Category: Writing Prompts (Page 16 of 24)

Greek Tragedy

August 18, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Lisse nudged Marc with a black-clad and kept her voice low. “Theater manager’s furious.”

He nodded, his headset’s microphone bobbing up and down. “That lady in the front row keeps laughing at the wrong parts.”

She pulled her gloves back on and gripped the rope. The timing was automatic by now, after thousands of rehearsals and shows. “It’s throwing off the actors. Estelle already ran offstage crying. Her understudy’s just not as good.”

The frantic hyena cackle came screeching backstage again. Lisse was already in motion, but the sound jarred her enough the rope sped up inadvertently. Her fingers wrenched as her palms heated through ancient gloves.

“Quick!” The hiss came from where Marc wasn’t supposed to be. “Director’s kicking her out!”

Marc and Lisse rushed to stage left and peeked through the layers of curtains. As was to be expected, the director had a flair for the dramatic, one honed by an ego the size of Broadway, if not quite the talent. His aggrieved flounce was positively indignant, with one beringed hand over his heart and the other waving a clipboard.

“Jack, follow spot.” Marc tapped the button on his ancient, wired headset automatically.

Lisse looked upward, squinting against the glare. Jack was a blur in dark clothing behind an enormous spotlight now focused on the drama unfolding at center stage.

“Madam, please, you are disrupting the show!” He had a flair for sotto voce projection, the kind actors and audience alike hushed to hear.

The thick Greek accent floated easily backstage. “As if the daughters of Ares would ever need to marry! What a farce! Oh, good show!”

Lisse blinked as the woman rose to her feet, and dodged Marc’s startled drawback before his shoulder hit her throat.

The cackling continued until the woman had slammed the auditorium door, which was merely a factor of how hard she’d hit the exit, not a factor of intent.

“She…”

“Back to work!” The director barreled straight for them, pale lips pressed tight.

Marc scurried out of the way. Lisse gripped the rope again. “But she had a sword…”

***

I got stuck this week and had no idea what to do with AC Young’s challenge at first. Hopefully I did it justice, even though I took it liberally as an idea. “The local theatre had put out the adverts for their latest production, “Seven Grooms for Seven Sisters”. Apparently it was an Amazon’s favourite musical…”

My prompt went to Cedar Sanderson: “The grid pattern showing the safe path flashed once, twice, and then vanished.”

Animal Expectations

August 11, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“I never – ever – expected this.” I panted between words, fingers turning white with blood loss as the baby minotaur lunged for his parents. Actual blood loss might happen from the spikes in the thick, stiff leather, but that’s all in a day’s work here.

The assistant got the door shut finally, and at least the little guy couldn’t escape. Again.

That’s when the howls began. I swear to you, my ears blistered. “Look, you’re new. Move!”

I hip-checked the new girl sideways. Off to the side, and now the brat with the dark curling horns could see his mom again, cooing through the narrow glass window in the door. The mom must be older than I thought, though I suppose it could have been the florescent lighting in the lobby. Her own ridges had faded and gleamed the polished yellow of bone. I’d never heard of it happening before age thirty with a minotaur.

Maybe that explained why the son was such a spoiled brat. Only a single kid? Minotaurs were family-oriented, and didn’t like to be alone. I’d have expected her to be swarmed with a herd of five or more by now. We kept the backyard of the practice poop-scooped just for when they came in. Get them out of the way. Maybe get some entertainment if they formed an impromptu soccer team.

I jolted out of my thoughts when the horns made contact with that muscle right above my knee with a painful twang. At least the screaming had stopped. The new girl had distracted him with photos of her cat. Most of the magical creatures community found human-style pets hilarious, and this kid was no exception, snort-laughing his way through some photos.

Until he let out an ooooOOOoooo and the new girl snatched the phone away with a crimson blush.

It was enough time for me to remember her name, anyway. Maybe.

“Jessica, can you hand me that?” I wasn’t dumb enough to name the shining silver instrument, just pointed behind the kid’s back. It wasn’t my first day.

