Tag: odd prompts (Page 21 of 29)

Monster Beacons

December 22, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“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

December 15, 2021 / fionagreywrites

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

December 8, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“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?

Walkabout

December 7, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Jenny interrupted Elena mid-word and hoped her attempt at an apologetic face looked sincere. “Sorry, let me go grab the doorbell real quick. But I can’t wait to hear more about your embroidery collection later.”

She heaved a sigh of relief as she hurried across her living room toward the door, a quick sway of her hips giving a swish to her skirt and avoiding a collision with David. Or more accurately, the glasses of champagne he was holding on a tray. Jenna tossed him a quick air kiss, but he’d already been swarmed by thirsty guests.

The door let in a burst of cooler air from the stairwell. “Sven! Please, come in.”

“I can’t, Jenny.” Her downstairs neighbor’s bright blue eyes peered out of a weathered face, brows tight with tension.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I’ll turn the music down.”

“No, no, not that. I wanted to let you know. I was about to take Rolf for a walk when he got out. But I think he’s in the building somewhere.”

She stepped into the hall, closing the door behind her. “I love animals! Let me help you search.”

He held out a glove-covered hand with an empty leash draped over it. “But your party?”

Lips pressed together, Jenny let out an exaggerated shudder. “I need a break from hearing about my husband’s coworkers’ hobbies. Please, let me help you find your dog. You might need help catching him.”

“Oh, well…Rolf isn’t exactly a dog.” Sven’s face was earnest as they headed upstairs. “Some people aren’t fond of him, but he’s quite companionable, really.”

Jenny froze. “Uh, Sven?”

He kept moving up the worn and chipped staircase. “Really, he’s quite beautiful. So much friendlier than you might expect.”

She stared at the bannister two stories above and hoped her eyes were playing tricks in the dim lighting. “Sven, does Rolf have, uh, tentacles?”

“Of course!” He grinned, his pale visage looming from several steps above. “What good squid doesn’t?”

Her thighs ached as she bolted past him. “Then we have to stop him before the guy on the fourth floor sees him. He’s a chef! Come on, before he’s calamari!”

***

‘Tis the time of year for illness, and this one made me dizzy when I looked at computer screens for too long. I’m a week behind, but having fun catching up. This prompt on trouble starting after walking the squid came from nother Mike, and check out what AC Young did with a clever revenge story over at More Odds Than Ends. (Psst. You can play too!)

Hidden Journeys

November 24, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Leila clenched the steering wheel with cramped fingers, wondering when the stabbing pain between her shoulderblades would stop. Not until she got a massage, probably, as if she had that kind of time or money. A hot bath would have to do, and even that an unaffordable indulgence. Not with half her life packed into the back of an SUV she’d just barely paid off before getting the news.

Position made redundant. Blah, blah, legalese. Stay a month and get severance. Agree to transfer south and take a pay cut, and keep being employed by an unreliable company teetering on failure every week. But she’d jumped at the chance to get closer to family, a lower cost of living, especially when she was the most mobile of her branch.

Being single had some benefits, she supposed.

“Focus,” she muttered out loud. A snort came from the passenger seat, then the thump of a tail wag before easing back into peaceful sleep. Glen had conked out hours ago, when daylight made the drive a pleasure and the potential of something new floated tangibly, excited sparks dancing in the air.

She’d blame the spots on a migraine aura now, given the pulsing between her temples. But who’d have known the light rain predicted would turn into such a disaster as soon as it grew dark? The rain had brought fog, and not a gentle rising mist, but great swirling puffy cotton-ball clouds of it, so thick Leila could almost feel them against her skin.

It would have been just as dangerous to pull off the road, even if there’d been a place to do it. She could barely tell where the lines of faded paint were, and followed truckers at reckless speed on the assumption they had better situational awareness than her failing sight could permit. Exits flashed by with no warning, popping out of fog too late to change direction.

