Category: Writing Prompts (Page 3 of 24)

Miranda slipped inside her house and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Her head lolled back against the familiar wooden door, without watchers waiting to backstab or request political favor. Her eyelids sank closed, heavy with the tension of two weeks in her father’s court.

A perturbed ball of fur poked at her scales from where it tangled with her lower limbs. “Let me out, will you? I barely made it inside before you smooshed me in with the door.”

“Sorry,” she muttered, lifting a foreleg without opening her eyes. “You usually use the window. I forgot you’re in mini-kitty form.”

The spotted black and grey cat stretched until Greystone’s tail tickled her snout. “I hate compressed cat.”

“Better the court thinks you’re a harmless pet, rather than a snow leopard tracking their every move,” Miranda murmured. “It was only a fortnight. And now we’re safe at home, back on the farm.”

“Better the court thinks you’re a fluffy princess off on an irresponsible jaunt, rather than your father’s assassin held in reserve,” Greystone drawled with heavy sarcasm. “Now, to ask the important questions…Did you arrange for anyone to stock some fish?”

***
This week’s prompt came from Becky Jones, and I did not do it justice. Mine went to Padre, where a fluffy dog caught the guards’ attention. Check it and more out at MOTE!

“It’s not fatal,” Peter reasoned with her. “It’s just cold.”

“White, fluffy abomination,” June muttered, and pulled her too-thin leather jacket tighter. “I’ve seen snow before, obviously. Light snow. And dry. Not this…wet monstrosity dumped all at once.”

“I’m told it’s heavier than expected this early in the year,” Peter admitted. “Even for here.”

“Even snow monsters who wanted more snow would avoid New Hampshire,” she grumbled, and poked a gloveless finger at the car’s red button, jabbing it repeatedly as she tried to increase the seat warmer. “It’s not working. Ow!”

Peter had brought the car to an abrupt halt. Visibility was down to thirty feet, although nearly everyone had bunkered down sensibly before they’d left the restaurant.

She rubbed her shoulder and eased the seat belt away. “Why’d you stop?”

He swallowed, pale even in the dim streetlight and surrounded by whirling, hissing flurries. “About that snow monster.”

***

A quick one this week, inspired by Padre, while my prompt went to AC Young. Check out theirs and more, over at MOTE!

“I still can’t believe they kicked me out,” June grumbled. She plopped the sagging cardboard box onto the kitchen counter and wiped sweat from her forehead with a grimy hand. “Ugh. I think that one was covered in spiderwebs.”

Peter frowned over the pile of mismatched mugs he’d rescued from the last rapidly failing box. “You weren’t in the apartment long enough to collect that level of debris, let alone this many boxes.” He reached a long arm over to tug the worn flap open. “And you can’t complain too much. The apartment complex did give you three separate warnings about swordfighting in the patio.”

“It was just practice against the pells,” she protested, pulling back the other flap. “I told them, I’m on the hook to teach it next term.”

“And they told you they didn’t care, a mhuirnín,” Peter reminded her. “Lucky you inherited this place, with a lovely fenced backyard. And this box is not yours.”

“What?” She stuck her face into the box and promptly sneezed. “Ew. Sorry. You’re right. What is all this junk?”

He scooped the mugs up and deposited them into the stainless steel sink. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

June unloaded as fast as Peter could clear. “Dusty old book – ooo, I’ll have to check this out later, it’s on siege strategies – a janbiyyeh, lovely.” She brandished the distinctive curved knife across the kitchen island. “Look at that detailing, beautiful.”

He rescued the last chipped mug and reached into the box. “An odd carved rock – oh, blast, shield, shield, shield!”

Silver and gold light bubbled into the brick and copper-toned townhouse kitchen. The rock clattered to the countertop.

June cleared her dry throat as she approached, hands outstretched in warding. “Looks like a fertility statue in shape, the usual exaggerated hourglass figure but in a crouched position. Limestone, I think. Distinctive carvings across the stomach and back, stubby arms outstretched or perhaps broken off.”

“Distinct feelings of malevolence and anger radiating from the object of unknown origin,” Peter added.

She nodded, wondering if it was too late to save the townhouse or if she’d lose her second home in just a few months. “Cursed. Definitely cursed.”

Peter rubbed his stubbled chin and sighed. “Only we could unpack a box during what should be a simple move and find a cursed object inside.”

“Worse,” she added, with the pit of her stomach doing its usual unhappy flip. She suppressed the nausea with a swallow. “The box is still half-full.”

