Welcome back to our fifth week of competition! This week is going to be so much fun! If you need to read the full version of the rules, go here. Otherwise, here's the short version:
Rules:
1. Up to 500 words
2. Keep it clean (nothing rated R or above)
3. Start with the given first sentence.
4. Optional Special Challenge
5. Include Twitter/email, word count, Special Challenge accepted
Oh, and feel free to change pronouns, punctuation, tense, and anything in brackets to fit the story/pov/tone. I'm not going to be TOO picky... Our judge however...
Our Judge today is Dr. Mike Reddy also known as @doctormikereddy. Go check out his blog here (where he has a 30 second flash fiction contest called #TicckleTuesday!). Read his winning tale from last week here!
And now for your super-duper sparkly prompt to start us off!
Your first sentence for FINISH THAT THOUGHT #5 is:
[His] son watched as [he] was snatched away.
Your SPECIAL CHALLENGE from the judge is:
Include the words:
curtain[s]
water
hot[test]
AAAAAAAND WE'RE OFF!!!
Rated PG for some profanity and violence.
ReplyDeleteWord Count: 443
Special Challenge: Accepted
Jessica West @West1Jess
The Capture
Her son watched as she was snatched away. Before the black bag came down over her head, she saw the living room curtains shift as though a breeze had whispered through their home. Stay in the house, John, you know that.
The water had just begun to boil when her front door imploded and three black clad men rushed in through the flying debris.
Ropes burned against her flesh, the black bag over her face reeked of sweat. The metal floor of the van against her arm was a stark contrast to her flushed skin.
After only six seconds of driving, gravity compelled her body to lean toward the driver's side of the van as they turned right onto Lexington. The driver stopped for two stop signs, then drove for twenty seconds more. He slowed to turn right, tires crunching on the gravel of the storage buildings parking lot. This close to her home? Stupid.
The Trinity Guard would never have made such a mistake. From her sources inside the Guard, she knew they'd been surveilling her for six months, though they couldn't say why. If the Guard had decided to make a move against her, surely they knew better than to send only four men?
She listened as the driver, gripping his jangling keys, slammed the door and his footsteps faded. The passenger slammed his door and she tracked his steps to the back of the van. She heard the steady stream of his piss. She hadn't heard a peep from the third guy in the front at any time throughout, she suddenly realized. Had one of her inside agents turned on her? Her fourth captor had jumped in the back with her after tossing her in.
She started at the grubby hand gripping her thigh. "Don't you worry your pretty little head, we're gonna take real good care of you." The smell of his breath through the rank bag lent the illusion of a coffee and tobacco stained crooked grin. He maneuvered himself between her legs, his hands reaching underneath her to grip her and pull her closer. She used the momentum and pushed her arms against the cold floor to launch her legs up and around his head. With a sharp pull downward while rolling to the side, she brought his head down as hard as she could. The sickening twang of his head meeting with metal brought her no small amount of satisfaction.
Still no sound from the front seat, but that didn't mean captor number three was not there, waiting. These boys were in hot water, they just didn't know it yet. They would. She could wait, too.
Great use of the opening line and the challenge wordsl Excellent use of 'in medias res' and flashbacks in a small space. Leaves questions unanswered, while building up the protagonist as a Natasha Romanoff / Black Widow type.
DeleteI am curious about the captor #3. I liked your gritty descriptions. The opening paragraph is breathtaking.
DeleteA few more notes on second reading: the succinct way you handled the son, making way for the main focus of your story was excellent; it accomodated the opening line, but wasn't allowed to overload your tale and added to the protagonist's character. The second use of water (and hot! Clever) was better than the first, which could have been altered to kettle or pan. Description of the journey was a good touch as it allowed us to fill in the blanks. Not explaining everything is a good thing here.
DeleteI really enjoyed reading this! I definitely want to know what happens! :) I particularly liked that she wasn't even worried about the son - just concerned that he stay in the house until she returned...It says so much in such a small sentence! :)
DeleteThank you, Pratibha. I'm not sure about captor #3. His silence is highly suspicious, though. I'm almost positive he's one of her spies. What I don't know is whether he turned on her, or got in on this to help her. If I knew who the captors were, that would shed a great deal of light on his part in the capture of Scarlet.
