While this story focuses mainly upon me, it was my mother’s favorite story about me. I do remember doing this, and I remember my mother listening very intensely to me. What I didn’t know I found out years and years later. It took every ounce of mother power in her soul to not laugh at her child.

I know this is a mother power. Kids say the funniest things. I may not have my own children, but I babysat forever. I was around two of the funniest kids ever born, Steve and Kelsey, and have had many a conversation with children who tell me all sorts of things that make me die laughing. On the inside.

When this happened, I honestly thought I had educated my mother on the subject, and that she used that knowledge in whatever way she chose. I went about my day, which probably involved one of my favorite cartoons, and she proceeded to have a hysterical meltdown in her bedroom. Older me wasn’t even embarrassed at this story, because it is so classic me, and to know that I gave my mother that much laughter makes it all worth it.

And so I present to you:

Nine Year Old Wendy’s Version of Sex

When I was nine years old, I was in the fourth grade at Zilwaukee Elementary School. My class was a split 4th/5th grade class. My fourth grade class on the right side of the room. The fifth graders on the left.

Our teacher was a delightful old woman named Mrs. H., who, honestly looking back now, was in the early stages of dementia. She was a kind woman, but I don’t think any of us learned one thing that year. Mostly our day was practicing penmanship and long division. I don’t remember anything else. We practiced penmanship by writing either the capitals and states in our notebook, or the list of presidents – in order.

Though I do remember this was the class where I created my first book. We all had to write and illustrate our own short story, and I believe I still have it somewhere. It was a thrilling tale of “Sandy the Ok”, the protagonist being a young female adopted by a kind family. She happened to have ears and a tail – hence the fact that she was a different species. She had many adventures in the short book all solved by her magic powers.

But I digress.

There was a lot of boredom in our class, and I was an easily bored child. I did love to read, and I happened to sit next to the shelf of encyclopedias. So once I listed all the presidents – in order – I would take the next encyclopedia off the shelf and pick up where I left off. So yes, I read the entire Encyclopedia Britannica – Children’s Edition – in fourth grade.

Somewhere along the line I came across the entry for “SEX”. Of course, I had heard the term in my life. My parents were pretty lax with both their language and the stuff they let us watch on television. It wasn’t a term I knew much about, other than it led to babies (the simplified explanation). Being a curious child, I read this entry over many times, because it fascinated me. Fascinated me enough that I copied it out into my notebook.

I pondered this definition for a few days, helped along by the soap opera scene I happened to catch one afternoon on General Hospital. After days of memorizing the definition, and visual confirmation on television, I felt I had a pretty good handle on this SEX thing. Enough, at least, to illustrate it myself with crayons. Also enough to share my illustrations with my classmates along with reciting the definition of what SEX was to them and that it led to babies.

Mrs. H. was not happy that I was jumping way ahead of the Saginaw Public Schools sex education plan by quite a few years. We hadn’t even had that ‘your body is changing’ talk yet! I was punished with Mrs. H.’s usual punishment – lines. One hundred lines in my notebook “I will not talk about sex in school.” was my fine, which I probably never paid. I probably owed Mrs. H. thousands of lines by the end of the year (mostly because I also used to eat paper and that annoyed her). Fortunately, for us, the early stage dementia meant she assigned lines as punishment and then just as quickly forgot. She also never informed my parents.

Now that I was the leading elementary school expert on SEX, I decided that I should share this information with my mother. I came home that day so excited. I loved to show off to my parents my vast wealth of knowledge on various subjects. I get hyper focused when I am interested in something (still do today) and learn everything I can about it. Then I enjoy telling other people about it. And my mother really needed to know this information.

I ran home from the bus stop, burst into the back door, and stumbled into the living room to interrupt my mother’s afternoon enjoyment of General Hospital. I was out of breath and stammered out that I needed to speak with her in the bedroom about something private. No one else could hear this. Why I insisted on the bedroom, I’m not really sure. Neither my father nor my brother were home, so anywhere in the house would have been fine.

Into her bedroom we went and I asked her to sit down because what I was about to tell her was of utmost importance. My mother dutifully sat herself on the edge of the bed and waited with much anticipation for my revelation. And so, I proceeded to tell her. I told my forty-two year old mother all about SEX.

As I said, I remember this. I spoke eloquently and earnestly. I recited word for word the definition from the encyclopedia. (Side note: remember this would have been probably the blandest and most general definition of SEX ever – it was a child edition of the encyclopedia after all).

However, as my mother gleefully informed me when she recalled this story to me, was that I mistakenly called the ‘vagina’ a ‘Virginia’.

That was the first thing at which she struggled not to laugh.

Her nine year old quite seriously reciting that “A man has a penis and a woman has a Virginia. When a man places his penis into the woman’s Virginia, he deposits sperm. Sperm will make it’s way from the Virginia to the woman’s egg and will fertilize it, which will result in a baby.” nearly killed her.

Mom said that my expression was so concentrated, I was so serious, and spoke so well. To know that I used the wrong word is bad enough, but now to know that I was explaining this to my mother, well. If any of you knew my parents, they were quite…affectionate…with each other. Enough so that it was brought up in three separate eulogies at my father’s funeral.

After I explained the textbook definition to Mom, I stood there, thoughtfully, thinking over what I just outlined to her. Then, as if a revelation was bestowed upon me, I looked at her with eyes wide. “You and Dad have done that twice!”

“Yes, we have,” Mom said out loud. ‘Twice today,’ Mom probably said in her thoughts.

I mulled that over for another minute or two, then gasped. “Grandma did that NINE TIMES!”

I give kudos to my Mom. She was a good sport and to sit there listening to me with a straight face probably took more power than any mother should be expected to bear.

So this might be the last snippet from the original novel I worked on over the month of November as part of NaNoWriMo (which, yay, I won!). It’s the introduction of another main character who will come to play a large part in the overall plot. She is a warrior woman – human – and a mercenary for hire. I wanted to include a strong female character, who happens to be asexual. My goal is for representation with this story, and I hope to portray her as faithful as possible.

I am pretty sure she will be fun to write, as the other three have been for me. I managed a good 28,000 words of this story and have only scratched the surface. I am happy with the rough draft so far. Unfortunately, much of what I wrote does happen later in the plot and I’m reluctant to share snippets, as it will give too much away. For now, enjoy meeting Serafin.

Snippet #4

“She looks like a good candidate,” Jianbe said, nodding to the end of the bar where a woman was casually punching a rough looking man in the face repeatedly.

“Strong,” Lark agreed.  “Doesn’t look like she takes much shite from anyone.”

“Apparently blood doesn’t bother her,” Jianbe observed, pointing to the blood oozing from the now-broken nose of the man.

“How can you watch this?” Tram asked, his tone sounding sickened.

Jianbe shrugged. “We’re looking for a muscle for hire.  There’s no time for squeamishness.”

After the woman bodily lifted the unconscious man from the floor, she tossed him out of the door to a round of applause from the drunken crowd who witnessed the one-sided fight.  Turning, she gracefully bowed to them, one arm folded over her stomach, one arm lifted behind her as she bent.  Amid the sound of clapping, she returned to the bar to calmly return to her drink, accepting first the hug of a young tavern girl, who slipped away back to her duties.

“What do you think, old man?” Lark asked.

“Let’s introduce ourselves,” Jianbe decided.

The pair approached the woman with Tram reluctantly trailing behind them.  They seated themselves on the open stools next to her, Jianbe closest, while Lark and Tram sat on the other side of him.  The woman eyed them over the rim of her tankard.  She was dressed like a man, in trousers and tunic, though Lark’s sharp hearing detected the thin clinking of chain mail underneath her clothing.  A belt held a short sword at one hip and a dagger at the other.  Lark also noted the hilts of two more daggers in her boots.

Her eyes were dark as she watched them settle in, under thick eyebrows.  She was pretty in a rough way.  Her black hair was pulled back severely into a single braid in the back and she wore no jewelry.  High cheekbones and almond shaped eyes spoke of an north eastern origin of the human woman.  Her clothing was bulky, and hid the potential of her strength. 

“What do you want, oldster?” she asked,  her voice a high alto and quite musical.  Lark wished suddenly that she would sing for them.

“To buy you a drink, my lady,” Jianbe replied.

She snorted.  “A drink?  Aren’t you a little old to be trying to get in my trousers?”

“I wouldn’t dare, my dear.  Not if I didn’t want one of those daggers in my vitals.”

“Very wise, oldster.  I wouldn’t hesitate if you tried to touch me.”

“Women are not one of my appetites, I’m afraid, my lady.  You have nothing to fear from me.”

“Good to know.  I don’t like to disembowel old men, generally.”

