A to Z Challenge: Q is for Quarantine

"You can't keep me here! I've been locked in this room for days! At least I think it's been days..."

Silence.

"Don't I have rights? How can you just do whatever you want because of my health status? Please... won't somebody talk to me?"

Silence.

"There's nothing wrong with me. I'm fine. I swear I'm fine. Can anyone hear me?"

Silence.

"Please... Don't make me do something extreme."

Silence.

CRASH.

Silence.

"Okay. I've calmed down. I'm sorry. I'm just going crazy in here. I just need something. Some contact. I won't touch you. I won't throw things. I promise."

Silence.

"I know you don't trust me. I'll behave. I'll follow all your rules. I promise I'm fine now. Please, just talk to me."

Silence.

"Fine. Be that way. I'll sit here until someone comes. I'll be good. You'll see."

Silence.

"My skin is clear. I'm not coughing. No diarrhea. No fever. Why are you keeping me here? I'm fine. Can't you see I'm fine?"

Silence.

"I'm not crying. It's just dry in here. I'm fine."

Silence.

"Maybe you can't hear me because I'm not here. Hello? HELLO? Echo...echo...echo..."

Silence.

"I exist."

Silence.

"Don't I?"

Silence. Silence. Silence.

"Are you in there?"

"Yes! I'm here! Are you real?"

"We're letting you out now. I'm sorry for the extreme measures, but we had to protect you. You were the only one not infected."

"So why are you letting me out now?"

"We were too late. Your test came back positive."

A to Z Challenge: M is for Malapropism

"Illiterate him from your mind!"

"What?" Alice blinked in confusion.

"He has way too much affluence over you." Harley leaned back, smug in her assessment of the situation. "You're letting him create too much dysentery among the ranks."

Alice shook her head. She picked up her tea cup to buy herself enough time to translate Harley's advice.

"So you think I should fire him?"

"I don't know... I mean, he's really plummeted to the top. He's only been there four weeks and already he's practically vile president. But then you didn't hire him to create disorder. You hired him to preserve disorder."

Alice nodded, pretending to understand. She leaned back in her chair, surreptitiously looking around her to see if anyone had overheard. The other outdoor cafe patrons continued their meals, unaware of the stream of unintelligible nonsense coming out of her best friend's mouth.

"Look," Harley said, leaning forward. "You can't ignore that he's a man of great statue. But he's not exactly the pineapple of politeness. What are you going to do? Transact to another job? You've got to stand up for yourself."

Alice nodded, finally understanding the meaning if not the words of her friend's wisdom.

"After all, a rolling stone gathers no moths."

A to Z Challenge: L is for Leviathan

Can you pull in the leviathan with a fishhook or tie down his tongue with a rope?
Can you put a cord through his nose or pierce his jaw with a hook?
Will he keep begging you for mercy? Will he speak to you with gentle words?

Your stomach swells with his might. He has taken you over and commands you at whim. He is the force in the waters. He is the strength in your womb. You struggle for mastery over your own body. He has brought you to your knees.

I will not fail to speak of his limbs, his strength and his graceful form.
Who can strip off his outer coat? Who would approach him with a bridle?

How can you tame something so elemental? How can you control the intangible essence of life that consumes you? Water is his realm and he moves in you. Your blood, your waters, your life move with him and he is the master of those seas.

Behind him he leaves a glistening wake; one would think the deep had white hair.
Nothing on earth is his equal—a creature without fear.
He looks down on all that are haughty; he is king over all that are proud.

At last he arrives. Unspeakably small. Unspeakably lost. A stranded whale on the shores of time. You hold him in your arms, in your eyes, to your breast. Small, yet some how the Leviathan still, ruler of your world.

A to Z Challenge: K is for Keelhaul

You dragged me under the ship. For once, that's not just a figure of speech. I should have seen it coming. I should have realized where that trip was headed. But I didn't. Not until the barnacles scrapped my back, tearing flesh. Not until I trailed blood like a comet's tail in the clear water of the Caribbean. 

"We're fine," you said. "I forgive you."

And, like an idiot, I believed you. Like an idiot, I stepped onto that boat. Excuse me. Ship.

