Writer of Fantasy. Wielder of Red Pens.
This post has been removed. Why? Because it’s part of the Professor Porter saga, currently in progress.
***
Leigh Kimmel prompted me over at MOTE this week with: “After many years you return to one of your favorite childhood vacation spots and discover…” Check out what AC Young explored with the water pig races in the prompt trade over at the hangout for the odd prompts!
Merrisai tapped a button on the side of her headband and settled with a sigh into the harbor water. For once, the faint sheen of oil from shipping traffic floating atop the gentle, lapping waves didn’t make her wrinkle her nose with disgust. This, at least, was normal.
She flipped her tail, careless of the water splashing the corporate samurai. Unless he was about to break conditioning and violate orders, he was about to get soaked soon enough.
“I never understood SeaCorp,” the man said, studying what lay in the distance. He did not move to join her, nor did she expect him to do so. The blurred visage of the floating castle rested on the horizon, perpetually out of reach for the uninvited.
“My captor speaks,” murmured Merrisai. She could taste the bitter words on her tongue.
His sharp glance stung. “My name is Canyon. You had a choice. My employer wishes to ensure you keep your bargain.”
She smoothed a nanoscale that had caught on concrete earlier today to hide shaking fingers. Given enough time in the water, it would lay flat again. It would heal.
Unlike her sister.
She looked toward the floating castle and changed the subject. The waves splashed against her bare stomach. “The tide comes. I’ve called a floating fish for you.”
“That’s how we get there?” He raised a skeptical eyebrow, the perfect representation of the gritty city initiate.
Merrisai tossed neon hair and gave him a wicked grin. The one filled with pointed fangs designed to terrorize prey, that she and Seesai had practice together as girls. A wave of disappointment floated over her bravado as he failed to flinch. “No, Captor Canyon. The path into SeaCorp’s secrets is not through a diving airfish. Nor is it as simple as managing to travel to the floating castle.”
She pointed into the distance, at the deepening indigo clouds. The wind already scraped at her face with increasing intensity. “No, samurai. Tonight we ride the storm.”
***
Leigh Kimmel and I traded prompts this week. She’s working on “The line of kings spanned unbroken for 2,583 years, until….” and prompted me with The Doors’ Riders on the Storm this week, which fit well as a snippet I’ve been working on. Check out more at More Odds Than Ends!
Falona grasped her heavy skirts in a hand heedless of the servants’ long work to press the fabric and darted up the stairs with unseemly haste. Already the air was clearer as she neared the balcony, though the memory of overwhelming perfumes nearly drowned out the delicate scent wafting from the rose trellis.
As always, Eddwyrd had beaten her there. She slowed her steps to a more decorous pace, though she suspected he didn’t inform her father nearly half of what she put him through. Her head bodyguard took each briefing from red-faced, sputtering guard with remarkable aplomb. The worst she’d ever seen him do was keep a white-knuckled hand on his sword as her antics were recounted anew…although the few times he’d given her disappointed looks were so memorable, she flushed with historic guilt.
He was gripping that sword with the same unnatural tension now, though his disappointed gaze was focused on the rose trellis that wafted inward as clearly as the sound of racing boots behind her.
“Sir! Commander Eddwyrd,” gasped the voice behind her. “The princess -“
“Has escaped the ballroom,” Eddwyrd gently cut the man off. “It is a ritual, I’m afraid, reenacted upon each new guard. You did well in coming here to find me rather than creating a panic.”
His pointed gaze prompted her into a curtsy, eyes down to hide the dancing laughter threatening to spoil the ritual. Protocol always made her want to giggle. “I apologize, Sir Willhylm. I felt the need for fresh air and forgot to alert you first.”
Eddwyrd gestured to the other man. “Alert the gardeners, please. The nightroses are beautiful, but the trellis is a security hazard. They will need to replant.”
The man nodded and left, his boots echoing on the white and black marble.
Commander Eddwyrd pulled his bushy eyebrows together. “Aren’t you getting a touch old for this, my lady?”
