6 Writing Prompts!

Writing Prompt Original by Montgomery Mahaffey from Free Flying Press

Show me the love, Stacy!

You know I <3 U 4ever!

Evan

“Well Isn’t that sweet of Evan?”

Stacy shook her head and rolled her eyes.

"Sure it is,” Stacy scoffed. “That is, if you find desperation endearing. Come on, Andrew. Let’s get a drink.”

The Writing Prompts, they keep on coming. Some smaller images and pithy excerpts, I hope they get your creative juices flowing.

I do love doing these, and it’s easy when I can’t think of any big theme to put out there, and I hope to get to offer some inspiration for my sister and brother creatives and writers who may find themselves stuck or stumped or simply like to collect ideas for new stories. So happy to oblige.

Writing Prompt Original by Montgomery Mahaffey from Free Flying Press

Dino pressed his ear against the moss covered brick and tapped with one hand.

“What are you doing?” Belka asked.

“Listening and feeling for the hollow spaces.”

“Why?”

“Because I can.”

“That’s bull. You’re after something.”

“Of course, I am. But I don’t have to tell you, Belka.”

Francisco loved Adina as much as a hot taco on a cold, damp Seattle day.

Adina was not impressed.

Her mind was filled with Roberto, who made the most delicious tacos.

Writing Prompt Original by Montgomery Mahaffey from Free Flying Press

“Show me the magic!”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re too greedy. You’ll only use it for ill.”

“But when you do, it’s ok?”

Writing Prompt Original by Montgomery Mahaffey from Free Flying Press

“Space Traveler? That’s what you’re dropping out of school for!”

“Yes.”

“Why would you do a stupid thing like that? Everybody knows Space Travelers get devoured by the Cosmos!”

“That’s why I want to go.”

Writing Prompt Original by Montgomery Mahaffey from Free Flying Press

“It’s been a long time coming. But we’re finally in the pink.”

“I’m so relieved.”

“Don’t be. By next week, we have to be in the red or we’re out.”

“We’ll get there.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because Marco is going to help us.”

Sweat Your Prayers - That'll Give You Something to Write About

Image by Gerhard Lipold from Pixabay

Given the intense heat wave that is taking over the Pacific Northwest right now, I thought it appropriate to re-post this blog from early June, last year.

What’s happening now is a far cry from a sweat lodge; but in its own way, this may be another opportune time to sweat my prayers. Hear ye!

Since cultural appropriation has been a hot topic for a few years, I start with the disclaimer that there was none of that here.

A Blackfoot Native taught his tradition, along with songs and prayers in his language to this community of copacetic and lovely Caucasian humans.

The story he told of being a watchdog as a child truly made clear the significance of what I was about to do. He said he was forced to go to the Native boarding school, and that their traditional sweat lodges were deemed illegal by the US government.

But the Blackfoot continued them anyway.

Dillon (name changed to protect his privacy) said that his job, along with the other kids, was to hide in the tall grass while their parents snuck the rocks, sticks, wood, canvas, and everything else needed to make a temporary sweat lodge in baskets to look as if they were going out for a picnic or something.

If the kids saw any government officials coming, they were to blow their whistles to warn the elders of coming trouble, who would then stop what they were doing and hide the evidence.

It’s unbelievable that such a practice was ever illegal. There was no reason for that beyond oppression.

I would have thought that as a Blackfoot, Dillon would take offense at the white people who wanted to use his spiritual traditions for themselves.

But nothing could have been further from the truth.

Dillon made it very clear that he was grateful for communities like this one, where the Caucasian nation wanted to form sweat lodges and do the spiritual practice as it was meant to be practiced.

“With your participation,” he said to us assembled there, “the practice of praying in a sweat lodge stays alive. And that’s crucial for us to keep it going.”

This was my first sweat lodge and I really couldn’t have chosen any better.

I used to be scared of sweat lodges.

Until a couple of years ago, I always avoided saunas, and preferred steam. But then one of my best friends and I started a daily sauna marathon after a retreat we attended together a couple of times.

Maybe the retreat was more arduous than most. All I know was that the saunas I shared with my former roommate burst through any resistance to heat and sweating.

Because now I love the feeling of rivers of sweat pouring down my body.

It’s both cleansing and kind of dirty.

There is something primal about it. It’s even more primal within the womb-like darkness of a sweat lodge.

The heat is even more intense and your sweat pours, all while crammed into a confined space with a lot people who are also drenched with body fluid. Throughout we’re singing, calling out prayers, and setting intentions.

This year, I went to the retreat alone.

A new friend I made there invited me to the sweat lodge the following Sunday, after I told him I was staying in the area for a few days longer after the end of the retreat.

“I’m intimidated by sweat lodges.”

“You should be,” he said. “So are you coming or not?”

I did.

I went to the Wal Mart parking lot early that Sunday morning to meet my friend from the retreat and get a ride to the sweat lodge.

I figured the bearded hippie dude doing tai chi in the empty parking lot was likely headed for there.

I was right.

“Just you wait until the water hits the rocks,” he said. “That’s always my favorite part. There’s something ancient and primitive about it that runs deep for me.”

This particular sweat was special in that it was the inauguration of a new lodge. I found out afterwards that these monthly sweat lodges had been suspended for about a year and a half.

The previous hosts were in their late 70’s, and got tired. They insisted that the next generation pick up the ball, and it was a while before somebody did.

The lodge was already assembled with various sticks and branches nailed together and covered with canvas to make a mound. In the center, a hole was dug out.

This held the rocks — aka the Grandfathers — and we carried them to the edge of the pyre that would later become the fire that would heat them up.

There was an air of excited anticipation as we prepared for the sweat lodge. Doing the work of building up the sweat was a crucial part of being here.

The strongest and hardiest of us split logs of varying lengths, while the rest of us carried them to the pile where others built up the pyre. The fire would burn directly in front of the opening to the lodge.

“That’s the fire line. It’s very important to not cross it when you’re coming in and out of the lodge.”

A woman explained to me the points of significance once she knew this was my first time.

Pointing to a small mound to the right of the entrance to the sweat lodge, she explained to me that was where we leave our offerings and prayers, and that the four sticks with long, narrow ribbons in different colors represented the four nations of the races of the world.

“Yellow is for the Asian nations, white for Caucasian nations, Red for Indigenous nations, and black for African nations.”

That lady was very kind to tell me all this.

“The rocks are the Grandfathers, whereas the fire and the lodge are the Grandmothers. The lodge in particular is the womb of the Grandmother, and the heated rocks are the Grandfathers and Grandmothers united.”

“How long does it take for the rocks to get hot enough?”

“At least an hour.”

Finally, it was time to light the fire to marry the Grandfathers with the Grandmothers.

The air was festive on this Sunday. More than 70 people showed up to this and I couldn’t believe it when most of them were able to fit inside that sweat lodge.

Their elation and joy was palpable as the people chatted and waited for the grandfathers to get hot enough and the first round to begin.

“There will be 4 rounds of about 15–20 minutes each,” the kind lady explained. “Each round has a theme.”

During the 1st round, we called in the Great Spirit.

During the 2nd round, we called out our Intentions.

During the 3rd round, we asked for Healing.

During the 4th round, we offered our Gratitude.

There were only a few minutes between rounds to leave the lodge — which a lot of people didn’t — to stretch, pee, and drink more water before going back in for more.

Each sweat got more intense than the last.

I’ll never forget my awe when I saw those fiery rocks, smoldering like wood embers in those moments the Grandfathers united with the Grandmothers came into the womb of the sweat lodge.

They came in one by one, in groups of eleven, at the end of a pitchfork to be dropped in the hole in the middle of the sweat lodge.

We called out each time:

“Welcome, Grandfather.”

Once the eleven for that round was gathered, the door to the sweat lodge was dropped, all was dark. The water poured and the steam rose.

The time had come to sweat our prayers.

The Night the Children Came

Image by Enkhtamir Enkhdavaa from Pixabay

In the dusky lavender of twilight, the village young filed into the cabin built at the edge of the forest.

As the children were settling down, the Bard came home from the woods with his grandson.

His hands boasted the marks of time.

One of his hands made a cradle for the small hand of the boy, which the old man held with great tenderness.

In the other, he carried a basket filled with gifts found in the trees. The woods had been generous with its abundance of mushrooms, berries, nuts, and herbs.

The Bard would fry up a savory hash that night while he talked, sharing a tiny feast with his audience before they went home to bed.

Nobody knew better than he how to forage in the woods, and he was already passing his knowledge to his grandson.

A thrill of excitement crackled through the cabin when they came inside.

Tonight was the night for stories.

The Bard would talk late into the night, and the children would make their way home in the light of moon and stars.

But even if night were black as pitch, they wouldn’t mind.

They piled the leaves, sticks, and logs in the massive hearth the way the Bard taught them.

The older boys blew the sparks in the logs, their cheeks bellowing to hurry the blaze.

The Bard never began until there was an inferno burning.

His love of heat was legendary.

He had built this cabin as a young man.

The villagers who had been alive during that time said his home started with the fireplace.

They said the Bard needed almost ten years to finish his cabin because of that massive hearth.

He allowed himself this one indulgence in life and he wanted it to be special.

The only stones the Bard laid for his fireplace were favorites he found on his walks.

He explored for years, his black eyes searching for rocks with the unique patterns and subtle hues of earth: deep gray, pale green, earthy red, and soft pink.

The stones were layered to make the back wall of the cabin. The deep pit stretched wide and tall with iron mesh so it would contain the spits of flaming wood.

His hearth was a masterpiece.

During this time, the Bard had fallen in love, gotten married, and had a child. His wife was a hearty soul and their daughter had an independent spirit even as an infant.

Until the log cabin was built, they were content to live in a canvas tent held from ropes tied amongst the trees.

The young husband and father told stories to his family every night, talking in front of the blaze burning behind him.

He drew the notice of villagers who were fascinated by the spectacle of a family gathered around a fireplace in the open air.

The villagers would stroll by the unfinished cabin with lingering glances.

One relaxed evening in early winter, the small family invited their neighbors to join them.

And that was how it began.

