Fiona Grey Writes

Writer of Fantasy. Wielder of Red Pens.

Anti-Gravity Pie

“Two tablespoons of newt scales,” Liza read.

Mikhail held the scoop a bare millimeter away from the layer of pale orange powder. “Are you sure? Aren’t we supposed to eat this pie?”

She shrugged and tossed the recipe card toward him. “I trust Chef.”

“But the tetrodotoxins…” He dropped the scoop into the jar of dust and felt his hands stick damply to the leather gloves as his fingers flexed. “We just covered this in magical zoology. I want to check.”

Non,” Chef said in response to Liza’s frantically waving hand and Mikhail’s stuttered explanation. His eyebrows waggled as he talked, nearly obscuring his eyes. “You have the proper ingredients, oui?

“The ones that were on the list,” Mikhail answered hesitantly. “The shop clerk fulfilled the order. Mom said she checked it before accepting the order.”

“And you checked as well?” The beaky nose pointed directly at his own from inches above his forehead.

He kicked a stray claw that had fallen onto the kitchen’s stone floor with a sneaker that continued to fight its laces, feeling his face heat at the admonition. “It was pretty overwhelming. I didn’t know anyone sold newts then. Maybe pet stores. Not types of newts.”

“But you would have noticed this. The shop gave you space lizards, oui?” Chef paused for dramatic effect, then twisted his lips into a frown when the partners failed to reach. “The lizards taken into space? By the Americans? Are space lizards no longer worthy of adolescent attention?”

The mumbled French that followed made Liza gasp, but all Mikhail followed were a few words of the rolling flow. Something about video games, the next generation, and — petri dishes of fun? Did Chef mean an arcade?

“Chef, look,” Liza said urgently. She pointed a long finger at the ingredient card. “The recipe for gravity pie doesn’t call for space lizards. Just regular newts.”

Mais non. C’est impossible.” Chef took off his white hat to reveal a mass of salt and pepper curls, digging among the tufts until a clear pair of reading glasses emerged. “Let me see that.”

Mikhail watched Chef’s eyes flicker back and forth, paling with every line of the recipe.

Mais non,” Chef whispered. “Without space lizards, this is not anti-gravity pie.”

Mikhail twitched. Magical life skills class had been pretty boring so far…

“Out!” Chef shouted. “Everyone out! Drop everything and get out!”

A girl across the room giggled and reached for her bag. “Chef’s in a temper again,” she informed her partner snidely and at full volume. “Time for some real magic instead.”

“Out! Now!” Red lights flashed into view as sirens followed Chef’s words, bursting with ruby sparks above each kitchen station before screaming wildly around the room to chase the students into the hallway.

Mikhail managed to snag his satchel on as the class hurried toward the lawn. He and Liza had been in the corner furthest from the door, so they pulled up the rear of the small herd. A faded pale pink spark wheezed gently at him before dissipating as the massive doors came into sight over the shoulders of their classmates.

“Wonder what’ll happen?” He murmured to Liza, before realizing one of her floating fire extinguishers was missing. “Hey, where’s Lefty?”

“He stayed behind to help Chef clean up,” she said brusquely, reaching for the open door.

BOOM!

The explosion shook the castle floor and sent Mikhail tumbling onto the sun-warmed stone steps. He peeked up at Liza from where he lay sprawled.

“Well, that was unexpected.”

***

This week’s prompt was from Leigh Kimmel, exploring the unexpected, while my challenge to Cedar Sanderson suggested a travel system gone wrong. Check out more or play along over at MOTE!

Occupied Mars

“I don’t get it,” Jan said with a grunt. He slammed his booted foot onto the shovel until it scraped past whatever rock he’d hit this time. “Mars was first inhabited by robots.”

Sonny snagged the rag out of his back pocket and wiped his forehead. It left a dirt-streaked path of mud across his bald pate before he tucked the bandana carefully away. He leaned on his own shovel, taking a deep breath of the bubble’s UV-sanitized air that never stopped smelling like hospitals. “So?”

