Writing Prompt Snippet: Something precious stolen

 I found a little lead plant ID label the other day while walking the dog. It must have been for some variety of primula, as I could see the letters PRIM stamped onto it.  I put it in my pocket and took it home.  I found a tiny glass jar for it and sat it on the table. Then today I was racking my brains about what the "stolen treasure" could be in the writing prompt that Stephen gave me for our challenge. I decided the lead tag had to be something to do with it, and then I decided that young Niss from the first prompt was in the same story as Asha.

Asha is looking for the Primogenitor sample because she's been hired to find it. Niss is interested in the sample because it's what she and her kind were originally created from. They are hypersensitive to sunlight, it ages them prematurely, and the older you are, the more it affects you. So the young children of their kind are the ones that interact with the human world, until they can't. Humans regard them as monsters that live in the shadows and forgotten places, and hope that they will eventually die out.

Asha's reluctant alliance with Niss is purely to retrieve the sample.

Asha put her shoulder to the door and shoved. It gave a little. She wedged the end of the crowbar into the gap and glanced around for her companion. 

Niss crawled out from underneath an abandoned truck and hung back in the shadows.

"Hey, you, get over here."

Asha grunted as she yanked the crowbar outwards. The door gave a creaking groan, and then something cracked.

Asha kicked at the base of the door and it finally swung open. She nodded her head towards the opening and Niss scuttled forward into the darkness. Pausing a moment to turn on her torch, Asha followed cautiously.

The centre of the lab was trashed, broken glass beakers and sensors strewn across the floor. A table lay on its side at the end of the room, blocking off another doorway.

Flicking the torch from one side to the other, Asha picked her way through the mess. The glass crunched underfoot. She dragged the table to the side and shone the torch into the space beyond.

"Hey, small thing, where are you?"

Niss ran forward.

"You go check it out."

Niss disappeared into the darkness, returning almost seconds later to tug at Asha's coat.

She followed the young girl into the room, holding the torch above her head to cast a wider spread of light.

The case was empty. In the dim light, Asha could see a metal tag lying on the table, twisted out of shape. The letters PRIM were just visible.

The Primogenitor sample was gone. 

Creative Play

 I need to get back into writing. I've got a full book to edit, and I do really just love juggling words around and seeing what shapes they make as they land on the page.

I recently had a friend staying over the winter break, and we both wanted to work on our writing. We did a couple of writing sessions in a coffee shop in town, but the thing that really helped me was sitting down and giving each other timed prompts. We each chose a double-part prompt for the other, and set a 15 minute timer.

It didn't feel like work, it felt like playing. It was scary knowing the time was ticking down and I still didn't have anything written on the page, but the second time was easier. 

For the first one, I couldn't think how to start, so I did a bit of brainstorming on the page just to put pen to paper. The prompt was "a young girl, looking up a shadowy staircase". I wanted to know WHO the girl was, WHERE the staircase led to, WHY it was shadowy and WHAT the emotions were that I wanted to convey. And then I wanted to subvert initial expectations. 

Once I'd got those in place, it was easier to begin writing. I decided that the shadows weren't scary, they were safe; it was the patches of light that held the danger. I wanted her to be determined to reach her goal and confident that she knew how to achieve it. 

Niss scanned the steps before her. There were patches of shadow scattered across her route, and she totted up the distances between them; how many steps from one patch of safety to the next.

The harsh light poured in through the gaps in the walls. She'd have to move quickly. Pulling her hood over her head, she darted up the staircase. At the top she paused, and surveyed the corridor ahead. From the plans, she knew that her target was located in one of the far rooms. The ceiling here had collapsed, leaving whole swathes of the floor in sunlight.

The next prompt was "a religious idol; a worshipper who is not content". I found this time it was much easier to begin, and only jotted a few brief notes before starting to write.

The chapel was out of the way, and it took Asha almost half a day to get there. She'd left early, so as to be sure of getting back before night fell on the ruins.

Eventually she spotted the entrance to the alley that led to her destination. Sandwiched between the tall buildings, it almost looked like a dead end, but among the rubble and debris she spotted the door.

