All posts in category Trifecta

Haven

This post is a response to Write on Edge’s Write at the Merge # 6 (stained glass, and the lyrics to Fun’s “Some nights”), and Trifecta’s word (Path – 3a : course, route  b : a way of life, conduct, or thought).

If you’re looking for some great short stories, I highly recommend checking them out by following the links below and reading a few of the other submissions.

Concrit always welcome, I hope you enjoy!

“Our path should take us through the high pass. That’s what all the records indicate.” Ruby alternated scowling down at the grubby map in her hands and the weathered building before them.

“I’m telling you, this is it. This is where it lead.”

“The map is supposed to take us to a Haven.” Ruby’s voice cracked and Jim moved to put a hand on her shoulder, only to have it slapped away.  “You must have read it wrong.”

“Let’s just go and check it out.”

“Fine.” she strode across the boulder-strewn yard and through the arched doorway, Jim trailing behind her. Halfway down the aisle, she snapped, “See, nothing but a church from the before-time.”

Jim walked past her, entranced at the sight of the stained glass mosaic rising up from the shadowy hall, lighting the motes of dust in fiery hues. “It’s fully intact! Can you believe it?”

“What are we supposed to do now, Jim?” Ruby barely glanced at the glass.

“How could it’ve survived for so long, unbroken? I mean, Ruby, have you ever seen anything like it?” Jim felt a painful squeeze at his heart, understanding now what his mother meant about the exquisit pain of seeing something truly beautiful with your own two eyes. “It’s just so much better than that picture in Mrs Em’s book, y’know?”

Ruby smacked Jim in the head. “You know what’s better than a bunch of glass? Surviving. How about you come back out of the clouds and focus in that, huh?”

“But Ruby -”

“We’ll find the right path in the morning. Do something useful for a change and break up some of those chairs for firewood.”

Jim sighed as his sister stormed out into the dying light of day.

“… how could stained glass still be whole without protection?”

“How, indeed?” The man at the pulpit had a cruel gleam in his eye.

The church doors crashed closed.

“Ruby?” Jim whispered, backing away from the red-lit man.

24 Comments
by lexy3587 on February 7, 2013  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on February 7, 2013

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2013/02/07/haven/

Property Lines

This week, we’re picking up with Agata.  You can probably read this one alone, but I’d suggest reading Crush, the previous one in this series of stories, just to be clear on how things got to this point.  If you want to read the entire series, click on the Fiction Tab above, and you’ll find all the links to the story under Which Witch.  As always, let me know what you think – and how you think it ought to be improved!

I’m using the prompt from Trifecta, and from Write on Edge for this.

Trifecta’s word was

MOUTH

1a : the natural opening through which food passes into the body of an animal and which in vertebrates is typically bounded externally by the lips and internally by the pharynx and encloses the tongue, gums, and teeth   b : grimace <made a mouth>   c : an individual requiring food <had too many mouths to feed> 2a : voice, speech <finally gave mouth to her feelings>   b : mouthpiece 3: something that resembles a mouth especially in affording entrance or exit: as
This week on Write at the Merge, the picture of a crumbling castle was what I took as inspiration.
I highly recommend checking out both sites, to submit your own prompt response or to read some of the great responses other people have submitted.

Agata rolled painfully to her feet, scattering debris.  Dust swirled through the maelstrom of berserker barbarians.  Agata caught glimpses of the ogre, green-gray skin covering boulder-like muscles, eerie catseye gleaming yellow in the dimness.

The battle wasn’t going well.  She sighed, narrowed her eyes, and, with intense focus, shook out an imaginary blanket.

As the barbarians painfully clambered to their feet, dazed and confused at their sudden fall, Agata strode purposefully towards the now-frozen ogre.

“Gragh, is it?”  The creature stared down at her, dumbfounded.  “Yes, you.  Gragh?”

Its voice rumbled thunderously.  “Ya, me is Gragh.  Who you?”

“Agata.  What do you want here?”

“Gragh-”

“It wants to eat us!  Kill it!”

Agata whirled and glared them into silence.

“GRAGH CRUSH!”  The ogre snarled at the barbarians, fighting the invisible bonds.

“But why?”

Gragh’s brow creased in thought.  “Gragh want…”

Agata found herself nodding encouragement to the hulking creature.

