Tag: writing prompt (Page 1 of 2)

Out

April 12, 2023 / fionagreywrites

“Now I know why they called you in,” June said, following Shannon down a path already muddy from the tromp of soil and potsherds to the makeshift work facilities.

Peter’s presence at her back was a comforting contrast to the unease that had woven through her intestines when the archaeologist had mentioned a curse.

“Well, it’s been a while, but I remembered you helped a lot back in Arizona,” Shannon tossed back through the floppy hat that had been with her through decades of digs. “Not that us mere mortals were supposed to know exactly what you were doing, or that magic is real.”

“Magic is real?” Peter managed to channel his diplomat parents’ tone of interested, bland politeness with perfection.

“And you know it. I swear science will prove it someday, too. Plus, I’ve been around it — just enough, you know — that I can tell the mages. You sort of glow.”

“I told you she’d know.” June felt the corners of her lips twitch slightly. “Our good doc here is special. What you might call a sensitive. She gets those digs, the ones that freak everyone else out.”

The curly haired woman leading the way stopped with a sigh and pushed back her hat again. “This time there might be reason. We found this block of stone pretty quickly. You wouldn’t believe what technology can do these days.”

“LIDAR?” June shook her head in negation. “Never mind, tell me over a drink later.”

“What is this, an altar?” Peter paced around the pit that held the stone block in a slow circle. Oddly, this one held no volunteers or student workers like the other trenches. “Da would know what type of stone it is with his earth magics, but looks like your basic granite to me.”

Shannon nodded. “Pretty common in New Hampshire, obviously.”

June wrenched her gaze away from the polished stone. “Mesmerizing.”

“That’s the start of our problem.” Shannon pursed her lips. “Give it a minute.”

Birdsong filled the air with chirping as they waited, the distant mumble of conversation and overhead human sky travel cutting through the atmosphere of thickening tension.

“I don’t hear anything,” Peter said quietly. “Are you sure we will?”

June jumped as a knocking sound came from within the stone.

“It usually happens when someone says that,” Shannon said. Her lips were thin and tense, a brittle expression.

From within the stone, the clanking noise grew louder.

“It’s not just that something wants out,” the archaeologist said with an artificial level of conversationally to June. “It’s that whatever it is, it also knows we’re here.”

***

This week’s prompt was courtesy of Becky Jones: The clanking sound grew louder.

Mine went to Cedar Sanderson: The Finlays always had a dog, except for one terrible, glorious year.

Find it, and more, over at MOTE! New prompts tomorrow – get them in now!

Moving in, with Sparkles

October 19, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“I cleaned out half the closet for you.” Doris gave him a sheepish grin and looked down at the floor for a moment. “Well, I was hopeful. I may have done that about six weeks ago.”

Lars laughed. “I was hopeful, too.” He wrapped her in his arms and breathed in her vanilla scent. The scent of home, now. “Moving into together is pretty terrifying. But as long as we talk through our issues, we’ll be okay.”

“Oh, I’m sure one of us will load the dishwasher the wrong way.” She squeezed his arms, then tugged them loose so she could turn. “Want me to help you unpack?”

“A better idea than setting up an ironing board.” It was as if clothes knew he was moving and took the opportunity to complain. Ties escaped to unexpected boxes, socks scarpered, suits embedded permanent wrinkles in awkward places…well, it would be worth it. His grandmother had given Doris the stamp of approval, and that’s all he needed.

She pulled away and headed for the closet. “I needed the time to get used to being condensed, too. Oh, and you won’t need to worry about ironing your suits.”

Lars followed her toward the walk-in. “Really, I don’t have that – that – that much…”

The light Doris had turned on emitted a pale blue, sparkling glow that danced over the thick carpet. Rather than a cord, a tail dangled from the ceiling. Blue, of course, and scaled, and not nearly as small or skinny as one might expect from a mythical creature emulating a lightning bug inside a closet.

“That,” he managed. Again. “That is a fancy light you have. Did this room used to be a nursery?”

Yes. A toy explained everything. Although moving in together was a step too soon for children in his mind, but maybe someday, in a few years. Perhaps he could have Doris move the fanciful lightpull to another room.

“It’s just Percy,” she explained. “He’ll take care of all the ironing. But we’ll keep the door shut at night, okay?”

***

A quick snippet this week, from nother Mike at MOTE. My prompt to explore the cow fortress went to Cedar Sanderson.