***

An early one this week from Padre, inspired by unpacking, while nother Mike takes on the practice war. Check out more, over at MOTE!

Char dragged the back of her hand against her face, barely wincing as her gloves’ adjustment tabs hit the brushburn at her temple.

“All you did was smear the blood,” Butler said, not bothering to look up the shadowed corner where he was checking his rifle. “Again. It’s not camouflage paint.”

“Nervous habits are not rational,” she reminded him. “This bolt hole won’t last long. Town’s not big enough.”

Rapid, distinctive clicks came from the shadows as he worked the action. “You need to lock down your reactions if you want to survive. Try channeling them into action.”

She swallowed at the quiet censure, even if Butler’s tone had been carefully neutral. “I’ll see if I can pick up the rest of the squad’s location signals, Corporal.”

“Good.”

She felt rather than heard his relief. Given his family’s generations of service to hers, outranking her must be as odd to him as it was to her — another intangible test, she was sure, though why the Space Corps preferred to see how they handled it rather than simply separating them into different units was beyond her ken.

“Jamming net’s still blocking comms, but there’s less interference. I’ve got three pings. Two on the move, Staff Sergeant Iniitji surrounded by heat signatures.” She studied the screen. “Pilot and shuttle remain secure, but the path is blocked.”

“I saw Jensen and Hip go down during the ambush.” Butler loomed suddenly from the shadows. “Murphy’s been riding with us this whole trip.”

She kept her reflexes locked down and wondered if he was testing her, too. “Assuming Iniitji gets captured, they’ll probably take him…here.” Char pointed at the lower lefthand corner of her screen. “Six klicks outside town. Closest secure location. That’s where they’ll take him for interrogation until a transport can get him.”

He made a noncommittal noise and headed to observe the street.

Char tucked the screen away. “Town hasn’t been pacified into a proper outpost yet. The Kardan won’t use local systems until they can verify control. So if we can link up with Gilping and Cortez, we can get to their temporary camp first.”

A long, skeptical pause as he studied the view through gauzy curtains. “You want us to head to where they have the most personnel?”

“And supplies,” she argued. “We already got what we came for. Destroying a field cache would be a bonus.”

Butler patted the chest pocket where the data file was secured. “And they’re after us for what we already stole, you may have noticed.”

“Think about what Iniitji carries in his head. We can’t leave him behind. Blaze a false trail, dead-drop a copy of the files for the pilot, break Sarge out of jail, blow up the supplies, and hightail it off planet.”

“Sounds complicated.” Butler faded back from the window. “Normal foot traffic’s just ceased. Time to move.”

“Complicated doesn’t mean it won’t work.” Char grabbed her gear and slung it over her shoulder.

“More to go wrong,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t have a better idea. We’ll work out the possibilities on the way to link up with Cortez and Gilping. Let’s move. Head for the roof.”

***

Leigh and I traded this week – with Murphy apocalypse training. Check out more over at MOTE!

“Time to start dinner,” Helen announced with a gentle smile from under her salt-and-pepper bob.

“Let me help you,” June said, rising from a surprisingly comfortable leather armchair in the Rideres’ rented house on the lake. For all its overt luxury made her acutely uncomfortable, the rental certainly lived up to its promised grandeur.

Peter broke off his conversation to stare at June with worry. His father – ever the diplomat, no matter his status – turned to see what had caused the sudden tension.

“I can cut vegetables and wash dishes,” she protested, and tried to look less defensive. “I’m sure there’s some way I can help in a kitchen.”

“Without cooking.”

She put her hands on her hips and glared.

Peter lifted his hands in surrender and rubbed his nose. “If you’re sure?”

At her nod, he attempted a faltering smile and turned back to George with a hearty apology. “Where were we, Dad?”

Helen had already disappeared by the time June passed through the hallway leading to the kitchen.

“How can I help?” She broke off, staring at the empty kitchen. “Oh. Helen?”

The sound of whirling air was her only warning.

Thunk!

A nine-inch butcher knife quavered from where it had embedded itself into the carved walnut trim surrounding the doorframe.

June threw herself sideways and let out a yelp. “Who threw that?”

An apple flew toward her nose, looming large and red. June snatched a decorative metal tray from the counter and held it up as a shield. The smashed against the platter hard enough to dent the copper as she craned her neck around to see what was next.

“What’s – eep!” A container dumped a heavy pile of sea salt onto her scalp, each grain hitting like tiny bits of hail before the glass grazed her shoulder and shattered against the ceramic tile floor.