“Gragh want No Bother GRAGH!”

“You came here.”

“Dey is come first to Gragh sleep place and try hurt Gragh!”

At Agata’s accusing glare, the barbarians broke into a cacophony of denials and explanations like children caught with their hands in the mouth of the cookie jar.

“It took the castle on the mount!”  A blonde-haired hulk in a skunk-fur loincloth stepped forward.

“Did he kill the owner?”

“It’s, um, been abandoned for centuries, actually.  Terrible location, no water, no trees…”

“So what does it matter where he lives?”

“It eats people.  And sheep.”

Agata turned her scowl on Gragh, who shook his head in denial.  “Gragh no eat animal-things.” He curled his lip in disgust.  “Gragh vegetable-arian.  And rocks.  Rocks crunchy yum.  Fuzzy Baaas no yum.”

“Here’s the deal – you leave people alone, and” she turned to scowl at the barbarians, “people stay away from your castle.  Shake on it,” she barked, commandingly.

Agata watched and spelled every hand-shake before approaching the ogre with a proposition.

In short order they were headed off, a witch and her ogre-guide through the mountains.

23 Comments
by lexy3587 on January 31, 2013  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on January 31, 2013

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2013/01/31/property-lines/

Creeping In

I’m doing my best to get back into writing – apparently the holidays were so exhausting that I have no imagination left.  Or I just lost all ability to plan my time out.  One week free of it, and I find myself overwelmed with how much time I spend walking the dog and entertaining him.  Not that I’m complaining – we’re getting some pretty walk-friendly weather lately, and less than a month after the solstice, I’m getting so much more daylight.

This week’s word for Trifecta’s writing challenge is:

INTENTION
(noun)
1: a determination to act in a certain way : resolve
2: import, significance
3a : what one intends to do or bring about
b : the object for which a prayer, mass, or pious act is offered

Check out the other submissions HERE, or submit your own.

It was never my intention to stay so long.  I took advantage, I’ll readily admit.  It isn’t my proudest moment.

They were an easy mark.  How could I resist an open door?

I just can’t bear to leave, quite yet.  Maybe a day or two more.  Not that I’m getting attached, or anything.  I could see myself getting used to it, though, y’know?  I’ll stick around and enjoy a bit more free food.  Not much of a hardship – company’s not too bad – they give me my space, and they’re real good listeners.

I need my freedom – I need to stretch my legs, feel the grass under my feet, breathe deep of the great outdoors.  I’ve got instincts, primal instincts, and they can’t be ignored.  I don’t want to get rusty.  I’ve gotta hit the road.

It is a pretty scary place out there, though.  My pal Fred got scooped up by the nastiest bugger you’ve ever seen.  Guy swooped down out of nowhere, and now Fred’s nowhere to be seen.  It’s kind of nice to be big man on campus, just for a few more days.

The Missus relies on me to taste-test her cooking.

Plus, they’ve got some wildlife in this place.  They buzz around bothering the people here.  Tough suckers, too – seems like no matter how many times I land a killing blow, they’re up and jingling about.  Can’t leave quite yet – Ieast I could do to repay them is to get rid of this infestation they’ve got.

The old guy and I haven’t gotten much chance in the past few hours to hang out, either.  I’ve got this wicked kink in my neck, and he needs help reading the newspaper.  Now that’s what I call an equitable exchange of services.

I’ll be leaving soon – best get in some warm-laundry napping while I’m still around to spread the fur.  Creeping into their lives was exhausting.

cat bum

30 Comments
by lexy3587 on January 10, 2013  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on January 10, 2013

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2013/01/10/creeping-in/

Crush

This week on Trifecta, the word was:

CRUSH (transitive verb)

1a : to squeeze or force by pressure so as to alter or destroy structure   b : to squeeze together into a mass
2   : hug, embrace

Head over to submit your own response, or read some other takes on the prompt.  There are some fantastic authors who submit weekly to the Trifecta challenge, and they’re always well worth the read.

This story is a continuation of the Which Witch series of stories.  It is pretty much entirely stand-alone, but you are certainly welcome to read back through the story pieces, by following the Fiction tab at the top of the page and clicking on the links under the title Which Witch.