After that first night, all the villagers came to hear the Bard.

Once the cabin was built, the parents listened from the outside while their young gathered inside.

As the years passed, only the children came.  

They gathered every week no matter the weather or the event.

The children came the night after the Bard’s daughter married and left home.

They came after he was widowed.

The Bard assured the villagers that the the children were more than welcome.

Many in the village shook their heads at the strength of his will. The old man kept to his routine, lending a hand to his neighbors.

The more difficult their project, the more he preferred it.

He especially loved to build, for hard work that required concentration gave him relief from his mourning.  

A year later, the Bard thought his heart would perish.

He was grateful his wife didn’t live to suffer through the murder of their daughter and her husband by a band of thieves.

Whenever the Bard thought of their last moments, he couldn’t escape the anguish coursing through his veins.

However, he kept his demons to himself.

The cutthroats had spared the life of his grandson, but his innocence was under assault from night terrors that pulled him screaming from his sleep, his dark eyes vacant and staring into nothing.

The child was only four when he came to live with his grandfather.

The Bard was determined to redeem his grandson from the torment of his soul, casting his own grief aside to care for this child who needed him desperately.

Through it all, on the same night every week, the children always arrived at the Bard’s cabin to listen to his stories.

The Bard was forever thankful to them because their presence brought innocence, normalcy, and harmony that was lacking.

His grandson sat amongst them, but his large black eyes were vacant, staring into nothing, his face unresponsive.

The Bard prayed every night that the little boy would find his way back from the abyss of frozen terror, and return to childhood.

And every week, the children came.

It was a year before the nightmares stopped.

Light returned to the boy’s eyes and he was finally able to see the world he was living in, a world made of nothing but love.

As fire climbed the mountain of logs, the youngest child moved to sit with the little boy who had the same eyes as his grandfather.

It was time.

The Bard took his place before the hearth, his figure a dark silhouette in front of the fiery mound.

The children heard the soft hiss of deep breathing.

Before he spoke, the Bard always claimed a moment to enjoy the fragrance of wood burning.

Then his voice rang clear, rising from the depths of his belly and rolling in subtle cadence as the Bard began another tale about his favorite villainess, the woman known as the Thief of Hearts.

The Beginning of a Long Walk Home

Image by Lars_Nissen from Pixabay

For years, I have heard Ella Bandita described as the ugly seductress no man could resist.

I always thought that strange, and not simply because she had always been so lovely to me. Beyond the beauty held in my eyes, the vagabond seductress never had to be beautiful and her savage features made her a legend.

Woman was the most fascinating creature I had ever known. She was also the most dangerous, even in that time I knew her before she became the Thief of Hearts.

So to reduce her to a lack of prettiness always seemed to me the pettiness of an empty mind.

And then there is Adrianna.

Adrianna the Beautiful, the most legendary Courtesan of the Capital City, and they say she grows more beautiful with time.

Thank you for understanding and for your grace, Wanderer.

The time has long passed that I should tell you the story of my Woman who would become your Ella Bandita. But I can no longer do that without sharing the extraordinary stories of the Courtesan who wanted to destroy her.

So much has happened since we parted that this tale will take many days and nights to unfold.

I must start from the beginning, in which you played a crucial role.

I hope you forgive me if I talk about your part in this as if you hadn’t been there. I know it’s irritating, but I need that kind of distance to make sense of the stories I lived through and the stories I heard during these past few months.

So…Wanderer, may I walk with you on your long journey home?

 

****

           

The Courtesan’s beauty was staggering.

I had never seen so much flesh in my life as I did in the massive portraits on these walls.

Standing, reclining, full front on, in profile, her back to the artist, the Courtesan was naked in every pose, her silhouette that of an hourglass.

Her full breasts stood high on her chest, her torso curved to a slender waist above rounded hips, her legs were long and tapered. Her skin was creamy and luminous; and black hair cascaded to her waist. Her features were noble; hers was the classical beauty of the highborn class.

But her eyes made her unforgettable.

Beneath arched brows, her large eyes angled on a tilt and mingled the hues of gold and amber. Her steady gaze held the controlled ferocity of a wildcat.

Such fierce scrutiny replicated in portrait after portrait overpowered my senses for a moment.

I turned my back to gather my bearings, only to come back to the incessant pink of the foyer.

How in the devil did I come here?

That’s what I wondered as I encountered again the cavernous entry into the home of Adrianna the Beautiful.

The atrium had soaring ceilings with pale pink satin lining the walls, while mottled pink marble stretched along the floor and up the steps of the sweeping staircase in the middle.

Maybe even the ceiling was pink.

It was impossible to tell because the massive chandelier hanging in the space between the ceiling and the floor reflected pink everywhere.

Hundreds of candles and thousands of crystal droplets married fire and ice when the tiny flames coupled with the glimmering teardrops, then flickered along the marble floor, the stairs, and the walls.

Such a pairing had cast rosy radiance throughout the foyer to render everybody inside timeless and ageless.

Instead of gaining my balance, the glowing majesty of the entryway stirred the memory from that afternoon, which made me light-headed.

I turned back to the paintings.

This time, I found it easier to focus on the portraits lined along the wall north of the wide elegant staircase that cut a dramatic swathe in the center of the foyer.

The woman peered intently at the artist who had painted her.

The loving attention to detail made me wonder if the artist had caressed his lover with each stroke of the brush. Carnality and lawlessness emanated from the Courtesan’s portraits. I could easily imagine a handsome, tormented soul painting with fevered intensity, a creator hopelessly in love with his libertine muse who would only cherish him in the moment.

Perhaps they had made love in between sittings?

Before me were nine paintings displaying the glory of a legendary Courtesan in all the phases of her life.

About five years must have passed in between each portrait.

Her features matured and grew more defined with each painting, as she left the plump bloom of youth behind. Her body ripened to her prime, then past it; silver streaked her glossy black hair more and more in each portrait.

Yet in all the paintings, her expression was much the same.

Those golden eyes sparkled with defiance and unrepentant joy.

Her generous mouth curved in a knowing smirk.

Had she anticipated her future audience when she posed for her portraits? Did she see past the artist, looking to those who would later gaze upon her?

Her stare was relentless.

She dared me to judge her, the scarlet woman who should have been an outcast.

The Bounty Hunter's Last Track

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

The Charmer was found with the same witless expression and glazed eyes of her other conquests, muttering just as those who fell before him.

“Eh…eh…la bandita stole my heart.”

A few days later, the most exclusive courtesan in the city waited for the lover who never came. 

Adrianna had not heard the fate that befell the Charmer, and she was livid he dared not keep their appointment.

She had never suffered this indignity before.

She was as notorious for her temper as she was renowned for her allure, and her fury was at its peak when another courtesan came with the dreadful news about her favorite lover.

Then the wrath of Adrianna the Beautiful was all for Ella Bandita. 

It was the legendary Courtesan who gathered the women together.

Adrianna the Beautiful made her first visit with her lover’s near widow. 

They had a long meeting, Adrianna staying for the better part of the day until she made a rival into a friend. The wife and the mistress sacrificed their most precious jewels to start a reward for the capture of the woman who had felled the Charmer. 

Word spread fast. 

The other wives and courtesans didn’t need much convincing to join them.   

 This sisterhood seemed incredible at first, but once the women set their grievances aside, it made sense. 

Deprived of widowhood, the Charmer was committed to an asylum where he would be for the rest of his life, and his wife would never be free to marry again. Plenty of ladies shared her fate and courtesans lost some measure of comfort when their lovers were destroyed. 

Ella Bandita was a genuine threat to them all, and she had to be stopped. 

The women were confident they would find their hero amongst those hired to use outlaw ways to bring outlaws to justice. 

Bounty hunters had the freedom to use methods forbidden to lawmen, and theirs was a lonesome calling. Since they gained in wages what they lost in respect, these men dreamed of earning enough to buy a modest estate and retire as a Patron. 

The fortune of the women’s jewels was enough to realize this dream for the man who captured or killed the Thief of Hearts. 

It wasn’t long before the price on Ella Bandita was the highest ever for a single fugitive.

But to the ladies’ surprise, not one bounty hunter came forth, even though all of them were tempted. 

The bounty was unsavory, the first put on the life of a woman and not just any woman. 

Perhaps it was fortunate coincidence, but entire villages were liberated from oppression whenever she conquered a tyrant. Many were grateful when she destroyed a Patron who had made their lives a misery. 

Ella Bandita was universally feared, but she also had her admirers.

The last to hear about the reward was the man who accepted, the one most despised in his profession. 

This Bounty Hunter was a roughneck to his core, devoid of scruples and full of greed. He almost looked a dwarf with short limbs and a powerful torso, his large head and wide face covered with shaggy black hair and beard. 

The Bounty Hunter seemed absurd to the women when he promised them relief from their distress within weeks. He hardly looked their picture of a hero.

But he was the only man who came forth, so they were cordial to him. 

Not that the Bounty Hunter would have cared if the ladies had been rude. The fortune was all that mattered to him. The thought of it made his mouth water. 

Ella Bandita formally became an outlaw once the bounty was accepted. 

The lawmen announced she was to be brought to them alive. She was wanted in several countries and failure to cooperate would reap severe consequences.

The Bounty Hunter started in early spring, at the outset of fashionable seasons that would last through the summer, when the Thief of Hearts would be on the prowl. He was confident he’d find her within weeks.

But his prey proved more elusive. 

The Bounty Hunter tracked her haunts as he heard about them. He scoured the country and depleted most of his modest fortune for a fresh track that would lead him to her. 

Like most greedy people, the Bounty Hunter was miserly. 

He probably would have quit if his search hadn’t cost him everything. He had never come across a quarry so elusive. So much so that he became obsessed.

And the lighter his purse became, the more his obsession grew. 

The fashion seasons were coming to an end and he had spent almost everything he had. 

The ladies were impatient, and almost as bitter as the Bounty Hunter.

Then he found his first real lead.

Ella Bandita had struck several days before in the last of a series of fashion towns. But the witnesses there gave the same answers they had everywhere else. 

