Tag: peter and june (Page 1 of 4)

Someone, June thought grimly, has a perverse sense of humor. Perhaps she’d find it amusing a decade from now, when her rage subsided and feeling returned to her legs.

Fourteen flights of cliffside stairs, worn by a millennia and more of salt wind and water. Flickers of lighting and a warily darkening horizon suggested frequent storms. The energy buzzed through her palms, despite clenching her fists so tightly her palms bled from where even her short nails had torn through sword calluses.

For her part, June was most concerned about the ruins that rested atop the cliff, bleached white peeking through the grey stains of disuse. The tomb exedra faced the sea, and despite wanting nothing more than to wobble toward the benches and rest weary thighs against cool marble, the back of her neck crawled.

“You knew they’d be watching,” she mumbled to herself. “Follow the instructions.”

A battered and much-folded piece of paper stuffed into her hip pocket gave June the excuse she needed to scan the area while pretending to read the words seared into memory since she’d found Medina missing from her bed this morning.

We have your daughter.

Bring the artifact to the exedra via the stone stairs.

Put it on the fourth bench. Leave by the path you entered.

We will be in touch.

Rage overcame fear at the faded ink. There were no promises that Medina would be returned — alive, unharmed, or even at all. Only a wisp of hair, just yesterday braided with colorful rainbow string, offered proof that the kidnappers had her daughter. Nor was proof of life offered.

Of Peter, there was not a hint at all. Nor were spies obviously hidden in the neglected grotto, but she’d already stalled long enough.

Well, no one had specified the artifact needed to be in perfect condition, either. June strode to the fourth bench and slung the leather bag off her shoulder. She dropped the bag into the long, dry grass, and sliced its cords with the knife kept hidden at the base of her spine.

“A dead drop at a tomb,” she snarled, and spat a curse as blue lightning flashed inside the bag before echoing several miles distant. Her fingers seized the rock and slammed it down onto the bench.

A cruel smile made the left side of her face twitch before dropping back into grim determination. The day her family couldn’t take care of themselves was the day they left this world.

These kidnappers had no idea what they’d gotten themselves into.

“Mama’s coming,” June crooned. The other half of her face joined the flickering lightning in a malignant smile.

***

A fun one from Parrish Baker this week: The tomb exedra faced the sea.

Mine went to TA Leederman: “Welcome to the Death Wish Club.”

Find more, over at MOTE!

“What walks around the circle will not enter if it has been closed.” June looked up from her mother’s journal. “At least, that’s what Mom always said. She was good at the protective stuff. All those finicky rituals linked to passive defenses that required patience, I mean. Dad and I both preferred taking the offense.”

Peter stood over the circle, starkly drawn with white chalk, a single foot breaking the line surrounding June’s office. “Mum’s the same way. So. This thing will keep evil out?”

“Um.” She swallowed. “Well, to an extent.”

Green eyes studied hers. “And it will work, up until that undefined extent?”

“Well.” June shuffled some student blue books that precariously balanced above the TV tray that served as her desk. “As long as we did the ritual correctly.”

He sighed.

“And as long as nothing disturbs the circle,” she added. June shoved the booklets back. Two of them landed on a chalk marking – one she’d finished not five minutes prior – and puffed dust into the air.

Eyebrows rose. “And our backup plan is what, exactly?”

June felt her face heat. “There might not be one.”

Peter sighed again. “We’d best ring Mum to get this right.”

***

This week’s prompt was from Parrish Baker: What walks around the circle will not enter if it has been closed.

Mine went to AC Young: It was a new dawn, in more ways than one.

Find more responses and prompts, over at More Odds Than Ends!

“Medina, see who’s at the door, please?” June pointed her chin at the tablet that had just glowed with a motion sensor alert.

For once, her daughter’s hands were cleaner than her own, courtesy of an apparently urgent need for peanut butter cookies – “for Peanut, because baby dragons need cookies to grow big,” the solemn vow had stated, with pleading eyes – and a husband who had raced for the kitchen as soon as he heard the oven beep.

June had been relegated to measuring ingredients, and found herself well-dusted with flour. Which, apparently, clung to peanut butter with the tenacity of a welding instructor patiently explaining how to meld metal for the thousandth time that year.

Medina poked a finger at the tablet and scrunched her nose. She turned back to pressing a fork into cookie dough. “No. I don’t want a bear hug from the bear.”

“What?” The word came from both sides of the kitchen island.

June dried her hands and peered over Peter’s shoulder. “Hon.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He nodded, his hair brushing her cheek. “I see it.”

“Hon, I think – I think we might have a werewolf problem in the neighborhood.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Peter repeated. “Well, that’s new.”

***

Thanks to Padre for the prompt! “No. I don’t want a bear hug from the bear.”

Mine went to nother Mike: “It’s only a small favor.”

