Author: fionagreywrites (Page 27 of 36)

Capturing Joy

March 21, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“Don’t mind Katarina,” Serena said, and gave him a welcoming hug. She pulled back and patted her white bun with one hand. “She darts in and out of here so fast, it’s hard to keep track of her. I gave her free rein a long time ago. You’ll meet her soon enough, when she’s ready.”

Carl nodded and smiled, trying to conceal his breaking heart. When Dad had called, he hadn’t believed his grandmother had been as bad as the stories. Surely it had only been a single bad day. She’d been fine when he’d seen her a few months ago, independent and fierce as always, for all that she was barely five feet tall.

He’d texted his boss that he needed time off and hadn’t waited for approval. The six-hour drive always felt vaguely apocalyptic to him. Sure, it had something to do with Chicago drivers’ Mad Max tendencies, definitely. But when he hit the windmill farms, enormous towers symmetrically spaced in empty green fields like mechanical plants, rotors moving slow, with no one else in sight – that was when the cognitive dissonance hit.

He hadn’t quite shaken off the sense of dystopia by the time he’d hit grandmother Serena’s tiny house, set back among the trees and accessible only by a narrow, winding road. Better to think of giant mechanical trees than to think about his grandmother forced into some home, unable to care for herself any longer.

Unable to take pride in her self-sufficiency. Unable to choose what she did, and when. Under someone else’s control. She’d wither away and die from the indignity, assuming she even understood what was happening.

Carl clung to hope as he hung up his jacket, shedding rain droplets onto the polished wooden floor. The cottage was immaculate, as always, with walls covered with photographs. He breathed deep of the familiar lavender and lemon polish, gazing around. “Who’s Katarina?”

Serena had disappeared into the kitchen, and came back with a spoon in hand. “Your father called you, didn’t he? Always convinced I’m losing my marbles.”

He coughed, startled. It loosened his tongue. “Well, have you?”

She pointed the spoon at him and gave him a look.

He stepped back hastily and bumped the door. Carl raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, yes, he called.”

“Stay a few days with your gran,” she said, and lowered the spoon. She turned back to the stove, disappearing out of sight. “You’ll meet her soon enough, mayhap. Katarina is real. Always has been. I’d always hoped you’d meet her sooner, but she comes when and to whom she will.”

Carl started to follow the new scent of vanilla and sugar the spoon had promised, but his eye caught on a photograph. This one had a simple black wooden frame. Didn’t matter how often he came, she’d always put something new up. Serena always said the scenery needed to change frequently to keep from getting bored.

Would they let her put up this many photographs in assisted living? Would a kind nurse help her change out the photos in each frame and add more until the wall was a mural of captured smiles and poses? Would they realize she’d been a professional photographer, or assume dementia when the people in the pictures were so varied?

He blinked back tears. Some of his favorite memories were going out with his gran on walks just to explore. He’d had a small camera appropriate for child-sized hands and clumsiness, but he’d delighted in finding items or events, whether a budding spring flower or girls laughing at their first double dutch jump rope success.

Capture the joy, she’d always said, and he’d dutifully raise the camera to his eye and try his best.

He looked closer at the image that had caught his eye. An unfamiliar little girl of five or so, just a blur of dark hair and an impish smile. The black and white photograph must have been treated to highlight her red jacket. The trend seemed awfully modern for his grandmother.

Carl leaned in, his eye caught by an anachronism. The little girl looked like she was wearing modern sneakers with her old-fashioned school uniform. Movement flagged his attention.

The little girl winked at him.

He gasped. Stumbling down the hallway, he focused on the scene in front of him. Grandma making cookies was only surpassed in normalcy by Grandma taking photographs.

“She’ll be here soon,” Serena said from where she spooned cookie dough onto a tray. “Always takes her a while to transit out of that world and back into ours.”

“Whaaa?” Carl croaked with great eloquence.

She looked up at him with a sharp eye. “You didn’t think I’d let you stay a lawyer forever, did you? My time is short in this world, boyo, and you’re my heir.”

Silence filled the sunny kitchen, gleaming off well-polished wood. He stood there with his mouth open, the padded kitchen chairs too far away to catch him if he fell over.

