It’s day fourteen of the 30 Day Writing Challenge, and today’s prompt is: Home.
I’ve been at home for most of today, which I’ve enjoyed. It’s a busy time of year and, as a bit of an introvert, home is where I go to recharge.
It’s also where I write. Even though I’m *supposed* to be sorting out Under Stone, the fourth Ambeth book, today I’ve been going through Silver and Black, my vampire novel. And I found this little passage that seems to fit the prompt quite well:
The sun is starting to slant towards the west, the blue sky striping with gold and red as I see the familiar gates of home. They are closed. F*ck. Of coursethey are. Locked and bolted too, I bet. I can’t climb them, either. I start to cry, the disappointment at being so close to home, yet unable to get in, overwhelming me. I cling to the wrought metal then sink down, my legs folding under me. I just can’t stand any more. Wrapping my arms around the metal I rest my head against it, waiting. I have no anti-feed left, so I’m basically a sitting duck. I can only hope the guards find me and realise who I am before they attack. The sky is a flaming bowl above me, the trees shading to purple against the red and gold and blue. It’s completely glorious, yet I feel nothing. It’s as though everything I had is gone from me, drained out by the night’s events and the day’s walk. I stare at the clouds, but I see nothing. Gradually, my head droops, and I slip into a doze.
A hand grabs my arms, squeezing tight so I wake up. ‘Ow!’ I squeal. The squeal becomes a scream as my arm is yanked upwards, pulling me with it, my shoulder twisting painfully.
‘Who are you?’ The guard on the other side of the gate snarls at me, his fingers digging into my arm.
Last Friday a familiar Scottish voice was heard once more over the airwaves, and the regular crowd got together on Twitter for a laugh and a lollop, all set to a Christmas soundtrack. Steve from Steve Says is back on the air, and this week he has a special guest! Hot off the release of his new book, Glimpses, the wonderful Hugh Roberts will be joining Steve for a night of music and frivolity (and possibly carnage, according to Steve). So wherever you are, tune and and join the party – it’s going to be great!
It is a word of sorrow, of lost things. Memories, people, ideas, thoughts – to be forgotten is to disappear.
We search through the forgotten, trying to piece together the past. But the flickers of light that made it real have long since faded, and all we are left with are the shadows of moments, separated from us by distance and time.
Yet each moment, each event, each life lived has left their mark upon this world. Faint impressions like the brush of butterfly wings, or distant smoke, making you wonder if they were ever there at all.
And to remember, even for a moment, is to bring them back.
———————————————————————————————This is my response to today’s writing prompt, part of the 30 Day Writing Challenge.
And I have nothing. Nada. Bupkus. Zilch. I’m out. Christmas burnout? I’m not sure. I do have a lot of other ideas running around in my mind at the moment, but none of them really fit the brief. I did get a couple of sentences, a few flashes of idea, but nothing that really had legs.Wherever ideas come from isn’t sending anything new my way today.
Technical difficulties beyond my control – normal service to resume shortly.
It’s day eleven of the blogging challenge and today’s prompt is: stars. Which I completely forgot about while at the British Museum today – no doubt I could have found something wonderfully starry there to inspire me.
So instead I wrote a little piece of poetry, and here it is:
Born from the light and darkness, Dariana can no longer avoid her fate.
The final corrupted temple stands between the champions and Baron Kernaghan having their great battle. Only one problem: the Compass Key refuses to work with Dariana, who long ago wiped all memories of the Spirit Well from her mind. Now, they are forced to follow a trail of clues that Dariana’s former self left behind centuries ago. It is a path that will lead the champions into a part of their friend’s past that could tear them all apart.
Will the bonds of friendship be stronger than the call of blood?
“I’m sorry, but I told you that my powers make the Compass Key argumentative when it comes to the Spirit Well,” Dariana sheepishly explains while rubbing her clear ring. She smiles when Fizzle lands on her head, the drite’s cool tail running down her spine. “This is very scary for me. None of the champions have made it to this temple, much less the final battle with my father. It’s hard to take in after this destiny being my entire life for so long. I used to always dream of how I would handle my temple, but things are different now that it’s no longer a distant dream. What if I make a mistake and get someone killed?”
“We trust you, my friend, and know that you will not fail,” Timoran whispers as he slides the Compass Key across the table. He is confused when the relic sparks at her touch and gets pushed back into his hand. “That is fairly disheartening. If you cannot use the Compass Key then there is no way to find this Spirit Well. Perhaps it does not like your physical touch and will respond to your telepathy. I wonder why the gods would create this obstacle.”
“It’s possible that we did this,” Delvin suggests while using one of his enchanted rings to create a delicious cup of coffee. He gestures for the barbarian to throw the relic over to him, but the red-haired barbarian refuses. “You’re right, Timoran. Probably not a good idea to toss something like that around. Anyway, we had the Compass Key warded against agents of the Baron. They aren’t able to see it, which means they can’t find or use it. The decision made sense at the time, but things are different now. Maybe our spell has a small effect on Dariana. Not saying you’re working with the Baron, but there could be enough of an aural touch to cause this problem. Do you think we should cancel the spells, Nyx?”
