Writer of Fantasy. Wielder of Red Pens.
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. 😀
June wandered the path in quiet contemplation. Helen had excused herself and headed for the chapel a few minutes earlier, claiming the need for a few moments not focused on memorials. June had pretended not to notice the shine in her eyes and let the older woman move ahead without asking questions. Her brisk footsteps faded away as June studied the foliage and greenery surrounding the park.
Peter was several statues behind her, happily debating minor details of battles past with his father. The last bit she’d overheard didn’t make much sense for the National Museum of the Marine Corps, as much as sea strategy had been critical for the Peloponnesian War. She glanced behind her and bit back a smile. George was waving his arms with wild enthusiasm, with Peter as his mirror a few feet away.
She turned back and blinked in surprise. It was a lovely late spring day, with the scent of flowers and grass in the air under the trees, but most of the museum visitors were inside. Few took the paths of the memorial park, with its statues and peaceful walking paths. The elderly gentleman must have come from the chapel Helen had just entered.
Piercing blue eyes met her gaze as June approached the memorial. She gave the man a brief nod. His hair was still regulation short under his veteran’s baseball hat, and his green button-down and khakis had been ironed. A slight potbelly showed his only concession to age. The man remained straight-backed and walked unaided.
She turned her eyes to the statue. A Marine in a World War II era uniform held to his shoulder, one leg propped up on a rock. The dedication was for
“We were wishing for those rocks,” the man said. He gestured to the statue with one hand. “The sand was near impossible to move through. You sank in and struggled to move. Knee deep, it was in places. Funny that it had tunnels under it.”
The air left her lungs as June dragged in a breath. She turned, gaze glued to his hat. Iwo Jima, it read. Not just any veteran, but one of the remaining few. One of the survivors of the struggle for freedom, symbolically captured by the famous flag raising. An icon recognizable across any proper student of propaganda.
“I don’t know how I missed your hat,” June said. She shook her head. “I really don’t. I’m a professor of the military uses of propaganda. Thank you. It’s an honor to meet you.”
The man snorted and reached out a hand. His grasp was firm and dry, covered in calluses. “Jack. I didn’t do much. Back then, we were all in it, weren’t we?”
She nodded, her mouth dry. This was an increasingly rare moment, and she wasn’t sure what to ask. “Are you willing to talk about it?”
Jack looked up at the statue. “That was me, once. All gung-ho and ready to take on the world. And then came never-ending battle. I tell you, I grew up damn quick.”
June bit her lip and nodded. He seemed about to say more, if only she didn’t break the silence.
Jack reached up a hand to touch the statue. “I made it home to my Millie, though. That’s more than some could say.”
“I’m glad you did,” she said in a low voice. He gave a gruff jerk of his chin in acknowledgement and gave the statue a last pat.
“June?” She turned at the sound of Peter’s voice. A smile lit her face at the sight of his emerald eyes and hair tousled by the breeze. George trailed behind, still grumbling and gesturing as he walked.
“Peter, let me introduce you to –“ She turned and stared. Her feet kept her moving in a circle, her head craning as if Jack was hiding behind the memorial. “Where did he go?”
“June, who were you talking to?”
***
The National Museum of the Marine Corps is worth a visit if you’re ever in the area, although it’s currently closed. The building itself is designed to emulate the raising flag of Iwo Jima. Semper Fidelis Memorial Park is also real, as is the BAR on the Beach memorial, dedicated to the 5th Marine Division.
***
This week’s Odd Prompts came from Kat Ross in photo form, who asked who the veteran was, and what he was saying. Mine went to AC Young, who did a smashing job with a security dragon and lost pork belly.
This story has been removed. Why? Because it’s part of the Professor Porter Saga and will be formally published in a revised form.
***
The final week of 2020’s prompt was from Leigh Kimmel: “A plumbing fixture suddenly stops working. On inspection, it turns out the cutoff valve has been turned off, but everyone denies having done so.” This was a tough one! I know nothing about plumbing. Neither, I suspect, do the ice fairies.
Mine went to Becky Jones and AC Young, who both wrote different and highly entertaining stories about goblins in the garbage.
WordPress tells me that I started this website a year ago today, which deserves a retrospective of some sort. Lessons learned, if nothing else. Around the same time, I found nother Mike’s suggestion for a “here’s how I do it” post, so I’m combining the two.