She tore away the plywood that boarded it up, and stepped into the gloom. 

It was a mostly empty space, long since stripped of the wooden pews, and any valuable metal taken away to be melted down.

The idol was placed on the raised end of the room, staring with empty eyes at an invisible congregation. Asha approached and typed her prayer into the keypad at the side.

The idol's eyes flickered to life and Asha grudgingly crouched in front of it to drop a handful of batteries in the offering bowl.

After we'd both read our snippets out loud, we had to choose our favourite of the other person's for them to develop with a further prompt. I'm to develop the world/character from the second one, with the additional prompt of "something precious stolen". 

(The first two prompts I gave were "a talisman, in a sci fi world" and "a technological world overtaken by nature; a struggle". I then chose the first one for my friend to develop, with the additional prompt of "an incident over food".)

If you feel inspired by any of these prompts, I'd love to see what you come up with!

Burns the Lover

 Ma mither aye minds me tae keep ma ain counsel, sae ye willna be hearing ony gossip frae me. Hairst time is busy eneugh onyways, nae time tae be staunin aroon clatterin. Ahve tae walk oer tae Mount Oliphant tae help wi the hairst this day’s morn, afore the sun is oot his bed. Aye, an the walk back i the derk o evening tae. But mind, ahm nae my lane the walk back. Young Rab frae Mount Oliphant aye taks me hame.

It’s the custom heareabouts tae partner lad an lass thegither at hairst time, working the field at ane time. Rab taks the weeder-clips an ah walk ahint him gaitherin the stalkies. It’s simple eneugh but hard efter a while. Ah cover ma hair wi a cloot tae keep the stour frae it, but ane time we flung oursels oan the foggage tae tak a bite o summat, twa three curls brust oot an Rab leans oer tae tuck them back in trigly. Ah near turnit red wi the shame o it but luikin aroon naebody hae mindit it. Ah ate ma bit bread an Missus Burns’ fine yowe-milk kebbuck whiles Rab sate on a patch o sedge grinnin lik a loon an slappin his hauns on his breeks.

They say he’s a queer-lik lad wi mony fancies, fond o his faither’s buiks an trampin lang hours his lane oer the fields. He disna mind takin time oot tae see me hame tho, his lang legs stridin ahead an ah have tae maist rin tae keep up wi him. An yet he slaes his pace ance we get near the hoose an looks laggardly, draggin his heels i the dirt. Ah times hae tae gie him a push tae be aff.

Ah nivir kenned a lad be sae blate an bashfu afore - maist o them ainly want aye thing an are nae best pleased when ye say them nay. But Rab he taks ma haun sae doucely an pluckit oot the thristle burrs an nettle stings frae ma fingers. An when ah sing for the sheer joy o the sun an the day ah hear him whistle sae sweetly in tune wi me. He says he kens o the laird’s son wha wrote the words tae the tune, an he can dae as weel if no better. But I dinna mind much o it, lads are aye boastin this or that. ‘Fair words butter nae parsnips’, as ma mither aye says.

He’s an unco chiel richt eneugh. An ah’ll tell ye a tale as shaws it. It was near eneugh the derk o the day, wi the sun glimmering oot oer the trees an the shadows stretching lang oer the field. We’d had a weary day o it an I was fain tae be aff awa hame. But there wis ane patch o bear-corn left an a big burr-thristle i the midst o it, a stalk near as thick as ma wrist, tapped wi a croun o prickles. Rab he casts the weeder-clips aside an stauns in a maze starin at this muckle thristle.

 Nell, he says, Nell, ah canna touch the thristle. 

Why no? (I wis fair snappish wi him, fer the wanting tae be aff)

It’s the symbol of Scotland, he says, an it’s richt dear tae me just this moment.

Like ah said - an unco chiel. But ah think ah love him aw the same.

