Writer of Fantasy. Wielder of Red Pens.
This story has been removed. Why? Because it’s part of the Professor Porter tales, and will be published in modified form.
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This week, Becky Jones challenged me to discover what was buried under the snow. My prompt went to nother Mike, to see what happens when tech and traditional fairy tales converge.
This post has been removed as of 27 March 2021. But don’t worry – it’s part of book two. Coming soon!
***
This week, my prompt was from nother Mike, and fit perfectly to kickstart me back into book two: “It was hard to see to drive in the pouring rain, and then the car thumped as we drove over something. When we stopped and got out to see what it was, we learned we had hit…”
My prompt went back to nother Mike, and was also about adventures in driving through weather. I guess it’s that time of year in the northern hemisphere.
“C’mon, wizard.” June didn’t know what expression was on her face, but it made Peter snicker. “I’ve got breakfast on the way.”
She looked down at her fuzzy purple robe and frowned in protest. “It’s a bathrobe.” She wiggled her feet inside fuzzy sheepskin slippers, a gift from his parents last year, and sneezed again. Her sinuses were on fire. “Ow. It was cheap. Professors make peanuts, you know that.”
He leaned down and gave her a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Yes. And all you need is a pointy hat to go with your robe when you cosplay.”
A kettle whistled from June’s kitchen. “What’s that noise?” She shuffled past him and turned the corner into her kitchen. “When did I get a teapot?”
Peter leaned around her and turned off the burner. “When you got sick, and I’m either immune or doomed to it in a few days.” A mug and teabag were already on the counter next to a small jar of honey and a spoon.
She dug out a tissue from her bathrobe pocket and tried not to think about how much she sounded like a dying goose. “I told you, you should go before you get sick.”
He spooned honey into the mug. “And I told you, I’m taking care of you.” He gave her a sideways grin, emerald eyes shining. “Of course, I expect reciprocity.”
She huffed, threw out her tissue, and headed back for the living room. The grow light for her yucca plant was already on, bright light shining onto the worn cushions of her secondhand loveseat. It was hideously ugly, mustard yellow with purple flowers, but comfortable and spacious. She curled up, dragging a blanket over her weary and aching limbs. If she didn’t think hard about it, it almost seemed like sitting in sunlight.
Almost, because it was also next to the drafty window and New Hampshire had over a foot of snow. Clinking silverware and plates sounded from the kitchen as June leaned back to close the blinds. She stretched out an arm for the manual control rod and froze at the sight outside her window.
Peter found her a few minutes later, standing outside and shivering, coaxing a tiny kitten with bright yellow eyes to come closer. “Do we have any tuna?”
He sighed and stepped behind the bush the kitten was hiding behind, snagging it with one hand while its wide eyes and shaking body were fixed on June. “Please go inside. I will check on the tuna.”
She sneezed and went, pulling off wet slippers and tucking her feet into the heavy fleece blanket. A tray next to the loveseat held tea and breakfast. “Oh, pancakes. Thank you.”
Peter stomped the snow off, cat offering frightened mewls between his hands. The fur was barely visible, the kitten was so small. “Well now, that wouldn’t be a bad name for her. Him? Can’t tell. I think it’s a him.”
“What, Pancake?” June took a bite and tried to look innocent. It made her face hurt. “Mmm. Blueberry. That assumes he wants to stay.”
He glared at her and plopped the kitten onto her lap. “I would have gotten him for you.” Peter stalked into the kitchen, his shoulders stiff under his blue sweater.
The kitchen’s closet door squeaked as it opened. June tried not to feel guilty about eating a hot breakfast while his cooled on the battered foldable table she used for both eating and work. Clanking and a few thumps sounded from the other side of the wall as he searched her pantry.
“Found a can of tuna and a can of chicken. And some odd canned sausage thing no one should eat because it’s not real food.” June opened her mouth to protest and he held up a hand. “I’m tossing it in the bin. Just because you can’t cook doesn’t mean you should eat like this.”
She looked down at the kitten in her lap, one hand covering its wet fur. “Tuna or chicken?” It wasn’t like she expected an answer, but the kitten let out a soft blrrp at the word chicken and stretched out a paw. Needlelike claws flexed out and returned as Pancake rolled his head upside down and blinked yellow eyes several times.
