Congratulations for making it through yet another week. Hope yours has been a good one or at least one with more positives than negatives.
Among other things this week, I listened to a complete audio book for the first time.
Surprising, right? While I love reading and enjoyed being read to as a kid, it turns out I’m just not that big a fan of audio books. Since the book I was “reading” had a smattering of foreign words in it, it was helpful to hear them pronounced (since I was clueless), but it was challenging to figure out who was speaking sometimes, despite the skill of the narrator (who had a lovely voice).
I’m thinking audio recordings won’t be replacing my physical books any time soon.
Now that the audio book is finished and I have not yet picked up the next book off the TBR pile, it’s a perfect time to take a break and work on getting some of my own words on the page.
Care to join me?
For those of you working away on a story (whether a first draft or a polished version on its way to publication), if you’re not feeling random, we’d love to hear a bit – whether it’s a scene, a paragraph, or even a phrase that you are especially pleased with and would like to share.
If you don’t have a story in progress, or just want to work on something new, I hope today’s story prompt and/or random words will catch your creative fancy.
Ready?
This week’s random words and story prompt come to us courtesy of The Ripped Bodice’s Summer Reading Bingo card, which we talked about on Wednesday. You may not have a chance to read your way to a “bingo” but perhaps you can write your way there.
What if: “Your character went on an unexpected road-trip ?”
Feel free to include any (or all) of the following random words:
beach neighbor atheist paranormal
assassin elope grandparent flower
dragon kilt cowboy sassy
tarot prom wine costume
I look forward to seeing your stories in the comments. If you’re not feeling in the writing mood today, or don’t have time, feel free to post suggestions you might have for future “what-if” prompts. Ideas are always welcome.
Happy writing to all!
Eight Ladies Writing 
No writing sprint again, I’m afraid, but have found a section of my work in progress when my protagonist found herself taking an unexpected road trip in London’s Notting Hill. An old man suffering from dementia has run away and Ella finds helps his wife try to find him, by enlisting the support of a London taxi cab driver she’s got to know.
Hope not too lengthy but cutting off mid flow perhaps spoils things a bit.
“The black cab’s engine coughed into life and Jake accelerated away from the kerb. Outside the shoe shop Kezia stood on the pavement watching them. Wilma, now installed in the back seat next to Ella, had left the sweetened tea untouched, anxious to get on with the task of finding her husband. Meanwhile Ella, again supported by Jake, had drawn some satisfaction from passing a bewildered looking Imogen standing by the open door as she witnessed their departure. Once more Jake was Ella’s chauffeur, no-one else’s.
‘Any special places your husband likes to go to?’ Jake called out to Wilma, through the open glass divide, now fully up to date with the nature of his mission. They were further along Kensington Park Road, heading south.
‘Kenneth doesn’t go out much these days at all,’ Wilma replied. ‘He used to toddle off down the street to fetch the Telegraph from the newsagents every morning – sometimes he took Mimi for walkies. But he stopped all that, and we started to get the paper delivered instead.’
‘Anywhere else in the past then?’ Jake pursued. ‘Old haunts – a local pub perhaps?’
‘Kenneth never went to the pub! He always liked a late night nifter of whisky after dinner, and wine with his meal. He didn’t go anywhere much by himself.’
Went – liked. Wilma was starting to talk as though the poor blighter was dead. Ella shivered. Perhaps he really was dead. Maybe he’d got run over crossing the road, like her mum. More likely though, the reference to the past indicated Kenneth Harcourt’s tragic loss of mind.
Drawing a blank so far, Jake requested Wilma’s address, suggesting that they should keep to the immediate surroundings to begin with, then work outwards. Information elicited, he indicated right, into Ladbroke Gardens, lined with solid, respectable white dwellings that indicated serious money, and porticoed entrances reminding Ella of the side street where the Golden Cage Hotel was situated.