The interviews was tedious, and the Bounty Hunter was no closer to his mark. 

His frustration got the better of him one day and he ignored the appointments made for that afternoon to run his mare through the woods.

That’s when he found it.

During his ride, the Bounty Hunter came to a bald spot in the trees. 

The undergrowth had been brushed away, leaving raw earth dotted with tufts of small green shoots. 

He pulled his horse to a stop and sniffed. 

The Bounty Hunter could almost swear that smoke still lingered in the air as he dismounted.

Plowing the earth with one foot, he dragged the clearing until he found what he was looking for, bits of charred wood. Digging deeper, he found larger pieces with ashes mixed in the dirt where her fire pit was buried. 

When he found a scrap of cloth, likely torn from a tent, the Bounty Hunter knew he had found her shelter.

He scanned the site, imagining how it must have looked a month before when Ella Bandita had made her camp there.

The Bounty Hunter shook his head over the money he spent on lodgings where he assumed a lone woman would reside. 

What a fool he had been. 

Everybody he spoke with said she had the grubby look of a vagabond.

Yet he had never considered the woods.

And if he had, he would have found her months ago. 

All the cities and villages she traveled had a forest beyond the town walls, usually just outside the gates. 

His heart pounded. The Bounty Hunter imagined the fortune that would be his now that he finally knew where to hunt his prey.  

He found Ella Bandita two weeks later.

The Bard's Favorite Villainess

Illustration by BANE, Dennis McElroy

Three days of snow covered the village, draping the roofs and windows with blazing white.  Flaky chunks fell from the sky on the night for stories, but the children still came.

The older boys helped the Bard’s grandson plow a path to the cabin. He had grown much since the previous summer. He was thin and lanky, with limbs now longer than he was accustomed. 

The doors and windows of the cabin glowed from the fire built up in the hearth. 

The Bard was in his place, his silhouette black against the crackling tongues of flame shooting up behind him. 

The heat soothed the young until the room grew crowded with them sitting, lying, and leaning against each other for comfort and the cabin became hotter than summer, their sweat gluing them to each other. 

But tonight the young would bear with the heat. 

They were more excited than usual for this night’s tale. 

The week before, his own grandson challenged the Bard that Ella Bandita was not truly a seductress, but a vicious trickster.

The Bard sighed and was silent for a few minutes. 

Then he promised to prove the seductive prowess of the Thief of Hearts the following week.     

His grandson was laughing when he entered the cabin with his friends. 

The boys remembered to stop in the cold storage shed and brought with them bags of nuts, frozen berries, ground spices, dried herbs, and jars of mushrooms preserved from summer and autumn. 

The Bard watched the boy pull two large skillets down from the hearth and three village girls approaching him before he got to work. The Bard didn’t hear their talk, but he frowned when he saw his grandson’s eyes glint and his mouth curve in a smirking grin. 

The boy glanced at his grandfather and flushed.

With more warmth in his smile, he told the girls he had to get supper ready.

 Reluctantly they walked away. 

The Bard shook his head. 

Girls liked that boy more than was good for him and he was becoming precocious[jwwz1] . 

A few minutes later, he caught the scent of garlic and cayenne and smiled. 

His grandson had a nice touch when it came to cooking. The hash would be spicy tonight, perfect for winter and warming the blood.  

The children rumbled, impatient to hear tonight’s story. 

The Bard stared into the sea of young faces and hoped tonight’s tale scared the devil out of his grandson.

“Things change when one crosses the line between countries,” he began. 

“Our neighbors are different on the other side of No Man’s Land, the woods that separate us from the nation to the west. Their language is not ours, their customs aren’t the same, and their society is more intricate. Here, one is either Patron or peasant. To be Patron is to be noble, to be peasant is to be humble.”

“But there, the highborn are ranked according to their title, and to come from humble origins is to be less than common.  Such a society is cruel, often mercenary and always lacking in heart.

“Such a society is a rich hunting ground for Ella Bandita.”

           

*****

 

The hunt for Ella Bandita began with the women.

They raged with each new tale about the notorious seductress, these women who spent their lives caring for their beauty and enhancing their manners to appeal to the most desirable men in society.

Wives and courtesans worked hard for their pampered lives, fine gowns, and sparkling jewels.

Ella Bandita was a spit in the face of their world. Ugly in face and grubby in dress, how could this be a woman no man can resist? 

To be left as only shadows of their former selves once the Thief of Hearts moved on, her conquests would never be the same again.   

The wrath of the women grew alongside the terror of the men.

I’ve never heard of a time when married ladies and harlots of easy living cast their rivalries aside, but they did to stand against her. 

Ironically enough, the man who brought them together was more akin to a courtesan than a Patron. He was an easy conquest, not worth a mention if it weren’t for what happened afterwards.

He was a charmer, the one who set all the women against Ella Bandita.

He lived in the city, having arrived in society through a marriage of convenience.

In some ways, the Charmer was blessed amongst fortune hunters.

His wife was lovely, with fair hair and creamy skin. Her beauty would have been almost as appealing as her generous dowry had she not been a malcontent.

Her dreary accent and petulant nature challenged his polished manners every day, and her company grated desperately on his nerves.

The Charmer hadn’t been married a year before he pursued a courtesan who was as exciting as his wife was irritating.

He must have spent quite a bit of her fortune, for he stopped at nothing until he gained the favor of the most sought-after woman of her profession. 

She was known as Adrianna the Beautiful. 

Dark, fiery, and with a formidable lust, her appetite for pleasure was insatiable, her salons legendary. Her guests were the handsomest, the wealthiest, the most powerful, and the most brilliant men in the city. 

She had her pick of lovers from only the best, and she was selective. 

The Charmer was far beneath her usual choices, but he was witty and his courtship was relentless. He made himself irresistible enough that Adrianna allowed herself to be seduced.

But the Thief of Hearts ensnared his notice at the opera. 

The Charmer was with his wife in a balcony above the stage. His mistress was also present, escorted by a handsome young prince. 

They sat across from the Charmer and his wife. 

Adrianna the Beautiful even winked at her other lover when neither of their companions was looking. 

The Charmer smiled and winked back just before his wife turned to him with a complaint. He made his face a mask of attentive concern, caressing her hand and whispering gentle words until she was quiet. 

He saw Ella Bandita as soon as he could look away, his regard drawn to the common seats on the floor where she sat. 

The Charmer found her gaze startling and riveting, reminding him of the way a predator stares at prey.

But his attention was diverted when the lights faded and the velvet curtains lifted. 

The Charmer forgot about that strange woman in the common seats below, once the performance was under way, for opera was one of the few things he cherished.

Really, the Charmer was a satisfied man, so it was surprising he fell under her spell. 

He had a wealthy wife who seemed a Madonna in those blessed moments of silence, a decadent temptress for a mistress, and a life of elegance and leisure. 

He was still enjoying himself, the gift of privilege too fresh to take for granted. 

Yet perhaps his wife was especially tiresome that evening, or the sight of Adrianna in a blazing red gown made the reality of what she was painfully apparent. 

Maybe the Charmer sensed the boredom that would come. 

6 Conversational Writing Prompts - Inspiration Through Dialogue!

Writing prompt original by Montgomery mahaffey from Free Flying Press

“I take it Rosco talked you into this?”

“That’s one way to look at it, Adele.”

“I’m very pleased you’re staying, Martinez. I didn’t think you would.”

“Yes.”

“Did Rosco blackmail you?”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far.”

“But you are not here willingly.”

“No. I’m not.”

Writing prompts are back. Sweet chunks of dialogue to get your imagination revving! What’s the story behind these intriguing pieces of conversation? One way to find out is to take the deep dive and see what you come up with. Enjoy!

WRITING PROMPT ORIGINAL BY MONTGOMERY MAHAFFEY FROM FREE FLYING PRESS

“What a foolish vanity you have. Lady Fortune is fickle. Luck always changes.”

“Not for me, it doesn’t. You saw what happened here tonight.”

“Tell me, Gambler. Are you looking for the game you can’t win?”

“No. I’m looking to see that I always will.”

“Perhaps you only play the games that are easy to win.”

WRITING PROMPT ORIGINAL BY MONTGOMERY MAHAFFEY FROM FREE FLYING PRESS

“You’ve really gotten yourself into a mess now, darling. Wasn’t I enough trouble for you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your fancy courtesan.”

“She wants you dead, woman.”

“Of course, she does. Beautiful courtesan has lusted for my blood for a long, long time.”

WRITING PROMPT ORIGINAL BY MONTGOMERY MAHAFFEY FROM FREE FLYING PRESS

“Congratulations.”

“Why feign your good wishes? You weren’t cheering for me.”

“Why do you love it? What do you love about gambling? Is it the money you don’t need?”

“No. It’s the games.”

“So you like to play games? Why the games of chance?”

“Because I love to win them.”

“Why not games of skill? The victory would be sweeter.”

“Luck has no play in games of skill.”

WRITING PROMPT ORIGINAL BY MONTGOMERY MAHAFFEY FROM FREE FLYING PRESS

“What about Anthony?”

“What about him?”

“Doesn’t he deserve vengeance?”

“Hell no! That vicious little brute got what he deserved!”

“So what if he was horrid? Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“He’s despicable.”

“Well now, he’s a drooling mess of an imbecile, and your lady love is to blame.”

WRITING PROMPT ORIGINAL BY MONTGOMERY MAHAFFEY FROM FREE FLYING PRESS

“You aren’t the kind to take the coward’s way out.”

I turned around to see the Sorcerer behind me. I was never afraid of the Sorcerer. Not then and not later, not even once I knew what he was capable of.

“I’ve been watching you,” he continued.

“Oh yeah? And what do you see?”

“I see a girl who wants what she can’t have.”

How to Structure Short Stories, Chapters, and Novels

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

One of the greatest gifts I ever received as a writer was the most basic story structure that could be as simple or as complex as the tale needed. This worked for novels, screenplays, short stories, and even poems.

Welcome to the journey of the Inverted “C” - Cage, Escape, Quest, Dragons, and Home.

At the time, that I learned this valuable lesson, I desperately wanted to become a novelist and had no idea how to get started.

