Category: Writing Prompts (Page 21 of 24)

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.

Love, with a Side of Sugar

July 22, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Laura stared out the window from where she sprawled in the rocking chair, not caring that curtains blocked the view. One leg was carelessly thrown over the hard wooden edge, exposing a run in her pantyhose. Her shoeless foot was numb.

Dylan had made the chair for her before he deployed. A promise, he’d said, his grin shining white teeth bright against the dark stubble he always grew while on leave.

The house was cold, belying the bright sunlight that seeped around the edges of the window, bright halo against neutral paint. So cold, too empty, a house where silence now reigned.

There had been voices in the background at first, voices she ignored. Voices that insisted she do things, bringing food she ignored.

Silence broken only when Laura was forced to move, wooden rockers creaking against the floor. A wooden laminate floor Dylan had installed. Another promise, this one tied to kissable lips and laughter as they’d pushed aside the tools and –

A tear escaped down her face, a soundless sob wracking her stiff body, jolting at the pain. Laura hadn’t let go of the soft triangle, heavy folded cloth since they’d handed it to her. She could feel the seams of the flag pressing against her stomach through her thin black dress. She hugged it closer.

A grateful nation, the anonymous face above the gloves had said. She’d heard broken promises, flinched away from offers of assistance.

The door opened behind her. She wrapped her body around the flag and hoped whoever was here to bother her would go away. Like her husband had, gone a month before returning in the most dreaded manner possible, the door to this house opening on practiced, uniformed condolences.

“Enough of this.” Sharp words to meet sharp noises, her mother-in-law’s heels clicking firmly against the wooden floor. A pointed nose and a grey bun greeted Laura’s uncaring gaze.

“Artemesia.” Her voice was hoarse, strained from internal screaming. She watched with dull eyes as the woman sat primly on the couch.

“You aren’t the only one, you know.”

“I know.” Laura turned her head back to the window. She couldn’t find the energy to tell Dylan’s mother to go away.

“I brought you something.”

She didn’t move. “I’ll look at it later.”

“No,” Artemesia said. There was steel behind that single word. “Tomorrow I leave. Today you look at this.”

Her foot dropped down to the floor with a thump. “What is it?”

Thin, speckled hands pushed a worn, stained book into her lap. “I never shared his favorite cookie recipe. The one I always sent when he deployed.”

Shuddering, Laura tried to push the book back into her mother-in-law’s hands, the cover hard against her fingers. “No. You wouldn’t share when it mattered.”

“A mother’s right.” The words dropped harshly in the dim room.

“Why didn’t you just tell me which cookbook?”

A sad smile. “I made edits.”

The book sat there, taunting her with memories of Thanksgiving. She hadn’t known it was possible to resent a cookbook before, but Laura knew now. The rage caught in her swollen throat.

“I’ve marked the page,” Artemesia said.

Laura stared at the cover’s white and red letters without reading them, tracing the edge of the cover with a single cold finger. She gulped a breath as she opened the book. Vanilla sugar wafted up as she flipped through the pages.

Between the pages of the old recipe book rested a patch that made her fingers reluctant to move. The stripes she and Artemesia had been supposed to pin on Dylan’s uniform when he returned. The ingredients list and instructions were heavily marked with half-legible handwriting, notes on adjusting temperature and various additions.

The words blurred as her eyes watered, tears streaking wetly down her face.

“Stains and sugar make the love real,” Artemesia said. “You think I can’t tell you have more than yourself to care for now? I want my grandchild to know their daddy. Even if it’s only through his favorite treat.”

***

I’m exploring social media again. Find me on Facebook here, if you’re so inclined.

This week on Odd Prompts, Cedar Sanderson asked me to identify what was between the pages of the recipe book. I challenged Leigh Kimmel to explain the cancellation of dragon season.

Turtle Talk

July 15, 2020 / fionagreywrites

“Your hand’s all sweaty,” Brian said. He disentangled his hand and wiped it across his t-shirt.

“It’s ninety degrees and eighty-five percent humidity. You try holding hands and not sweating.” Jenna surreptitiously took the opportunity to wipe her own hand against her shorts.

“I saw that.”

She stuck out her tongue at him. “I’m going up the hill.”

“Grass looks pretty slick. I’ll stick with the path.”

She headed up the hill. It wasn’t much of a shortcut, but the path wound around the long way. Enough others had thought the same that the grass was worn to dust. Toward the top, she paused as a dark, shining oval caught her attention.

“What’s up?” Brian was already waiting for her.

“Found a turtle. Hang on, I want to Insta this. Such a cute little guy.”

“Weirdo.”

The turtle on the trail cautiously extended its neck, peering at Jenna, and then opened its mouth. “No!”

Jenna froze, half-bent over the reptile, her phone two feet away. “Brian. The turtle.”

“What about it?” Brian stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Talked.”

“You’re darn tootin’, I talked.” The turtle glared at Jenna. “I’m trying to lay some eggs here.”

“Oh. Ohhh. Um, okay. I’ll back off. I’m sorry.” Jenna stuffed her phone back in her pocket. “See, I won’t –“

“And I don’t need help getting back to the water. Don’t you dare pick me up!” The turtle turned her back on Jenna and yanked her head into her shell.

“Wasn’t planning on it!” She backed away, hands in the air.

“Three times already today! Three! And four yesterday! Helpful humans! I wish you all to the mud!”

Jenna turned and slid down the dry grass back onto the path to where Brian waited. “Whew.”

Brian looked at her with indulgence in his eyes. “Talked, huh?”

“Back off, humans!” A tiny, indignant voice carried down after her.

Brian looked at her with his mouth agape.

Jenna shrugged. “Told you. Cranky, pregnant, talking turtle.”

This week, Cedar Sanderson prompted me with “The turtle on the trail cautiously extended its neck, peering at you (character), and then opened its mouth to say_________________.” I knew what I wanted to write, but another wildlife-inspired story came pouring out before I could capture the cranky turtle. I’m also glad I didn’t try to mix those two tales. That was a truly terrible idea.

My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: “A prairie storm, with rolling thunder, ominous clouds, and flickering lightning. And in that flash of light, you see…”

Join the Odd Prompters! It’s both easy and fun.

Of Hoaxes and Business Plans

July 4, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Dear Ms. Nessa Lochland,

Congratulations on completing your online M.S. degree in Business Administration from Stellar Online University. Attached you will find a letter certifying your graduation. Please contact the Registrar’s Office via our website to request an official transcript.

Your diploma will be sent by international mail to the address we have on file. Please contact us immediately by replying to this email if an update is required.

Again, congratulations and best wishes in your future endeavors. We are proud to call you a graduate of SOU, and cannot wait to see the impact you make upon the world.

Aut viam inveniam aut faciam!

Regards,
Rike Williams, Dean
Office of Student Services
Fisherman School of Business
College of Business Administration and Strategy
Stellar Online University

“What a relief,” Nessa said after she finished reading the email aloud to her mother. She shifted her headset with a lazy nudge of her chin against the wall. “That thesis was such a pain. I hate dictation software. And I’m not sure my advisor even had time to look at the last revisions.”

Her mother’s voice crackled through the long-distance connection. “So proud of you, dear. Your father would be, too. I wish he were around to see this.”

“Me too, Mom. Me, too.” Nessa settled into her nest of fresh bracken and gazed up at the ceiling of speckled granite. The scent of Scots pine from the Caledonian Forest wafted up to tickle her nose. “I told you about my local tourism revitalization plan?”

“Ye-esss…” Static crackled on the line again, and Nessa almost missed her mother’s next words. “I just wonder if it’s worth the exposure.”

“People are more accepting now.” Nessa hoped her words were true. Her livelihood depended on it. So did her life.

“Well, I still wish you’d come join me in Tahiti instead. Sun, sand, even a few hotties your age splashing around. I need grandbabies.”

Nessa laughed. “Retirement suits you.”

“No one believed anymore.” Ethel’s voice became sad. “And it wasn’t the same without your dad. He was like you. Lived for the fun of it.”

“That’s why this area needs some shaking up, Mom. Let me get my plans up and running first, then I’ll come visit you. Some of the younger cousins can handle the day-to-day business for a while.”

