Saturday's Storyteller: Storymatic
In my office at the school I work at, I happen to have a game called The Storymatic. It is a great tool to have for students who are interested in timed free writes or creative writing exercises, as it provides prompts for both character and plot ideas. Rather than use a specific opening line this week - and because I am actually putting this here on Thursday to be posted on Saturday due to my going out of town for a wedding - I decided to use the story I wrote in one of my classes while a student of mine wrote his own story using the same original two prompts (I have a philosophy of working alongside the student, not just watching him or her work). This story was written in forty minutes, utilizing multiple prompt cards as per the game's rules. Before each section of the story, I will put the prompts down in italics and parentheses to give you an idea of how the story went in the direction it did. The title of this story (rather than an actual, y'know, title) will be the original character and plot prompt cards that I used to get the story started.
Get it? Got it. Good.
Mind Reader (Character Card); Deadline (Plot Card)
by Belinda Roddie
Sebastian sat in the corner of his dressing room, sipping nervously from a glass of water. He didn’t understand how it had come to this. Within the next hour, he was expected to walk onstage, take a deep breath, and read the thoughts of one of the most prestigious women in the world: Baroness Vivian M. Goode, a striking lady who still looked divine in her sixties, who had run a modelling business in her early twenties, managed to revolutionize the fashion world before she turned thirty, and later traveled from England to marry a small Dixie town mayor named Howard B. Goode who always won his elections by a landslide.
How was he going to do this? Sebastian felt the liquid gurgle in his nearly empty stomach. He of course couldn’t actually read minds. He was simply a very good cold reader, or predictor of emotions. Of course if he spoke to a crying girl, he could guess that she had lost something, or someone, very dear to her. He was acutely aware of the tremors in people’s voices, the flickering of their eyes from wall to wall, the way they desperately tried to seem aloof or unreadable even though it was like trying to close a literal book with a large red brick. But Vivian M. Goode was an entirely different story. She was calm, stoic-faced, and very, very deceptive. She was the one who liked to control the room, and not the other way around.
“I shall entertain this silly psychic Sivall and watch how he plays his game,” she had told reporters a week before the encounter at the Las Vegas venue. “What he does not know is that I will play it better than he ever could.”
The glass emptied too quickly, and Sebastian practically scurried to refill it. But no matter how many drops he let settle on his tongue, his mouth and throat felt like endless desert, deep dry dunes that made him cough as he put on his jacket and walked onto the stage to the sound of thunderous applause.
***
Get it? Got it. Good.
Mind Reader (Character Card); Deadline (Plot Card)
by Belinda Roddie
Sebastian sat in the corner of his dressing room, sipping nervously from a glass of water. He didn’t understand how it had come to this. Within the next hour, he was expected to walk onstage, take a deep breath, and read the thoughts of one of the most prestigious women in the world: Baroness Vivian M. Goode, a striking lady who still looked divine in her sixties, who had run a modelling business in her early twenties, managed to revolutionize the fashion world before she turned thirty, and later traveled from England to marry a small Dixie town mayor named Howard B. Goode who always won his elections by a landslide.
How was he going to do this? Sebastian felt the liquid gurgle in his nearly empty stomach. He of course couldn’t actually read minds. He was simply a very good cold reader, or predictor of emotions. Of course if he spoke to a crying girl, he could guess that she had lost something, or someone, very dear to her. He was acutely aware of the tremors in people’s voices, the flickering of their eyes from wall to wall, the way they desperately tried to seem aloof or unreadable even though it was like trying to close a literal book with a large red brick. But Vivian M. Goode was an entirely different story. She was calm, stoic-faced, and very, very deceptive. She was the one who liked to control the room, and not the other way around.
“I shall entertain this silly psychic Sivall and watch how he plays his game,” she had told reporters a week before the encounter at the Las Vegas venue. “What he does not know is that I will play it better than he ever could.”
The glass emptied too quickly, and Sebastian practically scurried to refill it. But no matter how many drops he let settle on his tongue, his mouth and throat felt like endless desert, deep dry dunes that made him cough as he put on his jacket and walked onto the stage to the sound of thunderous applause.