Being a voracious reader of novels did not make me adept at writing them.

The Inverted C is very similar to the Joseph Campbell’s narrative structure that is known as the Hero’s Journey.

I like the Inverted C because it is simple and flexible.

However, if anybody struggles with a Quest cursed with a sagging middle, the Hero’s Journey would help to flesh out the meat of the story.

The Inverted C is perfect for beginners.

Over the years, I’ve shared this in 5-10 minutes with friends who were natural writers, but didn’t know what to do when it came to structuring a story.

When it comes to the Inverted C:

1. The arc of the entire novel is to fit the curve of the Inverted C;

2. Every chapter is to be structured on the Inverted C;

3. Every character should have an inverted C storyline, even the minor players.

For the purposes of simplicity, I’ll stick with the protagonist.

Cage:  This is where the Protagonist begins.

The Cage could be attractive, the protagonist a Lucky Dude who has everything – beautiful and loving wife/girlfriend (or both), exciting career, beautiful home, Master of the Universe status, etc.

Or the cage could be the prison of misery. A Wretched Dude has a broken spirit, broken bank, addiction, depression, despair, etc.

Escape:  Enter the Intruder and the Protagonist leaves the Cage.

The Intruder can be a friend or a foe. A murderer could kill the Lucky Dude’s beautiful wife/girlfriend (or both), and the character is now kicked out of his Cage of a wonderful life.

Or Wretched Dude could be visited by an angel or a demon (or both) and be challenged to change, heal, grow, or perish. Thus Wretched Dude leaves his miserable life to start the Quest.

Quest: What does Protagonist want?

What does Protagonist yearn for?

No Longer Lucky Dude wants vengeance for his dead and beautiful wife/girlfriend (or both). So he has to find the killer, find why the killer chose him and his loved ones, figure out the best revenge for killer, and meet all kinds of characters along the way, one of whom is a Comely Lady Cop.

Wretched But Wanting a Better Life Dude yearns for wholeness, healing, abundance, and redemption. Wretched Dude is in a battle against himself and his inner demons that lead him to make such bad decisions. He still meets friends and foes along the way, those who would help him grow and heal, and those who would keep him stuck, addicted, and toxic. These adventures and journeys make up the bulk of the novel story.

Dragons: The moment of truth.

Challenges/confrontations lead to the Crucial Choice.

Not Lucky Dude finds the killer of his wife/girlfriend (or both), and they battle. He has his chance to torture and kill the killer, and avenge her death (or their deaths). But he has met the Comely Lady Cop is on his tail, knowing that he is on the killer’s tail. Does he let Comely Lady Cop bring killer to justice or does he take it in his own hands?

Not So Wretched Dude has conquered his addictions and is feeling renewed hope in life. He goes to a party to celebrate his acceptance into school, but there are cocaine and a Hooker there. The Hooker’s Pimp is a dealer and it is her job to get Not So Wretched Dude back into his addictions. She pressures him to snort and swallow. Wretched Dude feels an uprising of his self-loathing and takes that silver straw to snort. But then he thinks of all he could have ahead of him. Does he give in to habit and the temptation of his weaknesses, or does he choose redemption and the unknown of a sweeter life?

Home: The destination at the end of the Quest.

Back to the original Cage, on to an open wide Vista, or descending into a deeper and darker Cage.

Has the protagonist changed? Or did the protagonist remain the same?

What did the protagonist learn? Did the protagonist find liberation or did the protagonist die?

Home can be anything from a happy ending to the abyss of despair to emptiness.

Lucky Dude could become Transcendent Dude if he forgives killer enough and chooses a second chance at joy and love with Comely Lady Cop. Or Lucky Dude could become Convict Dude in the Cage of prison by killing killer and getting caught by Comely Lady Cop who lives by her Cop-ly duties even with a man she’s fallen in love with.

Wretched Dude could become Healer Dude if he says no to cocaine and the Hooker, goes on to school, and becomes a therapist. Or Wretched Dude could become Homeless Dude because he succumbs, and goes down the spiral until he loses absolutely everything.

If every chapter and every character has the story curved on an Inverted C, and you’re golden.

This works for short stories, novellas, plays, screenplays, novels, and it would probably work well with poems too.

This is a structure, not a formula.

And it is ancient.

Myths and fairy tales are structured along the Inverted C.

Even Pulp Fiction was told along the Inverted C. Every character in that crazy movie had an Inverted C storyline that was spliced up and rearranged.

Hope this helps. Thank you for reading and happy writing!

A Clever Piece of Blackmail

Image by press 👍 and ⭐ from Pixabay

“If you speak a word about tonight,” the Patron’s Daughter hissed, “I will destroy you!”

“If I talk, your ruin will come before you could get at me. There’s sure to be some deep and dark bruises on your bottom. That’ll prove the truth I’d be telling.”

I couldn’t resist mocking her a little.

“You filthy little grubber! I hate you!”

Underneath her viciousness, I heard the tremor of fear in the Patron’s Daughter voice. She would never be able to bring me to shame or rage again.

That was when I understood how much power I now had over the nemesis who had cast my life in shadow.

That moment has always been the most exquisite intoxication I would ever know. I’ve enjoyed much power since that night. But nothing has compared to how I felt in that moment because it was my first taste of power.

“Likewise.”

With one word I was free from the bondage of hypocrisy, and the relief sent another luscious shiver through me.

“Don’t you dare tell anybody about tonight!”

“What are you going to do to shut me up?”

“What!”

“Don’t play dumb. How many times has your father paid for silence? If you want mine, you also have to pay.”

She stared at me, her mouth agape.

Honestly, I was as shocked as she was because those words were out before I knew what I was saying. Fortunately for me, years of stoicism enduring brutality and overwork made it easy for me to hide my feelings.

“What did you bring for the Brute?”

Her eyes widened as understanding set in.

“You set me up!”

“There was no way I could have set that up,” I retorted. “If I had known you had a yummy for taking a beating, I would have taken it upon myself long ago.”

“You ugly, repugnant, little tripe!”

“If you think I’m ugly, do you see the Brute as handsome? You sure cleaved your pin pretty good rutting up against him.”

She slapped me hard across my face.

It was everything I could do to not slap her in return. If I had, I would have left my mark on her for certain.

Instead, I pushed her down hard.

“Either give me what you meant to give the Brute, or there will be lots of exciting conversation to be had after morning worship.”

She practically snarled at me.

“No! You rot with the devil!”

“I think you’re likely to meet him before I do,” I said, and turned my back. “It’s your ruin.”

I took five steps before she relented.

“Wait!”

I stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“I brought three gold coins and two jeweled rings I never wear.”

I came back and held out my hand.

“I am not giving you all that!” she protested. “That’s what I brought to marry the Noble Son! What you saw is not worth that much.”

“The gold coins will keep me quiet. On my honor.”

“You have no honor, you greedy little snipe.”
“Takes one to know one,” I repeated the Brute’s retort.

I had no choice but to admit she was right.

My connection with her was dishonorable from the very beginning.

But I didn’t care.

As soon as the cold gold touched my palm, a shiver went down my spine. In my hand was more money than my family had ever possessed in our miserable lives.

I almost fainted from the thrill of it. The sacrifice of integrity was worth it.

“Next week, I suggest you be fully prepared to guarantee my silence.”

“I won’t be coming next week.”

“If you insist,” I replied. “You know where to find me when you change your mind.”

Her response to my audacity was spit to the face when we came out of the woods.

But I knew the Brute was right.

I also knew the Patron’s Daughter would never be able to strip me of my dignity again.

At last, I looked into my palm.

The coins were larger than I expected and I had no idea what they were worth.

I was buoyant, skipping through the woods to go back to the cabin as the Sorcerer and I had previously agreed upon.

I expected the Brute to be there when I walked inside. Instead, the Sorcerer waited.

His ancient face looked almost pleasant when he saw me.

“That was a clever piece of blackmail,” he said. “I’m impressed.”

“You practically handed it to me. Thank you, by the way.”

“Perhaps I made it easy, but you were intelligent enough to take advantage of the opportunity. Most people don’t. You have a sharp instinct.”

He peered into my palm and whistled.

“I think you will do supremely well in the next phase of your life, Addie.”

“I don’t even know what these are worth,” I admitted.

“With the money you have in your hand right now, you could live in very elegant apartments with a servant or two in the Capital City for three months.”

The Fall of the Patron and the Rise of the Thief of Hearts

Image by Brigitte makes custom works from your photos, thanks a lot from Pixabay

Something was horribly wrong. 

The manor had not been a joyous place since the death of their Patroness, but there had always been the motion and noise of activity. 

Now everything was quiet. 

A few servants waited before the front door, the personal maid to the Patron’s daughter, the Cook, and the man in charge of the stables. 

The rounded features of the lady’s maid were swollen, tears streaking her cheeks. The Cook’s face, which she often boasted turned red from the stove fires, was the color of ashes. The head of the stables was composed, but the anguish in his eyes seared through the elderly Doctor when they shook hands.

“What happened?” he asked.

“We don’t know, Doctor,” the other replied.  “I think it’s best to just show you.”

They entered the house. 

The stillness inside was eerie. 

Instead of the bustle of servants and tenant farmers and visiting patrons from neighboring counties, there was nothing but the muffled sounds of weeping.

The walls seemed to close in on the Doctor.

This grief was fresh, raw. 

He could feel the sorrow throughout the house as he followed the stable hand upstairs to what he recognized as the daughter’s room.

The Doctor gasped at what he saw inside. 

The creamy white quilts on the bed were soaked with blood, cascading down one side to make a small pool beneath.

He had to fight the urge to retch, unable to speak until he steadied himself.   

“Where is she?”

“She’s gone,” the stable hand replied. “One of the boys had a tale about her running off in the middle of the night on a giant stallion, the wild gray colt that ran away from here several years ago. He swears he saw her blow something that dazzled around the beast and say ‘immortal like me.’ And he claims there was blood all over her face and gown.” 

“Well, she can’t have gone far. Shouldn’t we send for the lawman?”

