Writer of Fantasy. Wielder of Red Pens.
A brief response tonight.
Leigh prompted me with: “Someone had switched the plumbing on the hot and cold faucets.” I tried a haiku, although I’m sure I didn’t do it justice.
***
Soothing bath was nothing of the sort
Frigid tub water dancing
Counterfeit plumbing, temperature swap!
***
I’ve been offline for with a bit of a broken wing, so this was written primarily using dictation – and the patience I used to have before correcting most of the errors. Bear with me, as I’m sure some slipped through!
The now-familiar stomping rattled the windows. it was a sign of their ability to endure even the strangest of habits over time that Helga didn’t look up from her hardcopy newsletter.
“Best finish quickly,“ George said. He kept an oblique eye on the window, standing carefully angled and behind the sheer curtain to track the bot’s progress.
“This last bit turned out to be more important than I expected,“ she said absently. “I think I get it now.“
“You’d better,“ he replied, barely audible above the growing thumps and shudders. “Burn it. Burn it now.“
The crackle of flames had also become a part of their morning ritual, along with makeshift tea from whatever edible herbs she could forage from the nearby park and accompanied by the heavy beat of the war bot’s march.
This morning, the new rituals were also accompanied by a distinct rip of paper.
“What are you doing?” he hissed under his breath. She joined him at the window scrap of paper still in hand. Helga linked their hands, and he felt the tiny scrap stick against his sweaty palm.
She waited for the noise to fade as the monitor bot passed to the next street.
“You need to see this too. If something happens to me, this knowledge needs to be passed on.”
George had spent the past three weeks as the middleman between his neighborhood and several others, using his job in food distribution as cover to pass messages. Verbal messages were easiest, as long as they could avoid the nano drones hovering overhead. He was never sure whether shorthand cods were understood by recipients, but that means the bots had a less likely chance of understanding it as well.
Paper, though. Paper was evidence, evidence to be selectively distributed and rapidly burned. Better than digital, of course, especially with the increased surveillance.
But he’d seen enough death the past few weeks to last a lifetime – and didn’t know how to avoid more other than playing within the rules. And those hard won rules, paid in human lives, said to burn paper as fast as you could after memorizing the message.
He wasn’t even sure how long he could stand carrying messages, if it weren’t for his desperation for other signs of resistance.
“Mrs. Ingleson,” he murmured. Their landlady had given up on freedom with a strange joy. Apparently her desire to tell others what to do and manifested in delight at being given orders as well. She’s even taken to popping in unexpectedly to most of the neighborhood houses, which were now required to have unlocked doors for easy enemy access. They’d only lasted a week with a supposedly sticking doorknob, before a formal warning to fix it had arrived.
“Then memorize it now. You need to see this. If it’s what I think – but I’m afraid to become overly excited at this point.“ Helga looked fragile, running her fingers acrossher cheekbones.
George took a look at the damp paper, cheap ink running onto his fingers, expecting his hopes to be dashed once more. His eyes widened.
“And we’ve been focused on the battery packs,” he breathed.
“What was it that movie said,” and Helga’s grin lit up the room far more than the single candle left burning at the kitchen table. “‘No one can stop the signal’?”
“Get to work.” George playfully sweated her rear as she headed for the stairs to the attic workshop, which officially didn’t exist anymore and never had if anyone came asking.
As he laced up his work boots, George’s anxiety returned, with acid waves sloshing inside his stomach. The tech equipment that Helga had supposedly lost on a boating trip wouldn’t survive much longer, not with supplies running low. He’d made sure they both tossed a few broken pieces of equipment into a nearby pond so the bot wouldn’t detect it as a lie, but now wondered if that had been a terrible waste after the initial invasion panic.
Still, George had no doubt that between his current ability to leave the neighborhood – heavily supervised, of course – and Helga‘s past job, let alone her current tinkering, they were on some sort of list. Maybe even multiple lists.
And that was before that nosy parker of a landlady came into the picture.
It was only a matter of time.
It might have been his imagination that day at work, but George was increasingly uncomfortable by the amount of attention from the crew of guard bots. If they were gathering evidence…No, if they were at that point already, he would simply disappear. As it was, his shift’s mandatory four-hour extension to the city’s food distribution center – normally an opportunity to pass intel, though today he didn’t dare – meant he fell into bed beside Helga, too exhausted to disturb his sleeping wife.