I try to include a piece of artwork that I think goes with the story, and this week is no different.  Only I put it at the bottom of the story, because it’s not just me that thinks it goes with the story – my sister drew it, in response to reading this story ahead of time.  She didn’t even roll her eyes too much when I changed the original, accidental deadline of friday to “um, no seriously, you have to have it done Wednesday night, because I have to post it tomorrow”.  You can check her out at her blog, Drawn in and Quartered, or over at DeviantArt.  She doesn’t have too much of her personal artwork up on DeviantART yet, but I’m working on it – peer pressure is key!  This is one of my favourite pieces she’s done – it hangs on my wall, and when I eventually have the option of painting rooms in my own house, will likely the colour-inspiration of one of them.

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I could totally kick her ass at drawing… when she was 4… and I was 10.  She claims it probably had something to do with the development of fine motor function, but that’s just a cop-out.  She’s just a sore loser.  What sibling rivalry?

Comments and critiques are always welcome, I hope you enjoy the story,

“GRAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

Agata clapped her hands over her ears as the howl reverberated down the canyon, followed by the distant thunder of landslides.  Dust from the ceiling settled on her meal.

Removing the hand cupped protectively over her own pint, the barbarian woman took a swig and continued, “There are some nasty beasties out there, Miss, so you really ought to hire on a guard to get through the pass.”

Gunilla brushed her short blonde hair back, the heavy musculature of her shoulder and arm rippling, and jerked her head towards the rest of the barbarians.  “And I suggest you hire me, ‘cause some of the lads have trouble hearing ‘no’ when they want to hear ‘yes’, if you know what I mean.”

Agata shuddered.  Such large, heavy-set men.  Such tiny loincloths.  Barbarians are quite barbaric, she decided, firmly averting her eyes from the manly display of body hair and scarring.

“What do you hear when you want to hear ‘yes’?”

Gunilla let loose a full-bellied laugh.  “Me?  Depends on how much I want to hear ‘yes’, I’d imagine.” She grinned and winked.  “But my tastes don’t lean towards scrawny pretty little things like you, eh!”  She produced a small painting of a statuesque woman wearing a horned hat and a bustier that left too little to the imagination.  The barbarian woman stroked the side of the picture in a surprising show of tenderness.  “My Vilhelmina is an opera singer!”

“Very nice.” Agata cleared her throat.  “So what is so dangerous in the pass?”

The inn-door burst off its hinges and slammed to the ground.  A gigantic figure shouldered its way into the room, towering with its one-eyed head amongst the rafters.

“GRAGH CRUSH!” It swung its club down hard in a shower of dust that had once been a solid oak table.

“OGRE!” the barbarian woman yelled, sweeping Agata out of harm’s way.  Potential client safely stowed, she let out a berserker yell of her own and leapt to join the fray.

crush

<– Quack! ||

11 Comments
by lexy3587 on December 6, 2012  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on December 6, 2012

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2012/12/06/crush/

Foxed

Trifecta’s writing challenge this week was:

BLACK

1a : of the color black
b (1) : very dark in color <his face was black with rage>

(2): having a very deep or low register bass with a blackvoice>

(3) : heavy, serious <the play was a black intrigue>
2a : having dark skin, hair, and eyes : swarthy
b (1) often capitalized : of or relating to any of various population groups having dark pigmentation of the skin

(2) : of or relating to the African-American people or their culture

(3) : typical or representative of the most readily perceived characteristics of black culture
3: dressed in black

Head on over to submit your own or read some of the other responses.  Also, if you missed last week’s prompt, the characterization of Death, I really recommend going back over to read the responses for that.  So many hilarious and unusual portrayals of death, and all of them (to my mind), with the rich and ominous voice of Ian Richardson ringing in your mind, just like he gave life to Death in the movie version of Terry Pratchett’s The Hogfather.  I was certainly attempting to channel a bit of Pratchett in my own response.  If you have no idea who Terry Pratchett is… well… Get thee to a Library!  Crivens!

For this week, I’m back working with my Firefly story.  If you want to check out the rest of it, head on over to the Fiction Tab (top of the page).  I think I might write it as a full… well… story for Nanowrimo this year.  It starts off right after our leading gal’s aunt makes her a cup of tea and then heads on back to bed in Hearth and Home.  For those uninterested in reading the rest of it, the key thing to note here is Laga = ritual leader or leader of coven for the purposes of my story.  Though they aren’t witches.

