Tag: writing exercise (Page 4 of 5)

Mahogony and Loyalty

September 15, 2020 / fionagreywrites

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Char couldn’t wait to take down WORM.

***

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

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

Nightmares

September 8, 2020 / fionagreywrites

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

I will not regret what I will become.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Float

September 1, 2020 / fionagreywrites

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

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

Yeah, my sarcasm meter overfloweth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Losin’ My Irish Marbles

August 25, 2020 / fionagreywrites

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

Get Off My Lawn

August 14, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Char strolled down the lane past her neighbors’ estates, market basket in hand. Her smile was pleasant without inviting undue attention or encouraging conversation. Full skirts ended precisely six inches above sensible flat boots perfect for the day’s damp, cobbled streets. A starched apron wound around her waist, ready to dry dishes or children’s tears alike. She was the picture of a perfect Octanian housewife.

A cloth draped over her wicker basket protected a long loaf of bread, some fruit, and a soft, mild cheese from flying pests. It also concealed a small blaster and detection equipment. Long red hair tucked under a proper babuskha hid her comms earpiece, while the broach on her left shoulder that marked her as a married woman in this county was, in fact, a disguised microphone.

Of course Char looked the very image of a local housewife. A newcomer who didn’t fit in perfectly would draw far more attention.

“Signal coming from nearby,” she said without moving her lips. “Definitely northwest.”

Her earpiece crackled. Sheer discipline kept her expression pleasant as she nodded to a trio of giggling adolescent girls passing by.

“Sorry.” Max Butler’s voice sounded in her ear. “The calibration was off.”

Char suppressed a snort and did not reply. Her walk was a hair too slow as she used peripheral vision to study the three houses to the left. Each had a long, winding lane, with the stone houses clumped close together and fields of grain adjacent in different directions.

“Narrowed to the Feldmans, the Gallos, or the Oglethorpes,” Max said. “Funny place for a weapons dealer.”

She did snort that time, but only because no one was around.

“Can you think of a reason to get closer and scan the silos?”

Char stopped at the fence and checked in her basket, pretending to look annoyed. “I can make cakes to take around.”

“You’re in visual range,” Max said. “What’s going on? You look like you forgot something.”

“Yeah, greehda,” Char said, calling him the name of the local ratlike pest that feasted on grain if not protected by the ubiquitous silos. “We’re out of eggs. Heading back to the market. I’m not spending winter on this planet.”

She turned around with a dramatic sigh and headed back. It gave her an excuse to study the houses again. Each had been built close to the others for protection and defense during the original planet colonization ninety years ago. The silos were kept close to the houses due to raiders, a long frozen season, and vicious predators that had objected to the newcomers.

No one had seen the arkhnad predators in the local Octanian area for more than three decades, but Char had seen the antlers hanging on the local town hall wall. They must have been thirteen feet across. When she’d expressed amazement, a grizzled toothless man croaked a laugh and told her the rack was from a baby. She’d noticed he was missing most of his left hand as he stumped away.

But there were no predators in this area now. The weapons dealer they sought was stirring up trouble, fomenting rebellion for an economic takeover. Had the last purchase not gone beyond small arms into a level of technology not usually seen on Octania, his work might have gone unnoticed until the rebels had sufficient firepower to blast the entire colony.

Three children raced past her, and she gave them an indulgent smile. Children were protected here, unlike most colonies where they were put to work as soon as possible. It was an artifact of the days when arkhnad and giant buzzards roamed freely. Char didn’t expect the attitude would last much longer, especially not after the grumblings about labor shortages down at the town hall.

These three were somewhere between five and seven, just at the age where they’d been granted freedom to run outside freely without fear of being carried off. Their cries were joyous, and all three slid barefoot on the damp grass without care for their clothing.

Char continued a few steps on, then spun at a shout.

