It Must Be – an ISG Writing Exercise

On 22 February 2017, these three words were chosen:

• Marshmallow
• Fire
• Pumpkin

And these blurbs were written within five minutes….Enjoy!

FEATURED AUTHOR

ALANNA J. RUBIN

Clementine poked the belly of the stuffed animal that was sitting on the tattered couch and it bounced back like an uncooked marshmallow. This was the only thing that seemed to be unscathed by the fire that had torn through the house and the adjoining pumpkin patch outside, which means it must be what she was looking for. Clementine picked it up, examining the furry bear more closely and softly spoke some words in Latin. It’s eyes began to blink.

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LISA BARRY:

Solin watched the marshmallow melt in the dwindling fire as she pulled out the pulp of the pumpkin. It was the first time in ages she had found one that was ripe enough to eat and despite her mission, she was not going to pass it by. A quick nod to Garn and the small dragon breathed onto the fire, the peaks licking up to the sky once more. Solin set the pumpkin near it and Garn pushed it in with his nose. Solin watched the ships, far in the sky move overhead. They may not arrive at the conference first but they would be well fed. She smiled at the dragon. He was her first and so far they were getting along just fine. After the conference, the dragon riders association would meet and she would try out for an apprenticeship. It was all she’d ever wanted and she prayed that her guise of boys clothing would be enough. Garn snuffled loudly nearby, shoving a nose onto her leg. Solin gave him a pat and grabbed her bag to hand him a rabbit she’s speared that morning.

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NICOLE DRAGONBECK:

“Here, put this one over the fire,” Mika handed Dardon a squishy orange thing, and he looked at it suspiciously.

“It’s a pumpkin spice marshmallow,” Mika explained. “I got it when I went upworld last time.” Dardon didn’t look convinced, but he stuck the marshmallow on the skewer and held it over the flames, turning it to toast it evenly. “So, you said you wanted to talk,” he said in his gruff voice.

Mika nodded and hunkered down next to the much larger man. “Yes.”

“Then you’d better get to talking. I don’t have all night you know.”

Mika nodded, and tried to think where to start. “I’ve been having weird dreams lately,” he said.

Dardon raised an eyebrow. “Not really my field of expertise.”

Mika nodded again. “I know it’s unusual, but just bear with me. They started just after I went upworld.”

“Did you catch something?” Dardon asked. “Some kind of formidable illness that our healers don’t have a cure for?”

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, I feel fine,” Mika said. “It’s just the dreams.”

Dardon sighed. “You gonna tell me what these dreams are about?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Mika gave a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know.”

Dardon stared at him, and stopped turning the marshmallow. “I don’t understand that.”

“Neither do I,” Mika said. “I know I dream, but everything is blank when I wake up. It’s like a chalkboard that someone wrote on then erased and handed to me.”

Dardon blinked, trying to comprehend this, but was distracted when the marshmallow burst into flame.

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DALIA LANCE:

The scene was set. The lights were dimmed low, complimented by a couple of candles. There was wine chilling on the table with a couple of crystal glasses strategically placed next to a dozen white roses.

Travis couldn’t believe this was actually happening. He looked in the mirror one last time. She would be here at any moment.

Just as the thought played through his brain the doorbell rang. He almost ran to answer it, and as the door swung open the smile on Victoria’s face dissolved into the grimace that one makes when one is smelling the most horrible of scents.

“Is something on fire?” she asked. Travis turned “Just candl…” he was saying as he turned to see the roses were now in fact aflame.

He rushed to put them out.

He turned to see Victoria still standing in the doorway. “It smells like a Halloween campfire in here.” she didn’t seemed pleased. It was possible that choosing a marshmallow and a pumpkin candle did not in fact set the scene.

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JM PAQUETTE:

“Is it a bad thing if the guy at the ice cream store knows your order?” I asked my husband as I walked through the front door, a white paper bag holding the revered sundaes in one hand and my car keys in the other.

“He knows your order?” my husband echoed. I hung the keys on the hook by the door and kicked my shoes off, walking toward him as I started to open the bag.

“Yeah, as soon as I pulled up to the window, he was like, ‘oh yeah, marshmallow and peanut butter over chocolate ice cream girl, how you doin’?’”

I pulled out one of the sundaes and handed it over to my husband. He accepted it with a quizzical look. “He hey-baby-ed you?”

I gave him a curious look as I unearthed my own precious sundae, popping the lid with a satisfied grin of anticipation. I could barely wait to put down the bag and start eating. I looked down at myself, pointing slowing with the styrofoam container as I gestured to the fuzzy pajama pants, loose fitting tank top, and messy ponytail. I wasn’t even wearing a bra. It was like I’d run out of a house on fire in the middle of the night. “No, why would you ask that?”

“You said he said ‘how-you-doin’. Isn’t that code for ‘hey-baby’?”

“Maybe if it was 1995 and Friends was still number one on prime time,” I replied.

“You should have asked him for a pumpkin spice latte,” he suggested, “just to complete the desperate white girl thing you have going on tonight.”

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BRANDON SCOTT

“Who ever heard of a pumpkin marshmallow,” Alex said, moving the tiny piece of candy over the fire. “I can’t imagine how many chemicals went into making it that way.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” Patrick said, maneuvering two different sticks over the flame. “Sometimes you just need to eat the inorganic stuff. Something you just have to have the processed sugar.”

“My mother,” Alex said, “Would disagree with you quite a bit.”

“Yeah, well, your mother is a hippy.”

Alex tried to muster some indignation at that statement, but instead his marshmallow fell into the fire, and that took precedence.

“Dammit,” he said, reflexively reaching for it, only to pull his hand back before he roasted something else.

“Here,” Patrick said, giving him another, “No worries. We have plenty.”

“There’s plenty in the bag,” Alex corrected, “Not in the world.”

“Oh, you’re such a worrywart,” Patrick said, taking one of the globs—the skin all blackened like he liked it—off the stick and popping it in his mouth. His next words had a stickiness to it anyone at a camping trip would recognize.

“Live a little.”

Alex darkly chuckled, and looked out at the burned remains of what was New York. “Yeah, because living a lot is kind of impossible.”

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Ready for the Apocalypse – an ISG Writing Exercise

On 22 February 2017, these three words were chosen:

• Gargoyle
• Warmup
• Doom

And these blurbs were written within five minutes….Enjoy!

FEATURED AUTHOR

JM PAQUETTE:

“I assume that the rise of the gargoyles means that this doom thing is really starting to warm up, huh?”

Galen stared at her, his mouth forming a long, slowly articulated oh, but no sound came out.

“Oh crap,” she complained, reaching out to touch him, “it’s not happening to you too, is it? You’re not, like, one of those things?”

When Galen didn’t reply fast enough, she slapped his cheek, harder than necessary, but hey, one could never be too cautious during times like these. She wasn’t really surprised to see the redness rising in his skin, but it was a tiny relief to be certain. The way things had been going lately, she wasn’t sure of anyone around her anymore. After what happened with Jake, she had to be sure. But Galen had been one of her father’s closest friends. He had been ready for the apocalypse for a long time now, likely even before she had been born. But now it was here, and it was her job to do something about it.

