I can’t exactly say that the muse has ignored me. She hasn’t. The problem is that she gives me these grandiose, glorious ideas that I can’t fit into the context of a blog post. So I’ve been writing, honest, just not anything that I can share here.

Well, that’s all about to change. Anonymous Assclown is taking over the helm of the Scheherazade Project! And the first theme is about something we don’t allow ourselves to want. I’m going to have to think about that one for a while. Some preliminary little idealets are coming to mind, but let’s see what happens after it has time to set.

This isn’t from a writing prompt per se, although it was triggered by an assignment Trista had put on the S-Project to rewrite a poem as prose (or something like that). Anyway, I’m listening to a crazy schizo cd I made, and Ballroom Blitz just came on. And I got this giggly idea to turn it into a news report:

 ************

“And we’ve got some local breaking news for you. Something crazy has been happening at the Studio Ballroom, a local nightclub.  Janice is joining us from the nightclub.”

“Hi, Clarissa.  I’m at the Studio Ballroom, and I’ve got to tell you I’ve never seen such chaos.  This is Steve. Steve, were you here when it started?”

“Yeah, dude, it was insane! The band’s just playing like always, and all of a sudden this scary lookin’ dude in the back yelled out for everyone to attack. And then, dude, I don’t know what happened, but everyone was kicking and fighting and punching and there’s this freaky woman standing in the corner just watching everybody. She’d wink now and then. It was creepy, like she was getting off on all the violence or something. She was hot, too.”

“Are you here alone tonight, or did you come with some friends?”

“I came with Tonya, but I can’t find her now. Hey! Zeke! Dude! You seen Tonya?”

“Clarissa, it’s no wonder Steve can’t find Tonya. Look at the carnage behind me. As you can clearly see, there are bodies everywhere. It looks like a suicide bombing attack, but there’s no bomber and no damage to the building.”

“Janice, can you see any trace of the man who ordered the attack?”

“No, but I’ve been told by several people were that his eyes were red.”

“Could it have been Voldemort? Heh-heh.”

“Clarissa, you wouldn’t laugh if you were here, trust me.  Excuse me! Excuse me! What’s your name?”

“I’m Andy. Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Janet, with KKWW News. Can you tell our viewers what happened?”

“Well, just, you know, the music, and the noise, and the fighting. You know. Hey, you know, you’re awful good-looking. Wanna party?”

“Thank you, but no. Someone mentioned a girl standing in a corner. Did you happen to notice her or the man who ordered the attack?”

“Nah. But hey, I’d do you, seriously.”

“Thank you. Clarissa, I think that’s all I’ve got for you right now. Clearly something terrible happened here, but the police are going to have to sort everything out before we can even begin to have any answers for you.”

“Janet, do you have any advice for any viewers who may have friends or loved ones at the Studio Ballroom tonight?”

“Yes. A hotline has been set up at 1-888-555-5512. The police are asking that no one come here to look for friends or family. Call the hotline with any questions or information that you have.”

“Thank you, Janet. And that’s all we have for the KKWW 10:00 news. Join us at 6 a.m. tomorrow. Hopefully we’ll have more answers by then.”

Today’s writing prompt: Describe the most boring job you’ve ever suffered through.

Note: Most of my boring jobs have been temporary assignments. There was one place where I had to reformat a whole lot of word-processed documents that had been typed by someone who had no idea how to use WordPerfect. That was horrendous. But of the regular full-time permanent jobs I’ve ever had, the one I have right now is the most boring. Oh, and any names and personal details in this have been changed.

***

I still remember my first day on the job.  Kelli was so grateful to have some assistance, she told me. She’d been working alone in the admin office for several months. The last temp they’d gotten in got sacked for taking excessive time off.  They had gotten me to come in as a temp to cover for her while she was out for surgery, but she was hoping they’d hire me permanently because she truly needed the help.

So what did the job entail? Pulling some reports off the intranet every morning; printing some for the VP and senior managers; and e-mailing them to management. Doing a few daily and monthly reports. Pulling credit bureau reports for the collectors. The credit bureau reports, she told me, took the longest.

Kelli was pleased to find out that I learn rapidly.  After the first day, I was pulling the reports every morning and taking care of them. After the first couple of days, I was doing all the daily reports. And the credit bureau reports, the task she told me just took forever, I was able to do in no time flat. Before I’d been there a week, I had the job done in a few hours, and the two of us just sat there and talked for the rest of the day. I confess to being puzzled at why she felt so strongly that she needed assistance, because it was–then, at least–a job that took no more than 10-15 hours a week maximum.

