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Leila clenched the steering wheel with cramped fingers, wondering when the stabbing pain between her shoulderblades would stop. Not until she got a massage, probably, as if she had that kind of time or money. A hot bath would have to do, and even that an unaffordable indulgence. Not with half her life packed into the back of an SUV she’d just barely paid off before getting the news.
Position made redundant. Blah, blah, legalese. Stay a month and get severance. Agree to transfer south and take a pay cut, and keep being employed by an unreliable company teetering on failure every week. But she’d jumped at the chance to get closer to family, a lower cost of living, especially when she was the most mobile of her branch.
Being single had some benefits, she supposed.
“Focus,” she muttered out loud. A snort came from the passenger seat, then the thump of a tail wag before easing back into peaceful sleep. Glen had conked out hours ago, when daylight made the drive a pleasure and the potential of something new floated tangibly, excited sparks dancing in the air.
She’d blame the spots on a migraine aura now, given the pulsing between her temples. But who’d have known the light rain predicted would turn into such a disaster as soon as it grew dark? The rain had brought fog, and not a gentle rising mist, but great swirling puffy cotton-ball clouds of it, so thick Leila could almost feel them against her skin.
It would have been just as dangerous to pull off the road, even if there’d been a place to do it. She could barely tell where the lines of faded paint were, and followed truckers at reckless speed on the assumption they had better situational awareness than her failing sight could permit. Exits flashed by with no warning, popping out of fog too late to change direction.
Cold came sweeping next. Freezing rain, and that’s when the tension in her neck started. It’d taken an hour to roll down to her shoulderblades, the stabbing so strong now that she wouldn’t have been surprised to see wings sprout in the rearview mirror.
If she could take her eyes off the road that long, that was. The last of the truckers’ taillights had faded into the midnight hours ages ago, and even her poor mutt had abandoned her.
A whine from the seat next to her brought a pang of guilt. “Sorry, Glen. I know you’re still here.” She’d normally scratch his silky ears, but didn’t want to take her hand off the wheel. “Guess the south has more snow that we expected.”
It had floated down, silent after torrential rain and frozen drops of percussive peril that had slammed with disconcerting alacrity against her windshield. Huge crystal flakes, shining merrily in the few streetlights this highway maintained, piling up on the hood in quantities sufficient to strain her abused windshield wipers.
Glen whined again. “Sorry, boy. I have to go, too. Hang on a couple more minutes, ‘kay?”
GPS said there was a rest stop coming up. Leila squinted at the road and yawned. It didn’t matter. She needed sleep soon whether or not she had a safe place to pull over. “Unless zombies attack us, we’re almost there.”
He barked at the word zombies, and she grinned. She’d used an app to convince herself to run more, and one of them had a zombie chase mode for incentive. They’d both lost weight running from the apocalyptic horde.
A bump, and they crested onto a gentle upward curve. A bridge, the edges of the metal already covered in inches of snow, barely visible. There was only darkness below, but she assumed the lake was frozen.
“Almost there,” Leila said again. She was trying to convince herself the bridge wasn’t slick beneath the SUV’s original tires. “Just keep going straight.”
The steering wheel was slick with sweat beneath her palms by the time they made it into the parking lot. Business taken care of for dog and human, Leila crashed in her car and hoped the snow would insulate rather than trap her inside.
Bells woke her the next morning, and Glen barking. “M’up.” Maybe she could get coffee inside the rest stop. Hot coffee, that would take the chill away. Cold coffee would be reserved for whomever was making that dastardly noise, too early.
Leila squinted against the sun’s glare as she got out of the SUV and let the dog do his business nearby. Her jaw dropped.
Gone was the rest stop. In its place, a town square in early Colonial style, with women in long skirts and hand-woven knits, carrying the day’s shopping in wicker baskets. Men were in hats without fail, most dressed formally in long coats. There were no cars in the square, but plenty of bells upon a magnificent sleigh that belonged in a museum, and an ingenious farm cart with wheels locked onto runners, sliding over the new-fallen snow.
No one seemed surprised by horse-drawn vehicles.
There was not a cell phone, a power line, or a transmission tower to be seen.
And Leila had never heard such quiet.