Maybe you couldn't recognize your own fury, simmering under the surface, but I should have. I know you. I know the way your eyebrow twitches when you lie. I know the way your hands curl into fists when you're beyond frustrated. And I should have known.

The three minutes or so under the water feels inevitable. Painful. Terrifying. Inevitable. I'd envisioned storms. Getting stranded. Making the self-sacrificing decision to die so you could live. Not this. Not being hauled ass over teakettle into the water and dragged under like a sailor from the 1500s. 

Not you desperately dragging me back onto the boat. Not the burning, choking sensation of re-learning to breathe.

"It was an accident," you said. "Forgive me."

"We're fine," I said. 

A to Z Challenge: H is for Haemorrhagic

That conference in Kigali almost killed me. I have never been so exhausted in my life. Four lectures a day plus networking in the evenings? Never again. 8,593 miles from Kigali to Denver and I am finally home. Well... if you can call it a home. I don't have much in the way of furniture except for a fold out chair and mattress on the floor.

I drop my bags just inside the door and go to the kitchen. For some reason, a vague sliver of hope rests in that moment before opening the fridge door. As if kitchen fairies might have filled it to the brim with healthful, tasty food. I sigh, staring at the lone bottle of wine and a case of diet soda. I really need to go grocery shopping. For a moment, I just stare into the fridge, enjoying the coolness on my skin. My face feels stretched taut - like the heat of Africa followed me home. I grab the wine and slam the door.

If only my colleagues could get a look at me now. Whenever they see me it's in five star hotels, Prada, Louis Vuitton. I must be quite the picture, sitting on a mattress on the floor drinking wine out of the bottle. It's not even good wine. I laugh to myself and kick off my shoes. God, that feels good. I stretch my toes, arching my foot and stretching it back out. The wine makes me feel warm.

All this jet lag must be finally catching up to me. Or maybe it's the wine. I stretch my whole body this time, feeling the twinges and stiffness of a 30+ hour flight. At least have two days to myself before I fly out again. I'm feeling light headed. I glance at the wine, but I've only had a couple of gulps. Another wave of dizziness hits me and I fall back against the mattress. The wine bottle rolls off the bed. I manage to turn my head and watch as the red wine soaks into the tastefully off-white carpet. I try to care, but exhaustion overwhelms me.

I open my eyes sometime later. It's dark outside. My clock glows dimly showing 9:42 p.m. But I didn't get home until after ten. How long did I sleep? My arms and legs are covered with red starbursts. I must have spilled the wine on myself. I lick a finger and try to rub the red out, but it doesn't wash off. I trace the pattern again. I must be dreaming. I try to sit up, but I feel so heavy. I lay back and watch the headlights flare and fade on the ceiling. The light bends and hits me. I flinch back, covering my eyes with my arms. I must have the flu or something. Maybe a migraine. My head hurts. My  whole body hurts.

Damn those airplanes! Such a small closed space packed in with who knows who? Wasn't there an old man coughing a couple of seats behind me? At the thought, my throat tickles. I try to hold it back, but I can't. I roll onto my stomach and cough. Something splatters into my hand. It looks black, but I can't really tell. It's so dark in here. I wipe it off on a pillow I'm not using and throw it away from me. I should go to the doctor, but the only thing open right now is the ER. I try to sit up again, but fall back on the mattress. There's no way I can drive myself, but surely it's not bad enough to call an ambulance. It's probably just the flu. I should have gotten my shot weeks ago.

I close my eyes and drift off. Or try to. Someone opens the front door and light pours in. I try to cover my eyes, but I cough and cough. The carpet is stained with the black stuff or maybe it was the wine. I'm surrounded. Hands press against my skin, hot and heavy. I try to push them away, but I'm falling. I land against my mattress and start crying. Crying and coughing. My tears are thick. Too thick. I wipe my cheek and my hand comes away red. I scream, scrubbing my face, but I'm still coughing hard. I feel something rising and I vomit, throwing the black something over the carpet and bed, covering the wine stains.

It's a nightmare. A fever dream. I try to find my phone to call 911. My hands scrabble around the bed but the only thing I can get a hold of is the empty wine bottle. It must be in my purse. My purse is across the room with my luggage. I crawl off the bed through the black vomit and wine. Why does my apartment feel so freaking huge? My body is too heavy. The hands press against me, stopping my movement. I scream, but nothing changes. I need to get to the door.