She left to have her surgery, and I was alone. Things were fine. Everyone seemed to really like me. And the lack of stress I found very refreshing, considering that my previous job had been as an investigator for Child Protective Service. See what I mean?

After a few weeks, Kelli returned. She was really nice at first, but started getting very bitchy with me shortly afterward. I had asked our supervisor, Madison, if they would continue to need me after the end of the week, or if I needed to let my temp agency know I’d be available again. Madison quickly assured me that they still needed me.

I was still doing all the work, still getting everything done within 2 hours a day. And Kelli got crankier and crankier. She didn’t want the work back, didn’t want me there, didn’t want anything. Finally on Thursday or Friday she told me that she had been on probation for a few months, and now they wanted her to be a collector instead of an admin.

I felt so guilty. I hadn’t gone there with any intention of usurping her job. I went there, as I always do, with the intention of doing my best and making my employers happy.  Since Kelli had told me she didn’t want to be a collector, I had encouraged her to find a new job before she left here, knowing from hard personal experience that it can be very difficult to find a job when you don’t have one already.

Kelli sat at her desk Friday morning scowling. Just before lunch, she abruptly stood up. “I’m leaving, and I’m not coming back. Promise me you won’t tell anyone.” And she walked out.

For almost a year after that, the job remained something I could do in 2 hours a day, and yet I had to be there for 8. There were days that I wanted to absolutely tear my hair out. I would surf the internet, read blogs of total strangers, write, read, do anything I could to stay busy.

In this second year, it’s gotten busier and busier, to the point where I work at least a little overtime almost every day. But you know, even with the increased workload, it’s still as boring as it can be. I pull reports off the intranet; print them for the VP and senior managers; email them to the rest of management. I prepare reports every morning. I do additional reports once a week and once a month. And I pull credit bureau reports until I could cry from the boredom. Busy and bored is better than idle and bored, but it still sucks.

Sorry I’ve been gone for so long. I think I was using all my creative energy on the show, and had none left over to even think about this blog.

But the show’s over, and I’m ready to do some writing, babe!

 THE PROMPT: WRITE ABOUT A CHILDHOOD EXPERIENCE THAT MADE YOU CRY

Sometimes she’s still there, still with me, the kid who hid her head on her desk and cried until the snot embarrassingly managed to smear itself all over the desktop. I remember her frantically trying to figure out how to get her head and the snot up without undergoing further ridicule, and the impossibility of it, and the roars of laughter by the other kids. I went from being the youngest kid in the school and the skinniest to being fat. But that skinny kid, the one who was all insecure and who got made fun of, is still in there. And sometimes she makes her presence known at the most unexpected of times.

Like when I see a kid being picked on. It all rushes back, then. I see the kid’s hunched shoulders and the fast-paced walk past the tormentors, and remember taking that very same walk in that very same pose.  Back then I just thought they hated me and I couldn’t figure out why. It haunted me. I spent more hours than it was worth trying to answer that question, before I grew up and forgot, before I grew up and understood, before I grew up and realized the conflict between the strong and the weak.

There were so many times that made me cry. I’m an emotional person, and always have been. But I think most of the tears stemmed from the bewildered why-me-ness of it all. Why did the guys run home so that they could throw rocks at me every day as I walked past? That made me cry, and my tears fed their scorn. The rocks grew bigger and their aim grew truer. I hated that year.

Why did Angela pretend to be my friend just so that I’d take her to my house? I was so excited. She used to beat me up, and now she’s my friend? Wow! So she went home with me and we played at whatever 5th graders play at. I thought it was fun. The next day when I arrived at school, though, she and everyone else were laughing and pointing fingers and mocking me. It turns out she’d made up a whole bunch of shit and shared it with everyone. That may have been the day that I got the snot all over my desk.  Maybe not. They kind of blurred together.

And there were the boys. Rhett. That really was his name, you know. And he had the long shaggy blond hair that was so popular with kids my age back then, and I worshiped him. And I got up my nerve, some how, to go to the fucking Halloween party that year. My mom was thrilled, because I always avoided parties, and she could never figure out why. I dressed up as Pippi Longstocking (see, even then I couldn’t help marking myself as a dork), and we used wires to keep my pigtails sticking straight out. I can’t remember what happened at that party. I know it was bad, and I know it involved my crush on Rhett being ridiculed before everyone, but I’ve made myself forget the rest of it. There were tears that night.

