Fiona Grey Writes

Writer of Fantasy. Wielder of Red Pens.

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The Detail’s in the Turtles

June 22, 2021 /

Miranda soaked in the view. The great mountain with its craggy range of smaller needles. Atop it all, the wisp of steam that boded well for no one near, but far enough away she only worried if the smoke grew black and covered the peak’s snow.

The lake, its waters finally clear and swimmable, even for a dragon built for flight. Long grasses grew alongshore, where fish hid among stiff reeds and tall, gaunt birds sought dinner. Splashes came from the middle of the lake, where a bleached and dry tree overhung the water and turtles took turns in line for the high dive.

The scent of jeweled stonefruits; garnet deep and sultry, pale pink with notes of floral innocence, citrus topaz with a hint of tartness, blended with emerald lilies and sapphire sea salt. Underneath it all, the amethyst hint of something Miranda only knew made her think of soap, and the purification of charcoal harmonizing the disparate and competing notes into a fragrant symphony.

And her house, the first home she’d truly ever had, built – or at least repaired – with her hands, and Greystone’s. Stone and wood and an open window that was jarringly shuttered until they returned, but left unlocked in case they didn’t.

“Are you ready, my lady?” His voice was quiet behind her, patient and understanding.

“You haven’t called me that in a long time.” She could hear the reproach in her voice, but couldn’t stop it from escaping with a surge of fury at her father. Soon her days would be filled with politics, bland niceties and diplomacy. Each interaction simultaneously meaningless, fraught with peril, and layered with deniable implications.

“I haven’t needed to.”

At her nod, Greystone shifted into his housecat form, leopard spots shifting into tabby stripes. Long familiarity meant she barely noticed when he climbed up her tail into the harness.

Behind him, the librarian waited, his snout tufted into the air with determination. Twitching wings and pale speckles showed his terror at heading for court.

She took one last look, but the scene blurred behind sudden diamonds.

But she was a daughter of the House of Zaratha, and the Dragon Kings did not cry.

Miranda turned away and launched into the air, wings spread wide, steadfastly refusing to look down.

***

This continues In Defense of Dragons, which is not. the. book. I’m. supposed. to. be. writing! Instead of book two, I found myself writing half-remembered dreams, or a Professor Porter short story. I’m not sure whether to thank the muse or scold her.

But I’m glad to be making progress on IDOD, which was an early idea before I had the skill to tell the tale I wanted. Inspired by Becky Jones’ prompt, “The turtles lined up on the log waiting for their turn at the high dive into the river.”

My prompt went to AC Young this week – go check out his dark justice story in the Odd Prompts comments section!

The Last Normal Day

June 7, 2021 /

The morning after the messenger’s dramatic arrival and collapse dawned chill and gloomy. Ralph was overdue to return to the Great Library, but it wasn’t clear whether Miranda would let him leave. For a over a decade now, he’d brought her books on the histories and folklore, without a clue that she was the missing aetheling who’d fought in the wars.

And in a single moment of just a few minutes, she’d broken her cover in front of the one person who she’d permitted to transit her territory. A person with an insatiable quest knowledge combined with the appetite to talk. She had no idea whether he even had the ability to keep secrets. Bookwyrms certainly weren’t known for their locked snouts, even to protect their knowledge hordes.

Movement from the open kitchen window meant she was out of time. Ralph was awake.

A thump, and she bit off a quiet curse from the training ring’s soft ground. Greystone had gotten a good blow in while she’d been distracted. She blinked up at the sky and gestured toward her home. “He’s up.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Greystone replied. “You and I know there are few reasons why a Royal Messenger would arrive here exhausted. And you made sure he’d be asleep until at least noon.”

He reached a hand covered in silky grey fur down to her. His humanoid form had some limitations, but she’d always loved the fact that he got to keep his claws. She put her hand in his and let him help her back to her feet.

“It’s hard not to be distracted.” She blew out a huge breath that pushed him back a step. It would have been surprisingly large – especially given the hint of smoke that came with it – had she been human rather than a shapeshifted dragon.

“Once the messenger wakes, everything changes.” His words were quiet. “You know that. Today is the most normal day of the rest of your life.”

She squared her shoulders and raised her hands to the guard position. The black and white speckled snout now poked from the window, inquisitive nostrils quivering, and she ignored it or the unanswered questions. “Then what are we waiting for?”

***

I forgot to submit a writing prompt last week, so I snagged a spare. This one was “Today is the most normal day of the rest of your life.” That said, several ideas sparked with other spares, too. I like the challenge of an assigned prompt, but might have to to pay more deliberate attention in the future.

