Jennifer M. Zeiger's Blog, page 37

The Tournament Option Bb: Work with the Man

The adventure has taken us to a rather unconventional kind of fencing. Readers have chosen to team up with one of the other contestants. Let’s see if this proves good or bad!

The Tournament Option Bb: Work with the Man

Considering your odds, you’d rather have someone on your side in this contest. You nod to the man in agreement.

He smiles and, as you watch, he squares off against the other man in the ring, turning his back to you completely in a show of trust that’s startling.

The woman contestant smirks and moves like she’s going to surprise your partner from the side.

Not on your watch. You move to put yourself between her and the big man.

Then you all wait for the fencing match to begin.

“All right contestants,” the announcer stands on the corner of the fencing ring to be seen above the crowd, “remember, you must overcome two of the other three in the ring. Good luck. And GO!”

The woman’s fast. You duck her first swing and catch her return swing on your sword. The clash of it sends a shock into you hands.

You throw her off with a shove and take a step back to rebalance. The crowd in the stands roars. It’s deafening in the way a trumpet makes your ears ring. You go on the offense and beat the woman back several steps.

There’s a deep-throated scream behind you that sends chills down your spine. It’s your partner’s voice, you’re sure of it, but you don’t chance a look back as the woman tries to use the moment of distraction to her advantage. She swings and steps closer, trying to get within your longer reach.

You fast step and get out of her way, then reverse your motion the instant her swing goes past you. Before she knows it you’re beating her back again.

You’ve no desire to actually harm her but judging from your partner’s scream, a gentle hit won’t end the contest. The announcer said ‘overcome’ two of the three in the ring. So it’s knock her out or force her from the ring.

The fence around the ring sits just above her hips. To force her out will require some extra momentum but the longer you fight her, the more you realize that knocking her out just isn’t going to happen.

She’s extremely careful about her head. So force her out of the ring it is. Your chance comes when she stumbles in an effort to side step. She keeps her sword up, but you push it slightly to the side with your own blade, step in close by taking three quick, almost running steps and throw your shoulder into her sternum. Then you lift with your legs as you keep moving forward.

She huffs as the air is forced from her chest. Then the back of her knees hit the fence and she goes flying over the top rail.

The spectators scream their encouragement of your tactics. You stomach rolls as the woman’s head hits the ground and she’s knocked unconscious.

Only then do you turn to see what’s happening with the other two in the ring.

Your partner’s right arm drips blood in a steady stream from a slice across his bicep. The wound must have cut deep because he’s struggling to keep his broadsword up as he blocks a strike from the smaller man.

He pushes the smaller man away and attempts a swing but his movement is just too slow and the other man ducks inside his reach for a killing blow. The smaller man isn’t going to pull short. His face scrunches in determination and the muscles along his back and neck tense in total abandonment to his course of action.

You switch your grip on your own sword. You rear back and throw. At any sort of distance the throw wouldn’t be effective but the fencing ring’s small. The sword flies through the air and lands with a heavy thump with its hilt against the smaller man’s temple. He crumples in a boneless heap.

There’s a moment of stunned silence before the crowd above jumps to its feet in ecstatic joy. Your ears ring as you join the big man and check on his bleeding arm. Tearing the sleeve from his shirt, you tie it around the wound.

“This isn’t fencing,” you grumble as you work, “this is butchery.”

“Yeah,” the big man agrees. “Thanks for the save.”

Before you can respond, the announcer steps up onto the corner of the ring and raises his hands for attention.

“Well done!” he shouts. “Now, since you obviously worked together, you can pick between Obstacles or Mastery?” he holds out his hands for your choice. You glance at the big man and he shrugs. Neither one of you have any clue what those options mean. If they’re like the last two, they’ll involve more bloodshed then you’d like.

Do you pick…

Bb1: Obstacles?

or

Bb2: Mastery?

Blessings and see you Thursday for the conclusion to the adventure,

Jennifer

The Tournament Option B: Fencing

Welcome to the fencing ring! Readers have chosen to try their hand at the tournaments by fencing their way to the top. Shall we see if it works?!

The Tournament Option B.Fencing

The rain subsided with the morning sun and now you’re standing in line to register for the tournaments with the sun warming your shoulders. It burned off the mist within an hour and your cloak’s almost dry as you approach the table at the entrance to the coliseum.