Hairst - harvest

Clattering - chattering

Weeder-clips - shears for weeding

Ahint - behind

Cloot - a piece of cloth, a rag

Foggage - grass for winter grazing

Brust - burst

Trigly - neatly, tidily

Yowe - ewe

Sedge - rushes

Loon - rascal

Breeks - breeches, trousers

Laggardly - to loiter or fall behind

Blate - shyness, sheepishness, modest

Doucely - sweetly

Thristle - thistle

Kens - knows

Unco - strange

Chiel - a young

 man

Fain - eager

Bear-corn - barley

Burns the Fermer

 Ah wis a puir faitherless lad fae Lochlie, an Maister Burns brocht me wi him when they cam here tae Mossgiel Ferm. He wis aye luikin oot for me, even hefting me up oan his shouthers ane day as we cam hame frae the field. Ah wis the wee ane of all the lads on the ferm - the runt of the pack, the ane that aye got his erse kicked in a fecht. But still, ah wis a richt pawkie wee lad, an gleg wi it. Ah kenned if ah ettled tae fin ma place ah’d need tae fin summat mair nor fechting tae win the day. 

Sae ane nicht ance aw us lads were in the loft oer the stable where we slept, ah twistit ma lips an pullit unco faces. ‘Girnin Davie’ they callit me, an lauched themsels til the tears cam frae their een. I wis cuttin sic a caper and loupin oer the wooden boards that the auld yin doon the stair cam up tae tell us aff fer makin sic a din - an on the Lord’s Day tae! 

We aw were thrashit fer oor ain guid by the maister, but efter it, he wis richt kind and said we ainly needit summat tae keep us oot o mischief. Sae that wis how it startit that I learnt the English frae him. The ither twa were na gey gleg an ettled tae be awa, but ah wis jist fine wi it. 

Ance a week, on a Sunday nicht, efter prayers, Maister Burns aye lets me stay doon frae the loft an teaches me tae speak sae fine like ony gentleman. He hears me read aloud frae his buiks an leaves me tae study oer them whiles he swings back on his chair an writes. He writes poems an is even having a buik o his ain published. He tellit me he’s written a poem about all o us here at Mossgiel, an ah get a mention in it tae. ‘Wee Davock’ he calls me, an a like that even better nor ‘Girnin Davie’.

Aye, now that I can speak the English I have grand plans. Nae mair fechtin fer wee Davie Hutcheson fae Lochlie! I still have a guid Scots tongue in my head though and can use it tae. Ane o the other lads, Willie Patrick, wis aye at me fer liking the buik learning mair than fechtin in the yaird. But I callit him a lang-leggit loon wi a face lik bleared sowans, an Gaudsman John near brak his breeks wi lauchin an wouldna let Willie say a word agin me ony mair that nicht, nor fecht me neither. 

Instead he tuik us baith aside an tellit us o what happened that day on the field while he was gauding the horses for Maister Burns, wha was mindin the ploo. They cam upon a wee mousie that rin oot o its bield an Maister Burns callit tae John tae stoppit the horses an turned the ploo aside. He widna move on til he’d seen the mousie rin awa oer the riggs towards the foggage around the edge o the field.

‘He’ll be makin a rhyme on it, nae doot,’ ah said, an the ither twa lauched at the thocht o a poem for a wee mousie. But I gat the last lauch fer Maister Burns read oot some verses o it to John and John said he couldna understaun near hauf o it.

Pawkie - wily

Gleg - quick-witted, smart

Ettled - intended

Summat - something

Unco - strange

Girnin - showing the teeth, grimacing

Lauched - laughed

Een - eyes

Loupin - to dart, to dash

Yin - one

Sic - such

Loon - rogue, rascal

Bleared - watery, thin

Sowans - dish made by soaking oats in water.

Gaudsman - one who guides the horses for the plough

Breeks - breeches, trousers

Bield - shelter, nest

Foggage - grass for winter grazing

The Muckle Cauldron

Is it a tale of witches you're speering after now? Ach, awa wi you, you've had all my tales. Well, mebbee not all. You've heard about the brounies and the bogles, and you know well enow to poke a hole in your eggshells so as the witches canna use them to sink ships. And about elf-shot cattle that sicken and dinnae thrive when a witch puts a spell on them. But I've ane tale left that you've no heard. Pull up that wee stool then and mind you dinnae stop peelin those tatties.  When I wis a wee lassie, I was aye slipping off to do ma ain thing, or threepin at the auld folks to tell me a story - aye, jist like you now, altho I flatter mesel that I'm no as auld as they yins.

