Writer of Fantasy. Wielder of Red Pens.

Tag: prompts

Luck

Cass grinned and leaned forward, cool wind whipping tendrils of hair back from her face as she picked up speed. The ancient motorcycle was the only sound as she flew down the highway, watching for debris and scattered lumps of useless metal and glass that used to be useful transport.

It had been one hundred days since the lights went out, one hundred days since reliable water came pouring from pipes on demand. One hundred days since reliable, instant medical care became archaic and obsolete.

One hundred days since anyone had last seen or heard a moving vehicle, had seen air traffic plunging through the sky. One hundred days since food riots began, idiots starving while surrounded by edible plants that grew in sidewalk cracks and weedy front lawns, plantain and dandelion everywhere if you only knew to look.

One hundred days since she’d lost hope of ever reconnecting with her family, of seeing the farm again. Home, nearly fifteen hundred miles away.

It was a stroke of sheer luck that she’d made it out of the city before most people realized the apocalypse had come for them all, that help wasn’t coming.

A rabbit’s foot to have scrounged the right supplies from the back of a crashed pickup, from a driver who no longer cared who used his camping gear and dehydrated eggs. A windfall to score boots bought on credit she’d never see the bill for, store dark and empty with half-filled shelves, a lone clerk scrupulously writing down card numbers, unsure and confused when his technology no longer worked.

More good fortune to have made it through the desert, blinding and dry. A truck filled with filtered water discovered halfway through, abandoned and alone, door hanging open, footprints leading into the sand.

The hand of fate to have found the bike in yesterday’s dying light, old enough to work after an EMP strike, fully fueled and lovingly maintained. The skeleton nearby held emaciated hands against where its heart used to be, desiccated tendons the last threads holding interlaced bones in a gruesome weave of phalanges.

The favor of the gods to feed on a chicken pecking around the shed that contained the same motorcycle her father had taught her to ride. She’d stuffed her face after roasting the bird, a luxurious waste when soup could have gone much farther, its eggs boiled and stored in her backpack.

Petals off a four-leaf clover, luck blowing in the wind against her face. Cass closed her eyes and wondered if she’d make it back home after all.

She opened them in time to see a black cat dart across the road, freezing to hiss at the bike’s roar. With a thump, Cass was airborne, flying against gravity, stars of fate tossed into the skies and spun like a prophet’s emphatic hand gesture.

She smashed down into the road, benediction gone with the last mechanized wheel still spinning, ribs crushed along her right side and the pain so sharp she thought she’d split herself in two.

Cass wheezed a laugh, blood flecking over her face and pouring down her chin, a road vampire who’d run out of time.

It was the one hundredth day, after all. She should have known the apocalypse would eventually come to claim its due.

Laundromat

A long week at work and a whole lot of thesis procrastination resulted in several stories tumbling out all at once this weekend. Read Strays and Whodunnit? if you’re so inclined, but this week’s official Odd Prompt challenge was from nother Mike.

“At the coin laundry, you had just put your clothes in the washer and sat down when one of the big dryer doors opened and a voice called out…”

I hate the laundromat. Who doesn’t? Trekking through mushy, dirty snow, lugging oddly-shaped bags and boxes. Hoping you don’t drop anything clean on an ancient linoleum floor, covered in stains decades old. Scrounging for quarters and hoping they aren’t Canadian coins that roll through the return endlessly.

Weird encounters with strangers, hoping they don’t think trading a Canadian coin for a real quarter is an invitation. Wondering why their clothes are being pretreated to remove bloodstains, choosing to believe they must be a doctor or a butcher.

The whole deal makes me understand why people used to avoid taking baths. Being clean is hard, and even I have to admit we have it way easier than the days of washboards and brushing clothes. It’s certainly less stinky with public hygiene being generally accepted. But there’s something about it that brings out my inner, muddy three-year-old self.

Don’t get me wrong. I love having clean clothes. I just hate the process. But it’s not up to me when I do laundry anymore, no matter how I feel about it.

So I got a great big whiff of rancid gym clothes when I finally made it there with my haul, bag nearly bigger than I am, staggering with every step, carefully not dropping or squashing the box in my free hand. I slammed the lid down with a wrinkled nose, sighed, yank it back up, and drop a candy-coated pod inside.

I slumped down on a mustard-yellow plastic chair that must’ve been there since the seventies. It’s cracked, but I trust its resilience. It’s survived this long, and I know I only have five undisturbed minutes to get a catnap in before the dryer door opens.

My spine popped in the lower vertebrae pleasantly, and I smiled as I settled in by the dryer labeled out of order, knowing I’m safe to let my guard down in public. She only texts me to come when she knows I’ll be alone in the laundromat.

Must be nice to foresee situations like that, but she won’t share anything else.

All too soon, the dryer door bangs open, and I open my eyes reluctantly. The voice that emerges from inside the portal is like walking on cracked New Hampshire crushed gravel roads mixed with broken glass and sticky rock candy that melts to your shoes on hot days.

“You have it?” A delicately clawed hand emerges, brown and covered in scattered scales that look like peeling leather.

“Not only do I have it, they were testing a new flavor and giving out samples,” I answer.

