Writer of Fantasy. Wielder of Red Pens.

Tag: writing prompts (Page 20 of 21)

Travel Most Dangerous to the Traveler

“Hey.”

The voice entered the room sideways, circling around her and swirling before dissipating into air stale with old coffee and florescent light.

“Hey. Hey, Anita.”

Words penetrated her brain finally, breaking her concentration as she looked up from the computer to see a freckled face with a grin so wide she thought her roommate would run out of face if it got any bigger.

The sky visible through the bay window behind Will was already inky darkness. She blinked dry eyes, and dragged a weary hand across her face. “What time is it?”

His grin could get bigger after all, it seemed, but cut off with a wince. Could you pull a muscle smiling too hard?

“It’s any time we want.”

Anita stared at him. Seconds ticked away as she felt her face go numb. “You did it? You did it!” Jumping up, she ran around the dining room table and grabbed him in a hug.

He stiffened in surprise, and she let him go, taking a quick step backward. “Wow. This calls for a celebration. We don’t have anything fancy. You want to go out? I can text the others and tell them where to meet us.”

“No.” He shook his head, smiling with more caution now. “I don’t want to wait. I want to go check it out. That darn monkey was all excited about something.”

“You used Wilbur instead of the camera this time? You must have been confident.” She grinned at him so hard her own teeth hurt. “I’ll pack you a bag with a sandwich and a bottle of water. Just in case.”

She flicked the back light on as he crossed the yard, back to his workshop in the barn. The commute was a pain some days, but worth it to be able to experiment without the neighbors complaining when one of the scientists in their group exploded something. And it’s not like a former research monkey was easy to explain. No, it was better not to have neighbors, and to keep their roommate pool to the university.

Anita turned back, making sure the door remained unlocked for when Will came back with his test results.

“Time machine,” she said as she settled back at the dining room table with her laptop. “Who’d have ever thought that would work.”

She was engrossed in the code again when she realized something smelled burnt. Wrinkling her nose, she turned. Will was behind her, emaciated beyond the hour-long test he’d been so excited to try. Scorch marks streaked torn and grimy coveralls. His hair was wild, and grease covered his face. He held a handle from his machine in one hand. The other was hidden behind the wall as he staggered.

“I’ve destroyed it,” he rasped. “It’s done.”

Anita opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She coughed at the acrid char in the room. “What?”

“They killed Wilbur,” he said. “My poor rhesus.”

“Who did?” She gripped the armrest, her legs too leaden to stand.

“Anita, the future is…” Will trailed off, his jaw trembling. He rubbed the stubble covering it. “He wasn’t excited when he came back from the test, he was terrified. And I dragged him aback there.”

She saw fire behind him, sparking through the darkness. “You burned it?”

“Everything,” he said. “Every scrap of data. It was all in the barn. Except this. This is the last of it. Had to get the prototype from my room.” He waved the handle.

“Will, why?”

He looked at her with haunted eyes, and she closed her mouth on a million questions. No, she didn’t want to know what was behind his haunted eyes. The twinkle was gone, replaced with warring, whirling shadows of terror and despair.

“Why don’t we talk in the morning,” she suggested in a low voice.

He lifted the time machine’s handle in salute. “Thanks. I have to go tend the fire.”

Will paused as he walked away. He hefted the object in his other hand over his shoulder, black metal barrels gleaming in the dim hallway light. “If they followed me, I’ve got it covered. But I don’t think they did. I’ll lock the door though, so you’re safe.”

The door closed with a gentle click, with the lock turning louder a moment later. Anita stared after him, uncomprehending but still unable to move. It took a few moments before her shock wore off. Shoving back from the table, she stumbled to the bay window and watched a moving shadow silhouetted by the fire.

She sat there a long time, watching shadows flit within flickering shadows, wondering what she was waiting to discover as the fire burned to ash.

Carl woke her the next morning. Her neck burned from where she’d fallen asleep on the window seat. The smoke of a smoldering bonfire still lingered, stronger than it had the night before.

“Anita, I have some bad news,” Carl said, pulling out a dining room chair and sitting down. His face was grave. It didn’t differ much from his usual expression.

“If it’s about Wilbur the monkey, I already know,” she said. “Will was pretty torn up. Spent all night burning his work. Said it wasn’t worth it.”

“That’s not all he did, Anita.” Carl looked down and cleared his throat. “We found him in the barn this morning.”

She whipped her head back to where the firepit still smoked, halfway between the lawn and the barn. The room swirled. She gripped the cushion as everything went out of focus.

