Writing: Rimewhittling

Hello, Friends!

Today, I am sharing a short story I wrote with you. This story is flash fiction, which is a genre of short story that is 1000 words or under. I learned this from Rosalie Valentine, at Penprints. Penprints has a yearly challenge to write a flash fiction based on a prompt in three weeks. I decided to enter. :) In any case, here is the link to the picture prompt. (I didn't actually put the picture on my blog because I wasn't sure if it was public domain.)

*Note: My work is copyrighted, so please don't use it without asking my permission first, and please properly cite me. (If you want to ask my permission to use my work, my email is sprucehnogard@gmail.com) Thank you! 

By the way, sorry the font is small and black. I copied this from other places I had been working on it, and Blogger is being difficult.

Prompt

Rimewhittling

Mimi started. The words “We should talk” were written in snow on her windshield. Nothing like this had happened in a long, long, time. She furtively glanced around, then brushed the still-falling snow off her car. The frost stayed stubbornly attached to her windshield, as if sneering at her misfortune. What did it mean? Why now, of all times? She thought she had left all that behind long ago. How did he even find her? She groaned.

When she got home, a heavenly smell greeted her. Did someone make cookies? But the smell wasn't quite right. . . someone had made a whole dinner. Great. Mimi was hoping she would have at least a full twenty-four hours to recuperate from the shock of Jack finding her. But alas.

“What do you want?” Mimi crossed her arms. Jack looked the same as always, brown hair immaculately messy, and oddly pale blue eyes, which danced as if he held some hidden secret.

“Oh, I just had a conundrum I needed help with,” Jack replied.

“I left for a reason. Did you actually think I wanted to be involved in all your messes?”

“Dear. No, I did not, but that doesn't change the fact that I need help. You have a gift. I have not found such talent in three hundred years.”

Mimi sighed. “Why now? I just want to spend time with my family.” She circumvented Jack, surveyed the mushroom-goat cheese ravioli, and tugged on her braid. “This year, I'll actually get to be with my sisters for Christmas.”

Jack sighed. “I didn't have a choice. “We both know that. And the king will be in a towering rage if it's not completed on time. Remember what happened the last time we missed a deadline?”

“You missed a deadline? Yes, I remember,” Mimi looked up and closed her eyes as if she was in pain. Her heart twisted with guilt. “It can't happen again. Let me get my things.”

“Let's eat first.” Jack smiled. He had to awkwardly twist past the door frame to sit at the table.

Mimi sat across from Jack, and they began their dinner. Mimi's mind started to drift. Despite all the craziness of traveling to and from Byrne, she had missed Jack. The king might be mad, but Ella, Joseph, Lars, were all so caring. Come to think of it, all the people were kind. Unlike here. Everyone was always in a rush, wanting their own way. But the quiet magic of Byrne provided a breathtaking cocoon, as wondrous and stunning as any child's dream, if one could forget the king's shadow tainting the land. His power unfolded like a storm at sea, obliterating everything in its path. And he knew how to make people pay, too. Mimi shuddered. The last time he had been impatient. . . the last time, he had channeled his fury through the Gateway, into Mimi's hometown. Buildings had collapsed, earthquakes had wreaked havoc, and when that was done, fires had ravaged the rest, until what was left was a skeleton of what was before. Mimi struggled to shake the thoughts, but the roaring voice in her head wouldn't stop screaming, it's all your fault! It's all your fault!

“Hush. Hush. It's not your fault, Mimi. The king would have done something, to someone, eventually. Please come back.” Jack's eyes held a quiet sort of restless waiting.“The sculptures take me at least twice as long, sometimes longer, to get just right. The king is getting impatient; he wants something more magnificent than all his other sculptures. I'm scared, Mimi.”

Mimi took a few deep breaths. The sculptures she and Jack had created together were truly Mimi's favorite part of Byrne. Mimi had been blessed with the gift of Rimewhittling, or as Jack liked to call it, perfectionism. Many times, Mimi could somehow refine the statues in a way that didn't seem to alter the sculptures, but in reality caused a world of difference. Her work was much better than Jack's. Once Mimi's was done, Jack would breathe the spells to make the figurines come to life.

Jack grabbed the plates and put them in the sink while Mimi called her mom and left a message. She'd have to cancel tomorrow, but hopefully she would see them all on Christmas.

“It'll be faster if we fly,” Jack grinned, his wild eyes portraying the night sky.

Mimi's heart felt as if it had wings. “I had forgotten so much.” She opened the tiny window, and Jack squeezed out. She took Jack's hand. Mimi was the happiest she'd been in a long, long time, despite the cruel night air, despite the guilt locked away in her heart, despite even the sudden upending of her Christmas.