She tugged her shawl around her shoulders until it was uncomfortably tight. “It felt…desperate. Too loud, too bright, too much. I didn’t like it.”
Eddwyrd was quite still. “I understand.”
She tossed the shawl over the rail. “Besides, balls are boring.”
His dark eyes twinkled. “May it ever be so.”
Falona let her giggle out. She looked up at him with eager impatience. “Did you bring it, Uncle Eddwyrd?”
“I promised you the stars, my lady, and where better than from our typical balcony?” He pulled a tube from his jacket pocket and handed it to her with both hands.
She peered through the end and studied the palace’s reflection in the harbor. “It doesn’t look any closer.”
“It requires lenses to function.”
Falona turned in a swirl of green silk and let out a gasp of delight at the round discs he held in an unfolded scarf several shades darker than her dress. “These will let me see the stars?”
“Ship captains use them, Princess. The same captains you will someday send on trade expeditions and explorations.”
She scuffed a dancing slipper’s toe against the floor, but her foot skated over the polished surface. “And to war.”
“Yes, my lady. If you must.” He fitted the lenses into the tube quickly and bent to hand it back to her.
Her small fingers closed upon the tube, but he didn’t let go. His narrow face was grave. “I shall do my best to advise you upon matters of defense and war, should it come to that. Years from now, of course.”
Falona reached up to touch her adopted uncle’s face. It was sharp with stubble and stiff with the hidden tension she’d seen before. “You will be first among my advisors.”
He laughed, and rose, his face disappearing into shadow. “None of that, now. Come. Let me show you the moons. It is a special night for them, after all.”
Velyum’s third moon was just rising, in all her blue and white striped glory to dominate the night sky. Soon the palace would put out the lanterns, as reflected light would shine near as bright as the sun. “Great hippo, Uncle Eddwyrd! Riskli looks like liquid. Like when Maman puts cream into her caf’fe every morning, before it mixes together.”
“The artificers debate whether it is liquid or gas,” Eddwyrd told her. “But don’t neglect Warso or Shadd.” The smaller moons shown perpetually, and could be glimpsed in the sky even during the brightest of sunlight days. “You see? These two are made of dirt and rock.”
“Who dug the holes on them?” she demanded without removing her eye from the scope.
He laughed gently. “Those craters have been there for generations, my lady, and artificers with enormous lenses, far more powerful than this, say they are only -“
She turned then, as his voice stopped, in time to see a fourth moon, bobbing along with a hiss and a flare of released gas. Faintly, Falona could see white sparkling dust drifting downward from the balloon as it floated across the docks and toward the palace.
“What in hippopotamus?” Eddwyrd spun her around and snatched her shawl from the balcony rail, wrapping it around her face until only her eyes were unconcealed. “No. Leave your mouth covered. No matter how hard it is to breathe.”
He snatched the scope out of her suddenly nerveless hands and tucked the scope back in his pocket without bothering to disassemble it. The dark green scarf he tied over his own face. “Damn the traitorous gardeners. We didn’t factor in those raging balloons. All our estimates were wrong.”
His eyes were focused on the lawn, where shadowy figures with enormous heads – no, heavy masks covering mouths, eyes, and nose – crept closer.
“Take my hand. Do not let go. We run for the tunnels. Do you understand?”
She didn’t, but nodded anyway. And tried to shut her ears as the screaming started, her hand clenched in his until she could no longer feel her fingers.
****
This week was interrupted by a thing. So here are some images from MidJourney as an answer to my prompt from nother Mike, which I’m playing with alongside what feels like everyone else these days.
I ran out of energy after a few attempts.
What I pictured: An open refrigerator door, with a bowl full of red Jell-o, and a line of velociraptor tracks running away. (I even had an archeological story to go with this, but it’s not happening tonight.)
What I got? A bento box of dinosaurs. But hey, it’s fun. Still, these might be the worst results I’ve gotten with MJ so far.
