Five Minute Snippets (Writing Prompts)

Here are three "snippets" (short fiction) based on prompts from The Writer's Book of Matches: 1,001 Prompts to Ignite your Fictionby the staff of Fresh Boiled Peanuts, a literary journal. The original prompts are in bold.


These snippets were all written in 5 minutes and are unedited. I wanted to set the scene for a possible story in each one. They're all different, with different characters and settings.

Snippet One

Note: "Dame Melba" was an Australian actress in the early 20th century who did many "farewell tours", but always managed to make a "comeback" on the stage. Kinda like Michael Jordan in basketball or Brett Farve in (American) Football.

"Melba, like the toast?"


Argh. What the hell was it with these Aussies? I sighed, rolled my eyes and replied, "Melba. Like the Dame."


Jackeroo grinned and nudged my shoulder. "You're not plannin' on leavin' and makin' a big fuss when y'come back?"


"Not planning on it."


He laughed, then sobered a bit. "Didn't mean to cast any doubt on your dependability, love."


"I knew you weren't, Jackaroo, and I appreciate it," I said, managing a smile. Usually it was the other way around: being dumped by your employer and then being "wooed" and "invited" back, with stipulations.


Sometimes, being a contractor sucked.


Jackaroo, bless him, was more subtle than people gave him credit for. Well, I don't see any reason to make a fuss. Lemme know if y'need anythin'."


"Much appreciated, mate."

Snippet Two

"Love is not what I'm looking for right now. In fact, I'm happier without it."


"That's pretty sad. How can you live with someone, sleep with someone, share their life, without being in love?"


"Easy." She flashed her diamond bracelet at me, and it threw rainbows on the ceiling. "There are other things in life to live for. Tings a lot more tangible, my dear. I'm what you education types call--what?-- a visual learner. A kinesthetic learner. I need to see, to feel, my reassurance of his love and devotion."


I stared down at my cold tomato soup. The cool, matter-of-fact tone just appalled me. How empty Mrs. W.'s life was, with all her possessions, but no soul.


And I had to humor to ensure my husband's job.


This was going to be more trouble than it was worth.

Snippet Three

Note: "Due South" was an American TV show, pairing a Canadian Mountie (RCMP=Royal Canadian Mounted Patrol) and a wise-cracking New York cop. It was a funny look at American stereotypes of "polite" Canadians and of Canadian stereotypes of "loud, obnoxious" Americans.


"It seems funny to say so cliche', but there has to be a reason why we keep meeting like this."


He laughed and extended a hand. "Someone's either trying to tell us something, or we're the vicitims of a massive cosmic joke." He smiled to take the sting out of his words. "Constable John Brennan, RCMP."


She blinked and shook his hand. "Um...you're a Mountie?"


Brennan laughed again. "Yes, but I don't have a dog named Diefendorf. Otherwise, I've got the red uniform and the hat."


Karen rolled her eyes. "You're probably sick of all the 'Due South' jokes."


"Eh, I'm used to it. I get a lot of flack for being from 'Up North', but I let them roll off my back." Brennan shrugged good-naturedly.


"No offense, but what's a Canadian doing this far south? The weather?"


He sighed and replied, "I'll have you know that the sun does make an occasional stop in Alberta. I'm headed down to Florida; I have relatives there."

All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

Running Girl: A Haiku in Three Parts

Running Girl

See this little girl

After a long long car ride

Energy Unleashed.

II.

No stopping this girl

When she puts her mind to it.

Determined to play.

III.

Ah, look at childhood

No worries, no cares today

Just a day of fun.

All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

A Resource for Making Up your Own Languages

Thanks to several good linguist friends of mine, I found this site, called The Language Construction Kit by Mark Rosenfelder. If you are a science-fiction or fantasy writer, or if you were curious as to how language works (both natural and "unnatural"--note, not "foreign"), check out this site.


In my sci-fi/fantasy stories, I tend to do a lot of "world building", i.e. make up a completely new culture, language, people, etc. that my protagonist(s) and antagonist(s) meet and interact with. Sometimes, I base my ideas on a mix of existing cultures, a melting pot of sights, smells and sounds. Other times, I make it up on the spur of the moment, especially if it's only a one-time example. It takes a lot of effort to make an alien culture seem really "alien", as opposed to just "humans with googly eyes and antennae" (as a fellow writer friend puts it). But we as writers are human, so we end up giving our different cultures a mirror of  own morals, viewpoints and attitudes. The outsiders looking into our Human existence (Robert A. Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land comes to mind). It makes for good conflict and a good story.


