Writing Challenge: Minerva

Prompt: In 500-2500 words, write a story about a god from one of the old pantheons in modern days. They are open about their presence and people know who they are. Norse, Indian, Greek, Roman, etc., are all acceptable.

Chosen God: Minerva, Roman goddess of poetry, medicine, wisdom, commerce, weaving, crafts, magic, science and war. She is often depicted with her sacred creature, an owl usually named as the “owl of Minerva,” which symbolizes her ties to wisdom.

Result: Howie and Minnie’s Magical Menagerie of Marvelous Marvels

“Welcome to Minnie’s Magical Menagerie of Marvelous Marvels.”

The voice seemed to come from nowhere. Howie looked around the dark and cramped little store but could find no source of the voice. He stepped past the faded welcome mat and into a narrow passage between shelves stacked high with books and trinkets from all realms of knowledge. Skeins of yarn in every hue were jammed in empty milk crates stacked to the ceiling. Spools of thread and bolts of patterned fabric were crammed between the crates. Some were stretched out above his head, as if he were walking into a kaleidoscope tent. Books were piled high like bricks, forming archways, walls and narrow hallways within the tiny shop. Brass and copper instruments that seemed to come from Einstein’s labs were scattered across countertops. A tuba hung in the corner. Dust particles floated in the air and cobwebs stretched across the open mouths of a dozen water pitchers.

Howie adjusted the straps of his backpack and walked slow and careful down the center aisle of books. His eyes were held open wide as he took in all that the Minnie’s had to offer with his hands crammed deep in his pockets, a terribly difficult challenge for a 10-year-old boy plagued with an insatiable curiosity.

“Hello?” he said. The click of a latch, the creak of a door, the shuffle of feet too old and heavy to remain silent.

Howie passed a black caldron, a skeleton hanging from a hook like the one in his science classroom, and a series of glass beakers connected by a clear tube, filled with a bubbling red liquid, and finally reached the round table at the back of the store. The table, covered with a deep purple satin cloth, contained only a little strongbox and an opaque glass ball on a brass stand. Behind the table, an owl perched on a wooden stick and watched Howie with its head spun upside down.

An old woman with stringy gray hair and wrapped in a patchwork quilt sat hunched at the table.

Howie swallowed down his fear and walked up to the table.

“Excuse me, Ma’am,” Howie said. “I was hoping to buy a globe.”

The woman slowly lifted her head and stared at boy with black eyes sunken in skin as shriveled and worn as a dried apricot.

“No, child,” she said. “You don’t buy what you want. That’s not how Minnie’s Magical Menagerie of Marvelous Marvels works.”

“But I need a globe,” Howie said. “Grandfather said I’d find one here.”

The owl hooted a disgruntled hrmph and clacked its beak open and closed. The woman clucked her tongue against her top teeth several times and waved a bony finger in Howie’s face.

“Not how it works.”

Howie folded his arms across his chest and said, “How does it work, then?”

The woman waved a hand and a stool slid across the floor, seemingly of its own accord.

“Sit, and let old Minnie tell you,” she said, her voice light with mischief.

Howie removed his backpack and sat on the stool, his feet barely scraping the floor. Minnie gave Howie a wink and removed the patchwork cloak from her shoulders with a whoosh and snap of fabric. The owl spread its wings and with one great motion, lifted off its perch, sending dust and cobwebs swirling throughout the shop. The bird snatched the cloak in its talons and carried it somewhere behind the wall of books.

“Thank you, Cato,” Minnie said sitting down. “Do you like my pet?”

“The owl? Sure.”

“Do you like his name?”

“Cato? Sure, it’s fine.”

“But you would not name him so?”

The owl returned to its perch and looked at Howie again from his upside down stare. Howie shook his head. Minnie touched the glass ball in the middle of the table with her index finger, causing it to swirl into the most vibrant spiral of silver and blue.

“What name would you give him?” she asked.

“You’re Minnie?” Howie asked and the old crone nodded. “I suppose I’d name him…”

“Yes?”

“I guess something old and smart. Because owls are smart, you know.” Howie scrunched up his face, ignoring the ball on the table as the swirls began to take shape. “Probably something Latin. Grandfather would say Latin names are the best names.”

