Prompt (from Daily Prompt): You walk into your home to find a couple you don’t know sitting in your living room, eating a slice of cake. Tell us what happens next.
The Duke, as a much younger and happier man, opened the door to his new home. The inside smelled immediately of well-washed wood. The rains had been heavy of late and the clean water must have soaked through the house all the way from the roof down to the wooden beams.
The town was still all abuzz from the Duke’s wedding. Such holy joinings were met with a reverence not seen anywhere else in the world. Furth used to be a town that had a lot more going for it. It made train parts, of all things. Strange for a town so small with barely a factory to call its own. Little workshops and busy, taut-with-muscle arms took the place of steam-driven machines. Sure, it took the workshops weeks to craft something that could be churned out in a handful of hours elsewhere but the products of Furth weren’t just pieces of machines, they were works of art.
So with every new matrimonial joining came the idea of a new rebirth for the town. It was a particularly good omen if the Furth native married outside of the town, as the Duke did. This, of course, meant that the town had to celebrate the whole affair for days on end. The drunk littered the town like strewn bodies even now, three days after the wedding.
The Duke shut his door behind him. Hopefully the wedding cake was still good. Maybe all of the damp air helped keep it moist. Actually, the cake was sitting out on the coffee table. It had a conspicuous chunk missing, cut like a wound, facing the two occupied chairs in the front room. A man and a woman sat in unseasonably thick clothing, fur collars and all. They ate the cake from golden china plates that the Duke never remembered having.
“It’s an awful big cake,” the man said. “Seems a lot for two people to eat.”
“Doesn’t seem to bother us,” the woman said with a little laugh. “I hope you don’t mind that we saw ourselves in.”
The Duke, against all logic and reasoning, sat himself down across from the pair. In a town as small and congenially conjoined as Furth, this wasn’t exactly the strangest collection of people found in someone’s house.
“You don’t know who we are, do you?” the man asked.
“If I did,” the Duke said, “I would’ve greeted you both properly.”
“And yet still he remains confident, unfazed,” the woman said, leaning over to the man as if she meant her coy speech to be a whisper.
“I’ve heard of much stranger people and things going on in people’s homes around these parts,” the Duke said. “Right after a wedding, ambling houseguests are as dependable as the spring rain.”
“Pastor Abelard’s trouble with the rancher and his cows certainly gives credence to that,” the man said, sitting back. “I’ve heard plenty of stories of wayward people but never so much as a head of livestock. Your wedding will go down in the town’s history for more than one reason.”
The Duke leaned forward onto his elbows. He pulled the curtain away from the window and squinted towards the man. His face was mostly hidden by a large three-cornered black hat which was lined with dark orange fur around the lining.
“You’re not a resident,” the Duke said. “I’ve lived here my whole life but I’ve never seen somebody like you. Unless you’re some traveler that Phil never showed the rest of us.” Philip was so very proud of his inn. Every guest he had, whether they were just staying for the night or for half of their lives, would be given the grand tour of the town by him alone. And nobody ever piped up in disappointment. Which may have been because Phil would never really shut up the whole tour.
“Yes,” the man said.
“Yes to what?”
“To your question.”
The woman laughed, hiding her mouth behind her hand (though her gums were shockingly visible as her lips curled away. Just like how the Duke’s own wife laughs. Her face was also obscured by a huge dark hat, one that sat at an angle that spat in the face of gravity. A thin black veil protected her face like chainmail. “Don’t torture him, my dear.”
The man sat back, crossing his arms. The Duke uncrossed my arms and sat up straight. “I’m a traveler,” he said. “But Phil never had to show me around town when I lived here my whole life.”
In one smooth, outright regal, movement, the man removed his hat and tucked it under his arm.
The Duke fell back into the chair, his breath scrambling away with fear in its weak little heart. The man across from the Duke has his face, he wears his hair, and he smiles just as the Duke would.
The Duke’s brown hair was auburn on the smiling man and his skin is frightfully pale compared to the Duke’s well-worked tan. A long scar wound in a circle around the man’s eye— the golden one. The Duke’s own grass-green eyes shrink back into his skull. Now, this mysterious visitor’s only still-green eye looks sick, the colour of infected skin. The green eye winks at the Duke. The golden eye’s pupil disappears into a molten sea. One blink and its back.
