Category: Writing Prompts (Page 20 of 24)

Bourbon

October 14, 2020 / fionagreywrites

“I’m naming it Bourbon,” Leila said. Her voice shone with triumph, but her hands were still and careful around the bundle of fur nestled in her lap.

I glanced over before flicking my eyes back to the wet asphalt, amused. “We didn’t even make it to the bar tonight.” I missed my rare indulgence, too. It’d been too long since I’d had a good whiskey sour. This place was all dark woods and bartenders who didn’t let you tell them how to do their job. They made their drinks the real way, with foaming egg whites and garnished with a gleaming luxardo cherry so dark you couldn’t tell it was red.

Her pout was evident from her shift in posture. “If we name her Bourbon, we never drink alone.”

I rolled my eyes and pulled into the apartment parking lot, glad the spot under the light was still open. The benefits of coming home early. “You and I both know she’s going to end up my cat. Eddie will finally come to his senses and ask you out any day now. Then I get left alone with this gorgeous calico.”

Bourbon let out a sleepy yawn as I snagged her off Leila’s lap. “Hey!” the larger of the pair protested. “She was my tiny heating pad.”

“And you’re hogging her.” I buried my face into her soft fur. No sign of fleas, thank goodness. “I suppose her eyes are whiskey-colored.”

We climbed the stairs to our second floor apartment, kitten in hand, and set her to exploring while Leila and I pulled out makeshift everything. A disposable baking tray I didn’t know we even owned filled with paper towels stood in for a litter box. And don’t get me started on how fast that kitten tried to scarf down an entire can of tuna.

“We’ll get her proper things tomorrow,” Leila said, and I suppressed a sigh. It was already clear she’d be picking out toys while I’d be talking to the vet. The money would be coming from my wallet, not hers.

I could have said no, I suppose, but the kitten really was adorable. Sweet, not feral. And when Leila’s future intended got up the nerve to ask her out, I’d be on my own. She might think I was joking, but I’d read the tea leaves and watched his gaze often enough. I wouldn’t be wrong.

Just like I wasn’t wrong that this tiny puff of multicolored fur had been sent for me.

An hour later, poorly made drinks from inferior liquor in hand, Leila and I watched Bourbon bat around a crumpled up paper ball. She was complaining about her boss again, and I listened with half an ear. The cat was the only new factor in this scenario.

Both of them had fallen asleep on the couch once her drink was finished. Me, I dimmed the lights and spent quiet contemplation time in the windowsill, cradling my half-full drink and staring out the glass into the darkness, wishing I could see the stars. Now that my familiar had come, the next week or so would be critical to determining my future.

If only I knew what that future would be. I leaned on my free hand and studied the glittering lights in the apartment building across the street and beyond until a faint noise distracted me.

Leila still slept, but Bourbon stalked a dust bunny my roommate had missed with the vacuum. Again. I took a drink and smiled.

The kitten batted the dust bunny into oblivion, rolling on the carpet to ensure it was trapped between her paws and dead. She arched and hissed at the empty corner, fur electric and enlarging. The smile wiped from my face.

To go through life without the bond I already felt growing between us would be abhorrent. And yet – I was unsure. Guardians didn’t have long lifespans. I’d never been much of a fighter. The single flight of stairs up to the apartment was the closest I usually got to working out.

But familiars were never wrong.

It would have been nice to keep the calico disguise for more than a few hours, though. Leila hadn’t drunk nearly enough to explain how our tiny kitten had become a mountain lion cub overnight.

***

This week on odd prompts, my challenge went to nother Mike: “With this ring, I thee wed.” Grinning, she slid the ring on his finger, looked up, and…

I received “The kitten arched and hissed at the empty corner” from Cedar Sanderson.

Join the fun!

No One Ever Suspects the Butterfly

September 23, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Char swept into the room, blue silk dress rippling with each step of her long legs. She tossed long red hair behind her shoulder and beelined down the spiral stairs for the man in the tuxedo. The man himself was standing in the shadowed kitchen, shoulders hunched over as he poked at something out of sight.

Max Butler looked up as her high heels clicked onto the main floor. “I figured it out. I think.” He held up the small white box, nondescript and plain. Nothing worth stealing, the box proclaimed, too small and not small enough to contain anything of value.

“It’s gone dark on you outside.” She peeked over the box edge. “A butterfly?”

“Jewelry. Or a fancy hair clip.”

Mild disappointment ran through her. “Made of plastic? Honestly, it looks like it’s for a child, not a diplomatic function. That’s the most obvious recording device I’ve seen in years. They won’t let us within a hundred yards of the entrance.”

Max grinned, his four-day stubbled beard dark against white teeth. “I need your thumb.”

Char raised an eyebrow and proffered her hand with disdain. “I need that thing to record the ambassador’s corruption.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.” Her partner gripped her hand and pressed her thumb against the butterfly’s head, just below the antennae. “It needs your thumbprint to work.”

Her lips spread in a slow grin as she felt the plastic warm, the wings suddenly powder soft and delicate against her trailing fingers. She held her fingers to her throat as large colored dots spread across the butterfly’s wings, rippling through the rainbow. The wings fluttered and began to move, and she startled backward before she could stop herself.

Max laughed. “It’s meant to match your dress.” She tore her eyes away from the butterfly and met his dark eyes. “Here, let me help you.”

The wings settled into a brilliant cerulean blue, iridescent as it fluttered just above the box. He reached down a hand and lifted it gently, bringing the insect toward her hair.

“It’s meant to flutter, and catch attention as well as sound. It’ll angle its wings for better reception.” His low voice echoed in her ear.

Char bit her lip. His hands tangled gently in her curls, warmth grazing her face. She glanced down quickly, staring at the tips of her silver shoes. The kitchen floor gleamed underneath, unlike their usual clean but worn safehouse floors. She didn’t stop studying the tiles until his hands pulled away.

She gulped to find he had not stepped back to admire his work.

“Lady Death,” her partner said with a wry smile. “You’ll be the death of me yet.”

He retreated into shadows before she could reply, and she could not see his eyes.