“I told you kids to stay off my lawn!” Stubby Mr Oglethorpe had been one of the loudest complainers about children at the town hall meeting. Then, he’d been grumbling about wasting food on useless hands. He’d only quieted after someone else had pulled him aside. Now, he was red-faced and panting after his run from the house’s main entrance, waving a box in his hand.

Char’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “Max, situation.” Then, louder, she called to the children, imploring them to leave Mr Oglethorpe alone. She worked her free hand under the loaf of bread.

The three boys shrieked with laughter and ignored both of the adults.

“I said, get off the lawn!” Mr Oglethorpe pressed a button on the metal box. A silver antennae rose and beeped, followed by an explosion. Char barely kept her footing sixty feet away.

She blinked away dust. Miniature heat-seeking missiles erupted from what used to be his grain silo, heading straight for suddenly silent boys. They clawed at the ground, trying to get up from where blast had knocked them, slipping on the damp grass.

Char dropped her basket, revealing a blaster. She fired three times, her cybernetic implant the only reason the blaster was even remotely fast enough to short-circuit the missiles.

The boys screamed as hot metal dropped from the sky, inert. One of the missiles rolled toward the boys, whose shrieks had turned to high-pitched terror and tears. They ran, still screaming. All three gave her a wide berth as she stood there, feet planted apart and blaster in hand.

Char’s fourth shot stunned Mr Oglethorpe and left him motionless but alive in the yard. “Of all the ways to find out.”

She coughed over the trails of smoke left behind by the zapped missiles. “Max, my cover’s blown. Requesting immediate extract. Heading toward you.” Their own grain silo concealed a shuttle.

Char coughed again, and reached for the basket. “Oglethorpe. Weapons dealer was definitely Oglethorpe.”

“Copy. Heading your way for planetary extract in two minutes. Command is tracking Oglethorpe as weapons dealer. Grid authorities are already dispatched.” The earpiece shrilled again, and Char let herself wince this time as she headed for the safehouse at double speed.

Max’s voice was hesitant in her ear. She could hear the whine of the shuttle in the background. “You grabbed the food, right? That cheese…”

“Greedy greedha,” Char grumbled. “I’m not new to this. Of course I brought the cheese.”

***

On this week’s Odd Prompts, nother Mike challenged me with “As the kids cut across his lawn again, Mr. Oglethorpe unleashed his latest purchase, heat-seeking missiles. He grinned and muttered, “I told you to get off my lawn!””

My prompt went to Jim and Anne: “At a restaurant, you order calamari. The cloche is lifted, and a talking squid named Calamari gives your table a personalized standup comedy routine.”

Mother

August 11, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Nima stared at the light flickering through the rippled glass of the mashrabiya, wondering why the sunlight gleaming through the windows always seemed to dance above the alcove’s polished wooden floor.

“Come to lessons now, Nima-jaan,” Parvaneh called. Nima turned away from the outside view and walked to her seat a few feet away. The inner room had been set up as a classroom, but her sisters and brother had already passed onto more advanced training. Only Nima was left.

She didn’t mind. Lessons with her mother were usually interesting, flittering between topics like the butterfly Parvaneh was named after, each stop brief and exquisite before moving on in an oscillation of learning. Even the mathematics wasn’t terrible, because Nima could watch her mother’s hennaed hands under loose garb that swung with her movements. Each slender line was precise and graceful against the archaic blackboard, formulas chalked with a series of clicks and whooshes.

Nima hoped she could make such hypnotic movements someday.

Today, however, the undulating light could not be ignored. Nima found her eyes drawn to the glinting sparkles scattered across the room from the stained glass, wondering if the yellow shimmers were like the fireflies she had learned of last week.

Or, when mixed with the reds and oranges…like fire itself, burning hot and quick, puffs of smoke and ash left behind with a faint pop, more felt than heard.

She blinked, and caught her mother’s odd, fixed smile. “Che khub.”

“What’s good, madar?” Nima tore her gaze away from where she’d imagined flame. “I’m sorry. I got distracted by the lights.”