Serena put the tray in the oven and set a timer. She turned around, wiping her hands on a towel. “You didn’t think I was a normal photographer, did you?”

He hiccupped. Footsteps sounded behind him, light and quick. Child-sized noises.

“Best get to training or the power will go wild when it hits you. I bet you’ve forgotten all I taught you as a boy.”

***

On this week’s odd prompt exchange, mine went to ‘nother Mike: “She closed her eyes, and saw nothing but sparkles.” I can’t wait to see what he does with it.

In return, Leigh Kimmel challenged me with the following: “On the wall is an old-fashioned photograph of a little girl in a red jacket. You look closer and realize that the girl is wearing modern sneakers.” This was a fun one – thanks, Leigh!

Want to join in? Check out More Odds Than Ends!

Limited Evil

March 20, 2021 / fionagreywrites

I’m not a huge podcast fan, because I can read far faster than I can write. More than a few minutes, and I stop paying attention and wander off in my head.

That means I really like Writing Excuses, because their tagline is “Fifteen minutes long, because you’re in a hurry, and we’re not that smart.”

Don’t let that scare you off. They add plenty to the conversation, in pithy, bite-sized chunks. Which happens to be the perfect amount of time for meal prep. So I’m working my way through the archives, stopping on whatever catches my attention.

Chicken pot pie lending itself to a longer prep time, yesterday I listened to a twofer on deliberate discomfort that was exceptionally thought provoking. It touched on sexism, racism, cultural adaptation to a new land, writing sex scenes, swearing, and the exceptionally uncomfortable experience of writing live while rabid fans watch with foaming – wait, that might not quite have been exactly as described.

Everyone has limits on what they’re comfortable reading. Some history books give me issues – World War II in particular, as it should. After a few memorable episodes, The Guy requested I refrain from binge-reading certain historical time periods. Might’ve been something about whacking him with a pillow at two AM. Might’ve been something about a sleepless wife being exceptionally grumpy.

I still read history regardless, just more slowly and interspersed with neural fluff and brain candy. Urban fantasy, space opera, and the occasional foray into romance buys the squishy wetware inside my skull additional processing time without getting caught in a synaptic downward spiral.

But then there’s being uncomfortable when writing, and the podcasts go into a number of different examples. Research and personal experiences can inform and add realism, but the vast majority of research on other topics doesn’t make it into a story. I’m not writing nonfiction here, so how much is too much before turning off readers?

There’s a book I started a couple years ago, inspired by nightmares and continued by TSA’s special brand of airport fun. When you have 15 hours of travel time, what else to do but start typing? I only work on this tale when I’m in an exceptionally bad mood.

In a moment of serious snark, I even subtitled this tale The Book of Torturing Characters for Fun and Potential Profit.

And that story may never make it into the light of day, because I can’t decide if it crosses a line or bares my soul more than I’m comfortable exposing to the world. Probably both. I put the protagonist through some serious hell, and she’s not the only one in that book.

This world has enough evil in it without adding to it. And yet – without those experiences, the characters are bland and boring, without depth or growth or development.

Looking back, I drew strength from characters in books as a kid, learning lessons from stories without having to experience full pain. There’s value in that, more than I’d ever imagined as a young reader. Stories told well can be a stepping stone to substitute for real experiences, or to have an expectation of what might happen before plunging blindly into the unknown.

As a writer, it’s about knowing your personal redlines, the story that needs to be told, and your characters. These particular characters won’t get to a happy ever after without first experiencing significant pain.

As for sharing it with the world, well. Maybe later.

Check out Writing Excuses‘ podcasts on deliberate discomfort here (part I) and here (part II).

Zoo Day

March 13, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“Fishcicles,” Anna insisted. Her jaw elevated, a stubborn point hovering above her collar and scarf. Dark eyebrows furrowed into a glare.

Brad sighed and spread his hands flat on the rock wall surrounding the polar bear enclosure. Being on the receiving end of Anna’s glares usually led to worse later. “I’m telling you, fishcicles are not a thing.”