Jan kicked his shovel again, but this time left it stuck in the dirt. “So why’re we doing the hard work? We have borer machines. My secondary on the trip here was manifest master. They broke already, when my crew’s barely here a year? All dozen? A dozen borers, gone missing? Didn’t the first two crews bring any?”

He received shrewd concern in reply. “You just came here from engineering late last week. You know why we’re tunneling?”

“‘Course.” Jan looked away from his partner’s gaze. “Cancer rays. We stay underground, it eases the burden on the bubble. Good habits when the electric’s good enough we don’t need to worry.”

“Mmm.” Sonny sliced through some dirt with the ease of long practice. “Used to do this back on Earth, you know. Gardening. Thought I’d be part of the gardens, selling Mars-grown veggies at the weekly market.”

“All hydroponics now,” Jan mumbled.

“Mostly cared for by ‘bots,” Sonny agreed. “You know what use humans have on Mars?”

Jan waited for the answer in shadowed light flickering with the buzz of fluorescents. It didn’t come.

“First colonizers,” he ventured. “I guess we set things ready for the next crews. Test the path. Might make things seem worth it when Bubble Two’s open and we can talk to some new faces. When’s the next shuttle get here again?”

“Preparing the way,” Sonny said, and smacked his fist on top of the shovel. “Guinea pigs.” His smile grew grotesque. “Canaries in the tunnel, you could say.”

Pushing his shovel away, Jan spun in a dusty circle. “We’re more use dead?”

“As long as the scientists learn from our deaths.” Sonny contemplated the path that was marked out for them, even though it led into darkness. “Thing is, they did use borers for a while. And before that, they built an overland path between Bubbles One and Two overland.”

Jan dropped his shovel. “What?”

“I came with the first crew,” the balding man said. “The very first. Last left, too.” He tilted the blade, carefully letting the loose grains trickle into the container on the floater that held similar discards, piled high with reddish powder and hard-cracked dirt. “We laid track, even. Two lanes, enough for a rover each way.”

The shovel lay abandoned, Jan ignoring Sonny’s outreached finger. “Why’re we bothering then? We didn’t sign up for this.”

“Didn’t we?” Sonny leaned down and picked up Jan’s shovel, pressing it into the man’s unwilling gloves. “We signed up to colonize Mars, whatever that meant would come.”

“I don’t get it.” Jan leaned the shovel against his chest and shoved his hands into his overall pockets. “What happened?”

“Wrath,” Sonny said. “Havoc marked its path, no matter where we laid track. We tried five times. Radiation bursts, dust storms, the commander gone mad and stabbed his second. We stopped after we lost the doctor when he hallucinated he was inside the bubble and detached his helmet.”

Jan swallowed, then tucked his shovel into its nook on the floater and ran a hand through the containerized dirt piles. “That’s horrible. I saw the graves, but no one would talk about what happened. I didn’t want to pry.”

“We tunneled after that,” Sonny continued, as if he hadn’t heard the other man. He clicked his own shovel into place. “Got the basics with the borers, or mostly, but we’re left to clean up the loose debris and set the path for tracks. We’ll leave the rovers topside. A tram gives more protection.”

“Protection?”

Sonny hauled himself into the floater’s seat and flicked the switch three times, then pressed the orange button twice. The floater hummed to life, and the bald man turned to look at Jan.

“Why, from whatever ate the borers, of course.”

***

Inspired by this week’s havoc-filled prompt from Cedar Sanderson and this image. My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel – check it out over at MOTE!

Magical Border Patrol

Madge let out a slow whistle. “Big group this time.”

Emon rolled his eyes and hitched his uniform pants up before slapping his hat on, and never mind that they were still indoors. “All five, boss?”

“New recruits are new recruits,” she said firmly, and tucked her graying braid back over her shoulder before marching through the door, hat properly in hand. “You. Come with me.”

The brunette with spiked hair stared blankly at Madge’s pointed finger, then swiveled her head around the dusty room with its empty desks and industrial tile floors. “Who? Are you? Why?”

“Hmm.” Lips pressed firmly together, she reconsidered briefly. “Nope. You’ll do. I’m Madge, I’m your mentor, and this is the last time you come along unquestioningly, because normally I want you to ask.”

