Writer of Fantasy. Wielder of Red Pens.

Tag: more odds than ends (Page 14 of 20)

Space Diplomat

Mina braced her spine and offered the Whigerian a tentative smile while trying to relax her eyes. The artificial grav always negatively impacted her vision, but she wasn’t fast enough.

Blurgiv “Call me Bob” Jeortin bared his teeth in a mirrored response. Yellowed ivory fangs glistened, far larger than they had any right to be, towering over her head and yet far, far too close.

The Earthside nickname for Whigerian was “werewolf” for a reason. And on late, lonely evenings when she was being honest with herself, Mina had to admit the nickname fit the bipedal lupines.

She used decades of diplomatic training to steel herself again and held up her tube of bubbly. “Back on Earth, we celebrate an agreement with a toast.” She handed him his own tube and demonstrated how to open the suction tab on top. “First we clink our tubes together, then we take a luxurious drink together. It recognizes our achievements together.”

“This is symbolic? Celebration?” Bob frowned at his tube. It looked miniscule in his paw, half lost amongst stray tufts of fur that angled inward. A claw tinged off the glass, carefully protected through the stocking of Earth’s first diplomatic spaceship. “I should invite the pack leaders aboard ship to celebrate with us. It would not be right without them.”

“Of course.” Mina gestured at the doorway. All the rooms aboard The Kissinger had received special soundproofing, so the envoys could discuss whatever they liked in as much privacy as desired. This was apparently a human trait, and most of the pack had chosen to stay in the largest room.

The Whigerians found the human desire for privacy amusing.

Still, the deal was all but signed before Bob and his envoys had entered the airlock this morning, and Earth had an ally. In space! She suppressed a squeal. A year aboard ship, dealing with the first aliens to visit the planet, and still it seemed unreal.

And yet, it was largely prosaic. She’d left her team in the lushly appointed conference room to discuss details with the Whigerians. Trade, mostly; the packs had formed intergalactic rivalries in the fighting sports before the humans had been able to blink. Rugby quancos, hockey skates, and heavy boxing bags were doing brisk business.

And cattle. Mustn’t forget that their new allies were predators, with the accompanying appetites.

“You are the…head alpha of the alphas, yes?” She knew this very well, and he knew she knew, but waited for his nod anyway as their footsteps gave magnetic clanks down the hallway. “Back on Earth, my grandparents’ country used to have a term for this. Shahenshah. It means king of kings.”

Bob laughed and threw his hands wide. “You have seen the pack. I may be the leader, but we make decisions for the best of the pack, or we do not survive long as leader.” His tongue lolled out for a moment.

She smiled, careful to avoid looking anywhere but straight ahead. “Yes, my grandparents saw that happen for themselves, when a ruler abused power. I heard their stories and believe we share the sentiment.”

Mina opened the door, and the moment of shared warmth was shattered. It was as if she’d walked ten feet down a hallway in artificial sunlight, only to be greeted with a storm.

A howling blizzard, in fact.

She clapped her hands over her ears. Howls and barking filled the air. Bob popped the tab on the glass tube. Champagne sprayed the room in a jet of projectile bubbles, but quieted the piercing shrieks. He dove into a mass of swirling fur and snarls.

A panicked hand clutched her jacket sleeve. “The intern!”

“What happened, Justin?” Mina snapped the words out. “The soundproofing was too good. We had no idea anything was wrong!”

He gulped and sucked in air with a whoosh. “The intern.”

“What?!”

“She told the spotted one he was a good boy and scratched his ears.”

Mina let out a groan and slumped against the wall. “Yep, that’ll do it.”

***

This week, Becky Jones challenged me with: She walked from sunshine into a howling blizzard in ten steps.

My prompt went to AC Young: The rental came with unexpected collateral.

It’s Been a Day


Peter walked into the kitchen and froze with a whistled wheeze. His arm dangled oddly in the air, aimed halfway toward the refrigerator. “Er, are you all right, a ghrá? You look…peaky.”