The artwork I found to go with the story is a drawing by Raven S. Fox, known as Culpeo-Fox on DeviantArt.  It’s pretty sinister, made even more so by the poem included as the description of the piece (click the picture to follow the link and read!).  I love the texture of it, and the way the only barely drawn in background still makes me think of being lost in the deep dark woods at night, wolves howling in the near distance.

He’s amazing – some of his pieces look like photography, to the point that I’ve had to check the medium to confirm that it isn’t.  He’s a German designer, illustrator and artist, with a clear love of foxes, though they are certainly not the only thing he draws beautifully.  Check him out at DeviantArt, his portfolio.

Rachel sat by the banked fire, lost in thought.

The flames roared abruptly to life and Rachel’s head snapped up just in time to watch the Ember fox, the same one she’d seen in the fire ceremony vision, daintily step out onto the hearth stone.

“You… you can’t be here.  I didn’t summon you.”

:I go where I please.:

The deep ember-glow of the fox dimmed as it stood in the cool air, soot cloaking the creatures’ fur in black.  Its burning eyes showed frightening intelligence.

“Elementals can’t talk… they’re just…” Rachel waved her hand vaguely in the air, “Elemental.”

:How very astute of you.  If we are done pondering my existence, shall we begin?:

“Begin?”  Rachel’s head was reeling

:Your training to be a proper Laga, of course.:

“I’ve been Laga to my people since I was seven, I’m already a proper Laga.” she snapped defensively.

The fox cocked its head and said, deadpan, :Indeed?  I could have sworn I walked you through a vision last night.  Must have been some other kit with too much confidence in her own poorly trained gifts.:

Rachel gasped, “That was you?  Was it true?  Is it going to happen?  How?”

:Too many questions for one so young.:  the fox hissed, tail lashing.  It stepped its front paws up on her knees, opened its mouth and exhaled in her face, the smell of burning wood rich in the dry heat of its breath.

Rachel found herself again in the hell of a fire that burned her.  The smoke dragging her towards unconsciousness, she struggled forward, staggering and full of pain. 

:The door: the fox commanded.  : Remember the door, and remember your gift.  Fight fire with fire or it will devour you.:

The door shimmered with ice, untouched by the heat.  It felt unnatural, a bone-deep cold that made her body ache even as the fire devoured her. 

“What’s behind the door?”

:Your destiny.:

Rachel touched the handle and screamed as ice burned through her.

14 Comments
by lexy3587 on October 18, 2012  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on October 18, 2012

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2012/10/18/foxed/

First Impressions

This week on Trifecta, the word was

DEATH
1a : a permanent cessation of all vital functions : the end of life
b : an instance of dying disease causing many deaths>
2a : the cause or occasion of loss of life
b : a cause of ruin <the slander that was death to my character — Wilkie Collins
3 capitalized : the destroyer of life represented usually as a skeleton with a scythe

I figured, with a prompt like that, how could I not dust off my imagination, stretch out my fingers and jump back into writing again.  Some of the other responses I’ve read so far are amazing – you should check them out, or submit your own!

This piece of art is called “The Playground Called Life”, and it’s a photomanipulation.  The artist’s name is Michael Vincent Manalo, and he’s from Manila, in the Phillippines.  All his artwork has a great surreal “There’s a cool story behind this” feel to it.  Check him out on DeviantART or at his website.

Nick gazed over his teacher’s shoulder at the dark figure at the front of the bus.

“We should postpone the trip. Looks like rain.”

“Take a seat, Mr. Ryan”

He took a seat next to a preppy-looking blonde, dread twisting his stomach.  I only lasted three days at this school, he thought, sourly.

Shadow shrouded the girl to the point that Nick couldn’t see her.

DID YOU HAVE AN ENJOYABLE THANKSGIVING, NICHOLAS?

Nick glared. The girl narrowed her eyes at him and snapped, “What?”

Why are you doing this?

I BEAR WITNESS FOR THESE OCCASIONS, NICHOLAS, I DO NOT CAUSE THEM. I REGRET THAT YOU ARE HERE TODAY.

Nick laughed bitterly.   His seatmate pressed herself back against the window.

IT IS GOOD TO SEE YOU AGAIN.

“Yeah, well, the feeling isn’t mutual.” The shadowy presence flickered briefly, And Nick found himself glaring at a girl whose presence he’d forgotten. He blushed. Said it aloud. Again. Awesome.