Twenty minutes later, brat was back with Mommy, looking for all the world an angel. I waved goodbye like it wasn’t eight AM and already down three cups of coffee, wondering if I could talk the mother into coming by later to talk about some fertility treatments.

“So what didn’t you expect?”

I shut the door, slumped down on the bench, and let out a yawn so big the tendon in my jaw popped. “Huh?”

“You said you didn’t expect this.” Jessica was wiping down the counter, her face fresh and earnest, frizzled hair escaping a neat bun after the horns had caught and tugged it loose.

I wrinkled the nose at the memory of what we’d been doing at the time. “Oh. Yeah. You open an exotic pets practice, you think you’ll focus on lizards, hedgehogs, maybe the occasional monkey. Maybe work at a zoo for a while, that’d be cool. Then next thing you know, all the stories Grandma told you are real.”

She grinned. “It’s so amazing.”

At least, I think that’s what she said. It was some slang that meant the same thing – assuming I translated properly. The mwah-mwah incomprehensible phrase just made me feel ancient, and I was tired enough after last night’s emergency.

“Yeah, sure, but next thing you know, some centaur’s got a toothache and you’re not a dentist. A gryphon has anxiety and is plucking his own feathers out, and you’re not a psychiatrist. Where else do they go?”

“Seems like you’re a good option,” Jessica said loyally. Aw, the attempt was cute. She’d been here all of five minutes, but the loyal ones either ran screaming the first week or stayed forever. We’d find out in a few days which she really was.

“They don’t teach this stuff in vet school,” I pointed out. “I’m going off folklore and home remedies, writing the textbook that can never be published as I go by trial and error. I’m just trying to keep them from getting killed.”

My lab coat pocket buzzed. Pulling out my phone, I smiled faintly and showed her the photo. “Success story. This is Fritz. Doing fine now after last night’s trauma.”

“Cute horse,” she said, and tossed something in the trash can. The chemical scent of cleanser now filled the small room. It was a definite improvement. “I know you have a reputation, but somebody has to take care of the normal creatures, too, even if they’re exotic to most humans.”

I looked at the dappled grey colt and let out a snort. “I’d agree with you, but if you’re going to work here, you’re going to have to recognize a unicorn that’s lost his horn.”

She snatched the phone. “What?”

“See the divot?” I yawned and wondered if another cup of coffee would start the shakes. “He walked into a wall and got stuck. He’ll lose his magic until it grows back. Poor guy. We tried to avoid that option. His parents are furious, too.”

The door burst open. Lizzie was the best admin ever, but her sweater was ruined with what looked like claw snags, and parts of her long hair were weighted down with something caught in them. Almost as if the tips of her hair had become something else…I frowned.

“Doc, we need you now with the basilisk in room three. Now!” Lizzie fled.

A roar and a thump came through the supposedly soundproofed walls the neighbors had insisted upon after the first week. I yawned again and struggled to my feet.

Jessica looked a peculiar, pale shade of greenish-grey, like a human formed from motionless putty.

“You coming?”

***

This week, AC Young prompted me with “When you opened your exotic pets practice, you didn’t expect to be called out to deal with a mythical creature’s toothache.”

My challenge went to Cedar Sanderson: “3,000 years from now, archaeologists discover the Corn Palace.”

Grave Girl

August 1, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Part I: Darkened Dreams

Dabria woke up with a shudder. “Not again.” The collar of her sleep shirt was damp and sticky with sweat, but she knew if she got up to change, she’d wake Luke.

Instead she rolled back over to him and interwove her fingers through his, and he responded with a squeeze even in his sleep. It was ritual with them, through more than a decade of dating and marriage. She’d thought it odd at first, that he’d wanted to keep a hand on her while sleeping.

She couldn’t sleep without it now. The habit made traveling for work exponentially harder, especially recovering from fatigue afterward.

But then, compared to Luke, she slept like the dead anyway.

“Can’t sleep?”

Her shoulder jerked. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

“Mmm.” He pulled her over, and she tucked into him. “Bad dreams again?”

She let out a sigh and nodded, even though there was no way he’d see it in the dark room with its blackout curtains. “Must’ve died three times in that one. Swordfight, riot, drowning.”

