NaNoWriMo

Hello friends, followers, fellow writers,

I am taking a break from posting during the month of November in order to conquer the beast that is NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month.

During November I'll be working on a first draft of a novel, aiming for 50,000 words. And I've got to say so far, so good. Also, if you enjoy writing or what to see if you enjoy writing then you should participate as well.

It's free to sign up and participate. Go to www.nanowrimo.org and sign up. Then start writing. Write at home, at your library, coffee shop, McDonald's, park, museum, wherever. Just write! If you're looking for a writing community you've come to the right place as well. You can join a local region and attend write-ins with other Wrimos (nanowrimo participants).

Thank you if you've been steadily reading and checking is as I've gotten this blog started. I appreciate the views and comments.

See you all on December 1st - unless I reach 50k sooner.

-Dawn

# 9 - Unexpected Ride

Prompt: A taxi ride that didn't turn out how you expected it to. 

The sidewalk was full. The six lanes of criss-crossing traffic only added to the cramped feeling of the city. Her phone rang, sending its chime up from the bowels of her leather bag. She waved for a cab as she dug in blindly. After two solid seconds of no success she decided to look down into the depths of the leather purse. 

A car pulled to a stop in front of her. Eyes and fingers still sifting through the papers, keys and whatnot, she didn't even notice the cab door pop open. As the last ring echoed in the vehicle she pulled out her phone and answered, closing the door behind her.

"Hello, Georgia Mackey," she said into the phone. "Fourth and Lexington, please," she added to the driver. She placed her purse beside her on the leather seat and listened to Craig, her colleague, go into another panic.

"Craig- I know-," she started. Trying not to chuckle she waited until the man took a breath, "Craig, I'll be there in twenty minutes. We can go over it again, backwards if you'd like. Trust me on this, okay?"

He described himself as a perfectionist, but Georgia would have called it obsessive compulsive. Still, the man never missed a detail in any plan or deal they had proposed or lead in the past five years. He had saved them both plenty of embarrassment on multiple occasions. Skills that like were hard to come by so Georgia didn't complain. She could recite the business plan in her sleep so what was another iteration with her OCD business partner. 

Georgia pressed end on the call, satisfied with herself. She glanced out the window. Hundreds of other cabs and vehicles flowed up and down the avenue like some bizarre river of yellow blurs. She sighed and looked at the name plate on the back of the passenger seat. 

John Smyth it read. His license number displayed beside the name and below was the logo of a cab company Georgia had never heard of. Phone still in hand, she decided to look up the company. In this day and age, everyone had a website especially in the city. Double checking the spelling she hit 'search'.

"I've never heard of your company, Mr. Smyth," Georgia leaned forward as she spoke. The driver didn't even flinch when he was addressed. Most cabbies would turn their head to the right, even a little bit, to hear their fares better. This man didn't move. Soft jazz music played through the cab, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out a person talking. 

"Is Juniper Taxi new to the city?" She tried again. He didn't answer. "Sir, do you speak English?" Still nothing. Slightly flustered Georgia sat back in her seat. "As long as you get me to where I need to be, there's no problem," she mumbled mostly to herself. Phone still in hand she pulled up Yelp.com, prepared to write up a review of this cab service and their stoic drivers. She tapped the third star and type, tapping the small on screen keyboard. 

To be thorough, Georgia looked around the interior of the cab. It was clean. The seats were comfortable. There wasn't trash anywhere to be seen, even beside the driver. His newspaper was folded up on the seat neatly. She reviewed what she saw and noted that she hadn't even felt the car stop at lights. This guy was a good driver, if not quiet. And some people preferred that. 

On the back of the seat, the divider between the cabbie and the passengers there were two signs besides the driver's credentials. 

One read: Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time. ~ W. Shakespeare.

The other read: What do you want to be when you grow up?

Georgia laughed to herself and began to wonder. What did she want to be? She had always wanted to be in charge. When her friends wanted to play school she wanted to be the principal. When they wanted to play tag she always told the rules and made sure everyone followed. Once her friend Beth had gotten mad, exclaiming that the only rules to tag were to tag and run. But she saw it as much more than that. Who was 'it'? Who could they tag? Did they have to tag your arm or your back? Was there a 'base', a place where you couldn't be tagged? If so, what was base? Everything is much more complicated than tag and run. 

She suddenly remembered the time a neighbor boy had told her that girls couldn't be in charge. It was the boy's job, he had said. When she asked why only boys could be in charge he had said that was just the way it was. Georgia could not accept that. She had gone to the library to find out if what the boy had said was true. She asked her parents and her grandparents, but grown ups gave weird answers. In the end she found that women could be in charge, but that being the boss was hard work no matter. 

"It says what DO you want to be WHEN you grow up." The voice pulled her from the reverie. The man was looking into the backseat; she saw his eyes in the rear view mirror.

"As in, I haven't grown up yet?" Georgia replied. The man didn't blink, only watched her. "I would say I'm grown. I'm not getting any taller, that's for sure." 

His eyes were back on the road. He hadn't laugh at her self-deprecation. She sat back a little more in the seat. Uncomfortably, she looked back at her phone. The Yelp review she was in the middle of waited to be finished. The cursor blinked. She was about to type again, but stopped. 

What did he mean WHEN she grew up? She was there, at least physically. Georgia knew she was mature. She did all the adult things one is expected. She paid her bills and lead business meetings. She was living the dream, her dream. She was in charge. 

"I think I'm doing what I want to do," Georgia told the driver. "How about you, Mr. Smyth?"

"I am," he replied without moving.  

"You wanted to be a cab driver?" Georgia asked. She knew it sounded rude, condescending. "I've never meet anyone who aspired to drive a taxi. I'm glad for you." She amended, feeling better about herself. 

"You think you're doing what you want," the driver commented. 

