Fiona Grey Writes

The voice crackling through her comm was soft and husky with sleep. “You get in okay?”

“Sure.” Carlie tightened her grip on the phone, wishing it was her husband’s hand. “Sorry about waking you up.”

Laughter, then some rustling that made her hotel room feel all the colder. “I refuse to let something as dumb as a timezone defeat me!” More rustling, and a click as he turned on the lamp. “Besides, I wanted to know you were in safe. How was the trip?”

“Uneventful, other than the usual demanding soul wanting to trade seats for a free upgrade.” She bit her lip. “As usual, I couldn’t sleep, I’m exhausted, and now I’m wandering around the hotel room barefoot in the dark.”

“That’s my girl, amped up at midnight.”

She wandered toward the window. “Almost midnight for me, almost time to get up for you.”

“Best alarm clock ever. You should try to get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

Carlie tugged on the curtain and stared into the courtyard. Other than a few solar lights and a fountain glimmering under the moon, it was filled with shadows. Two diehards stood near the bar, men from the shapes. More fellow travelers, presumably finishing drinks and hoping to court a temporary oblivion until jet lag faded and a sense of normalcy approached. “Wish they’d been able to send someone else.”

“They sent the best.” Bryan yawned. “I miss you, but you’ve got this.”

She gasped. “Bry – baby – Bryan -” She leaned forward and smacked her head off the window. Jolting back, she dropped the curtain. “Bryan, I think I just saw someone in the courtyard get stabbed.“

“Carlie. Carlie. Listen to me.” His voice was wide awake and alert now. “What was that noise?”

“I hit my head.” She pressed her free hand to her aching head. “He just – the other man just fell to the ground.”

“You hit your head on the window? Looking out?”

She rubbed the spot. “Mmmhmm.”

“Hard enough I heard it through the phone. He might have too, then. Carlie, get your shoes and jacket on. Grab your keys. Charger if you can find it. Keep the lights off.”

She darted to the gym clothes she’d laid out in hopeful anticipation. Hopping awkwardly, she nearly fell trying to pull on sneakers. “Bry?”

“Can you look out the window without moving the curtain? Without showing yourself?”

She tilted her head. “Bry, I see a face. He’s looking up. Up at my window. He knows. He knows I saw.”

“Memorize that face, babe, as much as you can. Tell me about it.”

“It’s so dark.”

“Try.”

“Pale, pointed chin, dark heavy eyebrows.” She paused. “Dark clothes. Maybe a track suit? Silver at the wrist.”

“Which one?”

“Right.”

“That’s enough for now. Get out. Head for the stairs. Pull the fire alarm on your way. Be conspicuous. Make sure others see you. Talk to others, complain. Stay with the crowd. When the fire department shows up, shout for Gerrard. Tell him what you saw. No one else, all right? Only Gerrard. You can go with him.”

“Bry?” She fumbled the door’s safety latch. “How do you know all of this?”

His voice was gentle. “We’ll talk when I get there. Stay alive until then, baby.” Silence, and then an apologetic noise. “I have to make some calls. I’ll ring you soon. You can do this. Now run, baby. Keep moving. You know what to do. I love you.”

***
This week’s prompt was from Marissa Marinello: “I refuse to let something as dumb as a time zone defeat me!” Meanwhile, mine on apothecary advertisements went to Becky Jones. Find all of the Odd Prompt crew’s weekly offerings over at More Odds Than Ends, and don’t forget you can join in!

This prompt is a follow-on to Inheritance.

“Aunt Cecelia would have liked this,” I said softly, mostly to my teacup. Immediately uncomfortable saying that about a woman I’d barely known, I rose from the kitchen table and snagged empty plates with only toast crumbs and a bit of smeared egg.

Eggs I didn’t remember purchasing, eggs fresh and brown and blue, piled in a bowl rather than a carton from the store. I cleared my throat rather than think too hard about it. “You’re sure you had enough? We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”

“Of course,” Josiah answered. We’d spent the night talking in front of the fire and waiting for the thunder to clear, but he looked as energized as I felt despite the lack of sleep. “And – you know – your grand-aunt took her turn at storm cleanup, just like the rest of us. She was sturdy, and she knew her limits. The final few years, she took care of us all. Mostly feeding us, but also telling us when to stop and sit before we fell over.”

“It’s what neighbors do,” I ventured, facing the sink and its window – which showed a distinct lack of neighbors, given the distance and isolation. All the more reason to be neighborly.

