Day 115 of 365 Days of Writing Prompts: Start with your character talking to them self.
Erin: “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, I can.”
“You’ve never done this.”
“Even Beyoncé hadn’t ever sung at one point in her life.”
“Yeah, but she didn’t have her first show at Madison Square Garden.”
“True.”
I had somehow managed to convince myself I was crazy. Thinking about that statement I don’t need convincing, I am crazy.
Shannon: What is inside Mr. Withers’ house? That was the question plaguing my mind the entire afternoon. It was a question I used to often ask myself when when I was little kid, back when I was terrified of its haunting exterior. Who am I kidding? His place still freaks me out now that I’m in high school, but over the years I’d learned to stop caring as I accepted the fact that the rest of the neighborhood kids and I would never have the guts to find out. However, my curiosity was rekindled when Mark slid the obituary section of the newspaper across the table during our lunch period. Mr. Withers passed away in his sleep.
Mark wanted to go inside now that the biggest barrier was gone, and he’d scooped out the best night for us to sneak in. “This Friday I’m going. I don’t care if anyone joins me, but this may be your last chance,” his arguments were always meant to linger. He once told me they more effective that way. Yet I didn’t know if it was worth the trouble we’d get in if anyone caught us. Even worse, the inside could be exactly what our imaginations had built up, and why did we want to see it?
Was it better to not know? Would I be missing out? Was I seriously considering going? The man just died. Was I that heartless? Ok, I wanted to go. Would I let myself go? That was the real question I was struggling with.
Which one of your characters will you have talking to that same character?
Pelky Sisters 
I gazed longingly out the snow-speckled windows at the peacefully still tundra that stretched out beneath the deep indigo sky. Everywhere I set my eyes, there was something even more spectacular to see, yet the real show had yet to begin. “Just a few more minutes,” I murmured to myself, warming my hands by the roaring fireplace and sipping lukewarm tea; it may have been horrible, but it was the closest thing to coffee the secluded accommodations stocked in the homey kitchen. Pacing back to the floor-length window panes, I leaned against the pine frames and let my breath freeze in a tiny cloud.
“There was something so relaxing about waiting for sparks to fly from the heavens and light the otherwise endless sky with fire so hot it burned shades of emerald and chartreuse. But there was also something terribly unfortunate about being a mere mortal, thus unable to experience the phenomena more often.” Her voice was silky and deep, like someone born in a different century to grow up a cigarette-smoking movie star; I’d kill for that kind of tone. When she continued, the tone held steady, as did the descriptions, “When the crisp, new snow fell gently to the ground before the lonely cabin, which was getting tired of holding together in the wilderness, and flaked about the warm glow from the hearth. Not a sound could be heard, though the wind howled dangerously, as there was no one to hear it. And, truly, if no one is there to stand witness, does anything really happen?” As always, offhandedness produced the writer’s best works, even if she wouldn’t admit to the lack of effort.
“Well, we wouldn’t have to wait that long if someone wasn’t such a light sleeper they are woken by snow falling,” I mocked, watching her eyes twitch from tree to field in the window. When I carefully placed the cup back on the glass end table, I noticed the mug had turned to glass and the liquid turned the muddy caramel of whiskey. Fingers curling like talons around the frosted glass, she brought the fiery liquid to my lips and tipped it down my already-burning throat. Choking like a teenager on the alcohol, I watched, in the startlingly close reflection in the window, as the writer’s blistering madness that had plagued my eyes turned back to ice.
While that wasn’t the last drop of madness I could sense in the alter-ego, I felt safe enough in the middle of hell to let her have a bit of a run. With that in mind, I placed the crystal glass on the liquor cart and returned to the window with the intention of releasing her completely. She grabbed the reins and steered us toward the edge of insanity, skirting the cliffs as though she fully intended to go over. “Out there, in the silent, misty evening, a wolf howled to the stars and an owl answered. But still, the show didn’t go on and the cabin remained a safe haven for weary travellers who’d strayed too far from the main road and let their guard down. On the open tundra, no one could be picky about their lodgings, and that was just the thing that got our protagonist into water hotter than the fire burning in the hearth. The pilot landed in the straightaway before a fully-lit cabin nestled among a small cluster of conifers that appeared to be keeping its rustic charm safe from the frozen desert winds.” Though she had a way with words, she took things far too literally and sometimes her stories made my skin crawl with their specific details.
