Tag: writing challenge (Page 2 of 4)

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.

Memory Puzzles

October 25, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Lynn grinned as she dug through the trash. Oh, it smelled terrible, that was for certain. Why a farmer’s wife hadn’t composted and separated the dry trash rather than tossing everything in a single midden pile was beyond her capacity to fathom. But she’d already found quite a few treasures.

Whether or not others would think her new ceramic chicken was a treasure was irrelevant. For her, it was worth the work. She glanced up at her friend. Arti looked less pleased about their current adventure. “We have to do this for how long?”

“Until we find the promised mason jars,” Lynn said. She tried to be less obvious about her glee in the face of Arti’s pitiful gaze and failed. “Those antique blue ones are selling like hotcakes. Even if it’s broken, we can turn it into one of those mosaic garden tables.”

Arti rolled her eyes and held up what looked like a dented bowl in one gloved hand. She dangled it from a single finger, and made a face before tossing it aside. “Only you would be this excited about garbage.”

Lynn shrugged and rubbed an itch on her chin with one shoulder, since her hands were covered in muck. “It’s repurposing. And only you would be bored enough to help me. Plus, we might get a few coins out of it.”

“Maybe a lot of coins.” Arti went still, except for the breeze blowing her shoulder-length dark hair.

She sniffed and regretted it instantly. Dried late autumn grasses surrounding the midden were not enough to overwhelm the scent of rot. “Not if you don’t keep moving.”

“Did these people kill off a goose?”

Lynn stopped this time and stared at her partner in refuse. “Huh?”

“Look.” Lynn got off her knees, the wet denim clinging to her legs unpleasantly. She squished her way over in wellie boots kept for this and catching frogs. It would be a sad day when she grew up enough to hate catching frogs.

And a sad day when she didn’t recognize the value in something completely unexpected. “Golden eggs. You’re putting me on.”

Arti shook her head and picked one out of the pile. “A whole nest. You see the engravings? The dirt highlights them.”

Frowning, Lynn leaned over. “Those aren’t – no. These are puzzle eggs!”

“What’s a puzzle egg?”

“Like those boxes that you can’t open unless you move pieces in the right way.” She’d been hiding secrets from her annoying brothers for years in puzzle boxes. Anything she didn’t want destroyed, anyway. “C’mon, let’s grab these and go get cleaned up. Mrs. Murphy said we can come back anytime. I want to see what’s inside.”

“Shouldn’t we see if Mrs. Murphy wants them?” Arti frowned, hesitant. “Surely she wouldn’t consider these trash.”

“She left,” Lynn said, impatient. “She went into town. We can ask her when she gets back. After we solve the puzzle.”

Arti got to her feet and brushed off her jeans. She’d been fastidious about keeping clean, more so than Lynn. “Fine. But we’re coming back after to make sure.”

Lynn heaved a big sigh at her friend. “Let’s go already. Tuck them in the bag and we’ll bike back to my place.”

***

An hour later, both girls had damp hair and fresh clothing. Lynn’s mother hadn’t cared a whit for golden eggs, but she certainly didn’t want rotting garbage tromped all over her clean floors. Lynn herself wouldn’t admit it out loud, but she knew darn well she smelled better.

“I think I’ve got it,” Arti said, bare knees askew from where she leaned against the bed frame. She’d scattered the eggs across the floor, but Lynn had captured one that felt right to her and taken it into the bed to work on.

“Me, too.” She wrinkled her forehead. “Mine doesn’t have anything inside. Just this button.” She held it out to Arti.

“Mine, too.” Arti set hers down and propped herself up on her knees. “I’ll press yours if you press mine. Maybe it’s part of the puzzle.”

Lynn held out the egg in both hands. Arti reached out a finger with chipped grey polish and pressed the button.

Nothing happened.

