Creativity run low this week? Taking things too literally? Chasing the muse with a broom for providing simultaneously too many ideas and no way to link them together? Sounds like prompt time — and we’ve got you covered, with the collective brain power of More Odds Than Ends.
| Producer | Play | Actor |
| AC Young | A superhero skiing down a blue run, cape fluttering behind her. | Leigh Kimmel |
| Becky Jones | When the sun came up as scheduled, the relief was palpable throughout the city. | nother Mike |
| Padre | The picnic was rained out. | AC Young |
| Leigh Kimmel | As day turned to night, hope diminished, but one person refused to let it gutter out altogether. | Padre |
| nother Mike | The dragon curled up with a good book, its reading glasses nestled on its snout… | Fiona Grey |
| Fiona Grey | He was falling, falling, until the precipice was out of view, and still he had not landed… | Becky Jones |
Should you want still more ideas — or if you weren’t well on your way to chasing that muse around the block already, for not also granting the ability to type faster — why not take a look at the spares?
| Spare | The god said, “Oops.” |
| Spare | You knew it was windy when even the trains shut down. |
| Spare | At dawn on Sunday, all the church bells rang in unison. |
| Spare | That’s what happens when you bring witches to a gun fight. |
| Spare | Feeding the chickens glitter was not a good idea… |
| Spare | This year, the Easter bunny had a different mission. |
That’s all for this week — stay safe out there, and don’t let the muse chase you.
Header image by Fiona Grey: Belated Sunset on Water.
More Odds Than Ends 
This week Padre assigned me the play: The picnic was rained out.
I decided to attempt a variation of the trip to Donwell Abbey from Emma, with a suitably constrained cast of characters.
—
Today was the day. Mr Edward Porter was hosting a small, select group of friends and acquaintances at his family’s home, King’s Wood Abbey
The plan was simple. He and his wife, Lizzie, were to be the hosts. The group would gather, and wander about the gardens, before having a picnic for their midday meal.
Initially all was going well. Rev Milton and his wife, Louise, walked up from the vicarage. His brother-in-law Mr George Herbert and his wife, Marianne, came in their carriage. They lived in Lenham Court, the manor house for the parish to the east, and the vicar of Lenham, Rev Gladstone, came in his carriage with his new bride.
An hour was spent in the gardens, making conversations.
Then the rain started to fall. Mr and Mrs Porter had planned for this possibility, and the group were swiftly encouraged inside.
The women went to the drawing room, and the men to the billiards room.
In the billiards room, Mr Porter and Mr Herbert played, while Rev Milton and Rev Gladstone debated theology.
In the drawing room, Mrs Porter, Mrs Herbert and Mrs Milton sat in the chairs, while Mrs Gladstone, who hadn’t visited the Abbey before, reviewed the paintings on the walls.
“I don’t recognise this building. Is the painter working from his own imagination?”
“No, Mrs Gladstone. That was how the Abbey looked about a hundred and fifty years ago. It’s been extended since.”
“Really.” She sounded surprised. “My brother only displays paintings by the best young artists. One must keep up with the latest fashions, after all.”
The other three ladies sighed. They were all used to Mrs Gladstone’s ideas that everything must be done exactly as her nouveau riche brother did. That these were not suitable ideas for this part of the country was something the woman just couldn’t seem to get her head around.
Nonetheless, Mrs Porter attempted to explain. “Mrs Gladstone, hiring painters to produce new paintings of the Abbey would cost a significant amount of money, and we already have a suitable set. It’s not about keeping up with the latest fashions, it’s about being good stewards of the wealth that God has supplied us with, as I’m sure your husband will be only too pleased to explain to you.”
Mrs Gladstone appeared to dismiss this wordlessly before returning to the décor, and her impertinent commentary.
Mrs Porter felt that she might have been a little impolite, but less than was warranted under the circumstances. Nonetheless, she expected that some sort of story of her rudeness would circulate in Lenham before the end of the week.
The ladies had all learnt that Mrs Gladstone had a very loose tongue, and was more than happy to carelessly mention anything heard in her hearing to anyone without a care in the world about whether or not that was appropriate. It was not, Mrs Porter frequently thought, suitable behaviour in a clergyman’s wife, but presumably the fact that her brother had been willing to provide her with a dowry reputed to be £15,000 was worth more to Rev Gladstone, which was a black mark against his character.