“Mmm,” June agreed. She let go of the spiral of frizzed hair she’d wrapped around her finger and looked up from her fixed gaze upon the countertop. “It’s been a day.”

“Ah…I thought you were spending time with my mother.” He busied himself with looking into the refrigerator. The clink of glass gave away his quest for Harp lager, and the rattle of metal in the drawer took longer than it should have. “I thought you liked my mother.”

“I do like your mother,” she replied gloomily. “And these croissants. It’s still been a day.”

Her boyfriend kept his head turned away. “Weren’t you having a relaxing spa day? Wasn’t that the plan?”

“It was a good plan.” The croissant crunched as her teeth sank into it. “Too bad no one followed it.”

Prudently, Peter stayed out of reach, across the kitchen island. He took a sip of his drink. “So what happened?”

“The spa started doing homeopathic remedies.”

He let out a groan. “Mum critiqued them, didn’t she?”

“She did indeed.” Another slow bite of croissant, and June wiped her mouth as flakes of buttery pastry shattered in flakes onto the granite countertop. “So we went to a bookstore instead.”

“That sounds safe.” Her son sounded cautious in his assessment.

“Doesn’t it?” Silence filled the kitchen as June stared into empty air, glassy-eyed and vacant.

He banged down the bottle. “Well, what happened, then?”

“They had an early display for St. Patrick’s Day. And got the leprechauns wrong.”

Peter drained the beer and went back to the refrigerator for another. “They always do.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she agreed, and her foot slipped off the kitchen barstool. “Grab me one of those, will you? My foot’s asleep. I think I’ve been here for too long.”

“So you went somewhere else,” he prompted. “Just not recently.”

June nodded. “There was a craft store across the street.”

“You didn’t.

“We did.”

There was a long, poignant moment of silence before June raised her glass to his. The bottles clinked merrily.

“And then?”

She looked up, her eyes widening in surprise. “How did you know there was more?”

“You’re eating a croissant like it tried to steal your land.”

June didn’t know if he felt safe enough to edge around the countertop for a gentle hip bump, or if the beer had kicked in too fast. She ticked off the list on her fingers. “So there was the writing group at the coffeeshop where the bully left in tears and your mother left literally on everyone else’s shoulders, the painting class with wine in the middle of the day – which at that point I’m not ashamed to say I needed, and the zoo where the baby red pandas escaped.”

“Still not croissants.”

She ignored the commentary. “Your mother rescued the red pandas, of course, and then led a flock of flamingos – which she plucked for quills, mind you, and they still flocked with her – and then somehow we were at your parents’, not writing letters with our new flamingo quills but making croissants, because she was bored. Or she was making them, and I’m pretty sure I spent the time hallucinating that I helped. You know I can’t cook.”

“Bake,” he corrected. “Pastry is baking.”

June shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. I think I need a nap.”

“That’s more believable than you cooking,” he muttered, but the room was already empty.

***

This week, nother Mike challenged me to consider the plans no one followed, while my prompt went to Leigh Kimmel to explore moving tattoos.

Starburst Academy

“Cadet Lisse?” The woman in the black and grey uniform looked up from her pad just long enough to see the strawberry blonde rise to her feet. “Follow me, please.”

Lisse followed the woman’s neat bun down the narrow corridor, running a hand over the rivets briefly before trying to emulate her bobbing walk.

“You’ll get used to it soon enough.”

She startled, catching the other woman’s eyes as the bun was replaced with a brief flash of sparkling blue eyes. “How…?”

“Everyone does it. Especially the Earthborn. Your body can tell the gravity isn’t the same. Hold here for a moment.”

Lisse followed her into an alcove and pummeled her brain to read the insignia. She’d studied, but there was so much to learn. Maybe spacers had it easier, having the military drop by on shore leave, but they rarely came Earthside anymore. The shuttles weren’t affordable to the rank and file, anyway, and it wasn’t like she’d have been hanging out with the top brass as a wavering high school graduate.

