We interrupt this prompt for a brief story about lessons learned, irony, and writers who should know better than to tempt fate. You all know exactly where this is going, and you are not wrong.
I submitted a story for an anthology a while back. Didn’t expect to get in, and procrastinated on book two of the Professor Porter series, because I didn’t really have a deadline. So what did it matter that I submitted a short story that takes place after book two?
Somewhere, the gods are laughing.
And now, onto my prompt from nother Mike. This’ll be short, because apparently I need to type a whole lot of words. At exceptionally rapid speed. With a large, awkward bandage on one finger. But this prompt fits nicely with a story I played with a while ago and needed more tempering before it turned into a real story. One of these days, In Defense of Dragons will be written in full. (It will not be today.)
***
Miranda walked down the stone hallway toward the ballroom, adjusting her tiara with one claw. The movements were simultaneously automatic and uncomfortable, just as every half-forgotten scent teased her with suppressed sneezes and memories alike. Greystone followed her on silent padding paws, near-invisible in the shadow of the crimson dragon.
She paused for a tiny silver rhino to barrel his way past, his double horns shining in the torchlight. The toddler’s mouth gaped permanently open in a wordless yell. Each miniature foot thudded heavily against the polished granite.
The boy’s coordination was still in development, which became evident with a distinct crash and splinter as a wooden table holding flowers shattered with a spectacular shower of colorful blooms.
An enormous sigh came from above Miranda’s head. She hadn’t realized she’d become a blockade until she saw the mother rhinoceros making her way cautiously down the stairs. From the look of her, she was due with another young one in the near future.
The adult rhino nodded an apology without looking up from the level of Miranda’s feet. “So sorry, milady. He’s young.”
The boy wobbled back to his feet and pranced among the debris. “I am rhino-mite! Rhiiiiino-miiiite!”
“Well, he did lumber from side to side,” Greystone murmured from behind her.
Miranda shot him a look and shushed the cat. “We’re not at home.”
His spots flushed, and even his footfalls sounded apologetic as he followed her toward the debris. “I apologize. Diplomacy is indeed called for.”
The pregnant rhinoceros looked up this time as she swept up the pieces of wreckage with one foot and corralled her son with the other. Miranda hadn’t realized rhinos could change color until the woman began to resemble bleached linen.
“Your highness!” The rhino extended an awkward leg into a shaking bow. She nudged her son into some semblance of the same pose.
“Goodwife Rhino,” Miranda acknowledged the woman with a precise nod trained into her from birth. “I bid you good luck. I expect you have extraordinarily full days.” She looked down at the boy. “And you will make an excellent charger in my father’s army when you grow just a bit larger, won’t you?”
He puffed with pride, and nudged a squashed pink rose toward her.
She picked it up in a hand and held it to her nose. Longing pulled at her throat abruptly, and only a lifetime of training held her sudden emotion in check. Her eyes burned with the effort. No matter that the cultured, stuffy flowers of the castle were a far cry from the orchard with its crystal gardens where she’d spent most of the past ten years. It was enough to reinforce that she no longer belonged here, in the castle she’d once called home.
No, Miranda did not want to be here. Nor would she let her father down when he needed her most.
***
My prompt went to AC Young, about biohacking and the tropes of television that teach us (very occasional) wisdom. Check out the comments of Odd Prompts for more!