“I’m sorry. You were probably closest to him,” Carl said. He stood. “I’ll get you some coffee. The police will be here soon.”

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. I wasn’t satisfied with this story, but my awesome husband suggested a different direction that prompted Version 2, which you can read here.

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!

A Mug of Liquid Sanity

Sarah poured a stream of coffee into a thick mug and held it just below her chin. She closed her eyes and wrapped her fingers possessively around the clay. As if anyone in the household would risk a maiming by taking away her caffeine.

The scent always hit her before the steam, nutty and caramelized from toasted beans, a deep and ritualized inhalation that helped her mind awaken. Blinking eyes still sticky with sleep open, she gazed into the dark liquid and lowered her mouth while raising both hands.

A herd of elephants could stampede through the kitchen, and she’d be more likely to lick the spilled coffee from the floor than start cleaning up debris. That assumed she even noticed the elephants.

Hot liquid poured down her throat, and her hands clenched reflexively around the mug as she swallowed. An entire cup was gone in seconds, which only meant it was time for more.

Sarah reached for the coffeepot handle and froze, hand outstretched, her eyes locked on the scene visible through the kitchen window.

“I’m not seeing that,” she muttered. “I’m still dreaming.” Sarah forced her hand to pick up the carafe, poured a second cup, and gulped the scalding liquid fast she burnt her tongue, skipping all morning ritual. She carefully avoided looking out the window again until she’d poured a third cup.

The apparition was still there.

Still clenching her mug of liquid sanity, she headed for the back door and stood barefoot on the covered porch. Her thin cotton pajamas were perfect for early morning this time of year, before the day grew too warm and humid. The lawn still held droplets of dew.

She gawked into the backyard. A creak to her right told her where her husband sat, and she turned wide eyes and an open mouth toward him. “Dennis?”

“Morning, honey.” The creaking continued as he sat in the rocking chair, a self-satisfied smile evident on his face. Battered and muddy work boots pushed off worn floorboards with regular rhythm. “You bring that coffee for me?”

He asked her that every morning, laughing at her protectiveness as she instinctively curled her body around her mug. Dennis couldn’t stand the taste of coffee and never seemed to need an extra caffeine boost, but loved to tease her about her mental fogginess. Morning was their time for ritual, before conscious thought kicked in.

Today was the first time in thirteen years she hadn’t at least given him a smile at the familiar wordplay.

“Dennis, why is there a buffalo on the lawn?”

“Bison,” he corrected, continuing to rock.

“What?”

“They’re not actually related to the Asian water buffalo. Or the African cape buffalo, come to think of it. She’s American. So it’s a bison.”

She stared into the yard. The visitor munched an early morning breakfast of lawn and dandelion, turning at a precise right angle with a deep snort. Sarah was close enough to see mud on horns and shaggy dark fur as the bison eyed her and turned away.

“We’re safe as long as we stay on the porch,” Dennis said, pausing his maddeningly calm rocking. “You want to join me?”

Sarah made her way over to the rocking chair next to him and sank onto the carved wood. Her coffee remained forgotten in her hand as she continued to gaze into the yard. “What is a bison doing here?”

Dennis stretched out a hand and rubbed her back lightly. “Why, mowing the lawn, obviously.”

The bison executed another precise turn, nibbling her way back toward the porch.

“How…?” Sarah didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

“Well, you can rent them, y’see,” Dennis said, leaning back and beginning to rock again. “And they’re quite fast. It’s very natural, excellent fertilizer, great for crop yields.”

“We don’t have a crop,” Sarah protested automatically. She glanced down at the dark liquid in her mug and realized it was the same shade as the bison’s eyes. Would drinking it even help at this point?

“Not yet, no, you’re quite right, dear.” The rocker creaked faster. “Their hooves are good at plowing up the dirt, though. I thought we could put some vegetables in this year now that the ground’s warm enough.”

“But,” Sarah said. “But.”

“Aw, Sarah, I know. But it cost less than that weed control chemical junk you wanted me to get. And she’s terribly efficient. Look, she’s nearly done, and she just got here.” The bison was trimming the last strip of uncut grass as she headed toward the two humans.

“When I said weed eater, this isn’t what I meant,” she managed. Her voice held an odd, raspy squeakiness.

“Mmmhmm,” Dennis said. “Smart cookie, too. I put the order in online, she showed up half an hour later on her own. Could have sworn she read the numbers on the mailbox.”

Sarah choked on her coffee, dribbling the precious drink down her thin cotton shirt.