The man behind the table holds his pen over a sheet of paper. He waits for you to say which challenge you want to participate in.

“Fencing,” you inform him.

He grunts and accepts the papers you hold out containing your information. They tell him everything from your name to where you were born and to which family.

“Isn’t this a baking family?” he asks, pointing at your last name.

“Mostly,” you reply, perhaps a bit shortly but you’ve been questioned like that your whole life.

He eyes you and your weaponry and then shrugs and hands your papers back.

“The fencing field’s to the left past the archery section,” he says, “first tournament starts in an hour.”

You thank him and move on.

The coliseum’s huge, made to support gaming events and trials but today, instead of hosting a single event, the ground is split into five wedges like a pie. Spectators mill around the seating above, able to see all five areas.

On the ground, however, you can only see the wedge you’re standing in and the two neighboring wedges.

Archery is immediately to your left and beyond it you can see the fencing square. To your immediate right sits the hand-to-hand combat arena and you guess jousting is on the other side of the coliseum because you can make out the heads of several horses in that direction.

The fifth wedge you can’t guess at. All you can see in that area is a crowd milling about.

You pass through the archery wedge and make your way to the table in the fencing wedge. You hold out your papers to the man standing behind it. He grabs them from your hand and holds them directly in front of his watery eyes.

He snorts. “Baker. They’ll let anyone in these days.” He tosses the stack of papers onto his table and points to the outline for the fencing square. “Stand in line. Your turn’ll come soon.”

His attitude rubs you wrong but you hold your tongue. People always comment on your family heritage. You’ve found the only way to silence such ridiculous assumptions is to show them you’re capable. No verbal argument seems to work.

You move to stand in line beside a man twice your height. His shoulders are broad enough to shoulder a wagon.

He glances over at you and raises a brow.

“Speed?” he guesses.

“Perhaps,” you kind of admit. “Power?” you gesture at the broadsword he’s carrying.

A toothy grin splits his face. “Perhaps.”

You grin back as you set the rest of your weaponry against the side of the fencing ring. You won’t be needing the bow and arrows and they might get in your way.

“First contestant,” shouts a man standing at the opposite side of the square. “Obstacle or Multiple?”

“What’s that mean?” asks the huge man.

You shrug. “Guess we’ll see.”

The first man in line shuffles from one foot to the other, then blurts out, “Multiple.”

The announcer gestures him into the ring, then he gestures at the big man beside you, at you and then the woman behind you.

“Multiple contestants it is!” the announcer shouts as you all move into the ring as well.

It’s not a lot of space for four people swinging swords.

“You must overcome two of the three others in the ring,” the announcer explains. “If you step out of the ring, you’re done. If you strike with anything but your sword, you’re done. Good luck, Contestants.”

You get a sinking feeling in your stomach. Before, they’ve always blunted the swords. There’s no attempt at this tournament to do so and the rules stated nothing about not killing. This could turn ugly really fast.

“Work with me?” the big man asks out of the side of his mouth.

You know nothing about him. He could turn on you without warning. On the other hand, someone watching your back could be a huge asset.

Do you…

Bb. Work with Him?

or

Bc. Go It Alone?

Blessings and see you Tuesday,

Jennifer

The Tournament 2

Welcome back to the adventure! This week we get to explore an adventure for a second time and see what other kinds of dangers and treasures exist for the reader to find. Let’s get started =)

The Tournament

Rainwater drips from the porch above you and the siding of the building weeps with moisture but, for the moment, you’ve found a dry spot. It’s just a sheltered piece of cobblestone. A two-foot by two-foot section where the rain isn’t drenching the ground. There’s not even enough space to lie down but the spot’s yours and, as long as you don’t move from it, no one will challenge you.

You’re not homeless. You just can’t find an Inn that’s not already full because of the tournaments being held at the coliseum. For the moment, you may as well be homeless. But at least you’re a well-armed homeless.

Thus why no one will challenge you for your shelter.

A sword peeks over your right shoulder from its holster on your back. From your belt hangs a woodsman’s knife the length of your forearm and, unstrapped since you’re not hunting, you hold a bow in your right hand. Over your left shoulder, the fletching of arrows plays peek-a-boo around the hood of your cloak.

All of the weaponry right now is just extra weight. Your cloak is the prize possession with the rain.