And then –

“Do you see this?” Lynn murmured. Her bedroom, filled with the hearts and unicorns of a young girl whose parents thought she would enjoy appropriately girlish items, was gone. In its place was a garden, overflowing with spring abundance in flowers and fruit. Young girls dressed in A-line frocks and gloves milled around, some holding plates or cups.

“Cake!” Arti started to move toward the punch bowl.

“Stop it!” Lynn held her friend back. “We aren’t dressed for this.”

“Well, I want to get back. And if I can’t get back, cake sounds like a good option.”

Biting her lip, Lynn thought her friend was probably right. “Fine. But you answer questions about who we are.”

She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed to find that in this world, the girls were shadows. Arti’s hand passed right through the cake, the table, and the punch bowl. She’d needed to be restrained from doing it to the girls. “It’s rude,” she hissed, keeping her voice low.

“It’s fun,” Arti corrected, swinging around with an arm out. A girl shivered at her touch. “Hey, you see the lady in the green dress?”

“I know her!” Lynn yelped. “I’ve seen her in a picture. Recently, too.”

Arti went pale, and stopped struggling to dance her way through the garden party. “We both did. That’s Mrs. Murphy.”

Laughing, Lynn shook her head. “Must be her granddaughter or something.”

An adult woman entered the backyard from a sliding door, followed by a number of boys about the same age as the girls. The girls began cooing, clustering in groups. The boys stood their ground, but looked exceedingly uncomfortable.

“I think that one’s going to run,” Arti whispered. The groups began mingling, mostly huddled around the food table.

“That’s not…no. Can’t be.” Lynn frowned.

The adult woman was joined by several others for a few minutes before she broke away. “Jean,” she said as the woman approached the girl in the green dress. “I’d like you to meet Elliot.”

The garden’s edges blurred into a multicolored swirl. Lynn’s bedroom appeared. “I’m all stiff, like we were there for too long,” she muttered, and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

“Well, my knees hurt from kneeling here,” Arti retorted. Neither of them looked at each other for a long, silent moment. “Did you -?”

“Yeah.” Lynn kicked her legs. “Jean and Elliot are Mr. and Mrs. Murphy. I heard Mom call them that once.”

Arti’s voice was hoarse, and her hand shook slightly. “Where do you think the rest of the eggs lead?”

“When, you mean.” Lynn leaned down and picked up Arti’s puzzle egg. “You hold it, and I’ll push the button.”

***

A late response to last week’s More Odds Than Ends prompt from Sanford Begley: “Rooting through the old farm midden heap, looking for antique jars, you find a nest of golden colored eggs.”

My challenge to be inspired by an unusual color and holiday combination went to Cedar Sanderson, who did not disappoint!

Orb X57

October 11, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Char perched in the window of the stone ruin, ready to leap to the battered floor at the first crumble of unstable mortar. It felt reasonable under her rubber-soled boots, and she settled into her current guard position, hidden behind an ivy curtain that covered half the open window.

Well, behind something that looked like ivy to her eyes, at least. Orb X57 reminded her of Society, her home planet. Training let her automatically categorize the most evident differences – ground covering a silvered grey rather than green, the dominant harvest plant color maroon rather than the vivid orange she remembered.

She shifted in her perch and adjusted her grip on her weapon, scanning the dull grey horizon and treeline. It wouldn’t do to get careless, thinking she was home. Not with most of her squad downstairs sleeping.

And not that home brought fond memories. Char rolled her shoulders to ease the tension creeping into her neck. Society was long behind her, and this wasn’t her planet. Orb X57 was the planet they were checking for colony viability. So far, it seemed promising.

At the sound of a bootfall, she relaxed further. Two solid months of training let her identify the sound as her squadmate John without turning. He was slowly patrolling the tower’s south side, marking a crescent between east and west with his tread. Sam was at the bottom of the surprisingly well-kept ruin’s stairs, guarding the only entrance and their only exit, carefully camouflaged with local foliage. Char was overwatch for Sam until they traded positions. Without the shuttle, they’d be stuck on this planet until Command could afford to send someone to get them. It was worth the tradeoff to protect their only escape route.

