It Wasn’t Until The Catamaran Sped Away

  • by KentThis is just inexplicable.
  • four-day mission to Moscow
  • outside of the laboratory
  • noticed a strange mark
  • scheme to make some easy cash

Tune in next time part 402      Click Here for Earlier Installments

It wasn’t until the catamaran sped away, leaving me splashing a quarter-mile from the shores of Disco Island, that I considered the effect this dip would have on my uniform. This is just inexplicable. The uniform was the best part of being a general, at least so far. And in light of where my garrisons were located, I doubted I would ever go on a four-day mission to Moscow, so wearing a snazzy uniform was likely to remain the thing that gave me the greatest job satisfaction for quite some time.

As I swam toward the jagged rocks, I monitored the position of the zeppelin. The mimes have no docking spire, but their island’s steep formation was a natural substitute. They had a gangway that could be extended from the mountainside so that visiting vessels could tie up. It was located just outside of the laboratory, meaning I had no hope of getting there ahead of Jim. The airship was being tied fast when I slogged out of the briny waves and clung to the boulders to catch my breath.

As the seawater drained from my clothes, I scouted for a place to make my ascent. The tide was in, but I noticed a strange mark like the imprint of a starfish on a chunk of basalt about seven feet above the waterline. A wave crashed, soaking me again and almost dragging me off the rocks. Even without the cinder blocks, and even though Tessa and John were nowhere in sight, my situation was beginning to remind me of the betrayal under the boardwalk. I missed those simpler times, when my life was put in peril over a scheme to make some easy cash. Now, I hardly understood why any of this was happening.

bonus points for using them in order

about stichomancy writing prompts

try our stichomancy writing prompt generator!

The Fisherman Winked at Me and Made a Complicated Hand Sign

  • by jenI’ve been doing it my whole life and it’s hard to stop.
  • and paid plenty
  • the more toxin it has accumulated
  • like magnified mops
  • this is just how they unload timber in Canada

Tune in next time part 401      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The fisherman winked at me and made a complicated hand sign that told me he had spent time at the Academy. I didn’t want to talk about our shared Alma Mater. I’ve been doing it my whole life and it’s hard to stop... especially when I keep running into fellow graduates. The Hopscotch Academy exacted a toll from its alumni. I’d paid, and paid plenty, and now all I wanted was the freedom to live my life on my own terms.

“What sort of fish are you catching today?” I asked to change the subject.

“Well none anymore,” the fisherman said gruffly. “But before you came along I hauled in a whole school of Inimical Mopfish.” He opened a hatch in the deck and pointed inside. “The bigger the fish, the more toxin it has accumulated.”

I peered inside and saw a swarm of ugly gray tentacles, like magnified mops with strands as long as my arm. I struggled to keep the revulsion out of my voice. “Are they edible?”

“Hell no. But their toxin is a powerful euphoric, with only a few dozen side effects. Very popular as a party drug.”

I nudged the hatch closed with my foot. Above us the zeppelin had slowed and on the horizon I saw a rocky promontory. “Is that Disco Island?” I asked.

The fisherman nodded, wary. “No offense General, but I’m not taking my vessel to that blighted hellscape. It’s full of mimes.”

“But that’s where my brother is heading,” I said. “And I need to get there, too.”

“You look like a strong swimmer.”

Five minutes later he was lowering me into the water on the end of a large metal hook. “Don’t overthink it,” he said. “This is just how they unload timber in Canada.”

bonus points for using them in order

about stichomancy writing prompts

try our stichomancy writing prompt generator!

A Stitch in Time

We have a sickness. As we write, we always try to estimate how many words long the finished manuscript will be. Why? Who knows. It doesn’t really matter, unless we’re coming up really short or going suuuuuper long. But still we obsess. We try to look at the outline and guess how many pages it represents, when we know in our bones that it’s a pointless endeavor. Some sections of the outline are incredibly detailed, others are done in broad strokes. It’s an inexact science.

