 There can be no mistaking that 2020 has been a most unusual year. I believe Robin Lythgoe and I started our Quills posts in 2013. Later, Parker joined us. I do recall times when we’ve not all been able to put a piece together for our joint-post, but I do not recall a month when we did not post at all—until last month, that is. June 2020 came and went too quickly, and too many personal issues held us up. Consequently, we had no post last month. We are pleased, however, to be with you again, and just in time to wish America a very, very, very Happy Birthday, indeed! The topic we chose this month was to put together a character sketch. I am currently in the process of introducing someone new, Athan Eamon, in Volume 4 of The Oathtaker Series, (for now, entitled, Blue Gloom), so I thought I would use Athan as a subject. I’ve known about Athan for a long time, although I was uncertain as to when he would actually show up. Then, wouldn’t you know it, a door opened and … there he was … What follows is the beginning of a rough character sketch for Athan, and beyond that, an excerpt from my current work-in-progress. Keep scrolling from there, and you will find what my fellow Quills have for you!     There is still much for me to discover about Athan and so, his sketch is an ongoing endeavor. Even so, some of the key elements are set out above, while others will make their debut in due course. Also, it is still possible that any of the above can change. Below is a small clip from Blue Gloom, shortly after Athan arrives on the scene, although it too, could change in any number of ways. I hope you enjoy! Excerpt from Blue Gloom, a Work in ProgressAfter much contemplation, Lucy finally determined she would allow Athan to accompany her and the twins—but only if he would allow her to retain Ignis until she learned more. Athan agreed. The first opportunity she had to address the flits out of his hearing, she instructed them to stay as close as possible, but to remain hidden from the man’s view at all times. They assured her they could do so. As darkness fully descended, the foursome finished tying their belongings to their saddles. Then, as quietly as possible, they made their way out of the village, keeping to the main roadway. Only two moons shone. One, a waning crescent, already neared the western horizon, as a consequence of which, its light would soon be lost. Fortunately, the other, in its third quarter approached the zenith, thereby providing sufficient light for traveling. So as to keep an eye on Athan, Lucy insisted he lead the way. Then she followed, with one twin to each side of her. For nearly the distance of a league, they spoke not at all, but finally, Eden turned to Lucy. “He doesn’t look unhinged to me,” she whispered. Lucy scoffed. “Nor to me,” Reigna said. “I am not mad, as thee intimate,” Athan said over his shoulder, clearly having heard them. “I admit that I was, but I am no longer. Thou need not fear me.” Reigna urged her mount forward. Fearful for her safety, Lucy quickly followed suit, Eden in her wake. Moments later, the four rode side-by-side. Lucy situated things such that Athan rode to her right, while the twins both rode to her left. “Convince me,” Lucy said to the man, “that you are who you say you are, and that you are not mad.” “I know not how.” She sighed and bit her lip, in thought. Then, recalling how she’d seen Mara operate from time to time over the years, she said, “Why don’t you tell us your story.” “Oh!” he exclaimed. “It is not possible, as it is an exceedingly long one, indeed.” “Humor me.” “But of course, if thou insist, Madam Lucy,” he said. “I do.” “Where shall I begin?” Again, Lucy thought back to her experiences. Then she repeated what she’d often heard Mara say: “I suggest you start at the beginning.” Athan sighed and then nodded as he pulled out from his pack, a cloth bag about the size of his palm. He untied its leather string, then reached his fingers inside. A moment later, clearly having removed something from the bag, he drew his fingers to his mouth. “What is that?” Lucy asked. Pulling back lightly on his reins, as his mount had been pulling ahead, Athan laughed. “Ahhh, ’tis nothing that need worry thee. ’Tis simply a nugget of hard, dried maple sugar. I did not stop earlier to dine, nor did I imagine traveling through the night, but now I find myself in need of a bit of sustenance, which I know maple sugar shall provide me.” “Hand the bag to me,” Lucy said, reaching his way. Athan pulled the tie closed, then dropped the bag in her palm. “Please, help thyself,” he offered. She opened it, sniffed at its contents, and then, satisfied, returned it to him. “You should have said you needed to eat,” she scolded. “There was plenty of food back in Snoring. But the only provisions we have with us are packed away—and in truth, I’d as soon not stop to get them out. We need to make up for lost time, accomplish what we set out to do, and return home as quickly as possible.” “Concern thee not,” Athan said as he dropped the pouch into a pocket of his tunic. “I won’t. Still, I admit I do not understand your claim as to the power of that sweet to sustain you,” she commented. “No?” The expression of shock on his face was clearly visible in the moonlight. “Thou ought try it sometime. It has the power to make one feel . . . satiated. If only for a brief period.” Lucy scoffed. He grinned, then said, “Well now, if I recall, I was about to tell thee my story.” “Yes, do!” Eden encouraged him.” “Very well then, my tale begins where I was born, on the outskirts of a little town in the hinterlands.” Delivering each word with a flourish, he sat up straighter, pulled his shoulders back, and then added, his voice soft, rhythmic, and possessing a nearly trance-like quality, “It was there I learned what the word ‘yonder’ meant.” “Excuse me?” Lucy interrupted him. “Not that far back! Goodness, if it was possible to recall one’s birth, I fear you’d have started there.” Once more, Athan laughed. “Ahhh, I had determined that might be a bit too far back—although I would be happy to tell thee of my first glimpse at the attending healer—or even better, of my joy at finding my mother’s breast.” Eden giggled, following which Reigna joined her. The full emphasis of Lucy’s glare at them, failed in the semi-dark. Then, “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said to Athan. “You can’t possibly remember that. And if you say you do, you will convince me that you are, indeed, quite demented!” Athan glanced her way. “Thou would have me lie?” Once more, Eden giggled. “No!” Lucy exclaimed in response before addressing Eden. “Stop that,” she scolded her. “Ahhh, very well then,” Athan said, “I shall begin again—although thou might appreciate knowing the attendant healer at my birth— Well, goodness, but she was a sight! With eyes of two distinctly different colors, wrinkles like craters, lips so thin as to be nearly nonexistent, and—” He waved his hand. “Ahhh, but no mind! Perhaps instead, I ought tell thee of my charge?” “Oh, yes!” Eden said. “Ahhh. That is good, then. Now my charge, as thee well know, was a seventh. A seventh seventh, to be precise. Thus, and as thou all canst see, I have not aged for some centuries.” Lucy glanced his way. “It would be the only explanation for your longevity, yes. Although if you tell truth, then clearly you had some years on you when you took your oath. That is, you were not a young adult at the time.” “Indeed, ’tis as thou says. I had lived just four decades, was married and had a family. But I lost my beloved wife, infant daughter, and young son in a house fire. I tried to save them, but—” Athan paused to clear his throat, brushed the scar on his face, swallowed hard, and then continued. “’Tis true what they say, that time reduces pain, but never does it remove it entirely . . . “Anyway, after spending a year or more wishing I had perished with my family, I determined I would not allow myself the luxury of loving another—ever again. I determined that the pain that could come of another such loss, was too great, indeed. Thus, I reasoned it appropriate for me to become an Oathtaker. I knew, you see, that once I took an oath and was sworn to the protection of my charge, I could not commit to another for so long as my charge lived.” With that, Athan went quiet. Several long seconds later, Lucy glanced his way. “So you trained to be an Oathtaker,” she said. “Then what?” Athan nodded, “I did, yes.” He took in a deep breath and then started in with his story in such fine detail as to seemingly invite his listeners to experience the events firsthand. “Taking in the view from the hilltop behind Redgrove,” Athan began, “left one feeling as though Ehyeh had created the grandest canvas, then sat to paint His most glorious landscape, in colors and shades and hues that transformed as day progressed to night, and then circled back round to day once more. Above, the sun shone so brightly on roiling clouds piled high as mountains, that one might experience temporary blindness if he looked skyward for the span of more than a few fleeting heartbeats. Below, the vista encompassed immeasurable distances. “It was such a view I had been enjoying that day. Half hypnotized with the glory I beheld, I would have missed the events had the panorama before me been a scene of rushing people or things, or had the wind been moving in the grassy meadows or through the treetops. In such event, I could not have discerned what transpired. But instead, the