This post has been removed as of 27 March 2021. But don’t worry – it’s part of book two. Coming soon!
***
This week, my prompt was from nother Mike, and fit perfectly to kickstart me back into book two: “It was hard to see to drive in the pouring rain, and then the car thumped as we drove over something. When we stopped and got out to see what it was, we learned we had hit…”
My prompt went back to nother Mike, and was also about adventures in driving through weather. I guess it’s that time of year in the northern hemisphere.
This post has been removed by the author in order to publish it as part of Professor Porter’s story
***
This week on MOTE, I prompted AC Young with a fluttering caution tape, and Cedar Sanderson asked me to ponder what was not evil, but not right. Down to the wire!
Also, I have no real idea what happens on girls’ nights. I don’t get out much. 😀
June wandered the path in quiet contemplation. Helen had excused herself and headed for the chapel a few minutes earlier, claiming the need for a few moments not focused on memorials. June had pretended not to notice the shine in her eyes and let the older woman move ahead without asking questions. Her brisk footsteps faded away as June studied the foliage and greenery surrounding the park.
Peter was several statues behind her, happily debating minor details of battles past with his father. The last bit she’d overheard didn’t make much sense for the National Museum of the Marine Corps, as much as sea strategy had been critical for the Peloponnesian War. She glanced behind her and bit back a smile. George was waving his arms with wild enthusiasm, with Peter as his mirror a few feet away.
She turned back and blinked in surprise. It was a lovely late spring day, with the scent of flowers and grass in the air under the trees, but most of the museum visitors were inside. Few took the paths of the memorial park, with its statues and peaceful walking paths. The elderly gentleman must have come from the chapel Helen had just entered.
Piercing blue eyes met her gaze as June approached the memorial. She gave the man a brief nod. His hair was still regulation short under his veteran’s baseball hat, and his green button-down and khakis had been ironed. A slight potbelly showed his only concession to age. The man remained straight-backed and walked unaided.
She turned her eyes to the statue. A Marine in a World War II era uniform held to his shoulder, one leg propped up on a rock. The dedication was for
“We were wishing for those rocks,” the man said. He gestured to the statue with one hand. “The sand was near impossible to move through. You sank in and struggled to move. Knee deep, it was in places. Funny that it had tunnels under it.”
The air left her lungs as June dragged in a breath. She turned, gaze glued to his hat. Iwo Jima, it read. Not just any veteran, but one of the remaining few. One of the survivors of the struggle for freedom, symbolically captured by the famous flag raising. An icon recognizable across any proper student of propaganda.
“I don’t know how I missed your hat,” June said. She shook her head. “I really don’t. I’m a professor of the military uses of propaganda. Thank you. It’s an honor to meet you.”
The man snorted and reached out a hand. His grasp was firm and dry, covered in calluses. “Jack. I didn’t do much. Back then, we were all in it, weren’t we?”
She nodded, her mouth dry. This was an increasingly rare moment, and she wasn’t sure what to ask. “Are you willing to talk about it?”
Jack looked up at the statue. “That was me, once. All gung-ho and ready to take on the world. And then came never-ending battle. I tell you, I grew up damn quick.”
June bit her lip and nodded. He seemed about to say more, if only she didn’t break the silence.
Jack reached up a hand to touch the statue. “I made it home to my Millie, though. That’s more than some could say.”
“I’m glad you did,” she said in a low voice. He gave a gruff jerk of his chin in acknowledgement and gave the statue a last pat.
“June?” She turned at the sound of Peter’s voice. A smile lit her face at the sight of his emerald eyes and hair tousled by the breeze. George trailed behind, still grumbling and gesturing as he walked.
“Peter, let me introduce you to –“ She turned and stared. Her feet kept her moving in a circle, her head craning as if Jack was hiding behind the memorial. “Where did he go?”
“June, who were you talking to?”
