Marian Allen's Blog, page 364

8 Treasure of the Terra Madre @StoryADayMay

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Guess what “Treasure of the Terra Madre” is a title rip-off of — er, I mean tribute to? We don’t need no steenking originality. Many thanks to Jane, who gave me this beautiful little globe.

Treasure of the Terra Madre

by Marian Allen

All the children watched the monitors as the planet dropped away behind the ship. Not even the teachers thought it would be a more genuine experience if they had been able to see it, say, through a viewport in the rear of the vessel, supposing there had been one. This exact view,which was, of course, being recorded, was the one which would be replayed for as long as the name of “Earth” was remembered. The last view of Home with a capital H, a sight to bring tears to the eyes of generations yet unborn.

Ten years later, deep into the voyage to the next inhabitable planet, five-year-old Houston Naylor stared at his favorite thing in the universe: his father’s paperweight.

“Can I hold it, Daddy? Can I look at it?”

Sometimes he could, and sometimes he couldn’t. When Daddy was working, like now, he usually could.

Sure enough, Daddy was busy on his etab and didn’t look up as he said, “Sure, buddy, sure. Be careful though, okay?”

“I’ll be careful.”

Houston hefted the small but heavy mounted sphere, marveling at how much weight such a small thing could have. He put it down and turned it on its axis, slowly, drinking in its beauty.

Most of it was deep blue. Daddy said that was water on the real thing. Daddy said the weird shapes and blogs and blips in other colors were land, and the different colors told you who the land used to belong to. It was also divided into grids by intersecting bands of gold; Houston thought those were probably like the walls of their family cubicles.

None of it belonged to anybody, now, Houston supposed, since there was nobody there anymore.

Just to be sure, he asked, “Who does the Earth belong to now, Daddy?”

“Doesn’t belong to anybody now, buddy. The last people are here on this ship. We’re going to find a new Earth. Be a long time before anybody could live on the old one again.”

Houston, of course, knew all about faster-than-light travel. A baby could understand that, by the time the ship reached its destination, and they assembled the smaller ones that could carry just crews and pioneers, Houston would be old enough to be one of them. They learned in preschool that, by the time the pioneers got back to Old Earth, it would probably be lush and habitable.

He had asked Daddy so many times about the globe, he could rub his thumb over the blue and give the name of the gemstone it was made of: Lapis lazuli. He could touch the other colors and say: sandstone, agate, jasper, mother-of-pearl, jade.

“Is the Earth really made out of jewels, Daddy?”

Daddy was busy, but he surfaced enough to say, “Sure, buddy. Sure, sure.”

“And nobody owns it now?”

“Nobody there. Look, could you go plug into the playtender or something? Daddy’s really busy.”

“Sure, sure,” said Houston.

It was from that day that Houston knew what he wanted to do when he grew up.

THE END

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: World, globe, jewels, childhood misunderstanding.

MA

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7 Stumped @StoryADayMay

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So “Stumped” is my story today. Wednesday is food day on this blog, so I had to tie today’s randomly numbered picture of stuff in my house to some kind of food. The stump turned into a crabapple tree. You can make crabapple jelly, but I wouldn’t recommend making it from the fruit of this tree.

Stumped

by Marian Allen

“Damnedest thing I ever saw,” said the arborist again.

Bill left him staring at the stump in the middle of the yard and went in to help Elle carry the iced tea and glasses out to the patio.

She asked, “Does he think he can get rid of it?”

Bill could only shrug. “So far, all he’s said is, ‘It oughtn’t to be like that.’ So I’m guessing he’ll be a washout, too.”

The baffled tree-guy joined them, his eyes reluctantly leaving the stump under consideration.

“It was here when you moved in?”

Elle said, “It was part of why we bought the place. There was a crabapple tree in the back yard where I grew up, and I loved watching the animals come eat the fruit in the morning. But this stupid thing only ever had two blooms and two apples. Always two, wasn’t it, Bill?”

Bill nodded as he swallowed tea, then said, “Yep. Two. Then it shed leaves in the fall and I got sick of raking them up. Damn thing’s right in the middle of the garden, too. So I had a guy in to cut it down. All the limbs came off all right, but he couldn’t cut it down any further than what you see right there.”