"Yeah," Georgia cocked her head confused. "I wanted to be my own boss. I am. So yes, I am doing what I want." 

"You're sure?" He sounded like her father. Georgia furrowed her brow. 

"Yes," she replied defiantly. "I make the rules, I don't answer to anyone, I am my own boss."

"You make the rules?" he inflected. 

"Does your company encourage this kind of talk with passengers? No one has time for an existential debate in a taxi cab. You could really mess up someone's head, Mr. Smyth," Georgia accused. 

"John," the driver answered.

"That's awfully evasive of you, John," she scoffed. 

"Am I the evasive one?" He asked, flatly. 

"What does that mean?! You know, I think you should let me out here." Georgia grabbed her purse and peered out the window to get her bearings. "What's my fare?" She looked into the front seat and saw that there was meter running, but she couldn't understand what it said. The numbers were in an odd order and there were no labels. 

"We're nearly there," John stated. "You were saying your life is fulfilled, Georgia." She hardly noticed that he had called her by her name. Instead she sat back in the seat. 

"Yes, I do. My company lays out the guidelines for dozens of business deals. We also lead our own ventures. I get to decide what happens." Georgia said matter-of-factly. She was indeed proud of her work. 

"Good," the driver said. 

"Good?" she laughed a little too loudly. "It's exactly what I dreamed, what I planned."

"Good." 

Georgia clutched her bag and stared out the window. She realized they were in fact just a block from her office. Curiosity overcame her.

"Do you do this to all your fares, John?" she inquired with a grin.

"Do what?" the man asked innocently.

"Make them question themselves. Make them justify their jobs, their actions. The whole existential 'would kid me be proud of grown up me' thing?" Georgia leaned forward, waiting for his response. 

"You do the digging; I just provide the tools," he nearly whispered. 

Georgia looked down at the two signs again. 

"Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time," she read aloud. "We'll have to open that can of worms another time." 

"Another time," John nodded. 

She felt the car stop in front of the building. Craig would be pacing the conference room, flipping charts and pages in a panic on the eighth floor. Georgia climbed from the cab and closed the door. She glanced up at the building, basking in the glow of her achievements for just a moment. 

Georgia reached into her purse and retrieved her wallet. Turning back toward the cab she knelt to lean near the passenger window. The cab was gone. There was no vehicle beside the curb. People around bustled by, unaware of the strangeness. 

As Georgia replaced her wallet, her phone began to ring again. She grabbed it quickly.

"I'll be right up, Craig." He didn't reply, just ended the call. Georgia laughed. The Yelp review was waiting to be finished. The cursor still blinking on the screen. She tapped cancel and headed into the building, shaking her head a little. 

"Time to be the boss," Georgia smiled to herself. 

#8 - Color Me Surprised

Prompt: You have been completely color blind your entire life and only seen in shades of grey. You come across a stranger that appears totally in color. 

He put on his shoes that he knew were black. They were a darker color than the blue shoes. That was how he knew. He didn't bother glancing in the mirror. There was no point. His head was shaved so there was no hair to be combed. He only paid attention as he dressed, knowing the shades of grey and black.

"What am I forgetting?" Vince asked himself. He laughed, spotting his sunglasses. He slipped them on then locked the door on his way out.

Achromotopsia the doctors had called it. His eyes could not see color because of the lack of cones. Rods and cones in your eyes allow you to see colors, but without cones you see greys. You also become sensitive to light, very sensitive. His total color blindness was rare and unexplained. He hadn not gained it from a great grandfather in Micronesia where it was more common. He was born into a world of grays and the doctors were unable to tell his parents why.

People had no idea what achromotopsia meant though. And they were guffawed at even the idea of total color blindness. Ninety percent of people don't even know how their eyes work. They take for granted the whole rainbow completely unaware that eight percent of the world couldn't visualize 'the red carpet treatment' or how brown brown sugar actual was. Now 'shades of grey' he understood clearly.

Stepping out of his apartment building the light was intense as his eyes attempted to adjust. Everything was a little brighter to him. He walked passed the line of cars parked along the curb, ignoring them all for none belonged to him. Instead he unlocked his bike from the rack and mounted.

Vince had decided long ago that driving wasn't for him. Obviously the traffic light colors were a problem, but it's not hard to remember the red is on top and green is on bottom. He chose to avoid cars because sunlight bothered him too much. With a bicycle he could stop without holding anyone up. He could go his own pace and take different routes without majority of the rules of the road to hold him back.

With his backpack carrying his laptop and important portfolios he took the usual route to his office. Being an editor was not a job that required colored vision. He only needed a sharp eye and an attentive mind. He loved reading manuscripts and synopses. Sometimes his eyes would get tired, but he had adjusted the light in his office to optimize his vision. He'd been told that his office looked like a rich baron's study with hooded lamps and heavy leather chairs. That was a compliment as far as he was concerned.

Stopping at a corner, he looked either way and waited. He would go when the cars went to avoid interrupting the morning traffic. The pedestrians were busy rushing in the crosswalk in front of him. Business folk, men and women, in suits and skirts bustled by. So many of them were talking on their phones or staring at them. A mother pushing a stroller, her baby babbling, walked by.

Then Vince saw something strange, the strangest thing he had ever seen. A man, across the street, waiting to cross wearing a red ball cap. His jacket was tan, not some light grey color, but actually tan. And he wore faded blue jeans.

Red, tan, faded blue? What was this? Quickly Vince looked around. The stoplights were still greys. The cars were greys. He scanned, but the red baseball cap stood out like a beacon. The light changed to green, another bright grey to him, and the cars moved. Vince waited, watching the colored man and found himself following the man.