DeleteThanks, Mike. Aside from the challenge itself, my main priority was making one thing clear to the reader; the narrator is not to be taken lightly. I always worry about leaving questions unanswered, but in this case, I told the story as it came to me. I didn't want to give the son characteristics that would box me in later. He's the ace up his mother's sleeve. She doesn't need rescuing here, but everyone needs help sometime. I can see him stepping in to fill his mother's shoes later. As for the water, I wanted to place her in the kitchen when the abductors hit, but I didn't want to waste too many words with setting. I agree, pot or kettle would have been better.
Thank you , Lissa Jean. I'm so glad you caught that. Normally, a mother would be overcome with worry. I hoped that the fact that she wasn't spoke to her confidence in his abilities without making her seem apathetic.
Here's my (ineligible) entry, but I'd love some feedback
ReplyDelete[500 words, special challenge accepted]
Title: "Get it? Got it. Good!"
"His son watched as he was snatched away."
"What? Wait… Who?"
Vague pronouns? Seriously? Not the best start to a school report.
"Ghandi." the word came out half chewed. I glanced at the term paper in front of me. Yup the red ink surrounded the title.
Who's gHandi?" I asked. The H forced out deliberately, like the scrape of a hastily opened curtain.
"Whatcha mean 'Who's Ghandi?' You know. The Guy… the guy we had to write about!"
A general chuckle of approval from the other students seemed to bolster the young man's resolve to dive into the water of education and yet remain completely dry. He smiled to his audience, especially those he thought were the hottest chicks. Idly I wondered if their lack of clothing was cause or effect. Either way, no one had their minds on one of the greatest political thinkers of the last century.
"By any chance, do you mean Gandhi?
"Huh?"
"G A N D H I" Each letter alliterated in chalk on the board. "There is no 'Ghandi'."
"There is no… Is this some Zen thing, Mr Coulter?"
"No, Mr. Carter. Although Gandhi was influenced by many religions, his practical philosophy of passive resistance was based on Hindu and Jain teachings"
"Who's Jane, Mr Coulter? And what's a hen d…"
"Zac. We aren't doing the 'What's a hen do?' joke again are we?"
From the back of the class "Lay eggs!" was heard from various quarters, accompanied by titters of intolerance. Clearly we were doing the 'hen do' joke again.
"Who can tell me what 'passive resistance' is?" I scanned to auditorium hopefully.
"Ask Sandy. She's pretty passive in her resistance most Friday nights!"
Zac high fived his nearest conspirator, as most of the males in the room hooted their approval. I expected to be warmed by Sandy's reddened cheeks, but she simply hooked arms with her neighbours in sisterly silence. Something, I wasn't sure what, was brewing.
"That's ok, Mr. C…" she silenced me before I had the chance to admonish the boys, "If we have to 'put up' we won't 'put out' will we girls…"
A chorus of 'uh uh's, 'na hah's and 'no way's swept across the classroom. I shouldn't have laughed, but the boys were slower on the uptake.
"What's she saying?" Zac gazed round the room. His compadres were suddenly more interested in the flood or the window. They got it.
"Without wanting to put words in Miss Lawson's mouth, but I think she's wanting an apology, or none of you will have… er… dates this weekend. Is that correct, Sandy?"
"Indeed it is, Mr. C." Sandy flicked round expectantly to Zac. "We're waiting… Mr. Carter…" she smirked conspiratorially at the other young women. They got it.
"Ok. Sorry." Zac slowly deflated.
"Sandy, a perfect example of 'passive resistance' if I ever saw one. You get ten out of ten."
"Gee, Mr. C! That's my first ever A!" she grinned up at me, "Awesomes!"
"Sandy, you deserved it."
And instantly I see the typos :-(
DeleteThat's what you get writing on an iPhone on a beach!
You know as well as I that typos do not appear until after you click *Publish*. They did not detract from the story, in my opinion, as my mind corrected them automatically.
DeleteChallenge well met, sir. You managed to incorporate the three elements into the story without making the story about them. Kudos!
I love the way you joined together a full circle of demonstrating a demonstration of passive resistance, though I have to wonder if Sandy fully "got it". You do well when showing the females in the class are of a slightly higher intelligence than the males, collectively, and that the instructor appreciates the fact and rewards apt effort.
Well done, DoctorMikeReddy! I'd vote for you.
The girls demonstrated the concept of passive resistance quite effectively. Unique use of the prompt. Good thing (for us), you are ineligible this week. :)
DeleteUgh! This gave me the shivers. The realism that you capture is so sad, but true. Each group thinking they're so smart, but even the 'passive resistance' the girls win with still only wins more time spent with that idiot-jerk. It's so disheartening.
