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Something Different

February 28, 2021 / fionagreywrites

I promised more a while ago on thought processes. Behind the Prompt, if you will. This one went through a number of iterations in my head, and then what poured out was…nothing like what I’d imagined.

Odd prompt, from nother Mike: “The kids were carrying moonbeams in a jar…”

(My own prompt of “In retrospect, the arrow through the calf shouldn’t have been the first clue” went to Leigh Kimmel.)

Initial reaction: Cool, I love this prompt! No idea what to do with it, but awesome, can’t wait to play around with it!

Idea one: Kids running around in the backyard, catching moonbeams in a jar like fireflies. I may still play around with this sometime.

Idea two: Moonbeams = moon message transmissions.

Idea three: Moon beans, the misunderstanding.

Idea four, that I thought I’d be writing: A new light source has been discovered, but only works on (or is kept secret by) the moon. The mental image was of glowing mason jars in a moon cave, carried to careful storage on each handmade shelf by herds of children just old enough to be trusted. Because while preppers weren’t what the space program wanted, sometimes you needed to store up emergency supplies once you got there.

Here’s what happened instead.

***

They didn’t want preppers for the moon colony. They wanted survivalists. You know, the types you can drop off with a pocketknife and a water bottle, and they’ll have shelter built in a few hours.

Or you drop them off empty handed, and they find their own pocketknife and water bottle. You remember the type.

Anyway, there aren’t a lot of people like that anymore. When 3-D printing took off, it really took off. Everything you can think of at the touch of a button from the same pile of sludge? Building your own anything was seen as quaint. Suitable for hobbyists, or one of the neo-Luddites that shunned technology.

Unfortunately, the 3-D trend happened right as the lunar base needed emergency manning.

And it wasn’t like space was a popular destination. Not after the Zelma. Sure, there was a lot of nostalgia for the old shuttle era. But when a whole colony fails…well. Then it’s someone should go, but maybe I’ll wait until the tech is fixed, amiright? Those poor kids. Someone oughta make a law. What where their parents thinking?

Besides, that training program is hard, and few make it.

But me, I was raised by my Grandpa, and he by his. He taught me woodworking, basic engineering and mechanics, and which plants would kill you. I could make everything from knives to jam to candles. They needed people like that, people who could fix stuff. People who couldn’t resist the urge to fix stuff.

It’s not like there’d be kids carrying moonbeams in a jar to illuminate the habitat’s interior. You can only put so many light bulbs in space. Or boost so much weight in that 3-D sludge. They save that for printing astronaut food, mostly.

So when the call came to re-crew what should have been Zelma’s home, I felt that pang in my chest for a place that would value those skills, even if I’d have to relearn or adapt half of them. Grandpa has passed the year before, and putting in for it felt like a good way to honor his memory.

He’d have done that snort-laugh of his at the idea, then clapped me on the shoulder with a hand stiff with age and hard work. His way of showing pride in my accomplishments, from the first Pine Derby car to the first buck.

Besides, I was bored.

It’s not like I expected they’d actually accept me into the astronaut program. I didn’t have a formal education, or not much of one. My knuckles were dug in with grease no matter how much I scrubbed, calluses rough from the bow string, scarred from whittling Grandpa’s last Christmas gift.

I guess this time, they were looking for something different. Zelma’s crew had been carefully selected and trained, and it still wasn’t enough to guide them in without disaster. Why not go for the scrappers like me?

Later I heard the rumors during training. That the bureaucrats expected failure, just like they expected we could barely read. We were supposed to be the excuse to shut the whole expensive program down. Give it up for another few decades, just like we did after the initial early years burst.

People like me, we take that as a badge of honor. Don’t tell the bureaucrats, but we already renamed the ship from Penelope to Scrapper.

In the meantime, I’ll tighten my straps one more time, because the countdown has begun.

I can’t wait to prove ‘em wrong.

French Toast

February 23, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“We’re out of milk,” Bree said. She stared at the list on her phone and tucked it in her coat pocket. “And eggs.”

Joheel reached inside the glass case ahead of a minute, white-haired woman with extremely pointy elbows and seized the last container of two percent. He held the blue-capped liquid into the air in triumph.

“Don’t gloat,” she grumbled at him. “I’m already worried someone will grab food from the cart.”

He rolled his eyes. “We’ll be fine. No good reason we all need to make French toast the second a snowstorm hits.”

“Um, because it’s delicious?” Bree flounced her way toward yellow Styrofoam, scarf bobbing in tandem with her hat’s pom-pom. She flipped the lid open to check for cracks.