He pedaled smoothly, slowly and stared in disbelief. The man was walking along, looking about a bit nervously. They went on like this for a few blocks. The red hat man turned down a side street. Vince turned, completely ignoring that he was now late for work. His meeting in half an hour would have to wait. Vince needed to talk to this man. He needed to understand why this guy was in color when the world had only ever been shades of grey and light. The man turned at a shop, an old sew and vac repair shop, and entered. Vince nearly jumped off his bike and hastily locked it to a light pole.

Rushing into the shop he barely noticed the old man sitting near the door. The man in the ball cap disappeared into the back of the store. Vince followed him through a door and down a set of stairs. He stopped midway when the man knocked on a door at the bottom of the steps.

A slat slid open at eye level. The person behind the door said something. The red hat man said something in reply. A loud click echoed up the stairs and the door opened. Panic flooded Vince as he realized he was going to lose his bounty. He clamored down the stairs, but the door clicked back into place before he reached the bottom. Vince pounded on the door.

The slat opened. A shadowed face peered through.

"Password?"

"I need to get in," Vince plead.

"What's the password?"

"Please, I need to see him," Vince begged , his hands against the door. It was metal and felt thick. The slat slid shut and the door clicked. Slowly it opened revealing shadows. Vince hesitated, but his desire to talk to the red ball capped man won out.

There was only one hall that went to the right. Vince took off his sunglasses and stepped cautiously door the dim corridor. As he reached the end of the hall a strange light reached his eyes. There was something here, something different and possibly dangerous he felt.

Vince stopped when he saw the hallway turned to he left. He knew something was around the corner besides the man in color. It suddenly occurred to him that he should not be there. He should be in his office reviewing a manuscript, preparing for  a conference call. He should not be in a secret, password guarded basement under a sew and vac shop.

But the color, the red he had seen, had drawn him. He was baited like a trout, he couldn't let go.

"Come out from there," a voice called. Vince knew his presence was known. He stepped forward, right foot then left into the room.

"Oh my god," was all Vince could muster. The red capped man was there. Beside him was a woman in a green dress. Seated in a brown suede chair was a large man in a black suit with a bright red tie. The tie was held with a gold tie clip that matched the man's gold cuff links. Vince looked at the carpet, blue with white flecks.

"Color me surprised," Vince laughed nervously. 

#7 - Mental Mishap

Prompt: You wake in a mental hospital signed in under someone else's name

A scraping sound startles me from sleep. I jolt up, out of bed and am quickly standing barefooted on the cold tile. Plain white walls surround me. There's window, the kind with chicken wire panes. The bed I've just flown from is plain. A twin size like the ones in college dorms that are a little bit longer than a child's twin bed. 

I look around for anything familiar. Everything is white. The walls, the floors, the bed clothes. I'm wearing a white tee shirt and light gray sweat pants. There are words on the tee shirt that I try to read upside down. 

'Goodrich Mental Hospital'

What does that mean? It's then that I notice the plastic bracelet on my wrist. I don't remember going to any hospital. I blink, trying to focus my eyes and read the information on the plastic bracelet.

Patient: Harrison, Caroline M.

Sex: F

Age: 27

And then some string of letters and numbers that have no meaning to me. Harrison, Caroline M. Who is that? Me, certainly not. My name is not Caroline. It's not even Carrie; it's Charley Wait, that's a nickname. It's Charlotte. I am Charlotte Walsh. I am twenty seven; that's true too. 

The scraping sound catches me again. It's coming from somewhere else. I turn to the door which is opened slightly. There are other sounds too. People talking, a television, a beeping echoes down the hall. 

Carefully, I step toward the door. The handle is silver, brushed so it's not too shiny. I pull the door open and all the noises come at me. The television is louder. There's some cartoon playing I'm guessing by the high tones of the voices. Adults don't sound like that, I think.

Stepping into the hallway I peer left then right. To my left the hall contains several doors on each side. Some of the doors are opened, others closed. To my right the hallway opens to a large room. This is where all the sounds are coming from. 

I cautious walk into the large room. Everything is white here too except for the furniture. The couches are mismatched. There are metal folding chairs and plastic folding tables. It all seems faded like I'm seeing the world through a sepia filter. 

People sit or stand, all wearing the same clothes as me. Everyone in light gray sweats and white tee shirts with the black lettering. And everyone has a plastic bracelet too. I'm betting their names are correct though. 

There are large windows, chicken wire paned like the one in my room. My room? It's not mine; it's Caroline M. Harrison's room. A large woman stands in the middle of the room with a clipboard. She isn't wearing gray and white. Instead, a pair of dark blue pants and a cream shirt with blue dots. She's not overweight. She's tall and broad like a football player. Her jaw is set and square, but her eyes are soft. I watch as she watches. She looks down at her clipboard then around the room at the people. 

"Alright, it's time for Circle Talk, everyone," she calls out. Slowly, one by one, people gather around her. They carry the metal folding chairs and begin sitting in a circle. "Thank you, Monty." A man has set a chair beside his. The large, soft eyed woman takes her seat along with everyone else. 

I stand, watching and waiting. The woman looks up from her clipboard, surveying the circle and smiling softly at the gray and white people. She stops and looks up at me, standing fifteen feet back.

"Carrie," she meets my eyes, "are you joining us today?"

I don't know what to say so I just stare. Does Carrie join this group? I don't know. What would Carrie do? I don't know. The woman is waiting, I can tell. Finally I shake my head.  She nods a little and looks back at her group. I guess I made the right decision. I guess Carrie doesn't join this group.

She starts talking about trees. She says trees grow deep roots that help them stand up in rough weather. I tune her out and walk to a window. I'm thinking, trying to figure out who Carrie is and how I'm going to get out of this place. 

Outside the trees are naked. There are no leaves. It's late Fall or Winter then. How do I know this? I see a parking lot. There are lots of cars. There are a few people going in and out of the building. I want to be one of them. I want to be going out of here. 