“I was beginning to worry.” Parvaneh’s eyes glinted, and Nima blinked again to clear her own. Surely the flicker of light she caught in her mother’s eyes was a reflection of the stained glass. Eyes did not crackle with the sound of a fire that needed tending.

“I don’t understand.” Nima stared at her mother’s hands with wide, dry eyes and licked her lips. Surely henna tattoos did not move of their own accord. A trick of the light, of ancient and distorted melted grains of sand.

Parvaneh smiled, and Nima thought she had never seen such sharp, wicked teeth. “You have found your fire, of course.”

Her eyes dragged back to the window. Of the colors the mashrabiya had shone in this morning, only the colors of fire remained. Dull reds had turned brilliant, oranges shone the colors of forged metal, blues white-hot and bursting, interspersed with the black of char. The lines of the stained glass blurred. Fire erupted from her hands. Nima screamed in fear and pain.

Her scream cut off as Nima realized there was no pain. Her jaw clacked shut, hard, so hard her head rattled. Then wild glee erupted from her throat, a fountain of flame spurting alongside her laughter.

“I’m a dragon!” She told her mother, whose eyes were now the gold of molten metal. Nima began to dance, extra swagger in her wiggles. She spun in circles, and did not meet the wooden floor again. A giggle of fire escaped as Nima tap-danced on air.

“No, darling,” Parvaneh said. Her smile was indulgent. “We are jinn. Have I taught you nothing?”

***

This week, Leigh Kimmel challenged me with one I struggled with. It’s just been a long week. I finally went with the intent, rather than literal inspiration. Which is probably more the point anyway, but sometimes my brain melts.
* “Pane of peculiar-looking glass from a ruined monastery reputed to have harboured devil-worship set up in modern house at edge of wild country. Landscape looks vaguely and unplaceably wrong through it. It has some unknown time-distorting quality, and comes from a primal, lost civilisation. Finally, hideous things in other world seen through it.“
My prompt went to Cedar Sanderson: “A dragonfly buzzes by your windshield. You blink, and realize those last three letters did not belong.“

Kittens in a Case

July 26, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Char Merikh, once the noble Lady Charlotte of the planet Society, now sometimes known as Lady Death, was covered in mud.

Literally. She’d streaked the mud in irregular patterns across her face, wound fresh greenery through her hair, and kept her movements slow and steady as she stalked her prey. She’d been in the field for fourteen hours, and was down to one remaining target.

One rather resilient target, who wouldn’t cooperate by being as easy as the rest. Char had begun suspecting his identity after the rest had been eliminated after three hours. She grinned as a figure crossed her scope’s view, careful not to show shining white teeth that could give her current position away.

She fired, and the figure below spun and fell, pulling on a rope as he went down. Branches, dirt, and twigs showered Char a moment later as something fell out of the tree above her.

Coughing at the debris, Char rolled over. She took a moment to study the dust motes floating above her, sparkling in the afternoon sunlight. Getting to her feet, she saw she was caged by a wooden trap wound with vines, and pulled her knife to begin dismantling it.

“Winner, Char, but with qualifications,” Winston Boyd droned. His boots were silent in the forest as he walked toward Char. “That was a masterful trap, and would bring the enemy down on you.”

“I’d killed them all,” Char protested, hacking vines binding two branches at the corner of the trap.

Winston frowned from beneath his drillmaster’s hat. “You think you did. What if he’d had friends? Or allies in the area? What about how the rest of your squad got killed and you had no backup?”

She kicked the branch out of the way with a booted foot and ducked underneath to join her trainer in the grassy clearing. The mud on her face itched.

“Thanks for that, by the way,” a new voice said. A man strode up the rise, a splotch of bright green paint on his side. Dark hair floated in waves above a chiseled face covered in stubble. “I could have sworn you were on the other side of the training field. Thought I was going to win this one.”

She shrugged without explaining and grinned. “Good to see you, Butler.”