“Nothing to report, boss,” John said in a low baritone. It would carry less than a whisper. “No signs of current habitation.”

She nodded. “Mist starting at the edge of the forest, there. Keep sharp.” Orb X57 so far had been damp, chill ground mixing with warm northern breeze. Perfect fog conditions.

Char studied the forest. The dark green trees with pointed tops looked like they’d keep their coloring throughout the coming winter. Her briefing packet identified this as a planet with a long, warm growing season and a light winter. Command thought this could be one of the original lost colonies, sent millenia before to increase humanity’s presence throughout the galaxy.

The histories called Old Earth’s plan to seed likely planets self-sufficiency. Char called limited scientific surveys and no supply chain both stupid and doomed to failure.

“Contact.” Her fingers had moved automatically to depress the comm button before she’d consciously realized what her eyes had seen. “Contact, moving fast. Northern forest.”

“I see it.” Sam’s voice was smooth and calm in her ear. “Estimate about five minutes away at current speed.”

Two clicks on the comm meant the group below was up and readying for action.

She trained her binoculars on the blurred, moving figure, careful not to flash the lenses in the dim morning light. A horse and rider emerged into her view. The pair stumbled out of the northern forest, staggering away from the mist’s grasping fingers.

Char blinked. What flight of fancy was this nonsense? And yet – she could have sworn the horse reacted to the fog, jumping away.

She increased the magnification and focused on the chestnut. It had magnificent lines, but yes, blood streaked both croup and hock where the mist had reached for the creature. The rider was slumped over the saddle, face hidden. “Probable confirmation of lost colony and continued habitation. Horse and rider. Both injured or exhausted, no visible weapons.”

Char kept the binoculars up and trained on the mist. She heard John’s footsteps behind her on the stone floor. “Nothing from the other directions.”

“Take the risk. Prepare for action to the north.” Char felt her jaw harden against her indecision and wondered if being in charge always meant making it up as she went along. “Something weird here.”

His laugh rumbled low behind her. “New planet always has something weird. Gris reports everyone downstairs is up and prepped for action. We’ll be fine.” He took a position next to hers, on the other side of the window, weapon at the ready.

John’s reassurance helped her first command jitters, if not her decisionmaking. Binocs moved smoothly in her hand to the slowing horse and rider.

Just in time to see the mist lunge for the horse, to watch the chestnut mare scream, her head up and eyes wild. The rider came to life, sliding off the horse to collapse into a pile of leather rags on the ground, silver-grey grasses covered in the first dropped vermillion leaves of autumn. The figure crawled for a few frantic moments, dodging frenzied hooves before lurching to two feet and beginning a faltering run.

The mist withdrew a few feet, air pink with aerated blood, momentarily satiated. The horse collapsed to the ground, squeals evident even from a distance, unable to rise.

Char dropped the binoculars around her neck. “Evac! Evac now. Everyone to the shuttle.”

She made frantic hand motions at her second in command. “Now!”

John stared at her unblinking for a brief moment before he bolted down the stairs. His baritone bellowed down the tower staircase. “Evac now, evac now, grab your gear and go!”

She looked one frantic time at the deepening pink mist, now enveloping the horse up to her withers. Char turned and ran down the stairs, grabbing her pack as she slid across the tower’s polished second floor. The others were already ahead of her, running in a diamond formation.

Sam waited for her at the entrance. “Took you long enough,” she grunted. The two women bolted after the others, all traces of stealth abandoned.

The shuttle’s engines started with a roar. Char risked a glance over her shoulder at the figure now chasing after them. The androgynous figure put on another spurt of speed, mist looming large and sanguine behind it.

“Sha’eka,” Char spat, and ran faster. She could barely breathe by the time she reached the shuttle. John reached out a hand and yanked her on board by her pack.

“You’re the last.” The airlock doors were open, its single crew cycle unused until returning to the ship. He bodily shoved her past the second door and leaned back to close the main door.

