Ami looked doubtfully at the metal contraption that rested on the tile floor and swiveled her head to gaze at the attendant. “It looks like a coffin.”

She could have chosen the term spaceship instead. The hatch wheel certainly gave that impression, though the clunky box was less than aerodynamic. Or perhaps a refrigerator from the nineties, repurposed for spa use. The metal box was an odd shade of pearlescent eggshell, most popular with government buildings across the world. This contraption and the plain tile room didn’t fit with the spa’s luxury offerings, soothing paintings, and beautiful floral arrangements.

“I don’t know…” Her editor Lisa had sold her on the idea, after hearing about a man who’d written a book in a day after spending a few hours in a sensory deprivation tank. Lisa, who was probably already a pile of blissful mush from a full-body massage two rooms away, and didn’t have to climb into a metal coffin and seal the door behind her to relax.

The woman whose nametag proclaimed she was Skylar laughed and pushed brown curls off her forehead. They bobbed back into place immediately. “I promise you, our sensory deprivation tanks are safe. Like I said earlier, we recommend people test it for an hour first before working their way up, but after that? Quite relaxing once you get used to the lack of stimuli.”

“They’re supposed to have good health benefits.”

“Massive amounts of magnesium salts make you float and give you a nice mood boost.” Skylar’s curls bobbed again. “A lot of people report peacefulness.”

Ami sucked in a breath, feeling her lips pull back in trepidation. Claustrophobia hadn’t been a problem she’d had to deal with before. “Oxygen flow on that end?”

Skylar nodded. “Some people prefer their heads by the door, others want a bit of obvious air flow. I’ve done this plenty of times and find the air currents disruptive.”

Ami didn’t think she’d mind oxygen in her metal coffin. Seemed preferable to the alternative. “I see.”

Skylar walked over to the hatch and rested her hand on the wheel. “If you decide you prefer the door open, just spin so the latch stays out.”

Ami sucked in a deep breath again, so hard it made an odd sound. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to do this.” Skylar gave her a sympathetic wink. “Spas should be fun. If this is popular enough, the owner will invest in a modern version, but I promise, the water’s sanitized and warm. All you have to do is float.”

She shoved her shoulders back and jutted her jaw in the air with a confidence she’d lost years ago. “Change over there?”

“You’ll love it,” Skylar gushed, pointing to the corner Ami had indicated. “I promise.”

The door shut and locked behind the attendant as Ami took her jacket off. “I’d better,” she muttered. “Can’t believe I’m doing this voluntarily.”

She studied the hatch wheel a few moments later, barefoot on the cold tile floor. “In for a penny.”

Ami reached for the door and yanked, then nearly fell as nothing happened. The hatch was already sealed. “Stupid.”

She spun the wheel and slipped inside – and then slid into the salt water as gravity and physics took over, banging the door shut behind her.

Whether she’d wanted to or not.

Her breath came in pants as she realized the oxygen was on the other side of the coffin, but she couldn’t bring herself to move away from the door. Perhaps – perhaps it would be fine. She had an hour in the tank, and could get out early or spin around to the air flow later.

All Ami had to do was make it through the first five minutes. Then a book would magically pop into her head, the book that was already a month late with barely three chapters written.

Hadn’t Skylar mentioned this end of the tank was supposed to have a floatation pillow on the wall? Ami reached out a hand blindly and encountered something velvety and soft. She gave the slippery pillow a tug.

“Bad enough you interrupt my bath.” The voice burbled like ocean foam on the shore, irritation like waves breaking on rocks. “Would you mind not manhandling me?”

What could only be a tentacle wrapped around Ami’s arm, strong suckers pinning her in place. Her breath came in gasps too rapid to do more than hyperventilate.

***

This week’s More Odds Than Ends prompt came from Cedar Sanderson: That’s when that spa showed up. You know, the one with the cephalopods.

My prompt went to Becky Jones, who has a new author page you should go check out: The everyday purposes of megalithic structures were finally revealed to the modern world when…

The clouds drifted slowly over the face of the moon, dust trails reminiscent of the old American west as the bots plowed through dust in order to build the new international space base.

A rumble, and the moon heaved.

Aaaaa-choo!

On Earth, Pierre wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her close. “Shooting stars! Isn’t the sky beautiful? Make a wish, darling.”

***

I’m a bit wrecked, so just a snippet this week, but I still had fun with Becky Jones‘ prompt about clouds drifting over the face of the moon. We traded, so I’m looking forward to seeing what she did with a white tiger using an ATM!

Last week kicked off a plethora of changes – I’m leaving an entire ecosystem I’ve known for twenty years, I’m tired and grumpy, and MidJourney’s not working – so just a snippet tonight from something I’ve been playing with.

