Okay, if you want the finished 800-word version, you can see the last post. Here's what I have so far for the 1600-word version:
High on the mountain’s shoulder, the brass-domed observatory kept watch over the village of Willowwink, its curved panels glinting like a half-peeled moon. Inside, gears ticked in steady counterpoint to the hush of the great telescope, and the enchanted star maps glimmered faintly, shifting as though breathing in sleep. Glass orbs drifting near the ceiling cast their own glow as night deepened.
Foo stood on a brass balcony inside the dome, as she peered through the small brass spotting scope. A few motes of blue starlight drifted from the eyepiece; she brushed them aside. “Clouds gathering near the western ridge. Light frost by dawn—nothing troublesome. Should burn off by noon.” She jotted the note down.
Mentor leaned against the railing, runes on his cloak faintly lit. “Very good, Foo. And the river fields?”
Foo tapped her weather chart, which chimed gently. “With the moon waning and the north wind steady, the soil will stay damp enough for sowing greens and grains, but too wet to lift potatoes or cut the wheat.” She sketched a crescent moon and a frost symbol. “I’ll add that to the board.”
Mentor looked around the observatory. Every chart was sorted, every lantern lit, every lens polished. “Are we already finished?” he asked. It wasn't even midnight.
Foo continued scribbling. “You've taught me well.”
For Mentor, something clicked. After a moment, he walked over and nudged her elbow. “Ask me.”
Foo stopped writing and rolled her eyes. "Mentor –"
"Ask," he instructed.
Foo sighed, going back to her notes. "What is the meaning of life?" she asked, the question routine, the answer always different, and never quite right.
He smiled. He had it this time. "Not to only observe, but to experience."
Foo looked up, uncomfortable with a truth that reverberated in her bones. "Huh."
“Ah," he said, her reaction confirming what he already knew. "At last, I’ve earned my promotion. I am now named Guru. And as my promotion means yours, congratulations, Head Astronomer!”
Guru'd spoken of ascending for years—but Foo was still flummoxed. “Tonight?”
“The stars rarely consider our human timelines,” he said, with a laugh. "I expected this years ago, and you, I suspect," he said squeezing her shoulder. “Thought it would never happen."
He laughed at her blush and drifted toward the storage alcove where his belongings were tucked neatly into a traveling satchel. He set it down on the ottoman in their small sitting area and moved around the observatory, removing the feather quill carved from a thunderbird tail from his desk and placing it in his bag. From his bag, he removed a small jar of starlight, replacing it with a larger jar. The sight of him re-packing his was as familiar as his voice nudging her to "ask".
This time felt different, purposeful instead of hopeful. Final.
Later that night, as Foo descended from the observatory, she turned, briefly, to watch Guru ascend. Above, the sky glittered, a deep river of silver constellations sliding overhead. She turned back toward Willowwink,
The village unfolded beneath her, roofs huddled together in soft colors, chimneys dark and still. The air carried the lingering scent of fresh bread and the metallic tang of cooling iron from the blacksmith’s yard. A broom leaned against a shop door.
She crossed the square. The ridiculously elaborate fountain for a village this small featured a statue — a woman, who turned her back as Foo approached. Foo, accustomed to the stone woman's shyness just waved before the woman had completely turned away.
The sandwich board stood near the fountain, its wood polished smooth by years of weather and Foo's monthly polishing. Foo replaced the previous night’s weather predictions, rolling it neatly for archiving. She pinned the fresh page in its place. On the other side, she pinned fresh horoscopes and returned the stale ones to her cylinder.
Before leaving, she took out a third note, the first she'd ever written that requested a reply. It read: “Seeking Astronomy Apprentice: Experience unnecessary; curiosity required. Reply if interested.” She pinned it with a star-shaped earring whose twin had vanished long ago. She often wondered if anyone read the notices she posted on Guru's board -- her board now. If anyone answered her note, she supposed, she'd have her answer.
Unbeknownst to Foo, the board steered the village, nudging plans as subtly and powerfully as wind shifted sand. Harvests, festivals, even market days bent around her updates.
Prince Gorl visited Willowwink daily; its observatory was the only one in his kingdom, and he used her information to keep his realm running smoothly.
He liked to travel disguised as a frog — people demanded more of a prince — but when he read Foo's request, he resumed his human form long enough to reply with his own question.
That evening, Foo returned and found a reply pinned with a tiny crown-shaped tack. It read: “Would you accept a humble frog?”
The next morning, Gorl found that his question had been answered with a question. He laughed, transforming long enough to reply: “Frogs can’t give you warts. You’re thinking of toads.”
When Foo read the frog's reply, she was relieved, but embarrassed. She was proud of her knowledge of astronomy, astrology, and weather, but was fully aware of her ignorance in almost every other arena.
She hoped that she'd learn as much from her new apprentice as he'd learn from her.
A couple of weeks later, the great telescope hummed softly as Foo adjusted the eyepiece, tracing faint stars along the ridges. Beside her, Gorl crouched on the desk, using the modified lettering armature to transcribe that evening's board update from Foo's observations.
Foo sat up straight and stretched. "I don't even know if anyone reads these things," she murmured.
The scratching of ink on paper came to an abrupt halt as Gorl stopped manipulating the armature. "Are you jesting?" he asked.