The bison came to the edge of the porch and lowered her head, rubbing a horn covered in clumps of dried mud on the porch floor.

The creaking stopped. Dennis rose and leaned on the railing. He stayed a few feet away from the bison, nodding as he studied the lawn.

“Fine job,” he said. “Great work. Give my compliments to the herd. I’ll add a tip onto your final payment.”

Lifting her head, the bison’s liquid coffee eyes met Sarah’s and blinked languidly. The bison snorted and stamped a hoof. She turned and walked primly down the driveway, each hoof dropping precisely against the concrete surface.

“See you in two weeks,” Dennis said with a wave.

Sarah stared into her mug, wondering if there was sufficient coffee in the galaxy to rescue her overworked early morning brain.

Image by Fiona Grey, Custer State Park, South Dakota

This week’s Odd Prompts challenge came from Cedar Sanderson: “When I said weed eater, that isn’t what I meant…”

My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: “Your phone lights up, and the app notifies you the camera’s spotted someone at the door. Feeling lazy, you pull up the video and take a peek. It’s a giant murder hornet. And it just rang your doorbell.

Thought & Memory

Rhella slumped onto the worn blue velour couch and poked a finger at the fuzzy hole an old ex had burned into the cushion. At least the edges where the fluff had worn down still had a dignified air of self-respect.

“That’ll just make it bigger,” Jon said without looking up.

She snorted. “Like I don’t know that.”

“Just flip the cushion if it bothers you that much.” He glanced up from his laptop. “How many times have we had this conversation?”

She stopped poking at the hole and flopped back. “I told you, I feel like a liar if I hide it.”

He sucked in a breath and pushed his computer away. “Look, I have a surprise for you.”

She tossed a pillow at him. “We can’t afford surprises.”

He caught the battered throw pillow and automatically smoothed the remnants of fuzz down. “Things have been rough lately, we both know that. But I received an inheritance today.”

Rhella froze, halfway to reaching for the other throw pillow to toss at him. “Wait, what? Like…money?”

“No.” His smile was tight as he looked at the pillow. His fingers clenched around it.

“Sorry, babe. I’m not trying to crush your surprise.” Rhella smoothed back long, dark hair from her face and hoped her expression was apologetic.

She knew he was dreading the day he had to go back to the music store, to beg for his old job again and hope they hadn’t hired someone better in the meantime. All to teach snot-nosed kids scales for forty-five minutes a pop, at barely over minimum wage. All to keep her writing dreams alive, because bouncing between jobs was called freelancing now.

“It’s just some furniture. We can sell most of it.” He was still speaking to the pillow. “But I thought you might like this writing desk my Aunt Alice had. It was supposed to be inspired by that writer. You know, because of her name.”

“Not Alice in Wonderland?”

Through the Looking Glass, I think it was. Thought it might inspire your writing.”

She leaned over and looked past Jon. “Thanks. How’d I miss that on my way in?”

“You were being dramatic,” he replied instantly, good humor back in an heartbeat. Rhella loved how mercurial he could be, but sometimes wondered if it would be exhausting in the long term. She shied away from the thought. Focus on this month’s rent.

She got up and studied the desk. The antique stood on spindly limbs, criss-crossed for stability. Ebony wood rested atop the supports and a row of drawers, stretched in a carving of outstretched wings that jutted over the edges. A single eye of bright yellow wood in precisely the middle popped against the dark wood.

“Wow. This is seriously intricate,” Rhella said. “Crow, right?”

She heard a caw and looked up, startled. Jon tossed the pillow back at her. “No, raven. Haven’t you ever read the book? The riddle? A raven like a writing desk?”

She shook her head and reached out a hand to stroke the feathers. “So much detail. Every feather’s outlined here. Some are more worn down.”

“Well, it is an antique,” Jon snapped. He put his noise-cancelling headphones back on. She rolled her eyes and lifted the lid, exposing a flat writing surface and cubbies that still held aged and yellowed paper.

She shut the lid and ran her fingers over the carved plumage again. Rhella wondered why some were more worn than others, and stroked each of the faded feathers in turn.

The yellow raven’s eye popped open, rising to stare at her. “Jon?”

There was no answer. Twisting around, she realized he’d only be annoyed at the interruption. Trembling, Rhella turned back to the desk.

The eye and some of the surrounding feathers had lifted to reveal a cubbyhole that held black sealing wax, half-used, the wick a burnt nub smoothed over from long disuse. It also held a seal.