***

Cheruson twirled the nanoboard with casual grace, muscles flashing in his arms and bare chest. “How do I know you won’t renege on the deal and leave me behind?”

Isolita ignored the samurai and dove into the harbor’s muddied waters, surfacing only to slick her hair back. Her own ‘bots fused her legs together into the powerful tail. She used it to splash him in the face. “I make no promises if you won’t even get in the water.”

A swift crouch, and he was dipping a toe into the water, his tight breeches splashed dark from the sea at the ankle and face dripping. “It’s a reasonable question. My prowess is on land.”

She turned her head and looked toward the Sea Arc, hidden beneath the gnarly waves. “You hired me for a job, and I need what your employer will provide.”

“Ah,” he said softly, barely audible over the rippling rhythm of the tide. “I’ve impugned your honor.”

She flipped her tail and bobbed high in the water, shoulders rolling with apprehension. She’d come to Atlantia to save her sister from the wasting disease, not to sell her soul to corporations or enable the downfall of her king. “I’ve no honor left.”

Lita dove into the waves and surfaced nine feet later, disenchanted and unsurprised to find Cheruson beside her on his nanoboard. “Keep up.”

***

This week’s prompt was from Becky Jones: “Dude! Those waves are gnarly!

My prompt went to Padre: “Don’t worry, it’s just one of our traditional Scottish water ghosts. Enjoy your stay!”

See more at MOTE.

June slammed down the spatula. Purple frosting splattered the countertop and echoed onto the backsplash in inky stains that would leave a permanent mark. “Fututus et mori in igni!”

“Swearing in Latin will only cause our daughter to learn Latin faster,” Peter mused, a mug of tea in his hand.

“Medina wanted a fancy cake for her birthday,” she muttered, and contemplated the misshapen, frosted blob in front of her. “Peanut’s shading into deeper colors. I was trying to match the icing to her scales.”

“Most children ask for a pony,” he said calmly, and took a sip of tea. “Ours already exceeded expectations with a dragon.”

“It’s her birthday,” June said desperately. She snaked an arm around him and pulled him close, heedless of the frosting splotches on her sleeve that transferred to his sweater. “This is a mess.”

He hugged her back and set down his tea. “June, darling, what were you even doing in the kitchen?”

The last time she’d tried to cook, they’d had to hide the baby dragon from the fire department.

She rubbed her face against the pattern of his sweater, small bumps of the weave a reassuring nudge across her nose. “I wanted to do it myself, not just buy it.”

Peter reached out and swiped a finger through the mess resting in chaotic glory atop the countertop. “Tastes good. Why don’t you do what you do best?”

She bonked her forehead against his shoulder. “Go back to teaching at the university?”

“What? No.” His chin settled on her head, chest rumbling in a laugh that was nearly a purr. “Magic it.”

“Huh.” Craning her neck, she contemplated the mess of crumbs buried under inches of thick frosting. “I guess the base is there.”

“Under more sugar than is healthy for anyone. Medina will love it. You’re just making it fancy with the skills you have. Not the ones you don’t.” He snagged his rapidly cooling tea and dropped a kiss atop her forehead. “You’ve got this.”

Ten minutes later, a squeal of delight drew him back to the kitchen.

This time, he choked on the last of his tea. “Bit overboard, don’t you think?”

The cake had morphed from an unidentifiable mess into an exquisite fantasy landscape with amethyst swirls and deep oceanic blues. Whirling gumdrop trees covered with sparkly lights danced atop the surface in flickering glimmers that rendered candles unnecessary.

June glared.

Peter cleared his throat. “She’ll love it.”

***

This week’s prompt came from Leigh Kimmel: Whirling gumdrop trees covered with sparkly lights.

My prompt went to nother Mike: The lamp curled out an arm and tapped her on the shoulder.

Check these and more out at MOTE!

Lisse perched on what used to be a concrete wall – more accurately termed rubble, after the last hour – the weariness soaking through her bones until she felt glued to the pointed orb poking through her battle gear into her right buttock. Cold seeped through her fatigues, soaked with blood and ichor from a thousand arms of swarming foes. Her fingers were clenched in a frozen grip on her rifle’s stock.

Her back twitched in a failed automatic response as she recognized the footprints approaching. “Sarge.”

He kicked a small boulder to the side, where it bounced off a pile of tentacles and wobbled to a stop on the dusty ground covered in sticky, drying goo. He settled his bulk in beside her. “There a reason you’re lollygagging when the cleanup’s not verified yet?”

It took several minutes. Her voice didn’t want to work. “You’re here too.” Her words were slurred, almost drunken. “This is what I know, Sarge.”

