Mikhail thought the baker’s glittering black eyes were one of the most ominous pairs he’d ever seen, and he was used to the solid yellow glare of the turquoise puffball clinging to his shoulder. It was odd, what he’d grown used to at Wizurg Magical Academy.

Pepper cheeped in agreement.

Odd. I didn’t even say it out loud. The bite that had given him the trick to understanding the deadly creatures seemed to be ever-drawing the two nearer.

“Pies!” Liza whispered excitedly to him. The floating fire extinguishers hovering over her shoulders gave a clanking dance. “I love hand pies.”

“Not pies,” the beady-eyed man sniffed haughtily, and burst into a flurry of rapid French that Mikhail didn’t follow. “Pastry. I am a pastry chef. And nothing so mundane as hand pies when I will show you the most beautiful tart.”

Someone near the enormous kitchen door snickered.

Chef ignored the juvenile humor, which was inevitable given the pack of adolescent wizards staring at the man. “Next year, you make your own crust. This year, basics.”

He pursed narrow lips together and used air quotes around the last word.

“Bah. Leaving out the most important step, as if it were not the most basic building block to a good pastry, as if you should not start with good fundamentals, but no, anything beyond biscuits is too hard for first years. Filling only. D’accord.“

At least, that’s what Mikhail thought the chef said, but he was soon too busy to notice the eccentric chef’s quirks. Instead, he was covered in flour, rolling premade dough and creating a filling from the directions on a small white card.

Liza was similarly sprinkled across the table, while Pepper taking a nap atop the pile of satchels that overflowed the entrance cubbies. “Seems weird to take a cooking class.”

“Pastry,” she corrected him without looking up rolling out from her own dough. A half-grin gave her away. “Besides, he’s not wrong. Can’t get to kitchen witchery without having the basics down.”

“Is that why the ingredients are so unusual? I don’t recognize half of what’s on the list.” He didn’t want to, either. The item listed as “hiwort” had resembled a slug far too much for his taste. It had even wiggled.

It would, however, have been nice if he’d known kitchen witchery existed. Most days, Mikhail carried a serious disadvantage, not knowing anything most of his peers considered normal.

“Oh, it’ll be delicious,” she murmured. “No matter how odd the ingredients are. That’s Chef’s gift. The question you should be asking isn’t whether it will taste good.”

She paused to fold her circle of dough into quarters and lifted it into a pie tin.

He couldn’t stand the silence anymore. “No?”

“No,” she agreed, her fingers flying around the edges to flute the crust, nearly as fast as Chef’s had been during the demonstration. “The question you should be asking is, what will happen after you eat the pie?”

***

A slight twist to Padre’s prompt this week: Despite the unorthodox ingredients, the pie was delicious.

Mine went to Becky Jones: The classroom came alive with each lesson…unfortunately.

Check out more, over at MOTE!

“Pirates,” Greaves announced, interrupting a perfectly normal game of holochess with a display of the fleet’s formation, a flicker of a glorious ship fluttering across the faceless queen’s crown before fading entirely from view. “Dragon class.”

“About time,” Izz muttered, and reluctantly untangled herself from the delightfully warm nest she’d made amongst the metal-and-grease scent she associated with the hold of full of antiques salvaged from early spaceships and colonies.

Izz snorted. It was certainly better than the lingering scent of burnt onion roots. She held her breath and hurried in sock feet through the galley and into the cockpit.

“Good electronic warfare capabilities,” Greaves continued. “Laser defenses. I like those. You should upgrade me so I can have some.”

“Shush, you.” Leaning over, she hit the red button and hopped on one foot to tug her abandoned boots on. “You’re late, Grigg.”

A holo popped up in return, a miniature but perfectly formed – if showing off far too much chest via his unbuttoned jumpsuit – man posing for her view. “Aye, lass, but m’here, no?”

“Been waiting,” she returned, waving a second boot at the flexed muscles masquerading as a pilot. “Near a week now.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, love.”