Char coughed, wheezing. “No, I’m not.”

“Boss, you’ve got to be kidding.” John gave her another split-second stare of disbelief. “Right. Closing inner airlock door only.”

“There’s room enough in there.”

“On your head be it.” He shook his head. “Pilot, takeoff in twenty seconds, regardless of how crazy the boss is.”

Twenty seconds later, the outer door was secured, but she was out of time to strap in. She slid to the floor and braced against the thrust. Her weapon would be secure enough in her lap for now, with her arms looped through the emergency straps on the inner airlock door. She gripped the stock and with her free hand, Char double-tapped the comms button to reach her superior officers.

“Command, Squad Leader Charlotte Merikh, emergency squad evacuation of Orb X57, all crew on board. Shuttle is inbound for Aquilon. We have likely confirmation as a lost colony.”

“Squad Leader, Command, explain.”

“Command, the planet has horses.” No one had found their like originating anywhere across the universe outside of Old Earth, but most early colonies had carried embryos and the short-term means to birth a diverse herd.

“Copy. Continue debrief.”

She closed her eyes in relief and pressed the back of her head against the cool metal of the shuttle. The voice didn’t sound unhappy about the early evac. “Command, planet appears to have hostile carnivorous intent. We are unable to proceed without additional protection. A mist…ate the horse.”

“Copy. Anticipate hard decon upon arrival.”

Char winced. No one sane liked hard decontamination. She ignored the thumps and unintelligible but increasingly high-pitched gibberish coming through the window just above her head. “Command, complicating factor in the airlock…”

***

Catching up after a few extremely hectic weeks! Week 39‘s Odd Prompt came from Cedar Sanderson: “The fog was an unnatural cotton-candy pink as the sun rose. As the light hit it, it glowed, but there was a moving shadow in the heart of it. What emerged…” My prompt went back to Cedar; “Don’t wake up the computer. It’ll bite.”

Manuscript

September 15, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Lindsey flicked her eyes upward every time someone walked past, hating herself for the hope she knew was shining on her face. She’d seen the look in the mirror enough times, working on her poker face and failing. Each time, she tried to avoid the stranger’s eyes. Being ignored could be played off as a mistake. Oh, not who I was waiting for. The groups of mean girls with their giggles and shrieks of laughter didn’t have time to notice her, and that was just fine with Lindsey Boucle.

Pity, though. Pity was the worst. Those were the strangers’ eyes that saw right through her, saw how awkward and hopeful she was, seized straight upon her neediness.

Was it so bad to want a friend? Maybe more than a friend?

Where better to find a more-than-friend than at the Writers Of Romantic Manuscripts conference?

Her cheeks burned, but she took the time to scribble some notes for her next book on the free notepad WORM had put at each seat. Long rows of writers were seated in an enormous room, burbling conversation and colored lights filling the air, and yet the entire length of table next to her was empty. How humiliating. Was her eagerness to get a seat a turnoff?

Perhaps she was too eager in general. It’s just – well, it wouldn’t be so bad to get some real experience, outside of her imagination. She had plenty of imagination. She’d written a dozen books based on her imagination. Wasn’t a dozen enough to be alone?

Lindsey let out a sigh and stopped looking up. She slumped over and smushed a hand against her face, ignoring the music and coffee-scented air. If all she got was a free notebook and pen, plus some writing tips, well, that was all she had paid for.

It would have to be enough. Life wasn’t a bowl of –

“Excuse me,” said the sexiest baritone she’d ever heard. “Is this seat taken?”

***

I didn’t know what to do with this week’s odd prompt from Cedar Sanderson: Life is a bowl of cherries – if you’re a worm. My husband suggested the acronym idea, and we had a lot of fun tossing around ideas for it. See story one here.

My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel, to describe a scene in the Carta Marina.

