Tag: weekly prompt

Once Upon a Teenage Dryad

September 24, 2024 / fionagreywrites

“Jennnnnnnnnnaaaaa,” sang Kelsie. She pranced around the entrance to Jenna’s sapling, practicing the dance steps from the video on the phone in her hand. “I’ve got the – ooof.”

A worried face filled her vision, the wood shifting smoothly. “Are you all right, dear?”

Kelsie rubbed her spiky green mohawk from where she lay on the soft green lawn. “I’m fine. Sorry, Mrs. Maple. Guess I should have been paying more attention.”

“The grove should have enough room, dear. Jenna’s already there. With the same video, I believe.”

She leapt to her feet and spun her way into the middle of the grove, where a slender dryad was already stretching. “Hey, I’ve got the – whoa! You dyed your hair!”

Jenna shook her leaves. “No need for artificial dye! It happens every year in autumn. From green to purple. Cool, huh?

“Neat…” Kelsie reached a hand toward the multicolored hues and let her hand hover an inch away. “Gorgeous, really. It looks dry, though?”

“Right, well, totally normal. I keep forgetting you just moved here.” Jenna offered her a cookie from the pack next to her phone. “It’s like you’ve been here forever already.”

“I don’t miss the coniferous grove since meeting you,” Kelsie confessed. “Not much, anyway. But I just have spikes, you know? All green. If it goes orange, something’s wrong.”

“Oh! Um, well, don’t freak out, but I’m gonna bald in about a month…”

***

Prompt trade with AC Young this week! Check it out, over at MOTE!

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.

Meteorite

December 16, 2020 / fionagreywrites

The metal candleholder quickly lost its warmth as she left the temple’s tended fires. Lady Elsa headed down the wide stone stairs and headed for the garden. Her free hand chilled where air met her exposed hand, sheltering the emerging yellow flame. It flickered with each rapid step, evening dew soaking into her slippers as she deviated off the pebbled gravel path.

Each novice went alone for their attempt, but they knew the way. She could feel the eyes upon her with each hasty step. Adrenaline spiked her pace still faster, her breathing ragged.

Her feet were soggy and cold by the time Elsa reached her goal. She paused at the arch before entering and set the candle in the empty holder before kicking off her shoes. A deep breath and a hitch of wet skirt away from her ankle, and she plunged through the ivy into darkness.

And entered for the first time, into light. Floating sparkles traced colorful paths across the sky, while glowing flowers spun purple and green bioluminescence into the shadows. A drop of ivy dripped a trail of water, and starlight sparkled as it shattered onto the ground like diamonds.

She stared upward, enraptured by pale grey streaks of moonlight, which broke through the spaces between the darkened leaves. Strands of gold dust swirled around her raised hands, and she broke into a delighted laugh.

Floating with joy, Elsa turned and bowed to an alcove where a figure was obscured among the shimmer, hidden along the wall amidst leaf and bough. “Lady of Star and Shadow.”

The statue remained still and cold, but a bright light echoed from behind the statue’s head. A blackened figure towered over the temple maiden. Elsa crumpled to her knees in a collapsed curtsy of wet skirts and bare feet. She had nearly forgotten. “Forgive me, Lady of the Moon.”

She reached into her beltpurse and drew out the multicolored rock that served as her offering. “I bring you your child of fire and blazing glory, returning to you the lost children of the stars.”

***

I think this one might go further, sometime, but the world isn’t quite clear yet. I don’t think Lady Elsa is the main character, at least not as a novice. Thanks to Leigh Kimmel for this week’s Odd Prompt: “Enchanted garden where moon casts shadow of object or ghost invisible to the human eye.” My suggestion went to Cedar Sanderson, that an infestation of baby dragons was not as desirable as one might imagine…

You’re a Mean One

December 9, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Celia bustled inside, trailing a profusion of gift bags, tissue paper, and her husband John. His head was barely visible above a series of boxes. A cloud of chatter surrounded her.

“Can you believe those crowds? And the lines. I was only pointing out the lady behind us was closer than the floor sticker suggested. Can you believe how angry she got? Dump those by the tree, dear, would you? Mind the cat.” She sat her baggage down on the floor and collapsed into the nearby loveseat.