landscape was calm, serene, with a breeze, nonexistent. The birds had quieted for the late afternoon hour, and not even a lone hawk circled above by way of distraction. Thus, the singular place where movement occurred, was the one place across that grand vista, that caught my attention. “There, in the nearish distance, rode three men. The sun glinted off the weapons they carried, whilst their dress identified them, most assuredly, as cutthroats, all. Soon, they dismounted, then slithered toward a group of travelers—who I guessed to be a peddler and his family, stopped to fix a wheel on their cart.” Athan paused momentarily, then continued, “I watched transfixed as the criminals took cover in the brush surrounding the travelers. I was too far away to be heard. Nevertheless, I shouted for all I was worth and waved my arms madly, in hopes the travelers might see me. In truth, I could not have reached them in time to render my aid, even had I possessed the speed of a pronghorn.” Once more, Athan paused. He cleared his throat and then said, his voice low, “And so, I was left to witness the worst. I assume the men used some prearranged signal, perhaps a bird whistle. Then the one who led the pack, with a double-edged sword in one hand and a battle-axe in the other, stepped out. While my heart beat but a handful of times, those men beheaded the peddler, then completed the slaughter of his family.” Athan, pulling his shoulders back, exhaled audibly. Then, “I looked away,” he said, “but the images pestered me nonetheless, refusing to leave me. When I turned back, I saw yet another traveler, a lone young man, not terribly far from the bloody scene and, unfortunately, headed that way. He appeared about the age of the son I had so recently lost . . . Turning back, I watched as the criminals rifled through the belongings of their most recent victims, searching out anything of value. I knew in that moment that I had to hurry if I hoped to assist that young man.” “Oh!” Eden exclaimed. “But weren’t you afraid of encountering those murderers?” “I was not. Indeed, I had made a practice of interfering in such events. Countless times had I narrowly escaped what should have been my certain death. Yet I lived on.” “But why?” Reigna asked. “Why would you court such danger?” “See thee not, young one? I had nothing to lose. Nothing and no one to live for. No one to miss me. No one to mourn the loss of me.” Athan drew quiet for a long moment. Finally, he continued. “But something about that young man drew me, cried out to me, begged me, demanded a response of me . . . Something of his certain predicament pressed me to run to his aid. As I said, I’d frequently sought out dangers, but in that moment— Well, the feeling that came over me could not be compared to any other. I could not then, nor could I today, hundreds of years later, describe it—except to say that it was of Ehyeh. “And so, keeping my eyes firmly ahead, I ran down the hill and toward danger, hoping I might interrupt the otherwise certain meeting of that young one with the murderous trio whose evil I had just witnessed.” I hope you enjoyed that!  Now, let's see what P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, has for us! I see that Parker has jumped right into the crux of his character description, so here goes. (Be sure to click on the link for more.) At first blush, you would think the beard is his defining feature. He growls any introduction through a tangle of grizzled brush that looks like it would have taken high marks at a ZZ Top concert. The little bit of skin that can be seen behind his face wig is a cross between bark and old leather. He only introduces himself as "Doc." Combined with the gray streaked through the beard you get the hint that he might have already come home from Vietnam when Pink Floyd formed in 65'. A faded bandana that could have been blue with stars on it at one time holds back a mop of hair. An old hippie. Except then you see a flash in his eyes. Almost black in the shadows, but with an unsettling spark. Cunning. Intelligent. Watchful. This is no peace and love and weed hippie. A live-and-let-live Big Lebowski. This is a fighter. A hunter.  Robin Lythgoe! Robin! Oh, there you are. Well? What have you for us today? I can't wait! I see that you, too, jumped right into your character. Thank you! KipKap… What would you like me to tell you about him? We are friends, I think. Some people find that distinction uncomfortable, for he is also a foreigner to our world. The term “demon” is insulting, for he is no such thing, though that is what he is labeled by most. He possesses a sublime sense of subtle humor, a keen mind, and a remarkable tolerance for idiots. This is, perhaps, what makes us so compatible.
'KipKap’ is not his proper name. When he says it, it’s longer. He makes the K’s more guttural and the P’s more spitty, which I find altogether too messy for my mouth. “Did you name him?” Tanris asked…
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 We are a bit late this time around, but here we Quills are, returning to what I think has become our favorite type of post. Specifically, we each created a flash fiction tale for the same picture. This time, Robin Lythgoe selected the inspiration. Here it is:  I did not find a title for this pic, but it is offered by Maria Eduarda Tavares. (You'll find it here.) It seems we Quills couldn't even agree on whether the pic was of a boy or a girl. I thought it was a boy when I first saw it. Robin wrote about a girl. And I'm not sure Parker ever did commit ... I almost went with a story that would have been under ten words long (which I will share with you later), but in the end, after much ado, I came up with a story that is still (title and all) under 500 words. Here goes! The Contest |
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Memorial Day has always been my children’s favorite holiday. Over the years, we’ve shared the best company, the best laughs, and some of THE BEST food I’ve ever had.
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Only one thing has remained constant on the menu from year to year: my Memorial Day Bars. So here is the recipe ... (I don't know where I got the original, but I made changes and here it is.)
Memorial Day Bars
1 box of German chocolate cake mix
3/4 cup melted butter
3/4 cup old fashioned oats
1/3 cup evaporated milk (I recommend you buy the small can, as it holds about twice this amount and you’ll need the rest later.)
Mix the above and divide it in half. Press one of the halves in the bottom of a 9X13 (very slightly) greased pan. Bake that at 350 degrees for 10 minutes.
Before the above step, I actually recommend that you get the following going:
Unwrap all of the caramels in a 13 oz. bag of Kraft caramels (we usually had the kids doing this while we were preparing the bar mix). Then put the caramels in a microwave safe bowl and add 1/3 cup of evaporated milk.
While the bars are in the oven for the first 10 minutes, melt the caramels and evaporated milk together. I usually pop it in the microwave for a minute or two, then stir, then repeat, until it’s a creamy smooth caramel. (I don't let the kids near this mix, because it is HOT.)
Remove the semi-baked bars from the oven.
Sprinkle 1 cup of chocolate chips over the top.
Then, very carefully, put the caramel over the chocolate.
Once done, drop bits of the remaining bar mix over the top. (I usually take teaspoon sized bits, flatten them a bit in the palm of my hand, and then drop them on top.)
Bake at 350 degrees for another 20 minutes.
You will want to let these bars cool a bit before you cut and eat them because the caramel is so very hot, but don’t wait too long because much of the fun is in the creamy warm goodness of the melted chocolate and caramel.
Enjoy!
Unfortunately, over the past few years, our extended "family" has been unable to connect on Memorial Day. My friend’s children (there are now five of them) have moved, some out of state; our other friend and her husband and three children all moved out of state; and I’ve one child out of state and one out of country. But last year, my friend sent me pictures of events from two of her children—one living about three hours away by car, and the other about three hours away by plane. What were those pictures of? Well, you see, they shared one thing in common that day: they both made my Memorial Day Bars.
I hope you enjoy my recipe. Maybe you can use it to help build some new and wonderful relationships and memories of your own.
I hope you enjoy my recipe. Maybe you can use it to help build some new and wonderful relationships and memories of your own.
Next up is Robin Lythgoe. Robin! What have you for us today?
A bite of something delicious and familiar can transport us in time, reviving feelings and memories from times gone by. Mama’s chicken soup isn’t just for curing colds. Cookies fresh out of the oven can remind you of holiday baking parties with the family. A dish of chocolate Knox Blox immediately brings to mind a summer evening spent on the front step, talking about anything and everything with our kids.
The foods we especially like—the foods that come with rich, warm memories—are different and unique to each of us. I will never forget the humid “green” smell…
The foods we especially like—the foods that come with rich, warm memories—are different and unique to each of us. I will never forget the humid “green” smell…
Finally! It's your turn, Parker. I can't wait to see what you have for us!