Rhella studied the seal, squinting. She angled it toward the window to get the last of the day’s light. “A raven. Of course.” It matched the writing desk in design, from what she could tell.

Clutching the seal, she let her other hand fall to the raven’s beak.

The world around her disappeared. Streaking through her mind came an overwhelming barrage of noise, light, and color.

Languages she didn’t understand and languages she did, symphonies and electric violin and freestyle rap mixed with Gregorian chant and drums that matched her racing heartbeat. Lemons and skunk and the decay of fall, hot sand and burning stars. Bursts of light flashed at her, strobing at irregular frequencies, visions of men and oceans and battles with blue-streaked warriors.

Rhella tried to cover her ears and couldn’t move. The visions continued, sound and scent and nightmare.

She closed her eyes and surrendered to the madness with a scream.

A cold hand weakly slapped her face. “Jon?”

“You’re awake,” he said. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“I do,” she said. “It’s not that.”

“You started screaming. And then had a seizure,” Jon said.

“It’s still not that.”

“What happened?”

Rhella eyed the desk, which showed no signs of a secret compartment. She didn’t see a wax seal on the floor, either. She propped herself up on her elbows, for once happy about the ancient, mossy green wool carpet. It was familiar in ways her brain appreciated more than ever.

“I learned everything.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I wish I didn’t,” Rhella said. “No more. Never more.”

Jon looked at her with confusion. “Look, we don’t have anything in the house right now. Why don’t we go down to the pub and get you a drink?”

“You mean at the Ravensworth Arms?” Rhella started laughing. Jon’s expression only made her hysteria worse.

She dissolved into hiccups. “Yeah. I could use a drink, all right.”

I’ll figure out what to do with all this nonsense knowledge tomorrow. Maybe it would even pay the rent.

She wondered if the vision in her left eye would ever return.

This week’s Odd Prompts challenge came from Leigh Kimmel: “The Mad Hatter asked Alice, “How is a raven like a writing desk?” Poe wrote, “quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’” Could the key to the Mad Hatter’s riddle lie in Poe’s verse?

My prompt went to Becky Jones: “You’re at a drive-up diner, eating your meal, when up next to you sidles a bison. She gives you a polite nod, and orders a cheeseburger.

The Hunt

It is dark, and it is stormy, and isn’t that a terrible, clichéd way to start this tale? But tonight is both these things, and the weather matches my mood.

These are the thunderstorms of my childhood, of watching the lightning crack atop enormous, ancient trees who laugh at the sky and dare to try their luck against the clouds.

Then, I sat wedged into a windowsill too small for any but a child, safe from the wet and cold, eyes dancing too fast to follow the lightning.

Now, I stand barefoot in the rain, soft grass slick against my feet, dress pressing damply against my body, each step squishing deeper into ever-softening dirt. I hope against hope there will be neither thistles nor rocks, but know the night will end with muddy footprints, smeared with blood.

My path does not remain on a polite, pretentious lawn, but meanders down into deep woods.

Tonight I hunt, in the old ways, the ways of my ancestors. I stalk, and I spin, and seek to find direction. I feel ridiculous.

Inhibition is the first to go. It must, or I will not succeed.

My prey is nebulous, terrifying. Hard enough to pursue the intangible, but to slay it?

My breath quickens at the thought of an unsuccessful hunt, and I pant in rapid, shallow breaths. I reach down and smear mud across my face, wondering briefly how long it will last as the rain smudges it, warm across my cheeks.

Fear of failure keeps me moving, fear of nothing happening, fear of being insufficient, fear of not being enough.

I am melancholy as I wander through the woods, seeking the trail of each memory, confronting each angry voice, each disappointment, each almost enough.

Failure is to admit they are true, to give life to the voices whispering through the woods, lighting-lit and backstopped by memory.

I seek despair, I seek humiliation, I seek confusion.

Each movement firms my resolve, strengthens each step as branches lash with wet venom across my face, and the hunt is all I know.

The moonlight is my sword, rain the chains that bind me to this task, lightning my only guide.

Each step is victory, the path to Valhalla.

I seek annihilation, and this night shall not end without blood.

***

This week’s Odd Prompts challenge was from Cedar Sanderson: You are a big game hunter stalking something. What is it you are in pursuit of, and why is it so terrifying?

My prompt about a widely shared birthday party went to Misha Burnett, and La Vaughn Kemnow also took a whack at it.

