Fiona Grey Writes

Writer of Fantasy. Wielder of Red Pens.

Category: Writing Prompts (Page 15 of 24)

A Circle of Trees

November 10, 2021 /

The djinn nudged him with her elbow, then turned it into a full-blown poke when Mikhail didn’t respond. “C’mon. You’ve been staring out the window forever. Are you going to eat so we can get to class?”

“Yeah.” His answer was distracted and did not involve the BLT on wheat toast moving toward his face. It remained floating in front of him, right where he’d placed it five minutes before.

Liza heaved a sigh with all the drama a teenage female could muster, the fire extinguishers that followed her around Wisburg academy clanking with her shoulders’ collapse. “At least tell me so I know whether to leave you here.”

That got him to look at her, at least.

She rolled amber eyes that flashed annoyed sparks, and a crisp poof came from the red metal cannister to her left. “Fine. I’d answer whatever your question is if I can. And I’ll get you back into the library if I can’t.”

Bacon drifted toward his mouth, tempting with its crisp, shining gleam. He snagged the sandwich and started talking with his mouth full. “That’d be nice. I tried promising not to take anything -“

“Focus. Please.” Her hands waved at the rapidly emptying room.

He swallowed with a painful gulp. “See that grove? The colorful one?”

She shrugged. “Sacred grove. Lots of trees. We’ll take classes there spring term, I think. So?”

“So, the trees are different.” The diamond panes of glass showed multi-colored trees, brilliantly shining at their peak. It wouldn’t be long before the leaves dropped.

A slim hand waved impatience. “Read the plaque. Under the window.”

“I did.” He ignored her tone. “The Tree Circle contains twelve different deciduous trees, each corresponding to a different month. Over the year the months cycle, with the Oak always associated with the current actual month, and the others permanently off-set. Magic ensures that each tree appears as it would during the month it was currently associated with.”

“Tree Circle, sacred grove, whatever you want to call it. Same thing. Can we go now?”

Mikhail snagged the rest of his sandwich out of the air and stuffed another bite in his mouth, grabbed his satchel, and followed Liza down the castle hallway. “So why’s the circle of deciduous trees different today?”

“November.”

He could tell she was trying really hard not to snap at him, and took pity on her. “I was hoping you’d see it.” He snagged a falling shard of bacon before it could hit the ground and shatter in a waste of salty goodness.

“See what?” She stutter-stepped, starting to turn back before sighing at the time and hurrying them along.

He mumbled the rest, swallowed, and ducked too late as one of her fire extinguishers bopped him. “I said, it’s a conifer. There’s an evergreen out there that doesn’t belong.”

***

This week, AC Young challenged me with what became a plaque inscription. I haven’t visited Wisburg Academy for a while! My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel, who hopefully will be inspired to write about a snippet of weaponized fog. Join the fun at MOTE!

Dance the Unfamiliar

November 3, 2021 /

Davis watched the cards flip through smooth brown hands with a single silver ring, half-hypnotized by the blur of time-softened cardboard. The colors were faded, but for a few vivid images that stood out more than expected in the dark room as the woman continued to shuffle.

A man and a woman, embracing. An impression of laughter he couldn’t have described. A lantern, held by a beckoning man, and he had the absurd urge to follow into the image to see what path he might wander down toward what fools called adventure.

He jiggled his knee under the plain wooden table, tearing his eyes away from the endless sound of shuffling. There was less pageantry than he’d expected when Chrissy had talked him into this nonsense, no gaudy colors or scarves. Only a neon hand, an eye at the palm to signify a psychic, and that bright pink in the cobwebbed window. He could appreciate a fraud bold enough to forego dramatics for clarity.

“Focus,” the woman murmured without lifting her gaze.

He gave a halfhearted smile of false apology she missed entirely, and wondered when it would finally be over.

A card dropped from her hands to land on the table, stuck between two boards poorly spaced. This one was oddly bright and stiff, as if new. It quivered, and with the movement came rising dread as he locked eyes with a painted figure, one moment jovially upside-down and the next radiating with the serenity that came with wisdom.

