Author: fionagreywrites (Page 3 of 29)

He wasn’t exactly sure why he was so tired, but Pablo stared at the ceiling without seeing its white swirls or even that annoying dark spot he kept forgetting to repaint.

The morning light didn’t tempt him where it peeked around the blackout curtains that weren’t, nor did the chipper turquoise birds that reminded him he was being lazy.

It wasn’t the war, he decided, twisting the sheet in his fingers. It wasn’t even the loss of friend after family member after close friend. Nor was it his job, or the plague exposure, or even the wildfire smoke that tickled his throat with a constant albeit faint rasp.

No, he decided. It was all of that, combined. An endless barrage of Some Resiliency Required was wearing him thin, that was all.

And perhaps it would be enough to get some rest. There wasn’t anything he needed to do today, after all – it was only the usual, and though it compounded, he could catch up tomorrow.

“All right, guys, it’s time to go!”

The cheerful words shook him out of his stupor. Pablo found himself standing barefoot and trembling on the wooden floor, still clutching the sheet and wondering what miracle had brought his mother’s words back to life.

A turquoise bird poked at the gap between the curtains and trilled enthusiastically at him while tears poured from his eyes.

No, it didn’t matter what magic had been wrought, or if it had only been but a half-dream, a fugue of sleepless memory. Pablo bade his mother a wistful goodbye, and turned to face the sunlight once more.

In memory of Mary Ann.

***

This week, Padre unknowingly provided the perfect prompt: He wasn’t exactly sure why he was so tired, but…

Mine went to AC Young: “I said put out the freebies, not free bees!”

Check them all out over at MOTE.

“Two weeks,” William repeated with disbelief. “I lost two weeks.”

Erin kept trudging through the morass of dead fake-leaves, kicking half-rotted clumps as she went. “Yeah, well, like I said.”

“And all you’ve done is make up for losses this past week.”

“Yes,” she snapped icily. “Because I was handling the colony by myself. Which you know. Because you went into the woods, alone, and got slimed.”

“Are you blaming me for getting frozen into a statute for two solid weeks?” The disbelief was evident in his voice, which rose in both pitch and volume until it echoed through the forest.

One of the younger guards turned around to glare before an older man with similar features but a better beard – his brother, most likely – cuffed him on the shoulder.

Erin felt a wash of relief that William hadn’t seen the breach in discipline and promptly started questioning her judgment in awakening him at all.

“I’m saying the rhodira, the damn colony leader, the person in charge, should know better than to wander off alone without leaving so much as a note,” she hissed. “We finally had a break in the weather long enough to get you, and the camp’s undermanned, because the harvest isn’t in yet.”

He puffed up his chest. “I was awake after being slimed, you know. Stunned, then frozen in place, but alive! I could feel everything.”

She stopped kicking the debris and turned around slowly, sensing the guards’ fanning out to surround the pair. The young newbie edged behind William, carefully two paces from the surrounding men.

“You. You did this on purpose. Knowing you’d get slimed. Timed for good weather, so you wouldn’t suffer.”

“Well,” he blustered. “A leader has to know how to show empathy. What better way than to experience getting eaten by a giant slug and turned into a statue for myself?”

“The balls,” she spat. “The sheer nerve to waste effort and resources on propping up your ego.”

The guard behind William coughed gently, leaning forward on his spear. “What is your will, rhodira?“

“To go home, obviously.”

“I’m afraid I was speaking to the rhodira, Goodman William.”

She accepted the teen’s audacity this time, grinning without mirth. And with teeth.

***

This week’s prompt was possible with the generosity of Leigh Kimmel: All we did this week was make up for the past two week’s losses.

My prompt went to Padre, with raining dragonlets. Check it out over at MOTE!

“No, no, no,” Ali said to her daughter, and deposited the enormous box of sausages from the bulk store into her husband’s waiting arms. She tugged a box of ice cream sandwiches out of the hatchback’s stuffed trunk. “You get one. Only one.”