Interested in playing along? Check out Odd Prompts for more!

Homestead in Exile

June 2, 2021 /

Miranda awoke disoriented from her spot drowsing in the warm afternoon sunlight. She straightened her scaled crimson forelimbs, soft black topsoil churned under sharp claws. Blinking, she raised her head and looked around, uncertain why she’d awakened from her nap.

The view extended around her looked structurally the same as it had since she’d first arrived ten years ago. An orchard stretched to the northwest, a lake to the east, a cabin to the south, surrounded by forest. To the north, the mountain chain with its white peaks towered, jagged teeth that bound the horizon. The Great Mountain loomed large and forbidding above all the rest.

The changes were small but vital. The orchard’s trees were no longer dried and half-dead from benign neglect, as they had been when she’d started her exile. Now they sparkled in orderly rows, almost-ripe jeweled stonefruits gleaming rainbows in the light. The cabin roof had been repaired from leaks and rot both, and extended into a cool, dry network of natural caverns. Even the lake improved from swampy muck after blockage had been cleared and aquatic plants filtered.

She had done this, Miranda thought with satisfaction, a smile cresting her face. A lifetime of uselessness purged along with her penance for sins past, all poured instead into creating life from nothing, order from resounding chaos.

The stonefruits she grew were sold as jewels and jewelry to foreign lands, allowing the countryside to recover from a long and disastrous war. She helped her country by avoiding it, and Miranda was pleased with both.

Legend spoke of the stones’ ability to enhance dragon magic, tipping the balance toward the light in the wars. Legend, and the secrets she had paid dearly in costs more than coin to keep.

A rustling in the tree above her head interrupted her ruminations. Miranda tipped her head back, languid movements still protesting wakefulness. She recognized the tiny green eyes staring down from the perch and moved her head toward the branch in greeting. A miniscule tongue darted out and licked her nose, while oversized fuzzy ears rotated batlike, as if seeking invisible aerial signals.

“Brat,” she grumbled at the cat. “Why aren’t you afraid to wake me up? I could eat you in one bite, and instead you wake me for tea.” The grey tabby mewled and hopped onto her horns, trotting down her neck spines to land and flex against the ground with easy grace before shaking his head.

Miranda mimicked the stretch as she yawned. Snapping her wings open, she rose to head back to the cabin. “You’re right, of course, Greystone. The book bearer is due soon.” The cat nodded, increasing his size to trot alongside her as they headed for home. Spots dappled his fur with a shimmer, the tabby stripes fading from view with each step.

Home, she thought. She was content in the peaceful countryside. Surrounded by trees and a loyal companion, left alone by the world. It was a far cry from her childhood. What more could any dragon ask?

Greystone darted ahead through the open gate with the whisk of a black-tipped tail. Miranda paused, scanning the horizon one last time, inexplicably unnerved.

She curled her lip back and snarled softly into the silence. There was a scent she didn’t like in the air of the homestead she’d so proudly built, and one she couldn’t fully articulate. Like the scent of a distant fire, the campgrounds of the inbound marching army, a portent not yet fully realized.

***

This week, Leigh Kimmel prompted me with “Something in the air, like the smoke of a distant fire,” which worked out well for Miranda’s introduction. This is a bit of a cheat, as it’s a rewrite from an earlier start of In Defense of Dragons, but that’s all I’ve got for this week.

Meanwhile, I prompted AC Young with ““Oh, that’s just Glenda, the theater ghost. Don’t worry. She just wants to make you sneeze.”” Go check it out at More Odds Than Ends, and join in next week’s!

Devil’s in the Dance

May 26, 2021 /

Greystone darted ahead of Miranda, his silver-grey dappled fur a blur against the stone.

“I hear them!”

He was already around the corner, and the cry came faintly. She hadn’t intended to speed up – appearances were more important in Dragur Keep than she preferred – but found herself moving faster, just as her heart beat faster.

The invitation meant all were welcome. The gnomes, the elephants, the dwarves, the trolls – everyone came at the Dragon King’s invitation, even the humans. The peace treaty ball was politicking and pretense rolled into one, with a dash of snobbery and slight fear.

And for those unlucky few, the invitation compelled them to arrive, whether or not they wanted to. Once broken, the magic seal wrapped around the unsuspecting recipient. The trouble was, by the time the mail arrived, there was no escaping those glowing tendrils that bound the geas.

Just as it had for Miranda, the tangible reminder of her father’s last wish.