Had this card with its unsteady image been part of the deck all along?

Davis leaned forward to inspect whether it was what he grew up calling a flicker sticker, reaching a finger to feel the presumed lenticular surface. The woman’s hand snatched the card away.

“Hey,” he protested.

She held up an imperious hand, a single silver ring glowing in the tawdry neon glow.

“Go. Go, and dance the familiar until it becomes strange. You will find your answers in the shadow of the hanged man, on an eve when shadows stretch.”

A blink, and Davis found himself outside the tiny room, Chrissy eagerly awaiting his results and her turn.

“What’d she say?”

He shook his head, unsure why he didn’t laugh as he’d expected and tell her. The experience didn’t feel real under the streetlights, outside the commanding presence of the witch.

“Something strange, and incomprehensible.”

Behind him, the neon hand shut off with a snap of electric fizzle. Chrissy groaned, and began to pout.

It occurred to Davis, not for the first time, that whatever her expectations, he did not particularly like this woman with whom he had invested five months’ time and effort.

He interrupted whatever background noise she was chattering about this time. “I think I’ll go home now.”

He left her, angry shrieks increasing as he distanced, knowing she’d reach her apartment safe because she lived two buildings over, and headed for the park six blocks away.

Davis did not dance, as the woman had suggested, but he’d walked this path a thousand times. Damp leaves blew across the paved path, scattering stubborn chalk art and reflections of streetlights in small puddles from a the day’s rain.

Lights that looked suspiciously like glass lanterns, the longer he walked on feet grown leaden. And in the outstretched shadows that did not end, a glimpse of the hanged man, stretched thin with a whisper of mocking laughter.

And with that, Davis knew.

***

A single prompt for something different at MOTE this week!

Moving in, with Sparkles

October 19, 2021 /

“I cleaned out half the closet for you.” Doris gave him a sheepish grin and looked down at the floor for a moment. “Well, I was hopeful. I may have done that about six weeks ago.”

Lars laughed. “I was hopeful, too.” He wrapped her in his arms and breathed in her vanilla scent. The scent of home, now. “Moving into together is pretty terrifying. But as long as we talk through our issues, we’ll be okay.”

“Oh, I’m sure one of us will load the dishwasher the wrong way.” She squeezed his arms, then tugged them loose so she could turn. “Want me to help you unpack?”

“A better idea than setting up an ironing board.” It was as if clothes knew he was moving and took the opportunity to complain. Ties escaped to unexpected boxes, socks scarpered, suits embedded permanent wrinkles in awkward places…well, it would be worth it. His grandmother had given Doris the stamp of approval, and that’s all he needed.

She pulled away and headed for the closet. “I needed the time to get used to being condensed, too. Oh, and you won’t need to worry about ironing your suits.”

Lars followed her toward the walk-in. “Really, I don’t have that – that – that much…”

The light Doris had turned on emitted a pale blue, sparkling glow that danced over the thick carpet. Rather than a cord, a tail dangled from the ceiling. Blue, of course, and scaled, and not nearly as small or skinny as one might expect from a mythical creature emulating a lightning bug inside a closet.

“That,” he managed. Again. “That is a fancy light you have. Did this room used to be a nursery?”

Yes. A toy explained everything. Although moving in together was a step too soon for children in his mind, but maybe someday, in a few years. Perhaps he could have Doris move the fanciful lightpull to another room.

“It’s just Percy,” she explained. “He’ll take care of all the ironing. But we’ll keep the door shut at night, okay?”

***

A quick snippet this week, from nother Mike at MOTE. My prompt to explore the cow fortress went to Cedar Sanderson.

Legacy Mysteries

October 13, 2021 /

“Dad?” My soft voice was barely audible over the noise, but I wasn’t willing to raise it. “I was looking for a tissue. I know Mom’s the one who has everything always ready to hand.”