“Okay,” said Bethie eagerly, and reached up for the box. “Can I eat it on the way to the freezer?”

“Only if you tell me why you don’t tell someone when you’re going to end the siege when you show up.”

“Because they’ll just wait you out. It’s like you’re giving them hope.”

Bethie recited the words dutifully, but Ali wasn’t convinced.

“We’ll role play that one tonight,” she decided. “If there’s a situation where a six day siege would succeed, we’ll find it. We can start while we’re restocking the basement storage.” They’d also run through all the scenarios where it wouldn’t work. “Do you see Wulfy’s food?”

“Can I feed him?” Bethie’s brown eyes gleamed with excitement.

“No ice cream for the porcupine,” Ali reminded her.

“I know, Mom. Seeds, lettuce, an’, um, berries.”

Ali high-fived her daughter. “How about you wait on your treat? I’ll carry the lettuce for you and Dad can get the rest while we make sure Wulfy’s not hungry.”

“I don’t want him to get hangry,” Bethie said with great solemnity, and tugged at a carton of blackberries bigger than her head.

“Good.” As they walked down a tunnel of Osage orange trees with arms full of porcupine snacks, Ali eyed the yard’s living defenses. Berms of packed earth were hidden by hedgerows, while thorny rosebushes boosted the defenses at the edges of the yard.

Tubs of blooming belladonna interspersed the yard with purple bursts of flowers spilling their bells over wood and grass alike. She gave a quick smile to note the honeybee buzzing along. It was worth the loss of useable honey on this acreage to obtain an innocuous poison.

The moat was the real defense, but the driveway partially negated it, despite the gate and bridge. Plus, the edges were prone to crumbling without constant restoration. Hence their overlarge hedgehog.

“You think Wulfy will be in his usual corner?”

“Yes,” said Bethie, with the confidence of a seven-year-old with a pet porcupine. “His den is awesome. I decorated it last week —”

“Not glitter!” burst Ali. She nearly dropped the birdseed.

“Nooooo.” A giggle emerged from behind the blackberries. “I made him a a blanket.”

“Bethie, honey…” She took a good look at the den. “It’s a lovely blanket, but I think it might be stuck on Wulfy’s quills.”

***

Thanks to Becky for the rosebushes prompt! And don’t forget to see what AC hath wrought with a festival gone awry over at MOTE.

Izz panted into her spacesuit, hoping the humidity wouldn’t fog her viewport. “Greaves? We good?”

“Breathable air,” her sentient ship confirmed from where the AI and its host hovered, only noticeable as a steadily moving speck across the daylight sky. “I’ve accessed the colony records. Idiots.”

She coughed, and left her hands hovering over the disconnecting spiral, ready to twist her helmet into oblivion. After six months of harboring an illegal AI and the headaches her ship brought, Izz thought she understood why the ban existed. “Tell me more?”

“No predators,” Greaves said with derision. “They just didn’t bring enough supplies. Fled for another planet before the last five died of starvation, but they died en route and never showed. Probably because they’d killed off all their pilots.”

“Um.” The AI’s ruthlessness sometimes scared her. “You mean they starved, right?”

“That ship’s still out there, if we want to search for it. 500-plus years adrift. Bet I can find it.”

“What, they didn’t auto-pilot?” The response was muffled as she struggled out of the protective suit. Izz popped the earbug back into place. “Say again?”

“The colony comprised an anti-technology sect,” Greaves said primly. “Only used the spaceship to get here and back. No pesticides, no genetically modified seeds, just living off the land without a backup plan. The comms with the other colony made it sound uninhabitable, so no one came to pick up what was left behind. Then the other colony failed, and everyone forgot.”

“Wow.” Izz shook her head. “Should be lots to find, then.” She could have sworn the AI was humming with satisfaction. “Don’t gloat.”

“I told you I could increase your profits by analyzing the archives.”