With this in mind, Mrs Porter deliberately kept the conversation on matters which were either well known or could be spread without embarrassment to anyone, and Mrs Herbert and Mrs Milton made no attempt to talk on any other topics.
There was a knock on the door, and in came Mr Porter’s steward, Graves. “It’s just past noon, and it’s still raining ma’am.”
“Then we cannot eat outside. Please arrange for the food to be served in the Ball Room, then inform us and the gentlemen.”
“Very well, ma’am.”
Mrs Gladstone seemed to mutter under her breath at something or other once the door had closed once more, but Mrs Porter made no attempt to interpret it.
Soon, Graves knocked on the door of the billiards room. “Gentlemen, the midday meal is being served in the Ball Room.”
“Thank you, Graves. Should I assume the ladies are already on their way?”
“You may, sir.”
“Very well.” Mr Porter dismissed Graves, and turned to his opponent. “Well, Herbert, this frame is unfinished. Shall we call it a draw?”
“Very generous of you Porter, given how far ahead in points you are. I accept.” The two shook hands and put the cues aside.
Mr Porter looked across the room, the two clergymen were still engrossed in their discussion. “You go ahead Herbert, you know the way. I’ll guide our inattentive friends.”
Mr Porter walked across the room to the corner where the two men were.
“… My dear Gladstone, you haven’t taken into account the implications of Roman inheritance law. If only those adopted as sons can be heirs, then in order for women to inherit, Paul must declare that they also have been adopted as sons.”
That sounded like the sort of esoteric theology that Mr Porter associated with discussions between the pair, and if he listened to them for any length of time he soon became very lost. “Ahem. Gentlemen, the meal is awaiting us.”
“Porter. I didn’t hear the announcement.”
“No, Milton. You were too engrossed in your debate to pay much attention elsewhere. The Ball Room is this way.”
The company regathered together in the Ball Room, and helped themselves to the food on various platters situated around the room.
The rain ceased to fall during the meal time. After the guests had all finished it was time for them to depart.
After the last carriage had passed around the bend in the drive, and Rev and Mrs Milton were out of sight, Mrs Porter turned to her husband. “I wish that it were not so impolitic to not extend an invitation to Mrs Gladstone.”
“I regret, dear, that if we invite Rev Milton, then we must invite Rev Gladstone or your brother will be upset.”
“It is so irritating when you are right on such a topic as this. I cannot discuss any matters of import with Louise and Marianne with that woman in earshot. And I was so looking forwards to starting the arrangements for the Abbey Ball. Now I will have to visit them and do it that way.”
“You cannot ask Mrs Gladstone to do something minor and then ignore her?”
“No. She will insist on doing it exactly how her brother does it, which will be completely the wrong way to do anything. And then she will insist on everything else being done the wrong way while we’re trying to fix the task she was supposed to be doing. It’s much easier if she isn’t involved at all.”
“Then it is a pity the rain prevented secret conversations in amongst the flowers.”
“Yes. For that is the best way to divide the organisation for a ball.” Mrs Porter sighed. “I will have to go visiting tomorrow. I will visit the Miltons, for they are the closest, then the Herberts. If I judge my timings right, Louise will invite me to have lunch with them, and it would be rude to refuse. Then I will visit the Gladstones, for they will be insulted if I visit Lenham Court and do not drop in, where I will make no mention of the ball to come.”
“It is a delight to me that I had the good fortune to marry such an organised young lady.”
“Cease! You will make me blush.”
“Then we had better retire within, and organise the organisation of the clear up.”
Mrs Porter laughed. “Yes, we had better do so.”
LikeLiked by 1 person
Did you just finish reading Pride and Prejudice by any chance? 😀
LikeLike
I’m afraid not. But that was the first Jane Austen I ever read, as a young teenager after enjoying (to my great surprise) the 1995 Ehle/Firth TV adaptation. I’ve read it several times since over the years.