There were pleasures, however, and she recalled them from her childhood with glee. It wasn’t just roast chicken the cat was excited about. No, it was the opportunity to see something she never thought she’d witness again. Miranda sped her steps with a dragonet’s whimsy.

Greyhound’s enormous ears twitched as he sat impatiently waiting for her, tufts of silver erupting from the tips in wavy plumes that reflected sunlight. Green eyes with slit pupils gazed into the courtyard without interruption. “Took you long enough.”

Against the cobblestone floor came rhythmic tapping. The octopus danced in a frilly practice tutu, legs in ballet pointe slippers, and ended her warmup in a twirl where all but one leg flared out below the ballet garment in a tutu parody.

The performer stretched in impossible ways before beginning again, this time with variations of speed and added frills. She leapt into the air, purple legs flaring wide in all directions, before landing upside down. Orange suckers held her in place, dangling from one of the unlit torches to continue limbering exercises, three tentacles at a time.

“I can’t believe it,” hissed Greystone. “She looks exactly as she did when we were younger. If this is practice, the real event will be stunning.”

“I never thought I’d see the great Edemame again,” whispered Miranda. “Isn’t she booked out decades in advance?”

She leaned against the door and soaked in the sight. She had spent the first performance glued to her father’s side, and if she let herself believe in the moment, it was as if he were with her once more.

Even if finding the dancer here meant her father had always intended this year to be the year he trapped her into returning.

***

This week, nother Mike’s prompt was perfect to continue the draft that doesn’t need to be worked on but is so much fun to write, In Defense of Dragons. Every ball needs a spectacle (or so says the author who has never, in fact, actually been to a ballroom dance).

My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: The magic wasn’t in the wand, s/he discovered. The quill, on the other hand…

Silver Rhino Shining

May 19, 2021 /

We interrupt this prompt for a brief story about lessons learned, irony, and writers who should know better than to tempt fate. You all know exactly where this is going, and you are not wrong.

I submitted a story for an anthology a while back. Didn’t expect to get in, and procrastinated on book two of the Professor Porter series, because I didn’t really have a deadline. So what did it matter that I submitted a short story that takes place after book two?

Somewhere, the gods are laughing.

May be an image of 1 person and text that says 'AN URBAN FANTASY ANTHOLOGY SUMMER POLSTICE SHENANIGANS MARTHA CARR AND TWENTY-FIVE MORE'
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And now, onto my prompt from nother Mike. This’ll be short, because apparently I need to type a whole lot of words. At exceptionally rapid speed. With a large, awkward bandage on one finger. But this prompt fits nicely with a story I played with a while ago and needed more tempering before it turned into a real story. One of these days, In Defense of Dragons will be written in full. (It will not be today.)

***

Miranda walked down the stone hallway toward the ballroom, adjusting her tiara with one claw. The movements were simultaneously automatic and uncomfortable, just as every half-forgotten scent teased her with suppressed sneezes and memories alike. Greystone followed her on silent padding paws, near-invisible in the shadow of the crimson dragon.

She paused for a tiny silver rhino to barrel his way past, his double horns shining in the torchlight. The toddler’s mouth gaped permanently open in a wordless yell. Each miniature foot thudded heavily against the polished granite.

The boy’s coordination was still in development, which became evident with a distinct crash and splinter as a wooden table holding flowers shattered with a spectacular shower of colorful blooms.

An enormous sigh came from above Miranda’s head. She hadn’t realized she’d become a blockade until she saw the mother rhinoceros making her way cautiously down the stairs. From the look of her, she was due with another young one in the near future.

The adult rhino nodded an apology without looking up from the level of Miranda’s feet. “So sorry, milady. He’s young.”

The boy wobbled back to his feet and pranced among the debris. “I am rhino-mite! Rhiiiiino-miiiite!”

“Well, he did lumber from side to side,” Greystone murmured from behind her.

Miranda shot him a look and shushed the cat. “We’re not at home.”

His spots flushed, and even his footfalls sounded apologetic as he followed her toward the debris. “I apologize. Diplomacy is indeed called for.”

The pregnant rhinoceros looked up this time as she swept up the pieces of wreckage with one foot and corralled her son with the other. Miranda hadn’t realized rhinos could change color until the woman began to resemble bleached linen.

“Your highness!” The rhino extended an awkward leg into a shaking bow. She nudged her son into some semblance of the same pose.

“Goodwife Rhino,” Miranda acknowledged the woman with a precise nod trained into her from birth. “I bid you good luck. I expect you have extraordinarily full days.” She looked down at the boy. “And you will make an excellent charger in my father’s army when you grow just a bit larger, won’t you?”