Currently we are halfway through the outline for Sibling of Music Novel. 36 scenes have been written, and six more are stubbed and ready to go. Does that mean that we are halfway through the novel? Our guts say “not quite.” And since the manuscript is sitting at a hair over 71,000 words right now, that suggests that we’re looking at a finished product of something like 150,000 words. Which is quite a lot, in case you were wondering.

— insert all the typical caveats about editing and its impact on word count here —

Since we’re fairly confident that this one will be long enough, we’ve begun scrutinizing the outline for ways to consolidate scenes. Jen took it one step further and was reviewing the stubs still awaiting our tender ministrations. Turns out that there’s a stub for a scene that now feels unnecessary. By not writing it we’ll save ourselves the time that would have taken, plus time in editing when we would have agonized over removing it. The events in the ghost scene still happened to the characters, but we’re confident that they’re minor enough to be mentioned in passing. And if it turns out we’re wrong and all the characters want to do is talk about the events that happened off-screen, well then we’ll go back and write it later.

A writing partner is someone who can help you see around these kinds of corners.

Happy Anniversary, You Big Dumb Chain Story!

Our illustrious chain story, Tune In Next Time, has reached another milestone! 400 installments, if you can believe it. Soon it will be as long as one of our actual novels. We can’t imagine trying to edit it into coherence, though.

This time, we’ve pulled our inspiration phrases from one of the baby name books in Jen’s vast collection. Some of these “definitions” are rather dire, as it turns out.

As these shared prompts usually go, Jen will take the first phrase and write until she manages to work it in. Then Kent will take over the keyboard, and so on.

  • personification of madness
  • now little used except in the Highlands
  • youthful delight in fine necklaces
  • wreaked havoc on
  • unsuccessful attempts to pronounce
  • the tinkling sound of pieces of jade
  • “Red flag”
  • the murder of her father
  • merely a Cornish curiosity
  • in origin a local

Tune in next time parts 399 & 400      Click Here for Earlier Installments

We sped onward across the waves, the fisherman in his hip-waders and lipstick, me dressed as the personification of madness. The fisherman told me about the garment he’d foisted upon my torso. “The peacock-feather vest is an old symbol of wisdom, now little used except in the Highlands.”

“The Inimical Archipelago has no Highlands,” I said.

“The Archipelago is all Highlands. Just thirty years ago the Lowlands were still above sea level. They’re gone now, of course, lost due to the folly of the Warlord and his dalliance with the American president. Back in those days William Penn XI took a youthful delight in fine necklaces, and that lady president had the finest.”

I knew he was talking about Mother. And I knew that it was she, not the warlord, who really bore the blame for the catastrophe that wreaked havoc on the Great Lakes and, evidently, also partially sank the Archipelago. But it didn’t seem worth arguing that point.

What would this lowly fisherman say if he knew that I was the son of the president he so reviled? Or that Jim, the man we were chasing, was the result of the Warlord’s affair with her? Through the years since the cataclysm there had been several unsuccessful attempts to pronounce Mother dead. Would this man take out his ire on her sons instead?

The catamaran swooped over the waves. The rushing wind and crashing surf were complemented by the tinkling sound of pieces of jade on a strand of silk that whipped in the breeze and curled around the mast.

“The Warlord should have known better than to trust that woman,” the fisherman said. “He even made a speech on the radio where he said, ‘Everyone around me says that she has “Red flag” written all over her, but I can resist neither her charms nor the opportunity to view a calligraphic tattoo of that nature first hand.'” He turned his head and spat into the waves. “Perhaps it’s wrong to judge her so harshly, though. It’s little wonder that the murder of her father left her mind unhinged.”

I had never met my grandfather. He’d been assassinated in Cornwall decades before my birth, in a very mysterious incident known to the world as the Curiosity. But to Mother, her father’s death was not merely a Cornish Curiosity — it was part of an elaborate conspiracy theory she sought to this day to untangle.

“You’re quite well informed on global political history,” I remarked, “for an Inimical fisherman.”

He grinned. “The fishing life here in the Archipelago suits me, but I would not say that I am in origin a local.”

(bonus points! whew!)

about stichomancy writing prompts

try our stichomancy writing prompt generator!

Bottleneck! Dead Ahead!

The writing is mostly back on track now that we’re home from our epic arctic adventure (puffins!), with our word count standing at a fiendishly satisfactory 66,600. We still have a bunch of stubs laid out and waiting, so we can keep steaming along for a while. Jen just completed a scene in a particular POV, so while that voice is warmed up she’ll jump ahead a few scenes to that character’s next appearance. Kent is in exactly the same situation with another character. One of the (many) great things about writing with a partner is the parallel processing.

But, let’s not be hasty.

All this skipping around with the chronology is fine, as long as we’re paying attention. We have another plot thread, which involves a different subset of the cast and therefore will take a bit of a mental shift to pick up right now. That’s why we were thinking of skipping past it. But, the events in that thread’s next few scenes are tightly coupled, which means it doesn’t make sense to divvy them up. So, if we follow the plan where we each stick with the POV that’s warmed up, we’ll create a bottleneck when the third plot thread becomes the only option to work on.

And that’s why we’re not going to proceed that way. Jen will stick to the plan, but Kent will essay the mental shift and pivot to the other thread. Once its first scene is in the can, it won’t be able to create a bottleneck. At that point, Kent can stick with that thread or swing back to the other one (which has more sex in it).

This idea of bottlenecks doesn’t really pertain if you work solo. At most, it can dictate what order you write the scenes in, but you’re going to be the one writing all of them regardless. With a partner comes the need to coordinate. If Jen can’t write scene B until Kent finishes scene A, then we lose the parallel processing advantage.

A writing partner is someone who helps you figure out the most efficient way to tackle working with a writing partner.

It Wasn’t Long

  • by Kentgone mad with a moderate amount of power
  • Put some lipstick on. I will, too.
  • all the feathers were in their correct positions
  • “I love you,” he said silently.
  • making me believe in heroes

Tune in next time part 398      Click Here for Earlier Installments

It wasn’t long before a dark, distant shape appeared in the sky. We were, it seemed, overtaking Jim’s zeppelin! I thanked the fisherman and urged him to keep it up.

“Why are you so intent on this airship?” he asked.

“My brother has gone mad with a moderate amount of power and stolen that craft. I have only guesses as to his scheme, but whatever it is he must be stopped.”

“How do I know you’re not the mad brother?”

I looked at him sidelong. I needed him to keep the boat moving swiftly. “You’re doing me a valuable favor, and I appreciate it. Tell me how to demonstrate my appreciation, and I’ll do it.”

“Put some lipstick on. I will, too.”

He handed me a small silver tube. The shade was a bit bright for my tastes, but it wasn’t like I had any of my own.

“And this,” he said, proffering a peacock vest in exchange for the lipstick. Once I’d donned it he inspected me to be sure all the feathers were in their correct positions. “I love you,” he said silently. I took that as a sign that the vest complimented my Contrarian general’s uniform. “Thank you,” he said out loud, “for making me believe in heroes. Now, let’s catch that airship!”

bonus points for using them in order

about stichomancy writing prompts

try our stichomancy writing prompt generator!

My Commandeered Catamaran

  • by jennegotiate the terms of his surrender
  • liquid French toast
  • shoes I never want to walk a mile in
  • … nothing but tai chi.
  • anything except mustaches

Tune in next time part 397      Click Here for Earlier Installments

My commandeered catamaran raced across the waves. I kept my eyes on the sky, searching for Jim’s zeppelin. Assuming I was able to find him, would I be able to negotiate the terms of his surrender? Or would we fight until one of us, hopefully him, was the color and consistency of liquid French toast? Jim’s feet are small, making his footwear shoes I never want to walk a mile in, but this had little effect on his fighting prowess. The Academy tried to make him learn various martial arts, but he would do nothing… nothing but tai chi. My brother was a tai chi master, and in hand-to-hand (or foot-to-foot) combat, he was invulnerable to anything except mustaches. And I probably didn’t have time to grow an adequate one before our inevitable showdown.

bonus points for using them in order

about stichomancy writing prompts

try our stichomancy writing prompt generator!

Be Seeing You

Anybody a fan of The Prisoner? As part of our recent vacation, we visited The Village, home to the cold war’s retired spies. In reality The Village is a gorgeous little seaside resort in Wales called Portmeirion. Everywhere you turn there’s a fantastic view or a quirky little surprise.

Just, be on your toes.

 

The town square, with its fountain and its colonnades. And its palm trees.

 

That’s right, the infamous Welsh palm trees everyone raves about.

 

In the lower right you can catch a glimpse of the Stone Boat.

 

Here is No 6’s cottage (the cute round one). The interior is now the Prisoner Shop, not 6’s funky bachelor pad.

You’ll just have to imagine the marching band.

The Bandit Lord is a Welsh Corgi, so we were on the lookout for his ancestors. We did not see a single dog in all of Wales!

Now that we’re home and over our jet lag, and Jen is just about recovered from the evil lung-rot that the terrible woman on the plane infected her with, we’ve started cranking out the prose again. As you can see, we have plenty to fuel our imaginations.

The Exterior Staircase of the Prison

  • by Kentthrusting his feet out toward the edges
  • He urinated forever
  • the color of ocean spray
  • punched the yellow button
  • to have the knowledge but not the tools

Tune in next time part 396      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The exterior staircase of the prison was one of the most terrifying descents I’d ever made. The steps were steep and slippery, as well as flimsy. About every fifth or sixth tread was missing. But I had to move fast so I wouldn’t miss my chance to catch a ride.

A flotilla of megaswans was just coming abreast of the islet as I reached the bottom of those steps. They were as unsubtle as promised, as big and gaudy as parade floats but far more seaworthy. Spotting the first fishing boat in the megaswans’ wake, I jumped and waved my arms to get the operator’s attention.

The fisherman veered toward my position, steering by thrusting his feet out toward the edges of the catamaran’s structure. I was relieved that it had been so easy to obtain transportation, but immediately had to doubt my good luck as the fisherman opened his trousers and began relieving himself. He urinated forever, a prodigious stream the color of ocean spray. He was so intent on this activity that I wondered whether he’d even noticed me at all.

“I need a ride,” I called out. The man finally closed up his pants and looked in my direction.

He punched the yellow button attached to the mast, which caused a gangway to unfold across the rocks of the tidal zone he’d just finished contaminating. “Come on aboard, then,” he said.

Hurrying before he changed his mind, I said, “Thanks. I’m surprised you’re willing to pick up hitchhikers from the prison.”

“Normally I would not be.” He gave me a squinty look. “Where to, General?”

“Follow that zeppelin!” I pointed into the sky, but Jim’s stolen airship of course was nowhere in sight. The fisherman cast off anyway, and I wished I knew if we were heading the right way. So often I’m doomed to have the knowledge but not the tools to act on it, but here I was with the opposite problem. I had a speedy boat, but no idea where it should take me.

bonus points for using them in order

about stichomancy writing prompts

try our stichomancy writing prompt generator!

The Zeppelin Docking Spire Atop the Prison

  • by jenballoon releases and candlelight vigils
  • If you’d asked me three years ago
  • took a bite of a donut
  • Black. Like a tattoo.
  • dark blue eyes and a beautiful belly

Tune in next time part 395      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The zeppelin docking spire atop the prison was the traditional spot for balloon releases and candlelight vigils on important Inimical holidays. There was a small yet ornate royal viewing box. I left Fleur and the babies there with a contingent of warrior monk nannies to await the arrival of the next zeppelin. If you’d asked me three years ago, or even one!, if I would ever worry about anyone’s safety as much as my own, I would have laughed while I took a bite of a donut. Now, the children meant everything to me. I had to stop Jim, and I couldn’t do that with my wife and six infants in tow.

I tried to explain my reasoning to Fleur and she gave me the darkest look. Black. Like a tattoo. “You had better not be running off to meet a lover with dark blue eyes and a beautiful belly to carry your children.”

That was awfully specific.

“I must stop Jim,” I said. I kissed my wife on the lips, and all six babies on the foreheads. Then I straightened my General cap and bounded down the stairs to make my way to the shoreline. The megaswans were on the move.

bonus points for using them in order

about stichomancy writing prompts

try our stichomancy writing prompt generator!