“Still not fond of insects, I see.” Voice light once more, Max grabbed the flyer’s key fob from the counter and flipped it in the air. “Let’s go. Do try not to annoy the tech people so that they ‘accidentally’ forget the instructions to our gadgets again, will you?”

***

This week’s More Odds Than Ends challenge was odder than usual. I knew what I wanted to write straight away, but kept putting it off and nearly didn’t get it done. Nother Mike challenged me with “In the box was a plastic butterfly, large colorful dots spreading across its wings as it started to move…” and I can’t wait to see what Cedar Sanderson does with a black and white sunrise.

Manuscript

September 15, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Lindsey flicked her eyes upward every time someone walked past, hating herself for the hope she knew was shining on her face. She’d seen the look in the mirror enough times, working on her poker face and failing. Each time, she tried to avoid the stranger’s eyes. Being ignored could be played off as a mistake. Oh, not who I was waiting for. The groups of mean girls with their giggles and shrieks of laughter didn’t have time to notice her, and that was just fine with Lindsey Boucle.

Pity, though. Pity was the worst. Those were the strangers’ eyes that saw right through her, saw how awkward and hopeful she was, seized straight upon her neediness.

Was it so bad to want a friend? Maybe more than a friend?

Where better to find a more-than-friend than at the Writers Of Romantic Manuscripts conference?

Her cheeks burned, but she took the time to scribble some notes for her next book on the free notepad WORM had put at each seat. Long rows of writers were seated in an enormous room, burbling conversation and colored lights filling the air, and yet the entire length of table next to her was empty. How humiliating. Was her eagerness to get a seat a turnoff?

Perhaps she was too eager in general. It’s just – well, it wouldn’t be so bad to get some real experience, outside of her imagination. She had plenty of imagination. She’d written a dozen books based on her imagination. Wasn’t a dozen enough to be alone?

Lindsey let out a sigh and stopped looking up. She slumped over and smushed a hand against her face, ignoring the music and coffee-scented air. If all she got was a free notebook and pen, plus some writing tips, well, that was all she had paid for.

It would have to be enough. Life wasn’t a bowl of –

“Excuse me,” said the sexiest baritone she’d ever heard. “Is this seat taken?”

***

I didn’t know what to do with this week’s odd prompt from Cedar Sanderson: Life is a bowl of cherries – if you’re a worm. My husband suggested the acronym idea, and we had a lot of fun tossing around ideas for it. See story one here.

My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel, to describe a scene in the Carta Marina.

Mahogony and Loyalty

September 15, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Frank Delacroix leaned back and kicked his legs up on the desk. Mahogany, of course, an exquisite import from Old Earth, or so he was told. The handmade Persiannah rug was soft enough on his feet; he’d made sure of that. Cheryl needed a soft rug for when she gave him his special personal treatments. He wasn’t a monster, even had a fond spot for her. But some days, a man just wanted to kick back, classic-style, and view his empire.

He’d fought long and hard to get here, after all. The rumor campaign that followed his predecessor just kept coming up somehow, every time the man made a move. It had taken longer and been more expensive than he’d anticipated, too. Frank snorted. Who’d have thought personal loyalty would have been a factor?

It was worth it, though, even if that guy had ultimately transferred a better position, in a larger city. One where you could go outside wearing white and not have it turn black-streaked from a dry, filthy snow. He was content here for now, solidifying his position to keep moving up the tower, to bigger and better towers. His turn would come, and then he’d get rid of that guy. Maybe start introducing himself as Francis.

In the meantime, no longer did he have to tolerate hearing his workers complain about their rights and needs. Smug bastards, thinking they knew better than someone put in place to put them in their place. He’d simply raised the quota until the workers were too exhausted to complain. Not that they’d dare after that woman bled all over the floor. And if they disappeared? So much the better. He could pay their replacements less, justifying their lack of experience.

He leaned back again, a satisfied smile on his pudgy face at the memory of today’s broken promise. He loved teasing the ambitious with promotions, only to yank it away at the last moment of hope. Even better, he could act apologetic, simpering about how this time, things hadn’t worked out, but next time, it was sureto be a sure thing. If only the circumstances were slightly different, if cuts hadn’t happened, if the quotas hadn’t gone up from central, if that work had been smidgen higher quality.

Frank licked his lips and contemplated the view, six stories above the level of heavy smog the grounders had to put up with every day as they trudged from their hovels to the factories. From here, he could see lights shining as his city worked to provide him with all the comforts and indulgences this crappy planet could offer. No goggles and stuffy breather for him, no sir.

Perhaps he’d call Cheryl in for some special treatment time soon. He deserved it, after all, now that he’d reached this status. Nothing was too good for a World Obtainer and Requisitions Manager. Each city on Formulant had one, each in a towering pillar to look upon the peons and control their miserable lives until they’d squeezed out everything they had to give.

Frank laughed, alone in his tower room with the unbreakable diamond windows. He’d discovered that most of the peons would do anything just to hope for a better chance at life. Cheryl, for instance. All he had to do was make her cry, toss out some promises, throw her a bone once in a while, and she’d do anything. He just couldn’t let it get too far, had to keep the puppet strings from being too obvious. Get her sister a job, but make it dependent on her keeping him happy. Had to keep her upset enough to keep hoping, but not get so expectant she started thinking she could make demands.

His boss told him he was a master at handling that delicate balance, but it was really a prerequisite for the job. World Obtainer and Requisitions Masters only wanted the powerful, the skilled, the talented. And he’d made it, off the factory floor at last. He was one of the elite.

Yes, life was just a bowl – a fancy, hideously expensive Ming dynasty bowl, whatever the Ming dynasty was – of cherrylinas for a WORM. Frank reached over and plucked one of the shiny fruits out of the blue and white dish, its deep red flesh bursting luscious and sweet in his mouth.

At the nearby spaceport, Charlotte Merikh stepped off The Wyvern and breathed in Formulant’s air for the first time. It smelled just as foul as the background dossier she’d read on the flight to this corrupt, polluted hellhole. It was a far cry from the early settlers’ terraformed greenery and soft sandy beaches, lost after the factories edged the settlers into poverty and bondage. Beggar children were held back from bothering the tourists – those that remained – by a rusted fence and a bored security guard. Their sticklike arms reached through holes in the fence toward her, but no hope shone in the foundlings’ dull eyes.