“I’ve got you.” He wrapped his arm around her and squeezed. “You’re my girl.”

“You’re my guy.” The words were soothing ritual, a promise that all was right with the universe. Dabria marveled again at how lucky she’d been to find this man. “I think it was the washers at the ford. The death omens.”

“Sleep, baby. It’ll be okay.” Within minutes, his breathing slowed and deepened in her ear.

She didn’t know when she joined him. When she woke up again, she’d sprawled away from his embrace, one hand underneath her pillow and dangling behind the bed.

Her dreams hadn’t been pleasant, but this time they brushed away with wakefulness, a riot of soundless color and blurred snapshots in time as scenes vanished from memory.

She stretched, trying not to wake Luke again. Flexing her fingers, she started to draw her hand back into bed.

And closed her fingers on something that should have been empty space.

The scream echoed through the room, more an angry duck squawk at full volume over the high-pitched horror movie classic.

“What?” Luke was already stumbling on bare feet, looking around for the threat. The Ka-bar kept discretely in a nightstand holster was already in his hand.

Dabria pointed to behind the metal headrest from where she huddled in the bed, covers still tucked over her knees. “Something – something is down there.”

He lowered the knife to his side. “Baby, spiders happen.”

She swallowed hard. “No. No. I think – I think it was a finger. I touched something, and it felt bony and alive and cold and –“

He held up his free hand. “Okay. I’ll take a look. Okay?”

She nodded, grateful he was willing to look and that her voice had stopped shaking. “Thank you. I know it’s stupid. But it really felt like a finger.”

He still had the knife in his hand when the pillows moved. She heard the noise and turned, just in time to find herself caught inside the tangled blankets.

The creature burst from behind the headboard and bit her shoulder, just below the joint. She threw back her head and screamed in pain and shock, frantically pushing the head away.

It tore her flesh further as Luke yanked it backward. The blade flashed, the creature choked, and she didn’t care what it was as long as it was dead, dead, dead.

Blood trickled between her fingers as she pressed a hand to the wound. Luke left the knife embedded in the creature’s throat and started for her. His gaze was fixed on her shoulder.

Dabria let out a warbling, incoherent cry, pointing behind him.

The creature was standing, reaching for her husband, knife looking like one of those old joke arrows through the head and just as funny.

Luke seized the knife, but she couldn’t tell what he did. Dust burst over the room, and with it, she did not mind falling into darkness.

She did not wake until darkness rose again, and did not dream.

Part II: Forever is Forever

He looked up from chopping vegetables as movement flickered outside the kitchen window. Dabria stood at the fence line, staring over the wooden barrier and into the cemetery, barely glimpsed over steadily increasing shadows in the dusky gloom.

Luke set the knife down and wiped his hands, then headed for the back door and toward his wife in her spiderweb skirts of gauze, blending into the shadows as if she were a fleeting wisp of cloud.

Her head didn’t turn as he joined her, clasping his left hand over her right atop the fence. Moonlight rippled in the pond’s reflection.

“This is my life now,” she murmured. “I always enjoyed cemeteries. It never bothered me to live next door to one. The shadows and statues. Black-green moss and worn carvings, speckled with blue-green lichen.”

His fingers tightened upon hers. “It’s not so dramatic as that.”

“Isn’t it?” She turned to him at last, waving her free hand at her face. “Tell me this is not a story of grief.”

He sucked in a breath. In less than twelve hours, her cheeks had hollowed. Deep, purplish-black surrounded eyes that gleamed reflective yellow when she looked toward the house, where the kitchen’s light spilled into the backyard.

She held out her other hand to him. “Yesterday I had a tan. This evening?”

Luke swallowed, his throat dry. “It’s hard to tell in this light.”

“Humans aren’t meant to be grey, baby. You know which emoji has the grey skin tone? Zombie.”

He seized her wrist and pulled her close. “Let me warm you up at least. It’s freezing out here.”

“I think it’s going to be cold for a long time,” she whispered, but laid her head against his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his waist.