“Ah, but she knew, somehow.”

I nodded, still gazing away, then turned to meet his eyes. It was time he stopped holding back, given that we’d spent the night together – even if it had been more up to propriety’s standards than that phrase sounded. “Seems like this house does, too.”

“Ah, well.” There was a bit of silence. “The land’s always been a bit uncanny here, or so the stories go.”

I nodded again. “Well, that’s a start.” Silence dragged, and he finished his coffee before I gave up and let out a sigh. “Fine, boots on and let’s go see how bad the damage is.”

The oak was just as massive as I remembered, for all that this place was new to me. Now shattered, the wood splintered from lightning and just barely twisted – in a way that looked like it’d been pushed aside – sufficient to avoid Josiah’s work truck.

Josiah had the barn’s chainsaw in hand soon enough, but after the first coughing attempt to start it, my eyes grew wide.

“Wait!”

Something had moved, and what I’d thought was a squirrel or a baby bird was all the more rare and unexpected for being neither.

The tiny wyvern huddled in the crook of the tree was doing its best to blend in with the leaves, still green but starting to wilt and turn their undersides up in the morning steam.

I held out a hand, and the wyvern cowered back. Josiah stepped behind me, not yet having spotted why I’d shouted.

A hiss alerted us to a second set of eyes, this pair aggressively golden and protective, slightly larger.

“Tell me, Josiah,” I said evenly. “Why might this uncanny land think it’s time to reveal the baby dragons living in the front yard, hmm?”

***

Thanks to Becky for the wyvern prompt! Mine went to Padre, on the one year anniversary.

Find more, over at MOTE!

What to do, what to write…well, with a prompt like this from TA Leederman – They dined upon the eight-course meal of her people, celebrating her ancestors’ tenacity in the face of adversity… as well their more creative approach to using any available protein sources under the sun – and this week’s visual inspiration involving this little adorable guy, what else could I possibly do but combine them?

Isn’t he cute? I want one. Nice job, Midjourney.

Gin clutched Mittkin’s hand – safely under the table, for propriety’s sake. Such a violation of norms would be overlooked during Mittkin’s first family visit, and since all future visits depended on him accepting their norms – well, that would suffice as sacrosanct agreement for their marriage pact to forgive occasional overt displays of affection from an off-worlder.

All he had to do was make it through an evening of high protocol without giving offense, prompting any omens, or being challenged to a duel.

Her fingers tightened on his.

Tonight, they dined upon the eight-course meal of her people, celebrating her ancestors’ tenacity in the face of adversity… as well their more creative approach to using any available protein sources under the sun. And beyond it, as it turned out, into the depths.

“I’m only allowed to help you so much,” she murmured. “It’s a test for me, too.”

He squeezed back. “I know. It’s all right.”

Mittkin’s fingers remained tense in hers, belying his confident words.

Across the table, her mother’s bright silver eyes caught hers, shining underneath the royal coronet. Gin nodded, deemed the brief touch about to provoke a frown of disapproval and released his hand. Folding her hands properly – above the table, this time, for all to see that she was as unarmed – or, at least, as anyone might expect from a scion of the House of Sluggat, who was never fully unarmed.

Mittkin might not live the night, but her ability to rule – and stay on planet – would be determined by his choices in unfamiliar situations, as his ethics were presumed to reflect hers.

Liveried servants approached, trays in hand and not-always-ceremonial daggers near their free hands, as tradition demanded.

“The first course,” a familiar voice intoned. Swirling amethyst and emerald irises met hers, a combination she’d only ever seen from her first bodyguard and primary tutor. Until she’d gone off planet for the independence test, Aknon had been by her side. He gave her a nod, steady as always, without the promise of false hope.

Aknon lifted the cloche from Mittkin’s plate first – again as tradition demanded, for the one challenging for the heir’s hand.

Gin thought she was already sick of traditions, but this one left her catching a gasp. Smothering her reaction, the young adult steeled her nerves and forced her racing pulse to slow.

On the plate, a teardrop-shaped sea slug with a single eye faced Mittkin, its gaze round and unblinking. Its pale orange body – the color of undersea royalty, the color of salvation during the colony’s dread years – undulated slightly with liquid sways.

Only the royal family – and Aknon – knew how much her beloved childhood companion Saffron meant to her. Not even Mittkin. She’d planned to introduce them after they’d survived the formal dinner.

