Grab Bag Writing Challenge - June 2020
- artistry - charade - craft - daydream - delude - fabricate - fantasy - flight - illusion - lucid - notion - perceive - virtuosity - whimsy - wit -
by February Fortescue
“I am so sleepy!” Wren yawned. She had had a long day of meetings at the Ministry and was looking forward to enjoying the artistry of a Muggle author whose craft had led her to write a biography about some British king called Henry VIII. To Wren, had she not known her history, she would have perceived the book to be a complete fabrication and the author massively deluded, but she knew this wasn't the case. The book wasn't a particularly long one, and Wren was determined to complete it before going to bed.
She was entirely lucid when she began reading the chapters about Katherine of Aragon, but by the end of the book, she couldn't tell if she had fallen asleep or was only daydreaming. She was under the illusion that she had been given a magical piece of parchment. In her fantasy, she could write a letter to any historical person of her choice, past or present, and they would receive it. She knew who she wanted to write to: Katherine of Aragon! If the Queen would listen, and just use her wits, history could be changed! Wren began to write.
“I am so sleepy!” Wren yawned. She had had a long day of meetings at the Ministry and was looking forward to enjoying the artistry of a Muggle author whose craft had led her to write a biography about some British king called Henry VIII. To Wren, had she not known her history, she would have perceived the book to be a complete fabrication and the author massively deluded, but she knew this wasn't the case. The book wasn't a particularly long one, and Wren was determined to complete it before going to bed.
She was entirely lucid when she began reading the chapters about Katherine of Aragon, but by the end of the book, she couldn't tell if she had fallen asleep or was only daydreaming. She was under the illusion that she had been given a magical piece of parchment. In her fantasy, she could write a letter to any historical person of her choice, past or present, and they would receive it. She knew who she wanted to write to: Katherine of Aragon! If the Queen would listen, and just use her wits, history could be changed! Wren began to write.
Your Majesty the Queen,
I know you won't believe me, but I am from the future, and I am not writing this letter on a whim. I know you were born and raised to sit upon a throne. Your parents are King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain, the very people who financed Christoper Columbus' expedition! Your uncle is the Pope! I also know your husband the King has taken a mistress he wants to make his Queen. While I understand you believe this is a charade, King Henry is quite serious, because he wants a son and male heir to the throne of England.
I know you want to fight to keep your crown, and indeed you are the rightful Queen and not this Anne Boleyn, but I beg you to accept the King's wish for you to join a nunnery. He is a virtuoso at playing the power game, and his idea to dispose of you is to declare himself Head of the Church of England and to split with Rome. If you join a nunnery, this need not happen, and perhaps it never will. Also, he will keep you apart from your daughter, Princess Mary. This will cause so much pain and bitterness on Mary's part. You could help soothe that. She may yet become Queen one day, and she will need to show mercy to people who hold ideas that are counter to her own. You can show her the way.
Wren tapped the paper twice with her quill. The parchment rolled up and took flight. Wren woke with a start. “That had to have been a dream! No way would I take a crazy notion like that! I'd message my younger self the winning lottery numbers instead. That's the last time I read anything when I'm exhausted!”
by Gail Allen
"Lucy!" She looked up with a start, blinking blearily.
"Were you daydreaming again?" her teacher asked, looking like she was half-way inclined to give Lucy up as a hopeless case.
"I was just trying to memorize my lines," she fibbed, though she was under no great illusion that Ms. Binkelstein would believe her.
Ms. Binkelstein shook her head and sighed. This child was impossible. Sure enough, she had character and when the fancy took her she was brilliantly talented. One could almost call what she had virtuosity, but far too often she would lose herself in a world of fantasy where she perceived nothing but her own whimsical thoughts and ideas, going on long extended flights of fancy where no one else could follow.
Ms. Binkelstein had once asked her after class what she had been thinking and Lucy had told her about a very lucid dream that had led to a story that was admittedly not without merit; in fact it showed a great potential and spoke of great wit. Ms. Binkelstein couldn't deny that what came out of Lucy's dreams was worthwhile, but neither should the child be allowed to delude herself into thinking that talent could make up for total inattention during lessons.
She would have to practice her craft if she wanted any chance of making it. Only she seemed to have no notion of what was needed to make it in the world of artistry. Of course, charades might not be the most exciting thing ever, but it happened to be what they were working on right now.
Unless, of course, she meant to make it by simply fabricating some story about how she'd lost the diploma, she certainly wasn't going to get this way. It wasn't entirely impossible she could actually get away with it, Ms. Binkelstein thought, and returned to the other students.