Want to see what they came up with in return? Want more prompting, or even to play along? Head on over to More Odds Than Ends – new prompts coming tomorrow!

Peter cleared his throat and kept his eyes on the blacktop as the SUV wound through the Shenandoah Mountains, leaves crisp and colorful.

June waited five miles before laughing softly. “Ask me.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m afraid you have a tell, love. You clear your throat whenever you’re thinking about something you think will be awkward to talk about.”

“Blast,” Peter said. “The diplomatic corps trained me out of that. Hadn’t realized the habit had returned.”

“Well, you’re not there now,” June replied tartly, and stared out the window, vibrant colors blurring in an unseen bouquet. Shrugging her shoulders, she blew out an exaggerated breath. “Never mind. You’re back, they’re gone, that’s what matters. So ask.”

A long pause. “I don’t understand this swordfighting teacher of yours. What’s the secrecy?”

“Hard to explain.” She studied the window again, this time seeing years previous, the words sticky, like long-forgotten honey coating her tongue. “Arizona’s home, but Virginia was a good place to grow up. Dad dug in the dirt for a living, which was the coolest thing in the world.”

“My inner eight year old concurs.” Peter braked briefly as something scurried across the road with in a blur of grey fur.

“And mom helped, which also meant it was like a history osmosis blob. We ate, lived, and breathed the past, all without really trying.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Peter prompted after a few miles flashed by silently.

“He was working on the site of an old French settlement. One day Dad dug up a sword.”

“Wasn’t this country settled rather late for that?”

“Mmm. More than you might think, but yes, and not a lot of ceremony in a farming settlement, either. And then Dad came home one day, shaken. He’d cleaned up the sword and found an inscription. It was only then that he realized his sword’s first wielder was Charles de Batz-Castelmore d’Artagnan. THE d’Artagnan.”

“As in the Musketeer?”

“The real-life inspiration, at least. I hadn’t known he was more than stories until then. And after however long he’d possessed it, he’d passed this particular sword onto one of his trainees.”

“Ah,” Peter stumbled, clearly flabbergasted. “Did you – er – borrow this sword a few times, perhaps?”

Her lips twitched. “No. But Dad started taking me with him fairly often that summer. And that’s when I discovered I could see ghosts, because Pierre and I were both very interested in Dad’s work by then.”

She fell silent.

“And that’s also when I discovered ghosts could see me.”

***

This week’s prompt was from AC Young: It was only then that he realised his sword’s first wielder was…

My prompt went to TA Leederman: The new colony seemed promising, until the terraforming supervisor released the kracken.

Cheers, and enjoy more, over at More Odds Than Ends!

Peter skimmed a hand across the top of June’s head and met her eyes in the mirror. “Are you sure you’re not too tired for this? We could just have a quiet dinner instead.”

“It’s the first year Medina’s expressed any interest in staying up for New Year’s.” She stayed seated at the old-fashioned vanity she’d inherited and leaned against his comforting warmth. “I can’t toast with champagne. That doesn’t mean our daughter can’t have an event, even if I’m not sure what she wants exactly.”

He grinned and squeezed her shoulders. “Twins. Can’t wait to see the look on Da’s face.”

“Your mother already suspects.” She got to her feet softly and looked down at her still-flat belly. “Just tell me that you moved the clocks forward two hours like we planned.”

“And now,” Medina said in a dramatic voice three hours later, “At the stroke of midnight, the volcano erupted, and crowds cheered!”

The living room obliged, with Peter’s father George even drumming his hands on the edge of coffee table, in front of a papier-mâché lump that vaguely resembled a volcano.

June made a mental note to explain that New Year’s was typically celebrated with a ball drop, not an explosion.

“Hands off, please.” The six-year-old frowned. “Peanut? Barbeque.”

A small dragon, now the size of a pink pumpkin, waddled toward the group, planted its feet, and inhaled deeply.

“NooooooooOOOooo!” cheered the crowd, leaping to their feet as one. George scooped Peanut while Peter snagged Medina. Helen distracted her granddaughter’s distraught tears.

Left with nothing to do, and more overwhelmed than she’d wanted to admit, June sank back into the sofa and promptly burst into tears.

“I thought she meant vinegar and baking soda,” June murmured into his shoulder. It felt felt like hours later, but had only been ten minutes. Medina and Peanut had been promptly plonked into bed, where a fire extinguisher and smoke alarm were both mere feet away. “She was in the room with the books. The books, Peter!”

“I think we’re going to need a bigger home,” he answered. Over his shoulder, George practically sparkled at the reminder of additional grandchildren. “A fireproof one.”

***

This week’s prompt was from nother Mike: At the stroke of midnight, the volcano erupted, and crowds cheered!

Mine went to AC Young: “I must say,” the dragon began, and paused, awkwardly scratching the scales at the base of its horns. “This celebration of a ‘new year’ seems to generate a furor of quickly expended enthusiasm. Why continue such a failed tradition?”

