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Trying to do Inklings ideas but all I keep coming up with is folk songs about the gospel framed by different narratives. Film noir jazz where God is the detective and the fall is an apparent murder scene. Cowboy standoff ballad about Christ. Haunted castle bard song where once the mystery is unveiled it turns out to be really good cause it’s God.
I'm going to give something a try here. I'm going to try to come up with a prompt for each theme for each genre. I might not get one for each theme for each genre but I'm going to try my best and see how far I get. I'll add each genre to this post as I go.
Traditional feast days within the Twelve Days of Christmas:
December 25: Christmas Day, the Nativity!
December 26: St. Stephen the first martyr
December 27: St. John the Evangelist
December 28: The Holy Innocents, murdered by Herod
December 29: St. Thomas a Becket and David
December 30: The Feast of the Holy Family (traditionally celebrated on the Sunday within the Octave, but on this day if there is no such Sunday)
December 31: St. Sylvester I, pope during the reign of Constantine and the Council of Nicaea
January 1: Octave-Day of the Nativity, traditionally the Feast of the Circumcision (and now of Mary, Mother of God)
January 2: Feast of the Holy Name of Jesus
January 3: Traditionally no particular saint (that I can find)
January 4: Traditionally no particular saint (now St. Elizabeth Ann Seton)
January 5: St. Telesphorus (second-century pope and martyr) and St. Edward the Confessor (King of England 1042-1066)
January 6: Epiphany! Feast of the Coming of the Magi, the Baptism of Our Lord, and the Wedding at Cana
(An eagle-eyed observer may note that there are thirteen days on this list. Opinions differ slightly as to whether the Twelve Days begin on the 26th or end on the 5th, but I don't think it matters terribly.)
(Also I probably missed some feast days.)
How are we all feeling now that the Inklings Challenge has come to the end? How did you do?
I finished my story on time
I didn’t finish my story on time, but at least got a little bit posted
I didn’t finish my story on time and posted late either finished or not
I finished one story, and posted unfinished stories or story
I switched stories at least once or more
I’m not sure that I’m fully happy with what I came up with or not
I had fun with the challenge
I didn’t manage to finish anything yet or post it
Multiple of above
I didn’t participate, but plan on reading the stories
Other
A Love as Red as Blood
Storge Blanchette’s point of view, age eight
Grandmother is sick. To clarify, Grandmother has been sick for a long while. Ever since…
“Wear this Cloak, my little Blanchette. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, Grandma.”
“Good girl.”
Grandmother needs food, and Mother is very busy. So I must wear my Cloak. I must not leave the path. I must not talk to anyone. Grandmother is sick, and I must deliver her food.
The woods are dangerous. Wolves and Wolf-Men prowl within its darkness and await whatever prey is foolish enough to enter into their domain.
But Grandmother is sick.
I take up my basket, fasten my Cloak, and set my feet on the road.
~*~
The Cloak of Gold and Fire. It is a heavy thing, both in physical weight and its burden upon the wearer. Passed down with great ceremony from one bearer (always a Daughter) to the next. It is said to have protective abilities for whoever wears it, to bring good luck to the land its wearer sets foot upon.
Stories have been told of it rejecting some who would have worn it. Stories of it turning into fire that burned the hands of those who attempted to steal it. So many stories surround the Cloak; some true, some terrible, some good.
Blanchette prefers the good ones. The ones her Mother and Grandmother told her at bedtime. The ones that make her feel safe when she cuddles into her Cloak. The ones that remind her that she is loved.
Regardless of what story you hear, one fact remains certain: the Cloak has a value not conceivable by mortal eyes, and should be valued above measure.
Wars have been fought for the right to obtain the Cloak.
Such wars brought ruin to many lands. For those who unduly go to war for such a great thing often find themselves cursed by it: the Cloak is not a thing to be hoarded away.
And thus the Cloak was “lost”. The Daughters of the Cloak went into hiding for a time.
Many witches and other such sorts would craft their own cloak and pretend they were a Daughter of the Cloak. Some were deceived by these women, but always they were found out and met their gruesome ends. The Cloak is not a thing to be faked.