First up: Stage fright. Part of why I jumped on Cedar’s More Odds Than Ends challenge was because I was writing again, but wasn’t comfortable with it. The day job required less and less technical writing or editing (at the time) and I was getting twitchy. Writing is, apparently, something I need to do.
But I’d suppressed creative instincts in favor of improving technical writing for nearly two decades. Was I any good? Did it matter, if I was having fun? Was it terrifying to put things out there? Yes. Am I still terrified? Yes, but less so. Did I delay publishing the book for at least two weeks for this reason? Absolutely. Do I get excited every time I have a comment? Ask my husband, who may or may not hear about it. And the big question, would it make me worse at my day job? Turns out, no!
Which leads to: Creativity helps in unexpected ways. Studying craft has helped me articulate ways to train folks in the day job, from editing techniques to writing to poking holes in logic. I’m apparently known as one of the creative ones, who can think outside the box and see connections. So creativity might make me the quirky one at work, but it’s helped far more than I anticipated.
Similarly: Practice helps. Obviously. I’m faster with posts than I used to be. I’ve learned website stuff. Am I good at coming up with different ways to say essentially the same thing over and over again? No. I’m also not good at social media, which I rejoined, or marketing. I’m extremely introverted, and one of those serious types. I have to warn people that when I get excited, I will probably get extremely intense (unless there’s too much coffee involved, in which case I start resembling a hyperactive, bouncing squirrel). But I stress less about being perfect at it, because there’s progress.
That said: More accountability would be good. Even just for myself. The day job pays the bills, and I like it. But I also want to get book two out, and have too many ideas half-plotted to let them go. So it’s a balance between making sure I keep doing well at the day job and pondering whether this writing thing could be a real gig someday. I’m okay if this is prep for a retirement job, but must admit there’s excitement at the idea of writing creatively as a career.
And that said…I need to get more writing done, but if I’m drained enough that the words aren’t flowing, I’m not going to push myself into burnout. Again, balance. Slow and steady. So one of my goals for the next year is to increase the amount I tie in prompts to the universes I’m already working in. Which means I need to have the plots more solidified than they are now, along with less nebulous worldbuilding and character development. I tend to rebel against scheduling my hobbies, so habits are what will save me here.
Finally: There’s so much left to learn.
So with that, onto how I go through prompts. I was hoping to have inspiration hit before I got to this part. C’mon, brain!
Prompt: A plumbing fixture suddenly stops working. On inspection, it turns out the cutoff valve has been turned off, but everyone denies having done so.
I’m pretty sure it’ll change along the way, but that’s the bones of it.
Professor Widget paced the room when he lectured. The same path each time. Up and down each aisle, tapping a hand on each desk as he passed. Jack didn’t know if it was obsessive-compulsive disorder or just longstanding habit from forty years of academia. Either way, it drove him nuts. How was he supposed to concentrate?
Other than that, cryptozoology was awesome.
He’d never dreamed that cryptids were a real field of study, but here he was. Jack Langton, otherwise a dead end job-hopper, night-school dropout. Now he spent the slow nights at the gas station studying, not texting his latest girl and still failing to maintain a relationship because he worked the night shift.
It’d sounded too good to be true, when he saw the ad on social media. He still wasn’t sure that he could get a job doing anything with this. But lately, all the posts wanted a degree. Any degree. And cryptozoology was the cheapest diploma program he’d been able to find. Legit, too. Accredited and everything, not a ripoff.
He’d heard similar stories from the rest of the students in the room, through a haze of flickering florescent lights outside, on hasty and illicit smoke breaks. Everyone just wanted a shot at a better life. All of them had nearly laughed the opportunity away.
“Time! Pencils down,” Professor Widget announced. “As I walk around the room to collect your quiz, I want you to tell me your favorite cryptid. No waffling, you have to pick one.”
Jack nodded as he realized the instructor had timed the announcement so everyone had time to think while he crossed the room, even the first row. Maybe there was a reason for the pacing after all. He dropped his head and focused, trying to pick his favorite. There’d been so many, and this was the capstone course before he could get his degree.
Brown tweed pants stopped in front of his desk. A hand extended toward him, and he handed over his quiz. Jack cleared his throat. “Ah, gryphon.”
Professor Widget quirked a salt and pepper eyebrow, so high Jack thought the wiry hairs might detach from the man’s face. “Interesting choice.” He moved past and collected the hairdresser’s quiz. “Say again? Vampire? Hmm.”
