June Prompts - Father's Day

[Christine Daaé]

FATHER'S DAY PROMPTS!

What is a father? Well, literally, a father is the man who fathered you, but unfortunately (or fortunately depending upon how you look at it) some people never know their biological fathers. But this is not the only “father” one can have. Perhaps there was another male figure who was predominant in your life? Or perhaps you never really knew what a father was until much older? Perhaps you still don't? Perhaps “father” to you is some sort of deity? Either way, the presence a father, or a lack thereof has molded you into the person you are today and the same can go for characters.

Your task is to chose one of the following prompts below about fathers and to write a response. Remember that each response earns fifteen euro foe the character who responded. After you have responded, please post the IOU to receive your fifteen euro here. Have fun writing and I can't wait to see all of the creative responses that you and your characters come up with.

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OPTION ONE – GIFTS

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What does your character's father want more than anything else in the world? Is it to spend time together doing something special? Is it to have time alone to relax? Perhaps it's that new shaving kit he's been eyeballing at the store? In this option, your character is to state what they would give to their father if they could give him anything at all in the world, as well as how they would go about presenting him with such a gift. Your response should be at least three paragraphs in length and contain proper grammar and spelling.

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OPTION TWO – MEMORIES

Fathers are very influential figures in many of our lives. What is your character's most vivid memory of their father? It does not have to be a good memory, but it should be something that has left a life-long lasting impression upon them. Your memory should be at least five paragraphs in length, be in the past tense, and should contain proper spelling and grammar. This option may be written in first person as if the character is reflecting back upon their life if you so desire to write so.

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OPTION THREE – WHAT IS A FATHER?

Have you ever heard the famous quote from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet “What is in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet”? Well, this option is along those lines. What is a father to your character? I mean beyond the dictionary definition here. Even if your character never knew their father, they likely still have some perception of what a father must be, however clouded or diluted that perception might be. Your task is for your character to define what a father is and to explain how this definition has influenced them in their own lives. Responses to this may b written in first person. Your response should be at least four paragraphs in length and contain proper spelling and grammar.

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Happy writing everyone. Use this prompt (as well as the other prompts that are up) to get into your character's mind and to earn a few extra euro in the process.

[Raoul Christophe de Chagny]

The eight-year-old Vicomte scrunched his brow in concentration as he put the finishing touches on the model ship he had built. It had taken him weeks just to build it, and another week to finish the painting. Now he was fitting the sails. He had made it as a gift for his father for Father’s Day. He didn’t really know what to get him until remembering the paintings of ships he hung up in his study, and the idea finally dawned upon him that maybe he would like a model ship.

Once the sails had been put into place, the boy sat back on his work bench and looked over his labor, smiling. There was no doubt that his father would like his gift—it was certainly finer than anything Philippe could make. Perhaps if his father liked his gift, he would finally want to play with him. Cheerfully he leapt from the work bench and scooped up the gift, hurrying off excitedly to go find the Comte. However he stopped short, realizing that he was forgetting something essential.

A box! Of course he needed a box. Otherwise, his father would be able to guess what he had made him in no time. The child looked around, biting his lip as he tried to think. He scratched his head, mussing his short blonde hair in the process. He suddenly remembered where he could get a box—however it would be quite dangerous. However, making his father happy was certainly worth the risk.

Leaving the gift in his room, tucked under his bed, the Vicomte crept toward the east wing of the house, where his governess lived. He was instructed never to enter her chambers unless invited—which he never was—and had received a proper scolding when he had a few months ago to ask for permission to go to the beach the next day. As punishment he had spent the entire day indoors.

However this time, he was on a secret mission, and he would not fail simply because he would not get caught. He could be very sneaky when he wanted to be—and right now he both wanted and needed to be.

When he reached the governess’s room, he waited outside her door and listened for any sign of movement. He could hear light snoring, a telltale sign that she was asleep. He creaked the door open just wide enough for him to slip in and crawled across the floor to her wardrobe. Now he knew that she had to have some hatbox that she didn’t use. It seemed as if every day she was wearing a new hat.

He opened the wardrobe and pushed aside a few dresses. The governess stirred and he froze, his face paling. But then the snoring continued and he knelt down, searching the bottom of the wardrobe. There! Finding an empty blue and white striped hatbox, he picked the item up and carefully closed the wardrobe, slipping out the door unnoticed. Mission accomplished! he thought happily as he scrambled off toward his room.

Now to find Father… Raoul had placed the model ship in the box and was making his way over to the study when he heard his father on the telephone. He backed up slightly, knowing better than to burst in on a private conversation. However, being the curious eight-year-old that he was, he could not help but overhear.

“No! No I want those stocks now, Rousseau! Well tell him that it can’t wait, that the Comte will not wait. Goodbye!” The phone slammed down back into his place, and he could hear his father sink back into his chair.

The dazed boy waited for a few moments, debating whether or not he should bother him, but mustered up his gumption and knocked.

“Come in.”

Raoul slowly opened the door and held up the box. His father was drumming his hands on his desk, looking over an important-looking book. His reading spectacles were balanced neatly on his nose, and his gray streaked hair styled perfectly. He wore a starched stand-up collar with his expensive black suit. He was an intimidating figure to be sure. “H-hello, Father. I made you a—“

“Don’t stutter, Raoul. Vicomtes do not stutter, and no Chagny under this roof will stutter either. Besides, I can’t hear you so you’ll have to speak up louder. And stand up straight, how many times must I tell you.” His voice was quick, biting, frustrated, and laced with fatigue, which made the boy cringe.

