I guess everyone knows how this works. I open a book to a random page, and then, with my eyes closed, I point. The word or words closest to my finger is the prompt.
Today, I opened The Last Drive to page 171, and the word “bullet” ended up nearest my finger. So that’s the prompt.
The aroma of coffee fills the air, and while a spruce-up of the machine takes place, a thought comes to me. When the machine delivers the coffee, there must be another trip into the past. The coffee pours forth from the spouts into my cup as if answering a wish. The crema finish lets me know the sipping time is near.
Drinking coffee and setting the clock to December 23, 1620. This is the day the pilgrims started the permanent settlement in Plymouth Massecuctiuts. The time on site is set for two hours; before the coffee is done, we are here.
There is much activity as the Mayflower dropped anchor two days ago in Plymouth Harbor. Today, the pilgrims begin work on dwellings that will shelter them through their brutal first winter in America. Miles Standish is leading the building efforts. The task is formidable since housing will be required for 102 passengers. In the meantime, the Mayflower will be used as the dwelling while the houses are built.
Miles Standish is agreeable to an interview. Getting past the awkwardness of trying to explain my presence, one question is asked. What is the biggest challenge so far? His answer is”Finding enough food for all these people.”
The alarm interrupted the conversation, and my warm living room displaced Plymouth’s cold and windy coastline. A text is coming, and it is from Linda Hill. It reads. Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “spruce.” Use it as a noun or a verb, use it any way you’d like. Enjoy! You can visit her post if you want to see what other bloggers have done with the prompt. Here is the link. https://lindaghill.com/2023/12/22/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-dec-23-2023/
“Using this photo (below) as inspiration, write a short story, flash fiction, scene, poem; anything, really; even just a caption for the photograph. Either put your offering (or a link to it) in a comment or email it to me at keithchanning@gmail.com before Sunday evening UK time. If you post it on your own blog or site, a link to this page would be appreciated, but please do also mention it in a comment here. Thank you for taking part.”
With a cup of coffee, one can conquer the world. Or so it would seem. My machine is being very kind to me and producing the best of the best. After half a cup, the alarm comes to mind. Taking one last safty excursion to December 16, 1923. Notwithstanding all the advice last week from my dear friend the safe road is it. I certainly don’t want to bake my time travel cake half way.
The clock is set to December 16th 1923 ,7:00 PM, and the duration is set to two hours. The scene is a darkened theater and the movie Our Hospitality is playing. It stars Buster Keaton and is one of the most popular. The audience loves it and can’t seem to get enough. Also appearong is the movie is Natalie Talmadge, Joe Keaton, and Joe Roberts. It is very strange to be in a movie with people smoking. The screen gets harder to see as the movie finishes.
Moving to the lobby there is a poster for the movie playing next.
Slow as Lighting is playing next. It stars Kenneth MacDonald, Billy ‘Red’ Jones, Edna Pennington, Gordon Sackville. Not a title that is familar to me.
The alarm goes off and I land back on the couch. I receive a text from Linda Hill. It says Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “bake.” Use it as a noun or a verb, use it any way you’d like. Have fun!
In Keith’s words. “Using this photo (below) as inspiration, write a short story, flash fiction, scene, poem; anything, really; even just a caption for the photograph. Either put your offering (or a link to it) in a comment or email it to me at keithchanning@gmail.com before Sunday evening UK time. If you post it on your own blog or site, a link to this page would be appreciated, but please do also mention it in a comment here. Thank you for taking part.”
“And now our reporter Max Fly in the Far East has a story about an obscure music maker.”
“That’s right, Bradley. I am here in Thailand with what has been reported as the only miniature bed of nail player in the world. Let me introduce you to Chakan Chokdee. Hello, Chakan.”
“Hello Mr, Fly.”
“You can call me Max.”
“Ah. Hello, Max.”
“Your English is perfect. Where did you learn it?”
“Stanford University. PhD in biostudies.”
“So, tell our audience about your instrument.”
“Yes. This is a miniature bed of nails, and instead of taking a nap on it, I play it.”
“And how do you do that?”
“Well, you hold it like this and pluck each nail.”
“Can you play it for us?”
“Sure, what would you like to hear?”
“For this demonstration, how about something traditional.”
“Ah, let me see. Yes, here is a traditional song.
Pluck – You say you are lookin’ for trouble?
Pluck – Well, son, you’ve come to the right place.
Pluck – Notice that I have this fist of iron.
Pluck – That’s got a reserved sign for your face.”
“Now that is an interesting folk song. What’s its name?”
“It is an ancient song that tells a story of cultural conflict.”
“I can imagine. What’s it called?”
“Mæ̀ k̄hxng khuṇ s̄wm rxngthêā būth t̀xs̄ū̂“
“Hmm. I wonder if you could translate that for our worldwide audience.”
“I’m not sure it would mean the same in English.”
“Give it a try.”
” Okay. The exact translation is Your Mother Wears Combat Boots.”
“I think we can understand that just fine. Back to you in the studio, Bradley.”
The coffee is ready in record time, which just says to me, “We love you, boss.” After a sip of the precious fluid, the thought again turns to the alarm clock. Although experience is being gained on each trip to maintain control, it seems to me that staying within a specific boundary is a good idea.
Therefore, the clock is set to December 8th, 1923. One hundred years ago. The time is set for two hours, and the plunger is pulled. Immediately, the scene changes, and My location is Madison Square Garden. There are a lot of people in the garden cheering for men on bicycles.
