"The first draft is just you telling yourself the story."
- Terry Pratchett
YOU MADE IT! Day 28! If you have yet to pause and congratulate yourself - please do so now! A rare and refined few will follow a challenge to the end. Fewer still will stick with the practice until it becomes a true habit - the way brushing your teeth, or tying your shoes are habits. We'll discuss how to keep this amazing creative wheel rolling tomorrow, but for now, CONGRATULATIONS, author! One last time... let's dig in!
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Today's Prompt:
You find a lamp at the flea market. As you are polishing it, a genie comes out. Tell the story and share what you would wish for. Remember: in earlier versions of the Aladdin and the Lamp tale, there were infinite wishes – not just three.
Regina's 15 minute creative writing:
“You need silver polish,” Aunt Addie said, tipping her nose up to peer at the lamp through the bifocal section of her Coke-bottle glasses. Her impressively curly hair stood out in a wide halo around her head, making it look three times as big as it was and almost comically stacked atop her tiny body.
“Nah, it's made of tin,” Uncle Artie sneered from his threadbare recliner, turning up the volume on his WW2 documentary to staggering levels. “What you pay for it, again?”
“Twenty-five,” I shouted over the roar of half a dozen Spitfire planes roaring through a black and white sky.
Uncle Artie scoffed, running one nicotine-yellowed hand across his balding pate, then smoothing down the strands of combover back over the shining skin. “Ridiculous. I wouldn’t have given them 25 cents!” He turned the TV up louder as the camera cut to footage of the soldiers in the trenches, and the room was a blaze with gunfire.
I shook my head, trying to think over the noise. I didn’t know how Auntie Addie could stand it. The 24/7 train of destruction, death and noise that was the History Channel. She set the lamp on the chipped Formica table and rolled her eyes by way of ignoring Uncle Artie. With a quick gesture with her arthritis-crumpled hand, she silently told me to head out to the covered, screened-in patio on the far side of the house – as far away from the TV as you could get without stepping into the yard. Relief bubbled up inside me, and I followed her narrow, hunched back, in its faded floral sundress and frilly apron, out the screen door, pausing to grab the lamp from the table.
The damn thing had me captivated. I didn’t know why, but everything about it told me it was something special. I tucked it lovingly under one arm and was careful to close the door silently lest Uncle Artie realize we had left the room and follow us.
On the covered porch, Auntie Addie sat down with a sigh on a wicker chair. The cushions on it were thick and ancient, stuffing leaking like steam from it’s seams. One leg had broken off long ago, and the stump was propped on three bricks, bringing the seat almost – but not quite – level.
I dropped down on the other chair, a solid wood rocker, still as sturdy as a tree trunk, its shiny lacquer long faded and chipped down to the bare wood in dozens of places. Auntie Addie had rocked my mom to sleep in this chair, I thought, as I always did. Then, after mom had disappeared, leaving 4-year-old me on the doorstep with a note in my pocket, Auntie Addie had rocked me too. Every time I cried for a mother that hadn’t wanted me. I ran my hands over the use-smoothed arms and felt the old familiar ache squeeze my heart.
Auntie Addie had stopped sitting in this chair when I got too big to sit in her lap. “It hurts my back now,” she had said softly, when I asked her about it, but the sadness in her eyes suggested it hurt her heart more.
“Auntie, your socks,” I muttered, turning my attention to the lamp again as the quiet of the evening battled the war that raged on inside.
“Damn things,” she snarled with startling fervour. Reaching down, she grabbed the thick compression stockings that had rolled down to form flesh coloured doughnuts around her ankles above her orthopedic shoes. The sole of one was a good inch thicker than the other.
“My legs are different lengths. I spent my childhood dizzy from walking everywhere in circles,” she had told me once when I had asked about the differences.
With a significant amount of grunting and low-level swearing, she managed to roll each compression sock up to her knee, pat them each reprimandingly, and then turn her attention back to me.
“Don’t mind your uncle,” she said, as she did about fifteen times a day, trying to soothe my battered ego over the latest of another personal assault. “Life stole his dreams, and he has never forgiven you for still having yours.” She had a collection of excuses for the bitter old man, but my favourite was always, “Hurt people hurt people.” It was the only one that replaced my low-grade rage with pity.