The stump – if “stump” was the word for something that size – was seven feet high.

The arborist said, “How long ago was that?”

“Ten years, now,” said Elle. “It’s partly hollow, but it still won’t cut. And you see what it does. Every year. Every year.”

She was referring to the two small branches sprouting randomly from the trunk, each one bearing a small, perfect, red crabapple.

“They don’t fall off,” she said. “Nothing eats them. They hang there until they shrivel up. Then a different two little branches come out the next year. It’s creepy.”

“I guess it is,” the arborist said, with feeling, and both Bill and Elle knew that he was going to turn down the job.

He did.

Elle tried the power of a woman’s pleading eyes, but she was at that awkward age between beautiful young woman and sweet little old lady, and the man was unmoved.

“Don’t think I can help you,” he said. “Maybe get a botanist over here from the college; they might know exactly what kind of tree this is, maybe know how to get rid of it. If it’s an invasive species, like from another country, they might hook you up with people who specialize in getting rid of those.”

Bill and Elle exchanged delighted glances.

Bill said, “Never thought of that! Matter of fact, it is from another country! The husband was pissed because the wife had smuggled one of the dried-up fruits over when they immigrated. She said it reminded her of home.”

“I thought it was sweet, at the time,” said Elle. “Little did I know, eh?”

The arborist said, “You know where they came from, or where they went? They might be able to point the college guys to where to look on getting rid of it.”

Bill shook his head. “We bought the house and that was that. We could try asking the realtor, but it’s been twenty years. I don’t even remember their names, do you, honey?”

Elle shook her head.

The arborist left. Bill and Elle had dinner, watched a little television, and went to bed.

In the middle of the night, Elle said, “Adam. The man’s name was Adam something.” But Bill was asleep, and she had forgotten by morning.

~ * ~

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: As always, feel free to use the same photograph I used. Also: frustration, garden, helpless professional.

MA

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6 Goose @StoryADayMay

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The way these brothers and sisters divided their aunt’s possessions is the way my husband and his siblings divided their mother’s. Everything else is fiction.

Goose

by Marian Allen

“Why’d she make you executor? She never liked you.”

Typical of Eloise to state it so baldly, and typical of Michael to stick his hands in his pockets and reply, in a monotone, “That’s probably why. She didn’t want to saddle any of you with it.”

Eloise gave a playful backhand to his shoulder. “Oh, it’s not that hard. Not for you. Not for my brilliant big brother.” She pinched his cheek, well aware that she was the only person in the world who would be allowed – or would be moved to take – such a liberty with him.

The two younger brothers and three younger sisters arrived, all at least misty-eyed at experiencing Aunt Marva’s house without Aunt Marva’s living personality filling it.

“For the sake of form,” Michael announced, when they were all seated in the parlor, “although you each got a letter and an email explaining this, I now tell you personally that the estate is, to all intents and purposes, settled, as far as my part in it is concerned. It’s now in the hands of the estate lawyer, the realtor, and Aunt Marva’s banker. Any questions should be directed to them. I’ve provided you with their contact information.”

The others smiled as Eloise crossed her arms, leaned back in an overstuffed chair, and growled, “Oh, get on with it! None of us gives a hoot about Aunt Marva’s little bit of money. Today is all we care about, so let’s get to it.”

The contents of the house needed to be disposed of before the realtor’s prep people could flip it for sale. These children of Marva’s only brother had spent many happy hours with their aunt after their mother’s death, and knew each knickknack, whatnot, curio, and piece of furniture or decoration intimately.

All except Michael. He and Aunt Marva had always treated one another with wary courtesy. Of course, he had been older than the others, but still….

The others took turns, from Eloise (the oldest, after Jonathan) to Bea, the youngest, choosing items they wanted from the house’s inventory. Jonathan listed each item in a ledger in his clear, firm, printing.

“Oh, these geese!” Eloise picked up a pottery salt and pepper set shaped like a pair of geese with blue ribbons around their necks. “She never let us touch these.” She laughed, pretending she was going to juggle them.