Foo looked over at him. "Well, I know that you do—or at least happened to when—"
"Foo, the entire village reads your board every day," Gorl interrupted, hopping a bit in his agitation to her question. "Even I—happen to know that Prince Gorl uses the information to plan out larger festivals, sea trips, and just—everything—with the information that you provide."
Foo, a little alarmed by Gorl's passion, fumbled with the telescope. Maybe it was a coincidence, but when she peered back through the telescope, it was focused on Guru's mountaintop. He had shown her his destination many times, in case she ever wanted to visit him when he was gone. Did she? Did she miss him? She didn't know. Guru had been so much a part of her that him leaving was like a third arm that had decided to detach itself. She felt more incomplete than sad.
But a visit wouldn't be enough to complete her. Him returning wouldn't complete her either. He'd have to never have left.
She adjusted the telescope to her favorite constellation. She turned to Gorl. She didn't want to think about Guru and she was slowly digesting the information that her notices were not just read, but important. She realized that she didn't know anything about Gorl. It must be so odd to be a frog. She hadn't really thought about making conversation before, because they'd been so busy training. "So, um, Gorl, huh? Were you named after the prince?"
Gorl was staring at her. He blushed, his tiny webbed toes curling slightly. "Um. Yes." His whole body shook. "But wait, you're changing the subject. Do you really not know how important your notices are?"
Foo shook her head. "It's not like anyone ever answers back -- until you."
Gorl couldn't cock his head, so he cocked his whole body. "There's not much to say to a notice. I answered a question. Maybe you should leave another one and see if someone answers you."
Foo didn't think that was necessary, since Gorl was so sure that everyone read the board. She was actually feeling a little self-conscious now, thinking about it. It was like everyone in the village had been reading her soul for years, but she had no sense of theirs. "I suppose," she said slowly, thinking about it as she spoke. "I have a lot of questions for them. Maybe..."
That night, Foo posted her weather and horoscope updates, and left a question that one of the villagers might know the answer to. Her fingers trembled as she pinned it with the same star earring that she'd used for the apprentice inquiry.
The next morning, so early that even the fountain was still asleep, mist curled along the cobblestones as Bo approached, carrying a duck under one arm, holding her shepherd's crook with the other. Bo always stopped at the message board before anything else. Habit, she claimed. Really, it was because she liked to know what the world was up to before the world noticed her back.
“Hm. Clear skies tonight. Frost on the orchard roofs. Lunar arc unusually sharp. Ooh, another note -- I wonder if the observatory is looking for another apprentice.”
The duck didn't say anything, just clucked uninterestedly.
"Oh!" Bo cried, it's not a notice, it's a question about sheep!" She read it and laughed. "Listen to this:
'Honored Villagers,
I am Foo, Head Astronomer, and I have a question for those of you with sheep expertise. How do you wear a fresh sheep's wool without getting blood all over you? Or is blood part of the effect? Also, what do you do about the smell? I apologize for my ignorance. I am not a fashion expert.
Best Regards,
Foo'
Bo shook her head. "Goodness gracious, imagine wearing a sheep's actual flesh as clothing." She plucked a feather from the duck’s flank.
The duck jumped out of her arms. “OH! So that’s what this was? Is this why you gave me a ride?" It ran around, flapping its wings. "So you can steal my feathers, willy nilly?!” It waddled off toward the fountain. A moment later, Bo could hear the duck complaining to the fountain statue as it splashed around in the fountain's waters.
Bo felt bad. She should have asked. The duck would have gladly given her feather for Bo to use as a pen, Bo had just been so excited that she'd plucked without thinking. She pulled out a small whistling knife and sharpened the feather. Then, she looked around. What could she use for ink?
Later that night, Foo read Bo's reply in the moonlight.
Pretty rough sketch of what I want for this version. I borrowed from some previous drafts to expand the observatory scene but now we're at 1800 words, so I'll probably pare that back down a bit. Also, GPT pointed out that we have the "unbeknownst" line plus Gorl explaining to Foo how important her bulletin board is, so I'll fix the redundancy on that. It was a concern when I was working on the 800-word version but GPT didn't mention it then, so I'll have to go back and fix that in the 800-word version, too, which is fine.
GPT also mentioned the tone shift with the draft. Yes, it's all over the place and gets very silly at the end. I'll figure out how to ground it tomorrow, but the funny thing is that although plucking the feather was in the original draft from the early 2000s, the duck reacting was GPT's suggestion and now it's saying it's too silly. But that's okay. It is a bit silly right now.
The funny thing about working on the longer versions is that I tend to have to go back to the earlier version and fix stuff, which messes with the word count, so I'm basically re-writing each version each time I make a new version. I'm going for exact word counts for this experiment, and I want the versions to be as close as possible to each other. Like, I want it to read as though I've only added things, not re-written from the same concept.
I'm feeling discouraged about the idea of anyone paying me to write, which isn't new but the stakes feel extra high. I can't give up before trying, this time. I've also been "working" all day, so I'm probably just discouraged because I'm tired. Does it count as work if I'm not being paid?
This isn't what my post is about, but I have to share one of the silliest things I've ever drawn. This is the thumbnail for the Fiverr portfolio:
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