“The king’s men came for Roshana at high noon.” ~Shadow Princess

“The mourning cloak flutters against my shop window. Eyes dark and wide, mouth open in soundless desire, her pale hands scrabble against the glass that separates her from my bottles.” ~Mourning Cloak

“I had a soulmate.

I knew this as surely as I knew my name or my mother’s face or the three chittering djinns who sat upon my bedposts and made faces at me while I slept. I felt the lack of my soulmate like a missing limb, or a fallen tooth, as a constant ache in my stomach.” ~Soulmate

“The monument could once have been a coffin on a pedestal. Time had fused the box to the rock beneath. Grime and moss crept up the stone sides, the glass at the top was distorted and rippled in waves.” ~untitled steampunk Snow White

“Rafael Grenfeld burrowed deeper into his nest of potato peelings and rotten cabbage leaves. The piercing wind-shriek of the stazis’ whistles had been silent for eight long gongs, his trousers were thoroughly soaked with old tea, soup and other things he didn’t dare think about, and his sense of smell had shut down out of sheer self-defense.” ~Quartz

Join me by posting the first sentences (up to three) of some of your stories in the comments. Happy Monday, and here’s to good beginnings!

So, instead of NaNoWriMo, I’m going to talk about Japanese paper dolls.

Yep. You heard that right.

A few days ago I had only the vaguest idea that there might be such a thing as Japanese paper dolls. But I have a 5yo daughter who loves pretty things, and she’s studying Japan at the moment, so my thought processes went something like:

Japan–>must do related activity–>5 year old loves fancy patterns, bright colors and pretty costumes–>kimonos!–>rats, I don’t sew and I can’t fob this off on husband who does–>I know! JAPANESE PAPER DOLLS!

So, I googled around and realized I was not the first one who’d made the above connection. Turns out making Japanese paper dolls is a popular activity–and not just for kids. This klutz-proof tutorial yielded us several lovely dolls, albeit with black construction paper hair and faces, because 5-and-3-year-olds cannot fathom faceless dolls.

Of course, pretty Japanese-patterned origami paper is not a staple of our arts & crafts supply shelf, but not to worry. You can actually print out origami paper. It’s not as rich and finger-friendly as real Japanese paper but it does in a pinch. Alternatively, glossy magazines can yield suitable paper–for my test-run doll I made a kimono out of a picture of pink blossoms from a Birds & Blooms magazine.

After making our dolls, we pulled out Children Just Like Me: Celebrations and read a double-page spread on Hina Matsuri, the Japanese Dolls’ Festival that takes place in the spring.

I find real dolls rather creepy (thanks, Chucky), but paper dolls are so delightful and charming. I especially like the ones with period clothing.

What about you? Anyone into paper dolls, origami, or pretty paper?

I’d get up at 5 or 6 am to watch Transformers (don’t ask why it came on that early–it’s Pakistan). I caught every episode of Voltron—lions and vehicles. I scoffed at the Go-bots–but still watched.

But none of those were my first robot love. Before I’d ever heard Prime say, “Autobots, transform and–roll out!” or seen Voltron put a big X in his enemies with his blazing sword, there was…

MAZINGER Z!

I was 4 when we got our first VCR. Mazinger Z was one of the few videos my family owned (don’t worry, I had the English version). I watched Mazinger Z every single day after I got home from Montessori school–the same four or five episodes over and over again.

I loved Mazinger Z, not for his power, but for sheer dogged determination. He was the solid, reliable kind of robot. The evil robots were the ones who got all the glamorous super powers–they could fly, break the sound barrier, shoot lighting out of their heads, break apart and reassemble. Poor Mazinger got left behind, electrocuted, beaten up and battered. But he never gave up. I loved him because he was the underdog who persevered and won.

Thanks to the ‘net I get a chance to relive a little slice of my childhood. “From his wrists, hands that fly! Launching a rocket punch! From his chest, laser fire! Fighting with light energeeeeee!” Go, Mazinger, go!

And so being the writers that we are, we dared each other to write magic school hazing scenes. Jo’s got hers up here and mine is down below:

Senses Box

I don’t know who started them, but the whispers tagged us all day. We shared the news behind raised hands as we ate our accustomed breakfast of oatmeal—lumpy, not mashed like what the First Years got. We passed it along in the white hallways, our words sinking into the padded grey carpet. The news made us squirm, tugged our attention from Master Nyssa in Colors.

Rol’s got a Senses Box! An Upper Level Senses Box!

Master Nyssa took us through the greyscale, then rapped her pointer, just hard enough to make us wince. “Pay attention, class. This next swatch”—she tapped at the black-covered board—“is 5% red in white. We call this tint pink. Prepare your mental walls.”