He snuffled a laugh into her hair. “So dinnertime is different now. The darkness has always been your friend. We’ll just need to be more nocturnal than we used to be. Moonlight walks instead of sunsets. It’ll take some time to adjust, but we’ll get there.”

They sat underneath the magnolia tree, the one they’d planted shortly after he’d moved in, before they got married. This was their spot, where she’d fed birds and planned the backyard gardens while he’d done the labor. He’d even proposed here, and had been irrationally worried about a squirrel running off with the ring before he could get Dabria to come outside. Its lemon-honey scent surrounded them above cool earthiness of fresh-turned dirt, waxy leaves evergreen in the unexpectedly cool evening.

“They say in Louisiana, magnolias mask the smell of the dead when the floods disinter the bodies.” Her voice broke on the last word into a sob.

“It doesn’t matter.” He tightened his grip. “This is our magnolia. Ours. Nothing can take that away. There are no bad memories here.”

“Forever is forever?”

“What else could it be?” he answered, his mind whirling. “Through all the changes. Whatever they may be. I’m not letting go of you.”

She sniffled. “I’m tired, baby. So tired.”

His hand clamped on hers not long after, their knees touching. Luke fell asleep and woke up an undetermined time later, still holding Dabria’s hand.

Blinking in the moonlight streaming through the blinds, he realized she was watching him with those odd reflective eyes.

“Can’t sleep,” she whispered. “I’m not sure I sleep anymore.”

“It’s okay. I’m right here with you.” He squeezed her hand and rubbed his thumb over her palm before drawing her cold, bony fingers to his lips for a kiss.

“I know. You’re my guy.”

Her smile wavered in the moonlight, though it could have been the tears in his eyes.

“And you’re my ghoul. I love you, baby.”

***

This week on More Odds Than Ends, things went in unusual (but hopefully good) directions. As is to be expected given the moniker odd prompts…AC Young turned frozen birds into a space war and rescue (go read it in the comments; it’s good!). Meanwhile, I took Leigh Kimmel’s prompt about what was under the magnolia tree and turned it into something either romantic or morbid.

You decide.

The Sewer

July 25, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“Break. Five minutes, lads. Countdown begins now.” I hit the clock and twisted, trying to get the kink out from between my shoulder blades. Every trip, knots bury themselves hard beneath my skin, like a strange sort of game of marbles. My body plays itself, using my stress to raise the stakes.

Don’t get me wrong. The money after a successful trip is wildly generous, and I take full advantage. I’m fresh as a daisy – not that anyone remembers what that means these days, but that’s the saying – by the time I have to cross the Sewers again.

“Cap’n.” The slurred word isn’t a question, but there it is. The indicator that precedes the question.

Technically, I should be an admiral by now. If we were still in the Milky Way, close to Mother Earth, I would be, but then I’d be trapped in bureaucracy and screaming with boredom. Out here with a ragtag fleet cobbled together with duct tape and wire? You get what the crews’ll give you, and this one comes with a bob of respect along with the inevitable question.

It’s the same every time. The new guys all ask. “Why the break?”

I grunted and kept my eyes on the scanner. Pointed at some blobs on the screen. “Piki, you see this?”

A nod, caught in peripheral vision. He hovers, trying to see without getting closer.

“Move up if you want to.” I don’t mind giving away my tricks. I do this because I want the challenge and to get away from the world, not for the money. The more of us out here in the Sewer, the more chance of rescue when I’m the one who bites it this time.

Usually I’m the one doing the rescuing. Apparently I’ve got a reputation.

And so, the question, every time. Asking why we stop isn’t literal. They want to know how I do it. How I’ve gotten so many fleets through.

He inches over with a shuffle, and I hear the slight wheeze of his breathing.

“Look, this here is our fleet. Everyone’s transiting real slow through this shit.” That’s why they call it the Sewer. Everyone has the same reaction when they see it. Wrinkled nose, trying to dodge, hoping you make it through without an explosion. A crappy path, mined out and filled with debris. Moving debris.

Supposedly the companies that drilled out here were going to clean it up before an asteroid strike had them cut their losses. I’d believe that if they hadn’t mined in a damn asteroid belt to begin with. It’s still the best way from point A to B, at least until they come up with a better starship drive that can skip it entirely.

