Prompt: Cloning, temporal discontinuity, and geographical affinity

I’m journaling tonight, but I challenge you to use one or more of these as prompts.

“She’s your clone!” I’ve heard it for the past fourteen years. Daughter looks more than a little bit like me. Behaves more than a little bit like me. Shares more than a few of the same interests and passions. But make no mistake, she is not me. She is entirely her own person. Sometimes we get along great together. Sometimes not. I did mention she is fourteen?

Story idea:
It seems obvious to me. The clone who struggles to find her own identity. Calling into question pre-determination, nature vs nurture, and the very fundamental question of Self. These are the questions explored so beautifully by the non-human characters in various Star Trek incarnations, notably Spock in TOS, the Doctor in Voyager, and Data in TNG.

We went to New York this past weekend. This was a Very Big Deal for many reasons. But a few things struck me as we walked around Times Square and the Theater District, hiked down 9^th Ave before midnight and back up 8^th after. I suffer from temporal discontinuity. I see things with the memory of my younger self, my college self, running around these streets day and night with my best friends, seeking out museums, photo opps, bars and clubs. I see Daughter’s wide-eyed wonder (which she plays oh-so-cool and close to the vest – more McGraw even than I), drinking in every sight, smell and sound, every step of the way. And I see the city with the guarded, tense concern of a protective mother walking with her beautiful child. Not such a child any more, but growing into a beautiful young woman who is beginning to attract attention. Look away, look away, before I have to hurt you, growls the mother tiger.

Story idea:
Time travel within one’s own life. So many directions to go with that. Can you effect change? What happens to your future? I found that when Daughter was born, so much regret simply disappeared, because every step of my life led to her. Since then, there may be a few regrets. What would I change if I could. Personal, or larger scale? Could I make the world a better place? At what cost? I’m reminded of an excellent Voyager episode where they are caught in temporal loops that turn out to be the doing of a man simply trying to get back to a reality in which his family still lives.

Ah, geographical affinity. Love of place. Daughter experienced it in New York. All weekend, she proclaimed she would be leaving a little piece of her heart behind when we boarded the plane for home. She is already talking about going to college, living and working in the Big Apple. And she claims she will never feel this way about another city. To which I say I hope not, because the world’s a mighty big place, with lots of wonderful cities, towns, open spaces and more to fall in love with. In City of Joy, a privileged Miami doctor goes to the worst slum in Calcutta and finds the place he belongs. My niece is in her second year serving in the Peace Corps in Africa, and despite many challenges, deprivations, and dangers, is considering a third year. Her mother wants her “safe” at home.

I felt a love for the city of Boston from the first time I visited, interviewing for a summer job during college. I *like* New York, but I *love* Boston. When I first went to San Francisco, years later, several people told me, “Oh, you like Boston, you’ll love San Fran – they’re a lot alike.” I *liked* San Fran just fine, but I didn’t love it. And that made me sad, because it made me question my love for Boston, having moved away several years earlier. I thought I remembered that instant love with rose-colored glasses, that it must have grown over time, as I walked all over the city and came to know it so well. Until I went to Seattle. And Portland. I felt that same sense of connection in both cities, and I was giddy with excitement, not only for the way I enjoyed them, but because it told me I hadn’t been wrong. I *had* felt that way about Boston, and that “love of place” was a very real thing.

And I just had an epiphany. I’m not living in a place I *love*. I *like* where I am, and I know it well, and it’s comfortable, and it has a lot to offer. But I have never felt that *love* I felt for Boston, or Seattle, or Portland, or a few other places. And I’m going to need to think about that. I might journal about it here. Later.

Story idea:

Someone who’s lost the place where they felt that geographical affinity, that “love of place” – due to war or disaster – and is searching for a new place where they feel that same connection. I’m thinking galactic nomad. Hmm….I might even know who that character is. I started writing her story awhile ago. I just didn’t know this about her. Oh, Siena….

So there you have it. Three ideas, three prompts, three themes. Cloning and time travel are classic tropes of science fiction, and yet there are still fresh, new stories being told, waiting to be told. Is one of them mine? Yours? Let me know if this sparks something for you, fellow writer!