She threw up an arm to protect her eyes, only for a whizzing bag of flour to burst open against her formerly black shirt. A rolling pin loomed ready behind a floating spice rack, primed to send herbs and a wad of dried peppers flying like baseballs.

“Stop!” Helen stood in the doorway, one hand lifted in command.

A potato masher settled disgruntledly with a rattle back into a container of wooden spoons and soup ladles, and June could have sworn the stand mixer gave a threatening twirl of the attached beater before submitting.

“June, dear,” Helen began, and studied the formerly pristine room. “One does not simply walk into the kitchen.”

“Apparently,” she muttered, and wondered when the cocoa powder had attacked.

***

This week’s prompt was from Padre. “One does not simply walk into the kitchen.” It was a trade, and he also received mine: It was the greatest of mysteries and the simplest of answers, if only they were willing to admit it.

Check out more over at MOTE!

Tones echoed throughout the hall, a quiet trill of notes from nowhere in particular. It would have gone unnoticed – a frippery from the harpist, perhaps – had those particular notes not been awaited throughout the tedious evening by anxious parents and bored cadets.

A frisson of voices cascaded through the grand hall, and the mass of well-dressed

Lady Bessina joined the chorus. “It’s time!” she caroled gleefully, pressing a satin glove against the diamonds sparkling under ruinous amounts of magelights. “I must say, I look forward to this every year.”

“Do join us, Ambassador,” Lord Relevon offered from under a neat mustache. “Our box offers an exceptional view. The benefit of all the financing we funnel into the Academy every year, what?”

“I shall gladly accept.” Ambassador Zelon inclined his head with the precisely appropriate thirty-degree nod of gratitude. “I should like to observe with well-informed spectators. My country’s coming of age ceremony is quite different, and I find myself confused.”

“Of course,” Bessina said warmly, and sailed past Revelon’s extended hand. “This isn’t merely your first ceremony, is it?”

“Arrived on the Xanthar twelve units – excuse me, days – ago.” Zelon pressed his fingers together, a tell that long training had not alleviated. Was the Lady Bessina drunk from the odd aqua champagne the servers regularly floated, or were all Atlassians so indirect? It was exhausting, and no one had warned him that immersion was so much more terrible than his transitory studies.

“Difficult, isn’t it?” Revelon murmured as they transited the luxuriously wallpapered staircase. “I grew up on Engl, and that’s still part of the Atlassian Territories. Took me years to master the complexities of high society on the Island here to boot.”

Zelon gave a polite smile while he mentally cursed and began one of the Hundressian’s protocol exercises to better maintain his composure. He’d been a junior envoy long enough to know better than to sip on the bubbly after weeks of transit, even if this was his first post as the head Ambassador.

Still – Revelon could be an ally, as long as the information was good, and as long as Zelon himself maintained proper composure. He took a measured breath and followed the couple into their observation balcony. “Tell me about this ceremony, of your courtesy?”

Bessina beamed and gestured for the Ambassador to help himself from the tray of crudités. “How lovely that we get to be with you during your first Observation.”

“It’s really a coming of age ceremony,” Revelon added, studying a crostini covered in a soft white cheese and a sprinkle of black salt. “Each student desiring entrance to the Atlassian Mage Academy goes through this exam. In return for training, service to the state for so many years, and so on, and so forth.” He waved a hand and wobbled the crostini in emphasis. “Ten years after graduation, minimum. Opportunities to advance, and recruiters sniffing the second the obligation is done.”

Zelon cleared his throat and selected a thimbleful of pastry filled with yellow goo. “This selection – it is to be accepted into the academy?”

“Oh, no,” Bessina chimed in. “Their ability qualifies them. Every child is tested annually, for this and other traits. We chose to support the Mage Academy after our son’s selection. He’s serving across the sea, actually, now that Gabri’s graduated – why, he must have returned on your ship. How exciting.”

Below the balcony, blobs of satin and silk settled onto velvet-cushioned chairs set in a scarlet crescent that looked only slightly less sumptuous than the viewing box he sat in. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, then. What exactly do we observe?”

“Why, the potential, dear boy,” Revelon drawled. “This test is the manifestation that displays each cadet’s potential power.”

“Not just strength,” Bessina remonstrated her husband. “Aptitude, as well.”

“Of course, darling.” He tilted his head back toward the ambassador. “Each candidate funnels through a particular type of channel to control the manifestation.”