The instructor set the papers down on the desk in front of the ancient green chalkboard that no one bothered to use anymore. He rubbed the bald spot on his head. “Well, it’s time for fieldwork, so thank you for choosing a wide variety of cryptids. Always keeps it interesting.”
“Fieldwork?” The hairdresser squeaked behind him. It was the first time Jack had heard her speak above a whisper. He figured it was because she spent all day chatting up clients and needed a vocal break.
“Someone didn’t read the syllabus,” singsonged the professor. “If you want to pass the class, fieldwork is part of your grade.”
“I read the syllabus,” Jack said. He propped his chin on his fist, old flannel falling soft against his arm where his sleeve was unbuttoned. “Fieldwork was listed as a possibility, not a definite. I remember because I thought it was a joke.”
“Yes, yes, well, we got lucky this time. The lawsuits ended satisfactorily and the administration said we could go ahead. But with precautions this time.” He grinned. Did he expect them to be excited by the opportunity?
“Cryptids are real?” squeaked the hairdresser again. Liz, that was her name. Her chair clattered to the ground. “I can’t meet a vampire. I’m a single mom!” She whooshed past him, leaving only a cloud of perfume behind.
Professor Widget nodded as Liz raced by, his eyes sad. “Yes, that is unfortunate. There is a risk involved. I should also commend you all for not taking the easy way out. One of you even picked a gryphon. The spine! Oh, I do appreciate it.” He chuckled, then cut off after a few seconds when no one joined him.
Several other students looked like they might follow Liz and her perfectly coiffed curls out the door.
“Come on, now, you’re quite close to receiving your degrees. All you have to do is survive.” The professor’s tone was wheedling now.
Jack firmed his jaw. It was this or nothing. He opened his textbook to the chapter on gryphons with a shrug. “Can’t be worse than that half-naked cowboy on meth that came into the store last week.”
***
This week, nother mike challenged me with, “He never expected that the cryptozoology diploma course would require applied fieldwork. With a cryptid of his choice.” My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: “The streetlight was blinking Morse code…”
Nigel sat on the concrete floor and studied the mess of broken machinery in front of him. Gears, cogs, sprockets, and unidentifiable doohickeys were scattered in piles between his legs.
“There’s clearly some sort of order to where you put the parts,” Elise said. She leaned down and pushed her ponytail back over her shoulder, trying not to get grease smeared onto her leather jacket. “I can’t tell what it is, though.”
“Blocking my light,” he mumbled, then looked up, blinking. “Oh. Sorry. Rude?”
She straightened and stepped to the left, trying not to roll her eyes. She took a deep breath of the damp air and suppressed a sigh. “Yes, rude.”
“Have to get it working again,” he said, hands fidgeting over the parts. Stubby fingers flickered faster than she would have believed possible. Each movement he made was deliberate and precise. “Each pile goes into its own section. Here, hold this for me.”
She snorted and moved back to lean against the wall. She propped a foot against it for balance, concrete rough and cool under her fingertips. “I most certainly will not. That – thing – is what got us in the dungeon in the first place.”
He propped a long metal rod against his ankle instead. “Not a dungeon.”
“It’s a locked, windowless room in the basement. And we’re stuck here until the other bots outside go away, lose interest, or calls for more of those things to come help. I’m just glad we control the deadbolt. It’s close enough to a dungeon to count.”
“Horseshoes.” Nigel’s brow furrowed, his eyes darkening. He spilled the piles of gadgetry from their towers of precarious balance with a sweep of an arm. His nose nearly touched the ground as he chose new parts. “Bad design.”
Elise sighed. She had to draw an engineer as her partner. Every single time, it seemed like. “It was a reasonable argument that close counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and dungeons. Just give me that one, would you? And what’s this about bad design?”
She crossed her fingers and made a wish, as if she were seven again and arguing with her younger brother. Iftheir backup didn’t show up soon, Nigel would want to stay here until he fixed that thing.
“I improved it. Much more efficient this way.” He grinned at her, the spark back in his eyes. A squat finger hovered over a red button.
She pushed her foot against the wall and lunged for him. A beep halfway there told her she was too late. He’d started the blasted thing up again. She turned her lunge into a painful somersault and rolled onto her feet. Drawing her knives, she faced the machine that had chased them inside the room.
“It works!” he crowed. He scooted away from its treads, alarm flickering over his face.