Mahogony and Loyalty

September 15, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Frank Delacroix leaned back and kicked his legs up on the desk. Mahogany, of course, an exquisite import from Old Earth, or so he was told. The handmade Persiannah rug was soft enough on his feet; he’d made sure of that. Cheryl needed a soft rug for when she gave him his special personal treatments. He wasn’t a monster, even had a fond spot for her. But some days, a man just wanted to kick back, classic-style, and view his empire.

He’d fought long and hard to get here, after all. The rumor campaign that followed his predecessor just kept coming up somehow, every time the man made a move. It had taken longer and been more expensive than he’d anticipated, too. Frank snorted. Who’d have thought personal loyalty would have been a factor?

It was worth it, though, even if that guy had ultimately transferred a better position, in a larger city. One where you could go outside wearing white and not have it turn black-streaked from a dry, filthy snow. He was content here for now, solidifying his position to keep moving up the tower, to bigger and better towers. His turn would come, and then he’d get rid of that guy. Maybe start introducing himself as Francis.

In the meantime, no longer did he have to tolerate hearing his workers complain about their rights and needs. Smug bastards, thinking they knew better than someone put in place to put them in their place. He’d simply raised the quota until the workers were too exhausted to complain. Not that they’d dare after that woman bled all over the floor. And if they disappeared? So much the better. He could pay their replacements less, justifying their lack of experience.

He leaned back again, a satisfied smile on his pudgy face at the memory of today’s broken promise. He loved teasing the ambitious with promotions, only to yank it away at the last moment of hope. Even better, he could act apologetic, simpering about how this time, things hadn’t worked out, but next time, it was sureto be a sure thing. If only the circumstances were slightly different, if cuts hadn’t happened, if the quotas hadn’t gone up from central, if that work had been smidgen higher quality.

Frank licked his lips and contemplated the view, six stories above the level of heavy smog the grounders had to put up with every day as they trudged from their hovels to the factories. From here, he could see lights shining as his city worked to provide him with all the comforts and indulgences this crappy planet could offer. No goggles and stuffy breather for him, no sir.

Perhaps he’d call Cheryl in for some special treatment time soon. He deserved it, after all, now that he’d reached this status. Nothing was too good for a World Obtainer and Requisitions Manager. Each city on Formulant had one, each in a towering pillar to look upon the peons and control their miserable lives until they’d squeezed out everything they had to give.

Frank laughed, alone in his tower room with the unbreakable diamond windows. He’d discovered that most of the peons would do anything just to hope for a better chance at life. Cheryl, for instance. All he had to do was make her cry, toss out some promises, throw her a bone once in a while, and she’d do anything. He just couldn’t let it get too far, had to keep the puppet strings from being too obvious. Get her sister a job, but make it dependent on her keeping him happy. Had to keep her upset enough to keep hoping, but not get so expectant she started thinking she could make demands.

His boss told him he was a master at handling that delicate balance, but it was really a prerequisite for the job. World Obtainer and Requisitions Masters only wanted the powerful, the skilled, the talented. And he’d made it, off the factory floor at last. He was one of the elite.

Yes, life was just a bowl – a fancy, hideously expensive Ming dynasty bowl, whatever the Ming dynasty was – of cherrylinas for a WORM. Frank reached over and plucked one of the shiny fruits out of the blue and white dish, its deep red flesh bursting luscious and sweet in his mouth.

At the nearby spaceport, Charlotte Merikh stepped off The Wyvern and breathed in Formulant’s air for the first time. It smelled just as foul as the background dossier she’d read on the flight to this corrupt, polluted hellhole. It was a far cry from the early settlers’ terraformed greenery and soft sandy beaches, lost after the factories edged the settlers into poverty and bondage. Beggar children were held back from bothering the tourists – those that remained – by a rusted fence and a bored security guard. Their sticklike arms reached through holes in the fence toward her, but no hope shone in the foundlings’ dull eyes.

Char couldn’t wait to take down WORM.

***

My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel, to describe a scene in the Carta Marina.