I'm surprised. I found (yet another) topic that is frustratingly difficult for me to write about.
Food. Turns out I can spin tales in fantastical worlds, make horses fly, cats talk, or craft a raging daemon - but the everyday sustenance that I depend on, that I look forward to - I come up vague and boring, like a bowl of tepid, gluey oatmeal. It's not necessarily bad, but it's certainly uninspiring.
But that is my failure, because food and drink actually weave a deep magic that not only bring hope, joy and happiness to our daily lives, but can even warp time and space, tying the fabric of our existence together in a way nothing else can.
Food. Turns out I can spin tales in fantastical worlds, make horses fly, cats talk, or craft a raging daemon - but the everyday sustenance that I depend on, that I look forward to - I come up vague and boring, like a bowl of tepid, gluey oatmeal. It's not necessarily bad, but it's certainly uninspiring.
But that is my failure, because food and drink actually weave a deep magic that not only bring hope, joy and happiness to our daily lives, but can even warp time and space, tying the fabric of our existence together in a way nothing else can.
There you have it, everyone! What do you think?
Hello, all!
This month we Quills are back to one of our favorite types of posts. That is, we will share some new flash fiction tales with you. (Here is a quick link to a page identifying where you can find our prior stories.)
This time, P.S. Broaddus, aka Parker, author of A Hero's Curse, chose the picture for which we each created a story. Entitled Learning to Fly, it is the work of Adrian Baluta, found on ArtStation. When I first saw the pic, the word "whimsey" came to mind. You'll see how I made use of it. In the meantime, let's see what Parker and Robin have for us ...
This month we Quills are back to one of our favorite types of posts. That is, we will share some new flash fiction tales with you. (Here is a quick link to a page identifying where you can find our prior stories.)
This time, P.S. Broaddus, aka Parker, author of A Hero's Curse, chose the picture for which we each created a story. Entitled Learning to Fly, it is the work of Adrian Baluta, found on ArtStation. When I first saw the pic, the word "whimsey" came to mind. You'll see how I made use of it. In the meantime, let's see what Parker and Robin have for us ...
Parker? Off you go!
Welcome to Sky
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2020
"My dad could eat your dad."
"Not if he can't catch him first."
"He's one of the best fliers we have!"
"He still can't outfly my dad. No cat can outfly a bird."
"Bet I could outfly you."
"Not a chance."
The nestling and the kitten eyed each other. The kitten broke the terse silence. "I'm Starbucks. I was named after-"
"I'm Boeing!" The nestling interrupted. "I was named after the fastest flying machines of the old gods."
Starbucks huffed. "As I was saying before you interrupted me, I was named after the elite fuel of the old gods."
"Not if he can't catch him first."
"He's one of the best fliers we have!"
"He still can't outfly my dad. No cat can outfly a bird."
"Bet I could outfly you."
"Not a chance."
The nestling and the kitten eyed each other. The kitten broke the terse silence. "I'm Starbucks. I was named after-"
"I'm Boeing!" The nestling interrupted. "I was named after the fastest flying machines of the old gods."
Starbucks huffed. "As I was saying before you interrupted me, I was named after the elite fuel of the old gods."
(Readers, be sure to following the link for the rest of Parker's story.)
How about you, Robin? I can't wait to see where your flash fiction tale takes us.
Learning to Fly
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2020
Striped Chasca, Seventeenth of the beloved and revered Fluffy, picked her way delicately down the garden path. She held her ears up, chin at a haughty angle, and let only the very tip of her tail twitch—just the way she’d seen the senior members of the clan do. Every dozen steps or so, she paused to preen, using the opportunity to sneak backward glances at her magnificent wings.
(Again, readers, be sure to follow the link for the rest of Robin's story.)
Thank you so much, Robin.
And now, it's my turn. Coming in at 970+ words, title and all ...
Thank you so much, Robin.
And now, it's my turn. Coming in at 970+ words, title and all ...
Huckleberry's Whimsey Day
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2020
His muscles aching and his wings tattered, Huckleberry tumbled through the air, his four legs akimbo, before finally righting himself. Looking down, he spotted a branch below, largely clear of brush. He aimed for it, confident that like all kittens, he would indeed land on his feet.
Keeping his knees loose, his paws touched. He bounced up, and then aimed yet again for another, even clearer branch, just below. On arrival, he teetered. Regaining his balance, he heaved in a deep breath in an effort to still his wildly beating heart. All the while, he contemplated on how his panic had added to his difficulties motoring through the air, which in turn, had resulting in his landing here—quite less than gracefully.
He glanced skyward, noting that the storm that brewed above the treetops had not yet made it to the ground, even as nearby leaves began to dance and to chatter. It wouldn’t be long now, he thought, so he’d best make it to the ground before the full fury of the tempest reigned down on him.
Turning away from the furious, roiling skies—skies that seemed to reflect his present mood—Huckleberry pulled his goggles up over his forehead. Then, “Oh, hello,” he mewed on realizing he was not alone.
“Hello, yourself,” chirped a ruffled-feathered sparrow, in response.
“I’m Huckleberry,” the kitten said.
“And I am Whimsey. Are you okay?”
“As best I can be under the circumstances, I suppose,” Huckleberry replied, “which isn’t saying much.”
“But you made it down safely. So that is something to be grateful for. Right?”
The kitten frowned. “Look, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to get down before the storm makes its way here, into these trees.” He stepped past the bird.
“Wait!”
Huckleberry turned back, a scowl tattling on his impatience.
“I wondered if you might help me. You see, I was out for a joy-fly, when I got caught up in that storm.” Whimsey spread out a wing, showing a series of broken feathers. “I’m afraid it slammed me into these trees and, as you see, I’ve injured my wing and also— Well, it seems I’ve sprained an ankle.”
“Hmmm. But what can I do?”
“Well, you see, my nest is a distance from here and I'm unable to fly. Given this storm, I might be safer down on the ground at the present. Still, it is a long way down for me and in my present state I wondered . . . Might I hitch a ride with you?”
Huckleberry shrugged. Then, “Fine,” he mewed. “Hop up.”
Minutes later, Huckleberry’s feet met the soft moss that carpeted the forest floor. Sensing the storm was only seconds behind now, he made a quick inventory of his surroundings.
There! he thought, upon noting a hollowed out log just ahead. He made a mad dash for it, scooted inside, spun around, and then crouched down to watch.
Whimsey hopped from the kitten’s back, wincing from the pain that shot up his ankle on his landing. Then he turned to his savior. “I cannot thank you enough!” he exclaimed.
“Yeah, yeah.”
The sparrow cocked his head. “What happened to you up there?”
Huckleberry shook his head. “My day started out fairly acceptably—for a change. I was happy, even, I guess. So I decided to take to the skies. My take-off off went fine, but then, there I was, cruising along, when I found myself pondering on my problems . . . The storm came in, adding to my difficulties. I wasn’t prepared . . . and my motor gave out. That’s all.”
“Your motor?”
“My purr.” Huckleberry sighed. “You see, I purr when I’m happy. When my problems weigh down on me, I’m unable to sustain that and then— Well, you get the picture.”
Whimsey sat quietly for a long minute, looking out at the rain that now beat down, mercilessly. Finally, he turned back. Then, “Are you so injured that you could not fly back home if you could still purr?” he asked.
“Oh, no. These tatters you see? They’re nothing compared to some damages my gear has suffered in the past.
“So then,” Whimsey began, “you are injured and your gear less than perfect, and yet—”
The kitten covered his ears and responded sharply, “I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t want to hear it!”
“And yet,” the sparrow continued, “you are here . . . safe. You are whole. You are alive. You can mend. Your tattered wings won’t hold you back from returning home. There are so many things—”
“To be grateful for. Yes. Yes, I know.” Huckleberry sighed, then turned back to face Whimsey. “You are right about all of those things, but I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a funk. Still, I suppose I might eventually find my way out of this mess.” He paused. “So, yes, I appreciate your friendly reminder of how I’m to do that—of how I’m to find my purr again.”
