Musical Prompt: Bela Fleck, Flight of the Cosmic Hippo

Sneaking behind pillars in a camel-colored trench coat, collar up, tan brimmed hat down over his eyes, Mr. Sasso stalked Mrs. Bettle. He knew she did not have his best interests at heart. He had overheard her in the telephone booth, speaking in Finnish--which he just happened to speak--telling Rosco she would meet him ten minutes after sunset at the beach. She would be sipping absinthe in a red-feathered hat.

Who was Roscoe? Mr. Sasso wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he suspected he was the jeweler. There were rumors of some hot rubies entering the market last week, and corresponding rumors that the prince was a few jewels short of a crown.

How did Mrs. Bettle fit in? She always seemed to have her long gloved delicate fingers into everything nefarious in this town. How she stayed out of prison had everything to do with her Olympic gold medal in fencing.

Men were fascinated by her biceps, her triceps, the rhythmic sway of her hips. The government felt an enormous debt to her for putting their little country into six billion livingrooms during last year's games in Madrid. For this, she expected protection for life, and if there was ever any question, her stilletto was still razor sharp, her perry quick and fearless, her lunge silent and deadly.

But how Mr. Sasso got into the espionage business was frankly a much more interesting story....

Alida Thacher, Friday Mornings, Summer 09

Prompt: Why I Write

Why I write is beyond words. It's a scratch to the bottom of my soul, it's my unconscious leaking out of my body, it's stuff arriving from places that surprise me, images from the gods, dialogue from those I do not know (but somehow I know them), jokes and animals and achy breaky hearts marching across my beat up old notebook. It's powers that be from another plane crossing this metaphysical barrier to visit me.

Sometimes that doesn't happen. Sometimes I am locked in reality--flat, drab, confining, boring reality. At those points I am so grateful for 10 minute prompts, for words that evaporate as soon as they drop onto the page, words that get plowed under with the next prompt.

Alida Thacher, Friday Morning Workshop, Summer 2009