***
Sleepwalker (Character Card), Hunger (Plot Card)
Off in Henderson, Nevada – not too far from Sebastian Sivall at all – Vivian’s estranged daughter, Jacqueline, was witnessing her daughter sleepwalk again. As her wife Sylvia carried the flailing girl to bed, Jackie kept quiet on the couch, staring at the freeze frame of the action movie that she had just paused when little Denise stumbled into the room, mumbling about a car crash. Funny, that; an exploding truck was caught on screen, a scream probably stuck in the poor driver’s throat.
“Is she okay?” Jackie asked Sylvia as the latter returned. Instead of maneuvering back to the couch, her wife made a beeline to the cupboard, pulling out a jar of peanut butter.
“She’s fine. She’s six. They grow out of this stuff.” Sylvia snatched a spoon from the counter and dug in, smearing the stuff around the corners of her mouth. Jackie smiled. At this rate, Sylvia’s large belly would only become more distended, stretching against her slacks. Good. Jackie liked a well-sized paunch to squeeze.
“Do you want another bowl of popcorn?”
“Christ, Jack. You don’t need to make me any fatter. I can do that all on my own.” Sylvia dropped the spoon into the sink and tucked the peanut butter jar back into its cozy shelf corner before nearly skipping back to the couch. “Ugh. This movie’s boring, though. Who manages to make car chases so dull?”
“Should’ve hired Michael Bay, I guess.”
“You could always tune in to that cable show your mom’s on,” Sylvia said, raising an eyebrow as Jackie audibly scoffed. “C’mon. That stupid psychic’s show? Could make for a good laugh.”
“I can’t watch that,” replied Jackie. She leaned against Sylvia’s shoulder, her nose disappearing into the fold of her shirt and her fingers reaching up to stroke her spouse’s very short hair. “Because my mom will emerge victorious. Seriously, that Sivall guy’s so crooked, he’ll be bent up like a curly fry when she’s done with him.”
“Mmm. You word it like that, she sounds almost admirable.”
“Wish I could say that were true.” Jackie did not look back on her childhood with fondness. As soon as her father caught her kissing a neighborhood girl by the lemon tree out in the front yard, Vivian and he were in a shouting match similar to one of his political debates. But Vivian always won the battles she chose to pick. While her dad was more forgiving, her mother sent Jackie out on the street. She met Sylvia at a biker bar, all gel-haired and clad in heavy leather, and it was as good as a knight in shining armor. They could have rode her motorcycle off into the sunset if she had wanted to.
Reminiscing like that made Jackie drift from the real world, and when she snapped back to the present day, Sylvia was fiddling with the remote control. The menu on the TV popped up, and the cursor landed right on Sebastian Sivall’s quackery.
“Well?” Sylvia asked. “Do you want to see what tricks they have up their sleeves?”
Jackie sighed. It was this or another hour of cheesy one-liners and shoot-outs. Sylvia might have been right. This could be entertainment, or perhaps sweet, sweet vengeance.
***
Off in Henderson, Nevada – not too far from Sebastian Sivall at all – Vivian’s estranged daughter, Jacqueline, was witnessing her daughter sleepwalk again. As her wife Sylvia carried the flailing girl to bed, Jackie kept quiet on the couch, staring at the freeze frame of the action movie that she had just paused when little Denise stumbled into the room, mumbling about a car crash. Funny, that; an exploding truck was caught on screen, a scream probably stuck in the poor driver’s throat.
“Is she okay?” Jackie asked Sylvia as the latter returned. Instead of maneuvering back to the couch, her wife made a beeline to the cupboard, pulling out a jar of peanut butter.
“She’s fine. She’s six. They grow out of this stuff.” Sylvia snatched a spoon from the counter and dug in, smearing the stuff around the corners of her mouth. Jackie smiled. At this rate, Sylvia’s large belly would only become more distended, stretching against her slacks. Good. Jackie liked a well-sized paunch to squeeze.
“Do you want another bowl of popcorn?”
“Christ, Jack. You don’t need to make me any fatter. I can do that all on my own.” Sylvia dropped the spoon into the sink and tucked the peanut butter jar back into its cozy shelf corner before nearly skipping back to the couch. “Ugh. This movie’s boring, though. Who manages to make car chases so dull?”