It wasn’t often she saw anyone from her home planet, and Max Butler had been instrumental in how she left. She’d learned immense fieldcraft from him, but wasn’t about to give away how he’d fallen for her decoy.

“As usual. You’re the death of me.” Max had been the one to give her the Lady Death moniker. He elbow-bumped her as he drew closer and gave the faint smile that was all he was known for expressing when happy.

Winston drew himself up into a perfect training pose. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, drillmaster!” Max and Char snapped out the words automatically as they both straightened.

The man glared at both of them, his jaw clenched underneath his hat. “Kids these days. Trying to keep you alive. Do I get any thanks for it?”

“Just last week, drillmaster,” Char said, still at attention. “Alis came back from her first assignment and bought you a drink in thanks. Very nice whiskey, if I recall. All the way from Mars.”

Butler nodded. “A few days before that, Georgg. Blubbered about some martial arts move you’d shown him that you knew would be useful on his first assignment. Said it saved his life.”

Winston tilted his hat back. “Shut up, you nitwits. Get to debrief. Then report to my office. You have an assignment. Let’s go!” His voice snapped in the air. Char could feel her spine straighten at his tone.

“I’ve missed this,” Char said several minutes later as she and Max jogged toward the base and debrief.

He turned his head and raised an eyebrow.

She lifted a shoulder and gave him a lopsided smile as their feet thudded on the dirt path under the shadowed treeline. “Not the Army stupidity. But training for this sort of fieldwork is a nice change of pace. Keeps up the skill set. You know how it goes.”

“Getting tired of fancy dress?” The last time she’d seen Max, she’d been in heels and a red silk dress, while he’d been in a tuxedo. Their skills brought them the special assignments, and they’d both been after the same target.

“Different than the Army I expected,” Char replied. They crested the hill and the base came into view, still half a mile away. They ran in silence, but she hadn’t expected an answer from the taciturn man beside her.

He pulled away to greet the guards as they jogged closer, and she tried not to think about how her view now included the broad shoulders and distinct biceps she sometimes glimpsed in dreams.

***

A week later, Char strolled through a swanky restaurant wearing an emerald green dress that highlighted her cascade of flaming red hair. The dress exposed her toned arms but fell below her knees, allowing her to run if she needed to. Diamonds dangled from her ears in long drops. The left was her tracker for Command, the right her comms unit.

She controlled her expression to match the room’s artificially bored faces. Money meant boredom on Hexagon Station, a socially enforced lack of concern that extended even as heinous business deals were conducted by Hex’s elite in this very room. Hushed voices meant her high heels clicked on the tile floor, drawing more attention than Char preferred.

But then, today’s job would only work if she drew the right attention.

The maître-d’ turned and paused, a good twenty feet ahead of her in his black suit. She could see the concealed impatience in his eyes, but refused to hurry her steps. It would be abnormal for the woman Char was emulating to rush, and so she did not either. Her skills laid predominantly in mimicry and infiltration.

While she walked, Char was conscious of the silver purse in her hand, one that looked remarkably like a miniature metal briefcase. She casually held it so that everyone in the room could see it as she clicked her way toward the man in the black suit. He held a chair for her on a raised platform, next to the window panes that provided a view of the planet below.

The view was even more preposterously expensive than the restaurant. She’d heard few bothered with the scenery, though, just as the food was better at the rapid-cook diner two hubs over. The point was to be on display.

She set the silver briefcase on the table atop the white damask tablecloth. An unfortunate but necessary breach of etiquette, she knew.

As usual, the exhibition made her skin crawl. Might as well paint a target on your back. She ignored the diners’ stares and local protocol, instead gazing at the planet below. The windows would let her know before anyone approached, though she’d surely struggle to remove her gaze from the swirled blues and greens below.

“Madam.” The waiter bowed as he left her drink beside her, meeting her gaze in the reflective glass. She winked at him, relieved to see Max Butler already in position. Turning around would have acknowledged a menial, however, and so she returned to the view, covertly studying the people seated nearby.

