Tag: more odds than ends (Page 19 of 21)

Zoo Day

March 13, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“Fishcicles,” Anna insisted. Her jaw elevated, a stubborn point hovering above her collar and scarf. Dark eyebrows furrowed into a glare.

Brad sighed and spread his hands flat on the rock wall surrounding the polar bear enclosure. Being on the receiving end of Anna’s glares usually led to worse later. “I’m telling you, fishcicles are not a thing.”

She poked him in the side with a bony finger. “They totally are. It’s an animal enrichment thing. Keeps them from getting bored. They freeze a bunch of fish and give it to the bears. Snack and play all in one. What else would you call it besides a fishcicle?”

“They freeze a lot of things around here,” he muttered. The rock was freezing, just like the rest of him. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “How about we head into the aviary for a while and warm up?”

“You do what you want,” she loftily informed him. “I’m going to see the giraffes.”

He sighed and followed his girlfriend. The path leading to the giraffes was covered in familiar fake hoofprints and bird tracks. Enormous pawprints led to the left, where the big cats prowled behind glass enclosures.

Or did, when it wasn’t well below freezing. Today the cats were huddled into furry communal piles, with no interest in entertaining visitors who should be prey.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the zoo. He had a membership. There was something new every time, like the escaped flamingo flock or the rhino’s sneezing fit. He just liked it better when it was warm. When fishcicles weren’t a consideration, and ice cream dripped onto his hands, making Anna laugh and give him a sticky-sweet kiss.

Brad caught up to her at the edge of the enclosure. Once they’d seen the giraffes racing in a circle, the seven-foot baby ungainly as it tried to keep up with the longer legs of its herdmates. Today, only a lone giraffe awaited, outstretched head nuzzling sadly at bare branches. Anna had stopped to watch, her chin tucked back into her woolen scarf.

“You realize there are about six other people here at the whole zoo, and they’re all employees?” He flinched at her expression and backed up a step. “I just meant that they aren’t letting people feed the giraffes today.”

“You can if you have any food,” a deep voice said from above his head. “Those crackers the zoo employees sell to gullible tourists are pretty boring. You got any Doritos?”

Anna squeaked. “Did you hear that?”

“I’m pretty sure the giraffe just talked.” Brad felt his eyes burn in the cold air.

“I’ve got a name, you know.” The knobby head tilted, and those giant brown eyes looked annoyed. “The zookeepers call me Zippy, but Mom calls me Zeke.”

“Hi, Zeke.” Anna’s faint voice floated onto the air. “I don’t have any Doritos. Sorry.”

The creature sighed. “That’s all right. You probably didn’t think I liked them. Let me tell you, that cheese dust is amazing.”

“Or that you could talk,” Brad blurted. He wasn’t convinced this wasn’t a frozen hallucination.

The giraffe bent all the way down to look him in the eye. “There’s a lot you probably don’t know about us. Well, let me tell you…”

***

Becky Jones and I traded animal-themed Odd Prompts this week. I had fun with talking giraffes, and tossed aeronautical rabbits her way.

The Shadow

March 7, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“The Shadow President laid his plans with care.” This one from AC Young was an interesting challenge. I prefer to avoid politics as much as one can these days, so the obvious answer is out. Similarly, while I enjoy reading some alternative/historical universes, I’m not particularly attracted to creating them. Done well, they’re great; done poorly, not so much.

But there are other types of presidents, and perhaps one of their shadows could wander off and have adventures on its own, J.M. Barrie style?

Which led to – I am not kidding – conversations about space assassins. The guild needs a president, right? What about scouting organizations? HOAs? (Please tell me we won’t export those to space.)

And that led to this.

***

“Those crows are hanging around your yard a lot.” The sharp, nasally voice interrupted George’s reading. “You’d better not be hanging up birdfeeders again.”

He put down his book with a sigh and looked over at the post-and-rail fence that had been perfectly adequate until his new neighbor moved in. Why, he’d even had conversations at the fence in the past, just like you saw on TV. With all three of this hag’s predecessors.

The hag in question was wearing her usual sweater twinset and pearls, looking for all the world like an out-of-place schoolmarm. One that tormented rather than taught students, judging by the near-permanent snarl on her face. He’d only seen it leave when she was advocating to form a homeowner’s association.

As if this neighborhood didn’t already take care of its own.

He didn’t bother to stand up and head for the fence. The conversation wouldn’t last long enough to be worth the effort. “I don’t hang up birdfeeders, Janice. Never have.” Not since Lydia passed, he amended silently. He was sure some of the crows retained fond memories, and he wouldn’t chase them off. Nor would he share Lydia’s memory with someone who didn’t value nature.