“Not that delicious. We don’t need 18 eggs.” Joheel’s nose scrunched. “I like the brown ones better.”

She glared at him. “And if we’d come earlier like I wanted to, we’d have more choices, wouldn’t we? We wouldn’t be taking milk from old ladies. We wouldn’t be left to select from the stinky cheese or the expired cheese. And we wouldn’t have ice skated our way into the store.”

Her voice had risen to a looming crescendo. Even as bundled-up shoppers rushed through the store, he could see them staring. Yeah, everyone loves drama when they’re not in the midst of it.

“Okay, fine, jeez.” He knew better than to tell her to calm down. “What else do we need?”

Bree pulled out her phone again. “Cat food, apparently.”

“Apparently?” He wheeled the cart toward the aisle with the rawhide bones on the endcap. Bree was ahead of him. She loved that little fluffball.

She was already studying cans. Blue in one hand, green in the other. “Yeah, I got a text a minute ago.”

“Bree?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“When did we get the cat a cell phone?”

***

Becky Jones and I traded odd prompts this week. Check out her dragon invasion here!

Badass Book Review

February 20, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Lately, I’ve been binge-reading neural fluff and mind candy, thanks to Kindle Unlimited’s vast supply of urban fantasy. Most recently, I blitzed through Michael Anderle’s How to be a Badass Witch series, followed by the just-released How to be a Badass Vigilante that kicks off what is presumably the next trilogy.

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The books are promising. Kera discovers a book by the same name as the title, in part to get her mother off her back about wasting her education and life as a bartender. It’s not long before she discovers that the powers described are real. While she’s determining how her new skills can help people, she starts eating quite a bit as there’s an energy cost to her actions. She also brings down the wrath of local gangs.

The gang warfare is a touch that adds unexpected complexity to the series, especially as there are multiple competing gangs with different perspectives and styles. However, Kera’s predominant cost to her actions is a ridiculous appetite. It’s seldom that a reader feels she’s ever really in danger from her vigilante actions, because she’s able to to fend off increasing amounts of bad guys. Although she also takes up martial arts again and combines her fighting skills with magic, the tension is perhaps not quite as strong as it could be.

That said, the knowledge the good guys will win and the main character won’t get seriously hurt makes this a fun popcorn read. Not by physical violence, anyway, not really. Kera increasingly feels the threat of the group who put out the book – a group of mages who are looking for the perfect recruits, and wipe out powers upon signs of individuality or resistance. That’s sufficiently terrifying tension for me! The short-term solution here that gets the mage group to leave Kera alone feels a little convenient, but it’s well done and (more importantly) works.

I do think Kera’s personal choices about mind-wiping others with a forgetfulness spell should make her feel more personable, but don’t. It comes off as power-tripping rather than prone to human judgment. I’m not convinced she’s as regretful or repentant as she should be. Perhaps that’s my own personal abhorrence at the idea coming into play – and that means the author is doing his job by evoking emotion – but her love interest has less repulsion than anticipated as well. The last book also has some humbling of the mage group, which is comes just in time.

Overall, I enjoyed the Badass Witch trilogy, easily titled Books 1, 2, and 3. The Vigilante book felt like a transition, but ended on a sufficiently exciting note that I’m looking forward to the next two books.

War, Fueled by Coffee

February 15, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“We’re reinstituting wars,” Linda told Mack. “One by Friday, please. Let me know if you need any help. You’re critical to our new training plan’s feedback.”

He stared at his new boss’ retreating back with horror. Mack felt his face pale as much as his olive skin would allow. Fighting hadn’t been in the job description. He’d left the military because he was done with war. And how was he supposed to spark one off in less than five days? He barely knew where the restroom was.

Swiveling in his black roller chair, he hissed at the next cubicle. “Hey! I thought this was a logistics company! Shipping?”

Jerry had a handset pressed between ear and red plaid shoulder. He gave Mack an odd look before returning to his call.

Mack got up and took his new company mug to the coffee machine over in the corner. He’d made sure to remember that location. He studied the logo while he waited for the machine to brew his cup, an unassuming navy blue on white. Whittier Transportation Firm.

“Whiskey tango foxtrot,” he whispered, and shook his head with a groan. “I should have known. What was I thinking?”

Back at his desk, he sipped the hot, bitter brew and raised a surprised eyebrow. Well! At least the coffee was better in the private sector! No muddy water reminiscent of turpentine here.