Char couldn’t wait to take down WORM.

***

My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel, to describe a scene in the Carta Marina.

Nightmares

September 8, 2020 / fionagreywrites

If I had known how it all would escalate, I’d have done things differently. But so say we all, and now with each labored breath, I fear I’ll take them all down with me when at last I cease to be.

I will not regret what I will become.

Once I spent my time careless and carefree, the only worry a good meal and a quick burst of playful energy. To stare out the window, and be a good companion. It was easy. It was enough.

Then came the day when I began dreaming, though not the casual dreams of youth. Instead, each time I woke, I sank into the miasma of despair. I remained in a waking dream, the monsters surrounding me, taunting me, too quick to catch or kill. A last burst of vivid memory, fading with waking, only to jolt anew at the realization the dream was the same I’d had the night before.

My innocence was lost the day I realized the monsters were real.

They are not intelligent on their own, per se, but they are many. And with this final burst of delirious dreaming, I have at last purpose. I will protect my companion from their destruction as best I can.

When I go, I’ll take them with me, tail lashing and whiskers twitching one final time.

Writing Cat fortunately has never needed to plot a mouse massacre.

This one was hard! Thank to Leigh Kimmel for this week’s challenge, solved only by last minute panic and a disrupted, napping cat.

“The dreams of one man actually create a strange half-mad world of quasimaterial substance in another dimension. Another man, also a dreamer, blunders into this world in a dream. What he finds. Intelligence of denizens. Their dependence on the first dreamer. What happens at his death.”

My photo prompt on ruined fortresses went to nother Mike, and I do hope he continues the story about ghouls eventually.

Losin’ My Irish Marbles

August 25, 2020 / fionagreywrites

My husband decided, prompt unseen, that this week I should write as a western. I seem to remember protesting, not agreeing to this. Yet here we are.

“Connemara marble,” the biggest cowboy hat Aoife had ever seen said in a quiet murmur.

She halted in the hallway and blinked at the hat’s battered leather edges through the open door. “That’s nice?”

“These figurines,” the hat said, in an accent so warm it rolled over her skin slowly, like warmed honey. The hat moved upward, and she met the eyes beneath the brim. “Oh. You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Aoife.” She shifted the box she was carrying to one hip and extended a hand.

His grip was warm and callused under her fingertips. “Jethro.”

“So what’s with the marble?” She propped the box against the wall, oddly reluctant to walk away from those melted-chocolate eyes. Normally strangers made her want to run, an itch between her shoulder blades that wasn’t soothed until she locked her bedroom door.

“Irish marble. As I assume you know, given your accent.” He winked, and she took a step back in surprise. He held up a small, flat figure and gestured to the tray on the table in front of him. “We just got these carvings cleaned up from today’s find. Fantastic condition. Probably some gods and fertility figures.”

“And a horse,” Aoife said, her fingers careful not to brush over the stone. “One foot up. He’s ready to head out and scout.”

Jethro nodded. “Never come between a man and his horse.” He picked up the stone and cradled it to his chest. “Isn’t that right, lil’ guy?”

Aoife stared in horror. The last few words had come out in an odd baby-talk. She backed away, that spot high up on her spine beginning to twitch.

“Aren’t you just the cutest horsie, all ready to grow up big and strong?” Jethro cooed. The green horse disappeared under the hat. Aoife couldn’t tell if he was about to eat or kiss the stone carving.

“Do you love daddy like I love you, little horsie?”

She ran so fast, she didn’t even hear the echoes of her footsteps in the empty hall.

***

This week’s prompt came from Leigh Kimmel: “Little green Celtic figures dug up in an ancient Irish bog.” (My husband claimed this was “just part of the challenge.”) I prompted nother Mike with “Follow your dreams. Taken literally.” Join the Odd Prompts crew! It’s easy and delicious – I mean, fun.

Get Off My Lawn

August 14, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Char strolled down the lane past her neighbors’ estates, market basket in hand. Her smile was pleasant without inviting undue attention or encouraging conversation. Full skirts ended precisely six inches above sensible flat boots perfect for the day’s damp, cobbled streets. A starched apron wound around her waist, ready to dry dishes or children’s tears alike. She was the picture of a perfect Octanian housewife.

A cloth draped over her wicker basket protected a long loaf of bread, some fruit, and a soft, mild cheese from flying pests. It also concealed a small blaster and detection equipment. Long red hair tucked under a proper babuskha hid her comms earpiece, while the broach on her left shoulder that marked her as a married woman in this county was, in fact, a disguised microphone.

Of course Char looked the very image of a local housewife. A newcomer who didn’t fit in perfectly would draw far more attention.

“Signal coming from nearby,” she said without moving her lips. “Definitely northwest.”

Her earpiece crackled. Sheer discipline kept her expression pleasant as she nodded to a trio of giggling adolescent girls passing by.

“Sorry.” Max Butler’s voice sounded in her ear. “The calibration was off.”

Char suppressed a snort and did not reply. Her walk was a hair too slow as she used peripheral vision to study the three houses to the left. Each had a long, winding lane, with the stone houses clumped close together and fields of grain adjacent in different directions.

“Narrowed to the Feldmans, the Gallos, or the Oglethorpes,” Max said. “Funny place for a weapons dealer.”

She did snort that time, but only because no one was around.

“Can you think of a reason to get closer and scan the silos?”

Char stopped at the fence and checked in her basket, pretending to look annoyed. “I can make cakes to take around.”

“You’re in visual range,” Max said. “What’s going on? You look like you forgot something.”

“Yeah, greehda,” Char said, calling him the name of the local ratlike pest that feasted on grain if not protected by the ubiquitous silos. “We’re out of eggs. Heading back to the market. I’m not spending winter on this planet.”

She turned around with a dramatic sigh and headed back. It gave her an excuse to study the houses again. Each had been built close to the others for protection and defense during the original planet colonization ninety years ago. The silos were kept close to the houses due to raiders, a long frozen season, and vicious predators that had objected to the newcomers.