And suddenly the Duke felt more at home than he ever had in his entire life.
The Duke’s wife comes in through the front door. She sees the guests and smiles, her gums showing frank and resplendent as her lips curl away. And the Duke smiles back at her for a reason that sounds like a song in his head but has a feeble scream at its center.
I should compile these little mini-stories I make on this site (and boy there’s a loooot of them out there) into some kind of compilation. What are those called? Oh yeah. Books. That’s what they’re called.
Because it was such a good idea last time, I’ve decided that I’ll be doing another Miniature Narrative Project for December. This time, though, I’m going to be using The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt. I’ll do an entry at least once every three days but probably not a whole lot more than that. And each entry will be related to the last AND be related to the Daily Prompt entry.
As for word count, I’ll keep it flexible but I’ll try to keep it under 800 or something. That way I don’t just lurch into a full narrative at the last second like I did last time.
So, I guess we’ll just see where this goes.
Prompt: “What is your favorite sweet thing to eat? Bread pudding? Chocolate chip oatmeal cookies? A smooth and creamy piece of cheesecake? Tell us all about the anticipation and delight of eating your favorite dessert. Not into sweets? Tell us all about your weakness for that certain salty snack.”
Title: Bright Like a New Day
Word Count: 743
If I shined my buttons any more, I’d steal the sun’s thunder right from under it. My silly mother and father just don’t understand. There’s only three people’s approval that I need. Mine, that devilishly handsome man in the mirror looking back at me, and the Duke of the Great Chamber. Or just the Duke. He and I are on a first-name basis, of course.
Perhaps today I’ll finally make him aware of that. After I come back from my royal mission. For the Duke is hungry and his sweet tooth must be satiated.
“We can’t just move a whole town,” the foreman whines. “And there are people who live here. What about them?”
“There’s plenty of room in the capital,” I say. “They can all live closer to their beloved Duke.”
A moment of silence creeps by us. The foreman pulls his collar (which is very official— brass buttons and the noble crest and everything) away from his throat, never minding the winter chill. He must think it a noose. With a heavy sigh, he hefts his axe.
Deep below, still in the quite of the early morning snow, the town lies unaware that is destiny is about to be realized. The Duke will have his nation and he will eat so he may build that land for another day. I kick the flanks of my horse; I shall be the first to tell those in the sleepy valley of the change to their lives. Perhaps my buttons will be like a beacon to them and turn them from townsfolk to pilgrims on a quest for a better, purer home.
The town was emptied, its people, whether they were crying or smiling, were sent south to the capital, and each building was turned to splinters and gravel. Yet still I saw doubt in the foreman’s eyes. Even as we brought the caravan carrying those remnants of schools, churches, and homes back to the capital, his eyes were downcast. Perhaps he did not so fervently believe yet? Or maybe it was the thought of bandits that troubled him. I could not say but troubled with it no more. If all went well, I would never work with the disagreeable man and his unshaven face ever again.
For all the next day, the Great Chamber churched and belched black smoke into the snowy sky. Sugar was mixed with wood and stone and brick. Honey, water, flour, and whatever else the Duke had a hunger for were poured in and reshaped into a great red-brown tar-like lake. It almost looked like pudding from where I stood (at one of the many balconies scattered about the room. I was summoned, you see, to observe the conception of this newest batch). Our Duke has a sweet tooth indeed.
A tremendous glass room, rimmed with iron and casting light like a lantern suspended from heaven, hangs high above the pool and machinery of the Great Chamber. Up there, shadows and form are ideas, ideals, always shifting as if part of some spectacular fire. Only the Duke lives up there and only he determines what does or does not shape.
“My hunger,” the Duke thunders (though I think this is still but a whisper from him) in his thousand voices, “is the cement of our nation. The town of Huntsman’s Valley has brought one-hundred and thirty six new residents to our growing capital. And with this newest batch, the largest of its kind to ever be wrought, our nation shall grow evermore.”
There’s a pause without silence. The Duke’s words echo and bounce around all the shined steel walls.
“Purdon,” he says to me. Me. “I would like you to watch as I take the first bite. Note that with all of these balconies, none of my ministers nor officials are here. You alone have been summoned to watch this new age be ushered in.”