Whimsey sidled nearer. “May I lie next to you, to warm up? I don’t know how long this storm will last. Likely until tomorrow morning, at least, and I’ve got quite a chill.”
“Sure,” Huckleberry said. He lifted a paw to make room for his new friend to draw nearer. Then, “I suggest we get some rest, then,” he said.
“I quite agree. And you just wait. Things will look better soon. Joy comes in the morning, you know.”
Whimsey snuggled in close and kept quiet. Finally, when he was sure the kitten slept, he nuzzled even nearer him, then whispered in his ear, “You are not alone. All will be well.” With that, the little sparrow closed his eyes to rest.
With morning, sounds of raindrops falling from the trees above . . .
And of birdsong . . .
And of a joyful purring . . . filled the air.
Keeping his knees loose, his paws touched. He bounced up, and then aimed yet again for another, even clearer branch, just below. On arrival, he teetered. Regaining his balance, he heaved in a deep breath in an effort to still his wildly beating heart. All the while, he contemplated on how his panic had added to his difficulties motoring through the air, which in turn, had resulting in his landing here—quite less than gracefully.
He glanced skyward, noting that the storm that brewed above the treetops had not yet made it to the ground, even as nearby leaves began to dance and to chatter. It wouldn’t be long now, he thought, so he’d best make it to the ground before the full fury of the tempest reigned down on him.
Turning away from the furious, roiling skies—skies that seemed to reflect his present mood—Huckleberry pulled his goggles up over his forehead. Then, “Oh, hello,” he mewed on realizing he was not alone.
“Hello, yourself,” chirped a ruffled-feathered sparrow, in response.
“I’m Huckleberry,” the kitten said.
“And I am Whimsey. Are you okay?”
“As best I can be under the circumstances, I suppose,” Huckleberry replied, “which isn’t saying much.”
“But you made it down safely. So that is something to be grateful for. Right?”
The kitten frowned. “Look, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to get down before the storm makes its way here, into these trees.” He stepped past the bird.
“Wait!”
Huckleberry turned back, a scowl tattling on his impatience.
“I wondered if you might help me. You see, I was out for a joy-fly, when I got caught up in that storm.” Whimsey spread out a wing, showing a series of broken feathers. “I’m afraid it slammed me into these trees and, as you see, I’ve injured my wing and also— Well, it seems I’ve sprained an ankle.”
“Hmmm. But what can I do?”
“Well, you see, my nest is a distance from here and I'm unable to fly. Given this storm, I might be safer down on the ground at the present. Still, it is a long way down for me and in my present state I wondered . . . Might I hitch a ride with you?”
Huckleberry shrugged. Then, “Fine,” he mewed. “Hop up.”
Minutes later, Huckleberry’s feet met the soft moss that carpeted the forest floor. Sensing the storm was only seconds behind now, he made a quick inventory of his surroundings.
There! he thought, upon noting a hollowed out log just ahead. He made a mad dash for it, scooted inside, spun around, and then crouched down to watch.
Whimsey hopped from the kitten’s back, wincing from the pain that shot up his ankle on his landing. Then he turned to his savior. “I cannot thank you enough!” he exclaimed.
“Yeah, yeah.”
The sparrow cocked his head. “What happened to you up there?”
Huckleberry shook his head. “My day started out fairly acceptably—for a change. I was happy, even, I guess. So I decided to take to the skies. My take-off off went fine, but then, there I was, cruising along, when I found myself pondering on my problems . . . The storm came in, adding to my difficulties. I wasn’t prepared . . . and my motor gave out. That’s all.”
“Your motor?”
“My purr.” Huckleberry sighed. “You see, I purr when I’m happy. When my problems weigh down on me, I’m unable to sustain that and then— Well, you get the picture.”
Whimsey sat quietly for a long minute, looking out at the rain that now beat down, mercilessly. Finally, he turned back. Then, “Are you so injured that you could not fly back home if you could still purr?” he asked.
“Oh, no. These tatters you see? They’re nothing compared to some damages my gear has suffered in the past.
“So then,” Whimsey began, “you are injured and your gear less than perfect, and yet—”
The kitten covered his ears and responded sharply, “I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t want to hear it!”
“And yet,” the sparrow continued, “you are here . . . safe. You are whole. You are alive. You can mend. Your tattered wings won’t hold you back from returning home. There are so many things—”
“To be grateful for. Yes. Yes, I know.” Huckleberry sighed, then turned back to face Whimsey. “You are right about all of those things, but I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a funk. Still, I suppose I might eventually find my way out of this mess.” He paused. “So, yes, I appreciate your friendly reminder of how I’m to do that—of how I’m to find my purr again.”
Whimsey sidled nearer. “May I lie next to you, to warm up? I don’t know how long this storm will last. Likely until tomorrow morning, at least, and I’ve got quite a chill.”
“Sure,” Huckleberry said. He lifted a paw to make room for his new friend to draw nearer. Then, “I suggest we get some rest, then,” he said.
“I quite agree. And you just wait. Things will look better soon. Joy comes in the morning, you know.”
Whimsey snuggled in close and kept quiet. Finally, when he was sure the kitten slept, he nuzzled even nearer him, then whispered in his ear, “You are not alone. All will be well.” With that, the little sparrow closed his eyes to rest.
With morning, sounds of raindrops falling from the trees above . . .
And of birdsong . . .
And of a joyful purring . . . filled the air.
Happy New Year to you all! I pray each and every one of you is blessed in 2020 with good health and good cheer!
We Quills decided we would open the year with a post about our favorite fantasy movies. (Those that come in a series, count as a single selection.)
I'm sure my fellow Quill, P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, had a marvelously hectic holiday with his lovely family. Let's find out if he took some time out to watch some great movies. Even if not, we're about to learn of some of his favorite selections. Parker?
I love movies. Cinema. Film. My love of visual storytelling propelled me to get a master’s degree in film-making and digital storytelling. So to pick a favorite movie, or even three, is a hard thing. It depends on my mood. The weather. The time of year. When did I last see it?
I suppose I define a favorite as something that I watch time and again.
I suppose I define a favorite as something that I watch time and again.
Robin, author of As the Crow Flies, is up next.
I hope you had a wondrous holiday celebration with your family and friends, Robin. Did you take time to watch any great movies? Do you have any selections to share with us?
I hope you had a wondrous holiday celebration with your family and friends, Robin. Did you take time to watch any great movies? Do you have any selections to share with us?
When Hubby and I sit down to watch a movie together, one of our top favorite genres is fantasy. (You’re surprised, right? I knew you would be.) Much to our delight, the offerings are increasing in both volume and quality. And it’s about darned time my favorite genre in the whole wide world got wider recognition! It did, however, make the task of narrowing the selection down to three fairly formidable. There are “the greats,” of course: Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, and The Hunger Games (in that order), but they’re so obvious. What about the other stuff? What about the also-really-great movies like …
Oooh, now it's my turn! Have you any idea what movies I might have chosen?
Of course, the most obvious choice of all, is Lord of the Rings. So much so, that I’m not going to include it as one of my three choices. Indeed, the LOTR trilogy is in a category all of its own. Yes, it is a great story. Still, that is not the draw for me. I am most taken with LOTR because of its cinematography, and in particular, its lighting, which I think surpasses that of any other film every produced. The mists, the glows, the heat . . . Then, of course, the music is phenomenal.
In short, LOTR is a masterpiece and it is one I watch from beginning to end from time to time. So now, with this brazenly obvious selection out of the way, I will turn my attention to three additional great fantasy films.
My first choice then, goes to Ladyhawke.
My first choice then, goes to Ladyhawke.
