Writer of Fantasy. Wielder of Red Pens.

Tag: writing prompts (Page 18 of 21)

What Sharp Teeth You Have

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.

Edit: Added wolf & wolf puppy pictures.

Banquets

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.

Forged

Darkness never bothered me. Why would it? Darkness is what lets me see the color of the metal, white-orange hot and ready for tempering, molding, shaping to my will. The forge is my life, and I live in the shadows.

Darkness is what lets the light shine bright and sweet, upon the face of a woman or a child. I have brought plenty of shadows to this world already. The look they give me is the same as when they face the darkness, and fear the shadows.

Sweat drips down my face as I strike the mallet against a bar, branding hot, flakes and chips shattering into the forge with each strike. Sweat means heat, means life, and each flex of tendon and muscle in my wrists guarantees an existence. I will never freeze again in this heated environ; no snowy, stiffened days where I can barely move my hands to grasp a hammer. No longer am I desperate for a bowl of soup or a scrap of bread stolen from a windowsill. No longer am I driven to desperation and the darkness.

The irony does not escape me. I learned a trade and left the shadows, only to live within the shadows. I remain on the edges of the world, dusted with soot and charcoal. I would not trade it for the limelight, or even for the sunshine. I know where I, and everyone else, is comfortable where I remain.

Looking respectable increases the irony. The past was always destiny-bound to arrive on booted feet, spurs jangling with each step, swirling darkness in his cloak. It’s why I told that woman to stop pushing her wiles on me. She doesn’t want the chill of shadows. She imagined strength, when I saw only prey. I was once and always quick to anger, quick to the fight, quick to the draw.

I survived, and you know what that means. Just because I learned self-restraint doesn’t mean I lost the instinct.

I hear each deliberate thud and know it’s time. It doesn’t matter who’s here to call me to account at last. It’s not in me to give up a fight, as if a gunfight at midnight is a disadvantage. If I win, if I lose – either way the darkness reclaims me, as it was always bound to do.

***

Leigh Kimmel and I traded Odd Prompts this week. She provided the weirdest music video I’ve ever seen as inspiration. After blacksmithing this past weekend, which option could I choose but the smith preparing for a gunfight? I challenged her to write about a joyous feeling she (or her character) would never want to experience again.

Memory Puzzles

Lynn grinned as she dug through the trash. Oh, it smelled terrible, that was for certain. Why a farmer’s wife hadn’t composted and separated the dry trash rather than tossing everything in a single midden pile was beyond her capacity to fathom. But she’d already found quite a few treasures.

Whether or not others would think her new ceramic chicken was a treasure was irrelevant. For her, it was worth the work. She glanced up at her friend. Arti looked less pleased about their current adventure. “We have to do this for how long?”

“Until we find the promised mason jars,” Lynn said. She tried to be less obvious about her glee in the face of Arti’s pitiful gaze and failed. “Those antique blue ones are selling like hotcakes. Even if it’s broken, we can turn it into one of those mosaic garden tables.”

Arti rolled her eyes and held up what looked like a dented bowl in one gloved hand. She dangled it from a single finger, and made a face before tossing it aside. “Only you would be this excited about garbage.”

Lynn shrugged and rubbed an itch on her chin with one shoulder, since her hands were covered in muck. “It’s repurposing. And only you would be bored enough to help me. Plus, we might get a few coins out of it.”

“Maybe a lot of coins.” Arti went still, except for the breeze blowing her shoulder-length dark hair.

She sniffed and regretted it instantly. Dried late autumn grasses surrounding the midden were not enough to overwhelm the scent of rot. “Not if you don’t keep moving.”

“Did these people kill off a goose?”

Lynn stopped this time and stared at her partner in refuse. “Huh?”

“Look.” Lynn got off her knees, the wet denim clinging to her legs unpleasantly. She squished her way over in wellie boots kept for this and catching frogs. It would be a sad day when she grew up enough to hate catching frogs.

And a sad day when she didn’t recognize the value in something completely unexpected. “Golden eggs. You’re putting me on.”

Arti shook her head and picked one out of the pile. “A whole nest. You see the engravings? The dirt highlights them.”

Frowning, Lynn leaned over. “Those aren’t – no. These are puzzle eggs!”

“What’s a puzzle egg?”

“Like those boxes that you can’t open unless you move pieces in the right way.” She’d been hiding secrets from her annoying brothers for years in puzzle boxes. Anything she didn’t want destroyed, anyway. “C’mon, let’s grab these and go get cleaned up. Mrs. Murphy said we can come back anytime. I want to see what’s inside.”

“Shouldn’t we see if Mrs. Murphy wants them?” Arti frowned, hesitant. “Surely she wouldn’t consider these trash.”

“She left,” Lynn said, impatient. “She went into town. We can ask her when she gets back. After we solve the puzzle.”

Arti got to her feet and brushed off her jeans. She’d been fastidious about keeping clean, more so than Lynn. “Fine. But we’re coming back after to make sure.”

Lynn heaved a big sigh at her friend. “Let’s go already. Tuck them in the bag and we’ll bike back to my place.”

***

An hour later, both girls had damp hair and fresh clothing. Lynn’s mother hadn’t cared a whit for golden eggs, but she certainly didn’t want rotting garbage tromped all over her clean floors. Lynn herself wouldn’t admit it out loud, but she knew darn well she smelled better.

“I think I’ve got it,” Arti said, bare knees askew from where she leaned against the bed frame. She’d scattered the eggs across the floor, but Lynn had captured one that felt right to her and taken it into the bed to work on.

“Me, too.” She wrinkled her forehead. “Mine doesn’t have anything inside. Just this button.” She held it out to Arti.

“Mine, too.” Arti set hers down and propped herself up on her knees. “I’ll press yours if you press mine. Maybe it’s part of the puzzle.”

Lynn held out the egg in both hands. Arti reached out a finger with chipped grey polish and pressed the button.

Nothing happened.

And then –

“Do you see this?” Lynn murmured. Her bedroom, filled with the hearts and unicorns of a young girl whose parents thought she would enjoy appropriately girlish items, was gone. In its place was a garden, overflowing with spring abundance in flowers and fruit. Young girls dressed in A-line frocks and gloves milled around, some holding plates or cups.

“Cake!” Arti started to move toward the punch bowl.

“Stop it!” Lynn held her friend back. “We aren’t dressed for this.”

“Well, I want to get back. And if I can’t get back, cake sounds like a good option.”

Biting her lip, Lynn thought her friend was probably right. “Fine. But you answer questions about who we are.”

She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed to find that in this world, the girls were shadows. Arti’s hand passed right through the cake, the table, and the punch bowl. She’d needed to be restrained from doing it to the girls. “It’s rude,” she hissed, keeping her voice low.

“It’s fun,” Arti corrected, swinging around with an arm out. A girl shivered at her touch. “Hey, you see the lady in the green dress?”

“I know her!” Lynn yelped. “I’ve seen her in a picture. Recently, too.”

Arti went pale, and stopped struggling to dance her way through the garden party. “We both did. That’s Mrs. Murphy.”

Laughing, Lynn shook her head. “Must be her granddaughter or something.”

An adult woman entered the backyard from a sliding door, followed by a number of boys about the same age as the girls. The girls began cooing, clustering in groups. The boys stood their ground, but looked exceedingly uncomfortable.

“I think that one’s going to run,” Arti whispered. The groups began mingling, mostly huddled around the food table.

“That’s not…no. Can’t be.” Lynn frowned.

The adult woman was joined by several others for a few minutes before she broke away. “Jean,” she said as the woman approached the girl in the green dress. “I’d like you to meet Elliot.”

The garden’s edges blurred into a multicolored swirl. Lynn’s bedroom appeared. “I’m all stiff, like we were there for too long,” she muttered, and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

“Well, my knees hurt from kneeling here,” Arti retorted. Neither of them looked at each other for a long, silent moment. “Did you -?”

“Yeah.” Lynn kicked her legs. “Jean and Elliot are Mr. and Mrs. Murphy. I heard Mom call them that once.”

Arti’s voice was hoarse, and her hand shook slightly. “Where do you think the rest of the eggs lead?”

“When, you mean.” Lynn leaned down and picked up Arti’s puzzle egg. “You hold it, and I’ll push the button.”

***

A late response to last week’s More Odds Than Ends prompt from Sanford Begley: “Rooting through the old farm midden heap, looking for antique jars, you find a nest of golden colored eggs.”