DeleteHi, this is my attempt...
ReplyDelete497 words, challenge accepted.
Email (I'm not on twitter): tinman18@live.ie
Title: Taken
His son watched as he was snatched away, dragged to the very upper limit of the water, then out into space. The son sighed sadly.
It was happening more and more often. The Hook would splash down into the water, its vicious talons covered by something garish and feathery. It was a trick, they all knew it was a trick, but fish found themselves drawn to it like a moth to the hottest flame, or like an Eve to an apple.
Sometimes the Hook didn’t even seem to be trying, it would appear carrying nothing but a worm. There should have been no way that this would work, if fish liked worms then they would have found a way to slide across lawns on early sunny mornings, using the dew to breathe, and slapping away birds with flapping tail-fins in order to drag them from the earth. Worms tasted like, well, worms, yet fish after fish would eagerly rush forward, take a bite, and be instantly whisked away.
They were being abducted by aliens. Many didn’t believe that, the Government denied it, the School of Fish taught that they were vanishing through spontaneous combustion (underwater), but when neighbour after neighbour disappears the evidence eventually becomes hard to ignore. The son supposed that even now his Dad was being examined, or dissected, or even probed. He hoped that wasn't as bad as it sounded.
Perhaps he was being eaten.
Some fought the Hook, wriggling frantically, and very occasionally one would escape, unharmed except for very severe mouth ulcers. Such heroes would sit in the local bar at night bragging about their bravery and strength, the size of The One They Had Got Away From getting bigger with each telling.
After a couple of days, when their celebrity had waned, they would go and try again. They rarely came back a second time.
The son started for home, a small cave far beneath the curtain of water that fell into their stream. Just as he was breaking the news to Mum there was a huge splash above, like a thunderclap. He swam out of the cave and watched as something hurtled down through the water. As it grew nearer he could tell it was fish-shaped. As it grew nearer still he could tell it was Dad-shaped.
“Dad!” he exclaimed.
“Hehho hon,” said his Dad through a mouth that looked as if he had come second in a face-punching contest. Mum blessed herself in relief (not an easy thing to do when you have fins) and applied a poultice to Dad’s mouth. After a couple of hours he could speak properly.
“How did you escape, Dad?”
“The alien threw me back.” said Dad.
“But why, Dad?”
“Well, son, you know how salmon and trout all look down on us?”
“Yes, Dad,” said the son. “They say we’re not as good as they are.”
“Well, it turns out that’s a good thing,” said Dad. “The alien said carp tastes like crap.”
I got a good kick out of this one! In an alternate universe, subjects of tall tale bar stories are the ones they got away from. Great idea, and the challenge elements blended in nicely. Good luck, Alan!
DeleteI liked this allegorical tale. The ending is like Aesop's tales. Clever!
DeleteThis was a fun read! I agree with the other and "The One I Got Away From" was genius! I also liked the idea of aliens and the fish's perspective. The ending was also very satisfying and funny. It was a little difficult getting into the son's head when most of the examples of things used (moth to flame, spontaneous combustion) would be things the fish was unfamiliar with. Otherwise, I really enjoyed it!
DeleteA clever use of challenge words and an interesting take on the fishes point of view. Loved "The One I Got Away From" and the Government cover up of the alien conspiracy. Made me regret my early angling with my Dad!
ReplyDeleteSome more notes on second reading:
DeleteMy own approach to the opening line was either to ignore both 'he's (as I did in my example) or focus on the second, as some of the others did. To use the son without modification was something that I didn't expect, but because the son's own attention was so strongly on his father it worked. I was reminded of a reversed Finding Nemo, so the ironic ending was a wonderful end
The Void Collector's Son
ReplyDeleteTamar’s son watched as his father was snatched away into the Void. The life of a Collector was not without risks and, in the end, bad decisions or bad luck claimed all but a handful. Halpen knew this lesson all too well.
In this his third year as an apprentice, the boy knew enough to retreat to a safe distance and wait. He waited, calming his breathing and banishing the hot salt-sting of tears from his eyes, before focusing all of his attention on the Void. its thick, grayish vapors swirling and eddied about much like a diaphanous grey curtain swept about by the touch of an unseen wind. While, in this instance, there was no wind of any sort, there was a discernible, albeit complex, pattern to the ebb and flow of the mists.
After several minutes of careful observation of this pattern, the lad turned his attention from the Void itself and concentrated instead on the collectibles scattered about in its wake. Those the Void took were gone beyond the ken of any to say where they might be. None could say what purpose was served in their being taken, but whatever agency was responsible for their disappearance plainly had no use for their possessions.