She spun around, looking for the bridge she’d crossed, only to be greeted with a bustling pier bursting with red-faced fishermen.
The urge to be sick overcame her, and she fought it off with dizziness. Glen barked and leaned against her legs, pushing her back against the car. “Goobo,” she mumbled, and tried again. “Good boy.”
Leila struggled to pull in deep breaths. Smoke from cooking fires wafted through the air, burning unaccustomed lungs. And some odors she’d rather not think about much until she really needed the restroom she’d been dreading this morning.
Or the privy, as she suspected this crowd might call it…
***
This week’s prompt was from Leigh Kimmel: As you drive down the highway, the snow becomes steadily heavier. When it clears, everything looks different and you realize you’re now far from anything familiar.
Mine went to Cedar Sanderson: The proof was in the taser.
Join More Odds Than Ends! It’s both free and welcoming.
I’m honored to be a part of an upcoming anthology from Sanderley Studios, centered around hope and healing in the midst of trauma and PTSD.
Once upon a time, a set of books gave me a code when a lot didn’t make sense in the world. Ultimately, I also found purpose. Books aren’t just words on paper.
There aren’t words enough to support those who have fought through their personal hells. But stories are another matter. Stories bring connections. This story was my effort to reach out a hand to those who are too lost to ask for help.
And if the darkness calls out your name, if that seeping void of emptiness lures you inside its stifling boundaries…you are not alone, even though you may not be able to see or sense your brothers and sisters. We’re here regardless, whether you see us or not.
In the United States, the new mental crisis hotline number is 988, nationwide. More US resources listed here. United Kingdom. Australia. Canada. Drop others in the comments section if you know them.
It doesn’t take much to make a difference. Sometimes a few words are enough, when they’re the right words.
I hope you enjoy The Way the World Ends, my short story in the Can’t Go Home Again anthology. It’ll be available in ebook format 20 November. Here’s the story blurb:
Klad Rieger isn’t a soldier to stop and smell the roses. Scent is mere sensory data when flowers are crushed beneath his boots on his way to the next mission. And the next. And the next, until it blurs into an endless haze of haunting purpose. But when the Empire abandons him, can he find the strength for one final mission?
And here’s the cover, which somehow managed to capture Klad precisely, down to the haunted expression. I couldn’t have described it to you if I’d tried, but it’s perfect.
Check out more details – and a lighter adult coloring book, now available – from Sanderley Studios here.
The djinn nudged him with her elbow, then turned it into a full-blown poke when Mikhail didn’t respond. “C’mon. You’ve been staring out the window forever. Are you going to eat so we can get to class?”
“Yeah.” His answer was distracted and did not involve the BLT on wheat toast moving toward his face. It remained floating in front of him, right where he’d placed it five minutes before.
Liza heaved a sigh with all the drama a teenage female could muster, the fire extinguishers that followed her around Wisburg academy clanking with her shoulders’ collapse. “At least tell me so I know whether to leave you here.”
That got him to look at her, at least.
She rolled amber eyes that flashed annoyed sparks, and a crisp poof came from the red metal cannister to her left. “Fine. I’d answer whatever your question is if I can. And I’ll get you back into the library if I can’t.”
Bacon drifted toward his mouth, tempting with its crisp, shining gleam. He snagged the sandwich and started talking with his mouth full. “That’d be nice. I tried promising not to take anything -“
“Focus. Please.” Her hands waved at the rapidly emptying room.
He swallowed with a painful gulp. “See that grove? The colorful one?”
She shrugged. “Sacred grove. Lots of trees. We’ll take classes there spring term, I think. So?”
“So, the trees are different.” The diamond panes of glass showed multi-colored trees, brilliantly shining at their peak. It wouldn’t be long before the leaves dropped.
A slim hand waved impatience. “Read the plaque. Under the window.”
“I did.” He ignored her tone. “The Tree Circle contains twelve different deciduous trees, each corresponding to a different month. Over the year the months cycle, with the Oak always associated with the current actual month, and the others permanently off-set. Magic ensures that each tree appears as it would during the month it was currently associated with.”
“Tree Circle, sacred grove, whatever you want to call it. Same thing. Can we go now?”