This 1985 medieval fantasy, starring Matthew Broderick, Rutger Hauer, and Michelle Pfeiffer, and filmed in the Dolomite mountains of Italy, is one I’ve watched countless times. I also introduced it to all three of my children over the years. This family favorite has only one “downside” in my estimation, and that is, its soundtrack. Given that I’m particularly drawn to movie soundtracks, I must say that this one is a disappointment. However, the story delivers everything else that one could possibly ask for: magic, danger, love, a bit of humor, and so much more. (I still have a VHS copy which is one of the very first I ever purchased—so if I cannot find it streamable somewhere soon, I’ll have to check out my tape again, as it has been a couple years since I last enjoyed this adventure.) If you have not seen Ladyhawke as yet, do yourself a favor and start 2020 out with a viewing. I cannot imagine that you would regret it.
Another oldie but goodies, and my second choice for today, is . . . The Neverending Story.
From 1984, this story includes a magic flying dragon, a monster, a princess, and the “star” of the show (in my estimation anyway!): a book. Yes, a stolen book sets the stage for this great fantasy tale. Are you familiar with it? (That's a rhetorical question, of course!)
I know you all are expecting me to go with The Labyrinth (1986), or The Princess Bride (1987), or something else also from the same era as Ladyhawke and The Never-ending Story, for my third selection, but alas, I did not. In fact, my third choice today goes to Hook.
Robin Williams, who will forever be missed, starred in this great film in 1991. (Can it be almost 20 years ago?) My favorite line from this movie is/was: “Do you know what my happy thought was? It was you.” As a parent of three grown children, now all out on their own (one currently deployed out of country, and another currently living out of state), I can tell you that if anything could make me fly, it would be my thoughts of them.
There you have it! So, how about you? What fantasy films do you love and recommend to us?
Thank you for sharing!
Thank you for sharing!
December has arrived and as usual, I am scurrying about with visions of sugarplums dancing in my head—which is to say that I am trying to work out what to get for whom, and from where, and at what cost, and so forth … One thing is for certain: when it comes to the simple gifts one may purchase, the age of technology has made life so much easier. For another year now, I will do most, if not all, of my holiday shopping online. I love clicking the BUY button and then waiting for things to arrive on my doorstep.
But our subject this month has put me in a more introspective mood about gifting …
We Quills have decided to comment briefly on a gift we received at some time that made a lasting memory, and on something we gave that made a lasting impression.
First, I thought we’d see what my fellow Quills have to say on the subject. Make sure you follow the links for each to get “the rest of the story."
But our subject this month has put me in a more introspective mood about gifting …
We Quills have decided to comment briefly on a gift we received at some time that made a lasting memory, and on something we gave that made a lasting impression.
First, I thought we’d see what my fellow Quills have to say on the subject. Make sure you follow the links for each to get “the rest of the story."
Robin Lythgoe is the author of As the Crow Flies. Robin’s stories, perfect for ages 12-85, come packed with adventure and humor. Perhaps you know just the right person to receive a copy of one of her works for Christmas … (?)
Robin - What do you have for us today?
Robin - What do you have for us today?
It was 1999, and my father was dying. The cancer was fairly aggressive. Shocking, when he’d been so healthy all his life. He’d left the family years before to follow a drummer only he heard. We didn’t see much of him, but still—it was Dad. Time was short. So was money…
Thank you for sharing, Robin, and a Merry Christmas to you and yours!
Moving on ...
P.S. Broaddus offers delightful tales for middle school readers—and I know how difficult those are to find. So, if you’ve got a young one on your gift-giving list (and who of us doesn’t?), you’ll find out more about his work on his site. In the meantime, let’s see what he has to say about gift-giving …
P.S. Broaddus offers delightful tales for middle school readers—and I know how difficult those are to find. So, if you’ve got a young one on your gift-giving list (and who of us doesn’t?), you’ll find out more about his work on his site. In the meantime, let’s see what he has to say about gift-giving …
When I think about giving, and gifts, a story from when I was close to nine or ten comes to mind.
My younger brother and I were given a few dollars by our folks and encouraged to find something for each other for Christmas. Being a kid, I did some quick math, figured I could snatch a passable something and still have monies left over.
My younger brother and I were given a few dollars by our folks and encouraged to find something for each other for Christmas. Being a kid, I did some quick math, figured I could snatch a passable something and still have monies left over.
Thank you so much, Parker!
Finally, here are my thoughts.
Gift giving is an art - a fine art. Gift giving is the fine art of selecting just the right thing for someone—and it is one that I work at. At times I’ve hit the sweet spot so perfectly, that it left even me surprised. But before I get to that, let me comment on a gift I received that made a lasting memory.
Some years ago, the women at my church used various things to help us to get to know one another and to build community. One of the programs we instituted was a Secret Pal plan. Each person drew a name and every month throughout the year, they were to remember that person in some way. The idea wasn’t to have to purchase gifts regularly. Rather, it was to make a connection. Thus, a simple card or note was often the means for fulfilling one’s duties. Often the things people gave, or the times at which they were given, answered needs that could not possibly have been known to the gift-giver. But at the end of the year, we had a big reveal party and … Well, suffice it to say, some of the stories people told were nothing short of amazing.
Some years ago, the women at my church used various things to help us to get to know one another and to build community. One of the programs we instituted was a Secret Pal plan. Each person drew a name and every month throughout the year, they were to remember that person in some way. The idea wasn’t to have to purchase gifts regularly. Rather, it was to make a connection. Thus, a simple card or note was often the means for fulfilling one’s duties. Often the things people gave, or the times at which they were given, answered needs that could not possibly have been known to the gift-giver. But at the end of the year, we had a big reveal party and … Well, suffice it to say, some of the stories people told were nothing short of amazing.
One year the person who chose my name was not someone I knew particularly well, and what I did know of her and the contacts I did have with her were not always pleasant. (She was a difficult soul …) In any case, there were several times throughout the year that she gifted different things to me that frankly, I no longer remember. But there was one gift I’ll never forget because it surprised me so. You see, one of my favorite fictional characters of all time, is Anne of Green Gables. I adore that girl—and I understand her—and I identify with her. Although I grew up in a big family—with seven (count them!) sisters, I often (as may well be the case for many others) felt alone and misunderstood and ignored. My siblings had neighbor children their ages, with whom they played regularly. I did not. Consequently, I was alone a lot and I read a lot. My mother would say I had a rather uncanny intellect for a young one. Perhaps that accounted for why I was the only one of the eight of us who went to college (until some years later when one of my other sisters got her degree). Perhaps that explains why I went to law school. I don’t know …
In any case, I did not discover Anne until adulthood, but when I did, she spoke to me in ways that perhaps no other fictional character ever had before, or has since. So when my Secret Pal gave me the VHS tapes (yes, it was awhile ago!) of all of the Anne stories (produced by Kevin Sullivan, starring Megan Follows, Colleen Dewhurst, and Richard Farnsworth) … Well, those tapes still hold a place on my shelf and I still watch them from time to time. Of course, I have to be prepared to spend hours crying during, and afterward, but I do watch them. And oh, how I do love Anne! I think of that gift-giver every time I see the tapes and I wonder where she is these days (as it has been years since I last saw her). I hope that she is well and happy.
In any case, I did not discover Anne until adulthood, but when I did, she spoke to me in ways that perhaps no other fictional character ever had before, or has since. So when my Secret Pal gave me the VHS tapes (yes, it was awhile ago!) of all of the Anne stories (produced by Kevin Sullivan, starring Megan Follows, Colleen Dewhurst, and Richard Farnsworth) … Well, those tapes still hold a place on my shelf and I still watch them from time to time. Of course, I have to be prepared to spend hours crying during, and afterward, but I do watch them. And oh, how I do love Anne! I think of that gift-giver every time I see the tapes and I wonder where she is these days (as it has been years since I last saw her). I hope that she is well and happy.
Now for a gift I’ve given that made a lasting memory … As I said, I take gift-giving very seriously, so this was actually a hard decision to make, but I am going to go with the time my youngest, Isabelle, turned eleven. I knew she loved to sing, as it is something we do a lot of in my house. And I knew that she had a particularly good voice. So when her birthday rolled around, I decided I would gift her … voice lessons.