“I’m the president of the homeowners’ association, and you’d best believe I will make you find a way from keeping bird dookie off my car.”

“You want me to put up a scarecrow?” He raised his glass of iced tea in a mock toast. “Only if it will scare off the HOA I didn’t agree to belong to. I’m not subject to your rules, nor can I control the crows.”

Squeaky fuss emanated from the fenceline, but George paid it no more attention than he’d give to a yapping dog. He took a drink and picked up his book. The mystery was far more interesting than anything Janice Tweller had to say.

The light was dying by the time he turned the last page, and the air growing chill. He went inside, bones creaking after so long without moving. A solitary dinner under the kitchen lights was in his future, just as it had been for three and a half years now.

The pot was on to boil water when he realized he’d forgotten to get the mail. He was so engrossed in mocking the latest ads that were all he’d received that he nearly missed the giant red paper tacked to his front door as he trudged back inside.

Janice’s latest trick, presumably. George rolled his eyes and snagged the paper to laugh at while he made dinner.

“Well, now, Lydia.” He still talked as if his wife could hear him, and who’s to say she didn’t? “Looks like the hag has found a new way to annoy me. She thinks she’s found a legal way to force HOA membership. Plus fees, of course.”

He stirred the spaghetti sauce and gave it a taste test. “More garlic, I think. Almost ready. You’d have found a way to drive her off by now, I’m sure. I do wonder what John was thinking, selling the property to her at all.”

George drained the noodles. “Perhaps it’s time for something to convince her to move on.”

Step by step, the shadow president of the entirely unofficial, nonexistent homeowners’ association laid his plans aloud for his late wife, pausing for occasional bites of spaghetti.

His shadow nodded in response. At the end of the meal, it slipped out of the kitchen window without him and crossed over the fence line.

George sat at the table with a sad smile and took a sip of wine. “Wish you could see this, Lydia. He’ll be up to all sorts of antics now. We’ll have a ‘for sale’ sign in her yard within a week.”

***

My prompt about the aliens’ dream invasion went to Becky Jones. Check it out, as well as the rest of the More Odds Than Ends odd prompters!

Something Different

February 28, 2021 / fionagreywrites

I promised more a while ago on thought processes. Behind the Prompt, if you will. This one went through a number of iterations in my head, and then what poured out was…nothing like what I’d imagined.

Odd prompt, from nother Mike: “The kids were carrying moonbeams in a jar…”

(My own prompt of “In retrospect, the arrow through the calf shouldn’t have been the first clue” went to Leigh Kimmel.)

Initial reaction: Cool, I love this prompt! No idea what to do with it, but awesome, can’t wait to play around with it!

Idea one: Kids running around in the backyard, catching moonbeams in a jar like fireflies. I may still play around with this sometime.

Idea two: Moonbeams = moon message transmissions.

Idea three: Moon beans, the misunderstanding.

Idea four, that I thought I’d be writing: A new light source has been discovered, but only works on (or is kept secret by) the moon. The mental image was of glowing mason jars in a moon cave, carried to careful storage on each handmade shelf by herds of children just old enough to be trusted. Because while preppers weren’t what the space program wanted, sometimes you needed to store up emergency supplies once you got there.

Here’s what happened instead.

***

They didn’t want preppers for the moon colony. They wanted survivalists. You know, the types you can drop off with a pocketknife and a water bottle, and they’ll have shelter built in a few hours.

Or you drop them off empty handed, and they find their own pocketknife and water bottle. You remember the type.

Anyway, there aren’t a lot of people like that anymore. When 3-D printing took off, it really took off. Everything you can think of at the touch of a button from the same pile of sludge? Building your own anything was seen as quaint. Suitable for hobbyists, or one of the neo-Luddites that shunned technology.

Unfortunately, the 3-D trend happened right as the lunar base needed emergency manning.

And it wasn’t like space was a popular destination. Not after the Zelma. Sure, there was a lot of nostalgia for the old shuttle era. But when a whole colony fails…well. Then it’s someone should go, but maybe I’ll wait until the tech is fixed, amiright? Those poor kids. Someone oughta make a law. What where their parents thinking?

Besides, that training program is hard, and few make it.

But me, I was raised by my Grandpa, and he by his. He taught me woodworking, basic engineering and mechanics, and which plants would kill you. I could make everything from knives to jam to candles. They needed people like that, people who could fix stuff. People who couldn’t resist the urge to fix stuff.

