Friday November 10th, 2017

The exercise:

Let us bring things to an end with: the seeker.

Feel free to ignore the usual Friday restriction of four lines of prose if you're finishing off a tale you've been writing the last couple of days. 

I know that if I find time to join in (and I'm hoping to) that I certainly will.

Thursday November 9th, 2017

The exercise:

Continuing on from yesterday's prompt, today write about: the hiding spot.

This Tale in Three Parts shall conclude tomorrow.

Wednesday November 8th, 2017

The exercise:

Write something to do with: hide and seek.

Fair warning: you might want to be prepared to continue your tale tomorrow. And maybe the day after that.

Friday February 19th, 2016

The exercise:

We're skipping our usual four lines of prose on Friday this week, and instead concluding A Tale In Three Parts, the Past Present Future edition.

So today let us see what the Future has in store for our characters.

Good, uneventful appointment at the midwife clinic this morning. Can't ask for much more than that at this point.

Mine:

Howard sat at the corner table in the games room, staring out the window and doing his best to ignore everyone else in his vicinity. The two men playing a card game he would never understand, the three women watching some godawful reality show on the TV in the opposite corner, the nurses moving in and out of the room carrying trays filled with medicine or, worse, empty trays in their hands.

He hated them all.

"How's your coffee this morning, Howard?"

"It's an amazing thing, Emily," he said without turning to look at the nurse. "For as long as I've been here, the coffee has been uniquely awful every single day. Always terrible, but never terrible in the exact same way. Incredible. Almost think you people do it on purpose."

"Who says we don't?" Emily asked and placed a paper cup with two pills inside it on the table beside his mug. After Howard ignored it, as expected, she added, "I've got strict orders not to leave until you take your medicine."

"Oh yeah? From who?"

"From me, Howie." Grace rolled up to the table in her wheelchair, gifting Emily with a kindly smile before turning her attention to her husband. "You've been skipping doses again."

"Thought you wouldn't notice," Howard said, shifting around in his seat.

"And why would you think that?" Grace asked with a faint smile. "Just because it took me almost a week to realize you'd replaced our coffee pot on our seventh anniversary?"

"Maybe." Howard cleared his throat, finally turning to look at the paper cup in front of him.

"Can you believe this man?" Grace asked Emily with a slow shake of her head. "Nearly fifty-three years later and he still won't shut up about it!"

"Yes, Grace," Emily said with a smile she could not conceal, "I absolutely can believe this man."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Howard asked before shoving his pills in his mouth and chasing them down with a sip from his mug. "And would you please get these bastards to hire someone who knows how to fix a cup of damned coffee?"

Thursday February 18th, 2016

The exercise:

A Tale In Three Parts continues today, as our Past Present Future prompt brings us to the: Present.

Had a grey and rainy morning here, but things did improve after lunch. The sun even peeked through a couple times, which was nice.

Heading up to Penticton tomorrow morning for a midwife appointment and to run a couple errands. Bringing Max with us, which should be fun as we're meeting with a midwife who we worked with last time around. Not sure when the last time she saw Max was, but I know it's been a while.

Mine:

Grace sat down at the table across from her husband, the plate of butter-saturated toast and glass of orange juice awaiting her arrival like prisoners at a firing squad. They were not long for this world, and they knew it.

"Morning Sweets," Howard said without taking his eyes off the newspaper in his hands. "Sleep okay?"

"Yeah, not bad." Grace sipped her drink as she studied Howard. He looked rough after staying up late last night - long after she herself had gone to sleep - and seemed like he could use a mug or two of coffee. In fact, his appearance reminded her of the first time they had met, when she'd invited him over to her apartment for a pick-me-up.

Now he only had water in his glass though. Their coffee pot had broken two weeks ago and had not yet been replaced, despite repeated reminders and urgings from Grace. Howard kept insisting that he could just have his morning caffeine injection at work and there was no need to buy a new pot, especially with money so tight.