***
The National Museum of the Marine Corps is worth a visit if you’re ever in the area, although it’s currently closed. The building itself is designed to emulate the raising flag of Iwo Jima. Semper Fidelis Memorial Park is also real, as is the BAR on the Beach memorial, dedicated to the 5th Marine Division.
***
This week’s Odd Prompts came from Kat Ross in photo form, who asked who the veteran was, and what he was saying. Mine went to AC Young, who did a smashing job with a security dragon and lost pork belly.
This story has been removed. Why? Because it’s part of the Professor Porter Saga and will be formally published in a revised form.
***
The final week of 2020’s prompt was from Leigh Kimmel: “A plumbing fixture suddenly stops working. On inspection, it turns out the cutoff valve has been turned off, but everyone denies having done so.” This was a tough one! I know nothing about plumbing. Neither, I suspect, do the ice fairies.
Mine went to Becky Jones and AC Young, who both wrote different and highly entertaining stories about goblins in the garbage.
Nigel sat on the concrete floor and studied the mess of broken machinery in front of him. Gears, cogs, sprockets, and unidentifiable doohickeys were scattered in piles between his legs.
“There’s clearly some sort of order to where you put the parts,” Elise said. She leaned down and pushed her ponytail back over her shoulder, trying not to get grease smeared onto her leather jacket. “I can’t tell what it is, though.”
“Blocking my light,” he mumbled, then looked up, blinking. “Oh. Sorry. Rude?”
She straightened and stepped to the left, trying not to roll her eyes. She took a deep breath of the damp air and suppressed a sigh. “Yes, rude.”
“Have to get it working again,” he said, hands fidgeting over the parts. Stubby fingers flickered faster than she would have believed possible. Each movement he made was deliberate and precise. “Each pile goes into its own section. Here, hold this for me.”
She snorted and moved back to lean against the wall. She propped a foot against it for balance, concrete rough and cool under her fingertips. “I most certainly will not. That – thing – is what got us in the dungeon in the first place.”
He propped a long metal rod against his ankle instead. “Not a dungeon.”
“It’s a locked, windowless room in the basement. And we’re stuck here until the other bots outside go away, lose interest, or calls for more of those things to come help. I’m just glad we control the deadbolt. It’s close enough to a dungeon to count.”
“Horseshoes.” Nigel’s brow furrowed, his eyes darkening. He spilled the piles of gadgetry from their towers of precarious balance with a sweep of an arm. His nose nearly touched the ground as he chose new parts. “Bad design.”
Elise sighed. She had to draw an engineer as her partner. Every single time, it seemed like. “It was a reasonable argument that close counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and dungeons. Just give me that one, would you? And what’s this about bad design?”
She crossed her fingers and made a wish, as if she were seven again and arguing with her younger brother. Iftheir backup didn’t show up soon, Nigel would want to stay here until he fixed that thing.
“I improved it. Much more efficient this way.” He grinned at her, the spark back in his eyes. A squat finger hovered over a red button.
She pushed her foot against the wall and lunged for him. A beep halfway there told her she was too late. He’d started the blasted thing up again. She turned her lunge into a painful somersault and rolled onto her feet. Drawing her knives, she faced the machine that had chased them inside the room.
“It works!” he crowed. He scooted away from its treads, alarm flickering over his face.
Her shoulder throbbed. She wondered if a good stomp of her combat boot would do the trick? Was she fast enough to get past the whirring saw blades? “You know, you could have considered not fixing the tiny death machine, right?”
“Improving.” Nigel sniffed, and wedged himself into the corner.
“According to Milton, the road to Heaven is rocky and narrow. The road to Hell is broad and well-paved. Therefore, we know which way all the engineers go.” (Professor Michael Bonin to engineering student Ron Palmer, attribution not part of the prompt.)
TE Kinsey’s latest cozy reminded me that engineers love to share information, even when they shouldn’t…and they also like to fix things. Even when they really, really shouldn’t.