Maybe if her father had bothered to come home at all. She blinked, hard, and refocused. “Lieutenant Jamison. Intelligence specialist. Celestial marksmanship. Good conduct. Laser deterrence. Um, Halian campaign? Honor Academy graduate. And, I think…Robundan planetary liberation?”

Lt Jamison waved a hand dismissively. “It means little up here, but we have to put on a show for the takeoff cams. Vids everywhere groundside, you know? It’s all for the politicians. No one cares up here. Now.” She narrowed her eyes. “Straighten your shoulders. Yes, like that.”

Strong fingers brushed Lisse’s shoulder, and she glanced down to find her uniform as spotless as when the vacuum chamber had sucked the lint away.

“Okay. Pat your hair. You ready? Captain lets a few cadets watch each time.” Lt Jamison snapped her shoulders back and spun on her bootheel. “Ask questions while you still can. The Academy’s kind of stupid about it. Thinks it builds character to throw you into what you don’t know and make you figure it out.”

They marched out of the alcove and toward a sealed hatch. Lisse watched Lt Jamison spin the wheel and strained her ears. “What’s that sound?”

Lt Jamison sighed. “The Captain.” A guitar squealed wildly as the hatch door swung open, and the woman raised her voice to be heard over it. “Go! And be polite!”

She hurried through, barking both shins against the unfamiliar entrance and lower gravity. Lisse caught herself from falling and straightened again, trying out an unfamiliar salute. “Cadet Lisse Montoro reporting as requested, Captain!”

The volume lowered as she shouted, leaving her words echoing too loudly in the enclosed space, and she realized her reflection showed in the screens spread before the Captain’s command post.

“Hand down, Cadet.” The chair spun to reveal a woman with the short-cropped hair and deathly-white skin of a long-term spacer. “No saluting indoors. Welcome to the USS Haugh.” The word sounded like the bird. “Here we ferry cadets and listen to classic rockinrolla from 150 years ago. If you don’t like it, I don’t want to know.”

Lisse dropped her hand and eyes, feeling her face warm. “Sorry, Sir.”

“Academy’s the place to make mistakes, Cadet, make no mistake about it.” She unsnapped her harness and stood, extending a hand. “Captain Sommers. Pleased to meet you. I hope to see you out here some day. Just me on the bridge for the moment, so speak freely. Now.” Her eyes narrowed, and Lisse saw where Lt Jamison had obtained her rapid way of speaking. “Space is unforgiving, even on easy flights. You’re sure it’s for you?”

Taking the hand, she dared to raise her eyes. “Honestly, not yet, Sir. I love computers, but not video games. This seemed like a patriotic way to make a difference.”

Captain Sommers grunted and sat back down, each movement precise and economical. “Good answer. Well reasoned. Don’t tell the Academy that or you’ll never make it out here in the ether. You’ll find that you know by the end of sophomore year, if you make it that far. That’s why we risk bringing cadets to space.”

The woman kept talking as Lisse stared at the screens. The tech behind them was years beyond what she’d had Earthside, if the displays were anything to go by. “I have so much to learn.”

She stopped and barked a laugh. “Sure and you do, Cadet. Sure and you do. Now sit over there and strap in for a few minutes. Yes, copilot seat. The LT will bring the next victim by in fifteen minutes, so ask the questions you need to before then.”

As it turned out, the comms system wasn’t far from what she’d used playing around with old school radios. Contacting point A from point B wasn’t that different after all.

“You’ll do well in the techo classes, eh?” Lisse reddened again at the praise. Captain Sommers ignored it and pressed buttons until the screen changed. “Let me show you space surveillance. Key to lasering debris before it can hit the ship, although this path’s usually well-trafficked enough to be fairly clear.”