“Give me a name,” Minnie said, her finger winding in circles as it hovered over the glowing ball.

“Seneca or Silvanus,” Howie said and then nodded. “Silvanus. That’s what I would call him.”

Minnie snapped her fingers above the ball and a tremor vibrated the entire store from the ground up.

“There you are, child,” she said, pointing to the ball. “Look.”

Howie stared into the ball and saw the image of a brown, leather-bound book with a very long title floating inside the ball and then it faded away as the light from within the ball went dark.

“That book is what you are meant to have,” Minnie said. “Find it and it’s yours.”

Howie looked between the owl and the old woman seated across from him.

“But I need a globe for grandfather’s birthday,” he said.

“If your grandfather needs a globe, if he was meant to have one from my shop, then he and he alone must come and claim it,” Minnie said. “You, sweet boy, must find your book. But touch nothing else.”

“What would happen if I did,” he asked.

Minnie arched a brow and winked up at the bird. She rose out of her seat and walked away toward a hidden door among the clutter.

Howie scrunched up his face and slid off the stool. He walked up and down the store, wanting to grab on to the bow and arrow that was propped up against a suit of rusted armor or test out the brass microscope resting on a shelf that was just at the right height for him. But he maintained his hands in his pockets.

He walked around the store three times before he finally he found the book that was pictured in the ball, right next to a globe that would have been perfect for Grandfather’s birthday. He tilted his head and read the title without touching the book.

 

Minerva W. C. Winchester’s Collection of Fiction and Poetry Written by the Finest Authors from Throughout the Ages

 

Howie looked from the book to the globe and back to the book. He reached out his hand and it wavered between the two objects.

“Did you find it,” the woman’s voice rang out. There was something different about her voice. It was softer, sweeter, more melodic. Howie looked around but didn’t see her. He eyed the globe again and stamped his foot as he snatched the book off the shelf. He walked to the round table at the back of the store and about fell over when he saw Minnie, no longer the old crone, but young and lovely, with hair like dark chocolate, sitting straight and proud at the table. Her face was more beautiful than any other face Howie had ever seen.

She saw the book in his hands and smiled.

“You’ve done well, Howie,” she said, reaching for the book. He handed it to her and sat back on the stool.

“You’re still Minnie?” he asked, unsure of what had happened.

“Of course. I am Minnie, the proprietor of this shop, and I am Minerva W. C. Winchester,” she said, her fingers flipping through the yellowed pages of the brown leather-bound book. “Did you enjoy my store?”

Howie said nothing as he gaped at the striking young woman that sat before him.

“Wisdom is hard to attain,” she said, her fingers tracing the pages of the book. “Some never find it and others take it for granted. Many yet don’t understand what it means. Your grandfather, for example, came in when he was a boy about your age. He said he wanted a tuba. But as you now know, that’s now how this shop works. The object chooses the owner.”

She closed the book and set it on the table, her hand lingering on the cover.

“He went through a very similar test as you to determine which object of mine would be passed on to him,” she said. “He was assigned a globe. A lovely little globe – the very one you almost snatched up.”

Howie turned to look at the globe but it was no longer on the shelf. Minnie smiled.

“He did not take the globe he was assigned. He took the tuba he wanted,” she said. “He did not understand. You only get one chance at it. Take what you’re given or forever long for that which is missing.”

She pushed the book toward Howie.

“That is why you have come here. To get the globe he discarded,” she said. “But you were wise in your choice, to take what is yours and yours alone.”

Howie picked up the book of poetry and stuffed it in his bag without taking his eyes from Minnie’s face.

“Now off with you,” Minnie said. “I have another customer coming in.”

“Umm…”

“Yes, child?” Minnie leaned against the table, bringing her face close to Howie’s.

“How did you change from being old to being young? I mean, you are an old lady, aren’t you?”

“I am whatever I need to be depending on who enters this store. For you, an old witch. For my next client, well,” Minnie smiled and winked at Howie. “He needs a woman of a different sort. Now run along home and read that book. You won’t regret it.”

Howie hauled his now heavy backpack onto his shoulders and made his way out of the tiny little shop and all the mystical treasures. He glanced over his shoulder at the dark woman sitting on the round table at the back of the store, her head thrown back in laughter and the mystical ball held high above her head, before he slipped out the door and onto the sidewalk.