#

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	~75 minutes
August word count	6,525

Prompt: “When a monster stopped behaving like a monster, did it stop being a monster? Did it become something else?” ― Kristin Cashore, Graceling

Groolig sat on the riverbank with his feet in the water and his head in his hands. His curves claws tapped the tufted tips of his long ears, as he replayed the scene over and over in his head.

“Carve the skin, my pet,” Mistress crooned, fingertip tracing a hidden rune on his back. Groolig was her favorite instrument, and he’d never hesitated to do her bidding. She could as easily pick up a blade and use it on him as he could use his claws on bare skin. She had done so throughout his youth, carving the runes that covered his own flesh, now hidden by mottled, tangled fur. How many others had he sliced and torn open before their blood washed away his own, stained against his skin and fur and claws?

But Groolig didn’t want to hurt this one. He reached past her arms, suspended on the chains rattling above them, touching a claw to her cheek, where a single tear quivered. It splashed over his claw, and he remembered.

“Groolig! Catch me!” The girl cried as she leaped from the tree limb above, barely giving him time to reach up before she fell into his arms, laughing. He curled her slight body up to his chest, burying his face against her belly and blowing raspberries through her threadbare tunic. She giggled and wrapped her arms around him in a fierce hug. “You’re my best friend, Groolig. You’re not a monster! You’re not!”

“Don’t bore me, pet,” Mistress warned in a deep growl.

Groolig didn’t move the claw against the girl’s cheek. He didn’t turn his head in warning. He simply swung out behind him with his other long arm, claws outstretched, with unerring accuracy, and tore out Mistress’ throat. He never looked back as he swiped through the metal links of the chains and curled the falling girl into his arms once more. If Mistress lived, she would kill them both. But the sounds behind him told a different tale.

He carried the girl out of Mistress’ hold and into the deep forest where they once played. When he reached the river, he walked into the middle and upstream, pushing against the current without slowing his pace for hours. The girl remained still in his arms. Before the light faded, he found the hut they once built of fallen tree limbs and fresh rushes, long since dried into thatch. He lay the girl down on the thatch floor and went out to find fresh rushes to cover her while she slept.

Finally admitting he was tired, he sat on the riverbank, next to the hut, and cooled his torn feet in the rushing water. He’d spent most of his life in the stone confines of Mistress’ hold, except for rare adventure with the girl. Now Mistress was dead, and he had to take care of the girl. He didn’t know what to do. Burying his head in his hands, Groolig tried to think what she would need…

To be continued?

Dogs in House	Houdini, Brindle
Music Playing	iTunes walking playlist
Time writing	~30 minutes
July word count	11,334

Prompt: Freedom Always Comes with a Price

Genra sat patiently while the brush stroked through her hair, deft hands braided and pinned, soft voice hummed a nameless tune, although it seemed familiar somehow.

“There you are, Missa Genra.”

“Thank you, Prime.” She tilted her head and smiled into the mirror. “Bernard will appreciate your efforts.”

Prime ducked her head and glanced away. Genra suspected she had a crush on Bernard. At least she was confident he had no interest in the clones.

“Mama! Mama! Let’s see you all dressed up!” Robby and Julia raced into the bedroom, leaping onto the bed with exuberant energy. Prime stepped aside, hands behind her back, until Genra was ready for her to take them out.

Genra stood and spun, admiring the swirl of her chiffon skirt and the sparkle along her draped sleeves. Julia clapped, and Robby blew kisses. Genra curtsied to them, then nodded to Prime.

Stepping forward, Prime waved the children toward her. “Come now. Let’s let your Mama finish getting ready in peace. Secca has dinner ready for us. I think I smelled peaches—”

Robby cried, “Peach cobbler! Let’s go!” He rolled off the bed and ran out the door. Prime waited for Julia, who climbed down the bed and walked over to stand next to Genra as she leaned toward the mirror, putting on a row of silver-chain-linked earrings. She smiled down at her daughter. “Have an extra bite of cobbler for me, okay, honey?” Julia hugged her around the waist, then ran past Prime.

As Prime turned to follow the children, Genra said, “Prime? Don’t let Secca give them too much. You know Robby will have a stomachache.”