Why do I need to go there? I can't remember. It's so far and I'm so tired. I'm crying steadily, great sobs that wrack my body until I can't breathe. My nails break, digging into the hard concrete under the carpet. I collapse, barely able to move my head.

Something inside me tears. A violent ripping shudders through me, but I relax. My muscles don't have the strength to clench. The pain is numbing. Bright white light washes through my mind and I close my eyes.

My hand lands on the wine bottle. The glass is cool against my skin. I sigh, because now I understand. I'm dying. It wasn't even a good vintage.

A to Z Challenge: G is for Gwenhwyfach

What stronger hate is there than that between sisters? Sister mine, you who were fair of face and voice, you had the heart of king and the love of a hero. You braided them into your hair with anchoring knots, like pretty playthings to decorate your beauty. You had no understanding of the hearts of men.

Was it not enough to be Queen? Was it not enough to know the love of a great man? While other women scrapped at the smallest plot of land that they may survive the winter, you held grand feasts and laughed as men fell over themselves to entertain you. You were always a simpering little fool. 

They call that slap one of the "Three Harmful Blows of the Island of Britain." I can still feel the sting of my palm against your smooth cheek. They say I am the one who began it, but it was you, dear sister. You threw away a king and a kingdom for your childish ideals. You threw the greatest kingdom on God's good Earth into peril for what? Piercing eyes and a handsome face?

A king lies dead at your feet and you flit off to France. Were it not for you, the king would be on his throne. Were it not for you, his blood would not water the ground of Britain. Were it not for you, I would have been happy.

Instead your folly unleashed a flood that swept through our land, scouring her clean of good men and hope. Death followed on your heels as you danced heedlessly into the arms of another. You spoke of love as if that had anything to do with it. As if love justified the destruction of a great man and his kingdom. As if love was enough.

Three things are not easily restrained, the flow of a torrent, the flight of an arrow, and the tongue of a fool.

A to Z Challenge: B is for Boléro

Today's flash fiction is inspired by Ravel's Boléro.

Boléro

She walks with purpose, placing each foot carefully in front of her. 

He sits silently at the bar. The glass lamps glow red. He lifts his eyes.

She holds her head high, her dark hair swept back. Her neck is pale, tinted pink by the light. 

He orders another drink. 

She sheds her cape and sits two seats down at the bar.

He stands, stiff from routine and drink. He turns away from her.

She gestures and a drink is set in front of her. Red wine.

He's seen her here before.

She's seen him here before.

He turns, smoothing his hair back.

She pivots on her chair. Her black dress shivers as she moves, catching the light.

He lifts his jacket from the back of his chair and shakes the wrinkles out. 

She lifts her wine.

He leans against the bar and finishes his drink.

She wipes lipstick from the rim of her glass. Red like wine. Red like the light.

He turns toward her.

She smiles softly. Her dark eyes shine. She stands.

He puts on his jacket.

She walks with purpose toward the door.

He follows silently. 

Writing Prompt: Manifest Destiny

So my mother and I are in Midwest City, Oklahoma for the Rose State Writer's Short Course. (I promise I'll write all about the conference later!) It's really great to get to spend some time with her and what's one of the first things we do? Pull out our 642 Things to Write About and pick a prompt. So here it is, from page 52.

Flash Fiction Prompt: You wake up by the side of the road lying next to a bicycle with no memory and no wallet. What happens in the next hour?

photo by Lee Orr

Memory is a strange creature. Gravel scrapes my palms as I sit up. I remember the word gravel. I recognize the pain of raw, exposed skin. The sun is setting over the mountains.

 I remember sunsets and solar systems. Nine planets. Well, if you count Pluto. I do.

The front wheel of my bicycle is bent and spinning slowly, an awkward elliptical rotation. Like Pluto’s. How can I know so much about a tiny frozen rock that I’ll never see? Never touch or smell or stand on. And yet… I can’t remember my name.

            

I stand, dusting pebbles and dirt from my capris.

            

They took away Pluto’s name. No longer called “Planet.” I doubt it noticed.