A bit of whimsy

Saturday – glorious Saturday. I lay out on the airing porch off my office, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine and the cool breeze that Lake Michigan never fails to provide. My brain had turned off, completely. Which is a rare occurrence for me. Normally, I am always, ALWAYS thinking of stories, characters, dialogue, and a million different “what if” scenarios for the people I make up.

After a couple hours out in the humidity, I had nothing else on the agenda. I came inside and sat at my computer. I could have worked on Mad Dogs, I could have opened up the short story about Mr. Henri James Whittaker that I’ve been meaning to finish, or any other project I have already started and is waiting my attention.

Instead, I opened up the document I had posted the other day – “Lady Oren and the Raider.” (See the post Writing Challenge: Short Story Fail to read it.)

I then sat at my computer for three hours writing  and researching what wrens sound like. The story is coming along and I’m really excited to keep writing it. I have a million ideas – truly, anything can happen in a whimsical tale.

I may be focusing on this right now to avoid the very real and difficult work of editing Mad Dogs. And by editing, I mean overhauling, rewriting, blasting it to rubble and rebuilding… At least, if I’m going to avoid working on one book, it’s by writing another. And the start of of a story, the creation of it, is the most exciting and fun part of the writing process for me. Trying things out, answering “what if,” and putting things on paper – no matter how absurd – because you want to. You can (and will) change things later, but building the bones of the story – there is nothing better. Until you get to editing and adding the meat and skin and clothes and dressing it up… OK – I love all of it.

Anyways, I’m excited and happy about this new story. We’ll see where she flies.

Writing Challenge: Short Story Fail

The challenge? Write a short story using this prompt: “Oren looked up from the book…”

Result? The first scene of something much larger than a short story. I have some pretty grand ideas floating around after writing this scene. Let me know what you think.

Oren and the Raider

Oren looked up from the book when she heard the tapping at her door. She held her breath, her forefinger and thumb holding the book page steady, mid-turn. No doubt Skaia was on the other side of the door in her beautiful satin robes, her pretty beaded shoes laced tight around the ankles, ready to run wild in the night. Her sweet sister. Free to run as she pleased. For now. After the betrothal ceremony, her life would become a strict regimen of public appearances and fancy parties. Always silent and lovely at the arm of her husband.

And only I will understand her secret pain, hidden beneath her pretty smile, Oren thought. How she will long to run free as she once did.

The tap penetrated the room again and Oren closed the book. Skaia’s been much more persistent about her deep need for adventure. This would be the third night an week that Skaia snuck away from her chambers to tap on Oren’s door.

The shutters rattled against their latches as the wind blew hard against the tower. Though brightly lit with stars, Oren knew this was not a night for running wild. The wind pitched in bursts of ice through the cracks of the shuttered windows, as if God himself, frozen in his all mighty perfection, were breathing too heavily as he spied on the world. Oren’s hand hovered over the door handle as she looked toward the window, a dread rising inside her like mists in autumn. No, this was not a night to run. This was a night to remain hidden away.

She turned the knob, prepared to tell her sister to go to bed, but was knocked to the ground as a man’s body collapsed through the door. She yanked at the fabric of her skirts as she tried to pull away from him, but his weight held her in place, her gown changing from the clean ocean blue she always wore to dark rusty browns as his blood stained the material.

Oren pulled free and stared at the sticky blood that now coated her hands. She leaned against the writing desk in the middle of the room and watched the man. He reached his right arm in her direction and his voice rumbled in his throat. Oren took a couple steps toward him, avoiding the blood that seeped across the stone floor.

“Help,” the man whispered. “I beg…”

Oren stepped over the man’s legs and peered into the hallway and down the steps. The torches burned dim in the empty tower. She turned back to the man, who was trying to rise. She couldn’t very well have a man bleed to death in her bedchambers. She bolted the door shut and helped the man to his feet.

“You need to sit down,” she said.

“I don’t…”

“Talk. That’s what you don’t do.” She forced the man into the chair and studied him. He was dressed in a dark brown tunic and cloak, holding his hands tight to his side. Oren knelt in front of him and peeled the cloak away from his torso and realized his garments were in fact green, but made brown by the blood. She looked at his pale face, no longer pinched in pain but slackening as his life slipped away.