Void Collectors made a profitable, albeit dangerous, living reclaiming those items left when a hapless soul was taken. Halpen Tamarson’s sharp eyes caught sight, first, of his father’s collection bag and then of everything else his father had worn or carried that day. He appraised each piece with a practiced look, deciding his father’s boots and jacket were too worn to merit retrieval while his trousers were practically new. The belt knife was still serviceable as well as the flint and steel. His gaze rested last on the thick disk of polished bronze inset with the Collectors’ crest. That, beyond question, must be brought back home. It was an heirloom denoting seven generations of heritage in the Collectors’ Guild.
When his father’s meager leavings were securely stowed in his bag, Halpen left the clearing with nary a look back. He made camp in the comforting limbs of a stout oak, indulging himself in an extra share of meat, honeyed way bread and brackish spring water. At least on this trip, there would be no shortage of provisions with only one to consume them rather than two.
As he nibbled, he studied Tamar’s logbook, noting they were not expected back to the village for another four cycles. Knowing his father would be every bit as dead and gone then as he was today, the boy saw no need to return home until his bag was adequately filled. He could think of no more fitting tribute to Tamar.
Before drifting into peaceful slumber, the boy remembered to end his day reading from the Book of The Collector. How fitting the passage to which it opened: What the Void giveth, the Collector must take away. So has it always been and so must it always be.
500 words @klingorengi
This was really fun, Jeff! I love the mood especially. I certainly have more questions about everything, especially the void! :)
DeleteA great interpretation of the opening sentence, which is allowed under the rules; starting with two 'He's was a nasty one, although I did it myself at least. The world of the Void Collectors is well painted in the brief prose. Not sure that they were a liked profession mind, and the merit here is that I'd like to see how well Tamar's 'pragmatism' serves him. I suspect Adventure and an unraveling of who the Void are.
ReplyDeleteMy son watched as she was snatched away. It was the last thing he saw. The last thing he did. He felt the slugs from two handguns tear through his chest, leaving six inch wide holes in his back, shredding his lungs, veins and arteries. He collapsed to his knees, his life bleeding away. His fall ending with him on his back.
ReplyDeleteHis wife screamed. She reached for him, looked into his eyes and knew he would die. She never had the chance to cry. The men with the guns struck her face, knocking her out. One put his gun in his belt, and threw her over his shoulder. They walked off.
The police found her body the next morning. Her hands tied to a stake, hammered into the ground. Her feet staked out separately. She’d been raped. No one could say how many times. When they were through with her, they shot her in the head. Twice. They left her there, with a warning note.
“This is how we solve problems in our neighborhood.”
My son was white.
His wife was black.
I had hoped people had grown past their hatreds, prejudices and fears. As I watched my son die that night, and his wife suffer that inhuman assault, and brutal death, I knew.
People hadn’t changed.
In my anger, I crossed over. I left the land beyond the veil of life, and returned to the world of the living. I’d seen enough. The brutal nature of people always seemed so far away. Until I watched them murder my children. That act of violence changed everything for me.
I crossed over and hunted down the men that murdered my son, and his beautiful wife. I walked through the walls of the house of the first. Into his own bedroom, where he slept with his wife. When he rolled her face down on the bed, and raped her, I moved. I slipped my hand into his chest, and squeezed the life out of his heart.
I felt nothing as I did. It wasn’t murder. It wasn’t revenge. It wasn’t justice. It was simply throwing out the trash.
I found the second in his garage, with two of his buddies. From the flavor of the smoke in the air, I knew they weren’t smoking tobacco. From the beer cans scattered on the floor, I knew they were drunk. All of them.
I listened to the killer as he proudly proclaimed the neighborhood was purified, and safe once more, from the evils of the world. Like my son and his wife.
I reached into his brain, and ripped his brain stem loose from his spine. Another piece of trash thrown out.
Until the people of this world grow up, and change. Overcome their fears, hatreds, and prejudices, I will stay here. I will weed out the ones like the two that killed my son. One piece of trash at a time. One piece of trash at a time.
496 Words
@LurchMunster
Some stories are darker than others, and the origin of the prompt itself is a story of injustice, so it is no surprise an angry revenge tale like this can come about. Redemption is a constant theme, and is hard to get right. The award winning movie Crash is an example though of the complexity of these issues, because it puts a face and feelings on the antagonists. Your story reaches for those darker places few authors feel comfortable addressing without falling into stereotypes. However, a warning about the content at the beginning might have been appropriate.