Izz grimaced. “We’ll see.” She slung her helmet to the strap crossing her chest but left the heavy suit alone. “Might’ve been too long. You never know.”

Ten minutes later, she was trying to figure out how to manage a space tow for the forty ships slowly aging in port. “You’re sure the hull integrity is intact?”

“Yes,” Greaves snapped. “As I said, the hangar was hermetically sealed. They wanted to make sure no one could leave.”

“We can tow all of them,” Greaves wheedled.

She snorted. “Until we get into port. Besides, I don’t have enough fuel for that many trips through atmo.”

The ship sulked. “Solid-state fuel should still be fine. I can hack in and pilot. It’s a big score! Why are you being so recalcitrant?”

“Because I want to look successful, not like a flying target for pirates while I tow a convoy,” Izz said drily. “I get it. The chances of someone else following our trail increase with every trip. But your fancy flying doesn’t work with more than a single tow, and we’re not set for weapons until we cash out.”

“Mew.”

“Er. Say again, G?”

A creature with enormous ears nosed at her boots with a quiet nudge. “Mew?”

“What are you, cutie?” The wildlife hadn’t spooked at the sight of Izz, with only a single fluffy pink poofball objecting to her shuttle. She’d initially thought it was a spore, but now suspected a type of bird.

This creature, though, was multicolored with short fur, enormous whiskers, and plaintive eyes that matched its repeated cry. She didn’t reach down, even though she still wore her puncture-resistant gloves.

“That’s a kut,” Greaves said confidently. “Oh. I mean, a cat. The pronunciation isn’t what I thought. Funny, that. Cats didn’t make it into space. The fur sheds, apparently.” A pause. “Except for those two colonies.”

Izz studied the creature reach for her bootlace with a clawed paw, throwing its whole body into pouncing before rolling into a ball. “Maybe this was an anti-tech group’s idea of pest control.”

“Respect,” Greaves said, sounding anything but. “That’s exactly why.”

“Wasn’t the Cogtop port having a pest control issue? Enough that they’d look past a bit of fur in the filter?” Izz felt her fingers twitch.

“They’re also traditionally companions,” the AI intoned. “When not feral, which these certainly are. The pest control aspect is an excellent and profitable idea, however.”

“These? Plural?” Izz jerked her head up and studied the door to the docks. “Oh. Oh, my.”

At least two dozen sets of yellow-green eyes were watching her.

“Greaves,” she whispered. “I think they understand, somehow.”

The AI was silent for a few moments. “Think you can get them in the shuttle while you load up one of these ships with the artifacts?”

She paled. “They just headed for my shuttle. All of them. Together.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur, and Izz had no idea what measure of antique electronics and collectibles she’d packed away in the hold. “This had better work.”

Greaves didn’t answer.

Nothing could have made Izz move faster.

By the time she finished securing the ancient ship to her own hitch and inched her way over to the airlock, it was nearly an hour later. She was sweaty, exhausted, and grateful the creatures filling her hold as extra trade goods hadn’t managed to take off with her salvager.

The airlock opened to reveal a pile of electronic giggles and swirling fur. “Look, Izz! They like the treats!”

A piece of hard cheese popped out of an air vent and launched into the pile of wrangling cats, sparking another series of mews and scrabbling paws. “I bet I can train them by the time we get to port!”

***
I meandered with this, and it didn’t quite go where I thought, but that’s okay. Thanks to Cedar for the prompt, and for all of y’all bearing with my absence over a family thing, and I can’t wait to see what Padre does with a stolen turtle! Check out more over at MOTE, and don’t forget there’ll be new prompts posted tomorrow. Cheers!

Professor Hapburn leaned over the moat and gave a shrill whistle. Ignoring Mikhail’s wince, he kept his eyes on the water for several minutes.

“What are we waiting for?” Mikhail finally asked. He shuffled his worn sneakers in the grass. “Maybe they aren’t interested.”

