Category: Writing Prompts (Page 1 of 31)

“Ma, what’s the surface like?”

Gina chucked her son’s chin gently. “Why? And welcome home.”

He turned away and shrugged, and kicked off his sneakers, the laces obligingly sliding open. White and blue canvas tumbled, landing underneath the green leaves and shining purple lights from the hydroponic rubber tree stand. A quiet beep, a whir, and Andrew’s shoes vanished quietly into the depths of the robot that would clean, straighten, and return them to the proper container.

“School,” he said, and reached up to the table for the apple slices. He dipped one in peanut butter and shoved it entirely into his mouth. “Praazzet.”

“Manners,” Gina chided. “What was that?”

Andrew swallowed. “Project.”

“On the colony’s surface?” She kept her voice moderated, her face turned away, stirring the lightly seasoned pot of beans and meat as if it were not a poor imitation of the chili she’d grown up knowing on Earth. The last thing she wanted was to give her hard-won son, one of the firstborn from this colony, any additional interest in the quietly forbidden.

If their ship hadn’t had mechanical diggers…they’d thought the surface so promising, from a distance, not realizing the sensors reported records were from the most favorable climate this hellish rock had known in a century.

“Gotta do an, an innerview,” Andrew interrupted her musings. “On when the colony began.”

“Interview,” Simon corrected, from the doorway. Dust poofed from his knees as he pressed the tabs to release his even dustier boots. “Hello, my dears.”

The shoe-bot beeped in what she suspected was derision, then let out a whir that sounded suspiciously like a sigh.

Simon padded toward her and leaned in for a kiss, nodding briefly at the worry in her eyes. “You know what I remember most? The heat was oppressive, but the cold was even worse.”

“I don’t understand.” Andrew climbed onto the chair, one hand holding an apple slice. The other held his recorder.

Simon settled in and snagged an apple slice of his own. “Underground, we have mostly the same temperature. Above ground, we had extremes. The days were very hot and the nights were very cold.”

“Sounds uncomfortable,” Andrew said, and turned the recorder off. He snagged another apple slice and slid to the floor. “I’m gonna go play stormies.”

Gina breathed a sigh of relief.

***

This week’s prompt was from Becky on weather swaps – mine on goodbyes went to nother Mike. Find more over at MOTE!

Charlie brandished the dagger she was ostensibly sharpening into the air.

Her new barracks roommate dodged the stray utensil easily – if somewhat oddly – with a backbend that flopped bonelessly onto her bunk.

“This calendar of yours,” Charlie proclaimed. “It’s annoying.”

Lisse shrugged with an enviable casualness. “You asked when my birthing day was.”

“The answer was supposed to make sense,” she grumbled, and tossed the knife absentmindedly toward the target they shared across the room. It punctuated her words with a solid thunk.

“It makes perfect sense,” Lisse retorted. “The Rastelli calendar, named after our honored circus forefathers” — she paused to tap her nose three times in reverence — celebrated their interplanetary colony’s delight in the sun after so long in space. They landed on the darkest day of the year, after years in space.”

“It counts up,” Charlie snapped. “And then down. At least your midyear is properly in the middle.”

Lisse propped her head up with one hand and twirled a strand of curly dark hair. “Well, sometimes.”

Charlie threw her hands in the air, leaned over the bottom bunk, and stuck out her tongue.

“If that’s the worst argument we have,” Lisse said, “then I think we’ll get along splendidly. Show me that knife-throwing trick?”

***

A weak attempt to answer Leah Kimmel’s prompt about the Rastelli calendar (a very interesting idea!) after running short on time. My prompt went to nother Mike – check more out over at MOTE.

“Mikhail?” Liza’s question held a combination of uncertainty, laughter and concern.

Mostly laughter, Mikhail decided. And he probably deserved it, even if all he wanted was a hot meat pie and a shower. Or even a cold meat pie and a shower. Mostly the shower, really, as much as any 12-year-old boy could want one. “The magical zoology guest lecture didn’t go well.”