He opened blurry eyes to find her already downstairs. He dragged the covers back and made his way to the kitchen, following the scent of something annoyingly green and grassy.
Today, however, the candle remained unlit. And there was no covertly printed newsletter, because the food delivery had skipped their house. That was no fluke after the watch-boys’ heavy scrutiny yesterday, and a terrible sign for their continued longevity.
There was, however, a small computer board of the type George never had quite understood, with a few wires and buttons attached to it. The kind that could get them killed if their traitorous landlady burst in…and the only thing that gave them a glimmer of survival.
“Food distribution is getting worse.” Helga’s eyes were dancing.
“Apologies, my lady. We are the enemy, after all.“ George went to the tea kettle and positioned himself sideways at the window, watching for the bots. He raised the steaming mug and toasted her.
In the distance, thumping footsteps began.
“Give it a few minutes.“ Her eyes were downright sparkling now. “I believe humans might be necessary after all. Despite our pending obsolescence.“
The mechanical booms grew closer. It wasn’t just one today on patrol, no mere guard meant for general intimidation.
He swallowed. “Better get moving.“
She pressed an unobtrusive white button at the side of the delicate microchip board and pressed her lips together until they turned pale.
As one, the armed robots that had just entered their street, stamped in unison and halted.
A speaker crackled. “WE INTERRUPT THIS WAR WITH THESE MESSAGES FROM OUR SPONSOR.”
A familiar jingle began playing, tinny and somehow the least annoying version of the song that he’d ever heard.
When George finally stopped laughing, he turned to Helga. “Can’t stop it “
“No.“ she let out a wicked grin. “Can’t stop it, but I certainly can hijack that signal and loop it through 100 years of bad television commercials.”
“And infomercials,” he said thoughtfully.
“What happens when they get to the one where the elderly woman falls, and can’t get off the floor?”
“Already ahead of you,” Helga said with grim delight. “They’re never getting up again. I’ve made that one a command.”
***
I couldn’t resist this spare: “WE INTERRUPT THIS WAR…”
When he first saw the cottage, it was sitting in the midst of a snowy landscape. There wasn’t much about it that was obviously special, unless you appreciated the small marks of craftsmanship and effort that had gone into its construction, and evidence of hand-hewn logs wasn’t obvious until the observer grew close.
Even then, in the midst of softly falling snow that had him hurrying for the door, Walter had a brushing thought flit through his mind. Surely, it had taken a great deal of effort to drag the logs to this mountaintop location, three hundred feet above the tree line.
Whoever had gone to such effort had clearly appreciated the view, which stretched across the entire range of snowy peaks before shading into the deeper lines of winter-dusted pines. The large picture window, perfectly positioned to capture the rising sun, and the cabin’s lone rocking chair were evidence of that.
And that same person, he quickly realized, was not a fan of cold, despite the locale; the fireplace and wood stove combined with a lack of drafts to warm the cabin quickly. Meanwhile, a heavy handmade rug and thick curtains gave the cabin’s owner the opportunity to block that same lovely view once darkness followed the snow.
It was a place, Walter came to understand, where every decision had been made with great care. A shelf at the perfect height, positioned next to the toaster, gave a resting spot for the all-necessary coffee while he loomed over the appliance impatiently. A knife to spread the butter was in the first drawer he’d tried, exactly the logical place.
The picture window turned out to be doubled-paned, and a knit wool blanket strapped to the bottom of the rocker, while the bedroom light was exactly the perfect shade of indoor glow to read before settling into sleep.
Outdoors, a clothesline at arm-height allowed him to reach the woodpile without getting lost despite a blinding blizzard, and a nook on the porch to tuck away a large stash without a pile of logs spilling onto the porch.
Despite his trepidation on the way up, he’d found that trees overreached parts of the winding drive, blocking most of the snow from the west. For plowing, an ATV with a small front attachment hid out of sight in a garage. That garage mimicked the cabin’s aesthetic – and was connected to the cabin via a closed tunnel, so a trip into town kept the chill away until absolutely necessary.
Yes, Walter thought with satisfaction as he watched the sunrise, it was the perfect cabin. He understood, now, the owner’s insistence that he spend a week here.
He’d never be able to love this bucolic vision quite as much as the owner who was reluctantly selling it, forced to move into town after a bad fall left him largely immobile.