Quickly I turn around and search the room. What am I looking for? I don't know. I look at the ceiling. It's white, popcorn style. The kind that everyone hates on HGTV.  The mismatched furniture is frayed. The metal folding chairs are dented. Nothing here is smooth except the tile floor. Everything feels used and discarded. Even the people feel like leftovers. 

I stumble forward suddenly dizzied by it all. The matching people and mismatched room. The huge, soft woman. The walls are too close, but the room is too big. Something is not right. 

"Are you alright, Carrie?" The woman asks. 

I grab a metal chair. It slides, scraping the tile. This is the sound that woke me. 

"Carrie, is something wrong?" 

I look up at the woman. The matching people turn to stare at me. I can feel there eyes on me. I can feel my heart starting to race. I need to think, but everything feels wrong and I can't straighten my thoughts. 

"Carrie?"

Carrie? Who is Carrie? Caroline M. Harrison should be here, not me. Not me.

"I'm not Carrie," I say finally. The woman is standing. She pulls out a radio and talks into it. I can feel the panic, the worry of the matching people in the circle. I can feel the woman approach me. She towers like a giant teddy bear. It's smothering.

"Alright, we're going to get you back to your room. You don't seem to be feeling well today," the woman takes my arm and begins to lead me toward the hallway. I try to step, but my bare feet stick to the white tiles. I stumble. 

Suddenly there are men. These men are tall like the big softie. They take my arms and pull me along. I'm not walking; I'm floating on my toes. 

"Alright, Ms. Harrison. It's going to be alright. We'll get you back to your room," one man says.

"Harrison?" I mumble. "I'm not Harrison."

They take me back to the room I woke up in. There's a man standing in the corner as they place me on the bed. He's wearing a lab coat, also white. Of course it's white; everything is white, blinding white.

"Carrie, I'm going to give you something to help you sleep," the man says. He's holding a syringe. 

"No," I exclaim. "No, I don't want to sleep."

The man glances at the two large guys who dragged me here. They grab me and force me down onto the bed. I kick, I scream. They push me down. The lab coat man approaches.

"Carrie, it's going to be okay. You just need to rest. Once you've rested then we can get you better," the man says over my screaming. 

"I'm not Carrie! I'm not!" I scream and scream. "My name is Charley. I'm Charlotte Walsh!"

The big men hold me still. The other man shushes me and sticks the needle in my arm. 

"Sleep," he says. "You'll feel better."

"No, I'm not Carrie," I strain to speak. I can feel the medication. It weakens me. My body slackens like I'm sinking into the bed. "I'm not Carrie. Not her." 

That's all I can manage before everything goes black. 

#6 - The Briefcase

Prompt: At a park bench an unfamiliar man sits beside you and glances at your newspaper. Unnerved by his presence you hand it to him with a nod. He takes it, nods back, places his briefcase by your feet and walks away.

It was a Thursday. The sun was bright in the slate sky. Neil sat on the park bench leafing through the newspaper, not really reading it. Watching the people who came through the park was more interesting today. A man jogged by, his yellow lab leashed at his side. The dog's tags tinkled in time with their steps like the average man's Rocky theme.

The trees were nearly bare. A few yellowed leaves clung to thin twigs while the ground was littered with reds, browns, and oranges. A squirrel skittered through the leaves across from him. He watched it until a young couple caught his eye. They held each other's hands, fingers intertwined; their arms touched as though their jackets were sewn together. And they smiled, always smiled as they strolled passed. Neil envied them, but felt warmed by their obvious affections.

He looked down at his newspaper again. Another op-ed about the political climate rambled about the right wing candidate's latest unveiled candidate. Neil glanced at his watch and decided to take the full hour he was offered for his lunch break. There wouldn't be many more days of crisp, clear weather before the biting cold hit.

Back to his newspaper the political cartoon caught his eye. A hippopotamus labeled "Russia" was sitting upon a caricature of Uncle Sam while what were supposed to be politician huddled in another corner and argued about policy. Neil shook his head. He looked up as a man sat beside him on the bench, placing a black briefcase on the ground between them.

There were four empty benches along this section of promenade and yet this man had sat on his bench. Looking back to his paper, Neil decided the man must be lonely. Sometimes he felt lonely and it helped to just be near people even if he didn't know them. He would go to a Starbucks and order a coffee even though he didn't like coffee. Just to be in a place that was so alive; somewhere with a pulse and the chatter of life made him feel less lonely. Sometimes, talking to his cat Sully just didn't cut it.

The man adjusted himself and looked at Neil then Neil's newspaper. Neil smiled a little, half mouth smile. The man looked him in the eye without blinking. Neil went back to his paper, to the op-ed, but he couldn't focus. He could feel the man staring at him. He turned the page and started the reading the middle of an article that had carried over from the front page. He caught a few words, but was certain the man was still looking at him and his newspaper.

Chancing a look he glanced to his right. The man shifted and looked at him again then to the newspaper. Closing the thin pages quickly Neil thrust the paper at the man who took it. He folded the newspaper calmly and tucked it under his arm as he stood. Then, the man did the strangest thing, he nodded at Neil and walked away.

He was so surprised that Neil didn't immediately notice the briefcase still on the ground. He watched the man turn a corner and disappear behind the trees. Neil sat, brow furrowed, and wondered for a moment.

"That was odd," Neil said to himself as he stood. It was then he saw the briefcase. "Oh no," he sighed realizing the man had forgotten his attache. Neil picked it up and headed the direction the man had gone. As he walked Neil inspected the case for a tag or any identifying marks, but there were none. There was only a small lock with a combination dial on it.