Kerri slammed open the wooden door with a bang, tumbled through, and settled into a boneless heap on the stone floor. Her mate found her there an hour later, eyes closed and a wisp of smoke escaping her left nostril with every snore he’d never dare admit she made.
Not if he wanted to stay mated, anyway.
“Baby.” Mike nudged her with a gentle claw. “Baby, come to the nest at least. I brought you a whole cow, and the sand is the perfect toasty temperature you like if you want to get cleaned up.” He devoutly hoped she’d want the sand bath. Her blue-green scales were covered in irregular smudges of soot.
“M’exhausted,” she mumbled. A single eye blinked at him several times, exposing a gold and green streaked iris. The eyelid slid ninety percent closed. “M’up.”
He suppressed a grin, not that she would notice right now. “I can see the first one. Come on, upsidaisy. I got you.” He folded his wings back and shoved his foreleg under her feeble wiggle.
She yawned, fangs pearlescent even in the dim light. Her tongue flickered out, her eyes still half-closed and head swaying. “Food?”
“Food,” Mike said in a soothing tone. “A whole cow, just for you. You have to keep up your energy.”
“Sleep,” Kerri slurred. “Need sleep.” She curled her long neck against his, then nuzzled her snout against his. He could feel her weight leaning heavier against his side and twitched his wing back further.
“Food, then sleep,” Mike reassured her. “After all, you have to teach flame control again tomorrow. For about the next six weeks. And then they start flying not long after that. You’ve got to keep your strength up.”
Well, that woke her. Kerri’s roar must have been heard a block away. He had wanted to stay mated, hadn’t he?
Of course he did. That’s why he shoved a terrified, bleating heifer in the direction of the snarls and ran out the door.
***
This weeks’ Odd Prompt came from nother Mike: “It was always a proud day when another young dragon first blew flame across the room, but it did make teaching elementary school classes for young dragons hard on teachers.”
Mine went to Becky Jones, “I got him!” She waved her prize in the air and wiggled her hips, grinning at her mentor. He gave her a wistful smile, wishing they were as safe as she clearly believed. “I’m afraid they hunt in packs.”
The metal candleholder quickly lost its warmth as she left the temple’s tended fires. Lady Elsa headed down the wide stone stairs and headed for the garden. Her free hand chilled where air met her exposed hand, sheltering the emerging yellow flame. It flickered with each rapid step, evening dew soaking into her slippers as she deviated off the pebbled gravel path.
Each novice went alone for their attempt, but they knew the way. She could feel the eyes upon her with each hasty step. Adrenaline spiked her pace still faster, her breathing ragged.
Her feet were soggy and cold by the time Elsa reached her goal. She paused at the arch before entering and set the candle in the empty holder before kicking off her shoes. A deep breath and a hitch of wet skirt away from her ankle, and she plunged through the ivy into darkness.
And entered for the first time, into light. Floating sparkles traced colorful paths across the sky, while glowing flowers spun purple and green bioluminescence into the shadows. A drop of ivy dripped a trail of water, and starlight sparkled as it shattered onto the ground like diamonds.
She stared upward, enraptured by pale grey streaks of moonlight, which broke through the spaces between the darkened leaves. Strands of gold dust swirled around her raised hands, and she broke into a delighted laugh.
Floating with joy, Elsa turned and bowed to an alcove where a figure was obscured among the shimmer, hidden along the wall amidst leaf and bough. “Lady of Star and Shadow.”
The statue remained still and cold, but a bright light echoed from behind the statue’s head. A blackened figure towered over the temple maiden. Elsa crumpled to her knees in a collapsed curtsy of wet skirts and bare feet. She had nearly forgotten. “Forgive me, Lady of the Moon.”
She reached into her beltpurse and drew out the multicolored rock that served as her offering. “I bring you your child of fire and blazing glory, returning to you the lost children of the stars.”