No one had seen the arkhnad predators in the local Octanian area for more than three decades, but Char had seen the antlers hanging on the local town hall wall. They must have been thirteen feet across. When she’d expressed amazement, a grizzled toothless man croaked a laugh and told her the rack was from a baby. She’d noticed he was missing most of his left hand as he stumped away.

But there were no predators in this area now. The weapons dealer they sought was stirring up trouble, fomenting rebellion for an economic takeover. Had the last purchase not gone beyond small arms into a level of technology not usually seen on Octania, his work might have gone unnoticed until the rebels had sufficient firepower to blast the entire colony.

Three children raced past her, and she gave them an indulgent smile. Children were protected here, unlike most colonies where they were put to work as soon as possible. It was an artifact of the days when arkhnad and giant buzzards roamed freely. Char didn’t expect the attitude would last much longer, especially not after the grumblings about labor shortages down at the town hall.

These three were somewhere between five and seven, just at the age where they’d been granted freedom to run outside freely without fear of being carried off. Their cries were joyous, and all three slid barefoot on the damp grass without care for their clothing.

Char continued a few steps on, then spun at a shout.

“I told you kids to stay off my lawn!” Stubby Mr Oglethorpe had been one of the loudest complainers about children at the town hall meeting. Then, he’d been grumbling about wasting food on useless hands. He’d only quieted after someone else had pulled him aside. Now, he was red-faced and panting after his run from the house’s main entrance, waving a box in his hand.

Char’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “Max, situation.” Then, louder, she called to the children, imploring them to leave Mr Oglethorpe alone. She worked her free hand under the loaf of bread.

The three boys shrieked with laughter and ignored both of the adults.

“I said, get off the lawn!” Mr Oglethorpe pressed a button on the metal box. A silver antennae rose and beeped, followed by an explosion. Char barely kept her footing sixty feet away.

She blinked away dust. Miniature heat-seeking missiles erupted from what used to be his grain silo, heading straight for suddenly silent boys. They clawed at the ground, trying to get up from where blast had knocked them, slipping on the damp grass.

Char dropped her basket, revealing a blaster. She fired three times, her cybernetic implant the only reason the blaster was even remotely fast enough to short-circuit the missiles.

The boys screamed as hot metal dropped from the sky, inert. One of the missiles rolled toward the boys, whose shrieks had turned to high-pitched terror and tears. They ran, still screaming. All three gave her a wide berth as she stood there, feet planted apart and blaster in hand.

Char’s fourth shot stunned Mr Oglethorpe and left him motionless but alive in the yard. “Of all the ways to find out.”

She coughed over the trails of smoke left behind by the zapped missiles. “Max, my cover’s blown. Requesting immediate extract. Heading toward you.” Their own grain silo concealed a shuttle.

Char coughed again, and reached for the basket. “Oglethorpe. Weapons dealer was definitely Oglethorpe.”

“Copy. Heading your way for planetary extract in two minutes. Command is tracking Oglethorpe as weapons dealer. Grid authorities are already dispatched.” The earpiece shrilled again, and Char let herself wince this time as she headed for the safehouse at double speed.

Max’s voice was hesitant in her ear. She could hear the whine of the shuttle in the background. “You grabbed the food, right? That cheese…”

“Greedy greedha,” Char grumbled. “I’m not new to this. Of course I brought the cheese.”

***

On this week’s Odd Prompts, nother Mike challenged me with “As the kids cut across his lawn again, Mr. Oglethorpe unleashed his latest purchase, heat-seeking missiles. He grinned and muttered, “I told you to get off my lawn!””

My prompt went to Jim and Anne: “At a restaurant, you order calamari. The cloche is lifted, and a talking squid named Calamari gives your table a personalized standup comedy routine.”

Mother

August 11, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Nima stared at the light flickering through the rippled glass of the mashrabiya, wondering why the sunlight gleaming through the windows always seemed to dance above the alcove’s polished wooden floor.

“Come to lessons now, Nima-jaan,” Parvaneh called. Nima turned away from the outside view and walked to her seat a few feet away. The inner room had been set up as a classroom, but her sisters and brother had already passed onto more advanced training. Only Nima was left.

She didn’t mind. Lessons with her mother were usually interesting, flittering between topics like the butterfly Parvaneh was named after, each stop brief and exquisite before moving on in an oscillation of learning. Even the mathematics wasn’t terrible, because Nima could watch her mother’s hennaed hands under loose garb that swung with her movements. Each slender line was precise and graceful against the archaic blackboard, formulas chalked with a series of clicks and whooshes.

Nima hoped she could make such hypnotic movements someday.

Today, however, the undulating light could not be ignored. Nima found her eyes drawn to the glinting sparkles scattered across the room from the stained glass, wondering if the yellow shimmers were like the fireflies she had learned of last week.

Or, when mixed with the reds and oranges…like fire itself, burning hot and quick, puffs of smoke and ash left behind with a faint pop, more felt than heard.

She blinked, and caught her mother’s odd, fixed smile. “Che khub.”

“What’s good, madar?” Nima tore her gaze away from where she’d imagined flame. “I’m sorry. I got distracted by the lights.”

“I was beginning to worry.” Parvaneh’s eyes glinted, and Nima blinked again to clear her own. Surely the flicker of light she caught in her mother’s eyes was a reflection of the stained glass. Eyes did not crackle with the sound of a fire that needed tending.

“I don’t understand.” Nima stared at her mother’s hands with wide, dry eyes and licked her lips. Surely henna tattoos did not move of their own accord. A trick of the light, of ancient and distorted melted grains of sand.

Parvaneh smiled, and Nima thought she had never seen such sharp, wicked teeth. “You have found your fire, of course.”

Her eyes dragged back to the window. Of the colors the mashrabiya had shone in this morning, only the colors of fire remained. Dull reds had turned brilliant, oranges shone the colors of forged metal, blues white-hot and bursting, interspersed with the black of char. The lines of the stained glass blurred. Fire erupted from her hands. Nima screamed in fear and pain.

Her scream cut off as Nima realized there was no pain. Her jaw clacked shut, hard, so hard her head rattled. Then wild glee erupted from her throat, a fountain of flame spurting alongside her laughter.