Neil looked up and down the street, but couldn't see the man. He could be miles away now. He could have taken a cab or the subway line and be halfway across the city. Turning back to the park, Neil walked back tot he park and sat on the bench again. He laid the briefcase on his lap and drummed his fingers on it. Black leather, black handle, and a silver lock. There was nothing particular about this case at all. Neil pitied the man who had taken his newspaper. He could have forgotten important papers. He could be walking into a meeting right now with nothing to show, but a newspaper.

"He'll come back," Neil decided. The man would realize he had forgotten his attache and come back to the park looking for it. Neil checked his watch. He only had twenty minutes of his lunch break left which meant he could only wait ten minutes. That would certainly be long enough for the man to realize he had left his briefcase in the park. He would wait.

Ten minutes past quicker than Neil expected. He had to get back to work. Neil looked worriedly at the briefcase. He saw only two options: leave it or take it. If he left it then who knew what would happen to it. The weatherman had not called for rain, but the weatherman did not predict thieves. Glancing at his watch Neil made his decision.  He would come back tomorrow and see if the man showed up. Certainly the man would come back in search of his briefcase, Neil believed.

Taking the briefcase in hand he got up from the bench and started the four minute walk back to his office completely unaware of the woman with the camera who had been snapping pictures of him ever since the other man had shown up. 

#5 - Sorry not Sorry

Prompt: Write a list of things people say instead of "I'm sorry."

1. I didn't mean to.

2. Are you okay?

3. I love you.

4. It's not my fault.

5. How can I make it better?

6. If you hadn't....

7. Don't cry.

8. Do you want a hug?

9. What do you mean?

10. How it is my fault?

11. You'll be okay.

12. Do you want me to hurt myself? Will that make you feel better?

13. You're making me feel bad.

14. I'll make it better. 

15. *stares*
16. Good bye.
17. Fine then.
18. I can't do this.
19. I know how you feel.
20. I've had it worse.

This list could go on and on and on... It probably will. 

# 4 - Arianthe

Dialogue Prompt: By the Gods! You love her.... don't you?

They carried on, still east. The two men wouldn't call themselves drifters. They didn't float about like feathers or leaves. They were comrades, life's wandering livers, and though they had no home per say there were places they felt more welcome than others. Most certainly there were places they would go back to again and again, and places they loved more than others.

They walked the road, a dirt path wide enough for a cart though there were none. The hills waved on for miles in every direction, coated in green grasses and purple flowers. In the distance the hills rose and were covered in more and more trees.

Behind them was a town that they would see again some day. They didn't bother planing when. Planning wasn't something they did on a regular basis, not men like them.

"Did you snatch any more of those biscuits?" Soren asked wishfully.

"You ate the last one an hour ago, Remember: Oh gaaaawd! These biscuits are ambrosia of the Gods, stolen away by a nymph and passed off as bread." Mellan fawned over an imaginary biscuit and began licking at his fingers. "I would do anything for another one of those except what the woman did to me last night."

"Aye, I remember," Soren scoffed and kicked the ground. "Those biscuits were heavenly and that woman was a devil."

"She looked about like one too, but after the dozen ales you drank I can see why you didn't notice," his companion laughed. "I still can't see how you missed the wart on her face. The size of a crab apple!"

"Hush it!" Soren scowled.

"You wouldn't be as hungry as you are if we hadn't had to run out of that tavern," Mellan shook his head. He glanced up at the soft sky above. "Lovely day it's making out to be, huh?"

"Yeah, as lovely as that wart-faced whore," Soren mumbled. He kicked a pebble and sent it skipping up the path. "That's all I do, ya think? Drink too much ale, eat too many biscuits, and sleep with too many women!"

"Oh, hey! You're not that angry, are you? Let me see if there ain't one more biscuit hiding in me bag," Mellan sighed. He stopped, kneeling to dig in the pockets of his satchel. Soren walked on, leaving his friend to stare at the bend in the path ahead. The trees shaded the road kindly. He was glad for it. They had only been under the sun for a few hours, but the day was growing warm. That was probably why he was upset. That and he was hungry again.

"M'sorry, Mel," Soren called out, turning around. The road was empty. Mellan was not kneeling a few yards behind. His sack lay open on the road, a biscuit beside it in the soil. "Mellan?"

Soren peered around in search of his friend. There wasn't much cover on the hilltops. From his right he heard a shout. Without thought Soren took off toward the noise. He charged through a clump of bushes to see his companion lying on the ground. His shirt was torn; his face was bloodied.

"What happened?" Soren inquired.

"Always quick to rush in," Mellan groaned, leaning up on an elbow. "It's bandits."

"Right you are!" A greasy voice snickered. Several scrawny men sauntered out from what little cover they had found.  "We's bandits and we come to band from you. Now, give us what you got and you won't get roughed up no more."

"Band from us, huh. Exactly how do you plan to do that? I see no instruments?" Soren spoke clearly, holding back his laugh. Mellan shook his head in disbelief. His comrade always took the lighter side before a fight.

"In-stree-ments? We's bandits, not music men!"

"You did say band, correct? He said band, right?" Soren questioned.

"He did," Mellan nodded.

"Anyone could be confused by that. Now, if you mean to say you're going to steal from us.. well then, I'd like to see you try," he proposed. Mellan was now standing up alongside Soren. They surveyed the grimy burglars. The men laughed obnoxious, gruff laughs.

"We ain't gon' try. We's gon' do it," the leader stepped forward. His band moved in, half a dozen men circled the two companions.

"Mellan, do you remember Port Au Calley?" Soren asked over his shoulder.

"I do, my friend," Mellan smiled. "That was a beautiful day. After the fight, of course."

Just then, one of the scrappy bandits lunged at them and the fight broke out. Soren quickly side stepped, letting the man bury his own face in the grass. A swift kick to the gut and the man doubled over in pain, howling at his now cracked rib. Two more fellows came at them. They did not know that Mellan was known to knock a man out in one hit. In two punches he had as many of the bandits seeing stars. The last two followers looked at their leader nervously.