“Should’ve hired Michael Bay, I guess.”
“You could always tune in to that cable show your mom’s on,” Sylvia said, raising an eyebrow as Jackie audibly scoffed. “C’mon. That stupid psychic’s show? Could make for a good laugh.”
“I can’t watch that,” replied Jackie. She leaned against Sylvia’s shoulder, her nose disappearing into the fold of her shirt and her fingers reaching up to stroke her spouse’s very short hair. “Because my mom will emerge victorious. Seriously, that Sivall guy’s so crooked, he’ll be bent up like a curly fry when she’s done with him.”
“Mmm. You word it like that, she sounds almost admirable.”
“Wish I could say that were true.” Jackie did not look back on her childhood with fondness. As soon as her father caught her kissing a neighborhood girl by the lemon tree out in the front yard, Vivian and he were in a shouting match similar to one of his political debates. But Vivian always won the battles she chose to pick. While her dad was more forgiving, her mother sent Jackie out on the street. She met Sylvia at a biker bar, all gel-haired and clad in heavy leather, and it was as good as a knight in shining armor. They could have rode her motorcycle off into the sunset if she had wanted to.
Reminiscing like that made Jackie drift from the real world, and when she snapped back to the present day, Sylvia was fiddling with the remote control. The menu on the TV popped up, and the cursor landed right on Sebastian Sivall’s quackery.
“Well?” Sylvia asked. “Do you want to see what tricks they have up their sleeves?”
Jackie sighed. It was this or another hour of cheesy one-liners and shoot-outs. Sylvia might have been right. This could be entertainment, or perhaps sweet, sweet vengeance.
***
Suitcase That's Too Heavy To Carry (Plot Card), Cancer (Plot Card)
On the other side of the country, Howard was struggling. He had packed his suitcase so overwhelmingly heavy that he almost couldn’t even drag it out the door. Great. An hour ago, he was supposed to be heading toward the airport, to fly out of Virginia and head to Nevada to meet with his wife. Now he was wheezing and wishing he had an extra dose of heart medicine to keep the palpitations from being so damn jackhammer-like.
His smartphone, for all its irritations, was good at picking up the livestream of Sebastian Sivall’s show. Howard would have been there in person, but a campaign meeting for his sixteenth reelection had been vital today. He heard Sebastian’s high, nasally voice pierce the air.
“I understand, Missus Goode, that you have a daughter?”
A loud sigh could be heard from Vivian’s nostrils. Laughter from the audience. “Excellent, Mister Sivall,” she intoned. “I see you’ve read the magazines.”
Her husband set down his too heavy suitcase and chuckled. That was his girl.
“But you haven’t spoken to her in about fifteen years,” Sebastian replied. He was trying to sound undeterred, but his nerves were showing like bones in an x-ray. “Shame, don’t you think, Missus Goode? I mean, even with her choice of spouse...”
“Sivall, please. Let’s talk about something more worth my time.”
“Is your daughter not worth your time, Missus Goode?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s none of your business.”
Howard sat down on the couch. He felt so tired all of a sudden. The taxi to take him to the airport would hopefully be coming soon. He pulled a green handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed his cheeks and chin with it. Maybe the driver would have more muscle and be able to toss that suitcase into the trunk in no time.
“Ah, but agreeing to do this show with me does make it my business, doesn’t it?” retorted Sivall.
The creaking from the phone startled Howard enough to actually pull it out and look at its tiny screen. Sivall had simply leaned forward in his chair. His eyes appear glazed over – or perhaps they were actually focused on something that Howard could not see. “So I suppose you’ll never tell her, then.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Or anyone, for that matter.” The man clicked his tongue and leaned back. Suddenly, it wasn’t anxiety oozing from him. It was confidence. Howard could almost smell it through the circuits of this damn scrap of technology.
“Anyone what?”
“Don’t play dumb, Missus Goode,” Sivall said with an unexpected chuckle. “You could act like you don’t know, but it’s clear what you’re hiding. Your poise and posture give it away. The only person who knows besides you is your doctor.”