The day of her birthday was a school day, but she was of course excited to receive her gift. I remember she had just finished up in the bathroom and was headed back to her room. She stopped me to ask if she might get her gift before school. I told her that her gift wasn’t exactly something I could hand to her. I remember the look of confusion on her face. Then I told her that I could tell her what her gift was, if she wanted me to do that. Standing a few feet from me, she thought that plan sounded good. So I told her that I had arranged for her to take voice lessons (with a family friend she had known for years). She sucked in a breath, ran to me, threw her arms around me, and cried. Now, my little Isabelle doesn’t often share her feelings quite so boldly, so I knew that I had hit the mark. I think the gift made a lasting memory for her. I know it did for me.
Here’s a sample of little Isabelle, from about 10 years ago.
The day of her birthday was a school day, but she was of course excited to receive her gift. I remember she had just finished up in the bathroom and was headed back to her room. She stopped me to ask if she might get her gift before school. I told her that her gift wasn’t exactly something I could hand to her. I remember the look of confusion on her face. Then I told her that I could tell her what her gift was, if she wanted me to do that. Standing a few feet from me, she thought that plan sounded good. So I told her that I had arranged for her to take voice lessons (with a family friend she had known for years). She sucked in a breath, ran to me, threw her arms around me, and cried. Now, my little Isabelle doesn’t often share her feelings quite so boldly, so I knew that I had hit the mark. I think the gift made a lasting memory for her. I know it did for me.
Here’s a sample of little Isabelle, from about 10 years ago.
And here is a sample from a few years ago. This video is from a practice for a production, Two From Galilee, that we will perform this year for the 24th year in a row. You’ll hear background noise and talking, and you might even see people running around as we prepare cast, crew, stage, and more. Here, Isabelle plays Mary with the young man who (a voice major himself), once gave her voice lessons. (Personally, I like the last minute and a half or so, the best). I think it is fair to say that the two of them can sing.
For fun, here's a pic of the production poster we created.
And here is a pic of Mary and Joseph, after a show!
What was your best gift ever received? How about the best give you ever gave? Please do share your stories with us!
I cannot believe it is November already (even though I woke to a dusting of snow this morning), but there you have it. Cold notwithstanding, from my perspective there are two great things about this month. First, it will soon be Thanksgiving, which is my favorite holiday. Second, we Quills are coming to you this month with new flash fiction tales!
This time, I got to choose the pic. Here it is:
This time, I got to choose the pic. Here it is:
I first found these boots/moccasins on Pinterest, then tracked them down to a site for Turtle Island Moccasins. It seems you can actually order yourself a pair of these! What do you think of that?
When I chose our inspirational pic, I asked my fellow Quills if they wanted an added challenge (as if writing a flash fiction tale isn't challenge enough). I suggested the following for their consideration:
- Include in your story, something about The Forest of Infatuation, or the Temple of the Unknown Slave, or The Drum of Unbearable Silence ...
- Or … maybe your main character has an odd personality or behavioral quirk, like he or she is notoriously rude, or expresses emotion inappropriately, or is homesick, or is always looking for a fight …
- Or ... maybe your main character has a pet. Perhaps it’s a dog that steals keys and other small objects, or that never comes when called, or that commonly gets stuck in silly places ...
In the end, we decided we would each choose for ourselves whether to take on an added challenge, and if so, what that challenge would be. For my part, I chose a couple of items from the above list. First, I included the Forest of Infatuation. Second, I combined features from the second and third options. Namely, I added a pet with an odd behavioral quirk.
Are you ready? Coming in at 815 words, title and all ... here goes!
Are you ready? Coming in at 815 words, title and all ... here goes!
Calico Dew and
the Boots of Ominous Delight
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2019
The ramshackle hut sat in a damp tree-shaded hollow, deep in the Forest of Infatuation. An occasional bright green patch of mold stood out on its thatched roof and spotted its weathered, paint-crackled, windows.Their half-open shades looked like eyes peering down at the bed of poison ivy just outside the hut’s door, which hung slightly askew on its rusty hinges.
Nearby, Calico Dew hid. She patted Sneaker, her faithful canine companion, whose shaggy mottled coat helped him to meld into his surroundings. This well-served Calico’s purposes in carrying out her duties as an official retriever of stolen magic artifacts. However, Sneaker also came with a downside. That is, while his physical traits allowed him to rummage about stealthily, he also possessed a particularly annoying personality quirk. Specifically, he ofttimes absconded with small, shiny, objects. Calico’s mind wandered as she recalled how she’d one day discovered—quite by accident—what he did with them, but then she cautioned herself to return her focus to the present.
Just a day earlier, the nearby Wolfwater town denizens had informed Calico that the witch, Rosita Brack, who resided at the hut, was out of town. So Calico rushed there, hoping to find that which she sought—that which was rumored to be there, namely, the Boots of Ominous Delight. Ages old, they had proven most dangerous over the years, as anyone donning the footwear would find themselves delighted to remain lost in the forest. Too many good people under their evil magic had wandered their way off cliffs hidden in those woods, or into waters rushing through them, or down the jaws of the dangerous wildlife that inhabited them.
Calico was grateful she had the means to break the spell of the boots. She felt outside her pocket to confirm she still carried the tool necessary to do so: the Brooch of Nonexistent Misery. Made of gold, with a dozen inset light-reflecting precious stones of various colors, Calico could almost see the brooch shimmering through her pocket. She knew if she wore the item, its powers would allow her to wear the boots without danger (which would be most beneficial, as then she would not have to carry them back home or find room for them in her already over-filled backpack).
Having witnessed no movement around the hut, Calico approached. At the door, she hesitated, listening closely. Hearing nothing, she pressed on it, then winced when its hinges squeaked before directing Sneaker inside to scout.
After sniffing about to confirm that no one hid there, Sneaker whined his master’s way, inviting her to enter.
There!
Almost immediately, Calico spotted the boots she sought standing in the corner opposite where she stood. Struggling to repress a grin, she retrieved the broach from her pocket so as to pin it on her tunic and thus, make short work of her venture.
At precisely that moment, the door squeaked once more. Shocked, Calico’s arms went flying, causing the trinket to pass from her fingertips and through the air. In a flash, her eyes followed its arc before turning back to find Rosita Brack, leaning against the doorsill. The woman's witchiness was most evident in the manner in which she had shadowed her now-narrowed eyes (likely with coal) and in which she had artfully painted her thin, scowling lips (in a color so deep and dark a red as to border on pitch).
“Caught you!” Rosita cackled.
Calico knew Rosita’s history. The witch would put a spell on her, force her to don the magic boots, and then send her on her way. After all, she derived her greatest joy from the suffering of others.
Shaking, but with no hope of convincing the witch to spare her, Calico addressed her with a quivering voice. “Well,” she said, “it seems I’m trapped.”
“Indeed, you are,” Rosita responded. Within seconds, she spun her dark magic, rendering Calico compliant. Then she directed her to put the magic boots on. Once done, with a laugh bordering on the maniacal, Rosita sent Calico on her way, Sneaker at her side.
Trudging through the forest, Calico found herself delighted with her surroundings. Even so, somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew two things: first, that danger lurked; and second, that she possessed the means to overcome it. She had, after all, witnessed that precise moment when, in a flash, Sneaker had snapped the Brooch of Nonexistent Misery—after it flew from Calico’s fingers—out of the air and into his jaws. He had then—as Calico might well have expected—swallowed. And, thus, the means to escape the evil witch’s intentions walked at Calico’s side. In the end, while those means might not prove exactly … convenient ... or clean ... or odorless (eewww!), Calico was confident she would know freedom once more.
Nearby, Calico Dew hid. She patted Sneaker, her faithful canine companion, whose shaggy mottled coat helped him to meld into his surroundings. This well-served Calico’s purposes in carrying out her duties as an official retriever of stolen magic artifacts. However, Sneaker also came with a downside. That is, while his physical traits allowed him to rummage about stealthily, he also possessed a particularly annoying personality quirk. Specifically, he ofttimes absconded with small, shiny, objects. Calico’s mind wandered as she recalled how she’d one day discovered—quite by accident—what he did with them, but then she cautioned herself to return her focus to the present.
