Ben and Kate Go Fantasy

My novel is about a young Christian family man whose faith and future are challenged when his wife is diagnosed with ovarian cancer.

A recent writing prompt in my writing critique group was to take the characters from our novel and place them into a completely different genre.

I decided to make Ben and Kate go fantasy. A couple of my co-writers liked the story so much they think I should incorporate it into the book. What do you think?

Walking to the end of their street, Kate and Ben left the cul-de-sac and entered the woods, following a well-worn path leading through dense pines whose branches allowed only a bit of sun to penetrate to the forest floor.

It was cool and quiet in the thick woods, but Kate was scared. What if she died on the operating table? Or soon after? She’d leave Ben alone with the responsibility of caring for himself and the girls. How would he juggle his work and parenting? Maybe she should start observing single women at church and see if she could find a suitable replacement for herself. Then she could finagle a way for them and Ben to get to know each other. But there was no time for her to do that before the surgery coming up in a few days. She’d just have to work on that later, provided she survived the operation.

Ben poked her with his elbow. “Hey, where are you? You haven’t said a word since we got in the woods. What are you thinking about?”

Kate’s face flushed. She certainly couldn’t admit to him what she’d been planning. “Oh, sort of wishing I had a fairy godmother and whoosh—everything would be taken care of.”

“Well, if you see her, ask her to have money grow on trees, too, will you?”

Kate laughed. “Is that your big wish? More money?”

“Uh-huh. It costs a lot of money to fly to the moon.”

“Oh, now we’re flying to the moon, are we? And how do you propose that we get there?”

“I don’t know. How about in a big bubble?”

“Now there’s a plan!”

Kate put her hand on Ben’s arm. “Hold on—look over there.” Kate pointed to a

cave. “I don’t remember that being there before.” She pulled on him. “Let’s go check it out.”

They approached the opening and poked their heads inside. It smelled like dirt and wet pine needles with a hint of lemongrass. To the left of the opening the daylight

barely illuminated a set of narrow stone stairs leading up around a corner.

Kate pointed at them. “Let’s see where those go.” She entered the opening.

“Whoa, whoa.” Ben reached for Kate, but he only grabbed air. She was already climbing the stairs, so he dashed up the stairs behind her. They walked around and around until they reached the top that opened into a voluminous cavern. The sides sparkled as if sprinkled with silver dust, and pinpricks of light twinkled in the roof like a host of stars. 

A mosaic of agate stone tiles patterned the floor, and glowing iridescent pillars reached from floor to ceiling lighting the way. Large white and pink quartz rocks, lit up from within, dotted the scene.

            Kate stopped. “How did we never know about this place?” She shook her head in disbelief. “It’s gorgeous.”

            “Hello.”

Kate spun around to see who spoke. The only thing near her was a huge polished opal with a diamond studded edge butting out of the cave wall. She approached it and put out her hand, touching its smooth surface. It was warm to her touch and the more she rubbed it, the clearer it became. Soon a lovely lady’s face appeared in the stone. Her blond hair was drawn back from her face in braids wrapped around the crown of her

head. Her skin was firm and white like fine china, her cheeks like roses mounted thereon.

Her ruby lips drew Kate into their spell.  

            Something inside Kate’s head told her she recognized the face, but she couldn’t think clearly as to who it was.

The lady spoke. “I’m glad you’ve come, Kate. I am here to grant you one wish.”

Ben bumped against her. She turned to him. “What should I wish for?”

He cocked his head at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you hear this lady?” She pointed to the opal. “See her face in the stone.”

Ben shook his head. “No. I don’t see anything but a sparkly wall.” 

“Come closer, then. Maybe the angle is wrong for you. Look close in this opal. The lady in there asked me what I wish for.” 

Ben peered at the wall. “I don’t see anything.” He rubbed his forehead. “I guess you should wish for whatever you want. Make it fun, though, will you?” 

A grin split Kate’s face. “You bet.” She turned to the lady in the opal. “I want to go to the moon in a bubble.” 