My academic background is languages, linguistics and teaching English as a Second Language. One of the "rules of writing" is "Write about what you know." So it isn't surprising that language plays a part of my writing. I've been a fan of Star Trek for a long time and two of my favorite characters are Lieutenant Nyota Uhura (the Original Series) and Ensign Hoshi Sato (Enterprise). Both are linguists, teachers and communications officers. Their job was to make sense of the unknown, to share culture and extend the hand of friendship.


Interesting how art imitates real life, and vice versa.

All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

Favorite Song Lurics: Siuil a Ruin

I love listening to Celtic music when I write. Here are they lyrics to an Irish traditional song called "Siuil a Ruin". ("Go, my Love")

I wish I was on yonder hill

'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill

And every tear would turn a mill

Is go dté tú mo mhuirnín slán

Chorus

Siúil, siúil, siúil a rúin

Siúil go socair agus siúil go ciúin

Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom

Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán

I'll sell my rock I'll sell my reel

I'll sell my only spinning wheel

To buy my love a sword of steel

Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán

I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red

And round the port I'll beg my bread

Until my parents shall wish me dead

Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain

I wish I had my heart again

And vainly think I'd not complain

Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán

And now my love has gone to France

to try his fortune to advance

If he e'er comes back 'tis but a chance

Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán

One translation of the Irish chorus is

Go, go, go my love

Go quietly and peacefully

Go to the door and flee with me

And may you go safely my dear.

l

All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

Original Fiction: My Father's Legacy

My father’s favorite place has always been the kitchen. On the days when he was home, the scent of coriander wafted through the air with an invisible smoke that caressed my nose. The sizzle of vegetables in oil filled the tiny galley. Dad whipped eggs with a strong hand and sliced onions and zucchini with a master’s confidence. I watched him at his own private dance, as he moved from stove to counter and back again.


"Can I help, Dad?" I asked him, time and time again.


His answer was always the same. "No, just watch for now. You can learn a lot by watching, you know."


So I watched, the desire to copy him tingled through my fingers. He contended that the old apprentices spent years watching their masters, until the masters judged they were ready for the first step. They wanted to make sure the need to create was there. Sometimes that took years. My father was of the old school. Tradition needed to be preserved.


Eventually, he allowed me to boil the water, chop the vegetables, and scrub the cutting boards. As we worked side by side, he told me about his father. Ming Tsao had been a personal chef for one of the wealthiest families in China. Ming Tsao’s father, and his father before him stood over their apprentices in the same way. I listened to these tales as the luscious smells rose from the ovens.


We presented the family with dishes of spiced beef in brown sauce. Dad arranged red, green, and orange peppers in geometric patterns. The dishes, such as bok choy in broth and noodles mixed with carrots and beans, were unveiled at the dinner table with great fanfare.


Mom looked at the spectacular array and shook her head. "Too much," she pronounced. "It’s too much." Then she picked up the chopsticks and ate anyway.


Dad always cooked enough to feed a thousand armies. It was his way of taking care of us. No one noticed as age crept up on him. The supple fingers still worked their magic, but his dance slowed, much like an old clock winding down. Finally, he taught me to make soups and main courses, as well as appetizers and desserts. As I was making dumplings for a party, he stood there, just watching me. This time, the light burned within his dark eyes and a smile trembled on his lips. He walked forward and laid a hand on my shoulder.


"You are ready," he said. Then we went to check on the sweet-and-sour fish in the oven.
The party was a success, but somehow, I knew it was the beginning of the end. My father’s limbs shook like rushing leaves. He forgot where he kept his special spices and ingredients. 


More than once, I turned off the oven after he was finished baking, because he did not remember that he had left it on. He came to the kitchen less frequently, until he could only stand there at the door, an old king surveying his kingdom. Dad needed to pass the kingdom to the next generation, but until then, he reigned.


One night, Dad asked for a simple bowl of broth. I added extra mushrooms and onions, just as he liked it. He finished the entire bowl and put it aside. Then he called Mom into the room and whispered something into her ear. She gazed at him with a questioning look.


"Are you sure?" she asked in Cantonese.


"Yes," he replied.