For just a moment, the swirling light in the heavenly glass room seem to all focus on me. I wish I could smile. But I’m far too overwhelmed, the strength of my body leaving my skin but empowering me soul. I can’t turn my eyes away as the globe comes down from the ceiling on chains and pulleys and the glass opens up like a blossom in spring. If only those simple folk of Huntsman’s Valley could see what their sacrifice has created.
They would probably weep as I did then. And still do.
<a href="https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/pour-some-sugar-on-me/">Pour Some Sugar on Me</a>
So that was weird. Similar to the last one (link way at the top of the entry), this story might end up being somewhere in-between an over-detailed children’s tale and one of those childish-seeming tales that actually has bizarre, dark undertones. Like Adventure Time or something. Except for the whole nuclear war things…
Looks like this is going to be one of the last Flash! Friday’s. Like, period I guess. So this’ll be one of the last times I scramble incoherently to scribble out something that looks good as of right now that I’m sure I’ll cringe at later.
But hey, it’s still fun!
Speaking of which, have fun~
Guidelines: Must include a dragon and use photo prompt (on page)
Title: In the Dragon’s Shadow
Word Count: 160
The Dragon’s still there, lying atop my city’s skyscrapers like it’s His mound of gold. And also like we’re his food, part of a scurrying platter. History would make it hard to disagree with that.
But I took it upon myself, to continue the fight. Yet I’m no dragon-slayer. I fight against the march of nature blessing the strong and forgetting the weak. My sword is chalk, my armour is darkness, my foe-slaying arrows are memories. My battlefields are the front doors of homes made empty by His hunger, where I inscribe lonely epitaphs.
Tonight, I fight the hardest battle and inscribe the most painful epitaph of my life, through a labyrinth of smoke and ash and back to the house where I sat on the porch all night with someone I had wanted to live my life with since the day I saw her eyes that blazed with heaven’s fire throughout history.
I was thinking the story would almost be like Reign of Fire with the dragons in the modern world. Except, you know, not as cripplingly stupid. Really, the first 20 minutes of that movie was fine. It was everything else that was wrong!
WordPress seems to think that by having 199 published posts and 1 private one, I’ve actually published 200 posts. Well, it’s wrong. And to prove that its wrong, I’m going to give it something it never expected to see- a Dark Souls Lorequest. As you’ll read in the actual entry, Dark Souls and I have an awkward past, to say the least, but that doesn’t mean I can’t go completely nonsensical with how I try to dig lore out of it!
If anything, it means the exact opposite.
So, this was something that I’ve been wanting to talk about for a long, long time. See, Dark Souls and I have a relatively brief but storied past. I should really just make a blog post on that game to try to explain exactly why I have the mass of confused and tangled feelings that I have for the game but that… well, it would be a huge pain in my rear. Like, a colossal one. It would be much more natural to just record the whole thing vocally and not worry about transcribing down every word. Plus, my friend Alec (who helped to develop this Gwyn’s Wife theory with me) would probably love to contribute too, since he’s of a similar mindset. That mindset being that Dark Souls is… good. Not great, not amazing. Good. Alec didn’t find too much enjoyment out of it and stopped before he completed the game. Meanwhile I found the game, of all things, easy. Easy enough to bore me midway through NG+. So I stopped and now when I play the game, I just do it to wander around and dress up in ridiculous outfits.
And let’s the honest, Shadow of the Colossus is better for that, amirite? Yaimrite.
So, onto the theory!
Alright, so pretty much everybody realizes that Solaire is the fabled Firstborn of Gwyn. It’s pretty much a universally-accepted fact amongst the community (although, there are still a few defenders for Andre of Astora). We’re going to be referencing that ‘fact’ throughout this. For those of you unfamiliar, the Firstborn of Gwyn is an enigmatic character who wielded the power of sunlight and was a god of war in Anor Londo. However, “acting foolishly,” (Ring of the Sun’s Firstborn), he was banished and wiped from history. Because his dad is a huge donkey.
Additionally, I’m going to be fusing all of this with another theory of mine— that Dark Sun Gwyndolin’s snakes are signs of corruption by the Primordial Serpent. Hence his connection to Frampt even though, as we see with the Dark Lord ending, the Primordial Serpents are all shown to be raging lunatics and servants of evil. This would also explain why he was so shunned, to some degree. Or just, and again this is my own interpretation here, his dad was just a massive jerk.