She poked him in the side with a bony finger. “They totally are. It’s an animal enrichment thing. Keeps them from getting bored. They freeze a bunch of fish and give it to the bears. Snack and play all in one. What else would you call it besides a fishcicle?”

“They freeze a lot of things around here,” he muttered. The rock was freezing, just like the rest of him. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “How about we head into the aviary for a while and warm up?”

“You do what you want,” she loftily informed him. “I’m going to see the giraffes.”

He sighed and followed his girlfriend. The path leading to the giraffes was covered in familiar fake hoofprints and bird tracks. Enormous pawprints led to the left, where the big cats prowled behind glass enclosures.

Or did, when it wasn’t well below freezing. Today the cats were huddled into furry communal piles, with no interest in entertaining visitors who should be prey.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the zoo. He had a membership. There was something new every time, like the escaped flamingo flock or the rhino’s sneezing fit. He just liked it better when it was warm. When fishcicles weren’t a consideration, and ice cream dripped onto his hands, making Anna laugh and give him a sticky-sweet kiss.

Brad caught up to her at the edge of the enclosure. Once they’d seen the giraffes racing in a circle, the seven-foot baby ungainly as it tried to keep up with the longer legs of its herdmates. Today, only a lone giraffe awaited, outstretched head nuzzling sadly at bare branches. Anna had stopped to watch, her chin tucked back into her woolen scarf.

“You realize there are about six other people here at the whole zoo, and they’re all employees?” He flinched at her expression and backed up a step. “I just meant that they aren’t letting people feed the giraffes today.”

“You can if you have any food,” a deep voice said from above his head. “Those crackers the zoo employees sell to gullible tourists are pretty boring. You got any Doritos?”

Anna squeaked. “Did you hear that?”

“I’m pretty sure the giraffe just talked.” Brad felt his eyes burn in the cold air.

“I’ve got a name, you know.” The knobby head tilted, and those giant brown eyes looked annoyed. “The zookeepers call me Zippy, but Mom calls me Zeke.”

“Hi, Zeke.” Anna’s faint voice floated onto the air. “I don’t have any Doritos. Sorry.”

The creature sighed. “That’s all right. You probably didn’t think I liked them. Let me tell you, that cheese dust is amazing.”

“Or that you could talk,” Brad blurted. He wasn’t convinced this wasn’t a frozen hallucination.

The giraffe bent all the way down to look him in the eye. “There’s a lot you probably don’t know about us. Well, let me tell you…”

***

Becky Jones and I traded animal-themed Odd Prompts this week. I had fun with talking giraffes, and tossed aeronautical rabbits her way.

Timelines & Deadlines

March 8, 2021 / fionagreywrites

I’ve been dragging on a few items, for a number of reasons. Plot problems that I finally got unstuck on. Unmotivated after long days. Distracted by the garbage disposal leaking black sludge everywhere. That really good series I just discovered on KU. You know – life.

But I’ve got a couple anthologies that I want to put in for (and one I was accepted into, yay!), and some short deadlines. That puts a whomping push on book two, which is giving me more fits than book three, or the short story that comes in between them.

Or the other short stories that won’t let my brain go.

And if I’m not accepted, the external pressure’s off, but I’ll still work on the stories to release at a later date.

It’s not a bad thing, to have goals. We’ll see how far I can get. If nothing else, this should up my daily wordcount and rebuild the habit of writing. I’ve gotten sloppy. Even modest goals can help.

The Shadow

March 7, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“The Shadow President laid his plans with care.” This one from AC Young was an interesting challenge. I prefer to avoid politics as much as one can these days, so the obvious answer is out. Similarly, while I enjoy reading some alternative/historical universes, I’m not particularly attracted to creating them. Done well, they’re great; done poorly, not so much.

But there are other types of presidents, and perhaps one of their shadows could wander off and have adventures on its own, J.M. Barrie style?

Which led to – I am not kidding – conversations about space assassins. The guild needs a president, right? What about scouting organizations? HOAs? (Please tell me we won’t export those to space.)

And that led to this.

***

“Those crows are hanging around your yard a lot.” The sharp, nasally voice interrupted George’s reading. “You’d better not be hanging up birdfeeders again.”

