To kick off your weekend, Italian style!
To kick off your weekend, Italian style!
NOTE: I took the challenge sicahue presented in my Ancient Astronauts post, and continued the story using the same writing prompt.
The small girl busied with twisting long braids into each other, creating one long rope down the prefect’s back. Meanwhile, another servant girl, about twelve years of age, looped a red scarf about a long, lean torso, holding it taut as it fastened right under the breasts, as she was trained. Both girls stepped back and allowed the prefect to adjust accordingly. A light nod to each of the girls’ directions caused them to smile appreciatively as they bowed. The younger girl motioned for a headdress adorned with grouse and ptarmigan feathers. The prefect lifted a hand, “Not yet,” then stepped forward and kneeled before the slate alter in the center of the room. The girls genuflected, brought their arms to cross over their chests, and entered into a chant with their master.
The room glowed brightly from behind the three. The two girls turned and squinted towards the light. The prefect, eyes still closed, drew a knowing smile across her face. The girls, recognizing the being approaching, lowered their eyes and bowed. The receiver looked astonished.
“About time my prodigal daughter came home. You’re about to miss the ceremony, girl! Come here, give me a hug.”
Key still in hand, she didn’t know what else to do other than hug this unfamiliar person.
“Master, should we fetch her garments?”
“Only if Ga wills it.”
“Hold it. My name’s Gail.”
The prefect laughed. The two girls entered into a laugh.
“Every day’s an adventure with my daughter. So I’m to call you Gael now? Well then, instead of Mother, you can call me Candy. Sweets! Marzipan! You never cease to entertain me, Ga.”
“Oh right,” the prefect lifted her chin as she stroked Gail’s face, “Ga-el.”
Gail widened her eyes and quickly scanned the room. She had gone from a simple, solid door in the middle of a plain to a large, palatial room, lit only by arched windows cut along the rock walls. The woman calling herself Mother (Marzipan?) was dressed in a long black sheath with a red waist cinch. Behind her was an alter with a large gold statue of a wide eye. The two girls assisted her with placing a large gold plate over her chest and a large headdress.
“Daughter, aren’t you going to help me with the ceremony today? Lots of babies to bless. It was an especially cold winter, remember?”
“Uh.” Gail watched as the two girls approached her, hands folded in front of them, smiling as they awaited her response.
“Uh.” She tucked the key into the satchel hanging off her waist.
The prefect adjusted her headdress in the standing mirror once more, then returned to Gail.
“I suppose your wandering today has made you tired. I’m fine to do the ceremony on my own, but, my dear starchild, if you are to advance in the priesthood, you need to spend more time amongst your charges.” Marzipan wrapped her arms around Gail in a tight embrace. The cold gold burned her cheek.
Calling your expert, artistic eye back to the decision room, please!
On Wednesday, your wonderful selves helped sieve out the ideal from the not-so-ideal author bio candidates. Based on views alone, we’re left with these three:
The photo shoot moved south from Gulfport, and I changed outfits. The first part was the eclectic-electric (and did you catch the ode to Velma and Daphne in the ensemble?) version of Von. The second shoot, I was going for spiritual, contemplative Von. With chains, of course.
Again, throwing the raw files up, with a couple that have been slightly enhanced. So what’s it gonna be, Dear Reader? I say, narrow it down to your Top Two in the Comments section! Enjoy judging.
This gallery contains 12 photos.
Edited manuscript? Check. Cover artwork? Check. Leading pages? Check. Author Photo? Hrmm. Do we really need to put a picture on the back of the book? Can’t people just assume I’m a crazy-haired cat lady who watched too many G.I. Joe cartoons as a kid? Well, according to my friend Carolyn, everyone looks at the […]
I gotta hand it to the beast, Bobby Tiberius can take some injuries.
We went on our evening constitutional, minding our own, wrapping around the north end back towards The Treehouse. There’s a segment of the property that’s all large, lush flora, what Florida looked like before the conquistadors had their way with it. As we walked through our mini tropical forest, we came upon two tween girls. The taller one gasped, “You scared us!” I laughed and gasped back, “You scared me,” as children do genuinely frighten me. Then I look down and see Bob’s back leg lifted in the usual release of bodily fluids akimbo, but found it weird he wasn’t lowering it. The girls approached with the expected awww that everyone gives my cute little dog. I lowered to look for the spur that was bothering him, and noticed…it was moving.
The fuzzy thing was a honeybee. An angry, going-to-work-on-my-puppy’s-toe honeybee. I swear, living in this neighborhood is a constant episode of When Animals Attack. Moment of truth, gotta spare my dog his pain. My two witnesses are giving their best “Oh no!”’s as I look for a soft leaf. Bob, amazingly, is wagging his tail towards the girls, telling them telepathically, don’t worry, ladies, I’m gonna be okay. I’ll let you scratch my belly after the big one is done doing her job.
I pulled the disoriented honeybee from his foot, said my apologies, and placed it under my foot, pressing the bee against the ground as I searched for his stinger. Fuzzy, black foot under leafy cover and overcast sky was not helping. I released the foot, and Bobby hobbled towards the girls. While they comforted him with hugs, I watched for anaphylactic shock. Nope. Still 100-mile-an-hour wag, affectionate, but favoring the foot.
“Now girls, I want you to walk around the trees, I don’t know if that bee is still alive, I don’t want you stepping on it,” I instructed. They listened, and I watched them walk across to the sidewalk before departing.
Bobby hobbled the rest of the way, and he stretched across his yard pillow as I assembled the recovery kit: tweezers, hot water, cloth, Witch Hazel, clippers, diphenhydramine HCl, dog treats. I found the fat barb after gently cleaning his rear left paw. Nasty thing!
“In this, what we tell ourselves is a free country, which means you should have freedom of thought, I don’t care what you think. I just don’t,” deGrasse Tyson replied. “Go think whatever you want. Go ahead. Think that there’s one God, two Gods, ten Gods, or no Gods. That is what it means to live in a free country.”