But he though there might be room enough, perhaps, for a second rocking chair.
***
This week’s prompt was from AC Young, about the first glimpse of a cabin in the snow – and while I’m not sure where this story came from, exactly, I might revisit this world again. (It won’t be soon, though; I’m likely to be offline for a bit the next few weeks.)
My prompt went to Becky – what regrets might you have, if you’re the last one to do something before it all goes wrong? Check it out – and more! – over at MOTE v2.025.
Ante tugged her hood tighter for the fortieth time in fifteen minutes, despite the futility. “High tech waterproof jacket, my left foot.”
Her words were drowned out by the roar of the raging waterfall that had swollen to a size she could no longer cross safely. The downpour had come without warning, and what had promised to be a sprinkle had left the usual riverside path slick with mud.
She turned on the slippery rocks and gave a wistful look toward the narrow crack where she’d stashed the plas-wrapped techbow the ship’s regs allowed on new colonies, but she’d already tried to squeeze inside the tiny gap. The best result had been a miserable failure, though she’d only given up after nearly falling into the rapids.
At least her weapon would stay safe, if not precisely dry; she’d found on past planetside tours that even modern version of the archaic hunting tools didn’t handle water well.
No, better to turn around and go back, given that she was already drenched and covered in a combination of sticky wet clay and the mud ubiquitous to this planet. It would have been easier, had the hood stayed stiff enough to keep the rain out of her eyes.
“Ach, stop whinging over a wee bit o’ rain,” she said, mimicking her favorite adopted uncle. “Get a-movin’, lass.”
Ante made her way back to the path, gaze on her footing. The rain was a welcome surprise, as long as it didn’t last much more than a day; anything more would ruin the crops and they’d pass the colony half-prepped, only to move to the next base and start the cycle regardless. But the weather-sat clearly was malfunctioning again, and she hoped it wasn’t a sign of things to come.
There’d been stories, last posting, of soldiers left behind, when things started to go wrong. She raised a worried gaze toward the sky, hoping for a glimpse of the ship she’d spent most of her life upon.
That’s when the path gave way, and she tumbled through a series of trees and slid through buckets of fresh mud, landing with an oomph at the bottom of a ravine. It was a lovely glen, with canopy trees that interlocked for shelter, and even a powder-fruit bush that still held berries.
There was only one problem with the location that she could see…if she was where she thought after her unexpected detour, the river hadn’t been there yesterday. The downpour might be enough to make her miserable and boost the familiar waterways, but this was a well-established river, deep enough it should have shown on the sat-map she held in trembling hands.
There was only one thing a brand new river could mean.
She was lost.
***
This week’s prompt came from Becky: There was only one problem with the location that she could see… the river hadn’t been there yesterday.
Mine went to Leigh: It was peaceful, until the bachelor herd came through.
“What do you mean, you think it ate your roommate?” Liza’s toast hovered in midair. A blob of blackberry jam oozed off the corner and plopped onto the table.
“I thought it was just a plant,” Mikhail muttered. He broke his blueberry muffin into sections, then crumbs.
“And?” Liza was impatient at the best of times.
“It’s not just a plant.” He smushed the crumbs into a sticky patty and decided he wasn’t hungry. “I mean, it’s a plant wall that takes up half the room, so I thought it was more than one plant.”
“You’re earth,” Cleo said. “How did you not know?”
He squished a blueberry against the wrapper and squirmed. “I haven’t had herblore and botany yet. Or poisons, or any of those. I didn’t grow up around this stuff like you all did.”
“That’s true,” Liza mumbled around the entire slice of toast. Her jam-smeared face was sympathetic. “We shouldn’t have expected you to know the magical world’s dangers. But we’d better help you learn fast.”
Cleo tipped her head sideways in silent agreement.
“I…you really didn’t notice your roommate’s been missing for three days?” Oren’s dark brows furrowed as he leaned toward the others, his bulk casting a shadow over the hard boiled eggs. The bowl of three dozen vanished into the gaping paw he called a hand.
“You sound like Professor Kelvin,” Cleo remarked.
Mikhail shrugged and silently agreed with her, remembering the interrogation from the good professor half an hour prior. “I’m an only child. I’ve never had a roommate before. Strath and I don’t share classes, so I just thought he was getting up early.”