The channeler heats up a cup of tea, which she sips at while considering the possibility of her magic being the issue. “They should stay because I don’t think they’re the problem. Dariana said this has happened before, which means the gods made a mistake. Sorry for how that came out. Gabriel, who better not get angry at this conversation, created the Compass Key first and then turned Dariana into a champion. He couldn’t fix the problem thanks to the Law of Influence, so it’s remained all this time. Though he had to have created something to help us move on.”
“Maybe we have to find Isaiah and he’ll lead the way,” Sari says from the couch. Flipping to her feet, she joins her friends and immediately takes a strawberry off Luke’s plate. “He hasn’t been much help since the first temple, so one has to wonder what his purpose is. I doubt we need his protection any more, which means he has to have another role to play. What do you think, Dari?”
The telepath rubs her temples while scanning the city for a sign of the fireskin, part of her praying he is not nearby. Dariana finds evidence that Isaiah has been spying on them until recently, but the caster is long gone. She considers tracking the faint trail and goes as far as the outer wall, which is where the psychic tracks make an odd leap into the sky. The strain of following Isaiah any further makes Dariana pull back and return to find that everyone is staring at her again. Realizing that she can no longer delay the inevitable, she gets out of her chair and kneels to her friends. Fizzle is still clinging to her head, which makes the apologetic bow both amusing and awkward.
“I know I say this a lot, but I really am sorry, my friends,” Dariana states while keeping her forehead pressed to the stone floor. She looks up at the sound of rustling feet and is surprised to see that everyone is approaching her. “Long ago, I managed to avoid being put back to sleep long enough to track down the Spirit Well. My curiosity got the best of me and I wanted to know where my path would meet its end. I was still forced to wipe my memory of the location, but I do know that I left a map behind. There are a few clues that I buried in my subconscious where even I could not dislodge them after erasing the original discovery. More may come to me as we get closer, but all I know now is that we should go to Rodillen. I was hoping the Compass Key would work and we could avoid this extra journey.”
“Like our luck would be that good,” Nyx mutters while she helps Dariana stand.
Need to catch Legends of Windemere from the beginning? Then click on the covers below!
Charles Yallowitz was born and raised on Long Island, NY, but he has spent most of his life wandering his own imagination in a blissful haze. Occasionally, he would return from this world for the necessities such as food, showers, and Saturday morning cartoons. One day he returned from his imagination and decided he would share his stories with the world. After his wife decided that she was tired of hearing the same stories repeatedly, she convinced him that it would make more sense to follow his dream of being a fantasy author. So, locked within the house under orders to shut up and get to work, Charles brings you Legends of Windemere. He looks forward to sharing all of his stories with you, and his wife is happy he finally has someone else to play with.
Hmm. This prompt would have been better on a Wednesday, then I could have gone for a wander. However, it’s Saturday and once again it’s been a busy day, so I’ve decided to set myself a timer (ten minutes this time), put some music on and see what I come up with.
Okay, here goes:
‘Tell me, if you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be?’
‘Well, right here of course.’ I smiled, turning to look up at him. He nodded, looking into the distance. ‘What about you?’ I prompted him, my hand sliding on the warm skin of his arm wrapped around me.
‘Me? Oh, well, I’ve always fancied Italy, I guess. So, Italy.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh what?’
His brow furrowed as he looked down at me. ‘Nothing,’ I said, shaking my head. I pushed away from him a little, sitting up, leaving the embrace of his arm. I started tidying away the picnic things, putting lids on jars, stacking the plates and cups, deliberately avoiding his gaze. F*cking Italy. Seriously?
‘What is it, babe?’ His hand landed on my hip and I moved, pointedly, away. ‘Oh, so I’m supposed to want the same things as you, all the time? What, you think this place, here, is the best place on earth to be?’
‘It was.’ I shrugged, still not looking at him, putting the rest of the things in the basket and letting the lid drop closed with a satisfying clunk. I sat back, kneeling on my heels, looking up at the pale sky. ‘Then again, if I think about it, maybe I’d rather be somewhere else too. Bali. Or Morocco. Somewhere warm, with beaches and dancing and… well. It doesn’t matter, I guess.’ I stood up, hefting the basket with one hand. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Babe, c’mon.’ He looked up at me, arms spread wide. ‘You know I want to be wherever you are.’
‘And Italy. Don’t forget Italy.’ My mouth was tight and I turned on my heel, walking to the car. Forget it. Why I even bothered with him, I wasn’t sure. I could feel the remnants of the picnic sliding around in the basket, all the carefully made sandwiches, the little baked quiches, cracked and squashed. Whatever. It didn’t matter. At that moment all I wanted was to be somewhere else.