I pull out the box, slightly battered despite my best efforts. “Brown butter sea salt caramel popcorn on top of vanilla bean cake and brown butter bourbon frosting. You want the lemon meringue cupcake first, or the new one?”

“New!” The voice cackles, the tackiness pulling at my ears like those price stickers you never quite get off dishes, undertones like sugar about to burn, sharp and crackling. The hand’s imperious, beckoning and eager.

“Tell me what mop corn is,” the voice instructs. It rolls around the room, swirling around my head, and splinters the glass under the out of order sign on her dryer on its way back. I hand over the cupcake.

Pop corn,” I correct. “It’s from a plant known as corn or maize. You dry it out, and then heat it so it puffs up and is edible. When that happens, it happens fast, so it explodes with a popping noise.”

I hear crunching from inside the dryer. I don’t look, and try not to think about why it’s so loud. That’s part of the deal. Never look, and try not to imagine.

“It is a weapon?” The hand beckons for the lemon meringue, claws dancing impatiently. Light flashes multicolored on the water-stained drop ceiling, too fast for my eyes to follow, so I don’t try.

“No, it’s just a snack food. There are different flavors.” I have to stop myself from pondering how weird it is to be explaining common movie nibbles to a creature from another dimension.

The slurping stops, although the dryer makes it echo for a few more seconds. This time her voice is static and firecrackers, squealing brakes and screaming cows. “I want to try a doughnut next. With sprinkles.”

There’s a pop, painful like a rapid altitude change, and she’s gone. I reach to open the washer, eager for clothes I know will be perfectly clean and dry, unwrinkled and lightly scented with soothing lavender. They’ll be perfect until I wear them.

Then a heaviness weighs into the air. She’s never come back before, and I tense, uncertain.

The roar of an avalanche and a landslide combined echo through the room, the crashing of a seven-car pile up with horns blaring and tires melting rubber onto the road, skidding out of control.

“I also desire more weaponized corn.”

Strays

One of this week’s spare prompts: Dragons are real, and there’s now one curled up at your front door like a stray cat demanding a home.

Lisa wandered through the house, scrolling through the surveillance system app on her phone.

“I managed to get back in,” she told her boyfriend, who sat at his desk staring at his laptop.

Jack grunted but didn’t look up from the spreadsheet. “Make sure you write down the password this time.”

She shrugged and flopped onto the couch, flipping through video clips. “We don’t use the front door much. It’s all package delivery and wildlife. You know how we thought there was a stray cat crapping in the flower garden? Turns out there are three different ones.”

“You trying to distract me from your Amazon habit?” Jack asked. He frowned and started typing. “No, that’s not right.”

“I’m deleting the past month and a half and it’s only been two deliveries so far,” Lisa said primly, and draped her free arm over her head.

“Mmm-hmm,” Jack answered, still typing. “Must not be far in.”

“Cat, cat, delivery guy, cat. Oh, did you know we have a possum in the area? He’s kind of cute. All fat and waddles.”

“Mmm.”

“Cat, delivery guy. Who has chickens? Oh, wow. Coyote. Didn’t expect that.” She paused. “Oh, man. That poor chicken.”

Only the click of keys answered her this time.

“Babe.”

“Yeah.”

“Babe, come look at this and tell me what you see.”

“I really don’t care about your Amazon habit as long as it’s affordable,” Jack said. “I’m just teasing you.”

“No, really, babe.” Lisa’s voice was high-pitched. She sat up and planted her feet, staring at her phone. “I need you to tell me I’m not crazy.”

“I’m sure it’s just more wildlife,” Jack said.

“That’s the problem.”

He looked up finally but didn’t move from his padded chair. “We can call an exterminator if you’re freaked out.”

“I don’t think an exterminator can handle this.” She got up and handed him the phone. “Watch it.”

His eyebrows rose. “There’s got to be a reasonable explanation.”

“What, a deformed bat?” Lisa gave him her patented look.

It didn’t work this time. He seized on it with evident relief, settling back into his chair and handing her the phone. “Yeah. Definitely. You know bats eat bugs, right? That means fewer crawly things and fewer spiders. They’re good to have around.”

She perched on the armchair next to his desk and scrolled through her phone. “The so-called deformed bat seems to have taken care of the rest of the wildlife over the past month. Ate a skunk yesterday.”

“See? Like I said. Good to have around.”

“Bats don’t eat skunks.”

Jack was resolute. “Dragons aren’t real.”

Her phone buzzed with an alert. “Babe.”

“Hmm?”

“Babe, the baby dragon’s back on our front porch.” She looked at him with pleading eyes. “It’s so cold, and I think he’s hungry.”

The Scent of Burning Stars

This is one of the prompts I submitted for this week’s Odd Prompts challenge.

The stars look different from the vantage point of space, away from atmosphere and pollutants, microsatellites and fragments of debris cluttering the hopes of astronomers for decades.

They glow, the stars, in helix patterns and spirals, shining reds and purples and blues, glowing vortexes and streaks of golden stardust. Swirls of asteroid hurtle past, forming rings and eyes, glittering auras too numerous to form constellations.

I’m privileged to have seen this from above the azure oceans, greens and browns and blues and shining lights of the planet I used to call home. There aren’t many of us who have made it up here, with the robots coming to take the dangerous space jobs.