Nightmares

September 8, 2020 / fionagreywrites

If I had known how it all would escalate, I’d have done things differently. But so say we all, and now with each labored breath, I fear I’ll take them all down with me when at last I cease to be.

I will not regret what I will become.

Once I spent my time careless and carefree, the only worry a good meal and a quick burst of playful energy. To stare out the window, and be a good companion. It was easy. It was enough.

Then came the day when I began dreaming, though not the casual dreams of youth. Instead, each time I woke, I sank into the miasma of despair. I remained in a waking dream, the monsters surrounding me, taunting me, too quick to catch or kill. A last burst of vivid memory, fading with waking, only to jolt anew at the realization the dream was the same I’d had the night before.

My innocence was lost the day I realized the monsters were real.

They are not intelligent on their own, per se, but they are many. And with this final burst of delirious dreaming, I have at last purpose. I will protect my companion from their destruction as best I can.

When I go, I’ll take them with me, tail lashing and whiskers twitching one final time.

Writing Cat fortunately has never needed to plot a mouse massacre.

This one was hard! Thank to Leigh Kimmel for this week’s challenge, solved only by last minute panic and a disrupted, napping cat.

“The dreams of one man actually create a strange half-mad world of quasimaterial substance in another dimension. Another man, also a dreamer, blunders into this world in a dream. What he finds. Intelligence of denizens. Their dependence on the first dreamer. What happens at his death.”

My photo prompt on ruined fortresses went to nother Mike, and I do hope he continues the story about ghouls eventually.

Float

September 1, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Some long days at work are longer than others. I’d been late, then slipped on a puddle of coffee someone else was too rude to clean up and bruised my tailbone. The boss had been on a tear, and I’d been unlucky enough to not get the group text to hide before he came storming in ready to scream at the first victim he found.

Which meant I’d also gotten stuck with fixing someone else’s mess, of course. I got to be the one to stay late while the guilty party skipped merrily out the door, gleeful she’d “forgotten” to include me on the air raid – I mean boss – warning message. And finding out my car had been keyed in the parking lot was the perfect end to a perfect day.

Yeah, my sarcasm meter overfloweth.

All I wanted to do was faceplant into the couch, maybe with a glass of wine injected by IV so I didn’t have to pick up my head from the pillow. Maybe rent a movie. Pizza and actually watching the movie would be optional.

I really wished I’d never given my mother a key. But I’m fairly certain if I hadn’t, she’d have shown up anyway, hanging out on the front porch until the neighbors called the cops.

The whine started as soon as I opened the front door. Ears like a bat, that one. Thought I’m not sure she usually bothered to see if I was around when she started. Or stopped. She could have been going for hours for all I knew.

It’s all blah, blah, job’s terrible, they don’t treat you right, you work too hard. I know, Ma, believe me. You don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive, but don’t go near those evil cookies. Ma, I’m ordering pizza just to spite you now. Did you meet a nice boy yet? When will the family meet him? Let me set you up with a complete stranger. Maaaa. Stop. Please, I’m begging you.

Sooner I dealt with it, sooner it’d be over. I dropped my keys and trudged through the living room and into the kitchen. The nasal snarl came from outside, though the screen door. I bet the neighbors loved the background screech whenever she showed up.

I know she had something to do with the neighbors planting a screen of fast-growing trees in addition to the existing fence. They told me. Both of them. After carefully checking that she wasn’t hiding around the corner.

The kitchen held temptation, even if it was bland and boring, with fake wood veneer everywhere you tried not to look. I eyed both the unopened bottle of cabernet sauvignon as well as the freezer, where frozen pizza lurked. But through the sunlight shining, though that open screen door, lay my doom. I braced myself and pushed onward.

“I’m home, Ma. Yes, I’m sorry I was late, but I didn’t know you were coming over. And you clearly – helped – uh – um – huh.” I swallowed hard, and blinked a few times to clear the spots out of my eyes.