Just as I was about to pace back to the fireplace, eyeing the clock and counting the seconds before the writer would want possession of my mind again, the sky began to slowly lighten at one end, colour seeping through the clouds. I was in complete awe as the ribbons writhed through the air and lit the landscape with brilliant green and purple fire; it was like watching the world itself finger painting with its favorite colours. Though I knew she’d sneak in at some point, I vowed to hold the writer back until I could soak up as much of the spectacular phenomenon as possible.
After a few moments of gazing at it through the specked window panes, I decided I needed a closer look, if only for a few minutes. I trudged down the stairs on half-drunken legs and pulled on fluorescent snow pants and a heavy, lined coat. Completing the alpine look with thermal boots, a wool tuque and a pair of oversized mittens, I turned the handle and braced for the imminent impact from the sheer temperature change. I wasn’t disappointed as the arctic wind whispered through the trees and spiralled right into the doorway with a sudden gust that nearly knocked me out of my winter boots.
When I’d managed to shut the door, I began to take miniscule steps around the side of the log house, touching the solid wooden walls at every opportunity to keep my bearings. There was a moment where I couldn’t see much past the build-up of snow on my already-frozen cheeks, but I quickly managed to calm myself and clear my vision. After I made it to the front of the cabin, the wind now coming at my head-on and blowing an incredible amount of snow at me, I took my first look up into the aurora borealis and sighed with the pleasure of its awesomeness. If I’d been the writer I would have put it into a string of words that would make your head spin, but she seemed to be hibernating among the snowdrifts and missed the whole thing.
Carefully, I made my way down the short hill to the expansive field and the entire plain opened up before me like the open ocean was seething with foam. But as I continued to take steps deep into the snow, mostly out of the necessity to keep warm, I began to feel an eerie warmth filling me from my heart and spreading through my whole body. Behind me, leading in a jagged line from the glowing cabin, was a set of deep footprints in the fresh snow. I leaned back and felt the snow rise gently to meet my back, spreading my arms swiftly around me as the tasteless ice washed up over me.
Laughing, I watched the ribbons wriggle in the sky like dancers who took to the largest stage in our tiny world over and over without every growing tired of it. “There was something so relaxing to behold as sparks flew from the heavens and lit the otherwise endless sky with fire so hot it burned shades of emerald and chartreuse, writhing in the wintry sky,” the writer sighed as we watched the greatest show on earth.
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August walks into the room the Broken Ebon gave him to prepare. There is a set of armor waiting for him, as well as his clothes. The person that led him to the room, the same blond man with dark brown skin that attacked him. ‘They sure have a way to welcome people,’ he muses.
“The armor is for you,” the man says, “to fight. To protect.”
‘Decent English, unlike their sorceress,’ August adds. “Thank you, but I don’t need armor. A ninja must be stealthy. Armor will get in the way.”
The man motions to the armor, then closes the door. August sighs.
‘He probably didn’t understand anything I just said.’ He goes over to the armor. There’s a leather weaved breastplate, shoulder pads made of metal, elbow and knee braces, boots, and an under shirt and pants made of a colorful fabric.
August picks up one of the boots, but shakes his head.
‘It’s too clunky. I won’t be able to move in this.’ He puts it down. He eyes the shoulder pads. He picks up one and tests it against his shoulder. ‘Well… maybe these. And the knee and elbow braces. I need some protection.’
He puts on his shirt, and changes his ripped pants for those provided, which are bright purple. He puts on his own boots, then picks up one of the knee bracers.
He starts to undo the ties.
‘This mission…’ he sighs, ‘what am I getting into? This group, the Broken Ebon, have beef with another group, the Charbrows. And after the Charbrows have been attacking some of their smaller safe houses, looking for the main one.’ August sighs, ‘I don’t see how attacking the main gathering place of the Charbrows will change anything, but Sorceress Megdan says she can cure my amnesia if I help. I can’t change these people, but I need help with my problem.
‘I will set the charges, but I won’t kill anyone,’ August decides as he finishes placing the last brace. His belt is in place with the sash and his sheaths. He reaches for the shoulder pads, tying them. Without the second dose of herbs, he would never have been able to lift his arms this much.
After the test, Megdan gave him more herbs from her garden, and his wounds were fully healed. He finishes dressing, adjusting everything to be maneuverable.
‘This is too much for a ninja,’ he scoffs to himself, ‘but… I’m not a full ninja tonight.’ He leaves and meets the man with pink scars and skin so dark that he would be invisible in a room lit with a low flame, if it wasn’t for the blue turban on his head.
“Your weapons,” he says, motioning to the table. August stows his ninjaken and cleaned knife. He feels a dull ache in remembering it pierce his side. There’s a bag different from his backpack on the table. He looks inside; charges.
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