Her mother sighed. Nessa scrunched her eyes shut and suppressed her own frustrated exhale. Any additional discussion would just lead to a fight.

“I’ve got to go, Mom. Big day tomorrow. The bank’s approved the loan. Tons of paperwork to do.” The degree had mattered less than the skills to put together a proper business plan.

“There’s an idea. Sure I can’t convince you to become a banker?” She heard the quaver in her mother’s voice. “Running a small business is so risky.”

Unspoken were the fears of bringing danger back to Lake Inverness. Not just danger, but hunters, like those who had killed her father that horrid day, a decade earlier.

“I’m sure,” Nessa said. “Love you. Bye.” She hung up before Ethel could chime in with anything else.

“Alexa, turn off the lights.” Nessa rolled over and laid her head down in the sudden darkness. Her eyes remained open. “This is for you, Dad.”

Her voice echoed oddly as it bounced off the irregular cavern walls. She could have sworn it sounded just like his belly-aching laugh.

***

“Right,” Nessa said to her younger cousin Cynthia. “You know the drill. I go swimming, then let myself be seen by the tour boat. You use the boat company’s social media to make it go viral.”

“You think this will work?” Cynthia asked. “Does the world believe in us anymore? They won’t think it’s just a special effect?”

“I have to try.” Her dad would have had so much fun with this. His mischievous streak was never malicious, but he’d lived for the moments when he could mess with the tourists. “I miss Dad.”

“I wish Uncle Frank was still around to see this,” Cynthia said, bobbing her large head with a fond grin. “I can just picture him doing something ridiculous. Doggie-paddling along with a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat, pretending he doesn’t see a boat full of gawking drunk tourists. Then pretending he’s been caught flatfooted. Or maybe offer them mimosas. He’d have loved the attention.”

Nessa blinked back swelling tears. “For that, you get employee of the month.”

The glare she received contained some epic side-eye. “I’m your only employee.”

“It’s not automatic. Don’t get cocky. I have plenty of humans to choose from, too.”

Cynthia adjusted her headset and turned back toward her computer. “They don’t know who their boss really is yet, so they don’t count. Are you doing this or not?”

“Yeah. Just nervous. I want to boost local business, not bring down the army upon us.”

“There aren’t many of us left,” Cynthia said, twisting her head backward. Her yellow eyes were narrow and annoyed. “And you just bought half the local vacation rentals and the boat tour business with Uncle Frank’s insurance settlement and a bank loan.”

“That I did.”

“I assumed you’d accounted for this. Made contingency plans.”

“Sure, but –“

“Then get over your stage fright and get out there.” Cynthia turned away again. “Smile pretty for the cameras!”

“Fine, fine.” Nessa grumbled to herself on her way down to the cave’s entrance. “This had better work. I don’t want to live in Tahiti with Mom. The water’s too clear. Too warm. And saline makes my skin itch.”

Her feet hit the smooth pebbles that meant the shoreline was close and poked her head out of the cave’s concealed entrance. Seeing no one, Nessa ventured a few feet out, staying hidden in the earthy vegetation. It smelled delicious, but this was no time to snack.

She planted all four feet and took a huge breath, expanding her ribcage until it hurt, repeating it in hopes of calming her overanxious heartbeat.

“Find a way or make one.” She’d chosen her business school based solely on its motto, thinking it a sign. “My people are dying because we cannot afford sanctuary.”

A noise in the distance had her tilting her head. “It’s time.” She whispered the words into the air and headed toward the lake. “Stay with me, Dad.”

The water lapped cool and dark against her legs. It felt right, as did the clouds above. Yes, this was home. There would be no permanent vacation in Tahiti for her, even if her business venture failed.

Nessa saw fingers pointing and gaping human maws as she drew alongside the boat. Most people seemed to be shocked silent, with a few screams. A young boy jumped up and down, trying to climb the railing. The boat’s engine sputtered and died with a puff of diesel smoke.

She raised her long neck out of the water and above the deck, resting her oval head on the railing. The humans backed away, leaving about a six foot gap. Nessa put on her best nervous smile.

She hoped she wouldn’t have to dive away from a terrified crowd. Too much tooth display and there came the army, the hunters that had taken her father’s laugh out of this world, who hungered for the next trophy.

“Hi, guys! Who wants a selfie with the Loch Ness Monster?”

***

“Physical newspapers?” Cynthia asked. “What am I doing all this social media stuff for, then?”

“To make sure they see that grin as harmless and friendly,” Nessa retorted.

Her cousin gave her a dubious look. “It’s been a month. Think we’re good.”

“Keep an eye out anyway. I don’t want to not see something coming because we got lazy.”

“Mmm-hmm. Sure thing, boss.”

Nessa blushed, her thick skin turning blue rather than its usual stony grey. “Fine. I’m also vain enough to want hard copies. Maybe frame them for our business offices.”

Cynthia snorted and headed for the back room. “You do you. I’m getting coffee. Then I’ll get back to watching for monster hunters.”

She spread out the papers and read over the headlines.

“IT’S NESSA, NOT NESSIE”: LONELY MONSTER SPEAKS

COMPLEX HOAX IN SCOTLAND’S HIGHLANDS

IS BIGFOOT NEXT? ANCIENT PLESIOSAUR DISCOVERED ALIVE

LOCAL TOURISM BOOMS AS LOCH NESS MONSTER EMERGES FROM HIDING

BUSINESS SCHOOL CLAIMS NESSIE AS ALUMNA

“My plan is working, Dad. Local business is up, so they’ll protect us for the prosperity alone. We can afford our own security, too, and we’re harder to kill with everyone watching.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears, hot against her face in the cool cavern.

She could have sworn she felt a warm, familiar snort of approval.

The snort she’d missed every day for ten years.

In this week’s Odd Prompts challenge, Becky Jones challenged me to explain what happens after the Loch Ness Monster reveals herself. My prompt went to Nother Mike: “Oh, no! The coffeepot has been stolen!”

Writing Cat wishes her fellow Americans a happy Independence Day.

Consequences

June 28, 2020 / fionagreywrites

The thin blond woman in a suit entered the room. Simon knew she had to be more deadly than she looked. Yeah, there it was. He spotted her weapon underneath the suit blazer when she turned to close the door. FBI agents went through a lot of different training. Maybe she’d been brought in to put him at ease, get him talking.

Or break him. This was an interrogation, after all.

The woman crossed to where he sat, chained at the table. He waited for her to say something while she set up her recorder. Not that she needed it. There must be at least three more agents observing behind that two-way glass, not to mention the cameras.

Sitting, the woman adjusted her skirt before she finally spoke. “Agent Jamie Simmons, interrogating Simon Pursleh Adams. Mr Adams, would you please confirm for the recorder that you have waived your right to counsel?”

“I know my rights,” Simon said. “I don’t need a lawyer.”

“Right then. Mr Adams –“

“Simon.”

“Fine. Simon, tell me where Johnny Salvaro is.” Agent Simmons leaned back in her chair like she had all the time in the world, her limbs loose as she studied him. Just like she’d studied him from behind the mirror, probably. He ran his eyes over her neck, following the trail of a delicate necklace that ended in a long, rectangular bar.

“I don’t know,” he said. Simon mirrored her posture, as best he could with his hands chained to the table.

“Based upon your actions, it looks like you do, Simon.” She let out a smile and crossed her legs. “The base is locked down until we find him. Why don’t you save us the trouble? I’m sure we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”

“Is anyone ever going to ask me anything else?”

“What would you suggest we ask, Simon?” Her voice was smooth honey, poured hot into perfectly brewed tea. Yeah, she was an interrogator, all right.

“Maybe how all this started.” He realized with a jolt that he wanted to tell his side of the story. Someone ought to know.

Agent Simmons leaned forward, her head tilted to one side, hands clasped in front of her. “Then tell me how this started, Simon.” Her voice purred, and he felt a flush.

“It was all back in 2020,” he began.