But you’ve come here for a purpose. The tournament boasts a multitude of challenges. Fencing, archery, jousting, hand to hand combat. They all pay well for the winner.

You’re not here for the pay, though, you’re here for a person. For years you’ve heard nothing from your family, ostracized because of your choice to be a woods ranger instead of following in the family baking business. But last week a messenger found you.

“They took Ruben,” the messenger said, “because your family couldn’t pay the rent on the bakery. He’s being forced to work the quarry until he pays off the amount due.”

“And what do they want from me?” you asked. Working the quarry was hard, dangerous work but, considering the amount on the bakery couldn’t be that high, Ruben shouldn’t be there that long.

“The family hasn’t paid in over a year,” the messenger explained, “so Ruben’s assigned the quarry for the next five years to pay everything off.”

No one survived the quarry that long.

“All right,” you conceded, “what does the family want?”

“In the tournaments, you can ask for the release of a worker if you win one of the challenges.”

You have an ‘ah ha” moment. No on in the family could win such a challenge, expect you. You considered briefly refusing. The family hasn’t spoken to you in years, much lest lent a hand whenever you needed something.

But this was family and a man’s life. You couldn’t refuse.

“When does the tournament start?” you asked.

“Beginning of the week.”

And thus why you’re hunkered under a porch instead of sleeping in an Inn. By the time the messenger found you, you only had two days to get to the capital. It was a three day trip.

An Inn wouldn’t have helped much anyway. There’s only an hour or two before sunrise and then you have to be at the coliseum to check in as a contestant. So as you wait for the warmth to arrive from the rising sun, you debate whether to try archery or fencing first. You’ve never attempted jousting and don’t want to start now. As a last resort you can try hand-to-hand combat but that’s not your forte and you’d prefer to start with your stronger skills.

So do you try…

A. Archery?

or

B. Fencing?

Blessings,

Jennifer

Inheritance Option Ab1: Stay

Inheritance Option Ab1: Stay  

“So if I leave, you stop talking to me,” you muse to your pack.

“Um,” it shifts on your shoulders, “true, I guess, but wouldn’t that be akin to killing me?”

“Not sure you’re truly alive,” you say.

“Oh, but I am. Would you like me to explain?”

“No,” you pick up the letter and flip it over. There’s nothing on the other side. “I need to find a candlestick to show me around.”

“Oh, yippee,” zip, zip, “you’re not going to perform a pack murder.”

Sheesh.

You open the office doors and study the bright halls lit by streaming sunlight, realizing that in all the dark halls requiring candlelight, the floors are bare. Here, there’s a long, red, green and brown rug running most of the hallway.

“Let’s find a candlestick,” you tell the pack. “Think this hallway’s safe since I’m coming from the inside?”

“No, probably not, but maybe if you walk along the side of the hallway and not on the rug, it’ll leave you be.”

You follow the pack’s advice but only a step in and the wall against your side bulges outward, hits your hip and sends you stumbling onto the rug.

You give an “argh!” of surprise and try to jump over to the other side. It doesn’t work as the wall on that side has bulged out as well.

The rug shudders and moves, offsetting your balance even more and you hit the floor. In a move so fast you have trouble recalling exactly how it happened, the rug curls around you and rolls up into a neat burrito. You go thud, thud, thud down the entire hallway until you’re so wrapped up that your arms are tight against your sides and it’s hard to breath.

Then there’s a deep, ringing laugh of glee from the thing.

“Well, this is lovely,” zip, zip high up on your shoulders. In the tussle, the pack shifted to sit almost even with the back of your head. It wriggles and the rug laughs like it’s being tickled.

“Can you get free?” you ask.

“Working on it,” zip, zip.

In moments, the pack flops to the floor beside your head. The rug tries to slap an end onto it but your pack scrunches and slides farther down the hall.

“Sorry good chap,” it tells the rug, “But you’re all caught up with someone else.” Then to you, “Be back in a jiff with one of those bright fellows.”

Since when did your pack have an English accent? You can’t say but you watch as it shuffles its way down the hall. It’s one of the oddest things you’ve ever seen.

Like the rug’s frustrated at losing part of its prey, it tightens even more around you.

“Hey,” you complain.

It squeezes and you shift your face right and left, trying to add wiggle room. It doesn’t work but you notice something when you turn left.

The edge of the rug by your shoulder is fraying. This gives you an idea.