Zelon wished for nothing more than to rub his temples at that exact moment. Why hadn’t anyone warned him how important the mages were? Here he was, stumbling on basics that pre-cadets handled with ease. He ventured a guess. “Ah – like a tool that ensures results are comparable?”

“Precisely.” Revelon clapped him on the back, peering over the balcony as his wife widened her eyes disapprovingly. “Look, the doors are opening.”

In front of the massed audience, an enormous set of doors slowly opened into the empty area in front of the waiting crowd, cutting off a murmur of conversation and filling the space with a glowing white fog.

“Society does love a good fundraiser,” Bessina said in a low voice approvingly. “Support national defense and what have you. The powerful families hold magic and are obligated to serve, so it’s in their interests.”

“Our coming of age ceremonies are quite different,” Zelon murmured. “We are all obligated to serve in some form, but our magicians do not interact with the public. It is a tightly held secret.”

“We don’t see much unless we have a mage in the family,” Bessina admitted, and picked up a fluted glass. “This is meant as a reassurance, that we hold the strength to protect the country.”

“In addition to our alliances, of course.” Revelon gave an odd half-salute.

The fog cleared to reveal a farmhouse, with a thatched roof and neat gardens. “How is this indoors?”

“Magic.” She leaned forward and sniffed amid the audience’s polite applause. “This must be that peasant child.”

Revelon leaned in at Zelon’s questioning glance and whispered the answer. “Illegitimate.”

“Power should be kept within the families.” She drained her glass, set it down sharply, and smoothed her blue skirts. “Well, we do need someone to keep the crops on track.”

“Does each manifestation look like a house?” The vision below was lost in fog again, and the doors swung closed as the new cadet saluted the crowd.

“In some form,” Revelon answered. “Earth shines through in this version, and the small house size indicates limited power. It’s an interpretation, really. Keeps those of us non-magic types gossiping like old hens for weeks.”

Bessina glanced at a program. “That northerner is next.”

“Speaking of gossip.” Revelon gave a laugh and settled into his armchair. “The Askirons haven’t manifested power in generations. They’ve been quite removed from society since – well. That’s not polite conversation, is it? And look, there go the doors again.”

Fog lifted, and Zelon noticed the hall had quieted. Bessina clutched her skirts, and even Revelon’s joviality had faded as he leaned on the bannister.

This time, the doors revealed a yawning cavern of sharp black rocks with no end in sight.

Bessina gasped. “The sheer power…!”

“This changes everything,” breathed Revelon.

Yes, thought Zelon. Whatever was happening with the tall, raven-haired cadet standing next to the doors, his own mission had just become more intriguing.

***

This week, Becky Jones prompted me with tones and time, while my prompt of a flickering staircase went to AC Young. Want to read more or play along? Take a meander over at MOTE!

Miranda curled up with a promising new book, reading glasses nestled on her crimson snout. Greystone sprawled in his snow leopard form before the glowing hearth, flattening his aged frame until he mimicked the rug he lay upon. It was a pose that never failed to bring a smile, no matter how often she saw it. No matter how odd others thought their pairing was, she could regret nothing.

“If anything, every magebond should link dragon and cat,” she said aloud. The fire popping was her only answer, although she didn’t doubt the gleam of emerald eye she’d glimpsed behind the leather binding.

She drew the heavy knit afghan across her lower limbs and settled into the enormous bag that served as her reading cushion, but Miranda didn’t get more than five words into the story before the patter of rapidly racing feet had her holding the book safely aloft before three blurs catapulted themselves into her lap.

“Grandma! Tell us a story! Grandma!”

The overlapping trio of voices echoed in a musical scale that made Greystone stretch and waltz aloft, ears flickering and tail high with quiet indignation at being driven from the fireside.

Miranda gave her best dragonic smile. She couldn’t wait to hear them sing properly. Who knew my sad genes could produce such diversely talented progeny, and now this trio of miracles?

“I don’t think this book is right for you,” she said slowly, and set it aside.

The librarian had praised the mystery with excited wing flutters, calling it “more gruesome than usual, but you won’t notice it until you have nightmares.” Miranda had snapped it up — as if her past exploits would allow for such petty nuisances that disturbed her sleep.

“No,” Jer said with an undulating hiss and bobbed his azure head to match.

Sal mimicked his movement with her golden scales gleaming in the firelight. “We want a different story.”

“We want a you story,” added Aster, her violet darkened to the deep iris color that she’d likely grow into as she aged in the dimly lit reading room.