Early in 2020, when everybody was in quarantine. It’d been a week or two, and everyone was still scared, but starting to get bored, too. And Johnny had been coding the whole time. He saw opportunities, that kid did. Seventeen years old and a bioengineering prodigy.

A mastermind with one friend in the world, named Simon, who was better at handling money and people. I protected him from the bullies, so Johnny reached out to see if I’d be willing to break quarantine for a good reason. And that reason was genius, too, just like Johnny.

But he was not quite as great at coding. Brilliant, yeah, but you have to understand, the portal discovery, that was all an accident. He didn’t mean to do it. Most people don’t get that. He’s not real coherent in the interviews.

Johnny was trying to merge bioengineering techniques with code, y’see. Make it so that everyone stuck in their homes would be able to experience the places they couldn’t visit in real life.

Johnny laughed at the idea of watching a video. Laughed every time another museum put up a recording of someone walking around. All those VR headsets used to really crack him up. He wanted the experience to be real. Indistinguishable from reality. Not looking like a dork with a headset on. Johnny knew what being a target was like, and that was a prime example.

Just think of the possibilities, he used to say. The blind to see again, the experience of travel without the hassle of TSA and visas. How many people wait until retirement to travel, then realize they can’t for one reason or another? Don’t wait, he’d say. Make it so you don’t have to wait.

After everything those kids did to him, growing up, it’s amazing he didn’t want to burn down the world. But instead he saw potential.

Don’t ask me to explain the portals. The math is way beyond me. Suffice to say, when Johnny tested it and found himself actually at the Louvre, he knew he had an invention on his hands that would change the world. Change everything.

He was so excited, he forgot to tell me. That’s right, Johnny forgot to tell his damn business partner. Because I’d gone home for the night. Ironic, isn’t it?

Nor did he make a business decision. He just uploaded the code. Made it open source. Anyone could edit it, if they understood what it did, and there weren’t many of those. But anyone could also use it, and that didn’t require much of anything at all. Just a little metal wire, injected into your hand, and he released the specs for that, too.

Funny thing was, once the code was released, it was like the whole world paused. You can travel anywhere in the blink of an eye, and it was like everyone was suddenly okay with staying home after all. Maybe it was that people didn’t believe at first, but it was like the opportunity meant people figured they’d get around to it later instead.

The world changed overnight, and everyone got lazy. Who’d have thought?

Oh, but there was interest from the shadows, governments twitching at the implications. Governments wanting Johnny to come work for them, whether he wanted to or not.

The code got pulled down, then reposted. It was back to the early days of the internet, where censorship routed around blockages and information wanted to be free. Hell, they had kiosks at the malls to inject you with the biomech wire, like they used to do pierced ears, only the apparatus went in your finger and hurt more.

Even as it proliferated, it still stayed pretty quiet for a while. Maybe a year or so. Fourteen months. Long enough for Johnny to start hiding from the attention.

And then came the chaos.

Whole economic sectors exploded. Truckers were put out of business, not by the slow-moving automation they feared but was never quite ready, but by code and a shining silver hole in the universe controlled by your phone. Delivery industries were revolutionized. Doctors came to you again, concierge style, while travel agents tried to help you plan your trip rather than book it for you.

Highways grew over with grass and weeds, even as the car companies tried to produce their own personal versions of the portals. Instant transit, from a trusted brand. Some of the hotels just gave up. Why bother, when you can zap yourself home in a few seconds? Others tried to create portal stations, a safe place to step into for a small fee. Most of those went under, too, but at least they tried.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

Crime skyrocketed. Murder, theft, everything. The terrorist attacks just kept coming, because we lost all ways to predict targets. But the ability to transit whole armies, each soldier with his own portal? Everything broke down. There’s no way to enforce the law. What was left of the governments had to figure out how to protect nuclear weapons. And don’t get me started on the drug trafficking, sheesh. Or worse. The cartels – I try not to think of all the people who disappeared.

The guilt that comes with having been a part of it doesn’t go away. I’m well aware of the terrible things that happened.

And that generated new economic sectors. Portal safe rooms. Personal bubbles. How to digitize your entire life when anything could be stolen. The size limit made it hard to protect anything bigger than a human.

Johnny said something about the biomechanical limits. He’s always been the only one who really understood the tech.

Personal bubble shields became ubiquitous, and you kept everything you owned in them with you. Rich people hired poor people to form a collective shield with their personal bubbles, trying get around the biomech limits, but it didn’t work. Too many gaps, and a portal could still get through.

As you can see, Johnny wasn’t so great at thinking about consequences.

Everything went digital. Johnny had invented what he had originally tried to achieve, too. Holographic, interactive representations of everything. Nobody knows who has the original Monets after all the crazed art thefts of the first early years, but does it matter anymore when anyone can download a high-fidelity scan and have it for their own?

That one, I at least got him to monetize.

But then we started seeing people mess with the code. Malicious hacking. Malware, ransomware. The portals were too useful to stop using, even after people started showing up bloody, or in bloody pieces.

People paid out the nose to make sure they could keep what they had left. You lose digital, you lose even the illusion that you can own things without them getting stolen by who knows who. It’s such a cat and mouse game of trying to protect your family memories, of being able to travel safely.

The government got involved. Tried to restrict the tech. It was way too late, and they were hanging by a shred of legitimacy anyway. Security was a promise they couldn’t keep.

I lost my taste for it pretty quickly, sold my shares. Tried to think of a place where portals wouldn’t work.

Damn good thing it doesn’t work off planet, right? Or so they hope, since the rich folks are trying to get off planet. Take up farming on Mars, or some such. They made huge investments in the space program. First ship launches tomorrow.

Johnny used to tell me the portal tech was matched to our geomagnetic field, somehow. Our biology, our home planet, combined with code. So none of those folks who disappeared wound up on Venus, at least. Probably at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, I figure.

You ask me, I think he figured out how to get off planet using the portal. Those rich folks, they’re gonna get to Mars, and Johnny will be waiting to greet them with a great big smile, still talking about potential.

So yeah, I was trying to smuggle a gun onto the base. Not because Johnny’s there like you think, but because I’m one of those rich folks now. I’m set for life. I want to get to Mars.

But he’s still my best friend. He trusts me. And if he’s there like I think, well. He won’t be for long.

I don’t think he means any harm, Agent Simmons. Not intentionally. But I really don’t want to see what he comes up with next.

***

This week, Cedar Sanderson challenged me to fill in the blank: “When portals are invented and you can go anywhere you want in the blink of an eye, ____________ will happen.“

My prompt submission went to debut author Becky Jones. “A visceral memory (yours or fictional as you prefer), brought to mind by a scent, taste, song, etc.“

Join the Odd Prompts crew! Submit a writing prompt to oddprompts@gmail.com. There’s no commitment, no genre restrictions, and no word limit. It doesn’t even have to be the written word, just an expression of creativity.

Sometimes, It’s Just Not Your Day

June 23, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Celia walked through the woods, grumbling about everything. The humidity made her shorts cling oddly to her legs, and the sun flickering through the leaves only gave her a headache. The path was muddier than the lack of recent rain had indicated, and her new sneakers were ruined. She’d stepped on a rock funny half a mile back, and every step with her left foot twinged up her ankle, which served her right for wearing sneakers rather than boots in the woods. And she wasn’t sure she’d gotten that last turn right, either. Everything in this direction looked generic and familiar, in a vague way that wasn’t specific enough to be sure.

She didn’t care. Her boss had cut her hours again, that pesky cat clawed her leg and ran to hide in the basement when Celia yowled a protest, she’d burned dinner four nights in a row, and her boyfriend had drifted off in the past few weeks without even bothering to properly dump her.

A clearing appeared, and Celia knew she was lost after all. A tree had fallen, huge majesty now dark with internal rot. It blocked the path, but opened up an entrance to a hidden grove, shining with gentle sunlight.

A grove that held a miniature field of tiny wild strawberries, untouched by hungry wildlife and so ripe her mouth watered at the sight. The berries dangled from the vines, lush and ready to burst, while tiny white and yellow flowers promised more prizes if she returned. The sweet scent washed over her in a wave as a breeze cooled her sticky body, and Celia knew there was no more resistance.