The lady closed her eyes and smiled. “That I can do.” Opening her eyes, she said, “Follow the lighted path and your request will be awaiting you.”

Her face faded from the stone and the light passed out of it. In its place was a blank wall.  

Wait. Kate touched the wall. She remembered who the lady reminded her of—Laura Miller from church, only a lot prettier than Laura. Not that Laura wasn’t attractive, but she lacked a certain energy in her face that this lady had. Maybe Laura needs to be needed. Kate would have to think about that when she had time.

Kate turned to Ben and gestured ahead of herself. “Lead on, brave husband.

Follow the lighted path.” 

They turned to continue the way they’d been going, but a series of the agate tiles on their right lit up. Gingerly they stepped on the first one. At the pressure of their feet, a deep rich tone echoed forth and filled the space around them. They stepped on the next tile. A baritone note with perfect vibrato enveloped them and joined its brother bass in

the air, both of them hovering there waiting for the next embellishment to join it.   

With delight, Kate and Ben ran along the lighted tiles, creating a swelling symphony of their own behind them. Breathless, they came to the end of the cave. In front of them, a glistening sphere filled the aperture.  

Kate reached out to touch the side, but her hand passed right through it. She yanked it back. “Oh my!” 

Ben examined the bubble. “Why is this in our way? We can't get around it and there's no door to go through it.”

            Kate took his hand and smiled at him. “This isn’t in our way. It’s our ride. C’mon.” Tugging on Ben’s hand, she pulled him with her through the side of the bubble. They settled on a white velvet seat trimmed with silver cords.

            “What’s going on here? Is this some kind of an amusement park?”

          Kate settled herself into Ben’s side. A light sweet-smelling mist filled the compartment. Ben drifted off to sleep. As their moon carriage floated upward she murmured, “Oh, no, Ben. It’s the ride of a lifetime.”

Haute Couture in Paradise

Prompt: You are being sent to a deserted island and are allowed to take only five things: what do you take? After six months on the island, which ones were poor choices and which ones have been helpful?

I’d only had two days to make my choices: what five things would I take with me to a deserted island? I was going, and I had no say in it. What immediately came to mind were, of course, items I couldn’t live without on a daily basis. First and foremost would be my iPhone. With that I could keep in touch with home, and not be lonely or totally out of touch when I finally made it back to civilization. A hairbrush, toothbrush and paste, Scope, lipstick and compact, tissues, nail clippers, nail polish, and remover. But, when I counted everything up, I was way over my five-item limit, like twice over. Back to the drawing board. 

Warming up the PC, I put on my thinking cap. I figured I should check out what there is to do on a deserted island, and then I would know what to take. Thinking of baked Alaska, chocolate raspberry demitasse, and crème brulée, imagine my shock when I read on Wikipedia.com that a deserted island has nothing to do with dessert, but is “an uninhabited island that has yet to be (or is not currently) populated by humans.” What­–no people? Who wants to even go there, then? Well, I guessed I’d scrap the makeup and the nail stuff. Probably the brush and tooth products, too, because there’d be no one to care if my hair were a rat’s nest or that I had a permanent case of halitosis.

I asked my teen-aged daughter what she thought I should take. Island equals beaches, she said, so take plenty of sunscreen and a pair of Oakleys. She also suggested taking War and Peace. If I couldn’t fall asleep at night, trying to read that would do the trick. I could also use the book as a workout weight to keep my muscles toned while I’m away from the gym. As a last resort, she supposed, I could always read it.

Asking the same question of her older brother, who, as we all know, knows everything, he told me to take magazines. After I’d read them, I could always use the pages for toilet paper. Oh, and take a Swiss army knife, he said, it has a lot of cool stuff on it. I checked it out. Do you know the Swiss Army Climber has teeny, tiny scissors, tweezers and even a toothpick?  But, unless someone stranded on the island before me had left a nice bottle of White Zinfandel, I wouldn’t get to try out the cute little corkscrew-thingy.

