impromptu

Prompt: A character will take a bath, and the action has far better results than expected. During the story, a character misreads something. The story must have a water-spirit in it. The story must involve a pendant at the end. The story takes place a century in the past.


Holly had fallen in love with Eustace, a young man who had turned out to be no gentleman. After wooing her for six months straight, she had thought they were headed for marriage and a sweet life on his farm. After they became engaged, she gave herself to him with joy, only to discover that he was already married, with five children who all lived on his farm with his wife.

The gaping wound in her heart would not heal. She cried herself to sleep every night, and by day she attended to chores on her parent's small farm with red eyes and disheveled hair.

One day, a peddler came by the house selling odds and ends--bits of ribbon, little wooden toys, sa few old leather-bound books.

"No thank you," Holly said, already turning away.

"Wait," said the peddler. "I can see you've been hurt badly. Take this--there's something on page 25 that might help you."

Holly took the book the peddler held out, just to make him go away. It was weeks before she happened upon the book under her bed where she'd tossed it, and then she remembered, and turned to page 25.

The book was a little grimoire of magic spells, and on page 25 was one to get rid of the demons of unrequited love in one's heart. Her eyes widened, and she felt a spark of interest in something for the first time in months.

That night she prepared what she'd need. She brought in pails of heated water to make a bath, and into the steaming water she cast a number of herbs, along with a sprinkle of blood from a cat and a capful of her own tears. She stood in the water and rubbed an egg all over her skin, then tossed the egg into a pail. She sighed and sank into the blissful warmth of the bath, closing her eyes.

"What do you command, mistress?"

Holly's eyes snapped open, and to her amazement a small fairy-like creature hovered above the water--she looked like a miniature woman with wings.

"Oh--who are you?" Holly asked.

"I'm a water sprite. You called me with your spell."

"I thought it was a spell to get rid of the demons of unrequited love," Holly said.

"That spell requires blood from a bat. Blood from a cat calls a water sprite who will grant you one wish. We water sprites requested the writer of the grimoire not to put that spell in, so we wouldn't be bound to selfish human whims, but you by chance have happened upon it. And I beg you to keep it to yourself."

Holly's mind raced. She could wish to be Eustace's wife. Or she could wish for an even better husband, living in a grand house next to Eustace's farm. She could wish that Eustace and his wife both die in great suffering. Or she could forget about Eustace and simply wish for a great deal of money, enough to keep her in luxury for the rest of her life.

Then she looked at the water sprite, who hovered, waiting expectantly, apprehension writ all across her little face as if she anticipated being slapped.

Holly opened her mouth to say something about Eustace. Then she said, "It's obvious you don't like doing this. So I wish that you no longer be bound to this spell, and you and your sisters are free."

The sprite was utterly stunned. Then, slowly, her face became suffused with joy. "Thank you," she said. "And here is a token of my gratitude." a necklace whose pendant glittered with all colors of the rainbow appeared in her hand, and she dropped it over Holly's head. She disappeared.

Holly's heart still hurt over Eustace. But in time it healed, and the compassion she radiated attracted all sorts of luck into her life. She married a young man who treated her well, and they and their children lived happily all their days.

impromptu

Prompt: A character becomes curious during the story. During the story, a character makes a meal for themselves. The story must have a demon in it. The story must involve a whip in it. The story takes place in the summer.


On a sweltering day in July, Arnie sat on his lounge chair on the veranda, thinking about what he'd eat for lunch. Mentally he went through his cupboards--he had a few packets of cup-o-soup left, and in the fridge he had one microwave TV dinner that he'd been saving. He'd been needing to go to the store to stock up again, but it was so hot--he wanted to move through the muggy air as little as possible.

Sighing, he went indoors, where it was if anything hotter than outside. Cup-o-soup was too hot. He'd eat the microwave dinner.

When he opened the freezer door, the dinner was gone. He cursed. Someone had stolen his TV dinner!

Whirling around, murder in his eyes, he stopped short. A gorgeous otherwordly-type humanoid creature was standing there in a hot pink bikini, which did little to disguise her ample curves or what looked like a long, reptilian tail.

"Hi," she smirked. "I'm Mona. Looking for something?"

"Uh--uh--uh--" he stuttered, flabbergasted.

"Listen, I know you're hungry. This kitchen is definitely missing the female touch. Want me to help you prepare something real to eat, not just this processed dead crap?"

Was she offering to cook for him? His mouth watered. He hadn't had a home-cooked meal since his Ma had died five years ago.

"Yeah, okay!" he said enthusiastically.