Until the colonization ships are done, most people won’t make it off Earth. Most people don’t even want to leave, tied to families and homes and jobs they don’t enjoy. And the ships we’re building won’t have windows, the shuttles will land straight in the bay, automated from liftoff to transport to the stars, straight into the belly of a metal giant that will lead the people to a new land. No one leaving Earth will have this view.

I’ll never return, now, drifting on the waves of stardust, breathing in the scent of burning stars, filling my lungs with frozen starlight.

I spin myself, swirling gently, the tether snapped, too far away for the humans to survive getting me now. The bots are programmed to human safety standards. They won’t retrieve me, and I’ve gone the wrong way to join the atmosphere’s debris, a fiery human meteorite.

A last glimpse of homesick planetside existence, and I let the stars embrace me, one last time.

A Tethered Ring

It’s week three of the More Odds Than Ends writing prompt challenge! This week, my task was from Leigh Kimmel: “Strange visit to a place at night—moonlight—castle of great magnificence etc. Daylight shews either abandonment or unrecognisable ruins—perhaps of vast antiquity.”

Savannah tipped back the last of the bottle of strawberry wine, her throat working as she balanced it above her lips. The combination of sweetness and bubbles made her lips tingle. She set the empty flask down at her feet and shoved the cork back in the neck.

“This makes it worth it,” she proclaimed triumphantly, waving her free hand in the air. Unbalanced, she kicked the bottle toward the fire and hastily reached down to grab it before it could roll into the flames.

“Primitive camping,” Savannah said with a snort. “How you talked me into this when we’re not even supposed…oh.”

Kaylee was sleeping peacefully in her camp chair, she saw, her friend’s own bottle of dandelion wine hugged in her arms like a glass teddy bear.

“Hmph,” she said to the glowing embers, and glanced around. There was plenty of dead wood in the copse of oak and plane trees, but she wasn’t sure adding more was a good idea with how much wine she’d had.

The grove was a perfect circle, with enough room for the tent she and Kaylee shared and safe enough for the small and merry fire. Its only opening showed the ruins they’d trekked all this way to see. They’d positioned their chairs toward the view.

Yawning, she blinked at the crumbled castle in front of her. Moonlight streamed down from a pitted, full globe. Only a few walls remained, with an arched entrance that led only to untidy piles of mossy rocks. A ruined tower loomed above, dark and silent, watchful.

Savannah knew the other side was obliterated to time and artillery, crushed in some battle Kaylee would know. From this angle, perfect castellation allowed anachronistic lies. She could nearly see the watchman at his post, and smiled at her brief whimsy.

“Good day to ye, mistress,” a voice said.

Savannah looked up, blinking at unexpected daylight. A haze of purple and gold streaked the sky. It looked like sundown, but she couldn’t believe she’d have slept that long, wine or no.

“Hello,” she said cautiously.

A woman stepped into the clearing, wicker basket filled with greens and mushrooms on her arm. Her long brown hair was pinned up and covered, and her long yellow dress was covered with a green tunic and belted simply around the waist.

“Are you headed to the keep? I’d be pleased for company on the walk,” the stranger said. “I am Isabella.”

Savannah looked around, her head still muddled. Kaylee was gone, as was their tent. Her comfortable chair had turned into a tree stump.

“The – the keep?” She felt her teeth begin to chatter as her jaw twitched.

The other woman looked at her with concern in her whiskey-colored eyes. “Aye, mistress. Atop the hill, of course. Dark be coming. They’ll close the gates soon. Market continues after, of course.”

Savannah’s gaze sped to the ruins. The castle shone, bright white and grey rock against the sun-streaked sky. A horse pulled a cart up a dirt path leading toward the keep, while children chased after a stray chicken and encouraged sheep through an archway filled with a bustling crowd. Manure and woodsmoke scented the air.

On the tower parapet, a guard holding a glaive leaned lazily against the castellated stone. Another paced by behind him, looking out toward the river by the way he moved.

“Mistress? Are ye well?” Isabella took a few steps toward her.

Savannah stared at the ground and thus had an excellent view of Isabella’s leather turnshoes, clearly handmade and wrapped round with leather straps.

The clearing spun around her, the perfect circle spinning into an emerald blur.

“Mistress?”

The Ducks March to War

This was the prompt I submitted for Week Two of the Odd Prompts challenge.

Alise lined up her dolls along the long side of the table. Her small hands showed none of the usual childlike clumsiness, each movement deliberate and precise. Each doll’s stray locks of hair had been tugged unwilling into martial buns. Tiny shoes shone polished and bright, dangling under a purple plastic rectangle at unnatural plastic angles, inches above shell pink carpet. One miniature chair remained empty.

She pushed ruffled white lace aside, grimacing as the voluminous folds of fabric fell back onto her hands. From under her bed, she revealed a battered shoebox, held shut with a rubber band. The brittle band snapped when she touched it, haste making her hands clumsy again. She pulled off the soft cardboard lid and let out a breath at the sight.

“I have something special for you, Gemma,” Alise whispered, with a sideways glance at the half-open door. It wouldn’t do for Mother to overhear. “Today, you get a special accessory.”

