Once upon a time, many long years ago (maybe six to nine?), I ran this same blogging experiment with my website.
It died.
Well, it didn’t last forever at least. But I did a lot of writing prompts there and I rather wish I’d somehow kept the work I did somewhere. They tell me the internet is forever, but I think it only lasts if you archive it somehow. Well, off those posts go to live in the Library of Lost Stories. (I made a picture of it once over here.)
Not entirely though. See, one of my regular readers (she knows who she is) has asked me about one of the stories in particular. I wrote on it three times and I had fun doing it; it’s one of the stories I most miss. I remember two of the prompts that got me going on it and the general shape of how it went but unfortunately I don’t even remember the name of my main character! Sad times.
So in defiance of my previously-stated list of writing prompts, in apology to the old blog, and with a request to the Librarian of the Lost to help me pull this out of the aether at least in somewhat recognizable form, I’ll start with this.
Writing Prompt: Choose a genre you haven’t written in before and try it out.
…
(Clearly that’s not accurate any more. I chose two, actually.)
Constance opened her closet and perused her parasols. She needed one appropriate for the day. She was wearing the cinnamon-chiffon dress, so it needed to match, as well as be appropriate for the weather and anything else she may encounter on the streets. She selected at last the brown silk; it was trimmed in a lovely red and the shaft contained just the surprise she might need.
Accessorizing complete, hair piled carefully on top of her head and pinned in place to keep it out of her face, Constance opened the door that led out of her brownstone mansion.
“Tad, follow!” she called, and proceeded out into the early morning.
Time was, not so long ago, an unmarried woman like Constance strolling the streets unaccompanied would have been a cause of scandal and much fan-fluttering and curtain-twitching. Such a time was far behind them now; there lurked far greater dangers in the streets these days and walking alone was unwise at best. But Constance had no husband or brother any more; she had no butler or ladies’ maid any more as she’d told them to move back with their families years ago; and so her accompaniment came in the form of Tad. The great machine of bronze and brass clunked behind her, its sledge dragging along behind. She was proud of Tad; she’d built a small version of him out of a teapot when she was just a little girl and he still whirred and spouted steam with the smell of chamomile and lavender. Just because the world had fallen apart was no reason to not have some spice in her life.
Today she was on a mission. There had been a great crashing sound only a few streets away. She’d woken with a start at the clamor and began prepping her recovery kit immediately. Her elbow-length leather gloves would keep her safe from burns, Tad’s sledge could carry all but the largest of machinery, and her skirts had been hiked almost to her knees so that she could dash down the road more rapidly. She wore trousers beneath them, of course; imagine if one of the street gangs happened upon her with her legs practically bare! Her aunts and sister would scold that trousers were not much better but… well, they were mostly gone and she did what she needed to in this world.
And what she wanted to, she admitted to herself. More of the changes in her personal habits had more in common with excuses than making necessary acquiescences to necessity.
The smell of hot steaming metal led her to her quarry quickly. Mere blocks away, indeed; the falling craft had crashed through two other homes much like her own on its way to the ground. The early morning mist combined with the steam rising from the remains of its boiler as it hissed and spit its dying breaths into the rosy air. As she took in its silvery pieces, inlaid with intricate leafy patterns, Constance could barely hold in a squeal of delight. This was a Dragon. Nearly an entire, nearly-intact, actual, from the Imperial Heijo Navy single-fighter Striker-class Dragon! And she was first to the salvage!
First, but of course she’d not be the last.
“Tad, load metal onto sledge.” Tasks had to be kept simple for Tad; chances were she’d get random scraps from the street but since he’d start with the largest pieces first, he should get the largest pieces of Dragon before she needed to redirect him. Meanwhile, Constance perused the street for small pieces that had flown off with her carpetbag in hand. And of course her parasol over her shoulder and trying to keep a wary eye out for inclement visitors.
It didn’t take long. A few lone scavengers showed up but saw her here already and left; she’d tangled with several before and word got around so they left her alone when she had the claim. But the ones who showed up in a group… well, claim only went so far when there was only one of you. One of you and a robot busy loading the sledge with the midsection, balancing it carefully behind the dragon-head-shaped cockpit. And the parasol.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Constance said as the rough figures came closer. Not from Ted and Molly’s gang, she thought. The Cross Street Bounders or the Lemontree group, probably. Unsavory characters generally. “Oh, and lady. Lovely weather for the time of year, isn’t it?” She gestured at the sky, where the sun was burning away the mist. The city remained hazy of course; it always was these days with the steam and the ash and the smoke from factories and war. But it wasn’t terrible.
“On the other hand,” Constance said, watching the group get closer; their expressions were narrow and pinched and unimpressed; “I’ve heard there’s a chance of rain.” She leveled her parasol in their direction, the tip pointing just in front of their feet, and pulled the trigger in the handle. Compressed air hissed and a spatter of pellets smacked the cobbles, sending chips flying up.
“I’ve plenty to make your day impressively wet,” Constance said, leveling the parasol towards their chests. “If you’d like the day to remain fair, I suggest you find your own salvage elsewhere.” She waited, face impassive, as the group conferred, casting glances at her and at the chips on the pavement. They knew as she did that pellets that could crack cobbles could crack bones easily. And no one wanted a broken bone in this city for the same reason a wolf in the mountains or a cheetah on the far-off savannah she’d only ever heard about wanted a broken bone. Someone who couldn’t walk or work couldn’t eat, and then you were left reliant on those around you, hoping someone was merciful enough to spare you a crust or a splint. It wasn’t a thing you wanted to count on. Especially not on the former Lemontree estate, which she was pretty sure was this gang’s home stomping grounds.
“Better pickings elsewhere,” Constance said, but caught a flicker of eye of one of the men in the group in time to whirl around, catching a falling crowbar on her parasol from a man sneaking up behind her. Enough of this.
“Tad, defend!”
Tad hissed in a way that, if the gang had any sense, they would realize was absolute menace. His speed accelerated markedly as he drove towards the group. They’d started toward her again now she, and her parasol, were otherwise engaged, but Tad bore down on them with arms swinging. And he had four of them. And they were made of metal and about eight feet long each. One man got clipped on the ear and another knocked backward into the ground before the rest got the message and hightailed it.
As for her assailant with the crowbar, she realized it was a youth. Lanky, underfed, wearing clothes that probably fit him three years ago, and with a distinct tremble to his lips. Constance rolled her eyes, grabbed the crowbar with one hand, and whirled her parasol around with the other, looping it behind his ankle and throwing him onto his trousers on the street. In a blink, the parasol was turned around again, leveled towards him.
“Tad, load metal onto the sledge,” Constance said. Tad broke off his pursuit of the miscreants and returned to loading pieces of the Dragon onto the sledge. “Now, boy, did any in your jolly band wait for you?”
He spared a glance away from the tip of the parasol and towards where the thugs had fled. “Uh… no. Um. Ma’am?”
“Nor will they ever. Not that lot. If you want a chance scraping through on these streets, find Ted or Molly. They’re decent. Do good work for them and they’ll keep you on your feet. Leave Lemontree alone. Sour is as sour does, they say. Now, get up and get out of here.”
Constance opened her parasol again, perching it across her shoulders, and went back to picking through for loose pieces of her new prize. She kept the crowbar tucked firmly under her arm and pretended to pay the boy no heed, but she knew when he stood, shuffled around uncertainly, then slowly walked away. Southward, not towards Lemontree. Good. Maybe he had some sense. She looked back at the sledge and around the street. A good morning’s work, all around.
“That’s enough for me. Tad, take the sledge home.”
And, sledge dragging behind them, the two set back to her workshop.
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