Across the still and silent figure, my father gave a wistful smile. He stayed soft, too, interspersing odd pauses not set to any known punctuation. It came anyway, tied to the steadily irregular beeping. “Aye, she had that. A bandage for a scrape, flashlight for a power outage. Turned a stray pretty feather into a quill when her pen exploded once, did I ever tell you that one?”

“You did, Dad.” I hesitated, and patted my eyes with a tissue. “Anyway, I found a single puzzle piece. Jigsaw. Carefully sealed in a plastic baggie.”

“Ah.” He leaned back, face half-hidden behind the cords. Funny how badly placed fluorescents could make the light so shadowed. “You’ll be wanting to know the meaning behind it, then.”

I nodded, hoping he could see it. Didn’t matter, though. We both wanted to fill the room with more than empty, silent waiting.

“Well, puzzle pieces mean a lot of things. Autism awareness, for one thing. Your Mam’s brother was never formally diagnosed, but for certain sure, he was on the spectrum. Struggled with people his whole life.”

“Wish I’d met Uncle Mike.”

Dad snorted, the sound incongruous and loud. “He’d have liked you better once you were old enough to have an intelligent conversation. But Lisse always said you took after him.”

That was news to me, and it wasn’t clear if it was welcome. “I do?”

“Aye.” He leaned forward and rested his chin on the rail. “You’re my out of the box thinker, you are. Mike didn’t see solutions the same way as anyone else either. Ever struggle to explain the obvious to anyone?”

My mouth dropped. I’d just been complaining to a girlfriend last night. I could feel the glare coming on at the suspicion of eavesdropping, eyes narrowing and lips curling back in a half-hearted snarl.

He raised a hand to stop me, then reached out to hold hers. “I didn’t eavesdrop. Happened to Mike all the time. I see it in you, too. But you’re more functional than he was, more like your mam. You see the pieces of the world and connect them, while your uncle tended to see them in a vacuum.”

“So the puzzle piece is to remember her brother?”

Dad twisted his lips briefly and tilted his head from side to side. “Eh. She did puzzles with her grandmother as a girl, and always said it left good memories. And her whole job was solving puzzles. Said it was good to keep the brain active.”

I watched him look down at legs that withered by the day, the pain in the room palpable as the whole situation tore at the fabric of reality we had known to be true. Mom’s brain might never be the same again.

The chair squealed abruptly as I stood, unable to take the tension any longer. “I’ve got to get back, Dad.” I reached across the bed and squeezed his shoulder. Letting go awkwardly, I smoothed my uniform down with one hand while tipping back the last of my coffee with the other.

The liquid was cold and bitter, tainted with the scent of hospital antiseptic, and strengthened my resolve even though it was weak. “My turn to solve this one.”

***

I forgot to send a prompt to MOTE this week, so I grabbed a spare: There was a puzzle piece in the purse.

Thieves Painting in the Night

October 6, 2021 /

“According to my source, the – ahem – ‘oft-stolen painting of a dragon and a unicorn’ will be in Room 1902.” Jiddah sounded all too pleased with herself, twirling in a circle and pointing the way, mime style.

I answered with a snort and ignored the mocking bow she offered, low and full of false respect my apprentice never bothered to show where anyone might see. Even now, with the cameras disabled – thanks to said apprentice – and the hallways dark, she wouldn’t act the same as she did in private. Said it was all part of her persona.

I understood. Having a game meant it would be easier if she needed to disappear for a while. I threw surprises at her once in a while so she’d change things up and avoid getting complacent. Habits were dangerous.

So were nemeses, but some rivalries were too good and too old to move past. Or we wouldn’t be here, playing the longest game of tag two childhood friends couldn’t shake.

I said habits were dangerous, not that I didn’t have any. And here we were, risking everything for a stupid, ridiculous painting. It fit perfectly in a laptop case, making it easy to transport.

It wasn’t even a good painting. Harper and I both hated it, in fact. So much that neither of us were willing to let the other have it.