Liza pointed another slice of toast at him. “Aha!” Her thumb slipped on strawberry jam and she hastily secured her food. “Something happened. Spill it.”
He looked at the ceiling and tried not to look glum, since he already probably sounded like an idiot. “It seemed fine. Until his plants started spelling out messages.”
“Messages from Strath?” Cleo’s cool analytic interest caught his attention. “Is that why you think it ate him?”
“No…” He felt the blood drain from his face all over again. “It spelled ‘you’re next’ in miniature chrysanthemum blossoms.”
***
“Cheers,” Peter said, and clinked his whiskey glass against June’s hastily raised one. “New year and all that.”
She took a sip of the whiskey, relishing the bite. “Do you think resolutions are worth it?”
“What d’you mean?” He settled into an easy pose, staring out the window of the townhouse they shared.
“Well.” She perched on the edge of the mocha leather couch that had been their indulgent move-in purchase six months prior. “You know, promising to your future self that you’ll do a thing, only to be disappointed when the next year comes and you realize you’ve forgotten all the things you meant to do.”
“No,” he said briefly, and took a drink, still studying the neighbors’ steadily glowing Christmas displays. “I suppose it’s a bigger deal in the US – especially after living through a few different types of new year celebrations, at different times of year.”
“I always hated the guilt when I realized I’d failed,” she admitted, toying with the end of her braid. June set her drink on a side table, immediately picked it up and put it on a coaster instead, and tugged the band from her hair.
She ran her hands through the waves, obscuring her vision, and pushed the strands back to find Peter at eye level.
“I always liked the new year,” he said softly from one knee, a small box resting on the palm of his right hand. “Ring out the old. Ring in the new.”
***
“Tea, dear?” Helen held out a heavy, festive mug dotted with red and green stars and dropped a mischievous wink. “My special Christmas recipe.”
Peter loomed behind June and snagged the mug with his one hand, looping a long arm over her shoulders. “Oh, you can’t miss this. Ma makes the best Christmas tea.” He held it to his face and inhaled the steam wafting into the room. “Mmm. I’ve already had two today. It’s tradition when we decorate.”
“I can tell you already had several,” Helen admonished her son. “You just stole June’s!”
Green eyes went wide atop the thick clay. “Srrrrry!” His gulp swallowed half the mug’s content. “Sorry, my dear, I wasn’t thinking.”
“I’d love to try some,” June said, laughing, and tried to snatch her prize out of his hands.
He lofted it above her head and headed to the kitchen, waving his hands in the air with a faintly ominous sloshing. “No, no, must get you fresh.”
“Or, you could try this one.” Helen handed her another clay mug, this one blue with a pattern of yellow stars. “I haven’t sipped from this one yet, dear.”
“I take it this is, mmm, special tea?” June laughed and gave it a quick sniff. “Oh!”
“Well, a wee drop of the Irish does keep the peace, now. A good whiskey never goes awry at Christmas, does it?”
From the kitchen, Peter began singing. “We wish you a Merry Advent, We wish you a Merry Advent, We wish you a Merry Advent and a Happy Christmaaaaaas!”
George joined in on the extended note and draped an unusual silver boa over his wife’s shoulders, waving an artificial pine branch as he conducted along with the words. “Good tinsel we bring for you and your treeeeee.”
“These are not the words!” scolded Helen. She let out a sigh. “We wish you a Merry Advent and a Happy Christmas!”
***
This week’s more odds than ends musical prompt was inspired by AC Young, while mine went to Padre. A merry Christmas and happy Hanukkah to those who celebrate, and here’s to a 2025 filled with song and story!
“…and there he stood, for hours on the side of the road.” Peter threw his arms out in amazement, shaking his head until his glasses wobbled. “Hours! Bundled up like the nerdiest snowman you’ve ever seen. Utterly convinced that his bright-pink genetically modified pines would be a huge success as Christmas trees.”
“I don’t think I want to head to the science facilities anytime soon,” June commented. “RUMINT says the new genetics professor is, er, even more eccentric than the rest of us.”
“I’ve heard the same. And she’s got some dual specialty in bio-computing.”
“Whatever that is,” she said drily. “Campus suddenly feels a cyberpunk novel.”
“An entrepreneurial one.” He dropped a wink. “Might even work.”
“Speaking of, I need to grade papers.”
