What's Right is Write

What would you do if you could write your own future?

The Scribe typewriter lets you determine your own fate with the punch of a few keys. Just write down your heart’s desires and wait!

That’s what it said on the flyer anyway. There is actually only an eighty-five percent success rate. If you try to write about money, it goes down to thirty-five percent. They had to make sure that the economy wasn’t in tatters after the release. If you write about harming someone else, your Scribe locks up and immediately calls the authorities. They caught a few with intent to kill before people started to realize that the Scribe was actually just a very expensive tattle tale. You also cannot compel someone to be with you sexually. Actually most all illegal acts are prohibited. You can’t write that your drug dealer will give you a discount. At first people thought it was all about the words. Maybe if they used the right words, found loopholes and didn’t refer directly to the illegal act, it would work. But the Scribe works off of intentions. If you intend to break the law, it will know.

What’s left?

I guess you can write that you will do well on your Calculus Exam, but then some professors consider that cheating and will give you a mark of zero.

You could write about staying thin and young-looking. That can be effective sometimes. But it wears off eventually, just like a new, expensive eye cream.

That only leaves the little things, you know?

A good hair day, to meet someone interesting, to find that dress you are looking for.

The Scribe is not technically allowed in college or professional sports or any form of gambling. It prohibits writing a win for your favorite team or getting your hand in Black Jack.

You can write yourself better at an instrument or a minor skill. It won’t do much if you want to be a rocket scientist, though. I know. I tried.

You can’t write yourself anything that isn’t real either. You can’t write about magic or witchcraft. The creators put a “God” block on there, too, so that people wouldn’t write about their religious deities visiting or helping them. So that’s a bust.

All that’s left is small beauty fixes, small personal protection, and a happy day.

friend: Hey, what are you doing?

(In response to the November 11 Rookie Mag Creative Writing Prompt: Write a Love Letter)

Madeline hesitated as she reached for the pen and paper. Lance was dead. How could she possibly know she had feelings for him?

She had summoned his Shade from the dead only a week ago. She knew that wasn’t him. It was only an empty vessel that would do her bidding. True he had been an integral part of her plan to destroy her father’s huge and questionable conglomerate, the Kingdom Corporation. Lance had helped to break ties between her brother, the new CEO, and his CFO Gwen Vereland. If Madeline wanted to sabotage anything, she needed Vereland out of the way. She was entirely too smart and capable.

            Lance, the Shade had done her will properly and seduced Eliot, Gwens brother, using drugs and gambling, his weakness. Gwen was forced to pull away from the company to take care of her brother once more. A kind heart never fares well in business.

           During his time with her, Madeline had seen glimmers of the old Lance. Or at least she thought she had. It was foolish really, but every now and then, she would look up at her unwilling servant and there would no longer be a look of true loyalty in his eyes. It would be replaced, if only for a moment, with a look that was pitiful, begging her to release him.

           Lance had returned to her after succeeding at Kingdom Co. with a knife in his gut. No average knife could kill a Shade, but the dagger in question had been enchanted with dragon’s breath. Lying on Madeline’s bed and bleeding out blood that was darker than it should have been, Lance spoke. He did not speak in the voice of a Shade, but in his own, innocent and true voice. It was strong although his light was fading.

           “You called me here to do you will. You made me betray, the only woman I ever loved while I was alive in order to hurt the livelihood of my dearest friend.” Lance sputtered and a little blood fell from his lips. “What did they do to you, Madeline, that was so horrible? To make them deserve this?”

           “They kept me from being my true self. They pushed me down until all of the light was snuffed out of me. Then they tried to kill me,” Madeline said.

           “I wish” he sputtered. “ …I could have,” he took a wheezy breath. “ prevented this.”

Madeline did not know whether he meant his death, or the betrayal of Arthur, or maybe even her own suffering. But she saw a light in his eyes that she wanted to see again.

           According to the Old Religion, in order to bring someone back from death, a love letter must be written to them, to prove to the Gods that the dead will be with someone kind and true to them upon return.

           And so Madeline began.

 Lance,

I did not know you well in life. I only watched from afar. I know that you, too, were ostracized. They pushed you away because you were not from a family that they approved of. It always comes back to birth. My pain was caused because I was born with magic. Yours because you did not have the right father. These things are out of our control.