Five minutes later, she’d stained her only white t-shirt with berry juice, because her hands just weren’t big enough. Well, this was why she didn’t wear white often.

It was worth it. The taste exploded on her tongue, sweet and tart simultaneously. Celia let out a whoop.

“About time this week started getting better,” she told a distant honeybee. It ignored her, but as her eyes followed, her pleasure received a jolt of adrenaline.

She froze. Was that a wasp nest? It was swollen and grotesque, a giant grey lump caught between the branches of an enormous tree even larger than the one blocking the path. Why, it must be larger than her neighbor’s Saint Bernard.

Celia slowly started to stand up, still clutching a shirt full of miniscule strawberries. The pollinators certainly liked the berry patch, but now she knew why the wildlife had left this grove of temptation alone.

Her eyes didn’t leave the nest as it began to quiver. Celia felt her ankle twinge as she stood up, and wondered how far wasps would chase her.

A tiny, elfin face popped out of an entrance cleverly hidden by the natural bumps of the wasp nest. “There you are! I was wondering when you were coming to tea. I’ll be right – down – “

The miniature woman let out a disproportionately loud gasp and clutched her cheeks with delicate hands. “My winery! What have you done! Thief! Stop, thief!”

For this week’s Odd Prompt challenge, I asked Leigh Kimmel to explore alien condescension. Cedar Sanderson challenged me to explain the tiny, elfin face in the wasp nest.

Darkness Rises

June 20, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Arne motioned to the herd of waist-high schoolchildren and wondered what Nori had been thinking to set up a tour for eight-year-olds. An archeological dig wasn’t a place for kids, no matter that they were digging in the dirt.

Half the little brats would try to walk off with artifacts. The rest were pushing and shoving sufficient that at least one would end up in one of the trenches before the day was out.

He made sure he kept his groan strictly mental as he counted off the numbers for the fourth time. It had only been five minutes since Nori had dumped the tour on him, claiming she needed to finish a translation.

Twenty-one. That’s all of them. He shut the door behind the last of the giggling fuzzy hats below and plastered a smile on his face. Just the same as if they were adults. Explain the dig. Answer their questions, no matter how stupid.

After all, you never knew who might become fascinated enough to talk up the site to their parents. Or who might have rich parents, inclined to donate funds and keep the team going for another season.

He flipped through the slides on autopilot.

“…first, we do a background study, to see where burials and other artifacts could be likely…new uses of existing technologies for remote sensing have helped see disturbances in the dirt without excavating…”

Arne loved that image. The scan showed the burial mound in a dark circle, a Viking longboat shining white in the middle.

They didn’t know yet how well-preserved it would be, after centuries spent forgotten in a farmer’s field under oats and barley. Viktor had started the excavation recently, but he was focusing on the nearby grave mound first.

The process was always slow going. No one wanted to miss anything, even though this team always made sure to relook at the spoils pile. Some called the team slow. Arne preferred the term thorough.

“Yes, that does mean it tells us where to dig, very good!” He stretched his fake smile farther and wondered if Nori had wished him to the depths of Helheim with this tour.

“…different methods and technologies are used to tell us how old things are, from geological sediment to carbon dating to pollen…we also start with a guess based on what we know of the area, history, and people.

“Yes, we do sometimes find swords, and even axes. It’s very exciting when we do, but mostly we find things like combs and jewelry. What people were buried with tells us a lot about them. Great question…now, initial findings can help us narrow the time period…”

Arne’s face was starting to hurt. “So what we’re really trying to do is understand the people who came before us, because it helps us see where we came from. Would you like to see the site now?”

Nori rushed in, shaking head and hands in his direction as the chittering and giggling rose in the small exhibition area. “I’ll take them. Go see Viktor. Kids, this way please!” Her voice was unnaturally high pitched.

Arne stared after the miniature trampling herd of tiny feet and jackets. He’d never seen her unnerved. Nori was the definition of unflappable. She kept all the organization going, from securing finances for next season to making sure everyone remembered to eat every night.

He grabbed his jacket and headed to see Viktor.

Arne found Viktor in the trench, gloved hands clasped uncaring and heedless behind dark curls, studying the latest find. “Wild, isn’t it? I’ve never seen an upright burial before. Male, I think, probably around twenty-five or so.”

The remains were still half-buried in the grave mound, bone shining almost red in the sun’s bright light. It looked particularly macabre since Viktor had left the eye sockets and mouth filled with dirt to preserve the shape.

Arne grunted, and repressed a shudder. He remained above the excavated area but crouched to study the skull, distorted by the blow that had likely killed the man hundreds of years ago. “Legend tells us being buried upright is a bad sign.”

Viktor twisted backward, his hands still firmly attached to his head as he made eye contact. “You’re not saying you believe in draugr, do you? The vicious undead, the corpse-pale?”

Crap. “I’m saying the people who lived here may have thought a greedy, angry man would come back for some reason. What else was found at the site?”

Arne kept his face passive and hoped science would cover him from Viktor’s future mockery. He could picture his granny in the wooden rocking chair where she’d told him dark legends to excite a young boy, shaking her head at his affected disbelief.

“Janna did a scan. We think there’s a sword, some blobs that might be ornamentation or jewelry. Lots, so he was probably important. I think there’s a dagger, too, but Janna thinks it’s a fancy pair of scissors. And something that looks remarkably like an AK-47.”

“Sorry, a what?” Arne thought Viktor must be having him on. Again.

Viktor shrugged with a laugh, his movements smooth and muscular under a casual, dirt-streaked sweater. “Obviously something’s rusted in a rather unique way. We’ll find out what it really is soon enough.”

Arne stood from his crouch and ran a hand through his hair. “Wasn’t there a stone? A marker? Did we get the runes translated yet?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t seen it. I need to get moving if we’re going to protect this find. There’s not much daylight left.” Viktor picked up a tool and started brushing dirt away from the skull with callused hands. “Nori finished the translation while you were with those kids, I think.”

Arne bit his lip, unwilling to shame Nori. Perhaps she had simply been excited about the discovery. “I’ll go check with her, then.”

Viktor didn’t bother to answer as Arne jogged back toward the research room. He threw the wooden door open with more force than anticipated and blinked to adjust his eyes to the dark room. Voices had stopped at his entrance.

“Oh, it’s you,” Nori said. “I got the kids out. I was just telling Janna, we have to shut this site down. Maybe get a priest to visit.”

Janna looked up, her thin fingers clasped so hard her knuckles shone white. “We must get off site before darkness,” she whispered.

“The runes on the stone,” Nori started, and stopped. She covered her eyes with a hand. “We should not have removed it. It kept him safely inside. He will come tonight.”

Arne rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. “I grew up on these stories too. But draugr? They cannot be real. We are scientists.”

“I met your granny before she passed,” Janna hissed at him, her hands now fisted at her sides. “That time you took us all home for a decent meal. Before we hired Nori to make sure we all ate. She told you to beware. She told you the stories because she saw you could not keep away from disturbing the ancestors.”

Nori and Arne both looked at her in surprise, identical wide eyes and slightly open mouths.

Janna’s energy flitted out of her like a deflating balloon. “Do what you like. I am leaving before the darkness rises.”

“You mean when dark falls?” Nori asked. “It’s almost the solstice. Darkness won’t come for another month.”

“I mean what I said,” Janna replied with dignity. “Look to yourselves, if you do not wish to go mad or be killed.” She turned toward the exit.

A fierce series of taps came from outside as she reached the wooden door. An agonized scream came, followed by more tap-tapping.

She gulped. “What was that? What is that horrid smell?”

“Draugr,” Arne said. He reached over Janna’s shoulders and lowered the old-fashioned bar on the door. “I believe the scan showed he was buried with several weapons.”

“Viktor didn’t believe the scan,” Janna said. She wiped away a tear. “He’s dead now, isn’t he?”

Arne didn’t answer. “He protects his weapons from our excavation, because draugr are greedy. Out there is an angry, undead Viking, with a modern weapon and a grudge.”

“They can turn to mist,” Nori said, backing away from the door. She sat on the stone floor, her blue eyes wide and scared. “We cannot stay here.”