And so the Cloak lived on, passed down as it always had been.
Blanchette’s Grandmother called for her on her fourth birthday and showed her the Cloak. Blanchette knew at once it was the Cloak, having heard the stories all her life, and wondered that anyone could mistake any other for it.
The Cloak is ornately designed, and double-sided. One side is red as fire; red as blood. The other side is golden as the sun. The wearer can choose which side they wish to show to the world, the gold or the red.
When Blanchette’s Mother fastened the Cloak around her small shoulders for the first time (Grandmother being too weak to properly fasten it) the red side faced outwards. And there Blanchette had stood, about waist-height to all the adults in the room, utterly enveloped by a blood-red Cloak so big on her that she could have used it for a tent.
And she was safe.
But safety is not always guaranteed, and adventures must always start somewhere.
~*~
Philia
On Blanchette’s first journey through the forest separating her village from her grandmothers, she met a boy.
Not just any boy, but a Wolf-Son. Wolf-Men are men (criminals, it is often whispered) who make their living in the wild forest. They are not to be trusted.
But this Wolf-Son was just a young boy, and she was just a young girl. He walked alongside her on the path and they were made friends. When they had to part ways as Blanchette exited the forest, he offered her a handful of red carnations.
“Rhory. That’s my name.” the Wolf-Son says abruptly after handing her the flowers. He doesn’t quite meet Blanchette’s eyes as he speaks. “I wish you well on your journey. And I hope-” he stops, as if mustering courage, then continues. “I hope you like the flowers!”
I hope I shall see him again, Blanchette thinks to herself, absently smelling the red carnations he had given her. He was quite fun to talk to.
After that day, whenever Blanchette ventured on the path through the forest, Rhory walked with her.
~*~
Blanchette’s point of view, age twelve
“Halt!” A voice commands, and a tall figure steps out from behind a tree ahead of us. We stop. The figure is that of a man and he bears no markings as a Wolf-Mam. His stance is imposing and searching, as if he is daring us to take a step closer and find out what he can do to us with his bare hands. “Why are two children traveling alone in the forest?” Before we have a chance to answer, he looks us both up and down and his eyes narrow as if he does not like what he sees. “Who are you?” He demands again.
I step forward. “He is Rhory, a Wolf-Son. My friend. I am Blanchette, a Daughter of the Cloak.”
“I know a Wolf-Son when I see one, lass.” He says gruffly, suspicion lurking in the downturned corner of his mouth. Beside me, Rhory ducks his head in shame and I feel fire stir within me. “But a Daughter of the Cloak is not so easily determined by sight.” The man continues, eyeing my Cloak distrustfully, perhaps to determine if he thinks it fake or stolen. I swallow my anger -it would do me no good to appear as a child throwing a tantrum to this strange man- and straighten ever so slightly to perhaps seem taller and more mature. To make it seem as though the Cloak I wear is not almost too large for my childish frame and dragging along the forest floor. But what of it, if my Cloak is slightly too big? Does it not cover me all the better for it?
“I inherited the Cloak from my Grandmother.” I say, careful to keep my tone both respectful and confident.
The man’s eyebrows raise. “Your Grandmother.” he says, doubt coloring his words. “And where is she?”
“She is at home. I am going to see her now.” She has been at home for a long time, sick. That is why she passed down the Cloak to me so early.
The man hums doubtfully. “And how do I know you’re not just a thief?”
“Has the Cloak ever submitted to being worn by someone not of it?” I ask, only slightly petulantly.
The man shifts back, seemingly satisfied if no less grumpy for it. “I concede you that, miss. But better it’d be for you to keep yourself and the Cloak away from those who might have a want to snatch it.” He looks pointedly at Rhory, and my face flushes in anger.
I take Rhory’s hand in my own and practically stomp away from the stupid man and his stupid words, muttering unkind things under my breath.
“Don’t listen to stupid men like him, Rhory.” I say once I’ve quite recovered myself. The man must be miles behind us now.
Rhory tilts his head at me, a small smile gracing his lips. “How could I listen to him when all I can hear is you mocking him?” He laughs, and I have to remind myself that he is laughing at me and that his laugh is not cute why would I think that.