Anywhere else on earth but here.
Well, there you go. You might think, reading that, that I’ve had a bit of a frustrating day. But it’s actually been quite nice. I don’t know where this picnicking couple came from, but I think we’ve all been there at one time or another. Maybe they’ll work things out, maybe they won’t…
Today’s 30 Day Blog Challenge prompt is: Nothing. Being somewhat contrary, I thought maybe I’d get away with not posting anything. But then the lovely Sue Vincent was nominated for a blogging award, and also had me over to visit on her blog. So here is my second reblog of the day, courtesy of Sue – thanks for having me!
We’ve all been to places where the land speaks to us. Places of great harmony, where the air and the view and the lie of the land combine in some sort of perfect alchemy to fill us with joy. Or places of darkness where the land holds melancholy, seeming to echo still with cries of pain, ancient battles or tragedies leaving their mark. And still other places, where nothing of note is recorded as having happened, yet they strike a chill into our bones and we cannot get away fast enough.
Our ancestors seemed to understand this energy far more than we do now. You only have to visit an ancient site to feel it, the way the stones are situated, echoing and in line with the…
A little while ago, I mentioned… quite discretely and with absolutely no bouncing around on tables or wild whooping… that this blog, the Daily Echo, had been nominated for the UK Blog Awards.
The surprise was genuine… so was the honour. I did not know the person who had nominated me and I was utterly gobsmacked when I realised the email was not a joke.
The awards consider business, professional and personal blogs side by side. The prize is an opportunity to write professionally… and that I would like.
Having said that, the comments on the post I put out then were amazing…and I honestly felt as if I had already won the biggest prize possible. Which is why, when they asked me to write an overview of the blog, I included some of them. It is the people who come here and read, share, and take time to comment…
Shoes. That’s right, today’s prompt is shoes. I love shoes. I used to sell them years ago, working for a handsome Frenchman selling high priced Italian shoes at a Vancouver store. There were several young women working there, all of us expected to project a high fashion image on a shoestring budget, the shoes we wore to work often worth a week’s wages.
The shoe shop was something of a mad place to work. Because of the fabulous nature of the shoes, it became a bit of a scene, models and local rock stars dropping in, movie and television actors making the occasional appearance. On one occasion, a man with a baby boa constrictor came into the store to hang out, the snake wrapped around his forearm. We all got to stroke her, her flickering tongue tasting the air as we ran fingers along her smooth warm scales. Another time a woman left us some chocolates and we eagerly dug in, gobbling coffee beans coated in white, milk and dark chocolate, crunchy and delicious. When the caffeine kicked in it was with such ferocity we wondered whether they’d been spiked, running around the store in a panic shrieking until it wore off. And yet another time, bored, we were dancing, until the phone rang. It was the boys in the Timberland shop across the road, calling to compliment us on our moves.
If it wasn’t for shoes I wouldn’t have met my husband. I and one of my fellow shoe co-workers, an Australian girl, became great friends, bonding over Luxy’s pasta, cheap wine and Ab Fab on a Monday night after work, dancing in clubs and shopping together. Then she decided to head up to Whistler for a season, working at the resort. We stayed in touch and, one weekend, she invited me up for a visit. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you should meet my new roommate. He’d be perfect for you.’ Turns out he was.
Shoes are also a big part of my latest release, A Thousand Rooms. The red shoes on the cover play a symbolic role throughout the book, with one reviewer commenting ‘they connect the story right the way through and come to feel like a character themselves.‘ As for the image, I bought the shoes on Ebay and took the photo myself – sadly, they’re a size four, so far too small for me. Still, they’re pretty to look at.
I’ll finish this post on shoes with a little piece of flash fiction I wrote a few months ago in response to one of Esther Newton’s writing challenges . If you haven’t been to Esther’s site, head over – she runs lots of fun challenges and competitions, as well as sharing writing markets and opportunities. (She also edited A Thousand Rooms for me – thanks, Esther!) The challenge in this instance was to write a 150 word story featuring the phrase ‘It was a matter of life and death.’ Of course I thought of shoes. Of course.
Well Heeled
It was a matter of life or death.
Well, socially, at least. The shoes glittered as they turned on the little pedestal, faceted stones catching the light, smooth leather straps gleaming.
They were gorgeous. And far too expensive. But she could think of so many places to wear them, now that she was moving with a new crowd. And she really needed to keep up.
She bit her lip. So she’d have to eat baked beans for a month. She’d probably lose weight anyway, always a bonus. Binky had grabbed her round the hips the other day, squeezing and shrieking with laughter. ‘Oh darling, are you sure you want another profiterole?’ She had joined in with the laughter, blushing as chocolate oozed soft on her fingers, wishing she could throw it into their smirking faces.
It’s day fourteen of the 30 Day Writing Challenge, and today’s prompt is: Home.
Helen Glynn Jones 