He joined her after depositing his own packaging, mute and frowning. He checked his phone. “The door was locked when you came in, wasn’t it? I didn’t get an alert on the security app.”

Celia had taken off one of her shoes and was massaging her foot. “Of course it was locked. Locked before we left and locked when we returned. Oh! Did that naughty cat get into the tree again and knock things over?” She hopped on one leg to inspect the tree, still holding her foot.

“No,” John said. “It’s that odd bottle of wine below the tree. Behind that yellow bag from the shop with the smelly soap.”

She sniffed and put her foot down, then pulled off her other shoe. “Can’t be wine.”

“Looks like wine.” John tapped his fingers on his knee. “Don’t know where it came from.”

Picking up the bottle, she studied the label. “You were right. Bright green, but wine it is. Who knew it came in pistachio flavor?”

A red bow snugged around the glass neck of the bottle, contrasting with the vibrant contents. “Looks like that cartoon guy. You know.” John hummed, dropping his voice to low rumble.

She snorted. “Well, after that – tart in the store, I’m in the mood to try some. Would you like a glass?”

“Of alcohol from mysterious origins that appeared in our home without explanation?” John raised an eyebrow and rubbed a clean-shaven jaw. “I think not. And don’t recommend you do, either. I’m going to take a look outside and see if I can figure out how it got here.”

Celia poohed and rolled her eyes, but set down the bottle on a nearby table. “I’ll get going on wrapping these, then.”

Ten minutes later, John returned. “Still can’t figure out how anyone got inside. The neighbors didn’t see anything – Celia?”

The tree was knocked over, ornaments smashed in a rainbow of vicious glitter shards. A fire burned merrily on the wall, the tip of the tree smoldering as unseasoned wood flickered with the beginnings of flame. The cat cowered from where it hid under the desk, covered in tinsel. Celia cackled, a package in her hands only briefly before smashing one of her purchases onto the floor.

She grinned at him. “Christmas is cancelled at last!” Laughter erupted from her throat in a crescendo, wild and eager.

A glass of green wine sat next to the open bottle, half-empty.

***

I’m not sure this grumpy story is quite where nother Mike’s prompt about unexpected wine should have gone, but I had fun writing it.

My MOTE prompt was a direct trade, and did he ever make the tomatoes wake up and rock on!

What Sharp Teeth You Have

November 25, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Jessica stared down at the spiral mass of fur below. The metal walkway was cold against her fingertips, clutched so tightly her unpainted fingernails turned white.

Anna strolled up and joined her. “You’re really into this.” She tossed her blonde ponytail over one shoulder, the epitome of pumpkin spice and late fall exuding with every movement.

“Turns out, they like the gelatin in marshmallows,” Jess answered absently. “They let me toss some.” Her eyes were glued to the swirling vortex twenty feet below.

“Hmm.” The blonde tail streamed between the girl’s fingers. “So, you about ready to move on? My nose is getting cold.”

“No. The lady said I get to go in with them if I wait.” Jess felt the bridge vibrate under her feet, but couldn’t help her bouncing.

“Jess.”

“Hmm?” She deliberately echoed Anna’s dismissive tone from a few moments before. “Come on, we’re always doing what you want.”

“Jess.” Anna’s voice was urgent this time. She squashed her paper cup of liquid sugar with one hand until the lid popped off. It bounced off the walkway and the barking puppies chased after it below, a new whirlwind of black and grey and white.

“What? You could have hurt them with that, you know. You should be more careful.”

Anna looked at the teeth gleaming white below and shuddered. “Jess, those aren’t dogs.“

This weeks MOTE prompt came from Cedar Sanderson and was inspired by a visit to a wolf sanctuary. They do in fact like marshmallows, and had nearly 30 of them a few years ago!

“The puppies jockeyed for position, finally ending up whirling around the bowl like a small furry turbine.”

Check out the prompt I gave Becky here. Edit: Oops! Last week. My prompt went to nother Mike, whose story is over at the MOTE page.

Edit: Added wolf & wolf puppy pictures.