           I watched you live with the hand you were dealt. You took it gracefully. You were strong and kind. You remained dedicated to things that you considered “good” and you did not waver when they told you that you were not worthy of protecting them. You stood in the background until you got your chance. That chance was to lay down your life in place of another.

           I have fought the hand I was dealt. I have used magic and hatred to fight those that I once loved. They betrayed me and I have taken it upon myself to get revenge. I wonder what it might have been like if I had your courage and your will to stay good.

           I have known so little of you yet I feel drawn to you. You are everything that I have not been and I truly do love you for it. It is hard to say how I know that, but I felt it as you lay dying a second time by my hands.

           I want the Old Gods to know that my feelings for you are pure, unlike many other things in my life. You deserve a second chance, for I have slain you one to many times. I may not deserve your love, but you deserve mine and so much more.

 Love always,

Madeline

(In response to November 4th Rookie Mag Creative Writing Prompt Be a Historian)

In the year 2015…

           One wakes up to the sound of a blaring phone. NOT to an alarm clock or to rattling voice of another person—but to a phone. The phone tells you when to wake, what is popular. It keeps you in touch with all of your acquaintances and superiors at all times (which can be a nuisance). You are never out of reach. It shows you pretty images of people you’ve never met and places you’ve never met. No question goes unanswered in the age of the smart phone either. No matter how inane or obscure, the phone can tell you.

           During the day, one wears denim and polyester, odd blends of fabric that you cannot pronounce. But cotton is coming back. We wear knit sweaters without a second thought of who or what machine knit it.

           We eat food without considering wear it came from or if it is in season. A machine picked our vegetables eight states over and our meat was killed on an assembly line.

           We use piles and miles of paper and gasoline. Only some think of conservation.

(In response to October 28th Rookie Mag Creative Writing Prompt: Slip into Strangeness)

You want me tell you how I feel? You really do? Ok, well get ready for a mediocre ride. I like the smell of fall leaves and hard cider in the winder. I wear a lot of long sleeves because I am a delicate flower. I think everyone in the world would look great in short hair. I get unreasonably angry at bad teachers. They all have on the masks of villains and cat claws. I see them as antagonists. They point their wands and their Godzilla teeth at me and tell me it is all my fault. I see the blackness in their eyes and their hearts and I notice their sloth. They are as lazy as you and me.

           I love green beans and I hate mushrooms. I think cheese is the greatest food on the planet. There should really be some sort of shrine to cheese. It can be soft and warm with strings of gold. It can be hard and sharp with a defensive shell to protect it. It gets self-conscious, you see.

I really like bats but they carry rabies. Speaking of bats, cats rhyme with bats and I am definitely a cat person. I dressed up as one for Halloween.

(In response to Rookie Mag’s October 21st creative writing prompt: Scary mansion. Since I did a scary story a few weeks ago, I took this prompt and turned it into a children’s story. My intention is to pair each few couplets with an illustration but I haven’t finished all of the drawings yet.)

The air is cold and faces bright, for all the monsters are out tonight.

It’s Halloween and spirits are high. There on the pavement! Is that an eye?

Two young souls are up to no good, throwing eggs and just being rude.

“Let’s go up to that old Hubbard place,” says Sammy with a big grin on his face.

“I really don’t know if that’s so smart,” says Eugenia with fear in her heart.

“Oh Eugenia, are you afraid?!” Sammy teases pulling her braid.

And so they hike up to the hill, where it is rumored that men have been killed.

They face the huge house with fear and delight, wondering if they will make it home tonight.

As they push through the door, they hear a small sigh, and look to their left afraid for their lives.

There in the dark hovers a pair of yellowy eyes and Sammy almost begins to cry.

Eugenia, however, moves a little bit nearer, to look at the creature a little bit clearer.

Her face cracks a smile as she sees the poor thing, “It’s fuzzy, it couldn’t possibly be mean.”

She is right, for he is covered in fuzz, his hand reaching out as if for a hug.

Sammy sees that their friend means no harm, and he reaches out his big burly arm.

The creature cracks a huge fluffy smile, glad to see people for the first time in a while.

“My name is Rufus, what is yours,” says the guy, smiling even more.

“I’m Eugenia, and this is Sammy, I was just wondering, do you have a family?”

“No. Not anymore, I’m all alone,” said Rufus with a sad little moan.