And that’s it for tonight. Check out a whole lot more and better over at MOTE.
“Mama?” The high-pitched voice came from down the hall, followed by the pitter-patter of tiny feet moving at speed on wooden floorboards. “Mama. Mama!”
Ellen set down her knitting and opened her arms to the flannel-clad missile headed toward her lap. As much as she’d never imagined it would become the norm, her rocking movements and soothing backrub was automatic after years of practice. “What is it, sweetie?”
“Monster under the bed again,” a muffled voice said into her sweater.
She suppressed an eyeroll, even though her husband silently laughed from where he sat across the room reading the latest mystery novel. He kicked up sock-clad feet and pulled the book closer to his nose, a silent signal that it was her turn.
“How about I tuck you in and sing you a song?” She switched to running her fingers through Elizabeth’s hair, a move her daughter called “tickle-good.”
“‘kay.” Her daughter kicked tiny feet in footie pajamas, looking all the world like a living teddy bear.
She oofed her way up from the rocking chair and carried Elizabeth down the hall. “You want me to check for monsters when we get there?”
The small head nodded, another precious moment she’d vowed never to regret. No matter how many monsters her miracle found.
“All right. Do you want to see?” She always offered, and Elizabeth always refused.
Tonight was no exception. And for once, Ellen was quite glad of that.
She backed away slowly. “How about a treat, and you sleep with Mommy and Daddy tonight?”
“‘kay,” came a sleepy voice.
She edged back into the living room. “Psst. Psst!”
Drake looked up in surprise. “What’s up? Spider?”
“Dragon. Under the bed!” Ellen tried to keep her voice low and calm. Her heart raced, and she adjusted her grip on Elizabeth with sweaty palms. “I can see the snout.”
His mouth opened and shut several times before intelligible words came out. “I’m not sure how to remove a dragon…”
“Well, it’s a baby,” she hissed. “Tiny snout.”
“Oh,” he said, and set his book aside. “No big deal, then. I’ll take care of it straightaway.”
“You will not!”
He paused.
“Baby dragon,” she explained. “Alone. And mama will be looking.”
This week’s prompt came from Becky Jones, and I had so much fun with it! Mine went to Leigh Kimmel, who’s guided by runestars this week.
Elle paid attention to the ground more than her tour guide as she made her way across the beach. Long, stubborn grasses poked through shifting orange sand that threatened her footing with each careful step. She’d regretted the low-heeled boots at the top of the cliffs, where the bombs had left craters so deep it still felt like walking on a strange, grassy moon.
She wasn’t worried about finding the group if she fell behind. There were but ten people on the beach. But she had paid for the guided tour, and so she hurried her steps as much as she could until she stopped along the pool of rippled brown sand, wet and puddled with water.
The tour guide gave her a tight, close-mouthed nod from underneath his black golf umbrella and began his spiel about Normandy as soon as she came in range.
She studied the waves, slowly rolling up the beach, listening to the guide as he discussed the D-Day invasion of the second world war. Unfortunately, she was disappointed. She already knew most of the guide’s information already from stories her family had passed down, after her great-grandfather had barely survived the landing. She barely remembered him, but he’d passed on a love of history to her.
Being at Normandy was a dream come true. She felt the solemnity of the moment, the impact of those who had lost their lives still reverberating more than seventy-five years later. The inbound tide kicked her imagination into gear, and she blinked hard at the sight of ships on the horizon. Fishing boats, most likely, and they left so quickly Elle wasn’t even sure she hadn’t dreamt them into existence.
“The moon is an egotistical goddess, pulling at the waves, no? She is mesmerizing.”
Elle started, and stumbled. One pointed toe splashed into the puddle. “Ah, I’m sorry, I was woolgathering.”
The pale guide’s waxen skin shone under the umbrella. “So I see. But you are watching the waves. This is good, yes? Hypnotic.”
Elle nodded agreement without thinking, then caught herself. “I – er, I suppose, but I’m not quite sure what you mean. Why is hypnotic good?”