So, I propose that Anastasia of Astora is the disgraced wife of Gwyn. Yes, the one underneath Firelink Shrine who can’t say anything.
To start off, it’s shown that gods are indeed born in Dark Soul’s world. Gwyndolin’s robe says, “The power of the moon was strong in Gwyndolin, and thus he was raised as a daughter. (also, what does moon power have to do with being a daughter? Gwynevere has an affinity for sunlight and is a daughter.) In other words, yes, the divine are born rather than simply being omnipresent (it’s debatable if the Lords are even omnipresent. I’m trying my best to not have a meltdown about the infamous Allfather Lloyd right now and it’s barely working!). Oh and Gwynevere was married off to “Flame God Flann (whoever the heck that is),” in accordance with the Ring of the Sun Princess’ item description.
But hey, where IS Anastasia in Anor Londo then? Gwynevere’s cathedral shows Gwyn, herself, and a space where the Firstborn used to be.
OR IS IT? I would like to put forward that the Firstborn actually was not supposed to be in that location on that empty plinth. Instead, I think that Gwyndolin was supposed to be there and all mention of the Firstborn was removed from Anor Londo. For, if the Firstborn was indeed first-born, he would be the elder of both Gwynevere and Gwyndolin. And if we presume that gods aren’t just born mature adults then the statue of Gwnivere in her cathedral wouldn’t have been built until she was a fully-grown adult. Oh and she would preferably have to be an adult because she had an entire freaking cathedral built to herself. So, this may mean that Solaire was exiled from Anor Londo before said cathedral was built. As such, the open plinth was left open for Gwyndolin.
However, as we all know, Gwyndolin was raised away from the public eye. Probably because of the whole ‘snakes’ situation. And his dad was a massive wad. So, the plinth was left open.
A little bit more background information before we go on with the actual theory (presented in a truncated narrative format!) The statues that have puzzled players to no end, those that show a large robed woman holding a child that is, in turn, holding a sword, can only be representing the Firstborn and his mother. Their close proximity to Firelink Shrine, the Undead Parish, and the Warriors of Sunlight Shrine make it pretty clear that, despite this still just being a theory, it makes a tremendous amount of sense. The robed appearance of the mother holding the child is… an interesting one, however. And I think this can be explained in two different ways.
A: Gwynevere got her fashion sense from her mother and chose to wear hooded robes (albeit with significant cleavage enhancements). Meaning, Anastasia always dressed that way and the statues of her holding a baby Solaire were made in honour of the birth of a new god of the Great Lord. Or:
B: The statue was made post-exile of both Anastasia and Solaire by those who remember them. A narrative theme (if there’s any at all in Dark Souls [any narrative, I mean— zing]) in Dark Souls is the deconstruction of legends. Such as making the Lords the easiest damn fights in the whole game and making Seath, the Lord’s trump card in the war against the dragons an utter raving lunatic (which may pr may not be a Moonlight Greatsword stealth pun). So, if somebody constructed the statues after both Anastasia and the Firstborn’s fall from grace, the craftsmen were probably working off of a legend and not concrete fact. Which is a huge roundabout way to say: The statue’s placements make sense relative to Anastasia’s resting place and her traveling clothes.
Traveling clothes, you say? Why yes! By presenting the meat of this theory in a semi-narrative format, I hope to explain such mysteries! So here we go already.
Anastasia, the Lady of Dawn, was very close to her firstborn child. Creatively named the Firstborn, he was both of his parent’s favourites. However, after the birth of Gwynevere but before the birth of Gwyndolin, an incident now lost to history disgraced the Firstborn. Gwyn made the difficult decision to exile his firstborn son, casting him down into the mortal world. Anastasia was distraught over this decision and her resentment for her husband began to grow.
This was only made worse when her second son, Gwyndolin, was born. Being frail of body and feminine in constitution, Anastasia knew he could never replace her dear Firstborn. The snakes growing from his body was also a bad omen that Anastasia couldn’t ignore. As time passed, she grew more hateful of her child being raised in secret. Eventually, she saw that the snakes were not a simple sign of defect, but of a much darker corruption. She became aware that the opening to the Abyss caused by Manus over in Ooacle was instigated by a Primordial Serpent. Fearing Anor Londo’s corruption and Gwyn’s inaction towards his clearly-doomed child (when he had early banished the Firstborn so easily), Anastasia plotted to reveal her son to the world. This was made all the worse for her when her daughter was married off to the aloof Flame God Flann and Gwyn left, without even a farewell to his wife, to rekindle the First Flame. Her own resentment for Gwyndolin being unable to replace her Firstborn and her hate for her own husband fueled her in no small part in her decision. Indeed, she could almost be seen to act out of spite against the memory of Gwyn.