She dug in her skirt pocket. Miss Hardy had given her two gold stars today, but she’d been rushed in handing them out as students headed for the line of impatient parents and piano lessons. These stars still had the precious sticky backing, and that meant they were perfect.

She held her breath as she lifted the doll out of the box at last, her ears near ringing by the time the application was done. Each star was aligned with precision, one on each shoulder.

Alise glanced at the door again with a guilty heart, her stomach doing a funny flip. She’d tried to make Mother happy, but it never seemed to end well. The unwanted purse was left forgotten in a mall store, resulting in a tense trip back to multiple stores to find it. Sore feet and multiple apologies later, she’d dared to ask why it was so important to retrieve an empty purse and accidentally kicked off the furor again.

Or the time she’d been prissed up in a fluffy dress and curls, but had found playing in the rain with her boy cousins to be far more fun than a boring game of house with the girls, who’d stayed in the stuffy basement, afraid to get wet, afraid of worms. How was she supposed to know there would be a family photo? She’d never been to a family reunion before, and she’d been told to play and leave the adults alone.

Lips firming, Alise put General Gemma at the head of the line. The row of dolls stared at her blankly. It was time to set up the opposition.

Getting up, she nearly tripped over her shiny patent leather Mary Janes. She hated those shoes, uncomfortable and stiff, hobbling her ability to run. Every scuff unladylike, every mention of them a discussion on proper behavior. She kicked the despicable shoes under the end of the bed, reached up, and grabbed a very special item from her collection of stuffed animals.

The duck was fuzzy, battered, and one-eyed. Each month, she had to fight to keep her favorite, the less-than-perfect toy. Only that her gran had given her the toy saved Pirate from the donation bin. Alise hugged him to her stomach with a quick clench at the idea of some other child handling him, maybe even losing him.

A last quick pet of matted fur, and she placed Pirate with reverence across from General Gemma. She had to run into the bathroom to sneak out the last of what she needed, but soon a row of rubber ducks faced the dolls. She stood and nodded once, satisfied.

“Let it begin,” Alise said, her hands clasped in front of her, raised to her mouth as if trying to hide her delight. She dropped to her knees and lifted a hand to take hold of Pirate.

A footstep outside the door stopped her mid-reach.

“What are you doing, Alise?”

She straightened. “Hello, Mother.”

The woman was tall, made more so by three inch heels and upswept blonde hair. She frowned, her height looming over the little girl as she stepped inside and looked down. Her nose wrinkled involuntarily at the sight of the ragged duck before she paused and smoothed out her face, porcelain perfection beginning the inevitable mar of age.

“What on Earth is this?” She toed a rubber duck with a blue, pointed toe. “These ducks belong in the bathtub. And in the bin, but we’ll go through this again next week, won’t we.”

Alise stood up, tired of being towered over and annoyed her perfect moment had been interrupted. She planted her feet and crossed her arms. “Nothing.”

“You went to a lot of effort for nothing,” her mother pressed. “This is the oddest tea party I’ve ever seen. What have you done to the dolls’ hair? I’d better not find it’s been cut.”

She unfolded her arms, sighed, and shifted her weight. Clenching tiny fists by her sides, she looked up. “It’s peace neigh goat stations.”

Her mother blinked. “Peace negotiations? Where on earth did you learn about that? Did Gran let you watch C-SPAN again?”

“No,” Alise muttered, and kicked a foot against the carpet.

“Alise!” The words were sharp and dropped into the pink monstrosity of a room like a firecracker.

Alise wished it had been a real firecracker. Maybe she’d get to choose a better color if the room was destroyed. One she actually liked.

Her mother sniffed and turned to leave. As she walked down the hall, she called back. “Clean this up and change your clothes. We’re going out.”

Her face fell, but she knew better than to dare disobey.

“I guess that’s it, General Gemma,” she whispered. Her lip trembled, but she pretended not to see the drop of water that fell on the General’s face. “Neigh goat stations have failed. It will be war.”

She could have sworn Pirate winked at her.

Believe in Yourself

This week’s More Odds Than Ends writing prompt challenge was from the Duke of Chaos. He suggested, “You stumble across proof that humans did not evolve on Earth. What now?”

Apparently, I had lots of thoughts, and it got longer than anticipated. Enjoy.

Janna pushed back the soaked bandana covering her hair, wiping yet another trickle of runaway sweat off the side of her face with her free hand. The dusty tunnel made her nose twitch, and her eyes ached from straining in the dim light.

“Sometimes I wonder why we’re out here when we spend all day hauling dirt and rocks outside,” she said. She sat back on her heels, wondering if she could persuade him to quit for the night.

“For the amazing discoveries we haven’t made yet,” a khaki-clad man said. He was kneeling, nose squashed sideways against the tunnel’s floor, heedless of the dirt covering ground. A flashlight held over his head with one hand dangled from strong but battered fingers. The other hand brushed dust away from a small glyph embedded in the floor. “Obviously.”

“Come on, Frank,” Janna wheedled. “Everyone else has already gone back to the house. We’ll miss dinner if we don’t head out soon. Susan promised Italian. You know how much you love Susan’s meatballs.”

