Here, January 19, 2024

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This Show Case features four pieces submitted in response to our sixtieth Writing Prompt: Here. You can see responses to each prompt in the drop down menu for the Show Case page. Try an item. They are all delicious. We hope they stimulate your mind, spirit, and urge to write. Maybe they will motivate you to submit a piece for our next prompt, which you can find on the Show Case home page.

Thanks for your dedication and interest in this feature. And please share this Show Case with your family, friends, and other writers.

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Howard, Here

by John Correll

“Howard, here.

Here. Here.

Here, here, here.

Here.

Here, Howard, here.

HERE. 

Here, here — here… here.

Here!”

“What’s that, Rebecca? Where? There?”

“No dear. Listen to me. Hear me, hear!”

“Yes dear. I hear you, clear.”

“Never mind, I forgot what I wanted to say.” 

“Oh. Deer.”

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Sunflower Vistas, Porcelain Dreams

by Mimi Speike

“Doctor Dee!” cries Lucy, “how come you by this darling puss-cat?” 

John Dee’s known he’d be asked it sooner or later. He has his reply worked out: “The fact is,” he croons, chuckling, “that scamp of mine, my boy Archie, brought home a stray cat shortly ago. He’s always got something snuck into his room, bugs, snakes. He’s wild about snakes. This time, it’s a cat. Arch has a small violin. I’m teaching him to play. He undertook to entertain his siblings by introducing our friend here to the instrument, with quite remarkable results.” A stretch, but it might suffice for the simpler portion of the population, if they don’t think about it too hard.

This isn’t what Lucy wants to know. She knows how Sly learned to jig. She taught him herself, years back in Bishopsgate. She knows how he mastered the fiddle. He’d been trained by Lorenzo Phillipi to fake a semblance of competence on the instrument. He’d been a busker, performing on street corners, earning his manager generous tips.

Ten years earlier she’d lured Signor Phillipi’s star attraction away from him. That’s one of the reasons she invented the baby buggy joke and relocated her area of operation to the Strand, to reduce the chance of being discovered in possession of his animal. Sly, after months with her, had vanished. Had Phillipi snatched him back? That’s always been her suspicion. Here he is, here’s her Muffin, miraculously restored to her. Where has he been since she last set eyes on him? 

“This one is no stray,” she says. “Look at him. Well fed. Pudgy, in fact. He’s wandered off from a good home. Someone is missing him terribly. Had you never seen him in your neighborhood? Archie trained him, you say. In what? Weeks? In a year or two is more like it. This doesn’t add up.” What’s Lucy getting at?

Many people, Dee being who he is, would suspect sorcery. He has to nip that idea in the bud. “Come to think of it,” he says, “my nephew mentioned a gypsy entertainment set up over in Royerton some weeks back. It had slipped my mind until just now. The name was … uh … Somebody and his Animal Somethings. He may have been part of that jingbang. At any rate, this fellow is an astonishing fiddler. I said to myself, the folks at Barn Elms have got to see this. I introduced him at Sir Francis’ last ‘evening’. Such was the response that I immediately saw that to obtain him wider exposure would be a smart move. The upcoming costume ball is the ideal opportunity.” 

You see a way to make a bundle, thinks Lucy. I can’t blame you. I’d do the same.

“I thought of you. I cherish our friendship, my dear. Did I ever tell you that? Are you able to slip me into your busy schedule? I have in mind a Robin Hood get-up, feathered cap, jerkin, quiver of arrows, nothing too much, quickly thrown together, surely. Do me this favor and I will boost you to the court to the extent that my small credit in those circles allows.”

* * *

Lucy had pulled herself out of the sewer of Bishopsgate. She’d married Scooch, the big money-maker in the Bastards. They’d taken a room in Shoreditch, amidst the theaters. She set up as a seamstress. She caught the eye of an important actor — she was always dressed to perfection. He arranged for her to assist with the creation of wardrobe for his next production, with an ulterior motive of course, but that was to be expected.  