When questioned, the guy next to me informs me that this is the finish of the annual December Six-day race. He tells me there are fourteen thousand people in attendance.
He also says Ernest Kockler of Chicago and Percy Lawrence of San Francisco, comprising the American team, were the winners of the annual race. He fascinated me with what seemed to me to be a professional play-by-play recap of the events. He breathlessly recapped that the American riders, hanging tenaciously to the precious lap that they gained during one of the jams early in the week, finished the grind with a total mileage of 2,519 miles and 8 laps, and their one-lap margin was sufficient to give them the honors.
Thanking him for the information, the bell clanging means my time is up here in New York. In an instant, the familiar surroundings of the home told me the adventure is over. My phone buzzes, and a text arrives from Linda Hill. It reads.
In Keith’s words. “Using this photo (below) as inspiration, write a short story, flash fiction, scene, poem; anything, really; even just a caption for the photograph. Either put your offering (or a link to it) in a comment or email it to me at keithchanning@gmail.com before Sunday evening UK time. If you post it on your own blog or site, a link to this page would be appreciated, but please do also mention it in a comment here. Thank you for taking part.”
The brew machine delivers a cup of steaming stuff faster than usual. There is more time to fool with the clock. The clock is in the pantry, and the pantry door closes after fetching it. Another dial appears on the back of the clock for the first time. There is a small clock face and a dial. The word ‘alarm’ is beside the face. Looking at my watch, the local time is nine o’clock. So if the alarm is set for Ten o’clock, it will give me an hour in the past.
The alarm is set, and the day and year are chosen: November 24, 1923. Now, to pull the pin to engage. Whoa, that was fast. According to the stadium sign, the location is Forbes Field. That’s a stadium that was in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. It looks like the game is over since most are leaving. Inside is a giant scoreboard with the names Carnegie Tech and Visitor. It looks like the visitors won the game 23 to zero.
A program is on one of the seats, and the visitors have been identified. It is Knute Rockne’s Notre Dame football team. It looks like the game was a little one-sided. The local folks don’t look too happy, but the Notre Dame folks are all singing and laughing.
A guy from the radio station is interviewing Rockne, saying that the game didn’t reflect his team’s strength. He mentions that they could have done more but decided to allow some first-year members to get some experience. That seems reasonable since, for Notre Dame, the score seems modest indeed.
A bell goes off, and my living room replaces Forbes Field. In my hand, the program has turned into a message from Linda Hill. It reads. Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “something that closes.” Write about the first thing that pops into your head that closes. Enjoy!
Last week, Teagan Geneviene posted a delightful challenge, which was to have a character post a diary entry. The reason for the entry was to develop the character further and add to the author’s understanding of the character’s personality. By clicking on Teagan’s name, you can go see the post. It is really worth the visit.
As many of you know, my last two books, Eternal Road and The Last Drive, have Lucifer himself as a central character. He has to be the penultimate protagonist. Like most characters, Lucifer has a side of him that even the author may not know about. I thought it would be fun to look in his Diary (hopefully without being caught) to see if there is something about Lucifer we may learn.
Thanks to Teagan for the prompt.
November 2023
Dear Diary,
Here, we are facing another bleak holiday season. I don’t know about you, but if I had my way, I would eliminate all the humans and their overdone attempts at mirth. However, I always need to remind myself when I think of such a drastic measure that eliminating humans would leave a paucity of souls to torture. I guess I can only dream. Ha.
On another note, Dear Diary, I must make an appointment with my psychologist. I was a bit harsh when I stormed out of his office and banned him to the lower ring. He is such a nudge, though. I don’t think he knows how annoying those “So how did that make you feel?” questions are. I know how the hell I feel. I want him to tell me what it is I should be feeling. I’ll tell you that Sigmund Freud was lucky he squeaked into heaven. I would have him by the neck right now.
Am I that difficult to get along with, Dear Diary? Almost everyone I run into can’t wait to get out of my sight. Do you think I should do something about my appearance? Maybe it’s not me at all, but their insecurities about having blown the Earthy test. I just wish I could have a conversation without all the shaking and knee-knocking. I almost feel sorry for them.
I’m wondering if I should have some kind of office party. No, Dear Diary, not in celebration of you know who’s birthday but just to get to know folks better. I mean, if we all had a chance to meet informally, maybe the knee-knocking and shaking would become a thing of the past. Of course, who am I kidding? I’m the Lord of the Underworld, and folks should be afraid. In fact, if I go on like this next year, please remind me of my place.
I wonder how long some mistletoe would last in this heat? Enough for now, Dear Diary. I hear the arrival horn indicating a new set of miscreants needing a welcome. I think I’ll put on the Hermes red suit. I find folks are much more calm when they see that. That snake with wings outfit really shakes them up. No, Dear Diary, we will leave the pitchfork for another day. I might do a silk pocket square, though. Got it at Neiman’s.
In Keith’s words. “Using this photo (below) as inspiration, write a short story, flash fiction, scene, poem; anything, really; even just a caption for the photograph. Either put your offering (or a link to it) in a comment or email it to me at keithchanning@gmail.com before Sunday evening UK time. If you post it on your own blog or site, a link to this page would be appreciated, but please do also mention it in a comment here. Thank you for taking part.”
I guess everyone knows how this works. I open a book to a random page, and then, with my eyes closed, I point. The word or words closest to my finger is the prompt.