The Haugh chose that moment to lurch sideways. A thud reverberated through her bones. Straps burned against her shoulders, and her chin snapped painfully into her chest. One wrist banged against Captain Sommer’s command chair. Over the sounds of the blaring unfamiliar music came a snap, and with it, white-blinding pain.

Blessed darkness followed.

Drums thundered inside her head when she cracked sticky eyes open. Droplets of blood floated in front of her face, as did both her hands. Artificial grav was off, then. Lisse coughed and looked for Capt Sommers. “Sir.”

Her voice rasped thinly, and the drums were louder than ever. “Sir!”

The blood tracing through the air couldn’t have supported life outside a physical body. Too much of it, and the physical body ceased to be. “Captain!”

The chair had snapped, and a single pale arm lay unmoving beneath it.

Drums were joined by guitar, a man yelling, and a screech of static. Lisse brushed the droplets out of her face with her good arm, mourning the stains on the brand-new grey sleeve of her cadet uniform.

She brushed the inappropriate non sequitur aside, pushed a green button, and held her breath that the brief lesson had been sufficent.

“Command.” She coughed again, and felt her ribs protest. “Command, this is…USS Haugh. We’ve been, um…” Her mind went blank. “Thunder stormed. No. Struck. By something? Starburst. We had just begun looking at space surveillance before impact. Haugh Actual has been injured, possibly killed, en route to academy. We are damaged and carrying…”

She pressed her lips together, trying to remember. “…approximately seventy Earthside cadets and the rest Stationers. I have no pilot experience and am not certain about the rest of the crew’s status at this time.”

“Copy, Haugh. Are you cadet or crew?” The voice was deep and soothing, steadying her nerves.

“Cadet. Lisse Montoro. I don’t hear engines and believe we are drifting.”

“Good job, Cadet Montoro.” She could hear the smile in the man’s voice. “Starting early in your spacer career, I see. Are you injured?”

“Yes. Mostly minor, possible -” she glanced down at her previously pristine cuff “-make that probable broken wrist.”

“Copy, Cadet Montoro. Any flight experience?”

“No. I mean, negative.”

This time, he laughed out loud.

“Simulation dismissed,” a robotic voice announced in her ear.

“What?” Lisse shivered with reaction. Her entire body felt cold, so cold her wrist didn’t ache anymore. Her hand worked perfectly, and pushed the glass open. Her legs didn’t work as well, and she slid onto the grated floor.

A man in the ubiquitous black and grey uniform grinned at her from the next pod over. “Happens to everybody, but especially Earthsiders. Welcome to the Academy.” His hands flew over the touchpad, and familiar, confused noises emerged from a glass coffin filled with condensation. “How’d you like the psych profile?”

***

This week on the More Odds Than Ends prompt challenge, AC Young challenged me with a prompt I twisted out of all recognition: The hawk flew through the thunderstorm. My prompt went to Becky Jones: The castle was filled with the friendliest vampires [character] had ever encountered.

Psst! Interested? You can play, too!

Poison and Broken Glass

June rolled over and heaved until her stomach hurt. Mouth sour, the aches from lying on the polished wooden floor seeping into her hip until her spine twinged.

“Wha’?” she mumbled, and flattened onto her back. The pain stabbed through her head, but her hand flopped into her face with an awkward thump onto gritty eyes.

She forced them open, and regretted it. The room wasn’t merely content to waver, but cavorted merrily around with Olympic-qualifying synchronized swimming. The staircase she could have sworn was in the back of the townhouse had moved to the front, and the ceiling dripped previously plain white pain with venomous acid onto her prone form.

“Ugh.” She closed her eyes again, and the room grew still with blessed darkness. If not for the galloping herd of cattle catching her brain with their horns during a stampede, she’d have been content to continue her increasingly cold fugue.

Her fingers clenched, on the hand not currently holding her hair. A sharp pebble beneath her fingertips broke the moment along with her skin. June’s eyes popped open.