“I’ll say.” She gave into her laughter, red hair bright in the setting sun. Behind her, Lefty and George moved closer from where they floated over her shoulders, the antique metal fire extinguishers ready for flying sparks.

“I know,” he said wearily. “Look, I’ll tell you all later.”

She snorted, and Lefty poofed a blast of white foam into the air. “Hey. Don’t be nervy. And c’mon. You look like you’ll fall asleep as soon as I leave you alone.”

“Fine.” Sighing, he decided she might follow him into the boy’s dorm if he didn’t spill. “I’ll tell you all about it if you come with me to sneak a late dinner.”

“Better hope Cook doesn’t see you,” she murmured, giggles still bubbling through her words. “What are you, covered in chalk?”

“This is on you,” he retorted. “I wanted to clean up first.”

They headed for the basement hall. Any Wizurg Academy student could raid the after-hours stores. Snacks were held in stasis by Cook’s spell, even though it rarely lasted more than a week. Some of those snacks were more substantial than others.

Mikhail held up his hand to the door scanner, letting the trailing arms of magic recognize his right to access the magical pantry. The scanner always reminded him of his mother’s garden – purple vines, sentient and glowing – which apparently also had a sense of smell. The vines recoiled.

Liza burst out laughing. “Go wash your hands next door. You look like you’re covered in chalk. I’ll get whatever you want.”

“Yeah! Pork pie. Cook’s pie is the best.” He darted into the room next door and trotted toward the sink. An abandoned sweatshirt rested on a nearby bench, and he snagged it without remorse, tossing his ruined t-shirt into the trash. The laundry pods would return it to its rightful owner, and it seemed justified.

The water, however, was brilliantly cold, zapping his fatigue.

“Got you a root beer float, too,” Liza called from the hallway. “Figured you needed it.”

“Thanks,” he said gratefully, snagging the pie and glass bottle.

They settled onto stools, his crackling with a layer of protective newspaper that appeared like – well, kitchen magic. “Now spill. Tell me about the sparkles.”

He choked. “Snarkles, not sparkles. They look kind of like turkeys, but with the extendable neck of a heron. They can lead you to water.”

“Or opals,” Liza added, and shrugged at his look. “Fire stone. It was in the advert. I remember the important stuff. Like fire.”

“Well, the famous scientist Dr. Tippi Hedron was bringing her whole flock, all 300 of the Thermopylae guardians’ descendants. And they’ve institutional herd memory, so they could reenact the actual battle for us. Which would have been cool.”

“So what happened?”

“Ahchoo.”

“Um…gesundheit?”

“No, I mean, she sneezed. Mid-spell. Apparently she’s also allergic to feathers.”

Liza stared, her mouth open, freckles shining in the odd mushroom lights that filled the kitchen.

Mihail shrugged, and stuffed the last of the pastry into his mouth. “And then the yard was filled with birds and Tippi Hedron was nowhere to be found. So we chased the birds, trying to trap them. And maybe find her.”

“Did it work?”

“Turns out, they can go invisible, and they thought it was a game. Snarkles are really smart. Otherwise, they’d have reenacted the battle and we’d never have made it back into the castle.” His lips drifted into a smile. “I’ve got to look into them more sometime.”

She smacked the counter. “And Tippi Lockingstocks or whatever?”

“Huh?” His dreamy thoughts of taking over the flock vanished into confusion. “Oh, yeah, no idea. She’s gone. Vanished. And the birds took off, all at once, maybe to follow. But it’d be so cool if they came back. You think maybe for next month’s session instead?”

“And the chalk came from…” Liza looked at him with growing horror. “The birds? Don’t birds poop when they take flight?” Her words squeaked. Lefty winced, banging into George with a clang. “And I had to tell you to wash your hands?”

***

Thanks to Becky for the prompt about Tippi Hedron! Mine went to TA Leederman this week. Check out the bloodwitch inspiration (and much more) over at MOTE!

“Another one, Aaron?”

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

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

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

“Aye. Baltarin was the runner this time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Packing?”