Frank adjusted the flashlight. Dark, short curls gleamed briefly in the glow. “Give me some more light, will you?”

She sighed and pulled out her phone. The flashlight flickered on, a tiny spotlight in the stone gloom. “Sometimes I wish I’d outgrown playing in the dirt.”

 “You’re not really cut out for fieldwork. No shame in it.” He grunted. “But that translation you did was the key.”

Janna ran a hand up her face and shoved her hair back again. She looked down and wiped her hand on her shorts with a grimace. “That weird tablet you kept obsessing over that didn’t make any sense?”

He grunted again, this time with satisfaction. Unfolding himself from the tunnel floor, he stood up and brushed himself off. “It was a map.”

A slow burn started up her chest and spat out of her mouth. “You’re unbelievable. Keeping me from dinner because you want to treasure hunt? You’re chasing figments.” Her lips twisted into a scowl.

“Janna,” he began, one hand reached out in entreaty.

She turned and started walking toward the tunnel entrance, phone clenched in hand. “It’s hot out there. I’m tired and hungry. I’m leaving. Maybe a six-mile walk will clear your head.”

“Janna!” His voice had that excited quality she’d learned to heed when she’d been his lowly grad student.

She stopped, but mulishly refused to turn around. “What?”

“Pull that lever.”

It only took a few seconds for curiosity to win out. Her flashlight caught the feverish look in his eyes as he touched a stone protrusion on the far side of the tunnel.

“And then we leave?”

Frank darted over to the depression carved in the stone wall. Austin had thought it was the start of a new passageway when they’d seen it, but Janna had wondered why it was completely smooth, with no tool marks of a tunnel in progress at all. Preparation for art, she supposed. They’d seen plenty of weird markings as they mapped the tunnel.

Reaching up, she tugged on the jutting stone. “Tunnel’s been abandoned for well over a thousand years with no signs of grave robbers, and you think it’ll just –“

The stone moved with a rumble. She yelped and snatched her hand back. Her phone clattered to the floor. “What the hell?”

Behind Frank, the wall depression dissolved in a cloud of sifting powder. It billowed outward, swirling in eddies around his head. The dust settling in his short curls made him look like a Greek statue.

Dust undulated in the beam of his flashlight. She had the fleeting impression of a moth swarm. Janna shuddered and bent to pick up her phone, grateful for the additional light.

Straightening, she hesitated. Frank’s dusting of stone gave him an eerie luminescence in her jittery cell phone light.

Everything about this made her uneasy. Frank had spent hours studying the stone tablet, insisting on multiple translations with nuanced meaning. He’d gotten downright testy over one hieroglyph’s multiple possible connotations. It bordered on obsession, weirder than she’d ever seen from him in eight long years, and archaeologists were a weird bunch to start.

For that matter, this dig in the middle of nowhere had been odd, too, surrounded by desert and rock and little else. One of her fellow students had even cackled with delight when he’d heard where she was headed, swooping down on a choice job she’d rejected. Frank had refused to tell the team why he thought this was so vital. Only his most loyal students had trusted him enough to join the small team.

“We should call the others back,” she said, scuffing a worn boot in the settling dust. “They’ll be furious about a new discovery without them. We can get it sealed up and protected faster with them here.”

Frank laughed and brushed his hands over his face, streaking off most of the powdered stone and leaving him with odd tiger stripes. “We can’t stop now.”

He grinned, baring teeth, and stepped through the entryway. The light bobbed, dimming as he headed into the unknown.

“Wait!” She gulped and squinted into the new cavern, hesitant to cross into that boundary. “We all followed you here for this. All of us. We need the team.”

“You’ve got to see this,” Frank called. “And I need your camera. My phone died hours ago. Get in here.”

Janna desperately wished her phone had broken on the cavern floor. Throwing her guilt aside, she crossed the line. Pearlescent dust shone on the floor where the wall had been, marred by Frank’s boot prints. Stale, musty air greeted her twitching nose, and she shivered at the temperature drop.

Frank laughed, the noise echoing as it bounced through the room. It looked huge and round, mostly empty, with walls covered in carvings.

Janna hurried her steps and moved toward his outline. “What’s so important this couldn’t wait?”

In answer, he shone the flashlight over the walls, illuminating pictographs and symbols different from any she’d seen before.

She inhaled sharply. “Frank, what is this? I don’t understand.”

His voice was quiet and wondrous. “It’s proof, Janna. It’s what I’ve been looking for.”

Shining his light around the room, he settled on what she’d thought was the last panel. “I think it goes right to left. Film this, would you? Hit that button to take real pictures as you go, too.”

She obeyed, hoping her hands would stop shaking enough to get a clear image in the dim light.

“Initial impressions, Frank Abernich, on the discovery of a hidden cavern.” He’d turned on what she called his teacher voice.

“In the first panel, we see creatures with bulbous heads and big eyes boarding what looks like a spaceship. The line indicates an evacuation, maybe a colony. On the left of the panel, it shows an explosion. The destruction of their planet is my guess.”

Janna followed his flashlight to the next panel.

“Here, the group arrives on a desolate planet. The ship stays in orbit. See, it’s circling there.”