Although it hurt to do so, I sat down and thought wisely of the most important things to take in order to survive. I figured if life were about simply existing, then woman’s greatest needs were food, shelter, clothing, heat—and chocolate, which doesn’t count as a food.

In order to meet my housing needs, I’d take an LL Bean tent with extra rooms in it. I looked forward to decorating it with driftwood, shells and plants from the forest.

As far as clothes went, since no one would be there to admire my coordinated Nordstrom outfits and Kenneth Cole shoes, I chose a full-length black Jessica London raincoat with detachable hood—my one “little black thing.”  It would take care of me in the rain and double as a blanket in the tent. When the clothes I wore to the island were just bare shreds, I could wear that.

          Heat was a tough one to figure out. Assuming there was no electricity on the island, my DuraFlame Power Heat Infrared quartz heater wouldn’t work. I could haul the cast iron hibachi, but it’s pretty bulky. I don’t really want to cart that thing around. Charcoal makes such a mess, and I’d made no provision for soap. I’d wondered if I would have to count each piece of coal as one item. Definitely not going to work. The Brainy Son said I could take a flint lighter and get my own blaze going. That sounded cozy. I’d take that.

       Food was going to be a big issue. What could I take that would last me potentially months and months? I ended up settling for a 20-pound tub of non-microwaveable popcorn, lamenting the inability to take butter for it and the shaker of rosemary with lemon zest. If I didn’t eat all of a batch I made, I could stuff the hood of my little black raincoat and make myself a pillow. Yeah, that works.

          Pacing back and forth in my leopard print plushy bathrobe across the newly laid bamboo sunroom floor, I stretched my brain to its limits as to how I was going to get choco-late to the island. Having a momentary flash of brilliance a la Martha Stewart, I dumped out the twenty pounds of popcorn, and poured ten pounds of melted chocolate in the bottom, turning the tub to evenly coat the bottom and sides of the tub. I emptied the fridge, and cooled the tub until the chocolate hardened. Then I poured the popcorn back into the new chocolate container. Last, I scooped the leftover popcorn that wouldn’t fit back into container into the tent bag. 

On the appointed day, I stuffed the Swiss Army knife, the little black raincoat and the flint lighter into the tent bag, and set the chocolate-and-popcorn tub next to it. My husband tried to talk to me all morning, but with so much on my mind, I’d had to shush him several times.

We walked together to the dock. I had the enormous tent bag slung across my body, supported by my left hand, and I carried the popcorn tub in my right hand. It was, admittedly, a most awkward trudge with the bag knocking against my knees.

The boat was already at the dock, waiting for me. I hefted the bag over my head and dropped it at the captain’s feet. He sorted through it, counting items. While he did that, I speed-dialed my best friend to let her know I was about to head out to sea and to tape every episode of Jersey Shore for me, but the captain spied the phone, and seized it out of my hand before Yvonne even had a chance to answer.  I grabbed for it, arguing that my phone shouldn’t be counted as an item, as it was more than just a basic necessity, it’s life itself. But he informed me that if that were the case, I needed to pick out something less life-necessary from my bag to leave behind. Of course, I couldn’t do that. Frustrated, I told the captain where he could put the phone, but he handed it to my husband to take home with him.

The captain signaled it was time to leave, so I gave my husband a quick kiss goodbye, just before the captain grasped my arm to escort me on board. He revved up the motor and drew away from the dock. My husband cupped his hands and shouted something at me, but the sound of the motor pretty much drowned out his voice. All I could catch was, “You should have taken—.” Oh sure, now he tries to tell me.

Hours and hours later I’m sure, the captain cut the motor and drifted on the choppy water onto a sandy beach at the edge of an isolated island. He extended his hand and helped me over the edge of the boat. He threw my tent bag on the shore and handed me the tub. It sloshed. Then he put the motor in drive and off he went, cutting across the top of the foamy sea.

