Tag: writing challenge (Page 3 of 4)

Darkness Rises

June 20, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Arne motioned to the herd of waist-high schoolchildren and wondered what Nori had been thinking to set up a tour for eight-year-olds. An archeological dig wasn’t a place for kids, no matter that they were digging in the dirt.

Half the little brats would try to walk off with artifacts. The rest were pushing and shoving sufficient that at least one would end up in one of the trenches before the day was out.

He made sure he kept his groan strictly mental as he counted off the numbers for the fourth time. It had only been five minutes since Nori had dumped the tour on him, claiming she needed to finish a translation.

Twenty-one. That’s all of them. He shut the door behind the last of the giggling fuzzy hats below and plastered a smile on his face. Just the same as if they were adults. Explain the dig. Answer their questions, no matter how stupid.

After all, you never knew who might become fascinated enough to talk up the site to their parents. Or who might have rich parents, inclined to donate funds and keep the team going for another season.

He flipped through the slides on autopilot.

“…first, we do a background study, to see where burials and other artifacts could be likely…new uses of existing technologies for remote sensing have helped see disturbances in the dirt without excavating…”

Arne loved that image. The scan showed the burial mound in a dark circle, a Viking longboat shining white in the middle.

They didn’t know yet how well-preserved it would be, after centuries spent forgotten in a farmer’s field under oats and barley. Viktor had started the excavation recently, but he was focusing on the nearby grave mound first.

The process was always slow going. No one wanted to miss anything, even though this team always made sure to relook at the spoils pile. Some called the team slow. Arne preferred the term thorough.

“Yes, that does mean it tells us where to dig, very good!” He stretched his fake smile farther and wondered if Nori had wished him to the depths of Helheim with this tour.

“…different methods and technologies are used to tell us how old things are, from geological sediment to carbon dating to pollen…we also start with a guess based on what we know of the area, history, and people.

“Yes, we do sometimes find swords, and even axes. It’s very exciting when we do, but mostly we find things like combs and jewelry. What people were buried with tells us a lot about them. Great question…now, initial findings can help us narrow the time period…”

Arne’s face was starting to hurt. “So what we’re really trying to do is understand the people who came before us, because it helps us see where we came from. Would you like to see the site now?”

Nori rushed in, shaking head and hands in his direction as the chittering and giggling rose in the small exhibition area. “I’ll take them. Go see Viktor. Kids, this way please!” Her voice was unnaturally high pitched.

Arne stared after the miniature trampling herd of tiny feet and jackets. He’d never seen her unnerved. Nori was the definition of unflappable. She kept all the organization going, from securing finances for next season to making sure everyone remembered to eat every night.

He grabbed his jacket and headed to see Viktor.

Arne found Viktor in the trench, gloved hands clasped uncaring and heedless behind dark curls, studying the latest find. “Wild, isn’t it? I’ve never seen an upright burial before. Male, I think, probably around twenty-five or so.”

The remains were still half-buried in the grave mound, bone shining almost red in the sun’s bright light. It looked particularly macabre since Viktor had left the eye sockets and mouth filled with dirt to preserve the shape.

Arne grunted, and repressed a shudder. He remained above the excavated area but crouched to study the skull, distorted by the blow that had likely killed the man hundreds of years ago. “Legend tells us being buried upright is a bad sign.”

Viktor twisted backward, his hands still firmly attached to his head as he made eye contact. “You’re not saying you believe in draugr, do you? The vicious undead, the corpse-pale?”

Crap. “I’m saying the people who lived here may have thought a greedy, angry man would come back for some reason. What else was found at the site?”

Arne kept his face passive and hoped science would cover him from Viktor’s future mockery. He could picture his granny in the wooden rocking chair where she’d told him dark legends to excite a young boy, shaking her head at his affected disbelief.

“Janna did a scan. We think there’s a sword, some blobs that might be ornamentation or jewelry. Lots, so he was probably important. I think there’s a dagger, too, but Janna thinks it’s a fancy pair of scissors. And something that looks remarkably like an AK-47.”

“Sorry, a what?” Arne thought Viktor must be having him on. Again.

Viktor shrugged with a laugh, his movements smooth and muscular under a casual, dirt-streaked sweater. “Obviously something’s rusted in a rather unique way. We’ll find out what it really is soon enough.”

Arne stood from his crouch and ran a hand through his hair. “Wasn’t there a stone? A marker? Did we get the runes translated yet?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t seen it. I need to get moving if we’re going to protect this find. There’s not much daylight left.” Viktor picked up a tool and started brushing dirt away from the skull with callused hands. “Nori finished the translation while you were with those kids, I think.”

Arne bit his lip, unwilling to shame Nori. Perhaps she had simply been excited about the discovery. “I’ll go check with her, then.”

Viktor didn’t bother to answer as Arne jogged back toward the research room. He threw the wooden door open with more force than anticipated and blinked to adjust his eyes to the dark room. Voices had stopped at his entrance.

“Oh, it’s you,” Nori said. “I got the kids out. I was just telling Janna, we have to shut this site down. Maybe get a priest to visit.”

Janna looked up, her thin fingers clasped so hard her knuckles shone white. “We must get off site before darkness,” she whispered.

“The runes on the stone,” Nori started, and stopped. She covered her eyes with a hand. “We should not have removed it. It kept him safely inside. He will come tonight.”

Arne rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. “I grew up on these stories too. But draugr? They cannot be real. We are scientists.”

“I met your granny before she passed,” Janna hissed at him, her hands now fisted at her sides. “That time you took us all home for a decent meal. Before we hired Nori to make sure we all ate. She told you to beware. She told you the stories because she saw you could not keep away from disturbing the ancestors.”

Nori and Arne both looked at her in surprise, identical wide eyes and slightly open mouths.

Janna’s energy flitted out of her like a deflating balloon. “Do what you like. I am leaving before the darkness rises.”

“You mean when dark falls?” Nori asked. “It’s almost the solstice. Darkness won’t come for another month.”

“I mean what I said,” Janna replied with dignity. “Look to yourselves, if you do not wish to go mad or be killed.” She turned toward the exit.

A fierce series of taps came from outside as she reached the wooden door. An agonized scream came, followed by more tap-tapping.

She gulped. “What was that? What is that horrid smell?”

“Draugr,” Arne said. He reached over Janna’s shoulders and lowered the old-fashioned bar on the door. “I believe the scan showed he was buried with several weapons.”

“Viktor didn’t believe the scan,” Janna said. She wiped away a tear. “He’s dead now, isn’t he?”

Arne didn’t answer. “He protects his weapons from our excavation, because draugr are greedy. Out there is an angry, undead Viking, with a modern weapon and a grudge.”

“They can turn to mist,” Nori said, backing away from the door. She sat on the stone floor, her blue eyes wide and scared. “We cannot stay here.”

“We cannot go outside,” Arne said gently. “He probably sees us as grave robbers.”

“I’ll call for help.” Janna was breathing in odd, ragged gasps as she dug in her satchel for her cell phone.

“Who would you invite to join us?” Arne asked. “Do you have a priest on speed-dial? Internet in the middle of a farmer’s field?”

The tapping noise continued. Arne spread his hands. “I am afraid, my friends, that on this solstice, darkness rose with the draugr.”