DeleteWow, Mark... THIS is what you come up with after a beautiful, relaxing day?!?!?!?! It does still surprise me that my interracial couple friends have difficulties...nothing like your story, but the fact is that they shouldn't have to deal with discrimination at all. (I'm still not going to read your story again though...once was enough) :)
DeleteNever Forget
ReplyDeleteHis son watched as he was snatched away.
***
Roger will never forget that fateful day. The moments before his father was taken, Roger had been playing with him under the open sky. The last thing about Papa he remembers is the playful nuzzling and his bright toothy smile. Suddenly, Papa was struck by a Taser. A bunch of people ran towards him, grabbed him, loaded him onto a truck, and sped away. It happened so fast that Roger forgot to exhale for a minute. As soon as he grasped the situation, he yelped. He yelped for what seemed like an eternity. Finally someone heard him. Everyone gathered around and comforted him, but no one could find any trace of his father or the truck, neither that day nor the weeks, months, even years afterwards.
Most days, the pain of losing his father flows in his entire body like the blood in his veins. He thinks about their water squirting game under the hot sun. Sometimes, he feels Papa’s warm breath tickling his nose. The resolve of finding Papa keeps him going. Mama isn’t so strong, though. She never did recover from the loss and now spends most of her days swatting flies with the wooden swatter that she made from the old branches. The blank expression in her eyes and her lethargic attitude is too painful to watch.
He often wonders why the gang of the people took Papa. Why not him? But he has no time for such rhetorical questions. Every day, he walks through the various neighborhoods collecting leads. Most of the times, the leads don’t pan out. Then yesterday he got a tip, “Your father works for Mr. Lawless in Bridgetown.”
***
Roger stands in front of the huge dome in Bridgetown. A bright red curtain flutters in the wind. A large group of noisy children and adults are gathered. Everyone is excited. He overhears the name of his Papa, and his ears perk up. He hears many good words. Apparently, his father is quite a skillful worker to garner such praise from these people. Why isn’t Papa proud and why would he not share his fame with us? Surely, he hasn’t forgotten about us? Suddenly, there are flashes of light, sounds of trumpets, followed by a procession. Roger spots Papa. He is shocked to see Papa’s toothless face. He also spots a sparkly man with a bullhook following him. Roger’s eyes meet Papa’s, and Papa breaks free from the procession. Roger sees Papa’s bloody ears, but Papa doesn’t care. He raises his trunk and trumpets. He always knew, his son would never forget.
@needanidplease
438 words (Sans title)
Well, I tried something new, but am not happy with it. Here it is with warts and all. As always, feedback is welcome.
DeleteI think you did well with the reveal of Roger being an elephant. Reading back the signs are there, but subtle. The last line is intended, I think, to convey Roger's faith in his father having not forgotten or abandoned him, but could be read from the father's viewpoint, so is a little ambiguous. Getting the balance of name and clear pronoun use right is important to embed the protagonist's position in flash fiction - we rarely name characters to allow the reader to fill in the blanks - because there isn't time for proper introductions.
DeleteIt was a good experiment, maybe worth a revisit with edits sometime soon.
I enjoyed it. I could tell it was an animal right away, but I know so little about elephants that it never jumped out at me - which made the entire thing a guessing game for me (dog to monkey of some sort). After that, I'm not sure a baby elephant searching around to find his father in a circus is even possible, so the ending lacked believability. However, I really liked the play on 'elephants never forget' and I enjoyed the persistence of the son.
DeleteHer son watched as his sister was snatched away.
ReplyDelete…
I was seven years old at the time and did not understand what was going on. I knew my sister was different, but never dreamed of her being taken away. I didn’t know she had a disease in her brain that would take her away from me. The night before Julie was taken away, there was a lot of yelling and screaming from Julie and my parents. I don’t remember what was said, because I was hiding under my bed with my space blanket scared to go see what the fight was about.
The next morning my sister was taken to a mental institution in Washington. The doctors had diagnosed Julie with Schizophrenia. I had no clue what that was, I asked my parents and they just said that Julie was sick. I remember that the doctor’s office had blue curtains and walls. It was so hot that day in August, you could fry an egg on the concrete. My sister stayed in that place and never came home.
“Well, James” Said Dr. Hendwick, “your time is up, See you next week”.
