Writing Prompt

Castle Wanderings

From Writers Write Facebook page

Link
https://bit.ly/2lyTcv5?fbclid=IwAR2HrsCKmp_4yifWVrIBZozT2uwA014zhmSV3u5SGD1a7vPhri4joN2rdB8

I look out of the Tower window. A new day dawns. It’s early, the birds have only just woken up and the sun is only just peaking over the horizon. It’s quiet. Peaceful. All I ever wanted for my afterlife.

Alas, that is not what I get.

I take advantage of this time before… Before all hell breaks loose.

That’s what it feels like, every single day.

I don’t understand it.

In my day, a castle was private unless otherwise arranged. Unless the monarch requested someone’s presence, they wouldn’t step foot anywhere near the perimeter.

Now they come in their droves. And queue. And talk. And point.

I drift down to the castle wall and peer over the rampart at the commoners standing far too close.

I drift along the halls and view them as they view their surroundings.

They poke and prod at all the belongings of royalty. They gawk at the priceless artefacts. All which have a value that exceed their wildest dreams. Them in their cheap clothing, and absurd headwear. Holding flat boxes, and oddly shaped boxes around their necks.

I wish I could poke them back. If I could, I would grab a musket off the wall and force them out. I’d brandish the swords and bar entrance. I’d throw the knives near the appendages and scare them off.

It’s unrelenting. They don’t stop coming. Even if the rain is hammering down, or ice covers the paths.

To think that this is what my ancient and noble house has been reduced to: a circus attraction for the common masses.

Windsor Castle

Still as a statue

In the middle of the forest there lay the ruins of an old building. Half the walls and the foundation were intact but the roof had long since crumbled away. This ruin was not known to many, but to the locals it was a curious treasure.

In the middle of the ruin there lay a statue. Unlike the building surrounding it, the statue was in perfect condition. A woman hunched over hugging her knees with her face hidden away from public view.

In the middle of a nearby town there lay a girl. She had grown up visiting the ruin and statue as most of the children in the area did. She had imagined stories around the woman. As a child she had talked to the statue. Now as a young woman she still visited the statue when she needed comfort.

Maya didn’t know why the statue brought her comfort. Maybe it was imagining someone else’s story that eased her pain. Maybe just escaping her life just for a few minutes helped. She tried to visit whenever she could get away – which wasn’t often.

Right now she was supposed to be at an appointment but she was called here instead. She felt a magnetic pull to be here in this precise moment.

She ran her hand along the smooth cold marble. It soothed her frayed nerves.

Back and forth as her breathing slowed to match the rhythm.

Until suddenly her hand lay on top of warm flesh. She jerked her hand back and stared transfixed as the marble receded and the statue turned into a real woman.

Passion

Another 100 words for the writing group

Full of dreams of a bright future. Finish school, get a degree, then enter your dream job. Not so fast, you need another degree. But how to pay for more education? Ignore all the jobs you’re still not qualified for, keep looking for anything. Oh there’s a job, the pay is ok and it kind of has some of your interests. Working and saving with the next degree in mind. By the time you’ve completed that next degree, you find out you still need more. By now the job that’s supporting your dreams has destroyed all passion for anything.

Ray

This was a writing group exercise on the prompt “ray”

“Dawn is not long off,” he says, urging me on. Yawns stifle my grumpy response.

“I promise you won’t regret it.” He’s dragging me out the door.

It’s far too early to be this happy, I think, too tired to actually vocalise.

I’m trying to shoot a death stare at him as I’m half lifted into the car. It probably looks more like I’m going back to sleep rather than the death rays I’m hoping for.

He hops in the car and speeds off. Screeching to a halt across the lake in time to see the sun’s rays break the horizon.

Officially published

I am officially a published author, albeit in a book of short stories my writers’ group put together. Still it’s something. I have added two stories to the collection. Both are up here but I’ve changed them since then. Both are set in Windsor, one is about journalists finding a scoop, and the other is set at Halloween.

More details on the book can be found here: http://windsorwriters.co.uk

front-cover

Buy Now

Villains

I saw a post from a fellow writing group member about his villain and it got me thinking.

I don’t have a villain in the sense of someone everyone loves to hate. So many villains are actually liked, and in some cases they are liked more than the heroes.

Don’t get me wrong, I have antagonists, just no love to hate people. In the next one, I’m writing an annoying good guy. But again no love to hate bad guy.

I’m now wondering how important this kind of character is?

Often the key to building this character is forcing sympathy, showing the backstory, and how they got that way.

In a way, this love to hate person is liked because they have flaws. They aren’t put up high on a pedestal and out of reach. They are – in some cases – more relatable.

This is something I’ll need to think about some more.

Writing Challenge

A few months ago, a friend of mine ask me to join him in doing a writing challenge. At the time I dreaded agreeing to to it because I thought, “Oh no how can I possibly think of new stuff to write every time.” He told me the first task (he had a book for prompts), and at first I didn’t even understand it, then when I did I panicked because it was similar genre to what I was writing.

Then I calmed down and started thinking about it. One day at work the idea struck and I wrote it out. It was challenging to limit it to 500 words, as I’d really love to expand it. So I wrote it and sent it to him before the deadline, and eagerly awaited his. It never came.

Anyway, I found, much to my surprise that I actually enjoyed it. I had tried to do something similar on another blog (which eventually fizzled out), but having someone interested in reading it helped motivate me.

I know writing is supposed to be for enjoyment, not recognition, and it is when I’m working on my books. But writing these short posts I like to have an audience.

The door post was inspired by a photo someone I used to know had taken (I wish I could share it). I might share pieces I’ve written before, or new ones if I’m inspired. Next post will be the one I mentioned above.

Maybe I’ll get the book that came from and do the challenge myself. Hmmmm

The Hidden Door

All around is city life. All straight forward and clean cut. There isn’t much colour or mystery. It’s the perfect busy city presented to the world in all its glory. Not much in the way of creativity. Everything needs to be precise and controlled. In the hunt for knowledge nothing is left to the imagination. There is a clinical explanation for every little detail of life. Not much in the way of the unknown. 

Small details that go unnoticed in the greater scheme of city life. People are blinkered by their busy lives. Everything passes by in a blur of grey and routine.  

But if you look hard enough you can find pops of colour among the bleak outline. You can find the mysterious uncertainty yet to be discovered. Tiny wonders that catch the eye and draw people out of the blur. 

This can be seen by something as simple as a door. A door, unlike those around it. A small door tucked away at the side of a forgotten building. Hidden under curtains of flowers and ivy. 

A brown wooden door framed by little pink flowers and thin green tendrils of ivy. This unknown hidden door leading to an unknown place. 

It’s a small beacon of mystery in an otherwise stiflingly boring and linear world. 

It’s uniqueness a contrast to the monotony.