“You’re one of them,” she said. “One of the Raiders.”

“Please,” he whispered.

Oren should have raised the alarm, she should have blown open the shutters and hollered for the guard. But instead, she tried to pry his fingers loose from the wound to see the damage done. He held fast, doing all he could to stop from bleeding to death.

“I’ll die,” he mumbled. “I don’t want to… I can’t…”

“I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

His eyes fluttered open and he blinked a few times before he was able to focus his attention on Oren’s face.

“Majesty?”

“I stopped being a majesty when I was locked away. Now let me see the damage.”

“Then I’ve made it.” He loosened his hands away from his side to reveal a deep gash. Oren crinkled her nose as she inspected the ripped skin and tissues.

“It’s not a clean cut. Was it made by a sword?” she asked but the bobbing of the man’s Adam’s apple was the only response she received. “It needs to be cleaned and sewn.”

She replaced his hands and went to the water basin beside her bed to fresh water and her needlework supplies she hasn’t touched in months. She returned to the man and cut his tunic away from the wound and wiped the skin clean. The Mark of the Raiders was stamped on his side, just above the cut. Oren couldn’t stop herself and let her fingers trace the outlining circle before pouring fresh water into the wound.

“I’ve not done this before,” she said, the needle trembling slightly in her hand. “It may hurt.”

“No more than it already does,” the man’s voice was getting weaker.

“Very well.” Oren pierced the skin with the needle and began to sew dainty, yet crooked, stitches. She licked her lips and said, “I don’t often have need to sew. I gave up needlework, ages ago. Needlework is quite dull and boring. And really, it’s a very silly hobby. Who cares about roses on stitched across your pillows?”

The man moaned in response. Oren flicked her gaze to his face and bit her lip.

“I’ll stop talking,” she said and continued her work in silence. Oren tied off the thread and wiped the area clean before tying a bit of bed linen around his waist as a bandage.

“I’ve finished,” she said, but the man didn’t respond. She poked his shoulder with her forefinger, causing him to cough just once, flooding her with relief. He was still alive. Oren spent the next hour cleaning the blood from her hands and floor, stopping every few minutes to ensure her visitor was still breathing. Once her chambers were more or less back to normal, save for the stranger seated at her desk, Oren sat on the edge of her bed and watched him as he rested. He was young, only a couple years older than her, and very fair. He could have been handsome in other cities, Oren supposed. Perhaps even desirable, but she was unaccustomed to seeing young men with golden hair and snow-white skin. To Oren, he looked like a baby pig. Not at all like the dark, mysterious men born in Halmorroc. Perhaps she would ask him the city of his birth when he awoke. She knew it wasn’t Halmorroc. It was a too dark city for one so fair. Besides, Raiders weren’t from the city. They always came from the western edge of the world.

Sometimes beyond the very edge, her father had told her once.

The chapel bells chimed the eleventh hour and the wind whistled through the shutters, making the light of the diminishing candle flicker. The man opened his eyes as the last chime echoed throughout Halmorroc. Again, he blinked several times as his eyes regained focus.

“Majesty,” he said when he saw Oren sitting across the room.

“Don’t call me that,” she said.

“I didn’t think I’d make it here.”

“You shouldn’t have.” Oren straightened the folds of her blood-stained gown. “You’re a Raider. You’ll be arrested if they find you.”

“Aren’t you afraid? To have a Raider in your chambers?”

“I’m not afraid of you.” She looked at him as he tried to sit up straighter and failed. “You’re too weakened from loss of blood to possibly harm me.”

“My brothers—”

“Aren’t here. It’s been three hours since you tapped at my door. No one is coming to your aid.” She stood up and took two steps toward him, arms folded across her chest. “Are you afraid?”

The corner of his mouth tipped upward in a smile and he said, “Not of you.”

“Then you’re a fool,” she said walking to stand behind him, away from his gaze.

“Why should I be afraid of you?”

She didn’t answer. She felt the hair follicles on her arms and legs begin to tingle. It was happening. She closed her eyes.

Don’t change, don’t change, don’t change, she told herself. She took a long, steadying breath to regain control.

“Why were you sent here,” she asked instead.

“You shouldn’t stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“The change.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “You’re very powerful, Majesty.”