“You’ll comp the extra supplies?” She raised an eyebrow and held it there, hoping he’d break before she wobbled.

Her eye muscles were barely strained when Grigg gave his answer.

“Acourse, love. I’ll have Pan see to it straightaway.”

“Then we’re five by five.” Her father had always said that phrase. She’d have to ask the AI about the origin. Speaking of…she jabbed the black button to pause the transmission.

“Greaves, keep it low profile, will you?”

A sniff was the only response from the illegal AI.

Izz jabbed the red button again, tabbing up her boots and wondering whether getting mixed up with Griggs and his lot was a good idea.

“Sorry, cut out there.” She gave a real smile of welcome. “Good to see you again, Grigg.”

“Someone’s got to get to the surface,” he said. “My fleet shelters you from the meteorite storm, you sneak us down planetside while the radar’s taken offline. You get the booty, I get my contact and his info out.”

She frowned, worried about last-minute changes sneaking into the agreement. Grigg was a pirate, no matter that he was also a childhood friend who’d called in a mark she couldn’t ignore, not if she wanted to return to familiar ports again. “As we agreed.”

“Be over shortly, love.” Griggs glanced over his shoulder and nodded to someone she couldn’t see. “These dragons’ll shelter you through the storm. Quick and easy in’n out, yeah?”

The transmission fizzled.

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of…” Izz’s whisper turned into a whistle of surprise. “Greaves, those ships are packing more than meets the eye, aren’t they?”

“Affirm,” the AI noted. “Hidden weapons detected in expected and unusual locations, newly installed. Do you have reason to believe this mission is more dangerous than the pirate suggested?”

Izz returned the sarcasm. “Only my entire childhood.”

***

Becky and I traded prompts this week. I received dragons surfing the storm (and took some liberties); she found Chaos in a puppy. Find more over at MOTE!

“Thanks for helping me again,” June said, trying to hide her guilt. “I should be able to figure this out on my own…”

Should, but couldn’t seem to get it right, and her class’ start inched closer with each wonky cable and blank screen.

“Perfectly reasonable,” Peter reassured her from inside the podium, voice echoing oddly. A muffled sneeze followed. “Unlike your message.”

Heat flushed her face and neck. “Um. I, ah, have no idea what I sent. Not exactly. Just some combination of desperation and despair.”

He pulled his head out, dusted his hands, and raised his eyebrows before reaching for his back pocket.

“‘Help,’” he read aloud. A long finger raised for dramatic emphasis. “‘I broke the internet. Student swarm of destruction imminent. Urgent help requested ASAP.’”

He tucked his phone away. “Ay-Ess-Ay-Pea,” he repeated, though he’d pronounced the acronym as ay-sap the first time.

“Student ratings,” June mumbled. “It’s not like I have tenure. And the dean hates me.”

“They switched the room,” Peter said. “You’ll be lucky if anyone shows at all.”

She groaned. “I forgot to put a sign up.”

“Relax,” he reassured her, and crouched by the wires. “I’m almost done. I’ll post a notice on my way back.”

“Really?” Hope rose, and she fought it down before it betrayed her. “It’s like magic. I couldn’t get any of the projectors to work.”

“No magic needed, just technology. The room’s archaic, but it’ll do until the construction ends.” Peter’s head disappeared again. “Try it now.”

June pressed a button, and all three screens filled with a brightly lit diagram. “It worked!”

Peter abruptly let out a sneeze. Suddenly the screen display appeared on the wrong screen – all three showed different slides from her presentation.

“What just happened?”

Peter huffed his way into another sneeze. “Pardon, it’s rather dusty.”

“Not that. What are you pressing?” June bit down on her finger, wondering if she should it back on coffee. “Every time you sneeze, the screens change”

Another explosion.

“Yes, like that!”

Peter wiggled his way upright, eyes watering. “I’m not – achoo! – touching any – achoo!”

“Wait, I like this,” she mused. “I mean, bless you and all. It’s almost right, though. Try one more time?”

“What-choooo!”