(In response to RookieMag’s October 14 Creative Writing Prompt: Read Palms I took some creative liberty and expanded the prompt to include hands and palm reading. I read some of my favorite characters palms.)

 Frank

Frank’s hands have holes in them. Not real holes. Metaphorical holes.

Well, not completely metaphorical holes.

There is one ring on the back of his right hand.

He had fallen asleep with a cigarette in his hand and gotten a rude awakening.

It figures.

Back to the metaphorical holes, though.

His hands are empty. Like water would seep right through them.

Not whisky though. Frank could cup his hands and keep whiskey in them

For days straight.

It seems he can only hold that which he truly values.

He never really could hold on to his kids.

 I wouldn’t say that Frank has specific love and life lines.

He just has a cobweb of lines

All tangled and messy

Just like him.

 Fiona

Wow, those hands are so graceful.

That’s what you think at first,

And it’s not untrue.

But what you don’t see is what they are graceful at:

Swinging a baseball bat at enemies,

Pouring cereal,

Bandaging up Debby,

Smacking Phillip.

And sex. That too.

But she wouldn’t let you forget about the bat.

She can swing a bat

At your kneecap

If you even think about

Hurting her family.

 Fiona’s palm doesn’t have a love line.

It has love dots,

Deeper in some areas than in other.

Empty in some places.

 Ian

Ian’s hands look like the hands of a little boy

No matter how old he gets.

Funny enough, Mickey’s do too.

But then he balls up his fists and throws a punch.

Or he grabs onto the shoulder of his latest companion for leverage.

Then you forget how small and innocent

You thought Ian’s hands were.

Then you just see the scars

And the scabs,

The hands of a man who has

Seen, done, and felt a lot.

 Ian’s life line is faded in spots

Almost like there are pieces missing

Or burnt away.

  Brian

Brian’s hands are very well groomed

manicured

but strong.

They look expensive.

They feel soft

But push hard

Away from him.

 His palms have long love lines

And, to his dismay,

(In response to Rookie Mag’s October 7th Writing Prompt: Travel through time. Although I have to admit I did not follow the prompt exactly. Instead of imagining life in a different period of time, I got carried away by Halloween Fever and wrote more of a historic ghost story.)

Harley Rossum moved to Cherry Hill, Pennsylvania in 1922. When the war ended, he wanted a fresh start. The Market was booming and it seemed as if the entire world were at his feet. He had very little business experience but was just seeping with charm. It didn’t hurt that he had connections that could get him the odd barrel of whiskey—the good stuff, not that watered-down wash.

    By 1924, Harley had put down roots in Cherry Hill. The shoe factory he had started was doing very well and Harley had invested in some real-estate that seemed to be flourishing as well. It was that year that the young Dina Flourentine caught his eye. She was the second daughter of a wealthy politician from Philadelphia who had settled in Cherry for a little more peace and quiet. Dinah was a breath of fresh air. She had bright eyes and rosy cheeks to go with her stubborn brow. She was the only thing in town that Harley didn’t seem to be able to buy.

    Harley built a great house on Delaney Rd. in Cherry Hill. It was visited by most of the residents of the town while he was building it. It had ornate decorations and detailed trim. It was built with the most expensive material including some very fine iron which was fixed as a large, dark gate. The overall effect was grand. The structure was fine and intimidating. The house was meant to attract attention, specifically the attention of Dina. If she did visit the house, however, she did it secretly. It seemed as though nothing that the young Rossum did could gain her affection.

    Harley continued to pursue Dina, sending her lavish gifts and pulling out all of the charm he could muster in the face of such impressive and consistent rejection. In the fall of 1926, however, the young lady fell in love—and not with Harley Rossum.

    The gentleman’s name was Charles Thorn and he was a wild, gambling, ruffian from Philadelphia who was rumored to have ties in the Mob. Apparently Dina had a taste for the reckless and bold. Harley Rossum, who was hard-working and clean-cut did not fit that mold.

    So it happened that Harley Rossum was left to stew in his unanswered affections and live, surrounded by the extravagant possessions had bought only to win over the lovely Dina.