Cold came sweeping next. Freezing rain, and that’s when the tension in her neck started. It’d taken an hour to roll down to her shoulderblades, the stabbing so strong now that she wouldn’t have been surprised to see wings sprout in the rearview mirror.

If she could take her eyes off the road that long, that was. The last of the truckers’ taillights had faded into the midnight hours ages ago, and even her poor mutt had abandoned her.

A whine from the seat next to her brought a pang of guilt. “Sorry, Glen. I know you’re still here.” She’d normally scratch his silky ears, but didn’t want to take her hand off the wheel. “Guess the south has more snow that we expected.”

It had floated down, silent after torrential rain and frozen drops of percussive peril that had slammed with disconcerting alacrity against her windshield. Huge crystal flakes, shining merrily in the few streetlights this highway maintained, piling up on the hood in quantities sufficient to strain her abused windshield wipers.

Glen whined again. “Sorry, boy. I have to go, too. Hang on a couple more minutes, ‘kay?”

GPS said there was a rest stop coming up. Leila squinted at the road and yawned. It didn’t matter. She needed sleep soon whether or not she had a safe place to pull over. “Unless zombies attack us, we’re almost there.”

He barked at the word zombies, and she grinned. She’d used an app to convince herself to run more, and one of them had a zombie chase mode for incentive. They’d both lost weight running from the apocalyptic horde.

A bump, and they crested onto a gentle upward curve. A bridge, the edges of the metal already covered in inches of snow, barely visible. There was only darkness below, but she assumed the lake was frozen.

“Almost there,” Leila said again. She was trying to convince herself the bridge wasn’t slick beneath the SUV’s original tires. “Just keep going straight.”

The steering wheel was slick with sweat beneath her palms by the time they made it into the parking lot. Business taken care of for dog and human, Leila crashed in her car and hoped the snow would insulate rather than trap her inside.

Bells woke her the next morning, and Glen barking. “M’up.” Maybe she could get coffee inside the rest stop. Hot coffee, that would take the chill away. Cold coffee would be reserved for whomever was making that dastardly noise, too early.

Leila squinted against the sun’s glare as she got out of the SUV and let the dog do his business nearby. Her jaw dropped.

Gone was the rest stop. In its place, a town square in early Colonial style, with women in long skirts and hand-woven knits, carrying the day’s shopping in wicker baskets. Men were in hats without fail, most dressed formally in long coats. There were no cars in the square, but plenty of bells upon a magnificent sleigh that belonged in a museum, and an ingenious farm cart with wheels locked onto runners, sliding over the new-fallen snow.

No one seemed surprised by horse-drawn vehicles.

There was not a cell phone, a power line, or a transmission tower to be seen.

And Leila had never heard such quiet.

She spun around, looking for the bridge she’d crossed, only to be greeted with a bustling pier bursting with red-faced fishermen.

The urge to be sick overcame her, and she fought it off with dizziness. Glen barked and leaned against her legs, pushing her back against the car. “Goobo,” she mumbled, and tried again. “Good boy.”

Leila struggled to pull in deep breaths. Smoke from cooking fires wafted through the air, burning unaccustomed lungs. And some odors she’d rather not think about much until she really needed the restroom she’d been dreading this morning.

Or the privy, as she suspected this crowd might call it…

***

This week’s prompt was from Leigh Kimmel: As you drive down the highway, the snow becomes steadily heavier. When it clears, everything looks different and you realize you’re now far from anything familiar.

Mine went to Cedar Sanderson: The proof was in the taser.

Join More Odds Than Ends! It’s both free and welcoming.

A Circle of Trees

November 10, 2021 / fionagreywrites

The djinn nudged him with her elbow, then turned it into a full-blown poke when Mikhail didn’t respond. “C’mon. You’ve been staring out the window forever. Are you going to eat so we can get to class?”

“Yeah.” His answer was distracted and did not involve the BLT on wheat toast moving toward his face. It remained floating in front of him, right where he’d placed it five minutes before.