“For our sins,” Nori whimpered. Janna joined her on the floor, the two women huddled together.

Leaning against the wall of the research building, Arne wished he has listened to his granny and left the dead alone.

Writing Cat thinks we need something lighter now, thanks.

This post is a late add to Week 24’s Odd Prompts challenge. I couldn’t get the spare prompt idea of “While uncovering the grave of a viking king, they found jewelry, a sword, and an AK-47 that can be dated back to era” out of my head.

The Invitation

June 10, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Charlotte Merikh studied her invitation to Hannock Manor in a delicate, glove-covered hand as her family’s carriage jolted off the main road and onto the long drive. Copper ink on thick cream paper, no doubt handwritten by a secretary chosen exclusively for his calligraphy skills. She rolled her eyes, bored already, even if it was her first Society event.

“Come now, darling. You mustn’t let anyone else see you express any signs of displeasure. Once we get inside, it must be your best face forward.” Lucinda Merikh gestured to her own elegant visage, an empty, perfect smile blooming in the lantern’s dim glow.

Her mother’s reprimand was sincere, Charlotte knew. Blue eyes in a pale face remained guileless, unable to see beyond Society status. Unable to conceive of anything grander than finding her youngest daughter the same sort of dull, arrogant, witless sots the elder three girls had married just the year before.

Unable to see how much Charlotte hated the idea of being forced into the role of a bland Society wife, silent and supportive through her selected spouse’s myriad affairs, dulled by obligatory apologetic presents and presence at events exactly like this one, obediently selling her own daughters to the highest bidder merely because it was asked.

Unable to see the stars, hovering just out of reach for any born on the planet Society, doomed by ancient collective decision to a life of intentional technological refusal. Never mind that they’d all gotten here through technology in the first place. It was part of the required teachings, even if it was glossed over as fast as possible, with no details.

Charlotte slid the carriage window open and gazed upward at the shining galaxy above. Her former tutor Ned had told her that particular shining streak in the sky was their ancestral home. He’d disappeared shortly after, so it must be true.

At least Ned had left her a few books on the mysterious technology that allowed humans to travel to the stars. She wasn’t sure if that was intentional or a sign of how quickly he’d been hustled from their manor. Mostly, she wished he’d been around to explain all the things that made no sense.

On Society, archaic torchlight ruled the evenings and nights. It flickered inside the carriage as they passed a set of light markers in their glass cases, continuing the carriage’s slow journey toward the ancient manor house. She blinked, her night vision temporarily blinded by orange flames, abruptly brought back to the velvet-cushioned, horse-drawn carriage.

“Do shut the window, Charlotte,” Lucinda snapped. “You’ll get windblown. Yelena spent a full hour on your hair.”

With a pout, Charlotte slid the window closed. The precise curled hairstyle appropriate for an unmarried Society girl of her age and status took far more time than she normally was willing to stand. Tonight, her mother had insisted, claiming her daughter’s bright red locks already signified wild and inappropriate behavior.

Charlotte had been so surprised by the news that she’d stopped arguing and let Yelena ready her for the ball. She’d rarely bothered to study the Society rules her sisters delighted in understanding every twisted nuance, racing outside with her horse or reading in the library instead. It might explain why she’d been rebuked more often for the same childhood delights than her sisters, who shared their mother’s dishwater blonde hair. Perhaps it hadn’t been that she’d gotten caught more often after all, but that eyes had been watching her for unseemly comportment.

Yelena had seen her confusion, but had only a single unwatched moment to whisper in her ear. The moment had been seized, and near-immediately lost, without clarification. “You’re sixteen now,” the maid’s low voice had hissed.

She had shrugged in the looking glass, uncomprehending, wishing for a book to distract herself, and brighter light to read by. Someday, she’d sworn to herself, before she was married to some awful old man she didn’t know, she’d go to view the wonders of the Spaceport. Just to glimpse what could have been, had she been born on a different world, to a different family.

Just because the Society rejected the technology didn’t mean she had to hate it. Perhaps she would sit outside the Spaceport and use the bright electric lights to read a book.

Charlotte sighed. Even her ideas were heretical, and unlikely to boot. She shook off the sense of foreboding. Sixteen only meant she’d reached marriageable age and was finally allowed into polite company for spousal marketing. Perhaps her first ball wouldn’t be as terrible as her sister’s delighted descriptions had sounded.

Perhaps she’d learn to enjoy arranging dinner parties and flowers, or managing a household where duties rarely changed. Or the polite conversational topics that were mind-numbing fictions as best. Perhaps her curls would stay tamed, someday neatly arranged into the upswept braids of a proper married Society woman, and she would bring her mother as much status as the triplets’ glamorous triple wedding.

Charlotte bit her lower lip. It seemed unlikely. She enjoyed the wild and complicated walitzina dance, fixing her sister’s broken toys, and horseback riding. She read voraciously, eager to consume information proper Society ladies pretended did not exist. These activities were all far more suitable for the brothers she’d never had, according to her father.

The words had been repeated so often, she even thought them with her father’s inflection.

“Stop chewing on your face,” Lucinda said. The carriage came to a slow halt. Charlotte let her lower lip go with a start. Her mother leaned forward. “On second thought, that brings a delightful shade of rose to your lips. Don’t let anyone see you do it, obviously.”

“Of course,” Charlotte murmured, staring once more at the ostentatious invitation. Her voice was bleak, and she was sure she was pale enough to highlight a dusting of freckles by the way Lucinda frowned at her.

There was no more dawdling as the carriage door opened, and a footman proffered a helpful hand. Charlotte pasted an empty smile onto her face and accepted assistance she didn’t need.

There was nothing else for her but this world. It was time to play her part, time to face the rest of an exceedingly dull Society life.

Each step down the carriage steps and onto the stone courtyard tiles felt like a tiny spike driven into her soul.

***

Even Charlotte’s despair couldn’t stop her wonder at the grand manor, ancient stone shining pale in the numerous courtyard torches. Shadows clouded the details of the arched doorways and oriel windows. Crenellated walkways and ornate chimneys rose to peaked towers, only visible thanks to Society’s largest moon shining pale pink and full.

Lucinda cleared her throat pointedly. Charlotte jerked her head downward and met the anonymous footman’s patient eyes. He escorted her across the courtyard, her mother’s clacking footsteps a precise chaperonage distance behind her. He bowed and presented her to the butler just inside the carved, wooden double doors, then turned to await the next guest.

Light shone from lanterns with mirrored backings, boosting the ambient glow. The portcullis chains were evident just behind the stone pillars inside, ready to be dropped at a moment’s notice. The gate would be closed once all guests arrived, as was tradition. Host responsibilities demanded ostentatious displays of security.

“Invitation, please, Lady Charlotte?” Each Society household’s Butler gave up his given name when he took on the full role and title, after years of training and generations of household protection. The Merikh’s Butler had secretly told her his name had once been Devon because his lack of name frightened her as a young girl. She’d later learned he could have been exiled from the community if she’d told anyone he shared.