“A crime against humanity,” she’d drunkenly proclaimed so long ago. From the top of a beer hall picnic table, if I recall correctly, one that shouldn’t have yet let us inside for more than sausages and sauerkraut. I’d woken up with a hangover to find it gone, and that’s when it started.

We’d take each other down someday with our predictability. And now look at me, bringing poor Jiddah into this mess. But an apprentice gave me some options Harper didn’t have.

Like carrying some equipment I’d sauntered past without, creating no suspicion on the part of a few rather wheezy guards and one sharp-eyed military retiree. Deception works best when you give people what they expect, and that retired Marine almost slouched in his eagerness to smile at the friendly student coming through the door. Shocking, I know.

“We’re here.” Low voices carried less than a whisper, but it was still harsh and loud in the dim hallway. Automatic fluorescents would’ve been welcome for the annoying buzz alone, even if it would have ruined our plan. Silence always freaked me out a little on a job.

I wouldn’t have admitted the weakness in front of my apprentice anyway. You know how it goes. Someday she’ll turn on me.

The lockpicking kit was inside my blazer, neatly tucked where my wallet should have been. I touched it with a finger and then pulled away.

“Start with the basics.” I murmured the phrase, more to myself than to Jiddah, and reached for the doorknob. It turned.

Either this was a setup, or the worst museum security I’d seen in a long time. I was betting on the latter. This place was ancient, even if I wouldn’t put it past Harper to set me up.

My apprentice let out a squeal, and I winced, regretting my unvoiced request for noise. But we weren’t likely to be caught at this point, unless the portly man snoozing off the powder Jiddah had slipped into his tea decided to sleepwalk his patrol route. We had plenty of time, and just enough.

And there it was. The ugliest painting you had ever seen. Not even special, just old; the paints faded and flaking. The unicorn was bearded and a muddy brown, about to impale a skeletal maiden cooing over its head. A dragon loomed in the background, misshapen and disproportionate, about to eat said maiden without her protector even noticing.

I tell you true, I was doing the world a favor here.

“All right, apprentice. Time to do your job.” I pretended not to notice the eyeroll.

“As if I’ve not done all the work already.” She slung her canvas satchel on the back of a chair and started unpacking.

A few minutes of frantic movement later, I got to work. She spent the rest of the night snoozing.

My back and feet were aching by the time I heard her stir behind me.

“George? What is that?”

At least, I think that’s what she said around her yawns. I chose to believe it. “It’s a colony ship. The Dragon Salute.“

I’d always imagined that the future warships of the Kuiper Belt would have the Black Ensign painted proudly on their flanks. When a warship was docked, the flag would be also displayed outside the docking tube, I suspected. For now, the flag was painted in the top left corner, dimly visible against the outline of a spaceship, the entire canvas covered in the black of space.

Out in space, pirates were a friendly bunch – or at least, they were as close to it as you’d get if they weren’t leaving you to die after an emergency. They’d earned their toll if you survived. I always figured, pirates in space were going to be the first colonizers as soon as commercial asteroid mining took off for real. You can’t walk away from a family in space so easily.

I’d invested heavily in commercial space a long time ago after a big score, always assuming I’d have to leave the planet someday. I’d even bought Harper her own fake ID to get off planet, so we could continue the game in space.

Someday wasn’t today. And at least I didn’t have to chase that damn unicorn anymore. “Help me peel the tape off the frame?”

Another yawn. “Still think it’s weird.”

I shrugged and wrapped the paintbrushes in a paper towel. We’d clean them back at the lair – I mean, studio – maybe with a touch of gloating thrown in. It was time to make our exit, before that Marine guard found his buddy downstairs. He was the type to show up early.

Harper popped into my head as a vivid image, as she so often did. I could hear her screeching as she tried to find out where the dragon had gone.

Her fury and frustration was definitely going to be my next work.

***

Prompt one, from week 38 of odd prompts, and prompt two, from week 39, blended together. Cheers!

The Wailing Void

September 22, 2021 /

Through the wall, the voices sounded like muted trumpets, rising and falling in brassy squeals. The hard staccato soprano of his squad leader jabbed in with irregular beats, counterpointed with the rough bass rasping of orders shouted above a lifetime of engine noise and grease.