"What're ya waitin' fer? Get 'em!" He hollered. The men charged. One was able to catch Soren in the jaw twice before he was tripped and shoved into a thorn bush. The other fell to the ground gripping his arm and crying.

"Did you displace his shoulder?" Soren whined.

"I only helped him do it himself," Mellan grinned.

They turned to the leader of the now bruised bandits, but the man was gone. With a chuckle they walked back toward the road where Mellan's satchel still lay. Grabbing up the pack quickly Mellan searched the front pocket and pulled out a picture. He nodded and made to replace it in the pocket.

"What's that?" Soren asked, swinging his own bag onto his back.

"Nah," was all the reply.

"Nah? What's 'nah'? What is it?" Soren furrowed his brow.  Mellan closed the pocket quickly, ignoring the question. "No secrets, remember. We don't hold back. Remember the other time at Port Au Calley?"

"Yeah, yeah, I remember," Mellan grumbled. Soren waited, but there was still no explanation.

"Fine then, don't say," he snapped. They walked on in silence for several minutes. Finally, Soren could bare it no longer. "What was that? Let me see."

Soren reached over and flipped the pocket open. Before he could get his hand in Mellan had pulled away. They wrestled, moving this way and that, until they both fell to the ground.

"Get off!" Mellan yelled, kicking at his friend. "I'll show you then. Just get off."

Sitting back Soren panted and waited. Mellan stared at the ground, the trees in the distance, at nothing for a moment before he pulled the picture from its pocket. Soren took it carefully. He could tell that this thing was special. Mellan was more than particular about things close to him. Soren had learned the hard way about rough handling of Mellan's treasures.

He surveyed the picture: a sketch of a woman leaning against a fence. Whoever had drawn it was either talented or intimate with the woman. They had paid much attention to her eyes and mouth.

"She's pretty," Soren said finally, handing the sketch back.

"Arianthe," Mellan replied slowly. The name flowed off his tongue like honey. He felt warm when he spoke it.

"Where is she?" Soren asked.

"Safe," Mellan quipped before rising from the hillside. "Let's keep moving."

Soren rose as well. He walked quietly beside Mellan, watching a bird drift on the thermals. Soren waited.

"In Filius County, that's where she lived. It was before you and I met," Mellan began. "I was trying to stay straight. I was working at a mill. We left, went together as far as Cape Highland."

"What happened at Cape Highland?" Soren asked softly.

"And then I had to go," Mellan hesitated. "She stayed safe."

"By the Gods," Soren whispered. "You love her, don't you?"

"By the Gods," Mellan promised. They had reached the tree cover. The shadows made his face harder to read. Soren knew Mellan's face well. They had know each other for years, nearly two decades. The downcast eyes and flat brow meant Mellan was lost in reverie. Now was not the time to press him.

They continued on, dried blood on their knuckles and dirt on their shoes.

#3 - Make Me Sick

Prompt: A person has the ability to make people very ill. 

Crunching leaves under foot, she walked along. She couldn't hear the crunch of course. Her ear buds were firmly resting, pumping the wail of a guitar into her brain. The vibrations of her mind coursed along with the music. 

Her hands were tucked in the hoodie pocket. Her favorite hoodie, dark gray with a dragon silhouette across the front,  read 'Fire Force.' It was Fire Force's guitar riff that was her whole world as she made to cross the street. 

A few street lamps were out. A trash can was lying on its side. The traffic light switched from green to red and a car sped by a few blocks away. It was peaceful and familiar. All the straight lines of pavement, road and sidewalk, all intersecting at perfect right angles. Even the stoops of the apartments stood out in a perfect pattern. She was like a marble in an intricate maze, and that's how she liked it. 

The leaves crunched behind her. Another marble was coursing the maze too. This one was larger, and its goal was not to find the right hole to plop through on its way home. This marble's goal was to break her. 

The shadow fell over her as she stepped under the street lamp. Immediately she knew something was off, someone was there who shouldn't be. Her maze was invaded and so was her personal space. Large arms, muscular and vice-like, wrapped around her and pulled her out of the light. 

Into an alley she was dragged, literally kicking and screaming. But the shouts only echoed off the brick. There was no one to hear. No one heard her cries for help. No one heard the man slap her, punch her, shove her against the dumpster. She did not hear anything after her head slammed into the metal then bounce and cracked against the wall.

She awoke to streams of daylight peeking over the rooftops. Her head pounded. She reached to touch it, but the pressure of her fingertips sent lightening through her. Everything hurt. Everything was sore, cut, and sticky with dried blood. 

Sitting up, she examined her hands. They were covered in alley gunk, dirt and who knew what else. Her hoodie was torn, the right sleeve was hanging limply from a few stitches. Her jeans were ripped and unbuttoned, the zipper was broken. 

Looking down she saw it then, the blood stains on her jeans. It was like she had pissed herself, pissed blood. This wasn't right. No, nothing was right. She should have woken up in her own bed with her hoodie and jeans draped over the chair. The sunlight should have peeked through the window, not over a rooftop. She shouldn't have blood all over herself. She shouldn't be so sore, sore everywhere she could feel. 

"Help," she called out. Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard. It felt like pushing jello over sandpaper. "Someone, help!" Remembering her cell phone she felt her pockets, but it wasn't there. They were all empty, barren like the alleyway, like her memory. 

She looked toward the street. Cars drove by, unaware. There would be people, that's what the cars meant, she thought. Almost crying from the pain she got to her feet and everything spun. The bricks wiggled and the ground rose up. She caught herself on the dumpster. 

With hands on the wiggling wall, she stumbled toward the street. It felt like a mile before the world opened up into her perfect maze. A man stopped midstride as the alley released her and she tumbled forward. 