In the distance, the white flare went up that meant the thirteen klick sphere zone had been verified clear. A shower of sparks fell onto the lake the space octopi had swarmed from, a sizzle filling the air with the sound of frying bacon.

“Doesn’t have to be,” he mused. “You’ve done this twenty years, eh? Mayhap it’s time for something new.”

She hissed in speechless aversion.

“There’s more to life than octopus tentacles,” Sarge insisted. He leaned forward and picked one up, pale pink with red suckers, waved it in her direction. “You knew to look in the lake, didn’t you?”

She nodded, her breath coming more steadily as she slipped into automatic habits. “Piss-poor location for a colony, if you don’t look for alien threats in the water. Can’t make assumptions.”

“Can always use more people who understand threats,” he mused, and threw the tentacle back into the pile. “Back on the battle station. Lots of options for those who keep their eyes open.”

She stared at him, eyes wide with shock. Her body rocked back and forth slightly. “I don’t know how to start over.”

“And…?”

The drawled question had an automatic answer in this unit, though her words came reluctantly.

“Try it and find out.” She coughed, then repeated the words above a whisper. “Try it and find out.”

“More than one way to serve.” He stood and clapped her on the shoulder. “Back to the ship, soldier. Sleep, then grieve. Then you keep living. Red-rimmed eyes don’t suit you.”

***

I’m not happy with this one, because I just went through what felt like an impossible dilemma – and I guarantee that the deep wells of emotion that come with making a lifechanging decision are insufficiently captured here. Perhaps it’s too soon.

Read more at MOTE.

“Looking good.” Pax practically gave himself whiplash looking at the crowded barroom and the swirl of coeds on a dance floor covered in the stickiness of stale hops.

“You’re too old for them,” Nick said gruffly. “They’re just kids.”

“You tell me I’m a kid every day,” Pax reminded him gleefully. “I’m the youngest on the team.”

Frost slung a heavily muscled arm over each man’s shoulder. “You do remind him of both facts every day. What are you going to do the next time we hire?”

Nick tensed and turned his head away from the others. The last three new employees to the S.A.N.T.A. do-gooder had been after the team had lost members. “Pretty casual for someone who spent the last month in the hospital.”

“Sorry, man.” He gave an awkward pat that was more like a shove and headed for the bar. “First round’s on me.”

Nick gave a sharp nod and wedged his wiry body in at the bar, using pointed elbows for leverage as he negotiated with the bartender.

Pax leaned against a pillar and craned his head backwards.

“First, stop drooling, kid.” Frost reached over Pax’s head and snagged the proffered stouts, passing one to the demolitions expert. “Second, you already know the rule. Aim small, miss small.”

Beer foamed as Pax choked. “This isn’t an op, dude. You want me to what?”

Frost smacked his arm. “It’s a metaphor. Stop being dazzled by all the pretty girls and pick one.”

“Oh.” He narrowed his eyes with renewed interest.

***

This week’s MOTE prompt was from Cedar Sanderson: Aim small, miss small. It felt like a great opportunity for the SANTA crew.

My prompt went to Becky Jones: The virus made her a living prison.

Izz hit the button to release her helmet and pushed the facemask up. Faded colors burst into life in front of her eyes. No matter how much she upgraded her spacesuit, or how much she believed in the promises of the latest marketing, colors never looked the same as when the plas-glass wasn’t covering her eyes.

Greaves buzzed disapprovingly in her ear. “You know I haven’t finished the analysis of the air quality here.”

“It’s breathable.” Izz reached into her carrying pouch and unwrapped the waxed fabric that covered her lunch. She took a bite of hamspread wrapped in tortilla. “That’s enough.”

“Not to prevent viruses, bacteria, or keep you from smelling the sulfur fields.”

She rolled her eyes. “Those are fifty klicks away.”

“Molecules in the air.” Greaves sniffed ostentatiously.

Izz winced at the sudden noise, brushing her chin over the rubber shoulder of her suit. “Air’s fine. We both know it. You just want me to start investigating those ruins.”

“Please?” The voice in her ear turned pleading. “All you do is study the situation. I already analyzed it for you. I want to know what you’ll find that we can sell. I’m busy building your empire.”

Izz pointed, knowing Greaves saw through her recorder. “You see that?” She paused as the egret – well, this planet’s equivalent, anyway – flew gracefully away from the shore of the shining purple salt lake. Vines and small ground creatures crept over the ruins of an abandoned colony in the background. “Look how beautiful.”

“Birds,” Greaves grumbled, but left her alone to study her next target.

***

This week’s prompt came from Becky Jones: The egret flew gracefully away from the shore. My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: The gnome crept off the holiday card and stepped carefully onto the mantle. Check out more at MOTE!