Our first exposure to a primary color! We all straightened, donned our most focused expressions, clasped our (grey) gloved hands and set up our mental walls against the onslaught.

Master Nyssa went around the room, checking posture, mentally scrutinizing blocks, murmuring reassurances that at our level of training, a tint would not cause permanent damage.

Then she removed the black covering.

Red screamed off the swatch and arrowed for my eyes. My mental blocks were too small, too pathetic. The color pierced my membrane, seared through the liquid in my eyeballs, targeted my nerve. It electrified its way up to my brain, shattered my barriers one by one…

…. hit my primary defenses. And stopped.

I panted. Sweat trickled down my back. Slowly, I came back to my surroundings, dazed, crouched over. Many of my peers had collapsed. Trig was a heap on the floor, several classmates held their heads and moaned. Retching sounds came from behind me. Only Ava looked serene as usual, though her hands clenched each other so hard it was a wonder her nails hadn’t poked through.

Master Nyssa briskly administered restoratives. “Not bad for your first time. Good work, Ava and Fali. Run along to Master Derk now. He’ll understand.”

Master Derk had been warned; he was unsurprised to see only the two of us out of the entire Second Year class. We spent Sounds listening to single musical notes, separated by vast spaces of silence.

Lunch was mashed potatoes without even a shake of salt. Someone had judged that the Second Years had suffered too much sensory assault already.

Back to baby food. I sulked, craving the tingle of salt crystals on my tongue.

The Masters had warned us about addiction to the senses. It was a common failing of those of us born to see the world in all its riotous glory, and to manipulate the fabric of its being. Most of our kind didn’t make it out of babyhood, burned to the core by the colors and curves of everyday things, driven to anguish by the touch of a mother’s hand or the crocheted trim of a blanket. Those who survived shut themselves up in their minds behind walls of impenetrable darkness or abandoned their bodies for a brief passionate life entangled in a wall-hanging, a flower, a sunbeam.

They tell us that we are the lucky ones, kept in ascetic surroundings since our babyhood. The Masters slowly introduced us to sights, smells, tastes, sounds, and textures, and coached us to not be overcome by them. Afterwards, we’d move on to the Collegium where we’d learn to manipulate what our senses perceived.

***

Rol swaggered by with his tray, dramatically tripped on my chair leg (perhaps an inch or two out of its regulated space—Sounds always made me hungry), and sent his dishes flying. Carrot chunks pattered onto carpet, gobs of applesauce rained on Kiri, who beat at the clinging ooze on her robes with rising hysteria. The Second Years let out whispered shrieks at the clatter of bowls and tray and the fleshly thump of Rol hitting ground.

I looked down, mashed potato halfway to my mouth.

Rol grinned at me. His eyes were just shy of unacceptable coloration. “An hour after Lightsout. In the Smell Lab. The Senses Box.”

The Masters swooped down on silent feet. One clapped a mildly-scented washcloth on Kiri’s face, calming her down immediately. Another made a gathering gesture and the offending carrots disappeared. Master Derk hauled Rol to his feet.

“’Sokay, ’sall right. Thank’ee for asking.” Rol brushed his rumpled robe and spoke too loudly in the fake commoner’s accent he affected. He piled his tray haphazardly with bowls and sauntered off.

I stared after him. I’d been noticed. I’d been invited.

I was… somebody.

***

The lab was locked and they were late. I’d been trained—as we all had—to stand still for long periods of time, but it was hard not to fidget.

Rol’s gang didn’t make a pretense at being quiet. Their smothered laughter, the scuff of their feet, the scritch of their clothes made my heart beat faster. As Rol unlocked the door, the hulking Nar showed how he’d pinned paper on the inside of his robes to make them crinkle in that ear-grating way.

In spite of the greasy-feeling bespelled air, the ghosts of old scents lingered inside the Lab. I picked out something citrus, something metallic, and stinky feet.

“This way.” Rol strode to a smooth-surfaced white table and withdrew the Senses Box from his robes. We took in a collective deep breath. It was white and rectangular, with a Fourth Year sigil on the lid.

“How’d you get this, Rol?” breathed Fi, a wispy Third Year with a paler-than-normal complexion.

“I have my ways.” Rol stood up straight. “All right, let’s do this. Nar, you’re first.”

“Awww, Rol. Why me?” In spite of his grumbles, Nar stepped up to the table.

I stared fixedly at the signs on the sides.