This bearded stranger was nothing like her Devon. Dressed in dark leathers, the Hannock’s Butler tonight maintained dual duties of household protector and barrier to entry. Charlotte met his piercing, dark eyes and gulped, clutching her invitation in her gloved hand. She knew he would have studied a painting of her already, to make sure no one had stolen her invitation and attempted unauthorized entrance. Dropping her eyes, her gaze stuck on the gleaming silver hilt of his sword, faceted and smooth with long use.

“Lady Charlotte?” The Butler held out his right hand, his left dropping to the sword hilt. She pulled her eyes away and held out the invitation, grimacing at the creases her grip had left in the expensive paper. Her mother made an odd sound behind her, which Charlotte recognized from long experience as a suppressed sigh.

The Butler took the invitation and confirmed its legitimacy with a nod. “Lady Charlotte. Lady Merikh. Welcome to Hannock Manor.”

Lucinda swept past the Butler without even a nod. Charlotte paused, seeing several shadows cross the wall as people she hadn’t realized were behind them moved away.

“Never fear, Lady Charlotte. There is no known threat to the ball this evening, but my brothers and I keep watch.” The Butler nodded at her, and gestured to the room behind him.

She could feel her mother’s impatience. “Thank you, Butler,” she said softly. Gathering long green silk skirts, she swept into the room.

Long training with her mother and sisters was the only thing that kept her head held high as jeweled, haughty heads turned to assess the new entrant to the stone room. Condescension was as thick as the mingled scent of oil-burning lanterns and perfume.

One elderly matron, hat precariously perched atop braided grey hair, sniffed with derision and deliberately turned her head away. The rest took their cues from her, Charlotte judged, as conversation broke out again.

A blond with the same curled style and a deep blue gown headed toward her. Her demeanor and dress were picture-perfect, in the books Charlotte was approved to read but hid under her bed instead. The girl came to a halt with a flourish. “I’m Azure,” she announced.

“Charlotte.” She fidgeted with a ring, and stilled her hands. “Is this your first ball also?”

“Yes, but of course I’ve already offers.” The girl smirked and looked down her nose at the redhead.

She thought this was a remarkable feat, since Azure was at least four inches shorter than Charlotte herself. “That’s nice.”

Azure was misnamed. Her hazel eyes bulged as her throat convulsed several times. “Well. Well. Clearly, you aren’t competition. Nice! What a redheaded nonsense answer.”

Charlotte watched the other girl flounce away. “Hmm.” She didn’t miss the company, but the sideways glances from catty women and predatory men had an unexpected dimension of inevitability.

She turned and walked toward the Barnhardts, who lived one manor over from her family’s. At least the elderly patriarch and his wife would give her a pretext at polite conversation, rather than how awkwardly she stood alone now.

An hour later, Charlotte’s jaw was sore from clenching it, her feet hurt, and her face ached from pretending to smile. She’d been patronized by older women, who murmured to her that they understood how difficult it must be, facing her disadvantage as a redhead. Why had her mother not prepared her sooner for such talk?

The men were even worse. Boys barely past light fuzz and spots sneered at her with expectant eyes, while older men who’d worn out their first, second, or even third wives with childbearing asked questions she didn’t understand and laughed at her confusion. One middle-aged man with a pointed nose and dark hair had licked his lips and looked at her body in ways that made her stomach twist. She wished for nothing more than a thick blanket to hide behind and a mug of strong, honeyed tea.

A cough drew her attention. She turned from the punch bowl she’d lingered near to find Butler watching her. The security men were circulating the room now that the portcullises were down at each entrance, ensuring honor was maintained even amongst the vicious verbal jabs that could so easily escalate beyond mere words.

He jerked his head in a short movement, barely perceptible. She looked, and saw a discrete path behind a long drapery of saffron velvet. Charlotte blinked, and tried to look grateful, but Butler was already gone, moving to intercept a spat between two young men about a horse.

She slipped behind the curtain and sighed with relief. The lights were dim here, and the perfume thinner. Charlotte wandered the hallway, wondering if this led to the kitchens. She’d been unable to do more than nibble a few treats before her mother’s reproving eye tightened her belly, but the night was overwhelming to her senses. Perhaps some food would help sustain her, and most kitchens would slip a girl a small loaf without question.

Her stomach flipped as she trailed fingertips across the cool stone. Perhaps she wasn’t considered a girl anymore. Had that been what Yelena was trying to tell her earlier today?

Her fingers grazed over the edge of stone and met empty air. Charlotte barely noticed, her mouth agape. Dark shelves held thousands of books, even going to a second story. A fire blazed at the end of the empty room, safely ensconced in stone and behind decorative ironworks. A spiral stair led to the second floor, and extended to what looked like an additional room with a closed wooden door. Exquisite glass lanterns shone at regular intervals from between bookcases.

She wandered through the selection of tomes, noting the organizational system absently as she went. She’d known the Hannocks were rich, but some of these books had such great age, they must have come from first landing! Society had been only a colony at first, in need of many skills, but agriculture had won out as technology had broken down and trade routes had been slow to develop.

Drawing near the fire, she luxuriated in the warmth. It wasn’t quite the blanket she’d wanted, but books made the evening better. Charlotte drew her skirts up in one hand and placed the other on the spiral stair’s railing. She’d never seen a staircase like this before, with one side so narrow only her toes would fit. Each step was taken with great precision, and she was glad no one was here to witness her unseemly flash of ankle.

Upstairs, she started to continue the book survey before pausing. The dark wooden doors drew her attention. Studded with metal beyond the strength of most internal doors, she wondered what in a library would need extra fortification. An ornate metal latch kept the door closed, but looked a more recent addition than the hinges.

Charlotte studied the metal swirls, made to emulate leaves. A flower bloomed in metal, inviting an outreached hand to clasp it and pull. She accepted its implicit invitation, cold iron warming against her skin, unsurprised to find the door immobile.

She let go with a disappointed sigh, and heard a faint scrape. Hand still in midair, she reached out and tugged on the flower harder. Another noise rewarded her, and she grasped the long petals with both hands, leaning all her weight on the handle.

Metal squealed, and something inside the door gave way. The door itself opened soundlessly as she pulled, red-orange rust spilling onto the wooden floor.

Panting, Charlotte straightened and brushed off her dress. She stepped inside the room. It was filled with books, but her eyes were fixed on the view through the oriel window. Each step echoed in her head, her heartbeat thudding in her ears as she slowly moved forward.

The glow of the spaceport filled the window, filled the room. Blue-tinged lights cast a cool calm across her face, newly-hated red hair gleaming with electric curls. Her dress turned to teal, the geometric embroidered trim at the hem muted by the strange beams.

Charlotte could not look away, even as her shin barked into the wooden window seat. The forest on the drive to the manor courtyard was so thick it must have hidden the view. She could see over the trees now. Vehicles moved with speed she had trouble believing, massive even at this distance. Fire blazed white-hot from one of them, and she caught her breath in fear before it vanished.

She rested a hand against the rippled glass, entranced.

“I meant for you to catch your breath in the hall, not break into the forbidden room,” a voice said behind her.

Charlotte recognized the Butler’s voice, but kept her eyes trained on the Spaceport. If this were to be her last glimpse, she would soak in every second. “Must I go?”

“If you wish to avoid answering questions about whether the ‘redheaded bookworm’ has absconded to get into trouble, yes.” He sounded amused.

