The Amazing Story Generator - A Prompt Ficlet

A friend of mine posed a challenge using "The Amazing Story Generator: Mix-And-Match Creative Writing Prompts" by Jason Sacher. The book has every page divided into three segments. You flip each randomly to create a three part sentence. This is what dear A. Catherine Noon shared on Coffeetime Romance forum:

1. Ignoring the advice of friends,
2: a temperamental sculptor
3: is tormented by vengeful spirits.

And here is my story (sorry it's a little long at 707 words):


The Sculptor

“We failed. It won’t burn. Pamela and I told you, Ian, you never should have painted that.” She pointed without looking at the lurid murder scene.

Ian turned to face his two guests, shadows under his eyes like bruises, almost darker than the brunette coif spiked by restless fingers. His furtive gaze darted from one sister to the other, then fell to the floor. Ian shook his head and threw out his long arms. “I thought if I painted it the scene would get out of my head.”

“And it did,” Pamela replied.

“At least partly,” her sister Patricia added.

“Like we warned you.”

“Is this another I told you so, Pamela? That doesn’t help me.” Their sad eyes met, the sisters holding hands like mourners seated for a funeral. Ian stopped pacing and folded to his tattered daybed across from the small couch. Both women saw how his fingers bunched the denim upon his thighs. “How do I get rid of them?”

“We don’t know,” they said in unison. After a pause, Patricia continued, “But I have an idea.”

“Patty!”

“Ian’s right, Pam. Our words aren’t helping him.”

“They would have,” Ian grunted, “if I’d heeded them originally. I won’t ask you to endanger yourselves.”

One of Ian’s early works tilted from a nearby shelf. The movement barely registered to anyone before the bust flew like a marble arrow toward Pamela’s head. She ducked with a squeal.

“Too late,” Pamela opined with a shaky laugh. “I guess you should tell him your idea now, Patricia.”

Silence and wide eyes were the only reply for long moments. Then, Patricia gave her proposal. Ian sat in stunned silence, noting Pamela’s agitation in the way she tugged on the tassels of her shawl.

One week later…

Ian never sculpted a full scene, before, let alone used color. He was a classicist, after all, and this endeavor took him out of his comfort zone of traditional stone media. The sisters walked around the one-half scaled scene composed of papier-mâché.

“It’s eerie,” Pamela breathed.

“You really captured the painting,” Patricia agreed. “How did you get it done so quickly?”

Sprawled on the little sofa, Ian squinted at each in turn. “You think they’ve let me sleep?”

Dropping his head back, he didn’t like the expression on Pamela’s face. He couldn’t read Patricia’s. Fatigue won over both fear and fascination. He closed his eyes, sighing.

“So they do want to move into the sculpture. That’s good!” Patricia enthused. “Then we’ll destroy it!”

Ian’s eyes flew open. Before he could voice his confusion, Pamela protested for him.

“That didn't work before, Patty. Why would now be any different? We already agreed to try a psychic shield around this three dimensional rendition.”

“A shield would have to be reconstructed on a regular basis,” Patricia said, waving her hand. “Ian would be back in danger as soon as something happened and we let it lapse. I’ve found an ancient spell we can use that will work.”

“Then I sculpted this for nothing,” Ian huffed, then sat straighter, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

Patricia tilted her head, hands across her heart. “You’ve had it rough.” Standing, she continued. “And no, this wasn’t for nothing. The painting was their entrance to the living world and the sculpture is their exit. We’ll cast the spell over both.”

In the desert, Ian thought the supernatural flames looked just like those for cooking on his grandmother’s gas stove. But the fuel, mostly incantations with some smelly physical components Ian didn’t try to identify, became exhausted long before the cold light extinguished. Of the art, there remained no sign. Sand turned to weirdly shaped glass, much of it shades of crimson and carmine.

Celebration was muted. The sisters trudged toward Ian’s Volkswagon Beetle. With an ever artistic eye, the sculptor palmed some of the small, more colorful chunks. Only much later would he recognize miniature fragments of the murder scene he painted one fateful day.

The ghosts left him in peace, no longer so much as screaming at him through sleepless nights. While he regretted never figuring out exactly how the spirits returned, let alone their identities or purpose, Ian kept the glass chunks until the end of his days.

-

Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge - Day Four...

Trailed

“This is nice,” I say, patting Virgil’s knee.

He grunts in a way that tells me my intrepid man is dissatisfied just sitting around the campsite. I take a deep breath. Dare I ask what he’d rather be doing? Dare I not?