In her peripheral vision, she realized the other tourists stood eerily still, staring into the ocean. A woman’s long skirt floated behind her, pressing against her body without modesty adjustments. A ticket pinwheeled across the sand until it landed ever-so-lightly into the puddle. A tall man’s coat flapped like penguin flippers.
No one else was making a sound. She started to turn her head for a better view and caught the tour guide’s eyes instead. His red eyes? She blinked, and his irises were an uninspiring shade of brown.
“Who does not wish to stare into the sea meditatively? It brings peace, you see?” The man gestured toward the waves. “Do you not wish for peace?”
Elle’s body felt sluggish. Her gaze felt glued to the waves. “I…”
“They say the sea is especially salty here, because of all the blood that has been spilled,” the tour guide continued in a soft monotone. “It was delicious. My clan feasted for weeks upon the wounded.”
She struggled in despair to move. From the corner of her eye, she watched him lick his lips with a glimpse of fangs.
***
This week, I took a prompt from Padre and turned it dark: The waves rolled slowly up the beach. My suggestion went to Becky Jones: A laugh like a drunken llama.
“Yani!” The croak came from the top of the tower, just as it had approximately 8,492,143 times earlier today. I trudged my way toward the granite spiral staircase, each step an echo of the burn I’d feel exponentially stronger by the time I finally wound my way to the top.
This had to be the worst job I’d ever accepted, and I was seriously considering whether it was worth it.
Sure, I’d be in the best shape of my life if this pattern continued. Increased lung capacity and ability to run was nothing to sneeze at.
And yes, Zohmilda had offered to train me as the next sorceress of the Glennock Tower. Which was cool. Most jobs don’t come with a tower attached. Or the ability to turn your enemies into frogs. Not that I had any of those yet, but she’d assured me it would come with time.
Enemies, not frogs. At least, that’s what I assumed.
But sweeping each angled step with a loose bundle of sage on the way up, then a broom of lavender on the trip down? What purpose did that serve? What happened if I missed a step?
Actually, forget I asked. I’m afraid to find out. Besides, it’s not like I can go back.
Maybe I should have questioned further who actually put classified want ads in the newspaper anymore. It was a fluke I even saw it, abandoned on the bus station’s restroom floor. I’d taken a picture with my phone to avoid touching soggy paper, excited for an opportunity.
Of course, at the time, I’d thought it was something like a renaissance faire. Or nursing a deluded old granny through her final days as companion. Either would have left a far better inheritance than my crazy uncle’s plans. His castle these days was a cardboard box in a stinking back alley, hidden behind a dumpster and wrapped in tinfoil.
I made it to the top, braced my hands on my knees, trying to enjoy the feel of sweat dampening my forehead as a sticky delight. I had to believe this would get easier as I got stronger. If I survived my first week. Which I would, because the alternative was a lot worse than minimum wage at Mickey-D’s and the perpetual perfume of French fries. “Yes, Zohmilda?”
“Good, you’re finally here. Be a lamb and run downstairs for the vial of antelope whiskers, would you? And the blue electrolyte drink while you’re at it. Not the purple grapey one, those are far too sweet.”
Such were the demands of a sorceress in the modern world. I dropped my head, letting it hang in mild despair. In between wheezes, I tried to remember my words. “Have – have you considered – considered an intercom?”
“It’s rather time sensitive, dear, if you wouldn’t mind hopping to?” The glint in her eyes reminded me of the probationary period…and the aquarium of frogs I was desperately hoping to avoid.
“Of course,” I murmured, and flipped my double-sided broomstick over to lavender. “I’ll get both from the kitchen. Be right back.”
It was only the two of us, so you’d expect that we could fend for ourselves. You’d be wrong, but it’s certainly fine to expect it. I’ve been here four days, having been directed to explore and familiarize myself with my future property, and had been startled by both the aurochs head mounted on the wall and the skeleton crew in the kitchen. The former snorted a hello; the latter group silently scrubbed the floor, prepped meals I tried not to question, and washed vials of sorcerous liquids and powders I hadn’t yet earned the right to understand.