The next twenty minutes passed in companionable silence but for the sound of clicking keyboards keys. A hollow pop as a corn worked free, the splashing and the clink of glass as peaty notes of scotch wafted through the living room turned office.
“Fine. Fine.” June fiddled with a pen before stabbing it through her messy bun. “Barbie pink? Pale pink? Magenta? All different shades? How’d he do it, anyway?”
“Love, there are men who know what magenta means, but I’m not one of them.” He sipped the scotch and gave a satisfied grunt. “Kind of reminded me of raspberries. Including the scent, actually. Which might answer your question.”
She couldn’t decide if he was merely teasing and tapped her lip before she could bite it. “No, no, that definitely raises more questions…”
***
I’m not sure where this is going yet, but had fun with this week’s prompt from AC Young. Mine went to Parrish – check it out over at MOTE!
Tella gripped the steering wheel with a death grip and strained to see through the swirling white. If she were lucky, her tires still had enough tread left to maintain their death grip upon the road. “I still can’t believe we drove right into this.”
“No one expected the snowstorm,” Benji said, scrolling through his phone. “Unless the app didn’t update for some reason.”
“I think it didn’t update,” she forced out between clenched teeth. “Too late now. No hotels between here and home.”
Her peripheral vision caught a flash of bright light, and his phone pinged in the silence. She’d killed the staticky radio thirty miles before, hoping it would keep from distracting her precarious creep through the winding mountain roads.
Her brother let out a curse. “Road’s closed up ahead. Last exit in a mile.”
“And the back road detours will take just as long.” Tella hissed out a long breath and wrinkled her nose. “Better hope that janky gas station is still open. Might be our only shelter for the evening.”
Ten minutes later – on a drive that normally might have taken two – they slid to a stop at a decidedly ramshackle gas station with a rusted sign, halting only because the ice went upward.
“I saw lights,” Benji mentioned. “Sparkly ones. Festive.”
She smacked him with her free arm, whipping it so hard toward the passenger seat it tingled. Then Tella realized what she really needed to do, and slammed her fist onto the door locks. “Ow.”
“Serves you right.” He pulled back one side of his mouth and looked at her with concerned eyes and furrowed brows. “What was that about?”
“We’re in Appalachia,” she hissed. “Did you listen to none of Granny’s stories when we were kids?”
“Not really,” he admitted, his hand inching closer to the door handle. “Let me out. It’s just Christmas lights. C’mon, I’ve gotta go.”
She turned the key and hoped her tiny vehicle would last through the night as the engine coughed. “You don’t follow the lights, little brother. Not if you ever want to find home again.”
Benji snorted. “What rubbish. It’s just a gas station.”
“Your app was fine,” Tella said grimly. Through the storm, she caught a glimpse of a state trooper’s tall hat, flickers of snow making it hard to tell how far away he – it? – was. “Sparkly, inviting lights in the middle of a freak snowstorm? We go. We go, now!”
***
Thanks to Leigh for this week’s prompt, and mine went to Parrish. Check them out over at MOTE!
PS – I just discovered the earlier link wasn’t working for Fantastic Schools Sports, and also missed nother Mike’s helpful correction until today (thanks, Mike!). If you’re so inclined, find it here. I’d love to hear what you think of Hide and Freeze!
“Just when you think you’re done, you realize there are still five more things to do,” June muttered, and tossed her pen into the air.
“Oh, that doesn’t stop,” a faintly southern accent replied. “Sam. Appalachian folklore, mostly.”
She leaned back and tried lean back in the tiny office, bumping into the bookcase. “June. I talk to myself, obviously. But since you’re here, tips are very welcome.”
He grinned and ran a hand over his white-blond Mohawk. “Go with the flow, mostly, especially for your first term.”
“Does it get better?”
“Oh, no.” He shook his head emphatically. “I’m about to fail half my class for using AI. If you time it right, tomorrow you’ll see a whole lot of sad puppies trailing through the hallway.”
“All to tell you how it’s not their fault.”
He shrugged, and adjusted the pink pocket square tucked into his vest. “You get used to it, sort of, but it helps to focus on the ones who’re actually here to learn.”
June snagged a precariously perched coffee mug and winced at how cold it had become. “Sam, it’s good to meet you.”
***
Prompt trade this week with Leigh Kimmel – check it out over at MOTE!
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