“We cannot go outside,” Arne said gently. “He probably sees us as grave robbers.”

“I’ll call for help.” Janna was breathing in odd, ragged gasps as she dug in her satchel for her cell phone.

“Who would you invite to join us?” Arne asked. “Do you have a priest on speed-dial? Internet in the middle of a farmer’s field?”

The tapping noise continued. Arne spread his hands. “I am afraid, my friends, that on this solstice, darkness rose with the draugr.”

“For our sins,” Nori whimpered. Janna joined her on the floor, the two women huddled together.

Leaning against the wall of the research building, Arne wished he has listened to his granny and left the dead alone.

Writing Cat thinks we need something lighter now, thanks.

This post is a late add to Week 24’s Odd Prompts challenge. I couldn’t get the spare prompt idea of “While uncovering the grave of a viking king, they found jewelry, a sword, and an AK-47 that can be dated back to era” out of my head.

The Invitation

June 10, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Charlotte Merikh studied her invitation to Hannock Manor in a delicate, glove-covered hand as her family’s carriage jolted off the main road and onto the long drive. Copper ink on thick cream paper, no doubt handwritten by a secretary chosen exclusively for his calligraphy skills. She rolled her eyes, bored already, even if it was her first Society event.

“Come now, darling. You mustn’t let anyone else see you express any signs of displeasure. Once we get inside, it must be your best face forward.” Lucinda Merikh gestured to her own elegant visage, an empty, perfect smile blooming in the lantern’s dim glow.

Her mother’s reprimand was sincere, Charlotte knew. Blue eyes in a pale face remained guileless, unable to see beyond Society status. Unable to conceive of anything grander than finding her youngest daughter the same sort of dull, arrogant, witless sots the elder three girls had married just the year before.

Unable to see how much Charlotte hated the idea of being forced into the role of a bland Society wife, silent and supportive through her selected spouse’s myriad affairs, dulled by obligatory apologetic presents and presence at events exactly like this one, obediently selling her own daughters to the highest bidder merely because it was asked.

Unable to see the stars, hovering just out of reach for any born on the planet Society, doomed by ancient collective decision to a life of intentional technological refusal. Never mind that they’d all gotten here through technology in the first place. It was part of the required teachings, even if it was glossed over as fast as possible, with no details.

Charlotte slid the carriage window open and gazed upward at the shining galaxy above. Her former tutor Ned had told her that particular shining streak in the sky was their ancestral home. He’d disappeared shortly after, so it must be true.

At least Ned had left her a few books on the mysterious technology that allowed humans to travel to the stars. She wasn’t sure if that was intentional or a sign of how quickly he’d been hustled from their manor. Mostly, she wished he’d been around to explain all the things that made no sense.

On Society, archaic torchlight ruled the evenings and nights. It flickered inside the carriage as they passed a set of light markers in their glass cases, continuing the carriage’s slow journey toward the ancient manor house. She blinked, her night vision temporarily blinded by orange flames, abruptly brought back to the velvet-cushioned, horse-drawn carriage.

“Do shut the window, Charlotte,” Lucinda snapped. “You’ll get windblown. Yelena spent a full hour on your hair.”

With a pout, Charlotte slid the window closed. The precise curled hairstyle appropriate for an unmarried Society girl of her age and status took far more time than she normally was willing to stand. Tonight, her mother had insisted, claiming her daughter’s bright red locks already signified wild and inappropriate behavior.

Charlotte had been so surprised by the news that she’d stopped arguing and let Yelena ready her for the ball. She’d rarely bothered to study the Society rules her sisters delighted in understanding every twisted nuance, racing outside with her horse or reading in the library instead. It might explain why she’d been rebuked more often for the same childhood delights than her sisters, who shared their mother’s dishwater blonde hair. Perhaps it hadn’t been that she’d gotten caught more often after all, but that eyes had been watching her for unseemly comportment.

Yelena had seen her confusion, but had only a single unwatched moment to whisper in her ear. The moment had been seized, and near-immediately lost, without clarification. “You’re sixteen now,” the maid’s low voice had hissed.

She had shrugged in the looking glass, uncomprehending, wishing for a book to distract herself, and brighter light to read by. Someday, she’d sworn to herself, before she was married to some awful old man she didn’t know, she’d go to view the wonders of the Spaceport. Just to glimpse what could have been, had she been born on a different world, to a different family.

Just because the Society rejected the technology didn’t mean she had to hate it. Perhaps she would sit outside the Spaceport and use the bright electric lights to read a book.

Charlotte sighed. Even her ideas were heretical, and unlikely to boot. She shook off the sense of foreboding. Sixteen only meant she’d reached marriageable age and was finally allowed into polite company for spousal marketing. Perhaps her first ball wouldn’t be as terrible as her sister’s delighted descriptions had sounded.

Perhaps she’d learn to enjoy arranging dinner parties and flowers, or managing a household where duties rarely changed. Or the polite conversational topics that were mind-numbing fictions as best. Perhaps her curls would stay tamed, someday neatly arranged into the upswept braids of a proper married Society woman, and she would bring her mother as much status as the triplets’ glamorous triple wedding.

Charlotte bit her lower lip. It seemed unlikely. She enjoyed the wild and complicated walitzina dance, fixing her sister’s broken toys, and horseback riding. She read voraciously, eager to consume information proper Society ladies pretended did not exist. These activities were all far more suitable for the brothers she’d never had, according to her father.

The words had been repeated so often, she even thought them with her father’s inflection.

“Stop chewing on your face,” Lucinda said. The carriage came to a slow halt. Charlotte let her lower lip go with a start. Her mother leaned forward. “On second thought, that brings a delightful shade of rose to your lips. Don’t let anyone see you do it, obviously.”

“Of course,” Charlotte murmured, staring once more at the ostentatious invitation. Her voice was bleak, and she was sure she was pale enough to highlight a dusting of freckles by the way Lucinda frowned at her.

There was no more dawdling as the carriage door opened, and a footman proffered a helpful hand. Charlotte pasted an empty smile onto her face and accepted assistance she didn’t need.

There was nothing else for her but this world. It was time to play her part, time to face the rest of an exceedingly dull Society life.

Each step down the carriage steps and onto the stone courtyard tiles felt like a tiny spike driven into her soul.

***

Even Charlotte’s despair couldn’t stop her wonder at the grand manor, ancient stone shining pale in the numerous courtyard torches. Shadows clouded the details of the arched doorways and oriel windows. Crenellated walkways and ornate chimneys rose to peaked towers, only visible thanks to Society’s largest moon shining pale pink and full.

Lucinda cleared her throat pointedly. Charlotte jerked her head downward and met the anonymous footman’s patient eyes. He escorted her across the courtyard, her mother’s clacking footsteps a precise chaperonage distance behind her. He bowed and presented her to the butler just inside the carved, wooden double doors, then turned to await the next guest.

Light shone from lanterns with mirrored backings, boosting the ambient glow. The portcullis chains were evident just behind the stone pillars inside, ready to be dropped at a moment’s notice. The gate would be closed once all guests arrived, as was tradition. Host responsibilities demanded ostentatious displays of security.

“Invitation, please, Lady Charlotte?” Each Society household’s Butler gave up his given name when he took on the full role and title, after years of training and generations of household protection. The Merikh’s Butler had secretly told her his name had once been Devon because his lack of name frightened her as a young girl. She’d later learned he could have been exiled from the community if she’d told anyone he shared.

This bearded stranger was nothing like her Devon. Dressed in dark leathers, the Hannock’s Butler tonight maintained dual duties of household protector and barrier to entry. Charlotte met his piercing, dark eyes and gulped, clutching her invitation in her gloved hand. She knew he would have studied a painting of her already, to make sure no one had stolen her invitation and attempted unauthorized entrance. Dropping her eyes, her gaze stuck on the gleaming silver hilt of his sword, faceted and smooth with long use.

“Lady Charlotte?” The Butler held out his right hand, his left dropping to the sword hilt. She pulled her eyes away and held out the invitation, grimacing at the creases her grip had left in the expensive paper. Her mother made an odd sound behind her, which Charlotte recognized from long experience as a suppressed sigh.