Prime ducked her head again, nodding, and left silently. Genra leaned her hands on the dressing table and stared at the reflection if the empty doorway, wondering about the anger she’d sensed from her first clone.

To be continued?

Dogs in house:	Houdini, Brindle
Music	Mumford & Sons - I Will Wait”
Time writing	~15 minutes
July word count	4,048

Prompt: What does it mean to have a soul?

I sit on Granpapa’s knee and clutch the steel counter for balance. “There,” I point to the bottom right display. “That one is different.”

“Very good, Tevya. Now, watch what happens when I realign the system.”

I lean against his chest and feel the warmth and weight of his arm around me, grounding me. I relax my eyes like he’s taught me, to watch all dozen monitors at once. His fingers dance over the input board, and the bottom right display shudders, then resumes its pattern in alignment with the others.

My eyes start to drift closed. “They’re the same now.”

“Just watch,” says Granpapa.

“Through half-closed eyes, I see the patterns of all twelve monitors merge into one. Then, a hiccup, a blip. The middle left display is out of sequence. I lift my hand and point to it.

Granpapa whispers in my ear, “They are identical in every way. How can they behave differently? How can they have individuality?”

I reach up to rub his scratchy chin with my palm, sleep drawing me into the warmth of his chest. “Maybe, Granpapa, maybe they have souls…”

#

My hand knocks the cold coffee mug on my desk, and my head jerks up. I focus on the chronometer. 2:34am. Great. I lean back to study the 12-panel display. No one else in the lab has mastered the trick. Maybe you have to learn it when you’re young. Stretching, I lean forward to get a closer look at the upper right. Tapping the comm button, I keep my voice calm. “Eric, I think you should come to the lab.”

“I’m in the middle of an assay right night, Tevya. Can it wait?”

“Number four has an independent sequence. Your call.”

“I’m on my way.” I grinned at the excitement in his voice. This was good. This was very, very good.

#

We lay tangled in the teal silk sheets I found on sale at Barney’s, watching the lights from the late night police drones sweeping through the streets. Eric’s arm was wrapped around me, and I pressed my ear to his chest. He was saying, “This is huge, Tevya. Identical clones in every way. How can they be showing independent characteristics?”

I lifted up on my elbow, sweeping my hair aside and tracing a spiral on his chest. “Maybe they have souls—”

Eric gripped my wrist. “Don’t say that! Don’t ever say that again, Tevya. Not a word, do you hear me?” He sat up, still gripping my wrist. “Dear God. Tevya, you don’t understand. They’ll shut us down and destroy everything.”

I pulled my wrist free and rubbed it, climbing out of the bed. “Jeez, Eric, melodramatic much?” I pulled on a tshirt and headed for the door. I didn’t feel like being with him at the moment.

“Tevya,” he called after me. “Please. I know where you were coming from. But think about it. Clones aren’t the same as computers. They’ll say we’re playing God.”

I looked back at him. “Well, aren’t we?”

Dogs in house:	Houdini, Brindle
Time writing	75 minutes, including interruption
July word count	3,740

Prompt: Where do the abandoned go?

Before today’s prompt writing, a quick update on the Blog Hop for Sucker Literary, Vol 3.  Here’s the path of the blog hop so far:

Kacey Vanderkarr  => Justine Manzano  => Sonja Thomas  => Vanessa MacLellan  => Blanca Florido  => RebeccaGomez Farrell  => me => … and I invited Rebekkah Niles, one of my talented writing group members. Rebekkah’s post is here -- check it out!

And now, a great visual prompt:

Thanks to Mircea Tătuc, cc-nc-nd-4.0 for his beautiful and 

evocative photo of the Czestochowa Train Depot in Poland!

Jimmy crept under the orange cars on Track 5, looking for snail shells to add to his collection. His ears rang with the high-pitched whine of a new train, and he rolled out from under the cars and jumped up, sprinting toward the depot. Pulling out his bell, he held it high and rang it as loud as he could, shouting, “Incoming! Incoming! New train!”

He kept clear of the tracks—sometimes the new trains were still electrified when they arrived. Until he saw which track it was on, he knew better than to risk any of them.