Something Different

February 28, 2021 / fionagreywrites

I promised more a while ago on thought processes. Behind the Prompt, if you will. This one went through a number of iterations in my head, and then what poured out was…nothing like what I’d imagined.

Odd prompt, from nother Mike: “The kids were carrying moonbeams in a jar…”

(My own prompt of “In retrospect, the arrow through the calf shouldn’t have been the first clue” went to Leigh Kimmel.)

Initial reaction: Cool, I love this prompt! No idea what to do with it, but awesome, can’t wait to play around with it!

Idea one: Kids running around in the backyard, catching moonbeams in a jar like fireflies. I may still play around with this sometime.

Idea two: Moonbeams = moon message transmissions.

Idea three: Moon beans, the misunderstanding.

Idea four, that I thought I’d be writing: A new light source has been discovered, but only works on (or is kept secret by) the moon. The mental image was of glowing mason jars in a moon cave, carried to careful storage on each handmade shelf by herds of children just old enough to be trusted. Because while preppers weren’t what the space program wanted, sometimes you needed to store up emergency supplies once you got there.

Here’s what happened instead.

***

They didn’t want preppers for the moon colony. They wanted survivalists. You know, the types you can drop off with a pocketknife and a water bottle, and they’ll have shelter built in a few hours.

Or you drop them off empty handed, and they find their own pocketknife and water bottle. You remember the type.

Anyway, there aren’t a lot of people like that anymore. When 3-D printing took off, it really took off. Everything you can think of at the touch of a button from the same pile of sludge? Building your own anything was seen as quaint. Suitable for hobbyists, or one of the neo-Luddites that shunned technology.

Unfortunately, the 3-D trend happened right as the lunar base needed emergency manning.

And it wasn’t like space was a popular destination. Not after the Zelma. Sure, there was a lot of nostalgia for the old shuttle era. But when a whole colony fails…well. Then it’s someone should go, but maybe I’ll wait until the tech is fixed, amiright? Those poor kids. Someone oughta make a law. What where their parents thinking?

Besides, that training program is hard, and few make it.

But me, I was raised by my Grandpa, and he by his. He taught me woodworking, basic engineering and mechanics, and which plants would kill you. I could make everything from knives to jam to candles. They needed people like that, people who could fix stuff. People who couldn’t resist the urge to fix stuff.

It’s not like there’d be kids carrying moonbeams in a jar to illuminate the habitat’s interior. You can only put so many light bulbs in space. Or boost so much weight in that 3-D sludge. They save that for printing astronaut food, mostly.

So when the call came to re-crew what should have been Zelma’s home, I felt that pang in my chest for a place that would value those skills, even if I’d have to relearn or adapt half of them. Grandpa has passed the year before, and putting in for it felt like a good way to honor his memory.

He’d have done that snort-laugh of his at the idea, then clapped me on the shoulder with a hand stiff with age and hard work. His way of showing pride in my accomplishments, from the first Pine Derby car to the first buck.

Besides, I was bored.

It’s not like I expected they’d actually accept me into the astronaut program. I didn’t have a formal education, or not much of one. My knuckles were dug in with grease no matter how much I scrubbed, calluses rough from the bow string, scarred from whittling Grandpa’s last Christmas gift.

I guess this time, they were looking for something different. Zelma’s crew had been carefully selected and trained, and it still wasn’t enough to guide them in without disaster. Why not go for the scrappers like me?

Later I heard the rumors during training. That the bureaucrats expected failure, just like they expected we could barely read. We were supposed to be the excuse to shut the whole expensive program down. Give it up for another few decades, just like we did after the initial early years burst.

People like me, we take that as a badge of honor. Don’t tell the bureaucrats, but we already renamed the ship from Penelope to Scrapper.

In the meantime, I’ll tighten my straps one more time, because the countdown has begun.

I can’t wait to prove ‘em wrong.

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…”

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.

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.

Tickets, Please

May 26, 2020 / fionagreywrites

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Um, babe…” His eyes were pleading.

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

“Babe! That’s just not fair!”

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait, intentionally?”

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

“Woman, you are driving my suspension crazy.”

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ask the hat guy,” Aerin said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Headphones

May 11, 2020 / fionagreywrites

I close my eyes and let the music roll through my bobbing head, headphones soft against my ears as the bass sings. Artificial cherry flavored crushed ice solidifies my tongue, frozen and numb as I slurp, unable to stop. One taste is all it takes to stain bright red, a red that matches my headphones except where I’ve duct taped them as a theft deterrent. No one wants the tiny ipod that can’t connect to anything, but the headphones are a target.