“That can only be my mother.” Charlotte wondered if she’d be able to remember this exact shade of blue years from now, when she needed to sustain herself.

“Come, Lady Death,” the Butler said.

She turned, already longing for another glimpse of electric lights. “What did you call me?”

His lips twitched. “Lady Charlotte may be your real title, but your last name means death. It suits your spirit more. You’ll be the death of some poor man.”

Charlotte blinked. “Anything’s better than my real name – oh!”

The man with the pointed face who had scared her earlier slinked in behind the Butler. His eyes were dark, and a glass of amber liquid dangled from his hand. “Private party?”

“A retrieval, m’lord.” The Butler turned to keep his body between the two, facing the man who scared her more than ever.

Charlotte wondered if he’d hoped to trap her here, alone, and shuddered at the thought. “Yes, I’d like to rejoin the ballroom now.” She was proud that her voice did not waver.

“I’d like to join something,” the man snarled. He closed the door behind him.

The Butler’s shoulders flexed. “Window seat, Lady Death.”

“I don’t understa-“

“Go!”

Charlotte turned back to the seat set into the oriel window, unsure what to do. She lifted the cushion, and saw what looked like a lid. A trap door? She pulled up on the hook, and saw a narrow staircase.

Much undignified scrambling later, Charlotte scraped her hands against an exceptionally dark stone room that didn’t seem to have an exit. She hadn’t shut the trap door behind her, not wanting to waste time, and the faint blue glow kept her from panicking entirely.

Butler wouldn’t have sent her into a room with no exit, would he? She craned her neck upward, wishing she knew what was going on between the two men. Surely the Butler would win.

A thud came from overhead, and she squeaked. Redoubling her efforts, she touched a rough spot in the stone and pressed her fingers into it until she thought her fingertips would bleed. Stone cracked open, spilling her onto the wet lawn.

Charlotte ran, not knowing where to go, in dancing slippers soaked through. The doors were sealed against her, the horses safely locked in the barn. No one sane stayed out at night, even though no one had seen a sabertooth since the early settlement days. Carriage bells kept them away, but she did not have a bell, nor would it work against the pointed-faced man. And so she ran to the only place she could think of that might have safety against predators of man and beast alike.

The Spaceport would save her, with its terrifying blue glow. It must, because Charlotte Merikh could see no other options.

Last week, on Odd Prompts, Cedar Sanderson did very cool things with my prompt of an encoded quilt. Leigh Kimmel gave me a prompt that just wouldn’t let go: Something is seen at the oriel window of a forbidden room in an ancient manor house.

I still have more stories I want to tell based on this prompt, which tickled my dark and flinty gothic heart. This version went in a different direction than I anticipated, but – I think – in a good way. I think it might become a thing, because Lady Death really wants her story to be told.

It’s not like I have anything else I’m working on…or a day job that’s nuts…right?

Do Not Feed the Wildlife

June 6, 2020 / fionagreywrites

“Hey, Sparkles.” The muffled voice came from across the room.

“I told you not to call me that,” Jenna said with a grimace. She didn’t move, or even look up from her ancient, beige computer.

“Whatever. I need your help.”

Grumbling under her breath, Jenna pushed back a chair with an earsplitting squeal as the metal leg scraped over worn floor. Locating khakis and sturdy shoes sprouting from underneath a desk across the room, she saw a plethora of wires where a torso should be.

“What did you do, Glen?” I am so not fixing that disaster, she added mentally.

“I wanted Dr Hort’s desk now that he’s retired. And I screwed it up,” the legs-and-wire bundle responded. His knee rose and the wires shifted. “I unplugged stuff that shouldn’t be unplugged.”

Jenna tapped a booted foot on the linoleum, happy to see Glen get some comeuppance after months of refusing to call her by her real name. Interning at Fish and Game hadn’t been what she’d expected. In retrospect, being surprised by the amount of bureaucracy at a government organization shouldn’t have been shocking.

She pursed her lips, reluctant to ask. “So what do you need me for?”

The wires parted and thick glass lenses appeared, brown eyes behind them pleading. “Turns out one of his computers ran the automated fish counter software.”

“I didn’t see the software failure alerts.” She frowned again, holding in an unprofessional laugh. If Glen had bothered to ask her – but he never did, did he?

“Yeah, well, I changed it so they came to me. But you’re gonna have to go to the ladder and get a manual estimate for the day. I’ve got to fix this and it’ll be a while.”

“Only if you promise to use my real name for the rest of the summer.”

The eyes grew sad before disappearing behind tangled wire again. “Fine. Jen.”

Jenna snarled on her way out the door.

“Don’t get eaten!” Glen yelled. She slammed the door on the rest of his words.

Her mood lightened as she went to her truck and grabbed her backpack. Stepping onto the path beside the fish ladder, she took a moment to relish being outside, in the sunlight. Her face broke into a grin. “This is more like it.”

She hiked for about fifteen minutes before settling into the shade. The rock ramp had been built from natural materials local to the area, with an eye to making it blend with the surrounding environment. Water overflowed the weirs as the pools overflowed, white streams against crystal-clear pools.

Pausing about halfway up the fish ladder, she perched on a comfortable, speckled boulder. She was unsure of the best observation spot, since Glen rarely let her go into the field. Jenna pulled a notebook from her backpack and dangled her feet over the edge of the fish ladder.

She glanced at a nearby curious squirrel with bulging cheeks. “Hope I remember all the fish types from training.” His tail fluttered at the sound of her voice.

The next half an hour was fairly uneventful. The squirrel continued to keep her company as she ticked off species and numbers transiting the fish ladder. “Steelhead…I think that’s a smallmouth bass…salmon, probably sockeye…ooo, a couple walleye there. Wonder if they’re a mated pair.”

The squirrel chittered his boredom at her. Jenna stuck her tongue out. “Hey, this is my job. Calm down. I’m still not giving you any food.”

“Trout…steelhead again…octopus…” Jenna’s pen scratched against her notebook. “Octopus?”

She closed her eyes and reopened them. The octopus was not only still there, limbs showing steady movement against the churning water, it had a passenger. Six tentacles climbed the rocks carefully from the lower pool, adhering suckers against a slippery path. The remaining two tentacles formed a backpack of sorts, where a squid nestled, its own tentacles dangling and shining against the octopus’ flickering camouflage.

“What’s a cephalopod pair like that doing all the way out here?” The squirrel squeaked and lifted his bushy tail, then ran up a tree, finally abandoning her. “No one’s going to believe this,” Jenna called after the tiny rodent.

She pulled out her cell phone and snapped a few pictures of the octopus climbing into the pool, settling the squid down carefully, and stretching out some limbs before settling into the pool for a rest. A bulbous eye caught her gaze, and Jenna lowered her phone, transfixed.

“Excuse me,” a voice said from the pool below her. “I know it’s a public place, but I’d rather you deleted those photos.”

Jenna choked on absolutely nothing and began coughing. Her phone slipped out of nerveless fingers and landed with a splash below.

A curling limb covered in suction cups rose above the edge of her boulder handed the slab of smooth metal and glass to her., water droplets dripping from the edges “Well, that solves that problem, doesn’t it?” The octopus’ beak moved in what might have been a smile as he tucked his tentacles underneath himself.