“May I ask what that gentleman you dispersed of did?  What sort of infraction caused his summary dismissal?”

“Fancy talk,” she grunted, laying her crossed arms atop the bar.  “He hit on Talia, the barmaid.  Got a little handsy with her when she said to back off.  Men who don’t listen need a reminder that women are not merely there for their pleasure.  So I had to pound that lesson home.”

“Looks like your lesson was effective.”

“I don’t do things by halves,” she commented after a long draw on her tankard.  When she thumped it down on the table, it was empty.

Jianbe motioned to the barmaid to refill the drink.

“I didn’t accept your offer, old man,” the woman said.

“But you will.  It’s proper etiquette, after all, when discussing business.”

She snorted, nodding to the girl who put a fresh tankard in front of her.  “Business, he says,” she said to the girl, who gave her a smile and little wink.  “What sort of business would you have with me, old man?”

“First of all, let’s get on a first name basis,” he suggested, exchanging his own tankard with a  few coins.  He ignored Lark’s protest that he didn’t provide drinks for him or Tram.  Tram had to pay for a round for the two of them.  Jianbe continued with the woman.  “Call me Jianbe.”

“You’re one of those Plansier, aren’t you?  The ears,” she said.  “You and the little runt at the end.”

“Mhm.  Yes, we are.”

“You’re a little far north for a Plansier,” she mentioned.  She leaned forward to peer around Jianbe and stare at Lark.  “And a Dynar?”  For the first time, she showed an emotion.  She looked awed and stared openly.  “I’ve never seen a Dynar before.”

“Lark and Tram,” Jianbe said, by way of introduction.

“How’d a Dynar get here?  You bring your slave around with you when you travel?”

“I’m not a slave!” Lark exclaimed, his anger flaring.

“Hush, boy,” Jianbe growled at him.  Years of conditioning shut Lark up, but he seethed in his seat, his face red.  Jianbe turned back to the woman.  “You have a name?”

“I do.  Buy me another drink and you might get it.  What’s your business?”

“I need to hire a guide.  A guard.  Someone strong and good with a sword to protect us on our quest.”

“Easy enough job?” she asked.

Jianbe shrugged.  “It might be.  It might not be.”

“Where you headed?”

“South.  The Druid lands.”

Her eyebrows raised.  “That’s a dangerous trip, old man.  I don’t think you could afford me.”

“You’d be surprised what I can afford.”

“What takes you to the lands of the Druids?  Something important.  Those beings would kill you as soon as look at you.”

“Things not pertinent to discuss in mixed company,” he replied, gesturing to the other rough looking characters in the tavern.

“Understood.”  She ignored him for a few minutes, concentrating instead on her ale.  Lark and Tram waited silently on the other side of Jianbe.  Lark still stewed over the slave comment.  “It’ll cost you, old one.”

“That’s fine.  We’ll give you anything you deem fair now.  More when we finish the job.”

“You’re paying for my food and lodging, too.  And I’m not some frail little girl that eats dainty, you know.”

“Not with that muscle,” Jianbe said.  “Deal then?”

“Deal.”

Greetings friends! I didn’t forget about this blog. I’ve had the wonderful opportunity to be on vacation for the past couple of weeks. Our friends celebrated their 20th anniversary by taking a cruise for two weeks through the Panama Canal, and we got to join them. To say it was amazing is an understatement.

I’m sad for it to be over. It was nice to be somewhat disconnected for a couple of weeks – we had little access to internet/cell phones. Two weeks off, however, was two weeks off from work for me, not two weeks off from writing. One of the things I miss most is the spot I found to write. Almost every day, I would spend one to two hours up in the little coffee bar on deck nine. Abie and Angel would have my vanilla latte ready for me and I’d tuck myself into a corner, put on my headset, turn on the music, and write until the husband and our friends were ready for breakfast.

That said, I kept up on my NaNo word count, and as of this moment am over 42,000 words. I have six days to write 8,000 more, which I’m pretty confident I can do.

I got plenty done on my original story – I think a good 28,000 plus words and that makes me happy.

However, some fanfiction did shove itself in there. I know I wanted to concentrate solely on the original novel, but an idea came into my head and wouldn’t leave. It was hindering my ability to write the original work, so I decided to just get the damn idea out. Then an idea for a scene for another work-in-progress popped up – so had to work on that. I added a little over 3,800 words to an existing work in progress…and over 10,000 words of a new one shot story. Since it’s technically writing, it can be contributed to the overall NaNo total, hence the 42,000 plus words.

I’m not disinterested in my original story, however, not at all. I merely couldn’t concentrate on it with another idea dominant in my brain. I’m not sure how it is for other writers, but it’s like that for me. If I spend three or four nights thinking over the same story, I have to write it out or it will drive me crazy. Hence the fanfiction stories that took over.

Still, I’m proud of the over 28,000 words on the original. What’s amusing is that most of it is set up scenes and one action scene. This novel is turning into something huge and I can’t wait to work on the rest of it. Here’s another snippet from the original. I love love love the character of Jianbe. Grumpy, good-hearted old men are a joy to write. Set weeks after the previous scene I shared.

This, from the beginning, has always been planned to be a romance story as well as an adventure story. The romance is between two men, so if that bothers you…*shrug*…well, it shouldn’t. Deal with it, and enjoy some gay romance. As always, constructive criticism is always welcome. And I finally came up with a name for their damn species. Enjoy!

Snippet #3

“So, you caught yourself a Dynar?” Jianbe muttered, yanking off his torn and mud-spattered cloak and tossing it at his apprentice. He was in a bad mood, as it had rained the last four leagues of his travel. This cursed kingdom was bad enough, but when one had to endure rain, one had every right to be irritated at the weather.

He could see that Altraminir was bursting with the need to speak, but he had kept the boy silent the moment he arrived. Enough time for the gushing later. At that moment, all he desired was dry air and not breathing in water at every breath. His fire. A warm drink. The cat curled up on his lap. Wait. They didn’t have a cat. Curses on that too.

As if his words released him, Altraminir nodded. “Yes, Master. I caught him in the…”

“I read your message,” Jianbe grunted, lifting one sopping foot so that his apprentice could remove the boot.

“Yes, Master,” Altraminir said meekly.

Another source of irritation. When was the boy going to grow a backbone? Honestly? The potential for greatness was there, the boy merely didn’t believe in himself.

“What did you do with him?”

“He is in those dungeons on the lowest level, Master. I didn’t know where else to place him where he wouldn’t escape.”

“You didn’t bed him? There’s more ways than bars to ensnare someone.”

Jianbe smothered the chuckle that threatened to spill out when he saw how flushed his apprentice became. “No, Master. I did not think that would work.”

“You lack faith in your abilities. I realize you’ve never engaged in that sort of exercise, but it isn’t hard to learn. You master spells fairly easy, so something like that…”

“Master,” Altraminir interrupted his musing as he yanked the other boot off Jianbe’s foot, almost upsetting the old man. “The Dynar.”

“Yes, yes. Quit interrupting me.” He accepted the towel his apprentice handed to him. “Did you take care of the horse?”

“Yes, Master. She’s safe and warm in the stables. I’ll take your things up to your room later. Would you like to see the Dynar now, or would you like to rest?”

“I’ve been sitting on the back of that old nag for three weeks, boy. I’ve rested enough.”

Altraminir nodded, then excused himself to take the filthy outer garments to the kitchens to await laundering. Jianbe followed him so that the boy could lead him down into the bowels of the manor. The old wizard thought with amusement that he didn’t remember ever coming down here. He knew Altraminir kept the place clean – the boy was obsessed with tidiness – but he had never needed to venture into the cold, damp place. He was surprised at the amount of stores in the cellars. Altraminir kept up with that aspect of their living arrangement, and had since he hit his tenth year.

He should have grabbed another cloak, Jianbe thought, as he stomped down the flight of stairs at the end of the food stores to a thick oaken door. Altraminir placed his fingers against it and muttered the words to release the magic spells surrounding it. Impressive, he thought. The boy had gotten better.

It wasn’t as dark as he thought it’d be. Altraminir apparently felt the need to move a half dozen lamps into the corridor and cell of the Dynar. When Jianbe reached the bars to peer into the cell, he noted that the Dynar was seated comfortably on a pile of hay, a blanket drawn over his lap and one of Altraminir’s cloaks drawn about his shoulders. He was also turning the pages of a book, carefully, and staring eagerly at the pages.

Interesting. The boy was obviously taking care of his prisoner. And while Jianbe hated the thought of imprisoning anything, a clever Dynar – clever enough to escape the enslavement he was under – would need to be be kept in such a way. He was pleased, though he wouldn’t show it, with Altraminir’s thoughtfulness to at least try and make their prisoner feel as if he weren’t.