There was a silence so potent that it was almost deadly, like imbibing arsenic straight from the bottle. Howard blinked. The Virginia heat was getting to him. Las Vegas must have been worse.
“So tell me, my dear Vivian,” the psychic said, having the audacity to say her first name, as he held out his palms as if apologetically, “are you ever going to tell your daughter about the cancer?”
The gasps were only audible for a second. At that moment, the stream was cut off by a loud screeching from the phone. Howard’s taxi driver was waiting outside.
***
On the other side of the country, Howard was struggling. He had packed his suitcase so overwhelmingly heavy that he almost couldn’t even drag it out the door. Great. An hour ago, he was supposed to be heading toward the airport, to fly out of Virginia and head to Nevada to meet with his wife. Now he was wheezing and wishing he had an extra dose of heart medicine to keep the palpitations from being so damn jackhammer-like.
His smartphone, for all its irritations, was good at picking up the livestream of Sebastian Sivall’s show. Howard would have been there in person, but a campaign meeting for his sixteenth reelection had been vital today. He heard Sebastian’s high, nasally voice pierce the air.
“I understand, Missus Goode, that you have a daughter?”
A loud sigh could be heard from Vivian’s nostrils. Laughter from the audience. “Excellent, Mister Sivall,” she intoned. “I see you’ve read the magazines.”
Her husband set down his too heavy suitcase and chuckled. That was his girl.
“But you haven’t spoken to her in about fifteen years,” Sebastian replied. He was trying to sound undeterred, but his nerves were showing like bones in an x-ray. “Shame, don’t you think, Missus Goode? I mean, even with her choice of spouse...”
“Sivall, please. Let’s talk about something more worth my time.”
“Is your daughter not worth your time, Missus Goode?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s none of your business.”
Howard sat down on the couch. He felt so tired all of a sudden. The taxi to take him to the airport would hopefully be coming soon. He pulled a green handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed his cheeks and chin with it. Maybe the driver would have more muscle and be able to toss that suitcase into the trunk in no time.
“Ah, but agreeing to do this show with me does make it my business, doesn’t it?” retorted Sivall.
The creaking from the phone startled Howard enough to actually pull it out and look at its tiny screen. Sivall had simply leaned forward in his chair. His eyes appear glazed over – or perhaps they were actually focused on something that Howard could not see. “So I suppose you’ll never tell her, then.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Or anyone, for that matter.” The man clicked his tongue and leaned back. Suddenly, it wasn’t anxiety oozing from him. It was confidence. Howard could almost smell it through the circuits of this damn scrap of technology.
“Anyone what?”
“Don’t play dumb, Missus Goode,” Sivall said with an unexpected chuckle. “You could act like you don’t know, but it’s clear what you’re hiding. Your poise and posture give it away. The only person who knows besides you is your doctor.”
There was a silence so potent that it was almost deadly, like imbibing arsenic straight from the bottle. Howard blinked. The Virginia heat was getting to him. Las Vegas must have been worse.
“So tell me, my dear Vivian,” the psychic said, having the audacity to say her first name, as he held out his palms as if apologetically, “are you ever going to tell your daughter about the cancer?”
The gasps were only audible for a second. At that moment, the stream was cut off by a loud screeching from the phone. Howard’s taxi driver was waiting outside.
***
Shove (Plot Card)
“She’s got six months.”
Jacqueline’s nostrils were flaring. She couldn’t help it. She was glaring at the screen long after her mother had stormed offstage.
“Babe.”
Sylvia tried to console her with a hug, but Jackie shoved her arm away and stood up. “Six months to live, and she told no one. No one! Not even my fucking father!”
“Look, does it matter?”
“What?”
Sylvia held up her hands as if to say she surrendered. “I mean, you couldn’t have cared less about your mother until now. What’s changed?”
“This.” Jackie pointed at the screen. “This garbage. This bastard who decided to make it everyone’s business. My mother is dying. And he had to exploit it!”
“Your mother agreed to this.”
“Because she thought this was a game she could win!” spat Jackie. Her shoulders then sagged. She didn’t want to wake up Denise. Not now, when she finally seemed peaceful and wasn't shuffling around the house like a premature zombie. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect...”
“I know,” exhaled Sylvia. “I know. Think about your dad, too.”