“I suppose we could. But if what the boy says is true, that won’t do any good. I saw that stallion last year at the river. He’s a monster of a horse.”    

“And where is…”

The stable hand squeezed his eyes shut, but a stream of tears escaped. Breathing deeply until he regained his composure, he opened his eyes and beckoned the Doctor to follow. 

The Doctor was relieved at first when he came into the study and saw the Patron sitting in his chair. 

Then he looked into the glazed eyes staring right through him, noted the slack jaw and witless expression. 

His heart ached at the sight of him, and the Doctor had to fight back his own tears while searching through his bag. He took his time preparing his instruments, not starting his examination until he recovered his poise. 

The Patron was quite robust, showing the health of a man half his age until the Doctor felt for a pulse and found nothing. 

He froze, his mind reeling over the telltale mark of the Sorcerer of the Caverns. 

But that was impossible, for the Sorcerer only preyed on young women.  

“Patron, what happened to you?”

“Eh…” he said, his voice ravaged.  “Eh…la bandita stole my heart…”

The Doctor frowned and shook his head.

“I don’t understand.  Who is this Ella Bandita?” 

The Patron looked confused at the name.  Then his face cleared for a moment, a spark of intelligence flashing in his eyes only to become nothing.

“Ella Bandita…” the Patron said, nodding and his voice dropped to a whisper.  His left eye welled with single tear which fell down his cheek. 

“Ella Bandita,” he repeated. “She’s my daughter.”

The Patron stood up.

The Doctor watched him leave, scarcely able to believe it was the Patron he saw. 

His gait was almost silent, too soft to leave an echo. 

The Doctor closed his eyes and bowed his head, his hand shaking while making the sign of the cross, only a thought kept intruding on his prayer.

The Patron had finally given his daughter a name.

 

*****

 

The Bard took his place before the hearth, his figure a dark silhouette in front of the fiery mound.  The children heard the soft hiss of deep breathing.

He always claimed a moment to enjoy the fragrance of wood burning before he spoke. 

Then his voice rang clear, rising from the depths of his belly, its subtle cadence rolling through the cabin as the Village Bard began another tale about his favorite villainess, the woman known as the Thief of Hearts. 

“In the south of this country, there’s a fashion town built into the upper walls of high cliffs where the sea crashes against the walls below. The buildings of this village change color through the day, depending on the place of the sun in the sky.” 

“In evening time, the town is invisible. The buildings are the same muddy pink hue of stone bluffs at sundown.”

“Nobody knows how this town was built. The structures are ancient, and those skills were not passed to the masons of today. No one now has the knowing to carve deep into the rock, to find the support for buildings jutting out from the cliffs and hanging over the ocean.” 

“During winter storms, the waves get high enough to flood the streets with salt water.  Yet the village stands, half buried in stone, half suspended over the sea.”

The Bard paused a moment, his silhouette completely still. The sharp cracks of the blazing fire echoed through the cabin.

“But this fashion town has no protection from Ella Bandita.”

The End That Was Only the Beginning

Image by enriquelopezgarre from Pixabay

As always, the Sorcerer was right.

A few days later, I saw the Patron’s Daughter as soon as I came into the trees.

She was clearly waiting for me, impatiently pacing back and forth. She had dark circles under her eyes, marring the perfection of her face.  

“What took you so long?” she demanded.

“I didn’t know I was meeting you for a walk. Last time I saw you, you seemed angry-”

“Will I need to bring money or jewels?” she interrupted.

“Excuse me?”

I felt like an idiot for not considering payment.

I knew what the Sorcerer wanted from the Patron’s Daughter, but she certainly didn’t know what she was walking in to.

“To pay him!” she snapped. “What are his terms?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, thinking fast. “But that’s not a bad idea.”

There are no words to describe the sweet relief and exquisite terror I felt in those days approaching that night.

On the eve of the holy day of rest, the Patron’s Daughter agreed to sneak out after dark to meet me at the edge of the Ancient Grove.

Even her tyrannical father didn’t dare dishonor holy days to make us work.

I remember there was absolutely no suspicion on her face as we made our plan.

The only risk at this point was getting caught.

If our absences were discovered, the Patron’s Daughter would be ruined.

But I would be doomed.

On that day before my liberation, I was worthless in the fields.

I couldn’t sleep the night before. As much as I had dreamed about my liberation from servitude, I had no plan for it and no idea what to do with it. I certainly couldn’t come back to my parents after selling my heart and the virtue of the Patron’s Daughter.

The night before my destiny was to change, I realized I wasn’t ready.

I was so panicked, I considered the coward’s way out, leaving the Patron’s Daughter to wander the Ancient Grove alone, looking for the cabin.

But I had come too far to lose faith now. As terrified as I was of an unknown future, I still met the Patron’s Daughter in the Ancient Grove.

She had to jostle my arm to get my attention because I didn’t see her at first. She wore a long, dark cloak that covered her face and form, blending her in amongst the dark trees.

She, too, must have had the fear of detection.

It was so dark that night.

I looked for the moon in the sky through the trees. Either it was a dark moon, or the trees of the Ancient Grove were so thick, it was impossible for any light to shine through.

But I was still able to guide her through the trees.

The Sorcerer must have had a fire burning in the hearth, for I caught the aroma of smoke before I saw the glow through the only window of the cabin. But that did nothing to warm the chill inside me.

My heart pounded on our approach.

For a moment, I hesitated.

The thought crossed my mind that this would be the last time I would feel that inner pulsing. Good thing I didn’t spend too much time reflecting on that in those weeks leading up to this night.

It’s a tremendous decision to sell off my essence, my life force, all so a being like the Sorcerer of the Caverns could be immortal. If I had pondered on the sheer magnitude of it all, I likely would not have been able to go through with it.

As it was, in that moment, I knew that everything I had always known would come to an end.

Although that was certainly true, this was only the beginning.

My first adventure in life would begin that night. And my first adventure would be by far the most bizarre.

My darling Shepherd, that is a mighty statement to make at this juncture in my life after more than forty years of decadence.

My hand shook when I knocked on the door.

A gruff voice from inside bid us to enter.

I opened the door, and in my nervousness, I forgot to step aside to usher the Patron’s Daughter in before me.

In this particular instance, however, the oversight of etiquette towards one’s betters was a miracle that saved me.

I almost fainted when I saw him.

Although I didn’t know what to expect when I walked inside, I was shocked at the sight of the Brute who stood before me.

Instead of the long black robes and a face desiccated from the passing centuries, the Sorcerer had transformed into a beast of a man.

He had the physique of a carnival strongman, coarse black hair, beady dark eyes, and the crudest features I had ever seen. His thick lips curled in a grimace of amusement when he saw the look on my face.

I felt the blood drain from my head at the sight of him.

The Brute was anything but seductive.

He was repugnant and my doom was certain.

6 New Original Fiction Writing Prompts!

They just keep on coming, these writing prompts! Get them while they’re fresh and while the floodgates are open. I may have a dry spell that lasts months after this! Then again, maybe not.

These could inspire suspense, coming of age, romance, fantasy - because after all, isn’t everything fantasy?

If you’d like to check out earlier prompts that are strictly fantasy, click here.

The Realm of Possibility

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

She saw the magic dust on her night table the moment she came back to her room. 

Her maid must have found the pouch in her skirts and taken it out for her. 

The pouch was worn and the leather dull under the flame of her night lamp. The dust was an unwelcome reminder. 

The girl had forgotten about the Sorcerer, as if the interlude of the past months had never been. 

She buried the pouch again in the pocket of her gown and dropped to her bed. Then she pulled her necklace off, her palm guarding the crystal stargaze from the light. 

This keepsake didn’t disturb her so much, the stargaze a talisman of the moment her destiny changed. The silver links of the chain were cool, trailing down her arm while she traced the crystal tiers with her fingertip.

Tonight, supper had been long. 

She and her father talked well past dessert, just as they had the night before. She was still uncomfortable around him, and the Patron was hardly more at ease than she. 

But he was persistent, skillful in preventing the awkward pauses which might have dammed the flow of conversation. The topic tonight had been safe, her father discussed the season, confiding that he was thinking about adding to his estate with one in the southeast.

“Properties like this rarely come to purchase,” he said. “However, his son is frivolous and prefers city life.”

“But it’s far from here. How can you watch over both?”

“It would be foolish of me to attempt it,” the Patron replied. “Frankly, I think this would be ideal for you.”

The girl said nothing, just set down her fork and stared at him.

“The estate’s small,” he continued, “but the soil is so rich you could grow just about anything. There’s also a nice stretch of woods, perfect for riding and hunting.”

“It’s a long distance, Papa.” 

“Yes, but not so much I couldn’t guide you through any concerns until you were ready to run it on your own. That shouldn’t take long. You’re very capable.”

“You would need at least one full day’s travel if you run the horses hard. But more likely it’s a two-day journey.”

“And that would serve you well, don’t you think?” The Patron spoke softly, eyeing her with raised brows. “Are you really so attached here, Daughter?”

The girl chortled before she could stop herself, glancing to the attendants just as their eyes flicked to each other.

“No, Papa. Of course I’m not.”

They sipped their wine without speaking for a few minutes.

“Good society there from what I’ve heard,” the Patron mused. “The people are said to be quite eccentric, but charming.”

“You don’t think they’d wonder about an unmarried woman as their Patroness?”

“You would be properly introduced, so what is there to suspect?”   

The girl scarcely tasted the last bites of dessert, her mind digesting her father’s plan. 

As one of the most respected Patrons on the continent, an introduction from him would be invaluable. And although he hadn’t said so, she suspected the people there had heard nothing about her.

At least not yet they hadn’t.

“I must admit this sounds intriguing, Papa. But scandal can travel to great lengths.” 

“How unfortunate it is that you’re right,” the Patron said, glaring at the servants until they began to fidget. “Really, the consequences for gossip can never be severe enough.”

His tone was mild, but the faces of their attendants paled. 

The girl suppressed the urge to chuckle, the thought crossing her mind that such restraint might kill the Cook.

“Thank you, Papa. I’ll think about it.”  

The girl still couldn’t believe how quickly everything had changed. 