“Ah. Thank you for returning my phone,” Jenna said, feeling faint. “I didn’t know octopi could talk.”

“Oh, well.” A lazy wave of an arm gestured to the pool. The squid swirled around the pool, splashing. “They can’t. Not really. Super smart, but not that smart. You know how it goes.”

Jenna struggled for words. “Oh, of course.” Perhaps she was dehydrated.

“No, I mean, I’m a kraken,” the cephalopod continued. “That’s why I can talk. I’m James.”

A tentacle reached out to her hand, suckers tasting her arm briefly and releasing her after a brief and unnerving silent handshake. She coughed again. “I’m Jenna.”

“My parents don’t know how far George and I decided to go hiking today. They’re really active on social media, so if those pictures got out, I’d be in a ton of trouble. Grounded and restricted to the ocean for the next five years, probably.”

Her voice sounded eerily like a strangled cat. “Wouldn’t want that, obviously.”

The cephalopod bobbed his head, bouncing on tentacles. “So thanks. I’m sorry if your phone doesn’t work anymore.”

She nodded, wondering if Glen had set her up somehow.

James uncurled himself. “We’re just gonna chill here for a little bit, okay? Then go home.”

He scampered down the speckled boulder, camouflage rippling through dappled greys and blacks. “It was nice to meet you!”

“Bye.” Jenna’s voice was indistinct against the sounds of splashing water between the ladder’s pools.

A head popped back up briefly, a tentacle on each side just below protuberant eyes, beak twitching as if he was sniffing the air. “Hey – you got any snacks?”

This week, Becky Jones challenged me with “The fish counter spotted the baby kraken as it made its way up the fish ladder.” My prompt went to nother Mike: “The moon looked like it had another crater, which grew as the moon waxed larger. And then…” I can’t wait to see what he does with it.

Want to join the Odd Prompts crew? Send in a prompt to oddprompts@gmail.com by Tuesday, and receive one of your own. Don’t like commitment? Check out the spares to see if any pique your interest!

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.”

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!

Travel Most Dangerous to the Traveler

May 26, 2020 / fionagreywrites

“Hey.”

The voice entered the room sideways, circling around her and swirling before dissipating into air stale with old coffee and florescent light.

“Hey. Hey, Anita.”

Words penetrated her brain finally, breaking her concentration as she looked up from the computer to see a freckled face with a grin so wide she thought her roommate would run out of face if it got any bigger.

The sky visible through the bay window behind Will was already inky darkness. She blinked dry eyes, and dragged a weary hand across her face. “What time is it?”

His grin could get bigger after all, it seemed, but cut off with a wince. Could you pull a muscle smiling too hard?

“It’s any time we want.”

Anita stared at him. Seconds ticked away as she felt her face go numb. “You did it? You did it!” Jumping up, she ran around the dining room table and grabbed him in a hug.

He stiffened in surprise, and she let him go, taking a quick step backward. “Wow. This calls for a celebration. We don’t have anything fancy. You want to go out? I can text the others and tell them where to meet us.”

“No.” He shook his head, smiling with more caution now. “I don’t want to wait. I want to go check it out. That darn monkey was all excited about something.”

“You used Wilbur instead of the camera this time? You must have been confident.” She grinned at him so hard her own teeth hurt. “I’ll pack you a bag with a sandwich and a bottle of water. Just in case.”

She flicked the back light on as he crossed the yard, back to his workshop in the barn. The commute was a pain some days, but worth it to be able to experiment without the neighbors complaining when one of the scientists in their group exploded something. And it’s not like a former research monkey was easy to explain. No, it was better not to have neighbors, and to keep their roommate pool to the university.

Anita turned back, making sure the door remained unlocked for when Will came back with his test results.

“Time machine,” she said as she settled back at the dining room table with her laptop. “Who’d have ever thought that would work.”

She was engrossed in the code again when she realized something smelled burnt. Wrinkling her nose, she turned. Will was behind her, emaciated beyond the hour-long test he’d been so excited to try. Scorch marks streaked torn and grimy coveralls. His hair was wild, and grease covered his face. He held a handle from his machine in one hand. The other was hidden behind the wall as he staggered.

“I’ve destroyed it,” he rasped. “It’s done.”

Anita opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She coughed at the acrid char in the room. “What?”

“They killed Wilbur,” he said. “My poor rhesus.”

“Who did?” She gripped the armrest, her legs too leaden to stand.

“Anita, the future is…” Will trailed off, his jaw trembling. He rubbed the stubble covering it. “He wasn’t excited when he came back from the test, he was terrified. And I dragged him aback there.”

She saw fire behind him, sparking through the darkness. “You burned it?”

“Everything,” he said. “Every scrap of data. It was all in the barn. Except this. This is the last of it. Had to get the prototype from my room.” He waved the handle.

“Will, why?”

He looked at her with haunted eyes, and she closed her mouth on a million questions. No, she didn’t want to know what was behind his haunted eyes. The twinkle was gone, replaced with warring, whirling shadows of terror and despair.

“Why don’t we talk in the morning,” she suggested in a low voice.

He lifted the time machine’s handle in salute. “Thanks. I have to go tend the fire.”

Will paused as he walked away. He hefted the object in his other hand over his shoulder, black metal barrels gleaming in the dim hallway light. “If they followed me, I’ve got it covered. But I don’t think they did. I’ll lock the door though, so you’re safe.”

The door closed with a gentle click, with the lock turning louder a moment later. Anita stared after him, uncomprehending but still unable to move. It took a few moments before her shock wore off. Shoving back from the table, she stumbled to the bay window and watched a moving shadow silhouetted by the fire.

She sat there a long time, watching shadows flit within flickering shadows, wondering what she was waiting to discover as the fire burned to ash.

Carl woke her the next morning. Her neck burned from where she’d fallen asleep on the window seat. The smoke of a smoldering bonfire still lingered, stronger than it had the night before.

“Anita, I have some bad news,” Carl said, pulling out a dining room chair and sitting down. His face was grave. It didn’t differ much from his usual expression.

“If it’s about Wilbur the monkey, I already know,” she said. “Will was pretty torn up. Spent all night burning his work. Said it wasn’t worth it.”

“That’s not all he did, Anita.” Carl looked down and cleared his throat. “We found him in the barn this morning.”

She whipped her head back to where the firepit still smoked, halfway between the lawn and the barn. The room swirled. She gripped the cushion as everything went out of focus.

“I’m sorry. You were probably closest to him,” Carl said. He stood. “I’ll get you some coffee. The police will be here soon.”

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. I wasn’t satisfied with this story, but my awesome husband suggested a different direction that prompted Version 2, which you can read here.

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!

A Mug of Liquid Sanity

May 17, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Sarah poured a stream of coffee into a thick mug and held it just below her chin. She closed her eyes and wrapped her fingers possessively around the clay. As if anyone in the household would risk a maiming by taking away her caffeine.

The scent always hit her before the steam, nutty and caramelized from toasted beans, a deep and ritualized inhalation that helped her mind awaken. Blinking eyes still sticky with sleep open, she gazed into the dark liquid and lowered her mouth while raising both hands.

A herd of elephants could stampede through the kitchen, and she’d be more likely to lick the spilled coffee from the floor than start cleaning up debris. That assumed she even noticed the elephants.