***
I think this one might go further, sometime, but the world isn’t quite clear yet. I don’t think Lady Elsa is the main character, at least not as a novice. Thanks to Leigh Kimmel for this week’s Odd Prompt: “Enchanted garden where moon casts shadow of object or ghost invisible to the human eye.” My suggestion went to Cedar Sanderson, that an infestation of baby dragons was not as desirable as one might imagine…
Celia bustled inside, trailing a profusion of gift bags, tissue paper, and her husband John. His head was barely visible above a series of boxes. A cloud of chatter surrounded her.
“Can you believe those crowds? And the lines. I was only pointing out the lady behind us was closer than the floor sticker suggested. Can you believe how angry she got? Dump those by the tree, dear, would you? Mind the cat.” She sat her baggage down on the floor and collapsed into the nearby loveseat.
He joined her after depositing his own packaging, mute and frowning. He checked his phone. “The door was locked when you came in, wasn’t it? I didn’t get an alert on the security app.”
Celia had taken off one of her shoes and was massaging her foot. “Of course it was locked. Locked before we left and locked when we returned. Oh! Did that naughty cat get into the tree again and knock things over?” She hopped on one leg to inspect the tree, still holding her foot.
“No,” John said. “It’s that odd bottle of wine below the tree. Behind that yellow bag from the shop with the smelly soap.”
She sniffed and put her foot down, then pulled off her other shoe. “Can’t be wine.”
“Looks like wine.” John tapped his fingers on his knee. “Don’t know where it came from.”
Picking up the bottle, she studied the label. “You were right. Bright green, but wine it is. Who knew it came in pistachio flavor?”
A red bow snugged around the glass neck of the bottle, contrasting with the vibrant contents. “Looks like that cartoon guy. You know.” John hummed, dropping his voice to low rumble.
She snorted. “Well, after that – tart in the store, I’m in the mood to try some. Would you like a glass?”
“Of alcohol from mysterious origins that appeared in our home without explanation?” John raised an eyebrow and rubbed a clean-shaven jaw. “I think not. And don’t recommend you do, either. I’m going to take a look outside and see if I can figure out how it got here.”
Celia poohed and rolled her eyes, but set down the bottle on a nearby table. “I’ll get going on wrapping these, then.”
Ten minutes later, John returned. “Still can’t figure out how anyone got inside. The neighbors didn’t see anything – Celia?”
The tree was knocked over, ornaments smashed in a rainbow of vicious glitter shards. A fire burned merrily on the wall, the tip of the tree smoldering as unseasoned wood flickered with the beginnings of flame. The cat cowered from where it hid under the desk, covered in tinsel. Celia cackled, a package in her hands only briefly before smashing one of her purchases onto the floor.
She grinned at him. “Christmas is cancelled at last!” Laughter erupted from her throat in a crescendo, wild and eager.
A glass of green wine sat next to the open bottle, half-empty.
***
I’m not sure this grumpy story is quite where nother Mike’s prompt about unexpected wine should have gone, but I had fun writing it.
My MOTE prompt was a direct trade, and did he ever make the tomatoes wake up and rock on!
Jessica stared down at the spiral mass of fur below. The metal walkway was cold against her fingertips, clutched so tightly her unpainted fingernails turned white.
Anna strolled up and joined her. “You’re really into this.” She tossed her blonde ponytail over one shoulder, the epitome of pumpkin spice and late fall exuding with every movement.
“Turns out, they like the gelatin in marshmallows,” Jess answered absently. “They let me toss some.” Her eyes were glued to the swirling vortex twenty feet below.
“Hmm.” The blonde tail streamed between the girl’s fingers. “So, you about ready to move on? My nose is getting cold.”
“No. The lady said I get to go in with them if I wait.” Jess felt the bridge vibrate under her feet, but couldn’t help her bouncing.
“Jess.”
“Hmm?” She deliberately echoed Anna’s dismissive tone from a few moments before. “Come on, we’re always doing what you want.”