Just a day earlier, the nearby Wolfwater town denizens had informed Calico that the witch, Rosita Brack, who resided at the hut, was out of town. So Calico rushed there, hoping to find that which she sought—that which was rumored to be there, namely, the Boots of Ominous Delight. Ages old, they had proven most dangerous over the years, as anyone donning the footwear would find themselves delighted to remain lost in the forest. Too many good people under their evil magic had wandered their way off cliffs hidden in those woods, or into waters rushing through them, or down the jaws of the dangerous wildlife that inhabited them.
Calico was grateful she had the means to break the spell of the boots. She felt outside her pocket to confirm she still carried the tool necessary to do so: the Brooch of Nonexistent Misery. Made of gold, with a dozen inset light-reflecting precious stones of various colors, Calico could almost see the brooch shimmering through her pocket. She knew if she wore the item, its powers would allow her to wear the boots without danger (which would be most beneficial, as then she would not have to carry them back home or find room for them in her already over-filled backpack).
Having witnessed no movement around the hut, Calico approached. At the door, she hesitated, listening closely. Hearing nothing, she pressed on it, then winced when its hinges squeaked before directing Sneaker inside to scout.
After sniffing about to confirm that no one hid there, Sneaker whined his master’s way, inviting her to enter.
There!
Almost immediately, Calico spotted the boots she sought standing in the corner opposite where she stood. Struggling to repress a grin, she retrieved the broach from her pocket so as to pin it on her tunic and thus, make short work of her venture.
At precisely that moment, the door squeaked once more. Shocked, Calico’s arms went flying, causing the trinket to pass from her fingertips and through the air. In a flash, her eyes followed its arc before turning back to find Rosita Brack, leaning against the doorsill. The woman's witchiness was most evident in the manner in which she had shadowed her now-narrowed eyes (likely with coal) and in which she had artfully painted her thin, scowling lips (in a color so deep and dark a red as to border on pitch).
“Caught you!” Rosita cackled.
Calico knew Rosita’s history. The witch would put a spell on her, force her to don the magic boots, and then send her on her way. After all, she derived her greatest joy from the suffering of others.
Shaking, but with no hope of convincing the witch to spare her, Calico addressed her with a quivering voice. “Well,” she said, “it seems I’m trapped.”
“Indeed, you are,” Rosita responded. Within seconds, she spun her dark magic, rendering Calico compliant. Then she directed her to put the magic boots on. Once done, with a laugh bordering on the maniacal, Rosita sent Calico on her way, Sneaker at her side.
Trudging through the forest, Calico found herself delighted with her surroundings. Even so, somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew two things: first, that danger lurked; and second, that she possessed the means to overcome it. She had, after all, witnessed that precise moment when, in a flash, Sneaker had snapped the Brooch of Nonexistent Misery—after it flew from Calico’s fingers—out of the air and into his jaws. He had then—as Calico might well have expected—swallowed. And, thus, the means to escape the evil witch’s intentions walked at Calico’s side. In the end, while those means might not prove exactly … convenient ... or clean ... or odorless (eewww!), Calico was confident she would know freedom once more.
Well? What do you think? Please do, share your thoughts!
Lucky for you, there is more. Next up is Robin Lythgoe.
I can hardly wait, so take it away, Robin!
I can hardly wait, so take it away, Robin!
Starry-Eyed
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2019
The autumn sun slid toward the horizon, gilding the moors and pulling twilight ever closer. Little streamers of fog drifted this way and that, half-formed fairy ribbons. Archibald Cumming laughed to himself. The old man was getting to him. Had already got to him, years ago, truth be told. And where was the old fool now? Shifting his backpack, he trudged up the sparse hill. Hands on hips, he stopped at the top to catch his breath before he had a look around. When he had his breathing under control again, he straightened and stood still and quiet, listening. Listening as he'd done dozens of times already just today. This wasn’t the first time the old codger had taken off on his own.
He was about to move on when he heard it …
He was about to move on when he heard it …
Excellent! Thank you so much.
And now, for Parker.
What have you for us, Parker? Did you take on any of the added challenges?
What have you for us, Parker? Did you take on any of the added challenges?
FOOL'S FEET
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2019
"I'll be requested by kings," said the shiny face of ambition, caught somewhere between a boy and a man. But the glint in his eye was ageless.
"You'll be an outcast."
"Princes will offer me untold wealth and honor," he continued, unhearing.
"You'll reject it all."
He rubbed his hands together unconsciously, unaware of how silly he looked, how small and unworthy. "My name will be known from the border of Darjil to the Jabob River and beyond."
"Where you will be unwelcome and hunted until the last of your days." The old man sighed. Ambition turned his head, the sigh finally catching his attention. Was the old one dying? Would he pass on the boots now?
"Master Eli...are you well?"
The grizzled beard, streaked white and grey and sandy-desert brown, twitched. Eli looked full at his apprentice. Looked in his soul through the undisguised eyes.
The boots would instruct him.
"I must go." Eli struggled to his feet. He could not rest. Not yet.
The apprentice's long eager fingers grasped an elbow, half helping, half clinging. "I'm going with you."
Eli shrugged. "Do what you must."
"You'll be an outcast."
"Princes will offer me untold wealth and honor," he continued, unhearing.
"You'll reject it all."
He rubbed his hands together unconsciously, unaware of how silly he looked, how small and unworthy. "My name will be known from the border of Darjil to the Jabob River and beyond."
"Where you will be unwelcome and hunted until the last of your days." The old man sighed. Ambition turned his head, the sigh finally catching his attention. Was the old one dying? Would he pass on the boots now?
"Master Eli...are you well?"
The grizzled beard, streaked white and grey and sandy-desert brown, twitched. Eli looked full at his apprentice. Looked in his soul through the undisguised eyes.
The boots would instruct him.
"I must go." Eli struggled to his feet. He could not rest. Not yet.
The apprentice's long eager fingers grasped an elbow, half helping, half clinging. "I'm going with you."
Eli shrugged. "Do what you must."
Great stuff, Parker! Thank you.
We would love to know what our readers think, so we invite you to share your comments. Also, please feel free to share your flash fiction stories with us.
Thank you for stopping by. Until next time!
We would love to know what our readers think, so we invite you to share your comments. Also, please feel free to share your flash fiction stories with us.
Thank you for stopping by. Until next time!
It is October (already!?) and we Quills are at it again. This time, the focus of our joint post is to share a book we loved, and read repeatedly, as a child. I don’t know about you, but it’s getting harder all the time for me to think back that far . . . In any case, for starters, I’m anxious to hear what my fellow Quills have for us.
Parker? What great read caught your fancy as a young one?
Parker? What great read caught your fancy as a young one?
“I can’t imagine a man really enjoying a book and reading it only once.”
― C.S. Lewis
I read and re-read many stories growing up. Some are still on my shelf today. Call it Courage, by Armstrong Sperry. Another is The Wolfling, by Sterling North, (best known for the children’s novel Rascal, a bestseller in 1963). It’s a coming of age story about ...
― C.S. Lewis
I read and re-read many stories growing up. Some are still on my shelf today. Call it Courage, by Armstrong Sperry. Another is The Wolfling, by Sterling North, (best known for the children’s novel Rascal, a bestseller in 1963). It’s a coming of age story about ...
Thank you, Parker.
Robin, I’m sure you’ve something wonderful for us. So, please do share!
Robin, I’m sure you’ve something wonderful for us. So, please do share!
I was born into family of bibliophiles. Probably the best thing that ever happened to me. No matter where I lived (like way out in the sticks), I always had places to go, people to see, and things to do. I found them first in the family bookshelves. The doors to whimsy surrounded me, and I was not afraid to open them and explore!
Thanks, Robin.
And now, for my turn ...
And now, for my turn ...