This time, her gaze was exceptionally clear, even as she shivered in the chill breeze. Shattered glass scattered across her godfather’s sofa, coffee table, and onto the floor. Blood dripped onto the shards as she stared uncomprehendingly at the broken front window.

Beside her, soaking into a Persian rug assuredly authentic in every hand-tied silk thread, was a pool of black, caffeinated liquid, topped with the scattered remnants of a chocolate-chip cookie. And from the innocent confection rose a taunting miasma of black magic that swirled around the room and left her shaking.

***

This week’s MOTE prompt came from Leigh Kimmel, who offered this challenge: The stairway is in the back — but you’re sure you remember it having been in the middle of the house.

Mine went to Cedar Sanderson: The cat hefted her hammer and blew out a breath that perturbed her whiskers.

Wheeee!

Jenny wandered into the kitchen and leaned over to give David a kiss. “Dinner?”

“Just spaghetti. Nothing fancy.” He stirred the pasta. “Just a few minutes, if you want to get the table ready.”

She grabbed silverware from the drawer and hunted for napkins with her free hand. “Sometimes eating is for pleasure. Sometimes it’s the prelude to a fun night of taxes. Oh, you made enough for three, right?”

He spun around. Sauce splattered onto the floor. “We have company? On tax night?”

An odd whirring and high-pitched giggle answered him. “Just until Sven gets home. Another hour, maybe.”

The whir grew closer. “Then what’s going on with Rolf?”

“Wheeeee-hee-hee!” The inexplicable noise came from the living room again.

She bumped the drawer closed with a hip. “Give me a minute and I’ll tell you. Want me to open a bottle of wine?”

“Definitely. We’ll need it later.” He hefted a pot of steaming water in mitted hands. “So what’s going on out there?”

Jenny faced the rest of the apartment, frozen, a fork still clenched in each hand. “He’s discovered reverse acceleration!”

“What?”

“Wheeee!” came the response.

“And your old skateboard. I guess he likes the wooden floors?”

A huff of protest. “I don’t want to get charged for damages when we move out.”

“Come on. Baby kraken on a skateboard? Who doesn’t love seeing someone push off at high speed with multiple tentacles?”

***

This week, Cedar Sanderson challenged me with accelerating in reverse, and a challenge it was. Mine went to Leigh Kimmel, and I can’t wait to see what she did with a flying, annoyed book…

Chasing Dinner

Beck slid into the booth with a slump and a hard clink of his bourbon glass against his teeth.

Jenna winced at the sound and nudged a hip closer to David so the chef had room, wondering why her upstairs neighbor hadn’t slid into the empty spot where Sven sat with the pile of winter coats.

“Well?” The man’s bright blue eyes peered out unabashedly from a weathered face further creased by concern. “How did he do?”

The chef set the glass atop the tablecloth with a thump and took his time opening the top button of his jacket before answering. “Rolf is…”

Jenna could hardly hear him over the last of the diners, and she couldn’t lean much further toward him in the narrow booth. “Sorry, what?”

Beck spun the last of the amber liquid in the glass and watched it slosh up the sides. “Rolf is the best chef a seafood restaurant could ask for. No matter that half the staff tried to kill him today. They won’t after family meal, right?”

Jaw open in outrage, Sven clenched a hand over his heart, fingertips tracing the rough wool’s pattern. “What do you mean, tried to kill him?”

“Oh, Rolf can handle his own. No one’s going to mess with him now, no way. Except maybe at the market, but he’s already got a reputation there, too.” He drained the last of the bourbon and let out a sly grin. “As do I. What chef brings his pet octopus with him to market, right?”

“Kraken,” Sven muttered, but only Jenna heard him.

“It’s only natural to chase the escaped seafood, yes? The chefs thought he was fresher than fresh, no? He waved a few knives with those tentacles, then squirted the only one who dared to get too close.” Beck tipped back the glass again and received a single drop in return. He greeted it with a frown.

“But how did he do as a chef?”