I don’t want the dear man bored. Life is too short. And I’d much rather get off my backside than have him insist on going back to work. His father worked until the day he died and I want more for us. Besides, Virgil’s mother made me promise to someday make my husband retire and do the things of which she’d always dreamed.

Like camping for days at a time.

“You want to go for a walk?” I ask. “Or maybe take a drive?”

His face lights up, visibly erasing a decade off his age. I can’t help chuckling. The years have flown by, with plenty of amusing adventures sprinkled in despite his busy career.

“What?”

“I’m just remembering the time we got lost in that reserve.”

“Geez, how long ago was that?”

Standing, he stretches his arms toward the sky. I can hear those shoulders pop from here.

“Ten years. Can you believe it?”

His gaping expression is comical. I don’t laugh. The man’s eyebrows have grown into a thicket while the hair on his head recedes further every year, yet I still see the features of the teenager who stole my heart. I used to go blocks out of my way to intercept his walk home from school when the year between our ages saw him still in junior high when I started high school.

“Well, time moves on,” he opines. “And on that note, we have plenty of daylight left for a hike if we get going.”

I try not to groan, gathering myself from the comfortable seat. The exercise will be good for me. It only takes me a few minutes to gather some things.

“We’re going for a stroll, not an overnight excursion,” he teases.

It probably is overkill to take the first aid kit, but my mother’s voice always tells me a person can’t be too careful. Unfortunately, I’m so busy stocking my little backpack for unforeseen calamities that I forget my cellular phone. And Virgil didn’t even remember to bring his along on this camping trip.

We have a repeat of the decade before, getting lost for hours longer than we planned to be gone. But we do find our way to the road before dark. And I thought to take trail mix, so we didn’t even go hungry.

As I lay in my sleeping bag later that night, I imagine us laughing about this in another ten years.

***

Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge - Day Three...

"Beached"

I walked the shoreline while the sun rose, enjoying the quiet. It’s nice to just stand here now with the surf washing around my ankles. Virgil will be joining me soon, I hope.

Always considering him a morning person, I find it surprising that he seems to need more time to get motivated when we come here. Perhaps he just gets into a slower vacation groove. That’s fine by me. As long as we’re both relaxed and having fun, it’s all good.

“Gladys,” he calls, and I turn with a wave and a smile.

The corners of my lips fall slightly when I realize he’s carrying a surfboard across the sand. What in the dickens? He’s too old for that kind of nonsense. And I don’t feel like spending holiday time at the local hospital.

His eyes track over my expression. Instead of looking chagrined, he beams at me, his grin widening.

“Just kidding,” he says upon reaching me. “There are predators in these waters! But you’ll never guess who the board belongs to.”

I don’t get the chance to try. As if Virgil’s renewed laughter is a cue, the young couple we met back home a few weeks ago crests the stairs over the dune. Rick matches Virgil’s amusement. His young bride, Susan, rolls her eyes in sympathy toward me. We’ve both married a couple of jokers. She gestures for me to come closer.

“I’ve got coffee and muffins up here,” Susan calls. “Why don’t you join me?”

That’s all the invitation I need. My husband takes my hand and we start up the steps. He politely declines Susan’s offer, though, saying he wants to stay at the top of the stairs to watch Rick surf. I have a sneaking suspicion he’s planning to stay on a lookout for sharks.

My husband’s thoughtfulness warms my heart, though I soon become engrossed in conversation with the younger woman. She tells me that they delayed their honeymoon because of Rick’s job.

“But now I don’t mind so much. How neat to have found you here!”

I agree with her. We make plans to go souvenir shopping later in the day. For some reason, I find myself telling her about Virgil’s surprisingly languorous morning routine. Of course it beats talking about the shark attacks the area has been recently seeing.

“The only days he gets moving early are when we’ve made specific plans. It’s odd.”

“No, it’s not. We found Virgil up here by the pool and Rick asked why he wasn’t with you.”

“Oh?”

“He said he enjoys watching you, Gladys. Just don’t tell him I tattled.”

I won't. Thanking her for breakfast, I ask to borrow some of her sunscreen. Virgil's bald patch could use some protection.

***

Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge - Day Two...

Title: Treed

“You’re not serious,” I say to my husband, pointing upward. “We’re in no shape to climb that.”

“Sure we are,” he offers. “That couple just did it.”

He nods toward a pair barely out of their teens. They smile at his wayward enthusiasm. The gal looks at me and offers a thumbs up sign. I’m not sure if she is being sarcastic or just hiding pity. I feel a tug on my arm.