She left the room, but quickly returned with a simple, worn, wooden box. The gold leaf on the lid no longer shone in the lights. I recognized the characters etched into the side of the box. Ming Tsao. It was the name of Dad’s father, my grandfather, the esteemed chef of the family.
Mom gave him the box with the reverence of a priestess. He carefully blew the dust off the lid and traced the characters. Then he looked up at me. Again, I saw that burning light in his face, and I realized that light was the only thing that kept my father alive.


"I give this to you," he said in a formal tone. "It will help you."


I accepted the box with the same gravity. My hands shook as I touched a piece of family history. Mom stifled an audible sob as she said, "Open it, Mei. See what is inside."


I slid the cover off the box. Folded pieces of parchment lined the inside of it. They surrounded a stack of cards written in Chinese. I held one up to the light; it read "Szechwan chicken." 


They were recipes, all in my grandfather’s hand. I bowed my head in gratitude.


"There is more," Dad said. He pointed out all the additions and revisions he had made over the years. Black and white photographs were scattered among the recipes. One of the photos showed my father as a young man, standing next to another man who was my grandfather. There was a strong resemblance between the two. Dad kept meticulous notes on every party he had catered, and ever new dish he had tried. It was as if the years had finally granted him permission to share his vast knowledge. Why had he held back all these years?


"I wanted to make sure you wanted to continue the tradition," he explained. "I wanted to make sure you had the choice."


Tears streamed down my mother’s face. I noticed she held my father’s hand while he talked. I felt a definite sense of finality in the air with the passing on of those traditions. I reached over, took his other hand, and brought it to my lips. He smiled as I said, "Thank you, Father."


He nodded and said, "Go to bed now."


I took the precious box with me. That night, I spent hours looking through every card and every photograph. They were the ingredients of my father’s life story. There was so much to absorb; it would take me a lifetime. I did not mind. It was like food for my soul, the encouragement to further my dreams.


Mom came to my room at dawn. She did not have to say a word. I knew.


In the cold light of sunrise, I crept down to the kitchen. Soon, the word would spread and the house would be filled with visitors. But now, I turned on the flame of the burners and poured oil in the wok. The smoke rose to meet my father’s spirit as I cooked, and tears sizzled in the heat.


copyright 2006 by Annie Dameron

Art and Writing: A Collage of the Mind

I was very fortunate to meet a wonderful group of women at a "retreat" in Asheville, North Carolina, in 2005. Nine lovely women met at a cabin in the mountains, and we spent time laughing, eating, drinking and sharing our dreams. We found common ground, despite nine different backgrounds. It was a heady time. We visited new restaurants in downtown Asheville, sought shelter in a bar from a sudden downpour, played board games in our pajamas. I was pregnant with my older daughter at the time and was full of hopes and dreams.

One of our activities was collage-making. We searched through magazines and cut pictures and words that described our dreams. Here are two of mine: the one on the top has the theme, "What are you Waiting For: Oh, the Possibilities". It shows some of my "true colors" of my personality. Jewelry-maker, Virginia Tech alumna, chocoholic, musician, reader.  These are the facets of me.

The page on the bottom is a "Glimpse of the Future". A trip to the Pacific Rim, Healing of Body and Soul, triumph over depression, and flying straight and true like an arrow from a bow. (My zodiac sign happens to be Sagittarius.)

Try collaging and see what you come up with. You just might be surprised.

All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

Erasers Remind me of my Childhood, Not Make It Disappear

When I was a kid, my friends collected all kinds of stickers. Scratch and sniff ones that smelled like grape and strawberry, ones with googly eyes, little pony ones and sparkly, glittery ones. They put them in thick albums and carried them around to show anyone who wanted to see them. My sisters had huge stacks of Garbage Pail Kids and Magic cards, Pokemon, and other RPG cards.


I've always been a bit different. I collected erasers. Not the pink gummy ones or the dull gray squares, but the novelty ones. The ones that looked like food (I was rather proud of my Hershey's Chocolate collection) and little animals, robots and anime characters, household appliances, cars, trucks and airplanes. I put them all in a shoebox out of sight of curious eyes. My family moved overseas when I was 14, and the shoebox disappeared en route. I never did find out what happened to them.


Not to long ago, lo and behold, I find these at Michael's. They're called "Crazerasers" and made by Fashionangels.

sushi erasers

pastry erasers

bread erasers

ice cream erasers

These were so similar to the tiny erasers that I collected (and lost) as a kid. So I bought some to take home. Do I use them to erase mistakes? I have to admit...no. But finding these made me feel like eight years old again, and when I started to scribble ideas in spiral bound notebooks...and good memories.

All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010