“I-“ He caught himself stuttering and shook his head, squaring his shoulders. “Made you a present, Father.”

“Oh? Made me a present? How did you have time to make me anything? You should be studying, Raoul.”

He smiled nervously. “I just wanted to make you something for Father’s Day…I-I will study-“

“Then go and do it. Leave it on the table. That will be all.” The Comte answered, not bothering to look up from his book.

“But…I was wondering if you wanted to-“

“That will be all.” He repeated, this time firmly, his iron eyes darting toward his son.

“Yes, Father.” Raoul answered, defeated, as he left the room.

“And close the door.”

He did as his father asked and shuffled off to his room, wiping away a tear. He could already hear his father’s voice in his head. Chagnys don’t cry, you should be ashamed of yourself, Raoul! Why can’t you be more like your brother? He never cried when he was your age! “Happy Father’s Day…” he mumbled.

[Marguerite Jules Giry]

Meg had asked her mother about her father. She told her that he was buried within the same cemetery as Christine's father. Just a few rows down. Grabbing her black cloak she grabbed some roses and decided to go visit him. The blonde never had met her father nor ever visited him. Knowing that she would have been too busy and she finally asked about her father towards her mother.

Arriving to the cemetery she looked around her surroundings and sighed. Taking a deep breath she saw a small gravestone that read "Here Lies Armand Tristan Giry...beloved husband and father." Meg stood there for a moment and then walked towards there with the fresh flowers she bought the other day.

Smiling weakly she knelt down and looked at the grave stone. Her finger tips touched the lettering upon his name and she smiled softly. "Bonjour Papa, its Little Margot" she said lightly. Meg placed the flowers upon the grave and she sighed softly. "Maman had finally told me where you were placed to rest and I've decided to come visit you for once. I never knew you but I wish I had. I'm sure you were a wonderful husband to Maman, she speaks of you fondly. I know your watching us from above, I love you Papa." she said in a small voice. "I must head back to Maman, she will be wondering on where I am" she told him. Leaning down she kissed the snow and looked at the lettering again before rising.

"I'll see you again soon and I'll bring Maman with me so you can talk to her. I love you Papa" she said lightly and headed out of the cemetery to go back to the Opera Populaire.

[Erik Lenoir]

//This should fit under option 2 - Memories. Even though Erik had no real memories of his father...//


Erik came back to the lair. The mood above in the mansion was just a bit too festive. He couldn’t stand it. It made him more depressed than ever. He hung up his hat and cape and sat down. As he sat, he felt something under him.

Erik frowned and rose again to see what was there. It was a book, his mother’s Catholic Bible…how could that have gotten into his lair? As he picked it up, an envelope fell out. Curious, he put down the Bible and looked at the envelope. There was one word, written in a cramped hand on the back, Melisande…Erik’s mother’s name. Erik didn’t recognize the handwriting…but the Bible itself, he recognized as his mother’s…he remembered how she used to read it to him as a child....and how she would tell him that God would wreak vengeance on him if he weren’t good. And Erik was not often a good boy.

The letter must have been important for Melisande to put it in her Bible. Erik opened the envelope carefully. A photograph of a handsome, unsmiling man was in the envelope, and a letter. He glanced at the man in the photograph. He was not really stern looking, just not smiling as was the usual manner of portrait photography. He looked vaguely familiar, but Erik was sure he had never met him.

He opened the letter. It read:
My dearest Melisande, I regret having to leave you after so short a time. You are married, and while, for me, it does not pose a problem, you are married and it would be quite awkward should we be found out. It is better that I be on my way, rather than risk being caught by your husband. If we could be assured that he would grant you a divorce, it would be worth staying together. As it is, he has no idea, and it is best that he be kept from the truth.

All I can leave you with is an assurance that I will never stop loving you and that if things had been different, it would have been a marriage truly made in heaven. As it is, it will be quite the opposite if I do not make my final adieu. I think it wise that you destroy this letter after reading it. For that reason, I shall not sign my name.

Dearest, remember that you are always in my thoughts. Perhaps in the future, we shall meet again one day. I can only hope so, my dearest. All my love.

Erik was astonished. This then, was his real father. His mother had spoken of this for the first time when he had met her as a spectre in the graveyard. He had since thought perhaps it was not true, that the event had been a strange dream or hallucination. Yet, here it was, in the man’s cramped handwriting.

Erik scrutinized the photograph. The man was nicely dressed, he seemed of an upper class demeanour. On the faded black and white photograph, his slightly curly hair could have been auburn. He put his finger over the right side of the man’s face. He looked uncannily like Erik with his left side only showing. And although his lips were not thick like Erik’s, and his eyes were of one colour, perhaps blue, the look in his eyes was Erik’s look. Erik was positive it was his father.

He slipped the photograph and letter back into their envelope and back into the Bible. It was strange that his mother’s Bible had been found by him. Erik knew that he had not taken it with him when h e had left home. So how could it be here? How on earth could it be here?

Then Erik remembered the reason for all the merriment in the mansion…Today was Father’s Day…