Tag: writing exercise (Page 2 of 5)

A Circle of Trees

November 10, 2021 / fionagreywrites

The djinn nudged him with her elbow, then turned it into a full-blown poke when Mikhail didn’t respond. “C’mon. You’ve been staring out the window forever. Are you going to eat so we can get to class?”

“Yeah.” His answer was distracted and did not involve the BLT on wheat toast moving toward his face. It remained floating in front of him, right where he’d placed it five minutes before.

Liza heaved a sigh with all the drama a teenage female could muster, the fire extinguishers that followed her around Wisburg academy clanking with her shoulders’ collapse. “At least tell me so I know whether to leave you here.”

That got him to look at her, at least.

She rolled amber eyes that flashed annoyed sparks, and a crisp poof came from the red metal cannister to her left. “Fine. I’d answer whatever your question is if I can. And I’ll get you back into the library if I can’t.”

Bacon drifted toward his mouth, tempting with its crisp, shining gleam. He snagged the sandwich and started talking with his mouth full. “That’d be nice. I tried promising not to take anything -“

“Focus. Please.” Her hands waved at the rapidly emptying room.

He swallowed with a painful gulp. “See that grove? The colorful one?”

She shrugged. “Sacred grove. Lots of trees. We’ll take classes there spring term, I think. So?”

“So, the trees are different.” The diamond panes of glass showed multi-colored trees, brilliantly shining at their peak. It wouldn’t be long before the leaves dropped.

A slim hand waved impatience. “Read the plaque. Under the window.”

“I did.” He ignored her tone. “The Tree Circle contains twelve different deciduous trees, each corresponding to a different month. Over the year the months cycle, with the Oak always associated with the current actual month, and the others permanently off-set. Magic ensures that each tree appears as it would during the month it was currently associated with.”

“Tree Circle, sacred grove, whatever you want to call it. Same thing. Can we go now?”

Mikhail snagged the rest of his sandwich out of the air and stuffed another bite in his mouth, grabbed his satchel, and followed Liza down the castle hallway. “So why’s the circle of deciduous trees different today?”

“November.”

He could tell she was trying really hard not to snap at him, and took pity on her. “I was hoping you’d see it.” He snagged a falling shard of bacon before it could hit the ground and shatter in a waste of salty goodness.

“See what?” She stutter-stepped, starting to turn back before sighing at the time and hurrying them along.

He mumbled the rest, swallowed, and ducked too late as one of her fire extinguishers bopped him. “I said, it’s a conifer. There’s an evergreen out there that doesn’t belong.”

***

This week, AC Young challenged me with what became a plaque inscription. I haven’t visited Wisburg Academy for a while! My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel, who hopefully will be inspired to write about a snippet of weaponized fog. Join the fun at MOTE!

Zoo Day

March 13, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“Fishcicles,” Anna insisted. Her jaw elevated, a stubborn point hovering above her collar and scarf. Dark eyebrows furrowed into a glare.

Brad sighed and spread his hands flat on the rock wall surrounding the polar bear enclosure. Being on the receiving end of Anna’s glares usually led to worse later. “I’m telling you, fishcicles are not a thing.”

She poked him in the side with a bony finger. “They totally are. It’s an animal enrichment thing. Keeps them from getting bored. They freeze a bunch of fish and give it to the bears. Snack and play all in one. What else would you call it besides a fishcicle?”

“They freeze a lot of things around here,” he muttered. The rock was freezing, just like the rest of him. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “How about we head into the aviary for a while and warm up?”

“You do what you want,” she loftily informed him. “I’m going to see the giraffes.”

He sighed and followed his girlfriend. The path leading to the giraffes was covered in familiar fake hoofprints and bird tracks. Enormous pawprints led to the left, where the big cats prowled behind glass enclosures.

Or did, when it wasn’t well below freezing. Today the cats were huddled into furry communal piles, with no interest in entertaining visitors who should be prey.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the zoo. He had a membership. There was something new every time, like the escaped flamingo flock or the rhino’s sneezing fit. He just liked it better when it was warm. When fishcicles weren’t a consideration, and ice cream dripped onto his hands, making Anna laugh and give him a sticky-sweet kiss.

Brad caught up to her at the edge of the enclosure. Once they’d seen the giraffes racing in a circle, the seven-foot baby ungainly as it tried to keep up with the longer legs of its herdmates. Today, only a lone giraffe awaited, outstretched head nuzzling sadly at bare branches. Anna had stopped to watch, her chin tucked back into her woolen scarf.