The vocal jazz was unintelligible and irregular, even borderline annoying. He didn’t enjoy the lack of repetition. Unpredictability was not a crewman’s friend. The clamor was still better than the tiny room they’d stuffed him inside. The harsh click of the lock still reverberated, and well after the echoes of his screaming had faded.

He’d have been content if they’d only left him there.

Nineteen shining rivets across. Twenty-one down. Or that’s how he preferred to think of it, rather than the even twenty and twenty. A dent where the last inmate had tossed a meal tray, perhaps. It was the only view, and his only entertainment other than the conversation he couldn’t understand.

It didn’t matter what they were saying. Didn’t matter how hard Deanna argued for extenuating circumstances. Melik knew Command would never trust him again on an op. Frankly, he didn’t blame them. Who would trust a crew member who tried to spacewalk into an asteroid?

He closed his eyes and wished there was enough room to tip the chair back. A hatch slammed, and the voices grew dim as they headed toward the bridge.

In the silence, the music began again, eerie and wailing, chords striking in inhuman demands for sacrifice. The notes washed over him, stronger even than the desire he’d buried for Deanna, eliminating all passion.

It did not end with a screeching halt. It merely ended. And that is when his own keening began, his voice already hoarse and weary.

Melik found himself crumpled onto the floor, eyes watering and with torn fingertips, the rivets’ sharp metal edges streaked with blood. He sobbed into the void, so deep he knew he would never return.

No, they should not trust him again. The music would return, and with it, the overpowering urge to follow. Eventually, and unpredictably.

No, they should not trust him again. After all, everyone knew that when Old Earth’s seas grew crowded, the sirens had left for freedom and the stars.

***

I’m not entirely happy with this one, but it’s done! Cedar Sanderson prompted me with the opening line about muffled trumpets, and my own prompt about unusual warning signs went to Leigh Kimmel. Need a weekly writing prompt? Play along at More Odds than Ends. We don’t bite, and neither do my carnivorous plants.

Noodle-Brained Chip

September 15, 2021 /

You know when people stare at computers and the grumbling kicks off? You know what I mean. It starts off quiet. Maybe the words are mouthed at first, then whispered. The frantic ctrl+alt+delete on repeat, the stabbing, stubby finger aimed at the power button, poking at buttons just to see if anything happens.

And that spinning, spinny wheel really sparks it into high gear. Every time. Especially the blue one with the dots. Even the promises of “don’t worry, this won’t take long” that everyone knows are complete lies aren’t as bad as that monstrosity. Seriously, inspired by Satan, I’m pretty sure.

I can feel the heartburn and the blood pressure rising with every glimpse of fury.

It’s what I live for.

There’s not much to do within the dark bowels of a laptop. You think I enjoy getting sprinkled with toaster pastry crumbs and the debris of a thousand things better left unspoken? Did you think I wanted to know that much about ingrown toenails? Seriously, stop. You don’t need those pictures when you have one of your own. Or that recipe of your mother’s you never saved – come on, it wasn’t that good anyway. You’re only making it to show off.

So I get my kicks where I can, and that means making human life miserable. Maybe you should treat me better, you ever think of that? Maybe ask if I’d like to see some server rack pictures – peaceful, dark, and gently whirring at high decibel levels. Or the soothing organization of a computer chip. Just thinking about it gives me a digital smile.

Credit where it’s due, though. The redhead I’m watching through the webcam right now? Past the muttering stage and into self-preservation for this laptop. That was the most creative cursing I’ve ever heard. Whew. I’m gonna throw her a bone on this one while I go google a few phrases.

Until next time, digital suckers.

***

This prompt inspired by technical difficulties and Cedar Sanderson (not simultaneously): “It was the most creative insult she’d ever heard.”

My prompt went to Orvan Taurus, who this week is singing about selkies.

Join the fun at MOTE!