“Well!” I sputter, red returning to my face as it did earlier for a far different reason. “He was being rude! And mean!”
Rhory shakes his head. “Overall he wasn’t that bad. I’ve heard worse.”
The silence lingers for a moment. “You shouldn’t have to, you know.” I say quietly.
Rhory shrugs. “Eh, well. You shouldn’t have to walk through the forest alone, yet here we are.”
I blink. I think of my Grandmother, ill these last eight years of my life, yet always so grateful when I go visit her. I think of my Mother, always so harried and busy with a neverending list of things to do, yet always pausing her work to give me a smile or press a kiss to my head.
Yes, I may walk the path alone, but their love walks with me. And besides… I lift my and Rhory’s still-clasped hands.
“But I’m not alone, see!” I say, “You’re here with me, aren’t you?”
He smiles at me again, and my heart flutters the teensiest amount. “That I am!”
I nod fiercely. “And that’s the way it should be.” Suddenly possessed by a spirit of mischief, I let go of his hand and take off at a run. “Race you to the forest’s edge!”
“Blanchette!” he exclaims, and I laugh at his dismayed cries from behind me. He quickly catches up, however, and soon overtakes me, every now and then slowing down just enough to tease me. Both of us are laughing and out of breath when we part ways.
~*~
In some stories, Little Red Riding Hood walks the path alone.
She does not meet a friend.
And the Wolf invades Grandmother’s home
But for this Daughter of the Cloak, I like to think she has a better end.
Knowing that she carries the love of her family with her
And holding the hand of a friend.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
In which Arin meets a dragon, and the dragon gets a name.
The Inklings Challenge: Official Announcement Post
The Event
The Inklings Challenge is an invitation for Christian science fiction and fantasy writers to create stories that fit the Christian worldview. Writers will be randomly assigned to one of three teams, each challenged to write a particular type of speculative fiction story. Writers will also choose at least one of seven Christian themes as inspiration for their story.
Teams will be assigned on October 1, 2021, and writers can sign up to participate any time before that date--either by responding to this post or sending a message to this blog. After the teams are assigned, writers will have until October 21, 2021 to write a science fiction or fantasy story. There is no maximum or minimum word limit, but because of the short time frame, the challenge is focused on short stories--and these can be very short, if the writer prefers.
The Teams
Inspired by a similar challenge between J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis to write, respectively, a time travel story and a space travel story, the Inklings Challenge will use these authors (and G.K. Chesterton) as the inspiration for the categories. Each team will be given both a fantasy and a science fiction option, so writers can choose the genre that is most comfortable for them. (However, writers shouldn’t be afraid to use the science fiction option as inspiration for a fantasy story, and vice versa. They can even use both options in their story, if they like).
Team Lewis
Portal Fantasy: Stories where someone from the real world explores a new world
Space Travel: Stories about traveling through space or exploring other planets
Team Tolkien
Secondary World Fantasy: Stories that takes place in an imaginary realm that’s completely separate from our world
Time Travel: Stories exploring technology that allows travel through time
Team Chesterton
Intrusive Fantasy: Stories where the fantastical elements intrude into the real world
Technology: Stories exploring how a particular technological advance could affect people right here on current or future Earth
These teams will be assigned at random on October 1st, 2021. Writers are then encouraged to write a story before the deadline on October 21st.
The Themes
To provide extra guidance for writers, and to add a Christian flavor to the event, writers will choose at least one of seven Christian themes from the list below as inspiration for their stories. These themes are purposely broad, to allow for interpretation, or for exploration of a particular facet or nuance of the broader theme.
The themes, as well as several possible (haphazardly written) interpretations of each one, are as follows:
Incarnation: One of the central, unique points of Christianity--God became Man, and thus sanctified matter.
Man as the image of God.