Reluctantly, I open my eyes. It’s too dangerous here not to pay attention, even wedged in by the dumpster. No one wants to get this close, not with the overlapping smells of urine and rotting garbage from sweet Memphis barbeque sauce a week too old and gas station sushi I don’t even know why they bother trying to sell in the south. But here, no one can sneak up on me from behind.

Besides, this is my place to disappear from home.

Why the parking lot of a run-down gas station is the place to hang, I don’t know. Maybe the owner was one of us, one of the forgotten, when he was younger. He won’t tolerate dealing because it’s bad for business, but rarely runs us off if we’re just talking and don’t get too numerous. And he knows exactly when to yell out the door to scatter, right before things get so rough you can’t back down without losing face. So we’re polite and buy something. Nobody steals here, not from the semi-safe zone.

Otherwise we’re the forgotten wanderers, searching for a place to call our own, teenagers frightening the aged just by existing, competing with the homeless for spots to hide.

The door opens with a bell I can see but not hear, and I snap my head up. Jerome comes out, spooning what must be blue raspberry into his mouth. I can relax, he’s friendly enough, but my adrenaline’s still pounding.

Jerome wanders over. “Whatcha listening to?”

“ZZ Top,” I reply, eyebrows raised. He must be bored. He never talks to me directly. I try hard to blend in, hidden amongst the garbage. I’m discernable only through ubiquitous headphones I can’t quite let go, because I can’t let the music stop.

“Zee zee who?” he asks. He puts a finger over his straw to create suction and tilts his head back, trying to aim his melted prize into his mouth. Blue dribbles down his face.

He sees me staring at him in shock and shrugs. “All Ma lets in the house is gospel. Can I hear?”

“Huh.” I sit back and digest that, neatly sipping my slurpee. I wonder how I can dissuade him without being rude. Maybe make it boring. “Well, it’s bluesy. An’ there’s a line about heaven. So not too different.”

“Anything’s better than gospel,” he says, and sits down on the concrete wheel stop, with a giant, rusty nail barely holding it in place so crooked no one ever parks here. He slurps again, normally this time, rattling his straw against an empty cup. He grins, teeth stained bright blue, feet splayed, and holds out a hand with drops of liquid still glistening electric on his skin. “Lemme have a listen?”

I hesitate, but he’s one of the good ones, and a girl needs all the platonic protectors she can get in this world. He doesn’t need to know the duct tape’s only for show.

I shrug. The world can always use another blues rock fan. So I hand over the carefully faux-battered and taped-up headphones, and try not to act like I’m watching him to make sure he won’t run off with my prize from a summer’s worth of babysitting money.

He nods his head as I pretend interest in the wild cherry, too-sweet, melted in the summer stickiness slurpee, freezing my brain in the process because I’m splitting my attention.

“Nice,” he says approvingly, too loud because of the headphones.

I see him get into it, his eyes widening, feet tapping. I can follow along by his reaction, I know this song so well. “This is amazing. Wish Ma’d let this in the house.”

Reluctantly, the words drop from my lips. I don’t want to share the magic, but can’t resist. “Come by tomorrow and I’ll play you La Grange.”

“Why not today?” His eyes turn puppyish, liquid brown and pleading, and either I have him hooked or he isn’t as platonic as I think.

“You gotta savor ZZ Top. One day at a time. Today you get My Head’s in Mississippi.”

He leans forward, loose elbows on gangly knees, hidden under baggy fabric. “What do I get tomorrow?”

I shrugged, studiously noncommittal, studying the many-patched crack in the asphalt behind him. Maybe I’m less platonic than I thought, too. “Won’t know until it gets here.”

He laughed, and unfolds himself from the ground, hands back the headphones. “I gotta get back.”

He walks away, and I call after. “You’re gonna love La Grange.” He waves a hand in acknowledgement and keeps going.

“He will,” I mutter.

I toss the remnants of my slushy drink and caress the plastic for a moment before slipping the headphones over my ears again, seeking solace in brief silence before I play the song again.

As always, the music helps me travel. The gas station fades away, slowly invisible, as does the smell of uneaten old hot dogs and oxygenated beer, dripped through paper bags and cardboard to create a foul and sludgy miasma.