“Come on, honey.”

The young man holds up his camera. “If you make it to the top, I’ll take a picture of the two of you as proof.”

“You’re not going to want to stand around that long,” I reply, “though maybe you could wait here long enough to call an ambulance.”

Everyone laughs but me. Now my husband scoops my hand in his calloused palm. It’s my signal to stop arguing. Taking a deep breath, I turn toward his goal.

Looking up again I must admit that the very structure of this so-called tree tower is striking. Cedar shingles appear red-gold in the sunlight. But I would much rather admire it from here. Nonetheless, I take my first upward step.

We reach the first landing without too much gasping and moaning. Soon, though, my knees start to twinge. My man turns to look when I pull my hand free, his pace being just a little too fast for me. I lean against the rail and try to not to wheeze.

“Do you need to stop?”

“Just let me rest a moment.”

It really does rejuvenate me, though my joints soon begin popping upon each stair. Halfway up, he calls a halt. My dear hubby wipes sweat from his forehead and the motion causes his brows to spike in beetled disarray. I’d poke fun if I could catch my breath.

“You were right, Gladys.” He waves to the couple, telling them not to bother waiting. “We’re coming down, anyway.”

“Pose for me there,” the young fellow urges. “I can Photoshop you at the top from my computer.”

To my surprise, we end up exchanging email addresses. The picture turns out fine, if falsified. Our new friends made out better when we buy a state-of-the-art blender for their wedding three weeks later.

***

Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge - Accepted! Day One...

Thank you for the nomination to the Five Photos, Five Stores Challenge, Joan! I look forward to playing along. Your Joan Somers Design blog is a delight, by the way. So here is my first ficlet.

Title: Beached

“Where are you going? We shouldn’t leave the path,” I warn to my husband’s back. “You’ll fall in the river.”

Looking over his shoulder, he says, “No I won’t. Come see.”

My stubborn man, continuing to pick his way through the undergrowth, almost immediately disappears from view. After a pause at least no splash sounds, so I glance both directions for right of way before following him off the bike trail. I dressed for a paved stroll, not a wooded hike, and am cautious not to let my bare calves brush against the taller weeds.

I can’t help but roll my eyes. The last thing either of us needs is a tick infestation.

The incline turns out to be more gradual than I expected. Several paces bring me easily to his side. Instead of looking at the nearby rushing river, he points down.

Very clear in the mud I see raccoon tracks. I stoop to get a closer look at the fainter marks shaped almost like arrows with truncated shafts.

“See those claw tips? Those signs are from the cranes,” he explains, the birds being this area’s namesake.

I stand, smiling. “This is neat.”

“And it’s perfectly safe just like I said. In fact, we’re clearly still on the beaten path.”

I swat his shoulder. He gives me a comical flinch. Then bushy eyebrows bounce nearly into his receding hairline.

“How about we go skinny dipping?”

“How about we get on with our walk,” I retort, turning to grab a branch for support on my return.

“Spoil sport,” he mutters, following close behind.

***

Now, here are the rules:
1) Post a photo each day for five consecutive days.
2) Attach a story to the photo. It can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, or a short paragraph. It’s entirely up to the individual.
3) Nominate another blogger to carry on the challenge. Your nominee is free to accept or decline the invitation.

And here are my two nominees:

Keith, the wonderful flash fiction writer of the Keith's Ramblings blog.

Drusilla Barron, who inspires me mightily with her Loved As If blog.

-

A Free Read

It's amazing to me how simple internet research can lead one to such unexpected finds.  This phenomenon is my favorite part of the world wide web, much more so than all the abundant social media.

Today, I found a formerly unknown tale by author Conrad Aiken because I looked up the biography of late actor David Carradine from a cult favorite of mine, "Sundown: Vampires in Retreat".  Mr. Carradine starred in 1971's "The Secret Farmhouse" on Rod Serling's anthology series "Night Gallery".  That evening's double episode included an adaptation of Mr. Aiken's story "Silent Snow, Secret Snow".

Whew...  Convoluted enough for you?

Anyway, I thank "The Virginia Quarterly Review" for providing the following free read.  I hope you take a few minutes and enjoy this chilling gem.

Silent Snow, Secret Snow

-

Flash Fiction - A Short Story Packed into One Chapter

Marmalade Jam

Sometimes, bitter can change to sweet. You just have to open yourself to life’s possibilities.

Carol put down her book and looked at her hands. The fingers were straight and strong, but the skin looked thin and fragile.