Driving on, they traversed Ladbroke Grove, and entered Lansdowne Crescent. To the right, the road was bordered by a row of white and cream coloured Victorian houses with pillared porches and balconies of black wrought iron filigree. The houses opposite, larger semi-detached affairs, were set further back from the road behind black railings or low brick walls bordering high privet hedges. It was one of these residencies that Wilma called home.
Jake drew up outside a sizeable three story building, the shade of light ochre, with a protruding wing in front of a gravel driveway which was closed off from the road by a tall iron gate. ‘Might be worth checking to see if your husband took the front door keys with him,’ Jake said. ‘If so, he could even be back.’
Wilma croaked agreement.
Jake jumped out of the taxi and hurried round to help her onto the pavement. Returning to the driver’s seat, he and Ella waited while Wilma opened an iron gate leading to the front garden. Staggering down a stone path in the black patent stilettos, she brushed past a well-established lilac bush displaying sad, brown, untended seed clusters, the luscious blooms of early May now spent. Once she reached the house she unlocked the front door and was immediately greeted by the sound of a small, barking dog, heard distantly from somewhere within. She closed the door behind her.
‘We need to keep giving the poor lady some hope,’ Jake said, staring out of the window at a row of high end vehicles parked on the opposite side of the road.
‘Let’s hope he’s returned home,’ Ella added, certain that this was not the case.
Jake’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel. ‘Yep. Sad when someone loses their mind.’
Ella hadn’t actually told Jake that. But the taxi driver was no fool, as she’d already learned. He’d read the situation for himself without the need to have it spelt out.
A silence fell between them.
What if they couldn’t find Kenneth anywhere? Ella wondered. The chances of doing so were slim, but at least it was worth a try. Besides, she felt better for assisting someone, however futile the attempt.
The front door opened then slammed shut. Wilma had re-appeared, alone. Once more Jake jumped out of the taxi and helped her into the back seat.
‘Kenneth’s panama hat’s gone from the peg in the porch,’ she said. ‘Awful old thing – used to belong to his father. His walking cane’s gone too and the spare set of house keys.’
‘So he’s intent on returning from wherever he went,’ Jake replied, his tone forcedly upbeat.
That was likely, Ella thought, remembering her gran. The question though, was whether Kenneth Harcourt was capable of doing so. Much depended on where he’d gone and who or what he’d encountered on the way.
***
The tour of the area continued. Towards the other end of Lansdowne Crescent they passed an anglican church to the right: St. John’s Notting Hill, built in the Victorian Gothic style, tall steeple reaching to an azure sky. The temperature had risen even more outside; Ella was glad of the taxi’s air con.
‘Sure your husband never went to the Cafe in the Space?’ Jake asked Wilma, indicating the church. ‘It’s pretty popular round here – makes a nice meeting place, and great for a wholesome midday meal.’
Wilma shook her head. ‘I’ve been there a few times myself with local friends – but never with Kenneth.’
‘However we shouldn’t rule it out.’ Commanding the two of them to stay put, Jake leapt out of the taxi and sprinted across the road, then dived into the church’s entrance porch. The thought of Kenneth Harcourt tucking into a hearty lunch while the three of them were doing their nut trying to look for him, amused Ella for a moment, until a crestfallen Jake reemerged having found no sign of their quarry.
Crossing the main artery once more, Jake drove through Stanley Crescent, which, together with that of Lansdowne, completed a circle, cut in half by Ladbroke Grove. Here, the townhouses were of vaster proportions.
They entered Ladbroke Gardens again, before Jake took a right, bringing them back onto Ladbroke Grove itself. Further along he turned left into Lansdowne Road, which, at first, arced around the back of the crescent of the same name, where Wilma lived. Ella looked to one side, Wilma to the other, as agreed upon before they’d embarked on the journey.
Passing splendid house after splendid house, in pastel shades of pink, blue, sage, lemon, dove grey and the more usual white, no-one of Kenneth Harcourt’s description came into view. Before leaving the shoe shop, Wilma had shown them a photo of her husband that she kept in her wallet. It had been taken several years ago when the couple had celebrated their Golden Wedding anniversary, although celebrated seemed entirely the wrong word in the circumstances. Wilma grinned broadly at the camera, glass of bubbly in hand, while Kenneth, looking at least twenty years older than his wife, smiled somewhat vacantly, as thought unsure what all the fuss was about.