“Well, normally we’d put him on prep, chopping onions and the like. But he gets the prep done faster with all those arms, yeah? And he gets us the freshest mollusks. Saved us from a a bad batch, you know? It could have been ugly.”

An orange tentacle poked over the white linen tablecloth, its suckers pale against the walls of the bourbon glass it was wrapped around.

“Thanks, man. I needed a refill.” Beck nodded to the kraken, who was busy climbing onto Sven’s shoulders. “At first, everyone thought it was a gimmick, yeah? No one seemed interested.”

“So we put it on social,” a burbling voice said, as if a waterfall has spoken. Jenna caught her glass of wine before red splashed all over the tablecloth.

“And then people seemed to believe the whole ‘cooked by an octopus’ story. I had no idea what behind the scenes photos could do, yeah?”

“And then the raving started after the first guest dared. Then the orders started coming, and coming, and coming. More covers than we’ve done in a long time, yeah?”

“The secret’s in the brining, but no one else seems to think it’s that easy.” Rolf twined a long arm around Sven’s raised wrist, not seeming to mind the fuzzy, oatmeal-colored wool.

Beck gave an emphatic nod. “The spices of your people, yeah? It’s okay. You don’t have to share, as long as you keep working here. We just need to figure out where to get a chef’s jacket with eight arms, yeah?”

***

This week, Leigh Kimmel challenged me with “At first it seemed nobody was interested. Then the orders started coming. And coming. And coming.” I continued Walkabout, although Rolf may be getting a bit of a makeover soon during the latest WIP…

Over at MOTE, I challenged Cedar Sanderson to write about sacrificial penguins, inspired by real-world events at the zoo. Those warm-weather penguins stood around honking and flapping their wings until the test penguin told them the water wasn’t too cold, I swear…but her version is more interesting!

The Brood

This story takes place immediately after the short story Save the Fate, where Peter and June get married.

“Devil’s in the tent,” Peter murmured, just as June unzipped the entrance and stepped inside.

She stared at her new husband. “Honeymoon over already, or did I mishear you?”

He clapped his hands together with gusto. “Mosquito. Now a dead bug. Did you get the campfire set up?”

I don’t have as much energy for this story as I thought five minutes ago, unfortunately. I’ll have to pick it up again tomorrow. In short, Peter and June have decided to go to Roanoke Island to explore the mystery of the disappearing colony for their honeymoon. Because nerds will nerdcation. Only this island holds a curse that brings out the original settlers…and they’re intent on adding to their undead colony.

There’s more, over at MOTE!

Monster Beacons

“I brought snacks.” June hefted a reusable canvas bag stuffed with colorful, crinkling packages. “And stout.”

“Now that’s a lovely imperial,” Peter said with approval. “Good choice. Want to see what I’ve been working on before we start binging the next season of The Huntsman?”

“Anything to procrastinate grading papers on a Friday night.” June left the bag on the coffee table and followed him to his laptop. The apartment wasn’t terribly different from hers, just in reverse. Well, and in the decor. Peter’s laptop rested on an actual table, made of actual wood. Not to mention she was pretty sure his laptop could launch nuclear missiles. By itself.

“I got inspired by season one.” His words were a confession, but his grin invited her to share the joke.

“Definitely not your usual.”

He grimaced, but it was a familiar complaint. “No one takes cybersecurity as seriously as they should. But yes, this is not my norm. Decided a bit of fun wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Are those geocoordinates?” She leaned closer to the map displayed on screen. “That’s the parking lot outside.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He tapped a key, and the view shifted. “The idea is like that game where you have to catch monsters. Only in this one, you’re fighting them. It’s a VR.”

“Virtual reality? Like with goggles?”

“No, phones. You go to the beacon, set your phone on the ground, and it projects a hologram for you to battle. New tech.” He bared his teeth in justifiable pride. “I planted monster beacons all over town.”

June put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed as he headed into the galley kitchen, then watched a yellow dot pop into his screen. “Very cool. Does yellow mean someone’s started fighting a monster?”