“Interesting.” Peter went back into the kitchen. She heard the manual can opener puncture and rattle its way around the tin. “I wouldn’t have guessed the chicken.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed he’d get this comfortable with us this fast.” Paw met finger, and tiny pads closed around the tip in a stronger grip than she’d anticipated. She freed her finger and stroked the soft, damp fur, following the M marking on his forehead behind his ears and down his neck. “Gorgeous stripes you’ve got, little guy. You’ve got that tiger look going on, don’t you, all black and grey?”
June broke off into a coughing fit. Pancake squirmed off her lap and onto the more solid loveseat arm. She groped for the tea with one hand, hoping she didn’t knock the tray over.
Peter headed back toward her squashy seat, dish of canned chicken in one hand and a plastic cutting board in the other. He set the cutting board down, Pancake sniffing and dancing around his other hand like a miniature Godzilla on hind legs.
He straightened and pressed the back of his hand against her head. At his feet, Pancake pounced on the dish of chicken before burying his whiskers in the food.
“Poor guy,” June said. She yawned and sank back into the cushion. Her earlier burst of energy was fading fast. “I couldn’t let him sit out there alone. He was sitting on the ledge watching me.”
His forehead creased. “You’re really warm. I’m going to tuck you in here. I bet Pancake will curl up with you when he’s done eating. You want a book?”
She nodded her head, feeling like it had swollen to the size of a watermelon. “I know I’ll fall asleep in a few minutes, but I feel better when a book is nearby.” She smiled up at him from half-shut eyes. “And you. But I still think you should stay away from me before I get you sick.”
Peter was halfway across the room, heading for her bookshelf. “Oh, it’s too late for me in a number of ways.”
A noise penetrated her dreams. “June!” She turned her head, burying her face in a pillow. Her legs wouldn’t move for some reason. Must be tangled in the blanket. “June!”
She opened bleary eyes a fraction and squinted until she found Peter across the room. His hands were held about six inches away from his keyboard, his eyes bulging. “I thought you wanted me to get some sleep.”
“Don’t move,” he said in a strangled whisper. His fingers flexed. A metal cage dropped around the loveseat with a resounding crash. The neighbors she hadn’t yet met from next door would be sure to leave a cranky note at the mailboxes again.
June’s eyes snapped open and she struggled to sit up against the heavy fur blanket. Was she dating some kind of weirdo? “Hey, whoa, this just got weird. Really weird.”
“Stop moving!” Peter bit off the harsh words. “I’m serious – don’t move.”
June kept shoving at the blanket. “Yeah, maybe that would have flown before you put me in a cage.” She could feel panic rising in her chest, heartbeat racing and breathing hard. As if she hadn’t been feeling drained enough already. The adrenaline crash would drain her even more after she made it out of the cage.
Her hand slipped off wool and onto soft fur. She felt the fur flex under her hand. A heavy, curved something touched her hand with a pinprick. June looked at her legs and swallowed a scream. Pancake let out an enormous, two hundred pound yawn that screeched into a roar at the end.
“June, you can get through the bars. The tiger can’t.” His urgent words calmed her thrashing.
“Good kitty. Nice kitty. Holy crap on a cracker, what do we feed the giant kitty?” June wasn’t sure when the last time she’d blinked was, but her eyes were burning as she stared. She tugged on her leg and wondered when Pancake would set her free. “Maybe if we get a shoelace or something to dangle in front of him?”
Peter was on his feet, phone in hand. “I’m about to call animal control. You want me to go get a shoelace?”
“No…” She hesitated. “We can’t put a cryptid in the pound. It wouldn’t be right. We’ll have to find him another home. There must be another way.”
“Sure, as long as you don’t get mauled in the process.” He lowered his phone, but didn’t put it away. “You’re sure?”
“Well, he’s ready to go for another nap, isn’t he?” June reached out and scratched behind his ears. A rumbling purr vibrated the entire apartment like a freight train. Pancake rolled onto his back and kicked his back leg. “Ah, definitely male.”
“I’m glad you have your priorities straight.” He put the phone in his back pocket and reached out a hand through the bars. “If you wouldn’t mind trying to get out from under the giant cat?”