Mimi and Jack swiftly climbed through the Gateway. Neither stopped to enjoy the view, instead traveling straight to Jack's workshop. A giant wolf sculpture as tall as Mimi stood waiting for them.

“She's tricky for two reasons: One, she's a spirit wolf; two,” Jack dropped his voice to a whisper, “she can help us depose the king.”

Mimi sucked in her breath.

“The ice isn't pleased, but I can't figure out what's wrong.” Jack ran a hand over the wolf's back.

“More precision will help.” Without taking her eyes off the wolf, Mimi grabbed a carving knife. After an hour of cleaning up the statue, she stepped back. “There. She looks much better now.”

Jack shook his head. “I told you you were talented. I can't tell the difference.”

Mimi pursed her lips. Something was still wrong. “Her eyes!” Although the eyes were beautiful, they were not spirit eyes. Mimi started adjusting them. Mimi worked all day, and long into the night. By the time she was done, dawn was just waking the sky. She shook Jack. “Done.”

Jack's eyes fluttered open. He saw the wolf, and sat bolt upright. “Odin's ravens. She's beautiful.” Jack caressed the wolf's muzzle and whispered, “Breathe.”

The wolf shook itself awake.

Spruce Nogard

My Writing: Folktale: Why a Certain Group of People Play with Fish on their Instruments

Hello, Friends!

This week is an extra week, so here is a folktale. (This folktale is untrue, however was inspired by true events.) By the way, can you tell which fairy tale this one is loosely based on?

Now, I know you wouldn't dream of putting fish on your instruments. That would be awful.

Now, this story was told to me by my great-grandfather almost 20 years ago.

You see, there was a certain group of people that got in the habit of performing some of their music with fish on their instruments. As you can imagine, this was the source of infinite confusion for their diverse audiences. However, no one had the courage to ask why such a renowned group of musicians did something so strange.

One day, a little girl with her parents was watching them perform. Finally, she turned to her mother and said: “Mommy, why do they put fish on their instruments?” The girl was too young realize she was being rude, and, as a result, talked so loudly the musicians heard.

“Well,” said the leader, kneeling down, “I'll tell you why.

“For a long while, all of us only played American music. Eventually, we got sick of that, and decided to play music from as many countries as the human race had created. One day, we came across some French music, and, right at the beginning, someone had written: 'Sardines.' We all thought this was very odd, but we had to do as the music said. I had our violinist buy sardines from the grocery store, and we put them on our instruments.” He smiled at the girl and stood up.

“But that's silly!” the girl cried. “Show me the music!”

“Now, now, honey,” the girl's mother said. “Leave them be.” She turned apologetically to the band. “We should go.”

The leader, however, smiled. “No, no, it's quite all right.” He brought their music to the girl.

“Why, that says sourdines, not sardines! It just means mute in French!” The girl exclaimed. “What's 'mute'?”

For, you see, the girl was bilingual.

And that is how a small girl made fools of some of the most famed musicians in all the land.

Spruce Nogard

Attributions: https://pixabay.com/en/sardines-fish-lunch-healthy-plate-1468422/ 

https://pixabay.com/en/violin-classic-music-opera-156558/

My Writing: The Adventures of Emily Hattinkson: A Collection of Beautiful Days

Good Morning, Friends!

This week is an extra week, so here is another of Emily Hattinkson's adventures. Here is her first one, but you don't really need to read the first one to read the second one. Also, here is a link to a picture of Emery's Cross.

Emily, our dear bus-rider, had been riding the bus for many months now. She was accustomed to the new people, and did not miss the old people. Throughout her many bus rides, Emily saw many different days, with many different suns. She liked to keep track of the different days she was fortunate enough to perceive.

One type of day was when, as Emily liked to say, “The sun wakes up.” On this day, Emily paid her fare, and, luckily, got two chairs to herself. Emily pushed her sweatshirt sleeves up and swung her backpack onto the chair next to her. The traffic was flowing smoothly, and Emily could hear the roaring of the noise the bus makes when it is not aware it is making noise, noise too loud to talk to the person next to you. To Emily, it felt as if the noise was trapped inside her ears, echoing and trying to find a way out. Finally, it grew less and less, until it finally subsided.

Just then, the bus came into view of the city. The stretching sun danced over the lady across from Emily's white, pristine, jacket, resting a moment on Charles the Accountant's sleeping face, before running to reflect on the window, then disappearing like the evanescent dew.

