the cavalry arrived. Frank tapped TX as Bhiteri held the water pouch to his lips.

When Bhiteri rested the empty pouch on the floor, he curled up, outlining Frank’s torso and leaning his head against the console so they could see each other in the dim light. He drummed his feet in a soothing pattern for awhile, and Frank dozed. When he woke, he could see this godforsaken planet’s second moon reflected in Bhiteri’s eyes.

The Bug tapped slowly. I can save you.

Frank’s brows knit together. What was the Bug talking about? He’d tried to move the console, but it was much too heavy, even with a lever. It had been nine days, and Frank knew his time was running out. The rescue team would likely only have one to take home. No. You tried. It’s OK.

Bhiteri looked away, then back at Frank. Among my people, when the body dies, the nahl lives on. In another.

Nahl? What was that? Oh. Soul? Spirit? Frank asked. Um…inner self? Mind?

Self. Bhiteri agreed. I can save your self.

Now Frank’s eyebrows arched up, and he could feel his dehydrated forehead wrinkling. Funny how sensitive every movement becomes.

How? He tapped, studying what Bhiteri had said. How can my self live on? In you?

Bhiteri chittered for a moment, as if forgetting, then he tapped. Yes. I will remember you.

Remember? I know you will. This wasn’t something the Bug was likely to forget. But that’s not the same thing. Frank closed his eyes, feeling a rush of disappointment that surprised him. He wasn’t religious. Didn’t believe in an afterlife. Did he believe in a soul? How could his soul live in Bhiteri? What the hell…

How? He tapped again. He must have dozed off. There was no moonlight on the Bug’s face now.

Bhiteri chittered once more, then stopped. I do not know the words. My people call it the nahl-kupa. It is common to remember family. Sometimes friends. We take the name of each nahl as our own.

You have done this? Frank asked. He’d never heard of this nahl-kupa. Was Bhiteri letting him in on some big Bug secret because he was dying and couldn’t reveal it anyway?

Bhiteri nodded with a chitter that sounded distinctly amused. Oh yes. Many times.

Frank’s eyes narrowed. And you carry all the names? What are they?

Bhiteri straightened and tapped as he chittered slowly and distinctly. I am Almada Ghodew Hishap Kawnte Jorhsi Dunlesh Xaintap Bhiteri.

Frank thought about those names for awhile. All those people? Those selves? In Bhiteri?

And you remember all those people?

As you remember your own life.

Frank’s eyes closed, too heavy to hold open. His head rolled to the side. His mouth was dry, and he tried to make some spit to swallow. The biosuit had nothing more for him.

He’d thought he had made peace with dying out here. Away from Earth. Alone. But given the chance, he didn’t want to. He thought he was nodding his head. When Bhiteri didn’t answer, he tapped out slowly. Y…e…s…

Bhiteri stood on the ruins of the pod and watched the rescue ship descend through the yellow atmosphere. It reminded him of the mining ships landing on Mars, and he chittered at the new memory. As the ship’s thrusters burned the acrylamide atmosphere, he chittered a greeting, and a farewell, “I am Franklin Almada Ghodew Hishap Kawnte Jorhsi Dunlesh Xaintap Bhiteri. I will remember you…”

#

And so, with a loving heart, I offer you

Namaste

I’ve heard many translations. Here’s one I love:
The light of the universe that shines within me recognizes
the light of the universe that shines within you.

#

Dogs in House	Houdini, Brindle
Music Playing	Sarah McLachlan, “I Will Remember You”
Time writing	30 minutes
November word count	4,938

Prompt: Arguing with yourself—or someone else—or, writing conflict or emotion

Have you ever faced a difficult decision? Maybe one where you didn’t like your choices? Or you didn’t like the choice it seemed like you *should* make? It’s agonizing! Thought, time, and energy consuming. If you’re sharing your indecision with friends or family, it’s likely all you talk about. It can also be very emotional—if it were an easy decision, it probably wouldn’t take you such a long time to make.

One thing I sometimes do is argue with myself, trying to lay out all the points and figure out my course of action. I don’t always keep this silently in my head, but I usually refrain from having such conversations with myself when others are present.