"Lucy!" She looked up with a start, blinking blearily.
"Were you daydreaming again?" her teacher asked, looking like she was half-way inclined to give Lucy up as a hopeless case.
"I was just trying to memorize my lines," she fibbed, though she was under no great illusion that Ms. Binkelstein would believe her.
Ms. Binkelstein shook her head and sighed. This child was impossible. Sure enough, she had character and when the fancy took her she was brilliantly talented. One could almost call what she had virtuosity, but far too often she would lose herself in a world of fantasy where she perceived nothing but her own whimsical thoughts and ideas, going on long extended flights of fancy where no one else could follow.
Ms. Binkelstein had once asked her after class what she had been thinking and Lucy had told her about a very lucid dream that had led to a story that was admittedly not without merit; in fact it showed a great potential and spoke of great wit. Ms. Binkelstein couldn't deny that what came out of Lucy's dreams was worthwhile, but neither should the child be allowed to delude herself into thinking that talent could make up for total inattention during lessons.
She would have to practice her craft if she wanted any chance of making it. Only she seemed to have no notion of what was needed to make it in the world of artistry. Of course, charades might not be the most exciting thing ever, but it happened to be what they were working on right now.
Unless, of course, she meant to make it by simply fabricating some story about how she'd lost the diploma, she certainly wasn't going to get this way. It wasn't entirely impossible she could actually get away with it, Ms. Binkelstein thought, and returned to the other students.
by Iverian Gnash
While she was daydreaming, she suddenly had inspiration strike. She had been trying to fabricate an idea for her next painting, but couldn't think of anything at the moment. Her artistry skills were incredible, but her imagination? Not so much. However, as she watched the birds take flight in the lucid sky, she had the notion to paint them.
The birds struck her with inspiration for no apparent reason as she normally didn't paint nature at all. However, her lack of ideas lately was bringing her to accept pretty much anything at this point. Where should she begin though? The painter knew everyone perceived the world differently, so she decided to paint the birds not as she saw them exactly, but with other colors thrown in on a whim.
She carefully crafted the birds with whatever colors she wished and paid incredible thought to detail as she painted. Mixing colors randomly and putting them wherever she pleased, her paintbrush seemed to have a mind of its own. She didn't want people viewing her painting to feel as though they were playing a game of charades trying to figure out what she was alluding to.
When she finished, she realized her fantasy had come true. While the illusion of the birds in the sky was still there, the painting was entirely different. It didn't delude anyone into thinking it was something else entirely, but at the same time it showed the wit and virtuosity of the painter showcasing her skills and her interpretation of the scene perfectly.
While she was daydreaming, she suddenly had inspiration strike. She had been trying to fabricate an idea for her next painting, but couldn't think of anything at the moment. Her artistry skills were incredible, but her imagination? Not so much. However, as she watched the birds take flight in the lucid sky, she had the notion to paint them.
The birds struck her with inspiration for no apparent reason as she normally didn't paint nature at all. However, her lack of ideas lately was bringing her to accept pretty much anything at this point. Where should she begin though? The painter knew everyone perceived the world differently, so she decided to paint the birds not as she saw them exactly, but with other colors thrown in on a whim.
She carefully crafted the birds with whatever colors she wished and paid incredible thought to detail as she painted. Mixing colors randomly and putting them wherever she pleased, her paintbrush seemed to have a mind of its own. She didn't want people viewing her painting to feel as though they were playing a game of charades trying to figure out what she was alluding to.
When she finished, she realized her fantasy had come true. While the illusion of the birds in the sky was still there, the painting was entirely different. It didn't delude anyone into thinking it was something else entirely, but at the same time it showed the wit and virtuosity of the painter showcasing her skills and her interpretation of the scene perfectly.
by Maxim Trevelyan
"So," Maxim’s daydream was rudely interrupted by his best friend’s voice. "How did your last OWL go?" Gary asked as he plopped down on the hard ground.
Maxim shrugged, still trying to enjoy his fantasy of being alone. "Eh, it was fine. Had some trouble with the third question on perceived and actual differences between illusions stemming from spells and potions," he explained and notioned at his water bottle by his feet, silently asking if Gary wanted a drink.
"Yeah, I didn’t expect multi-disciplinary questions either," Gary nodded. "Had to fabricate some examples, couldn’t really remember any to be honest," he admitted with a wince.
"Also," Maxim continued. "What does lucid dreaming even have to do with Charms?" he asked, getting outraged. "Isn’t that part of Divination’s craft? I feel as if Professor Flitwick felt whimsical and just put that in to mess with us."