“Perfect!” Each screen displayed a different slide. She’d be able to lecture with just these three slides. “Now out! Before you sneeze again.”

“But -” He sucked in a deep breath. “Ahhhh.”

She planted a hand on his back and steered him out the door. “Thanks, I’ll see you later, bye!”

***

Needs some tweaking, but had fun writing it!

Thanks to Cedar for the screen swapping prompt! Can’t wait to see what nother Mike does with a fruit basket! Find more at MOTE.

Elizabeth felt the tromping of the men’s boots reverberating in her ribcage long after they vanished down the long double ribbon of highway that stretched onto the horizon. She felt their absence with each boot landing in unison, each forthcoming loss ringing in her chest where her heart should have rested.

“Clockwork precision,” OctoBot murmured, wrapping a tentacle around her shoulder. “Their steps, your heart. Both strong. Hold firm, apprentice.”

She dropped her hand from where she’d held it pressed to her chest with a guilty twinge. Control of her expressed emotions was paramount. Mannerisms that should have been ingrained by now, but her wrinkled cravat told another story, one she would take pains to hide this evening when she returned home. She tucked the crumpled fabric into her corset, heedless of observers or further damage.

“Come now.” OcotBot’s gentle voice concealed piercing insight from casual observers, a fact Elizabeth had discovered within several hours of beginning her apprenticeship. “The balcony isn’t safe.”

A tentacle drifted upward, and Elizabeth let her eyes follow, finally tearing them away from where the soldiers had marched to war.

Above their heads, angular dots annoyed an enormous oval, biplanes pecking at the airship protecting the city like jays chasing a hawk. Faint flashes of light came before the buzzing and faint sirens penetrated her consciousness.

“Come,” OctoBot repeated, and wrapped several tentacles around the girl’s waist to pull her inside the factory.

***

Something I’m playing with, inspired by Leigh Kimmel: The long double ribbon of highway stretched on to the horizon — and overhead an airship battled a swarm of biplanes.

My prompt went to Becky Jones: “As if average means anything to those of us who are odd,” she perused aloud, “except perhaps to determine how far outside it we might venture.”

Check more out over at MOTE!

The voice began as soon as June’s key rattled into her office door. And the door was worse than glued, every time, no matter what she did.

“Today!” the voice proclaimed, and she threw her hip against the door like the hockey player she’d seen lurking hopefully outside Michelle Archer’s office door moments before.

“Stop it!” she hissed.

Her voice echoed in the hallway, enough to catch the hockey player’s attention.

The hulking student frowned and headed her way. “Need a hand, Prof?”

“Door sticks,” she muttered, giving it a kick with one booted foot. It popped open. From the corner of one eye, she saw movement inside her office and pulled the door back to block the student’s view.

He looked dubiously at her from underneath a fringe of shaggy nut-brown hair. “You are a professor? Not just breaking in?”

Dr. Michelle Archer chose that moment to arrive in a blur of cool poise and expensive perfume. The other woman let out a glib laugh. “How droll. June just looks too young to teach, but the university did hire her.” Her tone questioned the wisdom of that decision. “Come along, Lars.”

The others turned away and headed down the hall — just as the voice began to warble again.

“I have counted the stars and heard the fate of dark worlds,” caroled the voice from inside her office.

“Laptop must have malware,” June offered glibly, fingers crossed. “I’d best see to that. Shall I?”

She slipped inside the door and slammed it shut. Sliding to the floor with satchel and coffee still mostly intact, June leaned against the cool, stubborn, sticking wood and rubbed her forehead with her free hand.

“Pytho, we’ve had this conversation!”

The skull on her bookshelf was mere feet away in the obvious part of her office. It lacked a body, and yet the expression Pytho turned her way gave every evident sign of having his hands on his hips. “You said, and I quote, ‘Would you mind not trying to get me killed on a daily basis?’ Nor have I done so since.”

“Professionally embarrassed counts as killed,” she muttered.

“This generation,” the skull tossed back at her. “As if you know war, for all that you study it.”