She reached out a tentative hand toward the grow lamp. The bright yellow lamp hadn’t improved the yucca plant any. “You don’t think…?”
***
This week, AC Young challenged me with “The wizard found himself trapped in the tigers’ cage,” and I clearly missed both the pronoun and apostrophe placement. Perhaps Peter will have to have his own adventure soon at a zoo?
My prompt went to Cedar Sanderson: “I’m telling you, that elf is stalking me!”
Podcast! Check it out here. Thanks to Joshua Bass of FinalxLegends Podcasts for the opportunity.
Also, here’s how to properly pronounce tsukumogami, because I got nervous and butchered it even after a lot of practice.
And if you’re so inclined, check out Paladin’s Sword and NEW short story Glitter.
Professor June Porter is worried. Her daughter Medina has shown no signs of magic, leaving her defenseless and isolated among magicians. Unless, of course, everyone’s about to discover just how special Medina is.
Long story, but in talking about chainmail on the book of faces, I wound up doing a podcast. Kind of a rushed and surprised thing, definitely something new. I talked up More Odds Than Ends, too. I’ll post the podcast link when it’s done.
I also burrowed until I found the first Peter and June story, blew the dust off, and expanded it a touch. Definitely still a short story, but thought it’d go well together.
Plus, I got to play around with covers (thanks for the feedback, Becky and Jennie and Nik!). I don’t think I’ll ever be fantastic at them, but I was happy with this one.
Blurb for now: Professor June Porter is worried. Her daughter Medina has shown no signs of magic, leaving her defenseless and isolated among magicians. Unless, of course, everyone’s about to discover just how special Medina is.
This post has been removed by the author in order to publish it as part of Professor Porter’s story
***
This week on MOTE, I prompted AC Young with a fluttering caution tape, and Cedar Sanderson asked me to ponder what was not evil, but not right. Down to the wire!
Also, I have no real idea what happens on girls’ nights. I don’t get out much. 😀
June wandered the path in quiet contemplation. Helen had excused herself and headed for the chapel a few minutes earlier, claiming the need for a few moments not focused on memorials. June had pretended not to notice the shine in her eyes and let the older woman move ahead without asking questions. Her brisk footsteps faded away as June studied the foliage and greenery surrounding the park.
Peter was several statues behind her, happily debating minor details of battles past with his father. The last bit she’d overheard didn’t make much sense for the National Museum of the Marine Corps, as much as sea strategy had been critical for the Peloponnesian War. She glanced behind her and bit back a smile. George was waving his arms with wild enthusiasm, with Peter as his mirror a few feet away.
She turned back and blinked in surprise. It was a lovely late spring day, with the scent of flowers and grass in the air under the trees, but most of the museum visitors were inside. Few took the paths of the memorial park, with its statues and peaceful walking paths. The elderly gentleman must have come from the chapel Helen had just entered.
Piercing blue eyes met her gaze as June approached the memorial. She gave the man a brief nod. His hair was still regulation short under his veteran’s baseball hat, and his green button-down and khakis had been ironed. A slight potbelly showed his only concession to age. The man remained straight-backed and walked unaided.
She turned her eyes to the statue. A Marine in a World War II era uniform held to his shoulder, one leg propped up on a rock. The dedication was for
“We were wishing for those rocks,” the man said. He gestured to the statue with one hand. “The sand was near impossible to move through. You sank in and struggled to move. Knee deep, it was in places. Funny that it had tunnels under it.”
The air left her lungs as June dragged in a breath. She turned, gaze glued to his hat. Iwo Jima, it read. Not just any veteran, but one of the remaining few. One of the survivors of the struggle for freedom, symbolically captured by the famous flag raising. An icon recognizable across any proper student of propaganda.
“I don’t know how I missed your hat,” June said. She shook her head. “I really don’t. I’m a professor of the military uses of propaganda. Thank you. It’s an honor to meet you.”
The man snorted and reached out a hand. His grasp was firm and dry, covered in calluses. “Jack. I didn’t do much. Back then, we were all in it, weren’t we?”
She nodded, her mouth dry. This was an increasingly rare moment, and she wasn’t sure what to ask. “Are you willing to talk about it?”