I grew up on old books. I particularly remember the old Childcrafts, which were full of stories, and facts from science, and party ideas, and I got the brilliant idea of having my own party one day. I was so excited, and the girl who sat in front of me and was so nice to me pretended to be excited and promised to come. And my mom, once again, poor thing, was excited, and we got decorations and refreshments and planned party games and no one came. Finally the kid who used to mow our grass showed up, because he was just a nice guy like that. And we contrived to have a little fun, but it was horribly embarrassing. It was even worse on Monday when the nice girl who sat in front of me said, so sarcastically, “So how was your party?” I don’t think I cried then, because I’d already done all the crying, but I hated her at that moment.

I’ve got a tender heart. And people with tender hearts tend to get them drop-kicked, stomped, squished, stabbed, mutilated in every way conceivable. I’m older now, wiser, stronger. If you fuck with me, I’ll probably at least verbally give you as good as you dished out. But the heart still bleeds, and my eyes still weep when I’m alone again.

I can see it in his eyes. He’s tuned me out. I’m not sure if he’s heard a word I said at all. I think he’s just standing there, politely pretending to listen to me, because that’s what he’s supposed to do. I wish I could crawl inside his brain, find the teeny little spot that has my name on it, and figure out why he despises me so.

Maybe it’s because of my weaknesses. You can tell that he’s never permitted himself to yield to any little temptations. And if he has, he’s convinced himself otherwise, so it’s all the same in the end.  A man isn’t supposed to have any weaknesses, according to his credo. Ergo, a weak man is less than a man. Something to despise. Maybe that’s it.

Maybe it’s my lifestyle. I’m a rocker, and I walk the walk and I talk the talk. He finds my long hair offensive, so much so that he can hardly look at me straight on. Funny how his eyes wander to the hair, and then snap back to my face, but still with that same dispassionate look in them that tells me he’s already discounted me.  I’m a damn good guitar player, and a good singer, not that it will affect his opinion of me or my lifestyle.

Or maybe he’s one of those people who thinks that since God didn’t see fit to grace me and my wife with children, we must not be good people. Because heaven knows, all good people are able to have kids whenever they want to. Or at least adopt, and we didn’t do that either. So maybe he thinks we’re bad people who are even too selfish to adopt. Of course, he doesn’t know about the nights my wife and I have cried together over our childlessness, how hard we tried, the failed adoption attempts. And maybe he doesn’t know that there are plenty of people with kids who mistreat them. So I think that whether you get to have kids or not has nothing to do with what kind of a person you are. I think there’s something else to it. Dunno what. Wish I did.

Have you ever seen that movie, A Knight’s Tale? My wife likes it because she’s a freak for Chaucer. And she may not admit it, but she likes seeing Paul Bettany walking bare-assed down the road. There’s this one arrogant asshole in the movie who’s always telling the lead character, “You have been weighed. You have been measured. And you have been found wanting.”  Well, that’s the feeling I get whenever I talk to this guy. He’s taken my measure a long time ago and decided that I wasn’t worth the time of day.

Kind of sad, really. I believe that as long as a man or woman is alive and walking on this earth, he or she can change. A bad person can become good. A good person can become bad. And someone in between could swing either way.

I know my flaws. I don’t need anyone to list them off to me, or tell them around the gossip circles. But man, I keep trying, you know?

I’m not a fool. I’m not naive enough to expect everyone to like me; after all, I don’t like everybody. But I just figure that even people I don’t like have good qualities, even if we don’t click. I wish this guy did, because I’d like to be his friend.

So hey, dude, the next time you’re talking about me and my wife, and discussing all the reasons that we’ve turned into heathens, maybe you need to stop and ask yourself if you’re part of the problem. We try to be good people. Like most others, sometimes we fail and sometimes we succeed. But like my wife always says, each time we do fail, we get up, dust off our britches, and try again.

I wonder what would happen if I told him that.

But I already know. I can see it in his eyes.

_______________________

This is fictional but based on some very real people and emotions and situations. I don’t know if it works, but it helps me to write it out.

“Mo-o-o-o-om!” Taylor whinged.