“You realize there are about six other people here at the whole zoo, and they’re all employees?” He flinched at her expression and backed up a step. “I just meant that they aren’t letting people feed the giraffes today.”

“You can if you have any food,” a deep voice said from above his head. “Those crackers the zoo employees sell to gullible tourists are pretty boring. You got any Doritos?”

Anna squeaked. “Did you hear that?”

“I’m pretty sure the giraffe just talked.” Brad felt his eyes burn in the cold air.

“I’ve got a name, you know.” The knobby head tilted, and those giant brown eyes looked annoyed. “The zookeepers call me Zippy, but Mom calls me Zeke.”

“Hi, Zeke.” Anna’s faint voice floated onto the air. “I don’t have any Doritos. Sorry.”

The creature sighed. “That’s all right. You probably didn’t think I liked them. Let me tell you, that cheese dust is amazing.”

“Or that you could talk,” Brad blurted. He wasn’t convinced this wasn’t a frozen hallucination.

The giraffe bent all the way down to look him in the eye. “There’s a lot you probably don’t know about us. Well, let me tell you…”

***

Becky Jones and I traded animal-themed Odd Prompts this week. I had fun with talking giraffes, and tossed aeronautical rabbits her way.

The Shadow

March 7, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“The Shadow President laid his plans with care.” This one from AC Young was an interesting challenge. I prefer to avoid politics as much as one can these days, so the obvious answer is out. Similarly, while I enjoy reading some alternative/historical universes, I’m not particularly attracted to creating them. Done well, they’re great; done poorly, not so much.

But there are other types of presidents, and perhaps one of their shadows could wander off and have adventures on its own, J.M. Barrie style?

Which led to – I am not kidding – conversations about space assassins. The guild needs a president, right? What about scouting organizations? HOAs? (Please tell me we won’t export those to space.)

And that led to this.

***

“Those crows are hanging around your yard a lot.” The sharp, nasally voice interrupted George’s reading. “You’d better not be hanging up birdfeeders again.”

He put down his book with a sigh and looked over at the post-and-rail fence that had been perfectly adequate until his new neighbor moved in. Why, he’d even had conversations at the fence in the past, just like you saw on TV. With all three of this hag’s predecessors.

The hag in question was wearing her usual sweater twinset and pearls, looking for all the world like an out-of-place schoolmarm. One that tormented rather than taught students, judging by the near-permanent snarl on her face. He’d only seen it leave when she was advocating to form a homeowner’s association.

As if this neighborhood didn’t already take care of its own.

He didn’t bother to stand up and head for the fence. The conversation wouldn’t last long enough to be worth the effort. “I don’t hang up birdfeeders, Janice. Never have.” Not since Lydia passed, he amended silently. He was sure some of the crows retained fond memories, and he wouldn’t chase them off. Nor would he share Lydia’s memory with someone who didn’t value nature.

“I’m the president of the homeowners’ association, and you’d best believe I will make you find a way from keeping bird dookie off my car.”

“You want me to put up a scarecrow?” He raised his glass of iced tea in a mock toast. “Only if it will scare off the HOA I didn’t agree to belong to. I’m not subject to your rules, nor can I control the crows.”

Squeaky fuss emanated from the fenceline, but George paid it no more attention than he’d give to a yapping dog. He took a drink and picked up his book. The mystery was far more interesting than anything Janice Tweller had to say.

The light was dying by the time he turned the last page, and the air growing chill. He went inside, bones creaking after so long without moving. A solitary dinner under the kitchen lights was in his future, just as it had been for three and a half years now.

The pot was on to boil water when he realized he’d forgotten to get the mail. He was so engrossed in mocking the latest ads that were all he’d received that he nearly missed the giant red paper tacked to his front door as he trudged back inside.

Janice’s latest trick, presumably. George rolled his eyes and snagged the paper to laugh at while he made dinner.

“Well, now, Lydia.” He still talked as if his wife could hear him, and who’s to say she didn’t? “Looks like the hag has found a new way to annoy me. She thinks she’s found a legal way to force HOA membership. Plus fees, of course.”

He stirred the spaghetti sauce and gave it a taste test. “More garlic, I think. Almost ready. You’d have found a way to drive her off by now, I’m sure. I do wonder what John was thinking, selling the property to her at all.”

George drained the noodles. “Perhaps it’s time for something to convince her to move on.”

Step by step, the shadow president of the entirely unofficial, nonexistent homeowners’ association laid his plans aloud for his late wife, pausing for occasional bites of spaghetti.

His shadow nodded in response. At the end of the meal, it slipped out of the kitchen window without him and crossed over the fence line.