He ran outside and got his lounge chair, so he could watch her work, store up lots of images of this sexy woman-thing for a wank in the shower later.

Mona wrinkled her nose at the sight of the chair. "Not very comfortable," she said, and she snapped her fingers. The chair turned into a plush armchair upholstered with smooth pink velvet. Arnie looked at it dubiously, wondering if he would become more effeminate if he sat in a plush pink chair. But before he could ask if she could turn it a manlier color, she was sliding sinuously onto the chair, curling her tail around her so its tip waved in the air before him, as if wagging a finger.

"All right, get to work," she said. She snapped her fingers and the dingy kitchen transformed into a humid jungle scene. A spear appeared in Arnie's hand, and he wore a loincloth, his hairy white belly protruding above.

His mouth was an O of distress, and it got even more so when a wild boar crashed through the greenery, its red eyes fixed on him, tusks lowered to gore.

"Kill it, or else," Mona said from her pink chair, which looked strangely appropriate amidst the lush jungle scenery.

Arnie just stood there. Mona gave an exasperated sigh and she stood, wielding her tail like a whip, striking him across his bare buttocks.

He shrieked and threw the spear. Coincidentally, it got the boar right in its eye and sunk into its brain, killing it instantly.

"Now chop it up. That's for your dinner," Mona said.

She had to wield her tail-whip a dozen more times in order to get Arnie to cooperate. He was sobbing by the end, but he'd cut off a few pieces of meat and was roasting them on a stick over a fire Mona had made.

He was so proud of the final product. Three mini-steaks were skewered on his stick, smoking hot and smelling delicious. He smiled lazily at Mona, puffing up his chest. Maybe he wouldn't just wank to images of her--maybe he actually had a shot at the real thing, he thought.

He ate every bit of the meat. He could do this meal preparation thing, the manly, real way, like hunters of old. Maybe he'd move out of his house and live in the wild. Mona could join him in her pink plush chair. They could have loads of hot sex on it.

"I'm just going to freshen up," she said then, and she disappeared behind a tree.

A sudden convulsion rippled through Arnie's body, and he collapsed to the ground. His vision began to dim as he lost consciousness, but not before he saw Mona return, a whole tribe of demons behind her. "Consecrated with poisoned self-hunted boar meat and ready for your dining pleasure," she said, and the demons drooled. They raised their spears.

Moral: Don't accept cooking lessons from demons.

The colleague who won

Every so often I make an assessment of my life and I try to think of the last time I did something really embarrassing or stupid. I like to think that eventually, it'll be so far in the past that I'll feel sort of like a mature person. Unfortunately, that day has not yet come.

I've done several stupid things very recently--in fact I can think of a couple from today--but the incident that I've been mulling over is one from several years ago. I was living in the US with my husband and one son, who was almost 2. My husband was rather out of his element in suburban California, as he's a born and bred Brazilian country guy--not quite the hick equivalent, but that was definitely his milieu. I was afraid he was bored and lonely, so I tried to find a job that we could both do together. That led me to apply for a pet walking and sitting job.

The business was small, at the time consisting of the owner and one helper. For some reason, the other helper position wouldn't stay filled--each new person lasted less than a month. I didn't see a problem with me staying as I got introduced to the position and the work.

Then there was an incident in which I got a job to stay Christmas week with a client's dog. I tried not to let the horror show on my face when I went to meet her and the dog--her place was not only the tiniest apartment I'd ever seen, but it was filthy, and her dog matched. I suppose she might have gotten a vibe of my discomfiture despite my friendliness, as she called the owner and said she wasn't comfortable with me staying with her dog, as she thought I was too nervous around it. "You have to appear more confident and outgoing," the owner told me.

I was furious, as I'd suspected the woman simply changed her mind and criticized me to my boss just to get out of the contract. I know, petty of me, but it had been a long time since I'd received such negative feedback, and I'd been wanting to prove myself this first job, and why was I so unable to impress people doing a frickin' dog-sitting job, something almost anyone with a car is qualified to do?

So I was already on edge over my holidays. Then the other helper, Missy (not her real name), who only communicated with me through texts or emails, started asking me to take on jobs of hers that she couldn't get to or were inconvenient on her route. I agreed to most of them, but after that other incident, I refused a couple jobs that would require me to drive 40 minutes round trip for 15 minutes' work.

Missy got really mad. She texted me about how inconsiderate I was to not take those jobs and how it really made a lot of trouble for her fulfilling those commitments. She wanted to tell me how sad she felt about what I'd done, she said.