“A you story,” the trio repeated, swaying, and began a crescendo of rounds. “A you – a you – story story – a you story, a you story, a —”

“Settle, settle,” Miranda said mildly. “Hmm.”

This was a new request, and one she took seriously. The dragonets should learn history. That lack was how her father had gotten himself and the country into the whole mess to begin with.

And as her daughter Pilik poked an apologetic snout into the room, Miranda knew the story she had to tell.

She crooked a shining scarlet claw at her daughter, who eased onto a cushion quietly, and took a deep breath.

“In the way of dragons, once there was, and once there was not. Some tales have never been spoken aloud before, and this is one of them — a tale not told, a song left unsung.”

She glanced again toward the entry, meeting Greystone’s watchful eyes for a lengthy pause. He nodded sharply, and returned to curl by the fireplace.

“Too few remember,” he said softly, then winced with flattened ears as the terrible trio crooned their violent agreement.

“Before the Minor Wars, before the house feuds began with my father the murdered king, before the night witch returned from the mountain,” Miranda began, and felt her voice break. She coughed, and settled her hands on her grandchildren’s scales.

“Before all these events comes the tale of how the night witch was trapped within the fires of the mountain to prevent a war, and the story of a crimson dragon, a princess trained as a spy to save the kingdom when the king could not.”

***

Thanks to nother Mike for this week’s prompt: The dragon curled up with a good book, its reading glasses nestled on its snout…

Mine went to Becky Jones: He was falling, falling, until the precipice was out of view, and still he had not landed…

Check out more or play along over at More Odds Than Ends!

The airlock sealed with a clunk that nearly drowned his wife’s cheerful warning. “That’s not vodka.”

Erik froze with his hand on the glass before lifting it awkwardly toward his nose for an awkward sniff of the clear liquid. “Vinegar?”

Bev waved a colorful oval. “The kids dyed too many eggs this year.” She walked across the kitchen, gave him a peck on the cheek, and plopped the egg into the glass.

He eased fully into the kitchen and set his lunchbox on the granite countertop, giving a second hopeful sniff. Bev’s legendary cooking had only improved since he’d built the basement lab for her three years earlier, and he didn’t want to know why. “Dinner’s recipe called for dissolving the eggshells as a first step?”

Bev slapped his fingers before they met through acidic liquid. “No poking. And no dinner. Science in progress, mister. I’m testing a new nano shield idea.”

“With eggs?”

Her eyes danced. “Nano-injected eggs.”

“The one for atmospheric reentry?”

Her lips twitched.

“The same shield problem that’s holding up bulk supply deliveries supporting planetwide colony expansion?”

At her nod, he waved his hands frantically at the basement stairs. “To the lab with you! Go, woman! Science faster!”

As she descended, he pulled out his comm unit and dialed the only pizza shop in town.

***

I have no idea where this is going, so let me know if you’re interested in exploring this extremely vague colony, and thanks to Cedar for the prompt trade this week!

At first, I thought the noise was thunder. Now that I was out of tornado land, I could enjoy storms again, and I did. The gentle, soaking rains, the kind the Irish called soft, those were my favorites. But every thunderstorm found me in my beloved padded window seat, breathing in the fresh sharp scent of new growth and watching the flickers of lightning above the mountains. I might have vowed against using my powers, but every flash had me wondering what wild message they sent from the gods, feeling the sizzling pressure of being so humanly alive.

Hell, I enjoyed the rains so much, I even named the German Shepherd pups — currently cowering in the corner and chewing nervously on a resigned-looking stuffed hedgehog with one ear missing, respectively — Dark and Stormy.

That night was different. Dark didn’t normally mind the storms, but had spent the last hour pacing before huddling onto his pillow. Stormy was the first of us to notice the real change, not that we knew what her alerting to a trespasser meant at the time.

I made my way to the security monitors and the stashed .40, wondering who’d be out in this weather, or this far out into the middle of nowhere. My storms were best enjoyed with privacy, and I liked it that way.

Only a few knew where I’d gone, and most of them you didn’t turn away.

It was a reluctant meander down the hallway to let in the cloaked stranger. The wind was howling and rain was pounding down by the time I finally heard the knock at my door.

In the six months I’d been at peace here, I’d not had a single visitor, but suspected only this one would knock with such a ringing, hollow boom. Well, if I could call the lightning, stands to reason someone else could call thunder. Though I’d not thought to guard against such powers when I’d laid the salt and built my defenses.