It amazes me how many syllables she manages to put into a one-syllable word.  I swear one day I’m going to count them, and give her a prize. Well, maybe not. I don’t want to encourage her.

“Yes, dear?” My tone was politely snarky. In other words, you’re acting like a brat and we both know it. So you’d best straighten yourself up.

My daughter knows me well. She quit slouching over the back of my seat. In a perkier and therefore much more acceptable voice, she asked, “Are you going to order my wand today? I gave you the money for it last week.”

In all fairness, she had. It’s just that I had made a rush trip out of town, and barely got home last night. There wasn’t really time to think about going online to buy an official magic wand from Alivans. “I will, sweetheart, I promise.”

“And you remember which one I want, right? The crystallized purpleheart wand–” she began, and I chimed in, “with the Swarovski crystals.”

“I do remember, and I promise to order it today.” I did. To give Taylor her due, she had slaved away at all kinds of nasty chores to earn the money for the wand. I figure when she’s wanting to raise money for frivolities like this, the nastier the chores the better. So she had to do things like clean up all the dog poop out of the back yard (that got her $20 towards her wand–more than I usually pay for single chores, but she really earned it). And I saw her passing up movies that she wanted to see, because she wanted the wand more. I promised that if she saved up the money for her her wand, I’d pay for the shipping. She was delighted. I’m also paying for her copy of The Deathly Hallows, but I haven’t told her yet.

So the days passed. She called me every day as her hopes were dashed yet again. “It didn’t come yet, Mo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-om!”

“I’m sorry, sugar, that I didn’t pay for the express shipping.” I was, too. Trust me. “But it will be here soon. Just be patient.”

And finally the glorious day arrived. She called me, joyfully excited. “It’s here, Mom! It’s here!”

“Great.  Don’t break it or anything until after I get home, okay? I want to see it first.”

She groaned. “You’re such a mom.”

Not even five minutes later, my phone rang again.  I picked it up, but before I even got the receiver to my ear, I recognized the high-pitched shrieking as Taylor’s. “Honey, what’s wrong? Stop screaming and tell me what’s wrong. Is there blood? Are you hurt?” 

Her wailing shriek continued uninterrupted. I couldn’t get any sense out of her. I grabbed my purse and headed out the door, telling my secretary I’d give her a call when I got home and found out what had happened.

As I drove up the street toward our house, I saw an unusually large number of people crowding the streets.  My heart beat faster. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Fire? But there wasn’t any ominous smoke. Murder? Well, she was yelling pretty loudly, so she wasn’t dead. Beyond that, I had no clue.  I had to abandon my car. I couldn’t get anyone to get out of the way for it. 

Trust me when I tell you I never ran so fast with 3-inch heels on in my life.  As I neared our house, the high-pitched wailing was still going on, still unabated.  The eyes of the bystanders were large and eager. 

A friend came up to me as I got close to the house.  “Sheila, I tried to find out what was wrong, but she wouldn’t stop screaming.”

“Thanks!” I hollered over my shoulder as I frantically unlocked the front door and ran into the house.

When Taylor saw me, she stopped shrieking. Her batteries must have run down.  “Uh, hi, Mom?” she said feebly.

“Where’s the blood? What happened?”

She pointed upwards.

“Is someone upstairs? Did someone try to –” my voice trailed off as I looked up toward the ceiling. The dog was hanging upside down, his left hind foot highest, and he had a patiently perplexed expression on his face.

I stared at Taylor. I doubt I looked patiently perplexed. “What. Happened. Here.” I said, gritting my teeth, trying not to start screaming myself.

“Well, after I took my wand out, I thought it would be funny to try the levicorpus spell. So I pointed it at Stan and said ‘levicorpus.’ And that happened,” she said, in a small voice.

This wasn’t making sense. I went to the wet bar, poured a shot of Jack Daniels, and slung it back. Then I looked at the ceiling. The dog was still there.

“And what would the counter spell be?” I asked, trying to stay calm.

“I don’t remember.”

“Well, what book was it in?” I’m getting a CAT scan after this. I can’t believe I’m having this discussion.

Her face brightened up.  “Oh! Half-Blood Prince!” She raced upstairs, and then back down again, this time with a large book in her hands.  “Lessee, it’s on Christmas, I think. . .” She riffled the pages. “Here it is!”

Taylor pointed the wand carefully at Stan. “Liberacorpus!”