Huffing with the run, he waved to Karly as she climbed down the caboose on Track 1-8. He still thought it was funny that the engine was on Track 1, but the train stretched across tracks, and the caboose was on 8. The train was still intact, and too big for them to move without power, so it stayed. Karly liked to read up on top. She said she liked to see the birds fly overhead swooping in and out of the depot. As if there were anything to see out there.

“Come on, Karly! Let’s get there first!” He urged her to climb down faster, and considered whether he should run ahead of her anyway. First to reach the new train got squatter’s rights. Depending on who was on it when it came in, of course.

“Which track is it coming in on, Jimmy?” Karly had no sense for the trains.

Jimmy could always feel them. He stood still and closed his eyes, calming his excitement so he could feel the energy buzz in the air. His eyes opened and he grinned. “Track 6, come on!”

Karly jumped down from the side ladder and ran toward him. Linking hands, they raced to the depot station just in time to see the new train roll out of the darkened station door…straight toward the 1-8. They froze, and Karly cried out, “Mama’s inside!”

Jimmy gripped her hand. “Don’t worry. It’s okay. You’ll see…”

They watched the train roll closer, slowing imperceptibly as it hit the old, ravaged tracks and the thick grass. Karly gasped as it neared the 1-8, then they heard the rusty old switch groan and slide, carrying the new arrival from its collision course with the 1-8 to its right. Where there was no track.

Jimmy whistled. “That’s new,” he shouted, jumping up with excitement. “Let’s go!”

Karly narrowed her eyes, watching the train wheeze to a stop. “What are we going to call it?” She mused. “The Zero?”

“Who cares?” Jimmy shouted, racing ahead of her. “Let’s go see if there are any kids on it!”

Karly smiled at the thought. There hadn’t been any new children in the depot in a really, really long time. It would be nice to have someone new to play with.

TBC?

Notes:

I have some ideas about these trains coming in. Maybe from different times, different places. What brings them here? Can the people leave? Do they age? What do they do in the meantime? I think I’d like to come back to this one…

Dogs in House	Houdini
Music	Guitar Adagios
Time writing	45 minutes
May word count	11,995

Prompt: Love for You

Thanks to Katarina Zirine for permission to use her beautiful "Love for You"!

Seriana swept her outstretched fingers over the tall golden-red grass as she walked across the field under the brilliant sunset colors of the clouded skies. Her shoulders twitched as her gossamer wings fluttered behind her. Slender and clear, they would not carry her for many moons, until she had chosen her life’s purpose. By then, they would have stretched and grown thick and strong, bold and jewel-toned like her mother’s, or delicately tinted like her sister’s.

“Why don’t males have wings?” she had asked as a child. Her mother had laughed out loud, and her sister had giggled behind her hands, but they didn’t have an answer that made any sense to Seriana.

With no males in the House, Seriana could only watch them from a distance. Her sister seemed incurious, but she was about most things except their mother’s power. Seriana had no heart for political games. She wanted to explore the world. She wanted to understand. Everything.

Her childhood wings had withered and fallen off two winters past. She had buried them and danced with her crèche-mates under the next full moon, before she returned home to her mother’s House for the first time. She missed her friends, their laughter, their play, their touch.

Her mother only touched her to spin her around after supper and examine her budding crystal wings. “Hmm,” she would mutter, or a casual “Good” as she patted Seriana’s back, then turned away. Seriana had dreamed of her mother’s love for as long as she could remember. Now she cried herself to sleep at night and pined for her crèche.

A tall stalk of grass seed tucked between her thumb and finger, jolting her from her reverie. She stripped the seeds from the stalk in a smooth pull and held them in her palm. Looking up at the moon, already glowing in the darkening sky, she made her first choice toward her life’s purpose.

Sweeping aside her long golden curls, she bent her lips closer. “I have love for you. Find me.” She blew the delicate red seeds, and they fluttered into the air, opening into tiny hearts as they drifted away. Unseen behind her, the edges of her clear wings faded to a delicate ink, and then purple…

Dogs in House	Houdini
Music	Sting, “St Agnes and the Burning Train” and “Fragile”
Time writing	~35 minutes
May word count	9,796