No one from Sluggat would dare to harm one of the undersea, let alone the princess who’d been fostered with the colony’s mostly-human heir.

Long moments passed.

“I am afraid, my honored hosts,” Mittkin finally said quietly, “that this creature is unfamiliar to me. However, it shows signs of awareness, and intelligence. Despite this being a meal, I dare not eat it.”

Saffron’s eye ridges wiggled in what Gin knew to be a grin, and her head protuberance unrolled to extend a white pearl.

Mittkin took the offering. “It is a meal,” he said, addressing the sea slug. “Do I eat this instead, or is it symbolic?”

The golden-yellow appendage motioned toward his mouth.

He ate it, a shocked look covering his face momentarily. The flavor, she knew, changed depending on what the consumer needed at the moment. Perhaps his grandmother’s apricot pastries, the ones he’d tried and failed to recreate for her.

Her own cloche was lifted quietly away. As she accepted her own pearl, Gin held back tears of relief, railing internally with despair she dared not show. Mittkin had passed, for now. Had he dared to reach for fork and knife…Saffron’s poison spikes would have ended the test, though not the meal.

Now she could explain to Mittkin how her people had survived the early years. The alliance depended on secrecy, since no one had bothered to inform the Empire that the planet had held a sentient species already. Not after the colony had been abandoned for decades with limited supplies and no comms, until some ponce bureaucrat had arrived in tight pants claiming taxation rights. The bureaucrat sat in his palace on the hill, ignored and uninvited.

All for the best, she decided. The ponce would have failed, and then they’d have a slew of dead ambassadors to explain to the Empire.

She swallowed hard. Yes, thinking of bureaucracy was the way to get through this evening without breaking the regal expectations.

Traditionally, of course, the first course was the easiest.

***

Thanks for the prompt, TA Leederman! Mine went to AC Young.

Find more, over at More Odds Than Ends.

Copernicus IV had two moons. One was grey, the other was blue.

“The grey one is fine,” Mrs. Crumb told her children, passing a paw over her youngest’s ears. “Keep the grey moon to your left, and you’ll be fine. You won’t be spotted until you’re safely out of range. But avoid the blue. The blue moon foretells danger.”

Her latest brood nodded gravely, fuzzy heads bobbing in unison, tails twitching. Watching them, she knew with a pang deep in her heart that at least one would forget her warning within the week.

Two days later, it was their time for their first family picnic, a nighttime endeavor darting on swift silent feet beneath shining metal poles and into the kitchen. Moonlight shone gleaming through the window.

“Shh,” she hissed. “Father will lead the way. If Copernicus the Fourth comes, remember – keep the grey moon to your left!”

Each of her children lifted their left paw in confirmation that they’d heard the method.

Mrs. Crumb nuzzled whiskers with her husband, then touched each of their paws as they followed Mr. Crumb out the mousehole door into the midnight gloom. It was a precautionary farewell, but that her children need not have fear to overcome their excitement.

The path to the nook went well, silent padding and quick steps. She gave her children encouraging nods on the rare occasions when one looked back, and when her husband confirmed that it was time for a break underneath what their human benefactor called a “table.” His fur glistened with the effort of directing the group.

Shining pillars of metal gleamed dully, rising to wooden tops that blocked the sky. She never liked this part. It was too exposed, too hard to keep the children silent when there were morsels waiting – but they wouldn’t be enough to sustain the family as it grew, and they’d need to know the full path eventually.

A gesture, and the family moved on. She caught a glimpse of movement and froze. From above, in the window, watched two moons – one blind and grey, one glowing blue.

“Who knew that shopping malls could blow up?” Asher mused out loud, studying his laptop.

Sarah stilled. “Um, terrorists?” She set down the frozen water bottle carefully, cautious of the inevitable water ring from its condensation as it melted enough to drink. “Mind if I ask why you’re asking?”

He twitched from his seat on the couch. “Oh. No plans. Nothing nefarious. Not even for a book plot, like that author you like. It’s just, that earthquake in Japan that caused one to basically explode.”

She perched against the opposite end of the couch, stretching her feet out to meet his hip with wiggling toes. “As delighted as I am to know you’re not planning any unexpected and evil career changes, that does bring up some interesting architectural considerations for the colony.”

“Oh?” Asher set his computer aside. “Collapsible on demand? We already have inflatables.”

“Broken down on demand, with the components reused for the next project. We’d need to update the software to make it work, though.”