He put down his book with a sigh and looked over at the post-and-rail fence that had been perfectly adequate until his new neighbor moved in. Why, he’d even had conversations at the fence in the past, just like you saw on TV. With all three of this hag’s predecessors.

The hag in question was wearing her usual sweater twinset and pearls, looking for all the world like an out-of-place schoolmarm. One that tormented rather than taught students, judging by the near-permanent snarl on her face. He’d only seen it leave when she was advocating to form a homeowner’s association.

As if this neighborhood didn’t already take care of its own.

He didn’t bother to stand up and head for the fence. The conversation wouldn’t last long enough to be worth the effort. “I don’t hang up birdfeeders, Janice. Never have.” Not since Lydia passed, he amended silently. He was sure some of the crows retained fond memories, and he wouldn’t chase them off. Nor would he share Lydia’s memory with someone who didn’t value nature.

“I’m the president of the homeowners’ association, and you’d best believe I will make you find a way from keeping bird dookie off my car.”

“You want me to put up a scarecrow?” He raised his glass of iced tea in a mock toast. “Only if it will scare off the HOA I didn’t agree to belong to. I’m not subject to your rules, nor can I control the crows.”

Squeaky fuss emanated from the fenceline, but George paid it no more attention than he’d give to a yapping dog. He took a drink and picked up his book. The mystery was far more interesting than anything Janice Tweller had to say.

The light was dying by the time he turned the last page, and the air growing chill. He went inside, bones creaking after so long without moving. A solitary dinner under the kitchen lights was in his future, just as it had been for three and a half years now.

The pot was on to boil water when he realized he’d forgotten to get the mail. He was so engrossed in mocking the latest ads that were all he’d received that he nearly missed the giant red paper tacked to his front door as he trudged back inside.

Janice’s latest trick, presumably. George rolled his eyes and snagged the paper to laugh at while he made dinner.

“Well, now, Lydia.” He still talked as if his wife could hear him, and who’s to say she didn’t? “Looks like the hag has found a new way to annoy me. She thinks she’s found a legal way to force HOA membership. Plus fees, of course.”

He stirred the spaghetti sauce and gave it a taste test. “More garlic, I think. Almost ready. You’d have found a way to drive her off by now, I’m sure. I do wonder what John was thinking, selling the property to her at all.”

George drained the noodles. “Perhaps it’s time for something to convince her to move on.”

Step by step, the shadow president of the entirely unofficial, nonexistent homeowners’ association laid his plans aloud for his late wife, pausing for occasional bites of spaghetti.

His shadow nodded in response. At the end of the meal, it slipped out of the kitchen window without him and crossed over the fence line.

George sat at the table with a sad smile and took a sip of wine. “Wish you could see this, Lydia. He’ll be up to all sorts of antics now. We’ll have a ‘for sale’ sign in her yard within a week.”

***

My prompt about the aliens’ dream invasion went to Becky Jones. Check it out, as well as the rest of the More Odds Than Ends odd prompters!

East Witch Book Review

March 5, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Book reviews are back! And since this is only number two in the book reviews I’ve been meaning to get posted, let’s jump right in.

Cedar Sanderson’s latest novel, The East Witch, pulls in Slavic tales and new characters connected to the Pixie for Hire world (Pixie Noir, Trickster Noir, and Dragon Noir). Since this is the series where I first discovered Sanderson’s work, there was no chance I was passing it up.

And that cover! It’s perfection for the book, and also done by Sanderson.

The East Witch starts off with girl rescuing boy. Anna is a guide in Alaska, who finds a wood elf trapped and rescues him. For her troubles and sympathy, she is pulled into another world with no way out. To top it off, her poor dog gets left behind.

Caught Underhill, she must rely on her wits and memory of childhood fairy tales to survive. It’s a good thing she’s resourceful and determined, and even better that she has a good memory.

Baba Yaga, as it turns out, holds people to their word even when it’s out of their control to fulfill. And that’s just the first of Anna’s endeavors in a world she barely understands. I like her moxie, because she never gives up and keeps fighting in creative ways.

