The Vigil (15-minute-dash), by Faith E. Hough

(PROMPT: Describe the room you're in so as to elicit a certain emotion, other than that which you would normally associate with the room)

The coffin sat at one end of the room, and Jenny sat on the couch at the other end--as far away from the soldier's body as she could possibly get. Grandmother rocked in the chair by the fire, swaying the chair back and forth as she crocheted to stay awake, unaware that every crick, crack of the old wood sounded to Jenny like a last cry from the dead man's soul.

She tried to distract herself by poring over the titles of the books that lined two walls (though Grandmother would have had a fit had she known how irreverantly Jenny was spending her watch). How had she failed to notice before how many of the books had dreary titles? The Tough Winter; The Lost Prince; The Black Arrow; Le Mort d'Arthur. Even the harmless ones, like Charlotte's Web or The Wind in the Willows, seemed to taunt the girl and conjure images of spiders spinning webs from the coffin all the way over to her toes, while a cold, whistling wind fought its way through the cracks in the old window frame.

The wind was only half imagined. From the chimney swept in a draft that the flames licked at but could not warm--it sent goosebumps up Jenny's calves.

The fire was casting weird shadows across everything in the room; Grandmother's old model of Stonehenge looked like a graveyard, and Jenny could easily imagine that there was a vampire or werewolf lurking in the inky darkness behind the armchair.

The framed silhouettes on the wall looked like dark ghosts.

The cat was sleeping so silently on the hearth that she might have been dead.

Even the clock was dead. Its hands were frozen at eleven twenty-five...as if to remind Jenny that that was when it happened.

One Painting, Different Stories...

PROMPT: Use a painting (Waterhouse’s Lady of Shalott) as inspiration for a story. (20-30 minutes)

Version 1: The Return, by Nancy Langdale Hough


The stable boys’ shouts announced the approaching rider racing toward the gates, and Elsbeth knew, without seeing, it was Richard. He had come back, just as he had threatened.

The voices riveted her to the loom’s bench, but the shuttle dropped from her hand and fell between the warp threads, snapping two fine strands of linen before clattering on the stone floor.

The baby startled from her sleep and whimpered. Elsbeth rose and gently shushed the infant. What sort of life would the child have when the truth was told? Men survived lies, fraud, even slander, but what child could survive the truth she held? Well, then, a lie must take the place of truth and truth must be proved a lie. For the child’s sake.

The Duel (15-minute-dash), by Faith E. Hough

(PROMPT: A boy or girl of 13 must be the moderator of a duel. 15-minute-dash.)

Sandy began to back away slowly, so her dress wouldn’t swish and give her away. Why did they have to fight over her so much? If only she were able to tell them the truth—that she wouldn’t give two beans for either of them (in a romantic way, that is)—they could all just go back to being friends again and everything would be fine. But her father had made her promise…and a lady must keep her promises.
“Where are you going, Sandy?” George called, and Sandy racked her brains for an answer but discovered none. Her hat was heavy and her hatpins were poking into her head until it was nearly impossible to think. She knew it was only polite to stay and watch when two admirers were risking their lives for you…but she rather wouldn’t and rather they didn’t.
George’s reason for desiring her presence, however, was a surprise: “If you go, who’s going to tell us how many paces?”
“What?”
Apparently George and Eric had finally found something upon which to agree again. “You know,” Eric said, “Someone always has to count out the paces…decide if satisfaction has been made…”
“I think satisfaction has already been made,” Sandy argued, but George cut her off.
“Anyway, somebody has to stick around to run for the doc when Eric blows his own hand off because he’s too stupid to aim—”
“You’re one to talk, mister—”
“Don’t you start this again—”
“I didn’t start anything, I just—”
“STOP!” Sandy silenced them with a word. “If you want me to moderate, you have to listen to me.”
Both young men nodded and blushed—that may have been the one and only advantage of having them in love with her.
“First I must examine the weapons for any foul play,” she said, trying to conjure into her voice the authority that emanated from her father when he spoke to the new soldiers about to march off and fight the Yanks. He had an authority no one, herself included, dared resist, but she suspected that a little bit of it may have seeped into her own blood.
The men passed the weapons from their white-gloved hands to her own.
“I’ll examine them in private, if you don’t mind,” she said. She gave each boy a tender look that she hoped would keep them from strangling each other when her back was turned.
“Don’t discourage suitors,” he father had ordered. “Make yourself appealing,” he’d said, “Make sure and get yourself a fine man.”
Well, he hadn’t said anything about letting two fine men kill each other, so she wasn’t about to. Behind the screen of her wide skirt, she emptied the barrels of both guns, dropping the bullets into her silk hand bag.

From the Diary of Young George III (10-minute-dash), by Faith E. Hough

(RULES: Write a fictional diary entry for a historical character...in ten minutes or less.)

Uncle enrages me. He is so stupid. I hate stupidity, more than anything.
Today, as we were brushing Sampson and saddling him for my ride, we heard two boys quarreling in the stableyard. Uncle said it was none of our affair, but I overrode him on that at least.
"You always say to be a good king, I must have an unquenchable love for my people and concern for their troubles," I said.
That settled it and we went out. The boys were fairly stupid themselves, truth be told--as it must be, here at least, though Uncle would try to have diplomacy come before honesty at every turn. But the boys were fools. They had got themselves all abroil in a fight over who should get to ride a certain horse--a horse that, it was soon established, belonged to the elder of the two.
Now, is it not perfectly clear that if a boy owns a horse, he should be the one to ride it? I told them so very plainly, and the matter should have been settled without further trouble, but for the interference of my father's half-wit, conciliatory, stupid brother.
"They ought to share the horse," he said.
Share! I thought I would lose my dinner.
"Have you no compassion?" he asked. "The younger boy has no horse, and his foot is lame."
"Precisely," I answered. "He has no horse. The other boy has. If God has seen fit to bless their fortunes so, we should not meddle in His providence."
Uncle took me aside. "George," he said, "If you are ever to be a good king, you must learn mercy."
"Uncle," I said, "If you are ever to be a good advisor, you must learn something. Anything. The whole world of knowledge is open to you. You should look into it sometime."
And so I am confined to my room for the rest of the day. That is well enough for me. I would rather be alone.