Shrugging, Sarah pulled her comm out and sent herself a note, then flipped around and snuggled into her shoulder. “Tomorrow’s project. I’m on it.”

***

This week’s prompt was awfully real, from nother Mike! Mine went to AC Young. Check out these and more, over at More Odds Than Ends.

Edie was at the kitchen sink when he trudged in from the fields, covered in water and muttering at suds and spoons as if they’d personally offended her.

Jay tread with as much caution as his work boots would allow, before he wrangled their paint-splattered forms off his stocking feet. “Hello, dear. Would you like me to make dinner tonight?”

No one ever said yes to his cooking, but he could wrangle a sandwich with the best of the ranch hands. Still, it was usually enough to make Edie laugh, usually before shooing him away with the flick of a plaid dish towel.

Tonight…his wife barely snorted.

“Tanner again?”

She finally turned to face him, leaning against the sink despite the pooled water. “Tanner again indeed.” Her face was worn. “The school called. Again.”

He sighed, not bothering to ask why. “A lesson is needed.”

She reached for him, and he eased within reach to let her rest against his shoulder. “He won’t listen to you. Not these days, not about this.”

He nodded, chin bumping her head gently as dampness soaked into his clothes. “Not my son, as much as I’d like him to become so officially. Which might help, if he gets past this idea to seek his birth father.”

“Father.” Her laugh was bitter, and her grip around his waist tightened. “Biological donor, I suppose. Perhaps the answer is to let him meet the bastard after all.”

Her rigid tension suggested the reluctant words were, at best, a lie. “As much as that may be, perhaps it’s best if we don’t advertise your location to someone who did that much damage to you, body and soul. I’ll not have you in danger that can be prevented.”

He’d been encouraging her restored confidence since she’d first walked onto his ranch and told him with determination and a baby on her hip that she needed a job. She’d told him years later that she’d not been determined but merely desperate. It didn’t matter; he’d been smitten with her quiet fire and quietly raged against the man who’d tried to smother it instead.

“Only thing I can think of is to have a word with the bard,” Jay mused. “He still listens to the skald.”

Later that evening, the campfire glow illuminated ranch hands and bard alike, while Jay held Edie hopeful in the shadows, out of obvious observation.

A sullen teen’s dirty blond head perked up as Viktor began his evening’s chant. “Let me tell of of when Phaëton’s chariot burned away the world…”

***

Prompt trade with and an interesting one this week from Parrish Baker! I might have to revisit this world of mixed mythology sometime. Find more, over at MOTE.

There was nothing like a few hours of flight time to clear one’s mind, Paige decided. Oh, it might have been old fashioned, especially given her age, but she’d long ago decided to follow her grandmother’s example.

Mimi had always told her to enjoy the journey, not just the destination. She’d regaled her grandchildren with tales of adventure – a riverboat in Egypt, a rickety plane that bumped rather than landed in India, a donkey ride to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. And Paige’s favorite, begging for the retelling until her cousins were wholeheartedly sick and wandered off, a cross-country convertible road trip reminiscent of spicy pine and golden wheat, toasted by baking sun.

So despite the ever-present need to stay online that her friends felt – or that her boss encouraged, for that matter – Paige found that a few hours away from the internet was a blessing in disguise. All the better if those hours were spent anticipating the destination.

A few people even wanted to share their stories with her – although she’d had to cajole the veteran on an honor flight into his, since he hadn’t believed she’d be interested in the Battle of the Bulge. She loved it all, especially capturing those secondhand stories, locking them into memory before they were lost.

No, no headphones, e-readers, or extra battery chargers for her; Paige had vowed to continue Mimi’s traditions of experiencing travel and sharing her stories both. With Mimi for now, on visits to her senior living apartment, so that someone would treat her as an adult who’d once had adventures of her own besides the day’s pudding. Later, perhaps – she hoped – her own children and grandchildren.

She’d spent the airport lounge watching flights, creating fanciful about the weary passengers arriving and the destinations awaiting others. That man was rushing off to save his marriage, that businesswoman with the snappy heels was a high-powered real estate lawyer, that family was overprepared for their first vacation since having children. This man was a fugitive, those two men following were secret agents, watching him to lead them to the crime boss…

She loved it all. Paige hadn’t even brought a physical book for this flight, since it was only three hours.

The familiar adrenaline grew with every confident step down the gangway. For once, no one was ahead of her, although the crew was playing some mildly annoying music.