When she opened her eyes just before the lunch hour, the smiling warmth of her maid was the first she saw before the servant wished her a good day.

The stable hands had been deferential when she came to the barn, her favorite steed ready for her.

She hadn’t gone to the village yet to see how she would fare with the merchants, but she was certain they would be courteous when she did. 

Just like that, her formal ostracism was gone, now that had word spread that the Patron was speaking to her again. 

Yet the girl knew she would always be marked. 

Her father’s suggestion was really too wonderful, and she needn’t worry about the taint spreading any farther.

The girl sighed, turning her head to see the candle melt dripping from the night lamps to the floor. Startled, she looked out the window and saw the moon at its peak in the sky.

She must have fallen into a daze. The hour was much later than she thought. 

But on this night, she was in her room, instead of the Caverns.

The blessed relief made her fall back on her bed.  

That Moment When the Wheel of Fortune Turns Against A Really Rotten Human

Image by Vicki Lynn from Pixabay

Hello _____,

One of the last bits of wisdom my grandfather passed on to my cousin before he died was: “Remember this. You are nothing without your integrity.”

I’ve already filed a police report about some missing pieces of jewelry that belonged to my deceased father. To jog your memory - a gold watch, a watch with a large round gold face and leather wristband, a gold coin medallion with a thick chain, and a ring with an oval-shaped emerald.

In the next few days, I’ll follow up by sending the report or filing fresh reports with various Hawaiian police departments - just in case those pieces show up in pawn shops there.

The last time I saw these items was in mid-May of last year, when I was writing the memorial essays about Dad. By November 2nd, I noticed them missing because I wanted one of the watches for his Day of the Dead altar. When I went to the armoire where I kept the jewelry wallet (wrapped in a canvas bag) that held those pieces, it was gone.

I’ve been spring cleaning and emptied out the guest bedroom. Those items have not turned up.

Due to the pandemic, there were no guests in that room. Very few people came over, and those who did never went in that room. The only people who went into the guest bedroom on a regular basis were A and her sister or son, and you.

I double-checked with the friends who had recommended A to me. My friends swear by the honesty of that family. She has cleaned for them for close to 20 years. They have recommended the A crew to 7 other friends/couples, and everybody raves about how excellent, conscientious and trustworthy they are.

People work hard to establish their professional reputations. I never believed they stole from me. A few of my friends did mainly because they couldn't accept that somebody who lived with me and knew me would do something like that. It's awful that A and her team were put in a suspicious light through no fault of their own.

I know you like to blame a ghost that follows you because things go missing wherever you are. But it really looks to me like you’re a thief and a liar.

I can’t prove that you took the jewelry – along with so many other things that went missing while you lived here - but I’m 90% sure you did.

My therapist is exceptionally perceptive. Her discernment is so on-point, I wonder if she’s psychic. In the 5 ½ years I’ve seen her, she has never been wrong. She’s called it every time.

When I described to her what happened and that I was looking through the pawn shops in Portland, her immediate response was:

“Oh, she still has it. She’s going to want to keep the jewelry because it’s expensive, especially the ring with an emerald. Kleptomania is odd. In her mind she knows the emotional distress that missing jewelry will cause you, and that’s what gives her satisfaction. Knowing that she got back at you for having something she doesn’t.”

Wow. That's really demented.

With all the meals together, the chats, the confidences, the shared holidays, the little gifts to the neighbors, the platitudes of manifesting your desires from the Universe, and putting the positivity of light and love out there - underneath all that is the seething venom of malice, spite, envy, greed, and hate.

I have a few questions for you:

1.    How can you stand to fake nice your way through life?

2.    What the hell do you think you’re going to manifest with that hidden ugly-nasty that you’re so good at concealing? I hope you like smelly farts and diarrhea showers because that's likely what you have coming from the Universe.

3.    Do you actually aspire to be Gollum from Lord of the Rings, obsessing over “your precious,” and fuming over anybody who has it better than you? That character was so repugnant I cringed every time he was on the screen.

My life is blessed, and nothing you can do will ever take that away from me.

Fuck you anyway. I deserve the blessings life has to offer - love, friendship, abundance. And if this is the way you treat people, you really don’t.

You don't have a single justifiable reason for any of this.

I gave you an excellent deal that was far below market value for Portland to start. Not to mention that you got $300/month off your rent - for no more than 12 hours work/month, cleaning biweekly and doing the cat boxes during a pandemic.

In case you forgot, you approached me about that arrangement. I was hardly exploiting you. During a horrible time where most people were terrified of losing everything, you had it pretty good. I didn't even know you before you answered my ad for a housemate.

And you want to get back at me? Really?

Sure, it sucks that irreplaceable mementos of my father were probably stolen by a fake-nice human like you. I even felt like I had been raped for a while. Thievery is not the same as a violent sexual assault. But given that I trusted you with my home, where I should have been completely safe in a state of deep grief and depression, physical rape is the only way I could have felt more violated.

It's beyond belief to me that you would find any gratification in that.

Do you find the thought satisfying that I might hate you?

I pity you, Kylee.

I don't need the jewelry. They're material items and I can let them go. Dad's legacy lives on in me, and that can never be stolen.

I think you've been ripping off people you know for a long time. That's a lot of baggage you're carrying, along with the horrible karma of stealing pieces of a dead man's heritage.

Character is destiny. You really are nothing without your integrity. There is no getting away with anything - even when you think you did. Because what you do ultimately becomes what you are.

There must be a thrill, a rush of adrenaline every time you steal and don't get caught - every time you find satisfaction in feeding your greed, envy, malice, spite, and hate.

But you pay a price for that.

What is starved are those inner qualities that bring love, friendship, community, family, success, and true abundance - and I believe you crave all that, as well as the "love and light" you claim to stand for.

But it is impossible to bond with somebody who presents a face to the world that doesn't match what's going on inside because there's nothing genuine to connect to. Nothing "woke" about that.

I can't imagine the emotional desolation it must take to do people like that.

Yet if you insist on avarice, on greedily grasping heirlooms you have no right to - whether they are in your parents' house, in boxes at your friend’s house, with you in ___, or wherever else they end up - what are you bringing on yourself but bad luck?

There is another option, Kylee. If that jewelry is returned safely to me - and I don't care how that happens - I won’t press charges.

It would be even better if most, if not all, of the missing or “broken” items that disappeared from my house while you lived here also showed up.

I can’t promise that will clear your karma. But it’s a step in the right direction.

Here’s my address and phone number in case you forgot or in case somebody you know needs to get a hold of me:

_____

For your sake, I hope you take that sharp detour to the high road, even if the incline is steep.
M

6 Post-Breakup Freedom Drunk Writing Prompts Because I Can! And They're Original!

Breakups come with dubious advantages. Here, one advantage is that I find it a safe distraction to make up writing prompts that have nothing to do with my ex-relationship. Since I’m having a hard time concentrating on everything else, this is a gift for other writers.

These prompts work for fantasy, romance, suspense, adventure, and journaling - which could help with memoir or even fresh ideas for a novel. It all depends on YOU and your inspiration!

Perhaps you’d like to check out my novel, “Ella Bandita and the Wanderer.” If so, click here!

If you’d prefer a freebie (Part 1) to check it out, click here!

In the meantime, enjoy these prompts and I hope they inspire you!

The Perfect Moment of Weakness

Image by Adina Voicu from Pixabay

Ironically, the perfect moment came from my suppressed irritation.

I was already in a dreadful mood when I met up with the Patron’s Daughter.

It was the peak of harvest season and that day had been viciously hot.

Working the fields had been pure misery. Even the most stoic of workers cursed as we pulled vegetables from the ground, drenching the earth with our sweat.

I almost passed out, and several others did.

So there was no holding my tongue when I met with the Patron’s Daughter, who was especially petulant that day.

“Aren’t you getting bored with this?” I declared. “Do you ever think about what you want, or do you simply like to complain?”

I can still remember the pitch of irritation in my voice.

I was both aghast and exhilarated by what I said.

 I have no idea where those words came from, but what I said was perfect. I knew from her first reaction.

Her blue eyes grew wide for a moment. Then she glared at me.

It was clear I had offended her. Yet what she didn’t do was storm off in indignation.

“How dare you!”

“If you want to marry the Noble Son that much, I know somebody who might be able to help you.”

“That is absurd. How could you, Addie, possibly know anybody who could help me marry the Noble Son?”

The Patron’s Daughter had recovered enough to regain hauteur. She puffed herself up and looked down on me.

“The same way I came to know you and all your secret sorrows.”

What I said next made me writhe with self-loathing for days, but it sealed my change in destiny.

“People confide in me because I don’t matter. Just like you do.”

The ruthless honest stopped the Patron’s Daughter in her tracks. Her expression could best be described as frozen.

“Everybody needs to confess,” I continued before she could recover. “And I’m no danger to anybody. So I know things and I know people.”

“All right,” the Patron’s Daughter said hesitantly. “Tell me more.”

I had her.

This was her moment of weakness that I had been waiting for.

This moment was also the first time I felt the delicious thrill of power.

It made me giddy for days.

“There’s a cabin deeper in the woods-”

“Nobody goes into the Ancient Grove,” she interrupted. “Everybody knows that.”

“We’re in the Ancient Grove right now.”

“We’re at the edge. That’s not the same thing.”

“We’re deep enough that nobody can see us here,” I countered. “So what difference does it make if we go a little further in?”

The Patron’s Daughter paused. Before she could argue further, I pressed my point.

“As I said, there’s a cabin in the woods and the man who lives there swears he can see inside a person’s soul and know their true desires.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know, but he swears he can bring people what they truly desire.”

She frowned.

“That is ridiculous!”

I swore inwardly.

I had known the Sorcerer’s bait was weak when he told me what to say. I protested that it wouldn’t work.

But the Sorcerer had insisted that’s what I would tell her.

The Patron’s Daughter was stupid, but even she wasn’t so easily fooled.

Yet the Sorcerer had insisted on a certain script and that I follow it word for word, even in the face of her resistance.

So I did.

I shrugged as the Sorcerer told me to, and kept my tone light and casual.