The caffeine soaked into his brain cells. Ideas began sparking as neurons connected, sharp pops of yellow light. Mack shook his head at the weirdness of his new job, picked up his phone, and started making calls.

By Friday morning, he was back in camouflage he’d left behind, helmet firmly on. He was the first in the office, as usual, but today was different. Mack barked orders at the delivery men, and slipped them extra cash to fortify the cubicles with the crates.

A crash sounded behind him, metal on the tile entryway. Linda stared at Mack, open-mouthed. A sealed coffee travel mug rolled in loops, heading away from the glass door in the least efficient route possible.

“Ah, thank you for the reminder, Linda.” Mack gestured at the nearest delivery man, a skinny guy in overalls and a well-worn lifting belt. “Hey, can you make sure to get some of these crates by the door? That glass is ridiculously vulnerable.”

Linda swallowed and held up a hand as the delivery guy headed toward the door. He detoured around her, an empty crate in each hand, while she emulated a fish.

Words finally erupted from her mouth. “Mack! What…why?” She spun in a circle and bent to retrieve her coffee container, unscrewing the lid and chugging liquid gold. “What?”

Mack held up his clipboard. “Linda, I’m really sorry. We won’t be ready to go by the time we’re scheduled to open. The sandbag delivery won’t get here until 1000. I know logistics win wars, but the company swears there’s nothing they can do. We have boxes of printer paper that could fill the gap in the meantime, but only one pallet. That’s just not enough.”

Linda looked at her coffee sadly, as if wishing it were whiskey. Shedrank for at least five seconds, held the empty mug over her mouth to shake out the last few drops, and screwed the lid back on. “What. Is. Happening?” Her voice screeched to a deafening levels.

Mack winced. “You said you wanted a war by Friday. But like I said, we’re just not ready. I started the propaganda campaigns, but the formal declaration of war to the competitors can’t go out until we properly fortify this building. And we’re vulnerable to the water and power getting cut off, but the generator’s getting installed in the basement now. Fuel might be an issue – ”

He cut off as Linda held up a hand. “War? Generator?”

“You said the company was reinstituting wars. You wanted one by Friday. It’s Friday. And I’m sorry, but we really need to hold until Monday if we can.”

Linda spun in a circle again, her hand held over her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

“I went with paintball, though. Hope that’s all right.” Mack tried to sound as earnest as possible. He had struggled with that dilemma before making the decision, but if this place meant a real shooting war, he needed to be looking for a new job. He might anyway. This place was weird. “Obviously, I wanted to do well on this as my first assignment. You said you needed feedback for the training program. Remember?”

“Mack,” Linda said slowly. “Mack, a WAR is a weekly activity report…”

***

No inspiration yet for this week’s actual prompt from Leigh Kimmel about tweaking alien noses. In the meantime, I couldn’t resist this spare. Maybe now that it’s out of my head, I can get back to the real prompt of the week. My own submission about swimming trees went to Becky Jones.

Blizzard

February 7, 2021 / fionagreywrites

This story has been removed. Why? Because it’s part of the Professor Porter tales, and will be published in modified form.

***

This week, Becky Jones challenged me to discover what was buried under the snow. My prompt went to nother Mike, to see what happens when tech and traditional fairy tales converge.

Pothole

February 3, 2021 / fionagreywrites

This post has been removed as of 27 March 2021. But don’t worry – it’s part of book two. Coming soon!

***

This week, my prompt was from nother Mike, and fit perfectly to kickstart me back into book two: “It was hard to see to drive in the pouring rain, and then the car thumped as we drove over something. When we stopped and got out to see what it was, we learned we had hit…”

My prompt went back to nother Mike, and was also about adventures in driving through weather. I guess it’s that time of year in the northern hemisphere.

Grow Stripes

January 26, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“C’mon, wizard.” June didn’t know what expression was on her face, but it made Peter snicker. “I’ve got breakfast on the way.”

She looked down at her fuzzy purple robe and frowned in protest. “It’s a bathrobe.” She wiggled her feet inside fuzzy sheepskin slippers, a gift from his parents last year, and sneezed again. Her sinuses were on fire. “Ow. It was cheap. Professors make peanuts, you know that.”

He leaned down and gave her a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Yes. And all you need is a pointy hat to go with your robe when you cosplay.”

A kettle whistled from June’s kitchen. “What’s that noise?” She shuffled past him and turned the corner into her kitchen. “When did I get a teapot?”

Peter leaned around her and turned off the burner. “When you got sick, and I’m either immune or doomed to it in a few days.” A mug and teabag were already on the counter next to a small jar of honey and a spoon.