I keep my eye on the tech developments. Too young to retire, dontcha know. But wormholes or gate jumping in space, that’ll be the sign. Retire or head west, no-longer-young-man, until the next planet ends the adventure with an ammonia atmosphere or an alien melts my brain.

“That’s the fleet. We’re waiting for them to catch up.”

He rubs a hand over his nose and leans toward the screen. “Because everything backs up in the Toilets.”

I pull my lips back in a grimace. The safe path is ridiculously narrow, and this is the worst of it. It’s why I stop just past when I’m escorting a fleet through. “Yeah. So we wait to see if we’re needed for rescue.”

I stab a finger at the screens and the view switches to our plotted course with a bright red, dotted line. It’s the safe path specific for this particular flight through the asteroids, charted with more AI than is good for anyone and updated continuously with my personal VFR. The ships don’t join the fleet if they aren’t willing to follow it precisely.

“Flow like water, around obstacles. But make sure you clear the path behind you, not just in front of you.”

The countdown flashes the one minute warning. Piki bobs his head again, thin shoulders shuffling. “So you remember you’re human.”

“Yeah.” I flip the screen back and lean back with a satisfied grin. “That’s really all there is to it. You see the dots onscreen? I see the same number as when I went in.”

He lets out a whoop that echoes weirdly with the countdown buzzer, then heads back to his station with his head down when the others return. It’s the loudest I’ve ever heard him.

I’m relieved, too, but can’t let that show in front of the crew. They expect calm and steady, just as they know rock-solid that five minutes is all it’s safe to pause, because that’s all I gave them. Every contingency planned for and thirteen different types of anticipation for any eventuality.

Also, cleanup’s a bitch. Especially when it’s a euphemism for salvage, not rescue. It’s easy to lose your humanity out here when mistakes will kill in ways you can’t anticipate. To get callous about things you never dreamed you’d laugh about, even though we came to the stars to ensure humanity survived.

But you’d think more people would get the point about treating the spaceflow path of a fleet like water, and the Sewer like plumbing. Especially given the name of the ship.

I reach for the comms and let the relief channel through my words. “Alligator Fleet, this is Plumber Actual. Damage assessment requested…”

***

“When the sewers backed up, the alligators started coming out of the toilets…” I knew I wanted to do something different than the obvious with ‘nother Mike’s prompt this week, but all credit for this idea goes to The Husband.

My prompt went to Cedar Sanderson, and I can’t wait to see what she does with a penguin attack!

The Gift

July 20, 2021 / fionagreywrites

This post has been removed by the author in order to modify it for publication.

***

I didn’t know what to do with this week’s prompt, initially, only what I didn’t want to do. This was definitely a challenge that wound up with an unexpected ending, and I definitely enjoyed it. Thanks, Leigh! I hope you enjoyed our trade this week about the stuffed toy astronaut left in warning.

Centaurs on Vacation

July 13, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Water lapped at the docks with quiet repetition. Soft music shifted as they strolled down the weathered planks between restaurants. Fairy lights began to provide additional atmosphere as birds flew their last twilight missions, hurrying with the last bits of twigs and worms.

Hand in hand, each of them eating soft serve ice cream with their free hands. All in all, it was the epitome of a restful summer day in New Hampshire.

Peter gave June a nudge. “You see that?”

She popped the last bite of her vanilla cone into her mouth. “Argh. Some tourist left their purse behind, looks like. I’ll go see if there’s a wallet.”

He squeezed her hand briefly and let go. “I think I see a uniform up there. I’ll go see if it’s a policeman.”

June sat on the wooden bench and leaned over the straw tote with a giant pink flower. The purse shifted, and she caught an expensive DSLR camera before it hit the ground with a sigh of relief.

Her touch woke the camera from technological sleep. The back lit up with the last photo taken. June paused, unfamiliar with the device and uncomfortable with uncertain ethics of viewing another’s photos without explicit permission.

“Maybe it’ll give a clue if they’re still in the area,” she muttered to herself, and zoomed in on the first image.