The Butler took the invitation and confirmed its legitimacy with a nod. “Lady Charlotte. Lady Merikh. Welcome to Hannock Manor.”

Lucinda swept past the Butler without even a nod. Charlotte paused, seeing several shadows cross the wall as people she hadn’t realized were behind them moved away.

“Never fear, Lady Charlotte. There is no known threat to the ball this evening, but my brothers and I keep watch.” The Butler nodded at her, and gestured to the room behind him.

She could feel her mother’s impatience. “Thank you, Butler,” she said softly. Gathering long green silk skirts, she swept into the room.

Long training with her mother and sisters was the only thing that kept her head held high as jeweled, haughty heads turned to assess the new entrant to the stone room. Condescension was as thick as the mingled scent of oil-burning lanterns and perfume.

One elderly matron, hat precariously perched atop braided grey hair, sniffed with derision and deliberately turned her head away. The rest took their cues from her, Charlotte judged, as conversation broke out again.

A blond with the same curled style and a deep blue gown headed toward her. Her demeanor and dress were picture-perfect, in the books Charlotte was approved to read but hid under her bed instead. The girl came to a halt with a flourish. “I’m Azure,” she announced.

“Charlotte.” She fidgeted with a ring, and stilled her hands. “Is this your first ball also?”

“Yes, but of course I’ve already offers.” The girl smirked and looked down her nose at the redhead.

She thought this was a remarkable feat, since Azure was at least four inches shorter than Charlotte herself. “That’s nice.”

Azure was misnamed. Her hazel eyes bulged as her throat convulsed several times. “Well. Well. Clearly, you aren’t competition. Nice! What a redheaded nonsense answer.”

Charlotte watched the other girl flounce away. “Hmm.” She didn’t miss the company, but the sideways glances from catty women and predatory men had an unexpected dimension of inevitability.

She turned and walked toward the Barnhardts, who lived one manor over from her family’s. At least the elderly patriarch and his wife would give her a pretext at polite conversation, rather than how awkwardly she stood alone now.

An hour later, Charlotte’s jaw was sore from clenching it, her feet hurt, and her face ached from pretending to smile. She’d been patronized by older women, who murmured to her that they understood how difficult it must be, facing her disadvantage as a redhead. Why had her mother not prepared her sooner for such talk?

The men were even worse. Boys barely past light fuzz and spots sneered at her with expectant eyes, while older men who’d worn out their first, second, or even third wives with childbearing asked questions she didn’t understand and laughed at her confusion. One middle-aged man with a pointed nose and dark hair had licked his lips and looked at her body in ways that made her stomach twist. She wished for nothing more than a thick blanket to hide behind and a mug of strong, honeyed tea.

A cough drew her attention. She turned from the punch bowl she’d lingered near to find Butler watching her. The security men were circulating the room now that the portcullises were down at each entrance, ensuring honor was maintained even amongst the vicious verbal jabs that could so easily escalate beyond mere words.

He jerked his head in a short movement, barely perceptible. She looked, and saw a discrete path behind a long drapery of saffron velvet. Charlotte blinked, and tried to look grateful, but Butler was already gone, moving to intercept a spat between two young men about a horse.

She slipped behind the curtain and sighed with relief. The lights were dim here, and the perfume thinner. Charlotte wandered the hallway, wondering if this led to the kitchens. She’d been unable to do more than nibble a few treats before her mother’s reproving eye tightened her belly, but the night was overwhelming to her senses. Perhaps some food would help sustain her, and most kitchens would slip a girl a small loaf without question.

Her stomach flipped as she trailed fingertips across the cool stone. Perhaps she wasn’t considered a girl anymore. Had that been what Yelena was trying to tell her earlier today?

Her fingers grazed over the edge of stone and met empty air. Charlotte barely noticed, her mouth agape. Dark shelves held thousands of books, even going to a second story. A fire blazed at the end of the empty room, safely ensconced in stone and behind decorative ironworks. A spiral stair led to the second floor, and extended to what looked like an additional room with a closed wooden door. Exquisite glass lanterns shone at regular intervals from between bookcases.

She wandered through the selection of tomes, noting the organizational system absently as she went. She’d known the Hannocks were rich, but some of these books had such great age, they must have come from first landing! Society had been only a colony at first, in need of many skills, but agriculture had won out as technology had broken down and trade routes had been slow to develop.

Drawing near the fire, she luxuriated in the warmth. It wasn’t quite the blanket she’d wanted, but books made the evening better. Charlotte drew her skirts up in one hand and placed the other on the spiral stair’s railing. She’d never seen a staircase like this before, with one side so narrow only her toes would fit. Each step was taken with great precision, and she was glad no one was here to witness her unseemly flash of ankle.

Upstairs, she started to continue the book survey before pausing. The dark wooden doors drew her attention. Studded with metal beyond the strength of most internal doors, she wondered what in a library would need extra fortification. An ornate metal latch kept the door closed, but looked a more recent addition than the hinges.

Charlotte studied the metal swirls, made to emulate leaves. A flower bloomed in metal, inviting an outreached hand to clasp it and pull. She accepted its implicit invitation, cold iron warming against her skin, unsurprised to find the door immobile.

She let go with a disappointed sigh, and heard a faint scrape. Hand still in midair, she reached out and tugged on the flower harder. Another noise rewarded her, and she grasped the long petals with both hands, leaning all her weight on the handle.

Metal squealed, and something inside the door gave way. The door itself opened soundlessly as she pulled, red-orange rust spilling onto the wooden floor.

Panting, Charlotte straightened and brushed off her dress. She stepped inside the room. It was filled with books, but her eyes were fixed on the view through the oriel window. Each step echoed in her head, her heartbeat thudding in her ears as she slowly moved forward.

The glow of the spaceport filled the window, filled the room. Blue-tinged lights cast a cool calm across her face, newly-hated red hair gleaming with electric curls. Her dress turned to teal, the geometric embroidered trim at the hem muted by the strange beams.

Charlotte could not look away, even as her shin barked into the wooden window seat. The forest on the drive to the manor courtyard was so thick it must have hidden the view. She could see over the trees now. Vehicles moved with speed she had trouble believing, massive even at this distance. Fire blazed white-hot from one of them, and she caught her breath in fear before it vanished.

She rested a hand against the rippled glass, entranced.

“I meant for you to catch your breath in the hall, not break into the forbidden room,” a voice said behind her.

Charlotte recognized the Butler’s voice, but kept her eyes trained on the Spaceport. If this were to be her last glimpse, she would soak in every second. “Must I go?”

“If you wish to avoid answering questions about whether the ‘redheaded bookworm’ has absconded to get into trouble, yes.” He sounded amused.

“That can only be my mother.” Charlotte wondered if she’d be able to remember this exact shade of blue years from now, when she needed to sustain herself.

“Come, Lady Death,” the Butler said.

She turned, already longing for another glimpse of electric lights. “What did you call me?”

His lips twitched. “Lady Charlotte may be your real title, but your last name means death. It suits your spirit more. You’ll be the death of some poor man.”

Charlotte blinked. “Anything’s better than my real name – oh!”

The man with the pointed face who had scared her earlier slinked in behind the Butler. His eyes were dark, and a glass of amber liquid dangled from his hand. “Private party?”

“A retrieval, m’lord.” The Butler turned to keep his body between the two, facing the man who scared her more than ever.

Charlotte wondered if he’d hoped to trap her here, alone, and shuddered at the thought. “Yes, I’d like to rejoin the ballroom now.” She was proud that her voice did not waver.

“I’d like to join something,” the man snarled. He closed the door behind him.

The Butler’s shoulders flexed. “Window seat, Lady Death.”

“I don’t understa-“

“Go!”

Charlotte turned back to the seat set into the oriel window, unsure what to do. She lifted the cushion, and saw what looked like a lid. A trap door? She pulled up on the hook, and saw a narrow staircase.

Much undignified scrambling later, Charlotte scraped her hands against an exceptionally dark stone room that didn’t seem to have an exit. She hadn’t shut the trap door behind her, not wanting to waste time, and the faint blue glow kept her from panicking entirely.