He puffed with pride, and nudged a squashed pink rose toward her.

She picked it up in a hand and held it to her nose. Longing pulled at her throat abruptly, and only a lifetime of training held her sudden emotion in check. Her eyes burned with the effort. No matter that the cultured, stuffy flowers of the castle were a far cry from the orchard with its crystal gardens where she’d spent most of the past ten years. It was enough to reinforce that she no longer belonged here, in the castle she’d once called home.

No, Miranda did not want to be here. Nor would she let her father down when he needed her most.

***

My prompt went to AC Young, about biohacking and the tropes of television that teach us (very occasional) wisdom. Check out the comments of Odd Prompts for more!

Love and Terror

May 12, 2021 /

Gina ran into the conservatory and felt the humidity hit her face as the door banged shut behind her. The pot in her hand didn’t have much time left.

She could tell where her grandmother had already been, just by how well the plants were doing. The vegetables were noticeably plumper after a visit, and odd combinations managed to thrive in ways that would make horticulturists shudder. Leaves became perkier, stems greener, buds unfurled into colorful and fragrant blooms. Vines trailed over brick and stone, trailing delicate stems in curls with the promise of fruit.

Humming came from the farthest end of the conservatory, where the special plants were.

Gina sped her footsteps toward the humming, careful not to touch any of the plants. Her gifts weren’t wanted here, and it was rare she dared the overgrown paths.

“Gina?” Always the tone of surprise, but her grandmother’s voice was welcoming nonetheless. “What are you doing here?”

“Grandma, it needs help. I took it too far.” She held up the pot of violets, brown and shriveled in a bed of parched dirt.

“You must learn control of your magic,” Grandmother admonished. “I won’t always be around to save your plants, you know.”

She ran a hand gently over the flowers, which purred and followed her touch. Life bloomed green and purple under her aged hand, the swollen knuckles defying her gift.

The girl grinned and gave a little dance, her red sneakers hitting the brick floor in a tattoo of staccato steps. “Thanks, Grandma!”

“Gina, try to keep this one only half-dead if you can. Now scoot. Get out of here before I have to revive it again.”

She ducked her head and tucked the pot close to her chest. Before she could turn to go, a hand fell on her shoulder.

“Wait a moment, will you?” Grandmother stooped down and spoke directly to the pot of violets. Her voice crooned a beckoning call, and the violets swayed as her breath passed over the newly regrown petals. “Now. You be good, or Grandma will get you.”

The quiet words sunk in for a moment, as if the violets were wondering whether the old woman meant it. Then flowers doubled in size, spilling over Gina’s small hands in their eagerness.

She leaned over and kissed her grandmother’s wrinkled cheek. “That’ll keep them in line before I kill them again next week!”

“Threats always do, dear. Now shoo. The cucumbers still need inspiration.”

***

This week, my prompt came from nother Mike, who wants plants to purr. Mine went to Becky Jones, and I hope she continues a dangerously delicious story!

Quiet Neighbors

May 5, 2021 /

Jen tilted her head upward and pointed a finger up at the pressed-tin ceiling. “Fancy. You have any issues with the neighbors?”

“Nah,” Erin replied. “Super quiet. Not like the last place.”

Jen gave an exaggerated shudder. “A bar below, a wannabe DJ across the hall, and screaming kids in Irish dance lessons above? I still don’t know how you survived with your sanity. Or why you stayed so long.”

Her friend shrugged and rose off the couch. “Who said I was sane? Besides, it was cheap. Which let me save for this place. More wine?”

“Please.” The conversation meandered into mundane commentary about Erin’s new apartment and decoration options.

Jen was gathering her purse and waiting for an Uber when the conversation swung back to the neighbors.

“Seriously, it’s like no one lives there,” Jen marveled. “You’ve got to let me know when this place has a vacancy.”

“Oh, there’s a good thump every morning, but it coincides with my alarm clock,” Erin said. “It’s all the night flying.”

“Pardon?” Jen gave an odd titter. “Oh, like a pilot.”

“More like a cop,” Erin explained. “Spends all day snoozing with the gargoyles, eats a few muggers, jaunts around protecting the neighborhood at night, the usual.”

“Usual?” Jen squeaked.

“Oh, well. The landing is a big jolt, but he’s super friendly. Always wishes me a good day at work. Brought cookies my first day here.”

“Uh-huh,” Jen said faintly.

Erin shrugged. “Quiet like a dragon. Totally a selling point on this place.”