There may be a number of references to several of Austen’s works in there, that crept in surreptitiously, but the only overt references I built upon were Donwell Abbey as King’s Wood Abbey, and Rev and Mrs Elton (also from Emma) as the basis for Rev and Mrs Gladstone (although I admit to adding an additional flaw to the latter).
LikeLiked by 2 people
[…] weeks MOTE prompt challenge was issued by Fiona Grey: He was falling, falling, until the precipice was out of view, and still […]
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh, I hope you continue this one!
LikeLiked by 1 person
hum… Alice fell into a rabbit hole, right? But this dude fell into a dragon valley? Sounds like the beginning of a great tale! Bravo!
LikeLiked by 1 person
[…] Check out more or play along over at More Odds Than Ends! […]
LikeLike
Oh, I like Miranda and Greystone. It’s been a while!
LikeLiked by 1 person
and then? You’re not going to stop with that cliffhanger, are you?
LikeLiked by 1 person
I have to write it first!
LikeLiked by 2 people
And now mine is up on my LiveJournal at https://starshipcat.livejournal.com/1506511.html — carrying on from the last several weeks to build up more and more of my novella “NPC’s”.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Becky Jones produced…
When the sun came up as scheduled, the relief was palpable throughout the city.
[now, why would people be worrying about the sun coming up? That’s not usually one of those events that people think might not happen as scheduled. So, let’s see. Perhaps a city with a virtual sun? Which might get hung up by a computer problem? Or… someone casting doubts on the sun coming up? I need to think about the background here…]
When the sun came up as scheduled, the relief was palpable throughout the city.
Usually, few people would even be up at that hour, let alone paying attention to exactly when the sun rose. But yesterday had changed all that.
At 4:23 that afternoon, people were watching a high school game, children were playing in their yards, and everyone was enjoying a late afternoon. Then, suddenly, it happened.
The sky darkened, and the sun slipped below the horizon. Everyone shook their heads, and looked around at the sudden darkness. Lights turned on, automatically, or when someone hit a switch.
And the cell phones, televisions, radios, everything shouted out the message.
“I am the king of darkness, and I have taken the sun away from you! Beware, for I may not give it back tomorrow…”
Then it squawked, and screeched, and another voice came on. “This is the Special Operations branch of the US military. We have captured that idiot, and are working to stop his actions. Don’t be afraid, go ahead with your lives, and by tomorrow morning, the sun will rise again!”
Then they played the National Anthem. And… it all went back to normal.
Except, of course, people were terrified. They talked to each other, they fretted, and they waited to see what would happen in the morning.
When the sun came up as scheduled, the relief was palpable throughout the city.
Meanwhile, on a nearby military base, there were questions.
“Special Operations? Who the heck are they?”
[well, that’s all the time we have, folks, so… ]
LikeLiked by 1 person
I like the virtual sun idea and this story both!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Playing with the theme rather than the direct quote. Leigh Kimmel offered up, “As day turned to night, hope diminished, but one person refused to let it gutter out altogether.”
“Tomorrow is your 16th birthday, grandson.”
Alexis nodded. “I know, grandma.”
“They will be coming for you tomorrow at daybreak. You may come back for a year or two, but you won’t be the same. And you will go to the mines soon.”
“I know, grandma.”
“I will miss you, grandson. You have been a comfort to an old woman and a bright shining star in this village. Life here will be far more bitter tomorrow.”
Alexis smiled. “I will miss you, grandma. I love you.”
“I know you do, grandson. I know you do.” His grandmother reached up and patted his cheek, then blew out the lamp. “Now. Go to sleep. You have a busy day tomorrow.”
Alexis lay awake, lying quietly in his bed, waiting until his grandmother’s breathing settled into the slow rhythm of sleep, then quietly got up and dressed. He put his knife in his belt, lifted the latch on the door, and silently slipped out. With any luck, his grandmother would think he was off visiting one of the young ladies of the village on his last night. He knew some of his friends had done so.
Instead, Alexis took the path that led away from the village, into the forest. He wasn’t going to be enslaved to the Witch queen’s whim. Not without trying to get away. Not while there was any hope of finding the sun princess and bringing her back.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Palpable hope in this one.
LikeLike