A group of tourists stood atop one Rattlesnake mountain. One had – the body of a horse? An illusion, of course. A trick of angles. How would a horse make the hike?

Another man seemed to have wings. Surely, a convenient cloud. She squinted, finding it difficult to focus on the man’s face. That peculiar golden glow must be from sunlight.

She pressed the back arrow to move to the next photo. A hydra stood in front of Lake Winnipesaukee’s brilliant blue waters, each of its nine heads grinning with exuberant energy and wearing a different hat.

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted.

June looked up into dark sunglasses that were no longer appropriate for the steadily increasing dusk. Dyed green dreadlocks fell to shoulder length above a floaty wrap dress covered in flowers that matched the one on the purse – and the photographs – precisely.

“This must be yours,” June said, handing the woman the bag. “I was hoping to find a clue. My boyfriend went to find…”

The woman’s thick braided hair moved with a faint hiss. The woman didn’t use her hands to push it back.

She felt the blood rush out of her face, and was suddenly very glad the gorgon had worn her glasses.

“Er…” she managed.

The woman turned back toward June, apprehension across her face. “Yes?”

She managed an unsteady grin. “Welcome to Lost Creek.”

***

I grabbed a spare from the Odd Prompts this week, as I forgot what day it was. Oops!

Check out last week’s belated entry here.

Hidden Hybrids

July 13, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“It was a strange sort of hybrid, I tell you.” Jed gulped back a glass of whiskey with a quick toss. From his wobble and the fumes, it wasn’t his first. But his hand still shook more than adrenaline could explain.

Who’d have thought? Jed Nelson was afraid. In front of the whole town, no less.

I wondered what would happen when he sobered up and realized he needed to deny the whole thing, or claim to have had a fit like his uncle did years back. Stark raving mad, that man was, but he never recovered.

I suddenly wondered if Jed would sober up.

But he continued. “I tell you, it looked as though its front half was the front-end of a lion with silver fur, and its back half was the rear-end of a dragon. Complete with wings! And with gold scales.”

“And you didn’t bring me a one o’ them gold scales, didja?” One of the barmaids sneered at him. All this time he’d spent here and he hadn’t tipped her yet.

I hastily reached into my wallet and slid her a fiver. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Who’d have thought Jed would go down in a blaze of embarrassment like this?

You can’t live down embarrassment in a small town. Not really. You’re always “the one who…” after something this big.

I knocked back my own drink, and was emboldened enough to join in after I caught a glimpse of the bar’s namesake.

“Pretty sure it was Tabitha.” Heads turned in unison, watching the black tabby lick her front paw from atop the unused pool table. She wove her way in between the scattered, colorful object balls a whirl.

Laughter broke out, and I took another sip to hide a slight smile. Jed had gotten one over on me years back, and I’d lived with the shame since.

We didn’t think anything of the roar outside. Just another rattletrap pickup wheezing its last gasps. Another bike from some tough guy who wanted to be tougher than he was. Not until the walls broke in with a blast worse than the tornadoes back in ’19.

But I didn’t mind so much when Jed got eaten first. If I had to die tonight, drunk and watching my mortal enemy go first wasn’t a bad way to go. Right?

***
I’m late, very late! I was on vacation and lost track of the days. Last week’s prompt was from AC Young, about a spectacular hybrid. Mine went to nother Mike, who did a fantastic job with the wight board (yep, that’s spelled right). Check it out here – and come join the fun, if you’re so inclined!

A Rose With Purpose

June 30, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Miranda automatically turned right at the end of the hallway, ignoring the maid’s distressed cooing and fluttering hands. The table and decoration had changed, but she knew exactly where to turn.

Nothing would replace the chip she’d taken out of the red stone block just at child-height, courtesy of an illicit practice session in human form. Her partner’s suit of armor had been packed away after all the dents it had received.

She eyed Greystone. “You told me everything would be fine. No one would know.”

He sighed and sat back on his haunches. “I didn’t think you’d shatter an historic sword. No one told you to go after the wall.”

“We were practicing invaders!” She choked an instant later, wishing she could claw back her words. If only Father had practiced with us.