How God reveals Himself to humanity through creation
The act of living as an embodied person, balancing physical and spiritual reality
People imitating their Creator by giving truths physical form through the act of creation
Marriage and the family as an image of the Trinity
Stewardship: The act of taking care of the things or people God has entrusted to us
Mission:Responding to a call to do a certain work
Authority: Rightful use of a position of power when one is called to care for people and/or possessions
Responsibility: Fulfilling one’s duty, and accepting the consequences of one’s own actions
Sacrifice: An act of giving up something valued; giving of oneself
Christ’s sacrifice to redeem us
Giving up something for God or other people
Giving of oneself for other people or for God
Suffering as a source of joy
Humility: Understanding of one’s true importance in the universe, unaffected by pride
Trust: Humble trust in the love of God to provide. Opening up oneself enough to trust in others
Obedience:Submitting our own will to the will of God or to rightful authority for the sake of a greater good
Poverty: Trusting in God rather than in possessions
Gratitude: Being humble enough to recognize the true source of gifts. Being thankful for help, whether from God or other people
Grace: The free gift of God’s love
Recognizing God’s gifts
Receiving inspiration that allows one to change
Receiving unexpected and undeserved blessings
Eucatastrophe: An unexpected moment of victory just when all had seemed lost
Hope of salvation even in bleak circumstances
Mystery: The awareness that God’s universe is vast and mysterious
Wonder: Awe towards God, creation, the natural world, etc.
The search for truth
Knowing that the world works through understandable rules and seeking to understand them
The joyful acceptance that there are some things that we can’t understand
Reconciliation: The healing of a breach between two parties
Redemption: Christ’s sacrifice redeemed humanity and reconciled them to God
Forgiveness: Receiving forgiveness from God or forgiving the wrongs committed by other people
Mercy: Healing a relationship by showing compassion for those who have done wrong
Restoration: The reconstruction or renewal of something that was once lost.
The Stories
Completed stories can be posted to a tumblr blog with the tag #inklings-challenge, as well as the writer’s assigned team: #team-lewis, #team-tolkien, or #team-chesterton. The stories will then be shared to the main Inklings Challenge blog. Even if the story isn’t finished by the deadline, writers are encouraged to post whatever they’ve written, and to post the completed story whenever they finish it.
And that’s the Inklings Challenge! I’ve created a shorter version of this post here, which also includes answers to several potential questions about the contest. Any questions, comments or concerns that aren’t covered there can be sent to this blog, and I’ll do my best to answer them.
Inklings Challenge 2022
@inklings-challenge
Sorry for posting so late; I wrote it last month, and I wanted to run it by someone first. (Who gave me the advice to end this part here with a cliffhanger rather than go through the first conversation as far as I’d written.) (Hopefully, you’ll see part two fairly soon? Maybe?) But I’m on Team Lewis, and this is my Portal Fantasy this year. :)
"Lord, guide me. My hands have gone weak from lack of service. I am restless without leaning on You. Let me serve You in a way that is truly fitting, in a way that is all in for you. Please Lord, help your servant to serve you." It's dark, like he's still asleep, cool as a breeze in blandness, though his eyes have opened. It's a clear sky speckled with stars above his head, filled to the brim with the dark around him, like even the stars don't cast enough light. And when he moves his arm as if to test the air or wave at the stars, his habit falls warmly and almost softly against his arm, like a waterfall, it ripples against his skin. And Brother Antonio isn't quite sure what to make of this place, that doesn't feel like the old Monastery walls, he's used to, with their wide-ish stone gate that sat more open than closed. With the old walls and their familiar wooden cracks, the way the floor answered back when he'd walk across it with his sandaled feet. This is unfamiliar. Like stepping into the forest while sleep walking and getting lost. He has no idea where he's at, and he's a bit too old for wandering. Fifty is closer to him now than twenty once was, and he's absolutely positive that he's past the age for wandering and for sleeping in a forest. And yet, here he is, with only the dim memory of a prayer behind his eyes. A prayer that felt different, that had cast the warm glow of sparks along his back, the almost catching fire but still standing stable kind, the kind that somehow digs into the heart by no power of man. That's where he'd been, with the comfort of four monastery walls around him. And now, there's not even the distant sound of Friars chatting amongst themselves quietly or the hushed whisper of prayer in the