#47: The Hittite prince was dead.
Microfiction, postcard art, creative updates
At long last, we’re here again!
It’s time for our summer’s microfiction and micro-art. Last time I wrote y’all microfiction in June, I had no idea I’d be waylaid for two months before getting back on schedule. Guess the only thing you can predict about fibromyalgia is that, if you’re fixing to travel, get ready to recuperate for at least as long as each trip ya took.
But we’re back on track, baby, and my only travel plans ahead are Geneva next month, where I plan on doing nothing but baking with my friend (and visiting the Large Hadron Collider, obvi).
For all my new friends, here’s what we’re gonna do. I’ll…
💌 share voting results for this month’s prompt and next month’s historical topic,
💌 dish some flash historical fiction,
💌 show ya the art I made my Postcard Club/patrons this month,
💌 and dish on my creative news for July-August.
🗳 The votes are in
Patrons and full-access subscribers voted for this month’s postcard-fiction prompt:
Action: smashing a vase
Word: ping
Inspiration: Ankhesenamun’s plea to a Hittite King
Every month, the story I write is directly related to the historical snail mail we explored that month. If you haven’t read it yet, give yourself that sweet historical context before going in on the microfiction:
🍺 She lived to be 84, brewing beer in Thebes.
After voting closes, I only give myself 72 hours to write you a story set in the world we explored. The goal is never perfection, but bringing history to life and to remind us all not to be so precious with our writing that we forget to have fun with it.
Here’s the postcard I wrote on:
Here’s the back:
Aaaaand here’s the transcription:
The Hittite prince was dead and Ankhesenamun was royally – not in the regal sense but in the oh-gods-oh-gods-oh-GODS one – fucked. After hearing the news, she’d dismissed every last servant and now gnawed at a hangnail, alone in her chambers save the vases fat with lilies, opulence that meant shit without a husband to provide heirs. That dead prince had been her ticket to, if not freedom, then security.
And now? Her Great Uncle Ay would swoop in (again) to wheedle his way into her bed (again) for the throne. He could have it. Cheeks hot, she hurled the nearest vase against the wall where it exploded, scattering shards and lilies across the floor and chipping a mural of her and Tut: brother, husband – king whose vacancy she failed to fill.
She’d chipped part of his smile. They’d looked so happy in that painting. They had been. Anxiety chirped in her belly, followed by a slick cord of grief for her husband’s ruined face. He’d been her only joy. And without him? She started pacing. She’d run and run and run, become a weaver or a brewer or a shopkeep, if she ever thought she could escape.
The door cracked open and Meresankh, her favorite servant, peeked in. Ankhesenamun’s mother used to laugh that they could pass for twins. As girls, they’d sit on the floor facing one another, toe pressed to toe, mirroring each other’s movements. But then Meresankh always eyed the bangles at Ankhesenamun’s wrists and flushed, tugging at her own plain clothes, ruining the moment.
“You okay?” Meresankh asked.
Ankhesenamun shook her head. “Fine. Awful. But fine.”
Pacing still, Ankhesenamun stepped onto a vase shard, pain blossoming at her sole and zinging up to her ankle. Hissing, she hobbled backwards.
Meresankh shut the door behind her, scurrying to Ankhesenamun and easing her onto a nearby settee. Kneeling before her, Meresankh blotted the blood with the hem of her skirt then pulled a bandage from her waist pouch. Ankhesenamun rolled her eyes – Meresankh, always prepared.
She wrapped Ankhesenamun’s throbbing foot, head dipped in focus. The crooks in their noses were near identical, their bottom lips equally plump. Ankhesenamun’s father was known to let his illegitimate daughters live; perhaps Meresankh was one.
With the right hair, they’d look similar enough. And Meresankh did envy the luxe wardrobe. Ankhesenamun bit her lip. Maybe she was an asshole for what she was about to do, sending her friend into the asp pit. But, hey, she’d led a prince (unwittingly) to his death; this sacrifice could actually mean something. She clutched Meresankh’s hands, stilling them around her bandaged foot.
Ankhesenamun’s grin was nile-wide, betraying no hint of the guilt brewing at the thought of Merseankh, greedy and ignorant of politics, facing Ay alone. “Fancy being queen?”
Meresankh’s eyes widened, flickering to the gold circlet on Ankhesenamun’s upper arm. Slowly, she grinned back, their crocodile smiles perfect mirrors.
📝 Write me a story, too!
It’s your turn, folks.
Write a mini story - 500 words or less - using the same prompts (zing/throwing a vase/Ancient Egypt), then show me what you’ve cooked up. Give yourself just 72 hours, if you can, to keep yourself from fussing with it too much.
When you’re ready to share it with me, reply to this email, post it directly in the comments, or cut each letter out of a magazine and send it like a ransom note.
(As always, if you’re feeling stuck getting started, here’s an article I once wrote on microfiction fundamentals.)
🐴 Next month’s theme
I don’t think we’ve ever had such a contentious battle of the votes - y’all were evenly divided on all four of next month’s potential themes, and one squeaked ahead, breaking the four-way tie with a lone extra vote.
So saddle up, honeys - next month we’re learning about…
🐴 WTF the Pony Express was like 🐴
Yeehaw!
To participate in next month’s voting, refer three friends for a free upgrade:
Become a Postcard Club member to vote (and receive cool shit in the mail):
Or you can always…
🏞 A month in postcard art
Two months passed since the last email, as have two months of postcards. In July, I sent out Ankhesenamun’s cartouche made via typewriter, but in my Fibro-daze, I took no photos or scans of them. Oops!
But this month, I went camping for one night with some beautiful folks for the festival Baignade Sauvage near Albi. The river Tarn carved out the valley for a lush, otherworldly landscape. Here are my friendos when Rhody, our friend Orane, and I first spotted them off the bus:
Naturally, I turned it into goofy and tender watercolor-collage for this month’s Postcard Club folks:
I may make a bigger, more involved version of these down the line with some embroidery, so consider them a “proof of concept.”
🌍 Updates in my creative world
I went to Glasgow this month for WorldCon, a massive sci-fi/fantasy convention! I met so many writers I admire and took more panels than I can name on both craft and the industry. It was a great experience. I also got to talk on Baby’s First Panel! Was it a bit chaotic? Yes. Was a drag show playing very loudly in the next room? Sure. Did a panelist try and shell their book the entire time instead of answering questions? You bet. Was it still a milestone and very cool? Totally. If we met at WorldCon, say hi!
I’ve finished another round of edits on my ‘90s arson-thriller about ghosts and chaotic bisexuals in Moscow and am polishing a short piece of near-future sci-fi.
Remember the oil painting I made y’all vote on last month? I ended up embroidering and painting the center frame. Here it is:
And finally, Rhody and I are organizing an art installation in our home. It’ll likely be about chronic illness and, I hope, feature beer pong with mouth and pill sculptures instead of solo cups and ping pong balls. We’ll teach these French folks a thing or two about American tradition!
Til next time, where I’ll be galloping my way into your hearts on the Pony Express.
All my love and stamps and chaotic writing panels forever,
Nikita, your Snail Mail Sweetheart