“I know!” Bea laughed. “Put them down! It makes me nervous to see them off the shelf.”

“I wonder if they’re valuable.” Eloise turned them over. “Well, look at this!” She showed the feet around the family, Michael last.

On the feet of each goose was a label with his name on it, written in the shaky script of Aunt Marva’s final months.

“Guess these are yours,” said Eloise, putting the geese back and claiming Aunt Marva’s grandfather’s baby fork.

When everything had been spoken for that was wanted and everyone had carried their mementos away or made arrangements for collecting them, Michael was left alone.

He picked up the geese, one in each hand, and looked at his name on their feet, especially at the foot of the one in his right hand, which had been broken and glued back.

He had been four, staying with Aunt Marva while his mother was in the hospital giving birth to Eloise. Aunt Marva had been dusting this goose, and he had thought it would be the funniest thing in the world to poke her bottom and make her jump.

He could still hear the sound of the pottery hitting the edge of the coffee table. He could still remember the smell of the dust under the guest room bed, where he had hidden, finally going to sleep there, being retrieved by his father late in the night.

Behind where the geese had stood was the box they had come in, their picture printed on the front and back. He put the figures on a lower shelf and took down the box. He opened it.

In the bottom was a piece of pink paper, familiar to him from Aunt Marva’s caregiver’s notes. He pulled it out. Unfolded it.

Aunt Marva’s wiggly writing, again.

All is forgiven.

As he drove away from the house, the geese in their box carefully seat-belted next to him, Michael was astonished at how happy he felt, and at how light of heart.

~ * ~

I’m posting today at Fatal Foodies on the topic of — what else? — goose.

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: Inheritance, geese, fork, antiques, breakables.

MA

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5 Box of Rocks @StoryADayMay

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Box of Rocks

by Marian Allen

They say there’s no honor among thieves. I’m sure that, just like any other arbitrarily sliced segment of society, the honor of the subset of thieves exists as a continuum, not as an either/or toggle. In other words, some are honorable toward other thieves and some aren’t.

Basil wasn’t.

His partners in the Gems R Us armored car heist scolded him about it, as soon as they caught up with him on a deserted pebble beach. They scolded him strenuously, at length, and with a creativity that would have astonished their long-ago high school English teachers.

All Basil would say (other than Ow and Stop that and Aiiiiii) was, “Ain’t tellin’. I done the most work, and you bums was gonna cut me out.”

They tried, cogently and with practical demonstrations, to illustrate to him what “cutting out” really meant, but he remained unswayed by their arguments.

At length, still without answering his former partners’ really quite insistent questioning, Basil passed away.

“Now what?” As ever, Louis deferred to his elder brother.

Vince regarded the remains of their handiwork. “Roll ‘im down past the tideline and let the sharks eat ‘im.”

When that was done, Louis asked, “But what about the jewelry?”

Vince gave that some thought while he considered whether to rinse away the evidence of their interrogation or to let nature, as nature will, erase all traces of humanity.

A spark of inspiration brightened his mind.

“Gimme your cap,” he commanded.

Louis, a New England Patriots fan, reluctantly handed over his favorite hat, and Vince filled it with blood-flecked pebbles.

On the way back to their get-away car, he explained. “If you die a violent death, see, you haunt the place you died. So that’s these rocks. So now we got his ghost.”

Just when Louis thought his admiration for his brother could be no greater, Vince did or said something that elevated him even further.

“But,” he said, ashamed that his own pedestrian intelligence couldn’t follow his brother’s leaping brilliance, “how do we torture a ghost?”

Demonstrating yet again why he was the leader in their partnership, Vince said, “We don’t. We give these to Mom for a decoration, like. In the TV room.”

~*~

The pebbles looked very pretty in an earthenware bowl. Once a week, Vince and Louis visited their mother. While their mother fixed lunch, the men snarled at the pebbles, saying things like, “Had enough Price is Right yet? Had enough hearing Mom talk baby-talk to the cat? Had enough listening to gossip on the speaker phone? Want us to give her a dancercize video and a leotard? Where’s them jewels?”