“I’m a dragon!” She told her mother, whose eyes were now the gold of molten metal. Nima began to dance, extra swagger in her wiggles. She spun in circles, and did not meet the wooden floor again. A giggle of fire escaped as Nima tap-danced on air.

“No, darling,” Parvaneh said. Her smile was indulgent. “We are jinn. Have I taught you nothing?”

***

This week, Leigh Kimmel challenged me with one I struggled with. It’s just been a long week. I finally went with the intent, rather than literal inspiration. Which is probably more the point anyway, but sometimes my brain melts.
* “Pane of peculiar-looking glass from a ruined monastery reputed to have harboured devil-worship set up in modern house at edge of wild country. Landscape looks vaguely and unplaceably wrong through it. It has some unknown time-distorting quality, and comes from a primal, lost civilisation. Finally, hideous things in other world seen through it.“
My prompt went to Cedar Sanderson: “A dragonfly buzzes by your windshield. You blink, and realize those last three letters did not belong.“

Sanctuary

August 1, 2020 / fionagreywrites

This continues the story of Lady Death. Find Part 1 here, although I have plans for significant rewrites. There’s also a ridiculously long Part 2 here that introduces two new characters, but you can get the gist on who they are below without reading the second part. Which…probably says more than I’d prefer about part two.

“When I called you Lady Death, I did not anticipate I would be your first victim.” The words were a harsh growl from under a coarse, woven hood. The mottled fabric blended well against the local stone. Charlotte started. She hadn’t seen the figure waiting for her in the tunnel.

The spaceport bazaar had an eclectic mix of native and foreign items, including its construction. Charlotte had found it bewildering at first, but had come to enjoy finding pieces of home over the past week as familiar points of reference in a sea of change. Kallina had sent her out to get the marketing each day, shooing her down the ramp and into the unknown with a few coins and a small bag.

“Best form of acculturation is to plunge right in,” the older woman had said with a smile. Charlotte had taken the warren’s maze of impromptu tents and fluctuating performers as a challenge. Now, she wondered whether he had done the same.

This tunnel was seldom traversed, a spot of breathing room for a young woman unused to the press of crowds, and cool in the summer heat. It was the perfect spot for someone to catch her alone, and Butler had already tried once to drag her away from the spaceport’s sanctuary and back to her family.

Her jaw tightened at the lesson to be more aware of her surroundings. Perhaps she would survive to implement it in the future. His presence could not bode well for her future.

Charlotte backed away from Butler until her shoulders met an unyielding barrier. “You left a week ago. The spaceport guards are looking for you.”

“Are they?” Butler smiled, and took a step forward. His teeth shone whitely against olive skin, barred in a predatory smile.

She swallowed and flattened a hand against the bumpy wall, her heart racing. Shaky, newfound confidence steadily flowed away, seeping into the cold stone behind her.

“Perhaps I should introduce myself to these guards, so they might have an idea of where to start looking.” His voice drawled with slow contempt. Butler took another step forward, his black leather boot kicking up a puff of pale dust.

She shrank her shoulders toward her chest but kept her back stiff against the bazaar wall. Rough stone snagged on her unfamiliar garb and scraped her back where the short top ended too soon. Charlotte was acutely aware of how much skin she had on display, and much a slattern she must appear to Butler. She held her chin high. “I won’t go with you.”

His face lost its cocky smile. He ran a hand over his face, and even in the tunnel’s dim light, she could see it was covered in bruises, cuts, and flecks of dried blood. Peering closer under the hood, Charlotte could see inky shadows under his eyes.

She wrinkled her forehead. “What in cowpoxia happened to you?” The question blurted out before she could stop herself.

His arm snapped out, carved leather gauntlets stiff against her bare forearm. His grip was iron on her wrist.

“You owe me, Lady Charlotte.”

Swallowing hard, she jutted her chin up farther and met his malted whiskey eyes. “I go by Charlie now.”

He snorted and released her arm with a push. “Whatever you want to call yourself, redheaded witch. You still owe me.”

She rubbed her wrist, frowning at the red marks he’d left behind. The busker’s steady plinking from the end of the tunnel was no longer enough to make the day feel light and carefree. Charlotte turned to head for the spaceport crowd, seeking safety. She caught her footing as she tried to stop without smashing into the looming Butler now blocking her path.

“I owe you nothing.” Her words were cold and haughty. It was the best imitation of her mother that she could muster, the one she and her sisters used to emulate in hushed whispers, before breaking into giggles with ever more dramatic imitations.

Butler snorted again. “Do you not recall the man I saved you from in the library?”

“You did your job,” Charlotte snapped. She resisted the urge to stomp her foot for emphasis, false calm already gone.

He barred his teeth at her and pulled back the hood with a snarl. Her eyes widened at the sight of a jagged rope burn around his neck, vivid crimson.

Charlotte covered her open mouth with both hands, the market bag Kallina had given her rough against her lips. Her eyes tracked a trail of dried blood from a cut above his ear that had trickled down to run under his linen shirt collar. “They tried to kill you.”

Butler clenched a hand on his sword hilt. “Your powers of observation are exceptional.”

An animated couple passed between them, the woman of the pair covered in a filmy material Charlotte had never seen before. It rustled as she passed, the swish almost hidden by their boisterous conversation. Charlotte used the moment to back away from Butler, her head swimming with confusion.

He slumped against the wall, his free hand rubbing his jaw where a purpled bruise hid under dark stubble. “The Families say I deserve it. They already convened and passed judgment. Everyone was already there for the trial, except me.”

“But you did your job. You protected me.” Charlotte shook her head several times, still unable to comprehend how Butler had earned punishment.

“And you’re the witness I couldn’t retrieve,” Butler said. “The biased witness.”

She straightened her spine and lifted her chin again at his words. She could feel her face flush with embarrassment. “I was not dishonored.”

“It does not matter. I headed back afoot to admit my failure. Your own father pronounced my sentence from horseback and rode off while I yet fought for my life.”

“A road ambush? As if you were some landless bandit?” She winced as her voice ended on a high squeak.