The yard wasn’t much, just some scrub grass that hadn’t recovered from the last renter’s dog, and barely grew thanks to the neighbors’ trees shadowing it most of the day. Bigger than the proverbial postage stamp, but certainly not a full-size envelope. Flowers died as soon as I touched them, their unwatered skeletons brittle and whitened by the sun.

And amidst it all, the crown jewel that made me rent the place sight unseen from an unscrupulous landlord, and worth cleaning out a ridiculous amount of bugs, dropped leaves, and algae. Blue water, in a perfect circle, the best way to relax that mankind had ever invented.

Some days you just need to float. Although Mom didn’t just rest atop my giant taco pool float when she stopped by. Ever. She reclined, regally, with her oversized Hepburn-style sunglasses, keeping her curls out of the water. Always managing to stay in just the amount of sunlight, even with all the shade in the backyard. Each movement perfectly cut through the water without effort or splashing, a vision graceful and slim even in her early fifties.

The sunglasses were what gave it away. Well, that and the voice.

The scales, on the other hand. Those were new, and several shades of rippling green that blended with both the neighbors’ trees and the water. The claws would have threatened the inflatable, but somehow Ma managed to be perfect there, too. Her tail steered her around the pool, and the teeth were more numerous and pointier than I recalled.

The sunglasses weren’t oversized, either. The part of me that would always be small around my mother didn’t want to see what lurked behind them.

I ducked back into my suddenly attractive kitchen and hoped she wouldn’t notice I wasn’t paying attention to her tirade. Yanking out my phone, I called my little sister. My breath came in fast pants while I listened impatiently to each ring, before finally the brat picked up.

“Hey, Chris? Yeah, good. Hey, um…did you know Mom’s a dragon?”

This week on More Odds Than Ends, Becky Jones challenged me to address the dragon floating in my pool. My prompt about vultures perching on unusually solid clouds went to Anne and Jim.

Losin’ My Irish Marbles

August 25, 2020 / fionagreywrites

My husband decided, prompt unseen, that this week I should write as a western. I seem to remember protesting, not agreeing to this. Yet here we are.

“Connemara marble,” the biggest cowboy hat Aoife had ever seen said in a quiet murmur.

She halted in the hallway and blinked at the hat’s battered leather edges through the open door. “That’s nice?”

“These figurines,” the hat said, in an accent so warm it rolled over her skin slowly, like warmed honey. The hat moved upward, and she met the eyes beneath the brim. “Oh. You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Aoife.” She shifted the box she was carrying to one hip and extended a hand.

His grip was warm and callused under her fingertips. “Jethro.”

“So what’s with the marble?” She propped the box against the wall, oddly reluctant to walk away from those melted-chocolate eyes. Normally strangers made her want to run, an itch between her shoulder blades that wasn’t soothed until she locked her bedroom door.

“Irish marble. As I assume you know, given your accent.” He winked, and she took a step back in surprise. He held up a small, flat figure and gestured to the tray on the table in front of him. “We just got these carvings cleaned up from today’s find. Fantastic condition. Probably some gods and fertility figures.”

“And a horse,” Aoife said, her fingers careful not to brush over the stone. “One foot up. He’s ready to head out and scout.”

Jethro nodded. “Never come between a man and his horse.” He picked up the stone and cradled it to his chest. “Isn’t that right, lil’ guy?”

Aoife stared in horror. The last few words had come out in an odd baby-talk. She backed away, that spot high up on her spine beginning to twitch.

“Aren’t you just the cutest horsie, all ready to grow up big and strong?” Jethro cooed. The green horse disappeared under the hat. Aoife couldn’t tell if he was about to eat or kiss the stone carving.

“Do you love daddy like I love you, little horsie?”

She ran so fast, she didn’t even hear the echoes of her footsteps in the empty hall.