~*~

Meanwhile, under the sea, Basil, who had sold the swag for a song and blown all the money on one glorious spree, floated happily about saying Boo to fish. Basil was easily amused.

THE END

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: Beach, honor, pebbles, crime.

MA

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4 Holly Jahangiri and The Dragon @StoryADayMay #SampleSunday

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Last year during Story A Day May, it became my usage to write a Holly Jahangiri story every Sunday. Holly Jahangiri is a real person who won herself the right to be a character in a story not once but twice. Since then, she’s become one of my favorite characters. She’s lobbying for her own novel, but that hasn’t happened yet. Not. Quite. Yet.

I’m sorry today’s story is so long. Holly inspires me. Blame her.

Llannonn is the planet where my currently out-of-print comic cop sf novel, FORCE OF HABIT, takes place. And now:

Holly Jahangiri and The Dragon

by Marian Allen

The prisoner in the dock would have been a pimply faced youth, if the courtroom had been on Earth, but it wasn’t. This was the planet Llannonn, and adolescents didn’t get acne. Instead, they got a double order of sullen, hold the courtesy, and a side order of impertinence. It was during these years that criminals were formed. Fortunately, adolescence only lasted a year or so, but a lot of disrespect can be accomplished in a year, if one really rolls up one’s sleeves and buckles down to it. A wise Llannonninn once said, “There’s no cure for adolescence except growing out of it.” An induced coma would also work, but there are only so many hospital beds.

Holly Jahangiri, Assistant Head Librarian of Council City’s main branch living library, was attending the trial at the invitation of the boy’s arresting officer, her new friend Constable Pel Darzin. She watched Darzin take the stand, flip open his notebook, and read.

“Three evenings ago, pursuant to a call that smoke was issuing from a domicile on Wossname Street, I arrived at said domicile to find smoke issuing therefrom. According to new practices from headquarters –” Darzin paused meaningfully, allowing the court and spectators to fill in their own derisive “new practices from headquarters” comment – “I stopped, dropped, and rolled, but smoke continued to issue from the domicile. Checking the windows and doors, I found a window open and, in the room on the other side of said window, the prisoner was lighting matches and holding them against flammable objects, with the result that said objects were burning.”

The judge, a robust gentleman with a florid countenance and silver hair that stuck out like dandelion fluff, poured Darzin a mug of tea and asked, “Would you indicate the person you saw employing matches against flammable material?”

Darzin, of course, couldn’t point, which would be impolite, but he nodded toward the prisoner and said, “That youngster, there. The prisoner.”

“What happened then?”

“I entered through the window and said, as regulations require, ‘Ho, what’s all this then?’ To which the youth replied, ‘It’s a fair cop. Let all the world beware my flame, for I am The Dragon!’ At this point in the proceedings, I arrested him and brought him in to the station.”

Holly froze in place, her attention riveted by the prisoner’s reported words, with the consequence that she missed the tea trolley and someone else got the last cucumber sandwich.

“And what,” the judge asked the courtroom in general, “is a dragon?”

“I believe,” said Darzin, making eye contact with Holly, “I’ve brought a guest who can answer that question.”

Holly stood, nodded to Darzin and judge, and shifted her kind but piercing gaze to the young man who was sitting up straight for the first time in seven months.

“A dragon,” she said, “is a mythical creature in Earth literature. Some of them were said to breathe fire.”

The judge eyed Darzin with suspicion. “I thought you said he used matches.”

“Yes, your honor.”

“But she said they breathe fire. Why would he use matches, if he can breathe fire? That doesn’t make sense.”

“In my considered opinion,” said Darzin, carefully, “with all due respect, if it please the court, the young man used matches because he was speaking of himself metaphorically, not literally.”

“So he can’t actually breathe fire.”

“No, your honor.”

“Well, then.” The judge tapped the side of his teacup with his sugar spoon. “Case dismissed.”

The erstwhile prisoner’s parents embraced him with tears and trepidation, not being certain, at his age, whether he would hug them back or spit in their eyes. He permitted their relief and joy, but only became animated when Assistant Librarian Holly Jahangiri approached the family group.