Butler shrugged, the fabric of his cloak rippling as he moved. “I was better off fighting my way out of an ambush than in the great hall with the whole court surrounding me. Besides, I’d won my position easily.”

She started to reach out, and clenched her fist around her empty marketing bag before her hand could do more than twitch. Her fingers spasmed as she crushed the cloth. This man had saved her, yes, but had also tried to kidnap her. He did not deserve her sympathy for how her family had treated him.

“I said you’d be the death of some poor man, and you nearly were.”

Charlotte felt trapped. Butler had been outcast because she’d wandered alone into a place she shouldn’t, and had run away rather than returning. By the rules of the society she knew, his desperate situation was indeed entirely her fault.

She firmed her jaw again, tension shooting down her neck. “I am no longer the Lady Charlotte Merikh. I cannot help your situation even if I come back with you. And I will not return, to be shunned, shackled, or murdered as an example of what not to do.”

“Good girl, Charlie,” a voice said from behind her. “Well said. So, Butler. What, exactly, do you want with my ward?” Kallina held her white and black blaster in a steady hand as she moved, and beckoned Charlotte to move back up the tunnel toward her with the other. Kallina stopped several yards away from Butler.

“Corporal Bleuvins is on her way,” she told Charlotte without looking at her. “The couple that passed you let me know you might be in trouble.”

Relief ran through Charlotte’s chest in a wave. She hurried toward Kallina, careful to keep to the side of the tunnel.

“He’s desperate,” she told her guardian.

The Wyvern’s pilot pressed her lips together in a thin, crimson line. “Desperate men are unpredictable. Remember that, Charlie.”

“It’s my fault,” she said in a whisper as she crept to a stop beside the woman. She got the sense that Kallina would have rolled her eyes at the words, had she been less disciplined.

“That’s this planet talking, Lady Charlotte, not the Charlie I’m starting to see peeking out. Charlie has a personality.”

Charlotte bit her lip and breathed in, unsure how to respond but feeling as if she’d not breathed deeply in days. The scent of orange blossoms from Kallina’s perfume imbued a false sense of calm, she knew.

Butler still stood, quiet and open-palmed, at the end of the tunnel. “I didn’t have to let her go. I could have taken her as I saw you approach.”

The pilot flushed and raised her voice. “I asked you what you want, Butler.”

“I want the sanctuary of legend,” the man said. Leather creaked as he took a step forward.

Kallina stood frozen, her blaster still aimed at him. Long seconds passed, the clangs and shouts of the bazaar a jovial background that contrasted with the tension Charlotte could feel in her stomach.

“Sanctuary is sacred here, Butler,” Kallina said in a shaky voice. Her grip tightened on the blaster until her knuckles were white. “It comes with obligations on both sides. Do you understand?”

“No,” he said. “No one’s told me what it entails. I found nothing in forbidden books, other than it exists. Will swearing no harm to you and your ward until I learn the obligations suffice?”

She lowered the blaster and pressed a button. A faint buzzing Charlotte hadn’t consciously heard ceased, and with the stillness came tension escaping both her gut and the tunnel.

Kallina holstered her weapon in the sheath attached to her thigh. “I accept your claim to sanctuary.”

Butler nodded a single time at her, his dark hair askew, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Thank you, Lady Pilot.”

She blew out a breath and gave him a look Charlotte was coming to know well. Every time Kallina warned her from her own personally hard-earned lessons, in fact. “Yeah, well. Come with me, kid. You look like you haven’t fed in days.”

Charlotte followed both of them, uncertain whether she was pleased or disappointed. The already warm late morning sun made her shiver as she passed out of the tunnel. A grizzled, toothless vendor laughed at her reaction, and she scrambled to bump her way through the crowd.

Corporal Bleuvins had joined the group by the time Charlotte caught up. “I hear he’s on our side now,” the petite woman said. She adjusted her hat, held up by blonde braids. “I wonder if he’ll be able to adapt.”

Charlotte coughed and bit her tongue rather than responding. The scent of grilled meat marinated in yogurt and herbs caught her attention, and her mouth watered. The red-faced woman running the grill pit turned skewers with an expert hand, while her daughters took orders from the noontime rush. Their father lurked in the background, slapping dough against a hot oven wall and regularly grunting his displeasure when the girls flirted too long with customers.

They joined the line and sat with their food several minutes later. Butler devoured his before the rest were half finished, and Kallina shoved a large square of flaky, nut-filled pastry at him. Honey oozed out onto the square of paper it rested upon.

Charlotte nearly choked on her meat skewer at his moan of pleasure. He licked his fingers clear of the stickiness and let out a sign. “I’ve not tasted anything like that since I was a child.”

Her cheeks bulged with food, but he caught the wordless noise she made in her throat.

Butler grinned at her disbelief. “It was considered weak for the household guards to indulge.”

“You’re young for your position,” Kallina said. She frowned at him and ripped off a piece of bread. Dipping it in yogurt sauce, she continued to stare at him. “You were a full Butler? Defeated your predecessor in combat?”

“Aye,” Butler said. “And my probable successor is dead upon the road where he attacked me, hidden behind the bush like a bandit himself.”

“Huh,” she said, and shoved the bread into her mouth. A few moments later, Kallina propped her head on one hand, her elbow on the rickety wooden table provided for shop patrons. “What were you called as a child?”

His face went still. “My name is Butler now.”

Corporal Bleuvins leaned forward. “It can still be your name. Most people have two names. Mine’s Elise.”

Butler’s mouth twisted as he studied the women. Charlotte thought he looked uncomfortable under their direct gazes. Glancing down at his hands, he muttered a single word. “Max.”

“Well, then, Max Butler, I welcome you to the spaceport and accept your claim of sanctuary.” Corporal Bleuvins extended a hand over the table. He jolted backward before tentatively reaching out with his own.

Women simply did not touch strange men here. Charlotte made a note to practice later, so she wouldn’t show her own reaction when it came time for her own handshake.

The group threw away their discards in a nearby bin. Corporal Bleuvins kept up a steady inconsequential chatter with Max as Kallina and Charlotte trailed them through the spaceport.

“What is that?” Max Butler asked. He stared at an enormous spacecraft with sleek lines and odd pods. They reminded Charlotte of the blaster, and she felt an odd tingling energy, just as she had in the tunnel.