George sat at the table with a sad smile and took a sip of wine. “Wish you could see this, Lydia. He’ll be up to all sorts of antics now. We’ll have a ‘for sale’ sign in her yard within a week.”

***

My prompt about the aliens’ dream invasion went to Becky Jones. Check it out, as well as the rest of the More Odds Than Ends odd prompters!

War, Fueled by Coffee

February 15, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“We’re reinstituting wars,” Linda told Mack. “One by Friday, please. Let me know if you need any help. You’re critical to our new training plan’s feedback.”

He stared at his new boss’ retreating back with horror. Mack felt his face pale as much as his olive skin would allow. Fighting hadn’t been in the job description. He’d left the military because he was done with war. And how was he supposed to spark one off in less than five days? He barely knew where the restroom was.

Swiveling in his black roller chair, he hissed at the next cubicle. “Hey! I thought this was a logistics company! Shipping?”

Jerry had a handset pressed between ear and red plaid shoulder. He gave Mack an odd look before returning to his call.

Mack got up and took his new company mug to the coffee machine over in the corner. He’d made sure to remember that location. He studied the logo while he waited for the machine to brew his cup, an unassuming navy blue on white. Whittier Transportation Firm.

“Whiskey tango foxtrot,” he whispered, and shook his head with a groan. “I should have known. What was I thinking?”

Back at his desk, he sipped the hot, bitter brew and raised a surprised eyebrow. Well! At least the coffee was better in the private sector! No muddy water reminiscent of turpentine here.

The caffeine soaked into his brain cells. Ideas began sparking as neurons connected, sharp pops of yellow light. Mack shook his head at the weirdness of his new job, picked up his phone, and started making calls.

By Friday morning, he was back in camouflage he’d left behind, helmet firmly on. He was the first in the office, as usual, but today was different. Mack barked orders at the delivery men, and slipped them extra cash to fortify the cubicles with the crates.

A crash sounded behind him, metal on the tile entryway. Linda stared at Mack, open-mouthed. A sealed coffee travel mug rolled in loops, heading away from the glass door in the least efficient route possible.

“Ah, thank you for the reminder, Linda.” Mack gestured at the nearest delivery man, a skinny guy in overalls and a well-worn lifting belt. “Hey, can you make sure to get some of these crates by the door? That glass is ridiculously vulnerable.”

Linda swallowed and held up a hand as the delivery guy headed toward the door. He detoured around her, an empty crate in each hand, while she emulated a fish.

Words finally erupted from her mouth. “Mack! What…why?” She spun in a circle and bent to retrieve her coffee container, unscrewing the lid and chugging liquid gold. “What?”

Mack held up his clipboard. “Linda, I’m really sorry. We won’t be ready to go by the time we’re scheduled to open. The sandbag delivery won’t get here until 1000. I know logistics win wars, but the company swears there’s nothing they can do. We have boxes of printer paper that could fill the gap in the meantime, but only one pallet. That’s just not enough.”

Linda looked at her coffee sadly, as if wishing it were whiskey. Shedrank for at least five seconds, held the empty mug over her mouth to shake out the last few drops, and screwed the lid back on. “What. Is. Happening?” Her voice screeched to a deafening levels.

Mack winced. “You said you wanted a war by Friday. But like I said, we’re just not ready. I started the propaganda campaigns, but the formal declaration of war to the competitors can’t go out until we properly fortify this building. And we’re vulnerable to the water and power getting cut off, but the generator’s getting installed in the basement now. Fuel might be an issue – ”

He cut off as Linda held up a hand. “War? Generator?”

“You said the company was reinstituting wars. You wanted one by Friday. It’s Friday. And I’m sorry, but we really need to hold until Monday if we can.”

Linda spun in a circle again, her hand held over her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

“I went with paintball, though. Hope that’s all right.” Mack tried to sound as earnest as possible. He had struggled with that dilemma before making the decision, but if this place meant a real shooting war, he needed to be looking for a new job. He might anyway. This place was weird. “Obviously, I wanted to do well on this as my first assignment. You said you needed feedback for the training program. Remember?”

“Mack,” Linda said slowly. “Mack, a WAR is a weekly activity report…”

***

No inspiration yet for this week’s actual prompt from Leigh Kimmel about tweaking alien noses. In the meantime, I couldn’t resist this spare. Maybe now that it’s out of my head, I can get back to the real prompt of the week. My own submission about swimming trees went to Becky Jones.

Blizzard

February 7, 2021 / fionagreywrites

This story has been removed. Why? Because it’s part of the Professor Porter tales, and will be published in modified form.