My challenge to be inspired by an unusual color and holiday combination went to Cedar Sanderson, who did not disappoint!

Bourbon

“I’m naming it Bourbon,” Leila said. Her voice shone with triumph, but her hands were still and careful around the bundle of fur nestled in her lap.

I glanced over before flicking my eyes back to the wet asphalt, amused. “We didn’t even make it to the bar tonight.” I missed my rare indulgence, too. It’d been too long since I’d had a good whiskey sour. This place was all dark woods and bartenders who didn’t let you tell them how to do their job. They made their drinks the real way, with foaming egg whites and garnished with a gleaming luxardo cherry so dark you couldn’t tell it was red.

Her pout was evident from her shift in posture. “If we name her Bourbon, we never drink alone.”

I rolled my eyes and pulled into the apartment parking lot, glad the spot under the light was still open. The benefits of coming home early. “You and I both know she’s going to end up my cat. Eddie will finally come to his senses and ask you out any day now. Then I get left alone with this gorgeous calico.”

Bourbon let out a sleepy yawn as I snagged her off Leila’s lap. “Hey!” the larger of the pair protested. “She was my tiny heating pad.”

“And you’re hogging her.” I buried my face into her soft fur. No sign of fleas, thank goodness. “I suppose her eyes are whiskey-colored.”

We climbed the stairs to our second floor apartment, kitten in hand, and set her to exploring while Leila and I pulled out makeshift everything. A disposable baking tray I didn’t know we even owned filled with paper towels stood in for a litter box. And don’t get me started on how fast that kitten tried to scarf down an entire can of tuna.

“We’ll get her proper things tomorrow,” Leila said, and I suppressed a sigh. It was already clear she’d be picking out toys while I’d be talking to the vet. The money would be coming from my wallet, not hers.

I could have said no, I suppose, but the kitten really was adorable. Sweet, not feral. And when Leila’s future intended got up the nerve to ask her out, I’d be on my own. She might think I was joking, but I’d read the tea leaves and watched his gaze often enough. I wouldn’t be wrong.

Just like I wasn’t wrong that this tiny puff of multicolored fur had been sent for me.

An hour later, poorly made drinks from inferior liquor in hand, Leila and I watched Bourbon bat around a crumpled up paper ball. She was complaining about her boss again, and I listened with half an ear. The cat was the only new factor in this scenario.

Both of them had fallen asleep on the couch once her drink was finished. Me, I dimmed the lights and spent quiet contemplation time in the windowsill, cradling my half-full drink and staring out the glass into the darkness, wishing I could see the stars. Now that my familiar had come, the next week or so would be critical to determining my future.

If only I knew what that future would be. I leaned on my free hand and studied the glittering lights in the apartment building across the street and beyond until a faint noise distracted me.

Leila still slept, but Bourbon stalked a dust bunny my roommate had missed with the vacuum. Again. I took a drink and smiled.

The kitten batted the dust bunny into oblivion, rolling on the carpet to ensure it was trapped between her paws and dead. She arched and hissed at the empty corner, fur electric and enlarging. The smile wiped from my face.

To go through life without the bond I already felt growing between us would be abhorrent. And yet – I was unsure. Guardians didn’t have long lifespans. I’d never been much of a fighter. The single flight of stairs up to the apartment was the closest I usually got to working out.

But familiars were never wrong.

It would have been nice to keep the calico disguise for more than a few hours, though. Leila hadn’t drunk nearly enough to explain how our tiny kitten had become a mountain lion cub overnight.

***

This week on odd prompts, my challenge went to nother Mike: “With this ring, I thee wed.” Grinning, she slid the ring on his finger, looked up, and…

I received “The kitten arched and hissed at the empty corner” from Cedar Sanderson.

Join the fun!

No One Ever Suspects the Butterfly

Char swept into the room, blue silk dress rippling with each step of her long legs. She tossed long red hair behind her shoulder and beelined down the spiral stairs for the man in the tuxedo. The man himself was standing in the shadowed kitchen, shoulders hunched over as he poked at something out of sight.