“Yeah, it will. But no one’s downloaded the game yet. I’ll launch in a few days, probably, once the major bugs are worked out.” He reached for the six-pack and opened a bottle of beer. “Want one?”

“Sure, but first let me ask how much magic you used to code.”

His green eyes were luminous in the dim light. “The usual. Why?”

A growl rippled from the direction of the parking lot, followed by a thunderous stampede. Shattered glass tinkled on pavement as metal crunched heavily. A lone scream wavered thinly. “No reason. Every reason. Um, do you still have our practice weapons here from earlier?”

***

I grabbed a spare this week over at MOTE: Someone planted monster beacons all around the town…

Famous Last Words

It wouldn’t have escalated if they hadn’t gone after my cat.

You know how it is when things start to get out of hand. One minute, all’s well, and the next, well, you’re standing in your yard screaming you don’t give a damn so loud you don’t recognize your own voice.

Let me start over.

It all began with a gift from my mother-in-law. See, Mom used to work at this doll factory, where they hand painted the faces. And frankly, I find those soulless bright blue eyes pretty creepy. Even toured the factory once when we visited. Identical faces, no matter which way you look, whether it’s a moose or a mouse. But that’s how we wound up with Satan’s souvenirs. You wouldn’t believe how fast I packed those things up as soon as we got home.

But it was Christmas, and it’s once a year, and my husband likes them, and what the hell. It was a gift. I could take it for a few weeks. We so rarely decorate, and this year was kind of a bummer to start with. If it made him happy, that was all that mattered. I’d just tuck those little suckers in the corner.

So there went Rudolph, minus the red nose. The black fuzzy ball was falling off anyway, dangling by a thread, and I couldn’t wait for the cat to eat it. I tried to rename the little guy Blitzen, but my true thoughts came through when I called him Blitzkrieg instead.

And in front of Rudolph, drunken dancing Santa balanced on one curved leg, hand waving a cane, dressed in motheaten purple velvet and with a floppy top hat covering most of that terrible unblinking face. The nearby tree counted as a distraction, since it had LED lights so bright you could see them from space. You could barely watch the TV over the glow, although that might be because the tree was all of eighteen inches tall and wrapped in lights so thick the branches were obliterated.

Anyway. It slowed down for a few days, and I was able to mostly forget those bizarre toys were there. The tree got knocked over a few times, but that’s what cats do. Until I came down one morning and stared. After a minute, I got some coffee, then crept closer, steaming cup in hand, still gazing at the scene in front of me.

See, Santa was riding Rudolph, right in front of the dark and silent television, and my husband swore it wasn’t him. The cat was all poofy-tailed and hid most of the day, and it’s not like she had the manual dexterity to do it. Or the sense of humor, frankly. Kitty’s intense about her belly rubs, thank you.

So I shook my finger at them, tucked them back in their corner, and thought nothing more of it. Until, of course, the next morning.

“You’re sure this isn’t a variation of elf on a shelf?” I couldn’t stop asking, even though I could see my husband’s face twisting in annoyance after the third time. But what else was I supposed to think? Santa and Generic Reindeer had been in our usual seats, and the TV was tuned to the Hallmark Channel.

“I’m warning you guys.” I put the Duo of Doom back into their corner and pushed them closer toward the wall, behind the chair. “It’s not funny.”

The next morning, I tripped coming out of the bedroom and nearly fell down the stairs. Wrenched my shoulder grabbing the bannister at the last minute, and the rug burn and bruises aren’t a ton of fun, either. But mostly I remember screaming when I found myself facing two laughing, vacant, blue-eyed terrors.

My husband rolled his eyes and pointed out the cat had been known to carry things to our doorstep before. “An early Christmas present.”

“Sure,” I muttered, but I didn’t believe it. These wireframe nightmares were as big as she was. Besides, Kitty was still haunting the basement, low to the ground and stalking when she had to come upstairs for food. I dropped a dish that day, and she bolted out of the kitchen so fast she was a furry feline meteorite.