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

All righty, I’ve got a twofer to make up for last week. Let’s see if I can work TA Leederman’s — Ignoring the storm that raged outside, we sat without furniture before the fire, toasted bread, made Welsh rare-bit, drank tea, and talked. There would be warmth between us, anyway. — as well as Parrish Baker’s I just feel uncomfortable leaving that half-done; I have to have everything ready first.

***

Josiah sloshed his way to the porch and sank wearily onto the peeling wooden stairs, cursing under his breath.

“You might as well come on in,” I offered. The door I’d paid him to fix last wee had opened silently, and he jumped at my words. “Better inside than sideways rain.”

“Beg pardon, Miss Penelope,” he said gruffly, twisted as he tried to wring out his plaid shirt. “I don’t mean to be slacking on the job.”

“You can’t work in a torrential downpour,” I answered, keeping laughter I dared not let loose hidden behind what I hoped was a humorous tone. I might not have known the lawyer’s recommended handyman more than a few days, but I knew Josiah wouldn’t appreciate a perceived slight to his work ethic. Perhaps when we’d gotten beyond more than a passing acquaintance.

I blinked. Now where had that idea come from? I fumbled to keep going, awkwardly holding the door open and gesturing wildly into the darkness. “Anyway, there’s tea.”

Tea, and a fire. Great-Aunt Cecelia had left an enormous stack of firewood along with the stuffed rooms. The hearth had clearly been frequently used, as it was in better condition than the rest of the house. Still, her “collections” were more than financing the repairs, and that was after keeping anything sentimental. Which hadn’t included the three stagecoaches we’d hauled out of the barn and over to the antique flea market before Josiah had enough room to work.

It was a strangely tidy and profitable assortment, considering she’d bordered on hoarding.

I’d found useable mugs four days after arriving; mugs that an average human might feel comfortable using rather than ones dating quite literally back to the the colonial era. The modern ceramics had been logically discovered amidst delicately blue-patterned china and tarnished silver, though their position might have been more obvious had they not been both in a closet and also behind several pieces of uranium glass and a hideously ugly metal statue. That single box had made the poker-faced auctioneer cough with excitement.

Mom always said this place knew what you needed. Considering all of her stories, it was strange I’d never been here until last month.

He was staring at the barn’s sagging roof — or what could be seen of the blur that was the barn, given the rain — when I handed him a steaming cup cheerfully announcing the holder was a dog lover.

“I just feel uncomfortable leaving that half-done; I have to have everything ready first.”

His words were soft over the fire’s crackle, so quiet I nearly missed them.

“I like order too,” I finally offered quietly. “It’s easier to get things done, and done right.”

“Roof’ll hold,” he finally proclaimed. “Slate here, and the barn’ll hold for now, even with the storm.”

I made a small noise, finally understanding he was worried about his tools. Before I could say anything else ridiculous, there was an odd groaning from outside that drowned even the rain, then a crashing that could have only been lighting.

The lights went out, leaving a gloamy miasma that cast a greenish-grey over the inside of the house. Josiah moved before I did, fast for such a big man. The north bay window told the story. “Didn’t get the truck.”

I stared, uncomprehending. “Um, that’s good.”

A corner of his lip might have moved into a hint of a smile. “Looks like that old oak finally went over, right across the drive.”

That time I did laugh. “I thought maybe Godzilla.”

“No, but I might be stuck here until the rain stops before I can take a proper look and cut my way out.” He looked hesitant now. “As long as that’s all right.”

I eyed Cecelia’s favorite chair, a spindly thing that I hadn’t dared to test. “Don’t think that’ll hold you, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you need. Let me see what I can find.”

The house answered with pillows, enormous ones that I could have sworn weren’t there an hour previously. Pillows, and a baguette I didn’t remember buying at the market. The cheese I had, and the kettle worked as well on the hook over the fire as it had on the stove.

Ignoring the storm that raged outside, we sat without furniture before the fire, toasted bread, made Welsh rare-bit, drank tea, and talked. There would be warmth between us, anyway.

Besides, the more my mind was occupied by exploring this connection with Josiah, the less I wondered what, exactly, was going on with this house.

Image generated with Midjourney