It’s not like there’d be kids carrying moonbeams in a jar to illuminate the habitat’s interior. You can only put so many light bulbs in space. Or boost so much weight in that 3-D sludge. They save that for printing astronaut food, mostly.

So when the call came to re-crew what should have been Zelma’s home, I felt that pang in my chest for a place that would value those skills, even if I’d have to relearn or adapt half of them. Grandpa has passed the year before, and putting in for it felt like a good way to honor his memory.

He’d have done that snort-laugh of his at the idea, then clapped me on the shoulder with a hand stiff with age and hard work. His way of showing pride in my accomplishments, from the first Pine Derby car to the first buck.

Besides, I was bored.

It’s not like I expected they’d actually accept me into the astronaut program. I didn’t have a formal education, or not much of one. My knuckles were dug in with grease no matter how much I scrubbed, calluses rough from the bow string, scarred from whittling Grandpa’s last Christmas gift.

I guess this time, they were looking for something different. Zelma’s crew had been carefully selected and trained, and it still wasn’t enough to guide them in without disaster. Why not go for the scrappers like me?

Later I heard the rumors during training. That the bureaucrats expected failure, just like they expected we could barely read. We were supposed to be the excuse to shut the whole expensive program down. Give it up for another few decades, just like we did after the initial early years burst.

People like me, we take that as a badge of honor. Don’t tell the bureaucrats, but we already renamed the ship from Penelope to Scrapper.

In the meantime, I’ll tighten my straps one more time, because the countdown has begun.

I can’t wait to prove ‘em wrong.

French Toast

February 23, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“We’re out of milk,” Bree said. She stared at the list on her phone and tucked it in her coat pocket. “And eggs.”

Joheel reached inside the glass case ahead of a minute, white-haired woman with extremely pointy elbows and seized the last container of two percent. He held the blue-capped liquid into the air in triumph.

“Don’t gloat,” she grumbled at him. “I’m already worried someone will grab food from the cart.”

He rolled his eyes. “We’ll be fine. No good reason we all need to make French toast the second a snowstorm hits.”

“Um, because it’s delicious?” Bree flounced her way toward yellow Styrofoam, scarf bobbing in tandem with her hat’s pom-pom. She flipped the lid open to check for cracks.

“Not that delicious. We don’t need 18 eggs.” Joheel’s nose scrunched. “I like the brown ones better.”

She glared at him. “And if we’d come earlier like I wanted to, we’d have more choices, wouldn’t we? We wouldn’t be taking milk from old ladies. We wouldn’t be left to select from the stinky cheese or the expired cheese. And we wouldn’t have ice skated our way into the store.”

Her voice had risen to a looming crescendo. Even as bundled-up shoppers rushed through the store, he could see them staring. Yeah, everyone loves drama when they’re not in the midst of it.

“Okay, fine, jeez.” He knew better than to tell her to calm down. “What else do we need?”

Bree pulled out her phone again. “Cat food, apparently.”

“Apparently?” He wheeled the cart toward the aisle with the rawhide bones on the endcap. Bree was ahead of him. She loved that little fluffball.

She was already studying cans. Blue in one hand, green in the other. “Yeah, I got a text a minute ago.”

“Bree?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“When did we get the cat a cell phone?”

***

Becky Jones and I traded odd prompts this week. Check out her dragon invasion here!

War, Fueled by Coffee

February 15, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“We’re reinstituting wars,” Linda told Mack. “One by Friday, please. Let me know if you need any help. You’re critical to our new training plan’s feedback.”

He stared at his new boss’ retreating back with horror. Mack felt his face pale as much as his olive skin would allow. Fighting hadn’t been in the job description. He’d left the military because he was done with war. And how was he supposed to spark one off in less than five days? He barely knew where the restroom was.

Swiveling in his black roller chair, he hissed at the next cubicle. “Hey! I thought this was a logistics company! Shipping?”

Jerry had a handset pressed between ear and red plaid shoulder. He gave Mack an odd look before returning to his call.

Mack got up and took his new company mug to the coffee machine over in the corner. He’d made sure to remember that location. He studied the logo while he waited for the machine to brew his cup, an unassuming navy blue on white. Whittier Transportation Firm.

“Whiskey tango foxtrot,” he whispered, and shook his head with a groan. “I should have known. What was I thinking?”

Back at his desk, he sipped the hot, bitter brew and raised a surprised eyebrow. Well! At least the coffee was better in the private sector! No muddy water reminiscent of turpentine here.