This island is not an island at all. It’s a dot on the sea of life. It’s only about three subdivision lots wide and about five lots long. I can see the ocean everywhere I stand, though for color and variety, there is a small stand of short scraggly trees along part of one edge of the island. 
                

Now six months later, I sleep on the floor of the tent with its roof on my face. I never could figure out which aluminum tubing went where to get this thing to stand up. I’m also still brushing out popcorn kernels from the floor before I settle down to sleep.

As for the chocolate, it melted into the popcorn in the tub and the heat and humidity have kept it constantly liquid. I basically have crunchy chocolate-popcorn soup. I broke a molar on it last week.

My first night out here, I tried to use the flint lighter to burn some small branches, but instead it caught the belt of my little black raincoat on fire, which caused the whole coat to go up in flames. Fortunately, I was able to shrug it off just in time. It rains every day and my clothes have become shreds, but now I have no raincoat to back me up.

I have resorted to using the one-half inch blade in the Swiss Army knife to carve messages in driftwood to the boat captain, my gym club coach, my fourth-grade teacher, and the pimply boy in my freshman year that tried to kiss me behind the football bleachers. Oh yes. I’ve had fun with that. I throw the wood in the waves and they return to the beach the next day. Sort of wish I had packed War and Peace after all.

All these months I have wracked my brain to see if I could come up with what it was that my husband shouted to me as the boat was leaving. Yesterday, it came to me:

“You should have taken a motorboat, extra gas cans and a map!”

With special thanks to my husband, Roger, for giving me an idea that turned this from a serious study of survival into the humorous take on it that this turned out to be.

I usually post my book reviews under Recent Reads, but for some reason it is not allowing me to post an entry, therefore it is appearing here.


 I got this free for my Kindle.

March 2013 

Like a Flood, by Elizabeth Proske. A pastor and group of young people from area churches go to Colombia to help rebuild a church compound devastated by a flood. A promising premise that didn’t live up to itself. Unknown to them prior to departure, a terrorist gang has targeted Christian churches and individuals. They want to turn all land into coca-growing fields. They made a threat against the compound that the group is going to help out. The first half of the book moved slowly, drudgingly so. Too much time spent on exactly what they did-moving wet, moldy carpet, re-roofing, painting, having lunch under the trees, how hot it was, etc.  The girls acted like love-sick teenagers so I was surprised to find out that all of them were college age. One of the young men is approached by one of the Latino workers, who is part of the terrorist group, and asked to join up with him, spying on the pastors and the group workers. The Latino pastor’s sister is kidnapped by the terrorist group and two of the guys and a girl go off to rescue her. Later another group goes back to rescue the Bibles that were supposed to be delivered to a small village. Serious events happen from this point on so the story gets more exciting. Having said that however, some of the storyline is unrealistic.  One of the guys is fatally injured and the group pastor does not send them all home, but allows them to continue to both work at the compound and to further endanger themselves in other anti-terrorist activity. One of the characters plays no valid role in the book. He is an unknown individual that no one grows close to and the book ends without ever having gotten to know him beyond the brief history he shared with the pastor. I have to say that my favorite part was when one of the girls witnessed to another girl and she eventually accepts Christ. Very moving testimony.  Published 2012 (I would say self-published.)

Snow, -5°, wind, rain, fog, ice, 50°. Yup, it's winter in Maine. My husband and I were born the same year and grew up in the same city. He was raised in a French Catholic family, and I came from a WASP background. But our memories of our childhood winters are very similar. Kids are kids no matter who you are.

     I need to clarify an issue that came up in my critique group after they read my piece. They thought my mother came across as mean. But, you have to remember that these memories are from the point of view of a child. Other kids had cool moms, but not me. Then I grew up and became a mother. Ah...I understand.