Butler wouldn’t have sent her into a room with no exit, would he? She craned her neck upward, wishing she knew what was going on between the two men. Surely the Butler would win.

A thud came from overhead, and she squeaked. Redoubling her efforts, she touched a rough spot in the stone and pressed her fingers into it until she thought her fingertips would bleed. Stone cracked open, spilling her onto the wet lawn.

Charlotte ran, not knowing where to go, in dancing slippers soaked through. The doors were sealed against her, the horses safely locked in the barn. No one sane stayed out at night, even though no one had seen a sabertooth since the early settlement days. Carriage bells kept them away, but she did not have a bell, nor would it work against the pointed-faced man. And so she ran to the only place she could think of that might have safety against predators of man and beast alike.

The Spaceport would save her, with its terrifying blue glow. It must, because Charlotte Merikh could see no other options.

Last week, on Odd Prompts, Cedar Sanderson did very cool things with my prompt of an encoded quilt. Leigh Kimmel gave me a prompt that just wouldn’t let go: Something is seen at the oriel window of a forbidden room in an ancient manor house.

I still have more stories I want to tell based on this prompt, which tickled my dark and flinty gothic heart. This version went in a different direction than I anticipated, but – I think – in a good way. I think it might become a thing, because Lady Death really wants her story to be told.

It’s not like I have anything else I’m working on…or a day job that’s nuts…right?

Do Not Feed the Wildlife

June 6, 2020 / fionagreywrites

“Hey, Sparkles.” The muffled voice came from across the room.

“I told you not to call me that,” Jenna said with a grimace. She didn’t move, or even look up from her ancient, beige computer.

“Whatever. I need your help.”

Grumbling under her breath, Jenna pushed back a chair with an earsplitting squeal as the metal leg scraped over worn floor. Locating khakis and sturdy shoes sprouting from underneath a desk across the room, she saw a plethora of wires where a torso should be.

“What did you do, Glen?” I am so not fixing that disaster, she added mentally.

“I wanted Dr Hort’s desk now that he’s retired. And I screwed it up,” the legs-and-wire bundle responded. His knee rose and the wires shifted. “I unplugged stuff that shouldn’t be unplugged.”

Jenna tapped a booted foot on the linoleum, happy to see Glen get some comeuppance after months of refusing to call her by her real name. Interning at Fish and Game hadn’t been what she’d expected. In retrospect, being surprised by the amount of bureaucracy at a government organization shouldn’t have been shocking.

She pursed her lips, reluctant to ask. “So what do you need me for?”

The wires parted and thick glass lenses appeared, brown eyes behind them pleading. “Turns out one of his computers ran the automated fish counter software.”

“I didn’t see the software failure alerts.” She frowned again, holding in an unprofessional laugh. If Glen had bothered to ask her – but he never did, did he?

“Yeah, well, I changed it so they came to me. But you’re gonna have to go to the ladder and get a manual estimate for the day. I’ve got to fix this and it’ll be a while.”

“Only if you promise to use my real name for the rest of the summer.”

The eyes grew sad before disappearing behind tangled wire again. “Fine. Jen.”

Jenna snarled on her way out the door.

“Don’t get eaten!” Glen yelled. She slammed the door on the rest of his words.

Her mood lightened as she went to her truck and grabbed her backpack. Stepping onto the path beside the fish ladder, she took a moment to relish being outside, in the sunlight. Her face broke into a grin. “This is more like it.”

She hiked for about fifteen minutes before settling into the shade. The rock ramp had been built from natural materials local to the area, with an eye to making it blend with the surrounding environment. Water overflowed the weirs as the pools overflowed, white streams against crystal-clear pools.

Pausing about halfway up the fish ladder, she perched on a comfortable, speckled boulder. She was unsure of the best observation spot, since Glen rarely let her go into the field. Jenna pulled a notebook from her backpack and dangled her feet over the edge of the fish ladder.

She glanced at a nearby curious squirrel with bulging cheeks. “Hope I remember all the fish types from training.” His tail fluttered at the sound of her voice.

The next half an hour was fairly uneventful. The squirrel continued to keep her company as she ticked off species and numbers transiting the fish ladder. “Steelhead…I think that’s a smallmouth bass…salmon, probably sockeye…ooo, a couple walleye there. Wonder if they’re a mated pair.”

The squirrel chittered his boredom at her. Jenna stuck her tongue out. “Hey, this is my job. Calm down. I’m still not giving you any food.”

“Trout…steelhead again…octopus…” Jenna’s pen scratched against her notebook. “Octopus?”

She closed her eyes and reopened them. The octopus was not only still there, limbs showing steady movement against the churning water, it had a passenger. Six tentacles climbed the rocks carefully from the lower pool, adhering suckers against a slippery path. The remaining two tentacles formed a backpack of sorts, where a squid nestled, its own tentacles dangling and shining against the octopus’ flickering camouflage.

“What’s a cephalopod pair like that doing all the way out here?” The squirrel squeaked and lifted his bushy tail, then ran up a tree, finally abandoning her. “No one’s going to believe this,” Jenna called after the tiny rodent.

She pulled out her cell phone and snapped a few pictures of the octopus climbing into the pool, settling the squid down carefully, and stretching out some limbs before settling into the pool for a rest. A bulbous eye caught her gaze, and Jenna lowered her phone, transfixed.

“Excuse me,” a voice said from the pool below her. “I know it’s a public place, but I’d rather you deleted those photos.”

Jenna choked on absolutely nothing and began coughing. Her phone slipped out of nerveless fingers and landed with a splash below.

A curling limb covered in suction cups rose above the edge of her boulder handed the slab of smooth metal and glass to her., water droplets dripping from the edges “Well, that solves that problem, doesn’t it?” The octopus’ beak moved in what might have been a smile as he tucked his tentacles underneath himself.

“Ah. Thank you for returning my phone,” Jenna said, feeling faint. “I didn’t know octopi could talk.”

“Oh, well.” A lazy wave of an arm gestured to the pool. The squid swirled around the pool, splashing. “They can’t. Not really. Super smart, but not that smart. You know how it goes.”

Jenna struggled for words. “Oh, of course.” Perhaps she was dehydrated.

“No, I mean, I’m a kraken,” the cephalopod continued. “That’s why I can talk. I’m James.”

A tentacle reached out to her hand, suckers tasting her arm briefly and releasing her after a brief and unnerving silent handshake. She coughed again. “I’m Jenna.”

“My parents don’t know how far George and I decided to go hiking today. They’re really active on social media, so if those pictures got out, I’d be in a ton of trouble. Grounded and restricted to the ocean for the next five years, probably.”

Her voice sounded eerily like a strangled cat. “Wouldn’t want that, obviously.”

The cephalopod bobbed his head, bouncing on tentacles. “So thanks. I’m sorry if your phone doesn’t work anymore.”

She nodded, wondering if Glen had set her up somehow.

James uncurled himself. “We’re just gonna chill here for a little bit, okay? Then go home.”

He scampered down the speckled boulder, camouflage rippling through dappled greys and blacks. “It was nice to meet you!”

“Bye.” Jenna’s voice was indistinct against the sounds of splashing water between the ladder’s pools.

A head popped back up briefly, a tentacle on each side just below protuberant eyes, beak twitching as if he was sniffing the air. “Hey – you got any snacks?”

This week, Becky Jones challenged me with “The fish counter spotted the baby kraken as it made its way up the fish ladder.” My prompt went to nother Mike: “The moon looked like it had another crater, which grew as the moon waxed larger. And then…” I can’t wait to see what he does with it.

Want to join the Odd Prompts crew? Send in a prompt to oddprompts@gmail.com by Tuesday, and receive one of your own. Don’t like commitment? Check out the spares to see if any pique your interest!

Tickets, Please

May 26, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Aerin bumped the door open with an absentminded shoulder and sorted through the mail. She opened a creamy envelope with a large, gold seal in the upper left corner. “Cool,” she said. “We actually got something that’s not a bill or some political ad.”