Money, in Grace's opinion, was not that tight. Likely his new secretary was taking care of his coffee needs in the office. Lucy or Lucky or whatever the hell that bimbo's name was.

"Need me to pick up anything from the store on the way home?" Howard asked. He folded the paper up, more or less neatly, and placed it on the table as he stood up.

Yeah, Grace thought, a goddamned coffee pot.

"No, I think we're good. We're just ordering pizza tonight, right?"

"Yeah, right. It is Friday after all. All right. See you when I get home." Howard paused on his way out of the kitchen to giver her a peck on the top of her head. "Have a good day."

"Thanks," Grace murmured. "You too."

Grace sat without moving for a long time. It certainly was Friday. That meant pizza and a movie. It was a ritual they rarely missed. So why should that change tonight, just because it was their seventh wedding anniversary?

It wasn't like Howard even realized it anyway.

Wednesday February 17th, 2016

The exercise:

Far, far too much time has passed. Let us have another go at telling A Tale In Three Parts.

Click the link for a full refresher, but the basic idea is we get today, tomorrow, and Friday to tell our stories, all emanating from the same prompt. And what prompt might that be, you ask?

Past Present Future.

Today we begin in the past. Tomorrow we bring our tales to the present. Friday's finale will send our tales into the future.

The amount of time separating each installment is entirely up to you. Just go with whatever makes sense for the story you're telling. I had a lot of fun last time we tried this, and I'm looking forward to seeing what you guys can do this time around.

So let us begin with: Past.

Mine:

Howard was not having the best start to his day. It had been a late one with the boys the previous night and there had not been nearly enough time to sleep it off before his alarm had gone off that morning. He needed to be in class, ready to take his mid-term exam, and focused on his academic career in less than twenty minutes.

He also desperately needed a good cup of coffee. Whatever was sloshing around in the mug clutched in his hands was anything but that. Howard closed his eyes and tried to picture himself at a cafe in Paris, rather than in the campus cafeteria which actually surrounded him.

"You look like you've seen some things you'd like to forget," a woman said as she took the seat across the table from him. Howard looked up to tell her off but no words escaped his mouth. "Don't worry, I won't ask if you don't want to tell."

"Thanks?" Howard took a sip to buy himself time to gather his thoughts and immediately regretted it. What utter, liquefied horse manure. "You, on the other hand, look like you just left a modelling session."

That was not something he'd normally say, so he decided to blame it on the hangover. It was true though. Perfectly styled short blonde hair, just the right amount of makeup, a flattering top from the hippest store in town. She was out of his league but appeared not to realize it.

She had, after all, chosen to sit at his table and start talking to him.

"Thanks," she said with a smile that caused his heart to skip three or four beats. "No question mark."

"I'm Howard."

"Grace."

"Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." Grace tilted her head to the side as she seemed to consider an idea that had just occurred to her. "You need a proper cup of coffee. I know a place just around the corner. Makes the best brew in the city. You interested?"

He most certainly was.

Friday May 29th, 2015

The exercise:

Yeah, I'm not even bothering to tag this one as Four Line Prose day. Mine was not going to be contained within that limit. If yours does, go for it! Good for you! Not happening for me.

Spent most of today picking strawberries. Had a break after lunch while a thunderstorm passed through, which I spent with Max. Otherwise? Picking berries.

Grand total was 51 pints of strawberries (I did 37, Kat's dad helped me finish them off after dinner with an additional 14) and 1 pint of raspberries. Also collected a little bit of rhubarb, to go along with the tomato plants we'll be bringing to market tomorrow morning.

Shortly after I went back out this evening I got a call from Kat. I always worry that something has happened with Max every time she calls... and this time I was right. Hurray?

I guess he tripped and fell while he was out on our deck, giving his head a good knock. A rather large goose egg (I am unable to describe it even remotely accurately without going into hyperbole because he is my 2.5 year old son, so I'm leaving it at as 'rather large', okay?) showed up on his forehead, above his left eye. Going the better safe than sorry route, Kat and her mom took him up to the emergency room in Oliver to get him checked out.