She introduced herself and said, “Do I have reason to believe that Earth literature is not unknown in your home?”

The firebug’s mother said, “We have one Earth story I inherited from my grandfather. It’s a slim manuscript about dragons. I thought we had sold it in a rummage sale, but it seems our son hid it and read it without our knowledge.”

“It so happens,” Holly said, “the Council City Living Library is putting together a book of dragon stories and we’re one story short of an anthology. If your son is willing, we’d like to offer him an internship reciting your grandfather’s story.”

The young man’s face lit up and his naturally sweet smile broke through. In tones his parents hadn’t heard for far too long, he said, “Please say yes!”

The parents exchanged the sort of look parents exchange in such cases, and the father said, “Yes.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Holly made arrangements for the young man and his parents to meet with Head Librarian Devra Langsam to discuss details and legalities. Then she and Constable Pel Darzin repaired to a nearby pub for prattyburgers and ale to celebrate another successful collaboration in the causes of law and literacy.

~ * ~

By a happy coincidence, I have a story in an anthology about dragons. The book is called Dragonthology, and my story is called “The Dragon of Sullivan Hall.

Price: 3.99 Available at [Amazon][Smashwords][Kobo][Barnes & Noble]

Now in Print for 12.99 at [Amazon][Createspace][Barnes & Noble][The Book Depository]

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: Please feel free to use my photo prompts.

MA

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3 Truffle Cat #StoryADayMay

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Katya Graymalkin here.

I always post on Caturday, but Mom is doing Story A Day May again this year. She tried to talk me into writing her story today, but I said, “You took the pledge, so you have to write the story.” Here it is.

Truffle Cat

by Marian Allen

Before the coming of Katya, The Estate was graced by the presence of Tiffany Calico, the cat without a flaw. Tiffany was beautiful and elegant, with a dilute calico coat of which she was inordinately proud. She disliked everybody in the world except The Lady, The Youngest, and The Lady’s grandfather. (The Lady’s grandfather was so good with animals, he could teach a snake to shake hands.)

The Lady liked to hunt mushrooms in the spring, and Tiffany always accompanied her into the woods.

One day, The Lady followed a trail of mushrooms over a hill and saw a sight that chilled her and, at the same time, sent the adrenaline of rage coursing through her body: A huge black bear rummaged under the carpet of dead leaves and, even as The Lady watched in shock, pulled up a mushroom by its roots and bit off the cap.

Although Tiffany claw-plucked the knee of The Lady’s jeans in warning, The Lady shouted, “You, bear! No! Bad bear!”

The bear swung its massive head around to the source of the sound.

“No eating mushrooms!”

The bear growled and dropped to all fours.

The Lady stepped back and moderated her tone. “At least just pinch it off and leave the roots. Don’t you know anything?”

The bear undoubtedly knew that The Lady was loud and belligerent, smaller than it was, and foolish enough to yell at a bear. It came for her, accelerating at an astonishing pace for something that appeared so cumbersome.

The Lady turned and ran, but only took a half-dozen steps when a tree branch caught in her coat pocket and flung her to the ground. Before she could decide whether playing dead would be a good idea or a self-fulfilling prophecy, the bear loomed over her.

The world exploded with calico! For Tiffany, seeing The Lady threatened, had sprung to her defense.

“Dumb animals,” we call them. We tell ourselves we mean “dumb” in the sense of “unable to speak” but those who don’t live with animals, or don’t truly observe them, secretly – or not-so-secretly – believe it also means “stupid.” And maybe it is stupid to put the life of a member of another species above one’s own; if so, animals are “stupid,” although there are those of us who would use another word: Grand.

Call it what you will, Tiffany Calico leaped into the bear’s face, claws and teeth bared. In less time than it takes to tell it, she had opened gashes in its lips and tender nose and filled its field of vision with fangs that, at that short distance, looked more fearsome than its own.

The bear tumbled backwards, shaking its head to rid itself of the monstrosity that filled its world. Tiffany dropped to the ground before the bear could rake her with its claws. On the ground, she arched her back and puffed out her fur, issuing a challenging growl-yowl that stunned the woods for miles around into a horrified silence.