***

This week, Becky Jones challenged me to discover what was buried under the snow. My prompt went to nother Mike, to see what happens when tech and traditional fairy tales converge.

Pothole

February 3, 2021 / fionagreywrites

This post has been removed as of 27 March 2021. But don’t worry – it’s part of book two. Coming soon!

***

This week, my prompt was from nother Mike, and fit perfectly to kickstart me back into book two: “It was hard to see to drive in the pouring rain, and then the car thumped as we drove over something. When we stopped and got out to see what it was, we learned we had hit…”

My prompt went back to nother Mike, and was also about adventures in driving through weather. I guess it’s that time of year in the northern hemisphere.

Girls’ Night

January 20, 2021 / fionagreywrites

This post has been removed by the author in order to publish it as part of Professor Porter’s story

***

This week on MOTE, I prompted AC Young with a fluttering caution tape, and Cedar Sanderson asked me to ponder what was not evil, but not right. Down to the wire!

Also, I have no real idea what happens on girls’ nights. I don’t get out much. 😀

Black Sands

January 13, 2021 / fionagreywrites

June wandered the path in quiet contemplation. Helen had excused herself and headed for the chapel a few minutes earlier, claiming the need for a few moments not focused on memorials. June had pretended not to notice the shine in her eyes and let the older woman move ahead without asking questions. Her brisk footsteps faded away as June studied the foliage and greenery surrounding the park.

Peter was several statues behind her, happily debating minor details of battles past with his father. The last bit she’d overheard didn’t make much sense for the National Museum of the Marine Corps, as much as sea strategy had been critical for the Peloponnesian War. She glanced behind her and bit back a smile. George was waving his arms with wild enthusiasm, with Peter as his mirror a few feet away.

She turned back and blinked in surprise. It was a lovely late spring day, with the scent of flowers and grass in the air under the trees, but most of the museum visitors were inside. Few took the paths of the memorial park, with its statues and peaceful walking paths. The elderly gentleman must have come from the chapel Helen had just entered.

Piercing blue eyes met her gaze as June approached the memorial. She gave the man a brief nod. His hair was still regulation short under his veteran’s baseball hat, and his green button-down and khakis had been ironed. A slight potbelly showed his only concession to age. The man remained straight-backed and walked unaided.

She turned her eyes to the statue. A Marine in a World War II era uniform held to his shoulder, one leg propped up on a rock. The dedication was for

“We were wishing for those rocks,” the man said. He gestured to the statue with one hand. “The sand was near impossible to move through. You sank in and struggled to move. Knee deep, it was in places. Funny that it had tunnels under it.”

The air left her lungs as June dragged in a breath. She turned, gaze glued to his hat. Iwo Jima, it read. Not just any veteran, but one of the remaining few. One of the survivors of the struggle for freedom, symbolically captured by the famous flag raising. An icon recognizable across any proper student of propaganda.

“I don’t know how I missed your hat,” June said. She shook her head. “I really don’t. I’m a professor of the military uses of propaganda. Thank you. It’s an honor to meet you.”

The man snorted and reached out a hand. His grasp was firm and dry, covered in calluses. “Jack. I didn’t do much. Back then, we were all in it, weren’t we?”

She nodded, her mouth dry. This was an increasingly rare moment, and she wasn’t sure what to ask. “Are you willing to talk about it?”

Jack looked up at the statue. “That was me, once. All gung-ho and ready to take on the world. And then came never-ending battle. I tell you, I grew up damn quick.”

June bit her lip and nodded. He seemed about to say more, if only she didn’t break the silence.

Jack reached up a hand to touch the statue. “I made it home to my Millie, though. That’s more than some could say.”

“I’m glad you did,” she said in a low voice. He gave a gruff jerk of his chin in acknowledgement and gave the statue a last pat.

“June?” She turned at the sound of Peter’s voice. A smile lit her face at the sight of his emerald eyes and hair tousled by the breeze. George trailed behind, still grumbling and gesturing as he walked.

“Peter, let me introduce you to –“ She turned and stared. Her feet kept her moving in a circle, her head craning as if Jack was hiding behind the memorial. “Where did he go?”

“June, who were you talking to?”

***

The National Museum of the Marine Corps is worth a visit if you’re ever in the area, although it’s currently closed. The building itself is designed to emulate the raising flag of Iwo Jima. Semper Fidelis Memorial Park is also real, as is the BAR on the Beach memorial, dedicated to the 5^th Marine Division.

***

This week’s Odd Prompts came from Kat Ross in photo form, who asked who the veteran was, and what he was saying. Mine went to AC Young, who did a smashing job with a security dragon and lost pork belly.