“So, like, what do I do now?” Galen continued to stare at her, as if she had somehow removed his ability to speak in the last few moments. She considered hitting him again—maybe he actually was one of the stone creatures, just slow to transform. Something in his face made her decide against it though, so she continued, “I mean, like, I know I’m supposed to save the world and all that, and I get that’s, like, Big Picture stuff, but I mean, like what am I supposed to do right now? Like, does the prophecy say I have time to grab a burger before this gets going or what?”

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LISA BARRY:

Doom firmly grasped the leg of his gargoyle, Larold, before jumping. His smile flapping in the wind, he laughed as he fell. The Parithian Sea sparkling and winked as he headed downward, the sprays, still looking so small, moved like ants. This was the warmup jump, aided by Larold before the test. It was like he was going to die or anything but not having a hold on something solid could easily undo even the strongest man. Doom had to win. He trusted Larold to catch him at the last and winning would give him the one thing he wanted more than even his own life.

The smell of salt flew by him and the Sea became deep waves, swarming with large death bringing creatures. Mere moments before crashing in, Larold jerked up and they soared upward.

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ANNE CARGILE

It was too unbelievable that pixilated Hell Guards, like gargoyles on meth, would actually be chasing me. My mind told me all of these things, even as I ran, so beyond fear all I could recognize were immediate survival options, open spaces free of danger – HERE!
Another beast came out from my left, throwing a careless paw at my face, as if in warm up, and I skidded backwards into the wall behind me. It must have been one of the hidden ones though, because as the blood soaked claw came at me I fell back, back, and kept falling…

It had to be a dream. It was Doom.

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ALANNA J. RUBIN

The earthquakes, the torrential rain, the banshee like winds were all warmups to this. Garret looked up into the sky, the clouds glowing gray with each strike of lightning and the strikes were becoming more frequent. The ancient tome he had in his hand warned of this impending doomsday and now it was upon us. The next lightning strike illuminated the gothic tower in front of him when it struck one the four gargoyles that stood guard and to his horror the stone figure began to move.

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NICOLE DRAGONBECK:

“This is just a warmup to the great doom the overlord will unleash on the world.”

Gredden tuned out the droning words and looked around at the gathered creatures. They had come from all corners of the known world, unicorns and centaurs from the south, gargoyles and goblins from the north, elves from the west, dwarves and trolls from the east. Gredden was the only representative for men, and every time he glanced at his fellow representatives he felt more and more inadequate and useless.

“We must unify to protect ourselves,” the old centaur continued in his booming baritone, the silver beard falling to his navel, his front hoof punctuating his words. Grumbles greeted his last statement, as the proud races immediately threw up figurative walls of distrust and xenophobia. It took a long time for the centaur to restore order and a measure of quiet for him to continue speaking, but as he opened his mouth, a shadow fell over the gathering.

Gredden looked up along with all assembled to behold the awesome and terrifying sight of the gleaming scaled form of a red dragon coming in for a landing.

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ERIKA LANCE:

“What do you mean he is missing?” The trainers face had turned red and his voice was now much louder then seemed necessary.

“Well… He said something about a ‘warmup’ and that you would ‘understand’ and that he would be back later” I made quotations in the air in the hopes this would help to soften what was appearing to be a very angry Gargoyle.

The trainers nostrils flared. It was always weird to see the skin that looked like rock have the same movement flesh did. This was not the weirdest thing that one would see at a school designed around supernatural beings.

“Why did you say he was ‘missing’ then?” the trainer now looked more suspicious then mad.

I wanted to disappear at that moment. He wasn’t going to like the answer “Well there was the word “doomed” written in his blood above his bed” the quotes definitely didn’t help this time.

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BRANDON SCOTT

“What?” Gerald said, stepping back. He had not dealt with the supernatural before, but was aware of it in this city. The recent bouts of alien abductions were a testament to that fact.

“I figured she had forgotten it,” the man said, reaching out and grabbing it. “It really is a shame, she had only like two days left.”

Gerald blinked, deeply confused.

“Two days until what?”

Behind him, almost as if summed there on cue, the glass broke. This was startling enough, but the fact he lived on the fifteenth floor of the apartment complex made the whole thing more surprising.

Gerald swiveled, reaching for a gun he did not have on him, and backed up in alarm into his strange guest.

The creature before him, now kneeling and folding up its wings, was a black, stone gargoyle.

“Doom,” the Middle Eastern man said. “Doom on this whole world.”

Gerald spun, though he had every bit of his free attention on the sounds of the thing behind him. He had no idea which of the two was a bigger threat, which was a deadlier being.

“What? Now?” Gerald said.

“Yeah. We’ve been obsessed with doing the warmup, on repeat, for it for weeks now. But without her, we can’t. And that stupid necklace…”

Gerald got it. He was terrified, and he got it.

But he wasn’t going to die just for this girl.

“But…do you need me?”

The man smiled, and curled a fist around the necklace. “Not really no. But the gargoyle is hungry.”

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The Instructions Were Quite Clear – an ISG Writing Exercise

On 22 February 2017, these three words were chosen:

• Necklace
• Lotion
• Folder

And these blurbs were written within five minutes….Enjoy!

FEATURED AUTHOR

ERIKA LANCE:

She continued to rub the lotion on her skin. Her arms and hands felt terribly dry. She wasn’t sure if it was from the constant scrubbing but she knew that she had made a bigger mess then she had intended.

She also didn’t like that she had been forced into action before she was fully prepared. She looked down at the folder and the bloody necklace resting on top. She wasn’t sure why her client had chosen this as the proof the deed had been done. However, the instructions were quite clear on the matter. She was to take the necklace off only when the girl was dead.

Looking down at the ten neatly arranged plastic bags she could assure her client that the girl was most specifically dead. She finished rubbing the lotion in and began to load up the truck. She still had several dumps sites to stop at and a necklace to deliver before dinner.

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LISA BARRY:

I opened the folder and was surprised when something heavy and loud fell into my lap. The papers were yellowed and worn. I glanced at my lap and the gold glared back at me in the fluorescent light. Lifting the necklace, to fully view it’s monstrous proportion I swore out loud. How did this get here? I wondered. I had put this very necklace in a lock box, filled it with sand, tied it with duct tape and tossed it into the ocean while 100 miles out at sea.  Placing the necklace not so carefully onto the table I noticed a blob of pink. I wiped the lotion from the table and rubbed it into my hands as I pondered my next move. The Memory Necklace had to go. It wasn’t safe for anyone. The first pain hit only a moment later.

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ANNE CARGILE

Gina pulled the necklace from the folder in wonder. As a piece of jewelry it was stunning, as a piece of evidence, a tragedy. It was made to adorn a woman’s’ neck, but only a woman with the right coloring she thought slightly cattily, which she just so happened to have. She grinned as she set the folder down on the steel desk, ubiquitous to all law enforcement offices. Oh yes, her coloring was perfect for the deep red rubies set in the slightly tarnished sliver filigree. She clasped the piece around her neck and saw black…

Two hours later Officers Romero and Jordan answered the 911 call. All they found was a smear of lotion, blood, and a ruby necklace.