Sharp and Prickly

November 18, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Fred whistled to himself, only half-paying attention to the green and brown surroundings. Oh, his mother had always warned him to pay attention on the forest path, but he was always alone amongst feathery pines and dead and dormant branches.

No muggers lurked here, far from the city lights and shining asphalt. Here the path was cold dirt and barely discernable under a soft carpet of dead leaves and rusty dropped needles years in the making. It was the way home, and he knew it well, and he did not need to see.

And yet – there was something over there. A red glow, but not the glow of fire. And there, a flicker of green, perhaps a glimpse of yellow. How had a traffic light managed to wander into the forest, this far from a real road and into the woods?

His feet drew nearer, and Fred realized the lights were on all at once. And within the glow, shadowed movement.

He watched, bewildered, as a shaggy, smooth-needled Eastern pine shrugged its limbs and shucked a mixture of Christmas lights from its boughs.

“That’s better,” a low voice grumbled. The limbs sloughed away the holiday trappings with a final shake and shuddered, as if the ornamentation had itched.

“Ah, hullo,” Fred ventured to the plant man. The pine stiffened, and turned around.

It was not a face, per se, but shadows that emulated a face. Fred was sure the tree-man was glaring at him.

“It’s too early for this nonsense.” The plant’s voice rumbled. A branch swiped at the pile of lights and knocked the pile under a bush.

Fred nodded, uncertain what else to do.

“You’d not believe the audacity of some people.” The great needles rose and fell with a sigh of shrubbery. The pine turned and lumbered into the forest, shallow roots easily torn from the earth with each step. “Not even Thanksgiving yet.”

If you’re ever in Pennsylvania, Eat’n’Park is rather a cult classic diner. And in the 80s, had this wonderful commercial that inspired the story when I wasn’t quite sure what to do with Nother Mike’s prompt.

It was a long one for Odd Prompts inspiration this week: “Prompt: Walking along the darkened path, he noticed there was something glowing behind the bushes beside the walkway. He leaned over, and saw a red and green glowing something, apparently tied with bright yellow ropes, just as it struggled free… (inspired by a game commercial … feel free to make the critter in the ropes anything you want!).”

Forged

October 27, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Darkness never bothered me. Why would it? Darkness is what lets me see the color of the metal, white-orange hot and ready for tempering, molding, shaping to my will. The forge is my life, and I live in the shadows.

Darkness is what lets the light shine bright and sweet, upon the face of a woman or a child. I have brought plenty of shadows to this world already. The look they give me is the same as when they face the darkness, and fear the shadows.

Sweat drips down my face as I strike the mallet against a bar, branding hot, flakes and chips shattering into the forge with each strike. Sweat means heat, means life, and each flex of tendon and muscle in my wrists guarantees an existence. I will never freeze again in this heated environ; no snowy, stiffened days where I can barely move my hands to grasp a hammer. No longer am I desperate for a bowl of soup or a scrap of bread stolen from a windowsill. No longer am I driven to desperation and the darkness.

The irony does not escape me. I learned a trade and left the shadows, only to live within the shadows. I remain on the edges of the world, dusted with soot and charcoal. I would not trade it for the limelight, or even for the sunshine. I know where I, and everyone else, is comfortable where I remain.

Looking respectable increases the irony. The past was always destiny-bound to arrive on booted feet, spurs jangling with each step, swirling darkness in his cloak. It’s why I told that woman to stop pushing her wiles on me. She doesn’t want the chill of shadows. She imagined strength, when I saw only prey. I was once and always quick to anger, quick to the fight, quick to the draw.

I survived, and you know what that means. Just because I learned self-restraint doesn’t mean I lost the instinct.

I hear each deliberate thud and know it’s time. It doesn’t matter who’s here to call me to account at last. It’s not in me to give up a fight, as if a gunfight at midnight is a disadvantage. If I win, if I lose – either way the darkness reclaims me, as it was always bound to do.

***

Leigh Kimmel and I traded Odd Prompts this week. She provided the weirdest music video I’ve ever seen as inspiration. After blacksmithing this past weekend, which option could I choose but the smith preparing for a gunfight? I challenged her to write about a joyous feeling she (or her character) would never want to experience again.