Another day, which Emily only experienced once, she christened the “Magical Day.” The sunlight that day was very much like the sunlight when the sun wakes up, but much richer, and tinged with the rose-gold color few are blessed enough to see. The sun danced even more grandly and wildly than it ever had before, and as they entered the city, the sun's rays colored the buildings the colors fairies paint in a child's dream, a color none can describe, and one would only remember in the back of one's mind, the part whispering: “Remember when. . . Remember when. . .”

In the city, a man was locking a garage, still bathed in the beautiful rays of the sun, and people were beginning to stir, to come out of their sleepy night and enter the glorious day. Each person was a small part of a giant mechanism, like each tiny gear that makes a clock run, or each ant in an anthill, working to keep the hill running. And, as Emily said, there was a magic there none can describe, and very few will have the opportunity to witness.

This last day, this day, Emily entitled: “Fairies' Day,” for this day was full of the good neighbors' fog. The fog covered the top half of the buildings, and so densely that one could not even see the hint of an outline. After Emily had been dropped off at her bus stop, she breathed in a deep breath of the crisp, cold, air, full of the heaviness only fog can bring. As she walked to school, it was difficult to see just across the street, that was how thickly the fog had descended. Emily knew the fairies were planning mischief, maybe to punish someone for a bad gift, or forgetting the wee folk last Saint Patrick's Day, or maybe, as her uncle had told her once, they were helping someone along to find their place.

If Emily closed her eyes, she could just imagine the fairies twisting the fog, and then, Emily would open her eyes, and be in a field, or maybe under a tree of Emery's Cross. Or, maybe the wispy tendrils of the mist would slowly, quietly, wrap around her, and bring her to a far-off land. Whatever the case, the Fairies' Day held adventure for some charmed soul.

These days and many others graced Emily's time riding the bus. For, adventure can always be found if one has enough courage.

Spruce Nogard

*Post written on 3/28/17

Source: (Emery's Cross):https://garethwray.com/product/the-emery-celtic-cross-gods-stamp-on-ireland/

Attributions: https://pixabay.com/en/central-park-new-york-city-fog-409573/ 

Creative Complex: Recirculating

What happens next, Friends? This is the question always asked or implied in writing prompts.

Today, I am recirculating a writing prompt from Lands Uncharted, which I think is amazing and, obviously, that you should see. It is based on the game you used to play as children, where someone would start a story, and someone else would continue it, and so on.

Here it is: http://www.landsuncharted.com/2016/08/your-turn-story-starter-erin.html#comment-form

Don't forget to read the comments. . . the story continues.

Spruce Nogard

Attributions: https://pixabay.com/en/rain-drops-drip-shower-scene-863339/

Creative Complex: Build-A-World Part 5

Now for the final Build-A- Bear World installment!

Today, all we have to do is put all the previous Build-A-World installments into one. If you missed the previous parts, here they are:

Creative Complex: Build-A-World Part 1
Creative Complex: Build-A-World Part 2
Creative Complex: Build-A-World Part 3 
Creative Complex: Build-A-World Part 4

Part 1
Time of Year: Early Summer
Seasons: Fall, Windel (windy), Winter, Rainur (rainy), Spring, Summer
Environments:
Woods
Farms
Cities
Caves
Mountains
Deserts
Valleys

Part 2
Gov: Depends on area
Forest is not governed by a government.
Some areas: Monarchy (partially constitutional)
Has minor problems:

• Common people do not always have a say in government
• Supplies not always distributed equally
• Multiple levels of society (gap between rich and poor)
• And more (too many to list)

Part 3
Races of intelligent beings:

• Dragons
  
• Elves
• Dwarves
• Fey folk (Fairies)
• Humans
• Werewolves
• Vampires
• Centaurs
• Brownies
• Gargoyles 
• Nymphs
• Mermaids
• Fauns/Satyrs
• Pixies
• Sphinxes/Manticores
• Sprites
• Shapeshifters
• Naiads
• Dryads 
• Talking, poison-spitting, fire-breathing, cats with bat wings
• Probably more, not counting spirits, and of course, non-intelligent creatures (In this case, I'm not considering Unicorns etc. as intelligent)  :)

I don't think I'm going to include spirits like ghosts and things, although Dragomir would be excited about that. . .

Major Characters:
1) Elf
-Male
-Round
-Unsure about static or dynamic
2) Fey
-Female
-Round
-Unsure about static or dynamic
-Type of fey: feyish

(I'm not doing minor characters.)