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ALANNA J. RUBIN

Maxwell looked at the items strew across the pine table, there was the ruby necklace set in platinum and the bottle of vanilla scented lotion just as expected. He looked at the list, laying perfectly centered in the folder he held in his hands and put a checkmark next to the applicable line items. Inventory was always his favorite part of the job and his employer expected nothing, but the most meticulous attention to detail.

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NICOLE DRAGONBECK:

The necklace gleamed on the bronze bust, blood-red rubies and dark sapphires twined in gold. Morlan crept towards it, his footsteps echoing in the vast empty hall. No one tried to stop him as he stepped up to the pedestal and lifted the heavy piece of jewelry off its stand. It flowed into his hands, silky smooth coils of metal like lotion, and he sighed. How long he had waited to hold it in his hands once again.

It was heavier than he remembered, and he frowned when he realized that someone had ornamented it with a large diamond studded clasp, and added a fourth strand of gems. Morlan knelt to the ground, and pulled out the leather folder from his pocket. Opening the worn wallet, he extracted the small blade and tweezers, tools of his trade, and went to work on the necklace. The clasp came of easily, and he tossed it aside, the worth of the diamonds and gold enough to feed a family with a dozen children for year, but he didn’t care.

The additional strand was more stubborn, and Morlan stuck his tongue between his teeth as he concentrated on removing it without damaging the rest of the necklace.

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JM PAQUETTE:

“You really think this is the one, the necklace from the famous disaster?” Tim stared at the blue jewel resting on his well-lotioned palm, the cut facets of the surface glinting in the afternoon sunlight.

James shrugged, looking nervously from the necklace precariously placed in his partner’s hand to the metal railing they leaned against. “I am certain enough that I’d prefer you didn’t hold it so close to the edge,” he commented. “Didn’t you see how that movie ended?”

Tim laughed, but tugged the necklace away from impending disaster. He held it up the sun, the last rays of the day reflecting off the many surfaces. It really was a lovely jewel. It looked just like the picture they had seen inside the faded manila folder they found in the bottom of the captain’s desk.

“I can’t believe it was inside that shark.” James glanced behind where his brother stood to where the remains of the butchered shark rested on the floor. They should probably clean that mess up—the blood would start to get sticky soon.

“I can’t believe that guy was inside that shark.” Tim’s face was serious as he also turned to face the rest of the carnage remaining on deck. The recognizable remains of the human body were still there, the hand they had untangled the necklace from still open and empty.

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BRANDON SCOTT

On the table was a folder, stuffed to the brim with more secrets and personal data than any shady government agency could hope to amass. And in this folder, also, placed there as a lump—not well hidden at all—was a necklace.

Officer Gerald looked at the necklace as it fell out and unto the table, his mind on other things, and immediately those other things became not nearly as relevant.

“Huh?” he said, staring at it. The memory of the person before catching in his head.

He rose, eyeing the door, before slowly sitting down: she was gone by now. No way she wasn’t already in her limo and away.

He shook his head, annoyed. Normally, and with frequency as the relationship bloomed, she had taken to leaving things around the house. Her expansive collection of special skin-softening lotions was impressive and baffling alone—though did work.

But this, this was not a normal item. She never took it off. Even when she wore nothing else, she never took it off.

“I’m sure she’ll come back for it,” he said, before hearing a faint patter on the door. He froze, and thinking it was her, rose back up to give it to her: hands out and holding the necklace.

What greeted him however, was not his lover: was not even human. Though, besides the faint shadows following him along like he had a fog machine under his cloak, he looked like a middle-aged Middle Eastern man.

The man looked down at the necklace, nodded, and said: “I thought so. Shame that.”

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Gave the Brew Three Stirs – an ISG Writing Exercise

On 1 February 2017, these three words were chosen:

• Candle
• Bobble-head
• Star

And these blurbs were written within five minutes….Enjoy!

FEATURED AUTHOR

ANNE CARGILE

Francine tipped the black candle over the pot, careful to let the flame melt the wax slowly. She couldn’t mess up the spell this close to the end. After six fat drops of black wax plopped into the cauldron, she grabbed her birch wood spoon and gave the brew three stirs, counter clockwise.

Using a hand carved ladle, also made of birch, she carefully poured a single serving into a glass jar, decorated with etched stars. Tastefully done, and not too elaborate she thought, proud of her work.

Taking the bottle, she threw off her apron, checked her hair in the mirror and walked out in to the living room.

“Wow,” Jimmy said, “You sure like bobble-heads.” He pointed to a glass display case built in to one wall, artfully lit with pin lights.

“Why yes, I do. I’m a rather dedicated collector,” said Francine smiling coyly. “Would you like a drink?”

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LISA BARRY:

Star flicked a finger at the bobble-head of Riddick and watched it fly from the table and skid to a stop on the floor near the dog food bowl. She placed her black cloth carefully over the table making sure that no were no wrinkles or crumbs. A silver candle was place at each corner and glitter mixed with salt was sprinkled into a circle in the center.  She placed the strands of lightly colored hair that she had pilfered from the desk chair at work. She rolled out her portable lecture stand, letting it stop at the head of the table and opened her well-worn spell book. She read through the spell, more as a reminder, and went to the pantry, gathering the demons eye, dragon skin follicle and frog tongue. This chick was going down. Star laughed with glee as she started the spell.

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ALANNA J. RUBIN

Alexandra watched out of the corner of her eye as a woman with dark hair wearing a Hawaiian shirt clomped her way down the aisle toward her. She couldn’t help but think that she resembled a bobble-head because of the way her head bounced with every step. Please walk past me, please walk past me, Alexandra chanted to herself while she attempted to look busy with straightening the tissue boxes on the shelf.

“Excuse me,” she heard the woman say.

“Damn,” Alexandra uttered quietly then turned around and found herself even more horrified by the woman in front of her who was staring at her from horrifically pink looking eyes. “Can I help you?” She asked.

“Yes, I’m looking for candles.”

“Aisle 3,” Alexandra instructed, “just next to the glow in the dark stars.” Alexandra breathed a sigh of relief as the woman walked away.

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NICOLE DRAGONBECK:

Gina kept her eyes fixed on the bobble-head on the desk. It appeared as though a child had carved it, as the features weren’t true to nature, nor the proportions of the limbs, but to the credit of the carver, it did look somewhat like a deer.

“That’s the family cat,” a low, gravely voice issued from the plump purple chair behind the desk. “The thing just won’t die, and my great-grand-son thought he’d try his hand at carving.”

Gina nodded, and her eyes flicked up to the High Wizard. She still wasn’t sure why she had been granted this audience. She was no star in any of her studies. She had no outstanding magical talents. She couldn’t make teacups appear out of thin air, or make a candle light with a wave of her hand. She was decent at potions, the mixing and brewing of herbs and essences, but that wasn’t real magic. It was more like cooking a soup than anything, the other professors said with their noses in the air.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here,” the High Wizard said, and Gina’s heartbeat tripled when she read every hidden, sinister thought she had ever had about failing and being expelled into the Wizard’s simple words.

“Yes, sir High Wizard sir,” she said, her voice squeaking. “I had been wondering that.”

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DALIA LANCE:

“What should I get him for Valentines Day?” She asked Marcus as they strolled through the shops coffee in hand.