The Dynar was humming to himself, a pleasant enough sound, though the tune was something Jianbe couldn’t place. That was why he must not have heard the two approaching his prison, as it seemed he didn’t even know they were there.

“So what do we do with you?” Jianbe boomed out the question, pleased with himself at the way the Dynar jumped, the book flying from his hands, with a yelp. The young male scrambled to his feet and stood staring, open-mouthed, at the old wizard.

“Let me go?” he asked hopefully.

The cheek! Oh, Jianbe was going to like this one. The Dynar were rarely this bold with Plansier. That this one was cocky enough to say such things behind bars made the old man’s day. No wonder Altraminir was so touchy about him.

“Hmm. That remains to be seen, youngling.” He liked the way the Dynar’s eyes narrowed with irritation at being referred to as such. If only Altraminir could get some of this backbone.

“Technically, I put the tiara back,” the Dynar reasoned. “So I didn’t exactly steal anything. Locking me up like this, for not thieving, seems a little extreme.”

“I see the point you’re trying to make,” Jianbe agreed. “However, you also broke into my home. So trespassing at the very least.”

“The door was open. I was merely seeking shelter.”

“From a nice, clear night? With warm stables nearby? It doesn’t sound like you had an invite.”

“Tram would have invited me, had he known I was at the door. He’s kind hearted like that,” the Dynar said with a vague gesture at the comforts of his cell.

“Tram?” Jianbe said, twisting his tone to sound disapproving, as he twisted his head to look sternly at his apprentice.

Altraminir looked frightened. “Uh. I-it’s a nickname Lark has given me, Master.”

Jianbe stared at Tram – he wouldn’t ever be able to think of him any other way now – long enough to know he made the boy tremble. Then he merely grunted. “Do you prefer this name, boy?”

Tram glanced at Lark through the bars and nodded slightly. “Yes, Master, I do. If that is alright with you.”

“It’s your name, boy. What do I care what you want to be called?” he asked. Now, ignoring his apprentice for the moment, he turned back to the Dynar. “I guess that means you go by Lark, youngling.”

Since he had seen that Lark was irritated with the descriptor, he decided to continue to use it. You could tell a great deal about someone by pushing their triggers and seeing how well they handled it. Jianbe knew this Dynar’s future was going to become very hard very quick, and he needed to know how well this Lark handled the pressure.

“That is what I call myself.”

“Then I shall call you that. I like to call people the things they prefer to be called. Makes things easier, don’t you think.”

Lark crossed his arms and pursed his lips. “I guess I can agree with that.”

“Don’t guess. Either agree or disagree. Guessing never gets you anywhere.”

“Then, yes. I agree.”

“Smart boy. Did Al-, I’m sorry, Tram, here tell you why we’re keeping you under lock and key.”

“No. I imagine it’s so I don’t escape before you can question me.”

“Wise deduction.”

“There’s something strange about this place, and from Tram’s reaction, I gather there’s something strange about my being able to find it. So I assume you want to figure that out.”

“Again, wise deduction.”

“Since this place is a mystery to me,” Lark added, drawing his lips into a slight smirk, “I decided to stay and find out myself what’s going on here.”

Yes, cheeky. He most definitely would like this boy. He could tell Tram did already. “Tram, in my study, on the topmost shelf of that bookcase where I keep prophecies, there’s a scroll wrapped in red silk. Can you fetch it for me, please?”

Tram nodded and dashed off. Jianbe waited until his footsteps had faded before returning his attention to the Dynar, who took the opportunity to speak up.

“Can I ask a question?”

“You may ask. Whether I answer is up to me.”

“Fair enough,” Lark grunted. “Do you plan to send me back to the Plansier?”

“Do you think I should?”

“Of course not,” Lark retorted. “I’m surprised Tram didn’t, but I imagine he doesn’t do much without your guidance.” There was a pause before Lark spoke again. “I thought when you arrived, you’d send me back right away.”

“I have questions I need answered before I do anything.”

“Why should I answer them?”

“I think you’ll want to. You’re a curious little youngling, so I should think you want to satisfy your own curiosity.”

Lark stared at him, head tilted as he considered Jianbe. “If you plan to send me back, can I ask one favor?”

“And that is?”

“Kill me instead.”

It took a great effort for Jianbe to not show his emotion on that request. “Why would I kill you, youngling? I don’t make a habit of such practices.”

“I know you’re a great wizard. Tram has hinted at least that much. I know you know a spell or potion that can make it quick and painless. I asked Tram,” he said, waving in the direction Tram had disappeared, “but I now know he’s too soft-hearted to do something like that. You, on the other hand, seem more inclined to reality. You’re not Tram. You know what I’d be going back to, so I would think you’d do it as a mercy to me.”

Jianbe could tell he was serious, and he had no illusions as to why this Dynar made the request. Simple death would spare him a lot of pain, should Jianbe decide to return him to the gem mines and his enslavers. He rubbed at his chin as he stared into the bright eyes of Lark, weighing what he planned to say. He must win the trust of the Dynar.

“I won’t kill you,” he stated, holding his hand out to stop the protest he could see coming. “I don’t plan on returning you to the Plansier either. Those pretentious fools think too highly of themselves, sitting there atop their gem and gold piles and lording it over the other races of this land. Them and their high opinions of themselves.”

The surprise on Lark’s face was worth everything to him, considering Jianbe was speaking of his own people, and he continued. “There’s more important things simmering on this world than the amount of wealth one damned being can gather to himself.”

The Dynar looked quite uncertain of himself now. Jianbe knew why, and also knew the distrust that had begun to crumble with Tram was fully falling away now that he had spoken. “What sort of things?” Lark asked.

“Things that should become clear in time, youngling. I believe your presence here will set in motion a chain of events that will decide the fate of the world. How’s that for a weight on your shoulders?”

As if that weight settled upon him, Lark’s shoulders drooped at Jianbe’s statement. Only for a moment, though, and Jianbe’s estimation of the Dynar went up another measure as the shoulders lifted and his spine straightened. Yes, this Lark could be a great compliment to his Tram. And, if his evaluation of the Dynar were accurate – and Jianbe prided himself on his ability to see into the heart of beings – Tram would be a good influence on him. Whether the two would develop merely a strong friendship or, as Jianbe believed, as lovers, he knew this partnership was destined to be.

This is not a continuation of where I left off. I can’t give you EVERYthing, can I? I think I’m going to enjoy this new character I added. Well, the two new characters that were introduced since we left off. Not much context, I’m sorry. I just liked the exchange.

And I really need to come up with a name for the other race of beings. They’re elf-like creatures. Think…Lord of the Rings-ish elves, only not good. Any suggestions would be good!

And yes, I realize this is rough. That’s the point of a rough draft! I’m writing and will eventually go back and redraft and edit and fix any grammar. Any ideas, thoughts, concrit is MOST welcome!

NaNo Snippet #2

He was disoriented when he woke, sitting up on the chilled floor, the blanket falling to pool into his lap. Where was he? What happened this time? Did he sneak into some barn in the middle of the night and curl up in the horses stall?

No. It all came back as he rubbed at the hair behind his ears and yawned. He was a prisoner. Of a ???. He shuddered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

Yet. There was a blanket. His belly was starting to become empty, but it had been filled comfortably the evening before. Or rather, morning before? He couldn’t remember.

And. Placing a hand next to him to balance himself, he felt the softness of hay. He turned his head to stare at the pile in wonderment tinged with a hint of disbelief. Was the hay there for a comfortable bed? Or did this stupid ??? think that’s what he ate.

“I don’t think that,” a voice spoke, startling him.

He whipped his head around to stare at the figure leaned against the bars watching him. The ??? stood, holding his empty plate loosely in one hand. It unnerved him to be observed like that and he didn’t realize he had spoken aloud.

“What?”

“I don’t think you eat hay. I may not have been around many Dynar, but I’m fairly certain you do not eat hay.”

He sniffed at the ???

“I brought it for a more comfortable bed,” the ??? continued. “I’m sorry I can’t do better. We really have no other bedding in the place, besides mine and my master’s. He would kill me if I let you use it.”

He was stunned enough to have any sort of comfort items, so he wasn’t one to complain. He was a prisoner, after all, and he knew prisoners didn’t get special treatment. Especially the prisoners of the ???.

“It’s alright,” he replied, stretching out his legs.

“I’ll bring you something to eat in a little while,” the ??? offered, looking down at his hand. The movement conveyed a hint of shyness. “Now that you’re awake.”

“That would be nice.” He considered the ??? for a few moments. “What are your plans for me?”