“That’s our planet,” Janna whispered. The continents were in different places and closer together, but recognizably Earth.

Frank ignored her. He was beginning to lose his professional tone, replacing it with sheer childlike glee. “The panel next panel splits. See, the top shows increasing life as time goes on – first plants, then trees, then animals.”

“My God. That’s terraforming.” She stepped back, shocked, and then professional curiosity overwhelmed her again. “What is that on the bottom?”

“Forced evolution.” Frank’s voice was tight and pleased. He laughed again, the room sending shattered echoes back at odd acoustic angles.

She winced, jerking the camera for a moment. “Adapting to suit a new planet?”

“Yes. You see? The eyes grow smaller. The old planet must have been darker. Limbs shorten and ears emerge. Gravity differences, probably, and maybe to better handle predators with an additional sense. They edited until it looked quite recognizable. Fascinating, isn’t it? The technology they must have had!”

He stepped forward and studied the stone carvings, reaching a hand out to follow the engraved paths with fingers carefully kept an inch away. The carved stone was remarkably crisp after millennia sealed off from human interference.

Janna swallowed and turned the camera to the next panel. “Some sort of conflict here.”

She felt his nod, a whisper of air in the darkness, her eyes focused on the illuminated panel in front of her.

“Only a small group made it earthside. The rest leave.” He pointed to the colony ship, heading away from the planet.

Janna covered her mouth with a hand, this time heedless of the dirt. “Taking most of their technology with them. They left them to die.”

He ignored her horror. “I’ll need you to work on translating the symbols surrounding all of these later, of course. See if we can figure out the cause of the conflict.”

The lines were jerky and haphazard to her eyes. “It looks like cuneiform rattled apart by an earthquake.”

“Just make sure you get clear pictures.” Frank’s impatience urged her on, through the panels twice more before he was satisfied.

She frowned and glanced over at him. “How’d they create this place, then?”

He shrugged, a dusty outline in the darkness. “They devolved. Handling all the challenges of a new planet, without anything they’re used to. I’d guess they made this place, then sealed everything they wouldn’t be able to replace in here.”

Janna lowered her phone, noting the battery indicator edging into red. “Frank, what does this mean?”

He was suddenly very close, dust-streaked face garish and unnerving. His hand gripped her arm, powerful fingers digging into soft and dirt-covered flesh.

“It means we are the aliens, Janna.” He flipped the flashlight in his free hand, gleeful like a child with a new toy. His teeth flickered, sharp and white. “Our ancestors looked like that before they adapted. They populated this world.”

His hold on her arm tightened further, and she squirmed. “You’re hurting me. And I don’t believe you. That’s a stretch too far, Frank.”

“All these images, and you won’t accept the evidence. That’s willful disbelief,” he snarled. The whites of his eyes shone around irises subsumed by pupils. “I thought you were a scientist.”

He dragged her toward the middle of the room, heedless of her attempts to pull away. Her boots skidded, dust over a slick floor, smoother by far than the tunnels they’d excavated so far.

“Do you believe this, Janna?” His words hissed in her ear.

The light illuminated something round and silvery, rising bubble-shaped above a sloped metal grade. A faint layer of dust rested on the bubble, but she thought it might be faintly transparent underneath.

“Like a windshield,” she said. A whimper escaped her mouth, and she pressed her lips shut. She shrank away, but he used his body to block her from escaping.

“Not like, Janna,” Frank said in her ear, and his mad cackle was back, ringing around the room. “That’s exactly what it is. The floor to this room is the spacecraft our ancestors used to get here. We’re standing on it. We’ve been standing on it this whole time. The first humans in millennia to know where we came from.”

“We need to leave this place,” Janna said. Her conviction grew with every word. “We weren’t meant to know. They sealed it off for a reason.”

He snorted. “They left us a damn map, Janna. Now film the spaceship like a good girl.” He let go of her bicep, but her gratitude was short-lived as he seized her wrist in a crushing grip.

He moved to stand behind her, heat radiating as he pushed her forward. He balanced the flashlight on her left shoulder, her right wrist captured in his hand. The app continued to film, phone now turned toward the saucer’s cockpit.

“Get closer,” Frank said, and nudged her shoulder from behind. “I’ll pick you up if I must. I want to wipe that dust off and see what’s inside.”

Janna planted her feet, but he shoved her forward. Falling to her knees, she slid the rest of the way, slamming to a stop as she hit the bubble with both patellas. She froze, Frank’s delighted laughter making her ears ring again as the cavern reflected it back.

He still held her wrist, her arm uncomfortably wrenched back above her head, directing the phone’s angle. His fingers dug in cruelly. “Wipe it off.”

Lifting a trembling hand, she dragged it through the powder as fast as she could, hoping a quick swipe would be enough to appease him. Dust flew up, and she started coughing.

Frank let her go and wrapped his hands around his eyes, peering into the bubble for a closer view.

Janna staggered to her feet and took a few steps back. She eyed him warily.

“You’ll have to come get a close-up of this,” he said, his head still down. “I think I can see my great-grandpa.”

Janna turned and ran, stumbling as she hit the uneven floor of the tunnel they’d thought was the main discovery earlier. The air was hot and dry, burning her lungs as she ran. She’d never been so grateful for the earthy scent of dirt, real dirt, dirt that wasn’t strange powder that dissolved and turned respected scientists mad.