“How long have you been dating?” Marcus asked “Like 5 minutes?” he continued without letting her answer the first question.

Chandra took a moment and then sighed “Well, I like him…” Marcus cut her off “You always “like” them… You always get them amazing gifts in the first few weeks of your relationship. They are the star in your night sky… the candle in the wind…”

“Stop quoting Elton John” She replied and her tone was less then pleased. Of course Marcus was right. When she was dating Mike she even got a bobble-head made of him in his hockey jersey.

She was about to say she wouldn’t make the same mistake but Marcus cut her off again “How about a card. You know a greeting card. One that says “Happy Valentines Day” or something boring and unoriginal like that”, She pondered for a moment and then he added “That doesn’t say I LOVE YOU. Again, you have known him for 5 minutes.”

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JM PAQUETTE:

Lily held the candle aloft, hoping she remembered the right words. He had said that the procedure would be easy, a small bit of flame, the tiny bobble-headed doll with the white scraps of fabric resembling her spacesuit, and all of it facing the third star on the left. She tried to keep a straight face as she recited the old rhyme, feeling foolish at the blend of children’s stories and voodoo magic, but the guardians of the system insisted that this would work, that having the elements in place was what made the incantation function properly. She had inquired about intent, since all the old tales said you had to believe it if  you wanted it to happen, but they disregarded her question, the series of lines and dots she received in response practically laughing at her for such  ridiculousness.

Well, that was fine for those back on the ship to mock her; they weren’t the ones standing on the deserted planet, all of those old powers still lingering from the Great Cataclysm. They weren’t the ones holding a candle, a freaking candle of all things, to invoke the forgiveness of the Old Ones. She knew she shouldn’t have signed up for the Academy. Her brother had told her not to, had cried at night, face a mask of terror as he told her about the nightmare vision he’d had of her fate.

You, he’d said, all alone, standing in the green field, holding a light to the gods, asking a simple question. Do you believe it? He’d asked her then. But maybe he wasn’t asking her at all.

Maybe she had been the one asking them.

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BRANDON SCOTT

“Should I really do it?” the man said, lighting the first of the ceremonial candles. “You know it will change everything, right?”

The bobble-head, a sports star with a little hat and bat, and jet black eyes nodded yes.

“Okay…but, does it have to be my wife?”

The bobble-head, in his little red and blue and white suit, with some logo on the lapel, nodded yes.

“Okay…I suppose so. I guess the Star God does demand the sacrifice be special. But…could I maybe use a gun, not a knife? Or does it have to be a knife?”

The bobble-head nodded yes, and he lite another candle.

“Okay, okay fine. I guess you do know the unforgettable one better than I do. But, still, why does it have to be a knife, does it have to be that because it is more brutal?”

The bobble-head, in its still only like ten-inch-tall form, nodded yes.

“Okay…okay. Fine. So… what happens after that? Do I get cosmic powers? Women? All of that?”

The bobble-head nodded in confirmation that that, indeed, was true.

“Should I eat her body, too?”

The bobble-head confirmed this with the usual socially appropriate head motion to show a positive response to a binary question.

“Okay, cool. Now, one last question. If I do this, if I kill her with all these candles, and make sure to plunge the knife right into her heart, will I still be able to go to heaven?”

The bobble-head, the tiny thing, with black eyes, shook its head no.

 

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A Good Game Was Ahead – an ISG Writing Exercise

On 1 February 2017, these three words were chosen:

• Lap
• Oil
• Token

And these blurbs were written within five minutes….Enjoy!

FEATURED AUTHOR

LISA BARRY:

Joe pushed his last token into the slot and listened to it clink its way down the machine. The familiar digital music of his favorite game came on and he grabbed the joystick with a calm joy. An oil spill image appeared on the screen and he pushed his foot onto the pedal revving the engine that he had yet to choose.

He started to play and already had the winning feeling that told him a good game was ahead. As he finished the third round triumphantly out of the corner of his eye his spotted a lovely gal wearing pink. She sat in one of the hard plastic chairs nearby and held a small dog on her lap.

Six more rounds later and he glanced at her. She smiled, small fangs overlapping her full lips. He paused, fear and desire rushing through his blood. The dying tone of his game pulled his attention away from her and when he looked back she was gone.

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ANNE CARGILE

“You were supposed to have brought the token,” Henry whined.

“I forgot – I’m sorry! My mom sent me to the store to buy a bottle of cooking oil, and then I was running late and I didn’t want to miss it,” Joe told his friend.

“Well, I don’t know if we’re going to be able to get in now, the token was so we’d get special seats.”

The two boys were lingering near the tent entrance, but still far enough back that the ticket taker wouldn’t see them.

“Maybe we can sneak to a better seat when we get inside?” Joe suggested.

With that settled the two put on their most grown up faces and walked up, gave their tickets and, pretending indifference, they made their way in and down the rows of seats. Two seats near the front were open and they quickly grabbed them, trying to act as if they belonged.

The lights at the center of the tent were dimmed, making it difficult to see. Joe gave a little screech when a cat jumped onto his lap out of nowhere.

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ALANNA J. RUBIN

Griff looked at the golden token in his hand. It was heavy with ridged edges and he carefully placed it in the slot of the machine in front of him. He heard the clinking sound as it slid into the depths of the metal body and waited with bated breath for the screen to turn on. An image of an oil lamp glowed on the screen. His palms began to sweat and he wiped them on his lap before taking hold of the controls, but an electric shock shot up his arms causing him to drop them. The screen fizzled out as the machine moved to the side revealing a doorway behind it.

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NICOLE DRAGONBECK:

Jimmy paid his token, and waited nervously for the hooded figure to examine it, then wave him onto the boat. Jimmy gave a nod of thanks to the imposing figure, though he didn’t know if it could see him from under the rotting black hood.

The boat wobbled when Jimmy stepped onto it, and for a moment he teetered, afraid he was going to fall into the dark, oily water lapping the sides, but someone grabbed his arm and pulled him to safety. Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief, and looked to see who had rescued him.

It was a young woman, cradling a baby in her lap. She smiled at him, and Jimmy swallowed a scream of fright, because that would’ve been impolite. Her flesh was grey and rotting, and most of her teeth were gone. Scabs and running sores that had yet to scab mottled what little of her skin remained. The baby was much the same.

Jimmy swallowed, smiled back, and thanked the gods that the seats beside her were taken. On one side was a man with a stump of a neck still weeping blood, his head held carefully under his arm. On the other was a man blue and bloated, a tendril of seaweed hanging out of his nose. The drowned man nodded to Jimmy as he walked by, and Jimmy averted his eyes.

He tried not to look at anyone directly, so he wouldn’t have to smile or say anything. He found a seat at the back of the boat, and sat, adjusting himself so the spear in his side didn’t twist further in.

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ERIKA LANCE:

The oil lamp was not shedding as much light as he had hoped and the smell was so nauseating that he felt he would not last the duration. This investigation was not what he had signed up for.

The house or more correctly the basement of the house he stood in was also damp and cold, however the mildew smell was not at all close to over powering the smell of rotting flesh. It appeared as if there were over thirty victims. Maybe more. It was hard to tell with all the missing pieces. It was thought an animal may have carried them away but he knew that they were most likely kept as tokens. A prize for whatever monster had done this.