    Dina became Mrs. Thorn and settled down with Charles using her father’s money. They bought a comfortable home in Philadelphia and came to visit the family once a week, bringing their son, Rupert to see his grandparents. During this time, Harley hit a bit of bad luck. The market was not doing so well and his shoe company was suffering. The investments he had made were not the safety net he hoped they would be. The Cherry Hill mansion was slowly decaying without the upkeep it needed.

    Harley became bitter, watching the Thorns’ new Ford roll past his home once a week as he sat in the dark. His electricity had long been cut off and candles only did so much in the vastness of the home.

    One evening as the Ford was rolling past again; Harley had the sudden urge to flag them down. Charles rolled slowly up the drive to see what the upright Mr. Rossum needed. Dina was sitting next to him with a four-year old Rupert in her lap. Rossum charmed the reluctant Thorns into having a drink in the echoing Cherry Hill Mansion which seemed suddenly much more alarming without all of the glittering chandeliers alight.

    Two days later, the Flourentines phoned the police about their missing daughter and her family. The authorities scoured the town and alerted the department in Philadelphia. Mr. Flourenine demanded that Rossum’s estate be searched—he had always been suspicious of Harley’s obsession with his daughter. When nothing turned up from the search, they were resigned to the fact that Charlie had gotten the family into some sort of trouble through his unseemly business dealings.

(In Response to Rookie Mag’s September 30th Creative Writing Prompt: Write a stranger’s backstory)

Russ watched his father when he was young. That’s how he learned to be a person. That’s how most of us learn: by watching our parents. Russ’ father was awkward. He built model airplanes and he enunciated his words too much. As a result, Russ did the same. He built the planes. He enunciated. As an added bonus, Russ also had a slight stutter which was prominent whenever he doubted himself.

Russ’s father managed the finances at the local YMCA and his mother did not work. She stayed at home so that she could dote on her children, all adopted from foreign countries, apart from Russ. He was their only successful conception. They wanted to give him everything but the funds necessary to adopt Russ’ two sisters made that difficult. Russ worked hard on an old worn down PC and dreamed of the days he could afford an Apple computer, shiny and new.

Russ looked like a dork. Russ sounded like a dork. Russ could not escape the dufus mold. Russ was pretty good on paper, too. He had a steady stream of A’s in high school and a nice little package of A’s and B’s in college. His handwriting was sloppy but never seemed to hinder his grades. Most math and science teachers never minded sloppy. They just wanted right.

Russ was inevitably in the band in high school. The band was and remains today a cesspool of randy, pimply students who all attempt normality by enacting sexual acts on each other on the bus going to football games. Russ only did something like that once. But once was enough to grab him a handful of desperate, intellectual friends.

Russ was pretty rowdy when he was in his comfort zone. He just loved to get into a political discussion with his father, playing the well-informed scholar who pays attention to modern and historic events. In classes he was the one advocating the religious and moral perspective, rather than the more liberal, free-spirited views. He prided himself on being a young Republican because that’s what his father taught him to be. As good as Russ was at numbers, he never really got the hang of free thinking.

(In response to Rookie Mag’s September 23 creative writing prompt: Give a feeling a physical form.)

She first grabs you from behind the ears

Then rides on your coattails

For longer than you might think.

 No one thinks to wash their coat after just one wear.

It is in this manner that she clings—

Hangs around for weeks.

 She was introduced to you in a class

By an apathetic teacher

Whose concern for your education

Measures close to the amount

Of  satisfaction you might get from a single sip of water

After an extensive and exhilarating run.

 Fury has a way with words.

She whispers in the same ears

She first seized.

She inspires rants of ire

That you repeat to yourself in the shower.

It contains big words

And smiting arguments.

She makes you want to shame and debase.

 I don’t think she ever really leaves you.

She imprints herself on you.

She may be lurking low for the bulk

But she loves to pop up like a groundhog in spring

Whenever those tender heart strings

Are plucked with a fresh dose of disdain.

 Years later, after that coat

Has been thrown in the bin,

When you hear that teacher’s name in passing,

You can still recite, word for word,

What he deserved to hear.

 No. She never really leaves you.

She just burrows,

If I could time travel:

(In response to the September 16th Rookie Mag Creative Writing Prompt: Write the biography of an inanimate object.)