Only…as she crossed into the jet itself, Paige jerked to a halt by the – dance? that took place in the aisle. And realized the music she’d heard wasn’t from the ground crew taking bags after all.

The flight attendant greeted her with tight lips that only parted to take a mild painkiller. “Welcome to the flight,” the woman rasped. “As you can see, we have a few soccer fans on board. Or football, if you prefer.”

Oh, no. She’d thought the tournament was already over.

The cacophony was incredible. Rows eight through twelve were chanting, while first class tossed items at each other, imitating their favorite players and plays. Far away – row 21, her ultimate destination – she could see that her window seat had already been taken, several people were carrying open beers, and three different songs were competing.

And that was before she considered the visual noise, where wrong color sparked a friendly rivalry and bright primaries assaulted her eyes…

She stared at the people around her. Oh, this was going to be an irritating flight! But what a story it would be for Mimi!

***
Thanks for the prompt, Becky! Mine went to Marissa – check them out, over at MOTE!

“Ma, what’s the surface like?”

Gina chucked her son’s chin gently. “Why? And welcome home.”

He turned away and shrugged, and kicked off his sneakers, the laces obligingly sliding open. White and blue canvas tumbled, landing underneath the green leaves and shining purple lights from the hydroponic rubber tree stand. A quiet beep, a whir, and Andrew’s shoes vanished quietly into the depths of the robot that would clean, straighten, and return them to the proper container.

“School,” he said, and reached up to the table for the apple slices. He dipped one in peanut butter and shoved it entirely into his mouth. “Praazzet.”

“Manners,” Gina chided. “What was that?”

Andrew swallowed. “Project.”

“On the colony’s surface?” She kept her voice moderated, her face turned away, stirring the lightly seasoned pot of beans and meat as if it were not a poor imitation of the chili she’d grown up knowing on Earth. The last thing she wanted was to give her hard-won son, one of the firstborn from this colony, any additional interest in the quietly forbidden.

If their ship hadn’t had mechanical diggers…they’d thought the surface so promising, from a distance, not realizing the sensors reported records were from the most favorable climate this hellish rock had known in a century.

“Gotta do an, an innerview,” Andrew interrupted her musings. “On when the colony began.”

“Interview,” Simon corrected, from the doorway. Dust poofed from his knees as he pressed the tabs to release his even dustier boots. “Hello, my dears.”

The shoe-bot beeped in what she suspected was derision, then let out a whir that sounded suspiciously like a sigh.

Simon padded toward her and leaned in for a kiss, nodding briefly at the worry in her eyes. “You know what I remember most? The heat was oppressive, but the cold was even worse.”

“I don’t understand.” Andrew climbed onto the chair, one hand holding an apple slice. The other held his recorder.

Simon settled in and snagged an apple slice of his own. “Underground, we have mostly the same temperature. Above ground, we had extremes. The days were very hot and the nights were very cold.”

“Sounds uncomfortable,” Andrew said, and turned the recorder off. He snagged another apple slice and slid to the floor. “I’m gonna go play stormies.”

Gina breathed a sigh of relief.

***

This week’s prompt was from Becky on weather swaps – mine on goodbyes went to nother Mike. Find more over at MOTE!

Charlie brandished the dagger she was ostensibly sharpening into the air.

Her new barracks roommate dodged the stray utensil easily – if somewhat oddly – with a backbend that flopped bonelessly onto her bunk.

“This calendar of yours,” Charlie proclaimed. “It’s annoying.”

Lisse shrugged with an enviable casualness. “You asked when my birthing day was.”

“The answer was supposed to make sense,” she grumbled, and tossed the knife absentmindedly toward the target they shared across the room. It punctuated her words with a solid thunk.

“It makes perfect sense,” Lisse retorted. “The Rastelli calendar, named after our honored circus forefathers” — she paused to tap her nose three times in reverence — celebrated their interplanetary colony’s delight in the sun after so long in space. They landed on the darkest day of the year, after years in space.”

“It counts up,” Charlie snapped. “And then down. At least your midyear is properly in the middle.”

Lisse propped her head up with one hand and twirled a strand of curly dark hair. “Well, sometimes.”

Charlie threw her hands in the air, leaned over the bottom bunk, and stuck out her tongue.

“If that’s the worst argument we have,” Lisse said, “then I think we’ll get along splendidly. Show me that knife-throwing trick?”