Coming Soon

This week on Odd Prompts, I rolled with a technical glitch. 🙂

“How was that movie last night?” Alyssa asked as the two teenagers walked along the crumbling sidewalk. Long legs flashed pale and cold under too-short shorts she’d managed to keep her mother from noticing. The chill air bit and made her shiver, but what was early springtime for if not to start on her tan early?

“The romantic comedy I was supposed to go see with Brad? Or the original Dracula from the 1930s that was on the movie channel?” Caroline replied. Her own legs were sensibly covered by dark tights. Curly brown hair with a bright crimson streak bounced atop a black leather jacket.

“That jerk.”

“Yeah, well, he’s an idiot for thinking I’d like that nonsense fluffy crap anyway.”

They kept walking, meandering through the small town’s maze of brick storefronts, budding flowers wafting a faint perfume into the air.

It was early enough they only passed a few others. A café worker arranged wrought-iron chairs in a fenced-in seating area. Alyssa smiled, remembering the restaurant’s brownie indulgence. She and Caroline had splurged late last summer on the giant dessert, before the school year had started. Her mouth watered just at the thought of the deep, rich chocolate scent, vanilla and caramel notes emerging only when it touched her tongue.

“I want to go back there.” She wiped her mouth, hoping the drool was only in her head.

“Yeah, me – whoa!” Caroline raised a hand and bounced off the glass door that opened right in front of her.

Both girls stared at the stout woman with the greying beehive. She’d opened the door with her hip, backing out of the shop without looking. The woman carried an enormous box filled with a wide variety of multi-colored cheese wedges and staggered slightly under its weight.

“Um. Need a hand?” Alyssa tried to blink so she wouldn’t be rude. Her eyes stubbornly remained fixed and wide.

“I’m right here, girls, thank you,” the woman wheezed. She parked the box on top of a shiny green Cadillac and fumbled for her keys.

Shaking her head, Alyssa moved on, Caroline beside her. They didn’t make eye contact until they’d turned the corner, collapsing into giggles by a storefront that had been empty for over a year.

“Oh, man. How much cheese do you need?”

“I hope she’s having a party,” Caroline replied. She sat on the brick windowsill. “Oh, damn, I just ripped my tights. Stupid rough brick.”

“Goes with the rest of your vibe.”

“Should’ve known better,” she grumbled. “That’s still a lot of cheddar to eat by yourself.”

“Hey, look at this,” Alyssa said.

Caroline twisted and gazed at the sign in the window. Last week, the glass had been dull and dusty. This week, a black cloth shot through with silver thread filled the display.

“Huh. Coming soon. The Dark Rose. A goth clothing store.”

Alyssa shook her head and twisted her lips a little. “I don’t know. Sounds weird.”

The brunette’s lips hinted at a smile. “You don’t have to come if you’re scared.”

“Probably filled with weirdos. C’mon. Let’s go. I want to get a coffee.” Alyssa stood up and looked at her friend expectantly.

“Yeah. Sure.” Caroline stood, her eyes still fixed on the sign.

“You coming?” Alyssa’s voice called impatiently, already several feet away. She turned back and tapped her hand on her bare leg.

“Yeah, yeah,” Caroline said.

Her gaze lingered on the painted plaster skull next to a black rose, surrounded by artfully puddled fabric.

“I’ll be back,” she whispered.

Thesis Cat’s work badgering her procrastinating human is complete. It’s naptime!

The Old Gods Return

In this week’s odd prompts challenge, Misha Burnett and I traded writing ideas. I suggested he detail why someone was both prickly and poisonous. He challenged me to explore the old gods’ return after a young girl is removed from a cult. However, I seem to have forgotten about the “twenty years later” part...

“Blast the rotting spots!” Savannah swore, and glanced sideways to see if anyone had overheard her. She tossed the book aside onto the wooden plank floor.

Her brown eyes met Hugh’s, across the porch steps. Her shoulders slumped for a moment before remembering no one here would care, in this strange neighborhood filled with cookie-cutter houses and bread with no personality trapped in shiny, colorful plastic bags.

“Why do you say that?” Hugh asked. “You say it like it’s a swear.” His eyes were half-shut under long lashes she envied.

Savannah turned her head and studied him with narrowed eyes. His face was blank, but she thought his core was tense. Perhaps he was interested after all. Perhaps he was bored. She couldn’t tell.

“It is a swear,” she muttered.

He closed his eyes but didn’t move away. “I don’t understand it.”

“Everyone tells me not to talk about it, but nobody will tell me why.” Savannah leaned back against the railing and tried to imitate his laid-back posture. She breathed in the scent of new grass and damp earth.