Stan began to plummet to the floor.

“Taylor!” I yelled, and she rushed to catch him.

When Stan had all four paws safely on the floor again, he looked around the room and then bolted upstairs. I knew where he was going: under the bed. I can’t say that I blamed him.

Then she looked at me, a huge grin on her face. “Mom! My wand! It’s really magic!” And before I could stop her, she pointed it at the vase of flowers on the table. “Wingardium Leviosa!”

And damned if that vase of flowers didn’t soar up into the air.

“Give. Me. That. Wand.”

“No! It’s mine! I saved up for it! You said I could have a magic wand!”

As we were struggling for her wand, the doorbell and the phone simultaneously began to ring. I threw the phone to her and ran to the door. There was a tiny little man standing there, wearing a suit that had to have been at least a century out of date.

“Good afternoon, madame. My name is Geoffrey Cadwalladder. I am a representative of Alivans. I think a serious shipping error may have been made.”

“Oh! You think so, do you?” I said sarcastically, as I ushered him into the house.

He took a quick look around, assessing the situation. “Oh, yes, dear, dear, dear.” And then he whipped out a wand and pointed it first at the flowers, which obediently returned to the table, and then at Taylor. She froze for a moment, and he swapped out the wand in her hand with another one.

He looked at me quickly. “I assure you, madame, that the one I have just given her is indeed a genuine toy wand. I’m so sorry about the error. She won’t remember any of this, nor will any of your neighbors.” He then flitted out the door as rapidly as he’d come in.

Taylor stood frozen for another moment or so, then answered the phone as if no time had passed. “Hello? Oh, hi, Lorena. Hey, Mom! It’s Lorena.”

My secretary. What was I going to tell her?

Taylor threw the phone back to me, and cheerfully pointed the wand at me. “Wingardium Leviosa!” I instinctively clutched the wall, and she laughed merrily. “Mom, you’re so goofy!”

I stared at her in stunned silence, then put the phone to my ear. “Hi, Lorena. Um, well, I guess she just had some kind of a, well, a fit or something, but she’s okay now. Thanks. I’ll be in tomorrow.”

I guess I should be lucky that she fancies herself a Gryffindor. Heaven help us if she’d tried one of those unforgivable curses, huh?

_______________________________

This was prompted by my sister saying wouldn’t it be funny if someone ordered a “magic” wand from Alivans, and actually got a magic wand. Because the very first spell I tried with my magic wand was the levicorpus spell, and L-squared, aka Charlie, is probably really glad it didn’t work.

“When you were born, I didn’t know you.  And I told the nurse I didn’t know you, and she laughed and said I was silly, of course I didn’t know you because you were just born. She didn’t understand. I knew both of your sisters. As soon as they were placed into my arms, I knew them. But you. You I didn’t know.”

That has haunted me all of my life.

Why the hell would a mother say something like this to her son, even if it were true?

When I was a kid, I used to pretend that I wasn’t really her son. Maybe I was a changeling, and that’s why she didn’t know me. Or some hospital nurse was switching wrist bracelets on the newborns or something.

But as I got older I saw my uncles and my grandfather in my face. I had their stocky, solid build; even when I was slender, I was, somehow, stocky. I had their nose, their jawline.  So I couldn’t keep questioning my genetic heritage, at least.

I’m a genius, too. I’m not boasting when I say that. It’s just the plain and simple truth. I’ve corrected college professors in class. I never graduated from college; I never had the money to. That doesn’t mean anything, though. All a college diploma means is that you had enough money, enough time, and enough patience to sit there and be force-fed whatever “the man” wants you to think. Then you regurgitate it back in the form of exams, essays, projects, whatever. After you’ve taken the approved number of classes and–more importantly–paid the requisite sum of money, you get that piece of paper that says you’re now somebody. I don’t need that piece of paper to tell me I’m somebody.

I’ve written love poems so beautiful that the recipient told me she wanted them to be buried with her.  I’ve written incredible books that far too few people have read. Someday I’ll get a big publisher, and then people will know who I am.

People tell me I’m lazy. They don’t know anything about me. I work hard. I’ve been a security guard, a supervisor over a team of security guards, a long-distance truck driver, and other things they consider unimportant. What they don’t realize is all those “dead-end jobs,” as they call them, give me time to think. Time to dream. Time to imagine.