“Well, that’s what I heard. I also heard he only takes visitors on the eve before the holy day of rest.”

“And what does he want in exchange?”
“I don’t know.”

The Patron’s Daughter shook her head, and gave a rather unladylike snort.

“I’m only trying to help. I know where the cabin is. I can take you there in a few days if you want.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Suit yourself,” I said and shrugged again. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

I cursed the Sorcerer and his paltry script when the Patron’s Daughter flipped her long raven hair and walked off.

The savory taste of invincibility and power disappeared, leaving bitterness in my mouth and my being filled with despair.

I had actually had the Patron’s Daughter where I had wanted her. Yet because of the Sorcerer, I had blown it.

I still went to the cabin as I was supposed to.

When I walked in, it struck me how barren this cabin was, only one room with meager furnishings. Perhaps a monk might have been comfortable there, but it was incredible the Sorcerer believed this could be the setting for the seduction and downfall of the Patron’s Daughter.

To my surprise, the Sorcerer was almost beaming when I walked in.

“Excellent work!” he said. “Addie, that could not have gone any better!”

“Are you mad? She said no.”

“Of course, she said no today. Everybody resists at first. She’ll say yes, probably by the end of the week.”

“I really doubt that.”

“You underestimate yourself. How many times have I been right when you’ve disagreed with me?”

I said nothing.

“Trust me,” the Sorcerer cajoled, his tone almost soothing. “You hooked her. She won’t stop thinking about what you said. She’ll even start obsessing about it. Chances are she’ll look exhausted by the time she comes to you. Keep up your melancholy walks in the woods.”

The Dead Heart

Image by Gloria Williams from Pixabay

His sleep was dreamless. 

The Sorcerer woke up into her cold blue gaze. 

The girl was dressed, watching him with a bland expression as she handed him his robes. She stayed quiet until he’d put them on.

“I believe you have something for me,” she said.

The Sorcerer looked at his former protegée and nodded.

He got up, shocked at the pain searing through him while searching amongst the shelves. He kept his back to the girl until he found the promised magic dust that would protect her in moments of danger.

The Sorcerer had never before had cause to notice the emptiness inside him after a seduction came to an end. Exhaustion he hadn’t known since he’d been mortal spread through his limbs when he found the leather pouch. 

Then he glimpsed the black velvet bag, nestled in the corner of the highest shelf, and his spirit lifted. The Sorcerer had actually forgotten about the girl’s heart. 

No wonder he was so tired. 

He turned around and handed the young woman the pouch of magic dust that she could use to turn anybody into anything she wanted with a word.

She took it in hand, but eyed him closely, with a slight scowl.

So the girl noticed his shift in mood. Good. That was very good.

Her powers of observation were impeccable, one of the many reasons she was the most satisfying conquest he’d enjoyed in centuries.

“Use this with caution,” the Sorcerer advised her for the last time. “You only need a pinch. It’s very powerful.”

The nodded, ruffling her skirts to pocket the leather pouch. 

“I don’t know if the world is ready for you,” the Sorcerer mused. “But you’re more than ready for the world. Good luck in your new life.”

The girl nodded absently, and said nothing.

She stared up the tunnel for a minute before taking her first step out of the Caverns. But once she started, her progress was steady as she made her way up the stairs. 

The Sorcerer watched her go, a sharp stab in his breast catching him off guard so much that he almost doubled over. 

This pain was confusing. He had no reason to suffer. The Sorcerer glanced at the black velvet bag, his dry mouth salivating. Soon, he would get what he really needed, and this ache inside his breast would soon be gone.

The girl stopped halfway up the spiral.

Her halt was so sudden the Sorcerer wondered if she could hear what he was thinking.

She looked down at him, her brows drawn close. 

The Sorcerer knew what her question would be before she spoke, her contralto voice echoing down the tunnel.

“What are you going to do with my heart, Sorcerer?”    

“I’m going to eat it.”

The Sorcerer was pleased that he didn’t hesitate in his answer. And thus, he dispelled the last vestiges of the illusion of love. 

The girl’s face paled and the Sorcerer felt like himself again, reveling in the new surge of vitality in his blood.

“I always knew there would be a hidden cost,” she murmured.

The girl turned her face to the sky, deep lavender in the hour before sunrise, and finished her climb out of the Caverns and disappeared. 

She would be all right, the Sorcerer thought, confident he’d done better by her than to any of his other conquests. 

With everything she’d gained from him, her power was formidable. 

The Sorcerer shook the torpor from his limbs and turned back to the shelf, his eyes reaching for the velvet bag before he got it in hand. 

Pulling the gathers open, his innards clenched when he saw the heart. He had never waited so long to feed. 

But first, he had to bring it back to life.

The heart was so quiet and still. 

The Sorcerer waved his hand over the bag and whispered the spell of awakening. 

Then he waited, but nothing happened. 

Jostling the bag between his fingers, his voice rumbled with another command to make the organ pulse again. 

But the heart rocked in silence. 

The Sorcerer frowned. 

This had never happened before. 

Those were powerful spells.

But now he needed his strongest remedy. 

The Sorcerer searched until he found a tonic he once used to bring a dead man back to life. He held his breath as he sprinkled a few drops and waited. 

Nothing changed. 

He doused the heart with the tonic, massaging the supple tissue, and muttered the most powerful incantation in his memory, a spell that had never failed him until now. 

A crest of panic rose in his breast, but the Sorcerer pushed it down. 

This couldn’t be happening. 

The Sorcerer had no appetite for a stillborn heart. 

The girl’s heart had to be alive.

False Friendship

Image by anncapictures from Pixabay

As summer progressed, the polite chats between the Patron’s Daughter and I grew more personal.

Within a few weeks, I became her confidante.

The intimacy did not increase my sympathy or respect for the Patron’s Daughter. If anything, she became even more contemptible to me the more I got to know her.

 She spoke of the Noble Son’s desertion almost every day.

She never referred to his going home as a rejection. All she thought of was the embarrassment and the loss of pride.

In the eyes of others, the Patron’s Daughter had always been unattainable. That was a state that she craved to the point of ravenous. So for a girl like her to be on the receiving end of a young man who was unattainable to her was unspeakably humiliating.

She did not handle the switch with much grace.

When the Patron’s Daughter spoke of the Noble Son, she never expressed longing or heartache.

She never asked about the reason why the Noble Son would leave without a proposal or an invitation to come visit the Southeast, as was the customary etiquette amongst highborn families.

It was clear that the Noble Son and his parents had no desire to pursue a connection with them.

I would be lying if I denied to you the pleasure I took hearing all this.   

Getting to know the Patron’s Daughter had a bizarre effect.

Although I certainly didn’t like her any more, I was finally able to stop hating her. Not only was she as spoiled as she had always seemed, her conceit rendered her pitiful.

It was very freeing, really.

Although the deceit of this friendship made me feel foul, there were many gifts I received from it. Besides the peace of mind that comes when hatred dies, I learned much about the danger of vanity.

Over the years, especially in the Life, this wisdom was absolutely priceless. I’ve received much in the way of lavish praise as a Courtesan, especially in the early years when I was new to the Life. 

Of course, I enjoyed the extravagant compliments. Who wouldn’t? But I saw them more as an amusement. I never digested them into who I thought I was.

This is a pitfall many courtesans fall into. I watched many a beautiful and luscious woman render herself absurd from taking flattery far too seriously.

Many a promising career ended prematurely this way.

On a practical note, the vanity of the Patron’s Daughter also made it easy for me to betray her. Her arrogance was awfully tedious.

I was often provoked. 

More than once, I nearly bit my tongue off restraining the urge to suggest the Noble Son might prefer a happy marriage to an advantageous one as she whined about his desertion time after time.

But I didn’t dare.

One moment of honesty and the Patron’s Daughter would be lost, and I would be doomed.

Every few days, the Sorcerer would appear out of nowhere.

He never asked questions about how things were progressing with the Patron’s Daughter. Instead, he suggested ways to increase her trust.

One time, after a particularly vexing walk and talk, I confided to him that I had been right to despise the Patron’s Daughter all my life. I complained that my tongue was wounded from my self-restraint over the little snit.

By then, her tears were dried up.

The anger of wounded pride had set in.

For the first few weeks, the Patron’s Daughter held out hope for an invitation once the Noble Son and his family were settled at home. Within that time, our patrons received eloquent letters of thanks for the gracious hospitality extended to them.

But, as was the custom when a friendship is desired between two families of influence, the Noble family from the Southeast made no invitation to visit in return.

Courteous and elegant in the execution of the potential connection, it was clear that a friendship was not wished for on their end as they wished our patrons and their beautiful daughter health and happiness in the future.

The reason I heard these details was because the Patron’s Daughter brought the letter with her and read it aloud to me, sprays of spittle coming between her enraged lips.

I didn’t hear one word in ten of the venom she spewed afterwards about the Noble Son who had not wanted to marry her.

How could I? My heart was soaring.

That afternoon, I was quite distracted.

But I digress.

Back to the Sorcerer and his scheming.

“I don’t care of your tongue becomes thick with callouses,” the Sorcerer snapped. “You will continue to bite it for the sake of being all that is agreeable and comforting. You are to express nothing but gratitude to be in her presence and in her confidence.”

Bile rose to my throat and I opened my mouth to protest.

But the Sorcerer held up his hand.

“That is what she expects from you, Addie. In her mind, you have no right to treat her with disdain. You do that that even once and you will never get another chance.”

Writer's Block in a Sex Scene? How to Open Up and Break Through

Writer’s block hits in so many different ways.

Technically, right now, I’m not “blocked” per the usual meaning, because I’m writing regularly.

Even if I’m in a slack phase in my writing, I am making progress on the crucial second draft of “The Shepherd and the Courtesan” (working title only), and I have to keep up on the blog.

Since I was blocked in the truest sense of the phrase for years in that I didn’t write at all, what’s holding me up now is not that much of a big deal.

But I do find it interesting.

There’s one scene that’s holding me up – the first sex scene between the Shepherd and the Courtesan. This scene does not happen right away in this novel.