Ivan has his own struggles, fighting both to maintain his honor and prove he’s an adult. As the two are separated, he comes into his own and shines as a character. Ivan is a delight in the same way as a young man finding his purpose. He knew what his goals were already, but he grows up while struggling through maintaining duty to clan and promises.

The two characters develop as war and politics threaten Underhill, and each grows into their own. This is a tale where the character development leaves you fully satisfied.

I loved this story, and hope it develops into more eventually! For readers new to this universe, I personally was glad I’d read the Pixie series first (which has its own delights and is highly recommended), but The East Witch stands strong on its own.

And don’t forget to check out her blog at Cedar Writes!

Something Different

February 28, 2021 / fionagreywrites

I promised more a while ago on thought processes. Behind the Prompt, if you will. This one went through a number of iterations in my head, and then what poured out was…nothing like what I’d imagined.

Odd prompt, from nother Mike: “The kids were carrying moonbeams in a jar…”

(My own prompt of “In retrospect, the arrow through the calf shouldn’t have been the first clue” went to Leigh Kimmel.)

Initial reaction: Cool, I love this prompt! No idea what to do with it, but awesome, can’t wait to play around with it!

Idea one: Kids running around in the backyard, catching moonbeams in a jar like fireflies. I may still play around with this sometime.

Idea two: Moonbeams = moon message transmissions.

Idea three: Moon beans, the misunderstanding.

Idea four, that I thought I’d be writing: A new light source has been discovered, but only works on (or is kept secret by) the moon. The mental image was of glowing mason jars in a moon cave, carried to careful storage on each handmade shelf by herds of children just old enough to be trusted. Because while preppers weren’t what the space program wanted, sometimes you needed to store up emergency supplies once you got there.

Here’s what happened instead.

***

They didn’t want preppers for the moon colony. They wanted survivalists. You know, the types you can drop off with a pocketknife and a water bottle, and they’ll have shelter built in a few hours.

Or you drop them off empty handed, and they find their own pocketknife and water bottle. You remember the type.

Anyway, there aren’t a lot of people like that anymore. When 3-D printing took off, it really took off. Everything you can think of at the touch of a button from the same pile of sludge? Building your own anything was seen as quaint. Suitable for hobbyists, or one of the neo-Luddites that shunned technology.

Unfortunately, the 3-D trend happened right as the lunar base needed emergency manning.

And it wasn’t like space was a popular destination. Not after the Zelma. Sure, there was a lot of nostalgia for the old shuttle era. But when a whole colony fails…well. Then it’s someone should go, but maybe I’ll wait until the tech is fixed, amiright? Those poor kids. Someone oughta make a law. What where their parents thinking?

Besides, that training program is hard, and few make it.

But me, I was raised by my Grandpa, and he by his. He taught me woodworking, basic engineering and mechanics, and which plants would kill you. I could make everything from knives to jam to candles. They needed people like that, people who could fix stuff. People who couldn’t resist the urge to fix stuff.

It’s not like there’d be kids carrying moonbeams in a jar to illuminate the habitat’s interior. You can only put so many light bulbs in space. Or boost so much weight in that 3-D sludge. They save that for printing astronaut food, mostly.

So when the call came to re-crew what should have been Zelma’s home, I felt that pang in my chest for a place that would value those skills, even if I’d have to relearn or adapt half of them. Grandpa has passed the year before, and putting in for it felt like a good way to honor his memory.

He’d have done that snort-laugh of his at the idea, then clapped me on the shoulder with a hand stiff with age and hard work. His way of showing pride in my accomplishments, from the first Pine Derby car to the first buck.

Besides, I was bored.

It’s not like I expected they’d actually accept me into the astronaut program. I didn’t have a formal education, or not much of one. My knuckles were dug in with grease no matter how much I scrubbed, calluses rough from the bow string, scarred from whittling Grandpa’s last Christmas gift.

I guess this time, they were looking for something different. Zelma’s crew had been carefully selected and trained, and it still wasn’t enough to guide them in without disaster. Why not go for the scrappers like me?

Later I heard the rumors during training. That the bureaucrats expected failure, just like they expected we could barely read. We were supposed to be the excuse to shut the whole expensive program down. Give it up for another few decades, just like we did after the initial early years burst.