After a while the tree lined road straightened out, passing through others. Indeed, there were so many different turnings, offering any number of alternative routes, that the hunt for Wilma’s husband seemed hopeless. No-one said anything, but the thought was clearly on all their minds.
‘Shall I take you home Mrs. Harcourt?’ Jake asked, after they’d circled the immediate area, and were heading back to Ladbroke Grove.
‘I suppose so. And I shall just have to call the police after all. It’s what I should have done all along,’ Wilma replied, unable to hide the wobble in her voice.
Back at St. John’s Church, Jake turned left, and reentered Wilma’s road from the opposite direction. As they approached the ochre coloured house, Ella spotted a black taxi parked outside. Out on the pavement, a woman was paying the driver, her back to them. She had silver-grey hair worn in a top-knot bun.
‘It’s Daphne!’ Wilma said. ‘What on earth is she doing here? – she was supposed to be meeting her brother off the train at Paddington and having a bite to eat somewhere.’
At the sound of Jake’s taxi drawing up behind the other, Wilma’s lunch partner turned. Dressed up to the nines, Daphne Cardew wore yet another outfit of dazzling pink, this time a short-sleeved coral coloured ensemble comprising a belted top worn over a straight skirt, with stilettos to match. She reached inside the taxi. Together with the bald headed driver, she helped the inmate out of the vehicle.
The stooped figure of an old man with a walking cane emerged onto the pavement, dressed in a white linen jacket over an open necked shirt. Once upright, he placed a battered panama hat on his head. The taxi driver then dived into back of the cab and drew out a black dinner jacket along with a pair of trousers, both draped over a hanger. He handed them to Daphne. The driver then got into the cab, started the engine, and roared off down the street.
Without speaking, Ella and Wilma exited Jake’s own taxi. Once more Jake helped Ella as she stepped gingerly onto the pavement with her good foot first. She made for the wrought iron railing outside Wilma’s house and leaned against it.
Wilma launched forth. ‘Kenneth – where have you been? We’ve been worried sick!’ She raised an arm in a manner of an embrace, indicating that Ella and Jake had also been on the receiving end of this perturbing experience. Kenneth raised a quizzical bushy, white eyebrow, and fixed his blue eyes, alight with a mischievous sparkle, on his wife.
‘My dear – I’ve been having the most splendid time. We went to the Golden Cage Hotel in Bayswater – you know the place where that royal rogue once bedded his mistress. My grandfather filled me with lots of stories about that. On one such occasion apparently….’
Wilma held up a restraining hand. ‘Kenneth please – that’s enough.’
Ella bit her lip, trying hard to suppress an unseemly giggle, catching Jake’s eye as she did so. The edges of his mouth and dark beard twitched. He looked away, harrumphing in an effort to stop himself from laughing out loud.
Daphne intervened. ‘Please Wilma – don’t be cross.’
‘Then perhaps you’d better explain yourself Daphne,’ Wilma retorted, apparently unappeased.
Daphne embarked on a story of how she’d just got into a taxi in Chepstow Villas where she lived, on her way to meet her brother Cedric from the station, when she saw Kenneth coming out of the Portobello Road with the dinner jacket. After asking the driver to stop, Kenneth told her he was going nowhere in particular and that Wilma had gone out. On hearing this, Daphne invited him to join her and Cedric for a snack up in town. Since it was so near to Paddington, the Golden Cage seemed the obvious place to go, especially as it had been in the news so much lately. They’d partaken of some scrumptious Eggs Benedict in the brasserie before taking a cab home, while Cedric had gone on to his club to meet up with two old cronies.
‘But what on earth were you doing in the Portobello Road, Kenneth?’ Wilma demanded. ‘And where did you get the money from to buy such a crazy outfit?’
