Lemurian City of Ladies

A Lemurian City Built in Memory of Christine de Pizan

once upon a time…

with 6 comments

It was cold and dark in the catacombs, quiet except for my own footsteps and the skittering of small creatures across the rough stone below. The walls were slightly damp, the smell of must strong. As I walked further into the shadows, cobwebs snagged at my face and I pulled them off. I looked down and saw the remains of what might have been an ancient mosaic floor. Black, red, and white tiles made up a design, but it was hard to tell what the picture might have been.

I did not like it here and wondered what Enchanteur expected me to find. What is this place? I whispered.

“It is the Slush Pile, where rejected stories go to die,” said a small voice.

“Who – who are you?”

“I am a were-pen. See the shining point of light on that wall? That’s me.”

“You can speak?”

“I am a voice in your head, but you are not mad. It’s a Lemurian magic. Call it your inner voice, the writer within, seeking expression.”

“I knew writers were crazy; this confirms it,” I admitted. “But we’re mostly harmless. So if I have a talking were-pen as my guide, I guess that’s OK.”

The were pen bobbed in agreement. “It is a deep, dark magic, like bibbety-bobbity-boo. Toss some basil in the air, and presto-chango, we can advance the plot!”

It made a funny, clicky noise. I didn’t know were-pens could snicker. “You’re kind of sarcastic, aren’t you?”

“I am *your* inner voice, afterall.” The pen top clicked mischievously and I swear the were-pen was winking at me. “Call me 86.”

“Let’s recap, 86. I am talking to a were-pen in the dead stories file. So the contents of these catacombs are what, unpublished stories?”

“Not even that. They are half-finished stories. Plots that twisted and turned up their toes too early. Characters only half fleshed out. Mummified mixed metaphors. Paragraphs piled up like bodies for the charnel house. Adjectives tossed overboard. Ransacked rhymes. Transitions that never made it from one paragraph to the next. Half-done hooks. Wasted words. These are the stories of the damned, that have no voices, until a writer tells them.”

“I thought this was a ladies’ literary walking tour. Where’s Enchanteur? What does this creepy place have to do with me?

The were pen swung above my head like an inky sword of Damocles. “Once upon a time…”

By Kerry Vincent © 2008

Written by kvwordsmith

June 17, 2008 at 8:33 pm

6 Responses

Subscribe to comments with RSS.

  1. I enjoyed this (: – i wonder what a were-pens look like?


    June 17, 2008 at 10:51 pm

  2. Oh Blimey, I will have filled a vault or three. Superb, Kezza, and with a nice creepy feeling too.


    June 17, 2008 at 11:35 pm

  3. Dialoguing with your inner pen? Obviously these halls have had a deep impact on you Kerry 🙂 All so atmospheric and a great incentive for others to find their were pens and tell tales from the Catacombs.

    Heather Blakey

    June 18, 2008 at 12:18 am

  4. Oh, YES! This is just wonderful. And I love the were-pen!


    June 18, 2008 at 12:41 am

  5. Just delightful!


    June 18, 2008 at 8:45 am

  6. what a clever idea, Kerry, were-pens. Who knows else what lurks in the Catacombs?


    June 18, 2008 at 9:00 am

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: