“Imagination is the parallel universe of a writer. If he is not responding to you in this world, he is probably responding to someone in the imaginary world.”
― Heenashree Khandelwal
What bring you joy and how can you share that joy with the world?
This video always makes me laugh!
Feel free to join in and respond to the prompt. Please try to keep your response under 300 words (But if not, that’s cool, too). If you reply, I will re-blog your post to my site (sometimes I am slow, but I get there).
She stopped on the edge of the tree, staring warily into the cleaning, eyes immediately drawn to the brightly wrapped package under the single tree in the center. The tree was a Horse Chestnut, a sacred tree, but what could be in the box below? Had the gods left some present, some magical item, for her to discover.
No, not likely. In fact, hardly possible at all. None of the Gods she knew liked her near enough for gift-leaving. So what?
She could just pass on by and not look back, but she was too curious for her own good. She was going to look. She knew she was and darn the consequences. What was that book she been force to read in Grammar school? A Good Day to Die?
No. This was not a good day to die. It was so not a good day to die that she considered just moving on, but again, that wasn’t going to happen in her lifetime.
Which, she realized, might be growing shorter all the time.
Stepping into the clearing, she moved forward warily, eyes scanning the clearing and then the woods around. If she didn’t make it home tonight, would they miss her?
Of course they would, silly, but she discarded that thought. Much better to think she was alone in the world, making her own way in a violent time. How else to become a hero? For it was a hero she wanted to be more than anything else in the world.
To survive and over-come some terribly dangerous quest and return to those who had cast her out. Bravely willing to sacrifice her life for theirs regardless of their action. By this time in her narrative, she had reached the tree and thus the box.
It was, as she had observed before, wrapped in brightly colored paper covered with red and blue balloons and cupcakes. The cupcakes were vanilla and chocolate, however, not red and blue like the balloons.
And on the top lay a tag which said, ‘To Nay-na.”
Eagerly, she tore off the papers to find anther wrapped box, then another and another.
A puzzle to help her on her way.
At last, she reached the smallest box, about the size of a football. Ripping off the paper and tearing out the tissue-paper inside, she pulled out a….
A cheap, Halloween-store, tiara, sparkling with paste gems.
The clearing around echoed with the sounds of voices shouting, people pouring out of the forest and rushing towards her.
“Happy Birthday!” yelled her family and friends, swarming around with hugs and kisses. Her brother set the tiara onto her head
“You’ll need a few bobbies to hold it on, but this should do for the time.”
“Cake, cake,” everybody shouted as she, her friends and cousins and siblings raced towards the warmly lit house, smells of pizza and birthday cake permeating the air.
Perfect, she thought as she ran. The perfect ending for a perfect story!
Hero for the day!
The challenge for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner will open early Thursday morning, August 24th. Allow the prompt to take you anywhere you want to go! (Limit your stories to 200 words.)
This challenge is open until 11:00 pm Friday night, August 31st, 2017.
“It’s there again!” he said, peering out beyond the window shade.
“The green bicycle.” Whispered.
“Oh for God’s sake, Sam, grow up.”
“But it’s a spy bike,” he assured his mother. “Really.”
“It’s a bike, nothing more.” She swished back into the kitchen.
“It’s not,” he whispered, still watching.
A window above the bike opened and a boy dropped to the sidewalk. He jumped on the bike and pedaled quickly away.
Sam ran to the door. He was just about to step outside, when his mother called.
“Sam! Come back and finish your supper!”
Sulking, he slunk back to the table. “Spies don’t eat peas.”
“Of course they do, Sam. That’s what makes them so sneaky!”
“Wow! Look at that!” Arny exclaimed, pointing at the painting on the wall.
“A phone booth. English.”
“No, I meant Dr. Who.”
“Who?” Mike asked. “What’s a Doctor have to do with it?”
“It’s a police call box. 1928ish. Had nothing to do with any Doctor.”
“NO! Dr. Who! The British show!”
“Right. A British Call Box. I don’t think they have them any more. No need really,” Mike shrugged. “Phones and all.”
Arny rolled his eyes. “It’s Tardis, Dr Who’s time machine.”
“The police used them. Not Doctors.”
“For crying out loud!” Arny cried. “Dr. Who. A British TV show! He travels through space and time in a call box named Tardis.”
Mike sighed, shook his head. “You and your funny imagination.”
Arny threw up his hands. “Hopeless!” He walked away.
“Hey,” Mike called, hurrying after him. “Speaking of TV shows….. did you hear about that sci-fi show where some weird Timelord roams the Universe?”
Arny stopped, turned slowly. “No,” he said flatly, “never heard of that one.”
Paused. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
She watched the red-haired boy from the back of the bus, excited to be on the way to Hogwarts with Ron Weasley.
Paul McCartney had written “Eleanor Rigby” for her. They’d had a torrid affair, but, devastated when Linda died, he’d pulled away.
She’d tried an affair with Tom Cruise, but he was too short.
Harrison Ford, but he was too old.
Hamlet, but really, who needed that?
So, she’d started an affair with Chris Crenshaw, rock-n-roll and sex god all wrapped in one. They were going to get married as soon as he dumped the latest ‘it’ girl on his arm.
She hated ‘it’ girls. So pretty. So stupid. So vapid.
The bus stopped and Ron-who-wasn’t-Ron disembarked. She like Harry better, anyway,
At the next stop, she stepped into the drizzle, heading to H&H Accounting.
“Morning,” the first H said as she walked in.
The second H called, “I need these figures yesterday!”
She sat down to enter them into the computer.
“I’m going to lunch with Chris, today,” she told them. “I have to leave by eleven.”
She never even saw the bus coming.
“You didn’t get the quest you wanted, you got the one you could do.”
― Lev Grossman,
: divination by consulting the shades of the dead (ghosts) and/or shadows
.Gargantua and Pantagruel, Complete. Francois Rabelais
Did You Know?
There are lots of ways to predict the future. Sciomancy is one of the unique methods in the world of fortune telling. The techniques for Sciomancy are extremely unusual because the diviner will need to communicate or seek help from the spirits of the dead or ghost in order to complete his/her prediction.
Sciomancy is not advisable to everyone especially if the client has a weak tolerance to the dead spirits. In short only few people with strong heart can able to try this type of divination. Many people think that Sciomancy is the scariest and weirdest way for divination. But regardless of this terrifying method, there are still people who are willing to try this uncommon type of divination. People have their own reason about trying Sciomancy. Some people want to explore the methods of Sciomancy to feed their curiosity while other people want to try the power or shadow of the ghosts if it is really helpful and effective to their own personal purposes.
The diviner will use the shadows of death in order to interpret and foreshadow the future of a certain person or client. The client can also ask question about something to the diviner and then the diviner will record or read the images or symbols of the shadows so he/she can relay the message or response of the ghosts to the particular question.
From Greek skia (outline, shadow) + manteia (divination)
“The magic in this world seems to work in whispers and small kindnesses.”
― Charles de Lint