He sighed. “So tell me.”

She glanced up over her shoulder. The back door was open with only a screen to stop the words she was tired of holding inside, but she didn’t care anymore.

“You know that I’m a foster kid.” It wasn’t a question. They were all foster kids here.

He nodded.

“My parents were part of a big church. In that compound with all the buildings. Mama Rosa says it’s a cult,” she said.

The carefully pronounced words felt odd in her mouth. A cult meant bad, meant weird, meant crazy. This was the crazy place, with its trimmed unnatural hedges and carefully planted gardens, not a weed found between the perfect, uncracked sidewalks, covered with pastel chalks.

Hugh opened his eyes. “So?”

“So, it’s a swear in the church,” Savannah said. She glared at him and frowned. She gave up on copying his cool don’t-care pose and kicked a stubby leg out over the porch stairs.

He was unfazed. “Okay, so it’s a swear. Why were you swearing?”

“This history book doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t match anything I ever learned before. I was a good student until I came here.”

She felt her eyes starting to water and stared out into the yard with its too-perfect leafy green tree, fresh with early spring buds. So what if the swing hanging from a thick branch was fun? It wasn’t home, filled with the smell of sourdough bread baking and the sounds of chanting.

Savannah tried not to blink and failed. Water dripped slowly down the right side of her face. She pressed closer to the railing and rubbed her face against the round wooden pillar, hoping Hugh wouldn’t see.

He grunted. “Least you can read it.”

She wouldn’t acknowledge his weakness, but was grateful he’d shared. Foster kids had to stick together. She’d been here only two weeks, but even she knew that.

Something moved in the woods behind that perfect tree and the rope and tire swing. “Hey, you see that?”

“What is that?” Hugh sat up. “Something yellow. Big, too.”

Branches crackled as the big yellow blob emerged from the woods, crashing through the undergrowth.

“Oh, sweet holy pudding,” Savannah breathed. She jumped to her feet.

Hugh rose more slowly. “Was that another swear?”

“They were right,” she said, jumping up and down.

“Who was right?”

Savannah couldn’t keep the grin off her face. Her bare feet danced over the worn wooden porch. “My real parents were right. Mama Rosa can call it a cult all she wants, but they were right!”

Hugh backed toward the door. “Uh-huh.”

She stepped down and spread her arms wide. “Hail and blessings, holy giant banana!”

Thesis Cat has been protesting the lack of attention this degree has caused since she was a kitten.

Happy Snacks

This week on Odd Prompts, I challenged Cedar Sanderson to tell us what’s hidden amongst the wildly patterned tiles. My prompt came from Becky Jones, who asked me to explain the horrifying sight of a dragon carrying a human.

Flemming scowled at her easel and bit her lip, letting out an unladylike snort. She didn’t know why the view wasn’t magically transposing itself onto the canvas. The view itself was exceptional, after all.

She stood on a stone balcony several hundred years old, with enough wear to make it nostalgic and feel like home but not enough that one had a sense of danger. The balcony itself had graceful pillars that arched, supporting a roof loosely woven of grapevines. Careful pruning of the natural lattice by the gardener meant filtered daylight shone through, perfect for midmorning painting.

Roses twined up the stone legs of Flemming’s distant ancestor, buds opening layers of shell-pink with centers of a pale yellow reminiscent of aged books. Their scent wafted sweet and floral from his endless watch over the stairs to the grounds below. The balcony’s ivory stone railing overlooked a view to the orchards, next to herb and vegetable gardens that were laid out with mathematical precision.

Beyond, a valley filled with shades of green now that the last of the morning fog had slowly disappeared, overpowered by gentle sunrays and soft light. Moving splotches of white sheep roamed in the distance, urged on by spotted dogs and the children deemed responsible enough to move past egg collection and message delivery duties. Mountains covered in a mix of towering evergreens loomed in the distance, jagged under an open azure sky. A deep blue river bisected the scene, its meandering path burbling and life-giving.

In short, Flemming could not ask for a more picturesque setting for her new hobby. It would, however, help if her new hobby would cooperate.

Palette in her left hand, she took an exaggerated step toward the canvas, currently filled with splotches of approximately the correct color in each location. Biting her lip, she extended an arm, paintbrush tapering to a blob of paint, and stabbed at the work. It left an emerald streak behind.

Baring her teeth in a rictus grin, she tilted her head and squinted luminous, faceted eyes toward the new addition. Yes, that was better. Extending the palette like a shield, she smashed the brush through the next color and continued, tail twitching merrily.