How about a disagreement, or a fight, with someone else? Whether the person or the issue is dear to your heart, that can also be stressful and consuming. How do you feel physically? Does your heart pound? Do your temples feel tight? Do you get a headache behind your eye, or your ear?

Or maybe it gets your blood pumping and you feel energized? Charges, excited, vibrant? Do you feel energy rushing through your fingers? Like you’ve got a little buzz? Do you thrive, not feeling like it’s conflict to be avoided, but animated debate to be relished?

I recently dealt with a strong personal grief. I blogged about it in August, and it is the root of my closing lines about Namaste and my personal credo of Love More. And in the middle of it, I wrote about how I felt—the physical effects of crying, the ache in my chest, the tumultuous emotions of grief, anger, guilt, love. And I’m going to incorporate some of what I wrote in my novel WIP, as some of my characters face old loss and new.

At first I felt a little…odd…about that. Like I was “using” the experience in a bad way. But I decided three things: 1) I will use it in honor and memory of family and friends gone from my life; 2) I accept the gift of powerful experience and depth of emotion with gratitude; and 3) it will make my writing all the more powerful, because it will *feel* real to anyone who has experienced similar emotion.

As your characters deal with conflict – whether it’s internal or external – remember to share with your reader the emotions that compel them to make the choices they make, to fight, to change, to live their lives.

And if you can write about how that really feels for yourself, then you may find some powerful material to incorporate into your writing that will connect your readers and draw them deeper into your story.

So, my challenge to you is to think of an emotional experience that you’ve *recently* had. Or consciously capture the next one. Think about your conscious thoughts, your rational self, your physical responses, your emotions. Write it all out – slapdash, messy, stream-of-consciousness is fine. Get it all out on paper. Maybe you need to set it aside for a little bit, until you’ve handled the situation. Come back and take a look. Can you pull out elements that will give depth to one of your current characters? Or tuck it away, and see if some future story doesn’t present a situation where you think of this emotional exercise, et voila.

#

And so, with a loving heart, I offer you

Namaste

I’ve heard many translations. Here’s one I love:
The light of the universe that shines within me recognizes
the light of the universe that shines within you.

#

Dogs in House	Houdini
Time writing	25 minutes
November word count	2050

Prompt: Who does the sentinel guard? Take 2

Thanks to SergeyMusin for permission to use his powerful “Deadly Shadow At Necropolis”!

Note: I started this story from one of the young "dorlen" boy's POV a few days ago, but it wasn't really working for me. I decided to let this one percolate for a bit, and thought I'd try writing from the sentinel's POV instead. What do you think? 

My steps were the only sound echoing off the moonlit walls as I followed my endless path through the city’s streets. When I reached the square, I would stand sentinel in the moonlight and recharge the jooln that ran red through my channels and fed my my central power source. I felt no fatigue in this body, but my sensors reported power was below optimal, and the full moon would provide plenty of light.

Once stationed in the square, I leaned against my staff and felt the thrum of power as it, too soaked in the moonlight. The jooln began to pulse throughout my body, and I almost remembered sensations of long ago, when I was alive. In my mind, I reached out for the memories, but they disappeared like smoke before the barrel of my forearm.

A scuff, then silence. I didn’t need to move to expand my senses, seeking the intruder. Likely some desert kaptil had wandered too far afield, and an auditory shrill would send it scurrying on six legs back into the silent sands. I scanned the area with night vision and found three dorlens crouching on the steps of the far building, hiding behind a line of power cells. I frowned. Did the fools think they would be safe there?

As I started toward them, clouds filled the sky, dimming the moonlight. I heard the first sounds of movement and knew I had little time. I raced toward the hidden trio and leaped up the steps, just as I sensed the others approaching. Sweeping my staff in an arc before them, I pulled up long-forgotten speech. “You dare? Noone enters the Necropolis. You know the penalty?”

The tallest dorlen moved in front of the other two. My sensors showed his fear, but he stood tall, reaching his empty hands toward me. “Please…please let my brothers go. I will pay the penalty—”

“Jarron, no!” one of the other dorlens shouted.