The bear turned tail and ran like the veriest yellow cur. If bears could tuck their stubby tails between their legs, this bear would have done so.

The lady disentangled herself, brushed herself off, made much of Miss Tiffany (as was only proper), and went back to gathering mushrooms, nevertheless vowing to let bears alone – unless she had Tiffany with her.

~ * ~

Katya here, again. In case you don’t know it, that story was almost entirely fiction. From what I’ve heard about Tiffany, it could be true, it just isn’t true. It’s also a total rip-off of Albert Payson Terhune‘s LAD books. Way to steal from the best, Mom.

A WRITING PROMPT FOR ANIMALS: Write about saving your human’s life. Pretend they’re grateful.

KG

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2 Zombie Girls for Chris V @StoryADayMay

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Chris V is one of the writer/bloggers at Zombie Girl Authors. We have a running “feud” about whether zombies are cool (her position) or ickickick (mine). Last year, she wrote Story A Day May stories about zombies (very good stories, I might add) and the deadness leaked over here and made me write a zombie story or two myself.

So, Chris, this one’s for you.

Zombie Girls

by Marian Allen

On the first day of Dead School, a little dead cow named Lowis and a little dead unicorn named Kriss met on the playground.

Lowis pointed a hoof at Kriss and laughed. “You only got one horn!” She laughed so hard, milk came out of her nose.

Kriss would have turned red, if she had had blood. Or cheeks.

“For your inforMAtion,” she said, “I’m a UNIcorn. I’m only supposed to have one horn, you stupid cow!”

Lowis got up in Kriss’ personal space, shoved her with her shoulder, and tried to step on her feet.

“Hey!” Kriss shoved back. “You’re being a bully!”

“I can’t be a BULLy,” Lowis mocked. “I’m a COW.” She shoved Kriss again.

Before the other little dead animals could stop them, Lowis and Kriss were punching at each other with their hooves and poking at each other with their horns.

After several minutes of exercise that did no damage, they stopped, panting. All of the little dead animals cast worried glances at the playground monitors, none of whom had interfered.

One of the monitors nodded at the group. “Now you know,” she said. “No use beating a dead horse. Or a cow or a unicorn. Fight all you want to; it never solves anything.”

Lowis picked up the necklace of dried flowers she had torn from around Kriss’ neck and fastened it back on.

“Don’t let’s fight anymore,” she said. “This story is too short for another moral lesson.”

Kriss picked up Lowis’ lunch pail before the monitor could say something about spilt milk.

“No more fighting,” she agreed.

After that day, Lowis and Kriss were best friends.

Forever.

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: Use the picture I used. Or write about friendship, bullying, cows, unicorns, boring morality, or milk.

MA

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1 Salali and Vernando @StoryADayMay

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This is Day 1 of Story A Day May, in which participants pledge to write a (very) short story every day. Some days, judging from last year, my first time doing this challenge, my story will be extremely short, and some days it will get a bit away from me.

Today is also the first day of the month, so there’s a new micro-mini story on the Hot Flash page. So: bonus!

I started writing a story about Salali, from my big fat fantasy, SAGE, but it’s turning into a full-length story, so I’m just writing some excerpts and I’ll try to finish the whole story to submit to SWORD & SORCERESS.

For my prompts for this month’s stories, I went around the house taking pictures of random stuff.

SALALI AND VERNANDO

by Marian Allen

In the dark of night, Fala Salali packed what she could carry on her back and slipped out of her bedroom window. On her pillow, she left this note:

I’ll be no one’s bride against my will.

The wall to the outside world was formidable, but the barrier to Nishi’s heartland was no more than a thought and a stone, so Salali left the city that way.

Moonlight and starlight played around her as she chose a little-trodden path through the high grasses. Glowing mosses lit her way through the forest, and she was too much a city girl to know that the track she chose because it was brightest shone so clearly because no one walked it – and for a reason.

As the dawn rose, she came upon a clearing. In that clearing stood a house made of wood.

Salali, raised within the walls of Nishi, had never seen a free-standing house before, much less one made entirely of wood.