“That’s The Writing Desk,” Corporal Bleuvins answered. “Raven class Army fighting ship. They’re here to refuel and recruit. You interested? They don’t get many from this planet.”

“I know nothing but fighting,” Max said. “But I’m aware I know very little of this world.”

He gestured to the electric lights and smooth-walled buildings, foreign to eyes born on this planet. Charlotte found herself studying the landscape again and nodding. Even the acrid scent of spaceship fuel remained alien to a nose used to horses and farmland.

“Other than the books in the forbidden section of the library that I wasn’t supposed to read. And those were antiques from the colony founding.”

“Might find a bond with the ship’s captain if you want to have a chat,” the corporal said, and pushed her hat back again. “He named the ship after some ancient author.”

“Bit of an odd duck, that one,” Kallina chimed in with a laugh. “Whipsmart, of course.”

“Army’s always looking for good men,” Bleuvins said. She looked back at Charlotte for a moment, blue eyes locked onto green. “And women, come to that.”

***

Leigh Kimmel challenged me in this week’s Odd Prompts. “In Alice in Wonderland, the Mad Hatter asks “How is a raven like a writing desk?” Meanwhile, Edgar Allan Poe is writing “The Raven,” with its famous line “Quoth the raven, Nevermore.””

My prompt went to Anne and Jim. “The essence of noir: A man with a slouched fedora and hands shoved in overcoat pockets walks down a road, aware he’s being followed. Streetlights flicker into darkness as he walks by.“

Kittens in a Case

July 26, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Char Merikh, once the noble Lady Charlotte of the planet Society, now sometimes known as Lady Death, was covered in mud.

Literally. She’d streaked the mud in irregular patterns across her face, wound fresh greenery through her hair, and kept her movements slow and steady as she stalked her prey. She’d been in the field for fourteen hours, and was down to one remaining target.

One rather resilient target, who wouldn’t cooperate by being as easy as the rest. Char had begun suspecting his identity after the rest had been eliminated after three hours. She grinned as a figure crossed her scope’s view, careful not to show shining white teeth that could give her current position away.

She fired, and the figure below spun and fell, pulling on a rope as he went down. Branches, dirt, and twigs showered Char a moment later as something fell out of the tree above her.

Coughing at the debris, Char rolled over. She took a moment to study the dust motes floating above her, sparkling in the afternoon sunlight. Getting to her feet, she saw she was caged by a wooden trap wound with vines, and pulled her knife to begin dismantling it.

“Winner, Char, but with qualifications,” Winston Boyd droned. His boots were silent in the forest as he walked toward Char. “That was a masterful trap, and would bring the enemy down on you.”

“I’d killed them all,” Char protested, hacking vines binding two branches at the corner of the trap.

Winston frowned from beneath his drillmaster’s hat. “You think you did. What if he’d had friends? Or allies in the area? What about how the rest of your squad got killed and you had no backup?”

She kicked the branch out of the way with a booted foot and ducked underneath to join her trainer in the grassy clearing. The mud on her face itched.

“Thanks for that, by the way,” a new voice said. A man strode up the rise, a splotch of bright green paint on his side. Dark hair floated in waves above a chiseled face covered in stubble. “I could have sworn you were on the other side of the training field. Thought I was going to win this one.”

She shrugged without explaining and grinned. “Good to see you, Butler.”

It wasn’t often she saw anyone from her home planet, and Max Butler had been instrumental in how she left. She’d learned immense fieldcraft from him, but wasn’t about to give away how he’d fallen for her decoy.

“As usual. You’re the death of me.” Max had been the one to give her the Lady Death moniker. He elbow-bumped her as he drew closer and gave the faint smile that was all he was known for expressing when happy.

Winston drew himself up into a perfect training pose. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, drillmaster!” Max and Char snapped out the words automatically as they both straightened.

The man glared at both of them, his jaw clenched underneath his hat. “Kids these days. Trying to keep you alive. Do I get any thanks for it?”

“Just last week, drillmaster,” Char said, still at attention. “Alis came back from her first assignment and bought you a drink in thanks. Very nice whiskey, if I recall. All the way from Mars.”

Butler nodded. “A few days before that, Georgg. Blubbered about some martial arts move you’d shown him that you knew would be useful on his first assignment. Said it saved his life.”

Winston tilted his hat back. “Shut up, you nitwits. Get to debrief. Then report to my office. You have an assignment. Let’s go!” His voice snapped in the air. Char could feel her spine straighten at his tone.

“I’ve missed this,” Char said several minutes later as she and Max jogged toward the base and debrief.

He turned his head and raised an eyebrow.

She lifted a shoulder and gave him a lopsided smile as their feet thudded on the dirt path under the shadowed treeline. “Not the Army stupidity. But training for this sort of fieldwork is a nice change of pace. Keeps up the skill set. You know how it goes.”

“Getting tired of fancy dress?” The last time she’d seen Max, she’d been in heels and a red silk dress, while he’d been in a tuxedo. Their skills brought them the special assignments, and they’d both been after the same target.

“Different than the Army I expected,” Char replied. They crested the hill and the base came into view, still half a mile away. They ran in silence, but she hadn’t expected an answer from the taciturn man beside her.

He pulled away to greet the guards as they jogged closer, and she tried not to think about how her view now included the broad shoulders and distinct biceps she sometimes glimpsed in dreams.

***

A week later, Char strolled through a swanky restaurant wearing an emerald green dress that highlighted her cascade of flaming red hair. The dress exposed her toned arms but fell below her knees, allowing her to run if she needed to. Diamonds dangled from her ears in long drops. The left was her tracker for Command, the right her comms unit.

She controlled her expression to match the room’s artificially bored faces. Money meant boredom on Hexagon Station, a socially enforced lack of concern that extended even as heinous business deals were conducted by Hex’s elite in this very room. Hushed voices meant her high heels clicked on the tile floor, drawing more attention than Char preferred.

But then, today’s job would only work if she drew the right attention.