Ten minutes later, her shoulders were tightening with tension from inaction. Her contact was late. Unless he was the man in the corner with the charcoal suit. Char withheld a frown. He wouldn’t have been her first guess, but perhaps he was older than he looked in the reflection.

Time for a test. She picked up her wine glass and sipped the nonalcoholic crimson berry juice, setting it down in a different location. If the man in the suit was the one, Max had inadvertently blocked a clear view of the silver case when he’d set her drink down.

Just as she’d decided it wasn’t the man in the suit, he rose and approached. “May I join you?”

The man reached into an inner suit pocket as he took a single step onto the dais. Her eyes fell on a matching miniature silver briefcase he removed and placed on the table in front of hers.

Char’s ruby lips broadened into a practiced, welcoming smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

***

Less than five minutes later, she was glad she’d practiced running in four-inch heels. Klaxons blared amidst the screams while smoke and debris wreaked havoc. Even the previously blasé diners had reacted to the explosion and automated security measures with screams, heading in random and unexpected directions. No one wanted to be in the room if the glass gave way, even with the metal protective coverings that rolled down the walls to cover the swirling view.

Max gripped her elbow with bruising strength. “Left!” he snapped, and they turned, dodging a confused waiter, still holding a tray of scallops in a bubbling butter sauce. He shoved her ahead of him with a hand at the small of her back. “Door at the back, go!”

Clanging metal sounded behind her, followed by a grunt of pain. She kept running without looking back. She’d grabbed both cases in the chaos. The dead drop had gone badly enough without Char accidentally taking the wrong case, and her contact wasn’t in any shape to complain.

She bit her lip and hit the door with her shoulder at a full run. Max would catch up. He always did.

She needed him to, because otherwise, protocol demanded that she leave him behind.

***

Back at the landing dock, Char didn’t bother changing out of the fancy dress. She tossed the cases on a folded-down table and slipped into the cushioned pilot’s seat. Gearing up the craft for departure was a process of long habit, her hands flying over buttons and switches. It was a small but fancy spaceship, one suitable for the socialite she’d pretended to be. Owned by the Army, the switches had been retrofitted to enable consistent muscle memory by all military members.

Max would make it before the ship’s AI was ready.

She bit her lip again and hoped her wish would be true.

Having gotten the process started, she rose and went to the table where both briefcases rested, each slightly larger than her hand. The scratch atop the edge told her which was hers. Cracking the first open, she found only the burner comms unit, her poisonous lipstick, and the untraceable payment chit, all as expected.

Char reached for the second case and hesitated. She’d no idea what to expect from the tech she’d been assigned to pick up. It was supposed to be some sort of AI, and far more likely after the setup at the restaurant that the second case contained a trap. Perhaps she should wait for Butler, who was taking his sweet time.

She jolted back as the silver case opened on its own.

Inside the briefcase nestled a minute, yawning black kitten, the tip of its tail trailing a touch of white. It flexed its paws, and tiny claws emerged to scar the inner case’s velvet lining. She stared, fascinated, as the kitten raised its tail and leaned its head downward in a stretch known to anyone who’d ever encountered a cat.

“Well, I don’t know if you’ll like space, but my contact definitely ripped me off. So much for the vaunted tech I was supposed to get.” She reached out a hand and touched soft fur. “You look like someone picked you up and dipped you in ink.”

The kitten bumped her fingers with a hand. “That’s why I’m Squid,” he said.

Char let out a startled shriek. “You’re the AI?”

“Artificial intelligence unit prototype 4207,” Squid replied. “I like my name better.”

“Huh.” She reached out a finger. “You okay if I pet you?”

Squid nodded and licked her finger. “Bond with you.”

A series of beeps and the sound of hydraulic hissing had Char on her feet. “Stay quiet.”

Boots rang as someone walked up the ramp.