Jack looked up at the statue. “That was me, once. All gung-ho and ready to take on the world. And then came never-ending battle. I tell you, I grew up damn quick.”
June bit her lip and nodded. He seemed about to say more, if only she didn’t break the silence.
Jack reached up a hand to touch the statue. “I made it home to my Millie, though. That’s more than some could say.”
“I’m glad you did,” she said in a low voice. He gave a gruff jerk of his chin in acknowledgement and gave the statue a last pat.
“June?” She turned at the sound of Peter’s voice. A smile lit her face at the sight of his emerald eyes and hair tousled by the breeze. George trailed behind, still grumbling and gesturing as he walked.
“Peter, let me introduce you to –“ She turned and stared. Her feet kept her moving in a circle, her head craning as if Jack was hiding behind the memorial. “Where did he go?”
“June, who were you talking to?”
***
The National Museum of the Marine Corps is worth a visit if you’re ever in the area, although it’s currently closed. The building itself is designed to emulate the raising flag of Iwo Jima. Semper Fidelis Memorial Park is also real, as is the BAR on the Beach memorial, dedicated to the 5th Marine Division.
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This week’s Odd Prompts came from Kat Ross in photo form, who asked who the veteran was, and what he was saying. Mine went to AC Young, who did a smashing job with a security dragon and lost pork belly.
This story has been removed. Why? Because it’s part of the Professor Porter Saga and will be formally published in a revised form.
***
The final week of 2020’s prompt was from Leigh Kimmel: “A plumbing fixture suddenly stops working. On inspection, it turns out the cutoff valve has been turned off, but everyone denies having done so.” This was a tough one! I know nothing about plumbing. Neither, I suspect, do the ice fairies.
Mine went to Becky Jones and AC Young, who both wrote different and highly entertaining stories about goblins in the garbage.
WordPress tells me that I started this website a year ago today, which deserves a retrospective of some sort. Lessons learned, if nothing else. Around the same time, I found nother Mike’s suggestion for a “here’s how I do it” post, so I’m combining the two.
First up: Stage fright. Part of why I jumped on Cedar’s More Odds Than Ends challenge was because I was writing again, but wasn’t comfortable with it. The day job required less and less technical writing or editing (at the time) and I was getting twitchy. Writing is, apparently, something I need to do.
But I’d suppressed creative instincts in favor of improving technical writing for nearly two decades. Was I any good? Did it matter, if I was having fun? Was it terrifying to put things out there? Yes. Am I still terrified? Yes, but less so. Did I delay publishing the book for at least two weeks for this reason? Absolutely. Do I get excited every time I have a comment? Ask my husband, who may or may not hear about it. And the big question, would it make me worse at my day job? Turns out, no!
Which leads to: Creativity helps in unexpected ways. Studying craft has helped me articulate ways to train folks in the day job, from editing techniques to writing to poking holes in logic. I’m apparently known as one of the creative ones, who can think outside the box and see connections. So creativity might make me the quirky one at work, but it’s helped far more than I anticipated.
Similarly: Practice helps. Obviously. I’m faster with posts than I used to be. I’ve learned website stuff. Am I good at coming up with different ways to say essentially the same thing over and over again? No. I’m also not good at social media, which I rejoined, or marketing. I’m extremely introverted, and one of those serious types. I have to warn people that when I get excited, I will probably get extremely intense (unless there’s too much coffee involved, in which case I start resembling a hyperactive, bouncing squirrel). But I stress less about being perfect at it, because there’s progress.
That said: More accountability would be good. Even just for myself. The day job pays the bills, and I like it. But I also want to get book two out, and have too many ideas half-plotted to let them go. So it’s a balance between making sure I keep doing well at the day job and pondering whether this writing thing could be a real gig someday. I’m okay if this is prep for a retirement job, but must admit there’s excitement at the idea of writing creatively as a career.
And that said…I need to get more writing done, but if I’m drained enough that the words aren’t flowing, I’m not going to push myself into burnout. Again, balance. Slow and steady. So one of my goals for the next year is to increase the amount I tie in prompts to the universes I’m already working in. Which means I need to have the plots more solidified than they are now, along with less nebulous worldbuilding and character development. I tend to rebel against scheduling my hobbies, so habits are what will save me here.
Finally: There’s so much left to learn.
