Back From The Correctional Facility

“I took the letters you sent, Ralph, and made them into a book.”

“A book? Or a manuscript, Claudette?”

After six months at the correctional facility, Ralph was finally home.

“Did you like them, Claudette?”

“I guess it's the thought that counts. I couldn't always get your spelling. Sometimes you were in a bad mood.”

“It was food…I kept writing for food.”

He was allowed only a pencil and paper.

“That's great, Claudette. You made a manuscript, and you were faithful to me the whole time.”

“Well, I wouldn't go that far.”

“You mean...You didn't make a manuscript?”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

For the prompt Manuscript and Letter

The Manuscript

They found their grandfather's manuscript buried in a box in the corner of the attic. It was almost thrown out with yearbooks and tax documents that not even an archeologist would find interesting. But Rebecca saw Papa's name typed on the cover page, and fortunately set it aside for later examination.

There was debate over what they would find inside. The consensus was it would most likely relate to Papa's service in World War II, though the sisters were pulling for a good old-fashioned love story about their grandmother.

No one was expecting a Romantasy novel featuring centaurs and fairies.

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.

Eating at Fromkin's

The larvae of beetles and moths – often described as bookworms – enjoy eating manuscripts and printed material. Lem, a Drugstore Beetle larva, Clem, a Cigarette Beetle larva, and Mel, a developing moth, burrowed away at Fromkin's Bookshop, after Al Fromkin locked up the place and drove to his small condo in Northeast Philadelphia.

Lem held his abdomen with four of his legs. “That manuscript was awful.”

“Tell me about it.” Clem had burrowed through several letters Al Fromkin left on his imitation oak desk.

Both were sick as dogs.

Mel smiled. “I finished a 100-word story. I feel pretty good, actually.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.

In Love I Do Write

“Sorry, Ma’am. Nothing.”

Isabel nodded, dismissing the housekeeper. Tears accompanied her sullen soul.

In earlier times she and Alfred exchanged letters frequently. Physical distance between them, when he left for war, mattered not. Had the passion vanished?

Not for her. How could she forget their tireless walks in the countryside, their invigorating conversations, or his warm smiling eyes? He, the son of her parents’ friends.

The expected letter eventually arrived, as did others following.

Only after Isabel and Alfred had died was their love revealed to the world, in a manuscript—a collection of hundreds of letters penned between them.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.

Novel

The house I bought was built in the early 1900s. When I renovated, I never expected to find a note hidden in the floor boards from a distinguished gentleman to his maid from the year 1907. It gave me great inspiration to write a romance novel. I submitted my finished manuscript to my agent, and she said it had potential. The next day she sent it to the publishing house.

Several months passed, and finally my agent called. When I answered the phone, my heart beat quickly, the anxiety rising throughout my body.

The publisher loved it.

My first novel.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.

The PI

“You're a dick, right?”

“Come again?”

“A private investigator?”

Mel sat across from Doris Vandergrift in the living room of her mansion.

“I need to find Reginald.”

“Your husband?”

“Yes. As I mentioned, I have a letter.”

Mel scanned the pages.

“I keep seeing – ‘I need more money.’”

“My 87-year-old husband ran off with Rhonda, our massage therapist. She was always after him for money, as you see.”

“But it's not a letter.”

“What'd you mean?”

“It's more like a manuscript.”

“Does that matter?”

“A manuscript? Yeah...To run down the leads in a manuscript costs a lot more money.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.

The Permanent Manuscript

Sir Robert, during his quest for the Holy Grail, was struck by a spectacular vision. The images were so overwhelmingly realistic he felt compelled to document everything he had seen as a testament for all future generations. Stopping in the nearest cave, he began carving, with both words and pictographs, the amazing sights he had witnessed. Only by engraving the words deep into the stone, permanently recording his fantastic revelation, would he be certain that not a single letter of his screed could ever be altered. Thus it would forever remain.

Sir Robert liked to make his editor's job difficult.

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.

Our First Writing Prompt

To celebrate the new website, and the arrival of summer, I thought we could start with a community writing prompt. And we're going to take our cue from the incomparable Fran Lebowitz, seen below in a visit to the Morgan Library and Museum.

The prompt is to write a story that revolves around a letter or a manuscript. Bonus points if you manage both items (but at one hundred words, maybe one is enough). I'm curious to see what you come up with. 

You will find the submission guidelines here. For the month of June I'll be bumping stories that follow the prompt to the front of the line. 

Manuscript

The rain pelted the window as I typed the last few pages of my manuscript. It was past midnight, and I had been working for hours with a cold cup of coffee on my desk. My agent advised that it would be in my best interest to have it ready by tomorrow morning, my first novel.

Thunder filled the sky, and my dog Bree ran under bed, my concentration never faltering.

As I typed “The End,” a flash of lightning lit the sky, and the electricity went out.

I didn’t have a chance to hit save before the power outage.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Comfortable Ignorance

Tim read his sister’s winning entry through, comparing it with listed runners-up. He reflected on the superficial ditties with which building society advertisements were enamoured to the point of misidentification as poetry. Perhaps that ill-timed reflection jaded him, for he was not gentle with his critique of Martha’s literary infant.

“’Ill-conceived twaddle’?” She snatched away her manuscript and lunged melodramatically from the chair.

Tim guffawed as the histrionics caused her to jar against the table, but recovered. “Look, you can’t exhale against a corset, whale-bone or otherwise. The rib-cage contracts to exhale, expands to inhale.”

Martha cashed the cheque anyway.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid