October 22nd Curdling Cries

17.58 – 18.58

Lucy Curdling was a weather god. A minor god, it has to be said, but a deity all the same.

She wasn’t up there with the big ones: Buddha, Jesus, Krishna, Thor, or any of the other ones you might have heard of, but she was up there. Or, more accurately, she was down here. Because Lucy Curdling walks among us.

She’d always been told that she was an orphan. That was the story, and they were sticking to it, although it wasn’t always clear who they were. They just said things, though, every now and then, but for the most part they let Lucy get on with it.

Lucy Curdling was twenty-seven years old. At least, that’s what she’d been led to believe, and for the most part that was fine. She’d been allowed to grow, normally, (or fairly normally) from the age of about one, and that was fine. In an orphanage, then in foster care, and now, at the age of roughly twenty-seven, in a fairly average flat in Manchester.

For a weather god, there are few better places to be.

The trouble was, Lucy was happy. Very happy. Her job, in a garden centre, was going well, and she’d spent the summer with Steve. Steve was her first real boyfriend, the first one who made her feel special. Who made her smile.

That summer was hot. Very hot. And Lucy had smiled. A lot.

But things were getting desperate. There had been no rain for weeks, and while Lucy might have floated around in blissful ignorance, there were others who were concerned.

It was time to stage an intervention.

The trouble was, they didn’t want to put anything between Lucy and Steve. After all, Lucy was happy, and causing no trouble, and that was fine. She just needed to be a little less happy.

But what to do? Break her leg? Too extreme. Food poisoning? Not really their style.

And then someone, it doesn’t matter who, had an idea.

Picture the scene. It’s Monday morning, 9 thirty or thereabouts. Lucy Curdling is at work, when she is approached by a courier with a delivery to sign for. He has a cap low over his eyes: she doesn’t see his face. She signs, takes the package and, intrigued, opens it.

The aroma of freshly chopped onions hits her full in the face.

Lucy Curdling cries.

And the heavens open.

Inspired by https://puttingmyfeetinthedirt.com/2018/10/01/october-writing-prompts-2/

 

Curdling Cries – WP Oct 23 – Dave

Nurdling, hurdling, curdling,

Nutuering, hurteling, curterling,

Nueturing, huerteing, cutering,

Nattering, hattering, cattering,

Natterley, hatterley, catterley,

Naughtily, haughtily, caughtily,

Natuerley, hatuerely, caturely,

Naturally, haturally, caturally,

Naturey, hattery, cattery,

Natty, hatty, catty,

Nat, hat, cat

Nit, hit, cit,

Not, hot, cot,

Nut, hut, cut.

 

This follows the daily prompts for a ten minute write from Putting My Feet In The Dirt The idea is to use the prompt and write for ten minutes only. Which is what I did, prompted by the words Curdling Cries

My other stuff is over on the Dead Deer Blog

Curdling Cries

“Where’s the blood?!” was the first thing that Algernon said.

“What do you mean?” several people asked, in response.

“Where’s the blood? It’s missing!”

This confused the group, who if anything, would have voted to express that in the past few hours they had seen more than their fair share of blood. They were momentarily stunned into silence.

Their situation was this. They had been slowly made aware, through a serious of unfortunate incidents and spooky clues, that things were not quite right in this small New England town. Algernon, the journalist on the Arkham Investigator, had been the one to send letters to the others, informing them of his doubts and suspicions. One by one the party had been drawn in to the web of intrigue, each sworn to secrecy. They could not be sure who was involved in the spidery plot that was slowly being revealed before them. A murder here, a robbery there, a seemingly unconnected incident of criminal damage; all were noticed and drawn into the group’s deliberations from different sources: word of mouth, a story in Algernon’s own newspaper, a seemingly innocuous line or two in a parish newsletter, or even an advertisement that let on more than it intended.

And so their meetings had become more furtive and more hushed, as the clues pointed inexorably towards evil-doing. The band were now stalking through the mists of a graveyard, to which they had been led through a tunnel that began on the fog-wreathed coast, by an abandoned smuggler’s ship, its crew slaughtered and deposited through the tunnel’s length… They held their shaking electric torches and peered towards the tomb of one of the town’s founding fathers. And then…

“You hear a curdling cry!” said the Gamesmaster, behind his cardboard screen.

Dave, the literary one of the roleplaying group, couldn’t stand for this omission.

“It’s BLOOD-curdling, Anna. Get it right!”

Curdling cries

This follows the daily prompts for a ten minute write from Putting My Feet In The Dirt The idea is to use the prompt and write for ten minutes only. Curdling Cries