Story starters for voting

Hi Readers,

 For today’s post I wanted to try something a little different. I routinely struggle with writer’s block, and often have different projects swirling around in my head, so much that I can’t choose which one to start or what want finish. So, I figured I would let y’all decide. Below you’ll find three starting scenes, for three completely different stories. These are all projects that I came up with on-the-fly, and don’t really know, how they’re going to end. Nevertheless, I am interested to see how all of these developed eventually. What I am asking of you is simply to vote on your favorites, based on what you see below. You can just add a comment in the post with the title of the scene you like best. The eventual plan will be for me to turn one of these story starters into something longer, to be posted at a later date. I figure having an audience hold me accountable will motivate me to finish something, as I really want to get back into fictional writing again.

Happy reading, and thank you for your support.

Sorloquator

“Bunnies running blue.”

Arlo perched on the wooden bar stool, in the refurbished warehouse he and Liam used for a studio. He resisted the urge to swing his feet, knowing that it made him look younger than people already perceived him to be, and that Liam would only see it, as Arlo’s unwillingness to concentrate. Arlo traced the pattern of the wood grain beneath him, trying to block out the rat a– tat – tat of Liam’s drumstick, tapping a rhythm on the corrugated iron siding. Liam could justify his noise, in the name of music, but Arlo, as a lyricist, had no such luck. He sighed, implementing the only strategy he had to break their collective mutism, before Liam’s erratic syncopated rhythm drove him to unearth his old Dancing routines, in leather loafers that definitely couldn’t stand up to the concrete floors.

“C’mon, bro, give it a rest – let’s settle this the old-fashioned way.”

Liam turned, momentarily, ceasing his choreographed racket.

“Nawh, man, you’ll either win, or we’ll be at it for hours.”

“Well, at least it’ll get us talking, and it’s not like we can continue calling ourselves the girls and the guy, considering you’ve been dumped, and I’m… “Arlo faltered, not wanting to turn this conversation into a teachable moment for Liam, as on the whole, he had been wonderful about Arlo’s transition, the guy had gotten Arlo’s binder delivered to his house for God’s sake, so that Arlo’s parents wouldn’t have to find out before Arlo was ready.

Without missing a beat, Liam picked up Arlo’s train of thought, briefly letting out a nervous laugh, and running his fingers through his hair.

“Yeah, man, you’re right, totes can’t use that name, so I guess will do it your way. Did I mention you look great today. How’s it fitting?” he gestured vaguely to Arlo’s top half. We can go a size bigger if you need, the website says you need to do that sometimes –  oh and Dude you’re not wearing it for more than six hours a day, because I also heard that that can wreck your ribs, or inhibit your breathing or something, and we def’ don’t need my best bro passing out on stage.” Liam’s smile was wide enough, to split his face.

    When Liam got like this, it was weird. Arlo was grateful to have a supportive friend, but he hadn’t expected his best pal to have a secret identity as a super ally, – a totally straight, cisgender guy, who moonlighted, and daylighted, as a walking encyclopedia on trans issues, protecting all gender queer kids from dysphoria and despair. Liam’s support was never fake, Arlo just wished that sometimes it would be a little less hyper? Manic? He knew he shouldn’t be using words to describe mental illness, as a way to describe Liam’s attitude, but sometimes his support was overwhelming, like a dog breeder, who wanted to tell you every piece of information on the planet about shitzu’s, not because they actually wanted you to buy the rat’s, masquerading as puppies, but because they truly believed that, the miracle of their existence needed to be spread across the world. Arlo waited for a pause in Liam’s flow, before reassuring him that the binder was fine, and that he was following the guidelines his gender clinic had left with him, once they knew he was binding.

“Right,” Arlo said, tucking his right hand behind his back, ready?”

“Yeah, Bruah, after we get this torture over with, you are tracking down Carlos’s truck tonight.”  Liam tucked his right hand behind his back to mirror Arlo’s left, closing his eyes and letting out a frustrated sigh, “rock, paper, scissors, shoot.”