The doctor saw nothing to worry about, said it was unlikely to be a concussion, and back home they came. We'll keep a close(r) eye on him for the next half a day or so, but the swelling has gone down a lot already and he seems to be doing fine.

Bullet dodged. Time for bed.

But first: The Crossing, Part Three.

Mine:

The four horsemen saw the thick, black smoke rising above the ruins of Kingstown long before they passed through what remained of its main gate. Nothing had been said, for they were not surprised. They had seen far too much to be surprised.

"It would appear that those who sought to delay us succeeded in their goal," Famine observed as they entered the rubble-strewn town square.

"We cannot return to Master without first settling this matter." Death looked at each of his compatriots in turn, not looking away until he received a nod of agreement. "Good. We shall bring Him their heads."

"Let us have another look at the letter," War said with an eagerness he had no interest in hiding. The bloodlust was upon him already.

Pestilence reached into his cloak and extracted their sole piece of evidence. It was still clutched in the ferryman's withered hand - the fool had attempted to drop the bag of gold coins that accompanied it into the river without any of the riders noticing.

Pestilence had put an arrow through the man's hand - plague, he thought - and, after they had extracted all the information the man had to give them, Death had severed it just below the wrist, before the infection could spread to the rest of his body. They had left him that way, a plain warning to others who might think to stand in their way.

"The letter is unsigned," Pestilence said, "but that matters little. It is handwritten."

"And the paper itself can be traced," War said happily. "By me, at least."

"You and your stupid bloodhound nose," Famine hissed.

"What was that, Fame?"

"I said let loose your hounds of war, mongrel." Famine paused, the spectre of a smile appearing on his face. "Yes, Mongrel. Let loose your hounds and let us find these men."

"Women, actually." War said, some of his previous enthusiasm draining from his voice as he contemplated his new nickname - as well as the possibility of having to hear it for the rest of eternity. Famine's smile grew all the wider, revealing yellowed and broken teeth. That was the first time in ages his compatriot had spoken to him without use of his hated moniker.

"It matters not," Death declared. "Point us in the direction we got next and let us be gone from this place."

"Fine, Dee." War turned his red horse in a slow circle as the others watched without comment. Then he did a second full circle, which caused the others to exchange puzzled glances. When he began a third rotation Pestilence opened his mouth to speak but War cut him off. "This way."

"You're certain?" Pestilence asked.

"Doubt me now if you wish, Pest," War said, some of his earlier good humour returning. "You will not in two days' time."

With that he urged his mount in the direction he had indicated. And, after a brief (but not unnoticed) pause, the others followed.

Thursday May 28th, 2015

The exercise: 

I had my orientation/training day today at Town Hall and the Community Centre. My head is stuffed to nearly bursting with information right now. Otherwise, it went pretty well - everyone was really nice and welcoming.

After dinner I needed some peace and quiet so I went out and weeded the last of our onions and leeks (Kat had already done the rest), as well as most of our broccoli plants. That was much needed - both for the garden and myself.

Anyway, let's keep this experiment going with: The Crossing, Part Two. 

Mine: 

“You seem… nervous.” Pestilence told the boatman as he poled the ferry across the river with slow, steady strokes. The man grunted, either in effort or reply, and Pestilence sighed quietly. “With good reason, I would suggest."

“You did keep us waiting for an awful long time,” War added, then laughed. It was a sharp, short thing that held no joy. “Even by our standards!" 

“I told you,” the man said as he brought the pole forward once again. “I was delayed.”

“Yes, you did tell us that,” Death said. He was standing in the middle of the ferry, holding on to his scythe with his left hand. Had he have been another passenger, the boatman might have suggested this one was afraid of the water surrounding them. But he was who he was, so the boatman wisely kept that thought to himself. “But you did not apologize.”

“Wasn’t my fault,” the man muttered. “Ain’t my fault, ain’t my apology you need.”

“Then who, dear mortal, should we be… requesting… our apology from?” Famine tilted his head to the side as he stepped closer. “Is that, perhaps, something you can provide us with?”