Anastasia was able to determine that a man fitting the description of her Firstborn had been seen wandering throughout Astora in the mortal world. So, stealing away into the night (figuratively since Anor Londo doesn’t seem to like the nighttime too much), Anastasia donned the robes of a simple cleric and began to search Astora for her beloved child. Her goal was to find the Firstborn first and ensure he was protected when agents of divine vengeance eventually came for her head once she exposed her son to the mortals, an act of the highest blasphemy. Although, it’s interesting to remember that by this point, many of the gods would have fled from Anor Londo and the world was being ravaged by the undead, so it’s a mystery as to who exactly would listen to the incognito Anastasia when she told them about Gwyndolin.
However, Velka and her Blades of the Darkmoon caught wind of her plans before they could be put into effect. Anastasia managed to evade the agents for a time and even escaped to Lordran, where she heard that her son was attempting to fulfill the Undead Prophecy.
As a quick aside: I personally think that Velka is the main guiding force in Dark Souls, appearing as the huge raven that takes you to Lordran, being the narrating voice throughout the game, creating the Prophecy of the Undead to take vengeance on the mad Lords, and placing the doll in your cell for you to retrieve and visit Priscilla with. I might do a shorter Lorequest on that later.
Confronted in what later be called Firelink Shrine, Anastasia was finally corned by the Blades of the Darkmoon. Velka, understanding her need to be in the shadows to orchestra coming events, left the Blades in Gwyndolin’s hands. As such, it was his task, as a show of loyalty and power as the last god in Anor Londo, to punish his mother for her blasphemy. And so, the agents of the Blades of the Darkmoon defeated Anastasia in combat and silenced her godly powers.
To add insult to injury, Anastasia had her divine soul infused with humanity and had her legs slashed. Her white robes were singed black and covered with ash as the Lady of Dawn became the Ash Maiden. Bound beneath the earth and kept close to the spot where her husband sacrificed himself (probably a move by Gwyndolin to reinforce to his mother just how important Gwyn was and how much he tried to save the world, if not himself and his family), Anastasia was doomed to become a guardian of the bonfires that represented the sparks of a much greater fire that her husband burned for and with.
That’s the theory, anyway. Of course, I have no way to prove that any of this happened (like most of what happens in Dark Souls lore- zing) but if Anastasia was traveling under an assumed identity and/or in disguise, it’s possible that history just never chose to remember her on her mortal adventures. Though I can’t really explain why a couple of the statues of her and Solaire, two disgraced gods, would still be standing. I’m just going to mulligan that one, I think. But, there’s also a handful of smaller details that can be gleaned from the story above.
The Velka-themed miracle called Vow of Silence is used to disable all magic casting in an area. Not only would that declaw a divine being by removing their ability to use miracles and the like but the word “silence” alongside Anastasia’s muteness is worth nothing. Interesting, even after having her voice restored, she says, “…Forgive me…I am impure, my tongue never intended for restoration…Please, if you have any heart…Leave me be…I wish not to speak…” Not like I can blame her, with the huge crow standing near her at all times.
1.5. Interesting though, Anastasia remarks that she wishes to, “die human,” and be free of the curse of the undead. I take this to mean that she wants to die without turning hollow so she can be closer to her beloved Firstborn after death since he too is just a mere human now.
After Anastasia’s soul is returned to her from Lautrec and the first Lord Soul is deposited into Firelink Altar, she instantly kindles the Firelink Shrine bonfire to maximum strength. Since (as far as I know) bonfires are indeed tiny First Flames, given that they revert the time stream back to normal and allow you to channel souls to empower yourself, Anastasia’s power over them in conjunction with a Lord Soul makes sense. Given that she’s Gwyn’s wife, she has a connection the Lord Souls, even if she isn’t a Lord herself. By returning a familiar power to a familiar location (the place where her husband descended down into the Kiln), Anastasia’s power would have also increased.