But this time I'd been caught and told to clear out the auld threshing barn. It was a richt stoorie place - fu o spiders. So I wisnae best pleased and I didnae tak ower much time wi my task. I carried out all the sticks and stalkies to the midden at the back o the yaird, and swept a bit stoor an oose oer the threshold. This still left a wheen o trashtrie frae the hoose at the far end, and I amused mesel by luikin through it. Maist o it was trashed - a luggie that had tint it's chain, a yoke wi a muckle crack in it, twa bits o a bowl I mind my sister brak on the hearth. But there was ane thing that caught my een - a muckle great cauldron, fat and blackened wi fire. It had unco marks around the rim, and seemed to grow in size before ma verra een. All o a sudden the air aroun me grew derksome an I shivered in the cauld. I ran oot the barn screaming o bogles and lang leggity beasties.

They gathered roun and speired at me what the matter was but not ane o them ever minded seeing the cauldron afore. All but the auldest auld yin who nodded and minded a story she'd heard as a wee lassie, jist like I was. A loon wha minded the plough was makin his way hame frae the smiddy, an the road took him along towards the auld Kirk o Alloway. It was an eerie place then as it is now, wi hoolets an siclike craturs, an weel-kent as a place o ferlies an unco doings. The nicht was mirk, the rain was plashing and spattering doon, an the wind squalling amang the trees. As he drew close to the Kirk he noted a bricht glow glimmerin roun the auld stanes. His thochts turned to witches, and the verra Deil himsel, wha was said tae sit in state in the ruins.

Noo there are twa thochts as to why he did what he did next. Ane says that the Almichty above gave him courage; anither has it that he'd got unco fou at the Smiddy. For whatsoever reason, he took ae step towards the Kirk, an anither, an reached the windae afore he knew what his ain feet were daein. An eerie glow cam frae a fire made up in the middle o the ruins. The place was empty. He heard a soughing noise frae ahint him, and turned tae see derk shapes o men, and wimmin, in the field by the Kirk. Ane by ane, they each pullit up a stalk o the ragwort and cried out some word or words that he didnae catch. An ane by ane each rose into the sky wi shouts and skirls. The ploughboy was left alane. 

The flames frae the fire still danced though, sae he loupit up through the windae an drapt doon intae the empty Kirk. Atop the fire he saw a muckle cauldron, black as pitch. The contents seethed and jouked - heids o bairns no yet blessed by a meenister, lang banes o those hangit on a gibbet, an ither foulsome things. He seized the side of the cauldron an rocked it back an forth on its chain, makin the foul liquid spill oer the lip. He poured oot the contents onto the hearth an unhooked the jinkin chain. Empty noo, the cauldron didnae seem sae heavy, sae he raised it oer his head and tuik it hame, where it stayed in his faimly doon through the years tae this day.

The ithers aw laughed an clappit the grandame for the tale, an slipped back awa tae field and fireside. My fright almaist forgotten in the sun, I spiered at grannie to go wi me tae the barn, an see the muckle cauldron for herself. She hirpled oer the yaird an in at the barn. The corner was still derk an fu o shadows. A wee mousie rin oot oer the stanes but she paid it no mind. The cauldron sat there, lowring at us. 

"Thon's but a gey guid parritch kettle," grannie said, an seized it by the handle to swing in the crook of her arm. She scoured it and rinsed it, and set it on the hearth and cooked her sowans in it on the morn. An afore ye ask, she didna dee til some years after that, an ne'er took ill afore her last. Sae mayhap it was but a tale. An what happened tae the cauldron ye ask? Whit did ye think ye were peeling tatties intae?