Some nights when I’m all alone on the interstate, just me in the cab of my truck and the radio buzzing to let me know there are other people out there somewhere, I look out at the earth. And it’s strange to me. I don’t know it. And I can’t help but wonder if somehow my childhood fantasies of being a changeling have some basis in reality. Hell. Maybe I am an alien. Maybe some alien mother didn’t want her son, so she found some pregnant woman on earth and did some alien mojo and there I was, not fitting in anywhere.

Because I don’t, you know. Fit in, I mean. There’s not a place for me. My family doesn’t want me. They say they love me, but they don’t want me around. And I can understand why, I guess. I just want to write, and they want me to work, too. Money. Everything comes down to money, doesn’t it? Anyway, my sisters went to college and graduated. They’re writers, too. And they have their 8-5 kiss-ass jobs, so I guess they think they’re better than me.  They hate it when I brag all the time. I hate it, too, but it just sort of slips out of my mouth. I know they’ve achieved more by the way the world counts success, and I think I have to show them up or something. And then they give each other these looks that they think I don’t see. I see them, all right, and it hurts.  And my big sister gives me this condescending advice. Okay, she probably doesn’t mean to be condescending, but it comes across that way. Get a steady job. Focus on the writing when you get off at the end of the day.  We’d all love to take a year off and have nothing to do but write, but we’ve got to face reality.  Well, you know what I say to that? Fuck reality.

I’ve tried marriage, and that’s never worked out either. Nothing ever seems to work out for me.  What’s the point in tying yourself down to one woman, if that woman can’t be bothered to tie herself down to you?

This world’s a damned lonely place for an alien like me.

___________________________________

This is some character work I did, based on how I imagine my brother might be feeling a lot of the time.  Regardless of what he thinks, we do love him. I probably do come off sounding like a condescending ass sometimes. I just want what’s best for him. I guess I have to stop and remind myself that each person has to figure out what’s best.

And Pat, wherever you are, I love you. Happy birthday, bro.

The prompt: Write a story that begins, “The last time I saw my mother was fifteen years ago.”

_____________________________________________________________

DOLORES:  

The last time I saw my mother was fifteen years ago. I don’t remember it, because I was only a baby. There is a photograph of me and my mother. She looks so beautiful. Her long black hair is in a thick ponytail, and she is holding a little baby, and looking at it with so much love.

Right after my Aunt Naomi took that picture, my mother put me in her arms, and walked out of the house to go to work. She never came home.

I don’t remember her. When I was a little girl I used to look at her picture all the time, wishing I could remember what she was like. Sometimes I would make up memories and pretend like they were real. And when I would lie in bed at night, I would hold the picture and talk to it about the pretend memories.

But it was all a big lie, and I knew it, and it didn’t make me feel any better, not really, so I stopped doing that after a while.

My aunt raised me, but she doesn’t love me. She doesn’t even pretend to. She loved my mother. Maybe she would have loved me if my mother were still alive. I guess I’ll never know.  My friend Elena’s mother was killed, too. And her abuela raised her, and her abuela is very strict with her. She won’t let Elena do anything. But I can do anything I want to. I don’t, though. Not really.

But I’m starting work now. We don’t have very much money, and my aunt says that it’s time I start contributing to the family income. I’m a little scared, because it will be dark when I get off work, and it’s a long walk from the bus stop. I wanted to ask my aunt if she would meet me at the bus stop, but something in her eyes made me afraid to ask her.  I bought a whistle, and I will keep it with me, and if anyone tries to come near me, I will blow as loudly as I can on my whistle so that someone will hear me and come help me. Because I don’t want to die like my mother did, when she was only 17 years old.

NAOMI:

Oh, my God. What have I done?

I don’t write fan fiction. Never have.

That being said, The Leaky Cauldron has a contest running through June 30th, 2007. The challenge is to write a chapter imagining what happens when Harry has his last fateful stay with the horrible Dursleys. The chapter cannot be longer than 2,000 words.

 Here’s my entry.

GOOD-BYE TO PRIVET DRIVE 

Harry had never seen Uncle Vernon speechless before.

Uncle Vernon’s walrus-like moustache quivered with rage. His huge red face resembled nothing so much as an oversized radish—Harry suddenly thought of Luna’s hand-carved radish earrings and had to quickly stifle a laugh—as he sputtered wordlessly. Finally he managed to form some sounds. “You! Them! Out!” He pointed first at Harry, then at Ron and Hermione, and then at the door.  He jabbed his finger again at the door for emphasis.