I don't know what got a hold of me then because I forgot the paramount rule of good communication, which is basically THE stupid thing at the crux of this memory: do not reveal your feelings over email. You may feel it's confrontation, but because of the email medium it's actually avoidance, and the person to whom you are trying to say something to will usually simply project their own issues onto your message. AND...it leaves a paper trail.

I emailed to her an apology, and I said that the reason why I'd refused was because I, too, was sad. I told her briefly about the Christmas dog stay incident and how invalidated it had made me and how my being briefly depressed made me not gung-ho about taking on extra jobs that would basically waste a lot of my time for almost no payoff.

She was PISSED. And then, she got her revenge. She CC'd our email conversation to our boss and waxed at length about how much she loved her job and how it required enthusiasm and commitment for doing every little job. And because I hadn't shown that, perhaps the job wasn't for me.

I looked at the mess into which my job had suddenly exploded. I thought about the effort I'd need to make to get back into my boss' good graces, and the impossibility of ever getting along with Missy again. The easier path was to quit, and so I bowed out as gracefully as I could.

The thing about Missy, what makes me think about her even now, is that I think she was a complete shit to me, and that's why I have feelings of begrudging her for a number of positive traits she possesses. There's a part of me that clamors for justice in the form of karma in her own life. And then I back up a little and I realize that what I actually clamor for is some kind of resolution to the uneasiness of this memory.

My lessons from this:

The superficial: Don't confront people or try to explain emotions over email.

The deep: What things about this series of incidents do I judge and hate? And how do those reflect parts of myself that I judge and hate? Because that's what embarrassing and stupid moments are all about--places in ourselves we've carved off and designated as dirty and not worthy of love. Why do I judge myself for being unable to pretend? Because that's what I see happening--I pretended to want to be hired for the job, and I managed to deceive the boss; then I couldn't deceive a client, and then I couldn't deceive my colleague. It's the story of my law school career as well. I couldn't pretend a passion I didn't feel and thus my efforts squeezed out mediocrity at best. And I judged myself as a failure for being unable to pretend I was a good student.

We live in a society where we reward those who can pretend. But I think it leads to more carving-off of our authentic selves into pieces that are okay for this audience and not okay for that audience.

An audience is necessary for writers, but not to perform to, but to witness.

Authenticity

The first thing I ever told my parents I wanted to be when I grew up was an artist. They told me that I'd never make any money, so I should choose something else. Next I said I'd be a writer. That, although slightly more acceptable than being an artist, was also not an appropriate choice. I finally settled, for many years, upon the idea of being a dentist, as I liked the stickers I got every visit to my own dentist and it didn't have all the negative associations I had with visits to the doctor.

Those passions first expressed by children should never be invalidated.

I got headaches whenever I tried to take art classes, years later. The writing has been a little more successful, and this I attribute to the amount of attention I put to left-brain pursuits, which in my academically-oriented life were all reinforced. Still, it's been many many years that I've had problems getting myself to the computer to write, and then once I get there, to open the screen to a project and actually engage in it requires a wholeheartedness that I rarely feel.

It helps if I distract myself with some external pressure--thus my joining flash fiction groups, and next week my starting an online class, help with productivity. When I don't manage to fool myself that these actually require me to act, though, I have days like today--my computer open, the Internet connected, and endless procrastination ensuing. It's days like this that I go into most judgment of my husband's tendency to lie in front of the television all day long on weekends--it's because I'm actually doing something equivalent, and my anger at him is really an anger at my own inability to ground myself, get in my body, breathe out the resistance, and engage in the truly joyful act of creating.

I've been thinking about performance anxiety as a part of it. When I think about failing, being judged, or worse yet, being beneath anyone's notice, I get caught in a vicious circle of trying to think of what would elicit the responses I want from others. It's the same trap that had me reject my passion to become creative as my vocation, when I was a child. Performing for others, pleasing the audience. Self-judgment will always rear its chimeric head.

But then it occurs to me that whatever I put out there for others to read reflects courage. I betray my own courage when what I write doesn't reflect something authentic in what I want to express. These years in particular, since I became a mother, my identity has been in crisis--I don't know who I am...but writing authentically isn't about knowing who you are; it's about expression in order to discover it. There is no other purpose--publication, audience, all the bells and whistles that come with being a writer--AND all the negatives--the loneliness and the rejection, and the low pay--are all moot.

I'm generally afraid to share my thoughts in my blog, but it's good to remember that if it's authentic, I won't self-judge. Even fiction is simply sublimated self-expression. Authenticity can take me through the writer's block onto the page, with a clear mind.