“I know,” I sighed, long past being upset by his snarling and grumping.
“I think it's silver,” she repeated. “It’s far heavier than tin, and that black patina is a dead giveaway. In another life, I had a set of silver flatware my mother had owned. We pawned it to make the mortgage payment when your uncle hurt his leg.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but there was sorrow in her half smile.
“I’m sorry, Auntie,” I replied, reaching over to pat her hand gently.
“Pish,” she waved me off, her eyes lightening again. “Long gone. Now, about that lamp. Can you open it?”
I shook my head. “I tried the whole way back on the bus, but the lid won’t shift. Could it be oxidized shut?”
She shrugged, and her hunched back pressed into her cloud of grey curls. “I’m no chemist. If its stuck, its stuck. I bet with a little spit and elbow grease, you can get it looking like a wee treasure.” Her eyes sparkled at the thought.
I nodded slowly, my own excitement growing. It was going to go on the window sill in my kitchen, next to the brown corpses of herbs I had tried to grow, then forgot to water, and now kept meaning to throw out. Maybe having something to take their place would help.
“Wait - I should spit on it?” I asked, my eyebrows lifting.
Auntie laughed, a warm, rich sound that lived somewhere in her belly and sang up her throat. “No, dear. You could use silver polish, but we haven't had that in the house for over a decade. Baking soda and water works a treat, plus it is far less toxic. You’ll need to get a soft cloth and maybe put some effort into shining it up.” Her smile creased the corners of her eyes, and I saw her instinctively push her feet against the floor, willing the wicker chair to rock, then remembering it didn’t and glancing wistfully at the rocker.
“Do you want me to move the cushions from that chair to this one?” I asked softly, pushing myself to my feet.
She considered it a moment, then sighed and shook her head, her smile a little too tight. “No, dear. I like this wicker one just fine. It’s got the nicest view.”
I followed her line of sight and blinked hard. Through the screen and across the overgrown lawn – I had to get around to mowing that! - there were twin lilac bushes, heavy with blossoms. Through the trees, the neighbour’s driveway was clearly visible, and our neighbour, a fitness fanatic, a millionaire with a fabulous car, a gorgeous wife, and 2 perfect kids, was outside, shooting hoops into a basket mounted above his 3-car garage. He was shirtless, in ridiculously short shorts, and shining with sweat. I glanced back at Auntie and watched her tilt her head and bite her lip in a disturbingly feminine way.
“Such a nice night,” she murmured, eyes locked on the neighbour as he executed a perfect 360 slam dunk and hung arrogantly off the rim. When he dropped down, I noticed his muscles pulling and twisting like something out of a slow-mo clip in a Rom-Com, and envy as bitter as bile rose in my throat. Auntie sucked in a breath, and I had to get out of there.
“Night, Auntie,” I blurted hastily and dropped a quick kiss on her paper-soft forehead before rushing out the side door, pausing only long enough to make sure it didn’t slam, then half ran across the lawn to the single-car garage, and my tiny apartment above it. As I approached, I noticed the peeling paint – I really had to get that painted – the loose shingles and the rickety stairs with their loose boards and shaky handrail. Add them to my list too, I thought, so overwhelmed with all the pending work I knew I would never get to that I had to force myself to find the energy to climb the steep, rickety steps.
***
Time’s up! What did you write? Share in the comments, or send me an email. Let’s try again tomorrow! Here’s to the writing challenge!!
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See you tomorrow!
With Love,
Snow White and the Wicked Curse: Chapter 1
Snow White and the Vicious Curse: Chapter 2
Snow White and the Seven Thieves: Chapter 3
The final chapter, Snow White and the Poisoned Apple.
Prefer to read the whole story at once? Grab your copy of Snow: The Complete Erotic Series now! All five books are coming soon in Paperback.
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With Love,
Check out her books:
Snow White and the Wicked Queen: Chapter 1
Snow White and the Vicious Curse: Chapter 2
Snow White and the Seven Thieves: Chapter 3
Snow White and the Poisoned Apple: The Final Chapter
Prefer to read the whole story at once? Grab your copy of Snow: The Complete Erotic Series now! All five books are available now as ebooks and paperbacks. Coming soon in Large Print format!
2nd edition coming 2025!
