Prompts Unprompted
Greer Watson

The ongoing problems their beloved friends in the community were having with LiveJournal were just as frustrating to the characters.  What did the members think of the idea of multiple prompts?  There was no way to know until people could post again.

The moderators had not been formally enlightened about the hum.  Being far from unobservant, they could, of course, see that something was up.  However, it was far too warm a day to bestir themselves.  Indeed, the English characters considered it a proper scorcher—an opinion with which trueriver heartily concurred.  Even my_cnnr, more inured to the heat, preferred to lounge back, sipping her iced coffee.  They would find out soon enough.

In the house, a cold tea was being prepared.  As usual when Modern housekeepers were around, the slaves had been banished from the kitchen, and were outside laying down cloths and cutlery.  Inside, tomatoes and cucumber were sliced, bread buttered, and syllabub whipped.  Yet appropriate prompts could still be bandied.

“‘Strawberries’ would be seasonal,” said Mrs Kearsey, hulling a large colanderful, freshly washed under the tap.

“‘Lemonade’,” offered Mrs Timmings as she squeezed the last of the lemons into the jug.  She added water and sugar, and stirred.

What confectionary prompts the children might have suggested went unuttered, for they were not around.  Last year’s pond had provided fine skating in the winter, and lingered still, popular in the sizzling heat.  Last year’s swimming lessons were put to good use; and the small party enjoying the water were far too busy to be distracted by their elders’ worries.

The interminable cricket game continued, as cricket games are wont to do.  Nevertheless, there was a drift of audience, and even players, away to small groups by pond or house, heads together.  Ralph, just bowled out, spotted an errant batsman and went to investigate.  “Is this more fussing about the moderators?” he asked.  “Let the poor women enjoy themselves, for God’s sake.  Anderson, you’re next up.”

Ralph was quickly enlightened about the new topic of discussion; but Kit was nevertheless rousted off to the game.  Some things are sacred.  Still, as he strode off to the pitch, he called back, “‘Shimmer’,” over his shoulder.

“What on earth does ‘shimmer’ have to do with summer?” asked Hilary scornfully.  “Come on, I’m going to be on shift in my book soon.  We really must decide what prompt to suggest.”

“Shimmery water?” suggested Alec, with a glance at the pond.

“‘Reflections’,” said Straike.  His group had left the Secretary under her willow, but ensconced themselves under another tree not far away.  Its shade provided inadequate relief; but any was better than none.  “‘Reflections’ is a broad enough prompt to allow ample scope for the writers while, at the same time, indicating a more serious direction that one can only wish more of them preferred.”

“Well, ‘reflections’ to me suggests looking in a mirror,” said Elsie with deplorable frivolity.

He frowned; but there were too many nods for him not to admit, if only to himself, that his choice had been sadly ambiguous.

“This is a summer challenge,” Lucy reminded them all gently, “and, you know, if we were not here today, I should most likely be in the garden.  Indeed, given the heat, I think I’d almost prefer to be at home, except that—in this emergency—I know we are needed here.”

“What would you suggest, then,” asked her husband, repressively.

“Well, how about flowers?” she said.  “Or perhaps some particular flower.  The roses are looking lovely.”  A sudden misgiving gave her pause.  “Did they have roses in Ancient times?” she asked.  “We do need something that suits everyone.”

“Yes, of course we do,” said Sisygambis.

“Well, ‘roses’, then,” said Lucy, with an air of satisfaction.

“Or ‘picnic’,” suggested Olive, with a glance towards the house.  (Surely the food would be ready soon?)

To her pleasure, she saw the cloths already laid out, and the Ancient servants bringing trays.  In the depths of the hall, a gong sounded—muffled a bit by the walls and the distance, but still a clear summons.

The moderators rose.  However, as they began to collect their bags and parasols and pick up their glasses, Bagoas came out of the front door.  “No, no,” he said quickly.  “Honoured moderators, please do not discommodate yourselves.  I have had a tray prepared for you.”