The magical zoology professor snorted. “As if we’d go the effort of refilling the moat and put in some careless critters to watch over it. They’re merely observing before coming in.”

“Observing what?” Professor Hapburn wasn’t necessarily the most coherent of his instructors. Sometimes he left information out, vital information that would help, say, avoid being set on fire by a suncat in heat, or stabbed by an angry unicorn that didn’t appreciate her football time being interrupted.

Mikhail tried to think of those incidents as learning experiences rather than life-threatening.

“You, of course. He knows me already.”

“Wait, why—”

“There,” said Hapburn, pointing. “You see those ripples?”

The ripples were increasing in height and speed, racing toward the pair. A blue-green scaled monstrosity with tentacles coming out of its face splashed stagnant water everywhere, soaking both of them.

Mikhail gagged, backing away from the moat creature’s seeking muzzle. He tripped and sprawled backward onto the grass.

Coughing, Professor Hapburn wheezed. “Well, now you know why dragons haven’t become more popular as pets, eh, boy? Stagnant swamp water.”

Dragon? Mikhail raised his head and met faceted eyes of deep sapphire, then realized what he’d thought were tentacles were rubbery whiskers. “You’re a real dragon?”

“Of course,” answered the gleaming creature in a Cornish accent. “I’m Kerensa. I’ve been watching you.”

“Er…hi.” He swallowed several times rapidly, wondering whether he’d passed muster — and why Professor Hapburn hadn’t mentioned the dragon could talk. “Water dragon, of course. I hope you find the moat pleasing after having moved in?”

***

This week, a snippet excised from something I’m working on, inspired by AC Young. My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel. It was dragon-themed over at MOTE – a free dragon scale to the first ten people who go check out the fun!*

*Delivery delayed until I find and befriend a dragon well enough to ask for ten of its scales without being eaten. Delivery will not occur if the author is gnawed upon, incinerated, or otherwise incapacitated during all reasonable dragon befriendment and scale-gathering attempts.

“The humans won’t know what hit them,” said the man in the white t-shirt. His laughter wheezed in the barren room with metal chairs and table. “Did you see the doozies they came up with last time? And that was barely a test run!”

“Brilliant,” said his companion, wiping his tears with a red bandana before tucking it carefully into his back pocket. “Sheer brilliance. And here I was wondering why you were waiting to take out their food supply.”

The man in white gave another wheezing chuckle. “It’s been in the works for years.”

“I admit, I had no idea you could be so subtle.” He raised an eyebrow until it nearly merged with his bald scalp.

“Learned from the best,” said the pale man laconically. “And that wasn’t you.”

“It was a most excellent partnership,” said the man in black, so softly the others leaned in to catch his whispers despite the room’s echoes. “I expect it will be quite productive, given enough time.”

Bandana man let out a snort. “Well, they’ll be fighting over resources soon enough. I don’t need to be subtle to get results.”

The man in pale grey waved a palm, and glasses filled with a deep amber liquid appeared on the dented metal table. He raised his pint, then stared at the others until they did the same. “To a bloody war, and a sickly season!”

***
Well, I had an idea for Padre’s prompt that was slightly less morbid, but that was last week, and it escaped before I snatched it out of the air. Then again, my prompt to nother Mike about hiring assassins at the farmer’s market was also a little dark. Check it out (and more) over at MOTE!

Miranda slipped inside her house and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Her head lolled back against the familiar wooden door, without watchers waiting to backstab or request political favor. Her eyelids sank closed, heavy with the tension of two weeks in her father’s court.

A perturbed ball of fur poked at her scales from where it tangled with her lower limbs. “Let me out, will you? I barely made it inside before you smooshed me in with the door.”

“Sorry,” she muttered, lifting a foreleg without opening her eyes. “You usually use the window. I forgot you’re in mini-kitty form.”

The spotted black and grey cat stretched until Greystone’s tail tickled her snout. “I hate compressed cat.”