‘I sold the fan,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t get a lot for it as it was broken apparently, but enough to buy this!’ Proudly, Kenneth waved a hand at the dinner jacket and trousers, still in Daphne’s care.
‘But the fan was your grandmother’s and worth a lot of money!’ Wilma chastised. ‘We were going to get it mended once, remember? That’s why we put it in the attic.’
Wiping sweat from his forehead, which had formed beneath the panama hat in the heat, Kenneth failed to recall this detail. All he’d needed was his dinner jacket, he said. Now that he’d found another one, he wanted to wear it at the Golden Cage Hotel and magnanimously invited them all – Ella and Jake included – to be his dinner guests. Daphne thought it was a wonderful idea and suggested that coming Wednesday, and, if everyone was free, she’d book a table for five. Jake declined, on the grounds he’d be working, but promised to drive them there and pick them up afterwards. Wilma, visibly cheered, stuffed a wodge of banknotes into his hand. Although far too much, Wilma insisted that Jake took the money, and, clearly wishing to avoid further conflict, he placed the notes inside his wallet. ”
Extract from ‘the Fan’, a novella still under wraps.
That was quite a driving adventure! And ties in beautifully with the road trip theme. What a beautiful setting you’ve described; a person can get a good feel of that area of London from this passage. Thanks for posting! I enjoyed it.
Thank you so much for this appreciative comment. Really helps a writer hear things like that.
Wonderful. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you so much!
Lots of tension and worry, and then that wonderful release — a bawdy story averted, and a happy ending — with just enough mystery left that one wants to next bit!
Thanks so much, good to know that readers want to keep reading!
My work in progress (first draft):
Ryan winced as a buzz saw sliced through his skull. The sounds enveloping him spoke clearly of his surroundings. He was in a hospital. Either that Hell had gone through a remodeling.
He raised his right hand and studied the tube sticking out from the back. How the hell was he alive?
A vague image ran through his mind. It involved his mouth covered by Chuck’s. Well done, big guy. What does someone get a hardened outdoorsman for a thank you gift for saving a life? Maybe a gift certificate to free legal representation. Someday good old Chucky won’t get there in time, and a grieving widow will sue his backside.
Ryan felt alongside the mattress and when he found the remote pressed the nurse’s call button. While he waited he forced his pounding head to focus on what had happened. A quick inventory of his ability to move his limbs and he was satisfied nearly drowning hadn’t done any irreparable damage, although he didn’t think he’d be dancing anytime soon, not the way his left/right ankle felt. It wasn’t in a splint so he hadn’t fracture any bones. Just a sprain. He’d dodged a bullet, that was for sure.
The door to the hospital room opened and a nurse walked in, followed by Karl.
“It’s settled, I’ll swing by at six,” Karl said, swerving around the nurse to stand in her path.
The nurse ignored Karl. She arrived at the side of the bed and pressed her fingers on Ryan’s wrist. “Hello, Mr. Pearce, I’m Karen. How are you feeling?”
“How’s it going, champ?” Karl added. “You gave me a frigging heart attack. One second I see you and the next, bam, gone. You looked like a wet rag doll when Chuck pulled you out. You’ll be happy to know he performed mouth-to-mouth, I recorded it in case you want to relive the experience.”
The nurse shot Karl a penetrating look. “Mr. ????? (need a last name for Karl), take a seat, please?”
Karl gave Ryan a wink and then grinned at the nurse. “Yeah, sure, babe.” He flopped into a nearby chair and hummed as he swiped at his phone.
“Mr. Pearce,” the nurse said to Ryan, “the doctor will be in to see you, but for now, is there anything I can get you?”
Turning his attention to the nurse Ryan responded with, “Something for this headache would be great,” in a voice clearly not his own. No longer baritone, this voice belonged to someone who obviously gargled with rocks. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to shut out the pain, and Karl’s phone now overing in front of his face.
“Take a look at this,” Karl insisted.
