Fiona Grey Writes

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!

“Another one, Aaron?”

He nodded to his wife, whose bright red curls threatened to escape her kerchief. The blacksmith coated a stray curl with a thin layer of soot. His voice was smoke and gravel – when little he spoke, which he did now. “Best hide this.”

Ellen blanched, and hastily hid her hair before returning to dole out soup and fresh bread. “Lord Paramount is on his way?”

He settled into the sturdy wooden chair, that he and Pa had made with their own hands. Better days, those, and memories that made him reluctant to take risks.

“Aye. Baltarin was the runner this time.”

She gasped, and pulled back, ladle still in hand. The lanky youngster had more often than not been the third at their table, taking the place of the children they’d dared not long for yet.

This morning, he’d seen a dark shape running over the top of the hill, not realizing it was his apprentice in the gloom. He’d wished him well; another one to freedom. He hoped it would be enough, before it was too late.

Now…now, Aaron held hope, despite the scrutiny he’d be under for the loss of a skilled worker. Baltarin had the skills to get a message through. Surely there would be accountability.

“Perhaps you should take your workbasket to your mother’s. Maybe stay a while.”

Ellen was already pulling her cloak – the ugliest fabric she could find, in an unfortunate shade that flattered her not at all, just as most women in this village had begun to do when the young Lord Paramount had taken over for his aged father. With the help of a dagger, as the rumor went, and the rumor had come from a young girl who’d be scarred for life after he’d discarded her.

Shoveling stew into his mouth rapidly, he pointed with his wooden spoon to items that might suggest dissent or a surfeit of prosperity. One of their few books, the heirloom jewelry that she’d brought to their bonding, and the dagger he’d made for himself – and never mind that he spent half his time at the smithy forging weapons for the keep when he ought to be supplying villagers with nails and horseshoes. Never mind that daggers were right useful. Those weren’t meant for the likes of him, or so he thought the Younger would believe.

The small basket was nearly full by the time he’d thought of the dagger, and it was still in her hands when the door burst open.

Aaron saw only fragments. One moment, a gleam of triumph as the Younger swaggered toward his young wife. The next, blood soaked Ellen’s cloak, dripped from her hands, the Younger on the floor. And the chair, the one his father had so carefully taught him to craft, the last woodworking piece before he’d started swinging a hammer, in his hands to smash the guard’s face before the man could finish lunging for Ellen.

He closed the door, steadied his shaking wife into their remaining chair, and took the dagger carefully from her trembling fingers. “Eat,” Aaron said, wiping her hands with a stray towel. “Though you may not want to. I’ll finish the packing.”

“Packing?”

“We leave tonight,” he said firmly. “And we’ll stop by the forge on the way. Best pack my good hammer.”

***

Thanks to Parrish for the escapee prompt this week! Mine on ending the war went to Marissa, and a belated welcome to MOTE as well. 🙂

One minute, with the countdown obvious and unavoidable. I’d been grateful the cameras were out of my face for the first time in days. They’d focused on my more photogenic neighbor, who was conveniently having histrionics entirely at odds to having signed up for this gig voluntarily. The show’s host had given me that awful smirk, the one that plainly took its time scraping the clothes away to see the concealed body, and for once I risked letting my fangs flash as I bared my teeth at him.

I had an advantage, and it was too late to pull me from the competition now. When I won, perhaps he’d think twice about the casual, smarmy arm around the waist, that intimate hand on the small of the back that he always tried with the female winners, like a strange consolation prize for survival. They didn’t have a genetic advantage that let them fight back, these ones with death and remorse in their gaze.

The ones whose eyes still held the same desperation that had driven them to apply for the show, or rather, its prizes. Those few that had survived, and were pretty enough for him to show off, always the same as the ones who’d accepted, somehow, that this sleazy host still held more power than they did. They’d grasped for limited status with wild hands for the brief moment before vanishing into obscure poverty, instead flaunting cattiness to lord it over the backdoor floozies, the girls lurking and desperate for a glimpse of fame and fortune, not quite good enough to last on camera.

My mother had been one of those, once, and my father – the gift-granter of my beloved fangs, once I’d stopped poking my tongue open as a child – unknown, and yet somehow famous.

And then – a flash of light, a wave of dizziness, and the endless countdown was finally over. We’d arrived, instantaneously and supposedly in orbit over a different planet, minus the sleazebag and glitter and shine. I hadn’t asked how the ship teleportation technology worked, or even if it was real, just whether we’d be different when we arrived.

Helluva way to colonize the galaxy, if you ask me. Especially when you can only get to where you’ve been before with that teleportation trick. Drop folks on a planet, let them battle it out, scour the land and return the winner. It left the bodies behind, unburied for the local predators. Which was about to include me.

The seats dropped without our intervention, each pod designed to break apart when the parachute snapped. We were told to expect a rough time through atmo, but the air battered the journey.

A pod shattered onto a mountainside, and I passed it, jerking my body to the left and dragging the chute away from the danger zone. One less competitor, though a deep instinct mourned the sheer bad luck.

I landed with flexed knees, contemplative distraction, and straight into a mud puddle filled with octagonal hailstones. Bruised, I threw one at the film drone. At least, I think I did. Could have been an alien bird, for all I could tell; the pod had shielded the torrential downpour until the last moments.

My previously hysterical neighbor landed in some sort of tree nearby, neck snapped in the cords, face a blur of purple that matched her hair behind the curtain of water.

It was only then that I realized fangs alone might not be sufficient to survive the next 48 hours.

***

This week’s prompt was from Becky, though I took it primarily as inspiration: The epic thunderstorm came out of nowhere right as the contestants teleported onto the field.

Mine went to Leigh Kimmel: She had a literal bee in her bonnet, and it paid its rent in honey.

See them all, and play along, over at MOTE!