“Perhaps you should focus on the maidservant,” Greystone whispered gently. His sharp eyes softened, and he let out a soft mrrp as he nudged her toward the woman. She ran a light claw over his ears and turned around to find the woman still babbling and waving her arms.

She raised an arm, and the woman – girl? – cut off midstream with an odd gulping noise. “My room has always been this way.” Miranda gestured toward the direction she’d automatically turned. “Third down on the right.”

“Security reasons, mum. I mean, your highness. Everyone knew where you used to be. And your old room wasn’t impressive. Good for a child, mum, but not the heir.” The girl clutched her apron with hands already work-roughened and tilted her chin up in defiance. “Wouldn’t be proper, mum.”

Miranda could tell she wouldn’t sway the girl. “Carry on, then. I’d like to stop by and see it sometime, though.”

“Diplomat from K’farr is staying there right now, mum.” She turned around with a swish of skirts and headed in what would forever be the wrong direction, toward where Miranda’s father and brother’s quarters had been.

She followed the bobbing brown braid with reluctance. Greystone glanced at her and smoothly moved past to carry on a murmured conversation she ignored, lost in the memories of carved stone and twisted hallways.

“Here we are, mum.” The girl stopped in front of her brother’s quarters.

The heir’s suite. The words burned through her brain, leaving only ash behind. She could taste it, dry and bitter on her tongue, as unlike the brilliant bite of dragon fire as the sun and moons were apart.

It took a nudge from Greystone to return to her senses. “Thank you, my dear. I’m sure this will be lovely.”

A sniff. “Much more suitable, mum. Since you didn’t bring luggage, we’ll be doing for you shortly. In the meantime, just ring for me if you need anything. I’m Anslee.”

“Thank you.” But the girl was off in a whirl already.

Miranda turned and stared into the room, once familiar. She knew it in her brother’s colors. Now it was crimson and grey, the familial blaze prominent. There had been enough time to prep for her arrival, although she had no doubt the servants would have managed some form of redecoration no matter the time allotted. Even if they had to delay her by taking the long way through the castle.

She’d have to have some words with her brother about his priorities.

There was even a bed for Greystone, big enough to fit his snow leopard form and sumptuous enough to leave a paw print behind as he bounced off it into the other rooms.

She stared at the nightstand by the bed, where a single flower rested in a cut-crystal vase, gleaming with every flicker of the nearby lantern.

No, Miranda thought, and her feet drew nearer involuntarily. It’s the flower itself. The golden interior of the red rose glowed and scintillated, and the sight of it had her reaching for the bedpost’s stability.

The sweet, floral scent grew overwhelming, and she had no idea how she’d missed it until now. Her stomach turned, to the point where she wished she were in human form to get rid of the nausea in the fastest elimination method possible.

“Clear,” Greystone reported back. He skidded on enormous, spotted paws and flicked his ears back in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

She pointed to the rose. The rose that only belonged to the royal family, that bloomed year round, from a single enclave cared for by a hereditary clan of gardeners.

The rose didn’t care what Miranda had been or done in the past. It only glowed golden in the center for the legitimate successor to the throne.

Nothing could have made her feel more alone in the world.

“I never wanted to be the heir,” she whispered.

***

This week’s prompt came from Cedar Sanderson: “The golden interior of the red rose glowed and scintillated.”

I had several ideas for this one, including a Professor Porter story, but it didn’t feel right. That world is grittier, and tends not to have roses. Maybe someday. The other idea was about a magical artifact that is a rose, and wound up making its way into the above in a different format.

My prompt went to nother Mike, who wrote about the headbanging accordion player. Check it – and the weekly challenge – out at Odd Prompts!

The Detail’s in the Turtles

June 22, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Miranda soaked in the view. The great mountain with its craggy range of smaller needles. Atop it all, the wisp of steam that boded well for no one near, but far enough away she only worried if the smoke grew black and covered the peak’s snow.

The lake, its waters finally clear and swimmable, even for a dragon built for flight. Long grasses grew alongshore, where fish hid among stiff reeds and tall, gaunt birds sought dinner. Splashes came from the middle of the lake, where a bleached and dry tree overhung the water and turtles took turns in line for the high dive.

