Wednesday July 22nd, 2015

The exercise:

Write about: the minstrel.

I managed to get a bit of weed eating done in the sprinkler rows this morning before having to shift my attention to the house. A little while later I had the truck loaded up with junk and was heading for the dump for a much needed cleanup of the yard and basement.

This afternoon a good friend from high school arrived with her family. Her, her husband, and their two kids will be camping in our yard for the next two nights before making their way back to Victoria.

I'm not sure how much work I'll be getting done tomorrow, but I feel like I should get at least a little bit of time in the garden while they're here.

Mine:

"Here are the words to the song for you to sing to the king," the woman in the black hood says as she slides a wrinkled piece of paper across the table. I do not pick it up, for my hands are bound behind my back. "Please don't change a word, don't you dare change a thing."

I look down and begin to read. It does not take long for the words to disappear and for my swift death to take their place. I look up.

"Consider yourself a bringer of truth, dear singer." She tilts her head to the side but her features remain hidden in shadows. "Just make sure your weapons strike true, word slinger."

Responses tumble through my mind but none spill out from between my lips. I can thank the gag for that.

"For if they do not you just might lose a finger or two in the middle of the night." She produces a dagger from the folds of her cloak and places it gently on the table between us. "Wouldn't that be quite the sight? A minstrel who cannot play his instruments quite right?"

I could still play. Maybe not the way I did today, but I'd find a way to continue my work. Somehow or another. I would have to.

"Or perhaps, if I do not hear my pretty words sung by this fine young man, I shall just go straight for his tongue."