New Year, New Prompts

To be honest, my prompt-writing has fallen by the wayside over the past couple of years. Granted, I've been doing a lot of reading and editing for Weird Wild West and now Lawless Lands, and I've written a story or two. But I haven't pushed myself to keep up the practice of prompt-writing, and actually, I've missed it. It's satisfying to meet the challenge to write about something unexpected, and it's almost always surprising what comes out. Sometimes it's even good.

So, for 2017, I plan to dive back into this practice, and I encourage you to do it with me. If you're new to prompt-writing, the idea is that you take a prompt and write for about 10-15 minutes - whatever comes in your head. If you want to make it an exercise in stream-of-consciousness writing (which can be exceptionally valuable as well), that's fine. If a story idea pops up, then go for it. Don't expect it to be *good* -- this is first draft 101! You have to start somewhere in order to end up somewhere good!

Here's our first prompt. Ready?

From the often silly Amazing Story Generator:

While writing an autobiography, a licensed cat-hair stylist joins the mafia.

Say what? See, this is the kind of thing I would have skipped past, and then choosing the prompt can take longer than writing to it, but in the spirit of the exercise, I'm going for it!

I don't think I'm funny, but people are always telling me I should go on stage or write a book. Well, I don't stutter when I write, so here we are. I never stutter when I'm working with cats either. But a human walks through the door, and my tongue trips all over itself before I can even say "Hi." 

Especially good looking men with long-haired angoras. When Angelo first brought in Diablo, the poor thing was a tatted mess. Diablo, not Angelo. Angelo had heard him mewling in a storm sewer and promptly abandoned his afternoon meetings to lure him out with a can of tuna. I fell in love before he finished talking. With both of them, I think. I didn't know what kind of meetings he'd missed. Yet.

He warned me that Diablo didn't like anyone but him to touch him, but I've always had a way with cats. I held out my hands palm-up on the counter, and Diablo crept out of Angelo's arms in straight into mine. Angelo looked a little peeved, and I tried to tell him it was only because Diablo already felt safe because of him, but my tongue swelled and my jaw locked and I couldn't get the words out. 

So I smiled and blushed like and idiot and held his cat, and he raised his eyebrows and shrugged and walked away. At the door, he said, "You close by six? I'll pick him up then." He looked back, and I nodded. I was already carrying Diablo into my workroom when the doorbells jingled and he was gone.

And just like that, I could talk to Diablo. "Well now, let's see who's hiding under there, shall we? I bet you're a handsome fellow..." 

OK, so this doesn't really feel like it's going anywhere, and I still think the prompt was exceptionally silly. But I could see this working into a romance between her and Angelo, then she feels betrayed when she finds out what he does and who he works for. Or a thriller, where she becomes the mob's top assassin when she discovers that killing people releases her stutter...for awhile anyway. And I haven't really written a romance -- or a thriller -- so it could be fun to run with this and see where it goes. I already know he's taking her to dinner when he comes to pick up Diablo and sees what a gorgeous black cat was hiding under all that mess. If you see Angelo and Diablo on a cover some day, you can say you saw it here first!

If you're so moved, write to the prompt and share in a comment here!

Happy writing in the New Year!

Prompt: Looking for Meaning in Random Text Photos

I got the first photo on July 3^th at 1:53am. “Yo” said the text bubble. With a photo of trash in front of a sewer drain. I didn’t recognize the phone number, so I ignored it. If anything, I thought it was a wrong number, or a stupid prank.

But the next day, as I was walking the dogs, I found myself looking around, noticing the sewer drains. Could it be one of them? There—that trash on the ground—is it the same? No. I pulled out my extra trash bag and picked it up anyway. After that, I figured it was a one-time, random occurrence.

The next photo came on July 14^th at 2:57am. Seriously? Not from the same number. Not trash this time. A kitten crouched under a car. As soon as it was light, I left the dogs at home and walked around the neighborhood looking for a tan car. I’m terrible at models and styles and all that. It was a Cadillac. The kitten was pressed against the front passenger tire, and as soon as I crouched down and reached out a hand to it, it crept across the driveway and into my lap. I named her Caddy.