"Or the question about the virtuosity of Charms and its application in Muggle world," Gary snorted. "I don’t think I even understood that question."
"Not sure how I’ll do on it, to be honest," Maxim admitted, his nervousness betrayed with him biting his lip. "I’m deluding myself if I think I’ll get an O. Gnomes will sooner get the power of flight than me achieving more than an A on my Charms OWL."
"Oh, I wouldn’t worry," Gary tried to cheer him up. "You always know how to get out of most horrible messes. Basically making an artistry out of it."
"Wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure," Maxim replied with Ravenclaw’s motto, not really sure if it applied in this situation.
"Come on," Gary stood and tugged at Maxim’s arm. "Enough with this self-pity charade. There’s cake in the kitchens just calling our names."
"So," Maxim’s daydream was rudely interrupted by his best friend’s voice. "How did your last OWL go?" Gary asked as he plopped down on the hard ground.
Maxim shrugged, still trying to enjoy his fantasy of being alone. "Eh, it was fine. Had some trouble with the third question on perceived and actual differences between illusions stemming from spells and potions," he explained and notioned at his water bottle by his feet, silently asking if Gary wanted a drink.
"Yeah, I didn’t expect multi-disciplinary questions either," Gary nodded. "Had to fabricate some examples, couldn’t really remember any to be honest," he admitted with a wince.
"Also," Maxim continued. "What does lucid dreaming even have to do with Charms?" he asked, getting outraged. "Isn’t that part of Divination’s craft? I feel as if Professor Flitwick felt whimsical and just put that in to mess with us."
"Or the question about the virtuosity of Charms and its application in Muggle world," Gary snorted. "I don’t think I even understood that question."
"Not sure how I’ll do on it, to be honest," Maxim admitted, his nervousness betrayed with him biting his lip. "I’m deluding myself if I think I’ll get an O. Gnomes will sooner get the power of flight than me achieving more than an A on my Charms OWL."
"Oh, I wouldn’t worry," Gary tried to cheer him up. "You always know how to get out of most horrible messes. Basically making an artistry out of it."
"Wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure," Maxim replied with Ravenclaw’s motto, not really sure if it applied in this situation.
"Come on," Gary stood and tugged at Maxim’s arm. "Enough with this self-pity charade. There’s cake in the kitchens just calling our names."
by Mia Fountain
I had a dream where I was a young merperson swimming in the lucid waters of the Black Lake. As I was swimming back to the village, I came across a pair of Grindylows playing whimsically in the seaweed. As I was watching them, I started to daydream about attending a school and learning a variety of things like I have heard about the witches and wizards doing up above. I heard that they crafted these things called Potions and that there is a House where wit is one of its qualities. I think I could like it there, if I was able to study there.
I was startled out of my daydream by the sound of a horn announcing it was time for dinner. I guess I had better head back quickly, I don't want to be late. As I entered my home, I saw that my mother had finished her sculpture for the wizards. They were going to cast an illusion charm on it to make it appear as if it were more than one sculpture. My father swam in and said, "Eat up, you will be practising the horn after dinner. We can't have me being the only virtuoso in the family!" I am unsure why my father has the perceived notion that I want to be a musician when I would rather go out and learn a variety of things, rather than become a master of one. While I enjoy watching my mother demonstrate her artistry when creating sculptures and listening to my father play his instruments, neither of these are things I see myself doing. I want to fabricate a new identity and move forward with my life, finding new things to enjoy, instead of continuing this charade and pretending that I want to become a musician. One day, when I am old enough, I will set out and find my own way.
I had a dream where I was a young merperson swimming in the lucid waters of the Black Lake. As I was swimming back to the village, I came across a pair of Grindylows playing whimsically in the seaweed. As I was watching them, I started to daydream about attending a school and learning a variety of things like I have heard about the witches and wizards doing up above. I heard that they crafted these things called Potions and that there is a House where wit is one of its qualities. I think I could like it there, if I was able to study there.