Liza heaved a sigh with all the drama a teenage female could muster, the fire extinguishers that followed her around Wisburg academy clanking with her shoulders’ collapse. “At least tell me so I know whether to leave you here.”

That got him to look at her, at least.

She rolled amber eyes that flashed annoyed sparks, and a crisp poof came from the red metal cannister to her left. “Fine. I’d answer whatever your question is if I can. And I’ll get you back into the library if I can’t.”

Bacon drifted toward his mouth, tempting with its crisp, shining gleam. He snagged the sandwich and started talking with his mouth full. “That’d be nice. I tried promising not to take anything -“

“Focus. Please.” Her hands waved at the rapidly emptying room.

He swallowed with a painful gulp. “See that grove? The colorful one?”

She shrugged. “Sacred grove. Lots of trees. We’ll take classes there spring term, I think. So?”

“So, the trees are different.” The diamond panes of glass showed multi-colored trees, brilliantly shining at their peak. It wouldn’t be long before the leaves dropped.

A slim hand waved impatience. “Read the plaque. Under the window.”

“I did.” He ignored her tone. “The Tree Circle contains twelve different deciduous trees, each corresponding to a different month. Over the year the months cycle, with the Oak always associated with the current actual month, and the others permanently off-set. Magic ensures that each tree appears as it would during the month it was currently associated with.”

“Tree Circle, sacred grove, whatever you want to call it. Same thing. Can we go now?”

Mikhail snagged the rest of his sandwich out of the air and stuffed another bite in his mouth, grabbed his satchel, and followed Liza down the castle hallway. “So why’s the circle of deciduous trees different today?”

“November.”

He could tell she was trying really hard not to snap at him, and took pity on her. “I was hoping you’d see it.” He snagged a falling shard of bacon before it could hit the ground and shatter in a waste of salty goodness.

“See what?” She stutter-stepped, starting to turn back before sighing at the time and hurrying them along.

He mumbled the rest, swallowed, and ducked too late as one of her fire extinguishers bopped him. “I said, it’s a conifer. There’s an evergreen out there that doesn’t belong.”

***

This week, AC Young challenged me with what became a plaque inscription. I haven’t visited Wisburg Academy for a while! My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel, who hopefully will be inspired to write about a snippet of weaponized fog. Join the fun at MOTE!

Dance the Unfamiliar

November 3, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Davis watched the cards flip through smooth brown hands with a single silver ring, half-hypnotized by the blur of time-softened cardboard. The colors were faded, but for a few vivid images that stood out more than expected in the dark room as the woman continued to shuffle.

A man and a woman, embracing. An impression of laughter he couldn’t have described. A lantern, held by a beckoning man, and he had the absurd urge to follow into the image to see what path he might wander down toward what fools called adventure.

He jiggled his knee under the plain wooden table, tearing his eyes away from the endless sound of shuffling. There was less pageantry than he’d expected when Chrissy had talked him into this nonsense, no gaudy colors or scarves. Only a neon hand, an eye at the palm to signify a psychic, and that bright pink in the cobwebbed window. He could appreciate a fraud bold enough to forego dramatics for clarity.

“Focus,” the woman murmured without lifting her gaze.

He gave a halfhearted smile of false apology she missed entirely, and wondered when it would finally be over.

A card dropped from her hands to land on the table, stuck between two boards poorly spaced. This one was oddly bright and stiff, as if new. It quivered, and with the movement came rising dread as he locked eyes with a painted figure, one moment jovially upside-down and the next radiating with the serenity that came with wisdom.

Had this card with its unsteady image been part of the deck all along?

Davis leaned forward to inspect whether it was what he grew up calling a flicker sticker, reaching a finger to feel the presumed lenticular surface. The woman’s hand snatched the card away.

“Hey,” he protested.

She held up an imperious hand, a single silver ring glowing in the tawdry neon glow.

