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Hello to the NaNo-ers! Hello to
Christine's non-NaNo-ers! Hello to the people who are writers but are simply Haven't for a while and
really want to get back to it but also feel overwhelmed and possibly
drained!
(High five if you're in the last category.)
Hopefully, whatever category you're in, you'll enjoy breaking up your writing routine (like mine: "not writing". it's a simple routine.) by adding in a Quirk.
One Quirk Later: Prompt #17
*waves magic Intro wand* BOOM okay let's go. Story first, talking after!
One Quirk Later: Prompt #16
“Rupert.”
He froze at the shout, then dropped his head. “The door’s unlocked,” he called back, hands braced on the table, “so if you’d be so good as to not-”
The door crashed back against the wall, rattling the row of pot plants on the windowsill. One wobbled on the edge then gave in, spraying dirt and pieces of succulent across the floor.
Irene, Protector of the New Golden Kingdom and Defender of the Innocent, stepped inside.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN, IT'S THE LAST SATURDAY OF THE MONTH.
...normally I play the panic up a little because I've been procrastinating (#writerlyconfessions) but I gENUINELY thought I had another week.
What is this thing called time. so rude.
(Note: it is no longer the last Saturday of the month. It's not even the right month. alskdhaksjak.)
BUT I WROTE THE THING. EVENTUALLY.
She hasn't lost count of the children who've come to her lake.
Each one plants a flower on the bank before they leave. It's become a tradition now, the newcomers pulled aside to be informed by children who've seen it happen before. One hundred and twenty nine years, and the children have filled her grove with flowers and kind smiles.
They also hug her goodbye. She still hasn't learned how to accept this affection without standing stiffly and patting their heads, but they seem to find that adequate.
Today is sunny, and that's why the current children visiting the grove clambered straight into her lake. Fifty-two years ago, a tree fell, its trunk stretching from its old home in the earth far out into the gentle welcome of the water. The bark has been worn shiny by dancing feet, and these children enjoy the path it presents as much as any of the previous generations did: they seem to find supreme joy in hurling themselves off the trunk as forcefully as possible. The shrieking and splashing are constant, but like waves, like the lapping of the water against the bank. Only, naturally, much louder.
She's not worried about the children's safety; no hurt can come to them here.
On closer study she finds there is, somewhat, order in the chaos. One black-haired girl stands on the far end of the trunk and observes the goings-on, her dress splattered but mostly dry. The others line up raggedly along the trunk before her, pose, leap, and splash. And when their heads resurface and they've flicked the water off, the girl offers them a smile and some words which make them beam as though they've received a gift.
The lady in the lake watches, and considers.
Today is sunny, and as the heat swings overhead, the children retreat to the shade and damp cool of the lake's flower-covered banks. Some make their was up into the trees, hollering. Their wet hair hangs in strings down their necks.
The black-haired girl has watched them all make their way ashore. She stretches, staring at the circle of blue that shows above the lake, then moves down the trunk towards the others.
"Wait."
She stops and looks across the lake to the lady, waist-deep and with hair spreading in the water around her. Then she lowers herself to sit on the trunk, slips her legs into the water, and inclines her head. "My lady."
They face each other.
"Your name?"
"Hana, my lady. I'm fourteen."
"Your parents?"
"Mayor and Singer Marks, of Upper Diffily." The girl hesitates. "We were separated when the town was evacuated."
There's understanding in her eyes, and pain. She can't remember what happened and she knows that's telling in and of itself.
The children here don't remember. They recover and laugh and leave her a flower before venturing downstream into the unknown and they never remember what happened to them, and this is a kindness. The lady knows this to be true, for she holds the memories for them as she watches over their time here.
"Hana," she says, knowing the weight of the burden she is about to offer, "would you, one day, become the lady of the lake?"
The girl runs her fingers over the smoothed bark. "You look after the children."
"I do."
"Why do you want to leave them?"
The lady does not think to lie; the skill is of no benefit to someone who deals with death. "I have held so many memories, lives, that my hands will eventually be full."
A long, soft sigh. "Then for you, my lady, and for the children. So they will always have someone."
The lady discovers that Hana is slightly more skilled than she in accepting affection in the form of hugs. Even stiff hugs from someone who has watched children come and go for one hundred and twenty nine years.
Just so you know. I had to type this up on my PHONE which I have never done before and hate. Because I'm a grandma. xD
Also this is utterly un-beta'd. Many apologies.
• • • • • • •
Shout out to this month's (last month's) Quirk-writers:
• • • • • • •
Now, July's Quirk prompt will go up as scheduled, but I'm going on two different holidays over the next two weeks (well... I'm in the middle of one now, actually. Thus the phone typing) so the post will be pre-scheduled and pretty short. I'll try to take some time to relax and catch up on your posts, though - I haven't been managing that very well recently 😅
One of the holidays is actually a youth worldview program in Canberra! (I
fully anticipate freezing into a Solid Block of Ice.
I've never lived in the cold. I don't know how to deal with it.) But overall I'm super excited - I'll be flying down and spending the week
on my own, so a big adventure there for me, and I'm hoping I'll meet
cool new people and of course learn cool new things!
What adventures have you been having? Or what adventures would you like to have, if you could? Do you prefer hot or cold??
...also its possible my blog is, for whatever reason, struggling with people being logged in for their comments and showing them as anonymous? I'm not sure. Pls comment regardless xD
And here we go! a tad late but who's counting!
(me. I am counting. I am stressing and that's not what I'm here for, why do I do this to myself, I keep promising myself I am going to be organised and I never am?? treachery. treachery from within the ranks. the betrayal, how can I go on. *dramatically swoons* *into a nap*)
One Quirk Later: Prompt #14
*waves hands vaguely at my Pinterest* clicky clicky, yeah?also why does Blogger insist on making my images fuzzy, rude, much
stabbing
There will be no waffling around and finding entertaining stories to fill out the blog post today.
Look, I sat down and wrote the first four lines, and the rest... well, it came out in chunks, and I had to fit it together, but yeah. Over half as long again as what I wrote for Quirk #11, and twice as long as Quirk #10.
Also I was sniggering 90% of the time I was writing. So I consider this Quirk a success.
I tap the toe of my shoe against Michael’s, the rubber edges on our off-brand Converse stained green. It’s nice to be lying outside on such lush grass, with the thick grey clouds overhead and the heavy damp air on my skin, so I admire the stains as the mark of adventure.
Michael has his hands tucked under the back of his head and he doesn’t open his eyes when I tap his foot again. “What?”
“I need you to marry me.”
This time, he opens his eyes fairly abruptly. “What.”
*strolls in two days late with a juice and a lamington* what's up guys!!
I have to say, I'm pretty happy with how this Quirk fits with my blog, colour-wise. Obviously this did not affect my choice, buuuut I may take this into account in the future. Because I am shallow. xD
Also! How about that angsty text prompt in the middle of the Quirk picture, huh! I'm cackling.
“I hope,” Thomasino snarled, “that you regret giving us up.”
“Nonsense,” Anna said briskly. “That makes it sound as though I’m giving you away, which you know I undoubtably am not. Now will you get in, or shall I pinch your tail?”
“Cruel. Cruel.” Thomasino slunk head-first into the jar and curled around, hissing lowly like a balloon wilting.
Anna flicked the last of the kitten’s tail in after him and screwed the lid on firmly. He dissolved into a thick fog and continued circling, sulky, inside the glass. Careful not to shake the jar too much, Anna slipped a colourful square of cotton over the lid and tied a string around it with quick movements.
On the label, she wrote in her best hand, For rain. Good for two hours.
The jar joined its companions in the basket sitting on the floor beside her, all containing cats in various states of fog and topped by floral cotton and labels tied on with twine.
She tugged her second-best hat off the back of the door on her way outside, centring it on her head so the lace settled neatly down her back. One ought to be well-presented when delivering one’s own wares.
• • • • • • •
The cat door ticked open and shut as Thomasino slunk in. “Unloved,” he moaned. “Unloved and cast out!”
You know what would have been good? If I'd discovered that The Fairytale Central is doing their fairytale blog tag again before I put up a super short post at the start of February. It would have fit in well with that!
Instead, I'm going to try to stuff it in this Quirk post!
...take the story I am offering and do not question my time management.
He hates to admit it. He’s an adult. But when you can beam snide little messages into your brother’s head even after your parents tell you to sit in opposite corners until you can play nicely, feuds tend to go on longer than they should.
Ten years and they still haven’t got over the habit.
“Please, get out of my head.” Davy rolled onto his stomach and clutched the extra pillow against his ears, as if that would somehow help. “I’m trying to sleep.”
“I refuse. How dare you.”
Remember, if you will, how I said I had Ideas for this Quirk prompt but wouldn't say in case I went a different direction?
Yeah. I went a completely different direction. I was surprised too but seeing as the other directions gave me nothing I wasn't unhappy about it.
I woke up again.
I didn’t expect that, not really. I mean, I thought I’d eventually wake up—I always do—but I thought after all this time it might be for a new reason. Perhaps a different house would call me. That could be nice.
But no. Even though last time I was awake my house looked as though one good thump against its side would let it shiver into a heap of debris, it is, somehow, occupied again. Not that I can see anyone from my vantage point, but there’s some kind of music coming from inside, too deliberate to be anything but human.
Better check what my responsibilities are this time.
It's the last Saturday of August and in a shocking turn of events I have a Quirk ready for you to read.
("But how is that shocking," you say, in your innocence. "You said you would put your Quirk up today?" Ahhhh I remember the naivety of youth, back when things were simple and life was sweet and I had not made a habit of vanishing for full half-years at a time and also I actually READ books instead of bringing them home and then avoiding their accusing gazes until the library demands their return.)
Annnnnyway. A Quirk.
“Oooh. Flowers.” Casper leaned in close over Tara’s shoulder, letting the smirk into his voice.
He would have liked to blame her slight jump on his increased sneakiness, seeing how she’d claimed that she, as his guard, was the only reason any of his definitely-not-foolish-what-do-you-mean-Tara-there’s-no-way-this-can-go-wrong-and-anyway-I’m-the-king plans had ever succeeded, and seeing how she had furthermore claimed he’d never have any sneakiness ever, and seeing how his whole self-imposed training thing was admittedly an uncoordinated attempt to prove her wrong. But if he was entirely honest the jump was probably more to do with her attention being transfixed by the giant bouquet of flowers on the table in front of her.
…Of course, he tried to never be entirely honest, what an uncomfortable and chaos-free way that would be to live. So he could probably give at least half a point to the sneakiness training. He deserved that. Especially since, far from giving him a point if she knew about the training, she would no doubt laugh in his face.
So it's Monday and therefore not Saturday anywhere.
But I do have a good reason for being busy on Saturday! Excuses fun story below the Quirk!*
Annnnyway here's my beta-reader tale for this Quirk:
Me: Mum can you read this, and just so you know, because last time you didn't realise they were superheroes, this is a world where superheroes are common.
Mum: can't you write something normal
Security is less than it should be. The sentries around the back of the house are talking; the one across the street is texting. They don’t notice the glimmer of his cape as he walks, invisible and silent-footed, between them. The front door is locked, but he deals with that.
The scent of the flowers piled on the doormat wafts in with him as he steps inside, a jumble of clashing perfumes that hang heavy around his head.
shhh it's still Saturday somewhere
in the middle of the Pacific maybe?
Please ignore the title. I have given up on Serious Titling and will, from now on, throw whatever comes into my head at my Quirks.
“Okay, so, I lied.”
I paused, phone half-way to my ear. “…Is this an important thing for me to know, like ‘yes, Lachlan, it was I who ate your sandwich after all,’ or can it wait until after the plan where you get rid of the literal fire-breathing dragons?”
Mathilda spun Soul-Cleaver, the tip making a dimple in the gravel of the road. “An important thing. Probably. I think.”
My mum described this Quirk as "cute", so I'm satisfied.
Mother's opinions are very important. That is all the intro I need.
Time for Treason
Casper swallowed against the sticky dryness in his mouth, and flicked his eyes open to a view of the ceiling in the gardeners’ winter storage shed. Huh. At least it wasn’t one of the back guest rooms again. Or the third wine cellar.
The third wine cellar had mould. Which he’d been informed of previously, but the joys of first-hand experience were something quite different.
“We can’t just walk him out of his own fancy do, though, can we. So we just wait here until—”
There was a horrible prickling flavour mixed in with the flavour of the punch he’d drunk earlier. He coughed, closing his eyes for a moment in which to pull himself together. That… would explain why, although his head throbbed, there didn’t seem to be any injuries. A good thing, too, as he’d been informed that he couldn’t afford to lose any more wits to blows to the head. Still. To drug a man’s drink was hardly a pleasant start to a kidnapping.
There was a scuffling from somewhere behind his head. “No, he’s awake—I have to—where did you put the mask, you fools—”
*screams into the void*
Wow! Don't those fortnights fly past!
...and yes, as predicted, this Quirk fought me most of the way. It's not what I expected it to be, either. It's a smol awkward gremlin of a story with just enough heart for me to forgive it.
Edit 13.9.20: Updated the story to Version 2! If it still doesn't make sense please let me know. I have a terrible habit of letting my characters get away with spilling ZERO beans, and that is why I need to get my family to beta-read. Because in my head I have just enough info that it make sense, and my characters actually mention none of that info. 
“You are sure you wish to do this?”
No, I’m not. I don’t care so much that I lost my shadow. But they also took the colour from my eyes, my ability to sleep anywhere but under the stars, and the last two letters from my name, leaving me at ‘Li’. No one knows what my name was before that. I don’t remember what my name was before that.
(Lily? Lisa? Lian? None of them feel familiar.)
“Positive.”
There is no title for this week's Quirk.
I'm just. Not good at titling. It's a problem.
My major WIPs are all titled after the MC. (You might remember that my current one is "Three Sisters". Yeah.)
SO. Have a title-less Quirk! And if you have ideas for a title please rescue the poor thing. It feels unloved.
With this story, I was going for atmosphere. Last year I went back to somewhere which has this fascinating nostalgia associated with it, and with the people there. And I guess I wanted to see if I could portray that at all?
(Thus the distant POV and out-of-character amounts of description at the start. ;)
Sorry if all the outback and Australian-isms are confusing... they insisted on being there, and I confess I didn't try too hard to kick them out.
(And I didn’t have them climb a tree like in the prompt because I realised, while writing, that once you’re up a tree, there is absolutely nowhere else to go except back down, and if there’s one thing I couldn’t see these two characters doing, it’s backing down.)
Anyway uh I'm thinking I might make these second halves of the Quirks, where I post my story, every two weeks after the prompt goes up? I feel like my stories need time to stew. So. We all get more time.