So I called the first number. But it wasn’t in service. Called the second number. Ditto. Since then, I’ve received a photo text about every one to two weeks. If I’m awake when it comes in, I still can’t call fast enough to catch them. “Beeep. The number you have reached is not in service at this time.”

And every time, no matter how insignificant it may seem, I find the original of the photo the following day…

Dogs in house:	Houdini, Brindle
Time writing	20 minutes
July word count	3,235

Prompt: a secret agent, her ex-girlfriend and a talking cat who knows a secret

Midnight Black flattened himself on the high ledge, growling as he peered down at the car below. Its headlights made a show of the rain. All four doors opened, spilling light onto the glistening pavement. Large men climbed out, and one in the back reached inside and pulled out Jessie. She had a hood over her head, but Blackie would know her anywhere. The man grabbed her arm and shook her roughly, pulling her around the car. They all walked inside the building on the other side of the street.

Black slunk along the ledge, considering his options. The building was wide across the front, and short. Chances were, he’d see a light come on when they reached their destination. There. Four floors up from where he lay, in the corner. Time for backup.

#

Karen shifted her grocery bags into her left hand, along with the unwieldy umbrella, shaking her key ring from around her wrist down into her right palm. Climbing the steps to her brownstone, she was surprised to see a familiar figure waiting by the door. She looked around hopefully, but there was no one else in sight.

As she unlocked the door, Blackie wound around her ankles, soaking wet and meowing pitifully. “Hi stranger. Come on, don’t get my legs all wet. What are you doing here?”

The cat followed her in, then ran up the stairs ahead of her, stopping at her door. “Okay, of course you can come in. I probably have some tuna.”

Karen unlocked her apartment door and left her umbrella in the hallway, following Blackie inside. She didn’t bother turning on the light, dropping her keys on the console table by the door and carrying her grocery bags into the kitchen. She opened a cabinet door and pushed aside a few cans. “Yes, tuna. How about it.”

“No time for that, Karen. Jessie’s in trouble.”

Karen dropped the can with a clatter on the counter and spun around to stare at Blackie.

TBC?

Dogs in House	Eggs
Time writing	15 minutes
April word count	11,790

Prompt: How many times must I die?

I was 22 when I died the first time. My lover, Paton, gave me the flu with a kiss. I watched my baby sister die first, and when the fever started burning me up, I braided my hair and climbed up to the empty loft where she and I had slept our whole lives – until I crept out to be with him. And they carried her out wrapped in the blanket she died in.

It was just dreams at first. Daydream memories. Wisps that fled when I reached for them. I barely remembered that first, unremarkable life. How many others have faded from my memory as well? I can’t piece them together one after the other. How many lives passed before I realized those dreams were memories? Something about them felt more real. The details were so vivid, so specific…

It was the cat that did it. I came home late one night, wishing I had kept that tiny umbrella in my backpack as I tugged my jacket tighter around me. The cat sat on my doorstep, watching me with its unblinking green eyes. It was black with a white cross on its chest and little white socks on its front left and rear right paws. As I climbed the stairs and tugged out my entry card, it wound around my feet as if it had known me for years.

My memories started to splinter into the waking moments, as I opened the creaky old door, and the cat ran in front of me, then tried to trip me by stretching out on the stairs in front of me as I climbed. By the time we reached my door, my fingers were shaking so badly, I could hardly hold them still over the keypad. My mind’s eye kept showing my hand struggling with an old-fashioned key in the handle, even though there was no handle, and I’d never kept keys as an adult.

I staggered through the doorway and into the living room, not bothering to turn on any lights. Plenty filtered in from the buildings along the Charles River. I collapsed on the couch and remembered the first time I had picked up that cat as a fluffball of a kitten. I was eight, and I followed my older brother Gilles up the ladder to the hayloft of our uncle’s barn. In the village of Montegny, France. In 1673…

Dogs in House	Houdini, Brindle, Malachi
Time writing	50 Minutes
March word count	8173

Prompt: A light in the window, waiting for you

Thanks to Varla for permission to use her lovely, whimsical image, "I Miss You..."!