People like me, we take that as a badge of honor. Don’t tell the bureaucrats, but we already renamed the ship from Penelope to Scrapper.

In the meantime, I’ll tighten my straps one more time, because the countdown has begun.

I can’t wait to prove ‘em wrong.

French Toast

February 23, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“We’re out of milk,” Bree said. She stared at the list on her phone and tucked it in her coat pocket. “And eggs.”

Joheel reached inside the glass case ahead of a minute, white-haired woman with extremely pointy elbows and seized the last container of two percent. He held the blue-capped liquid into the air in triumph.

“Don’t gloat,” she grumbled at him. “I’m already worried someone will grab food from the cart.”

He rolled his eyes. “We’ll be fine. No good reason we all need to make French toast the second a snowstorm hits.”

“Um, because it’s delicious?” Bree flounced her way toward yellow Styrofoam, scarf bobbing in tandem with her hat’s pom-pom. She flipped the lid open to check for cracks.

“Not that delicious. We don’t need 18 eggs.” Joheel’s nose scrunched. “I like the brown ones better.”

She glared at him. “And if we’d come earlier like I wanted to, we’d have more choices, wouldn’t we? We wouldn’t be taking milk from old ladies. We wouldn’t be left to select from the stinky cheese or the expired cheese. And we wouldn’t have ice skated our way into the store.”

Her voice had risen to a looming crescendo. Even as bundled-up shoppers rushed through the store, he could see them staring. Yeah, everyone loves drama when they’re not in the midst of it.

“Okay, fine, jeez.” He knew better than to tell her to calm down. “What else do we need?”

Bree pulled out her phone again. “Cat food, apparently.”

“Apparently?” He wheeled the cart toward the aisle with the rawhide bones on the endcap. Bree was ahead of him. She loved that little fluffball.

She was already studying cans. Blue in one hand, green in the other. “Yeah, I got a text a minute ago.”

“Bree?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“When did we get the cat a cell phone?”

***

Becky Jones and I traded odd prompts this week. Check out her dragon invasion here!

Badass Book Review

February 20, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Lately, I’ve been binge-reading neural fluff and mind candy, thanks to Kindle Unlimited’s vast supply of urban fantasy. Most recently, I blitzed through Michael Anderle’s How to be a Badass Witch series, followed by the just-released How to be a Badass Vigilante that kicks off what is presumably the next trilogy.

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The books are promising. Kera discovers a book by the same name as the title, in part to get her mother off her back about wasting her education and life as a bartender. It’s not long before she discovers that the powers described are real. While she’s determining how her new skills can help people, she starts eating quite a bit as there’s an energy cost to her actions. She also brings down the wrath of local gangs.

The gang warfare is a touch that adds unexpected complexity to the series, especially as there are multiple competing gangs with different perspectives and styles. However, Kera’s predominant cost to her actions is a ridiculous appetite. It’s seldom that a reader feels she’s ever really in danger from her vigilante actions, because she’s able to to fend off increasing amounts of bad guys. Although she also takes up martial arts again and combines her fighting skills with magic, the tension is perhaps not quite as strong as it could be.

That said, the knowledge the good guys will win and the main character won’t get seriously hurt makes this a fun popcorn read. Not by physical violence, anyway, not really. Kera increasingly feels the threat of the group who put out the book – a group of mages who are looking for the perfect recruits, and wipe out powers upon signs of individuality or resistance. That’s sufficiently terrifying tension for me! The short-term solution here that gets the mage group to leave Kera alone feels a little convenient, but it’s well done and (more importantly) works.

I do think Kera’s personal choices about mind-wiping others with a forgetfulness spell should make her feel more personable, but don’t. It comes off as power-tripping rather than prone to human judgment. I’m not convinced she’s as regretful or repentant as she should be. Perhaps that’s my own personal abhorrence at the idea coming into play – and that means the author is doing his job by evoking emotion – but her love interest has less repulsion than anticipated as well. The last book also has some humbling of the mage group, which is comes just in time.

Overall, I enjoyed the Badass Witch trilogy, easily titled Books 1, 2, and 3. The Vigilante book felt like a transition, but ended on a sufficiently exciting note that I’m looking forward to the next two books.