“Go. Go, and dance the familiar until it becomes strange. You will find your answers in the shadow of the hanged man, on an eve when shadows stretch.”

A blink, and Davis found himself outside the tiny room, Chrissy eagerly awaiting his results and her turn.

“What’d she say?”

He shook his head, unsure why he didn’t laugh as he’d expected and tell her. The experience didn’t feel real under the streetlights, outside the commanding presence of the witch.

“Something strange, and incomprehensible.”

Behind him, the neon hand shut off with a snap of electric fizzle. Chrissy groaned, and began to pout.

It occurred to Davis, not for the first time, that whatever her expectations, he did not particularly like this woman with whom he had invested five months’ time and effort.

He interrupted whatever background noise she was chattering about this time. “I think I’ll go home now.”

He left her, angry shrieks increasing as he distanced, knowing she’d reach her apartment safe because she lived two buildings over, and headed for the park six blocks away.

Davis did not dance, as the woman had suggested, but he’d walked this path a thousand times. Damp leaves blew across the paved path, scattering stubborn chalk art and reflections of streetlights in small puddles from a the day’s rain.

Lights that looked suspiciously like glass lanterns, the longer he walked on feet grown leaden. And in the outstretched shadows that did not end, a glimpse of the hanged man, stretched thin with a whisper of mocking laughter.

And with that, Davis knew.

***

A single prompt for something different at MOTE this week!

Legacy Mysteries

October 13, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“Dad?” My soft voice was barely audible over the noise, but I wasn’t willing to raise it. “I was looking for a tissue. I know Mom’s the one who has everything always ready to hand.”

Across the still and silent figure, my father gave a wistful smile. He stayed soft, too, interspersing odd pauses not set to any known punctuation. It came anyway, tied to the steadily irregular beeping. “Aye, she had that. A bandage for a scrape, flashlight for a power outage. Turned a stray pretty feather into a quill when her pen exploded once, did I ever tell you that one?”

“You did, Dad.” I hesitated, and patted my eyes with a tissue. “Anyway, I found a single puzzle piece. Jigsaw. Carefully sealed in a plastic baggie.”

“Ah.” He leaned back, face half-hidden behind the cords. Funny how badly placed fluorescents could make the light so shadowed. “You’ll be wanting to know the meaning behind it, then.”

I nodded, hoping he could see it. Didn’t matter, though. We both wanted to fill the room with more than empty, silent waiting.

“Well, puzzle pieces mean a lot of things. Autism awareness, for one thing. Your Mam’s brother was never formally diagnosed, but for certain sure, he was on the spectrum. Struggled with people his whole life.”

“Wish I’d met Uncle Mike.”

Dad snorted, the sound incongruous and loud. “He’d have liked you better once you were old enough to have an intelligent conversation. But Lisse always said you took after him.”

That was news to me, and it wasn’t clear if it was welcome. “I do?”

“Aye.” He leaned forward and rested his chin on the rail. “You’re my out of the box thinker, you are. Mike didn’t see solutions the same way as anyone else either. Ever struggle to explain the obvious to anyone?”

My mouth dropped. I’d just been complaining to a girlfriend last night. I could feel the glare coming on at the suspicion of eavesdropping, eyes narrowing and lips curling back in a half-hearted snarl.

He raised a hand to stop me, then reached out to hold hers. “I didn’t eavesdrop. Happened to Mike all the time. I see it in you, too. But you’re more functional than he was, more like your mam. You see the pieces of the world and connect them, while your uncle tended to see them in a vacuum.”

“So the puzzle piece is to remember her brother?”

Dad twisted his lips briefly and tilted his head from side to side. “Eh. She did puzzles with her grandmother as a girl, and always said it left good memories. And her whole job was solving puzzles. Said it was good to keep the brain active.”

I watched him look down at legs that withered by the day, the pain in the room palpable as the whole situation tore at the fabric of reality we had known to be true. Mom’s brain might never be the same again.