Glossary

speering (asking)

elf-shot (flint arrowhead thought to be made by fairies)

threepin  (insisting or persisting)

stoorie (dusty)

midden (rubbish pit)

oose (fluff)

wheen (indefinite quantity)

trashtrie (worthless rubbish)

luggie (bucket/pail with 'lugs' or ears rising up from the staves)

tint (lost)

muckle (big)

unco (strange)

loon (rascal)

hoolets (owls)

ferlies (unusual sight)

mirk (dark, gloomy)

fou (drunk)

soughing (noise as of wind through trees)

skirl (shrill, piercing sound, shriek)

loupit (hopped)

jouked (bobbed)

jinkin (making a chinking noise)

clappit (pat affectionly)

grandame (grandmother or great grandmother)

hirple (to walk slowly, to hobble)

lowring (scowling)

parritch (porridge)

sowans (a dish made by soaking oats in water) 

Character interviews! With Weasley_Detectives!

OK so it's interview time again! This time round I'm doing a question swap with Weasley_Detectives at Weasley_Detectives - so head on over there to read her amazing Tintin fanfic, 'Tintin and the Seal of Cagliostro': A spate of mysterious high profile robberies by the gentleman thief "Kaitou Red" have captured the public's imagination. Tintin is hot on his trail, but when jewel of the opera, Mademoiselle Castafiore, is kidnapped, the infamous reporter fears he has stumbled upon a far deadlier plot. 

She also has a Tumblr account for the story: https://kaitou-red.tumblr.com (yes, that cover artwork is hers; she's ALSO an awesome artist.) 

Weasley_Detectives has chosen to interview Bee, so without more ado, let's get on with the questions. I've chosen to interview her OC Gideon Stark, and my questions and her answers will appear after Bee.

BEE from Brats

What is your earliest memory?

I don't know how old I am in the memory, but I was still small and weak. I remember hearing the babies crying, and wishing they would stop because I wanted to sleep. So I got out of my bed and went towards the noise, but before I could get there one of the older children tripped me up and pulled my hair. The others joined in, kicking at me on the floor and I could only curl up and wait for them to stop. Eventually one of the wardens came in and pulled them off me. We all got punished though. I can remember thinking it wasn't fair, but then life isn't fair, is it?

Do you have any pet peeves? 

I don't like when people grab me without warning, or push and pull me around. 

If you could have any superpower, what would it be and why?

I'd like to know what other people are thinking, because then I would know how to react to them and how to manipulate them better. And if you can manipulate people then you can get them to leave you alone.

Which member of the Brats are you closest to and why?

Probably Zed, because I met him first. He's quiet and thoughtful. I like being around him because he treats me like a normal person, and focuses on things that I can do, rather than making me feel different just because I can't see.

Do you consider Sparrow a friend?

I wouldn't say we're friends. I think Sparrow is bossy, thoughtless and naive. She only thinks about what she wants to do. I don't even know at this point if we could ever be friends. I don't like her and I don't think she likes me. Not that I care.

How do you think your friends would describe you?

Prickly. Quiet. Blunt.

If you could change one thing about your personality, what would it be? 

I'd like to be able to trust people more. But I know I can't. People are always selfish in the end.

Do you consider yourself a follower or a leader?

I don't like this question! I guess I'm following Sparrow, because I don't want the responsibility of being a leader. Being a leader means people depend on you, and I don't like depending on others, or having others depend on me. But being a follower is a weak position, and I don't see myself as weak. So I suppose if  Sparrow wasn't here I'd be a leader, since no one else could be.

If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you go and who would you take with you?

I'd go somewhere sunny and dry, because I like feeling the sun on my skin, and I've had enough of being soaked through by the rain. I'd have a house all on one level where nothing would ever change position and I'd be able to find my way around without help. Zed could come with me, if he liked, I suppose.

You and Sparrow are stuck on a desert island together. You discover a pack of creatures who appear to treat you as gods. Do you and Sparrow share power, or do you divide the island into two warring nations?

Stuck with Sparrow?! I might start off by sharing power because I couldn't care less what other people do, as long as they leave me alone, but eventually I'd get so annoyed by her that I'd run off to be on my own, followed by like-minded individuals who'd worship me from a respectful distance. And we'd probably end up fighting over something stupid.

GIDEON STARK from The Seal of Cagliostro

What was your childhood nickname?