Tickets, Please

May 26, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Aerin bumped the door open with an absentminded shoulder and sorted through the mail. She opened a creamy envelope with a large, gold seal in the upper left corner. “Cool,” she said. “We actually got something that’s not a bill or some political ad.”

“We live in a swing state,” Jory said, his voice muffled from where he lay braced underneath the sink. Buckets, cleaning products, and a toolbox were scattered on the floor around stained denim knees. “I don’t believe we didn’t get something from a politician.”

“Of course we did. I threw out three fliers already.” Aerin let out an unladylike snort. “It’s a light day. We also got something extra, too, that’s all.”

Jory emerged from under the sink and stretched his shoulders, still clasping a wrench. He tossed it into the toolbox. “Well, that’s one bill we won’t get. Sink’s good to use again. So, did my weirdo mum write me a letter or what?”

She pointed a finger at him in admonishment. “I like your mum.”

Jory stayed sprawled on the floor and leaned back on his arms with a smirk. “And she knows how to video chat.” He picked up a poof of stashed plastic bags and stuffed it back under the sink with a series of rustles that spooked the cat into a blur streaking down the stairs.

Aerin waved a hand. “Whatever. We got free tickets to the local Renaissance Festival. I’ve never been.”

Jory tilted his chin down and gave her a dubious look. “Do you want to?”

She stuck out her tongue and sniffed delicately, arcing her face toward the ceiling. “Not only do I want to go, we also get free costume rental and some other stuff.”

“What’s this we you speak of?” Jory asked. He stayed half bent over, one blue eye fixed on her behind a curtain of long brown hair, his hand frozen on the toolbox handle.

“Oh, you’re joining me, mister.” She pointed the envelope at him. “I’ll be Lady Aerin, and you can be my gallant knight.”

“Um, babe…” His eyes were pleading.

“Unless you want me to deliver those brownies I made to the neighbors?”

“Babe! That’s just not fair!”

***

Two weeks later, Jory pulled his truck across the patchy ground covered in clumps of long grass too stubborn to die. He followed a series of flaggers dressed as peasants. That is, if Renaissance-era peasants had possessed florescent safety vests and flashlights.

Aerin’s bouncing wasn’t due to the rutted earth. As the truck crested the slight hill and palisade walls surrounding a motley collection of pavilions and mismatched buildings came into view, she let out a high-pitched squeal.

He winced, then flinched at her blazing glare. “Hell on the suspension,” he muttered.

“Good save,” she said tartly, and turned rapt eyes on the faire grounds as they descended the rise.

She could see a small building that was made to represent a branching tree, a stage covered in shade by its outreached arms. Another had carvings that made her think of Vikings, which she couldn’t wait to inspect in person up close. A pirate ship rested atop dried August grasses, swarming with activity as tiny figures climbed up the nets. A horse nuzzled a man in shining metal armor, then headed out of view behind a wooden fence.

Everywhere, she saw crowds of people, brightly colored dots that dropped quickly out of view. Aerin bounced again, and pulled out the envelope, now creased and softened around the edges with much handling.

“Why’d we get free tickets, anyway?” Jory asked with a slight frown.

“No idea,” she said breezily. “Here, we’ve got one for free ale. That’ll cheer you right up.”

His frown deepened. “They mean beer, right?”

“Oh, come on. I looked at the website. What’s not to like? They have performers who set things on fire.”

“Wait, intentionally?”

“Yes, of course. Oh, here’s the parking pass. I forgot, we get to go in a special entrance. Show that to the flagger, will you?”

“Woman, you are driving my suspension crazy.”

***

Lady Aerin curtsied clumsily. “Sir Jory, how handsome you look today.”

Jory looked down at his legs, clad in poofed half-breeches. He stamped a leg on the dusty gravel. “If you say so.”

Aerin put her hands on her hips, above a gleaming golden belt with a red faceted stone. She wondered if her face was about to match the ruby color when Jory’s eyes met hers.

He blanched. “I mean, how lovely you look, Lady Aerin.” Jory glanced around and copied a nearby couple, offering her his arm. “Shall we?”

“Good morrow and well met, time travelers!” said a man with a cape, plumed hat, sword, and horrid fake British accent. “The Renaissance awaits. Don’t forget your provisions, or your tickets.”

