Clarion West Writeathon: 2013 Edition

Here’s a modern piece I’m working on right now, “Someday My Prince.” I believe it’s fantasy; I’m about 2000 words in so far, and really not sure whether it’ll stretch another 500 or 5000 words.

When Betty answered the apartment door, the man standing there was one of the most beautiful she’d ever seen. Tall, muscular, aquiline nose, dark hair”¦ he looked like he should be riding a white stallion on the beach in a cologne ad.

“Miss Vincent?” he said.

She faltered in the doorway, looking at him. You never know what to expect in New York, and surely this man wasn’t that out of the ordinary, except for the utterly expensive lines of his suit.

“Miss Vincent?” he repeated.

“I really need to get to work,” she said. “I don’t have time to buy anything.”

“You don’t understand,” he said. “I’m Aidan, your Prince.”

She didn’t understand.

He smiled at her. “I’m your Prince. I’ve come.”

She really did need to get to work.

***

Veronica said, “You say he’s a Prince?”

“I think that’s what he said. He wouldn’t go away until I promised to have dinner with him tonight.”

Veronica’s eyebrow lifted. “You could have called the police.”

“He was just so”¦nice,” Betty said.

Veronica’s other eyebrow lifted. “So are you going to tell him?”

“Of course,” Betty said. “Then he’ll know this is some kind of mix-up.”

***

On her daily phone call, her mother said, “You lucky, lucky girl!”

Betty tried to interject something but her mother went on. “I mean, we’re all promised that our prince will come some day, but most of them seem to get lost in transit. I don’t know anyone who’s actually gotten one.”

“Mom,” Betty said. “What do you mean, we’re all promised one? Who does the promising?”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. “Well,” her mother finally said, “I guess I don’t really know. The world? God? Yes, that’s probably it. God promises if we’re good, someday our prince will come.”

“I think you’re confusing God and fairy tales,” Betty told her.

Lately a couple of stories have arrived in the form of characters. One is Laurel Finch, the little girl in this steampunk snippet, which is tentatively titled “Laurel Finch, Laurel Finch, Where Do You Wander?”. The other is this one, Cathay the Chaos Mage, who is wandering through a city that’s been in my head for a while now, Serendib.

Cathay was a Chaos Mage and didn’t care who knew it. Fear and envy were fine emotions to set someone spinning into a roil, and Cathay could sip from that cup as easily as any other. She dressed sometimes in blue and other times in green or silver or any other color except black. Her sleeves were sewn with opals and moonstones and within their glitter here and there another precious stone, set in no particular order, random as the stars.

A love of gambling was part of Cathay’s definition, and so she often wandered through the doorways of Serendib’s gaming houses, whether they were the high-tech machines of the Southern Quarter or the games of chance and piskie magic played in the alleys across town, in one of the neighborhoods where magic reigned.

Cathay stumbled into Serendib through a one-time doorway, like so many others. She was walking in a wood one moment, and then her foot came down and she was in a city. It made her laugh with delight, the unpredictability of it all, and she soon learned that she had come to the best possible place for a Chaos mage, the city of Serendib, which was made up of odd pockets and uncomfortable niches from other dimensions, a collision of cultures and technologies and economies like no other anywhere.

When she arrived in the city, she had three seeds in her pocket, and so she found an empty lot, precisely between a street where water magic ruled, in constant collision with the road made of fire and iron, so daily fierce sheets of steam arose, driving the delicate indoors and hissing furiously so it sounded as though a swarm of serpents was battling. She dug a hole with her little finger, and then one with her thumb, and a third by staring at the dirt until it moved. Into each she dropped a seed, and covered it up, and sat down to wait.

It was not long till the first inquisitive sprout poked through the dirt, followed by a second. She waited for the third, but it was, by all appearances, uninterested in making an appearance. She shrugged; two were enough for now.