So with that, onto how I go through prompts. I was hoping to have inspiration hit before I got to this part. C’mon, brain!
Prompt: A plumbing fixture suddenly stops working. On inspection, it turns out the cutoff valve has been turned off, but everyone denies having done so.
I’m pretty sure it’ll change along the way, but that’s the bones of it.
Professor Widget paced the room when he lectured. The same path each time. Up and down each aisle, tapping a hand on each desk as he passed. Jack didn’t know if it was obsessive-compulsive disorder or just longstanding habit from forty years of academia. Either way, it drove him nuts. How was he supposed to concentrate?
Other than that, cryptozoology was awesome.
He’d never dreamed that cryptids were a real field of study, but here he was. Jack Langton, otherwise a dead end job-hopper, night-school dropout. Now he spent the slow nights at the gas station studying, not texting his latest girl and still failing to maintain a relationship because he worked the night shift.
It’d sounded too good to be true, when he saw the ad on social media. He still wasn’t sure that he could get a job doing anything with this. But lately, all the posts wanted a degree. Any degree. And cryptozoology was the cheapest diploma program he’d been able to find. Legit, too. Accredited and everything, not a ripoff.
He’d heard similar stories from the rest of the students in the room, through a haze of flickering florescent lights outside, on hasty and illicit smoke breaks. Everyone just wanted a shot at a better life. All of them had nearly laughed the opportunity away.
“Time! Pencils down,” Professor Widget announced. “As I walk around the room to collect your quiz, I want you to tell me your favorite cryptid. No waffling, you have to pick one.”
Jack nodded as he realized the instructor had timed the announcement so everyone had time to think while he crossed the room, even the first row. Maybe there was a reason for the pacing after all. He dropped his head and focused, trying to pick his favorite. There’d been so many, and this was the capstone course before he could get his degree.
Brown tweed pants stopped in front of his desk. A hand extended toward him, and he handed over his quiz. Jack cleared his throat. “Ah, gryphon.”
Professor Widget quirked a salt and pepper eyebrow, so high Jack thought the wiry hairs might detach from the man’s face. “Interesting choice.” He moved past and collected the hairdresser’s quiz. “Say again? Vampire? Hmm.”
The instructor set the papers down on the desk in front of the ancient green chalkboard that no one bothered to use anymore. He rubbed the bald spot on his head. “Well, it’s time for fieldwork, so thank you for choosing a wide variety of cryptids. Always keeps it interesting.”
“Fieldwork?” The hairdresser squeaked behind him. It was the first time Jack had heard her speak above a whisper. He figured it was because she spent all day chatting up clients and needed a vocal break.
“Someone didn’t read the syllabus,” singsonged the professor. “If you want to pass the class, fieldwork is part of your grade.”
“I read the syllabus,” Jack said. He propped his chin on his fist, old flannel falling soft against his arm where his sleeve was unbuttoned. “Fieldwork was listed as a possibility, not a definite. I remember because I thought it was a joke.”
“Yes, yes, well, we got lucky this time. The lawsuits ended satisfactorily and the administration said we could go ahead. But with precautions this time.” He grinned. Did he expect them to be excited by the opportunity?
“Cryptids are real?” squeaked the hairdresser again. Liz, that was her name. Her chair clattered to the ground. “I can’t meet a vampire. I’m a single mom!” She whooshed past him, leaving only a cloud of perfume behind.
Professor Widget nodded as Liz raced by, his eyes sad. “Yes, that is unfortunate. There is a risk involved. I should also commend you all for not taking the easy way out. One of you even picked a gryphon. The spine! Oh, I do appreciate it.” He chuckled, then cut off after a few seconds when no one joined him.
Several other students looked like they might follow Liz and her perfectly coiffed curls out the door.
“Come on, now, you’re quite close to receiving your degrees. All you have to do is survive.” The professor’s tone was wheedling now.
Jack firmed his jaw. It was this or nothing. He opened his textbook to the chapter on gryphons with a shrug. “Can’t be worse than that half-naked cowboy on meth that came into the store last week.”
***
This week, nother mike challenged me with, “He never expected that the cryptozoology diploma course would require applied fieldwork. With a cryptid of his choice.” My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: “The streetlight was blinking Morse code…”
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