"Miss, are you alright?" The man asked. She found his face, his eyes, and was surprised by his expression. He was appalled and concerned. "Let me help you."

He took her arm and she winced. She winced again as she was sat upon a step. The man pulled out a phone and began talking to her, or to someone on the cell phone. She couldn't tell.

Now, she was on fire. Her head throbbed. Her limbs shook. Her stomach back-flipped. It flipped again and pushed up anything that could be left inside. Her sandpaper throat became wet and hot. 

Just before she blacked out she remembered the big arms pulling her away - and she hoped those arms were in as much pain as she was.

Fifteen miles away, a man doing his morning workout routine fell onto the mat. His muscles burned, but not like when he had done too many reps. It was like they were set on fire. The fire raced up and down his arms then shot across his shoulders. When it reached his spine, his mind gave up. He blacked out. 

#2 - Concrete Barrel

Prompt: About 20 minutes after the oil drum you are crammed into is filled with concrete you realize you are probably immortal.

Everything is still black. There is no sound except that rushing noise of nothing. I feel plugged. Nostrils stuffed, ears caulked. I won't open my mouth, I refuse. Concrete probably tastes terrible. More importantly, my legs and back are killing me. All cramped up in here.

They took me to the warehouse filled with hundreds of blue metal barrels. Drums, like the ones they put oil or chemical waste in. The goons in their black suit pants and leather jackets dragging by the arms. I tried to walk, but when guys twice your size are hauling you around it's hard to keep your feet under you. Heck, it's hard to keep your wits, to organize your thoughts, when you feel like a kid being brought to dad after a royal screw up. 

When they let go of my arms I fell to the ground, slammed by gravity onto the cement floor. My arms burned, my knees and wrists were jolted so damn hard I felt it in my head. It's hard to get up with any dignity from that. That's the point though. When they treat like a prepubescent you're not  supposed to feel dignified. They wrack your nerves before they kill you.

Except I'm not dead. How the hell am I not dead? 

Rocko said some stuff. I muttered back like the delinquent they want me to be. I get mad at myself for not standing up to him. Rocko says "You won't live to regret this." He nods and I'm dragged off again. Not far though.

I kick, I fight, but I'm still shoved into a blue barrel. They hit me hard with the butt of a gun right on the temple. My head is thick and on fire when I feel something heavy and wet pouring in around me. 

What's this, I think. I can focus long enough to realize it's concrete. I'm about to die, I think. I scream, but it only echoes on the close metal walls. 

And I'm still here. The lid is on tight. I can still move a little; can press my hands on the steel ceiling. The panic is gone, but the confusion is my whole world, my whole black world. I'm not breathing. I have got to be dead. Is this my afterlife? Blackness and a stiff neck for eternity. Yeah, this must be hell. There's no fire or brimstone. No red devil with a pitchfork and a pointy tail. No air, no light, no sound. There's nothing. 

But I'm thinking. I'm moving. I'm feeling. I can't be dead, can I? 

The concrete on the bottom is getting harder to shift around in. It's hardening. Huh, cement shoes. I wonder if there's a way out of here. Not if this is hell. But, why not try? I'd love to see the look on Rocko's face when I come walking up, dripping with concrete. And those guards of his, with one brain cell between them, would look as dumb as they are. Why not try? 

I stand up as much as I can, pressing my shoulders against the lid and push against it. I crouch and then release as quick as the rocky sludge will let me. There's a metal clank, like when the screen door slams. I crouched again and launch myself up. It's maybe six inches, nine if I'm lucky. The metal gongs again, the barrel rocks slightly. Now there's an idea. 

I lean to my left, then right, then left again. Nothing. I throw myself to the left then quick back right. The barrel shifts, the concrete moves around me. Alright, I think to myself, keep it up. I rock back and forth, back and forth through the mixture I'm marinating in. It feels like a carnival ride as I move and my world moves around me. The ground is missing under me in the front then the back, back and forth, forth and back. 

Suddenly, I'm tipping. I'm on my side and my barrel is rolling. I'm sure there was a bang when I landed. Someone had to hear that sound. They're probably coming. I'm slammed against the side of the barrel. We've stopped rolling, me and my barrel. Something is happening. The concrete is moving still. I reach for the lid and feel around the rim. There it is, a cinch. The concrete is leaking out, slowly, very slowly. 

What am I supposed to do now? Think, think. I want to open my eyes, but I know I ain't gunna see nothing. I remember camping when I was kid. My dad forgot the can opener, but he had this pocket knife. After he had jammed the blade into a can of baked beans and sawed around a little he used the blade to pop the lid up enough to get the beans out. Why am I thinking of beans?

Nobody has come to set me up right again. They probably left thinking I'm not a problem anymore. When I get out of here, man are they gunna see what kind of problem I am. My dad gave me a real nice pocket knife after that camping trip. It had all kinds of things on it besides a knife. That knife is still in my pocket. Those dumb goonies always check for guns, but not for knives. I drag my arm through the concrete and feel for my pocket. My jeans are stiffer than my joints, but I can feel it. I kind of kneel to straighten my right leg and reach into my pocket. Turning the knife over in my hands I start thinking about the tools I could use. I smile, a weird close-mouthed smile, and flip out the can opener tool. 

Reaching toward the lid I find the cinch, the hole that’s leaking out concrete like a stuck pig. I jam the can opener through the hole and wiggle it around. The lid clanks again. I wiggle the tool a little more. The lid clanks and the concrete flows out more now. Pressing my feet against the bottom of the barrel I put my hands flat on the lid above my head. I push with my arms and legs as hard as I can. 