 They both drew identical implements the first two tries, just like every other time they played this game, maybe it was because they were so close that they had similar body memories, or maybe it was because neither one like to see the other lose, but on the third try, Arlo finally managed to cover Liam’s rock.

“See like I said, you always win your like a schoolyard ninja or something.”

Arlo chuckled, trying his best to deepen the sound.

“Dude, you won the first game we ever played, and arguably, that was the most important.”

“Yeah, I did, but karma’s been laughing at me ever since.” Liam smiled a less frantic version of the grin he had used earlier.

   “So anyways front man,whad’ya got?” Liam reached over, poking Arlo lightly in the forehead. Trickles of sweat began to run down Arlo’s lifelines, as he sheepishly rifled through his jean pockets, taking out the crayon drawing, holding it between thumb and forefinger, offering it to Liam.

Liam surveyed the drawing, clicking his tongue.

“Bunnies running blue?”

“Guessing Sakura came up with this? She really is an artist. You really ought to try and get her to go to those classes at the community center. They even have special ones, you know?” Arlo winced, running a hand over his face and pulling his tear ducts down. Liam caught the reaction, and swiftly try to correct himself.

“You know what I mean, Dude, like classes for disabled kids, smaller sizes and everything. Sorry, I know I shouldn’t use the word special, only your little sis is special, not because of that, but because of who she is. I mean not every 15-year-old can take crayons and make cover quality art you know? I bet this only took her what, like five minutes? Talent like this, has gotta be nurtured.”

 Liam paused in his ramble, looking up from the drawing of the Kawai style rabbits in all blue jumpsuits, to look back at Arlo.

Arlo’s shoulders had inadvertently hunched, his binder gripping his chest tightly, as sweat rolled off his palms, and tears pricked at his eyes. He knew Sakura was great at articulating imagination into reality, but asking her to foster that talent, in rooms full of other kids – especially ones she didn’t know, or didn’t feel were as intelligent as her, was definitely a no go. “Normal” classes would have her running for the door, before she could even pick up a paintbrush, with their noise, smells, unpredictability, and inevitably socially hungry vultures, waiting to tease her. Luckily Liam changed tact, placing a calloused hand on Arlo’s shoulder.

“Chill, Dude, I know you can’t force her to do anything. No big brother can do that. Seriously though, I have to admit, this is a big improvement on Dragon teats.”

Arlo snorted, uncurling just a little.

“You legitimately thought that was a good name?”

“Yes, it would’ve given us an edge over the competition. Plus, it has a touch of whimsy.” Liam’s eyes glazed over, with the far-off dreamy look he got when he was at his most nerdy.”

“That’s true,” Arlo laughed, getting up from the stool, “but don’t you think it sounds a little less like a band name, and more like a DND inspired porno?”

“They make those, cool!” Liam said, putting a hand to his heart, eyes widening with delight.

“You’re ridiculous.” Arlo said, standing on tiptoe to bump Liam’s shoulder. “Now, why don’t the newest members of Bunnies Running Blue celebrate with some burritos?”

“Moonlight casting shadows”

Quill, Fay publican, and Master Brewer, flitted around the youth’s ear, checking for signs of consciousness, while trying to avoid the slowly falling ash around them. It might’ve been more accurate to say, that he was currently hovering around the ear of a youth, who was temporarily in the shape of an unconscious albino bat, who had retained youth sized proportions, but Quill supposed, that his charge’s proportions weren’t of utmost importance right now. Quill slowly thought of warm hearth fires, the wood stain that looked best on pub walls, and his wife’s cheese straws. He licked his lips, and rubbed his hands together. This was going to be the last time he ever played Fortunes Fable with that picturesque lout of a cousin of his, Prince Kyron. He pulled the collar of his coat high to guard his neck from the buffeting wind, and began his second thoughts.

 Among Quill’s magical gifts were brewing, bargaining, general persuasion, pub clearing and having a merry old singsong with patrons. Now, which one of these highly useful but specific skills would be best in waking the lad?