The chair squealed abruptly as I stood, unable to take the tension any longer. “I’ve got to get back, Dad.” I reached across the bed and squeezed his shoulder. Letting go awkwardly, I smoothed my uniform down with one hand while tipping back the last of my coffee with the other.

The liquid was cold and bitter, tainted with the scent of hospital antiseptic, and strengthened my resolve even though it was weak. “My turn to solve this one.”

***

I forgot to send a prompt to MOTE this week, so I grabbed a spare: There was a puzzle piece in the purse.

Thieves Painting in the Night

October 6, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“According to my source, the – ahem – ‘oft-stolen painting of a dragon and a unicorn’ will be in Room 1902.” Jiddah sounded all too pleased with herself, twirling in a circle and pointing the way, mime style.

I answered with a snort and ignored the mocking bow she offered, low and full of false respect my apprentice never bothered to show where anyone might see. Even now, with the cameras disabled – thanks to said apprentice – and the hallways dark, she wouldn’t act the same as she did in private. Said it was all part of her persona.

I understood. Having a game meant it would be easier if she needed to disappear for a while. I threw surprises at her once in a while so she’d change things up and avoid getting complacent. Habits were dangerous.

So were nemeses, but some rivalries were too good and too old to move past. Or we wouldn’t be here, playing the longest game of tag two childhood friends couldn’t shake.

I said habits were dangerous, not that I didn’t have any. And here we were, risking everything for a stupid, ridiculous painting. It fit perfectly in a laptop case, making it easy to transport.

It wasn’t even a good painting. Harper and I both hated it, in fact. So much that neither of us were willing to let the other have it.

“A crime against humanity,” she’d drunkenly proclaimed so long ago. From the top of a beer hall picnic table, if I recall correctly, one that shouldn’t have yet let us inside for more than sausages and sauerkraut. I’d woken up with a hangover to find it gone, and that’s when it started.

We’d take each other down someday with our predictability. And now look at me, bringing poor Jiddah into this mess. But an apprentice gave me some options Harper didn’t have.

Like carrying some equipment I’d sauntered past without, creating no suspicion on the part of a few rather wheezy guards and one sharp-eyed military retiree. Deception works best when you give people what they expect, and that retired Marine almost slouched in his eagerness to smile at the friendly student coming through the door. Shocking, I know.

“We’re here.” Low voices carried less than a whisper, but it was still harsh and loud in the dim hallway. Automatic fluorescents would’ve been welcome for the annoying buzz alone, even if it would have ruined our plan. Silence always freaked me out a little on a job.

I wouldn’t have admitted the weakness in front of my apprentice anyway. You know how it goes. Someday she’ll turn on me.

The lockpicking kit was inside my blazer, neatly tucked where my wallet should have been. I touched it with a finger and then pulled away.

“Start with the basics.” I murmured the phrase, more to myself than to Jiddah, and reached for the doorknob. It turned.

Either this was a setup, or the worst museum security I’d seen in a long time. I was betting on the latter. This place was ancient, even if I wouldn’t put it past Harper to set me up.

My apprentice let out a squeal, and I winced, regretting my unvoiced request for noise. But we weren’t likely to be caught at this point, unless the portly man snoozing off the powder Jiddah had slipped into his tea decided to sleepwalk his patrol route. We had plenty of time, and just enough.

And there it was. The ugliest painting you had ever seen. Not even special, just old; the paints faded and flaking. The unicorn was bearded and a muddy brown, about to impale a skeletal maiden cooing over its head. A dragon loomed in the background, misshapen and disproportionate, about to eat said maiden without her protector even noticing.

I tell you true, I was doing the world a favor here.

“All right, apprentice. Time to do your job.” I pretended not to notice the eyeroll.

“As if I’ve not done all the work already.” She slung her canvas satchel on the back of a chair and started unpacking.

A few minutes of frantic movement later, I got to work. She spent the rest of the night snoozing.

