E.R. COOK

The Prixiator surveyed his flock with a smug satisfaction. The pews were filled with the highest ranking families in the kingdom. The men were dressed in the finest silks, the whitest shirts, with gold watches and silver canes. The women were similarly decked out in whalebone corsets, silk, lace, gold, silver, and sparkling gems. All had hats topped with pearls, feathers, and enough gold and silver encrusted gems to qualify as crowns.

The church echoed this finery. The wood was a honeyed oak, polished and worn smooth over hundreds of years. Huge windows of stained glass, all depicting the past kings and queens of the realm, stretched from floor to ceiling. They dappled the crowd below with a kaleidascope of colored dots. Far above, the ceiling was an intricate mural filled with more gold, silver and jewels, the detailed scene depicting when the Great One created the kingdom of Besarus and bestowed its blooded king, Antwain the First, with the right to rule.

The Prixiator was all set to begin his sermon when out of the corner of his eye he spotted an incongruity. A disheveled commoner, dressed in a sooty gray shirt and pants with a beaten up beret, sat in the back. He was silent, offering no provocations, but the ladies and gentlemen around him were side-eyed and whispering gossip to their neighbors about the stranger’s presence.

The Prixiator intoned his message, the rote words rolling automatically off his tongue even as a part o fhis mind focused on the intruder. The man just sat there, offering no offense to any. But as the seconds ticked by, the Prixiator found his irritation and anger rising. Sweat broke out under the collar of his rich robes. His heart began beating fast. Even as he fought to maintain an outward calm, he twitched and flinched like he was being assaulted by a horde of mosquitoes.

Finally, the sermon was over and as the Maestro strode up to the podium to lead the choir and congregation in the closing songs, the Prixiator motioned to his second having him take notice of the man. He watched happily as the second materialized soundlessly at the back, motioning to the man to come with him. The stranger heeded the summons without complaint and disappeared out of the back doors. The Prixiator thought he could see the visible relief of those congregants in the back as order was restored into their world.

The Prixiator thought the storm was over, but as he removed himself to his office after the ceremony, his second approaches and said that the stranger had asked to see him.

WRITER’S NOTES:

Obviously this story isn’t finished. But this is what I had by the time the timer went off. Just goes to show that this exercise is a lot harder than you think it would be. It’s balancing creating an atmosphere, place, people while also developing a story arc with a beginning, middle and end.

I spent too much time trying to articulate the richness and decadentness of the church to really get into my story. But as I was brainstorming/writing fast, I had initially needed to set the atmosphere so much because it was intrical to the story and understanding the motivations of the characters. But because of this, I missed the arc.

You might think I could have just fudged it, kept going with the story. But that’s not the reason I do these exercises. I do it to help hone my writing skills. By using the photo prompts and the fifteen minute time frame, I force myself to think beyond myself. To just write and not worry about what’s good, what’s bad. I just write.

It forces me to focus on what’s necessary: what do I need to establish the story and draw my readers in, what do I need to advance the story, how do I create a climax, how do I resolve it, and how do I do it quickly.

I also realized that this exercise is best done on a pad and paper. I tried using my laptop for one, but I worried too much about getting everything perfect. I couldn’t let the words flow. However, using the paper and pen, I could just let the words flow. Something didn’t work or didn’t feel right, you just scribble it out and move on. But there wasn’t any stopping and obsessing over having the ‘right’ words. It allowed me to focus more on just getting the story out.

So where does this story go? I don’t really know. Maybe I’ll turn it into a short story someday, or even a book. But for right now it exists as it is, a story unrealized, an exercise in honing my craft.

Where do you think it goes? Where would you take it?