            

The prairie stretches around me, empty and nameless. Where was I going? My bicycle points towards the mountains like an injured bird-dog. West.

            

Manifest destiny. Go West, young man! Pikes Peak or bust. It’s strange what the brain chooses to store. What gets erased. The sun sinks lower.

            

Even without a name, I exist. I think, therefore I am. I am, therefore I act.

            

I pick up my mangled bike, pull it back to the road, and point my feet towards the mountains. Maybe I’ll find my name somewhere on the road. Maybe I won’t. Either way, my feet lead me West.

I head into the sun. 

Check out my mother's very different - but equally fun - response to the same prompt here!

Writing Prompt: Only Two Hands

Prompt: Begin a story describing only two hands. Use the physical characteristics of the hands, as well as any relevant activity or movement, gesture, fidgeting, and so on, to reveal who the hands belong to.

                                                                                     photo by  MogieG123

Response:

He played the piano. Or at least I assume he did.

Slender fingers held his wine glass lightly and without thought. I watched those hands, hypnotized by their choreographed dance as they sauntered from knife to fork and back again.

Bach.

Those hands held the end of my noose. And he didn't even know it. Fingers flickering like the moon on a disturbed pond. Pale. I couldn't hear his words.

Chopin.

How could he not play piano? With hands like those... They lingered on the rest.

Schubert.

He signed the words. Fun. A dismissive wave. While it lasted. Que sara. A mimicry of cursive and fatalism. His face faded like dull scenery painted on flat canvas.

Mozart.

His hands played my death. Shakespearean in that they refused to let me die. Illustrating the poison. The dagger.

Rachmaninoff.

Then the curtain fell. Check please. He slipped those hands into pockets.

The End.





So this one was a bit more poetic than my previous prose. Any thoughts?

Don't forget to check out ClaudiaBookwright's very different response to this prompt here.

Copyright to Grace Wagner 2013

Writing Prompt: Do You Confront Him?

photo by falln-stock

Prompt: You know the person with whom you're talking is lying. Do you confront him or let him continue?

Response:

The lie was written across his face. His tears and heartfelt pleas felt as honest as fool's gold. The reporters pretended to be concerned, sympathetic. The police chief issued a statement of support. The T.V. flickered, the only interruption in the continuous coverage of this so-called tragedy. I knew he was guilty. The memory of his hands crept up my arms. I knew her pain. The missing girl was another version of myself. I knew he was guilty and I knew they would never find her.

Copyrighted to Grace Wagner. Do not replicate without out written permission. 2013


This one was a lot shorter. This book has them split into four different sizes: full page, half page, third of a page, and a quarter. The lengths when handwritten of course end up longer, but I thought I'd upload a couple of the shorter ones. This prompt was a third of the page.

Let me know if you have any questions or if you want to join in!

Writing Prompt: Favorite Song Title

by Artist

Prompt: Write a story based on the title of your favorite song.

Response: "I Will Follow You Into the Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie

The room smelled of age and paper and stories. You led me between rows of leather-bound spines. The library had been abandoned for years. The grand old building lay tucked between skyscrapers and busy lives. In the eyes of the government it was "historic" and thus immune to demolition. In the eyes of entrepreneurs it was a waste of space.

I closed my eyes, feeling my way behind you. No one read physical books anymore. No one but you.

The cadence of your voice lilting over small, enigmatic type was a stark contrast to the drone of pre-recorded, pre-approved novels. Poetry lingered in your pauses, your breath drifting away from the small LED light into the blackness around us. My thoughts followed it.

Now I stand between empty rows. The books were packed and shipped away to some museum back east. That happened almost a year ago. I see your face like an afterimage. Burned into my retina as you grin over your shoulder.

What should we read tonight?

I shrug. Whatever you want.

I sit down, folding my legs beneath me. The emptiness presses down on me like a coffin lid. I lean back, closing my eyes. In the dark, I find your words. They become you.

"Adieu, adieu! my native shore / Fades o'er the waters blue; / The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, / and shrieks the wild sea-mew."

I follow you into the dark.

Copyrighted to Grace Wagner. Do not replicate without out written permission. 2013

UPDATE: Claudia Bookwright has also uploaded her answer to the prompt. Check it out here.