Hot liquid poured down her throat, and her hands clenched reflexively around the mug as she swallowed. An entire cup was gone in seconds, which only meant it was time for more.

Sarah reached for the coffeepot handle and froze, hand outstretched, her eyes locked on the scene visible through the kitchen window.

“I’m not seeing that,” she muttered. “I’m still dreaming.” Sarah forced her hand to pick up the carafe, poured a second cup, and gulped the scalding liquid fast she burnt her tongue, skipping all morning ritual. She carefully avoided looking out the window again until she’d poured a third cup.

The apparition was still there.

Still clenching her mug of liquid sanity, she headed for the back door and stood barefoot on the covered porch. Her thin cotton pajamas were perfect for early morning this time of year, before the day grew too warm and humid. The lawn still held droplets of dew.

She gawked into the backyard. A creak to her right told her where her husband sat, and she turned wide eyes and an open mouth toward him. “Dennis?”

“Morning, honey.” The creaking continued as he sat in the rocking chair, a self-satisfied smile evident on his face. Battered and muddy work boots pushed off worn floorboards with regular rhythm. “You bring that coffee for me?”

He asked her that every morning, laughing at her protectiveness as she instinctively curled her body around her mug. Dennis couldn’t stand the taste of coffee and never seemed to need an extra caffeine boost, but loved to tease her about her mental fogginess. Morning was their time for ritual, before conscious thought kicked in.

Today was the first time in thirteen years she hadn’t at least given him a smile at the familiar wordplay.

“Dennis, why is there a buffalo on the lawn?”

“Bison,” he corrected, continuing to rock.

“What?”

“They’re not actually related to the Asian water buffalo. Or the African cape buffalo, come to think of it. She’s American. So it’s a bison.”

She stared into the yard. The visitor munched an early morning breakfast of lawn and dandelion, turning at a precise right angle with a deep snort. Sarah was close enough to see mud on horns and shaggy dark fur as the bison eyed her and turned away.

“We’re safe as long as we stay on the porch,” Dennis said, pausing his maddeningly calm rocking. “You want to join me?”

Sarah made her way over to the rocking chair next to him and sank onto the carved wood. Her coffee remained forgotten in her hand as she continued to gaze into the yard. “What is a bison doing here?”

Dennis stretched out a hand and rubbed her back lightly. “Why, mowing the lawn, obviously.”

The bison executed another precise turn, nibbling her way back toward the porch.

“How…?” Sarah didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

“Well, you can rent them, y’see,” Dennis said, leaning back and beginning to rock again. “And they’re quite fast. It’s very natural, excellent fertilizer, great for crop yields.”

“We don’t have a crop,” Sarah protested automatically. She glanced down at the dark liquid in her mug and realized it was the same shade as the bison’s eyes. Would drinking it even help at this point?

“Not yet, no, you’re quite right, dear.” The rocker creaked faster. “Their hooves are good at plowing up the dirt, though. I thought we could put some vegetables in this year now that the ground’s warm enough.”

“But,” Sarah said. “But.”

“Aw, Sarah, I know. But it cost less than that weed control chemical junk you wanted me to get. And she’s terribly efficient. Look, she’s nearly done, and she just got here.” The bison was trimming the last strip of uncut grass as she headed toward the two humans.

“When I said weed eater, this isn’t what I meant,” she managed. Her voice held an odd, raspy squeakiness.

“Mmmhmm,” Dennis said. “Smart cookie, too. I put the order in online, she showed up half an hour later on her own. Could have sworn she read the numbers on the mailbox.”

Sarah choked on her coffee, dribbling the precious drink down her thin cotton shirt.

The bison came to the edge of the porch and lowered her head, rubbing a horn covered in clumps of dried mud on the porch floor.

The creaking stopped. Dennis rose and leaned on the railing. He stayed a few feet away from the bison, nodding as he studied the lawn.

“Fine job,” he said. “Great work. Give my compliments to the herd. I’ll add a tip onto your final payment.”

Lifting her head, the bison’s liquid coffee eyes met Sarah’s and blinked languidly. The bison snorted and stamped a hoof. She turned and walked primly down the driveway, each hoof dropping precisely against the concrete surface.

“See you in two weeks,” Dennis said with a wave.

Sarah stared into her mug, wondering if there was sufficient coffee in the galaxy to rescue her overworked early morning brain.

*Image by Fiona Grey, Custer State Park, South Dakota*

This week’s Odd Prompts challenge came from Cedar Sanderson: “When I said weed eater, that isn’t what I meant…”

My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: “Your phone lights up, and the app notifies you the camera’s spotted someone at the door. Feeling lazy, you pull up the video and take a peek. It’s a giant murder hornet. And it just rang your doorbell.“

Thought & Memory

May 6, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Rhella slumped onto the worn blue velour couch and poked a finger at the fuzzy hole an old ex had burned into the cushion. At least the edges where the fluff had worn down still had a dignified air of self-respect.

“That’ll just make it bigger,” Jon said without looking up.

She snorted. “Like I don’t know that.”

“Just flip the cushion if it bothers you that much.” He glanced up from his laptop. “How many times have we had this conversation?”

She stopped poking at the hole and flopped back. “I told you, I feel like a liar if I hide it.”

He sucked in a breath and pushed his computer away. “Look, I have a surprise for you.”

She tossed a pillow at him. “We can’t afford surprises.”

He caught the battered throw pillow and automatically smoothed the remnants of fuzz down. “Things have been rough lately, we both know that. But I received an inheritance today.”

Rhella froze, halfway to reaching for the other throw pillow to toss at him. “Wait, what? Like…money?”

“No.” His smile was tight as he looked at the pillow. His fingers clenched around it.

“Sorry, babe. I’m not trying to crush your surprise.” Rhella smoothed back long, dark hair from her face and hoped her expression was apologetic.

She knew he was dreading the day he had to go back to the music store, to beg for his old job again and hope they hadn’t hired someone better in the meantime. All to teach snot-nosed kids scales for forty-five minutes a pop, at barely over minimum wage. All to keep her writing dreams alive, because bouncing between jobs was called freelancing now.

“It’s just some furniture. We can sell most of it.” He was still speaking to the pillow. “But I thought you might like this writing desk my Aunt Alice had. It was supposed to be inspired by that writer. You know, because of her name.”

“Not Alice in Wonderland?”

“Through the Looking Glass, I think it was. Thought it might inspire your writing.”

She leaned over and looked past Jon. “Thanks. How’d I miss that on my way in?”

“You were being dramatic,” he replied instantly, good humor back in an heartbeat. Rhella loved how mercurial he could be, but sometimes wondered if it would be exhausting in the long term. She shied away from the thought. Focus on this month’s rent.

She got up and studied the desk. The antique stood on spindly limbs, criss-crossed for stability. Ebony wood rested atop the supports and a row of drawers, stretched in a carving of outstretched wings that jutted over the edges. A single eye of bright yellow wood in precisely the middle popped against the dark wood.

“Wow. This is seriously intricate,” Rhella said. “Crow, right?”

She heard a caw and looked up, startled. Jon tossed the pillow back at her. “No, raven. Haven’t you ever read the book? The riddle? A raven like a writing desk?”

