Tag: odd prompts (Page 18 of 23)

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.

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.

Sabotage

January 6, 2021 / fionagreywrites

This story has been removed. Why? Because it’s part of the Professor Porter Saga and will be formally published in a revised form.

***

The final week of 2020’s prompt was from Leigh Kimmel: “A plumbing fixture suddenly stops working. On inspection, it turns out the cutoff valve has been turned off, but everyone denies having done so.” This was a tough one! I know nothing about plumbing. Neither, I suspect, do the ice fairies.

Mine went to Becky Jones and AC Young, who both wrote different and highly entertaining stories about goblins in the garbage.

A Better Future

December 30, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Professor Widget paced the room when he lectured. The same path each time. Up and down each aisle, tapping a hand on each desk as he passed. Jack didn’t know if it was obsessive-compulsive disorder or just longstanding habit from forty years of academia. Either way, it drove him nuts. How was he supposed to concentrate?

Other than that, cryptozoology was awesome.

He’d never dreamed that cryptids were a real field of study, but here he was. Jack Langton, otherwise a dead end job-hopper, night-school dropout. Now he spent the slow nights at the gas station studying, not texting his latest girl and still failing to maintain a relationship because he worked the night shift.

It’d sounded too good to be true, when he saw the ad on social media. He still wasn’t sure that he could get a job doing anything with this. But lately, all the posts wanted a degree. Any degree. And cryptozoology was the cheapest diploma program he’d been able to find. Legit, too. Accredited and everything, not a ripoff.

He’d heard similar stories from the rest of the students in the room, through a haze of flickering florescent lights outside, on hasty and illicit smoke breaks. Everyone just wanted a shot at a better life. All of them had nearly laughed the opportunity away.

“Time! Pencils down,” Professor Widget announced. “As I walk around the room to collect your quiz, I want you to tell me your favorite cryptid. No waffling, you have to pick one.”

Jack nodded as he realized the instructor had timed the announcement so everyone had time to think while he crossed the room, even the first row. Maybe there was a reason for the pacing after all. He dropped his head and focused, trying to pick his favorite. There’d been so many, and this was the capstone course before he could get his degree.

Brown tweed pants stopped in front of his desk. A hand extended toward him, and he handed over his quiz. Jack cleared his throat. “Ah, gryphon.”

Professor Widget quirked a salt and pepper eyebrow, so high Jack thought the wiry hairs might detach from the man’s face. “Interesting choice.” He moved past and collected the hairdresser’s quiz. “Say again? Vampire? Hmm.”

The instructor set the papers down on the desk in front of the ancient green chalkboard that no one bothered to use anymore. He rubbed the bald spot on his head. “Well, it’s time for fieldwork, so thank you for choosing a wide variety of cryptids. Always keeps it interesting.”

“Fieldwork?” The hairdresser squeaked behind him. It was the first time Jack had heard her speak above a whisper. He figured it was because she spent all day chatting up clients and needed a vocal break.

“Someone didn’t read the syllabus,” singsonged the professor. “If you want to pass the class, fieldwork is part of your grade.”

“I read the syllabus,” Jack said. He propped his chin on his fist, old flannel falling soft against his arm where his sleeve was unbuttoned. “Fieldwork was listed as a possibility, not a definite. I remember because I thought it was a joke.”

“Yes, yes, well, we got lucky this time. The lawsuits ended satisfactorily and the administration said we could go ahead. But with precautions this time.” He grinned. Did he expect them to be excited by the opportunity?

“Cryptids are real?” squeaked the hairdresser again. Liz, that was her name. Her chair clattered to the ground. “I can’t meet a vampire. I’m a single mom!” She whooshed past him, leaving only a cloud of perfume behind.

Professor Widget nodded as Liz raced by, his eyes sad. “Yes, that is unfortunate. There is a risk involved. I should also commend you all for not taking the easy way out. One of you even picked a gryphon. The spine! Oh, I do appreciate it.” He chuckled, then cut off after a few seconds when no one joined him.

Several other students looked like they might follow Liz and her perfectly coiffed curls out the door.

“Come on, now, you’re quite close to receiving your degrees. All you have to do is survive.” The professor’s tone was wheedling now.

Jack firmed his jaw. It was this or nothing. He opened his textbook to the chapter on gryphons with a shrug. “Can’t be worse than that half-naked cowboy on meth that came into the store last week.”

***

This week, nother mike challenged me with, “He never expected that the cryptozoology diploma course would require applied fieldwork. With a cryptid of his choice.” My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: “The streetlight was blinking Morse code…”

Engineers!

December 28, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Nigel sat on the concrete floor and studied the mess of broken machinery in front of him. Gears, cogs, sprockets, and unidentifiable doohickeys were scattered in piles between his legs.

“There’s clearly some sort of order to where you put the parts,” Elise said. She leaned down and pushed her ponytail back over her shoulder, trying not to get grease smeared onto her leather jacket. “I can’t tell what it is, though.”