I frowned. Brothers? Memories…

I straightened and struck the step with my staff. Turning from them, I ground out, “Stay. Close. I lead. Out.” They did not follow when I started down the steps, and I stopped, turning back to them. I felt the smile on my face, but I knew it did not look like it once did. Speech came faster now. “Do you think I guard those who live here? Sentinels protect the living. Come.”

I turned and continued down the steps. It was up to them to follow me, or die…

To be continued?

#

And so, with a loving heart, I offer you

Namaste

I’ve heard many translations. Here’s one I love:
The light of the universe that shines within me recognizes
the light of the universe that shines within you.

#

Dogs in House	Houdini
Time writing	~45 minutes
October word count	1,328

Prompt: Who does the sentinel guard? Take 1

Thanks to SergeyMusin for permission to use his powerful “Deadly Shadow At Necropolis”!

It took a full moon’s journey to reach the Necropolis, even riding our bildoons in shifts. One rider stayed awake, astride the lead bildoon’s head, and the other two slept on their beasts’ broad back-plate saddles. It wasn’t comfortable, but we had to move fast.

I leaned back against the lead bildoon’s ear plates and looked up the sliver of remaining moon. We only had one more night to reach the city, or we’d miss our chance. Returning home empty-handed wasn’t an option. The Thieves Guild would throw us out on our ear if we had nothing to show for a full moon. Unguilded thieves didn’t survive long in Setaastin.

This whole thing was Jarron’s idea. I glanced back to where he and Boon were sleeping, while the bildoons plodded steadily toward the city. Bildoons might only have three brain cells to rub together, but they had perfect navigation. Jarron had stolen a Necropolis goblet from Master Toock, and once he let the bildoon’s sniff and drool all over it, we gave them free reign, and they set out on an unerring path to the city of the dead.

The day before the new moon was the only time the living could enter the city. Jarron convinced us that we could load up on Necropolis goods and return to Setaastin as heroes. Well, heroes among thieves, anyway. Which was the same thing to us, taken in by the guild when no one else would have us or help us.

Boon and I were brothers in every way that counted, except by blood. We teamed up with Jarron after our mother was killed in the Valken Purge. He’d already been living on the streets long enough to know all the safe sleeping spots, and cooks who might leave an extra loaf or bowl of stew to cool on their kitchen window ledge.  When the Night Guard caught us, the Thieves Guild paid our bail and took us in. We all took the brand the next full moon. I rubbed the crest on my forearm, remembering.

To be continued…
(with another "take" from a different POV)

                                                                                                            

#

And so, with a loving heart, I offer you

Namaste

I’ve heard many translations. Here’s one I love:
The light of the universe that shines within me recognizes
the light of the universe that shines within you.

Time writing	~30 minutes
September word count	8,306

Prompt: Tabula Rasa

I’m sitting at my desk when I hear the soft chime announcing someone entering the chapel. As I stand and run my fingers through my short hair, I think it must be someone who wants – or needs – counseling. I barely glance down at my desk as I step around it. There’s nothing there. What was I just doing?

I push open the heavy wooden door and jangle the bell hanging from the iron handle. A quick memory of a startled woman, spilling wax on her hand. Then it’s gone. Another woman, younger, sits in the third pew, leaning her elbows on the pew in front of her, resting her forehead against her clasped hands. A pose I know all too well.

I pick up a short stack of hymnals and clear my throat as I cross the trancept in front of her. When she looks up, I smile. Holding up a hymnal, I ask, “Is there one in your pew?”

It helps to give them something to do. She looks down, then nods. I cross to the other aisle of pews and set the hymnals down on the first row. Casually sitting across from her, I admire the stained glass window behind the altar, a magnificent spread of angel wings. Waving my hand toward it, I say, “It always makes me feel as if they could reach out and embrace me at any moment.”

They don’t usually want to talk so much as they want to know that they’re not alone. And suddenly I know why she’s here. With the knowledge, a memory I didn’t have a moment ago. “My mother used to hug me like that when I was a child. She died of cancer when I was fourteen. I was so angry with her for being sick, for leaving me, I didn’t see her that last day. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could feel her arms around me once again.”