“Let me go,” you tell the rug, “or I’ll unravel you.”

It laughs again, that deep, almost belly laugh of delight.

“Fine.”

You grab a few fibers with your teeth and pull. This is going to take forever but it’s not like you have anything else to do. You keep pulling until you get a good, solid strand that actually starts to pull more of the edge loose.

There’s a shudder and an odd gasp of what sounds like weeping.

“Let me go or I’ll continue,” you tell the rug.

It loosens and then, just as quickly as it captured you, the rug unravels and sends you sailing into the office door.

When you look up, you see a person-sized candlestick standing at the far end of the hallway. Your pack sits on the floor beside it, almost like it’s standing up.

“Well done, Boss,” it zips.

***

Hoping to start on good terms, you repair the carpet from the small sewing kit in your pack.

Then the candle shows you the castle, you get a steak and see the treasures of the place.

You end up moving that one carpet in particular because even with a candle, it always trips you on the way to the office.

Other than that, you end up great friends with all the flowers because you enjoy gardening. The pansies do try to burry your feet. They seem to think you need to be planted, but they never try to eat you. Your pack on the other hand, they love to try to eat. It turns into a game figuring out where the pack gets buried. It complains incessantly but it stays your trusty pack.

The End

Congratulations on surviving the Castle! The adventure will be back on 26th. Until then, have a wonderful week.

Blessings,

Jennifer

Inheritance Option Ab: Go Left

The Adventure continues! Readers voted to follow the daisies’ advice and head left instead of right in an effort to get to the office. Let’s see if you’re deft enough to cross to the balcony!

Inheritance Option Ab: Go Left

The idea of the very walls guarding the office freaks you out. What’ll they do, start moving?

“Think the daisies are telling the truth?” you mutter to your pack.

It shrugs. “Not sure they’re smart enough to mislead you, Boss. They have this very vacant look on their faces.”

Great. Flowers have faces and they can look vacant. Learn something new all the time. But then again, how can your pack tell? It still has no eyes.

“I’ve gone crazy,” you mutter.

“Certifiably,” your pack agrees.

You refrain from answering as you reach the bottom of the stairs.

They’re narrow but at the top you can see a vaulted ceiling and what appears to be a large, open hallway lit by sunlight. Compared to where you’re standing now, that hallway looks inviting.

Perhaps too inviting.

“Left it is,” you say. At the top of the stairs you pause and look both ways. The hallway to the right boasts big windows that show the internal courtyard of the castle. The sunlight streaming through is what lit the stairs from below.

In an odd lack of symmetry, the left hand hall has no windows but is lit with the soft glow of candles.

“Seems like a trap,” zip, zip.

You agree. You just hope you’re guessing correctly on which way is the most dangerous.

Squaring your shoulders, you step into the left hand hallway. Nothing moves, nothing speaks up. You’re almost to the end of the hallway where it takes a turn to the right when your pack clears its throat.

“What?” you ask.

“The candles like you,” your pack whispers.

You glance back. Instead of the small candles you just passed, you find a single candlestick as tall as yourself. Even as you watch, another candle hops off the wall and joins the big candle, congealing into it like mud into mud.

“It likes me?” you ask.

“It wants you to ask it to join you,” your pack whispers.

“Why are you whispering?”

“It freaks me out!”

The candle has no eyes or mouth. The flame at the top burns brighter as more candles amble over to join it while you consider. It is kind of nerve wracking because you can feel it watching you, somehow.

“Join me?” you ask, deciding a friend could be super useful.

The candle jumps up and down like an excited puppy. The flame at the top bobs and it splatters soft wax over the floor before hopping forward to stand beside you.

You put a step between yourself and the candle and then proceed to the turn in the hallway.

There’s no light. It’s so black you can’t see more than ten feet ahead.

“Glad I invited you,” you comment to the candle. It waddles forward to light your path and bounces on its silver frame while it waits for you to catch up.

“It’s making me dizzy,” your pack grumbles.

You ignore it.

The hall leads to a single door. On the other side you stop to adjust to the sunlight streaming in the bay windows.

The candle stops in the hallway.

“Thank you,” you say.

It bounces up and down and then places itself squarely in the doorway. Behind it vague shapes move in the dark but they don’t come forward into the light of the candlestick.

“Still creep you out?” you ask the pack.

“Not so much,” it responds.

