Labyrinthine Design

I wrote this to the second prompt I received from an Anonymous prompter.

“This is the most complex of my designs yet,” the celebrated designer said to the inspecting client and entourage.  “There are five peripheral sections in addition to the central motif giving us six ‘rooms’ within the labyrinth.  The challenge has been to give each of these rooms a different theme through plantings and ornaments while maintaining a cohesive whole.”

“So, that’s all of these marble statues and what-not I’ve been paying for?”  The client was not a gardening man.  He’d been advised that the grounds of his new house and headquarters required a feature and Mr Gabbordo had been recommended as the man of the moment.  Overall he’d been impressed by the man’s business-like attitude and drive.

“Yes and absolutely essential to the tone and timbre of the piece, Mr Ainsley,” the designer replied.  “Additionally because we commissioned original works by rising artists I believe the collection will appreciate in value.”

“Indeed, sir,” put in one of Mr Ainsley’s assistants, “we’ve already been approached by the State Art Gallery to consider allowing one of the pieces to be included in a six month exhibition.”  As she finished speaking they entered a space centred on a sundial.

“This,” explained Mr Gabbordo whose flair was variously explained as Italian or West African, “is the first of our central areas and it is here that we begin to see the cohesive theme of the overall design.”

“Which is?”  The accountant was actually enjoying the tour.

“A belief from my homeland that the centre of every labyrinth is a doorway.”

“A doorway?”

“Yes, a doorway,” Mr Gabbordo smiled sadly, “and you’re about to show me where this one goes.”

He moved his hands and the air behind the group pulled on them.

“I need the one that takes me home.”

Labyrinthine Design

I wrote this to the second prompt I received from an Anonymous prompter.

“This is the most complex of my designs yet,” the celebrated designer said to the inspecting client and entourage.  “There are five peripheral sections in addition to the central motif giving us six ‘rooms’ within the labyrinth.  The challenge has been to give each of these rooms a different theme through plantings and ornaments while maintaining a cohesive whole.”

“So, that’s all of these marble statues and what-not I’ve been paying for?”  The client was not a gardening man.  He’d been advised that the grounds of his new house and headquarters required a feature and Mr Gabbordo had been recommended as the man of the moment.  Overall he’d been impressed by the man’s business-like attitude and drive.

“Yes and absolutely essential to the tone and timbre of the piece, Mr Ainsley,” the designer replied.  “Additionally because we commissioned original works by rising artists I believe the collection will appreciate in value.”

“Indeed, sir,” put in one of Mr Ainsley’s assistants, “we’ve already been approached by the State Art Gallery to consider allowing one of the pieces to be included in a six month exhibition.”  As she finished speaking they entered a space centred on a sundial.

“This,” explained Mr Gabbordo whose flair was variously explained as Italian or West African, “is the first of our central areas and it is here that we begin to see the cohesive theme of the overall design.”

“Which is?”  The accountant was actually enjoying the tour.

“A belief from my homeland that the centre of every labyrinth is a doorway.”

“A doorway?”

“Yes, a doorway,” Mr Gabbordo smiled sadly, “and you’re about to show me where this one goes.”

He moved his hands and the air behind the group pulled on them.

“I need the one that takes me home.”

Once Upon a Dream of Willows

I wrote this to ysabetwordsmith's third prompt.

She always dreamt in allegory.  She’d long been a regular at her dream reader’s for interpretation of her nightly forays.  The notes in her dream diary went back years.  She hoped those notes were enough to decipher this one because more mundane expenses meant she couldn’t afford a dream reader today.  Her dreams were never prophetic before.  This one...?

Willows, that’s what’d been on the metal plates they’d worn.  Stylized willows.  They’d been willows before they were men, dream logic being what it was.  She sketched the design while she remembered it.

The men who’d worn those plates had all been so tall and beautiful.  They’d passed her like she wasn’t there, as often happened in real life, but perhaps in the dream she wasn’t there.  Or it was yet another metaphor for impotence to influence events round her.  Her dream diary was full of those.

Although they’d acted as if she didn’t exist, she’d cared desperately about those men.  She’d tried to warn them about the army massed in its own shadows before it advanced with cutters and flame.  She’d pounded on chests to no avail, too insubstantial for notice.

Her beautiful, tall, steel-clad willows had died and in her dream she’d cried tears of blood over them while the shadowed army had pillaged...everything she cared about.  Even thinking about it now, it felt like her heart was breaking.

She looked around the kitchen of her flat, the small self place she’d built.  If her dream was prophesy, it would be gone too.

She didn’t notice the knocking on the door at first.  When she opened it, she looked up past a willow-motif tie to the most beautiful male face she’d ever seen.

“Ma’am?”  His voice was like sunlight on water.  “My dream reader suggested I talk to you.”

Once Upon a Dream of Willows

I wrote this to ysabetwordsmith's third prompt.

She always dreamt in allegory.  She’d long been a regular at her dream reader’s for interpretation of her nightly forays.  The notes in her dream diary went back years.  She hoped those notes were enough to decipher this one because more mundane expenses meant she couldn’t afford a dream reader today.  Her dreams were never prophetic before.  This one...?

Willows, that’s what’d been on the metal plates they’d worn.  Stylized willows.  They’d been willows before they were men, dream logic being what it was.  She sketched the design while she remembered it.

The men who’d worn those plates had all been so tall and beautiful.  They’d passed her like she wasn’t there, as often happened in real life, but perhaps in the dream she wasn’t there.  Or it was yet another metaphor for impotence to influence events round her.  Her dream diary was full of those.

Although they’d acted as if she didn’t exist, she’d cared desperately about those men.  She’d tried to warn them about the army massed in its own shadows before it advanced with cutters and flame.  She’d pounded on chests to no avail, too insubstantial for notice.

Her beautiful, tall, steel-clad willows had died and in her dream she’d cried tears of blood over them while the shadowed army had pillaged...everything she cared about.  Even thinking about it now, it felt like her heart was breaking.

She looked around the kitchen of her flat, the small self place she’d built.  If her dream was prophesy, it would be gone too.

She didn’t notice the knocking on the door at first.  When she opened it, she looked up past a willow-motif tie to the most beautiful male face she’d ever seen.

“Ma’am?”  His voice was like sunlight on water.  “My dream reader suggested I talk to you.”