Prompt challenge response
A Publication Named Raine’s Lore
A pub, a poem, and a paranormal plot
Once again, I am responding to the mischievous promptings of others! For this reason, I take no responsibility for the shameless self-promotion that is about to reign down on you, because it is your fault. (Will Hull, Christopher Robin, and whomever else would like to shoulder the responsibility).
Will suggested three challenge inspirations.
1. Combine fiction with poetry
2. Create a publication name
3. Make Will a monetary offer
I am responding to the fiction, poetry, and pub name ideas. Perhaps Will can continue to write limericks and prompt challenges for some pocket change!
The Pub Name and Poem:
If I had a pub named, “Raine’s Lore”,
There’d be fiction from ceiling to floor.
No poems or rants
Nor six-worded chants
To digitally breach my front door!
The Paranormal Plot (Fiction):
Raine’s Lore
A young man bent double, pushed against the wind’s icy talons; chilled claws raked through his chain store puffer jacket, freezing his nipples to stone-hard nubs.
Night was falling.
One expected the wind to slowly abate at dusk, as it frequently did in these parts, but the creep of the dark through narrow networks seemed to bolster the spirit of the cyber wind; it whirled and blustered, challenging who knows what, in eerie, wailing tones, down deserted digital alleyways, and pathways.
An overhead sign banged, and jangled, catching the young man’s attention. He jumped involuntarily and squinted up to observe an ancient, weather-beaten sign hanging lopsidedly on rusted brackets.
The sign was poorly lit by one cracked bulb, which illuminated faded, gilded words just well enough for the naked eye to read:
Raine’s Lore Pub
Story-tellers beware —
No poems or rants
Nor six-worded chants.
Tender fiction, or you’ll disappear!
A faded, black ghoul decorated the sign in diagonal corners.
The man peered into the dusk to see poorly-lit tavern windows with the same ominous words repeated on a dingy frosted glass door. Black ghouls had been artistically worked into the frosting on the doors, and the dimly lit windows.
“What bullshit!” he thought.
Shrugging, and thinking the sign was old, and probably no longer meant anything, he gratefully shouldered his way from the dismally cold street into a warmer, but equally dismal interior.
As the door closed behind him, the young man examined his surroundings. The pub was old and unkempt with unusual décor. Bookshelves covered every available wall space, reaching from floor to ceiling — dusty volumes were crammed onto shelves in a disorganized manner. It seemed that the overcrowding had occurred many years previously; books were spilling onto floors and had been swept by feet to one side, to allow walking space between tables and the bar.
A low, constant murmur greeted the man as he entered the dingy place; a murmur that suddenly ceased as elderly, dusty patrons turned weak, inquisitive eyes upon him.
The newcomer made his way to an ancient countertop, careful to avoid stepping on books that lay in his path.
“What’s your genre, young fella?” enquired a wizened, bearded barkeep. A glass was placed upon the bar and the barman waited patiently, drying aging fingers on an old towel.
The young man appeared to be stupefied. “Huh?”
“Your genre, boy! What do you have to say for yourself!”
The patron shrugged, glanced around the room that was beginning to feel decidedly hostile, then answered the old barman. “A Foster’s, if you don’t mind, sir!”
“Is that the title, then?” enquired the barman, growing impatient. He began to tap a fingernail on the rim of the empty glass.
“Ah, I get it! If You Don’t Mind by A. Fosters.” The barman grinned broadly around the room. The other patrons began to relax and resume earnest conversations.
“What’s the A for? Anthony, Alan, Albert?” The old man reached for a rusty faucet and drew an orangeade into the glass, slopping it onto the countertop. He indicated that it was for the young man who accepted the fizzy drink with reluctance and shrugged. “What are you talking about? A is the first letter of many words, surely you don’t want me to stand here and recite them to you.”
“Ah-ha, a mystery! The boy’s genre is Mystery!” The barkeep looked triumphantly around the room, noticing that there was very little interest in the conversation.
He leaned over and poked the young man in the arm with a gnarled finger.
“Go on! Give everyone an outline of your plot. It might do them good to hear how a young ‘un approaches storytelling.”
One or two heads raised from conversations to turn their attention on the newest patron.
“I …I …” he stammered, hastily slurping from his sickly, orangey drink. “I do write stuff but my genre isn’t Mystery Fiction.” He drew a deep breath, intending to speak on.
Several gasps were heard throughout the room.
Before he could continue, the barman interrupted.
“Not Mystery! What then? Adventure? Murder? Westerns? Fantasy? Drama? Science Fiction? Psychological Thriller? Paranormal?” The old man stopped for a second to draw a breath, then sneered. “Romance?” He slapped the scarred bar top and snorted. “That’s it, Romance! No wonder you were reluctant to speak.”
The young man glanced back at the barman, then turned with resolve to speak to a now attentive audience.
“All right then, if you must know, although I can’t for the life of me understand why you think it’s any of your business!”
“Just a minute!” The old man interjected once more. “It is you that wandered in off the digital highway. Where in hell’s name did you think you were going? You are in Raine’s Lore pub, submitting, just like the rest of us. I take it you read the signs on the door?”
The young man nodded. “If you’ll just let me speak, sir. As you are all so interested in what I write, I will tell you.” He drew a deep breath and gazed into several pairs of hostile eyes. “I write poetry, and rants about my life. I even write song lyrics — protest stuff; six-word photo …”
The young man ceased talking in mid-sentence. The room had grown suddenly cold and bleak; the lights dimmed to an eerie luminescence, and a small fire in the cobwebbed hearth flickered, then died.
Shuddering, he observed that his audience was sitting with mouths gaping; some had spittle drooling onto beards; others turned eyes of fire his way. Chairs began scraping dusty wooden floors as storytellers dragged themselves upright, murderous intent showing on craggy countenances.
The terrified young man fancied that moulding patches on peeling wallpaper were mobilizing; shifting, swirling, forming into something horrendous and unknown.
He spun to stare balefully at the barman who shrugged, elbows bent, hands upturned in a gesture that said, “What can I do?”
“It’s Raine’s Lore law!” the old man mouthed — an explanation lacking in empathy, expressed with inevitability. “Only fiction through her pub door!”
A maelstrom was building in the centre of the room. Frigid air moved, swirled; a hurricane formed, whipping up vulnerable novels from the floor.
Snarling authors advanced on the helpless young man as he watched, mesmerised by heaving wallpaper that vomited shrieking blobs of evil into the palpable chill that surrounded him.
Before he could move, black talons grabbed the poet’s puffer jacket and bore him through pub walls that crackled and crumbled; screeching out into a matrix of lost author souls that were whispering through the dark web; missives of lost loves borne on soulful poetry, six words of pain and lost chances, chants of hopelessness, and the despair of hungry writers.
A young woman bent double, pushed against the wind’s icy talons; chilled claws raked through her chain store puffer jacket, freezing her nipples to stone-hard nubs.
Night was falling …
Disclaimer:
I do enjoy writing poetry, rants, and six-worded chants — just not quite as much as I enjoy writing fiction!
I admit this prompt has been the most fun ever. Thanks again to the geniuses who come up with this stuff!
Here’s a link to Will Hull and his latest challenge prompt:
And here’s a link to Christopher Robin and his brand new “The Pub at Pooh Corner”:
Here’s a link to something written by me, Raine Lore, because, after all, this whole story is a shameless self-promotion:
