The first Thursday evening of every month, I meet with an eclectic group of Christian writers in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. We have been meeting for at least 29 years, and my publishing success, as sparse as it may be, comes from the encouragement and wisdom of this group.
Each month’s event follows a specific outline; one part is known as the Writer’s Prompt. A phrase or situation is given, and those attending have 10 minutes to craft a quick story or poem to share with the group.
I came across a collection of my older prompts when going through some old files, and I am offering them to you with tongue firmly planted in cheek.
Needless to say, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Needless to say, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
The first tale comes from the prompt, “Write about an allegory”:
It was a beautiful autumn evening, and the Halloween party at John Walker’s home was going full tilt. The full moon, the chain of pumpkin porch lights, and the scent of cheap Pumpkin Spice candles from the local Dollar Store brought an almost magical effect to the atmosphere.
John left his kitchen door with a massive pitcher of green bubbling brew. “Are there any takers?” he asked.
Sam Smithers raised his hand, and John poured him a tall glass of the heady, smoking brew. Sam raised the glass in a toast and took a tentative sip.
Immediately, he turned several rainbow hues and, gasping for breath, fell to the floor, reminding me for all the world of an October leaf, struck by an early frost, ripped from its secure perch to plummet to the moldy forest floor below.
“Heavens, John,” I said. “What did you give that poor soul?”
“I call it my Autumn Drink,” he said. “One sip, you turn colors and fall.”
I meditated on that for a moment. “John,” I said, “I hate to change the subject, but what is an allegory?”
John shrugged. “I don’t have a clue.”
I don’t remember what the given prompt was for this short, but I do remember it was fun:
“I didn’t think you were serious,” she said. “There are several reasons why time travel is not a good idea, and I’m surprised that I have to reiterate them to you. Paradoxes are the dilemma of not knowing whether time is malleable or rigid, the possible annihilation of self, and the possibility of breaking the linear nature of time and turning it into a loop. One does not dabble in affairs best left to God.”
I gritted my teeth and tried to remain calm. “That is all well and good,” I retorted, “but as always, my dear, your warnings always come in hindsight. Too little, too late, you might say.”
Outside the narrow cave entrance where we had taken refuge, we watched the tyrannosaurus as it continued to turn our time machine into rubble.
Again, I am trying to remember the prompt and the time ran out before I could finish the story. However, I include it here for your amusement.
It is said that there are realities that humanity was never meant to know, and for those who knew him, Terry Magee knew half a dozen. Once every Saturday evening, members of the Fox and Hare would gather around one of the oaken tables and over large mugs of everyone’s chosen beverage—nonalcoholic as everybody there was a teetotaler—Terry would regale us with one of his adventures.
“I remember back in my ill-spent youth, I served as first mate onboard a three-masted schooner dubbed the Ruptured Duck, a name that is a story in itself. We were bound for the Hebrides and had to take the treacherous waters around Cape Fear. It is said the waves there can surmount Big Ben, and the tides are faster than the intestinal agony of those who have eaten my great-aunt’s meat pasties, but the greatest danger”... here he paused for dramatic effect “... are the mermaids. Now, what any red-blooded man can see in a woman who is half fish is beyond me, but many a hardened sailor has thrown himself overboard from hearing the dulcet tones of a choir of mermaids singing He Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog.
“As we made our way through the treacherous waters ...”
As you may have perceived in the stories above, I enjoy picking on fellow group members, and I trust they’ll consider the source and respond with pity. Again, I have no idea what the prompt could have been.
Stephen Hensel is a Jack of all Trades, a fascinating individual who is a treat to talk to about any subject. John Walker is an ordained pastor writing a genuinely chilling horror tale.
“It is said, Reverend Walker, that there are things that a man was never meant to know,” Stephen Hensel said. “And I know at least three of them.”
“Ah,” John Walker replied, “but as a man of the cloth, I know at least four.”
“But what does your knowledge gain you?” Stephen snorted. “Can you craft the full moon’s light into beasts of legend? Can you cast the illusion of life on a figure made from sticks? Can you convince a person the reality of a dream?”
John smiled. “All that and more. I do not mean to brag ..”
“Too late,” Stephen interrupted.
“...But,” John continued, ignoring the insult, “I can mesmerize a crowd by merely speaking, a feat I perform on the first day of the week without fail. Not only that, but I can make food from a potluck dinner look, smell, and taste palatable by merely the power of suggestion in the form of a prayer of grace.”
“Ah,” Stephen said with a smile, “” but I have yet to reveal my most extraordinary feat of legerdemain ...”
Suddenly, the two men were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a third. “Lights out, gentleman, but first, your medications. Then sleepy time for all patients.”
“But,” Stephen pouted, “we were first promised ice cream.”
I have always been fascinated with cryptids, especially the canine version, whether they be called werewolves, dogmen, lycans, or spectral canines. Needless to say, they sneak into my writing quite often, and my writer’s group is very patient with my obsession.
My wife was furious when I walked through the front door.
“It followed me home, hon. Can I keep it?”
“No!” she sputtered. “A dogman? What are you going to do with a dogman?”
“Well, it seems to have latched onto my pants leg, and I think it likes me.” I shook my foot, and it growled, never releasing its fangs from Levi’s.
“No!” She said adamantly. “I refuse. What if it bites one of the kids? Is it even housebroken?”
“Look,” I said, “it seems to be well-behaved. Let’s try it for a few days and see.”
That was eleven months ago, and I regret I didn’t acquire a dogman but a dog woman. Now we have five of the little ankle-biters running amuck. If anybody wants one, they’re adorable, have had all their shots, and are free.
If you have enjoyed my foray into writing, you can read more of my insanity in the links below. Not all of it is humor, and I have dabbled in dark fantasy romance (with a body count), science fiction, and horror. Enjoy.
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