“Ask what?”

“What’d I say about questions?” Madge tossed over her shoulder, already heading out of the stifling stale air and back into the real world.

Only her own boots squeaked on the linoleum.

“Brianna. Come on. You’ll see the others when we get back.”

“As long as we come back,” came a sullen mutter.

Madge increased her patter to match her pace. “Bathroom over there, you sure? We’ll be gone a while, okay, water bottle full? Hat? Good.”

She wrenched the door open past the sticky lock. Arizona air, hotter than Dante’d ever dreamed, blasted them in the face.

They were the only visible creatures on the hike up sandy scrub.

“I’m not used to this,” Brianna said quietly. “I’m not from around here.”

“So say we all,” Madge quipped, but the other woman didn’t get the joke. She let herself take a moment for a purely internal sigh. “We all start somewhere. You get used to it eventually.” She glanced down at the dust on her boots. “Sort of.”

The clank of a water bottle cap unscrewing carried. “Why do I get a mentor and the others don’t?”

Early questions were a good indicator. “The others get Emon. And Greg, when he’s back from leave.”

“And the extra pin on your uniform? Because you’re the boss?”

Observation was another indicator. Still, she dared not hope, not after all this time.

Instead she changed the subject. “Why’d you join? Border patrol’s a tough gig these days. Everybody hates us, no matter what side they’re on, politics or wall.”

She let the silence draw out.

“Stability,” Brianna finally offered. “I needed money. A job that won’t vanish overnight. And I heard it’s easier to transfer when you’re in the system already.”

“Wait until you hear about interdepartmental rivalry and unreasonable levels of bureaucracy,” Madge said as dryly as the dirt beneath her boots. “It’s kept me here for a blissful eighteen years. Two more, and it’ll be time to move on.”

“To what?” Brianna asked.

Madge stopped just before they crested the slope. “That’s what I’m about to show you. Come on. It’s a beautiful view.”

The final two steps brought a dazzling desert vista into sight, with hints of ochre streaking amongst more common browns and subtle yellows, shadowed by stone and pebble and sage.

And in the middle, a glowing violet portal. Madge felt her core tense as she studied Brianna with peripheral vision.

“What the…what is that thing?”

Tears sprang into her eyes. “That, apprentice, is what I hoped you could see that the others couldn’t.” Madge tapped her extra badge, a capital letter M. “This stands for magic, because the government is boring. You’re not hallucinating.”

“I’m not sure that answered my question.”

“It’s the portal,” she said softly. “The real reason we’re here. And in two more years, when you’re ready, I go through it and back home.”

“Aliens?” The word was hesitant. “Like that movie?”

Madge gestured toward a rock, half shaded by a scraggly dead tree. “I suppose, though it’s more like fantasy that sci-fi…let me tell you properly.”

The women found semi-comfortable seats on the overly warmed boulder and stared toward the portal with its spinning edges, where threads of red flickered.

“It all started when border patrol recruited its first witch…”

***

Thanks for the inspiration, nother Mike! When they started recruiting witches for the border patrol, things got magical…

My prompt went to Padre – “Have you ever heard the adage, ‘suffer in silence’? It applies to this situation, my friend.”

Check out more over at MOTE!

A Mother’s Love

The end of the world started with a national tragedy. I’m not much for politicians beyond scientific grant money, but even we eggheads sit up and take notice when a conflagration of a wreck leaves a section of the Beltway turned to melted asphalt mixed with charred metal and a whole slew of staffer’s ashes.

Most people hadn’t experienced anything of that international impact in their lifetimes—whether you hate-watched or mourned, that death had an impact—which meant the whole world was glued to their screens watching the pixelated funeral when the apocalypse was broadcast live, in HD-technicolor glory.

Early fall, the leave with just a hint of change, while the markers of Arlington popped bright white against the still-green grass and matching the crisp white gloves of the Marines. The widow’s black net veil and the ol’ red-white-and-blue draped over the coffin, both fluttering in a gentle breeze. Black-clad security and diplomats alike, everywhere the eye could see, with high-value targets stubbornly insisting they knew better than the handlers trying to keep on schedule and secure. Even though they’d rushed the funeral, practically every country’s flag joined the procession of diplomatic limousines.

