It’s been ages since I’ve written anything to publish, and this isn’t a traditional blog post or column, as I prefer to call them. Instead, it’s inspired by an anthology I recently read. It’s a short story based on a prompt. Let me explain.

I read a lot when I’m not working on a show. (That’s another topic.) I usually have a couple books going at a time on both Audible and the Libby library app. (I was super disappointed when my Tennessee library card expired, leaving me with only a Wisconsin library card and seemingly half of the books l’d like to check out. But that’s another topic.)

While doing research to market my novel to agents, I went on a jag of reading books about time travel or vaguely similar topics. That’s when I discovered author Maggie Stiefvater and her well-done young adult series about magic, dreams and friends. Recently, I did a fresh search on Libby and came across an older book, an anthology: “The Curiosities: A Collection of Stories,” by Stiefvater and her friends and fellow authors Tessa Grafton and Brenna Yovanoff.

“The Curiosities” is from their collaboration of writing short stories based on prompts and published on a deadline each week. It was a way to stretch themselves and try out new ideas and styles. The anthology also included commentary they had on each other’s and their own works – kind of a peek inside the process. It was fascinating and well done. Each story was interesting in its own right, but I also appreciated their individual takes on a prompt.

The concept got me thinking, wondering, really, if I could do that. If I could write a short story based on a prompt, come up with something new.

Thinking back on the book, I recalled one prompt that wasn’t really in keeping with the others, and they each seemed to not be thrilled with the prompt either, but they’d taken it on and included it in the book. (Even at the time is was published – 2012 – they surely had many more stories from which they could choose to publish.) I’m not a fan of the prompt either. I’ve never read the “original,” if you will. So I don’t know why it was the one that came to mind first, but it was. And just like that, I had an idea for a short story.

I wrote it over the course of about an hour total, in three 20-minute segments, after a 20-minute morning meditation and before I had to get my grandson up for school.

It’s certainly not the best thing I’ve written, but I proved to myself I could, in pretty short order, come up with a story idea and execute it.

See for yourself. The story follows. I’ll give you the prompt and title at the end so as not to spoil it, since it would be obvious, and I’d like a little mystery, at least to start.

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Short story

The blade pierced deep, driven by such a force it felt as if it would rend me in two.

But it didn’t.

Every inch of the honed steel slid home, cold leeching out of it, seeping into me. Questions catapulted, none of which I could answer: Who? What? Why?

I shuddered. The very earth seemed to quake with me. Then all was still: me, the blade, the ground on which I lay.

Overhead, storm clouds roiled. A wind whipped in, pushing stinging debris and pelting rain. Slashed by great streaks, water pooling around me, I was rooted by the sword buried in me, through me.

But I wasn’t dead.

 

I don’t know how long it lasted, how long I was alone. Time had lost all meaning. It seemed impossible to even track the days, the rising and setting sun, star-filled nights.

Solitary, steeled, I waited for something. Or someone. I waited for answers.

The curious provided them.

Hushed then excited, they rushed to me, wondering over the sword, how it got there, what to do about it. A few of the braver ones would risk touching the hilt. This sent shudders through me, and they would scrabble away. Watching, whispering.

But I wasn’t dead, only wounded.

As I waited, I learned about magician.

The weapon, you must have realized, is enchanted. Otherwise, how could I have survived the death blow and still be waiting, for someone? The magician’s spell allowed him to stab me without destroying me or the blade, but holding us fast together.

 

A brash and boastful young man, more bluster than brawn, approached one day, a crowd of onlookers clustered about, clucking and cooing like a feathered flock.

“I will release the sword and reign the kingdom,” he declared. His followers murmured. I wasn’t sure if it was approval or reproach. “It’s been foretold that whoever retrieves the sword will be king.”

I’d heard this whispered occasionally, catching snippets of rumor on the wind. But to hear it spoken aloud was a shock. Did he actually believe he could remove the sword buried in my bones? Would he dare desecrate me? Did he actually plan to try?

He approached, and I braced myself for his touch on the hilt. Before I knew what was happening, he had climbed on top of me, straddling the blade. With grubby hands, he gripped the handle and exerted a strength I was surprised he had.

Three things happened at once: the crowd silenced, the earth quaked and I held on tight, as tightly as I could, to the sword.

He tried to take my sword, my would-be murder weapon. But he couldn’t do it.

Sweating and cursing, he slid off me and retreated in shame.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t the last. Emboldened, others came to claim the prize. We repeated the scenario many times. I refused to give up my sword. I had been cleft with it; it was mine.

But I didn’t want it, really.

 

In the dewy hour before dawn, a band drew near on horseback. Quiet in the semi-dark, they stayed back, perhaps fearful. One dismounted and murmured to his companions, and the horses were clucked away, turning velvet muzzles and moving off.

The man approached. He came bare-handed and -headed. Quiet, like the others, he stood respectfully at a few paces. His eyes were upon me and my sword. Slowly, he stepped forward. Warm fingertips brushed me gently, before he placed his palm flat. I could feel the heat and knew a palm print would be visible when he pulled away.

But he didn’t pull away.

He bowed his head, dropping his forehead to his hand, and I could feel tears escape. Not many, but he was crying.

“I am overcome,” he whispered. “I’ve been searching, not knowing if it was real or true. And here it is.” His voice was husky, low and lulling.

“My companions expect me to remove the sword, to claim the title of king.” Here he paused so long. I waited. I’d never had someone talk to me like this.

“Truth be told, I do not want it. To rule is a treacherous undertaking. Men will die. Blood will be shed. And there’s no guarantee.”

I waited. Shivered with anticipation. His head jerked up, and he pulled his hand back. He shook his head, just a tiny movement, and swiped his hand over his face. Then, squaring his shoulders, he drew up and carefully placed both palms flat against me, one on either side of the blade. He bowed his head and whispered.

“Please.”

Then with both hands he grasped the sword hilt and pulled.

With a sigh, I released the blade. It sounded like a note, music on the wind. The steel cleared, arced into the air as he flourished it. I felt it slipping away, the gap in me suddenly unguarded, unprotected.

As if he understood, he placed one hand where the blade had been. In that same low voice, too quiet to be heard by any but me, he whispered again.

“Thank you.”

Turning, he strode to his horse, his men, the enchanted blade already sheathed at his side.

I like to think he looked back. But he didn’t. His eyes were only on the future, and my part in his past was over. I drifted back to an eternal sleep, his thanks echoing in my memory.

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Did you figure out the prompt? It’s the Arthurian legend. I titled this one “The Sword in the Stone,” but that really would have given it away.

How to Be a Better Writer Tip

How about you? If given a prompt – even one you don’t like, would you want to write a short story, just to see where it goes? Give it a try, and let me know about it in the comments or email me! Thank you for reading.