She reached the end of the tunnel, breath ragged and harsh. She couldn’t hear anything else, and didn’t dare turn around to see how close Frank was behind her. She slowed as the ancient, rusted Jeep came into view, digging a frantic hand in her pocket for the keys.

She leapt in, tossing her phone in a cupholder. Fingers gone numb with tension dropped the keys twice before she managed to get them in the ignition. Succeeding, she threw it in gear and punched the gas. The jeep rumbled and growled, shaking as she pulled off the dirt path onto a real road.

“I’m so cold,” she mumbled. Her eyes darted to the rearview mirror every few seconds. There was no sign of Frank, which only increased her paranoia.

Hours later, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket and stuffed with meatballs so garlicky she was sure to ward off vampires, Janna was beginning to shake the cavern’s chill. “I’m telling you, I’m not exaggerating. He’s lost it.”

“Play the video again,” Callie said. Susan nodded behind her. Austin clicked play while the rest of the crowd watched for what must have been the fortieth time, crowded around a forty-inch television in a packed living room.

The video cut out on a squeal of tires, when her phone’s battery had finally died halfway through the drive home.

“You can’t release this,” Susan said. She braided and unbraided her long black hair, a longstanding habit Janna knew meant she was nervous. “The world can’t handle it.”

Austin frowned and ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair. “I don’t know. It’s a huge discovery.”

Janna felt dull and exhausted. “I don’t care. I’m headed home. And I’m never leaving the lab again. I don’t have to do fieldwork to translate.”

“How can you justify ignoring it?” Callie demanded. A cold beer dripped condensation onto her hands as she rolled the bottle between them. “People need to know.”

“I can justify it because I’ve got bruises all over my arm and scraped knees,” Janna snapped. “From a man I’d known and respected for eight years, with no sign of obsession or madness before now.”

She buried her head in her hands and spoke into them. “Do we have any whiskey?”

The debate raged around her as she drank. Eventually, the house quieted down as her colleagues drifted off to sleep. Janna stayed in her armchair, dozing and waiting for Frank. She ran through a dozen different scenarios of what she’d do when he arrived.

She never decided, but it didn’t matter. Frank stayed at the site all night.

The video was posted online the next day. She never discovered who had borrowed her phone to upload it, but she didn’t care. Her phone still worked to book a flight home.

Alien hunters flocked to the site afterward, but the archaeological team left the night after she had. Frank hadn’t come back because the cavern’s ceiling had collapsed on him, destroying the work the team had already accomplished. The rumble hadn’t been the Jeep, but collapsing rock.

She kept waiting to hear news that they’d found his body, waiting to feel guilt for leaving him to die in an unstable underground cavern. Supposedly the local authorities kept rousting the groups trying to sift through the rubble.

Janna didn’t care. She’d respected Frank, but she was wondering if a different career might be in order now. The video had become a subject of mockery, and her name was part of the film. Reactions alternated between sympathy and laughter.

“Most people think it’s fake,” she said to Susan over cocktails one night back in Chicago, yelling over the pounding music. She twisted her cherry stem into a knot and threw it into the melting ice of what used to be a Moscow mule.

“Do you blame them?” Susan asked. She tipped back her whiskey sour and slammed the glass down on the hightop, then grinned. “I see it all the time at the grocery store. You know, checkout tabloids.”

Janna grimaced, a twisted attempt at a smile that showed teeth. “I can’t stop thinking about how obsessed Frank got with it.”

“Lighten up,” Susan suggested, flipping her carefully styled curls over her shoulder. “Stop watching the video and forget about it. You’re getting obsessed. Just like he was.”

“I just wish he hadn’t been so weird at the end.”

“Look, if he’d wanted to manhandle you, he could have taken you to bed.” Susan met Janna’s eyes dead on. “Oh, come on. Your crush on him was kind of obvious. You know you’d have jumped him. But no, instead he brought aliens into it. Who does that?”

Janna’s thoughts were scrambled after four drinks. “But we’re the aliens,” she protested. “That was the point.”

“Yeah, whatever,” the other woman said. She eyed a passing broad-shouldered man with brown hair in a tailored blue suit. “You think that guy’s too young for me?”

Janna sighed into her drink and gave up. “If you’re going manhunting, I’m going to get some water and a cab.”

Later that evening, she found herself lying in bed, sheets twisted around her legs, unable to sleep. She reached over and grabbed her phone.

Pulling up the video, she watched it yet again before making a disgusted noise.

But an hour later, still restless and awake, she looked at the photos she’d made while in the cavern she’d once hoped to forget, but never seemed to be able to leave.

Flipping through the images, she thought the jagged lines were beginning to click in her head. “I need to finish translating these,” Janna whispered.

She smiled, and set her phone down. She knew what she needed to do now.

Janna leapt out of bed, heading for the second tiny apartment room she called an office. She’d downloaded the photos weeks ago. If she couldn’t sleep, she’d work on the translation. It was only natural that she finish Frank’s work.

Her eyes were wide, her thoughts fevered and dizzy. She bared her teeth and cackled at the wide screen monitor, gripping the desktop in an iron hand.