 

Melliken puffed on his pipe as he leaned back against the deep windowsill. The candle burned low in the votive glass, flickering the golden light to lead her home. Burning with the sadness that pressed on his heart. He tugged on the fringe of the red plaid scarf she had made and wrapped around his neck, his claws pushed through the fringe and retracted, a half-hearted nest treading motion.

He pulled his black and gray striped bushy tail up and began to groom it between his forepaws, remembering.

“Hey there, handsome,” she said, crouched down low and holding out her hand as he hung by the bushes, caution warring with curiosity, loneliness, and hunger. She stood and walked away. When she returned with tuna, he wasted no time, eating his fill of the small can and then jumping in her lap and curling up, purring. He’d followed her all the way home.

“I can’t take you with me,” she said, apology in her voice, as she packed her suitcase and kept lifting him out of it. “Mary’s going to take good care of you while I’m gone.”

Sure. Mary was nice enough, as roommates went. She never gave him tuna though. And she didn’t pet him when he jumped up on the couch or her bed.

“Here you go,” she wrapped her favorite scarf around his neck, tucking in the ends. “It’s got my scent, so you won’t forget me.” As if.

Mary lit the candle every night. Melliken always sat in the windowsill, fogging up the glass and watching people, dogs, birds…

One thing he would say for Mary. She never complained when he smoked his pipe in the window.

Dogs in house	Houdini, Buddy
Time writing:	20 minutes, interrupted
November word count:	25,930

 

Prompt: Oh God, Not the Foam

Meghan had just thrown a load in the washer and was determined to finish her Saturday house chores by the time it finished. Her favorite black burnout velvet tunic reeked from last Tuesday’s party, and she wanted to wear it tonight. Different crowd – no one would remember it. She wanted Sean to think she looked hot in it…wanted him to run his hands underneath it while they danced. Distracted, she opened the dishwasher and stared blankly at the solid white foam that filled it and oozed over the open door.

“Oh, God, not the foam!” She slammed the door shut and ran to the wall panel, punching the emergency alarm button. She was already looking around for what she needed to grab when the countdown started.

“Foam invasion detected. Estimate thirty minutes until first level evacuation required. Please clear the premises,” the automated voice began its countdown, and Meghan could hear the siren begin to wail outside, warning surrounding neighbors of the foam.

Where was Josie? She usually had to be practically underfoot. Why was this the time she chose to be independent? Damn cat! Meghan ran from room to room, grabbing the items she’d already tagged as essential. There wasn’t much.

The foam already covered the kitchen floor and was spreading into the front den and the dining room on either side. Meghan knew she had to get to the stair now, or they’d be blocked by the foam. She ran to the far window in the family room and pulled it open, in case Josie was hiding somewhere downstairs. “Damn cat,” she muttered as she hesitated in front of the kitchen. The foam sprawled out toward the stairs. There was enough room for her to jump and reach the first step. If she slipped…

She shook her head and jumped, grabbing the bannister for balance. She took one last look around her cozy home. She’d spent five years making it her own, ever since she and Doug split up and she moved to Adelaide. But it was only stuff. Where was Josie? Meghan ran up the stairs two at a time. “Damn cat!” she shouted. She took a couple of deep breaths at the top of the stairs, thinking about her route. She had planned it all, of course. Everyone had a plan for foam. But she hadn’t figured on Josie being out of sight. Which of her favorite haunts should Meghan check first? She turned right into her office, hoping to find the familiar black-and-white form draped across her computer chair, with the familiar “how dare you disturb me?” look through half-opened gold eyes.

She hesitated in front of the computer, wanting to grab the hard drive. But she had ten years’ worth of data, photos, music, and memories safely stored in the Cloud.  She turned to the bookshelf and pulled out the first copy of her first novel, Freedom Fighters. It was silly, but she carried it with her.

She glanced down the stairs as she passed and froze. The foam was halfway up. She hit the second alarm button next to the light switch. The siren outside changed to a claxon, and she knew she only had ten minutes at most before she had to climb out her bedroom window. She glanced in the hall bathtub, just in case. No Josie. Damn cat!