An hour later, she had both made progress on the painting and frightened one of the gardeners into fainting. And – Flemming stopped with a jerk that nearly put a mountain in the wrong place. She’d painted Giselle into the sky without meaning to do so, but with one horrifying addition.

She glanced up. Yes, there was her friend, winging her way inbound, presumably for the landing area near the statue of Great-Uncle Fjorinak.

Flemming hissed, and steam came from her ears. There was a human on Giselle’s back! An abomination, intolerable, an insult to all dragonkind. Her tail lashed rapidly against the stone floor, scales flashing in the filtered sunlight.

She tossed the palette aside. It landed against the balcony with such force it shattered into several pieces, smearing paint against the pale stone. Brush still in hand, she stomped over to the landing pad.

“What is the meaning of this?” she shouted at her friend, and then drew in her breath, horror-struck.

Giselle looked at her miserably, thick rope twisted around her body. “This idiot tried to lasso me, Flem. Like a common cow. Not even from the good herd for feast days. Like the cull herd that always has at least one calf accidentally drown itself.”

“You’re not cull herd,” Flemming protested automatically, staring with unblinking amber eyes. Her paintbrush dangled loosely from her claws.

From Giselle’s crimson side, a human covered in metal banged her ribs with a sword. “Stop that, you little twerp,” she snapped.

“Did the human keep doing that while you were in the air?” Flemming asked curiously. “He must not want to live.”

Giselle snorted. “Well, I’ve brought you a snack, then. Get me out of these ropes, would you? And what were you doing when I winged in? You looked like you were fencing with a board.”

Flemming’s mouth gaped open with toothy grin, similar to the one that had caused the gardener to faint earlier. “I’ve taken up painting,” she said proudly.

The metal-clad human stopped banging on Giselle’s ribcage and turned his head toward the sapphire dragon. Flemming glared into the darkened visor. “Do you have opinions, human snack?”

“I’d love to see your work,” Giselle said warmly. “But after you get me out of these ropes. Flem, please.”

“Of course,” Flemming said. She set the paintbrush at the statue’s feet and moved over, slashing a claw at the ropes.

Giselle sighed in relief as the tangled ropes came free and piled at her talons.

Her free hand snagged the metal human’s shoulder as he got to his feet. She pushed him toward Giselle, claws digging into the pauldron with the creak of tearing metal. “Here’s your snack.”

“Our snack,” Giselle said. “You can have the head. Now, let’s see this painting –”

“Wait, wait, wait, hang on,” Marcus said, interrupting his older sister’s tale. “Dragons can’t paint. This whole story is ridiculous.”

“Of course they can,” Sarah insisted from her lofty eleven-year-old viewpoint. “They have the internet. She watched instructional videos.”

“Fine,” he said with a grumble, breaking off a piece of his cookie and leaving crumbs on the table. “Dragons can have art. But knights are s’posed to win.” Marcus stuffed the cookie in his mouth.

“Not from the dragons’ point of view,” Sarah pointed out primly. She eyed his crumbs with distaste and picked up her own gingerbread man, careful not to smudge the frosting.

He grabbed a second cookie and frowned up at her with grumpy brown eyes. “The knight’s not a snack.

Sarah dunked her gingerbread man into a glass of milk head first. “Isn’t he?” She bit off the head before it could disintegrate and gave her little brother a toothy smile.

Marcus’ eyes lit up. Smashing the cookie down on the low table, he let out an earsplitting roar. “Let’s play dragon next!”

Blue Hands of the Three

This week, I challenged Becky Jones to write on what forensic analysis revealed.

nother Mike, who wrote about Aphrodite riding sidesaddle on a goose, challenged me with this: “He was bent over, praying, with his hands together, when the other hands grasped his in support. He blinked, and then noticed that the hands holding his were blue…”

I sat down intending this to be a monkey’s paw, “be careful what you wish for” story. One in which Jonas wishes to hide his problems, and looks up to find a zombie’s blue, rotting hands happy to distract him. I’ll have to explore undead religious proclivities another time, because this spilled out instead.

Jonas froze in horror, as a resounding crash echoed within the cavernous Guildhouse. The wooden balconies populated with heads poking from each of the cubbies, peering into the open middle where the great loomworks rested.

The loomworks never rested long, only stripped of their precious weaving long enough to deliver the highborns’ work and restring for the next commission. The list of commissions was very long, and the only reason an orphan off the streets had ever been taught to read or figure.