I glance over, and tears are running down her face, unnoticed. She nods and swallows. I continue. “I know I’m supposed to imagine those are God’s arms, God’s wings, or one of his great angels. But I’ll tell you the truth.” I turned to face her and leaned forward as I confided, “It’s not God’s angel that reaches out to me up there. It’s my mother, even though I know she’s one of God’s angels now.”

She dropped her chin and looked away, nodding again. I pulled a small tissue pack out of my coat pocket and held it out to her. She tugged loose a tissue and pressed it against her eyes and cheeks.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say gently. She doesn’t speak, only nods again. I stand and rest a hand on her shoulder for a moment. “Stay as long as you like,” I encourage her. Then I cross the trancept once more and retreat into my study…

Note: This didn’t come out quite like I wanted it too. I think I’ll give it another try tomorrow from a different POV and see if that better conveys my mental image!

#

And so, with a loving heart, I offer you

Namaste

I’ve heard many translations. Here’s one I love:
The light of the universe that shines within me recognizes
the light of the universe that shines within you.

Dogs in House	Houdini
September word count	6,285

Prompt: Measuring how close you are to death

OK, I am taking tonight off for reading. But I have a really interesting prompt, thanks to http://writingprompts.tumblr.com:

So what if you had a little device, like a Fitbit (which I love), that told you how risky a behavior would be? Or more specifically, put numerical values to how much closer to death anything you did-or ate-would bring you. How might society be affected by this kind of information? Insurance, social relationships, careers? What would your "mort" mean in your life?

I'd love to see what you come up with!

Prompt: Sacrifice, or The Elements of Life

Thanks to Elwira Pawlikowska for permission to use her darkly beautiful “Fantasy Pond”!

We’ve dreamed each other our whole lives.

Well, I think I’m real, and Heilewisa thinks she’s real.

We can’t both be, can we?

We better be.

I can’t save her if we’re not.

I begged her not to go to the Dark Temple. She’d whispered the legends to me at night just as her older brothers and sisters had whispered them to her, cuddled together under thin blankets, shivering in the cold with only moonlight through the tiny open window of their mud-and-thatch house.

No one made their way through the Deadwood to the long-abandoned temple with any hope of return. If they had hope at all, it was that their sacrifice would be payment enough for whatever they were driven to beg the angry, old gods.

Waking up each morning has been agony, abandoning her on her journey. Each night, I pushed myself to go to sleep as early as possible to find out how she had survived the day.

Last night, she had reached the Dark Temple and waited for me there. Together, we walked around the fetid moat, full of bone-white lotus flowers and the broken remains of statues and pillars that had once graced the temple’s entrances.

“Look.” Heilewisa pointed to the six statues that remained, as if guarding the temple steps. “They carry sacrifices.”

I peered across the still, black water. The pair of statues at the bottom of the steps held urns. The next pair beyond them held bowls. And the pair at the top of the steps held…lumps? My brows drew together and I turned to Heilewisa in confusion.

She laughed, a sound of sharp surprise with no joy, that rang across the water and bounced off the stones. “The elements of life. Water in the urns, grain in the bowls, earth in the hands.”

“Heilewisa, this is crazy. You can’t cross the water. It looks…wrong.”

She gazed at it in silence, then pointed to the floating lotus. “Look, they live. I’ll be all right. I have to.”

We hugged each other in desperation, and I felt the tug of morning pull me out of her tight embrace.

And now, look at her. Floating in the black water, small ripples flowing out from her body, as if there might still be some movement left in it. Some life. But the color has already leached from her skin, her hair, her lips. Her gown looks like it’s been eaten by moths, or acid. Will her skin look the same soon?

Hot tears burn down my cheeks. Heilewisa knew the risk. She thought she had no choice. I do. I can wake up. She’s just a dream. That’s what everyone would say. Anyone. But what if she’s not? What if I am? And what if I can save her?