Max Butler looked up as her high heels clicked onto the main floor. “I figured it out. I think.” He held up the small white box, nondescript and plain. Nothing worth stealing, the box proclaimed, too small and not small enough to contain anything of value.

“It’s gone dark on you outside.” She peeked over the box edge. “A butterfly?”

“Jewelry. Or a fancy hair clip.”

Mild disappointment ran through her. “Made of plastic? Honestly, it looks like it’s for a child, not a diplomatic function. That’s the most obvious recording device I’ve seen in years. They won’t let us within a hundred yards of the entrance.”

Max grinned, his four-day stubbled beard dark against white teeth. “I need your thumb.”

Char raised an eyebrow and proffered her hand with disdain. “I need that thing to record the ambassador’s corruption.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.” Her partner gripped her hand and pressed her thumb against the butterfly’s head, just below the antennae. “It needs your thumbprint to work.”

Her lips spread in a slow grin as she felt the plastic warm, the wings suddenly powder soft and delicate against her trailing fingers. She held her fingers to her throat as large colored dots spread across the butterfly’s wings, rippling through the rainbow. The wings fluttered and began to move, and she startled backward before she could stop herself.

Max laughed. “It’s meant to match your dress.” She tore her eyes away from the butterfly and met his dark eyes. “Here, let me help you.”

The wings settled into a brilliant cerulean blue, iridescent as it fluttered just above the box. He reached down a hand and lifted it gently, bringing the insect toward her hair.

“It’s meant to flutter, and catch attention as well as sound. It’ll angle its wings for better reception.” His low voice echoed in her ear.

Char bit her lip. His hands tangled gently in her curls, warmth grazing her face. She glanced down quickly, staring at the tips of her silver shoes. The kitchen floor gleamed underneath, unlike their usual clean but worn safehouse floors. She didn’t stop studying the tiles until his hands pulled away.

She gulped to find he had not stepped back to admire his work.

“Lady Death,” her partner said with a wry smile. “You’ll be the death of me yet.”

He retreated into shadows before she could reply, and she could not see his eyes.

“Still not fond of insects, I see.” Voice light once more, Max grabbed the flyer’s key fob from the counter and flipped it in the air. “Let’s go. Do try not to annoy the tech people so that they ‘accidentally’ forget the instructions to our gadgets again, will you?”

***

This week’s More Odds Than Ends challenge was odder than usual. I knew what I wanted to write straight away, but kept putting it off and nearly didn’t get it done. Nother Mike challenged me with “In the box was a plastic butterfly, large colorful dots spreading across its wings as it started to move…” and I can’t wait to see what Cedar Sanderson does with a black and white sunrise.

Manuscript

Lindsey flicked her eyes upward every time someone walked past, hating herself for the hope she knew was shining on her face. She’d seen the look in the mirror enough times, working on her poker face and failing. Each time, she tried to avoid the stranger’s eyes. Being ignored could be played off as a mistake. Oh, not who I was waiting for. The groups of mean girls with their giggles and shrieks of laughter didn’t have time to notice her, and that was just fine with Lindsey Boucle.

Pity, though. Pity was the worst. Those were the strangers’ eyes that saw right through her, saw how awkward and hopeful she was, seized straight upon her neediness.

Was it so bad to want a friend? Maybe more than a friend?

Where better to find a more-than-friend than at the Writers Of Romantic Manuscripts conference?

Her cheeks burned, but she took the time to scribble some notes for her next book on the free notepad WORM had put at each seat. Long rows of writers were seated in an enormous room, burbling conversation and colored lights filling the air, and yet the entire length of table next to her was empty. How humiliating. Was her eagerness to get a seat a turnoff?

Perhaps she was too eager in general. It’s just – well, it wouldn’t be so bad to get some real experience, outside of her imagination. She had plenty of imagination. She’d written a dozen books based on her imagination. Wasn’t a dozen enough to be alone?

Lindsey let out a sigh and stopped looking up. She slumped over and smushed a hand against her face, ignoring the music and coffee-scented air. If all she got was a free notebook and pen, plus some writing tips, well, that was all she had paid for.

It would have to be enough. Life wasn’t a bowl of –

“Excuse me,” said the sexiest baritone she’d ever heard. “Is this seat taken?”

***

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 one here.

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

Nightmares

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

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.

Get Off My Lawn

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.”

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