“Enough, Pytho. Must you prophesize every day?”

This time, his expression looked like a slightly apologetic shrug. “Purpose of existence.”

She held up a finger and took the lid off her paper coffee cup. June drained half its contents, then carefully put the plastic lid back on to keep the warmth inside.

“Hit me with today’s doom, then. Let’s get it over with.”

***

This week’s prompt was from Padre: “Would you mind not trying to get me killed on a daily basis?”

Mine went to Becky Jones: They were waiting to use the last of it for a special occasion.

Find more at MOTE!

Dr. June Porter pressed her lips firmly together to keep from saying anything to the lurker outside her office door. She did not have to like her thesis advisee; she merely had to get him to produce satisfactory work sufficient to get rid of him.

Watching him slouch against the narrow faculty hallway wall reading a glossy periodical known for its style advice for men and the latest trendy whiskey did not give inspire confidence that she’d be rid of him anytime soon.

“Score,” Christian sang out with smug satisfaction, and tucked the item in question into his backpack. “Someone left money in the magazine.”

June rolled her eyes and unlocked her office door. Her eyes drifted to his hand reaching for the floor as she put her shoulder into the usual spot to dislodge the perpetually stuck corner.

“Wait!” She blurted, gaze glued to the floor. Above the worn industrial carpet, the bill burned to her sight with a sickly red glow. It might be masquerading as a fifty — enough to tempt even the students from richer families, as Christian had just greedily proved — but that alluring piece of paper screamed “trap” louder than last week’s drunken space movie fans who’d pew-pewed their way into an overnight jail cell.

“Tell me why?” he drawled, not bothering to hide his disdain as he rose. “Need it to pay the bills?”

She forced a fake smile and a shrug while tugging on a thread to unravel the complicated knot on the parchment. It wasn’t like she could tell him what he thought was a windfall was filled with poisonous magic. “Didn’t you hear about the counterfeit bills making their way onto campus?”

He sniffed and reached toward the floor again. “I’ll risk it.”

Out of time, June went for the Gordian knot approach and sent a spark of magic straight at the paper.

“Ouch!” Christian rubbed his fingers.

“Static’s been getting everyone lately,” June murmured, and set her satchel next to the tray she used as a desk.

He followed her into the tiny room, still muttering.

If he only knew. Nothing good came from lures that attractive.

***

The email I thought I sent, well, didn’t! This week, I snagged a spare instead: Someone left money in the pages of the magazine.

Find more and play along over at MOTE!

“Political weddings,” Lilibeth sighed in disgust. She slapped her clipboard down on the counter and disappeared underneath the aged walnut beams.

I leaned over, wondering what she was doing, but all I saw was a mass of skirts and quickly averted my eyes.

“Right,” came a muffled version of her usual dulcet tones. “Welcome to Castle Steinbeck, Pika.” Her voice became clearer as she emerged, treasure in hand. “I’m sorry to start your first day of work with what we normally won’t do, but it’s all hands on deck for political weddings.”

I accepted the clipboard with a red sheet of paper hesitantly. “The reputation was compelling.” The words swam in front of my face, and I averted my eyes with haste. “You’re saying the castle doesn’t guarantee the marriage will last?”

She paused in the process of securing her own scarlet sheet, the red rippling underneath a fan in an ominous warning. “The castle guarantees nothing,” she said sternly. Lilibeth’s eyes crinkled. “We just make sure it’s too uncomfortable for the poor matches to go through with the deal.”

“I thought…” My lips moved without sound for a moment before I gave up and waved an arm.

Lilibeth took pity on me. “If the bride can’t make it to the altar because she’s trapped in a maze until she meets a better fit, or if she happens upon the groom trysting with another in the gardens, are you suggesting that the castle shifts paths to accommodate a marriage filled with love and partnership rather than misery and doubt?”

“Um, when you put it that way.” I tried to study my clipboard, but my fingers betrayed me and it clattered to the ground.

“Because you’d be right,” she said softly.

