Writing Exercise: Tall Tales

[Soixenta]

I went into a jeweller's today, and came out this gem. I might have to work it into a proper story for publishing.




“So what if he’s married? If you like him, you should fuck him.”

What?

It was as if a voice was whispering in my ear. Or in my head, actually, but it seemed to come from my left. A persuasive voice, and making a good point.

Mark, my boss, wasn’t the most handsome man I’d met, but he was tall and had a deep voice, and large hands, and he made me laugh. Today I’d caught him glancing at my legs, my bare arms, all the other skin left exposed by my sundress.

But he was married, and I’d met his wife and she was nice. They were happy together.

So where was this voice coming from that was urging me to fuck him?

“Flirt with him. Touch his arm. See if he’s up for it.”

There was nobody close enough to be whispering in my ear. I turned my head this way and that, looking, but there was only Mark leaning over his desk and the rest of the team gathered around the coffee maker.

As I moved my head, I felt my new earrings brush against my neck. I’d picked them up at a flea market, and I was very pleased with them. Silver, shaped like abstract human figures: elongated, almost like dancing flames. The bodies seemed to be caught in writhing motion, but the faceless heads were turned inwards.

“Don’t listen to her.”

This time the whispering was on the other side. I jerked my head to the right. Still no-one.

“If you want to fuck him, you have to go through his wife.”

This was getting very strange. Mark glanced up, probably wondering why I was standing in the middle of the office, peering around like I was lost. I gave him a small smile and a wave before turning to the ladies’. The voices came with me.

“Flirt with him. He’ll be yours by the end of the week.”

“Go to his wife. Make her your friend. Make her your slave.”

Standing before the mirror, I fumbled at my ears until I had the earrings out. Two silver forms lay on my palm, unmoving, unspeaking.

 

[StillStunned]

Inspired by my own "Prophecies and Omens" thread:


The last guard fell to my black blade, and I strode forward. Ahead of me, atop the high dais, sat the Tyrant. She looked at me, not with fear, but with amusement.

“So,” she said in a clear voice, “you finally stand before me, Gevin of the Dark Forest, Child of Prophecy.”

“Finally,” I growled back, taking a moment to catch my breath. “And now your death is at hand.”

“Perhaps,” she replied. “You have overcome many challenges. Your father would be proud.”

“Speak not of my father, hateful bitch!” I cried, striding forward again. “For his death, and my mother’s death, and all the suffering you have caused, you–”

“In fact,” she continued as if I hadn’t interrupted, “let him tell you so himself.”

The air around the tall throne shimmered, and suddenly he appeared. My father, last seen nailed to a steel post in the Great Square of Marilo. Alive, if half a score years older.

I halted, raised sword arm dropping to my side. “Father?”

“Gevin, my son! I am proud of you. No, we are proud, are we not, dearest?”

Again the air shimmered, and beside him stood my mother – my mother, who had been hauled away by the Tyrants torturers and was never seen again. “So proud! We never lost faith in you, even when so many people said that you would fail.”

“It was touch and go a few times,” said the Tyrant. “In the Vale of Sleep. Under the Tomb of the Last King.”

“The House of the Love Demon,” my mother added. “Tssk, son, I was disappointed how long it took you to come to your senses.”

Mouth agape, I stared from one to the other. The air shimmered again, and more figures appeared. Hendle the Wise, leaning on his stick and beaming at me. The Pale Lady, as mysterious and lovely and deadly as ever. Master Smith Argol, who had forged my black blade in the fires of Hellfire Mountain. Princess Naria, my true love, murdered by the assassin’s blade. And more, many more, faces that had aided or hindered me in my long quest.

“But you have given us so much entertainment. And the timing could not have been better,” the Tyrant continued. “Do you know what day it is?”

I returned my gaze to her, aware that my mouth was working wordlessly.

“The first day of Spring. Fool’s Day!” She threw back her head and laughed. “Spring Fool, Gevin of the Dark Forest, Spring Fool!”

The hall rang with laughter, echoing from the high ceiling and filling my ears as I realised that it had all been a lie.

 

[StillStunned]

“So, erotica, you were saying.” She looked at me over her glasses.