War, Fueled by Coffee

February 15, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“We’re reinstituting wars,” Linda told Mack. “One by Friday, please. Let me know if you need any help. You’re critical to our new training plan’s feedback.”

He stared at his new boss’ retreating back with horror. Mack felt his face pale as much as his olive skin would allow. Fighting hadn’t been in the job description. He’d left the military because he was done with war. And how was he supposed to spark one off in less than five days? He barely knew where the restroom was.

Swiveling in his black roller chair, he hissed at the next cubicle. “Hey! I thought this was a logistics company! Shipping?”

Jerry had a handset pressed between ear and red plaid shoulder. He gave Mack an odd look before returning to his call.

Mack got up and took his new company mug to the coffee machine over in the corner. He’d made sure to remember that location. He studied the logo while he waited for the machine to brew his cup, an unassuming navy blue on white. Whittier Transportation Firm.

“Whiskey tango foxtrot,” he whispered, and shook his head with a groan. “I should have known. What was I thinking?”

Back at his desk, he sipped the hot, bitter brew and raised a surprised eyebrow. Well! At least the coffee was better in the private sector! No muddy water reminiscent of turpentine here.

The caffeine soaked into his brain cells. Ideas began sparking as neurons connected, sharp pops of yellow light. Mack shook his head at the weirdness of his new job, picked up his phone, and started making calls.

By Friday morning, he was back in camouflage he’d left behind, helmet firmly on. He was the first in the office, as usual, but today was different. Mack barked orders at the delivery men, and slipped them extra cash to fortify the cubicles with the crates.

A crash sounded behind him, metal on the tile entryway. Linda stared at Mack, open-mouthed. A sealed coffee travel mug rolled in loops, heading away from the glass door in the least efficient route possible.

“Ah, thank you for the reminder, Linda.” Mack gestured at the nearest delivery man, a skinny guy in overalls and a well-worn lifting belt. “Hey, can you make sure to get some of these crates by the door? That glass is ridiculously vulnerable.”

Linda swallowed and held up a hand as the delivery guy headed toward the door. He detoured around her, an empty crate in each hand, while she emulated a fish.

Words finally erupted from her mouth. “Mack! What…why?” She spun in a circle and bent to retrieve her coffee container, unscrewing the lid and chugging liquid gold. “What?”

Mack held up his clipboard. “Linda, I’m really sorry. We won’t be ready to go by the time we’re scheduled to open. The sandbag delivery won’t get here until 1000. I know logistics win wars, but the company swears there’s nothing they can do. We have boxes of printer paper that could fill the gap in the meantime, but only one pallet. That’s just not enough.”

Linda looked at her coffee sadly, as if wishing it were whiskey. Shedrank for at least five seconds, held the empty mug over her mouth to shake out the last few drops, and screwed the lid back on. “What. Is. Happening?” Her voice screeched to a deafening levels.

Mack winced. “You said you wanted a war by Friday. But like I said, we’re just not ready. I started the propaganda campaigns, but the formal declaration of war to the competitors can’t go out until we properly fortify this building. And we’re vulnerable to the water and power getting cut off, but the generator’s getting installed in the basement now. Fuel might be an issue – ”

He cut off as Linda held up a hand. “War? Generator?”

“You said the company was reinstituting wars. You wanted one by Friday. It’s Friday. And I’m sorry, but we really need to hold until Monday if we can.”

Linda spun in a circle again, her hand held over her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

“I went with paintball, though. Hope that’s all right.” Mack tried to sound as earnest as possible. He had struggled with that dilemma before making the decision, but if this place meant a real shooting war, he needed to be looking for a new job. He might anyway. This place was weird. “Obviously, I wanted to do well on this as my first assignment. You said you needed feedback for the training program. Remember?”

“Mack,” Linda said slowly. “Mack, a WAR is a weekly activity report…”

***

No inspiration yet for this week’s actual prompt from Leigh Kimmel about tweaking alien noses. In the meantime, I couldn’t resist this spare. Maybe now that it’s out of my head, I can get back to the real prompt of the week. My own submission about swimming trees went to Becky Jones.

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