In fact, it doesn’t happen until the second half of the novel, and there are several sex scenes before the reader even gets to them - sex scenes that are juicier, more transgressive, and more exciting.

Before we get to this, we have the psychological BDSM sex scenes between the Patron’s Daughter and the Brute – neither of them main characters – while the main character, Addie, who will later become the Courtesan, acts as voyeur.

We get to Addie’s flight to the Capital City, and none of the sex scenes are with her as a Courtesan for the sake of pacing.

But we do get the first sex scene between the Shepherd and the Woman who would become Ella Bandita; and the first sex scene between the Shepherd and the Courtesan is right after that.

But the difference between all the other sex scenes and this one is that this sex scene between the Shepherd and the Courtesan is much more vulnerable.

This scene is rooted in tenderness, whereas the others have some element of drama, hedonism, and intrigue.

Also in the scene between these characters, I’m writing about those who are not the usual players in an erotic scene, mainly because of age and ageism.

The Shepherd is 50, and the Courtesan is 60. They are still true to the usual standard of romantic fantasy in that both characters are exceptionally attractive.

In an erotic scene, the Courtesan suspends disbelief because she’s been very sexual for more than 40 years; and any woman who stays highly sexually active keeps her juice much longer than those women who don’t.

The Shepherd, however, has been mostly solitary and without a mate for 25 years. There is a lot of vulnerability there. I’m resistant to write about that, and I wonder why.

I wasn’t resistant to writing about the psychological and physical violence between the Brute and the Patron’s Daughter.

For the record, that’s not how I approach sexuality in my personal life. I’m not into BDSM, although I have a lot of friends who are and they are fascinating people. Perhaps that’s why. I’m emotionally detached.

So maybe I can’t be emotionally detached at the thought of a character who had embraced his solitude, and was now suddenly confronted with emotional and sexual intimacy, along with the fears that would entail.

That hits closer to the home of my experience.

Then I arrive at the logistics of impotence.

Erectile dysfunction is reasonable to expect in a middle-aged man who has not had sex in a quarter century.

That likelihood cannot be ignored because it would render the scene ridiculous, even in a “fantasy.”

Oh, and then there’s the logistics of being a woman writing a sex scene from the POV of a man.

I’ve done it before with the Wanderer in the previous novel, but it adds a whole new level of awkwardness to writing it.

Since Viagra is not an option for a story set in pre-Industrial fairy tale times, I consulted with my Tantra teacher on natural methods to induce a solid hard-on for the good Shepherd.

She shared the finger-in-anus-to-massage-the-prostrate technique that she claims would raise an erection in a dead man. (Ok, I exaggerate.)

Although that information is very pragmatic, I couldn’t figure out a graceful, poetic way to introduce it in the scene.

And the sensitive Shepherd, who has long been celibate, is more likely to be scared off with a move like that. Maybe I’ll use it later in the story once they get better acquainted.

Another tantra teacher suggested that the Shepherd start waking up with erections, getting back in touch with his sense of arousal before they ever get together.

Now that, I can use.

For their first time, so far, I went with tender loving care, encouragement, tantric breathing, and palpating the perineum.

Although there’s no guarantee those gentler methods would be effective in real life, who is to say that’s impossible? It only has to be in the realm of possibility, and that is good enough for me.

As far as insights and how-to advice, I think I led by example.

You can write a blog or a Facebook Note, and open up to strangers. Writing this post gave relief to my shyness. I've never used Facebook Live or Instagram Live, but I bet that would lead to some pretty out there input, and there’s always something useful.

If you prefer a more intimate place to get feedback on your sex scenes - in fiction and in life ;-) - I recommend talking about it with people face-to-face.

Discuss the sex scenes with close friends or your writers’ group. I will need to do this eventually for that masculine perspective on those sex scenes told from the man’s experience.

But even without that, other perspectives can be very helpful in fleshing out a challenging what ifs and snafus. And talking about it in person is likely to break you out of your reticence and embarrassment.

Oh, and there’s always masturbation. With a fantasy going on inside your head, maybe even the sex scene you’re stuck on.

My golden rule when it comes to writing about sex: If what I’m writing doesn’t turn me on, how can I expect that to stimulate the reader?

I’m ready to take on that sex scene now. How do you handle being shy about writing a descriptive sex scene?

For anybody who’d like a nibble - and this is only a nibble - because sex is part of the background, not the main event in the scene, click here to view this excerpt out of my work-in-progress, “The Shepherd and the Courtesan.”

The Seeds of Transformation

Image by Meryl Katys from Pixabay

The Sorcerer jostled the remaining drops into a ruby swirl and shook his head.

Perhaps he’d get another week out of the Trainer, but no more.

He glanced at his collection of vials. He had nothing that could compare to this one.

Most of the essences were yellow because the weak of will were easy to catch. Melancholic blues were too ascetic for the drive of lust. His black essence was a rutting brute, nothing seductive about him.

Maybe one of the greens would be acceptable. They were the romantics, the poets, artists, and dreamers.

He hadn’t another red because that kind of man was the most rare.

The Sorcerer cursed himself.

He should’ve introduced the essence of another man to his protégée much sooner under the reasoning that the most skilled seductresses take on many lovers.

Yet when the time came to transform, the Sorcerer always gave in to the lure of the Trainer’s red.

In all these years, he’d never been so careless.

He knew how perilous it was to take on the essence of another man.

Whenever he transformed, that man’s identity would take over and he would absorb the memories and personality of one who left a piece of himself behind in a garment marked with his blood or sweat, and the Sorcerer would fall into the passive role of an observer.

But at last, he could feel again.

Sentiment, affection, and attachment could destroy him, but to have them again was always such a relief.

The Trainer was the most intoxicating essence he’d ever had.

The first change the Sorcerer noticed was the surge of passionate joy; he became delirious with a love for life.

When he stepped out of the mist from the cauldron engulfed with the Trainer’s essence for the first time, and saw the girl gaping at him in horrified disbelief, he almost laughed out loud.

But she still couldn’t resist him.

The Sorcerer hardly blamed her; he was every bit as seduced by the Trainer as she was.

The Sorcerer used to watch them when they came to his parts seven years before.

When he first heard the rumble of their horses, he had thought another posse had gathered to hunt him down.

This was a common occurrence after his conquests, and he had recently claimed the daughter of a neighboring patron.

The Sorcerer smiled as he recalled how beautiful she had been with her fair hair and luminous skin.

Yet she was utterly ridiculous, fancying herself in love with the essence he used to seduce her.

The Sorcerer had chosen a green, a playwright of lyrical romances, because she dreamed of performing on stage.

Although she was engaged to another man, the maiden couldn’t resist the temptation to realize her fantasy, acting out one of the young man’s more scandalous plays to its climax when the leading lady surrendered to the call of the flesh.

After the seduction had reached its consummation, the playwright’s essence collapsed.

When the maiden had woken up to the reality of what she’d done, that was the moment the Sorcerer claimed the payment of her heart.

That conquest had left him in an irritation of malcontent that would persist for weeks.

These girls were all alike.

The Sorcerer always seduced them through their vanity.

The highborn girls were more than willing to disgrace their families and sell their hearts just to gratify a fleeting illusion.

It was too easy, really. The terminable sameness of it all was tedious.

If the Sorcerer didn’t need them for his immortality, he wouldn’t bother with the little fools.

So on the day he heard the resounding gallop of horses halt at the river before the Ancient Grove, the Sorcerer shook his head in disgust. With the spell he used to safeguard his Caverns, the humiliated fiancé and dishonored father were absurd if they believed they could ever find him.

Nonetheless, the Sorcerer poured the liquid cloud to watch them become lost in the trees.

Then he cast his mind, the Sorcerer was surprised to see the Patron’s daughter instead, riding with young man who was clearly in service to her father.

The girl had changed much since he last saw her.

She wasn’t a woman yet, but she was no child either.

The Sorcerer had never seen her escort before.

The young man was handsome, but the patches holding his pants together showed he was not her equal.

Yet the young man lacked the downcast humility of servants. There was a devil-may-care gleam in his eyes, even when he shuddered and peered into the dark trees.

“I see your point, little Miss. This place doesn’t feel too good.”

“I told you,” she said. “Can we go now?”

“Let’s head north a bit first. If it gets no better, I promise you we’ll leave. Okay?”

The girl frowned, gazing in the direction he pointed where the trees stood half as tall as those before her.

With long skirts flowing down the flank of her horse, she looked like the proper young lady she was born to be.

It was incredible she was even here.

The Abandoned Valley and Ancient Grove were forbidden and her father was known for being strict.

There was fear in the girl’s eyes, but she still nodded her agreement.

The Sorcerer couldn’t believe it.

Her escort had sharp instincts.

The northwest end of the Valley edged the woods of No Man’s Land. There the border separated them from the country to the west.

The Sorcerer had no power there beyond the ability to watch them through second sight.

The distance was enough to put the girl and the strange young man at ease. They stayed for the rest of the afternoon.

The Sorcerer was intrigued with what he saw.

The pair returned most days that summer, riding through his domain in haste to the northwest side of the Abandoned Valley where the light was softer, the trees shorter and the air filled with the music of birds.

The Sorcerer watched over them every time they came.

He learned the young man had been a wanderer who adventured in the most exotic reaches of the world, stowing away on a ship only to return to the country of his birth.

Like all vagabonds when they finally came home, he was met with suspicion wherever he went until he convinced the Patron to hire him to train the gray colt he always rode.

The girl had never interested him before with her homely face and sullen demeanor.

But over the following months, the unloved daughter of the Patron blossomed under the Trainer’s influence.

And the Sorcerer changed his mind.

Each day, the adventurer regaled her with jokes and outrageous stories.

With her solemn nature, the girl scowled at him often.

But one day, she finally grinned and soon afterwards, started to smile.

The girl burst into her first giggle towards the end of spring.

She looked startled at the sound, hiding her mouth with her hands.

By mid summer, she broke apart into peals of laughter, throwing her head back just like the Trainer did.

Her metamorphosis was absolutely compelling.

For the first time in far too long, the Sorcerer was intrigued.