Mikhail snagged the rest of his sandwich out of the air and stuffed another bite in his mouth, grabbed his satchel, and followed Liza down the castle hallway. “So why’s the circle of deciduous trees different today?”
“November.”
He could tell she was trying really hard not to snap at him, and took pity on her. “I was hoping you’d see it.” He snagged a falling shard of bacon before it could hit the ground and shatter in a waste of salty goodness.
“See what?” She stutter-stepped, starting to turn back before sighing at the time and hurrying them along.
He mumbled the rest, swallowed, and ducked too late as one of her fire extinguishers bopped him. “I said, it’s a conifer. There’s an evergreen out there that doesn’t belong.”
***
This week, AC Young challenged me with what became a plaque inscription. I haven’t visited Wisburg Academy for a while! My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel, who hopefully will be inspired to write about a snippet of weaponized fog. Join the fun at MOTE!
Davis watched the cards flip through smooth brown hands with a single silver ring, half-hypnotized by the blur of time-softened cardboard. The colors were faded, but for a few vivid images that stood out more than expected in the dark room as the woman continued to shuffle.
A man and a woman, embracing. An impression of laughter he couldn’t have described. A lantern, held by a beckoning man, and he had the absurd urge to follow into the image to see what path he might wander down toward what fools called adventure.
He jiggled his knee under the plain wooden table, tearing his eyes away from the endless sound of shuffling. There was less pageantry than he’d expected when Chrissy had talked him into this nonsense, no gaudy colors or scarves. Only a neon hand, an eye at the palm to signify a psychic, and that bright pink in the cobwebbed window. He could appreciate a fraud bold enough to forego dramatics for clarity.
“Focus,” the woman murmured without lifting her gaze.
He gave a halfhearted smile of false apology she missed entirely, and wondered when it would finally be over.
A card dropped from her hands to land on the table, stuck between two boards poorly spaced. This one was oddly bright and stiff, as if new. It quivered, and with the movement came rising dread as he locked eyes with a painted figure, one moment jovially upside-down and the next radiating with the serenity that came with wisdom.
Had this card with its unsteady image been part of the deck all along?
Davis leaned forward to inspect whether it was what he grew up calling a flicker sticker, reaching a finger to feel the presumed lenticular surface. The woman’s hand snatched the card away.
“Hey,” he protested.
She held up an imperious hand, a single silver ring glowing in the tawdry neon glow.
“Go. Go, and dance the familiar until it becomes strange. You will find your answers in the shadow of the hanged man, on an eve when shadows stretch.”
A blink, and Davis found himself outside the tiny room, Chrissy eagerly awaiting his results and her turn.
“What’d she say?”
He shook his head, unsure why he didn’t laugh as he’d expected and tell her. The experience didn’t feel real under the streetlights, outside the commanding presence of the witch.
“Something strange, and incomprehensible.”
Behind him, the neon hand shut off with a snap of electric fizzle. Chrissy groaned, and began to pout.
It occurred to Davis, not for the first time, that whatever her expectations, he did not particularly like this woman with whom he had invested five months’ time and effort.
He interrupted whatever background noise she was chattering about this time. “I think I’ll go home now.”
He left her, angry shrieks increasing as he distanced, knowing she’d reach her apartment safe because she lived two buildings over, and headed for the park six blocks away.
Davis did not dance, as the woman had suggested, but he’d walked this path a thousand times. Damp leaves blew across the paved path, scattering stubborn chalk art and reflections of streetlights in small puddles from a the day’s rain.
Lights that looked suspiciously like glass lanterns, the longer he walked on feet grown leaden. And in the outstretched shadows that did not end, a glimpse of the hanged man, stretched thin with a whisper of mocking laughter.
And with that, Davis knew.
***
A single prompt for something different at MOTE this week!
Char lowered her head to the telescope’s lens and let out a huff. “I hate this thing.”
“You hate all technology that isn’t a weapon or a spaceship.” Butler reached out and gently tugged her away, then slipped into her place.
She plopped down in the lawn chair and propped her chin on one hand, ignoring the splendid greenery keeping their actions concealed from prying neighbors as she stared at his back. Her shoulder was cold where his hand had been, all too briefly. It made her broody and snappish. “Well?”