Sabotage

January 6, 2021 / fionagreywrites

This story has been removed. Why? Because it’s part of the Professor Porter Saga and will be formally published in a revised form.

***

The final week of 2020’s prompt was from Leigh Kimmel: “A plumbing fixture suddenly stops working. On inspection, it turns out the cutoff valve has been turned off, but everyone denies having done so.” This was a tough one! I know nothing about plumbing. Neither, I suspect, do the ice fairies.

Mine went to Becky Jones and AC Young, who both wrote different and highly entertaining stories about goblins in the garbage.

A Better Future

December 30, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Professor Widget paced the room when he lectured. The same path each time. Up and down each aisle, tapping a hand on each desk as he passed. Jack didn’t know if it was obsessive-compulsive disorder or just longstanding habit from forty years of academia. Either way, it drove him nuts. How was he supposed to concentrate?

Other than that, cryptozoology was awesome.

He’d never dreamed that cryptids were a real field of study, but here he was. Jack Langton, otherwise a dead end job-hopper, night-school dropout. Now he spent the slow nights at the gas station studying, not texting his latest girl and still failing to maintain a relationship because he worked the night shift.

It’d sounded too good to be true, when he saw the ad on social media. He still wasn’t sure that he could get a job doing anything with this. But lately, all the posts wanted a degree. Any degree. And cryptozoology was the cheapest diploma program he’d been able to find. Legit, too. Accredited and everything, not a ripoff.

He’d heard similar stories from the rest of the students in the room, through a haze of flickering florescent lights outside, on hasty and illicit smoke breaks. Everyone just wanted a shot at a better life. All of them had nearly laughed the opportunity away.

“Time! Pencils down,” Professor Widget announced. “As I walk around the room to collect your quiz, I want you to tell me your favorite cryptid. No waffling, you have to pick one.”

Jack nodded as he realized the instructor had timed the announcement so everyone had time to think while he crossed the room, even the first row. Maybe there was a reason for the pacing after all. He dropped his head and focused, trying to pick his favorite. There’d been so many, and this was the capstone course before he could get his degree.

Brown tweed pants stopped in front of his desk. A hand extended toward him, and he handed over his quiz. Jack cleared his throat. “Ah, gryphon.”

Professor Widget quirked a salt and pepper eyebrow, so high Jack thought the wiry hairs might detach from the man’s face. “Interesting choice.” He moved past and collected the hairdresser’s quiz. “Say again? Vampire? Hmm.”

The instructor set the papers down on the desk in front of the ancient green chalkboard that no one bothered to use anymore. He rubbed the bald spot on his head. “Well, it’s time for fieldwork, so thank you for choosing a wide variety of cryptids. Always keeps it interesting.”

“Fieldwork?” The hairdresser squeaked behind him. It was the first time Jack had heard her speak above a whisper. He figured it was because she spent all day chatting up clients and needed a vocal break.

“Someone didn’t read the syllabus,” singsonged the professor. “If you want to pass the class, fieldwork is part of your grade.”

“I read the syllabus,” Jack said. He propped his chin on his fist, old flannel falling soft against his arm where his sleeve was unbuttoned. “Fieldwork was listed as a possibility, not a definite. I remember because I thought it was a joke.”

“Yes, yes, well, we got lucky this time. The lawsuits ended satisfactorily and the administration said we could go ahead. But with precautions this time.” He grinned. Did he expect them to be excited by the opportunity?

“Cryptids are real?” squeaked the hairdresser again. Liz, that was her name. Her chair clattered to the ground. “I can’t meet a vampire. I’m a single mom!” She whooshed past him, leaving only a cloud of perfume behind.

Professor Widget nodded as Liz raced by, his eyes sad. “Yes, that is unfortunate. There is a risk involved. I should also commend you all for not taking the easy way out. One of you even picked a gryphon. The spine! Oh, I do appreciate it.” He chuckled, then cut off after a few seconds when no one joined him.

Several other students looked like they might follow Liz and her perfectly coiffed curls out the door.

“Come on, now, you’re quite close to receiving your degrees. All you have to do is survive.” The professor’s tone was wheedling now.

Jack firmed his jaw. It was this or nothing. He opened his textbook to the chapter on gryphons with a shrug. “Can’t be worse than that half-naked cowboy on meth that came into the store last week.”

***

This week, nother mike challenged me with, “He never expected that the cryptozoology diploma course would require applied fieldwork. With a cryptid of his choice.” My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: “The streetlight was blinking Morse code…”