“I sent word to my master about what happened. I’m awaiting instruction from him.”

“Oh.”

“He was due home in a month’s time. I’m not sure if he will return sooner or at the time he planned.”

“Either way, I’m here for awhile?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well,” he sighed, rubbing his hands against his thighs. “I suppose we should at least introduce ourselves to each other.” He thought this ??? might be easier to deal with – or bribe – if they got on a first name basis. The more he learned about the ??? the easier it would be to escape. “The name’s Lark.”

“I thought the Dynar didn’t have any names?” the sorcerer asked, staring at the figure on the other side of the bars.

Lark laughed with no humor. He propped his chin on his forearms, which were crossed atop his now drawn up knees. It was cold in the cell and the position helped to conserve body heat. “Among ourselves we do. Your kind doesn’t seem think we’re worth naming. Dogs and pigs are, apparently, but not slaves.”

The sorcerer winced at the word, his features settling into a frown. Lark noted how the other man’s brows pinched together under the thick shock of dark blond hair over his forehead. “What did you say your name was?”

“Lark,” the Dynar responded, looking away.

“Lark,” Altraminar repeated. “Is that short for something?”

“No. It’s just the name I picked for myself. I had no one else to name me.”

“Why Lark?”

Lark looked back at him, eyes narrowed. He seemed sincerely curious – his features had smoothed into a more neutral expression. Lark had already perceived that this ??? was different than the others. Lark could spot a rebel when he saw one. Wasn’t he one himself? This ??? didn’t behave as others had towards him. Yes, the man had locked him up, but Lark was trying to steal a precious artifact, so he couldn’t really blame the sorcerer for that.

However, a true ??? would have either executed him on the spot for daring to escape slavery, or immediately sent him back to the mines. A fairly comfortable cell wasn’t what Lark expected. Nor did he expect meals or comfort items. Yes, the cell was cold, but there was a fresh pile of hay with a worn, but warm blanket on it. It was more than Lark deserved. At least in the eyes of a ???.

A ??? wouldn’t speak to him, either, as if he were an intelligent being. Lark was fairly certain that this was the longest conversation he’d ever carried with a ???. He’d been spoken to, verbally abused, and ordered around, but never had he been spoken to as an equal.

“Do you honestly want to know?”

The ??? shifted slightly, a mere transfer of weight from one foot to the other, but he grabbed hold of two of the iron bars and leaned closer. “I do,” he answered simply.

Lark straightened his back and his arms, though they still rested on his raised knees. His hands clasped, however, and gave him something to focus on as he spoke in a flat tone.

“I don’t know where I was born. My earliest memories are the gem mines. At least this,” and here he waved one hand vaguely around to indicate his cell before clasping them again, “is nicer than my cage.”

“What about your parents?”

Was this guy for real? Lark lifted his gaze and stared open-mouthed. “Parents? I was a slave. I didn’t have parents.”

“Everyone has parents.”

“Slaves don’t. Or I guess biologically we do. I don’t know who they are. Or were. We’re taken away to where we’re needed.”

“They don’t even let you grow up with your parents?”

“It’s easier,” Lark shrugged. “It’s easier if you don’t know them. If you’re a youngling and you’re attached, you make a fuss when you’re taken. At least I guess that’s why. If you have no memory, you don’t struggle.”

The man looked down, his brow furrowed once again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“How do you not know? You’re a ???”

“I didn’t really grow up around others,” the man snapped. “I grew up with Jianbe. He raised me. He didn’t keep…slaves,” he added, stumbling over the last word.

“Then what happened to your parents?”

“Dead,” was the short answer. When the man didn’t elaborate, Lark let his hands drop to his sides, resting against the threadbare blanket.

“I grew up in the mines. I never saw the outside. The sky. I’d heard about it, but couldn’t imagine it, you know?” The look on the man’s face seemed sick. “I was small and skinny, so perfect for gem mining. The master kept these birds in cages. They were beautiful perfect things. He used them to test the air in mines.”

“Test the air?”

“Yeah. If a bird can’t breathe, the reasoning is that a slave can’t either. Bad air kills a bird faster than a slave, so it’s quicker to send a slave down a shaft with a bird. If the bird dies, the slave is supposed to have enough time to get out. Supposed to,” Lark amended.

The unsaid of that statement brought out the frown again, though the man didn’t comment.

“They sang so pretty, you know. The birds. I hated having to carry them. They didn’t know they would probably die. It happened a lot – air goes bad in those mines pretty quick. It broke my heart every time I’d run out with a cage that had lost it’s song, scared that I wouldn’t make it.”

Lark noticed that the man’s knuckles were turning white, which surprised him. ??? didn’t usually show emotion – at least the ones he’d dealt with. They were cold and aloof, superior beings who dealt in magic and ethereal matters.

“Someone in the mines told me the birds were called larks. I know it sounds stupid, but I loved those birds. So I made it my name. Not long before I escaped,” and Lark choked over that word. It was still hard to admit his transgressions to a ???. “Not long before, I released the birds kept in the cages. I was sent to fetch one to test a shaft and I opened the door instead and set it free. Then I did the others.” He saw the flicker of a smile on the man’s face and the tension ease in his clenching hands. “I don’t even know if they made it out. We were pretty deep in the mines. I like to think they did.

“When I ran away, I was able to use the trees to escape. I’m pretty nimble, when all is said and done, so I climbed a tree and jumped from one to the next in the forest near the mines. They couldn’t find me. But when I got tired I rested in one of the treetops and was awoken by the song of larks. It was nice to imagine they were the ones I’d set free. I know they probably weren’t, but still,” he shrugged. “I took it as a sign that I’d be free, somehow. That I wouldn’t get caught and be sent back. Guess I was wrong,” he said bitterly.

Below is what probably will be the opening to the novel I’m working on for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). If you don’t know, NaNoWriMo is a global event that challenges writers to write 50,000 words in the month of November. I participated the last three years and won the challenge each year – but with FanFiction. This year I wanted to try an original piece.

At the writing retreat I attended in June, I wrote a short (less than 500 word piece) from a prompt I found on Pinterest. See my archives for the one titled “Thief”. I loved this piece and thought I could expand on it more.

For background, the piece was based on one of my Fandoms – on an episode that was a fantasy episode – so it included the characters, but the characters as players in a DnD type game. I used one of those player characters in the “Thief” prompt.

I kept going back to it though, and thought I could expand it into a longer fantasy piece. I spent the last month developing the characters (and the one only vaguely resembles the one from my fandom now) and a loose plot and am excited to see if I can pull this off. Feedback is welcome, especially for this first part. Does it draw you in, at least? Does it make you want to read more???

(Also like to note, if I don’t know what I want to name/call something, I use a ??? in my writing – and highlight it – just to inform myself later to work on it. I don’t like to interrupt the flow of my writing just to think of names. You’ll see those ??? in this snippet. The first is a race of evil creatures. The second time you see them will be a race of creatures similar to the elves in Lord of the Rings, but not nice…kind of bad elves.)

SNIPPET

The figure sat atop the outer wall, legs dangling over the edge, the cold rock seeping through his leggings.  Even the short fur of his legs didn’t protect him from the night chill that made the stone under him damp with dew.  “I need something a little warmer if I’m going to work up here in the north,” he muttered under his breath, hugging his arms across his chest. 

The manor in front of him appeared deserted, but he knew better.  Manors like this were rarely empty.  Even should the Lord or Lady be absent, servants and staff would remain behind.  Some kind of guard.  After all, manors such as this generally housed treasures that needed to be kept guarded. 

The unnerving thing about this place, however, was the lack of evidence of anyone living here.  He cursed the fact that he wasn’t from this area and had no idea who lived in the manor.  He only knew that it looked like a rich place and a good spot to pilfer a few things that would help him on his way to a better wardrobe and possibly some food.

Casing the place all day yielded nothing.  He thought, at one point, he saw a light from one of the windows, but that happened when the sun went down and only lasted a quarter of an hour before disappearing. 

The manor was modest, but elegant enough to suggest a smaller noble.  A noblet, as it were, he punned in his head with a smirk.  Nobling?  He chuckled, the sound faint in the slight breeze that ruffled the hair around his ears.  The left twitched around at a sound from the woods behind him, but he brushed it off as probably some animal in a tree.

The quiet manor waited patiently, glowing in the half-moonlight.  The stars were mostly obstructed by the wispy clouds coursing in their uncaring path across the night sky.  He shrunk in upon himself when he glanced up.  The sky still unsettled him, though night wasn’t as bad as day.  The bigness of it was something he could not get used to.