Aerin grabbed her borrowed bag with her free hand. Her purse was already stuffed inside. “I’m not sure that color of bird existed back then,” she whispered to Jory, nodding to the ticket-taker’s extravagant hat.

“Pray, attend me,” the ticket-taker said to the three couples waiting to enter, all now garbed in appropriate gear. They’d even been given period footwear. Aerin wondered how they’d seemed to have everyone’s sizes ready to go and frowned. Maybe Jory had a point asking how they’d been selected for the free tickets.

She looked up as the ticket-taker finished his spiel with an extravagant wave. “I missed it,” she said to Jory in a low voice.

“We enter this box, sit down, he pulls a handle, and we go out the other side. He calls it a time machine. Just a fancy entrance with a bit of fun. Probably a light show or something inside.”

Aerin nodded, and sat on the cushion that matched her charcoal dress, tucking trailing sleeves around her wrists. The time machine resembled an antique carriage, with window shades drawn to block the view. Jory sat next to her, placing his own bag by his feet.

She frowned again. “Hey, what’s in your bag? I can understand why they’d want me to hide the purse. We’re basically free advertising for the costume rental place, right?”

Jory shook his head, ponytail grazing the top of his starched collar. “I’m not sure. The guy with the hat handed it to me just as we were getting in.” She looked up, and the other couples nodded. One pointed to his own identical leather bag.

“Ask the hat guy,” Aerin said.

Jory tried the door. “It’s locked. Guess it’s part of the show. No going back now.” His laugh was uneasy.

A man with a wild red beard grimaced from across the carriage. “Food,” he said with a grunt, and shoved his bag back onto the floor. “Weird dried stuff and hard bread. And a little bag of fake coins.”

“Try the other door,” his lady friend stated, biting her lip and playing with the fabric of her sapphire skirts. “I’d like to get out and into the faire now. I don’t like small, enclosed spaces.”

Aerin lifted the latch. The door on this side opened easily. She gave a push. “What’s that horrid smell?”

Jory was right behind her. “Do you hear chickens?”

Gone were the pirate ship, the fanciful carved buildings. Narrow, two-story buildings shadowed previously sunny faire grounds. Voices called their wares in narrow streets; some from permanent windows propped open, others from battered tarps propped up by polished sticks. Aerin looked down, and realized the ground was paved with wide, uneven stones. They were muddy with dirty water that hadn’t quite washed away what looked suspiciously like large deposits of manure.

“Did the weather change, or are we further away from the main entrance than I thought?” the lady in blue asked from behind her.

Aerin turned, and her jaw dropped. The entrance to the faire didn’t just look like a carriage, it was a carriage. Two horses were hitched to it, with a sullen footman slouched over the driver’s seat.

“That’s odd,” the bearded man said. “I don’t see anyone not in fancy costume. Or any cell phones.”

“This isn’t right,” a blonde with braids and a red, Nordic style dress said. “This looks – and smells – real. That guy has a chicken in a cage, for crying out loud. Are we behind the scenes or something? Like backstage?”

“Then why aren’t they greeting us and leading us out?” Jory asked. He looked around, eyes narrowed in confusion. “Maybe I didn’t pay enough attention to the fancy hat guy.”

Aerin gulped. “Does anyone still have their ticket? Maybe it explains.”

Jory handed the piece of embossed paper to her. She could feel the design of interwoven vines under fingertips suddenly gone clumsy, and nearly dropped the ticket.

She felt the blood drain from her face. She held up the paper in a trembling hand and read it aloud. “Experience the magic. Admit one.”

Her voice failed her. Aerin cleared her throat and tried again. “Admit one…to the Renaissance.”

This week on Odd Prompts, Kat Ross and I traded prompts. She delighted us all with the return of the murder chicken, and challenged me to tackle a working version of HG Well’s time machine. Version 1 is here.

The description of the Faire above is based on Ohio’s Harveysburg Festival, which I hope will open this year as I’ve been using quarantine to work on my armor. Check out the Kamikaze Fireflies here. They chant “set it on fire!” like no one else can.