My name is Trix and I have been around for quite a while. I remember when I was printed. There were many others like me in varying colors and sizes. Me, I’m black—or at least I used to be. I’ve faded over the years. When I was younger, I remember being carefully folded and placed among the other cotton, newly printed t shirts on a long metal table. I was quite handsome in my day. I have colorful images of the band on my chest and a great bright eye on my back. I didn’t choose to be a Cheap Trick t-shirt, but no one ever really chooses who they are or what they look like. Not really.

           I got picked up by this fine young thing with dark brown hair and dark black nails. And that was very rebellious back then. The ladies with any decency wore red or pink. But Laura, she wasn’t that kind of girl. She played the drums and she did it while wearing black nail polish. She had a nice family and a lot of common sense, but she also had a hunger for fun. I saw quite a few things when I hung around her. I was her favorite, so she wore me to all the good parties. We even met Robert Redford once at Sundance. It was a chance meeting but he was very nice to us.

           Laura had a lot of friends. She was good at connecting with people—in a lot of different ways. I spent a good number of nights on the bedroom floor while Laura was connecting with people. When it came time to go off to college, Laura did what her family expected and took me to a respectable school with her. The only trouble was that she spent too many nights enjoying her bar tending job and not quite enough studying. I got a lot of wear and tear that year. I got beer spills and cigarette smoke. There was even one unfortunate experience with a bar patron who couldn’t hold her liquor in.

           Laura finally dropped out of school to play her drums and tend bar. And she had a damn good time doing it. Those were some of the best nights of her life. But after she met Dex, I got to see another side of the world. Dex stayed for a little while. He was there to see Grace being born—and man, what a thing to see. I wasn’t with Laura at the time but I was watching from the bag next to the bed. It was wild.

          Dex was there to see Grace’s first steps and Laura’s proud smile. Anyone could see that Laura was worried about paying for their future. A cook’s salary just wouldn’t cut family life. Rather than change professions, Dex left. That was the first time I ever saw true pain. I’d had some tears shed on me before then, but they were nothing compared to this. Laura spent a lot of time inside and stopped making friends. She had been wearing me for four days straight when her sister finally came. I was in shitty shape. I had sweat, tears, and baby spit on me. Leanne got her out of the fog. Laura’s sister, Leanne was a lawyer. Man that lady could talk a man into selling his mother. She knocked Laura right out of it.

            Laura got her stuff in order and took care of Gracie. I got packed into a box for a while after that. Laura only brought me out every now and then for a good old fashion all-night study session. Once Laura finished her degree, I didn’t see her at all really. She had more professional stuff. I heard she got a job as an assistant at some recording company. I was happy for her, because I knew how much she loved music.

           I knew my time was over. I was already resigned to the fact that soon, I would end up in the Good Will. But just when I though Laura couldn’t surprise me anymore, she pulled me out and we had one last hurrah together at the company Halloween bash. She went as a “rocker chic.” That night she threw me in the wash for what I thought would be my last cycle. Fortunately for me, I was spotted in the laundry basket by greedy, young eyes.

(In response to the September 9th Rookie Mag Creative Writing Prompt: Write something inspired by an overheard conversation)

“Where were you?”

Where was I?

 I just had the best night of my life.

Maybe the worst. Depends who you ask.

Brave? Not me. Not usually.

But last night, I was. Last night, there was a fight, a cake, and a car.

 Now I don’t like to bake, so I didn’t know much about the cake.

I was the wheels, and that I could do,

But I just didn’t know what I was getting into.

I stuck my nose in because I felt a fool.

 Things went sour pretty fast

After the knife was drawn.

The moon was high and that was key.

Without the moon, well,

I couldn’t say.

But, I am just glad the wolf man showed.

If he hadn’t shown, I would probably be pink mist,

Ceiling and floor.

 Suffice to say, I did my best.

I was a man at last.

But no one saw.

No one who matters.

Rotten luck on the luckiest night of my life.

 And no one will ever know

Because who would believe

(In response to the RookieMag creative writing prompt from September 1, 2015: Write a letter from another planet)

Dear Mara,

           I have been on Livine for two months now and I don’t really know what to think. When dad told me we had to come here I didn’t want to leave Earth. Earth is so warm and bright. Earth also has you. I miss you more than anything. I would give so much just to hold you close again. I long for our nights together. I think I miss it all the more because it is so cold here all the time. Livine is not as close to their sun as the Earth is to ours. Livine is also much smaller than Earth. The result is that we get three cycles of light and dark in each day called the Passings. The sun is never here quite as long as I want it to be. At home you can really feel the sun kiss your skin, but here, it is just a gentle notion of warmth—not even a hug. They sleep twice a day. Livs and humans need more sleep because of the cold. I never knew weather could control your life so much.