She unclipped her decorative silver necklace. The disguised one-time stunner wasn’t her first choice of weapon, but it would do.

“Still don’t know if those were your contact’s friends or enemies,” Max said as he walked in, sporting a black eye. His waiter’s suit was speckled with blood. He stared down at the kitten and coughed. “Guess we got ripped off, eh? Cute little guy, though. We could use a spacecat.”

“Pretty sure it’s ‘enemies’ since my contact is now rather dead,” Char said dryly. “Time to go, Butler. Before they shut down the port.”

Squid yawned. “I want to learn to fly the ship.”

The look on Max’s face was worth all those restless dreams he’d caused her over the past week, Char decided.

***

For week 30 of Odd Prompts, nother Mike challenged me to explain why a kitten was in a briefcase. I had a lot of fun tossing around ideas with The Guy on this one – a cowboy whose briefcase is the glove compartment of his truck, a football player who brings his kitten to practice – but ultimately tied it to Lady Death.

My prompt went to Anne and Jim Guglik, and I can’t wait to see how they explain the Newgrange Passage Tombs’ lonely wraiths.

Love, with a Side of Sugar

July 22, 2020 / fionagreywrites

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You aren’t the only one, you know.”

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

“I brought you something.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sad smile. “I made edits.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

Turtle Talk

July 15, 2020 / fionagreywrites

“Your hand’s all sweaty,” Brian said. He disentangled his hand and wiped it across his t-shirt.

“It’s ninety degrees and eighty-five percent humidity. You try holding hands and not sweating.” Jenna surreptitiously took the opportunity to wipe her own hand against her shorts.

“I saw that.”

She stuck out her tongue at him. “I’m going up the hill.”

“Grass looks pretty slick. I’ll stick with the path.”

She headed up the hill. It wasn’t much of a shortcut, but the path wound around the long way. Enough others had thought the same that the grass was worn to dust. Toward the top, she paused as a dark, shining oval caught her attention.

“What’s up?” Brian was already waiting for her.

“Found a turtle. Hang on, I want to Insta this. Such a cute little guy.”

“Weirdo.”

The turtle on the trail cautiously extended its neck, peering at Jenna, and then opened its mouth. “No!”

Jenna froze, half-bent over the reptile, her phone two feet away. “Brian. The turtle.”

“What about it?” Brian stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Talked.”

“You’re darn tootin’, I talked.” The turtle glared at Jenna. “I’m trying to lay some eggs here.”

“Oh. Ohhh. Um, okay. I’ll back off. I’m sorry.” Jenna stuffed her phone back in her pocket. “See, I won’t –“

“And I don’t need help getting back to the water. Don’t you dare pick me up!” The turtle turned her back on Jenna and yanked her head into her shell.

“Wasn’t planning on it!” She backed away, hands in the air.

“Three times already today! Three! And four yesterday! Helpful humans! I wish you all to the mud!”

Jenna turned and slid down the dry grass back onto the path to where Brian waited. “Whew.”

Brian looked at her with indulgence in his eyes. “Talked, huh?”

“Back off, humans!” A tiny, indignant voice carried down after her.

Brian looked at her with his mouth agape.

Jenna shrugged. “Told you. Cranky, pregnant, talking turtle.”

This week, Cedar Sanderson prompted me with “The turtle on the trail cautiously extended its neck, peering at you (character), and then opened its mouth to say_________________.” I knew what I wanted to write, but another wildlife-inspired story came pouring out before I could capture the cranky turtle. I’m also glad I didn’t try to mix those two tales. That was a truly terrible idea.

My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: “A prairie storm, with rolling thunder, ominous clouds, and flickering lightning. And in that flash of light, you see…”

Join the Odd Prompters! It’s both easy and fun.

Of Hoaxes and Business Plans

July 4, 2020 / fionagreywrites

Dear Ms. Nessa Lochland,

Congratulations on completing your online M.S. degree in Business Administration from Stellar Online University. Attached you will find a letter certifying your graduation. Please contact the Registrar’s Office via our website to request an official transcript.