On the far side of the room, you open the windows and peek out. There, to your right, is the balcony the daisies spoke of. The sketchy part is the stretch of about six feet between the bay window and the railing of the balcony. There’s nothing but brick wall to hang onto in between and the balcony sits above the window.

No matter how you consider it, you’re going to have to push off and grab ahold of that railing.

“Don’t fall,” zip, zip.

“Hush.”

All you need right now is a reminder. You climb out of the window and stretch toward the balcony with the fingers of your right hand on the frame of the window.

Nerves make your fingers sweat.

Focus on that railing, you tell yourself.

If you’re deft. The flower’s words run through your mind.

I’m definitely daft. You decide and push off from the window.

You left hand slaps against the metal of the railing. The sweat on your palm makes the grip slick but you latch on and grunt as your weight falls on that arm. In a moment you swing your right arm around and grasp ahold with both hands.

Now for a pull up.

Perhaps it’s the adrenaline, but it’s the easiest pull up of your life. You slide over the railing and crash against the floor of the balcony.

“You’re squishing me!” your pack complains.

You groan and roll over to push to your feet. The office proves to be a lushly furnished affair with heavy oak shelving and desk. In the middle of the empty desk sits a letter.

Hermit,

Congratulations for making it this far. Most don’t make it past the pansies.  

And Welcome to the Castle of Other. While within the moat, anything may have animation. Your task is to protect it. Some will reward you richly for watching out for them. The candles and dishes in particular will thank you for your guardianship. (Ask the dishes for a nice steak, medium rare. It’s the best I’ve ever tasted.)

The rugs and certain flowers will not thank you but they will tolerate you as long as you show them discipline and courtesy. The rugs hate and fear fire. So always take a candle with you and keep the rugs clean and they’ll leave you alone.

You are the only person I trust to watch out for this treasure. You understand solitude and discipline. If you choose to walk away, tell the Bridge and Mr. Toad to drain the moat. All of this will cease to exist.

If you choose to stay, there are treasures beyond imagining here but they require your diligence. Tell the Candles you’re staying and they’ll show you the ropes.

Yours truly,

James Levi

You gulp.

Do you…

Ab1: Stay

or

Ab2: Leave

Blessings and see you Thursday for the end of this Adventure!

Jennifer

Inheritance Option A: Follow the Pack’s Advice

Inheritance Option A: Follow the Pack’s Advice

The world’s gone completely topsy turvy. Maybe you’ve been alone for too long and it addled your brain but, if you’re addled anyway, you may as well have fun with it, right?

“All right,” you agree with the pack and pick it back up, throwing only one strap over a shoulder. “Watch my back,” you tease.

“Absolutely!” zip, zip. The pack doesn’t catch your tone.

Upon your first step, all the flowers swivel to ‘look’ at you. The pansies in particular seem to lean forward as though they’re picking up your scent.

“No funny business,” you say to them.

They nod their heads and give off a “hehehehe” that sends chills down your spine. The other flowers knock heads with the pansies and emit a ‘shhhhh’.

“That’s just creepy,” you mutter.

“Indeed!” agrees your pack, which isn’t comforting at all as you can feel it mimicking your shudder.

By now you’ve reached the door on the right hand side of the courtyard and you slip inside before the stares of the flowers can creep you out any more.

Inside’s dark. Faint light filters through windows high up on the walls, but it’s so weak that it only glints off of the frames of the pictures on the walls. It doesn’t show you what kinds of pictures are displayed.

You step forward until you’re past the first set of glinting frames. You don’t make it another step before your pack shudders.

“Hey Boss,” it says, “they’re watching us.”

So many questions run through your head.

“How can you tell? You haven’t got eyes.” Then, before the pack answers, “Who’s watching us?”

“The flowers in the pictures.”

“Any pansies?”

“No, just daisies so far.”

Sheesh! This is ridiculous, but you can’t keep wandering blindly.

“Ask them where the office is.”

“Office?” zip zip.

“Looking to see if this James Levi left a note, instructions, something.”

“Oh, okay. Hello Daisies.” The walls giggle. “Can you tell us where the office is?”

“Up the stairs and to the right,” the walls sing, “but it’s guarded day and night. Perhaps you should go up the stairs and to the left. You can cross the balcony if you’re deft.”

Or daft, you think, but don’t say it.

“Guarded by what?” you ask.