We have to eat a lot of protein to keep ourselves warm. I am thoroughly tired of colger meat. These creatures that we eat here are a lot like byson but they have larger and sharper incisors. The first time I saw a picture of one I had the notion to run away. The first time I ate one, though I really enjoyed it. The problem is, Livs do not value the art of cooking. At home we are so creative with our meals. We season and chop and roll and sizzle and fry. Livs have two ways of cooking: boiling and grilling. It is not grilling in our sense but rather throwing large hunks of meat between two heated metal blocks and letting it slightly warm for weeks. Heat is something that is valuable here. They try to conserve the energy they have to heat residences. I would still kill for a bite of a chicken taco.

The transition is hard, though. They prepared us for a year before we left, teaching us the language and the customs. It is mind blowing how different life is here. The number system to just too much for me. I have the mathematical skills of a twelve-year-old Liv. The language is not that bad, though. It is pretty rudimentary, which can be frustrating when you cannot find a word for what you mean. Writing this letter to you is exercising my linguistics more than they have been in weeks.

I understand why he brought me here, though. Apart from the energy problems, this world is rich with resources that earth could use. They have more metal than they can use. Metal conducts too much cold here to be used for any furniture. They have these huge trees everywhere. It is actually a problem how many there are. They grow too fast to contain really. Dad’s team of engineers is working on a faster way to remove them. They burn really slowly so they are good for fires in the house—that is if you can get them dry. It takes six months to get the water out from one snow. There are warehouses on the next two planets over filled with drying Saspines (that’s what they are called). But man do they make beautiful furniture! They have these rings of deep orange and magenta that make you want to cry. They smell wonderfully too! If we could cook more with them, they would deliver a dark, stormy smell that would remind you of men’s cologne just a little before it surprises you with a dark caramel note. My bed is made of Saspine wood and I go to sleep dreaming of a tall dark man burning sugar and calling out to me.

The best part of Livine, though, is by far the snow. It isn’t like the snow at home. It is always on the ground and on the roofs. It is a dark eggplant color that looks lavender in the brief moments that the sun comes out. Because it never leaves the ground, I guess nature knew it couldn’t be a nuisance. It softer and easier to move than snow. It is hard to explain the consistency. It looks a little like bubbles but does not feel anything like that. Do you remember those hot days we spent outside in the summer in Atlanta? Right after it rained, the air would be so humid, you could almost feel it weighing down on you. Well this snow is so light, it is more like heavy air. They call it glows. That makes me laugh because it is so dark and cold here and they call their dark purple snow “glow.”

All the glows in Livine couldn’t keep me from returning to you the moment I am of age here. They do not judge fully grown citizens by age but on common sense. That makes all the sense in the world to me! But many of our diplomats moved to pass age laws for Earth immigrants. (Probably because they did not have good enough judgement to pass the Livine exam for adulthood.) I will be eighteen in ten months, and I will be on the first traveler home. Dad understands. He know that the only thing keeping us from getting married was my age. Here, we would both be able to shack up. There are eleven year olds in adulthood here! (Livines live to be around one hundred and twenty so that is saying a lot.) Their females mature a lot faster than most of their males so it is not uncommon to have a young Liv of fifteen married to an older male or mill. The three sex’s thing still gets me but they are very open about gender and mating here so I am getting more used to it by the day. You can ask them any question you want, and believe me I have.

I have applied to Virginia Tech and a few other schools around you. I am optimistic about admission. Students who have studied in Levine or Reykell are not very common while students from the rim planets like Jaspor or Jakuu are not hard to find. What I really want to tell you is that I will be home with you before you know it. I will be in your arms breathing in your warmth and running my fingers through you beautiful dark hair. I always wear your ring, although I had to move it to a chain around my neck because the metal made my finger cold. I know they all say that we are foolish, but I know that they have never known the love that we have. I cannot wait to read your words and wrap them around me like a blanket to keep me warm in this faraway place. I hope school is going well for you. I wish you good times and easy classes full of ugly girls that do not divert your eye away from the lessons.

Yours and only yours,