Your diploma will be sent by international mail to the address we have on file. Please contact us immediately by replying to this email if an update is required.

Again, congratulations and best wishes in your future endeavors. We are proud to call you a graduate of SOU, and cannot wait to see the impact you make upon the world.

Aut viam inveniam aut faciam!

Regards,
Rike Williams, Dean
Office of Student Services
Fisherman School of Business
College of Business Administration and Strategy
Stellar Online University

“What a relief,” Nessa said after she finished reading the email aloud to her mother. She shifted her headset with a lazy nudge of her chin against the wall. “That thesis was such a pain. I hate dictation software. And I’m not sure my advisor even had time to look at the last revisions.”

Her mother’s voice crackled through the long-distance connection. “So proud of you, dear. Your father would be, too. I wish he were around to see this.”

“Me too, Mom. Me, too.” Nessa settled into her nest of fresh bracken and gazed up at the ceiling of speckled granite. The scent of Scots pine from the Caledonian Forest wafted up to tickle her nose. “I told you about my local tourism revitalization plan?”

“Ye-esss…” Static crackled on the line again, and Nessa almost missed her mother’s next words. “I just wonder if it’s worth the exposure.”

“People are more accepting now.” Nessa hoped her words were true. Her livelihood depended on it. So did her life.

“Well, I still wish you’d come join me in Tahiti instead. Sun, sand, even a few hotties your age splashing around. I need grandbabies.”

Nessa laughed. “Retirement suits you.”

“No one believed anymore.” Ethel’s voice became sad. “And it wasn’t the same without your dad. He was like you. Lived for the fun of it.”

“That’s why this area needs some shaking up, Mom. Let me get my plans up and running first, then I’ll come visit you. Some of the younger cousins can handle the day-to-day business for a while.”

Her mother sighed. Nessa scrunched her eyes shut and suppressed her own frustrated exhale. Any additional discussion would just lead to a fight.

“I’ve got to go, Mom. Big day tomorrow. The bank’s approved the loan. Tons of paperwork to do.” The degree had mattered less than the skills to put together a proper business plan.

“There’s an idea. Sure I can’t convince you to become a banker?” She heard the quaver in her mother’s voice. “Running a small business is so risky.”

Unspoken were the fears of bringing danger back to Lake Inverness. Not just danger, but hunters, like those who had killed her father that horrid day, a decade earlier.

“I’m sure,” Nessa said. “Love you. Bye.” She hung up before Ethel could chime in with anything else.

“Alexa, turn off the lights.” Nessa rolled over and laid her head down in the sudden darkness. Her eyes remained open. “This is for you, Dad.”

Her voice echoed oddly as it bounced off the irregular cavern walls. She could have sworn it sounded just like his belly-aching laugh.

***

“Right,” Nessa said to her younger cousin Cynthia. “You know the drill. I go swimming, then let myself be seen by the tour boat. You use the boat company’s social media to make it go viral.”

“You think this will work?” Cynthia asked. “Does the world believe in us anymore? They won’t think it’s just a special effect?”

“I have to try.” Her dad would have had so much fun with this. His mischievous streak was never malicious, but he’d lived for the moments when he could mess with the tourists. “I miss Dad.”

“I wish Uncle Frank was still around to see this,” Cynthia said, bobbing her large head with a fond grin. “I can just picture him doing something ridiculous. Doggie-paddling along with a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat, pretending he doesn’t see a boat full of gawking drunk tourists. Then pretending he’s been caught flatfooted. Or maybe offer them mimosas. He’d have loved the attention.”

Nessa blinked back swelling tears. “For that, you get employee of the month.”

The glare she received contained some epic side-eye. “I’m your only employee.”

“It’s not automatic. Don’t get cocky. I have plenty of humans to choose from, too.”

Cynthia adjusted her headset and turned back toward her computer. “They don’t know who their boss really is yet, so they don’t count. Are you doing this or not?”