You see where this might be going, I’m sure, so I’ll skip ahead. No one expected the man to sit straight up in his coffin, and the twenty-one gun salute ended in a blaze of fire as he tried to give his wife the most grotesque kiss you can imagine.

Recruitment skyrocketed overnight. The widow was toast, but they actually sold posters of the Marines protecting the diplomats before everything went to hell. This one guy—you know the one, the guy with the famously grim face who finally took Zombie Target One down, Chavez—took leave and went on a roadtrip to get away from the fuss. Only it turned into a tour, because everybody wanted to buy the Hero of Arlington a beer.

Funnily enough, my daughter said Chavez was the only one who kept his head about the praise. She’d been excited enough to be part of that honor guard, and hit a reality check right quick when the Secret Service fools were busy puking behind the headstones.

We’d had a watch party for the funeral once we knew she’d be there, and I’ve never been so damned proud of my daughter as the day she helped take down the world’s first politician that really was a zombie.

A blur of red-striped and white-capped blue, she was, mouth open and barking orders. She’d said later her training had taken over. Over and over, she’d repeated the words, as the whole town turned out to celebrate their local-girl-done-good moment.

My baby girl, she was, tall and strong, immortalized in the sunlight beaming. The epitome of the Corps, she was. Once a Marine, always a Marine.

We merry fools thought it was over. Nobody knew about the incubation period then, or what aerosolized brains would do to the rest of the world. Thanks to diplomacy, the whole damn world had just been exposed.

A month later, the Hero of Arlington took a bite out of the beautiful woman draped over his arm while she was still sleeping. They shambled into town, still hand in hand, and it might’ve been lucky they’d been out in the woods if the survivors hadn’t fled to all corners.

Of course, without those two, we wouldn’t know that zombies get smarter in groups. Which might have gone unnoticed — the public education system being what it is — if the Marine Corps hadn’t been the hardest hit.

I’m still convinced they’re out there in the hills, just watching. I can feel the eyes at my back when I’m hunting. I have one of their own, you see, and enough supplies to hold out for two more years at present consumption.

Tears burned down my face the day I locked her in, hot streaks of salt. My daughter insisted, before she turned. I can still hear her pleading. “Just in case, Ma.”

I’ve been an egghead since the day I got my first chemistry set, the day before I turned nine years old. I was a bookworm before that, and never lost the research habit. So I will save my baby girl however much you doubt me, because I’m one of the few who can, and because I can still see her. Beautiful in her torn uniform as she slams moaning into the locked basement door, her mind trapped into a shambling shadow of herself.

I’ll find that desperate cure, and once she’s restored, my role is over. She and God can judge me with tears and a hailstorm of fire if they must, and I’ll go willing into the darkness with a smile upon my face that I got to see her one last time. My daughter, the Marine.

Until I’ve found my scientific miracle, I’ll take care of that child, because that’s what mothers do. Once a mother, always a mother.

And mamas keep their babies fed, whether it’s pureed carrots through the hangar door or fresh brains through the basement window.

***
With apologies to the USMC for turning the Corps into zombies. Semper fi!

Thanks to Cedar for getting me to finally finish this snippet (originally inspired by an anthology opportunity that I passed on a while back) with this week’s writing prompt: The love of a mother takes many forms…

My prompt went to Padre: He loved staring into the night sky and watching the stars dance, but it was a lonely ritual.

Check out more over at MOTE!

Love Station No. 9

The USS Chocolate Chip Cookie had been on a decelerating approach toward the structure for the past month, drawing out the journey of decades spent frozen in stasis.

The astrophysicist who’d discovered the space station had warned the captain to expect a relic. Life was out there, but the anticipation had been tempered with realism. What were the chances alien life would still be alive by the time anyone came to say hello?

The crew had been chosen with the expectation they’d be part archaeologist, part repairman.

But as they’d drawn closer, it had become clear that not only was the station habitable, it was in fact…inhabited.

The silver twinkle of departing and arriving ships had been the first sign, but the sensors had been blaring life form indicators for weeks.