The pause was broken by a cough that sounded nothing like laughter. At least, not on the last planet where they’d been mission partners, all guttural wheezes and phlegm sounds. “We’re not observing the space station, Char.”
She squirmed, the outdoor chair’s woven strings rippling against her palms. “We should be.” The words sounded sulky even to her. “Someone’s got to be transiting to Algernon.”
Butler twisted his head around, too-long dark hair flopping into his eyes for a moment before brushing it away. “We have tech watching and trackers for that.” He fiddled with the lens and repositioned it. “Here. Take a look.”
She bolted upright so fast the chair clattered over, nearly spilling her along with it. Muttering, she kicked it free from her throbbing foot. “Blast it.”
Looking up, his hands were positioned to catch her. Probably just to save the ‘scope. She grunted an apology.
Fingertips lifted in acceptance. “Look, Char.”
The lens fogged from her breath, and she huddled with impatient twitches, shifting her weight from one boot to another. “Finally.”
The planet’s albedo had definitely changed over the past two months, with solar radiation reflecting less and less. They’d been in position on Algernon’s moon for nearly thirty days since the alert arrived, something so strange as to pull the Corporation’s two best spies from their respective missions.
“It’s down enough?” She scanned through her memory files, trying to find the percentage they were waiting to validate.
“Rapid terraforming,” Butler said, and wrapped an arm around her waist. “It’s got to be. Tomorrow, you shuttle us down and we get proof. It’s either stolen tech or tech gone wrong. Making our employers rich or killing us flunkies.”
She snagged the bottle of wine from the side table with a stretch and leaned back against his shoulder. “Last night on the moon, then. It’d be a shame to waste this open bottle.” She didn’t dare meet his eyes. “You know. If you’re not going to be busy prepping.”
“I think,” he began, and made an odd noise again that this time definitely wasn’t laughter. “I believe I’m already prepared and have plenty of free time.”
***
This week, Cedar Sanderson brought back Lady Death with her prompt challenge: The planet’s changing albedo indicated something strange.
My prompt went to Cedar in return: It was only halfway through the sixpack that Micah realized his beer granted him the newfound ability to see ghosts and Fae.
Check out the fun with More Odds Than Ends this week – and discover something special for next week!
I went to make some updates around the site and realized I can’t.
It’s definitely a lack of skill – I muddle through, at best, with a lot of how-to searches and videos – but the latest changes to WordPress apparently don’t work with this template.
Thanks, WordPress.
Anyway, don’t be alarmed if the site looks weird for a bit as slow tweaks happen. Good thing I don’t know what to do with that backup, right?
“I cleaned out half the closet for you.” Doris gave him a sheepish grin and looked down at the floor for a moment. “Well, I was hopeful. I may have done that about six weeks ago.”
Lars laughed. “I was hopeful, too.” He wrapped her in his arms and breathed in her vanilla scent. The scent of home, now. “Moving into together is pretty terrifying. But as long as we talk through our issues, we’ll be okay.”
“Oh, I’m sure one of us will load the dishwasher the wrong way.” She squeezed his arms, then tugged them loose so she could turn. “Want me to help you unpack?”
“A better idea than setting up an ironing board.” It was as if clothes knew he was moving and took the opportunity to complain. Ties escaped to unexpected boxes, socks scarpered, suits embedded permanent wrinkles in awkward places…well, it would be worth it. His grandmother had given Doris the stamp of approval, and that’s all he needed.
She pulled away and headed for the closet. “I needed the time to get used to being condensed, too. Oh, and you won’t need to worry about ironing your suits.”
Lars followed her toward the walk-in. “Really, I don’t have that – that – that much…”
The light Doris had turned on emitted a pale blue, sparkling glow that danced over the thick carpet. Rather than a cord, a tail dangled from the ceiling. Blue, of course, and scaled, and not nearly as small or skinny as one might expect from a mythical creature emulating a lightning bug inside a closet.
“That,” he managed. Again. “That is a fancy light you have. Did this room used to be a nursery?”
Yes. A toy explained everything. Although moving in together was a step too soon for children in his mind, but maybe someday, in a few years. Perhaps he could have Doris move the fanciful lightpull to another room.