Karen clearly wasn’t in the mood for Karl’s continued intrusions and snapped, “Mr. ???, either sit down or leave the room.” To Ryan, the she said, “Mr. Pearce, your throat will feel raw for a few days. They intubated you in the ER. I’ll bring you some ice chips in a moment.”
With her examination finished, Karen left the room, Karl’s signal to leave the chair he’d been banished to. “Finally, here, take a look.” Karl’s phone returned to its spot by Ryan’s nose.
“Later,” Ryan said through his clenched jaw, and swatted at the cell phone.
“Wow, grumpy for someone who just spit in death’s face. Can I get you a coffee or something.”
“You can get me out of here.”
“Not going to happen. My advice is to relax and enjoy Karen’s company. But not too much, save some for me.”
“Karl, stop talking. I have the DeRosa trial on Monday. Go, work your legal brilliance, and get me released.”
“Sorry, buddy, no can do. You’re in here for another twenty-four hours. Now, how about that coffee?”
Ryan nodded. He’d send Karl to California if it meant some peace and quiet. “Yeah, iced. Thanks.”
With Karl gone, Ryan settled himself against the scratchy sheets and let a frown cover his face. His head hurt, his throat hurt, and his body felt like it had been tossed over a cliff. What was he doing, wallowing in pity? Without Chuck coming to his rescue, right now he’d be fish food. Would Lilith cry at his demise? She’d sure be pissed when she found out she wasn’t in his will. One thing this little episode taught him was he needed to end things with her. When the trial was over he’d pack his things and move out. So what if the condo is in his name, she could have it, along with all the futuristic furniture she filled the place with. It was like living in an operating room. He hated chrome.
Coming within a hair’s breath of dying should have a profound affect on him, but he felt nothing remotely close to the joy associated with surviving a near-death episode. If he’s been saved for some grand master plan, the big guy in the sky wasn’t offering any details.
Ryan closed his eyes and allowed a thought from the final moment before he’d blacked-out come back to him. Perfume. He’d smelled a woman’s perfume, which had been insane. The human nose wasn’t built for aquatic sniffing, yet, he’d smelled it just as sure as he was smelling it now.
He opened his eyes and stared at the doorway, and the young woman standing, watching him. Violet eyes. Black, lustrous hair. Red lips.
“Connie,” he said in a voice that burned as it passed over his vocal chords.
“Please hurry, Jimmy,” she said in a voice that belonged on the silver screen, and then faded from view.
Hi tinthia, thanks for posting! I LOLed at this: “He was in a hospital. Either that Hell had gone through a remodeling.” I have a lot of sympathy for this sentiment right now, and I will bear it in mind for the future. And the rest of the story looks very intriguing. I hope to read more next week.
Hi. Nice to see a new face here on the blog. Thanks for sharing some of your work. Looking forward to hearing more.
As someone who was recently intubated in the ER, I winced at this. I feel Ryan’s pain 😉
Very curious about the vision of the silver-screen siren, though. Nice job, Tinthia!
How fun! I want to know more! Is this a paranormal, or do I just have paranormals on the brain? At any rate, near-death, love, hate, brotherhood . . . lots of good things to work with here!
Great to see another contribution from a draft work in progress here. Love it! I wonder who Mr. ??? will become.
Pingback: Elizabeth: Friday Writing Sprints – Freedom Writing
I have a work in progress, but it’s easier to do a sprint. 🙂 Here’s mine…
Beach Weather
“Hey, Toots, want to go to the beach? I got wine.”
Bootsie, my next-door neighbor, the atheist septuagenarian flower child, opened the hatch of her VW Bug and loaded in a picnic basket. She was wearing a costume—a sassy prom dress from the 1980s that she must think suitable for the outdoors. Yeah, it wasn’t.
That didn’t mean I didn’t want to go to the beach.
“You think Lloyd will wonder if we’re eloping?”
Bootsie snorted. “You worried he’d send an assassin after us? That dingbat couldn’t find a grandparent in an old folks home. Let’s hit the road, sugar.”