Her shoulder throbbed. She wondered if a good stomp of her combat boot would do the trick? Was she fast enough to get past the whirring saw blades? “You know, you could have considered not fixing the tiny death machine, right?”
“Improving.” Nigel sniffed, and wedged himself into the corner.
***
This prompt has stymied me for far too long! I work with a LOT of engineers, and reality kept intruding. B. Durbin challenged me nearly a year ago with the following:
“According to Milton, the road to Heaven is rocky and narrow. The road to Hell is broad and well-paved. Therefore, we know which way all the engineers go.” (Professor Michael Bonin to engineering student Ron Palmer, attribution not part of the prompt.)
TE Kinsey’s latest cozy reminded me that engineers love to share information, even when they shouldn’t…and they also like to fix things. Even when they really, really shouldn’t.
Kerri slammed open the wooden door with a bang, tumbled through, and settled into a boneless heap on the stone floor. Her mate found her there an hour later, eyes closed and a wisp of smoke escaping her left nostril with every snore he’d never dare admit she made.
Not if he wanted to stay mated, anyway.
“Baby.” Mike nudged her with a gentle claw. “Baby, come to the nest at least. I brought you a whole cow, and the sand is the perfect toasty temperature you like if you want to get cleaned up.” He devoutly hoped she’d want the sand bath. Her blue-green scales were covered in irregular smudges of soot.
“M’exhausted,” she mumbled. A single eye blinked at him several times, exposing a gold and green streaked iris. The eyelid slid ninety percent closed. “M’up.”
He suppressed a grin, not that she would notice right now. “I can see the first one. Come on, upsidaisy. I got you.” He folded his wings back and shoved his foreleg under her feeble wiggle.
She yawned, fangs pearlescent even in the dim light. Her tongue flickered out, her eyes still half-closed and head swaying. “Food?”
“Food,” Mike said in a soothing tone. “A whole cow, just for you. You have to keep up your energy.”
“Sleep,” Kerri slurred. “Need sleep.” She curled her long neck against his, then nuzzled her snout against his. He could feel her weight leaning heavier against his side and twitched his wing back further.
“Food, then sleep,” Mike reassured her. “After all, you have to teach flame control again tomorrow. For about the next six weeks. And then they start flying not long after that. You’ve got to keep your strength up.”
Well, that woke her. Kerri’s roar must have been heard a block away. He had wanted to stay mated, hadn’t he?
Of course he did. That’s why he shoved a terrified, bleating heifer in the direction of the snarls and ran out the door.
***
This weeks’ Odd Prompt came from nother Mike: “It was always a proud day when another young dragon first blew flame across the room, but it did make teaching elementary school classes for young dragons hard on teachers.”
Mine went to Becky Jones, “I got him!” She waved her prize in the air and wiggled her hips, grinning at her mentor. He gave her a wistful smile, wishing they were as safe as she clearly believed. “I’m afraid they hunt in packs.”
The metal candleholder quickly lost its warmth as she left the temple’s tended fires. Lady Elsa headed down the wide stone stairs and headed for the garden. Her free hand chilled where air met her exposed hand, sheltering the emerging yellow flame. It flickered with each rapid step, evening dew soaking into her slippers as she deviated off the pebbled gravel path.
Each novice went alone for their attempt, but they knew the way. She could feel the eyes upon her with each hasty step. Adrenaline spiked her pace still faster, her breathing ragged.
Her feet were soggy and cold by the time Elsa reached her goal. She paused at the arch before entering and set the candle in the empty holder before kicking off her shoes. A deep breath and a hitch of wet skirt away from her ankle, and she plunged through the ivy into darkness.
And entered for the first time, into light. Floating sparkles traced colorful paths across the sky, while glowing flowers spun purple and green bioluminescence into the shadows. A drop of ivy dripped a trail of water, and starlight sparkled as it shattered onto the ground like diamonds.
She stared upward, enraptured by pale grey streaks of moonlight, which broke through the spaces between the darkened leaves. Strands of gold dust swirled around her raised hands, and she broke into a delighted laugh.
Floating with joy, Elsa turned and bowed to an alcove where a figure was obscured among the shimmer, hidden along the wall amidst leaf and bough. “Lady of Star and Shadow.”
The statue remained still and cold, but a bright light echoed from behind the statue’s head. A blackened figure towered over the temple maiden. Elsa crumpled to her knees in a collapsed curtsy of wet skirts and bare feet. She had nearly forgotten. “Forgive me, Lady of the Moon.”