“It’s just Percy,” she explained. “He’ll take care of all the ironing. But we’ll keep the door shut at night, okay?”
***
A quick snippet this week, from nother Mike at MOTE. My prompt to explore the cow fortress went to Cedar Sanderson.
“Dad?” My soft voice was barely audible over the noise, but I wasn’t willing to raise it. “I was looking for a tissue. I know Mom’s the one who has everything always ready to hand.”
Across the still and silent figure, my father gave a wistful smile. He stayed soft, too, interspersing odd pauses not set to any known punctuation. It came anyway, tied to the steadily irregular beeping. “Aye, she had that. A bandage for a scrape, flashlight for a power outage. Turned a stray pretty feather into a quill when her pen exploded once, did I ever tell you that one?”
“You did, Dad.” I hesitated, and patted my eyes with a tissue. “Anyway, I found a single puzzle piece. Jigsaw. Carefully sealed in a plastic baggie.”
“Ah.” He leaned back, face half-hidden behind the cords. Funny how badly placed fluorescents could make the light so shadowed. “You’ll be wanting to know the meaning behind it, then.”
I nodded, hoping he could see it. Didn’t matter, though. We both wanted to fill the room with more than empty, silent waiting.
“Well, puzzle pieces mean a lot of things. Autism awareness, for one thing. Your Mam’s brother was never formally diagnosed, but for certain sure, he was on the spectrum. Struggled with people his whole life.”
“Wish I’d met Uncle Mike.”
Dad snorted, the sound incongruous and loud. “He’d have liked you better once you were old enough to have an intelligent conversation. But Lisse always said you took after him.”
That was news to me, and it wasn’t clear if it was welcome. “I do?”
“Aye.” He leaned forward and rested his chin on the rail. “You’re my out of the box thinker, you are. Mike didn’t see solutions the same way as anyone else either. Ever struggle to explain the obvious to anyone?”
My mouth dropped. I’d just been complaining to a girlfriend last night. I could feel the glare coming on at the suspicion of eavesdropping, eyes narrowing and lips curling back in a half-hearted snarl.
He raised a hand to stop me, then reached out to hold hers. “I didn’t eavesdrop. Happened to Mike all the time. I see it in you, too. But you’re more functional than he was, more like your mam. You see the pieces of the world and connect them, while your uncle tended to see them in a vacuum.”
“So the puzzle piece is to remember her brother?”
Dad twisted his lips briefly and tilted his head from side to side. “Eh. She did puzzles with her grandmother as a girl, and always said it left good memories. And her whole job was solving puzzles. Said it was good to keep the brain active.”
I watched him look down at legs that withered by the day, the pain in the room palpable as the whole situation tore at the fabric of reality we had known to be true. Mom’s brain might never be the same again.
The chair squealed abruptly as I stood, unable to take the tension any longer. “I’ve got to get back, Dad.” I reached across the bed and squeezed his shoulder. Letting go awkwardly, I smoothed my uniform down with one hand while tipping back the last of my coffee with the other.
The liquid was cold and bitter, tainted with the scent of hospital antiseptic, and strengthened my resolve even though it was weak. “My turn to solve this one.”
***
I forgot to send a prompt to MOTE this week, so I grabbed a spare: There was a puzzle piece in the purse.
“According to my source, the – ahem – ‘oft-stolen painting of a dragon and a unicorn’ will be in Room 1902.” Jiddah sounded all too pleased with herself, twirling in a circle and pointing the way, mime style.
I answered with a snort and ignored the mocking bow she offered, low and full of false respect my apprentice never bothered to show where anyone might see. Even now, with the cameras disabled – thanks to said apprentice – and the hallways dark, she wouldn’t act the same as she did in private. Said it was all part of her persona.
I understood. Having a game meant it would be easier if she needed to disappear for a while. I threw surprises at her once in a while so she’d change things up and avoid getting complacent. Habits were dangerous.
So were nemeses, but some rivalries were too good and too old to move past. Or we wouldn’t be here, playing the longest game of tag two childhood friends couldn’t shake.