I felt bad leaving Lloyd behind when he doddered out after us in his kilt, just as Bootsie gunned the motor and squealed out of the driveway like the dragons from hell were after us. They must have had a fight, I figured, and Bootsie was using me as some kind of revenge. I didn’t mind. It wouldn’t be the first time.
We flew down the causeway toward the ocean, pausing only for a lengthy side trip into the paranormal. Bootsie insisted we stop at her favorite psychic, but after an extensive reading, I was not a fan. She said I’d be taking a long trip, but you didn’t have to be a mind reader to look out the window and see Bootsie’s 1957 baby blue Cadillac out there in the parking lot and know that we were on a journey of some kind.
After that, it was a stop at Casper’s Hot Dogs (Bootsie’s chilled rose went well with the all-beef version), Sunglass Hut, California Cowboy Books for a paperback, Whole Foods for snacks, and Dollar General for sunscreen, flamingo-shaped plastic donuts for floating, and flip-flops. By the time we got to the beach, we were in mid-afternoon and the sun was already advancing across the sky. She spread a blanket on the sand and lay down.
“Now this is what I call a fine day at the beach,” she said.
Caspers! Now that brings back memories. Fun story Kay- Booties sounds like a hoot-and-a-half.
The snacks sound a little healthy, perhaps, but apart from that minor caveat I’m with Bootsie all the way. A fine day at the beach, indeed! Loved it, Kay!
Oh, heavens, I need a Bootsie to take me to the beach! Rose and hotdogs! Let me add a large splash of Sprite to mine.
I got a fortune this weekend, myself, and I’m NOT at all happy with it; I might write my blog post about it Saturday. I feel very grumpy at the fortuneteller, and at myself for taking all of this to heart so much.
(-: I love that Bootsie is out there having wine and hotdogs while in an 80s floofy prom dress. Maybe I need to be Bootsie.
Brilliant – as always!
Porky-pie, my big, old dumb winking mutt, came out of the vet visit with flying colors. His eye was cleaned up, and we’d get the stitches removed in two weeks, Dr. Radavich told me.
“He’s in good health, and obviously was someone’s pet, but no microchip.” He handed me a brochure. “This will tell you how to put lost dog posters on line and in the area you found him, but since someone removed his collar, I don’t know if you’ll have any luck finding the owner.”
Porky-pie heaved a huge sigh, and then put his chin on my knee, looking up adoringly with his good eye. I absentmindedly scritched the top of his head, then we got the heck out of dodge. I had to go pick up Jonas from the exhibition.
Jonas slipped into the car, his lime-green corduroy jacket swashing across the seat back, and he settled his sassy green-and-aqua kilt around his knees. “Philistines!” he muttered, then looked in the back seat. “I see you still have that round mutant-dog. He cleaned up OK. Not so scary-looking.”
Porky-pie looked at Jonas with one of those doggy grins, and his black-spotted tongue lolled out. Jonas shuddered. “Have you fed that thing?”
“Yes, the vet gave him something. So, are you ready to head home?”
“No, we need to go to the beach. That beastly Andrews woman didn’t like my painting. She went with some ghastly still life with flowers and wine. My god, it looked like it belonged in a funeral home, it was so dead and gone. If she weren’t my grandparent, I’d never speak to her again, but she’ll give me a second chance. So, I thought I’d paint a picture of the Prom at sunset. She’ll love the local color, and the sunset will remind her she’s dying.”
The Prom was our historic boardwalk on the beach. Half of the shops were closed permanently, and at this time of day, the rest would be rolled up. I could use a little bit of sea air, I thought, and I had my tarot cards with me to pass the time, so it wouldn’t be a waste. Besides, cranky Jonas’ view of life always made me feel better about my own boring existence. And there was that little shiver down my spine that told me the beach was where I needed to be.