“Do not call me that.”

He bowed his head and turned away from her.

“I was sent here to fetch you,” he said. Oren walked around the desk and looked at the man’s face. “We knew the chances of my reaching you were slim. The chances of you coming with me, even slimmer. But I had to try.”

“You’re more foolish than I first imagined.”

“No more than the other believers.”

The wind howled and split through the room taking all the light and warmth from the candle with it.

“God is not pleased with you,” Oren said, digging a new candle from the desk draw and lighting it with a quick flick of stone.

“God does not exist, Majesty.”

She slammed the desk drawer shut.

“I mean, Lady Oren.” The man used the edge of the desk to pull himself into a more comfortable sitting position. “I am called Einar.”

“Einar.” Her curiosity was too great. “Where were you supposed to take me?”

“West. To the Masters.”

Oren snorted. “The masters of the believers.”

“Why do you dismiss us? It is you we believe in.”

Oren shook her head and said, “But I am nothing.”

“Lady Oren, you are so much more than you allow yourself to be. I could show you that, if you were to come with me.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap the way her mother had taught her.

“I can’t,” she said. “I am to remain in the tower, unless called upon by my father or my sister.”

“Your father is a fool.”

“He is high king of Ingesdorn.”

“He is a fool,” Einar leaned back in the chair. “Come with me.”

She shook her head. “You’re a Raider.”

“I’m a man who believes you should be set free,” Einar said, smiling.

“You’re a criminal,” she said, not looking at him.

“You knew this, yet you saved my life.”

Oren lifted a shoulder. “I could still call the guards.”

“But you won’t.” Einar placed his hand over the bandage and winced in pain as he stood up. “You’re too curious.”

“You read my mind?”

“How did I manage to reach your tower door, you wonder. What could have caused such a rough cut? You said so yourself, it wasn’t by a guardsman’s sword.” Einar smiled and waited for Oren to respond. She pursed her lips, not wanting to give this Raider the satisfaction of knowing his assumptions were correct, and swallowed her discomfort.

“Would you like to know?”

Oren said nothing.

“It was one of the dark beasts that sleep as stone in the light of day that gave me this wound.”

She had guessed as much when she saw the gash, for she knew too well the creatures Einar spoke of, but denied their existence for fear they’d turn their claws on her.

“I’d like you to leave,” she said.

“I will, when the chapel bells ring the hour. But I’ll need you to open the shutters.”

“The shutters?” She jerked her to stare at Einar. “I just saved your life, I’m not going to help you jump out the window.”

“I won’t jump.” He pointed to the window. “The shutters?”

Oren opened the shutters, letting the wind burst into the room, nearly knocking Oren to the ground with its force. It spiraled around the room, carrying crystal snow flakes with it, with Einar at the center of the frozen cyclone. Color returned to his face and he came more alive as the wind ruffled through his garments and tousled his hair. He stood straight, as if the injury she had sewn shut no longer affected him.

“What is this magic?” Oren asked as she struggled to her feet.

“We all have our talents,” Einar said. “This is mine.”

He raised his arms up and lowered them, as if trying to calm a crowd. And as he did so, the cyclone died away to a gentle breeze.

“The wind?”

“I’m a Wind Rider. I call and it answers. It carries me the way water carries a feather downstream.”

“You’re crazy.”

He smiled at her. “I am curious to see what your full powers are like.”

“I have no powers. I’m just plain Oren, second daughter of Rune, High King of Ingesdorn.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Now leave.”

“If you are nothing more than his daughter, why does he lock you away?” Einar asked.

Oren didn’t answer.

“Come with me.”

The chapel began to chime.

“My Lady,” Einar said, he took a step toward her, his strength regained. “You were not meant to be locked away by those who cannot accept what you are. You were meant to be free.”

He took another step to stand in front of her and said, “You were meant to fly.”

The chimes rang on, eight, nine, ten…

“You’re not alone,” Einar said. “Trust me, Lady Oren.”

He reached his hand toward her and before she could stop herself, she slipped her hand in his as the chimes echoed, eleven and twelve.

As the final vibrations of the chapel bells reverberated across the sleeping city of Halmorroc, Oren and Einar held tight to each other’s fingers as the wind lifted them off the stone floor and carried them out across the night sky.