Stormy whined, and bolted for wherever Dark had hidden. If I lived the night, some retraining was in order, but I couldn’t blame her. Not with this particular guest.

My hand moved with aching slowness to grasp the cold doorknob and wrench the door open.

A hooded figure greeted me under the dripping shelter of a porch designed for storms, shadowed against clouded mountain and wisps of fog, highlighted not with breath but flickering lightning that made my blood sing with the urge to strike first.

“Hello.” I didn’t step back from the entrance. Superstition, of course, as this guest didn’t need an invitation, nor would the allium in the kitchen save any of us from his penetrating gaze.

“Hello, Coruscatio,” Death greeted me, and deep within the depths of the fortified farmhouse, I heard Dark howl in response to the crackling tones. “It’s been a long time.”

I nodded, filtering a trickle of forbidden power that made my palms itch.

“I’ve come to barter for your aid.”

***

This week’s prompt was inspired by Becky Jones: The wind was howling and rain was pounding down when I finally heard the knock at my door.

My prompt went to Cedar Sanderson- and I wound up with a tarot-themed art style!

Check out more over at MOTE!

“Two tablespoons of newt scales,” Liza read.

Mikhail held the scoop a bare millimeter away from the layer of pale orange powder. “Are you sure? Aren’t we supposed to eat this pie?”

She shrugged and tossed the recipe card toward him. “I trust Chef.”

“But the tetrodotoxins…” He dropped the scoop into the jar of dust and felt his hands stick damply to the leather gloves as his fingers flexed. “We just covered this in magical zoology. I want to check.”

“Non,” Chef said in response to Liza’s frantically waving hand and Mikhail’s stuttered explanation. His eyebrows waggled as he talked, nearly obscuring his eyes. “You have the proper ingredients, oui?”

“The ones that were on the list,” Mikhail answered hesitantly. “The shop clerk fulfilled the order. Mom said she checked it before accepting the order.”

“And you checked as well?” The beaky nose pointed directly at his own from inches above his forehead.

He kicked a stray claw that had fallen onto the kitchen’s stone floor with a sneaker that continued to fight its laces, feeling his face heat at the admonition. “It was pretty overwhelming. I didn’t know anyone sold newts then. Maybe pet stores. Not types of newts.”

“But you would have noticed this. The shop gave you space lizards, oui?” Chef paused for dramatic effect, then twisted his lips into a frown when the partners failed to reach. “The lizards taken into space? By the Americans? Are space lizards no longer worthy of adolescent attention?”

The mumbled French that followed made Liza gasp, but all Mikhail followed were a few words of the rolling flow. Something about video games, the next generation, and — petri dishes of fun? Did Chef mean an arcade?

“Chef, look,” Liza said urgently. She pointed a long finger at the ingredient card. “The recipe for gravity pie doesn’t call for space lizards. Just regular newts.”

“Mais non. C’est impossible.” Chef took off his white hat to reveal a mass of salt and pepper curls, digging among the tufts until a clear pair of reading glasses emerged. “Let me see that.”

Mikhail watched Chef’s eyes flicker back and forth, paling with every line of the recipe.

“Mais non,” Chef whispered. “Without space lizards, this is not anti-gravity pie.”

Mikhail twitched. Magical life skills class had been pretty boring so far…

“Out!” Chef shouted. “Everyone out! Drop everything and get out!”

A girl across the room giggled and reached for her bag. “Chef’s in a temper again,” she informed her partner snidely and at full volume. “Time for some real magic instead.”

“Out! Now!” Red lights flashed into view as sirens followed Chef’s words, bursting with ruby sparks above each kitchen station before screaming wildly around the room to chase the students into the hallway.

Mikhail managed to snag his satchel on as the class hurried toward the lawn. He and Liza had been in the corner furthest from the door, so they pulled up the rear of the small herd. A faded pale pink spark wheezed gently at him before dissipating as the massive doors came into sight over the shoulders of their classmates.

“Wonder what’ll happen?” He murmured to Liza, before realizing one of her floating fire extinguishers was missing. “Hey, where’s Lefty?”

“He stayed behind to help Chef clean up,” she said brusquely, reaching for the open door.

BOOM!

The explosion shook the castle floor and sent Mikhail tumbling onto the sun-warmed stone steps. He peeked up at Liza from where he lay sprawled.

“Well, that was unexpected.”

***

This week’s prompt was from Leigh Kimmel, exploring the unexpected, while my challenge to Cedar Sanderson suggested a travel system gone wrong. Check out more or play along over at MOTE!