At first, they were inclined to demur; but, as he beckoned to a pair of slaves who came out with gilded trays of food, it occurred to them that,whatever was going on, Bagoas might be trying to keep them apart from it all—at least for now.  So they both sat down graciously, allowed their empty glasses to be whisked away, and submitted to eating in solitary state.  Looking up from their meal, though, they could see a general tendency foodwards.  A soldier was sent running with a message to King Alexander, who was down at the corral with Xenophon.  In the distance, Arete scurried the children out of the water, and handed round towels so that they would not catch any chill, should one be found under the hot sun.  Off on the cricket field, the captains of the two teams had a quick chat, and agreed to resume the game after the meal.

Far out of earshot of the porch, Hephaistion asked, “What prompt would you suggest,” as they headed towards the picnic.

“‘The ocean’,” said Ralph, thinking of breezes.  “And you?”

“‘Hills’, I think,” said Hephaistion.  “Though whether the hills of home, or the summer hills of Persia I leave to our friends in the community.  Certainly, it’s a hot day.”

Ralph could only agree.

They parted when Hephaistion joined the philosophers at their picnic.  Ralph still felt oddly shy in their company:  it would be hard to sit on the grass round a chequered cloth with Sokrates on one side and Aristotle on the other.  It smacked of school; and part of him expected a viva voce examination.  Instead, he found a place near the fountain, which at least looked cool.  Most of the others at that tablecloth were Moderns, though not from his own book.  It was a mixed crowd; and the people were ones he’d only seen at major celebrations.  He’d never spent much time with them.  They proved, though, rather more imaginative than he had expected.  Certainly, all were agreed that ‘heat wave’ was tritely obvious.

“Summer,” said Rollo, “is time off—for most, anyway, though not if one is doing summer rep, obviously.  But I don’t think that applies to any of the community (or, if it does, they haven’t mentioned it).  What is needed is something out of the ordinary.”

“Perhaps,” Leo suggested, “people should take a holiday from their usual writing?”

“Something fresh,” agreed Julian.  “Perhaps a different format?  They mostly write prose.  What if, this summer, they were to write scenes from a play?”

“Old Simonides would probably prefer poetry,” said Mic.

“They’ve done poetry,” said Leo.  “What if they tried something really different?  I’ve been browsing around on line, and—in some fandoms—people tackle a far wider range of fiction.  What they call an ‘AU’ or a ‘crossover’.”  There was some puzzlement; but, without waiting to explain, she plunged on.  “What if people try writing stories in which characters from Renault’s novels find themselves in the middle of a thriller?”

“Oh, you and your potboilers,” said Julian, dismissively.

Leo looked indignant.  Helen did not like to see her snubbed so, though she rather thought Julian had a point.

“Prose, poetry, or play—it’s all words, isn’t it?” she said.  The others looked at her.  “Perhaps,” she said tentatively, “we should suggest the community give fiction a pass this year.”

“What on earth?” said Julian.

“Well, they’re always writing stories, aren’t they?” she said.  “Why not let the more visually inclined have a go for a change.  ‘Draw a picture based on the novel of your choice’, that would be my prompt.”

The others looked thoughtful, and the discussion rose loudly; and the ants got in the food almost without being noticed.

Up at the house, the moderators finished their cucumber sandwiches and moved on to strawberries and cream.  They drained their lemonade; and the glasses were filled immediately by Bagoas, who considered the pair to be his personal responsibility, at least while his King was busy elsewhere.

The porch was too far from the picnickers for their conversations to rise to audibility.  Even so, the moderators could hear that some, at times, got quite impassioned.  Both trueriver and my_cnnr were exceedingly curious to find out what was going on.  However, Bagoas was always right there at their elbow.  Indeed, they suspected that, should they insist on leaving the porch, he would somehow succeed in keeping them there, willy nilly.

But it really didn’t matter.  (Especially when the food was so good.)  They could wait.  They both knew perfectly well that sooner (not later) they’d be let in on what the characters were so busy about.

After that, they supposed they’d decide what to do.

These interviews, conversations, and stories are written purely for entertainment, and as a tribute to the creator of the characters and author of The Charioteer, Mary Renault.   No copyright infringe­ment is intended.

“Prompts Unprompted” was originally posted to the maryrenaultfics community, 27 July 2011, by greerwatson.