192 words. I am not really happy with it! it's too short. this is a late night attempt. I have missed a couple weeks so i wanted to get something in for this week.
DeleteSometimes too short is just right. My story last week was well below 500 words. It's what you do with it that counts. You should try #fivesentencefiction or #55wordstories or even #6minutestories to persuade yourself less is more sometimes. You use the challenge word well and the opening sentence almost as a title as others have done; it was intended to be a little hard to use to shake things up a bit. However, you did a good job of weaving it into a story. As for the end it is a little clipped, but no more than a session would be, and it reframed the voice of the story from an internal monologue into therapy, which is a nice twist. I can see the opening line being the therapist's curt notes.
DeleteI like that it was a twist as a therapy session at the end. That worked well, Jena! I also really liked the detail of the space blanket. I could feel him huddling under his bed. :)
DeleteThe Carpenter's Daughter
ReplyDeleteThe Queen’s son watched as the carpenter’s daughter was snatched away. Others had been taken before her; others would doubtless follow. But seeing the carpenter’s daughter in the violent hands of the Takers stung him in a way none had before. In fact, it very nearly spoiled his breakfast (a delicately poached egg—cooked in goat’s milk, not water--on toast, with cold ham and a side of mini gherkins).
At ten o’clock he was seated on a magnificent Andalusian horse (chestnut, with pink ribbons braided in its mane, despite bearing the name Mighty General), performing third form Royal Walks, when the carpenter’s daughter’s face floated through his mind.
“Get out!” he shouted.
This shout startled the stablehands so severely that one knocked over a stool and another fell face-first into a steaming hot pile of manure. But all then fled the courtyard in such obedient haste, the Queen’s son was forced to sit astride for a good forty-five minutes in profound irritation, since he could not dismount without aid.
Following a rather sullen lunch of roasted chicken and asparagus with lemon (which the Queen’s son had to send back three times until the trembling cook was able to get the texture right—asparagus, after all, should not collapse like a noodle on one’s plate), he was forced rudely out of a light nap by the sad brown eyes of the carpenter’s daughter and a whiff of juniper wafting across his dreams.
“This won’t do,” said the Queen’s son, and he summoned the Master Dreamweaver.
“But I did not send you this dream,” protested the dreamweaver after the tirade ended. “And I would never dare send you a waking dream, at least not on my current salary, without sufficient incentive from interested parties.”
“Who then?” thundered the Queen’s son. But none could answer.
The sun eventually slunk beneath the eastern mountains, but not before the tear-stained face of the carpenter’s daughter had chased the Queen’s son through the Royal Hall of Ancestral Portraits (one of which was hidden politely behind a curtain until a recent but unfortunate question of parentage could be resolved), the Hall of Meetings, and even into the Royal Watercloset.
It was a pale and terrified household assembled before the Queen’s son that night. The look on his face was so grave, it reminded the older servants of former queens’ sons who had actually Done Things. All waited, hearts pounding.
“I am going on a Quest,” he said, “to fetch back the carpenter’s daughter from the Takers. I--”
A knight interrupted (he was not beheaded for this offense). “Quite noble, my lord, but must I remind you you are blind?”
The Queen’s son turned his sightless eyes toward the door. “I see her face,” he whispered, “and I will follow her.”
And that is how the blind prince’s Quest began: in the middle of the night, without proper ceremony or even boxed lunches.
But (though we must leave him there) that is not how it ended.
500 words, including the Judge's Challenge words
@postupak
I like stories where the end was always in sight (sic), but also where the author found out what happens when we do. Not sure which this is, because there are some neat bits of misdirection going on: the attention to visual detail seems incongruous with the reveal. However, as 98% of 'blind' actually aren't 100% visually impaired this is a reminder how black and white we can let ourselves be. Loved the "Queen's sons that had actually Done Something" line; it adds to the previous pickiness of the Blind Prince, building a rather unlikable protagonist. (I like unlikable protagonists!) Here's hoping his hinted adventures cure him of his arrogance!
DeleteSo much fun, Rebekah! I laughed out loud when he yelled, "Get out!" and everyone left and he had to wait for them to come back! Hehehehe! I LOVED his extreme particular-ness (I'm making up words here, totally allowed) especially about food. So funny. The blind - sighted thing was confusing because he did "see" things, so I'm not sure I believe it, but I'm willing to be convinced otherwise! I'd love to know what happens next and who the Dreamweavers are and what Things those other princes Did... You know, just, write a novel or something! :D
Delete