“Guarded by what?” you pack asks the walls.

“Rugs and pictures, lights and halls,” the song echoes with the daisies’ delight.

You shudder.

So, upstairs…

Aa. Right?

or

Ab. Left?

Blessings and see you Tuesday for the continuation of this bizarre adventure =)

Jennifer

Inheritance

All righty then! It’s July and time for the adventure to return to its regular schedule. This new one seems to be a mix between Alice in Wonderland and the Dresden Files. Let’s see where it takes us.

Inheritance

He looks like a toad, short, squat and rather large lipped with a squishy face. You don’t usually have such a reaction to people but the poor man at your door seems to embody his ugliness like he’s proud of it.

“Do I have your name right?” he whistles through his teeth.

“Y-e-s,” you draw the word out. No one visits you, not way out here where it takes a four-wheel drive vehicle almost two hours to reach your door.

Toad man definitely came equipped. The truck sitting behind him pops as it cools. Its hood sits almost even with the top of his head.

“You are the recipient of James Levi’s estate,” he pulls out a large roll of paper from his satchel and stuffs it in your face. “Sign pages three, eleven, sixteen and twenty two.”

“What?”

He just stares at you, still holding the papers.

“I don’t know a James Levi,” you say.

“He states in his will the estate must go to another hermit. Namely, you. You are the only other hermit.” The way he says this last bit makes it sound like you’re the only other hermit ever. Odd man.

Being a hermit, you don’t exactly care for confrontation. You sigh and start signing. When you’re done, he stuffs the entire stack of papers back into his bag and hands over a single page. On it you find an address.

“Enjoy,” toad man spins on his heel and climbs back into his truck, using a stepladder he pulls from the floorboard to reach the seat.

You read the address in your hand.

Yuck. That’s farther out there than your small cabin. Too far to make it to today. Tomorrow morning it is.

***

Even leaving before dawn, you reach James Levi’s estate well after noon. Whoever this man was, he really didn’t want any visitors. You suspected as much, so you loaded up your four-wheeler into the bed of your truck the night before.

Now you’re truck sits alone, left on the road ten miles back, because the road narrowed so much you couldn’t fit the Chevy through the trees.

You cut the engine to the four-wheeler and simply sit on it for a bit. You’re in the middle of nowhere, literally surrounded by forest and mountains with barely a trail leading to the place, and before you rises a flipping castle.

How in all that’s Holy did James Levi build such a beast?

Gate-check.

Moat-check.

Turrets-check.

Full on medieval castle.

You shake your head and dismount the four-wheeler. On your back you carry a backpack with basic supplies for the night since you’re so far out from even your own cabin.

A tiny footbridge crosses the moat and gives access to the gate.

You’re suspicious by nature, so you kneel down and check under the bridge. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. Nothing happens when you cross, your heels making soft thuds on the wooden planks, but when you reach the far side, the bridge gives a shudder.

You step onto solid ground and immediately, the bridge breaks in two and lifts into the air like a toll bridge, cutting you off from the other side.

“Hello?” you holler.

Your voice echoes and dies but no one responds.

Someone’s out there, though, you’ve got that itch against the back of your neck like a spider’s climbing your skin. You shiver and approach the gate. A small intercom graces the right side. You press the red button and it gives off a buzzzzzz.

Moments pass, then, “Go away,” crackles out of the speaker.

“Um, can’t,” you respond. “The bridge is up.”

“Dumb bridge. All right, come in.”

There’s another buzz and the gate rattles upward.

Flipping medieval castle. When it’s high enough, you duck under and step into the courtyard beyond.

“Careful of the pansies,” the speaker pops. “They’ll eat you alive.”

“What?” you ask.

The speaker doesn’t respond.

You scan the courtyard and find pansies, tulips, geraniums, and a variety of other flowers you don’t recognize scattered around the yard.

“Perhaps we should skirt the outside of the yard,” says a voice behind you.

You spin but there’s no one there. You spin in a full circle and still don’t see anyone.

“Can we please stop that, it’s making me dizzy.”

You freeze. Then, with two fingers, you pinch the strap of you pack and slide it from your shoulders.

It’s a simple thing. Green with only two outside pockets and a main zipper that follows the full front of the pack.

“Much better.”

The zipper’s closed but as these words come from your most trusted pack, it unzips and rezips without the need of the zipper car.