Chapel or anywhere, it's quiet except for the gentle rustle of leaves in the trees and the silent pad of paws and hooves along the ground. And he's not sure what to make of the cool of the night that still hints at the warmth of Summer despite Fall rapidly approaching. Brother Antonio gets up to stand, and pauses to take in his surroundings just as his eyes adjust to the dark of the moonless night. And he realizes that he's only a stone's throw away from an old tower or perhaps more accurately a couple feet away, within the easiest of a walking distance. And inside there, no bears will stumble upon him or worse yet, wolves. And yet, outside feels as familiar as breathing, and among all things, he'd always been drawn to nature, the quiet upturning of leaves to the sky like hands raised up in prayer, the way an animal will still and quiet itself as if lost in the beautiful thralls of prayer, a wordlessness that reminds him most importantly of that intimate conversation with God. Or even the way that with the gentle familiarity of an animal hard at work with life makes his mind draw to God who oversees every action and charitably looks down upon us. It's familiar to be in the woods and beautiful like the quiet touch of moonlight or the delicate chatter of a squirrel, even though neither present themselves to the middle aged Friar eyeing his surroundings with the curiosity of an infant and the confusion of one that has wandered farther from home than planned on. So, he shuffles as cautiously as one who is still figuring out where he's at and enters the tower to the bleak coldness of stone. It's worse inside. Filled to the brim with empty space and a few scattered pieces of old wooden beams and stairs that climb up and up as if they could reach the sky despite the roof of the tower overhead, higher than one can even imagine, almost dizzingly high above his head. It's cold and most of all, lifeless, inside here. As Brother Antonio takes to the stairs, looking for any stragglers like himself, in case someone could use a kind word or perhaps a companion. The stairs are long, and Brother Antonio feels more than just his age when he finally gets to the top floor, just as fallen apart as the bottom was. He can't tell where all these old wooden beam fragments came from, and he wonders what it looked like in its prime, as he wanders this room, bereft of anything akin to life beyond his own breath and his own nearly silent steps. There are no pictures or paintings or even hints of what lie before it. It's nearly like an old fort, a way to guard oneself against the world, and so he descends, taking each step with the cautious care of age. And he thinks of how dull life looks when others are separated from it. It's hard to imagine a place so bare without even a tiny trace of the life that used to reside there. It's nearly impossible to imagine a family crowding amongst themselves for shelter, huddled away for safety from a storm or an attack. It's also nearly impossible to imagine soldiers holed up here, preparing for war or even defending themselves from a war. It's hard to imagine this place ever had people within it. And yet the wooden beams and the simple construction of it hint at otherwise. Brother Antonio steps out of the tower, feeling much too cold for the quiet night, and he gathers a few sticks and makes a fire, thinking of Brother Francis, of the lessons he'd imparted all those years ago. And he smiles as he whisper sings to the fire in quiet regard for the night, "Oh, Brother Fire." And it's such a quiet thought, such a gentle and peaceful thought to just be present in this moment, and he focuses on the way the fire curls up towards the sky, the gentle finger like flames that he knows better than to reach for. It's warmer out here, with just the hint of possibility of companionship. And it's oddly familiar in a comforting way, like the gentle voice of a friend, though he sits alone and turns his whispered song into a nearly quiet prayer of gratitude. God is with him always, always present with a comforting hand and a kind gaze. Brother Antonio, being alone, gets extra time to focus outward, to focus on God, to quiet himself in order to pour out his heart filled with gratitude to God even as tiredness tries to pull his eyes shut. "Thank You, my Lord." He mutters though for what, there could be many things, and his mind is drawn towards God and away from his missing his brothers, missing the community that they formed, the way they drew each other, all, to worship. Because somehow having a friend can strengthen one's own call towards worship, strengthen one's grateful heart and warm lips, lifted up in praise. And it's so quiet tonight that even Brother Antonio falls back asleep, with the gentle whisper and the quiet roar of the fire, as familiar as it is therapeutic in its rhythm. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- When he awakes, it is to a knife. A pale hand going up a slightly unsteady arm, and dark blue eyes almost green in their depth, peering at him. "Who are you? And what do your clothes mean?"