“Better the court thinks you’re a harmless pet, rather than a snow leopard tracking their every move,” Miranda murmured. “It was only a fortnight. And now we’re safe at home, back on the farm.”

“Better the court thinks you’re a fluffy princess off on an irresponsible jaunt, rather than your father’s assassin held in reserve,” Greystone drawled with heavy sarcasm. “Now, to ask the important questions…Did you arrange for anyone to stock some fish?”

***
This week’s prompt came from Becky Jones, and I did not do it justice. Mine went to Padre, where a fluffy dog caught the guards’ attention. Check it and more out at MOTE!

“It’s not fatal,” Peter reasoned with her. “It’s just cold.”

“White, fluffy abomination,” June muttered, and pulled her too-thin leather jacket tighter. “I’ve seen snow before, obviously. Light snow. And dry. Not this…wet monstrosity dumped all at once.”

“I’m told it’s heavier than expected this early in the year,” Peter admitted. “Even for here.”

“Even snow monsters who wanted more snow would avoid New Hampshire,” she grumbled, and poked a gloveless finger at the car’s red button, jabbing it repeatedly as she tried to increase the seat warmer. “It’s not working. Ow!”

Peter had brought the car to an abrupt halt. Visibility was down to thirty feet, although nearly everyone had bunkered down sensibly before they’d left the restaurant.

She rubbed her shoulder and eased the seat belt away. “Why’d you stop?”

He swallowed, pale even in the dim streetlight and surrounded by whirling, hissing flurries. “About that snow monster.”

***

A quick one this week, inspired by Padre, while my prompt went to AC Young. Check out theirs and more, over at MOTE!

“I still can’t believe they kicked me out,” June grumbled. She plopped the sagging cardboard box onto the kitchen counter and wiped sweat from her forehead with a grimy hand. “Ugh. I think that one was covered in spiderwebs.”

Peter frowned over the pile of mismatched mugs he’d rescued from the last rapidly failing box. “You weren’t in the apartment long enough to collect that level of debris, let alone this many boxes.” He reached a long arm over to tug the worn flap open. “And you can’t complain too much. The apartment complex did give you three separate warnings about swordfighting in the patio.”

“It was just practice against the pells,” she protested, pulling back the other flap. “I told them, I’m on the hook to teach it next term.”

“And they told you they didn’t care, a mhuirnín,” Peter reminded her. “Lucky you inherited this place, with a lovely fenced backyard. And this box is not yours.”

“What?” She stuck her face into the box and promptly sneezed. “Ew. Sorry. You’re right. What is all this junk?”

He scooped the mugs up and deposited them into the stainless steel sink. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

June unloaded as fast as Peter could clear. “Dusty old book – ooo, I’ll have to check this out later, it’s on siege strategies – a janbiyyeh, lovely.” She brandished the distinctive curved knife across the kitchen island. “Look at that detailing, beautiful.”

He rescued the last chipped mug and reached into the box. “An odd carved rock – oh, blast, shield, shield, shield!”

Silver and gold light bubbled into the brick and copper-toned townhouse kitchen. The rock clattered to the countertop.

June cleared her dry throat as she approached, hands outstretched in warding. “Looks like a fertility statue in shape, the usual exaggerated hourglass figure but in a crouched position. Limestone, I think. Distinctive carvings across the stomach and back, stubby arms outstretched or perhaps broken off.”

“Distinct feelings of malevolence and anger radiating from the object of unknown origin,” Peter added.

She nodded, wondering if it was too late to save the townhouse or if she’d lose her second home in just a few months. “Cursed. Definitely cursed.”

Peter rubbed his stubbled chin and sighed. “Only we could unpack a box during what should be a simple move and find a cursed object inside.”

“Worse,” she added, with the pit of her stomach doing its usual unhappy flip. She suppressed the nausea with a swallow. “The box is still half-full.”

***

An early one this week from Padre, inspired by unpacking, while nother Mike takes on the practice war. Check out more, over at MOTE!