I bonked my head on the huge wooden beams of the counter overhang at that. Fortunately not with great force. The castle saved marriages, not head wounds.

When I made it back to my feet, Lilibeth gave me a sad smile. “Political weddings, though. We don’t usually accept them, because the castle doesn’t like unhappiness. The couples often wind up living separate lives, for instance, only kept together for reasons that can only be described as nonsense. As if anyone with a head on their shoulders cares what the press thinks.”

I followed her down the hall toward the soaring cathedral. Our footsteps echoed as we walked, and I started to understand why walking softly had been part of the job qualifications.

“So the political couples – they’re special, somehow?”

“Paying for it, more like.” Vinegar was less acidic than her words. “We don’t take many customers like them, as mentioned, but those we do, are well aware they get the reputation of a solid match without the Marriage Guarantee.”

Her voice grew hard. “I make sure of it, and at least when they enter into the deal, they believe the consequences. I won’t have fools ruin our reputation.”

“Consequences?”

She paused and turned, barring her teeth. “They’re unable to separate without repercussions.”

As we entered the cathedral, I suddenly wondered with trepidation if I was the one who now got to dust the intricate alcoves and statues, two-thirds masked in the soft morning light. Yipes! I’d be here a week trying to get dust under control.

“It’s all on the checklist.” She blew out her breath in what the generous might label a sigh and sounded remarkably like my neighbor’s brown and white cow. “First off, get the screaming candles. They warn of a poor match. We can guarantee the couple already knows that, and they’ll go through with it anyway. No need to interrupt the service.”

“For which I thank you,” a soft voice came from – below?

I blinked, and a mouse in black garb but for a priest’s collar twinkled beady eyes and twitched his whiskers in greeting. Crouching down, I extended a hand, then rethought it into a finger. “Ah, greetings, Father?”

“Pika, this is Father Windfolk.” Lilibeth’s sharp eyes were watching my reactions, even more than during my interview. “He came to us one day by way of the sacramental garden – a door just popped into view on a tree, and suddenly the hawks stayed away. We don’t hold weddings in that area, either, only the others.”

His paw was warm and dry on my fingertip. “I wouldn’t want weddings in my yard either,” I managed. “I’m glad the hawks leave you alone. Will yardwork be part of my duties?”

***

This didn’t come out quite how I’d like, but I’m leaving it here for now. This prompt incorporated a spare from last week about screaming candles as well as Becky Jones’ prompt this week about a tiny door in a tree. My prompt about the Linear City went to Leigh Kimmel, and I can’t wait to see what she does with it.

Find more at MOTE!

The icon for the new AI art bot was an anthropomorphic raccoon with an artist’s palette and a big grin. Art – as he was of course named – cheerfully painted alongside the AI’s user, no matter the subject.

The bot’s misplaced empathy had gone viral after Art cheerfully painted a Victorian funeral, a woman sobbing, and a gloomy Scottish ruin – all on social media fame.

The AI owners took full advantage of the viral publicity and built a cheerful robot that went on tour as it “painted” using the AI.

The trick kept the momentum rolling until the hottest day of the year…

“I quit!” spat the tiny man as he fell out of a hidden compartment inside the purported robot. He lay on the ground, stunned and panting, and then ran for the woods.

The AI owner smoothed his mustache as the crowd pulled closer. “Ah, folks – eep!”

***

This week’s belated prompt was a trade with Leigh Kimmel. Check out the fun and join in over at More Odds Than Ends – next week’s inspiration is already posted!

“Medina!” June tightened her eyes in frustration and wished her mother were still alive to answer life’s unanswerable questions about raising stubborn children. She opened her eyes to find her hands on her hips, a pose she remembered her mother holding in faded, damaged photographs.

“Peanut’s on the loose again, Mommy.” Medina batted big eyes at her mother. “I scared him with the magics.”

She felt her eyes sliding shut again in self-defense and stopped herself before the indulgence gave way to defeat. “You know, not three weeks ago, I was wishing you’d show signs of magical ability.”