We arrived just as the dragon-lady was closing up the knick-knack shop. No, she was literally in a dragon costume. Her shop was full of mystical goods for people like me, and “mystical” goods for the tourist; her talents lay in water magick, and her dragon costume reflected that – green snakeskin cowboy boots, and a dress of beautiful sea-green silk with a darker row of subtle diamonds down her back. Her hair was done up to hint at two horns. Her shrug had two refined brown leather wings that curled around her shoulders and down to her white, milky breasts. I averted my eyes quickly; Martha was gorgeous, but I knew we were not to be.
“Oh, it’s Katie and the Atheist.”
“Hello, Martha. Find any gods washing up on shore this morning?” Jonas asked.
“None that wanted to talk to you, my dear.” Martha smiled and Jonas smiled back. They amused each other, and while I thought they should try dating, plans always seemed to fall through. One day, they’d probably give up their attempt at singledom and elope – at least, that’s what my sixth sense told me, and it was seldom wrong. But it was no use pushing them together. They’d find out in their own time.
I have to add, that dragon dress looked fabulous with Jonas’ kilt-and-corduroy combo. They were definitely linked at some deep, cosmic level.
“And who is this one-eyed assassin,” Martha cooed as she offered her hand for Porky-Pie to sniff. “Dedicated to Odin, I should think.” Jonas rolled his eyes.
“We just found him out by the graveyard. If you hear of anyone who has lost a dog, will you let them know?”
“Sure. Don’t stay out here too long. There’s a storm coming in.”
Jonas sniffed the sea air with his patrician nose. “Hmm. Just a quick sketch or two, and then we’ll go.”
We parted – Jonas down the beach, Martha to her car, and Porky-Pie and I sat on the boardwalk out of the wind so I could spread my cards. Porky-Pie leaned into me, his body warm and sturdy against the elements, and I thought that perhaps we looked like the two-headed god Janus, with him facing the stores and me facing the sea. I did the Celtic cross, asking myself where my next case would come from. Nothing, nothing, nothing, an interesting seven of swords – betrayal, trickery and deceit was beneath me, underlying me. Porky-pie began whimpering. My strengths, what is behind me? An ace of swords. Porky-pie began growling. “Shush, we’ll go back to the car soon,” I said. “Ace of swords . . . that means a sudden realization.”
I felt Porky-pie lunge, just before a hard blow to my head sent me into a land of black and blue unconsciousness.
Great job, Michaeline, but …what happens next? Cruel to leave us with a cliffhanger like that’s.
Cross your fingers just like me, and maybe next week’s words (or two weeks from now) will send us the next installment! I’m very curious too, and hope all the little muses cooperate!
Fingers AND toes crossed, Michaeline! I like all these characters and want to know more. Really, I’d like this to be the Look Inside for a book. I’d buy! Making puppy eyes at all the muses, little and large 😉
(-: I will feed the muses special chow this week, and hope for the best. I have barely gotten the dog developed yet.
Just caught up with this too. I love, love love it. Are these characters already part of a published series? Do let me know – want to buy, if so.
Porky-pie? (-: If this is directed at me, thank you so much! No, they just popped up with the May Sprint, and keep popping up. It could be a series . . . but I’ve got other characters from different stories on my back burner. Thanks so much! It made my day!
So pleased. Yes Porky-Pie – great story. Do develop it into a series – could be real fun.
Links so far for Porky Pie (as of Sept. 28, 2019, unfinished)
Episode 1: https://eightladieswriting.com/2019/05/24/elizabeth-friday-writing-sprints-22/
E2: https://eightladieswriting.com/2019/06/07/elizabeth-friday-writing-sprints-24/
E3: https://eightladieswriting.com/2019/06/14/elizabeth-friday-writing-sprints-25/
E4: https://eightladieswriting.com/2019/06/21/elizabeth-friday-writing-sprints-26/
E5: https://eightladieswriting.com/2019/06/28/elizabeth-friday-writing-sprints-27/
E6: https://eightladieswriting.com/2019/07/05/elizabeth-friday-writing-sprints-28/
E7: https://eightladieswriting.com/2019/07/12/elizabeth-friday-writing-sprints-29/