The Mayhews moved into a two-room storefront and stocked the shelves with the frou-frou one would expect to find in a going costume shop (financed by Scooch, who was still plying his original trade on a part-time basis). He’d changed his name from Kilgore (aka Scooch) Mayall to Hugh Mayhew, to confuse the authorities. I could take you on a tour of the several prisons in which Scooch has passed time, but I’ll hold off on that. Bridewell, in particular, is a chapter in itself. We’ll skip Bridewell for now, and continue with Sly’s reunion with Lucy ‘Lula’ Lattimore Mayall Mayhew.

* * *

Here we are, back in the Green Room (that isn’t green). There’s green here, sure, and lots of other colors besides. This was Lucy’s living space until recently. Three years she camped out in the former store room of a greengrocer, making do with the sparest of furnishings. She spent cautiously, except on growing her business. Her money went to beads and trim and rich fabrics, the tools of her new trade, and to a small team of seamstresses. She, the designer and manager, attended the theater and mingled at parties with theater folk, wearing her creations. She was her best advertisement. 

In the beginning, not a lot of work came her way. She kept up her spirits by brightening the dismal interior of her storage-room abode. She painted over the string-bean-green walls, and stenciled a floral motif onto them. She took a notion to paint a window overlooking a field of sunflowers. She added a window on the opposite wall showing a formal garden dotted with statuary. There’s a representation of a sofa with two cats stretched across the backrest, and another of an ornate cupboard full of pricey blue-and-white porcelain dinnerware. She’s always been a proponent of ‘self-visualization’, maintaining an image of who she wishes to be, her approach when she’d strolled the Strand, a smartly-dressed miss trailed by her nursemaid, picking pockets. 

Lucy has created a charming retreat divided from the main room by a screen she’s covered with a wallpaper depicting a naif-style scene of greenery and birds. There, on a quilted daybed, she relaxes surrounded by flowering plants that, in the sun-deprived space, require frequent replacement. A small table is stacked with books, adding to the impression of gentility. That, rather than to sit and read, is her goal. A few of her more important clients are invited to sip sherry in the strikingly-decorated spot. “I am the unacknowledged daughter of the late Earl of Rutland,” she tells them. “I disclose this because I apprehend between us a strong sympathy. I do not, however, attempt to exploit the connection. To flourish on my artistry alone is my whole intention.” Do they believe any of this? That remains to be seen.

Scooch supports the fantasy, as he’s done with every idea she’s ever had. It’s her ingenuity that has driven their rise in the world. She has hold of the reins. He’s along for the ride.

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Excerpt from: The History of Everything by Yetarīki Mihuru

by SL Randall

A Fungitarian, Artwork by SL Randall

Chapter Three Planets

Section 2 Urbana:

The Zones:

A. Under Urbana:

i. The core:

The Power of Urbana is housed in the center of the planet. Here it has been maintained by Korezei since the planet was created. It continues in perpetuity as generations of these sentient beings view the core as their entire world. The center core Korezei have evolved into squat, quadrupeds with long ropey arms and an array of antenna from the crown of their heads to the end of their tails. Their original form was once bipedal. Their current form is efficient in their efforts to maintain the core. They have formed a symbiotic relationship with their environment in which every facet of their life cycle is advantageous to their longevity as well as the perpetual function of the core. A byproduct of their efforts is a prolific fungus which is also their source of food. The fungus absorbs moisture, providing the Korezei both solid and liquid food. If anyone were to ask them, they would refer to themselves as Fungitarians. However, only the historian now has access to the core level. If the Korezei on this level tried to leave they would perish as all other environments are toxic to them.

For more information on the Fungitarian Korezei of the Core, see The History of Everything, Chapter 125, Populations, People, Species:

Section 45: The Korezei

  Subsection 12: Under Urbana

    Part 1. The Core Korezei, or Fungitarians

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Grief

by S.T. Ranscht

Photo credit: Pawal Czerwinski, Unsplash.com