Nick could feel the grains of sand slipping one by one through the hour-glass.

Death stood, its darkness dissipating like smoke.

HOLD ON TIGHT.

Nick cranked his music up louder and wedged his body in between his seat and the next, knuckles white. Despairing, he called out, “Brace yourselves!”

Last time I move somewhere with cliffs, he vowed.

The bus snapped sideways, and existence narrowed to a roar of terror, crumpled metal and short-lived weightlessness.

Nick relaxed his grip on the seat and dropped to the bus roof. He blinked in surprise when a second metallic thud echoed through the silence. he girl took in the bloodied and crumpled forms of her classmates in mute horror.  She couldn’t see Death gently lifting their souls into its embrace.

Nick couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“How are you even alive?” he blurted out.

“Luck? Your timely warning?  How did you know what was going to happen?”

Death runs in the family, that’s how.

Warmth and colour seeped back in as Death departed.

“Women’s intuition?”

14 Comments
by lexy3587 on October 11, 2012  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on October 11, 2012

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2012/10/11/first-impressions/

Hearth and Home


This week’s word from Trifecta is

HOME (noun)

1 a : one’s place of residence : domicile b : house

2: the social unit formed by a family living together

3 a : a familiar or usual setting : congenial environment; also :the focus of one’s domestic attention <home is where the heart is>b : habitat

Head over to Trifecta to submit your own response or to read other peoples’ takes on the word.

This is a continuation from last week, which should hopefully at least half-answer the question that arose from the ending of the piece titled Ice Breaker.  If you’re interested in reading the whole story (so far), check it out under the Fiction tab above, the story’s title is Firefly.

The picture was taken by Miras46, whose photobucket page you can find HERE.  I really love the colours in this photograph.  It’s such a serene and lovely scene.

nature Pictures, Images and Photos

Isbritare, I name you.  The Elemental grinned, and the flames rose up.

Rachel thrashed awake with a gasp, the smell of smoke strong in her nose.  Just a dream.  She hugged herself tight, reassured at the smooth, unburned skin under her palms.

She padded barefoot to the kitchen.  It was the only part of this house that felt like home, the smell of burnt wood and baked bread lingering even when the fire was banked down to embers for the night.

The cold slate floor made her shiver.  Partly to reassure herself that the burns of her vision were impossible, she slipped a hand in amongst the embers within the banked fire, letting some of its heat slip into her.

She jumped in surprise when a hand was laid gently on her shoulder.  Her Aunt Miriam smiled down at her.

“Once, I would have considered just that enough to prove that someone had a strong touch of fire within.”

Rachel shrugged uncomfortably, stepping away from the fire.

“Tea?”

“Um… sure.”

She tucked herself into a kitchen chair as her aunt bustled quietly about the kitchen.  In a surprisingly short time, she was pulling the kettle from the stove.  Their eyes meet over the tea-pot, and Miriam blushed.

She flicked her fingers dismissively and said, “I’ve got a bit of a knack for boiling water… not much use, apart from making tea, but it serves me well enough.”

Rachel said nothing, loading her tea with sugar and milk to make it more bearable.  Miriam only squeezed a bit of lemon in hers, holding the steaming cup up to inhale deeply.  It seemed to calm her.

“Rachel… I don’t know exactly what happened at the fire last night – I mean, you were brilliant, of course, but it seemed something went not quite as you expected.” She took a deep breath, and went on.  “What I mean to say is, if you need someone to talk to, I’m always here for you.”

13 Comments
by lexy3587 on August 16, 2012  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on August 16, 2012

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2012/08/16/hearth-and-home/

Shiver


This week on Trifecta, the word is:

flight (noun)

1a : an act or instance of passing through the air by the use of wings

b : the ability to fly
2a : a passing through the air or through space outside the earth’s atmosphere

b : the distance covered in such a flightc : swift movement
3a : a trip made by or in an airplane or spacecraft

3b : a scheduled airplane trip

Follow the link to Trifecta to read more prompt responses or to submit your own!

This is a continuation of story, you can see the last one here.  Feedback is welcome – not to mention, opinions on whether you want to find out what’s next, or, please, for the love of all that is holy, Lexy, please move on from this trite and blah storyline, it bores me.

The picture below is… well… nothing like I’d really imagine in an old english house, but it is so cool and dark and just the right kind of ominous.  Even better, it’s probably the kind of staircase 99% of people walk past without seeing, but this guy saw the potential in it.  It’s a photomanipulation by artist Jakub Kubica from Poland.  Check him out on DeviantART, or his blog, there are some really great photographs, altered and unaltered.  Poland is officially on my ‘places to visit’ list – there are some very cool looking buildings and bridges there, though for now I’ll settle for seeing them through the lens of Jakub Kubica.

Rachel jerked her hand back from the smouldering wood, surprise breaking through the remembered terror of the dream and dousing the fire.  Chelsea’s eyes were wide and frightened, pressed against the wall.

“I-“ an icy spray of water hit her square in the face.  The tousle-haired boy playing fireman proceeded to douse her chest and arm in the attempt to put out the banister.

Chelsea choked back a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snicker.  “You can probably stop now, Reggie.”

Rachel glared in silence at her attacker, trying hard to keep in mind that this other cousin was about 10, and therefore an inappropriate audience for the swearing she wanted to do.  Some of it must have come across in her eye, however, because he snatched a towel to hold out, half peace offering, half barrier against her wrath.  The showerhead vanished with a guilty clatter.

“So… how was your flight?”  The scrawny boy peered at her, sparrow-like, shifting his feet as though prepared for flight.

Rachel shifted her weight with a squelch of carpeting, and carefully pushed some damp hair out of her face.  Her lips twitched as she struggled against the laughter that bubbled forth.  She dabbed her face with the towel, and replied, “It was good.  I didn’t expect England to be so wet, though.”

The answering grin on her cousin’s face was cut off abruptly as he looked down the staircase.

Chelsea brushed past her.

“Caleb!” she squealed, throwing her arms around the neck of the gorgeous newcomer.  His golden brown hair fell across a California tanned face with twinkling blue eyes and an easy grin.  His smile grew broader as their eyes met over Chelsea’s head.

“You must be Chelsea’s cousin from over the pond?  I hope you didn’t swim all that way.”

Rachel smiled in response, tamping down the swell of irrational terror.  Jet lag must be kicking in for those beautiful eyes to have seemed so very cold for a moment, leftovers from the dream

22 Comments
by lexy3587 on August 9, 2012  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on August 9, 2012

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2012/08/09/shiver/

Kick Me


The thing about writing is that it really does take practice – even more so when it’s the kind of writing with word limits.  I’m feeling a bit like the tinman, my write brain sitting dormant and rusty for a few months, creaking painfully as I try to get back into the swing of things.

This week on Trifecta, the word is:

FIREWORKS (noun)

1: a device for producing a striking display by the combustion of explosive or flammable compositions

2: plural a display of fireworks

3: plural
a : display of temper or intense conflict
b : a spectacular display <the fireworks of autumn leaves>

This is a continuation of the story Which Witch, the rest of which you can find in my Fiction tab.

The photos below are of a piece of paper art by Su Blackwell.  She does book sculptures, as well as installations such as this, and it is hard to believe it’s just made of cut paper.  It’s magical, like the words leapt off the page to show you the story within.

“You don’t WHAT?! “

Agata stared, flabbergasted, at the old man seated across the broad mahogany desk, his liver-spotted hands steepled, his wrinkled face calm and solemn.

He raised an eyebrow slightly at her tone of voice, and repeated in a crisp accent, “We do not accept young ladies in this program, madam.”

“You don’t accept witches into your school of witchcraft?” she heard the shrillness of her own voice and winced internally.

“We do not accept ladies into our school of the Arcane Arts.  It is simply too esoteric and complex a field of matter for a woman to benefit from.  We would be glad to consider your admission into our poetry and languages department, however.”

The papers stacked neatly on the desk fluttered.

“Too complex?” she snarled, leaning over the desk as the inkwell rattled.  “You don’t teach magic to women because we’re what? Incapable of performing spells?”

“Not incapable, Madam, simply too flighty and emotional.”  He carefully caught a pen as it rolled across the glossy desk and set it in a stand.  “Not to mention, prone to hysterics.”

Agata threw her hands up in disgust and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

The old man waited for her steps to fade and rang a bell.  “Bradley,” he said to the nervous young man who answered, “Have someone sent up to tidy my office.  I’ll have a cognac and my pipe in the library today.”