The caffeine soaked into his brain cells. Ideas began sparking as neurons connected, sharp pops of yellow light. Mack shook his head at the weirdness of his new job, picked up his phone, and started making calls.

By Friday morning, he was back in camouflage he’d left behind, helmet firmly on. He was the first in the office, as usual, but today was different. Mack barked orders at the delivery men, and slipped them extra cash to fortify the cubicles with the crates.

A crash sounded behind him, metal on the tile entryway. Linda stared at Mack, open-mouthed. A sealed coffee travel mug rolled in loops, heading away from the glass door in the least efficient route possible.

“Ah, thank you for the reminder, Linda.” Mack gestured at the nearest delivery man, a skinny guy in overalls and a well-worn lifting belt. “Hey, can you make sure to get some of these crates by the door? That glass is ridiculously vulnerable.”

Linda swallowed and held up a hand as the delivery guy headed toward the door. He detoured around her, an empty crate in each hand, while she emulated a fish.

Words finally erupted from her mouth. “Mack! What…why?” She spun in a circle and bent to retrieve her coffee container, unscrewing the lid and chugging liquid gold. “What?”

Mack held up his clipboard. “Linda, I’m really sorry. We won’t be ready to go by the time we’re scheduled to open. The sandbag delivery won’t get here until 1000. I know logistics win wars, but the company swears there’s nothing they can do. We have boxes of printer paper that could fill the gap in the meantime, but only one pallet. That’s just not enough.”

Linda looked at her coffee sadly, as if wishing it were whiskey. Shedrank for at least five seconds, held the empty mug over her mouth to shake out the last few drops, and screwed the lid back on. “What. Is. Happening?” Her voice screeched to a deafening levels.

Mack winced. “You said you wanted a war by Friday. But like I said, we’re just not ready. I started the propaganda campaigns, but the formal declaration of war to the competitors can’t go out until we properly fortify this building. And we’re vulnerable to the water and power getting cut off, but the generator’s getting installed in the basement now. Fuel might be an issue – ”

He cut off as Linda held up a hand. “War? Generator?”

“You said the company was reinstituting wars. You wanted one by Friday. It’s Friday. And I’m sorry, but we really need to hold until Monday if we can.”

Linda spun in a circle again, her hand held over her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

“I went with paintball, though. Hope that’s all right.” Mack tried to sound as earnest as possible. He had struggled with that dilemma before making the decision, but if this place meant a real shooting war, he needed to be looking for a new job. He might anyway. This place was weird. “Obviously, I wanted to do well on this as my first assignment. You said you needed feedback for the training program. Remember?”

“Mack,” Linda said slowly. “Mack, a WAR is a weekly activity report…”

***

No inspiration yet for this week’s actual prompt from Leigh Kimmel about tweaking alien noses. In the meantime, I couldn’t resist this spare. Maybe now that it’s out of my head, I can get back to the real prompt of the week. My own submission about swimming trees went to Becky Jones.

Blizzard

February 7, 2021 / fionagreywrites

This story has been removed. Why? Because it’s part of the Professor Porter tales, and will be published in modified form.

***

This week, Becky Jones challenged me to discover what was buried under the snow. My prompt went to nother Mike, to see what happens when tech and traditional fairy tales converge.

Pothole

February 3, 2021 / fionagreywrites

This post has been removed as of 27 March 2021. But don’t worry – it’s part of book two. Coming soon!

***

This week, my prompt was from nother Mike, and fit perfectly to kickstart me back into book two: “It was hard to see to drive in the pouring rain, and then the car thumped as we drove over something. When we stopped and got out to see what it was, we learned we had hit…”

My prompt went back to nother Mike, and was also about adventures in driving through weather. I guess it’s that time of year in the northern hemisphere.

New Release!

January 22, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Long story, but in talking about chainmail on the book of faces, I wound up doing a podcast. Kind of a rushed and surprised thing, definitely something new. I talked up More Odds Than Ends, too. I’ll post the podcast link when it’s done.

I also burrowed until I found the first Peter and June story, blew the dust off, and expanded it a touch. Definitely still a short story, but thought it’d go well together.

Plus, I got to play around with covers (thanks for the feedback, Becky and Jennie and Nik!). I don’t think I’ll ever be fantastic at them, but I was happy with this one.

Blurb for now: Professor June Porter is worried. Her daughter Medina has shown no signs of magic, leaving her defenseless and isolated among magicians. Unless, of course, everyone’s about to discover just how special Medina is.

Girls’ Night

January 20, 2021 / fionagreywrites

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. 😀

Black Sands

January 13, 2021 / fionagreywrites

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 5^th 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.

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