She shook her head and reached out a hand to stroke the feathers. “So much detail. Every feather’s outlined here. Some are more worn down.”

“Well, it is an antique,” Jon snapped. He put his noise-cancelling headphones back on. She rolled her eyes and lifted the lid, exposing a flat writing surface and cubbies that still held aged and yellowed paper.

She shut the lid and ran her fingers over the carved plumage again. Rhella wondered why some were more worn than others, and stroked each of the faded feathers in turn.

The yellow raven’s eye popped open, rising to stare at her. “Jon?”

There was no answer. Twisting around, she realized he’d only be annoyed at the interruption. Trembling, Rhella turned back to the desk.

The eye and some of the surrounding feathers had lifted to reveal a cubbyhole that held black sealing wax, half-used, the wick a burnt nub smoothed over from long disuse. It also held a seal.

Rhella studied the seal, squinting. She angled it toward the window to get the last of the day’s light. “A raven. Of course.” It matched the writing desk in design, from what she could tell.

Clutching the seal, she let her other hand fall to the raven’s beak.

The world around her disappeared. Streaking through her mind came an overwhelming barrage of noise, light, and color.

Languages she didn’t understand and languages she did, symphonies and electric violin and freestyle rap mixed with Gregorian chant and drums that matched her racing heartbeat. Lemons and skunk and the decay of fall, hot sand and burning stars. Bursts of light flashed at her, strobing at irregular frequencies, visions of men and oceans and battles with blue-streaked warriors.

Rhella tried to cover her ears and couldn’t move. The visions continued, sound and scent and nightmare.

She closed her eyes and surrendered to the madness with a scream.

A cold hand weakly slapped her face. “Jon?”

“You’re awake,” he said. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“I do,” she said. “It’s not that.”

“You started screaming. And then had a seizure,” Jon said.

“It’s still not that.”

“What happened?”

Rhella eyed the desk, which showed no signs of a secret compartment. She didn’t see a wax seal on the floor, either. She propped herself up on her elbows, for once happy about the ancient, mossy green wool carpet. It was familiar in ways her brain appreciated more than ever.

“I learned everything.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I wish I didn’t,” Rhella said. “No more. Never more.”

Jon looked at her with confusion. “Look, we don’t have anything in the house right now. Why don’t we go down to the pub and get you a drink?”

“You mean at the Ravensworth Arms?” Rhella started laughing. Jon’s expression only made her hysteria worse.

She dissolved into hiccups. “Yeah. I could use a drink, all right.”

I’ll figure out what to do with all this nonsense knowledge tomorrow. Maybe it would even pay the rent.

She wondered if the vision in her left eye would ever return.

This week’s Odd Prompts challenge came from Leigh Kimmel: “The Mad Hatter asked Alice, “How is a raven like a writing desk?” Poe wrote, “quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’” Could the key to the Mad Hatter’s riddle lie in Poe’s verse?“

My prompt went to Becky Jones: “You’re at a drive-up diner, eating your meal, when up next to you sidles a bison. She gives you a polite nod, and orders a cheeseburger.“

The Hunt

April 28, 2020 / fionagreywrites

It is dark, and it is stormy, and isn’t that a terrible, clichéd way to start this tale? But tonight is both these things, and the weather matches my mood.

These are the thunderstorms of my childhood, of watching the lightning crack atop enormous, ancient trees who laugh at the sky and dare to try their luck against the clouds.

Then, I sat wedged into a windowsill too small for any but a child, safe from the wet and cold, eyes dancing too fast to follow the lightning.

Now, I stand barefoot in the rain, soft grass slick against my feet, dress pressing damply against my body, each step squishing deeper into ever-softening dirt. I hope against hope there will be neither thistles nor rocks, but know the night will end with muddy footprints, smeared with blood.

My path does not remain on a polite, pretentious lawn, but meanders down into deep woods.

Tonight I hunt, in the old ways, the ways of my ancestors. I stalk, and I spin, and seek to find direction. I feel ridiculous.

Inhibition is the first to go. It must, or I will not succeed.

My prey is nebulous, terrifying. Hard enough to pursue the intangible, but to slay it?

My breath quickens at the thought of an unsuccessful hunt, and I pant in rapid, shallow breaths. I reach down and smear mud across my face, wondering briefly how long it will last as the rain smudges it, warm across my cheeks.

Fear of failure keeps me moving, fear of nothing happening, fear of being insufficient, fear of not being enough.

I am melancholy as I wander through the woods, seeking the trail of each memory, confronting each angry voice, each disappointment, each almost enough.

Failure is to admit they are true, to give life to the voices whispering through the woods, lighting-lit and backstopped by memory.

I seek despair, I seek humiliation, I seek confusion.

Each movement firms my resolve, strengthens each step as branches lash with wet venom across my face, and the hunt is all I know.

The moonlight is my sword, rain the chains that bind me to this task, lightning my only guide.

Each step is victory, the path to Valhalla.

I seek annihilation, and this night shall not end without blood.

***

This week’s Odd Prompts challenge was from Cedar Sanderson: You are a big game hunter stalking something. What is it you are in pursuit of, and why is it so terrifying?

My prompt about a widely shared birthday party went to Misha Burnett, and La Vaughn Kemnow also took a whack at it.

The Old Gods Return

April 7, 2020 / fionagreywrites

In this week’s odd prompts challenge, Misha Burnett and I traded writing ideas. I suggested he detail why someone was both prickly and poisonous. He challenged me to explore the old gods’ return after a young girl is removed from a cult. However, I seem to have forgotten about the “twenty years later” part...

“Blast the rotting spots!” Savannah swore, and glanced sideways to see if anyone had overheard her. She tossed the book aside onto the wooden plank floor.

Her brown eyes met Hugh’s, across the porch steps. Her shoulders slumped for a moment before remembering no one here would care, in this strange neighborhood filled with cookie-cutter houses and bread with no personality trapped in shiny, colorful plastic bags.

“Why do you say that?” Hugh asked. “You say it like it’s a swear.” His eyes were half-shut under long lashes she envied.

Savannah turned her head and studied him with narrowed eyes. His face was blank, but she thought his core was tense. Perhaps he was interested after all. Perhaps he was bored. She couldn’t tell.

“It is a swear,” she muttered.

He closed his eyes but didn’t move away. “I don’t understand it.”

“Everyone tells me not to talk about it, but nobody will tell me why.” Savannah leaned back against the railing and tried to imitate his laid-back posture. She breathed in the scent of new grass and damp earth.

He sighed. “So tell me.”

She glanced up over her shoulder. The back door was open with only a screen to stop the words she was tired of holding inside, but she didn’t care anymore.

“You know that I’m a foster kid.” It wasn’t a question. They were all foster kids here.

He nodded.

“My parents were part of a big church. In that compound with all the buildings. Mama Rosa says it’s a cult,” she said.

The carefully pronounced words felt odd in her mouth. A cult meant bad, meant weird, meant crazy. This was the crazy place, with its trimmed unnatural hedges and carefully planted gardens, not a weed found between the perfect, uncracked sidewalks, covered with pastel chalks.

Hugh opened his eyes. “So?”