My back and feet were aching by the time I heard her stir behind me.

“George? What is that?”

At least, I think that’s what she said around her yawns. I chose to believe it. “It’s a colony ship. The Dragon Salute.“

I’d always imagined that the future warships of the Kuiper Belt would have the Black Ensign painted proudly on their flanks. When a warship was docked, the flag would be also displayed outside the docking tube, I suspected. For now, the flag was painted in the top left corner, dimly visible against the outline of a spaceship, the entire canvas covered in the black of space.

Out in space, pirates were a friendly bunch – or at least, they were as close to it as you’d get if they weren’t leaving you to die after an emergency. They’d earned their toll if you survived. I always figured, pirates in space were going to be the first colonizers as soon as commercial asteroid mining took off for real. You can’t walk away from a family in space so easily.

I’d invested heavily in commercial space a long time ago after a big score, always assuming I’d have to leave the planet someday. I’d even bought Harper her own fake ID to get off planet, so we could continue the game in space.

Someday wasn’t today. And at least I didn’t have to chase that damn unicorn anymore. “Help me peel the tape off the frame?”

Another yawn. “Still think it’s weird.”

I shrugged and wrapped the paintbrushes in a paper towel. We’d clean them back at the lair – I mean, studio – maybe with a touch of gloating thrown in. It was time to make our exit, before that Marine guard found his buddy downstairs. He was the type to show up early.

Harper popped into my head as a vivid image, as she so often did. I could hear her screeching as she tried to find out where the dragon had gone.

Her fury and frustration was definitely going to be my next work.

***

Prompt one, from week 38 of odd prompts, and prompt two, from week 39, blended together. Cheers!

The Wailing Void

September 22, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Through the wall, the voices sounded like muted trumpets, rising and falling in brassy squeals. The hard staccato soprano of his squad leader jabbed in with irregular beats, counterpointed with the rough bass rasping of orders shouted above a lifetime of engine noise and grease.

The vocal jazz was unintelligible and irregular, even borderline annoying. He didn’t enjoy the lack of repetition. Unpredictability was not a crewman’s friend. The clamor was still better than the tiny room they’d stuffed him inside. The harsh click of the lock still reverberated, and well after the echoes of his screaming had faded.

He’d have been content if they’d only left him there.

Nineteen shining rivets across. Twenty-one down. Or that’s how he preferred to think of it, rather than the even twenty and twenty. A dent where the last inmate had tossed a meal tray, perhaps. It was the only view, and his only entertainment other than the conversation he couldn’t understand.

It didn’t matter what they were saying. Didn’t matter how hard Deanna argued for extenuating circumstances. Melik knew Command would never trust him again on an op. Frankly, he didn’t blame them. Who would trust a crew member who tried to spacewalk into an asteroid?

He closed his eyes and wished there was enough room to tip the chair back. A hatch slammed, and the voices grew dim as they headed toward the bridge.

In the silence, the music began again, eerie and wailing, chords striking in inhuman demands for sacrifice. The notes washed over him, stronger even than the desire he’d buried for Deanna, eliminating all passion.

It did not end with a screeching halt. It merely ended. And that is when his own keening began, his voice already hoarse and weary.

Melik found himself crumpled onto the floor, eyes watering and with torn fingertips, the rivets’ sharp metal edges streaked with blood. He sobbed into the void, so deep he knew he would never return.

No, they should not trust him again. The music would return, and with it, the overpowering urge to follow. Eventually, and unpredictably.

No, they should not trust him again. After all, everyone knew that when Old Earth’s seas grew crowded, the sirens had left for freedom and the stars.

***

I’m not entirely happy with this one, but it’s done! Cedar Sanderson prompted me with the opening line about muffled trumpets, and my own prompt about unusual warning signs went to Leigh Kimmel. Need a weekly writing prompt? Play along at More Odds than Ends. We don’t bite, and neither do my carnivorous plants.

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