As she gazed in wonder, the door swung inward and a woman came out.

The woman was tall and brown and as slender as young Salali, herself, although the woman in the doorway was deeply wrinkled. Her gown was a rich green, and round red gems encircled her neck and waist.

She held out her hands to the weary traveler and said,

“Welcome! You’ve come a long way, for our home is far from everywhere. Come in and rest.”

* * *

Well, you can see this is going nowhere good. Sure enough, Salali is expected to marry Vernando, the old woman’s son. When Salali declines, she’s imprisoned in a cell of trees and vines, along with her pack and some green yarn to knit herself a wedding dress.

* * *

It was weary work, for every stitch she made brought her closer to a union with a man less to her liking than the one her parents had proposed. If she stopped for more than a sip of water or a bite of fruit, if she worked backward, pulling stitches out, the leaves of her prison whispered about it and Vernando’s mother came to berate her.

She finished knitting the first skein, and the bodice of her wedding gown was complete. With trembling hands, she tied off the end of the strand and used her sewing scissors to cut it short.

The scissors slipped and nicked her finger.

Salali wept and raged at them. “I’ve kept you sharp and shiny since my mother gave you to me, and this is how you repay me? You won’t cut the wood that imprisons me, but you cut my finger and spill my blood?”

For blood did drop from her finger, staining the green of her second skein.

The red was so refreshing as a change from green that Salali let the bright drops fall until they stopped of their own accord.

But the red didn’t stop when the blood stopped falling. The color spread throughout the skein, until the green was changed to red and gold and brown.

The prison’s leaves stood silent, as if too stunned to speak.

To please herself, Salali snipped a scrap of the skein and tied it around one of the stems of her prison.

With a sigh of gratitude, the sapling absorbed the colors as dry paper does an artist’s ink. It’s green leaves turned red and brown and golden, withered, and fell.

She snipped and tied, snipped and tied, and leaves fell, and vines turned dry and brittle and were easily broken.

When next Vernando’s mother came to check Salali’s progress, the prisoner was gone, leaving nothing behind but the echo of her vow: I’ll be no one’s bride against my will.

* * *

There’ll be more to the story. A good tale is only good if the bad guys chase the good guy, with amazing adventures ensuing.

Thanks, Story A Day May!

I always end my posts with a writing prompt, but this month I invite you to use the prompt I used for the day’s story. So:

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: Today’s picture.

MA

The post 1 Salali and Vernando @StoryADayMay appeared first on MARIAN ALLEN, AUTHOR LADY.

Squirrel Nut Zippers. DAY Z OF A TO Z!

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Squirrel Nut Zippers: More than just an old-time candy, it’s also a sweet and hot JAZZ BAND. There are so many great Squirrel Nut Zippers songs I can’t even count them without taking off the socks and shoes of everybody I know. But, since Wednesday is food day at this blog, I’ve chosen a foodie one, which also happens to be the first of their songs I ever heard.

SQUIRREL NUT ZIPPERS

With! A! Monkey! It just doesn’t get any better than that.

As for Squirrel Nut Zippers the candy, it’s delicious, melt-in-your-mouth vanilla caramel with bits of peanut in. A word to the wise, though: Don’t buy one and carry it around in your purse during the humid and hot summer so you can give it to your daughter, who introduced you to the band. Seriously, it will not end well; trust me on this.

Remember, tomorrow is the first day of Story A Day May. I’ll be posting at about 9am Eastern Time in May, depending on when I finish the story.

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: A character has to offer a prim maiden lady some of these candies but is embarrassed to say the name.

MA

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YMCA. YES, THAT ONE. Day Y of A to Z

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YMCA originally stood for Young Men’s Christian Association, but now it stands for delicious disco dishiness.

No matter your age, please tell me you know about The Village People and their singable, danceable, shake-your-bootiable hit song.

YMCA

Indeed. Or, as we said back in the day, “Well, awRIIIIght!!!”

I’m posting today at Fatal Foodies on the subject of yams.

Please to remember: After the A to Z Challenge ends, I’ll be doing Story A Day in May.

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: A character goes to an unfamiliar town and has to find a place to stay.

MA

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