I know I’m there instead when I get the apricot whiff of sweet olive, when I can taste the barbeque smoke on the back of my tongue, feel the buzzing cut lumber of new construction, feel the tang of the river, untouched by West Memphis.

I open my eyes. The river spreads wider here, I see, but the heat and humidity make me feel flatter than a pancaked possum on the road.

I’ve definitely made it through the portal this time.

I turn around, away from the view, and reluctantly pull the headphones of my head to rest comfortably around my neck.

“Sorry,” I offer to the group of impatient eyes greeting me. “Took me a bit to get rid of him. How’s Mississippi so far?”

Writing Cat sticks out her tongue at not being allowed to sleep on the keyboard.

In this week’s Odd Prompts challenge, I prompted Cedar Sanderson with a 3-D printed spaceship. Leigh Kimmel gave me the ZZ Top lyrics that I took for a spin above: “I thought I was in Heaven. But I was stumblin’ through the parking lot of an invisible seven eleven.“

Queen of the Night

April 19, 2020 / fionagreywrites

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shall claim this moment’s full due.

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

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

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

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

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

Night Mission

March 29, 2020 / fionagreywrites

This week, my dad got in on the Odd Prompts writing challenge fun and suggested the phrase “fast food for dragons.” I can’t wait to see what Leigh Kimmel comes up with! My prompt came from nother Mike, who suggested I explore a mondegreen misunderstanding…

They ran, legs burning, packs heavy on shoulders and against backs. The first few miles were easy. Boots thudded over the ground without care for the prints left behind, soft turf churned to mud by the time the last of the troopers passed through the terrain. The natural light of a mottled and glowing full moon was all they used for guidance.

Panting grew louder and ragged as the miles lengthened, footsteps no longer striking in rhythm as the terrain changed from uneven fields to unending hills. Both were covered in thistles and long grasses, burrs clinging silently to bootlaces as they could not to uniformed legs.

The men ran on, speed varying, each striving to chase and better the Sergeant solidly shadowed in front of them all, unceasing and unsparing, always leading, always forward. The path was new; the pattern was not.

The Sergeant held up a fist. The men slowed and gathered around in a semi-circle, most leaning forward toward the older man. Four automatically set up in outward-facing positions, trusting their comrades to pass on the message later. The sentries stood still in the gloom, studying their dim surroundings in shining white light, streaks of camouflage paint shadowing their faces.

Earthy spices wafted up from crushed buds and blossoms beneath their boots. The Sergeant’s voice grumbled low in the watchful night, less disruptive than a whisper. “Twenty minutes. Spell the sentries every five. Quiet talk, ye ken? No fires. Then we’re back on’t, lads, and off t’ the target.”

The men nodded and started to disperse, halting movement with a final, muted warning. “Remember, we stop five minutes out from the target for a quick mission brief. Then we exfil out th’ other path. Look over th’ map again if ye need.”

Logan moved toward a small boulder, an indeterminate shade of grey in the moonlight. Shrugging off his pack, he leaned against the cool stone, relishing the feel after the run. He closed his eyes and heard some others head his way.

“Logan,” a voice to his left murmured.

“Aye, Brodie.” The rest would have been better with peace and quiet.

“Been holdin’ onto a question for a bit now.”

He sighed. “Ask, Brodie.”

The other man cleared his throat. “When we left camp…did the Sarge say to get your arse in gear, or to get your arson gear?”

Logan’s eyes snapped open. The moonlight seemed impossibly bright. “Do you mean to tell me, soldier,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “that you didn’t know and didn’t think it was important enough to ask before now?”

“I –“ Brodie tried to speak, but Logan cut him off.

“We’ve been running for hours. Not far from the target.” Logan glared at the other man, watching him pale even under the camouflage streaks of paint.

He shook his head. “You howlin’ dobber. Get over to Sarge and figure it out.”

Logan closed his eyes again, keeping them cracked just enough to verify the other man was headed for the Sergeant.

“That was interesting,” a new voice said softly. “Sarge didn’t tell us what the training mission is yet, did he?”

“Aye, Callum,” Logan said wearily. “You heard him. This training’s about adaptation and improvisation. Short notice stuff.”

“His accent’s so thick, it really was hard to tell what he did say.”

The pregnant silence dropped for a few moments.

“I dinna have a clue either,” Logan said finally. He knew Callum wouldn’t let him get a few minutes of sleep until he answered.

He tipped his head back against the smooth rock. “But tell me, were you so daft as to not grab your arson gear whilst simultaneously getting your arse in gear?”

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