Harry fought down his anger.  “Uncle Vernon,” he said desperately, “please. You’ve got to let us stay, at least for a week or two. Remember what Professor Dumbledore said!”

“I don’t care what that doddering old fool says. And don’t bother sending him around again, either,” added Uncle Vernon. “I won’t let him in the house again, I can tell you that much.”

“He can’t come around again. He’s dead,” said Harry dully.

“Dumbledore’s dead?” asked Aunt Petunia sharply. “How? What happened?”

Everyone in the room stared at her, shocked.

She flushed.

“He was murdered by Severus Snape,” Harry said deliberately, “on Voldemort’s orders.”

Aunt Petunia paled. “They can stay, Vernon. And I don’t want to hear any more about it.” She turned and walked out of the room, leaving everyone gaping after her.

When Uncle Vernon regained his composure, he snorted at Harry. “Fine. But you know the rules. No, you know what.  And she,” he said, jerking his thumb towards Hermione, “sleeps in the guest room. No hanky panky in my house.”

Hermione flushed angrily while Ron grinned.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron did their best to stay out of the way of the Dursleys during the two-week stay at Privet Drive. Apparently, the Dursleys were doing the same.  Every day a platter of sandwiches appeared in front of Harry’s door, along with some fruit and bottled water. The invitation to stay away from the kitchen and the dinner table was obvious, and as none of the trio had any desire to join Uncle Vernon, Aunt Marge, or Dudders, they stayed in Harry’s room to strategize.

“Well, you know we’ve got to go to Bill’s wedding first,” pointed out Ron. “Mum’ll kill us all if we miss that.”

“Not to mention Ginny,” added Hermione slyly.

“Come off it, Hermione,” Harry said. “You know I can’t do that now. I’ve got to take care of Voldemort.” But he couldn’t deny to himself that he was looking forward to seeing Ginny once more before setting off on his quest to find the remaining Horcruxes.

“So the Burrow first. And then Godric’s Hollow. But then where?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry hopelessly. “The ring was in Gaunt’s house. And Malfoy had the diary. The snake, well, the snake’s with Voldemort, isn’t it? The locket was in the cave where Voldemort tortured those kids from the orphanage, only it wasn’t the real Horcrux.”

“So Voldemort puts the Horcruxes in places of special kills.”

“Reckon maybe one of the Horcruxes is in Godric’s Hollow?” asked Ron.

“I dunno. He didn’t really have time to hide one there, did he?”

“Nah. I guess not.”

They sat in glum silence.

“Hey! What about in the Riddle mansion? The one you were seeing in your dreams?”

Harry nodded slowly. “That’s a possibility.” He turned to Hermione. “Any luck yet with R.A.B.?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. I’m sorry, Harry.”

The last day of the two weeks arrived at last. Harry’s birthday. He thought he’d never been so glad, and yet so curiously sorry, to see a birthday arrive. He was 17, and at last of age. He could legally perform magic, and he was no longer bound to return to the Dursley house every year. But he was also at the end of his youth, not of his innocence, for he knew that he had lost that a long time ago.

Ron and Hermione had left early that morning for the Burrow, Harry promising that he would follow shortly thereafter.  He somehow felt the need to finish his life at the Dursleys’ by himself.

With a wave of his wand, Harry’s belongings neatly folded themselves into his trunk, which then closed and locked itself.  Harry pointed the wand at Hedwig’s cage, and the mess of droppings and mice bones vanished. He sent his trunk and Hedwig’s cage to the Burrow, and looked around at the bare room.  I won’t miss this place at all, he thought, and then remembered to check under the floorboard.  He found nothing but a few scraps of parchment and some stale cake crumbs. He smiled, remembering the summer of Dudley’s diet, when he had received an unprecedented 4 birthday cakes.

Suddenly hearing a noise behind him, he dropped the floorboard and sprang to his feet, wand at the alert.  It was Aunt Petunia.

“Harry, I—we—haven’t been very kind to you, have we?” she said with a twisted smile.

Harry gaped at her. Of all the things he had ever expected to hear from her mouth, this was the last. “No, you haven’t,” he said bluntly, stowing his wand in his hip pocket.

“I saw what it did to her.”

“My mother, you mean.”

Petunia nodded. “Lily.”