“Yes. Erotica.” I grinned. “I write sex stories.”

“You always did have a filthy mind.” There wasn’t any heat or accusation in her words. Just a statement of fact. “I suppose this gives you an outlet.”

“It does. It’s this amazing feeling seeing your thoughts and words literally come to life.”

She paused with her coffee cup halfway to her mouth. “Not literally.” She drank and lowered the cup. “Literally would mean that your stories actually happened as you imagined them.”

I grinned again.

She looked at me, waiting for me to say something, then frowned. “You write about your own experiences? About–? You tell everyone what– what you’ve done? What we’ve done?” Her voice rose in pitch and volume as she spoke.

I shook my head. “Don’t be silly. I don’t write about things that have happened.”

“Then what–?”

“When I write things, they happen.”

Again she stared. I waited, more patiently than she had earlier. I could still feel the grin on my face. I’d been waiting a long time to tell her.

After a long while she spoke again. “You get people to act out your stories?”

“No. Well, not precisely. People act them out alright. But I don’t tell them to, or ask them to.”

I waited for her to open her mouth to speak, then interrupted her. “Last week, on the bus.”

She gave a start, and flushed. “What about last–?”

“The tall woman in the business suit. Her hands sliding up your skirt.”

“How did you know–? I didn’t tell you about that!”

“You didn’t have to. I wrote it, and it happened. Yesterday, the kid at the office who was peering down your blouse and then dashed off to the toilets. I wrote that.”

Her eyes were wide now, as wide as her open mouth. She tried to speak, but nothing came out.

“When you sat on that dildo all through your Zoom call with your boss? Your little adventure with the couple at that restaurant, in the carpark? Playing with yourself on the couch while the window cleaner across the street watched?”

She sat silent, unable to speak, as I went through the list of incidents I’d written, and that she’d lived.

 

[Milo9012]

Fantasy (and fantasies) are a dime a dozen here on Lit, but I don't think we see enough of the fantastical. Stories where imagination isn't limited by what makes sense. The weird, the wondrous and the wonderful. Stories that don't ask the reader to just suspend their disbelief, but fire it with prejudice and order it to clean out its desk before lunch.

So let's see where our imagination takes us. Difficult, within the constraints of a Writing Exercise, so skip the boring introduction and drop the reader in medias res. Tell the tallest tales you can think of, the most outrageous lies, the boldest excuses.

The usual rules apply. Stick to the 250-400 word count (ish), and nothing that wouldn't make it past Laurel's screening: no underage, no snuff, no bestiality, no non-consensual non-consent.

Go ahead and tap into your inner Munchhausen...

I'm currently reading The Best of Richard Matheson and his stories are fine examples of what you describe.

Many of them were written in the fifties, when readers weren't as sophisticated in science or exposed to the multitude of fantasy TV shows.

But as I read, I'm struck by how, even now, the simplest moments, encounters, and incidents in everyday life have the potential in them for fantastical and beyond belief experiences.

 

[PennyThompson]

An in-development fragment of my not-nearly-finished-yet Halloween story...

---

As I coasted into the town square and leaned my bicycle against the wrought iron fence, I noticed the commotion. Folks were out on the cobblestone street, looking upwards into the crisp blue sky, like chickens entranced by rain. A cherry red biplane passed overhead, it's engine humming like a Singer seeing machine from Hell.

I craned my neck to watch, aeroplanes being a rare and unusual sight in Watson County. I saw what looked like magnolia petals falling from the sky. As they fell and fell, the white particles revealed themselves to be slips of paper, fluttering down to the ground. I snatched one from the air.

THE MIDNIGHT CHAUTAUQUA IS COMING
Three Nights Only! Not To Be Missed!
Entertainment & Edification
for Mind, Body, and Spirit!
Each Night Will Offer Unique Wonders
Nightly Entry 10¢, Equivalent Barter Accepted
​

The townsfolk buzzed with excitement, for a traveling Chautauqua had not passed through the region since I was a little girl. To my recollection those had always been daytime affairs, and hosted in the summertime... Strange to host it at night, and so close to All Hallows Eve.