They did a great job, but I wondered if their bony fingers could handle sign language. Zohmilda loved their silence, but I was feeling the loss of other humans, even if they hadn’t deigned to talk to me.
“What’s up, friends?”
The one doing dishes clacked her jaw at me, phalanges covered in suds. Floor scrubber nodded, the quietest of the bunch. If that were possible.
“Antelope whiskers and blue power drink,” I sang out. The skeleton prepping tonight’s mystery stew set his knife down and pulled the plastic bottle from the fridge. He placed the radioactive liquid in the basket and tapped a finger on his jaw for a moment before heading for the spice vials.
Next to cinnamon and rosemary rested black pepper crystals and a frantic, fresh-caught slug, still looking for a way out. I caught a glimpse of antenna straining toward the jar’s lid before the rack spun, and the slug was lost in a whirl of bright blue not normally found in nature.
Electrolyte drinks excepted, of course.
His hand was cold against my skin, as you might expect, but it held a spotless vial of whiskers. The label said antelope, so fingers crossed it was what Zohmilda wanted.
If not, well. Chef-skeleton had held onto my hand a little longer than he’d needed to, and he didn’t seem a bad sort.
It’d be a better outcome than the frog-quarium, that’s for sure. And skeletons don’t have muscles that cramped on the hike upstairs.
***
This week, AC Young challenged me with the title to this story, while my prompt about chaos gremlins went to nother Mike. Check out what they wrote over at MOTE!
June cracked her left eye open about half a millimeter before it froze. Her right eye was glued shut. She swiped a hand over her face and touched something warm and sticky. The dampness trailed down her chest, making her shirt tacky.
Drums thundered in her ears, until she realized it was her heartbeat. She forced her eyes open with a moan. Two shadows of Peter wavered in front of her eyes. “Wha.” She coughed, sucked in a breath, then choked as she breathed in the scent of burnt metal. She smacked her hand against her sternum. “Wha’ hap’n?”
“Stay still,” came the blurred Irish lilt, stronger than usual. “The plane went down.”
She cleared her throat, and his outline became clearer. “Pilot?”
He shook his head and placed his hand on the window near her head. “He dinna make it.”
The window popped out onto the ground. June twitched and looked up. “Triple canopy. Bushes, vines, trees. Holy crap, that’s a giant snake.”
She squirmed back against him. “I can barely see the sky.”
“Not the archeological expedition I promised, love.”
“It is an adventure, though.” She bit her lip and shoved herself upright. “Get to where we’re supposed to be on our own.”
“Without a map or other supplies,” Peter added.
She blew out a breath. “While the jungle’s trying to kill us.”
“And knows we’re walking wounded.” He brushed a strand of her hair back. “Which means we’re prey.”
***
This week, Padre prompted me with drums in the jungle. My prompt went to AC Young, to catch prompt bunnies with a butterfly net.
Teri sat on the homemade pine bough bed, bony feet curled underneath her too-thin body. It wasn’t a comfortable position anymore, but she’d worked so hard to create her shelter from mud and rocks washed smooth from endless lake waves. Snow hissed against the tarp that overlaid her roof, while the fireplace crackled with cheerful flames.
The last of her firewood, and the last of her rose hip tea, heated in a tin can she’d found washed up on shore.
The last of her food, but she’d known that for a while. Teri hadn’t expected to find cheeseburgers lying around in the forest, but she’d thought she’d catch fish, or perhaps duck.
She hadn’t expected the complete lack of deer, the short days that prevented overharvesting her forage area, or the mushrooms being filled with worms.
The door shuddered against its leather latch. It had taken most of her energy to pull the door closed. Even then, it lay haphazardly against its frame, letting in the occasional gust of wind that flickered her fire.
She reached toward the door, but all her blurred vision showed were swollen knuckles amidst soot-smudged, wrinkled skin.
***
Leigh Kimmel prompted me this week with “The door is leaning against its frame. When you pull it open, you see….”
My prompt went to AC Young, who wrote about the rainbows giving away the leprechaun convention. Go read it!
“In retrospect, I wish I’d come in sooner,” Glia said to the back of the lab coat that was topped with a blond bob. “Six months ago was when this started.”
The bob nodded and clicked through some screens. “Yes, you mentioned. Short term memory loss can be a sign of lots of things. You said you’ve been particularly stressed lately?”
“Oof,” she muttered. “Well, my routine got disrupted. I’m a bit of a homebody. Made me rather twitchy, I’m afraid. Upset with my husband, too. It just took so long to get everything done because I kept forgetting what I was doing.”
A wave of clicking followed, more than Glia thought necessary, and her lips tightened. Couldn’t Doctor What’s-her-name turn around and have a conversation for a few minutes?
“Any confusion? Trouble recognizing people?”
Glia kicked her leg restlessly and wondered if forgetting the right words counted. The antiseptic smell made her look longingly at the door.
“Mrs. Leopold?” The blonde bob finally turned around, spinning on the brown wheeled stool.
“What?” she snapped. Her eyes ran over the lab coat’s embroidery. Dr. Falstaff, the blue letters read, but the other woman looked far too young to have gone through medical school and years of residency. Where was Dr. Pikelstein, anyway?
“Any trouble with things you’ve known for a long time? Maybe another language, or problems recognizing someone you’ve known a long time?”
“Where is Dr. Pikelstein, dear?” Glia smiled at the young woman. “I’d love to hear about your skincare routine sometime.”
“Hmm.” A spin, and that dratted clicking. “I’m ordering some blood tests and several types of scans. You’re a little young for Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s, so we’ll look into whether this could be stress related, or perhaps a vitamin B12 deficiency.”
“The tests will take so long,” Glia said wistfully. “I don’t suppose I could go see the sunlight for a while?”
“We can do the bloodwork right now in just a few minutes.” The woman’s voice was firm. “Did someone drive you here?”
“My Harold,” Glia whispered with a smile.
“I’ll go get him from the waiting room and send in the nurse for the bloodwork, all right?” The blonde bobbed her head one last time, and exited. She left the door cracked.
Glia could see sunlight atop the hallway’s industrial carpet. Perhaps her Harold would be in the sunlight, where it was warm and comforting, just as he was.
He’d been especially soothing that time he’d found her wandering the neighborhood, even cleaning off her face with a wet washcloth and helping her change out of ruined clothing. One of her spells, he’d called it.
She did wish he’d relax, although it was probably too late for that worry crease to fade.
She edged her shoes onto the room’s tile floor and followed the sunlight, hoping for Harold. She was cold, so cold, inside this industrial prison that looked like every other doctor’s office across the United States.
“Glia!” The baritone was still strong, after all these years.
His voice penetrated her fugue, and she shook her head. Warm again, with her feet planted firmly in the grass, with a large lump in her peripheral vision. Vaguely, her face and shirt felt wet, but that wasn’t what mattered now. She swiped a hand over her mouth and turned with a wide grin to greet her husband and a blonde woman in a lab coat.
The woman let out a shrill scream and backed away, tripping over the curb and landing on an outstretched arm on the hard asphalt parking lot surface.
Glia looked down, ashamed, although she couldn’t have explained why. Brains glistened amongst spring grass stems at her feet. She crouched, letting the remnants squish through her fingers.
“Glia! No!”
The blonde lunged for Harold’s arm, holding him back.
Glia growled, unblinking gazed fixed upon her next meal.
***
This week, Cedar Sanderson prompted me with “scatter brained took on a whole new meaning,” and I’d just had a conversation with Spouse about a zombie virus that manifested like normal (and abnormal) aging, taking its time until it was too late…how’d I do?
My prompt went to Becky Jones, about ink suspended within stone.
© 2024 Fiona Grey Writes
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