I was startled out of my daydream by the sound of a horn announcing it was time for dinner. I guess I had better head back quickly, I don't want to be late. As I entered my home, I saw that my mother had finished her sculpture for the wizards. They were going to cast an illusion charm on it to make it appear as if it were more than one sculpture. My father swam in and said, "Eat up, you will be practising the horn after dinner. We can't have me being the only virtuoso in the family!" I am unsure why my father has the perceived notion that I want to be a musician when I would rather go out and learn a variety of things, rather than become a master of one. While I enjoy watching my mother demonstrate her artistry when creating sculptures and listening to my father play his instruments, neither of these are things I see myself doing. I want to fabricate a new identity and move forward with my life, finding new things to enjoy, instead of continuing this charade and pretending that I want to become a musician. One day, when I am old enough, I will set out and find my own way.
by Prof. Tarma Amelia Black
Sometimes, when one dreams, one can slip into a lucid dream. A lucid dream is where a person is in a situation and you are aware you are dreaming, but you are also aware that you are there. It's not so much a daydream, no, but where you perceive something and can affect it. Things can happen in a lucid dream, though, which affect the waking world; it doesn't have to be all delusion or illusion.
One night I was dreaming of flight, of flying over the streets of a town, avoiding the electric wires, and just enjoying myself when suddenly the dream turned into a strange sort of fantasy, where I'm driving my truck in town and the engine won't start. I had an odd notion – to use the craft of lucid dreaming and fabricate, create, with artistry and whimsy, a way out of this situation. The situation was dire, because I knew the next day we were using the truck to go to an endurance ride! How to play this charade out, here in the dream, and make sure that we could get to the ride? So, in my dream, my lucid dream, I imagined that the truck did somehow start again – and that somehow we used it to get to the endurance ride. Then I woke up. Thing is, the next day, while going to town, to pick up a birthday cake (for someone at the endurance ride), my truck died while at the store. He (Arthur) was towed home, but there, at home, with the virtuosity of a master mechanic and a little bit of wit and imagination, my partner was able to 'fix' the truck to run. Arthur got appalling gas mileage, but we got there timely!
Sometimes, when one dreams, one can slip into a lucid dream. A lucid dream is where a person is in a situation and you are aware you are dreaming, but you are also aware that you are there. It's not so much a daydream, no, but where you perceive something and can affect it. Things can happen in a lucid dream, though, which affect the waking world; it doesn't have to be all delusion or illusion.
One night I was dreaming of flight, of flying over the streets of a town, avoiding the electric wires, and just enjoying myself when suddenly the dream turned into a strange sort of fantasy, where I'm driving my truck in town and the engine won't start. I had an odd notion – to use the craft of lucid dreaming and fabricate, create, with artistry and whimsy, a way out of this situation. The situation was dire, because I knew the next day we were using the truck to go to an endurance ride! How to play this charade out, here in the dream, and make sure that we could get to the ride? So, in my dream, my lucid dream, I imagined that the truck did somehow start again – and that somehow we used it to get to the endurance ride. Then I woke up. Thing is, the next day, while going to town, to pick up a birthday cake (for someone at the endurance ride), my truck died while at the store. He (Arthur) was towed home, but there, at home, with the virtuosity of a master mechanic and a little bit of wit and imagination, my partner was able to 'fix' the truck to run. Arthur got appalling gas mileage, but we got there timely!
by Sky Alton
I was gazing idly out of the window, listening to the crows chattering to one another down in one of the trees closest to the castle. They were either having an argument or sharing some very scandalous news. My whimsical fantasy about what crows might gossip about was shattered by an uprush of flapping and harsh calls. They’d all taken flight.
"Will you stop daydreaming?" Stephanie asked. "I want to show you something."
I turned guiltily back to the Common Room to find her leaning forward in her chair.
"It’s not your potions research project again, is it?" I asked resignedly. I was pretty sure that I now had far more knowledge on Wit-Sharpening Potions and their effects on lucidity than was strictly healthy.
"No," Steph said, flourishing her wand and giving me a mischievous smile, "It’s my entry for the end of term talent show."
"Right…"
Given that Steph’s entry for last year’s show had ended up with a hole in the stage and a rather fine tapestry on fire, I wasn’t entirely sure that this was better than reading that project for the 8th time. Every year she deluded herself into thinking that crafting her own spell was the only way to win. I had no notion why the professors hadn’t out and out banned her from taking part. I would have after the time she accidentally gave herself hooves…
"So, will you tell me what you think?" she asked, raising her wand before I had time to fabricate any kind of excuse.
"Outside..?" I suggested faintly.
"Fine," she grumbled.
I was gazing idly out of the window, listening to the crows chattering to one another down in one of the trees closest to the castle. They were either having an argument or sharing some very scandalous news. My whimsical fantasy about what crows might gossip about was shattered by an uprush of flapping and harsh calls. They’d all taken flight.
"Will you stop daydreaming?" Stephanie asked. "I want to show you something."
I turned guiltily back to the Common Room to find her leaning forward in her chair.