She dug out a tissue from her bathrobe pocket and tried not to think about how much she sounded like a dying goose. “I told you, you should go before you get sick.”

He spooned honey into the mug. “And I told you, I’m taking care of you.” He gave her a sideways grin, emerald eyes shining. “Of course, I expect reciprocity.”

She huffed, threw out her tissue, and headed back for the living room. The grow light for her yucca plant was already on, bright light shining onto the worn cushions of her secondhand loveseat. It was hideously ugly, mustard yellow with purple flowers, but comfortable and spacious. She curled up, dragging a blanket over her weary and aching limbs. If she didn’t think hard about it, it almost seemed like sitting in sunlight.

Almost, because it was also next to the drafty window and New Hampshire had over a foot of snow. Clinking silverware and plates sounded from the kitchen as June leaned back to close the blinds. She stretched out an arm for the manual control rod and froze at the sight outside her window.

Peter found her a few minutes later, standing outside and shivering, coaxing a tiny kitten with bright yellow eyes to come closer. “Do we have any tuna?”

He sighed and stepped behind the bush the kitten was hiding behind, snagging it with one hand while its wide eyes and shaking body were fixed on June. “Please go inside. I will check on the tuna.”

She sneezed and went, pulling off wet slippers and tucking her feet into the heavy fleece blanket. A tray next to the loveseat held tea and breakfast. “Oh, pancakes. Thank you.”

Peter stomped the snow off, cat offering frightened mewls between his hands. The fur was barely visible, the kitten was so small. “Well now, that wouldn’t be a bad name for her. Him? Can’t tell. I think it’s a him.”

“What, Pancake?” June took a bite and tried to look innocent. It made her face hurt. “Mmm. Blueberry. That assumes he wants to stay.”

He glared at her and plopped the kitten onto her lap. “I would have gotten him for you.” Peter stalked into the kitchen, his shoulders stiff under his blue sweater.

The kitchen’s closet door squeaked as it opened. June tried not to feel guilty about eating a hot breakfast while his cooled on the battered foldable table she used for both eating and work. Clanking and a few thumps sounded from the other side of the wall as he searched her pantry.

“Found a can of tuna and a can of chicken. And some odd canned sausage thing no one should eat because it’s not real food.” June opened her mouth to protest and he held up a hand. “I’m tossing it in the bin. Just because you can’t cook doesn’t mean you should eat like this.”

She looked down at the kitten in her lap, one hand covering its wet fur. “Tuna or chicken?” It wasn’t like she expected an answer, but the kitten let out a soft blrrp at the word chicken and stretched out a paw. Needlelike claws flexed out and returned as Pancake rolled his head upside down and blinked yellow eyes several times.

“Interesting.” Peter went back into the kitchen. She heard the manual can opener puncture and rattle its way around the tin. “I wouldn’t have guessed the chicken.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed he’d get this comfortable with us this fast.” Paw met finger, and tiny pads closed around the tip in a stronger grip than she’d anticipated. She freed her finger and stroked the soft, damp fur, following the M marking on his forehead behind his ears and down his neck. “Gorgeous stripes you’ve got, little guy. You’ve got that tiger look going on, don’t you, all black and grey?”

June broke off into a coughing fit. Pancake squirmed off her lap and onto the more solid loveseat arm. She groped for the tea with one hand, hoping she didn’t knock the tray over.

Peter headed back toward her squashy seat, dish of canned chicken in one hand and a plastic cutting board in the other. He set the cutting board down, Pancake sniffing and dancing around his other hand like a miniature Godzilla on hind legs.

He straightened and pressed the back of his hand against her head. At his feet, Pancake pounced on the dish of chicken before burying his whiskers in the food.

“Poor guy,” June said. She yawned and sank back into the cushion. Her earlier burst of energy was fading fast. “I couldn’t let him sit out there alone. He was sitting on the ledge watching me.”

His forehead creased. “You’re really warm. I’m going to tuck you in here. I bet Pancake will curl up with you when he’s done eating. You want a book?”

She nodded her head, feeling like it had swollen to the size of a watermelon. “I know I’ll fall asleep in a few minutes, but I feel better when a book is nearby.” She smiled up at him from half-shut eyes. “And you. But I still think you should stay away from me before I get you sick.”

Peter was halfway across the room, heading for her bookshelf. “Oh, it’s too late for me in a number of ways.”

A noise penetrated her dreams. “June!” She turned her head, burying her face in a pillow. Her legs wouldn’t move for some reason. Must be tangled in the blanket. “June!”