They’d practiced welding a lot more than diplomacy. Wasn’t like the Cookie could turn around at this point to pick up a State Department liaison. Hell, State wouldn’t get their message tentatively confirming life for several years.

No, the Cookie was on her own.

Captain Cassie Berdt’s chest spasmed. She let out a breath and the twinge passed. The tension between her shoulder blades did not.

“Shuttle on approach,” reported the lieutenant whose chair she was gripping hard enough to leave a titanium dent.

Cass sucked in another gulp of stale air. “Steady as she goes.”

A crackle came over the comms. “Port door is opening. Shimmer indicates shield tech.” A pause, followed by another burst of static. “Scanners confirm. Looks like a crowd is gathering at the dock.”

Sergeant Penny broke in over Commander James’ measured tones. “They’re humanoid!”

“Confirmed, majority humanoid,” the commander added, but Cass was probably the only one still paying attention, judging by the murmur on the bridge.

“Two hundred meters to docking,” a cool British voice announced.

“Let Winston take it in,” Cass ordered. “Hold targeting to calculations only. Stay friendly but all systems and crew alert for trouble.”

“Aye, Captain,” the AI responded. “Fifty meters.”

“Shuttle crew, don’t forget to document.”

“Recording logs activated,” Commander James replied.

Sergeant Penny let out a nervous giggle. “Ooo. That one’s cute.”

“Try to avoid local mating rituals until we find out what they are,” Cass stated calmly. She held in her eyeroll and affected a posture of poise and control. Penny was a sharp junior NCO, but she would pull a stunt like this right as the formal logs started.

“Sorry, Captain.” Penny always was.

Winston broke in crisply. “Translator activated and broadcasting to shuttle crew. Docking in five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One.”

The bridge crew had held their breath collectively this time, judging by the exhales after the bump.

“Atmosphere normalized. Breathable air.” Penny was back to business as she focused on her sensor pad.

“No pathogens detected,” Winston added.

“Confirmed. Hatch is safe to open.” Clanking mingled with hydraulic whirs.

“Ooo lá lá,” James murmured.

Cass choked on her stale, cold coffee. “Commander?”

He didn’t answer.

Above the murmur of the alien crowd, Penny’s voice gave a clue. “Do you smell that? It’s beautiful. The scent memories it’s evoking are amazing…”

“We are surrounded,” James said, his baritone dropping to a dreamy bass.

“I don’t think I mind.” Penny giggled coquettishly.

“You should join us, Captain.” The unmistakable sounds of kissing followed.

Cass felt her face redden, suddenly glad she hadn’t given into crew pressure and broadcast the shuttle feed live.

“Abort! About mission! All crew, retreat to the Cookie immediately. Winston, evacuate them by force if necessary. I don’t care if it starts an intergalactic war, we’re not leaving them behind.”

“Apologies, Captain.” Winston sounded…mussed. “All circuits are busy. This station AI is unlike anything I’ve ever analyzed…”

***

Had some fun with the inhabited station – thanks, Becky! My prompt went to nother Mike. Check out more at MOTE!

Orphans on the Moon

Jerry studied the white disk a white-gloved waiter had just handed him on a silver-rimmed china plate.

“Wondering what it is?” A cooly amused blonde in a shimmering gown the color of moonlight gave a ghost of a smile and made her way toward him, heels clicking on the marble floor. She lifted her flute of champagne. “Elena.”

He lifted his own glass toward her. “Wondering how to eat it with my hands full and nowhere to set these down.” He peered ostentatiously at the plate, which revealed no secrets to its audience. “But also what it might be, yes, and whether it’s edible.”

The round disk looked like smooth styrofoam, dazzled with either pebbles or the dullest edible confetti he’d ever seen.

“Orphans on the moon,” Elena said with a smile nearly as dazzling as the diamonds circling her neck. “It’s a themed meringue disk. My chef’s creation.”

Jerry softened, lifting his gaze as if to study her for the first time. Other than her curls, she matched her picture. “So you’re the host.”

“First time at one of my fundraisers?” Her words held a bite of irony. “Apologies. That was uncalled for.”