A three storey building, the manor appeared to be made of the same stone as the outer wall.  It was typical of the area, more show than protection.  The humans of the north rarely saw war and lived far from the south where ??? ravaged the countryside stirring up trouble.  The ??? most likely didn’t want to deal with the cold and snow, he thought.  The manors and castles to the south tended to be more warlike – battlements and fortifications rather than comfort.

Northern humans apparently appreciated beauty over brawn. 

This particular manor wasn’t as showy or extravagant as the one five leagues to the west, where he was able to lift a number of jewels, a new pair of boots, and a week’s worth of food.  That was a fun little burglery – he lifted it all while the family, servants, and staff were at their dinners.  He probably should have waited until the evening, but he wanted to challenge himself and the humans there were none the wiser.

The manor in front of him, however?  It wasn’t like any of the others he visited in this kingdom over the past year.  No bustling servants running to and fro on their errands.  No guards sleeping while standing, leant against the portcullis side with their pikes held loosely in hand.  No stableboys saddling up hunting horses for the Lord.  No one period.

The strange thing was that it didn’t look abandoned.  He knew abandoned houses.  They had a feel to them.  The lanes and the grounds would usually be weed-choked and overgrown.  Hedges would not be trimmed or neat.  Gardens would lay fallow or have vegetables rotting away in soggy mud.  This place looked lived in.  Just without humans.

Maybe ???.  That didn’t make sense to him, however.  The ??? rarely lived among humans, nor did they live in the north.  The ??? preferred the southern reaches, in spite of the dangers there.  Gold and gem mines were prevalant in the south, so of course the ??? would live close to them, he thought bitterly.  The greedy bastards.

He shook his head, chasing away the frown he had tried to put behind him.  That part of his life was over, he thought with determination.  The ??? were reclusive, to be sure, so it would make sense for the lack of activity in this manor.  However, the ??? also loved luxury, so if a ??? lived here, the staff and servants would be doubled than what the humans would have.

He sighed, bending at his waist and propping his elbows on his thighs to cradle his chin in his hands.  He couldn’t sit here all night.  He could sit here for weeks trying to figure out the mystery of a deserted place that didn’t appear to be deserted – or he could just haul his tail down there and take a look.  He waited for another half hour, however, as he felt quite comfortable where he was, in spite of the cold and damp.

“Alright,” he said to himself suddenly, his voice quiet in the dark, as he straightened up, slapping his palms against his legs.  “Time to get to work.”

I’m having a lot of fun with these prompts. I have failed the last couple of times in keeping under the 1000 word limit, but that – admittedly – is one of my biggest problems. Once I start writing, I tend to keep writing and the next thing I know, I have 10,000 words when I planned on a 1000 word story.

Today, I actually stayed at the limit. Exactly 994 words. The prompt was Fairy Tale – dirt road – puppy, and I came up with this little drabble. The child is purposefully kept genderless – I didn’t think it mattered to the story itself – so I use they/them pronouns when needed. Hope you enjoy.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The Old Dirt Road

“Rufus, come back!” the child yelled, chasing their new puppy across the yard.  Momma got the puppy at the Piggly Wiggly two weeks ago, so it was still getting used to the house and the family.  There was an adoption event at the store and Momma made the mistake of taking her two children there.  Rather, it was bad timing on Momma’s part to go shopping the day they were offering out puppies and kitties to new homes.

It had been a year since their old coon dog crossed the bridge to a better land (according to Momma) and the kids missed playing with a dog.  The yellow lab was too cute for even Momma to resist.  She didn’t and before they knew it, Rufus became part of the family.

He was a puppy, though, and not trained, so the kids tried their best.  Rufus learned quickly, but he was still rambunctious and loved to take off, and the child thought it their responsibility to return the little rambler when he did.

Once they hit the woods, it got tougher to follow the bouncy yellow butt ahead, but they were determined.  The child wasn’t scared, though.  They knew these woods like the back of their hand, and their step-dad had taught them enough to be safe.

Rufus was full of energy and made it to the old dirt road.  An abandoned trail through the back woods leading to a house.  It was abandoned and falling apart.  The siblings played there sometimes, climbing on the creaky porch, avoiding the rotted parts of wood to not crash through.  Cobwebs and moss covered everything inside – it was as if the people that lived there just up and left, leaving all they owned behind.  There were even plates on the table, and dishes in the sink. 

The boy told scary stories, as brothers are wont to do.  Each story was far-fetched, but the child always got a thrill to hear them.  Bonus if they were about places one could actually visit.  Witches figured prominently.  Evil fairies, bad elves, even Mothman or Bigfoot.  All potentially scaring the daylights out of the people in the house enough to run away and never come back.

It was fun to think as they explored the house when they were younger, but the child knew better at ten years of age.  Those things didn’t exist.  Probably someone died here and had no family in which to claim the house, so it was left as is.  Momma didn’t know when questioned.  They had moved here when she married their step-dad.

The dirt road was faint now, choked with weeds that stood almost to the waist.  The child could see the weeds bending on themselves as Rufus wiggled his way through off to the left.  The soft rustle was the only sound in the otherwise quiet forest and it made them shiver a little.  The woods were usually nosier with the buzz of insects, the soft sounds of animals in the underbrush, the breeze blowing through the dense treetops.  Today, however, quiet and unsettling.

Rufus was soon gone, but the child stood rooted to the spot.  Their feet didn’t want to move and so they stood uncertainly biting their lip.  They glanced down the old road but didn’t see anything.  Strange, though.  As they looked each way, their vision seemed to tunnel, the edges of the image distorted.

The child shook their head, trying to clear it.  It was a trick of the imagination, they reasoned.  Just that and nothing more.

Until a sound to the right drew their gaze.

It was tiny and hovered above the weedy road, wings beating as fast as a hummingbird – a blur behind the little creature.  A quite lovely little creature.  It was a female figure – it wasn’t clothed, so the child could blushingly tell the sex – with long hair curled in ringlets between her wings.  She had a lovely face with pointed nose and pointed ears.  In short, she looked exactly like fairies in the books they loved to read.

Seeing one, however, was a completely different experience than on a flat book page.  Fairies weren’t supposed to be here.  They were in old places, like England.    A feeling of terror rose up inside as the little being hovered there, studying the child.  Hesitantly, with palm up, they extended their hand toward the little fairy.

It took a few minutes, but the creature floated forward and daintily settled onto the palm, her tiny feet two little points of pressure on flesh.  The wings buzzed to a stop and folded themselves against her back, ruffling her curls.  The fairy stared at the child, her head tilting to one side, then the other.

“Hi,” the child said breathlessly.

There was no answer, and none was expected.  Instead, the fairy emitted a musical little trill before lifting once again into the air.  Enthralled, the child followed the little sprite when she turned and floated up the road toward the ruined house.

Only.  It wasn’t ruined.  It looked new and the child gasped.  It was beautiful and light shone from the windows, bathing the clearing in a yellow glow that chased away the gloominess of the trees.  Never had they beheld such a lovely house.

The door swung open, seemingly on its own, for the child didn’t see anyone behind it.  The fairy floated up, and turned, bracketed by the doorframe, a small dot hovering in the light.  Laughing in delight, the child ran after her.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The oldest boy entered his house where his mother sobbed to two police officers, her hysteric voice babbling about her smallest child.  The boy wore a frown in spite of the puppy frolicking around his feet.

“Did you find anything?” his mother cried when she noticed him.

He shook his head.  “All I found was Rufus.  He was up on the porch of that old ruined house in the woods.  Crying and whining at the door.” 

I went off another prompt today. It intrigued me, because I’ve read some fiction and non-fiction about Tenement living in New York City in the early part of the 20th century. It’s fascinating to read about, though heart-breaking of course. I think that’s why this prompt appealed to me.

Thank you to Anthony for help with Italian phrasing. I know the majority of the slums in NYC at that time housed Italian, Irish, and Jewish immigrants. I also know that money was scarce, food was basic, children worked in factories, and luxuries were something people rarely saw. When I saw the word grater as part of the prompt with tenement, I immediately thought of a little boy gifting his mother with something unnecessary, but from the heart.

The prompt was Historical Fiction and must include ‘tenement housing’ and ‘grater’. Enjoy!

The Grater

Historical Fiction – Tenement House – Grater

Tolly dug through the refuse pile with determination.  His best friend, Mikey, stood to the side of the pile of garbage watching, one hand scratching absently at his hip.  Probably fleas, Tolly thought as he glanced at the dirty boy.  Mikey ran the back of his other hand across his nose, wiping away some snot.  Mikey probably had another cold.  Mikey always had colds.