Rule of Three blogfest

Hooray! I've been wanting to do another writing blogfest. I'm going to participate in the Rule of Three Blogfest in October, in which I'll write several bits of a story taking place in a shared world.

Dieting

My inspiration for Diet for the Soul was a meditation on my own belly flab, which has grown alarmingly in the past months. Back in early 2011 I had actually lost weight on my low-carb anti-candida diet, but when I got back to Brazil in February, I fell victim to "carb creep"--a cheat here and there became daily sweet and gluten-full indulgences, and I pigged out regularly on torrada and pao de queijo--two Brazilian snacks made of manioc root flour, which is a carb-full staple in Brazil.

Anyhow, after my parents visited a couple weeks ago and thought I was pregnant when they first saw me, I decided it was time to stop complaining about feeling fat and do something about it. So today is day #6 on my new low-carb diet. This time, along with axing sugar and grains from my available foods, I'm also saying no to starches, which will get rid of the temptation to eat torrada and pao de queijo, along with potatoes, yams, beets, carrots, and sweet potatoes. *sigh*

It's going well. I've had constant hunger pangs that can't be satisfied no matter how much I eat, and Day #3 I was shaky, irritable, and fatigued. But the hunger and cravings are starting to subside. I'm still a bit tired but one thing I notice is that this brain fog I've been sitting in (even before the diet) is starting to clear. So today is the first day I've actually been able to make my daily word count since August 29. Hooray! I still feel fat, but at least I don't feel fatter than last week. Stabilization is progress! Now I just need my trusty liver to finish up its glucose reserves so it can go into ketosis and start consuming my belly flab and all this excess padding I've accumulated on my now-elephant-sized butt and thighs.

I will not be an orally-fixated writer! I refuse! Or a brain-fogged one!

I realized that it helps a LOT if I don't save the work for after my kids go to sleep at the end of the day. By then I'm just fried, and all I end up doing is procrastinating. It also helps if I make my bursts of writing longer than 200-300 words--I need to do at least 500, preferably more, to write anything that I might possibly keep later. Because the too-short word bursts don't get me enough into the story unless I've planned the plot down pretty well, which I do rarely.

I had my story, "Counting Sheep," accepted by another fledgling e-zine, Writers Haven. It'll go in their issue #2, themed "Slumber."

One of my flash fiction groups is planning to do a separate group just for October in which we'll write one flash fiction piece a day. I feel slightly apprehensive. But most of the problem is getting over my tendency to self-judge; it's easy, and not time-consuming, to write a BAD flash fiction piece every day.

Review of Apex #28

Review posted on Tangent Online for Apex #28, September 2011, Grá Linnaea's "Namasté Prime" and Betsy Phillips' "Frank."

impromptu

Prompt: The story is set during a drought. The story takes place in the fall. During the story, there is a need to ask directions. The story must involve a mask in it. A character becomes manic during the story.

In other parts of the world, leaves were floating to the ground to carpet it in soft red and gold. Squirrels were storing nuts and bears were getting fat in preparation for winter. Where Little Goat lived, though, the cycle of nature was paralyzed, and it was all because of the drought.

Water had disappeared from the island a year ago. Some said that a sorceror had drained it all as a great sacrifice of the land's blood to the Demon God. Anyone who could, left the island; the rest subsisted off of the remains of last year's harvest, eking out just enough water to survive from rudimentary filters that transformed seawater into something that could sustain life, drop by precious drop.

Little Goat was one of the few who stayed on the island. This was not by choice; he was a goat, and his family stayed, so he had to as well. He watched as all the other village animals were taken aboard boats and left him.

Little Goat got sick. In his dream he saw the Demon God drinking the blood of the island, waiting for it to become so parched that he could make it into a stronghold for rich elites to plan dastardly things for the rest of the world. "How can I stop him?" he asked.

"Convince him you aren't affected by the drought. Make him angry. Make him give the water back," Big Goat told him in the dream. Big Goat was his father, who had died when Little Goat was just a kid.

Little Goat made a mask out of soft clay from the nearly-dry riverbed. He put on the mask and looked like a demon. Then he danced around with such joy, he almost looked manic.

"Are you dancing for rain?" asked a snake, who was the Demon God in disguise.

"No," said Little Goat. "I'm dancing for joy. I'm so happy I've been liberated from water."

"What?" the snake said. "But you need it to survive."

"Actually, no. I just drink my own urine over and over. It has healing properties. And now I don't have to worry about gray skies and rainy weather. It's always sunny and warm now. And the island is almost empty of people and animals--so I can enjoy it all to myself."

"You're crazy," said the snake. "Soon you'll leave or die, just like everyone else."