“I gave it away, didn’t I?” He grinned, urging on the charm and grateful his itchy fingers were occupied. Those diamonds were singing to be handled by someone who’d appreciate them more than an evening accessory. “Not knowing how to handle the food or pretend to be all blasé.”

“Perhaps,” she conceded.

“But I’m one of the ones who made it big after being raised in an orphanage on the moon, and it’s time for me to give back as well.”

“Fascinating,” drawled Elena. “The modern version of local boy made good. Mister…”

“Jim,” he said hastily, giving her his code name for the evening. He dropped his champagne on a passing waiter’s tray, untouched.

He tapped two fingers against his lapel pin, the agreed-upon signal for target acquired. A signal that also looked like it was an invitation to move closer.

“Now, would you care to help me test this delectable treat before we orbit into the auction room?”

He held up the lightweight disk, gave her a devil-may-care grin reminiscent of the Apollo program, and knew they’d never make it that far.

***

Did nother Mike expect the unexpected from the moon orphanage to be a gang of orbital thieves? And what did Becky Jones do with terraforming? Find out over at MOTE!

Snow Globe

June skidded to a stop and backed up rapidly, but it was too late. She’d already looked at the classroom ceiling out of instinct.

Or what used to be the ceiling. Water dripped from pipes twelve feet above the ground, half hidden by a dark nimbostratus cloud.

Hair stuck damply to her forehead as she studied the plaster shards scattered across the linoleum.

“Turn the water off,” June croaked, but she didn’t know who might hear, twenty minutes before class on a Saturday morning.

“Weather problems?”

A spike of adrenaline shattered what was left of her poise. “Ah. Um, levitation and situational awareness problems, apparently.”

A dark-haired man in a blue jumpsuit stood at the end of the hallway.

June felt sparks building in her hand and quickly tucked it behind her back. “Are you with maintenance? I’m new this term, but I can’t teach in a…rainstorm.”

It slowly sank in that the indoor flood had nothing to do with a broken pipe.

“That’s nothing,” said the man cheerfully, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “It’s snowing in 103, two doors down.”

***

This week’s prompt is from Padre – turn off the water! My prompt went to AC Young – glue and target practice. Check more out at MOTE!

Inconvenient Timing

“The Belle Notation is coming into firing position, Captain.” The ensign’s voice squeaked at the end, with a flush to match. He cleared his throat. “Shields remain at sixty-one percent and rising.”

Captain Chiv studied the comm device in her hand, poking at it with a long finger. “Engineering is doing a wonderful job. A pity we can’t increase the shielding further during wormhole travel.”

“Yes, Mum,” and this time the tension kept his voice high. “In the meantime, shall we maneuver? Or perhaps you have other orders you wish to provide?”

She quirked an eyebrow. “First time in space, Ensign Aubring?”

He stiffened. “Graduated the academy last month, Captain.”

The XO drifted past, slapping the ensign lightly on the shoulder. “Everything gon’ be okay. Cop’tin will take care ov us.”

“Gimeson knows what he’s about. Grew up on Mars, you know. He’s a good role model.”

“If I live, Mum.”

Chiv tapped her comm again. “There’s always a doomsayer aboard the watch. Next tour, it’ll be someone else. You’ll get there. Enjoy the view. Io’s beautiful this time of year.”

“Captain,” he begged. “I’d like to point out that the Belle is now warming up her torpedo tubes.”

“Shields at seventy,” called the XO.

“Thanks, Gimeson.” Chiv extracted her draped legs from the Captain’s chair and stood with her feet shoulder width apart, easy with long practice in limited grav. She leaned forward slightly to study the display. “There they are, right on time.”

“Neutral signal, Mum.”

A crackle emerged from the console radio. “Neutral party with deliveries for parties on the Belle Notation and the Grammatically Incorrect. Please spin down for Galactic Delivery Services.”

Aubring groaned. “Deliveries always come at inconvenient times, don’t they? That poor tug will be toast in thirty seconds.”

“Law ov the galaxy,” Gimeson said laconically.