 Gathering herbs for a waking potion would require Quill to leave bat–boy lie there for quite a while, and Quill had read enough chapbooks to know, that leaving a body alone whilst you went off to gather ingredients, was just asking for some villain type to Waltz on in, and kidnap the poor bugger. ‘Suadin’ folks required them to be awake, while pub clearing, required, well, a pub, and people who wouldn’t see sense.

 Judging from the ashen remains of the monastery around them, most of the monks had probably used the good sense The Creator gave them to flee. Those that hadn’t, were probably roasted by the fire that had swept through here not too long ago. Singsongin’ might work – after all, a change in moonlight folks form was usually motivated by fear, ‘specially in the young ones.

Being a barkeep, one got to study fear reactions of different folks quite regularly – in particularly on a rowdy Saturday night, when someone, knee-deep in their cups, thought it would be a good idea to get to fighting. Come to think of it, singin’ usually worked in that scenario as well, people usually would put down their fists to raise their voices, and if you got a song that everybody knew, they’d start to feel more similar than different. That was it, Quill thought, just treat this lad like a patron, and everything would be fine. If there was one thing Quill knew, it was patrons. Patrons were publican bread-and-butter as it were, the trick was making sure that they thought you were catering to them, all while knowing you could play them like a fiddle. If the noise got too rumbly, a good publican would just turn that noise into music as it were, because noise made music and music made noise, or something like that. The important thing was that as publican, you were always in control of – what’s a’ name- what toffs called, atmosphere.

True, this creature was a fair might younger than his regulars, but how many mams had sung to  their lil’ ones down the ages – en time memorium as it were, and how many were singin’ to ‘em still? Right enough, bairns or patrons, a singsong, was a singsong just the same. It was then Quill had his third thoughts. Sing-songs were all well and good, and something that he could do, but every good publican knew that there were different songs for every occasion- so, the type of song would be important. Some crowds wanted a song they could weep to, others wanted tunes for knees ups – lullabies would do no good in this case, as he was trying to waken the youth, not soothe him back to sleep – then of course there were work songs, but then again, those usually required a crowd…

Quill shook his head, stamped his foot, and smacked his thick fist into his calloused palm. 400 odd years of quiet life, and here he was, pulling out his scent trick. Ah well, needs must. If he had to be bloodhound as well as Songbird, then so be it. He Sucked in air, puffed out his ample cheeks, and tried not to cough on the lingering smoke, bending down over his charge, he tentatively sniffed the youth. Beneath the smoke, revenge, and sorrow clung to this one, and judging by the metallic tang, a fair few injuries that Quill would have to assess later. With the scents still heavy in his nose, Quill began to sing his contradictory melody, sad, hopeful, insistent, and wheedling.

“The child and the Guardian.”

“Run!” The words sounded in the child’s head, steady as the beat of a bodhrán. Beneath it were all the other somatic sensations their mother’s command had given a temporary stay to, not unlike when their hands got numb working with ice craft.

 Dimly, the child registered the desperate bleeding of the goats, the smell of blood, and their mothers crippled defensive stance, along with the oozing shadows of the enemies’ magic, as they had taken hold of their camp. For now, these things were walled off.

 The calluses on their feet had long since broken open, but they felt no pain. Their arms had suffered minor scratches from branches and brambles in the wood, but nevertheless their stance remained the same, no matter how they moved. Their arms and legs held in a stiff cross as they ran. Their eyes unblinking, as they tore through the wall of the guardian’s cottage. The Guardian looked up from their books, wiping off the dust and raining thatch.

They took in the child’s ragged form, along with the half bun, and shoulder length hair, that marked the child as one of the twanes. Pressing lightly, but firmly on their outstretched arms, until they rested at the child’s side. The Guardian slowly embraced them, muttering,

“Stop running little mouse; your mother has led you to a safe house. For to teach you and to mend you is what I intend, though how you will move through the world, right now, is beyond your ken.”