"Nope," said Little Goat.

The snake didn't believe Little Goat, but he had to make sure. So he began to watch Little Goat night and day, ready to prove the lie the moment he saw the goat drinking water.

Little Goat held out as long as possible. When he was so parched he could barely swallow, he lay down to take a nap. When he saw the snake napping, he pounced on him, goring and beheading him.

***
Ending 1: The land stayed dry, and Little Goat's family had to leave. The Demon God became stronger because of Little Goat's violent act and ended up winning. Little Goat lived, but he remained bitter.

Ending 2: It started to rain immediately after the snake died, as the Demon God regurgitated the sacrifice. Little Goat threw off his mask and his face was as joyful as the mask's had been. He cavorted in the rain as the land came alive around him.

Ending 3: Billy woke up from that awful dream, relieved to discover that there was no Demon God, there was no drought, and he wasn't a goat.

Ending 4: Little Goat screamed as he discovered that the snake was his own Id. A maelstrom of nothingness consumed him. He had failed the test.

Ending 5: "You're a goat after my own heart," the Demon God said, appearing by Little Goat's side. "Not only are you wearing a mask that I adore, but you have the kind of violent spirit I could use in a wingman. Join me, and drink the souls of sleeping sheeple for all eternity."

5a: Little Goat bleated in assent, and he trotted off with the Demon God into a sunset that stained the sky with blood.

5b: "I'll never join you!" Little Goat bleated, and he ran off. This confrontation was the moment that Little Goat's spirit matured and transformed into that of a true leader. Thus began an epic battle between good and evil that ultimately ended in Little Goat's triumph over the Demon God.

Lost Heart

My flash fiction story, "Lost Heart," is up at Magic Cat Press! Isn't this picture from their site cool?

I wrote "Lost Heart" off a prompt for my FlashXer writing group.

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The subject title was written by Theo, my sweet, ferocious 21-month-old who refuses to go to sleep even though it's midnight!

OK, now he's asleep. :)

So I guess it's been two weeks since my last blog entry. I haven't been very productive on the writing front. I finally worked out some plot points that had me stuck in the novel, and I've listed a number of things I need to research--mainly stuff about how to hunt and be resourceful living in the woods. There are currently so many holes in this section of my story due to my ignorance that I don't know whether to laugh or cringe when I read it.

Flash fiction, also a bust.

I've been rereading Robin Hobb's "Tawny Man" trilogy. I've read it already three times...these are three of my favorite books. I like them better than the trilogy that comes before, the "Farseer Trilogy," which is deemed a SF/F classic by many and tends to be more well-reviewed. The third book of the "Tawny Man" trilogy, Fool's Fate, is definitely in my top five favorite books ever--it is just so rich and amazing and wonderful and satisfying in every way.

That's the good thing about my difficulties in weaning Theo. It is a bit embarrassing in public when I nurse this giant toddler--Brazil, like many other countries, generally supports mothers breastfeeding until 6 months or a year. But at home, it's my reading time. I read books while I nurse otherwise I get really, really bored. Other than that, and using my portable sauna, I don't read for pleasure. (I read stuff online and to review, and that's partially for pleasure, but for 100% pleasure I read without analyzing at all. I read to ESCAPE.)

Other things I've accomplished in the last two weeks?

- I've washed my hair with only water for the 5th day in a row. What does this have to do with my writing? Well, it gives me a sense of accomplishment as I reduce my dependence on processed substances and my carbon footprint. I feel like a success and that is a good feeling for someone in a would-be profession as lonely as writing and where the positive reinforcement is usually outweighed by daily crushing rejections. And my hair is really soft so when I type at my computer, the way it brushes my cheeks and caresses the back of my neck provides a pleasant sensual backdrop.

- I went on a date with my husband. What does this have to do with my writing? Even less than the hair except, as I said in a prior post, balancing one's life is important as a writer because what good it is being a successful writer if one doesn't have support and other interests? And since I am completely isolated on my farm here, if I am not getting along with my husband, it completely ruins my social network. Before tonight we hadn't been on a date in years, but on my parents' last night visiting, we finally took advantage.

- I realized that low-fat, high-carb diets can be slimming, low-carb, high-fat diets are definitely slimming, but high-carb, high-fat diets are NEVER SLIMMING. I feel like I put on two sizes in a month and have this strange layer of back fat that seems to have appeared overnight. The carbs, I am hoping, have mostly to do with my parents visiting so when things are back to normal I hope to no longer give in to temptation. Because gaining weight is something very easy to do when one writes a lot and thus is on one's ass every day.