I’m just going to come right out and say it: I’m cheating this time. You see, there is a great, great work for children, that I wish I had read as a child, but alas, I did not. I did not read it until I was an adult. However, from the very opening words, I can say that this tale is not just for children. In many ways, it is most especially for adults. (This is probably true of any great “children’s classic," don't you think?) And for some reason, this story has been on my mind of late. (I suspect it is time that I re-read it ...)
My choice is Where the Red Fern Grows. I remember the first time I read this story, as a young-ish adult. I was grabbed from the opening lines. The now-grown Billy of the story comes upon some dogs fighting, one of which is “an old redbone hound.” Rawls says, “It’s strange indeed how memories can lie dormant in a man’s mind for so many years. Yet those memories can be awakened and brought forth fresh and new, just by something you’ve seen, or something you’ve heard, or the sight of an old familiar face.”
I guess when I first read this story, “young-ish” though I may have been, I was also old enough to appreciate the truth of that statement. The introduction continues with the now-grown Billy of the story bringing that old hound home, bathing him, and feeding him all he could eat. Then, comes this:
I guess when I first read this story, “young-ish” though I may have been, I was also old enough to appreciate the truth of that statement. The introduction continues with the now-grown Billy of the story bringing that old hound home, bathing him, and feeding him all he could eat. Then, comes this:
He slept all night and most of the next day. Late in the afternoon, he grew restless. I told him I understood, and as soon as it was dark, he could be on his way. I figured he had a much better chance if he left town at night.
That evening, a little after sundown, I opened the back gate. He walked out, stopped, turned around, and looked at me. He thanked me by wagging his tail.
With tears in my eyes, I said, “Your’e more than welcome, old fellow. In fact, you could’ve stayed here as long as you wanted to.”
I don’t like to make many grandiose, all-encompassing, statements, but honestly, I don’t see how anyone who has ever loved an animal can read this opening without crying their eyes out—at least not as an adult. A child could, perhaps, as a child wouldn’t have the experience to know the feelings that these few lines illustrate. In any case, for me, this is what The Red Fern Grows, is all about. Yes, it is a tale of a boy who wants two hunting dogs so badly, that he works and works for two long years to save the money he needs to buy them. (This, of course, is a lesson today’s youth is in dire need of learning.) And, yes, it is a story of waiting, and of loving, and of sharing. And yes, it is a story of loss. But for me, it will always be a story that evokes that painful, yet beautiful, nostalgic-like, bittersweet sort of feeling of having experienced something and then having lost it—even while retaining a life-long possession of it somewhere deep inside in the form of a memory that can (and does) bubble up at the most unexpected of times …
If you have not read this tale, I cannot recommend it highly enough. If your children have not read it, do yourself a favor, and get a copy to read with them. Oh yes, and do not wait another day, as you've memories to create.
If you have not read this tale, I cannot recommend it highly enough. If your children have not read it, do yourself a favor, and get a copy to read with them. Oh yes, and do not wait another day, as you've memories to create.
How about you? What are your favorite books from when you were a child?
This month we Quills are writing about some of our favorite book opening lines. This is more difficult than it may seem to be at first blush, as there are so many fascinating stories to choose from. Nevertheless ...
Let's see what Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies, has for us this time around. Robin?
The internet is full of lists of “best first sentences.” That opening line garners a lot of attention. It has a lot of work to do! It’s got to set the mood and draw the reader in. No hemming and hawing, blushing, or flailing around for something to talk about. (So I would totally fail as an opening line…)
Luckily, writers can devote a little time to figuring out that all-important greeting before someone opens the door. Er… book. I’m going to skip past the Usual Suspects and head straight to my own shelves. Oh, the hand-rubbing and gleeful expressions! I love rummaging through my books and I’m in the mood for a little questionable book-sniffing. So I’m going to stick with physical copies this go-round, which is strictly unfair to the digital part of the collection, but who’s the boss? I’m the boss!
Let’s dive right into something a little terrifying…
Luckily, writers can devote a little time to figuring out that all-important greeting before someone opens the door. Er… book. I’m going to skip past the Usual Suspects and head straight to my own shelves. Oh, the hand-rubbing and gleeful expressions! I love rummaging through my books and I’m in the mood for a little questionable book-sniffing. So I’m going to stick with physical copies this go-round, which is strictly unfair to the digital part of the collection, but who’s the boss? I’m the boss!
Let’s dive right into something a little terrifying…
For more, visit Robin's site at www.RobinLythgoe.com.
P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, always provides us with entertaining ideas. Unfortunately, he's out of commission for the moment, but I'll be sure to let you know when he returns ...
For more information, visit Parker at www.PSBroaddus.com.
And now, for my part.
And now, for my part.
I found this subject fun—and challenging, as there are so many great lines to choose from. In the end, I chose to go with a couple very well-known openings—followed by a lesser known line, namely (uh-oh, hear the self-promotion here!) one of my own. The reason for my last choice is that I worked very long and hard on the line, and in the end, am so thoroughly satisfied with it, that I’d like to share it with you (and, in truth, I can't think of a better time to do so).
Here is my first opening line.
Here is my first opening line.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. |  |
I chose this line because it so completely captures the spirit of the early 19th century (1813, to be exact) in which the marvelous title, was published. Also, the line seems so far from the early 21st century thinking for the younger crowd, that I imagine it must tickle the fancy of contemporary readers of that age. You see, I find that today’s young often seem to favor living a single life. That said, the pendulum may be swinging once again, as some young ones are discovering that perhaps it is good to have a life mate with whom one can share duties, responsibilities, difficulties—and the celebrations, accomplishments, and joys, that come with a life lived fully. (Perhaps this is the consequence of the parents of these young ones finally coming to appreciate that they’d like a bit of their own independence back, which is easier to come by when their children choose someone with whom to spend their future … Maybe?)
For my second line, I’ve chosen what might well be the most famous opening line of all time. Yes, it is an oldie—but these mere 60 words say a great deal about what passed before the beginning of this story, as well as of what is to come in the next pages. So here is the opening for a marvelous reading (and one well worth your time I might add!) .
For my second line, I’ve chosen what might well be the most famous opening line of all time. Yes, it is an oldie—but these mere 60 words say a great deal about what passed before the beginning of this story, as well as of what is to come in the next pages. So here is the opening for a marvelous reading (and one well worth your time I might add!) .
 | It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way. |
I’m profoundly interested in the history of the French revolution(s) and the vast differences between that history and the history of the U.S. revolution. Insofar as Dickens may have referenced the French history as a season of Darkness here, I think he was spot on.
Now, for my third opening line, which as I mentioned, is from one of my own stories. (For fun, I’m actually going to give you the first two sentences.) Here goes!
Now, for my third opening line, which as I mentioned, is from one of my own stories. (For fun, I’m actually going to give you the first two sentences.) Here goes!
 | It almost tickled, the way it ran down from behind her ear and across her neck before dripping from her hair, its crimson warmth collecting in a puddle before her. The pain nearly unbearable, and unable to move, as a weight pinned her to the floor, she watched the glistening ruby pool grow. |
I watched in my imagination, the scene that played out with this opening, over months and even years. When it finally came time to write it, my fingers set out before me, the highlights of what I had seen. From there, I painstakingly reviewed, played with, and revised, the line, repeatedly. The process was a long one, but in the end, I believe the opening captures the flavor I sought. What do you think?
If I had not included my own line here as my third choice, I might well have included either of the following quotes, also from terrifically good stories.
If I had not included my own line here as my third choice, I might well have included either of the following quotes, also from terrifically good stories.
Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
— Ana Karenina, Leo Tolstoy
Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.
— David Copperfield, Charles Dickens.
Finally, for the fun of it, I thought I’d share a couple opening lines for tales I’ve not read, but that I want to read because of these opening lines.
Once upon a time, there was a woman who discovered she had turned into the wrong person.
— When We Were Grownups, Anne Tyler
What???
I begin with writing the first sentence—and trusting to Almighty God for the second.
— The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentlemen, Laurene Sterne
Don't you want to know what comes next?
What do you think? What are your favorite opening lines?
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AuthorCheck out Patricia's blog articles, interviews of other authors and book reviews here. |
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