"It’s not your potions research project again, is it?" I asked resignedly. I was pretty sure that I now had far more knowledge on Wit-Sharpening Potions and their effects on lucidity than was strictly healthy.
"No," Steph said, flourishing her wand and giving me a mischievous smile, "It’s my entry for the end of term talent show."
"Right…"
Given that Steph’s entry for last year’s show had ended up with a hole in the stage and a rather fine tapestry on fire, I wasn’t entirely sure that this was better than reading that project for the 8th time. Every year she deluded herself into thinking that crafting her own spell was the only way to win. I had no notion why the professors hadn’t out and out banned her from taking part. I would have after the time she accidentally gave herself hooves…
"So, will you tell me what you think?" she asked, raising her wand before I had time to fabricate any kind of excuse.
"Outside..?" I suggested faintly.
"Fine," she grumbled.
***
The sun was setting over the lake by the time we got outside. Steph positioned herself at the centre of one of the lawns and shook out her arms above her head. I hung back.
"Coward," she accused.
"Let’s see it then," I said, staying where I was.
Steph pondered for a moment, then her wand arm swung downwards in a long arc. It floated up again in a series of tiny movements, mimicking the virtuosity of a showy conductor. There was a deep roar and light fountained up from the ground. Before I could think of making a run for it, a giant, bright, gold lion was leaping down from mid-air. I gaped.
"Not bad, huh?" Steph asked, practically dancing on the spot.
The cat sashayed a few steps, then stopped. It was like a Patronus, yet totally unlike one. It seemed to be made from bright gold light, but at the same time, I thought I could see fur rippling every time it moved. The level of artistry was incredible.
"Yeah…" was all I could find to say.
The lion’s head twisted towards me and I backed up a pace or two.
Just how sentient was it? Could it perceive us too? Even though I knew it was just a magical charade, fear prickled down my back.
"Okay, it’s marvellous," I told Steph, "You were right. Now make it go away?"
"It’s only an illusion, silly," she laughed.
After a moment though, she flicked her wand to end the spell. The lion didn’t vanish. Instead, it hunkered down close to the ground… Like it was preparing to pounce.
"Steph…" I said, voice falsely calm.
She jabbed her wand at it, frantically muttering. The lion’s tail twitched. Then it was leaping. Steph and I were running across the lawn in a blind panic.
"It’s only an illusion," she said again, though it came out as more of a whimper. "It can’t hurt us."
"Let’s…" I said as we hurtled up the castle steps, "Not find out…" I panted as we wrenched open the front doors, "For sure," I finished as I slammed them shut.
We waited in breathless silence to see if the lion could pass through doors. When nothing happened, we backed further into the entrance hall.
"So…" Steph let out a long, shaky breath, "This show, you reckon I should give opera singing another try instead?"
"Coward," she accused.
"Let’s see it then," I said, staying where I was.
Steph pondered for a moment, then her wand arm swung downwards in a long arc. It floated up again in a series of tiny movements, mimicking the virtuosity of a showy conductor. There was a deep roar and light fountained up from the ground. Before I could think of making a run for it, a giant, bright, gold lion was leaping down from mid-air. I gaped.
"Not bad, huh?" Steph asked, practically dancing on the spot.
The cat sashayed a few steps, then stopped. It was like a Patronus, yet totally unlike one. It seemed to be made from bright gold light, but at the same time, I thought I could see fur rippling every time it moved. The level of artistry was incredible.
"Yeah…" was all I could find to say.
The lion’s head twisted towards me and I backed up a pace or two.
Just how sentient was it? Could it perceive us too? Even though I knew it was just a magical charade, fear prickled down my back.
"Okay, it’s marvellous," I told Steph, "You were right. Now make it go away?"
"It’s only an illusion, silly," she laughed.
After a moment though, she flicked her wand to end the spell. The lion didn’t vanish. Instead, it hunkered down close to the ground… Like it was preparing to pounce.
"Steph…" I said, voice falsely calm.
She jabbed her wand at it, frantically muttering. The lion’s tail twitched. Then it was leaping. Steph and I were running across the lawn in a blind panic.
"It’s only an illusion," she said again, though it came out as more of a whimper. "It can’t hurt us."
"Let’s…" I said as we hurtled up the castle steps, "Not find out…" I panted as we wrenched open the front doors, "For sure," I finished as I slammed them shut.
We waited in breathless silence to see if the lion could pass through doors. When nothing happened, we backed further into the entrance hall.
"So…" Steph let out a long, shaky breath, "This show, you reckon I should give opera singing another try instead?"