“What do you mean?”

“It took her away from me. And then she was with all those strange people. And she got herself killed, didn’t she?” Petunia was almost foaming at the mouth.

Harry forced himself to stay calm. “It’s not like she was asking to get killed. She was protecting me, you know. She didn’t have to get killed. Voldemort wanted to kill me. She saved my life. At the cost of hers.”

“And now you’re going to go get yourself killed, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t really a questions, and Harry knew it. “Possibly. I hope not, but it might happen. Someone has to stop him, Aunt Petunia.”

“We hoped that you wouldn’t be magic, but we could see it in you even when you were a baby. And Vernon, he hated anything the least bit abnormal. I couldn’t let him see—“ she shuddered.

Harry felt a twinge of pity for her.

“He wouldn’t have married me if he had known about Lily. And when he found out, well, he would never let me have any more children. He was afraid if we did one of them might be, well, you know—“  She sat down on the bed.

“Magic,” Harry finished her sentence.

“And he watched Dudders all the time,” she went on convulsively. “Thank heavens he never showed any signs of, well, you know, or I don’t know what would have happened. And then you came! And Vernon wanted to ship you off to an orphanage. Well, you’ve heard Marge talk. He was the same way. But I knew we had to let you stay with us. I, well, Harry, as I say, I know we were cruel to you. But that was the only way Vernon would allow it.”

Harry nodded slowly. “So you treated me rotten but you kept me alive.  I guess I can appreciate that.”

Petunia’s eyes filled with tears.

“So how did you know Severus Snape?” he continued brutally.

Petunia gasped. “What do you mean?”

“Only that when I got here, Uncle Vernon wasn’t going to let us stay. And then I said that Snape murdered Dumbledore, and you told him he had to let us stay. So I figure that must mean something to you.”

Petunia was silent for a few moments.

Harry waited for her to speak.

“He came to visit Lily one summer. Awful, dirty boy!” Her voice quivered with disgust.  “I don’t think he ever washed his hair,” she said, casting a scornful look at Harry’s unruly mop of hair.

“Did you ever hear them talk about anything?” he asked urgently.

“Well of course I did. I told you so.”

Harry was bewildered. “What?”

“When you were talking about the dementors. Don’t you remember?”

Harry cast his mind back to when the dementors had attacked him and Dudley, and remembered Aunt Petunia saying something about overhearing “that awful boy” telling Lily about the dementors. At the time he had thought she was referring to his father, but—“Do you mean that was Snape?”

“Of course!” she said, surprised.  “He was repellent.”

“Do you remember anything else?”

She shook her head. “Not really.  He never said anything much if he saw me around. He always had this nasty sneering look on his face when I was there.”

Harry was very familiar with that look.  “What about Dumbledore? Did you correspond with him?”

Aunt Petunia shook her head. “What Dumbledore and I may have corresponded about is none of your business.  I’ve said more than I should have already, Harry, but somehow, knowing that I probably won’t see you again, well,” her voice trailed off and her eyes suffused with tears again.  She stood up and looked at him.  “You don’t look a thing like Lily. Not at all, but your eyes. They’re so much like hers.”

“I’m not coming back, Aunt Petunia,” Harry said firmly. “But if you ever want to write me—“

“No.”  She dashed her hand across her eyes to dab at the tears. “Best cut it off clean. We’ve brought each other nothing but grief and heartache. You ought to leave now, before Vernon and Dudley get home. Save yourself a lot of trouble..”

Harry and Petunia looked at each other, sharing a glimmer of understanding.

Then Harry left his aunt standing alone in the smallest bedroom in #4 Privet Drive. He walked down the stairs, out the back door into the garden. He spun around deliberately, and disappeared.

I’m not sure about the sweet part, though. The S-project seems to be dying a slow, agonizing death. I’ve enjoyed it. I’ve liked having a specific writing prompt each month, and have particularly enjoyed the prompts Trista provided. But even in those months that I had to wrack my brain and come up with a prompt myself, I liked it. It was good to have a place to go write and write.  And of course I’m not going to kill it. As long as Trista keeps it alive, I’ll keep participating, keep supplying prompts on the months she doesn’t, keep writing, keep hoping others will continue to write, keep hoping that somehow it will be miraculously resuscitated.

But I also don’t have to rely on anyone else. I can make my own writing place. And this is it. Welcome to my world.