Heilewisa’s last words had remained with me all day, running around and around in my mind. The elements of life. Water, food, earth. Something was missing.

I turned back to the Deadwood, keeping my eyes on Heilewisa as long as possible. I’ve never tried to bring anything with me in my dreams, but I’ve always had whatever I was wearing, or carrying in a pocket. Now I pulled the wool scarf from around my neck. It was only a few steps away from the water to find a long dead branch on the leaf-littered ground. I wrapped the scarf around the end of the branch and reached into my pocket for the lighter I’d swiped from my stepfather’s dresser. Rubbing my thumb across the top, I set the lighter to its strongest flame. Flick, I pressed down. Nothing. Flick. Nothing. My heart leaped into my throat. I had tried it at home. I knew it would work. It had to.

With the side of my thumb, I pressed against the top of the lighter one more. Flame shot up two inches, singing my thumb as I jerked it away. Holding it close to the wool, I ran the flame around and around, until the scarf caught fire and I held a torch above my head.

Now what? I eyed Heilewisa and the statues. How did I use the element of fire to save her? The reflections of the statues waved in the water, as if they were bending closer to the surface. Bringing their offerings closer. Water. Food. Earth.

Fire. I smiled, feeling the fierce grin stretch the skin tight across my face. Reaching out with the flaming torch, I lowered the torch to the black water. As it touched, it began to hiss and sizzle, but the flame didn’t go out. It leaped across the water, sweeping across the lotus, across Heilewisa, racing toward the statues bearing the other elements of life temple steps.

I threw the torch on the black water and waded in toward Heilewisa. She rolled over in the water and folded up, choking and coughing. I grabbed her around the chest and started pulling her away from the temple, back to the shore. The fire raged behind us. I dragged her out of the water and dropped to the ground, holding her tight. Her skin and hair remained bone-white, bleached of their color, but she was breathing, shuddering in my arms.

She opened her eyes and stared up at me, then across the water to the flame roaring over the Dark Temple. The statues’ arms were raised, their tributes, their sacrifices, pouring into the flames.

“Sweet Rhea, what have you done?”

#

And so, with a loving heart, I offer you

Namaste

I’ve heard many translations. Here’s one I love:
The light of the universe that shines within me recognizes
the light of the universe that shines within you.

Dogs in House	Houdini, Brindle
Time writing	1 hour, interrupted
September word count	4,206

Prompt: After prolonged exposure to radiation, a fallen angel meets the ghost of Ernest Hemingway

Prompt source: The Amazing Story Generator by Jay Sacher

Jahirah dreamed.

Smoke. Falling. Pain. Hands.

Soothing touch. Cool water. Soft words.

That might not have been a dream.

Which part?

Laugh. Cough. Pain.

Soothing touch. Cool water. Soft words.

Cold at the wrist, up the arm, blooms from the shoulder across the chest, down to the toes. Pain receding. Silence.

Soft strike of a match. Deep inhale. Warm spice of an old cigar.

“All stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you.”

True enough. Is this death, then? Are you Death?

“Ha! I don’t think so, though some may disagree. I’m a writer. But to write, you have to listen. I have learned a great deal from listening carefully. Most people never listen.”

I’m afraid I have no more voice to be heard, my friend.

“There is nothing sweet nor fitting in your dying. I do not need to hear your voice to listen to your story.”

I would argue your second point. My choices led me directly here. I turned from God. I left Heaven. I walked into the maelstrom and pulled them out. And now I am dying. But they will live.

“They were in it for longer than you. How is it possible they survive you?”

That was my final choice. To give them my energy, my life.

“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.”

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Note: I chose a literal path, and I’d enjoy finding more Hemingway quotes to flesh out this little vignette. How would you address this prompt?

And, I will try to find another prompt than "angel" and "death" - but I must say that this one came from a random page flip of the book!

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And so, with a loving heart, I offer you

Namaste

I’ve heard many translations. Here’s one I love:
The light of the universe that shines within me recognizes
the light of the universe that shines within you.

Dogs in House	Houdini, Brindle
Music Playing	Norah Jones
Time writing	30 minutes
September word count	1,064