“Blocking my light,” he mumbled, then looked up, blinking. “Oh. Sorry. Rude?”

She straightened and stepped to the left, trying not to roll her eyes. She took a deep breath of the damp air and suppressed a sigh. “Yes, rude.”

“Have to get it working again,” he said, hands fidgeting over the parts. Stubby fingers flickered faster than she would have believed possible. Each movement he made was deliberate and precise. “Each pile goes into its own section. Here, hold this for me.”

She snorted and moved back to lean against the wall. She propped a foot against it for balance, concrete rough and cool under her fingertips. “I most certainly will not. That – thing – is what got us in the dungeon in the first place.”

He propped a long metal rod against his ankle instead. “Not a dungeon.”

“It’s a locked, windowless room in the basement. And we’re stuck here until the other bots outside go away, lose interest, or calls for more of those things to come help. I’m just glad we control the deadbolt. It’s close enough to a dungeon to count.”

“Horseshoes.” Nigel’s brow furrowed, his eyes darkening. He spilled the piles of gadgetry from their towers of precarious balance with a sweep of an arm. His nose nearly touched the ground as he chose new parts. “Bad design.”

Elise sighed. She had to draw an engineer as her partner. Every single time, it seemed like. “It was a reasonable argument that close counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and dungeons. Just give me that one, would you? And what’s this about bad design?”

She crossed her fingers and made a wish, as if she were seven again and arguing with her younger brother. Iftheir backup didn’t show up soon, Nigel would want to stay here until he fixed that thing.

“I improved it. Much more efficient this way.” He grinned at her, the spark back in his eyes. A squat finger hovered over a red button.

She pushed her foot against the wall and lunged for him. A beep halfway there told her she was too late. He’d started the blasted thing up again. She turned her lunge into a painful somersault and rolled onto her feet. Drawing her knives, she faced the machine that had chased them inside the room.

“It works!” he crowed. He scooted away from its treads, alarm flickering over his face.

Her shoulder throbbed. She wondered if a good stomp of her combat boot would do the trick? Was she fast enough to get past the whirring saw blades? “You know, you could have considered not fixing the tiny death machine, right?”

“Improving.” Nigel sniffed, and wedged himself into the corner.

***

This prompt has stymied me for far too long! I work with a LOT of engineers, and reality kept intruding. B. Durbin challenged me nearly a year ago with the following:

“According to Milton, the road to Heaven is rocky and narrow. The road to Hell is broad and well-paved. Therefore, we know which way all the engineers go.” (Professor Michael Bonin to engineering student Ron Palmer, attribution not part of the prompt.)

TE Kinsey’s latest cozy reminded me that engineers love to share information, even when they shouldn’t…and they also like to fix things. Even when they really, really shouldn’t.

Exhaustion

December 22, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Kerri slammed open the wooden door with a bang, tumbled through, and settled into a boneless heap on the stone floor. Her mate found her there an hour later, eyes closed and a wisp of smoke escaping her left nostril with every snore he’d never dare admit she made.

Not if he wanted to stay mated, anyway.

“Baby.” Mike nudged her with a gentle claw. “Baby, come to the nest at least. I brought you a whole cow, and the sand is the perfect toasty temperature you like if you want to get cleaned up.” He devoutly hoped she’d want the sand bath. Her blue-green scales were covered in irregular smudges of soot.

“M’exhausted,” she mumbled. A single eye blinked at him several times, exposing a gold and green streaked iris. The eyelid slid ninety percent closed. “M’up.”

He suppressed a grin, not that she would notice right now. “I can see the first one. Come on, upsidaisy. I got you.” He folded his wings back and shoved his foreleg under her feeble wiggle.

She yawned, fangs pearlescent even in the dim light. Her tongue flickered out, her eyes still half-closed and head swaying. “Food?”

“Food,” Mike said in a soothing tone. “A whole cow, just for you. You have to keep up your energy.”

“Sleep,” Kerri slurred. “Need sleep.” She curled her long neck against his, then nuzzled her snout against his. He could feel her weight leaning heavier against his side and twitched his wing back further.

“Food, then sleep,” Mike reassured her. “After all, you have to teach flame control again tomorrow. For about the next six weeks. And then they start flying not long after that. You’ve got to keep your strength up.”

Well, that woke her. Kerri’s roar must have been heard a block away. He had wanted to stay mated, hadn’t he?

Of course he did. That’s why he shoved a terrified, bleating heifer in the direction of the snarls and ran out the door.

***

This weeks’ Odd Prompt came from nother Mike: “It was always a proud day when another young dragon first blew flame across the room, but it did make teaching elementary school classes for young dragons hard on teachers.”

Mine went to Becky Jones, “I got him!” She waved her prize in the air and wiggled her hips, grinning at her mentor. He gave her a wistful smile, wishing they were as safe as she clearly believed. “I’m afraid they hunt in packs.”

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