Finally the lid gives way and the concrete and me come sprawling out of the barrel like a newborn babe. I can feel the air; I gasp and fill my lungs for the first time in what feels like my whole life, like I've never really breathed before. I wipe the concrete from my face, my eyes, my mouth and nose. 

Lying on the ground, I'm staring up at the ceiling of the warehouse. Early morning light is coming in from the high windows. I must have been in that barrel for hours. 

My knees and back hurt. My hands are raw from rocks pressing into them. My ears feel like slugs crawled out of them. I breathe deeply through my mouth. How am I not dead? 

#1 - Golden Troll

Prompt: She's a troll with gold skin and golden fur. She creates and sells exotic artifacts.

She pulled the wagon into her usual stall. The other merchants were busy with their own stands, adjusting their fruits and rugs and whatnots, but they always gave her a wide berth. All her life she had been avoided, not ignored per say, but edged around and eyed from the corner. She smiled at them when their eyes met; some smiled back, always nervously though. 

The sun peeking over the rooftops was like a gate, opening the market for business as it had every day before. No sooner than the first customers stepped into the street did the merchants began barking. Best fruit in the land. Finest made rugs made by pretty ladies. Fresh fish. 

She did not bark; she did not have to. They would come to her as needed. That's how it worked. When they needed an emerald vial or a mohair prayer shawl or a silver chime they would come. She stepped back into the shade of her stall and watched, waiting. 

Soon enough a young boy skirted around the tables, once, twice. She glided forward as he peeked around again.

"What do you need, child?" Her voice was deep and soothing. The boy stared; she did not blink. 

"Tooth," he mumbled.

"Mountain goat. Crocodile. Elephant tusk, maybe?" She suggested, widening her eyes a little with each. The boy's eyes grew too. He quivered. 

"Goat," he managed. Then added, "please."

She scooped a few of yellowed teeth into a pouch and extended it to the boy. He continued to stare. An idea came over her and she smirked. 

"You seem like a good boy. Getting ingredients for your mother's poultice I bet. How about a special treat for you," her voice sang in its low and lovely way. She laid the leather pouch on the table and with it a beautifully wrapped candy. "A sweet, it makes you feel happy and warm all over, made by the hermit wizards." 

The boy smiled a little. He reached out, two silver coins in his hand, payment for his purchase. 

"You are gold," he gasped. 

"I am," she replied with a smile. "All my people are." As he took the pouch and candy a woman stormed up to the stall. She grumbled and looked between the boy and the seller. 

"What's this now," she scowled. Snatching the candy from the boy she flung it at the giver. "Trying to poison him I reckon. Don't take nothing from a troll for free. They steal children for their stews!" 

The boy panicked. He ran. The merchant woman shook her head and marched away. 

"Peste," the troll spat at the woman. The dust whirled up and trailed behind her, carrying the word away. 

Leaning against her cart she crossed her arms in the shadows. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence, to be accused, but it still hurt. Trolls were a misunderstood race, often associated with Ogres. Most people did not want to know the difference, did not care to. They only knew that some ate people and that was enough. It was like avoiding water because one person had drowned. 

Her mood was darkened for the day, and though the sun shone and glinted against her furred forearm warmly she could not shake the feeling. More customers came. One for a silver oil lamp and sheepskin oil, burned for good luck. One for a fine, sheer shawl darned by fairies, hung over the door for happiness. Others for potion and poultice ingredients. The sales were good, but not a single one would look her in the eye. 

As the shadows stretched over the market street she packed up her wagon. 

"Miss," a voice called behind her. "Excuse me, please." 

She paused and carefully turned. A young dark man stood before her stall, wringing his hands slightly. 

"Hello," the man smiled. She forced herself not to cock her head though the surprise and suspicion was growing inside her golden mind. "Are you still vending?" 

"What do you need?" Her usual question when folks were wary. This man was not wary though. 

"I am looking for a gift. You see, there's a woman and she's lovely, just stunning, but she won't even look at me. I want to, need to impress her," the man pleaded, blushing. "It's silly, but... I just have to give her something."

"What color are her eyes?" She raised her brows. The man's jaw fell, but no words came out. "Do you know what color her eyes are?" 

"I do not," his gaze fell. "Her hair is like the sunrise. Her walk it like the stream flowing. Her smile is like a heartbeat." 

"And her eyes are...?" 

"I am embarrassed," he sighed. "I do not even know her name or the sound of her voice. I am not introduced to her yet. If I bring her a gift, something excellent, then I can meet her and profess my love." 

She could hardly believe this man's speech. The poetry books used words like his, but no actual person said these things, at least not in her experience. 

"You are serious," she said finally. Reaching into a basket she pulled out a silken and scaled scarf, golden bells tinkled on the ends. The light shimmered on the fabric, dancing colors across her golden face. "It is a mermaiden's veil." 

The man took it gingerly and tilted the veil this way and that, watching the light move over it. 

"This is the color of her eyes," he whispered. "Thank you. So many times, thank you."

"You are only welcome if you can pay for it," she clipped. Her deep voice was sharp, but kind. 

"What does it cost?" He furrowed his brow, now suspicious like she had come to expect. 

"10 tanka. And a lock of her hair." The man shook his head and laid the veil upon the table. 

"I cannot ask her to defile her head in such a way," he continued shaking his head. "I am sorry to have wasted your time." 

"What color are her eyes?" She let the words slip, softly and heavy. They swirled around his head, tickled his eyes, brushed his hair. His eyes shifted. 

"10 tanka," he was barely audible. "I will bring you her hair." 

"You will bring it before the new moon," she stated. He repeated and placed the coins on the table. 

"Be well," she smiled. The man smiled too before folding the veil and walking away dreamily. 

Grinning to herself she wrote the sale in her ledger, a palm sized notebook. The scrawls looked like no mortals words, but were written in the troll language. It flowed the like gold of their fur.