“Neutral party,” Chiv said with a slight smile, and held up her comm for Aubring to inspect. “As long as the tug avoids pirates – which he will, in this area, with two of us squaring off, not even they’re that daring – he’ll make it here. And we’re obliged to let him take as long as he likes to deliver.”

Gimeson slid toward the viewport. “Stalls the conflict until we’re ready. Maybe stops it a’tall.”

“Don’t suppose it’s pizza this time, Captain?” came a hopeful voice over the internal intercom. “Engineering could use a morale boost.”

“Kebabs,” Chiv answered absently. “They were faster. And bubbles, for the other crew, because I want them distracted, not unhappy if the food’s cold again.”

She headed for the hatch. “Diplomacy, Ensign. It’s got its quirks.”

***

This week, AC Young prompted me with: Mankind had colonised the solar system, but delivery companies still delivered stuff at the most inconvenient of times.

My prompt went to nother Mike: Still pools marred the dusty path, gleaming crystal-blue with reflected sky.

Check out more, over at MOTE!

Glow

The downpour blocked her view and trickled icy down her neck from where she huddled under the tiny awning. Sierra could barely see across the parking lot, let alone study the graffitied mural she’d watched the hooded artist create last year.

Last year, when she’d been able to afford the one-bedroom and she hadn’t minded sleeping on the couch. Not when Mama needed the bed after another round of poison that shrank her very bones, no matter that the doctors said it would save her.

Now…the baker’s wife had already tapped on the glass twice, and her arms ached from the stack of heavy books. She’d wasted the last of her funds unknowing, blithely secure in job and student status.

And now, the scent of damp pages rose from the precious art books in a thick technicolor miasma that blended with the fog and did nothing to blur the salt from her tears.

The next rap made her bolt across the street, heedless of the further damage to her shattered dreams. The one thing her mama had made her promise was not let go, and tonight her dreams flew on wings far above her reach.

Best she leave her mourning in the street with the last of the rain.

Tomorrow she’d search for a new job and settle into trudging dreariness.

Only she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere, the remnant of swollen eyes and years she’d spent in hospitals rather than learning her way.

From the darkness came a golden, neon glow from an open door, and she was chilled enough now to dash for friendly lights and get her bearings.

And within the blur of falling water and glinting light arose wings bigger than any eagle she’d ever seen, rippling open and stretching beyond the wooden doors…

***

Leigh Kimmel prompted: The downpour had become so heavy you could barely see across parking lot. And then you glimpsed…

My prompt – The scheduling bot was the perfect assistant, until… – also went to Leigh this week. Check it out over at MOTE!

Art to the Rescue

This week, there’ll be something a little different, because I started off the new year with a baking-related hand injury.

I’m fine, and hopefully will be able to type more easily by next week. For now, it’s difficult to type for very long, or at the speeds I’m used to processing stories.

2024 PSA: Watch those blades when you’re scoring bread dough, kids.

Art to the rescue!

Cedar prompted me with: The lean cat wore two white stockings and a pair of long white gloves.

Here are a few Midjourney-generated takes on this concept. It’s sparking an Alice-in-Wonderland feel. I don’t need more story ideas right now, thanks!

I like our first contender. He’s a workingman done well, who lost his sons in the war, who’s learned to control his emotions and found success. I see shuttered pain in his anthropomorphic eyes, and dignity, and loneliness.

Our second contender has some character. A nervous twitch of the paw in his lap, artfully captured by the painter, while he twirls his whiskers. A habit that must be learned from humans, if Writing Cat’s reaction is anything to go by. He’s got something on his mind, or perhaps secrets. What’s going on in this dapper fellow’s life that’s made him so tense?

Our final contender doesn’t mess around. He earned his success with the eyes and manner of a direct leader. He’s even wearing badges of office, but he’s not smug about it – he’s using his portrait time to contemplate great matters of state, ready to shrug off the trappings and get back to work. And these diplomatic problems, my dear friends, are more dire that we could possibly know…

This was fun, but ideally, I’ll be back to storytelling with words next week. In the meantime, check out more over at MOTE – or play along if you so desire! – and see what Leigh Kimmel did with a glowing handful of fireflies.

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