I said habits were dangerous, not that I didn’t have any. And here we were, risking everything for a stupid, ridiculous painting. It fit perfectly in a laptop case, making it easy to transport.
It wasn’t even a good painting. Harper and I both hated it, in fact. So much that neither of us were willing to let the other have it.
“A crime against humanity,” she’d drunkenly proclaimed so long ago. From the top of a beer hall picnic table, if I recall correctly, one that shouldn’t have yet let us inside for more than sausages and sauerkraut. I’d woken up with a hangover to find it gone, and that’s when it started.
We’d take each other down someday with our predictability. And now look at me, bringing poor Jiddah into this mess. But an apprentice gave me some options Harper didn’t have.
Like carrying some equipment I’d sauntered past without, creating no suspicion on the part of a few rather wheezy guards and one sharp-eyed military retiree. Deception works best when you give people what they expect, and that retired Marine almost slouched in his eagerness to smile at the friendly student coming through the door. Shocking, I know.
“We’re here.” Low voices carried less than a whisper, but it was still harsh and loud in the dim hallway. Automatic fluorescents would’ve been welcome for the annoying buzz alone, even if it would have ruined our plan. Silence always freaked me out a little on a job.
I wouldn’t have admitted the weakness in front of my apprentice anyway. You know how it goes. Someday she’ll turn on me.
The lockpicking kit was inside my blazer, neatly tucked where my wallet should have been. I touched it with a finger and then pulled away.
“Start with the basics.” I murmured the phrase, more to myself than to Jiddah, and reached for the doorknob. It turned.
Either this was a setup, or the worst museum security I’d seen in a long time. I was betting on the latter. This place was ancient, even if I wouldn’t put it past Harper to set me up.
My apprentice let out a squeal, and I winced, regretting my unvoiced request for noise. But we weren’t likely to be caught at this point, unless the portly man snoozing off the powder Jiddah had slipped into his tea decided to sleepwalk his patrol route. We had plenty of time, and just enough.
And there it was. The ugliest painting you had ever seen. Not even special, just old; the paints faded and flaking. The unicorn was bearded and a muddy brown, about to impale a skeletal maiden cooing over its head. A dragon loomed in the background, misshapen and disproportionate, about to eat said maiden without her protector even noticing.
I tell you true, I was doing the world a favor here.
“All right, apprentice. Time to do your job.” I pretended not to notice the eyeroll.
“As if I’ve not done all the work already.” She slung her canvas satchel on the back of a chair and started unpacking.
A few minutes of frantic movement later, I got to work. She spent the rest of the night snoozing.
My back and feet were aching by the time I heard her stir behind me.
“George? What is that?”
At least, I think that’s what she said around her yawns. I chose to believe it. “It’s a colony ship. The Dragon Salute.“
I’d always imagined that the future warships of the Kuiper Belt would have the Black Ensign painted proudly on their flanks. When a warship was docked, the flag would be also displayed outside the docking tube, I suspected. For now, the flag was painted in the top left corner, dimly visible against the outline of a spaceship, the entire canvas covered in the black of space.
Out in space, pirates were a friendly bunch – or at least, they were as close to it as you’d get if they weren’t leaving you to die after an emergency. They’d earned their toll if you survived. I always figured, pirates in space were going to be the first colonizers as soon as commercial asteroid mining took off for real. You can’t walk away from a family in space so easily.
I’d invested heavily in commercial space a long time ago after a big score, always assuming I’d have to leave the planet someday. I’d even bought Harper her own fake ID to get off planet, so we could continue the game in space.
Someday wasn’t today. And at least I didn’t have to chase that damn unicorn anymore. “Help me peel the tape off the frame?”
Another yawn. “Still think it’s weird.”
I shrugged and wrapped the paintbrushes in a paper towel. We’d clean them back at the lair – I mean, studio – maybe with a touch of gloating thrown in. It was time to make our exit, before that Marine guard found his buddy downstairs. He was the type to show up early.
Harper popped into my head as a vivid image, as she so often did. I could hear her screeching as she tried to find out where the dragon had gone.
Her fury and frustration was definitely going to be my next work.
***
Prompt one, from week 38 of odd prompts, and prompt two, from week 39, blended together. Cheers!