Winter

Winter

is cold:     My piano teacher, Dawn Grant, was involved in local music social circles. She occasionally had me and other students play at various venues with her. I was about ten, I performed at the house of a well-to-do local businessman, Frank Winter, who lived on Main Street in Lewiston. When the social time was over I called my mother to come get me, got myself ready, and went outside to wait. I shoved my bare hands in my pockets, hunched up my shoulders against the cold and waited. And waited. And waited, until my hands, feet, ears and nose were frozen. I told myself then that when I grew up I would never be cold again. I lied.

is lonely:  I am the oldest of three children. I suppose if you were to ask them, my younger sister and brother would probably say I was a pain in the neck. But I’m not going to let you ask them. Instead I am going to presume that I was not bothering my brother or sister or even my mother when she made me dress up in boots, scarf, gloves and my gray snow pants and jacket and go out-side. Alone. She told me I couldn’t go back in until I had played outside for a while. Alone. The sky was gray. No other children played in their yards. I lay in the snow and made a snow angel. I may have crossed the small side yard to the stone fireplace and climbed on that for a few minutes. I went back to the door and knocked to go back in. Mother didn’t come. I sat on the stoop to wait. Cold permeated the 1960 snowsuit, not lined with Thinsulate or stuffed with down. Right at that moment I hated winter, and I hated Mother.

hurts:     My dad set up a metal rink on the lawn before winter blew in solid, and filled it with water. Soon, we had our own miniature ice skating surface. I had a friend who was sometimes annoying. Like the day I wore my brand new, pure-white leather figure skates. Neither of us were experts at skating, and that was made very obvious when she couldn’t stop and ran into me. The toe pick of her blade cut into the side of my skate, through the leather, and into my foot. My beautiful skates, made imperfect by one careless move. I’m not sure if I was madder that she damaged my skates and hurt my foot, or that she laughed. I suppose I’ve forgiven her for this indiscretion, but I feel pain whenever I think of this incident.

is fun:     By now, I think you get the point that as a child I was not a fan of winter. I have no memories of doing winter activities with either of my parents, but when it came time for my dad to clean the driveway after a snowstorm, now that was fun. We kids would sit in the snow with our backs to the driveway. Dad would slowly push the snow blower by us and the snow would regurgitate out of the shoot and smack us square in the back We loved the sound and the feel of the snow hitting us. When Dad completed the job, he’d get a shovel and dig out the snow bank at the corner of the driveway and the street and make us a snow house. We’d crawl inside and pretend to be Eskimos, but not for long, because it got cold and boring real soon. 

is the doorway to Spring:     As spring approached–which as a child I never knew when it would happen–I loved the warmer breezes and watching the melting snow trickle down the edge of the streets. I thought I could help spring come sooner if I walked on the snow at the side of the street and break it up by stomping on it. Somehow I still haven’t given up that notion, only now I use the car, and drive along the edges of roads to break up the snow. Must be the same idea my husband has when he goes out at the end of March and shovels snow off the lawn into the street. I think he is crazy when he does that, but I probably should re-evaluate my thinking–he probably has Spring fever, too.

What Do You Remember About Winter When You Were a Kid? (Roger's story)

“I froze my ass off.” He chuckled as he looked guiltily my way for having said a bad word. “Clothing was not as warm as it is today.” He glanced back at the television. “The big thing was our wool mittens collected clumps of snow and ice on them. We wore those black rubber boots with the buckles down the front over our shoes.”

 “We considered the neighborhood to be along Poland Road from where Clover Manor is to Pride Hill Road.”

“We kids in the neighborhood built snow forts in the snow banks. We’d pile up chunks of snow to make the walls. Then, we’d have snowball fights.

“We spent a lot of time sliding down the hill behind Uncle Pete’s. (Pete and Jean Creart lived on top of Pride Hill Road behind the Chabot house on Poland Road.) Mr. Young, an old man who lived on Poland Road, made a sled with a seat on it and nailed it to a set of skis. That’s where I got my idea to make one like it a few years ago.

“Mr. Young had a greenhouse on the side of his garage. In the winter he’d cover the plant boxes with boards and we kids would all sit on those around a wood stove.