***

This week’s prompt came from Leigh Kimmel: “Little green Celtic figures dug up in an ancient Irish bog.” (My husband claimed this was “just part of the challenge.”) I prompted nother Mike with “Follow your dreams. Taken literally.” Join the Odd Prompts crew! It’s easy and delicious – I mean, fun.

Love, with a Side of Sugar

July 22, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Laura stared out the window from where she sprawled in the rocking chair, not caring that curtains blocked the view. One leg was carelessly thrown over the hard wooden edge, exposing a run in her pantyhose. Her shoeless foot was numb.

Dylan had made the chair for her before he deployed. A promise, he’d said, his grin shining white teeth bright against the dark stubble he always grew while on leave.

The house was cold, belying the bright sunlight that seeped around the edges of the window, bright halo against neutral paint. So cold, too empty, a house where silence now reigned.

There had been voices in the background at first, voices she ignored. Voices that insisted she do things, bringing food she ignored.

Silence broken only when Laura was forced to move, wooden rockers creaking against the floor. A wooden laminate floor Dylan had installed. Another promise, this one tied to kissable lips and laughter as they’d pushed aside the tools and –

A tear escaped down her face, a soundless sob wracking her stiff body, jolting at the pain. Laura hadn’t let go of the soft triangle, heavy folded cloth since they’d handed it to her. She could feel the seams of the flag pressing against her stomach through her thin black dress. She hugged it closer.

A grateful nation, the anonymous face above the gloves had said. She’d heard broken promises, flinched away from offers of assistance.

The door opened behind her. She wrapped her body around the flag and hoped whoever was here to bother her would go away. Like her husband had, gone a month before returning in the most dreaded manner possible, the door to this house opening on practiced, uniformed condolences.

“Enough of this.” Sharp words to meet sharp noises, her mother-in-law’s heels clicking firmly against the wooden floor. A pointed nose and a grey bun greeted Laura’s uncaring gaze.

“Artemesia.” Her voice was hoarse, strained from internal screaming. She watched with dull eyes as the woman sat primly on the couch.

“You aren’t the only one, you know.”

“I know.” Laura turned her head back to the window. She couldn’t find the energy to tell Dylan’s mother to go away.

“I brought you something.”

She didn’t move. “I’ll look at it later.”

“No,” Artemesia said. There was steel behind that single word. “Tomorrow I leave. Today you look at this.”

Her foot dropped down to the floor with a thump. “What is it?”

Thin, speckled hands pushed a worn, stained book into her lap. “I never shared his favorite cookie recipe. The one I always sent when he deployed.”

Shuddering, Laura tried to push the book back into her mother-in-law’s hands, the cover hard against her fingers. “No. You wouldn’t share when it mattered.”

“A mother’s right.” The words dropped harshly in the dim room.

“Why didn’t you just tell me which cookbook?”

A sad smile. “I made edits.”

The book sat there, taunting her with memories of Thanksgiving. She hadn’t known it was possible to resent a cookbook before, but Laura knew now. The rage caught in her swollen throat.

“I’ve marked the page,” Artemesia said.

Laura stared at the cover’s white and red letters without reading them, tracing the edge of the cover with a single cold finger. She gulped a breath as she opened the book. Vanilla sugar wafted up as she flipped through the pages.

Between the pages of the old recipe book rested a patch that made her fingers reluctant to move. The stripes she and Artemesia had been supposed to pin on Dylan’s uniform when he returned. The ingredients list and instructions were heavily marked with half-legible handwriting, notes on adjusting temperature and various additions.

The words blurred as her eyes watered, tears streaking wetly down her face.

“Stains and sugar make the love real,” Artemesia said. “You think I can’t tell you have more than yourself to care for now? I want my grandchild to know their daddy. Even if it’s only through his favorite treat.”

***

I’m exploring social media again. Find me on Facebook here, if you’re so inclined.

This week on Odd Prompts, Cedar Sanderson asked me to identify what was between the pages of the recipe book. I challenged Leigh Kimmel to explain the cancellation of dragon season.

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