“It would be the fair thing to do,” War added. “After all, you did keep us waiting for so long. If morning had arrived before you did…”

“But it didn’t, did it?” The man countered with more righteousness than he had any right to feel. “My agreement was to get you across the river before morning, and that’s what I’m doing. So as far as I can see I did nothing wrong, even if I wasn’t there at the exact second you showed up on the bank. I can’t imagine you’ll get to Kingstown much later than you would have if I hadn’t been otherwise preoccupied.”

“Kingstown?” Death asked, the name of the four horsemen’s destination hanging from his lips like an icicle.

“Or, you know, wherever it is that you’re going.” The boatman shifted his attention back to his work as sweat appeared on his brow. “How should I know, right?”

In the silence that followed glances were exchanged, even among the horses. Within seconds a decision was reached, without so much as a nod or a hand signal. Even the boatman felt it.

“What?” he asked, his voice suddenly lacking the bravado it had displayed moments earlier.

“You will tell us why you were delayed,” Pestilence said, stepping back and notching one of his putrid arrows in his black bow. “And, much more importantly, you will tell us who it was that delayed you.”

Wednesday May 27th, 2015

The exercise:

As hinted at in yesterday's post, I'm trying something different today. Well, starting today - and continuing into tomorrow and Friday.

Welcome to the first edition of A Tale In Three Parts.

Basic idea: everybody who wants to join in gets to tell a story, starting from the same prompt, over the course of three days. The hope is that it will allow each of us to put together something a little longer, a little more involved, a little more intricate, that what we cram into a single day's prompt response. Plus it allows for some time between entries to mull things over and for new ideas to emerge that may have remained hidden had the entire tale been written in one sitting.

And because I don't actually have three days in a row that don't run into either 4 line poem, haiku, or 4 line prose days, I figured Wednesday to Friday was our best bet for this. You're welcome to limit yourself to four lines on Friday (I'm pretty sure I won't) but feel free to ignore the limit in favor of bringing your tale to a proper conclusion.

If this works and you guys are in favor of doing it again, I'm thinking I'll bring it back every couple of months or so, with a new prompt each time. I'll be asking for your feedback on Friday or Saturday to see what you think.

Anyway. Without further ado, let's get this started with: The Crossing, Part One.

Mine:

A thick fog clung to the river in the dark, dead of night. On the eastern bank four cloaked figures stood next to their horses in a silence that seemed to have existed since the dawn of time. They did not shift from side to side, nor fidget with their equipment. Not even their breathing changed. But still their impatience could be felt in the air.

For the ferryman was late.

“Charon would not keep us waiting like this,” the figure standing next to the white horse said at last.

“This is not the Styx, Pest.” The reply came from within the hood of the figure waiting next to the ashen horse.

“Not yet, Dee,” Pestilence replied with a laugh that rattled like dry bones in a dice bag. The other figures turned their gazes toward him but said nothing. Even after centuries of travelling together they still had not grown used to his sense of humour.

“The boatman will come,” Death announced some time later. “He dare not leave us stranded here.”

“No, the matter was arranged by Master,” the figure next to the black horse whispered. “The boatman knows the cost of failing to live up to his end of the agreement.”

“Indeed, Fame,” the final figure said, ignoring Famine’s glare. Innumerable threats had not yet vanquished the hated nickname, so he had recently given up on that tactic. He had yet to decide on an alternative method. “Eventually, our ferryman will arrive.”

“And then, War?” Famine asked through gritted teeth. It was all the worse that the rider of the red horse was the only member of the group without a nickname.

“He will explain himself, Fame.” War gripped the hilt of the great sword at his hip with a gloved hand and shrugged slightly. “One way or another, he will explain himself.”

“Look.” Death extended a long, emaciated arm toward the river, a lone, pale finger extending from the sleeve of his cloak. The others did as instructed and a sound that may have been a contented sigh in another setting, from another group of travellers, arose as they saw the outline of the ferry emerging from the fog. “He comes at last.”