The house was so rural that there was no electricity. In fact the house was built of stones and had probably been standing since the 1800’s. There was no furniture upstairs in any of the rooms. When he had made is lap of the premise he realized that this place would have remained hidden if it had not been stumbled upon by hikers.

Before he continued his review of the bodies it occurred to him the killer most likely didn’t know he had been found, which meant whomever it was could be caught… A plan began to form.

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JM PAQUETTE:

“What is that?” Sheila asked, running a finger through the substance on the table, rubbing her fingers together, and quickly bringing the mysterious mess up to her face. “It feels like oil–”

“Don’t–” Rob tried to warn her, tried to stop her before the stuff got too close to her face, but he was too late. Before he could even speak, nevermind lunge in her general direction, the goop had done its work, sliding effortlessly off her fingers and gliding across the empty space between her hand and her face, disappearing into the open portals of eyes, nose, and mouth.

Sheila stopped, blinking hard, sniffed once, then licked her lips. She seemed to pause, frozen in time, and for a second, Robert could hope he had imagined it, that she hadn’t just done that. Honestly, who walks into the head wizard’s laboratory and just starts sniffing things? The last person who had even looked inside while he was working had been turned into a lap dog. Poor fellow was still curled up on the chair behind his desk, waiting for him to work out the antidote.

Robert held his breath, knowing what would happen next. Sheila looked up at him, eyes glazing over in the telltale expression.

Oh no. Not again.

“My liege,” she whispered, falling to her knees before him. “How can I serve you?”

Robert thought of all the times he’d wanted to ring Sheila’s aristocratic neck. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

“Please,” she begged, hands running up his legs. “Let me give you a small token of my deepest appreciation.”

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BRANDON SCOTT

Sitting on his lap was a cat, a fur-ball made of ginger fluff and beady, beady eyes. He stared up at the man, as the lamp burned away brightly, using up the oil. The thing offered little warmth though, and he shivered.

In the man’s hands was a token. A thin circle of metal. Golden and engraved with the face of some old god. He tested its durability, trying to bend the metal into something else.

It resisted this, though, and he turned it over and over in his hands.

“Huh, weird,” the man said, and the room grew colder.

He’d found it at the bottom of a well, of all places. And had no idea why it had been there.

With another bit of fiddling, the paint on it came off in a little flake. Revealing a green shimmering undercoat. He touched that part as well, and bolted in his seat.

That sensation was not normal, he decided, and he sat there in now more concerned staring silence. The cat on his lap purred loud. The noise thrumming through the walls and the floor.

And for second, the eyes of the cat glowed green. But the man did not notice. But he did notice the lantern blink out, and plunge the room into the cold.

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This Was Friggin Vegas – an ISG Writing Exercise

On 1 February 2017, these three words were chosen:

• Gondola
• Goat
• Max

And these blurbs were written within five minutes….Enjoy!

FEATURED AUTHOR

DALIA LANCE:

This was the max she was willing to take from him. She looked over at his smiling face and wanted to punch him and rip it off, his face that was, at the same time.

He was now reading her poetry. She hated poetry.

The trip to Vegas had seemed like such a good idea. The first date was so amazing and full of passion she couldn’t get enough of him and he seemed to feel the same about her. A weekend away seemed perfect. The hotels, the night life, the sex.

Instead he had managed to find all of the terribly boring stuff to do. A quaint country coffee shop. This was friggin Vegas and he was gushing about the organic milk. Then the petting zoo. What grown adults actually went to a petting zoo, which consisited of three goats and some ducks, without children in tow… He had dumped a handful of green, somewhat slimy pellets into her hand and thought it was cute to take a hundred pictures.

Then he said he had a romantic evening planned. Thank god she thought, and then she was here, stuck in an hour long gondola ride listening to old english drivel. She had enough, as they rounded a corner she saw a dock and jumped out of the boat and started swimming.

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LISA BARRY:

Ari walked slowly down the almost empty riverbed, circumventing a broken gondola and walk looked to be the remains of a goat. The trickle of water left in the bed was green with algae in some places and dark with blood in others. She knew she was safer here, where the smell would hide her travels. Not that anywhere was safe. The massive attack of air based psychotropic drugs had almost obliterated this side of the earth. All that was left were those who were lucky enough to have avoided the blast and those that didn‘t. Like Max. Ari’s heart clenched at the thought. Max had been surfing and caught the worst of it, killing over twenty before taking his own life. Ari was considered a lucky one. She wasn’t really sure if she agreed.

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ANNE CARGILE

Cleaning goat shit out of gondolas was not your typical job, Jack knew, but it paid well enough and wasn’t so bad, as long as he had three things: nose plugs, music, and lots and lots of weed. Each was a critical component to being a successful gondola cleaner at the Venetian in Vegas. Whose idea it had been to add goats in gondolas as an attraction Jack didn’t know, and with enough weed, he didn’t care.

Unfortunately, this hot Thursday afternoon he had run out of medicinal herb, and lost his nose plugs to boot. The smell had increased in intensity as the day had moved along and Jack was grateful he was nearly done with his shift.

Making his way to the last gondola in the line, Jack noticed that the goat poop had an unusual color. Not that was so unusual either, he thought, after all they’re goats – they eat just about anything. He placed the wheelbarrow on the dock and hopped into the small boat with his shovel and started slinging when he saw something pink. Not bright pink, but fleshy pink. Shaped kind of like a finger. Or maybe a toe. Jack remembered a flyer about a missing person, some guy named Max. Jack shrugged and kept shoveling.

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ALANNA J. RUBIN

Antonio moved the gondola along with great precision, carrying himself, and his goat Max, down the canal to a place long since forgotten. His arms were weary from the effort of using the ore and he wasn’t sure that they’d make it in time for sunset. The path, would only be revealed in the dying light of the sun. Antonio watched the glowing yellow orb sink toward the horizon and he pushed himself harder knowing the he was close. He couldn’t miss it, because he would never get another chance.

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NICOLE DRAGONBECK:

Jimmy stared at his knees, not really thinking of anything. The last thing he remembered wasn’t too pleasant, so when the hazy pictures of battle popped into his head, he tried to bury them under other things. I wonder if this is what a gondola ride would be like, he mused. Death’s barge was nothing like an Italian pleasure ride, but it helped take his mind off battles and screaming men.

He barely noticed when the boat drifted to a stop, or the thudding footsteps coming his way, but when someone sat down next to him, he definitely noticed the spear tear through what was left of his stomach and poke his liver.

“Sorry,” a high-pitched voice said. “Sorry. I’m – I’m just going to sit here.”

Jimmy looked up. It was a young boy. Several of his limbs looked like they were broken, in multiple places. His neck was also slightly skew. He looked lost, alone, and terrified. Jimmy took pity on him.

“Hi. What’s your name?”

“I’m Max,” the boy said, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “How much longer?” Jimmy Jimmy looked around, then wished he hadn’t. “I’m not sure,” he said in a kind voice. “The boats pretty full, so I don’t think it should be too much further.” The boy started to cry, and Jimmy patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, then stopped when the boy winced.