She opened bleary eyes a fraction and squinted until she found Peter across the room. His hands were held about six inches away from his keyboard, his eyes bulging. “I thought you wanted me to get some sleep.”

“Don’t move,” he said in a strangled whisper. His fingers flexed. A metal cage dropped around the loveseat with a resounding crash. The neighbors she hadn’t yet met from next door would be sure to leave a cranky note at the mailboxes again.

June’s eyes snapped open and she struggled to sit up against the heavy fur blanket. Was she dating some kind of weirdo? “Hey, whoa, this just got weird. Really weird.”

“Stop moving!” Peter bit off the harsh words. “I’m serious – don’t move.”

June kept shoving at the blanket. “Yeah, maybe that would have flown before you put me in a cage.” She could feel panic rising in her chest, heartbeat racing and breathing hard. As if she hadn’t been feeling drained enough already. The adrenaline crash would drain her even more after she made it out of the cage.

Her hand slipped off wool and onto soft fur. She felt the fur flex under her hand. A heavy, curved something touched her hand with a pinprick. June looked at her legs and swallowed a scream. Pancake let out an enormous, two hundred pound yawn that screeched into a roar at the end.

“June, you can get through the bars. The tiger can’t.” His urgent words calmed her thrashing.

“Good kitty. Nice kitty. Holy crap on a cracker, what do we feed the giant kitty?” June wasn’t sure when the last time she’d blinked was, but her eyes were burning as she stared. She tugged on her leg and wondered when Pancake would set her free. “Maybe if we get a shoelace or something to dangle in front of him?”

Peter was on his feet, phone in hand. “I’m about to call animal control. You want me to go get a shoelace?”

“No…” She hesitated. “We can’t put a cryptid in the pound. It wouldn’t be right. We’ll have to find him another home. There must be another way.”

“Sure, as long as you don’t get mauled in the process.” He lowered his phone, but didn’t put it away. “You’re sure?”

“Well, he’s ready to go for another nap, isn’t he?” June reached out and scratched behind his ears. A rumbling purr vibrated the entire apartment like a freight train. Pancake rolled onto his back and kicked his back leg. “Ah, definitely male.”

“I’m glad you have your priorities straight.” He put the phone in his back pocket and reached out a hand through the bars. “If you wouldn’t mind trying to get out from under the giant cat?”

She reached out a tentative hand toward the grow lamp. The bright yellow lamp hadn’t improved the yucca plant any. “You don’t think…?”

***

This week, AC Young challenged me with “The wizard found himself trapped in the tigers’ cage,” and I clearly missed both the pronoun and apostrophe placement. Perhaps Peter will have to have his own adventure soon at a zoo?

My prompt went to Cedar Sanderson: “I’m telling you, that elf is stalking me!”

In Which I Talk Funny and Say “Um” a Lot

January 23, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Podcast! Check it out here. Thanks to Joshua Bass of FinalxLegends Podcasts for the opportunity.

Also, here’s how to properly pronounce tsukumogami, because I got nervous and butchered it even after a lot of practice.

And if you’re so inclined, check out Paladin’s Sword and NEW short story Glitter.

Professor June Porter is worried. Her daughter Medina has shown no signs of magic, leaving her defenseless and isolated among magicians. Unless, of course, everyone’s about to discover just how special Medina is.

New Release!

January 22, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Long story, but in talking about chainmail on the book of faces, I wound up doing a podcast. Kind of a rushed and surprised thing, definitely something new. I talked up More Odds Than Ends, too. I’ll post the podcast link when it’s done.

I also burrowed until I found the first Peter and June story, blew the dust off, and expanded it a touch. Definitely still a short story, but thought it’d go well together.

Plus, I got to play around with covers (thanks for the feedback, Becky and Jennie and Nik!). I don’t think I’ll ever be fantastic at them, but I was happy with this one.

Blurb for now: Professor June Porter is worried. Her daughter Medina has shown no signs of magic, leaving her defenseless and isolated among magicians. Unless, of course, everyone’s about to discover just how special Medina is.

Girls’ Night

January 20, 2021 / fionagreywrites

This post has been removed by the author in order to publish it as part of Professor Porter’s story

***

This week on MOTE, I prompted AC Young with a fluttering caution tape, and Cedar Sanderson asked me to ponder what was not evil, but not right. Down to the wire!

Also, I have no real idea what happens on girls’ nights. I don’t get out much. 😀

Fiona Grey Writes