Of course, this language made perfect sense. It was her ancestors’ original words, after all. There were clear instructions on how to reactivate the ship and reanimate the pilot. It was time to colonize another planet.

She laughed again, barefoot and hair askew, continuing until her neighbor pounded on the wall.

When she was done with the translation, she’d book a trip back out to the desert and finish what Frank had started.

Nothing else would do. Nothing at all.

Tomorrow is Beautiful

You can look up at the moon and see the theme parks anytime the moon is full, these days. Everyone says it looks lopsided when the waning begins and the bubble disappears, but watching it wax open is like watching a strange, stony flower bloom now.

It doesn’t even cost that much to go, thanks to the railgun launches. But it all boiled down to one man’s belief in imagination.

Yeah, I see you know who I mean. So you know the investment he made into getting there, and making sure everyone else could get there too. He thought big, that man.

Good man. Met him once. I was just a kid, but he asked me what I thought on one of the terrestrial rides. Nodded, took me seriously, listened to my suggestions. Even shook my hand. Great man.

Boy, it’s a good thing he lived until the eighties, especially after that health scare he had in the mid-sixties. Experimental treatments saved the day, no kidding there. We nearly lost him, though of course we didn’t know it at the time.

Kept the space program open, he did, after the public lost interest. You think space tourism is good now, well, there’s no way it would have existed without him.

They had a tough time those first few years, too. Gravity works differently, or something. Cost complaints and whatnot. All the math for the coasters had to be redone. I hear the engineers were bouncing around in the first big bubble, pulling their hair out. I bet it was hilarious.

But you can’t have someone go in for a loop-de-loop and wind up launched past the life support. It’s funny, you’d think being launched into space would be enough of a thrill, but everybody wants to do something when they get there.

So yeah. We owe the guy. Big hero. He’s the reason we’ve got a colony program in the works. They’re naming the ship after him, I heard.

Aw, I know I said it was the investment, but it’s never just the money. He kept the dream alive, you know?

Who else coulda done that, eh? You give me one good name.

So what if the moon looks like it has big round ears now?

You want to go to space or not, kid?

***

Theme parks on the moon” was my submission for this week’s More Odds Than Ends writing prompt weekly challenge. When I have the time, I’ll take a hack at my own. I’m really curious how they’ll turn out from other people!

Kintsugi

Prompt: A woman wakes up a week after her husband’s funeral. Describe how her morning routine has changed without mentioning her husband.

Note: It turns out that when you start a conversation with “Hey, honey, I have to write about when you’re dead,” the resultant eyebrow twitch and physical removal to a safe distance should be expected. It is, in fact, an appropriate response.

***

The silence was crushing her.

She lay in bed, unwilling to move. It would be generous to still call the late golden sunlight streaming inside “morning.” Light had to be compressed luminosity, full daylight strong, to meander its way past the blackout curtains.

Mornings should be muted dark and nudging, foggy without caffeine, rushed with an exit goal in mind. Or on those rare occasions where time was forgotten, playful and filled with laughter, twisted sheets and warmth.

She turned her head away from the window, repulsed by lost memories. The gaping void of a perfectly-made bed half slapped her in the face as it had every day of the past week instead.

The resultant nausea got her out of bed, at least. She bared her teeth in the mirror, avoiding her reflection’s eyes. Hatred for the toothpaste’s false advertising welled up inside her as she went through mechanical motions. Her smile would not be bright by the time she finished, she knew.

Silence continued to follow her, omniscient and ubiquitous.

The kitchen was finally empty of well-wishers and commiserations she didn’t want. The freezer was stuffed with food she wouldn’t eat. She’d been caught trying to throw it out, but spared the usual and expected lecture on wastefulness. Her mother’s diatribe would have been better than the pitying look.

Automatically setting out two cups for coffee, her hand clenched around the mug on the left.

She wondered if it would be better to shatter it, smash it into pieces. But she put it back, unable to bear the loss of one more memory.

She had no idea how long she stood there, staring into hollow oblivion, waiting for coffee from a cold and quiet machine.

A newly installed door thrust open into the kitchen, hinges squeaking with disuse. Her hand convulsed on the counter at the noise. She turned to find a shaggy black face with a blunt snout and giant brown eyes staring up at her, having trouble with a door flap installed for a giant.

The woman twisted away. What had made her brother give her a puppy? He hated dogs. Dogs only reminded her of unfulfilled dreams. What was she going to do with a gamboling mass of fur that at over twenty pounds was a tenth of his full-grown size?

She sighed. Panting noises followed her around the kitchen. “You have food, newfie,” she muttered downward, and received a cold nose on her leg as a reward.

The couch enveloped her with the ease of long practice. Brown, to hide the inevitable coffee stains, and now apparently also fur. She frowned as the puppy clambered up beside her. It took him three uncoordinated attempts to succeed before he snuggled into her lap, drooling.

“Get down,” she said, but she didn’t mean it. The puppy closed his eyes. Her hand tangled in thick, warm fur, and she realized his breathing had kept the silent fugue from returning.

“Guess I should give you a name.”

***

Edit: Link to More Odds than Ends week one prompt list.

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