“An’ I did!” she said proudly.

June bent and picked up her daughter, letting out a slight oof as she settled her in on her hip. It’s been a lot of change, kiddo. Are you sure you’re not tired?”

Medina shook her head, pigtails flying, and otherwise silent.

“And the magic you did that scared Peanut?”

Medina stayed quiet and bit her lip as they maneuvered around plastic bricks and scattered books.

I have got to watch how much I do that. It’s a bad habit she doesn’t need to pick up. “Hmmmmmmmm?” She drew out the ending. “Did something break?”

“Go boom,” Medina whispered.

“You know Peanut’s got big ears. Loud noises will bother her until she grows into them.”

June opened the front door to find a small, shell-pink dragon huddled at the end of the driveway, watching intermittent foot traffic. She let out a low whistle.

Peanut’s ears flipped backward in relief as she raced for the townhouse. “Milady, you may have to talk to the neighbors again. Apparently I lack the demeanor for a convincing golden retriever.”

She let her suddenly kicking daughter down and the pair raced off. June rubbed her face with one hand and pulled her phone from her back pocket with the other. “I’d better tell Peter we need to step up the house hunt.”

***

This week’s prompt was inspired by Becky Jones and a dragon. My colorful prompt went to Leigh Kimmel. Check it, and more, out at MOTE!

“Are those…” Mikhail trailed off and squinted, trying to get a better view. He grabbed the edge of the rowboat as if his bobbing viewpoint would stabilize.

Long peels of paint stabbed into his hand, which he ignored in favor of squinching his eyes still tighter. The moonlight, bright as it was, wasn’t enough to see clearly in a fleet of dilapidated boats that were certainly not seaworthy, even if they passed muster in a large pond. “Narwhals? In a freshwater pond?”

“Well, don’t underestimate the campus pond,” Liza pointed out. “Or Oren will dump another wave on you. I think the point of this class is to discover what’s in the lake, don’t you?”

“Seasickness,” he muttered, as the boat caught the eddy of another set of oars. “It contains seasickness.”

Professor Kasia Edyth laughed from the next boat over. “Your first answer was closer, Mikhail.” The science professor shoved her ever-present sunglasses firmly atop her nose, though the gorgon’s snakes were coiled tightly to her head in the cool evening air. “They’re not narwhals, but they’re close.”

A white body rose in front of his boat, just as Liza gave an enormous heave of the oars. The creature let out a strange, burbling screech before diving out of the rowboat’s way.

Professor Edyth held up a hand, and the boats more or less drifted to an untidy stop. “Close enough. Now, we wait.”

“For what?” Liza whispered.

Too loudly, although the professor ignored it but for a faint smile.

In the middle of the pond, underneath the moonlight, came rippling flashes of white and silver in the water, led by the horns that Mikhail had mistaken for narwhals.

The flashes formed patterns, one after another, gaining in intensity and speed as more of the shining creatures joined into the dance. Intricate lacework formed, a mosaic of leaping horns and bodies.

It dazzled his eyes, all too brief that the unicorns’ watery dance was, and it took a few seconds for him to realize it had ended. Mikhail gasped once the realization struck him, longing for more.

In front of him, Liza surreptitiously wiped a tear.

“Synchronized swimming,” Professor Edyth murmured into the disappointed crowd. “Everyone hates to see it end. Your reactions are normal.”

Mikhail was the first to manage vocalization. “I…I’m just glad I saw it.”

The gorgon grinned, and propped her oars against her knees. “That’s the right attitude.” She raised her voice. “Once a quarter, coinciding with the solstices and equinoxes, the unicorns dance. We don’t know why, as no one known to our recorded magical history has ever received an answer to any attempted communications.”

The lecture continued, but Mikhail’s attention was caught by the glimmer of a single horn, briefly piercing the water, and dark, watchful eyes.

***

AC Young prompted me this week with unicorns swimming under the light of the full moon. My prompt of mixed emotions went to nother Mike. Check more out and play along, over at MOTE!