Bradley stared, wide-eyed at the winter-scene in the office.  A thick layer of perfectly formed tiny paper snowflakes coated the entire room, including the head and shoulders of the Headmaster of Arcane Arts.

“W-what happened?” he stammered.

“The young lady was somewhat put-out.”

“Your pens are stuck in the ceiling plaster, Headmaster.”

“Yes, quite a display of fireworks.  For a member of the weaker sex.”  The Headmaster brushed the paper from the shoulders of his dark suit.  “My pipe, Bradley.”

The old man walked out, cane in hand, KICK ME sewn neatly into his suit-back.

22 Comments
by lexy3587 on July 5, 2012  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on July 5, 2012

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2012/07/05/kick-me/

Francesco!


This week on Trifecta, the word was

scan·dal noun \ˈskan-dəl\

1 a: discredit brought upon religion by unseemly conduct in a religious person

b: conduct that causes or encourages a lapse of faith or of religious obedience in another
2: loss of or damage to reputation caused by actual or apparent violation of morality or propriety : disgrace
3 a: a circumstance or action that offends propriety or established moral conceptions or disgraces those associated with it

b : a person whose conduct offends propriety or morality <a scandal to the profession>

I was baffled that the definition that would normally occur to me would be the third definition,  but I try not to look gift horses in the mouth.  Seriously – gift me with a horse, and I promise not to look it in the mouth.  I’ll be too busy squealing in delight and riding my horse.

Despite the fact that I didn’t need to write something related to religion (as in the first definition), it was immensely difficult to come up with an idea.  I wrote three different first paragraphs of boring and uninteresting scenes in the Which Witch plotline, along with one in the Necessary plotline.  Not pretty.

I turned to my sister, Doodle, to give me inspiration.  I would have almost thought she was already working on this particular plot, considering how quickly she came up with the idea (once I cleared up that I wanted a suggestion based on scandal, not just a suggestion.), and thought up some plot points for it.

The painting below is by Jenny Dolfen.  Click on the image to see more of her work.  It’s all got a great fantastical feel to it, and this one in particular is done in watercolour, which just blows my mind.  My attempts at watercolour look like a child’s fingerpainting that got soaked in the sink for a few days.  Some people get all the talent.

“Oh, my beloved Francesco!”

The dulcet shrieks of the elegant Lady Alfreda Moretti preceded the clatter of the lady’s slippers as she dashed across the cobbles.

Francesco gaped at the vision before him.

“S-signorina?” he stammered, cap knocked askew as she flung her arms about him.  He feared his secret being revealed.

She held him firmly in place as she showered him with kisses, far stronger than she appeared.

Francesco vaguely recalled having once bowed to the lady during an afternoon spent painting in her father’s beautiful gardens.

Sagging under the lady’s weight, Francesco looked desperately for help.

A nun walking by signed the cross and began uttering prayers.

His fellow apprentice, dubbed “The Fat Francesco”, when Maestro’s suggestion of “The Ugly Francesco” had been deemed too cruel, stared at them, frozen, by the fountain.  The look of horror on the boy’s face did nothing to improve his features.

“Signorina, please, I fear you are mistaken!”

The girl paused in her affections, moving one hand to clutch at his shirt front, fingers tucked into the linen wrapped under his shirt.

“You are Francesco, Maestro Alfeo’s apprentice?”

“Si, but-“

Lady Alfreda beamed with happiness.  “Then there is no mistake.  We made love by the willows on the night of the masque.” Her smile turned coy.  “You kept your mask on, naughty boy.”

She clasped his hands.  “I am with child.  We must beg my father at once to be married or risk scandal and ruin.”

Something of the confusion in Francesco’s eye must have sunk in to the vapid girl’s understanding because she released him warily, taking a step back.

“You compared me to a summers’ day in your poems!”

“Signorina.  That is the Francesco you seek.”

He caught her as she swooned, and passed her to her ill-favoured swain.

“A mask?”

The Fat Francesco shrugged sheepishly.  “Don’t tease me, Francesca.  I could have left you to be married.”

“Now that would have been an awkward wedding night!”

14 Comments
by lexy3587 on April 12, 2012  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on April 12, 2012

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2012/04/12/francesco/

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