She reached into her beltpurse and drew out the multicolored rock that served as her offering. “I bring you your child of fire and blazing glory, returning to you the lost children of the stars.”
***
I think this one might go further, sometime, but the world isn’t quite clear yet. I don’t think Lady Elsa is the main character, at least not as a novice. Thanks to Leigh Kimmel for this week’s Odd Prompt: “Enchanted garden where moon casts shadow of object or ghost invisible to the human eye.” My suggestion went to Cedar Sanderson, that an infestation of baby dragons was not as desirable as one might imagine…
Celia bustled inside, trailing a profusion of gift bags, tissue paper, and her husband John. His head was barely visible above a series of boxes. A cloud of chatter surrounded her.
“Can you believe those crowds? And the lines. I was only pointing out the lady behind us was closer than the floor sticker suggested. Can you believe how angry she got? Dump those by the tree, dear, would you? Mind the cat.” She sat her baggage down on the floor and collapsed into the nearby loveseat.
He joined her after depositing his own packaging, mute and frowning. He checked his phone. “The door was locked when you came in, wasn’t it? I didn’t get an alert on the security app.”
Celia had taken off one of her shoes and was massaging her foot. “Of course it was locked. Locked before we left and locked when we returned. Oh! Did that naughty cat get into the tree again and knock things over?” She hopped on one leg to inspect the tree, still holding her foot.
“No,” John said. “It’s that odd bottle of wine below the tree. Behind that yellow bag from the shop with the smelly soap.”
She sniffed and put her foot down, then pulled off her other shoe. “Can’t be wine.”
“Looks like wine.” John tapped his fingers on his knee. “Don’t know where it came from.”
Picking up the bottle, she studied the label. “You were right. Bright green, but wine it is. Who knew it came in pistachio flavor?”
A red bow snugged around the glass neck of the bottle, contrasting with the vibrant contents. “Looks like that cartoon guy. You know.” John hummed, dropping his voice to low rumble.
She snorted. “Well, after that – tart in the store, I’m in the mood to try some. Would you like a glass?”
“Of alcohol from mysterious origins that appeared in our home without explanation?” John raised an eyebrow and rubbed a clean-shaven jaw. “I think not. And don’t recommend you do, either. I’m going to take a look outside and see if I can figure out how it got here.”
Celia poohed and rolled her eyes, but set down the bottle on a nearby table. “I’ll get going on wrapping these, then.”
Ten minutes later, John returned. “Still can’t figure out how anyone got inside. The neighbors didn’t see anything – Celia?”
The tree was knocked over, ornaments smashed in a rainbow of vicious glitter shards. A fire burned merrily on the wall, the tip of the tree smoldering as unseasoned wood flickered with the beginnings of flame. The cat cowered from where it hid under the desk, covered in tinsel. Celia cackled, a package in her hands only briefly before smashing one of her purchases onto the floor.
She grinned at him. “Christmas is cancelled at last!” Laughter erupted from her throat in a crescendo, wild and eager.
A glass of green wine sat next to the open bottle, half-empty.
***
I’m not sure this grumpy story is quite where nother Mike’s prompt about unexpected wine should have gone, but I had fun writing it.
My MOTE prompt was a direct trade, and did he ever make the tomatoes wake up and rock on!
Earlier than expected. The ‘Zon, in its infinite mercy, took pity on me after about six hours. Thankfully, not the full seventy-two.
I’m not sure whether to run in circles, hyperventilate, or throw up from sheer nerves.
Here’s the cover art from the amazing Nancy Zee with Cristal Designs.
Interesting things that happened during this process:
Other things became a matter of expediency.
Did I achieve everything I set out to do? No, and it took too long from when I posted about public accountability.
I have so far to go, and so many more things to learn.
But the ultimate goal of publication was achieved, and I’ll celebrate that milestone for all it’s worth.
It’s 2020, after all. Small wins matter.
Do you need a magical professor in your life? Of course you do. Paladin’s Sword is just the book you didn’t know you were looking for as a holiday gift. Right?
Dr. June Porter is headed for New Hampshire as a professor, brand-new PhD in hand. The last thing she wants in her new life is more magic, so of course that’s exactly what she finds. Magic, and a mysterious Irishmand with emerald eyes. But there’s little time for dalliance when historical artifacts begin taking a life of their own and threaten the campus. Can June reclaim her magic, protect her students – and keep her job?
…and now, to get my tail in gear on book two.
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