Quick preface for this post. When I started this blog I had very good and high intentions of regularly posting writing prompts. I have not stuck to that plan very well. However, I occasionally remember that goal and wander back to the idea. The Home for Wayward Writers is a fictional place I created to give a home to a couple characters who are probably some fifteen years old by now, the Genie and the Muse. The Genie and the Muse have been my vehicles for delivering said writing prompts, created way back when I was a moderator for a romance/erotica sub-group of a larger writing site community. If you are interested they have plenty of posts in my archives. Please enjoy.
I have no idea what to expect when I open the door to The Home for Wayward Writers. I created this place with good intentions but it has been so long since I was here. I step into the main hall with a steadying breath and a look around.
The space is still a library, the walls lined with shelves and volumes of countless writers. The second floor balcony is the same, rows and rows of writing. The long tables occupying the center of the room aren’t quite empty. There are no people at them, but there are books in varying degree of use on their surfaces.
At one table, there’s a neat stack of three books. At another table there are three books, all open and sitting haphazardly. At the table to closest to me there’s one book open but it’s blank.
I smile. Writers have been here. That’s enough affirmation to me that it was worth it to give this world life again after so many years.
My attention settles on the back wall. The huge fireplace is dark. That’s different. A shadow moves in my peripheral vision as I also realize that, even without the fire, it’s hot.
The Genie.
My eyes slide to the door in the right wall. The one the Genie installed to lead to his domain. It’s open.
Without the fire, the room is considerably darker than I’m used to. The only light is pouring through the huge windows in the right and left wall. Moonlight.
The Muse.
I look to the door in the left wall, the one that leads outside and eventually to the looming wizard tower that belongs to the Muse. That door is open, too.
The shadow moves again. I still myself. This is the first time I’ve seen signs of life here other than the Genie and the Muse.
A figure bounds over the balcony railing, lands deftly on one of the tables, and does some impressive parkour until it lands nimbly in front of me. He’s a young male, maybe twenty. He has short red curls and pale skin. He flashes a confident smile at me. He’s wearing partial flak armor and has a pair of high-tech goggles hanging around his neck.
“Welcome, traveler,” he says enthusiastically.
“Thank you,” I say. My smile goes deeper. I study him for a moment, then add, “Young Adult or Cyberpunk? It seems there’s a new resident here.”
He grins and says, “There are plenty of us here.”
“There are?”
He nods. Then he squints.
“You know about the Home?” he says.
“I do.”
“Weird. I’ve never seen you here before.”
A quiet laugh tumbles out of me.
“It has been a while since I came here. So you’re a mixed genre, right?”
His smile fades.
“How do you know that?”
I shrug.
“I’m a writer.”
“Right,” he says but now he seems wary of me.
“So what do they call you?” I ask.
“They?”
I glance at the two open doors and say, “Your … big brothers?”
His eyes round and he also looks at the doors.
“You know them?” he says.
“Very well.”
He draws closer to me, peering at my face like I just said something fantastical. He’s hesitant suddenly. He lowers his voice when he says, “They’re kind of legends around here.”
I laugh again. I can’t help it. The news fills my heart with happiness. They should be legends at this point. They deserve it.
“So, does that mean you don’t have a name?” I ask.
He proudly straightens his posture.
“I’m the Rogue.”
“Beautiful,” I answer, brushing gently past him to the closest table, the one holding the blank book. I look down at it, run my fingers across the open pages. Then I look back at him watching me and I say, “Usually when I come here, one of them gives me a writing prompt. This time, why don’t you do it instead?”
He gasps softly and his expression goes slack with surprise. He says, “Really? They do that for you?”
“Oh, yes. It was their sole purpose. But it’s not just for me, it’s for other writers, too.”
The Rogue follows me to the table, but puts it between us. He’s studying me closely, ignoring the book. He puts his hand on the back of a chair and leans forward slightly.
“What does that mean?”
With my smile still firmly in place, I wave a hand over the open book. The pages flutter and come to rest on a page that isn’t empty. I look back to his face. His eyes have fallen to the words between us.
“What do you say, wanna give it a shot? Give our writers a little inspiration?”
His expression morphs into a rather more sly set and his grin becomes lopsided.
“Can’t be that hard,” he says with a one-shoulder shrug. “Yeah. I challenge you, writers, to craft an action scene that is both sneaky and swift. It could be a character escaping something, or a character rescuing something, stealing something, or gathering information. There should be movement, and care of detail for that movement. The action is the focus. Perhaps there’s no dialogue, only doing. How do your characters hide? How do they walk or crouch? You must become one with the moment and let the words shape the world. Feel the momentum.”
I cross my arms and give him a wink.
“Not bad. Welcome aboard.”
His eyes narrow.
“Wait a minute. You’re the Writer. I’ve heard about you.”
I nod.
“I am. You did well for your first go.”
I glance at the open doors again. On the right threshold is the silhouette of my fiery Genie, bare-chested, black bracers on his wrists. He’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. In the other doorway stands the Muse, his dark curls obscuring his face and his wizard robes holding his form. There’s the tiniest smile on his lips.
“You all did well,” I say.
Aj Elmore, Author 