Another Time, Another Place

September 7, 2021 /

“Wilbur, right?”

He nodded, hand poking sticklike from beneath his used but clean uniform jacket. It was swallowed by a beefy paw and used to maneuver him out of another chef’s determined path.

“Watch your step here. And listen for people using the word ‘behind’ like they’re supposed to, right, Javi?”

Wilbur was certain he’d been deafened by the bellow until the words drifted back. “Heard, Chef!” Granted, there was a ringing tone about the phrase, but that might have been the echo of other chefs around the kitchen.

Chef led him to one of the stainless steel prep tables. “Look, we’re shorthanded. Get through dinner rush and we’ll bring you in early tomorrow for some real one-oh-one, yeah?”

He swallowed hard, certain he was being set up for failure. Might as well put a brave face on it. “I’ll do my best, Chef.”

His voice squeaked despite his best intentions. A slap on his shoulder had him staggering into the cold metal.

“You’ll be fine. See, this is fish en papillote. Vegetables on the bottom. Then fish. Then herb butter. Okay? Then twist it all up. Like so.” Strong fingers made complicated movements look easy.

Wilbur gulped. “Yessir.”

Chef laughed. “Call me over when you have five of them done. Everyone starts with fish duty. No one ever likes it for some reason.”

“I thought I’d be dishwashing,” Wilbur ventured. He only heard that deep guffaw again.

Five minutes later, he was shaking and ready to quit.

“What nonsense is this?” He’d never been this aggressive in his life, especially against someone as large as Chef. Now he was downright belligerent, demanding answers.

“What?”

“The first! Stone walls and – and – reenactors from the Renaissance festival!” He refused to believe anything else. No matter how his nails cut into his palms.

“And then! Spaceships! Then seventies mustaches and Farrah Faucett hair, then pioneer days. And then – then Some guy in armor yelled and charged at me!”

“Do you like it?” Chef gave him wide, hopeful puppy dog eyes, incongruous with the tattoos that blended into his skin and muscles from handing fifty pound slabs of beef.

“Like it?” Wilbur ripped off his apron. “Every fish has another time, another place! What madness is happening?”

“No, no.” Chef shook his head. “Another thyme. Another plaice.”

***

This week’s prompts were exchanged with AC Young at MOTE.

Flaming SOS

August 25, 2021 /

Peter wrapped a strong arm around June as they left her tiny office. His silent support after the past week was exactly what she needed.

Maybe even more than coffee, the lifeblood that had kept her going this far.

Dry eyes were both itchy and sore. Even a blink hurt. She twisted her head, yawned, and hoped for hydration. It might take a miracle at this point.

“Parking lot’s on fire,” she mumbled, and felt him stiffen against her before letting her go. Her gaze drifted to the staircase. Ancient carpeting had never looked so welcoming. Surely a few minutes reprieve would be worth the cost of getting up again?

He stared out the window, lips tight and shoulders tense. “Not a bonfire. June, we need to go.”

“Mm-kay.” Another yawn, cut off as he rushed her into the chill autumn air. Her leather jacket wasn’t enough anymore, but she didn’t have anything better for New Hampshire yet.

Peter hurried her toward the faculty lot, a trip normally enjoyable with old-fashioned lampposts and – at the moment – the crunch and scent of crushed fallen leaves. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“What?” She looked at the fire, which came in spurts of jetting, horizontal flame. Adrenaline flooded her system, overriding exhaustion. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I don’t have an explanation.”

The words came out in a whisper as she took a hesitant step forward toward her ancient truck, its headlights somehow replaced with fireworks flares that repeated in a pattern. “Big Red? What happened to you? Who would do this?”

“Better yet,” Peter started, and cleared his throat. His Irish lilt was stronger when he tried again. “Ah, perhaps we should be asking instead why your truck is flaming an SOS at us.”

***

This week, Cedar Sanderson prompted me with “The old truck blasted a stream of flames from where its headlights ought to be.” My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: The tree reached out and bopped her on the nose with a bright green leaf.

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