Anastasia’s soul makes mention of her imprisonment, “Was the Ash Maiden locked in this dark prison for some transgression, or by her own will?” I think the former is true. She was crippled so she couldn’t leave her cave but also crippled so she couldn’t bring havoc to the world and exposing her son as a snake-wearing bastard. Her attempt to find her disgraced now-mortal son also probably gets tallied against her. Her robes also make mention of her maiming: “Perhaps its former wearer (referring to Anastasia’s death at the hands of Lautrec) was maimed to prevent escape?”
I can’t entirely place this idea of mine, but I think it’s worth nothing that Lautrec takes Anastasia’s sole to Anor Londo, inside of Gwynevere’s cathedral.
Anastasia being known as “from Astora” shows a connection with Solaire’s own relationship with the place. It provides evidence for them both spending lots of time there before eventually moving on to Lordran.
The crow’s (thus, Velka’s) constant vigil over the Shrine shows that even now Anastasia is being watched. Her muteness at the game’s beginning is so she could not spread her blasphemy to your ears. Additionally, she still barely even talks once given the ability to again. That’s because mama Velka’s watching! Then again, you can just kill Gwyndolin and his stupid snakes anyway, regardless if you hear it from Anastasia or not. Anarchy wins again.
Interestingly, if Anastasia is better off dead for the good for everybody, I always thought that Gwyndolin’s Darkmoon bounty on Lautrec could be a hint that he still cares for his mother. Or he’s just really into his job and doesn’t care who needs avenging. OR he just wants her to live out eternity while being miserable.
Here’s another funny note. Lord’s Blade Ciaran expresses disdain for humans, saying, “Hmph, you humans… Always taking what you please. Then, I shall do the same,” if you choose to attack her while she mourns over Artorias’ grave. Which is totally metal, by the way. And her armour is totally worth it. Anyway, it shows that there is a feeling of distaste amongst the more godly folk of Lordran. A theory was kicked around a while back citing that people like Ornstein and Artorias are so much larger than the player character because they’re A: Not human and B: In a state of being that gives them much more power than a human. In other words, even the servants of the divine are notably separate from humans. Now, if we look at Oswald and what he says about humanity, namely, “Tis only human to commit a sin *freakish laughter,” we see that humanity not only has a reputation for weakness but also for sin.
My, how fitting for a disgraced god! Condemned into a human form like her dearest son and meant to bear a soul of “swarms of humanity” in her chest.
I think that’s all I got for this theory. If I remember anything else later, I’ll add it as a footnote at the bottom. For right now, though, I’ll just let this almost-totally groundless and baseless theory based off of a botched text conversation between Alec and I (where I accidentally insinuated that Anastasia was Gwyn’s wife and we realized it might not be that insane after all [we were probably wrong in thinking that, though]) stew on the internet for a bit.
Oh and as a sidenote, Seath didn’t make Priscilla by having sex (consensual or otherwise) with Gwynevere. Because that theory reeks of grimderp and 2edgy4me ballyhoo.
Untilwe meet again, Questers!
I feel like I should do at least one more section on Dark Souls but, like Majora’s Mask, I really don’t have much to say beyond what I already have. Everything else is either pretty well-known (Solaire being the Firstborn) or something I’ve already kind of talked about (Velka’s involvement in the story). So we’ll see. You know what I really need to do, though? Update the freaking Lorequest page so its at least somewhat relevant!
But that takes woooooork.
Good luck, you brave writer (and gamer) folk!
Pictures courtesy of ME. Since I got my game capture up and running for an afternoon.
Based on real events from last night. Filming football games takes a lot of mettle, I assure you. Especially when it’s 40 degrees and windy.
Title: Live Wire
Genre: Almost Nonfiction
Word Count: 100
The football stadium thrums with life. Our video feed, however, does not.
“We’re live in five minutes, people. Pick up the pace.” My boss tenses over his keyboard like a turtle under attack. The cold inside comes his temper.
“Page?” Someone asks. “Did we forget her?”
“Crap,” my boss said. “She had our video cable.”
“I’m right here,” Page said.
“No, I mean the cable.”
“I guess I’m able,” Page says, chewing her lip. “I signed up for this, didn’t I?”
“The video cable.”
The crowd outside roars. Football must be a huge deal to some people.