Tolly was on his knees, the press of discarded items pressing into the flesh there.  He’d left off his good socks and was barefoot, of course.  One didn’t wear their shoes when out playing or digging through garbage.  He had a decent pair of shoes, so he saved them for school, when he went.  Or church, if Pops wasn’t too tired to go.  Momma was a little disappointed he wore his short pants, but the woolen long pants were too hot for late summer.

Momma had no energy to argue with him anyway.  The O’Malley’s had started arguing in the middle of the night, waking up Tolly’s whole family.  Mr. O’Malley even hit Mrs. O’Malley a couple of times, which angered Tolly’s Pops.  His Pop had taken Mr. O’Malley outside, while Momma comforted Mrs. O’Malley.  Little Sean, their baby, cried in the crib, while Tolly tried to quiet his three sisters.  Nonna was awake too, looking grumpy from her spot on the bed she shared with Momma and Pops. 

Tolly’s sisters quieted quickly.  Mr. O’Malley always frightened them.  He was loud, drank a lot, and fought with Mrs. O’Malley all the time.  Tolly wished they could just move away, but Momma explained there was nowhere else they could go.  Their landlord rented half of Pops’ room to the O’Malleys and Tolly’s family couldn’t complain, or they would have nowhere.

Slums, Tolly heard them called.  Tenement houses were the official name.  Every apartment in Tolly’s building had two or three families in them.  Momma said they were a lucky, because they only shared with one family, and a small one at that.

Tolly was eight years old.  He was gonna try for a mill job next year.  He didn’t need no school anymore.  He could read and write.  Better than Pops, who barely knew English at all.  Pops’ mill would hire him, he knew.  Or he could get a paper.  Mikey used to do papers, until he was almost run over by a horse on the street, so his mother made him stop.  Mikey didn’t have to work.  He had four older brothers who worked, since he didn’t have a Pops anymore.  His Momma wanted him to stay in school.

Momma, of course, wanted Tolly to stay too, but Tolly wanted to be a man and help Pops, so he bargained with Momma.  He’d stay in school til he was nine, then get a job with Pops.  With that many mouths to feed, Momma couldn’t say no.

“Whatcha looking for anyways?” Mikey said, rubbing his nose again. 

Tolly didn’t answer.  He instead said, “You’s got a cold again?  You should go see Doc about it.”

“Ma said it’s alright.”

“Don’t breathe on me, though.  I ain’t wanna be sick.”

He tossed aside broken bits as he dug through, his hands quickly getting covered in dirt.  Not that they both weren’t already.  Baths were usually on Saturdays anyways, and it was only Wednesday. 

Tolly sat back on his bare heels and took off his hat to wipe the sweat away from his brow, leaving a smear of grime.  The sun was particularly hot today and beat down on him and Mikey on the island.  Birds circled overhead, eyes peeled for anything edible in the piles of trash collected from the overcrowded city and deposited here.  Their cries kept making Mikey look up, but Tolly ignored them, focused on his mission.

“C’mon Tolly.  Let’s go home.”

“Just a minute.”

He scooted forward, digging through the pile more.  There had to be one here; he was running out of time.  Momma’s birthday was tomorrow, after all.

“If ya tell me whatcha lookin’ fer, I can help yer.”

“Yeah yeah yeah.  I’m lookin’ for a grater.  You know, like you use on cheese and stuff.”

“Whatcha need a grater for?”

“I don’t need a grater, dummy.  Momma wants one.  Only I can’t afford one and neither can Pops.”

Momma was a good cook.  She made everything taste so good, no matter what.  It wasn’t easy to make the sorry pile of groceries she bought into meals to feed seven people, but Momma always managed.

“I just wish I could grate the cheese better,” Tolly heard his Momma tell Pops one day in the language of their village in Italy.

“I made you a grater,” Pops said.  He had punched a nail into a piece of tin, leaving the other side jagged enough to grate the chunks of parmesan Momma bought.

“It’s a lovely grater,” Momma agreed. 

But Tolly understood.  Momma wanted something nice.  Something that would grate the cheese real fine for Pops’ pasta.  But they were expensive, Tolly knew.  Pops couldn’t waste money on something they didn’t need.  Then Tolly thought maybe he could find something in the dump and clean it up real nice and shiny for Momma.

Mikey wandered over to another pile of trash sitting in wait for the incinerator.  He fell onto his own scratched up and dirty knees to dig into the trash.  Both boys worked diligently for the rest of the afternoon.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Happy Birthday, Bella,” Pops said, kissing his wife on the cheek.  The younger girls made gagging sounds.  Momma brandished her wooden stirring spoon at them, making them giggle.

Pops grinned at them all as he sat himself at the small table in the middle of the room.  Usually they sat on the floor or the bed to eat, since Momma and Mrs. O’Malley used the table mostly for sewing.  But Pops insisted on everyone sitting all proper tonight in honor of Momma’s birthday.

The meal was good, of course.  All of Momma’s meals were.  Pops had bargained with the local butcher for a big chicken, and Momma was able to make something from the old country.  Tolly didn’t know what it was called, but it was so delicious and there was enough leftover for tomorrow, too.  Nonna made a small cake, using some borrowed sugar from their neighbor.

Then came gifts.  The girls all worked secretly with Nonna to piece together a small blanket for Momma.  They used scraps from clothes discarded around the neighborhood and from their tenement neighbors.  It was worn in places, and the stitches made by his youngest sister were crooked, but Momma cried over it and said it was the most beautiful blanket she’d ever owned.

Pops got Momma a comb for her hair.  Momma had beautiful dark hair, and the comb had rhinestones that sparkled like diamonds in her work worn hands.  “This is too fancy for me, Sal,” she breathed, running her rough fingers over the smooth ivory of the comb. 

“Nothing’s too fancy for my girl,” Pops said, beaming with pride at his wife.

Even the O’Malley’s got Momma something.  Mrs. O’Malley knitted Momma a pair of gloves for the winter, though it was far away and seemed silly for a gift in the end of summer, but Momma was very grateful for them.  Winters could be rough, and a good pair of gloves could keep your fingers from freezing off.

Then it was Tolly’s turn, and he handed Momma the gift he had wrapped in an old cloth.  They couldn’t waste paper on gift wrapping.  Momma pulled the string off, carefully saving it to the side, and gently unwrapped Tolly’s gift.

The gleam of copper caught in Momma’s eyes.  “A grater, mio figlio?” she said, her lovely voice choked up.  “Where did you get a grater?”

Tolly shuffled his feet, his toes just barely scraping the flooring under his chair.  “I didn’t steal it Momma,” he insisted.  She was looking at him with such a strange look in her eyes.

“I didn’t say you did.  How’d you pay for this?”

Tolly was embarrassed.  He didn’t pay for it.  He’d found it.  Maybe Momma wouldn’t like that.  Maybe she would be offended.

“Answer your Momma, Tolly,” Pops said sternly.

“I found it, Momma.  I didn’t buy it.  I looked all day in the dump for it.  I cleaned it real good and all.  It’s not dirty.  I spent an hour cleaning it.  With some soap Mikey’s momma had.  She let me use it.  I scrubbed it good.  Then I shined it.  It took me another hour to get it all shiny like that.”

Momma cleared her throat.  “It looks like you put a lot of work into this.”

“Well of course, Momma.  You deserve something pretty.  I wish I could buy you a new one, but I just can’t yet.  When I’m older I’ll buy you a dozen.”

Momma laughed then.  She placed the grater on the table safely, pushed her chair back, and held open her arms.  All four of her children rushed around the table and crowded into her embrace.  She made sure to land a kiss on each messy head in her flock.  “What a lucky Momma I am to have such good bambini!  Grazie figli miei!”

I decided, after that dark entry last week, to return to something slightly more light-hearted. I took a prompt from a list of prompts given during a writing competition. I didn’t participate, but the prompts were posted online. Participants were given a genre, location, and object to use in their short story. I used this a couple of weeks ago, actually, for the convenience store thriller. I browsed through the prompts assigned to different people and chose this one.

I’m not as satisfied with this entry as I am with others. I think with more time, I could probably develop this into something more. The prompt is Fantasy – Underwater Cave – Statue. Admittedly I had a hard time incorporating the statue, so it’s only vaguely mentioned. Enjoy!

The Cave

Ripples in the water distorted the faint shine of bioluminescent algae coating the walls, causing dancing patterns on the rough ceiling of the cave.  Sunlight never reached the grotto, under the surface of the sea.  A safe little bubble with breathable air.  A scientist could point out that plant life, abundant in the cave, provided oxygen from the process of photosynthesis, but that would have made no sense to the girl sitting on the shore.