“I was chasing the stupid goat,” Max explained when he saw Jimmy look down at the cuts and bruises on his arm. “I didn’t see the cliff.”

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JM PAQUETTE:

“But how did you get the goat into the gondola, Max? That’s the part I’m really looking forward to.”

Max grinned. “You would like to know, wouldn’t you?” He glanced behind him, dark hair moving in a wave as he took in the small boat with the small creature lounging carelessly against the seat. He looked back at Jess, his potential client. “I can tell you the tale, my lovely one, but only if you come down for a ride.”

“If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that line,” the American commented, but she took a few steps closer to the edge of the canal, her sneakers bright against the ancient concrete of the small lane.

Max had spotted her standing on the bridge about an hour ago, the epitome of the tourist, eyes heavenward, one foot perfectly arched as she leaned against the railing of the Kissing Bridge. He’d purposely slowed beneath her, shouting up with his best Italian accent. “Hey pretty lady, you looking for a better view?”

She’d looked down at once, of course. They always did. And he knew the effect he had on these women, the lone travelers looking for a good time in the city of love. But Jess’s gaze hadn’t fallen on him as expected. Instead, she’d gone right to the goat. The goat of all things.

When she’d finally walked off the bridge and down to the side of the canal, they had  a few minutes of getting to know you chit chat. Turns out Jess was raised on some kind of farm with goats. She’d never seen one willingly get into a boat before.

Max shrugged. It wasn’t the weirdest way he’d ever gotten a client.

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BRANDON SCOTT

The gondola sliced through the water like a knife sliced through cheese. Which was not a great metaphor as it made me hungry. But still, I had to focus on my work. It was odd that my mind could wander at all. My patron, this rider, was strange beyond strange.

Though, at least, he had the curtsy of the usual kind of strange. The “I’m not human” kind of strange.

My rider was a goat, you see. An old one from the look of things. His horns out to the max length it could in his species.

An awkward air hung around us, despite the beautiful scenery. So, I asked about the elephant in the room—which I hope was not a racist expression given the circumstances.

“So, what brings you to Venice…sir?”

“Oh, me and my wife came here, you know. We had a little money left over from the retirement fund, and since goat meat is at a premium these days, we figured we’d just blow the cash.”

I paused then. The horrific-ness of the goat’s blight taking up my mind and tear ducts.

“They plan to eat you?” I said, still rowing. Professionalism was my pride, after all.

“Yes, that is the life of a goat you know. My wife has already made her peace with it. She’ll be a widower.”

“Why?” I asked, still lost in the confusion and outrage of the eating of a clearly sentient being. “Why would they not eat her as well?”

The goat made a confused sound, a bleat of some sort. “Why would they eat a supermodel?”

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Blend In and Bide Our Time – an ISG Writing Exercise

On 4 Jan 2017, these three words were chosen:

• Chain
• Math
• Petticoat

And these blurbs were written within five minutes….Enjoy!

FEATURED AUTHOR

NICOLE DRAGONBECK:

“What is this thing?” Trina grumbled as the mounds of fluffy white entrapments were pulled over her head and down to her waist.

“They call it a petticoat. It goes over the knickers and under the skirt,” Berra said as she thrust a pink monstrosity with too much lace at Trina.

Trina took it and held it out as far as she could, as if she could avoid the humiliation if she didn’t let it touch her. She preferred chain mail and leather. What had her life come to?

“Why are we doing this?” she asked in a petulant voice as Berra found a pair of soft slippers, and something that looked like a tadpole, with a curved tail.

“Do the math,” Berra replied, her voice patient, though her wary eyes kept darting to the door, fearing to be found out at any moment. “This is what people wear in this realm. If we were to stand out, or look out of place, Lord Blackthorn and his usurping thugs would have us in an instant. Instead, we have to blend in and bide our time. Make friends, secure our position, and then, when it suits us, we will make our move…”

“And cut out his still beating heart from his chest and send his head on a pick to that ogre in fair form that sits on our father’s throne,” Trina finished with relish.

“Yes, but don’t talk like that, I don’t think they’ll like it, and you have to wear your hair like this, or they’ll be able to see your ears,” Berra had started fussing with Trina’s blond tresses.

“What’s wrong with my ears?” Trina demanded as she managed to unfurl the tadpole and found it to be some sort of lacy shield. “And what is this?”

“It’s called a parasol, and there’s nothing wrong with your ears,” Berra assured her. “But have you seen what their ears look like here?”

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LISA BARRY:

Gale looked at the petticoat on the hanger with disdain. The confounded thing was such a pain when she was trying to sneak around. She patted the slender fit skirt and took a step in her ankle boots to test her footing. The dress was loose enough that she could run but no so loose that if someone were to see her she wouldn’t show anything inappropriate. She walked to the balcony and grasped the rope ladder that Doyle had left for her. She gazed into the dark garden, looking for a sign of him without luck. If she had done her math right, the draught she’d fed the dog would last until sun up. She would have at least four hours to search for the missing girl.

Her feet silently hit the grass and Gale quickly moved to a bush to stay hidden and get her bearing.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

Doyle’s voice caused her jump. She turned to him and saw his fanged smile. She slapped his arm.

“Don’t be an arse. Help me find this girl. She’s stolen the Chain of Alora and I need it back to walk in the day, you idiot.”

He just grinned further and held out an arm to her.

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ALANNA CORMIER

Sasha smoothed her petticoat and straightened her green top hat before she walked into the white building held up by Grecian pillars. To the ordinary eye, the building would look like nothing more than a bank, but Sasha wasn’t ordinary. A man dressed in a white shirt, a brown leather vest, and equipped with a clipboard stopped her just inside the door. “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said “but you must answer a chain of questions before you’re allowed in inside.” Sasha nodded, confident that she would be able to answer anything thrown her way. She answered the first three questions without breaking a sweat. “Excellent,” the man said, “now for the last one. What is the circumference of a standard sized dirigible around it’s center?” Sasha paled. She was ready for anything…anything except math.

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ERIKA LANCE:

“Do the math Mark” Amy’s tone was a combination of mad and scared. We are not going to live through this she said and emphasized the point by rattling the chain the was holding her arms above her head.

She was right of course.

Mark tried, again, to pull on the chain but it wasn’t budging.

The ad they were answering was for a really good deal on a motorcycle. The deal was actually too good. They should have known there was a problem based on that alone.

He knew now that the seller had thought he was coming alone. The surprise on his face and indicated that but he recovered and Mark blew it off but he should have run.

The Seller had offered them a drink, lemonade that was “fresh made”. This was a series of stupid mistakes. Now they were here, chained in room awaiting whatever horrible fate was coming. Amy started to cry.

Some time later the door finally opened again and the seller was fully dressed in a dress, corset and even petticoat included “Who’s ready for the feast” he said and the tone made Mark begin to shake.

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BRANDON SCOTT

The building, what remained of it, was dilapidated and dusty and dirty and just an unpleasant place to enter. It had a smell to it. Something I could not place. Somewhere between the stink of rotting fruit and the slow degradation of meat and milk.

My nose wrinkled as I entered, keeping quiet. I had to go. I had to see. The others would call me a coward if I did not, but that did not mean I needed to bring down whatever was here on my head.