***

A weak attempt to answer Leah Kimmel’s prompt about the Rastelli calendar (a very interesting idea!) after running short on time. My prompt went to nother Mike – check more out over at MOTE.

“Mikhail?” Liza’s question held a combination of uncertainty, laughter and concern.

Mostly laughter, Mikhail decided. And he probably deserved it, even if all he wanted was a hot meat pie and a shower. Or even a cold meat pie and a shower. Mostly the shower, really, as much as any 12-year-old boy could want one. “The magical zoology guest lecture didn’t go well.”

“I’ll say.” She gave into her laughter, red hair bright in the setting sun. Behind her, Lefty and George moved closer from where they floated over her shoulders, the antique metal fire extinguishers ready for flying sparks.

“I know,” he said wearily. “Look, I’ll tell you all later.”

She snorted, and Lefty poofed a blast of white foam into the air. “Hey. Don’t be nervy. And c’mon. You look like you’ll fall asleep as soon as I leave you alone.”

“Fine.” Sighing, he decided she might follow him into the boy’s dorm if he didn’t spill. “I’ll tell you all about it if you come with me to sneak a late dinner.”

“Better hope Cook doesn’t see you,” she murmured, giggles still bubbling through her words. “What are you, covered in chalk?”

“This is on you,” he retorted. “I wanted to clean up first.”

They headed for the basement hall. Any Wizurg Academy student could raid the after-hours stores. Snacks were held in stasis by Cook’s spell, even though it rarely lasted more than a week. Some of those snacks were more substantial than others.

Mikhail held up his hand to the door scanner, letting the trailing arms of magic recognize his right to access the magical pantry. The scanner always reminded him of his mother’s garden – purple vines, sentient and glowing – which apparently also had a sense of smell. The vines recoiled.

Liza burst out laughing. “Go wash your hands next door. You look like you’re covered in chalk. I’ll get whatever you want.”

“Yeah! Pork pie. Cook’s pie is the best.” He darted into the room next door and trotted toward the sink. An abandoned sweatshirt rested on a nearby bench, and he snagged it without remorse, tossing his ruined t-shirt into the trash. The laundry pods would return it to its rightful owner, and it seemed justified.

The water, however, was brilliantly cold, zapping his fatigue.

“Got you a root beer float, too,” Liza called from the hallway. “Figured you needed it.”

“Thanks,” he said gratefully, snagging the pie and glass bottle.

They settled onto stools, his crackling with a layer of protective newspaper that appeared like – well, kitchen magic. “Now spill. Tell me about the sparkles.”

He choked. “Snarkles, not sparkles. They look kind of like turkeys, but with the extendable neck of a heron. They can lead you to water.”

“Or opals,” Liza added, and shrugged at his look. “Fire stone. It was in the advert. I remember the important stuff. Like fire.”

“Well, the famous scientist Dr. Tippi Hedron was bringing her whole flock, all 300 of the Thermopylae guardians’ descendants. And they’ve institutional herd memory, so they could reenact the actual battle for us. Which would have been cool.”

“So what happened?”

“Ahchoo.”

“Um…gesundheit?”

“No, I mean, she sneezed. Mid-spell. Apparently she’s also allergic to feathers.”

Liza stared, her mouth open, freckles shining in the odd mushroom lights that filled the kitchen.

Mihail shrugged, and stuffed the last of the pastry into his mouth. “And then the yard was filled with birds and Tippi Hedron was nowhere to be found. So we chased the birds, trying to trap them. And maybe find her.”

“Did it work?”

“Turns out, they can go invisible, and they thought it was a game. Snarkles are really smart. Otherwise, they’d have reenacted the battle and we’d never have made it back into the castle.” His lips drifted into a smile. “I’ve got to look into them more sometime.”

She smacked the counter. “And Tippi Lockingstocks or whatever?”

“Huh?” His dreamy thoughts of taking over the flock vanished into confusion. “Oh, yeah, no idea. She’s gone. Vanished. And the birds took off, all at once, maybe to follow. But it’d be so cool if they came back. You think maybe for next month’s session instead?”

“And the chalk came from…” Liza looked at him with growing horror. “The birds? Don’t birds poop when they take flight?” Her words squeaked. Lefty winced, banging into George with a clang. “And I had to tell you to wash your hands?”

***

Thanks to Becky for the prompt about Tippi Hedron! Mine went to TA Leederman this week. Check out the bloodwitch inspiration (and much more) over at MOTE!