Find more offerings – and join in the 2026 edition of the weekly prompt challenge, over at More Odds Than Ends!

“The new year’s headed to us like a runaway horse!” Peter’s words – already muffled by his padded helmet – echoed oddly in his parents’ barn.

Long practice let June decipher the mumble with ease through her own protective gear. She parried one of his axes with her sword – barely. “If there was a horse, it would be here, in the barn with us. Wondering what we’re doing.”

“Whacking each other with sticks, obviously,” he panted. His greater strength countered her speed, but Peter had spent too much time in a comfortable computer chair lately, and it showed. “A fine Irish tradition, fighting.”

“Grand,” she teased, and darted in for the final blow. “But it’s sparring, not fighting.”

He rocked back, acting out his “death” with drama before accepting her hand. “Details,” he said. “It really is, though. Are you sure you’re ready for classes to restart after the break?”

June racked her practice gear above his, carefully avoiding looking at the gleaming silver of the sword Peter had forged with pure phoenix fire and magic. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Dad gave me a fantastic start, and if nothing else, the last semester has taught me to adapt.”

“I mean the magic, m’dear,” Peter said bluntly. Rather than brushing back a lock of her sweaty hair, he gently tugged her braid. “The magic you’ve started to accept, or at least use again. The magic waiting to flood back into your life.”

She tightened her jaw. “The magic will have to be disappointed if it wants to cause a natural disaster,” she answered coolly. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for it. Perhaps it can make an appointment and present itself properly, without floods. Somewhere after the academic bureaucracy of two departments and the fourteenth grandmother faux-death.”

“That’s one way to invite it back in,” he said, and kissed her nose. “It’ll conspire against you now. I’m for dinner until it does, though. Are you coming?”

He held out a hand.

***

This week’s prompt was from Becky Jones: “The new year is heading towards us like a runaway horse!”

Mine went to Parrish Baker: She pulled up to the pharmacy drive-thru window just as the audiobook began the scene with…

Find more, over at MOTE!

June groaned and looked up from her phone. “I figured out why the Dean’s mad at me again. And this time, he might have a reason.”

Even Peter’s laughter sounded Irish sometimes, rolling and somehow kind. He reached for her feet, clad in thick boot socks, and began rubbing. “Tell me?”

“Well, I may have spilled coffee on my keyboard again.”

“June.” He stopped working the magic on her feet, then restarted after her small noise of protest. “You needed a new laptop again already?”

“Worse,” she muttered, and draped her upper half over the couch’s pillows dramatically, waving her phone. “Nothing like a stuck key to make your day Interesting. With a capital letter I.”

He fought to keep a smile from aggravating her further. “What’d you do, accidentally volunteer for everything or start a reply-all email chain?”

“Pretty sure I sent him an email that ended in nothing but the letter F, over and over…”

He could not restrain the awkward cough.

***

This week’s prompt about a stuck key was from Leigh Kimmel – watch for pattern additions from my prompt to nother Mike, and find much more (and play along yourself!) over at Odd Prompts. Cheers!

A veil of mist shrouded the fields at Paladin University, seeping into the cracks between rough stone walls and wrapping tentacles around New Hampshire’s deep pines.

Friday evening brought a stillness unusual to the campus, near-empty before the darkness would bring raucous laughter like clockwork, with flirtatious coeds stumbling animatronically across the courtyard bricks.

For all its misty blur, the chill the fog brought was distinctly unfriendly, especially to those who’d just moved to the area. June shivered, vowing to purchase a proper winter coat as she headed out of the Hale building and past the eerie courtyard, away from the hedge maze, quick feet aiming for her battered truck, barely visible in the faculty parking lot.

“Feels like it’s watching me, Big Red,” she murmured, digging into her pocket for an old-fashioned key. One palm pressed against the metal door her pet cow had dented when Mella was just a calf. The other switched to digging in her laptop bag, precariously perched on one leather-clad shoulder.

The feeling of being watched grew more intense, and she wondered whether the fog hid more than was apparent. “Right between the shoulder blades.” Chill fingers clutched a keyring with relief. She tugged, then fumbled the keys until the proper one emerged. “Finally.”

Low laughter met her words, indistinguishable from the fog.

She slammed the door, taking comfort in the vehicle’s height and apparent indestructibility, and drove away before anything else could happen.

June avoided looking into the rearview mirror, wondering whether she was a coward.

Behind her, the campus trembled. An ebony split grew from the building June had just abandoned. It was jagged and mad with wild laughter, cracking stone and shattering brick as talons reached from long-sealed depths, begging for new victims.

***

This week’s prompt inspiration on fog was from Becky Jones, while mine went to AC Young. Find more, over at More Odds Than Ends, where prompts are yours for both the taking and the reading!