“We live in a swing state,” Jory said, his voice muffled from where he lay braced underneath the sink. Buckets, cleaning products, and a toolbox were scattered on the floor around stained denim knees. “I don’t believe we didn’t get something from a politician.”

“Of course we did. I threw out three fliers already.” Aerin let out an unladylike snort. “It’s a light day. We also got something extra, too, that’s all.”

Jory emerged from under the sink and stretched his shoulders, still clasping a wrench. He tossed it into the toolbox. “Well, that’s one bill we won’t get. Sink’s good to use again. So, did my weirdo mum write me a letter or what?”

She pointed a finger at him in admonishment. “I like your mum.”

Jory stayed sprawled on the floor and leaned back on his arms with a smirk. “And she knows how to video chat.” He picked up a poof of stashed plastic bags and stuffed it back under the sink with a series of rustles that spooked the cat into a blur streaking down the stairs.

Aerin waved a hand. “Whatever. We got free tickets to the local Renaissance Festival. I’ve never been.”

Jory tilted his chin down and gave her a dubious look. “Do you want to?”

She stuck out her tongue and sniffed delicately, arcing her face toward the ceiling. “Not only do I want to go, we also get free costume rental and some other stuff.”

“What’s this we you speak of?” Jory asked. He stayed half bent over, one blue eye fixed on her behind a curtain of long brown hair, his hand frozen on the toolbox handle.

“Oh, you’re joining me, mister.” She pointed the envelope at him. “I’ll be Lady Aerin, and you can be my gallant knight.”

“Um, babe…” His eyes were pleading.

“Unless you want me to deliver those brownies I made to the neighbors?”

“Babe! That’s just not fair!”

***

Two weeks later, Jory pulled his truck across the patchy ground covered in clumps of long grass too stubborn to die. He followed a series of flaggers dressed as peasants. That is, if Renaissance-era peasants had possessed florescent safety vests and flashlights.

Aerin’s bouncing wasn’t due to the rutted earth. As the truck crested the slight hill and palisade walls surrounding a motley collection of pavilions and mismatched buildings came into view, she let out a high-pitched squeal.

He winced, then flinched at her blazing glare. “Hell on the suspension,” he muttered.

“Good save,” she said tartly, and turned rapt eyes on the faire grounds as they descended the rise.

She could see a small building that was made to represent a branching tree, a stage covered in shade by its outreached arms. Another had carvings that made her think of Vikings, which she couldn’t wait to inspect in person up close. A pirate ship rested atop dried August grasses, swarming with activity as tiny figures climbed up the nets. A horse nuzzled a man in shining metal armor, then headed out of view behind a wooden fence.

Everywhere, she saw crowds of people, brightly colored dots that dropped quickly out of view. Aerin bounced again, and pulled out the envelope, now creased and softened around the edges with much handling.

“Why’d we get free tickets, anyway?” Jory asked with a slight frown.

“No idea,” she said breezily. “Here, we’ve got one for free ale. That’ll cheer you right up.”

His frown deepened. “They mean beer, right?”

“Oh, come on. I looked at the website. What’s not to like? They have performers who set things on fire.”

“Wait, intentionally?”

“Yes, of course. Oh, here’s the parking pass. I forgot, we get to go in a special entrance. Show that to the flagger, will you?”

“Woman, you are driving my suspension crazy.”

***

Lady Aerin curtsied clumsily. “Sir Jory, how handsome you look today.”

Jory looked down at his legs, clad in poofed half-breeches. He stamped a leg on the dusty gravel. “If you say so.”

Aerin put her hands on her hips, above a gleaming golden belt with a red faceted stone. She wondered if her face was about to match the ruby color when Jory’s eyes met hers.

He blanched. “I mean, how lovely you look, Lady Aerin.” Jory glanced around and copied a nearby couple, offering her his arm. “Shall we?”

“Good morrow and well met, time travelers!” said a man with a cape, plumed hat, sword, and horrid fake British accent. “The Renaissance awaits. Don’t forget your provisions, or your tickets.”

Aerin grabbed her borrowed bag with her free hand. Her purse was already stuffed inside. “I’m not sure that color of bird existed back then,” she whispered to Jory, nodding to the ticket-taker’s extravagant hat.

“Pray, attend me,” the ticket-taker said to the three couples waiting to enter, all now garbed in appropriate gear. They’d even been given period footwear. Aerin wondered how they’d seemed to have everyone’s sizes ready to go and frowned. Maybe Jory had a point asking how they’d been selected for the free tickets.

She looked up as the ticket-taker finished his spiel with an extravagant wave. “I missed it,” she said to Jory in a low voice.

“We enter this box, sit down, he pulls a handle, and we go out the other side. He calls it a time machine. Just a fancy entrance with a bit of fun. Probably a light show or something inside.”

Aerin nodded, and sat on the cushion that matched her charcoal dress, tucking trailing sleeves around her wrists. The time machine resembled an antique carriage, with window shades drawn to block the view. Jory sat next to her, placing his own bag by his feet.

She frowned again. “Hey, what’s in your bag? I can understand why they’d want me to hide the purse. We’re basically free advertising for the costume rental place, right?”

Jory shook his head, ponytail grazing the top of his starched collar. “I’m not sure. The guy with the hat handed it to me just as we were getting in.” She looked up, and the other couples nodded. One pointed to his own identical leather bag.

“Ask the hat guy,” Aerin said.

Jory tried the door. “It’s locked. Guess it’s part of the show. No going back now.” His laugh was uneasy.

A man with a wild red beard grimaced from across the carriage. “Food,” he said with a grunt, and shoved his bag back onto the floor. “Weird dried stuff and hard bread. And a little bag of fake coins.”

“Try the other door,” his lady friend stated, biting her lip and playing with the fabric of her sapphire skirts. “I’d like to get out and into the faire now. I don’t like small, enclosed spaces.”

Aerin lifted the latch. The door on this side opened easily. She gave a push. “What’s that horrid smell?”

Jory was right behind her. “Do you hear chickens?”

Gone were the pirate ship, the fanciful carved buildings. Narrow, two-story buildings shadowed previously sunny faire grounds. Voices called their wares in narrow streets; some from permanent windows propped open, others from battered tarps propped up by polished sticks. Aerin looked down, and realized the ground was paved with wide, uneven stones. They were muddy with dirty water that hadn’t quite washed away what looked suspiciously like large deposits of manure.

“Did the weather change, or are we further away from the main entrance than I thought?” the lady in blue asked from behind her.

Aerin turned, and her jaw dropped. The entrance to the faire didn’t just look like a carriage, it was a carriage. Two horses were hitched to it, with a sullen footman slouched over the driver’s seat.

“That’s odd,” the bearded man said. “I don’t see anyone not in fancy costume. Or any cell phones.”

“This isn’t right,” a blonde with braids and a red, Nordic style dress said. “This looks – and smells – real. That guy has a chicken in a cage, for crying out loud. Are we behind the scenes or something? Like backstage?”

“Then why aren’t they greeting us and leading us out?” Jory asked. He looked around, eyes narrowed in confusion. “Maybe I didn’t pay enough attention to the fancy hat guy.”

Aerin gulped. “Does anyone still have their ticket? Maybe it explains.”

Jory handed the piece of embossed paper to her. She could feel the design of interwoven vines under fingertips suddenly gone clumsy, and nearly dropped the ticket.

She felt the blood drain from her face. She held up the paper in a trembling hand and read it aloud. “Experience the magic. Admit one.”

Her voice failed her. Aerin cleared her throat and tried again. “Admit one…to the Renaissance.”

This week on Odd Prompts, Kat Ross and I traded prompts. She delighted us all with the return of the murder chicken, and challenged me to tackle a working version of HG Well’s time machine. Version 1 is here.

The description of the Faire above is based on Ohio’s Harveysburg Festival, which I hope will open this year as I’ve been using quarantine to work on my armor. Check out the Kamikaze Fireflies here. They chant “set it on fire!” like no one else can.

Join the Odd Prompts weekly writing challenge by submitting a prompt to oddprompts@gmail.com. Too much commitment? Visit the site and see if a spare peaks your interest!

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