“He had a big toboggan that could hold ten kids on it at a time. He also loaned us his long jump skis.  There was a path from his house to the hill. There’d be eight to ten kids at a time playing on the hill.

“Back in those days you could slide from the top of the hill, down where the Auburn Baptist Church gymnasium is now. When it rained on top of the snow, it’d make a nice crust for runner sleds and we could slide all the way to Poland Road.

“Sometimes we’d slide on a car hood we’d taken off some old junk car in the field behind our house. The old hoods had no insulation in them so you sat right on the hood. We’d run and push it down the hill and then jump on it. We had attached a rope to it so we could drag it back up the hill.

“One neighborhood boy, Alan Bouchard, had a store-bought bobsled that two or three kids could ride on at a time. It had four small skis on it, with the front two being moved by handlebars. It didn’t go very good. Neither did aluminum saucers.

          “There were streams in back of our house that would flood, and the whole field would freeze, making a big skating surface, mixed in here and there with tufts of grass sticking up through the ice. When you were little, you’d skate on double runners that you’d strap on to your boots.  I had a pair of brand new hockey skates that I may have gotten from Uncle Bob (his godfather). We played a lot of hockey on that ice. If someone found a broken hockey stick, we’d tape it up and use it.

“At Sacred Heart school we played King of the Mountain on big snow piles, created when the plow pushed the snow from the parking lot into gigantic mountains of snow. A classmate named Bill had polio and walked with crutches. He’d climb up that hill, drop his crutches, and grab onto whoever was “King” at the moment. The force of his body on theirs toppled both of them off the mountain. Someone would get his crutches back down to him and he’d do it over and over again until the end of recess.

“I had to shovel by hand the whole driveway so my father could get into the yard when he came home from work. Once, Dad bought an old tractor that looked kind of like a rototiller. It was tall and square, like the front of a snow blower, with a flat blade in front and you walked behind it. When it ran, I could to do the driveway with that instead of shoveling.

“It broke down a lot, though, so once Dad took it to Marcotte Chevy where he worked (at that time located just beyond the intersection of Minot Avenue and Poland Road) to be repaired. I had to walk all the way up there from home, and then turn around and bring it back to the house. “

He goes back to watching TV, but the little robots in his mind are still hard at work, and in a few minutes, he shares this story:

“This story should be called ‘The Day We Should Have Died.’ I was about twelve or so and my friends, Roger Theberge and Joey Giasson, and I found ourselves on the ice on top of Barker Mill Dam in New Auburn. The ice was nice and clear, but only a few inches thick. I could see right through it. The ice had big air bubbles caught inside. We found a mouse frozen into the ice. As we stood there, though, the ice started to crack, so we all jumped back. We walked across the top of the dam.

“That reminds me of the time I saw a picture at Flanders (a men’s clothing store on Court Street in Auburn) of a cover of Life magazine of three boys jumping off that dam. One boy was still on the dam and two were in mid-air. Many years later when I worked at Gamache and Lessard, the husband of a seamstress who worked for us told me that he was the boy in the picture that was still on the dam. He was still there after the other two boys jumped because he didn’t dare to jump.”

The little robots punched off duty then, and there we no more memories evoked that day.

 

January 2013 Been a blogger for a year now. What high hopes I had for my writing career a year ago! Last year's catch phrase was "publication". This year's is "learn and write". I was enthusiastically naive on January 1st last year. I am enthusiastically realistic this year. Publication is always a possibility, but not a likelihood. I am so pleased that a friend I met through an online writer's group had a short story published and has another story ready for publication. We both started with that group at about the same time. My local group has been so very helpful and they've become friends as well. So, cheers, to all you proven writers and would-be writiers. May your life be filled with stories that need to be written. Fill up the pages.

       

Proverbs 30: 8b, 9 "Give me neither poverty nor riches-feed me with the food allotted to me; lest I be full and deny You, and say, 'Who is the LORD?' Or lest I be poor and steal, and profane the name of my God."