Part 4
Main character: Revenelil
Gender: female
Race: Feyish
Description: long, dark brown eagle-like wings attached to back reach heels, brown hair the same color as wings, tall, pale-skinned, forest green eyes with gold flecks in them, wears soft, gold and green dresses the color of eyes, loose fitting, does not wear shoes, has strong magic, does not have many friends from intelligent races (elves, humans, etc.), is an adult
Background: lives in enchanted forest, has no restraints/class like kingdoms do, has no parents (knows nothing about them), lived in forest entire life, grows garden,
Personality: slightly mischievous, kind, loving, caring, has a temper,dignified, imaginative,
I could go on, (type of magic, stories about her, etc.) but, alas, it's only a snow globe.

I'm only including my main character. I hope you had fun with this exercise! Post about it below!

Spruce Nogard

Attributions:

https://pixabay.com/en/tree-forest-summer-nature-970508

https://pixabay.com/en/gargoyle-carved-stone-grotesque-372674/ 

https://pixabay.com/en/forest-woods-waterfall-water-fall-1209910

 

My Writing: The Adventures of Emily Hattinkson: The Terrible Tumble

Greetings, Friends!

This week is an odd week. It is the fifth (at least I'm counting it as the fifth) week in June. My blog schedule is for four weeks only, so this week is extra. So, I'm going to share a story I've written with you.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who rode the city bus every day to school. She was an ordinary girl, but even extraordinary things happen to ordinary people sometimes. The first time she rode the bus, there were many new faces. All were adults going off to work, and she was terrified she would miss her stop, get lost, and be stuck on the bus forever. Maybe she would be on the bus so long, she would become a ghost, and wander that same bus for all of eternity. However, this was not the case, as she asked a benevolent young woman when to get off, and successfully made it to school.

This was the first of her many adventures aboard the city bus, and goodness, how many she would have. On this particular day, she was studying the “usuals;” what she called the people who were on the bus mostly every day. There was the grandma-ish lady with graying hair (her nametag said Nancy), and she worked at a hospital, and the older lady with curly blond hair; Charles the Accountant, the “Jodi Picoult” lady, named because she always read Jodi Picoult books, the lady with the bright pink Kindle and shoes that clopped, the man who read, the lady as old as the hills (she really did look like it), the young man with the yellow winter coat, the man only as tall as she was, and the lady that walked fast. Every day, people were bleary-eyed and tired, dozing off in their suits and fine clothing. Conversations rarely started, but when they did, she found them irritating, for they caused too much noise at too early an hour. Today, she was sitting at the very front of the bus, in one of the sets of three seats that faced each other, and, with such an awful lot of things to carry, what with schoolwork and an instrument, it was a bit of an ordeal.

Her bus whizzed along the highway quite confidently, being a commuter bus, and having the privilege to use the shoulder. On this route, few turns existed, but, the turns that did exist were harrowing. She was ever afraid she would fall, and, this day, she actually did. She fell with her knees over her instrument, which had also fallen, and the floor scraped her hands, although barely. She got up quickly, righted her instrument, and struggled not to be embarrassed. Nancy, the hospital lady asked if she was all right, and then put her foot in front of the girl's instrument so the girl could focus on keeping her balance. When she left the bus, she was glad she had time to regain her dignity.

This is the first of the many adventures of Emily Hattinkson.

Thank you for reading my story, Friends! On Friday, Dragomir will be doing another guest post!

Do you like to write?

Spruce Nogard

Attributions:

https://pixabay.com/en/philadelphia-bus-public-transport-257089/

Creative Complex: Murder Mystery

Hello, Friends.

Today's is a little more complicated, but don't get overwhelmed!

Write the basic outline of a mystery story. Then, make sure you have specific clues your character(s) can use to solve the mystery. After this, create false clues and unreliable characters. Make sure your characters can logically find the correct answer; do not just have them be right and give no explanation. If you find this overwhelming, just pick a part to do. For example, I might only create a trail of real clues.

Have fun!

Spruce Nogard

Attributions: https://pixabay.com/en/detective-clues-police-work-find-151275/

On the Breath of a Dragon's Wing Poem

This is a poem I wrote a while ago, and I still absolutely love it. This poem is the blog's namesake.

On the Breath of a Dragon's Wing

On the Breath of a Dragon's Wing,

A story was once told.

A story of longing,

A story of old.

On the Breath of a Dragon's Wing,

A dragon was born.

It's mother was neglected,

The baby was forlorn.

On the Breath of a Dragon's Wing,

A story was once told.

Here is that story,

Let it be your mold.

Everything has a purpose,

So heed the words you read.

Let them help your troubles,

Let them help your needs.

The dragon's wing is soft,

And its rider sings.

So be comforted young ones,

On the Breath of a Dragon's Wing.

Spruce Nogard

Attributions: https://pixabay.com/en/silhouette-landscape-castle-dragon-240965/