Take it in stride, you try to calm your racing heart.

“Skirt the outside?” you ask.

“No pansies,” zip, zip.

So do you…

A. Follow the pack’s advice?

Or

B. Run Away Screaming?

Blessings and see you Thursday,

Jennifer

Time and Value

Clear warning, this post is a bit different. I don’t usually talk about myself in depth but I always feel a bit guilty when I take time off and I thought I’d share a little about what’s happening in my little brain. There is a real person behind the adventures, I swear =)

Here goes.

Yay! Cake!

A little bit ago I turned thirty. Not even sure what to say about it. It just happened. Kinda snuck up on me and laughed in sadistic glee as it whizzed right by. Crazy things, time and age. I don’t feel thirty.

I somehow thought I’d be more comfortable in my own skin by this age. Now I’m realizing it’s human nature to find fault, especially as a woman, in myself. It’s human nature to wish for straight hair when the humidity turns my god given locks to ringlets. To crave clear skin when I’ve got a healthy body that keeps up with my passions for climbing and hiking and snowboarding.

The list of ‘have-nots’ is endless if I let it. It’s so, so easy to focus on the ‘have-nots’ and completely forget the even longer, more uplifting list of ‘haves.’

And I’m coming to realize focusing on the list of haves is not a comparison thing. I can’t compare myself to another woman or compare my good traits with my bad. That way lies grief and tears because, inevitably, it either leads to pride or the pit of have-nots again.

The list of haves is simple fact. Something we each can own as who we are, beautiful, or handsome, in our own right.

I’m beautiful. Shut up internal dialogue that says otherwise.

I’m also successful despite the fact that I haven’t completely accomplished all my dreams and goals yet. Failure only drowns me if I stop trying, stop living for the things that God’s instilled in me to enjoy and have a passion for.

But sometimes those passions, those values, conflict and it feels like failure to back away from one to accomplish another for a time.

When I look in the mirror and focus on the things I have, I see the deep blue irises I inherited from my dad, the slightly wavy hair of both my parents and the shape of my mother’s graceful face. These are a legacy of a family I greatly value.

Here’s where the passions conflict right now.

Writing’s always a passion for me. There’s a drive in me that just won’t quite. To take time off feels like I’m failing myself and those who actually read my work. (Thank you to everyone reading this! I greatly appreciate you.)

But time with family is precious beyond anything I can describe. Over the next month, my husband and I have the opportunity to spend time with family that we haven’t had in several years. So it’s been placed on my heart to focus solely on them. To step back from the writing in order to appreciate the blessing that is family. Perhaps this is where the wisdom of thirty comes in. I considered trying to do both but, in all honesty, I doubt I’d do either justice if I did.

So thank you to everyone in advance for understanding a month’s break from the adventure. (And thank you for being patient with my rambling today =)

I encourage you over the next month, and beyond that, to focus on who you are individually (no comparisons) and find value in the things that make you uniquely you. You’re beautiful, handsome, and amazing simply because you are who you are and there’s not another person like you.

Until July, blessings,

Jennifer

Raining Frogs Option Bc2: Stall for the Frogs

It’s time to see if the frogs can finish off the last robber. Let’s see if you can stall long enough!

Raining Frogs Option Bc2: Stall for the Frogs

The shotgun might not harm him and, if it doesn’t, all you’ll do is anger him further while he’s got a gun of his own. And you know his bullets will hurt you. Erring on the side of caution seem like the smarter way to go.

The creature’s eyes narrow and he sneers. It’s an ugly expression beyond just the contempt, with teeth the shade of moss and jagged edges that remind you of a saw blade.

“Not fast enough,” he mocks in a guttural voice.

“Perhaps,” you say with a shrug and give a scornful smile back.

He backs away by a step.

“Hold right there,” you say. Somehow you sound more confident than you feel but the confidence must sound convincing because he stops moving.

You hold a relieved sigh. He almost knocked over the tower of frogs fast growing behind him.

The creature leers but there’s uncertainty in the expression. You’re at a standstill and you both know it.

You kick several frogs at him.

He flinches. Boom! The gun in his hand rocks back, almost hitting his face.

You flinch as the shot whistles past your head and chunks of brick fly off the corner of the bank where the shot slams into it. They spatter the ground, mixing with the solid splattering of frogs. There’s red and yellow and green splotches all over every area of exposed skin on you.