Schooltime Songs

April 28, 2021 /

Jake wasn’t quite sure what it meant when the little anime figure beside the computer monitor started talking, but it probably wasn’t a good sign. He couldn’t tell anyone, obviously. His twin sister Annie already made fun of him for having a statue of a girl.

He swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable. The plastic woman in the sailor outfit and high boots made him uncomfortable in ways he wasn’t sure he was ready for yet. He just knew that he liked looking at the tiny figurine. Plus, cool time powers. What wasn’t to like?

But now…maybe insanity came with the hormones they talked about in health class.

“Time to get up!” the statue chirped in a singsong. She twirled her staff and thumped it on his desk. “School is waiting!”

“It’s summer,” Jake mumbled. He wasn’t sure he’d moved or even blinked since he’d heard a noise and woken up to keep Annie out of his room again.

The door opened, and his mom poked her head in. “Were you talking to someone?”

He shook his head, still under the blue and black checked plaid blanket.

“Well, get up then. Sprinkles needs her walk. Your turn.” She closed the door gently, her footsteps echoing down the hall toward his sister’s room.

The sailor winked at him and gave a snappy salute.

Jake hurried to pull his jeans on while still under the blanket, careful to avoid eye contact.

When he got back from a tour of sniffing neighborhood mailboxes with a fluffy black dog convinced she was four times larger than she was, the house was in an uproar.

“I’m telling you, it warbled!” Annie was shouting at the top of his lungs. Dad was pouring coffee, looking apologetic as he headed for the garage.

“Water doesn’t really sing, dear. Not even in singing fountains.” Mom was having none of it, humming to tease the girl while she trimmed the flower stems. She placed the bouquet of flowers in the mason jar always kept in the kitchen window.

Jake stared. “What didn’t warble?”

“It did,” Annie insisted. “I was taking a shower and the water began warbling.”

“Glad you finally showered,” he said under his breath. He caught her glare. “I mean, are you sure you weren’t singing without realizing it? You warble, right?”

“Why would I sing about school? Or you?” She scoffed and shoved a piece of toast in her mouth. “Imma nos two ped.”

“No, you just sound stupid,” Jake replied, and fled before she could catch him.

He’d nearly forgotten by lunchtime. Mom forgot time when she was in the greenhouse, so dinner was the big meal together. He usually just grabbed a sandwich and snacks from the approved healthy bin if he really needed something to tide him over. Only this time, the kitchen wasn’t empty.

His mother sat dangling a dainty, empty teacup from one pinky. From the odd sharp scent in the air, he wasn’t sure she’d actually been drinking tea.

“Uh, Mom?”

She hiccupped. “You know those mini daffodils I have in the greenhouse? The white ones with the orange center? I love the scent on those.”

He hadn’t a clue what she meant. “Sure, Mom. Did they get a fungus or a pest infestation or something?”

“They sang,” she said, and looked at her cup sadly. “They want you to go to school.”

“What, owl delivery was broken?”

He could have fallen on the linoleum when she nodded. “I thought the powers skipped both you and Annie.”

Behind his mother, the flowers in the mason jar began glowing.

***

Not sure I’m quite happy with this one, but I’ve been looking for an opportunity to use those singing flowers. Might play with it some more. Thanks to nother mike for the opening paragraph’s prompt! Mine went to AC Young, who rescued the orangutan on a motorcycle. Inspired by real life, but apparently I have a movie to watch…

The Endless Road

April 20, 2021 /

Joel stared out the window, wondering if he’d be able to fix things this time. It wasn’t a matter of whether he’d screwed up, Lisa had told him. It was how badly he’d done so.

He huffed, fogging the glass, and wiped it away, careful to use his flannel sleeve so he didn’t smudge the glass. Then ruined it by leaning his forehead against the porthole. He jerked away when the cold sunk into his consciousness.

Didn’t matter. The view was incredible, and he might as well enjoy it. He certainly wasn’t going to enjoy Lisa for much longer, the way things were going.

It’d be easier if they weren’t in a confined environment, but they’d gotten through training so easily. Laughing at the issues other couples had, the barbed commentary helping them get through the selection process. They’d passed with ease, thinking the multi-year journey couldn’t be worse than what they’d experienced in the dome.

But now, here on the Endless Road, decisions tended to have more impact than they used to back on Earth.

There was no turning back again, but Joel suspected the stars cared little whether the travelers made it to their destination without tearing themselves apart.

***

Short and sweet this week. My odd prompt came from Cedar Sanderson: The endless road calls to the traveler, but once they set foot on it, there is no turning back again.

Mine went to nother Mike, who wrote about the real reason the road sings. Check it out at More Odds Than Ends!

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