Jackie shut her eyes, tightly. She didn’t want to think about him. Not now.
***
“She’s got six months.”
Jacqueline’s nostrils were flaring. She couldn’t help it. She was glaring at the screen long after her mother had stormed offstage.
“Babe.”
Sylvia tried to console her with a hug, but Jackie shoved her arm away and stood up. “Six months to live, and she told no one. No one! Not even my fucking father!”
“Look, does it matter?”
“What?”
Sylvia held up her hands as if to say she surrendered. “I mean, you couldn’t have cared less about your mother until now. What’s changed?”
“This.” Jackie pointed at the screen. “This garbage. This bastard who decided to make it everyone’s business. My mother is dying. And he had to exploit it!”
“Your mother agreed to this.”
“Because she thought this was a game she could win!” spat Jackie. Her shoulders then sagged. She didn’t want to wake up Denise. Not now, when she finally seemed peaceful and wasn't shuffling around the house like a premature zombie. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect...”
“I know,” exhaled Sylvia. “I know. Think about your dad, too.”
Jackie shut her eyes, tightly. She didn’t want to think about him. Not now.
***
Flight (Plot Card)
While Howard B. Goode boarded his flight and blankly stared out the window for the entire trip as if he had been sucker punched, Sebastian was being literally sucker punched by a fan of Vivian’s just outside the stage area, before his bodyguards pulled her off.
“You fucker!” the fan screamed as she was dragged away. “Manipulating a woman like that! You motherfucker!”
He had been the manipulative one? As Sebastian made clear, he was no mind reader. He simply could gauge the obvious. The way one side of Vivian’s dress sagged on her chest, signifying a surgery. The sheer amount of weight she had lost from one month to the next, as evidenced in magazines. The almost disgustingly obvious wig, to hide how her hair had been falling out from the chemo. It was clear that Vivian M. Goode was terminally ill, and no amount of prestigious medical attention could help that.
Sebastian nursed his sore stomach as he was led back to his room to remove his make-up and change his clothes. The six months had been a lucky guess. And she had reacted to it, all right. It was almost as if she had put together a masterful chess game, only to have Sebastian knock the board over with one swipe and send the pieces flying everywhere. Of course, Sebastian could always do a good checkmate – he just felt that playing dirty was the only way to win.
He sat down on the divan in his dressing room and sighed. No. Water wouldn’t hydrate him now. Tonight, it was scotch or nothing.
There’d be calls for interviews within the next ten hours. No, he wasn’t psychic. He just knew how things worked.
Especially in Vegas.
While Howard B. Goode boarded his flight and blankly stared out the window for the entire trip as if he had been sucker punched, Sebastian was being literally sucker punched by a fan of Vivian’s just outside the stage area, before his bodyguards pulled her off.
“You fucker!” the fan screamed as she was dragged away. “Manipulating a woman like that! You motherfucker!”
He had been the manipulative one? As Sebastian made clear, he was no mind reader. He simply could gauge the obvious. The way one side of Vivian’s dress sagged on her chest, signifying a surgery. The sheer amount of weight she had lost from one month to the next, as evidenced in magazines. The almost disgustingly obvious wig, to hide how her hair had been falling out from the chemo. It was clear that Vivian M. Goode was terminally ill, and no amount of prestigious medical attention could help that.
Sebastian nursed his sore stomach as he was led back to his room to remove his make-up and change his clothes. The six months had been a lucky guess. And she had reacted to it, all right. It was almost as if she had put together a masterful chess game, only to have Sebastian knock the board over with one swipe and send the pieces flying everywhere. Of course, Sebastian could always do a good checkmate – he just felt that playing dirty was the only way to win.
He sat down on the divan in his dressing room and sighed. No. Water wouldn’t hydrate him now. Tonight, it was scotch or nothing.
There’d be calls for interviews within the next ten hours. No, he wasn’t psychic. He just knew how things worked.
Especially in Vegas.
This week's prompt was brought to you by the Storymatic. Click on the link at the beginning of this Storyteller to learn more about it, and if you're up for a good game to use for your students or just to play with friends and family, feel free to order your own box. It's good stuff.
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