Breakfast was aspirin and coffee that morning, and then I chucked those painted demons into the corner. Rudolph and Santa landed in a tangled heap, and I didn’t care if I never saw them again. The smack they made was satisfying, let me tell you.

I made my husband leave the bedroom first the next morning, just in case. He opened the door, and even cleared the stairs for me. He’s a good one. But he didn’t notice they weren’t in the living room where Santa’s confused and drunken reign of terror should have been, probably because they were supposed to be properly hidden.

Which meant I was the one who found Father Frakking Christmas and the Reindeer from Hell on the stove. With the gas burner flaming merrily blue, a marshmallow toasting on Santa-the-drum-major’s half-melted plastic mace, as if they weren’t made of felt and highly flammable.

This time, I growled. And then I hid them in the oven, where they couldn’t escape.

I probably looked like a crazy person. I know I felt like one, especially trying to explain it when the muffins suddenly didn’t fit on the oven rack. Hubby sent me for a massage, poured me a glass of wine – I told you he was a good one – and suggested I go to bed early.

And all that stress came slamming back with nightmares of those damn blue eyes, off key bells mixed with yodeling so loud Switzerland would have given up its vaunted neutrality to make the affront to good taste and hearing stop. Until I woke up and realized the yowling of my dreams was very, very real.

And my poor black tabby was wearing Deer Jerky’s jingle bell bridle.

Well. I don’t quite remember what happened next, upon the advice of my lawyer. I can tell you that it all seemed quite reasonable at the time, and that everyone in the family made it out of the house safely before it blew. Even the cat.

Sometimes, it takes a ridiculous amount of effort to solve a problem, but it’s like vacuuming for a few minutes after you suck up the spider, just to make sure it’s dead. But as counsel mentioned, I’m sure that’s an unrelated tangent.

This time, it wasn’t so hard to say goodbye to the house, or to move onto the next chapter of my life. I hope my future doesn’t include jail. But whatever happens, I have a few last words.

Next year, we’re skipping Christmas.

***

I don’t think that’s what Leigh Kimmel expected when this week’s prompt was supposed to be inspired by Billy Joel’s “Famous Last Words” song…my prompt went to Cedar Sanderson: “The belladonna tasted like bitter blueberry and regret.”

Join the fun over at More Odds Than Ends!

The Lonely Yeti

“Cold,” Argus mumbled, and let the snow freeze upon his facial fur. Winter seemed to grow longer and longer every year, the few hours of daylight insufficient to counter the creeping shadows that crossed his path.

Life wasn’t easy when no one believed in the Yeti anymore. He’d tried everything. Online dating, bars, coffeeshops, even book clubs at the library. Nothing had worked. Not a single real interaction. No one had even looked up from their phones, most laughing and reacting to things other invisible people said elsewhere.

“It’s like I’m literally invisible,” he snarled, and let the wind whip into his eyes until his vision blurred.

“Don’t exaggerate.” The voice was a hissing whisper, half-lost in the wind.

Argus jerked back so fast, his beard snapped off with a crystalline tinkle, barely heard over the howling storm. “Who’s there?”

“Casper.” The voice came from a different direction, still a low whisper.

Argus gulped as he turned, unused to the nervous sensation in his stomach. “You don’t sound like a friendly ghost.”

A nip at his ankle, but when he looked, there was nothing there but the wisp of a blur. “Ghost,” the voice purred, and the flick of something against his knee. “Ghost cat.

“Better a ghost cat than alone,” Angus mused.

A flicker of spots and thick fur, pressed up against him, warmth against the ice and chaos. “Even better if you have something to eat.”

***

This week, I picked up a spare prompt over at More Odds Than Ends: A snow leopard came across a yeti. I couldn’t shake the idea of a pet snow leopard, because what better pairing than a yeti?

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