Boy, when it rains it really pours doesn’t it? It always seems like whenever I actually have free time, there’s a thousand new things that I discover that come crawling out of the ground like zombies. The football filming I referenced in the story is one such 12 hour roadblock/zombie.
Unemployment is strangely liberating in the opportunities it provides.
Title: “Trains, Planes, and Automobiles.”
Prompt: “You’re going on a cross-country trip. Airplane, train, bus, or car? (Or something else entirely — bike? Hot air balloon?)”
Short answer: Train.
Long Answer: TRAIN.
I love trains, always have. As a child, I wanted to be a train conductor as my dream job. All those stupid kids wanting to be astronauts and doctors and stuff. Me, I just wanted to ride trains. There’s something utterly delightful about riding a train. It’s not so claustrophobic or security-obsessed as a plane and it’s not nearly so loud or disorienting. You get to see the countryside zip past you without having to drive or do any real work on your own. It’s a magical kind of feeling for me, to be honest. I usually take a trip down to Chicago once every two months or so (depends, sometimes its more like once a month) and I always look forward to the train rides going down there and coming back. I love listening to the other passenger’s conversations (which is like eavesdropping but I almost immediately forget what was said a day or two later [unless its drunk teenagers/college kids. That stuff’s gold in word form]) and letting the whole of the visible world roll by.
Which also means I actually get to look at the towns and people as we pass them. Gives me a bit of a perspective shift when I see all of the places I pass in a train, even just doing down to Chicago. The main thing I’ve realized about this all is that the world is really freaking big.
Like, there are three things I don’t get from people:
When asked, “Did it all seem to go quickly?” about my college career, my answer of “heck no,” usually surprises people. I mean, four years in which I radically changed (for the better [?]) as a person alongside making all-new friends and learning something new every single day, can hardly pass in a wink. Freshman year seems a lifetime ago already.
2. Being told that, because of the internet, the world seems so much smaller now. If anything, the world’s bigger now than ever before. When you go onto Wikipedia and realize that there are thousands (if not millions) of articles that’s just extremely truncated information on incredibly complex and complicated topics, you can kind of realize just how giant the world is. Or how going from Illinois to India by plane takes the greater part of a day? Realizing how long a day really is and how fast you’re going in a plane and the world just grows exponentially in size in my head.
3. No, inquisitive old people, I never went to any sports games while at college. Except for half a basketball game once. Which was actually pretty fun. Still! Do I look like a sportsy person to you?
Fun Fact: I want my wedding to be a train. One with multiple cars so the reception can be held and then the food and all that can be in a different room and then we can even sleep on it. Since I’ve always wanted to do that. I’ll just have to convince my partner to be okay with having a less-than-traditional wedding night.
Besides, then I can say to my partner, “I never want to get off of our crazy train.”
Provided the entire audience isn’t killed with the blunt trauma of that pun, I’d consider that line al
<a href="https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/trains-planes-and-automobiles/">Trains, Planes, and Automobiles</a>
Is it normal to become really sleepy and distracted all the sudden when reading something that you’re totally not interested in? Like, even if its a three-sentence-long (and not MY kind of paragraph-long sentences, either) email? Because boy does it happen a lot to me.
Honestly? It’s practically Halloween and the picture for this week has tentacles and sunken stone remnants in it. Of course I’m going Lovecraftian!
Title: Prometheus of the Depths
Word Count: 100
Tip your hat to the man on the dock
Lest horrid fog find you on the loch…
Supposedly he’s been there, smelling of fish and death, since Herbert’s founding. It would be a beautiful town if not for him; he scares visitors away with his profane rambling and glassy, hateful eyes.
From my boat, I curse his eyes and toss his ratty hat overboard— tipping it, in a way.
A fellow fisherman shouts. He’s pointing at the abysmal tentacles rising from the depths. They smell of fish and death. And the fog rolling in will keep our deaths a secret…
Maybe I should go as an overzealous editor for Halloween this year and write disparaging comments on everything, particularly things that people are fond of.
But we must not stare into that abyss for too long, lest we become monsters editors ourselves…
I actually love editors. I’ve had nothing but good experiences with them thus far. But I must fulfill my societal contract of daily mental/emotional stonings and antagonism by editors. Its in the fine print of a writer’s life contract.