Shore in the sense that land met water.  A little sandy.  A little stony.  Filled with the detritus of washed up items that somehow found their way through the underwater passage into the bubble created by earth forces eons ago.  Bones, shells, even some bits of wood.  The girl tried to keep it clean and neat, but the shore changed nightly.

The detritus was collected daily.  She had little else to do.  Her life wasn’t exciting.  Not usually.  She spent her days in quiet, building things with her hands from materials they brought her.  These little statues dotted the island in the cave.  Monuments to things seen in waterlogged books pulled from wrecks and brought to her for her amusement.  She had no idea what these things were and part of her yearned to see them in person.

She was of an undetermined age.  Pale and tiny, though not a child.  All she knew was this cave.  A bubble that remained the same temperature.  The light never changed.  The algae glowed consistently, so that day and night for normal humans had no meaning for her.  She slept when tired or bored or lonely.  She woke naturally.  She ate food they brought her when she got hungry.  The cave had no schedule she needed to follow.

They had told her how she came here.  She didn’t know if she should believe.  She was just an ignorant human who only knew what they told her.  A baby found in a sinking ship, crying frightened tears in confusion as the ship pitched and rolled on choppy waters.  Corpses floated around – they’d checked for live ones.  None.  The animals and the humans on the ship were dead. 

Just her.  Only she lived. 

Why they took her?  They were vague on that.  The girl thought it made more sense to deliver her to some land nearby.  Deposit her on the shore and hope another human would find her.  But they thought she would die.  And why let such a pretty thing die when they could take care of her.  It wouldn’t be the first time they had kept a human child, after all. 

What happened to those other human children?  And where were they now?  She didn’t know.  Again, they were vague.

They took care of her, though.  She was well fed.  Educated in their way.  Taught to speak, to think, to know things.  She wasn’t completely ignorant.  She learned to take care of herself as best she could.  She didn’t like eating the fish they brought her raw, so they reluctantly showed her methods of cooking and how to make fire.  Things they knew from before, when they mixed more with humans.  Anything to keep her happy.

They dressed her too.  Fancy clothes they stole from wrecks.  Stolen from chests and closets before the water began to rot them.  She cleaned them as best she could, then wore the clothes to please them.  For in spite of them imprisoning her here, she did love them.

They were beautiful, especially in the water.  She swam with them sometimes.  The water in the cave felt pleasant on her skin and it was nice to remove all of those clothes and let herself go.  She was a good swimmer, after all.  They had taught her.

Their skin was pale, but the scales of their tails came in multiple colors.  She especially liked the ones whose scales came in many colors.  They were the prettiest. 

There were three that visited her the most – a family she came to understand.  Mates and their child.  They were the ones to bring her food and clothes.  They took care of her.  Taught her.  Along with their child.  Others came, of course, mostly to look at the human girl with curiosity.  She enjoyed meeting them, again in spite of her seeming imprisonment.  It eased her loneliness at least.

Over the years, the child grew as well, alongside her.  She spent most of her time with him.  Playing in the shallows, working on their lessons, eating their meals together.  He was all she knew.  Him and his parents.

She dug her toes into the sand at the edge of the water.  It had been a long time since she’d had a visitor.  At least she thought so.  Time had no meaning for her; she merely had a feeling that she hadn’t seen anyone in a long time.  She had slept thrice, which was unusual.  Usually she’d see someone after one sleep.  Three was odd.

She was hungry.  She finished the last of the fish left for her the last visit.  She had even gone into the water to pull plants out as a last resort to quiet the rumbling in her gut.  That didn’t taste very good, but it was food at least.  She was thinking about swimming again – crawling through the water to find the edible plants – when the ripples began.

It wasn’t long before a head popped above the water further out into the cave.  She smiled.  Her friend.  He shook the water from his hair and grinned at her, pointy teeth gleaming in the faint light.  He lazily swam closer to the shore, but she made no move to get closer to him.

“I thought you’d never come back,” she accused.

He was nearer to her, but had to stop, settling his lower half on the sand of the shallow water, bringing most of his torso out of the water so that she could see his shoulder shrug.  “There were.  Problems.  With humans.”  As he said this, he tossed a hand-woven net full of fish onto the shore next to her.

She gasped.  They rarely talked about humans with her.  “What happened?”

“We couldn’t get to you.  They were all around the cave above.”

“Oh.”

“We fought among ourselves, too.  Many thought we should give you back to them.”

“Oh.”

“No one thought to ask you.”

“Oh.”

“Is that all you can say?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“I thought I’d ask you.  They are still there, so I can take you.  If you want.”

“Back to humans?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know anything about them.”

“You can learn, I suppose.”

She was quiet for another moment, staring at her feet and the toes hidden in the sand.  “If I go, I’ll never see you again.”  The thought made her heart constrict tightly in her chest. 

“No, you won’t.”

“Do you want me to go?”

He didn’t answer for a while.  The sound of the waves lapping on shore pounded at her ears and she focused on his tail, undulating under the surface of the water.  He was a pretty color, all blues and purples – the colors seeming to shift as he moved.  “I want what I’ve always wanted.  Whatever will make you happy.”

She thought about that.  Was she happy?  She wasn’t unhappy. 

It would mean leaving all she had ever known and the idea of that bothered her.  They were kind to her.  They took care of her.  As if she were their own.  It wasn’t their fault she couldn’t live with them in their underwater homes. 

“But what do you want?”

He looked down, his fingers stroking through one of his fins, a filmy and gauzy looking appendage.  “Honest?”

“Honest.”

“My sire said I could move into this cave, should I want to,” he mentioned, speaking toward his hand.  “Should you allow me.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.  Oh.”

She knew what that meant.  They moved into caves or grottoes with their mates.  This was her cave and should she take a mate among them, they would have to live here with her.  “I would not object to your moving in here.”

He looked up then, a shy and hesitant expression as he looked at her with hope.  His eyes dimmed, however.  “You mean after I take you back to the humans?”

“No.  I do not want to go to the humans if it means I can never see you again.”  After another pause where she watched his expression lighten, she said.  “I can’t give you guppies.  You know that.”

“I don’t care about that,” he replied.  “I only want to live here and make you happy.”

“I want that too.”

“Ok.  I shall tell my sire tonight.  Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

It was as simple as that.  They were mates, without ceremony or pomp.  A simple acceptance of her fate.  A denial of her true species, and a wish to remain with her childhood friend.  Someone she loved with all her heart.

I went dark with this writing prompt.  I’m not sure where in my psyche this developed.  Nothing like this has happened to me, though I know there were points in my life where someone has cried for help and I was too unaware to realize it for what it was. 

This is also a complete one-eighty from last week. Sorry for the abruptness. I don’t think this was my mood when I wrote it, but the prompt called for something dark, I guess.

I’ve been saving writing prompts on Pinterest for awhile.  Ever since the writing retreat.  A lot of them I use for a writing Discord I belong to (for Voltron Fanfiction) and I post a writing prompt for the group every Friday.  I browsed through them this morning and came across this one.  The prompt I used is the title of the piece below.  I plan to use it later on in a full story, but for some reason this popped out of me.  I can’t explain it.  And I think I don’t want to.

This piece could be triggering as well.  Please read with that in mind.

Please, Just Tell Me I’m Not a Lost Cause

“Please, just tell me I’m not a lost cause.”

That cried phrase echoed through my skull.  Bouncing from one corner to the next, as if it were the only thing in my brain.  Usually my mind raced from one thought to the next, like a hamster on its’ wheel.  Spinning endlessly.  Scratch that.  Perhaps a hamster on speed, meth, or a combo of both on its’ wheel.  That describes my brain a little better.

At least my normal brain.

Today the brain is empty, which is an odd feeling for me.

You’re not a lost cause, I say.

“Please, just tell me I’m not a lost cause.”

Stop screeching that at me!  When you said it the last time, it was a soft whisper, not an ear-splitting wail.  Not a grating scream that reverberates in my head driving me to near madness.  Not this plaintive and pleading voice that pounds at me.

Normally, I hate the hamster wheel in my head.

Today, I’m missing it.

You’re not a lost cause, I say.

“Please, just tell me I’m not a lost cause.”

There.  There’s the whisper.  The way you said it to me last time.  The little whisper over the phone.  The voice was yours, reproduced along airwaves and cell phone towers.  How could I answer?  You were a lost cause.  We’d tried so hard.  Offered help.  Forced you into programs designed to deal with your issues.  Nothing worked.  It hurt us that you hurt.  It hurt us that you couldn’t see your own potential.

I poke uselessly at my head with my finger.

Restart hamster wheel.  Please, restart.

You’re not a lost cause, I say.  But I don’t believe it.

“Please, just tell me I’m not a lost cause.”