I don't believe I could repeat any of them in polite company. In any case, they were less nicknames, more threats of violence from an angry mob.

What would be your food heaven and food hell?

Caviar and cigarettes! As for food hell... Fish head stew. Don't ask.

You're a stylish chap - who are your style icons and why?

Josephine Baker. She's simply marvellous. Do you think I could pull off a leopard?

What makes you get up in the morning?

The call of sowing seeds of chaos wherever I may roam.

We know you're a bit of a gambler, but do you always win? Tell us about a time that you lost a gamble.

Well there was that time in Izmir with Archie, a fine vintage Château Lafite Rothschild, and that damned Sicilian. Oh, and the Goat. *sighs* We.. We don't talk about Izmir.

We all have something we hold dear - what would you consider your most treasured possession?

Tintin. *dreamy sigh* He's such a delightfully trusting plaything...

It's fair to say that you're a hit with the ladies - what do you look for in a woman?

Strawberry blonde hair. Freckles. Honest blue eyes. A sense of adventure. Charming recklessness. A world famous reporter and staunch activist for the common good... *dreamy sigh*

Do you have any bad habits? (Apart from gambling and womanising, we know about those.)

Only espionage, treachery and the intricately detailed planning and execution of 101 notoriously high profile thefts. Ha! I jest, of course. I suppose telling bad jokes would be one of my many bad habits.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

I've always rather fancied donning one of those old German handlebar moustache-beard affairs. Oh you mean about my personality? I suppose I can be a tad too self involved...

What would you consider the lowest depths of misery?

Oh, jolly good question. But what to pick? A comfortable marriage of convenience? Becoming an upstanding member of society? Sobriety? Good god, so many to choose from.

First Mudlark of 2021

 Last week I went out mudlarking for the first time in ages. I have one spot that I go to, near me, that is at the mouth of a river where it meets the sea, and then spots along the beach that I know I regularly find stuff at. Mudlarking, if you don't know what it is, is an obscure sort of hobby where people look for things in mud, or in my case, sand. I think of the things I find as little historical treasures, but I suppose they are essentially the rubbish of history. In some cases, literally, as often collected rubbish was dumped on beaches to be taken away by the sea.

I find old pieces of pottery and china, sea glass, bits of old broken bottles, bottle stoppers (glass and vulcanite) and plastic figurines. I've even found what could possibly be a small stone cannonball, but that's a story for another blogpost.

On this mudlark I found 19 pieces of blue and white pottery, 3 pieces of pink transfer ware, one piece with tiny hand-painted gilt detail, one piece of black transfer ware, one piece of a Staffordshire slipware mixing or kitchen bowl, the handle of a brown teapot, a highly detailed piece of brown pottery that probably came from a teapot, two necks of old bottles with corks still in, the top of a clay ink bottle, a glass bottle fragment with embossing on it, two vulcanite bottle stoppers and one glass bottle stopper.

The slipware fragment is terracotta with a mustard yellow glaze with brown decoration in an elongated wave pattern. I'm very excited by this piece as it's only the second piece of Staffordshire slipware I've found, and is probably mid nineteenth century. 

The vulcanite bottle stoppers are mid twentieth century, and can be dated fairly accurately to that as one is 'war grade' style, with the middle hollowed out to save on rubber, and the other has text on it that allows me to research further. 'Vulcanisation' was a process that hardened the rubber to make it stronger.  These stoppers can often be found with a softer red rubber seal still around them that made the bottle stopper airtight. The second vulcanite stopper I found was marked with 'Wm. Murray & Co. Ltd/Craigmillar/Edinburgh'. A quick internet search later and I discover that William Murray & Co. was a brewing company founded in 1880 and closed in 1963. So my little bottle stopper is nearly 60 years old. My glass bottle stopper will be even older, and would have had a cork seal around the glass.

The glass bottle fragment has '...AYLOR/...ERBALIST/...REET/...K' embossed on the side, which probably was a Herbalist, called Taylor, who worked out of an unknown street, and then the town, which would end in K (either Kilmarnock or Greenock?) but I've been unable to find out anything more.