Social Media + Gina = ????????

I started a writer’s page on Facebook. See widget, stage right? Left? I’m bad with directions. Anyways, you can click that button (apparently) and like my page? Technology works that way, I guess. I don’t really know. I’m awful with technology.

(You should have seen me the day I learned how to download the solitaire app on my phone. It was grander than the second coming…)

Anyways, this page is new. It’s what we writers have to do? Be part of social media. Build a fan base. Have people “like” us, follow us, tweet about us. It’s a very weird and surreal thing to have to manage. Because I just want to write. I want to create. I don’t want to manage social media.

I still refuse to get a twitter account (although following The Worst Muse on Twitter would be awesome). I just don’t think I can manage that. It’d be overwhelming. Facebook is overwhelming enough.

So what will you find on this page? Basically anything writing or reading related, updates on my writing projects, articles about writing, links to other writers, links to my blog – all the stuff that goes into my writing experience. At least that’s what I think it’s supposed to have on it.

We’ll see how this goes. If I can’t manage it, I’ll get rid of it. Because really, I would rather focus all my energy and attention my craft and writing the best stories that I possibly can.

What are your thoughts about using social media? Have you had success with it? What do you like or don’t like? Any advice for a newbie?

PS -Verge Update: I’ve gotten good feedback thus far from the people editing my book. And by good, I mean incredibly helpful. So many ideas are spinning through my head as I think about all I have to do to make this book exceptional.

Awkward Writer Moment

Last night, I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for Brent to finish working and come to bed. I mentally traveled to a particular scene in a very undeveloped story loosely (very loosely) based on Robin Hood. I have great plans in mind to write my own version of the tale but I just haven’t figured it out yet. Nor have I taken the time to figure it out. Anyways, I was focusing in – like a homing beacon – on this one scene as I stared at a spot in the ceiling.

In my mind, my heroes were captured by the Lord Sheriff and for their crime of trespassing, they were to be sentenced to time in the stocks. Being a forgiving and generous Lord Sheriff (because they always are, right? HA! Not!), he specifies that only one of the trespassers needs to serve the time in the stocks and asks for a volunteer.

So, there was Mark – the ever logical and practical Mark who likes classic cars, karaoke and poker night every Tuesday – stepping forward to spend three days in the stocks to protect his friends. In Mark’s mind, he was the only one of the group that made sense. It couldn’t be Lucy (can you imagine what they’d do to a woman while she’s in the stocks? Besides, Mark sort of loves Lucy, so of course he wouldn’t let her volunteer). It couldn’t be John (he’s a medic – they need their medic in top-notch shape). And Robby – forget about it – it could NOT be Robby (he’s the reason they got thrown into the mess in the first place, so sure, he makes sense. Take ownership, Dude! But Robby is also the only one who fully understands the lay of the land, the laws by which everyone lives and the history leading up to the current situation. He needs to be kept safe in order for the group to get home).

(Also – I’m sorry if that’s confusing. I repeat, I have not fully figured out this story yet. I just have a bunch of different scenes in my head.)

So there I was, picturing Mark take that step forward and volunteer to spend three days in the stocks, to take the punishment for the protection of his friends. He’s bold and subtle. He’s calm, as if stepping into danger is as common to him as stepping into the bathroom. He’s steady and sure, radiating confidence as his friends sink into despair. Lord Sheriff narrows his gaze, angry at how fearless Mark appears, and yet, enjoying the power of his position as he gives the order to his guards to take Mark to the stocks. A vicious grin splits across his face as Mark is marched out of the room.

I almost but did not speak the dialogue out loud. Thank goodness.

Because during all this, Brent was standing in the doorway SPYING ON ME! (OK – maybe not that dramatic.) But he was standing there, just peeking half his face around the corner of the doorway, holding back laughter, as he watched me stare (and make a myriad of facial expressions) at the ceiling.

When I finally saw him (because apparently I looked at him a couple times without really seeing him – what can I say? I was having a moment), I jumped halfway out of bed. He definitely got a good laugh out of it, and I had to awkwardly explain this brainstorming session I was having with the ceiling.

“I was… staring at the ceiling… sending someone to the stocks… never mind. Good night.”

Talk about an Awkward Writer Moment and I expect there to be many, many more as time goes on.