It’s now an echo.  I won’t hear you say it again.  I won’t hear you cry it, your voice heavy with tears that I can’t see.  I won’t hear you screech it, the jagged sound tearing your vocal cords in desperation.  I won’t hear you whisper it, the ghost of your breath an illusion across my ear.  It echoes, though, in the vault of my empty brain.  There’s nothing for it to cling to.  Each letter presses itself against the bone of my skull and the back of my eyes and the base of my spine and the sponge of my eardrum.  Repeating and repeating itself, making me wish I could unhinge my head and scrape them out with a rusty spoon.

I need to buy a new hamster.

The wheel is dead.

You were a lost cause.

My father was sick for most of his life. He had an auto-immune blood disease that has a ridiculously long name that I can barely spell. The disease affected his immune system so he had difficulty fighting off infections and colds – with the result that almost every cold he caught developed into pneumonia. Dad spent many times during the year in the hospital. It boggles my mind, truly, to think of how much he suffered through his life because of this disease, but it was rare that you saw it.

Dad was an amazing soul. Gentle, patient, loving. I would see him sit for hours playing catch back and forth with a kid to keep them entertained. He was incredible with children especially. I don’t think it’s a stretch for me to say that he was probably the ‘favorite uncle’ with my cousins. He certainly had enough Godchildren to his name.

He also, without question, loved my friends. It didn’t matter who I brought home, my dad (and mother too, to be fair) would ‘adopt’ them. Always with gentle teasing and a smile. And I think my friends all loved him too.

One of the most astounding things, to me, however was that through all this pain he suffered in his life (because it wasn’t just the auto-immune disease…he suffered through diabetes, pleurisy, cancer) he never lost his sense of humor. My father was, hands down, one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. It was a wicked sense of humor, too, which might surprise people who didn’t know him well. He was soft spoken, quiet, and nondescript. He was someone you probably wouldn’t look twice at on the street.

His sense of humor, though, was downright dirty. I don’t want to paint this picture that my family was perfect, because what family really is? Were there arguments? Was there drama? Of course. My mom could get moody and depressed (is that where I get it?) and the stubbornness gene inherited by my maternal grandfather certainly possessed me, Mom, and my brother. But one thing I remember, one thing that always sticks with me, is laughter. We had fun a lot.

My mom was pretty funny in her own right. It was a showy kind of funny though. You knew it, because my mom not only talked a lot, but she was loud. And while I know I got some of my quirky sense of humor from her, the wicked sense of humor was passed down to me and my brother from my dad, who appreciated a good dirty joke.

Those jokes came from a quiet person, though. Dad’s asides and witty remarks were only heard by people close to him, not only close to his heart, but also his vicinity.

I’m going to share stories here and there from my funny dad in occasional blog posts. From my funny mom. My funny family, in general. I’d like to start with my favorite story of my dad, because I think it perfectly encompasses his sense of humor and love of pranks. When people comment on my dirty mind and dirty sense of humor I blame it on my father, then tell them this story.

This story in no way is meant to impugn my lovely Aunt Gloria, who is a very nice aunt that I love very much. I loved my Uncle Elmer as well. Aunt Gloria was a bit of a prude and, from what I understand, wasn’t too knowledgeable about, um, sex things when she was younger. My mom had to explain to her fifty-something sister what a blow job was. Aunt Gloria thought that you literally held on and blew air on it. When I heard that, I imagined that it was why Uncle Elmer always looked grumpy. (Again, this is poking gentle fun on my aunt and uncle, who are and were good people.)

If you are unfamiliar with the term ‘hair pie’, I suggest you look it up. This is the Urban Dictionary definition: A hairy pussy, often with the bush in it’s natural wedge shape. Not intended as a derogatory term. I heard this term the first time in the movie “Revenge of the Nerds” – but I’m sure my father knew it long before then. Unfortunately, my aunt apparently never went to the movies.

The Hair Pie Story

My father was in the hospital recovering from another bout of pneumonia. The stays normally lasted two to three weeks, which was quite depressing for him. This was a man whose favorite thing in the world was to be with his family. Not only his wife and children, but his mother, his siblings, and his niblings. He looked forward to every visit of friend and family, and because he was a popular sort of person, he received many visits.

Fortunately, on this day, Dad was on the upswing of his recovery. He felt much better and hoped to be discharged within the next couple of days. While we tried to be at the hospital as much as possible, there were times where my mother, me, and my brother couldn’t be there – what with the demands of school (for me), work (for Donnie) and keeping house (Mom).

I can’t remember which day during the week this was. I’m assuming a Sunday, because I think that my Aunt Gloria and Uncle Elmer had gone to lunch after church. Either that, or they stopped for lunch after a round or two of golf at ‘the Club’. I remember that the restaurant was one of the finer restaurants in our area, though I can’t remember the name of it and it’s probably long gone as it is.

Aunt Gloria has a generous heart and she loved her brother-in-law, my father, very much. In fact, after their meal, she and Uncle Elmer planned to stop by the hospital to visit him. She was diligent about visiting the sick in hospitals, because, as I mentioned, she is a good person.

This restaurant was the kind of place filled with snooty white people with too much money to spend who would be horrified to be caught eating at a Howard Johnson’s. So picture a Sunday afternoon in a glittering and shiny dining room at a posh place where people ate Lobster Thermidor off china plates between sips of expensive wine. Definitely not the sort of place one could tell dick and fart jokes.

After their lunch, Aunt Gloria and Uncle Elmer went to leave, but in the front of the restaurant there was a sparkling display case containing mouth-watering desserts for which the restaurant was locally famous. Aunt Gloria paused to look (she had quite the sweet tooth) as Uncle Elmer not-so-patiently waited behind her.

“Do you think we should get something to take to Don?” she asked over her shoulder.

Uncle Elmer shrugged. “I guess we could?” he shrugged. “Don’t know what he’d want.”

“I can call him,” Aunt Gloria decided.

This was many years ago in the dark ages before cell phones. Aunt Gloria, ever resourceful, left Uncle Elmer at the dessert case and stalked over to the receptionist desk to ask to use their phone. One thing about my Aunt Gloria – she was formidable. My mother and her sisters were women you didn’t mess with or refuse, so the phone was hastily pushed across the podium to Aunt Gloria.

She called information to get the phone number to the hospital, which she wrote on the reservation sheet despite the hostess’ protest. It took a few more minutes, and a few threats to the hospital staff, to get her transferred to Dad’s phone in his private room.

“Hello?” Dad answered.

“Don! This is Gloria! Elmer and I are just leaving lunch at (insert restaurant name here) and they have this lovely selection of desserts. We want to sneak one up to you to cheer you up, but we don’t know what you’d like. There’s pies and cakes and cookies…what do you want?”

“Hmm…” Dad drew out as if in thought. “Well, there is something I’ve been craving that they haven’t let me eat here at the hospital. It’s been a few weeks and I’m starving for it.”

“Oh? What is it? I’ll see if they have it!”

“Hair Pie.”

“Hair. Pie?”

“Yeah. It’s my favorite.”

“I. I don’t know if they do. I can check.”

“Please do. It would make my day to have some.”

My poor aunt, having no clue, yelled over to my uncle, “ELMER! CAN YOU CHECK TO SEE IF THEY HAVE HAIR PIE?”

My poor uncle, standing at the dessert counter which was across the lobby of the restaurant, swiveled his head around to stare at his wife, his face draining of color. “Gloria! Shhhh!”

Now my aunt, much like my mother, has one of those strident voices that carry. You can hear them across an insanely large room talking at their normal volume. When they shout? Dogs several miles away cock their heads to listen.

“DON WANTS HAIR PIE! SEE IF THERE’S ANY IN THE CASE!”

“Gloria shut up!”

“ELMER!”

“GLORIA!”

In the meantime, Dad is practically tangling himself up in his IV lines and straining to not fall out of his bed with laughter. He can hear how loud my aunt is and he knows what the restaurant is like. On a sleepy Sunday, my aunt is now yelling about hair pie, loudly, for a bunch of stuck up, upper class snobs to hear during their shrimp cocktails.

Uncle Elmer strode quickly across to his wife and grabbed the phone from her to snarl, “We’re getting you apple pie!” at my father before slamming it down.

Startled, Aunt Gloria looked at the hostess and her assistant, who were both red in the face and striving hard to remain polite and professional. “Do you serve hair pie here?” she asked.

“Dammit, Gloria. Get your damn apple pie for Don and let’s go!”

Aunt Gloria was, of course, mortified when it was explained to her what my father did. She forgave him. It was impossible to hold a grudge against him. No matter what he did. I always wondered what those people dining there that afternoon thought when they heard a woman screaming about hair pie in the middle of their salad course.