Sometimes she slept in the craft room, on a pile of fabric stash, or if Meghan was careless enough to leave the lid to her knitting yarn stash open, well…But no luck this time. Meghan felt panic closing in as she raced to the back bedroom. Surely Josie would be sleeping on the guest bed, up on the pillows despite Meghan’s best efforts to discourage her. She even bent and peered under the bed. She realized she hadn’t picked up anything in the last rooms. All she could think about was finding the little puff ball who had invaded her life two winters ago, yowling for food and warmth one cold night.

Meghan headed for her bedroom and froze again. The foam had reached the top of the stairs and was steadily rolling into the hall space. She still had plenty of room to get into her bedroom, but she was only going out through the window. “Please, Josie,” she whispered, running into her room and looking around. She closed her eyes and listened, frantic for any sign of the brat, the lifeline who had helped her through her sadness, the daily companion who always pestered her for more attention…whyowhy was she not here now?

“Mrow,” she heard softly. Where? She turned her head. Her closet door was closed. She ran over and pushed it open. Josie sat calmly on the closet floor, licking one paw, as if she hadn’t been locked in there all morning. Meghan scooped her up and turned toward the escape window. Too late. The foam had sprawled in through her bedroom door in a haphazard pattern, closing in on her and Josie, cutting off any route to the window.

Meghan scooped up Josie and tucked her close under her arm. “No time for squirmy games, now, kiddo,” she tried to sound encouraging, not terrified. Even if she could get through one step in the foam, she still had to open the window so she could climb through. She knew there wasn’t enough time. Should she try, or just retreat into the closet with Josie and close the door? At least they’d be together…

Outside the window, she saw a ladder heave into view, and a rescue worker’s neon yellow helmet. He looked in and saw her standing on the far side of the room. Without hesitation, he hit the window with a hammer and shattered it into the room. He swung the ladder straight into the room toward her. “Climb on!”

Dogs in house	Houdini
Time writing:	35 minutes
October word count:	14,330

Prompt: Temporal discontinuity

Sarah walked into the kitchen and paused. Wasn’t I just…? She looked around, trying to think back to what she had just been doing. I was upstairs, wasn’t I? I was thinking about getting coffee after I showered.

She looked down. She was dressed. Her hair was dry, but she hadn’t been planning to wash it. She sighed, and began to make her coffee. The ritual was soothing. Water in the pot, grounds in the filter, cinnamon in the grounds. Mug ready. Too much water. Did I put it in twice?

Driving, enjoying the sunshine with the windows down. The summer heat is cooling off. None of the songs on the radio are familiar. Even the DJs have changed. She fishes out her phone and plugs it in, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel to her favorite dance mix. Wait, where am I? I was supposed to go the other way…

She adjusts her earpiece, listening to the pre-flight chatter. Looking up, she’s already strapped in to the cockpit. She looks down at her flight suit. When did I…?

The cat purrs. Sarah rolls on her side and pulls the covers up over her chin. She pushes her head back on the pillow against the big orange tom sprawled across it. He licks her forehead once, twice. “Hi big boy. Um, you’re not supposed to be here. You disappeared ten years ago, when I still lived in Utah.” She doesn’t open her eyes as she reaches up and digs her fingers into his thick fur. He purrs louder.

The launch pushes her hard, back in her seat. She glances over to Sutton, flicking switches and continuing the back and forth with Houston. It’s always Houston. Even when it’s Alexandria, Virginia. “Rocket three breakaway on three, two, one…”

Sarah studies the controls under her own gloved hands. Where’s my coffee?

“What’s that?” Sutton asks over the intercom.

Sarah shakes her head. “Nothing. I think I left my coffee somewhere.”

He barks, a short laugh. “Yeah, I hate that. Roger, Houston. All systems go. We are in orbit. Seventy-two minutes until trans-orbit burn.”

“...confirm trans-orbit burn complete,” Sutton says and pops the latch on his harness. He rises out of his seat in the zero gravity. “Come on, captain. Let’s go grab some lunch.”

Sarah lies in bed, feeling the weight next her. Is it the old tom again? A warm hand reaches over and pulls her sideways, tucking her against a hard body. Not the tom. The hand rests on her belly, and she looks down. It’s round and firm. She feels a kick. She closes her eyes tight and wonders for the millionth time, “What is the dream?”

Dogs in house	Houdini, Eggs
Time writing:	~35 minutes
September word count:	10,222