“Yeah. Just nervous. I want to boost local business, not bring down the army upon us.”

“There aren’t many of us left,” Cynthia said, twisting her head backward. Her yellow eyes were narrow and annoyed. “And you just bought half the local vacation rentals and the boat tour business with Uncle Frank’s insurance settlement and a bank loan.”

“That I did.”

“I assumed you’d accounted for this. Made contingency plans.”

“Sure, but –“

“Then get over your stage fright and get out there.” Cynthia turned away again. “Smile pretty for the cameras!”

“Fine, fine.” Nessa grumbled to herself on her way down to the cave’s entrance. “This had better work. I don’t want to live in Tahiti with Mom. The water’s too clear. Too warm. And saline makes my skin itch.”

Her feet hit the smooth pebbles that meant the shoreline was close and poked her head out of the cave’s concealed entrance. Seeing no one, Nessa ventured a few feet out, staying hidden in the earthy vegetation. It smelled delicious, but this was no time to snack.

She planted all four feet and took a huge breath, expanding her ribcage until it hurt, repeating it in hopes of calming her overanxious heartbeat.

“Find a way or make one.” She’d chosen her business school based solely on its motto, thinking it a sign. “My people are dying because we cannot afford sanctuary.”

A noise in the distance had her tilting her head. “It’s time.” She whispered the words into the air and headed toward the lake. “Stay with me, Dad.”

The water lapped cool and dark against her legs. It felt right, as did the clouds above. Yes, this was home. There would be no permanent vacation in Tahiti for her, even if her business venture failed.

Nessa saw fingers pointing and gaping human maws as she drew alongside the boat. Most people seemed to be shocked silent, with a few screams. A young boy jumped up and down, trying to climb the railing. The boat’s engine sputtered and died with a puff of diesel smoke.

She raised her long neck out of the water and above the deck, resting her oval head on the railing. The humans backed away, leaving about a six foot gap. Nessa put on her best nervous smile.

She hoped she wouldn’t have to dive away from a terrified crowd. Too much tooth display and there came the army, the hunters that had taken her father’s laugh out of this world, who hungered for the next trophy.

“Hi, guys! Who wants a selfie with the Loch Ness Monster?”

***

“Physical newspapers?” Cynthia asked. “What am I doing all this social media stuff for, then?”

“To make sure they see that grin as harmless and friendly,” Nessa retorted.

Her cousin gave her a dubious look. “It’s been a month. Think we’re good.”

“Keep an eye out anyway. I don’t want to not see something coming because we got lazy.”

“Mmm-hmm. Sure thing, boss.”

Nessa blushed, her thick skin turning blue rather than its usual stony grey. “Fine. I’m also vain enough to want hard copies. Maybe frame them for our business offices.”

Cynthia snorted and headed for the back room. “You do you. I’m getting coffee. Then I’ll get back to watching for monster hunters.”

She spread out the papers and read over the headlines.

“IT’S NESSA, NOT NESSIE”: LONELY MONSTER SPEAKS

COMPLEX HOAX IN SCOTLAND’S HIGHLANDS

IS BIGFOOT NEXT? ANCIENT PLESIOSAUR DISCOVERED ALIVE

LOCAL TOURISM BOOMS AS LOCH NESS MONSTER EMERGES FROM HIDING

BUSINESS SCHOOL CLAIMS NESSIE AS ALUMNA

“My plan is working, Dad. Local business is up, so they’ll protect us for the prosperity alone. We can afford our own security, too, and we’re harder to kill with everyone watching.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears, hot against her face in the cool cavern.

She could have sworn she felt a warm, familiar snort of approval.

The snort she’d missed every day for ten years.

In this week’s Odd Prompts challenge, Becky Jones challenged me to explain what happens after the Loch Ness Monster reveals herself. My prompt went to Nother Mike: “Oh, no! The coffeepot has been stolen!”

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