The scent of jeweled stonefruits; garnet deep and sultry, pale pink with notes of floral innocence, citrus topaz with a hint of tartness, blended with emerald lilies and sapphire sea salt. Underneath it all, the amethyst hint of something Miranda only knew made her think of soap, and the purification of charcoal harmonizing the disparate and competing notes into a fragrant symphony.

And her house, the first home she’d truly ever had, built – or at least repaired – with her hands, and Greystone’s. Stone and wood and an open window that was jarringly shuttered until they returned, but left unlocked in case they didn’t.

“Are you ready, my lady?” His voice was quiet behind her, patient and understanding.

“You haven’t called me that in a long time.” She could hear the reproach in her voice, but couldn’t stop it from escaping with a surge of fury at her father. Soon her days would be filled with politics, bland niceties and diplomacy. Each interaction simultaneously meaningless, fraught with peril, and layered with deniable implications.

“I haven’t needed to.”

At her nod, Greystone shifted into his housecat form, leopard spots shifting into tabby stripes. Long familiarity meant she barely noticed when he climbed up her tail into the harness.

Behind him, the librarian waited, his snout tufted into the air with determination. Twitching wings and pale speckles showed his terror at heading for court.

She took one last look, but the scene blurred behind sudden diamonds.

But she was a daughter of the House of Zaratha, and the Dragon Kings did not cry.

Miranda turned away and launched into the air, wings spread wide, steadfastly refusing to look down.

***

This continues In Defense of Dragons, which is not. the. book. I’m. supposed. to. be. writing! Instead of book two, I found myself writing half-remembered dreams, or a Professor Porter short story. I’m not sure whether to thank the muse or scold her.

But I’m glad to be making progress on IDOD, which was an early idea before I had the skill to tell the tale I wanted. Inspired by Becky Jones’ prompt, “The turtles lined up on the log waiting for their turn at the high dive into the river.”

My prompt went to AC Young this week – go check out his dark justice story in the Odd Prompts comments section!

The Last Normal Day

June 7, 2021 / fionagreywrites

The morning after the messenger’s dramatic arrival and collapse dawned chill and gloomy. Ralph was overdue to return to the Great Library, but it wasn’t clear whether Miranda would let him leave. For a over a decade now, he’d brought her books on the histories and folklore, without a clue that she was the missing aetheling who’d fought in the wars.

And in a single moment of just a few minutes, she’d broken her cover in front of the one person who she’d permitted to transit her territory. A person with an insatiable quest knowledge combined with the appetite to talk. She had no idea whether he even had the ability to keep secrets. Bookwyrms certainly weren’t known for their locked snouts, even to protect their knowledge hordes.

Movement from the open kitchen window meant she was out of time. Ralph was awake.

A thump, and she bit off a quiet curse from the training ring’s soft ground. Greystone had gotten a good blow in while she’d been distracted. She blinked up at the sky and gestured toward her home. “He’s up.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Greystone replied. “You and I know there are few reasons why a Royal Messenger would arrive here exhausted. And you made sure he’d be asleep until at least noon.”

He reached a hand covered in silky grey fur down to her. His humanoid form had some limitations, but she’d always loved the fact that he got to keep his claws. She put her hand in his and let him help her back to her feet.

“It’s hard not to be distracted.” She blew out a huge breath that pushed him back a step. It would have been surprisingly large – especially given the hint of smoke that came with it – had she been human rather than a shapeshifted dragon.

“Once the messenger wakes, everything changes.” His words were quiet. “You know that. Today is the most normal day of the rest of your life.”

She squared her shoulders and raised her hands to the guard position. The black and white speckled snout now poked from the window, inquisitive nostrils quivering, and she ignored it or the unanswered questions. “Then what are we waiting for?”

***

I forgot to submit a writing prompt last week, so I snagged a spare. This one was “Today is the most normal day of the rest of your life.” That said, several ideas sparked with other spares, too. I like the challenge of an assigned prompt, but might have to to pay more deliberate attention in the future.

Interested in playing along? Check out Odd Prompts for more!

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