The fact they’d made me go at all was annoying. I could have done their math for the next year. But no, this place.

The first room, as the place seemed segmented by doors on all sides and entrances, had nothing wrong with it. The second, was where it was a problem.

Mannequins are scary, just are. Mannequins in petticoats, with crude drawings on the plaster, with an otherwise expressionless face, were even worse. And I could swear this one was staring at me with its simple eyes.

I walked past, and placed my hand on the doorknob, and heard a chain. A rattling thing. Like a prisoner desperate to escape. The sound was below. Down in the floorboards.

But I turned around anyway, and glared at the mannequin. Expecting, well, you know what I was expecting.

It had not moved. And I sighed a sigh of relief. Until I noticed the crude eyes blink.

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Not again, Cap’n – an ISG Writing Exercise

On 4 Jan 2017, these three words were chosen:

• Rum
• Slick
• Bubble

And these blurbs were written within five minutes….Enjoy!

FEATURED AUTHOR

ALANNA CORMIER

Captain Black dragged himself onto shore and collapsed upon the sand, the surf drifted up his body and seemed to bubble by his mouth. He tried to think about last night, but it was a blur. He remembered the ship and that something was slick. Captain Black also remembered the rum, and he chuckled.  Off in the distance he heard the clamoring of men, but he was too tired to sit up and see who they were. “There he is,” he heard one man say.

“Not again, Cap’n,” Smyke chastised as he pulled the captain up by his arms.

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LISA BARRY:

The floor was slick with rum from the burst casket. Ham pulled Shortie by the feet out of the bar and onto the patio. Shortie’s head was bleeding where he’d smashed it on a table and Ham wasn’t sure if it was something one could easily recover from or not. He went back to the doorway to survey the damage his inn had attained after the incident. Bubbles popped where his cleaning bar had fallen from the counter. One of the wenches was sitting on the stairs a few steps above the mess. Half her hair was matted to her head and her makeup was smeared. She licked her lips to clean them of the rum that sprayed her from the blast. Ham made his way carefully to the busted casket and leaned down to inspect it.  He wasn’t the most liked man in the village but ruining a perfectly good brew of rum was beyond most of the bastards he knew.

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NICOLE DRAGONBECK:

The bubbles floated over Michael’s head, and he tried to catch them, but he was thoroughly drunk by this time and only succeeded in tripping over his own feet and smashing his face into the bar. He tried to grab a hold of something to keep him more or less upright. Somehow he only managed to knock over his glass of rum, and slide down to the floor.

This was a really bad idea, he thought to himself. James, it was all his fault, Michael remembered, the thoughts slick and broken, and hard to hold onto for more than a second. What was he doing on the floor? He looked up, and the ceiling swam over him.

Ceiling, ceiling, ceceiling, Cecilia! He was supposed to tell her something. He was supposed to give her a message. He was supposed to tell her something. He already knew that, but it took a giant leap of mental effort to get to the next bit. What was he supposed to tell her? His stomach cramped unpleasantly. He wasn’t used to drinking this much. Why had he even started? It was that fellow in the dark robes, who grabbed his arm as he was going up the stairs to warn Cecelia.

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DALIA LANCE:

Was it the shots of rum? Or the weird smoking, bubbling, fruity drink in the skull cup? Where was she?

This was bad.

Angel looked around and was in some kind of large room that looked something like a living-room, that is if a living room sat more then thirty people. She was covered in a blanket. She tried to sit up but her head felt like it weighed 100 pounds.

She suddenly felt sick and noticed there was a trash can right next to the couch she was on. She vomited. Then she noticed that there were some napkins and a bottle of water. She cleaned herself up the best she could and took a sip of the water. Her throat wasn’t slick at all but instead burned horribly.

She wanted desperately to get up and find out what the hell was going on but her body wasn’t ready for that yet and she fell asleep again.

Angel didn’t know how long she was out before she felt a cold compress on her face and her eyes opened slowly to see a man sitting next to her “How are you feeling?” he asked.

She was about to answer when her eyes fully focused. Oh my god she thought. That is Bradley Cooper.

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BRANDON SCOTT

The rum flowed into the glass, and was gone just as fast. Again, and again. Henry did not even get a buzz. He had not gotten a buzz in twenty years, but still he hoped for it. Hoped one time he could get a little bit of a bubble of forgetfulness or looseness into his head.

But no, Henry was immortal, and immortals could not get drunk. Or buzzed. Or high. Or sick. And most of the time that was okay.

But a night of drinking used to be a thing he did, and it’s no fun being an alcoholic now.

A finger, attached to a hand no doubt, tapped him on the shoulder and he spun around, seeing who was bothering him. They were usually slick, slimy, slime salesmen. They sold slime. He did not want slime.

They did not see it that way.

But no, not today. Henry lucked out, and turned to see a floating arm, with another floating arm next to it, holding a drink he’d never seen before.

It smelled odd. Like burning mint.

“What’s that?” he said, and looked where a head would be on a third or fourth dimensional species. He hoped that would not offend the Hand God.

From a mouth that did not exist came the words: “You looked sad. Here, have one?”

“I’m immortal,” Henry said, “Can’t enjoy it. Don’t waste it on me.”

The Hand God laughed. “What? And you don’t think I’m not? Have a sip.”

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Criminal Misdeeds – an ISG Writing Exercise

On 4 Jan 2017, these three words were chosen:

• Peacock
• Shenanigans
• Cell

And these blurbs were written within five minutes….Enjoy!

FEATURED AUTHOR

BRANDON SCOTT

“What are you in here for?” asked Jeremiah, the one-eyed peacock. This was not a nickname. He was a bird.

“Eating seeds,” replied Tony, the pigeon, Jeremiah’s cell mate.

“Eating seeds?” Jeremiah echoed, his voice incredulous. “And they stuck me in here with you? Christ.”

Tony cocked his head, and did that little head bobble thing pigeons do. “What? What sort of shenanigans landed you in this cell?”

“I just killed a man is all. Not something like eating seeds. You’re a monster, you are.”

“Hey, we both have to do our time,” Jeremiah said, and jumped into his bed, scattering a few feathers over the dull gray environment, illuminated by only a little light. “We can be civil about it, or we can just ignore each other.”

“Okay…fine, fine. Sorry.” Tony cast his little marble eyes downward. “But, I got to know, what drove you to do such a thing? Like, my god, bird, why would you do something like that?”

Jeremiah stared off in the distance. “It was wartime you see, rations were growing low…and I was just so damn hungry…”

Tony closed his eyes and imagined the scene, but could not shake a look of horror as Jeremiah told his story of criminal misdeeds.

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LISA BARRY:

Sam stared at the cell walls looking for a sign, something that would help him get out. The small window that allowed him air was too far up for him reach even with a jump. He could barely make out the soft moonlight when he heard footsteps.

“You,” the jailor grumbled, “are requested at his majesty’s feet.”

Sam blinked. It was about time.

The jailor slid the key into the lock and gave him a hard look. “No shenanigans or Ah’ll be forced to do some’tin drastic.” He held out a curved knife.

Sam coughed a laugh into his hand.

“You’ll not fear a thing from me,” he said and stepped back from the swinging door.