“So, it’s a swear in the church,” Savannah said. She glared at him and frowned. She gave up on copying his cool don’t-care pose and kicked a stubby leg out over the porch stairs.

He was unfazed. “Okay, so it’s a swear. Why were you swearing?”

“This history book doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t match anything I ever learned before. I was a good student until I came here.”

She felt her eyes starting to water and stared out into the yard with its too-perfect leafy green tree, fresh with early spring buds. So what if the swing hanging from a thick branch was fun? It wasn’t home, filled with the smell of sourdough bread baking and the sounds of chanting.

Savannah tried not to blink and failed. Water dripped slowly down the right side of her face. She pressed closer to the railing and rubbed her face against the round wooden pillar, hoping Hugh wouldn’t see.

He grunted. “Least you can read it.”

She wouldn’t acknowledge his weakness, but was grateful he’d shared. Foster kids had to stick together. She’d been here only two weeks, but even she knew that.

Something moved in the woods behind that perfect tree and the rope and tire swing. “Hey, you see that?”

“What is that?” Hugh sat up. “Something yellow. Big, too.”

Branches crackled as the big yellow blob emerged from the woods, crashing through the undergrowth.

“Oh, sweet holy pudding,” Savannah breathed. She jumped to her feet.

Hugh rose more slowly. “Was that another swear?”

“They were right,” she said, jumping up and down.

“Who was right?”

Savannah couldn’t keep the grin off her face. Her bare feet danced over the worn wooden porch. “My real parents were right. Mama Rosa can call it a cult all she wants, but they were right!”

Hugh backed toward the door. “Uh-huh.”

She stepped down and spread her arms wide. “Hail and blessings, holy giant banana!”

Thesis Cat has been protesting the lack of attention this degree has caused since she was a kitten.

Happy Snacks

March 22, 2020 / fionagreywrites

This week on Odd Prompts, I challenged Cedar Sanderson to tell us what’s hidden amongst the wildly patterned tiles. My prompt came from Becky Jones, who asked me to explain the horrifying sight of a dragon carrying a human.

Flemming scowled at her easel and bit her lip, letting out an unladylike snort. She didn’t know why the view wasn’t magically transposing itself onto the canvas. The view itself was exceptional, after all.

She stood on a stone balcony several hundred years old, with enough wear to make it nostalgic and feel like home but not enough that one had a sense of danger. The balcony itself had graceful pillars that arched, supporting a roof loosely woven of grapevines. Careful pruning of the natural lattice by the gardener meant filtered daylight shone through, perfect for midmorning painting.

Roses twined up the stone legs of Flemming’s distant ancestor, buds opening layers of shell-pink with centers of a pale yellow reminiscent of aged books. Their scent wafted sweet and floral from his endless watch over the stairs to the grounds below. The balcony’s ivory stone railing overlooked a view to the orchards, next to herb and vegetable gardens that were laid out with mathematical precision.

Beyond, a valley filled with shades of green now that the last of the morning fog had slowly disappeared, overpowered by gentle sunrays and soft light. Moving splotches of white sheep roamed in the distance, urged on by spotted dogs and the children deemed responsible enough to move past egg collection and message delivery duties. Mountains covered in a mix of towering evergreens loomed in the distance, jagged under an open azure sky. A deep blue river bisected the scene, its meandering path burbling and life-giving.

In short, Flemming could not ask for a more picturesque setting for her new hobby. It would, however, help if her new hobby would cooperate.

Palette in her left hand, she took an exaggerated step toward the canvas, currently filled with splotches of approximately the correct color in each location. Biting her lip, she extended an arm, paintbrush tapering to a blob of paint, and stabbed at the work. It left an emerald streak behind.

Baring her teeth in a rictus grin, she tilted her head and squinted luminous, faceted eyes toward the new addition. Yes, that was better. Extending the palette like a shield, she smashed the brush through the next color and continued, tail twitching merrily.

An hour later, she had both made progress on the painting and frightened one of the gardeners into fainting. And – Flemming stopped with a jerk that nearly put a mountain in the wrong place. She’d painted Giselle into the sky without meaning to do so, but with one horrifying addition.

She glanced up. Yes, there was her friend, winging her way inbound, presumably for the landing area near the statue of Great-Uncle Fjorinak.

Flemming hissed, and steam came from her ears. There was a human on Giselle’s back! An abomination, intolerable, an insult to all dragonkind. Her tail lashed rapidly against the stone floor, scales flashing in the filtered sunlight.

She tossed the palette aside. It landed against the balcony with such force it shattered into several pieces, smearing paint against the pale stone. Brush still in hand, she stomped over to the landing pad.

“What is the meaning of this?” she shouted at her friend, and then drew in her breath, horror-struck.

Giselle looked at her miserably, thick rope twisted around her body. “This idiot tried to lasso me, Flem. Like a common cow. Not even from the good herd for feast days. Like the cull herd that always has at least one calf accidentally drown itself.”

“You’re not cull herd,” Flemming protested automatically, staring with unblinking amber eyes. Her paintbrush dangled loosely from her claws.

From Giselle’s crimson side, a human covered in metal banged her ribs with a sword. “Stop that, you little twerp,” she snapped.

“Did the human keep doing that while you were in the air?” Flemming asked curiously. “He must not want to live.”

Giselle snorted. “Well, I’ve brought you a snack, then. Get me out of these ropes, would you? And what were you doing when I winged in? You looked like you were fencing with a board.”

Flemming’s mouth gaped open with toothy grin, similar to the one that had caused the gardener to faint earlier. “I’ve taken up painting,” she said proudly.

The metal-clad human stopped banging on Giselle’s ribcage and turned his head toward the sapphire dragon. Flemming glared into the darkened visor. “Do you have opinions, human snack?”

“I’d love to see your work,” Giselle said warmly. “But after you get me out of these ropes. Flem, please.”

“Of course,” Flemming said. She set the paintbrush at the statue’s feet and moved over, slashing a claw at the ropes.

Giselle sighed in relief as the tangled ropes came free and piled at her talons.

Her free hand snagged the metal human’s shoulder as he got to his feet. She pushed him toward Giselle, claws digging into the pauldron with the creak of tearing metal. “Here’s your snack.”

“Our snack,” Giselle said. “You can have the head. Now, let’s see this painting –”

“Wait, wait, wait, hang on,” Marcus said, interrupting his older sister’s tale. “Dragons can’t paint. This whole story is ridiculous.”

“Of course they can,” Sarah insisted from her lofty eleven-year-old viewpoint. “They have the internet. She watched instructional videos.”

“Fine,” he said with a grumble, breaking off a piece of his cookie and leaving crumbs on the table. “Dragons can have art. But knights are s’posed to win.” Marcus stuffed the cookie in his mouth.

“Not from the dragons’ point of view,” Sarah pointed out primly. She eyed his crumbs with distaste and picked up her own gingerbread man, careful not to smudge the frosting.

He grabbed a second cookie and frowned up at her with grumpy brown eyes. “The knight’s not a snack.”

Sarah dunked her gingerbread man into a glass of milk head first. “Isn’t he?” She bit off the head before it could disintegrate and gave her little brother a toothy smile.

Marcus’ eyes lit up. Smashing the cookie down on the low table, he let out an earsplitting roar. “Let’s play dragon next!”

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