WARNING—PRIMARY COLOR OVERLOAD

CAUTION–CURVES

BEWARE—OLFACTORY AND GUSTATORY EFFECTS

And in the biggest letters of them all: MUTABLE

Which was code for organic. My palms grew sweaty.

Nar leaned forward; Rol flipped the lid open. Nar peeked in, eyes screwed almost shut, then reared back and hurried away. Rol shut the lid, but not before I caught its smell through the sluggish air…

Fi was next. One quick look, then her face took on an unhealthy tinge and she scuttled away, holding her stomach.

Flip, peek, hurry, flip. Flip, sway, get pushed aside, flip.

Then it was my turn. The foreign scent of the object inside, heavy and warm like a hand against my lips, fired my nerves. I wanted whatever it was. I wanted to taste it so badly my hands tremored.

So when Rol flipped the top open again, I thrust out my hands, grabbed the object—oh so wonderful and smooth, firm and yielding—and stuffed it into my mouth.

An explosion of color like sunglare in my eyes, rubbery sensation on my tongue that gave way to taste… by the One, the taste of the thing!

Last things I saw, before I was overcome with bliss, were Rol’s gaping mouth and rounded eyes.

***

Three weeks later, once the explosions stopped and the cacophony died to a murmur, they told me what happened. How Rol had fled to the Masters as his gangmates shrieked and scattered. How I’d been stripped and immersed in natal fluid like a baby. How I’d screamed at the light from a single candle, the sound of a whisper.

They told me what it was I put in my mouth. They pulled sad faces, spoke in weighty whispers, told me I’d learned my lesson.

When they left, all I could think of was what awaited me in the world beyond these walls. Of all the wonderful sights and smells, tastes and textures I was missing.

And how I could get my hands on another banana.

• Change genres or setting. Use a high-concept movie pitch: Rapunzel in space! Cinderella in an anime! The Little Mermaid meets Jaws in the Bahamas! The Brave Little Tailor meets Godzilla above Tokyo! Okay, those last two were a joke….but if they inspires you, feel free to use them.
• Use this prompt: You’re out and about and suddenly you see this woman with long past-her-feet-and-beyond hair. Write a story about this. The setting could be NYC, a New England college town, a colony on the moon. The woman could be dressed in a wedding gown, hair spilling down her train, and getting out of a limo, or she could be wearing gingham and walking fast, hair bundled under her arm, not looking at anyone.
• Use the They Fight Crime! generator to reimagine fairy tale characters. For example: “The Beast’s a lonely alcoholic photographer haunted by memories of ‘Nam. Beauty’s a ditzy winged safe cracker with an incredible destiny. They fight crime!”
• Ask why and keeping asking why. Why did the princess in The Princess and the Pea have to undergo a sensitivity test? Because the royal family wanted to keep the bloodlines strong. What does sensing a pea have to do with keeping bloodlines strong? They’re magic bloodlines, and the test is really to check for sensitivity to magic. So the pea is a magic pea? It only looks like a dried-up pea to those without magic. It really is a gem of magical power. Why did the princess come dripping and wet out of the night? She was on the run from an evil sorceror who’d been keeping her captive…. or so she said. Why’d she say it if it wasn’t true? Because she was really a magic con woman after that dried-up pea/powerful gem. And so on.

Have fun.

Here’s a red admiral that came to visit our lilacs this month. I got several shots of him, but he was rather high up and standing on a plastic domed sandbox lid is a rather precarious position to be in!

Happy Memorial Day weekend to all you Americans.

So, for today’s friday fun–what is your favorite writing or creative exercise? What gets your juices flowing, what gets you in the mood to create? Do you like to write sonnets? Sketch leaves? Doodle? Play Greensleeves on the flute?

But, we wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t called first to ask if they did guided tours for school-age children.

It’s pretty funny (to me) that as a mere interested adult I wouldn’t dream of monopolizing a firefighter’s time, but if it’s an educational opportunity for the littles, I think nothing of getting on the phone to ask if we could come down. I act as thought only children are allowed to be curious and see new things (*wry grin*).

But, you don’t have to use children as an entrance strategy to get into places that you’re interested in checking out. This weekend, or next week, go someplace new. It could be that Thai restaurant you’ve wanted to try for ages, or an art gallery. It could be time spent wandering a cemetery taking rubbings, or visiting a new-to-you park. It could be browsing through a specialty store or touring a wooden sailing ship or watching an opera (live) or… or… [you fill in the blank].

(Plus, having warm weather helps! Unless you live in Australia, in which case you’d need to brave the chilly fall season ).

Have you learned a new name recently? Identified a flower, a tree, an insect, a shrub with strange leaves? Learned the name of car part, a chemical process, an architectural feature, an interesting rock?