Join the Odd Prompts weekly writing challenge by submitting a prompt to oddprompts@gmail.com. Too much commitment? Visit the site and see if a spare peaks your interest!

Queen of the Night

April 19, 2020 / fionagreywrites

I am not beautiful and I know it, but tonight I shall shine under desert stars, perfuming the air with irresistible scent and magnificence. Tonight will be my emerging swan moment, the fragile, ephemeral blossoming I’ve been waiting to show him, that he’s so carefully tended.

He doesn’t know it yet, but I can feel it in the air. This night, of all nights, I am finally ready.

The sun sinks down, sliding behind mountains turned purple. Scrubby brush fades to shades of brown, a blend of chestnut and coffee and chocolate, all crossed with the slashes and spikes of cactus green. The sky is blazing clouds of tangerine and crimson across a darkening azure background.

And against it all, there he is. I see him studying the sunset, a faint smile on his face. He pushes back his hat as he brings the camera to his face.

Let the sky have its brief moment. Tonight shall be mine.

He settles into his chair next to me, and we sit together, quietly, as we always do, the scent of desiccated earth surrounding us from the day’s rapidly fading scorching heat.

The sky fades, and the stars emerge. He reaches out a calloused hand to touch me with gentle precision, and I warm at his familiar touch. I would not have been ready without him. I may never have been ready, potential withered on the vine.

I hope he knows what his efforts mean to me, but I cannot tell him. Not yet.

The stars shine cold and distant fire, and he is content. He does not know what is to come.

And this is when I begin to move, slowly, so slowly. This dance’s choreography is out of my control, barely within my grasp to achieve at all. If I dared, if it were possible, my brow would be covered in perspiration. Instead I quiver with tension, each movement precise, an endeavor of love for the voyeur whose name I do not even know.

It takes hours to achieve, rolled petals spread from an enormous, unwieldy pod whether they’ve clenched in a pink furl. The lengthy spikes are only the backstop, demanding space, demanding my rightful place atop the desert hierarchy. They are protective and aggressive, persistent and commanding, as if they know nothing will interfere with my brilliance, still waiting to shine.

Within the protective spines open a softer bud. A thousand bladed pink-white petals, waxy and rippled, radiate against the glowing backstop of stars. The budding promise releases a warm and floral beckoning toward the man as it unfolds, achingly unhurried.

I am pleased to find he has not, cannot, look away from the soft, sweet promise I hold within myself. I exult in his rapt attention, stretching forward a thousand tiny stems and a third, hidden bloom toward the man I cannot touch.

In his place I welcome the night moths that begin to flit around, the bats that chase the moths, the wildlife offering to continue my line, pollinate mates and produce progeny I will never see.

Most people do not see the point in ensuring yet another cactus lives to have their moment of glorious triumph. This man does. I hope he will help the others, as he encouraged me, but tonight I will selfishly claim his eyes for my own exclusive pleasure.

I am not for everyone, and I know it. I am meant for this man, this man’s eyes only.

I am queen of the night, queen of the desert, proof of hidden life and beauty within the arid and barren environment of jagged rock and dust that is rock pulverized by baking sun and wind. For this night only, all this is mine. For this night only, I have this man’s complete and undivided attention.

I shall claim this moment’s full due.

By morning, I shall wither and fall to dust, fall back to earth, a single spiked cactus without a flower, dully inhospitable and ugly against the wasteland of sand and dust. I will no longer even have the potential promise of blooming, nothing to make me special or stand out from the rest of the rest of my surroundings.

So I shall glory in this single nocturnal adventure, revel in his attention, lament only at the last moments when my rare perfume turns spoiled and withers away.

I am only a lone flower, but I can tell the rest of my siblings to welcome this man, whose tears track down grizzled cheeks behind his camera lens, who took the time under the stars to capture my fleeting, desolate reign.

Queen of the Night image by mofumofu-monogatari, Pixabay.

Leigh Kimmel and I traded prompts this week for the Odd Prompts weekly challenge. Mine was to explore a creepy neighbor’s comments about his family, and received in turn the following: “Visitor from tomb—stranger at some publick concourse followed at midnight to graveyard where he descends into the earth.” I may have twisted it beyond recognition...