The maître-d’ turned and paused, a good twenty feet ahead of her in his black suit. She could see the concealed impatience in his eyes, but refused to hurry her steps. It would be abnormal for the woman Char was emulating to rush, and so she did not either. Her skills laid predominantly in mimicry and infiltration.

While she walked, Char was conscious of the silver purse in her hand, one that looked remarkably like a miniature metal briefcase. She casually held it so that everyone in the room could see it as she clicked her way toward the man in the black suit. He held a chair for her on a raised platform, next to the window panes that provided a view of the planet below.

The view was even more preposterously expensive than the restaurant. She’d heard few bothered with the scenery, though, just as the food was better at the rapid-cook diner two hubs over. The point was to be on display.

She set the silver briefcase on the table atop the white damask tablecloth. An unfortunate but necessary breach of etiquette, she knew.

As usual, the exhibition made her skin crawl. Might as well paint a target on your back. She ignored the diners’ stares and local protocol, instead gazing at the planet below. The windows would let her know before anyone approached, though she’d surely struggle to remove her gaze from the swirled blues and greens below.

“Madam.” The waiter bowed as he left her drink beside her, meeting her gaze in the reflective glass. She winked at him, relieved to see Max Butler already in position. Turning around would have acknowledged a menial, however, and so she returned to the view, covertly studying the people seated nearby.

Ten minutes later, her shoulders were tightening with tension from inaction. Her contact was late. Unless he was the man in the corner with the charcoal suit. Char withheld a frown. He wouldn’t have been her first guess, but perhaps he was older than he looked in the reflection.

Time for a test. She picked up her wine glass and sipped the nonalcoholic crimson berry juice, setting it down in a different location. If the man in the suit was the one, Max had inadvertently blocked a clear view of the silver case when he’d set her drink down.

Just as she’d decided it wasn’t the man in the suit, he rose and approached. “May I join you?”

The man reached into an inner suit pocket as he took a single step onto the dais. Her eyes fell on a matching miniature silver briefcase he removed and placed on the table in front of hers.

Char’s ruby lips broadened into a practiced, welcoming smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

***

Less than five minutes later, she was glad she’d practiced running in four-inch heels. Klaxons blared amidst the screams while smoke and debris wreaked havoc. Even the previously blasé diners had reacted to the explosion and automated security measures with screams, heading in random and unexpected directions. No one wanted to be in the room if the glass gave way, even with the metal protective coverings that rolled down the walls to cover the swirling view.

Max gripped her elbow with bruising strength. “Left!” he snapped, and they turned, dodging a confused waiter, still holding a tray of scallops in a bubbling butter sauce. He shoved her ahead of him with a hand at the small of her back. “Door at the back, go!”

Clanging metal sounded behind her, followed by a grunt of pain. She kept running without looking back. She’d grabbed both cases in the chaos. The dead drop had gone badly enough without Char accidentally taking the wrong case, and her contact wasn’t in any shape to complain.

She bit her lip and hit the door with her shoulder at a full run. Max would catch up. He always did.

She needed him to, because otherwise, protocol demanded that she leave him behind.

***

Back at the landing dock, Char didn’t bother changing out of the fancy dress. She tossed the cases on a folded-down table and slipped into the cushioned pilot’s seat. Gearing up the craft for departure was a process of long habit, her hands flying over buttons and switches. It was a small but fancy spaceship, one suitable for the socialite she’d pretended to be. Owned by the Army, the switches had been retrofitted to enable consistent muscle memory by all military members.

Max would make it before the ship’s AI was ready.

She bit her lip again and hoped her wish would be true.

Having gotten the process started, she rose and went to the table where both briefcases rested, each slightly larger than her hand. The scratch atop the edge told her which was hers. Cracking the first open, she found only the burner comms unit, her poisonous lipstick, and the untraceable payment chit, all as expected.

Char reached for the second case and hesitated. She’d no idea what to expect from the tech she’d been assigned to pick up. It was supposed to be some sort of AI, and far more likely after the setup at the restaurant that the second case contained a trap. Perhaps she should wait for Butler, who was taking his sweet time.

She jolted back as the silver case opened on its own.

Inside the briefcase nestled a minute, yawning black kitten, the tip of its tail trailing a touch of white. It flexed its paws, and tiny claws emerged to scar the inner case’s velvet lining. She stared, fascinated, as the kitten raised its tail and leaned its head downward in a stretch known to anyone who’d ever encountered a cat.

“Well, I don’t know if you’ll like space, but my contact definitely ripped me off. So much for the vaunted tech I was supposed to get.” She reached out a hand and touched soft fur. “You look like someone picked you up and dipped you in ink.”

The kitten bumped her fingers with a hand. “That’s why I’m Squid,” he said.

Char let out a startled shriek. “You’re the AI?”

“Artificial intelligence unit prototype 4207,” Squid replied. “I like my name better.”

“Huh.” She reached out a finger. “You okay if I pet you?”

Squid nodded and licked her finger. “Bond with you.”

A series of beeps and the sound of hydraulic hissing had Char on her feet. “Stay quiet.”

Boots rang as someone walked up the ramp.

She unclipped her decorative silver necklace. The disguised one-time stunner wasn’t her first choice of weapon, but it would do.

“Still don’t know if those were your contact’s friends or enemies,” Max said as he walked in, sporting a black eye. His waiter’s suit was speckled with blood. He stared down at the kitten and coughed. “Guess we got ripped off, eh? Cute little guy, though. We could use a spacecat.”

“Pretty sure it’s ‘enemies’ since my contact is now rather dead,” Char said dryly. “Time to go, Butler. Before they shut down the port.”

Squid yawned. “I want to learn to fly the ship.”

The look on Max’s face was worth all those restless dreams he’d caused her over the past week, Char decided.

***

For week 30 of Odd Prompts, nother Mike challenged me to explain why a kitten was in a briefcase. I had a lot of fun tossing around ideas with The Guy on this one – a cowboy whose briefcase is the glove compartment of his truck, a football player who brings his kitten to practice – but ultimately tied it to Lady Death.

My prompt went to Anne and Jim Guglik, and I can’t wait to see how they explain the Newgrange Passage Tombs’ lonely wraiths.

Join Clan Fiona Grey Writes!