When they got to the hallway above the dungeon, the sweet scent of roast peacock wafted around them and Sam grinned. The Prince may be a malicious bastard but he treated his assassins well. After he taught them a lesson of course.

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ALANNA CORMIER

The banjo played loud and wild in Shenanigans, the local pub, and it was aptly named. Not a night went by when something exciting didn’t occur. O’Donnell walked in tall and proud, like a peacock, as if he owned the place. He walked up to the bar and asked for a pint. The bartender put of glass of golden liquid onto the counter and O’Donnell wasted no time in drinking it. Three beers later he moseyed on up to the stage and commandeered the mic and began regaling the crowd with tall tales of his exploits. The evening quickly degenerated, the crowd getting ugly, hollering boos and yelling for O’Donnell to get off the stage. The local sheriff walked on the stage and guided O’Donnell into a cell for the night.

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NICOLE DRAGONBECK:

Droy sat in the tiny cell, in what he thought was the cleanest corner. It wasn’t much better than the other four, but at least there were no clumps of smelly, soggy, and mostly rotten straw. He leaned his head back, his heart speeding up everything his thoughts turned to the impending trial, for which he would be judged and permanently sentenced for his recent shenanigans.

Apparently, it didn’t matter if a peacock wandered into your front garden – it still belonged to the king and it was illegal to claim it and eat it. Droy tried to think up some explanation, some plausible excuse, that would get him out of this predicament, and allow him to go back to his mother and younger brothers and sisters, but Droy was no lawman, versed in complex legal matters like precedent and things like that.

“If only there were someone who could help me,” he said to the iron bars and the filth that were his only companions. Armor clanked and keys rattled and a guard came into view. He gave Droy a horrible smile with blackened teeth. “Time to go up.”

Droy stood, his shoulders drooping, resigned to his fate, when the man in the green robes with the wild hair appeared behind the guard, and gave Droy a wink.

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DALIA LANCE:

Nadia could not say that she loved Collin. She could say that he this was the hottest relationship she had ever been in.

She wasn’t actually sure you could call it a relationship since the only thing they seemed to do well is with clothes mostly or completely off.

Taking a sip of her drink and trying to peek at her cell phone without interrupting what her friend Heather was saying was a little difficult. “…and then the peacock took my purse and then all Mike did was yell ‘Shenanigans’.” Heather finished.

Nadia looked up at her: “What did you just say?”

“The Peacock? The wedding? Were you listening at all?” Heather’s tone indicated she was most likely not going to be at all sympathetic if Nadia said no.

“I… I was listening, but I didn’t realize that the peacock was a bird” now she just sounded dumb and before she could even attempt a recovery her phone went off; It was Collin.

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Cheat…Die…Friends – an ISG Writing Exercise

On 4 Jan 2017, these three words were chosen:

• Pegleg
• Situation
• Yawn

And these blurbs were written within five minutes….Enjoy!

FEATURED AUTHOR

ERIKA LANCE:

Shanty sat up and yawned wiping the sleep from his eyes he heard it more clearly “….. cheat…. die….. friends”. Was this a female? Shanty grabbed his tunic and slid it over his head and then attached his peg-leg with a practiced move and started to head up the stairs from the sleeping area.

More screaming, curses and then something large slammed into the ship which caused it to lurch and tip. He almost lost his footing and went tumbling. What in the hell was going on he thought.

As he opened the hatch leading to the main deck he was almost struck in the head by some kind of flying debris. When his eyes adjusted to the starlight he realized the situation was way worse.

As he looked he found the source of the screams. His captain was being held upside down by a rather large squid tentacle as a very buxom mermaid was assaulting him.

Shanty sighed and pulled out his pistol. He had warned him to not mess with the merfolk.

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LISA BARRY:

Lon looked up at the sign. Pegleg and Yawn. He hoped this place was better than the last. The name was lost on him even though he’d stayed there just last name but the smell. The smell might haunt him for the next week. If his situation wasn’t bleak enough already, he’d found the only inn in the four cities to have a dead wench covered up by floor boards in his room. At least he’d found it while the water boy was there. Otherwise he just might be in jail right now. And that would be despite the fact that the body was easily 4 days old, maybe more.

Walking in the bar, his first sight was a crowded room and then the tantalizing scent of roast meat of some kind curled around his nose and pulled him the remaining steps through the door. Now this was a proper inn. The bar in the back had two empty stools and Lon made his way quickly to claim one. The bartender, a tall, thin man looked down at his through bespectacled eyes.

“What’s for ya?” he asked in an odd accent.

“A pint, please of your best draught.”

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ALANNA CORMIER

“Hey Pegleg, get over here,” yelled Shamus.

“I hate it when you call me that,” Griffin grumbled back as he hobbled over.

“Stop you’re complain’n’. It’s not like it isn’t true,” Shamus argued.

“That’s not really the point,” Griffin scolded. It took him a few minutes to make it over to Shamus, who was standing next to the vault.

“Now crack it open,” Shamus commanded. Griffin looked at the combination lock and stifled a yawn. This was going to be too easy, he thought to himself. Griffin longed for a challenging situation, one where he could actually utilize his advanced safe cracking skills.

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NICOLE DRAGONBECK:

Pegleg could not be more unimpressed with this whole situation. He fought the urge to let out a huge yawn, because that would get him clouted at best, and sent out beyond the wall at worst. The others continued to argue, the fine kings in their satins and cloth of gold, with silver swords hanging from their belts, and jeweled crowns on their brows. The yelled and muttered and cursed, about the advancing hordes, and the placement of troops, and the division of supplies, and who was to blame for the losses.

Pegleg stood behind his king, King Rudrun the king of the dwarves, and tried to shift his position so the blood-flow could get more easily to his feet and ease the numb throbbing in his heels. All this talk, and no one using their eyes, Pegleg sighed to himself. It would be so much better if they went out to the wall and actually had a look. The room gradually fell silent, and when the young dwarf looked up, he was horrified to find all eyes on him. He clapped a hand to his mouth, his whole face going red as he realized he had spoken the words aloud.

He wondered what would be a worse punishment than going beyond the wall, and he couldn’t think of what it could be, but he was sure he was going to get it.

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BRANDON SCOTT

This was the situation. One man on a plank of wood, the other with a gun and a peg leg, and the third with a yawn. The two embroiled in the act of standard pirate tomfoolery were not the focus of the tale.

No, that would be me. The guy off to side, who’s seen this about ten times today. I am the real victim here. Not Sir falls-in-the-shark-water-a-lot. He died, like, eight billion years ago, or some such nonsense. I didn’t care about him.

But I did care about the broken handle on the time device, because now I don’t know how to stop watching this scene all over again.

“No, please,” cried the about-to-die pirate, and I mouthed his words in tandem. I think this is my least favorite part.

Shoot, off the plank, down in the water.

Ugh.

My device is next to me. We are out of phase, so I can’t even ask the guy with the sword on his hip to give me a good stab to end this. Nope. Another examination of the device shows what I already know, the lever is busted, the phase regulator chugging along—despite me throwing the thing around a few times after the handle broke—and the date still stuck to this backwater world of water and smelly alcoholics, who were smelly before they went out to sea.

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