“Jess.” Anna’s voice was urgent this time. She squashed her paper cup of liquid sugar with one hand until the lid popped off. It bounced off the walkway and the barking puppies chased after it below, a new whirlwind of black and grey and white.
“What? You could have hurt them with that, you know. You should be more careful.”
Anna looked at the teeth gleaming white below and shuddered. “Jess, those aren’t dogs.“
This weeks MOTE prompt came from Cedar Sanderson and was inspired by a visit to a wolf sanctuary. They do in fact like marshmallows, and had nearly 30 of them a few years ago!
“The puppies jockeyed for position, finally ending up whirling around the bowl like a small furry turbine.”
Check out the prompt I gave Becky here. Edit: Oops! Last week. My prompt went to nother Mike, whose story is over at the MOTE page.
Cynthia wedged her tongue between her front teeth and kept typing, ignoring the sharp prick of a crooked tooth. Her jaw was set and grim. Legal briefs waited for no woman, especially when the client offered a substantial bonus for getting it done a month early. Especially when her boss accepted the early deadline with eager, grasping hands, greedy to get the firm the prestige and commission. Never mind everything else on the schedule or the deadline still weeks away. Never mind that Cyn had been just outside, eating a bland turkey and cheese sandwich, enjoying the sunlight and blissfully unaware of the pressure cooker her life was about to become. Why would she need to know?
She bit down again, trying not to think about the delay in getting to what brought her alive, away from boring tweeds and cardigan sweaters in neutral colors. The tip of her tongue jolted with bright pain, but kept her from thinking of garlic and parmesan. Cyn didn’t know what she’d do when this trick stopped working to keep her focused. It’d gotten her this far, but didn’t seem to work as well as it had in college.
Legal words and Latin phrases flowed from her fingertips. These words were the boring ones, the eat-your-vegetables of writing for a living to make sure the bills were paid and her sweet Shelbie was kept in kibble. If she wasn’t careful, the words would jumble together, a salad of nouns and verbs, a dressing of adjectives, croutons of propositions that crunched dry against her tongue. Never mind that they needed salt and garlic and parmesan to come alive, to tell a compelling story. The law required both format and propriety, even if her jumble made more sense to the layman.
They’d tried to label it dyslexia, but it wasn’t. not when there were no issues with the words that poured out at night, the words she wanted to write. She was a veritable chef, the words bursting with flavor, all as part of a well-composed meal.
She’d even taken some advanced cooking classes, just to make sure she had the balance down. Sensory details about the environment were salty and popped against her tongue. Salty words brought the scene to life, made the description on the page flow just so, just as salt in real life made food taste more like itself. Careful selection was imperative. Too much, and the dish was ruined.
Emotion, though, emotion always rolled sweet across her tongue. The gooey tang of lemon curd and stiff meringue blended with a shattered crust of grief and loss. New love tasted like sweetened vanilla cream, whipped by hand until soft peaks stiffened into spoonfuls easy to share with a lover. Oh, and heartbreak; heartbreak was bitter coffee, and lessons learned, the end of a relationship just as it properly ended a meal.
The feast of words would have to wait once more. Her tongue throbbed, painful and tasting of copper from the bite Cyn had clamped down upon it. The distraction wasn’t helping again. She’d have to find something new. Enough to get through this one last brief, with a quick bonus, and then to find a job that let the words flow into a regular banquet. What would it be like, no longer having to starve when a feast was readily available?
She sighed, and studied the blinking cursor. She reached out a slim finger and leaned on the backspace key, as her flavors disappeared.
***
This week, Cedar Sanderson challenged me with “The words came out all jumbled together, a salad of nouns and verbs with a dressing of adjectives and croutons of prepositions.” Nother Mike turned out to be the Viking I proposed he write about this week, and may his experiences next week be less eventful.
Also, I don’t know anyone with synesthesia, nor do I have it myself. I’d love to be corrected if I got this wrong.