Spooked from the gunshot, the creature spins to run and comes face to face with a tower of frogs.

You could swear the frogs grin in glee as they jump onto his face and work their way into his hood.

He shrieks like his companions and disappears in a flood of frogs. You watch, horrified and fascinated by the odd sight.

And then the last robber’s gone. Not eaten, not burned by poisonous frogs, just gone.

There’s a deafening quality to the ribbits of all the frogs and then, poof, they disappear too. You glance around to find everything except the money the robbers tried to get away with just gone.

Sunlight hits the street like it’s smiling on a perfect, uninterrupted summer day. Slime drips from your face, so the frogs were not a figment of your imagination.

And there are bags of money laying on the street.

You gather it all, making several trips, to return it to the bank.

“So what happened?” The sheriff asks later, eyeing your colorful skin.

You tell him. Straight truth.

He scowls and moves on to the tellers.

Their stories aren’t any more convincing, so you come up with a story about four robbers that ran away and he sketches out wanted posters for four very ugly fugitives.

Every time you see those posters you giggle in hysteria. There’s just something crazy funny about it.

You become known as the crazy person who owns the land just outside of town, but just like the town drunk, the people accept you and you continue to giggle every time you see a wanted poster.

Perhaps it was all the frog slime that scrabbled your brain. You don’t know and don’t really care. Life’s just more fun this way.

The End

Yay! You defeated the robbers! And got your parcel of land although you might be a little addled in the brain. =)

Blessings,

Jennifer

Raining Frogs Option Bc: Make Life Difficult

You will not go quietly into that rain of frogs!

Raining Frogs Option Bc: Make Life Difficult

These creatures ruined your day. This perfect, lovely day of realized dreams. A vindictive part of you simply wants to ruin their day in return.

Although your head’s covered with a potato sack, you have no trouble telling when you’ve left the bank. Frogs splat against your head and shoulders in an unceasing rain of amphibians. They fill the air with ribbits and croaks over the general, thick splatting sound their soft bodies make against the ground.

You wait until you’re away from the bank and out into the street before you let loose on your four captors. With a shove of your hip, you push the right one far enough away that you can kick his legs. Luck’s with you. The kick connects solidly although with the hood you can’t say where.

You guess near his knee because he screams and crumbles to the ground. He continues screaming in a gargle like show of agony.

You don’t question your luck when he doesn’t rise. Instead, you shift to attack the creature on your left.

He sweeps your legs from beneath you and you hit the ground with a thud that rattles teeth. The potato sack slides to the top of your head and you shake, making it fall away completely. You’re just in time to see the creature aim a kick. As his leg draws back, you snake your feet around the leg holding his weight and pull.

He falls and huffs when he hits. His hood falls off and within seconds, frogs cover him.

You stare, shocked, steam hisses and frogs croak but when they clear away from him, there’s nothing left.

A quick glance confirms the first robber suffered a similar fate. You can’t remember when he stopped screaming. It all happened in such a blur.

You meet the eyes of the last two, and shudder. Inhuman fury turns their already ugly faces to masks of pure hate.

They shriek and race at you.

You try to roll away but your hands are still bound. The first kick hits low on your spine. The butt of a shotgun barely misses your temple.

A part of you wonders whether to be thankful or frustrated that they don’t just shoot you but as more and more kicks connect, you loose any thought except trying to protect your body.

You pull your hands and arms around your face and curl into a tight ball. Another kick rocks you onto your back.

Two things hit your pain-addled brain. One, your hands are free, and two, you just rolled onto a shotgun.

You gab the gun and pull the trigger.

One of the attackers staggers and falls to his knees and, because of his short stature, this puts him into easy reach of the jumping frogs. They swarm him and he disappears.

When you look up, you freeze. The last creature holds a shotgun. You’re faced off, each holding the weapon on the other.

Time slows for a subjective minute. Frogs hop behind your last opponent like they’re encouraging you. Several land on top of each other and before long, you realize they’re stacking themselves behind him to reach his head. It’s the oddest thing you’ve ever seen.

You’re not sure if the shot you took at the other creature hurt it or just knocked it over. All you know is the frogs definitely hurt it.

Do you…

Bc1: Shoot Him?

or

Bc2: Stall for the Frogs?

Blessings and see you Thursday for the finish to this wacky adventure!

Jennifer