“Marmalade, how did I get so old? I was an old bitty before you were a kitten.”

The cat blinked sleepy golden eyes and nodded her regal, orange head to honor her mistress. The fat tail bounced languidly against the carpet. Any lover of felines would recognize a happy, healthy cat. Carol smiled.

Trying to get back into her reading, Carol realized what was nagging her. She put the book down again and stretched.

“You’re probably hungry, aren’t you? Let’s get you some canned food, Marm.”

She rose without so much as a wince, grateful for the martial arts class that kept her limber. Carol had realized a long time ago that it was never too late to start anything. While she might never be a black belt, she felt better nearing eighty than at forty.

“What’ll it be? Do you want ocean whitefish or chicken medley? I swear, your food sounds better than some of the stuff I ate before my writing took off.”

Carol listened to the sound of the surf through the open window as she held two cans of cat food down for Marmalade’s interested inspection. Whichever one ended up being marked with a cheek would be the cat’s dinner.

“Chicken it is.”

A knock at her door straightened Carol from her task with a start. She couldn’t imagine who would be calling. Setting the empty can on the counter, she whirled toward the sound. From the end of the hall she made out a compact figure.

“I’ll be right there.”

A young man’s voice called, “Mom?”

Now Carol had been a lot of things in her life but a mother wasn’t one of them. Intrigued, she picked up her pace. Now she could make out a duffel bag being swung upon the narrow shoulder. She unlocked and opened the door.

“This is Mrs. Youngblood,” she announced. “Carol Youngblood. Can I help you?”

“Oh. This isn’t the Negalis residence?”

He was obviously of Asian descent, with effeminate Japanese features and friendly brown eyes. Carol didn’t recognize the name.

“I’m sorry. I’ve lived here about a year but don’t know who owned the house before. I got it anonymously through a broker.”

Just then, an orange streak flew out the door. Alarmed, the young man looked at her.

“Is that your cat?”

“Yes! And he shouldn’t be outside! He doesn’t have any of his shots for that, let alone flea prevention treatment.”

“I’m Hiro,” the young man said. “Let me get him for you.”

He dropped his bag and darted off her porch. The cat made a beeline for the neighbor’s sandbox with Hiro hot on his trail.

Hiro never did catch the cat. Instead, he tripped over a child’s toy and landed in a heap. Carol resisted the urge to laugh, not certain if he was really hurt. She raced to the groaning man’s side.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m… how did you get here so fast?”

“I ran. You could have been seriously injured.”

“You’re not even out of breath,” he panted.

“This was nothing compared to my classes. Sensei Yamamoto works his students, even us old folks, very hard.”

“You’re in martial arts?”

Nodding, she helped Hiro stand and together they made it back to her home. A quick phone call to her attorney would solve the mystery of what happened to Hiro’s family. In the meantime, he’d dusted himself off and found himself facing her blunt questions.

“What happened with your family? Did you have a falling out? Forgive me if I’m being forward. I’ve learned that life is too short to do anything short of getting to the point.”

“That’s okay. It’s refreshing, Mrs. Younglbood.”

“Please, call me Carol, Hiro.” A scratch at the back door interrupted her. “Excuse me but it seems my wayward cat has made her way home.” She introduced Marmalade, who entered and resumed eating at her food bowl as if nothing had happened.

“Does that happen a lot?” Hiro asked, laughing.

“Honestly, no. I think someone wanted us to meet in more than passing.”

“Someone?”

“God, for lack of a better name. Would you still be here if you hadn’t just about been knocked senseless?”

“No. I’d be looking for someplace to stay. But… Why?”

“You look like you need a friend.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Then tell me about your family. Say what you were considering before we were so rudely interrupted,” she continued, giving Marmalade a mock angry look.

“They kicked me out when they learned that I’m gay. Well, Dad did.”

“Oh? I’m so sorry. And they moved without telling you?”

“They didn’t know where to find me, but then I read in the newspaper that my father died.”

“That’s horrible! We need to get you home. How about some tea?”

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

Within an hour, Carol learned where Hiro’s family had moved. Before he left, impressed by her agility, the amused Asian American arranged to accompany her to her next karate class and fill out an application.

“I think I’ll be staying, Carol, thanks to you and Marmalade.”

“And I think you’re the inspiration for my next story. I hope you don’t mind.”

“You’re a writer?”

“CW Youngblood, at your service.”

“I’ve read all your books!”

“Then let me pour another cup of tea and we’ll drink to Marmalade.”

Come Enjoy a Read

The Writer's Retreat