He was one of the few thin, limber, light enough to clamber up to the adjustable fiddly bits at the top and resize the work. He was not entrusted with the weaving. Guildmaster did not permit soiled hands such as his to handle the delicate base fabrics or tapestries hung upon the great loomworks.

He turned, every inch a momentous effort of sheer will, creeping unwilling eyes to stare at the wreckage of wood collapsed upon the lobby. He’d just adjusted the frame, and clearly something had gone horribly, miserably wrong.

No one else moved. The weavers at the small looms on the balconies stared openmouthed. Guild Officials stared from the trading desk, where they displayed sample wares and bargained for gold.

A small, pudgy, redheaded boy on the third floor balcony snickered into the clattering silence, rocking back and forth on elbows propped on the rickety balcony. He clearly knew the punishments the Guildmaster liked to give. No one would spare a thought for the orphan boy’s cries.

Jonas whirled and pelted from the hall, stumbling over limbs grown too long as he tore through the streets. He landed on his knees, bruising them against the cold stone floor the Temple of the Moirai.

He bent over, praying to The Three, aware the Guildmaster would punish him for breaking the great loomworks. He could not even fathom the depth of this punishment, having destroyed the primary source of this Guild District’s wealth.

Worse – if he could no longer climb with impunity, he had no value to the Guild. Jonas shuddered at the faint memory of life on the streets.

Wetness struck his cheeks, and he blinked furiously, unwilling to admit weakness. Now was a time for strength. He needed to prove his value to the Guild.

He just had no idea how to do it.

Jonas closed his eyes, hands clenched together, hoping the three statues’ cold eyes would soften if he only prayed hard enough. He felt warm, rough hands close over his. A man’s voice, harsh with years and commanding, begin the Chant of Respect to The Three. Jonas stumbled over the familiar words.

“…and – and to each our allotment, which we shall not struggle, for we know The Three have measured what – what is to be.” Jonas opened bleary eyes, struggling not to sniffle.

His eyes widened further to see the hands still grasping his. Blue!

“Look at me, boy,” the voice commanded.

Jonas lifted his eyes to see a perfectly ordinary, study workingman. Brown eyes that looked like they laughed often, crinkled at the edges. A tidy beard, streaked with more white than the remaining muddy brown. And hands dyed blue, arms streaked in paler shades up to the elbow.

The man laughed. “It’s from the indigo, boy. The blue dye. You get used to it after a while.”

Jonas lowered his eyes.

“Hey now, eyes up.”

Jonas suspected this man could be heard over a thousand looms if he wanted, but his tone was kind and quiet, not even echoing in the stone-walled temple.

The bearded man took pity on him and released his hands. “Your reaction was interesting,” the man said casually, settling back and studying the statues of The Three.

Jonas studied the statues, shooting the man a sideways glance, uncertain.

“As if you were afraid of the Guildmaster.” The man studied his indigo hands, as if examining the calluses.

Shuddering, Jonas looked away.

“Boy, you don’t have to worry about being strapped for this. Accidents happen.”

He couldn’t stop the panicked mewl that emerged from his throat. Accidents did not simply happen with the Guildmaster. The worst he’d done before now was eat a pear uninvited, and he’d been whipped on a weekly basis or more.

“Someday I’ll share the stories with you, boy. Over a mead, when you’re a bit older. The point is that you learn from your mistakes.”

The man stood up and reached out a hand. “Like learning to build looms from scratch, so you can fix them, and know when they weaken.”

Jonas stared upward, confused.

“I’m the Grand Guildmaster, boy.”

Jonas straightened, tongue-tied. He still didn’t take the outstretched, unwavering hand.

“I’ve heard stories about this district. Bad stories, and too many of them. I’ve come to take control and fix things here.”

Jonas dared to hope. He reached out, tentative and unsure.

The man grasped it in a firm grip.

“And if you’re to become my apprentice, I’ll need to know your name.”

Purple Ink

This week, I challenged Cedar Sanderson to explore theta brain wave stimulation. Leigh Kimmel asked me to explore people duplication, but I suspect I went in a different direction than intended.

“Darling, don’t forget to close the blinds,” Choi called to her husband from where she brushed her hair in the other room.

Her husband walked out of the nursery, but lingered in the hallway. “The twins are out of the light and sleeping,” Adam said. He leaned against the doorjamb, stubbing a toe repeatedly against the wooden floorboards.

“Finally.” Choi looked at her husband with exhausted eyes. “There’s so much more work with two. I can’t believe we got duplicates.”

He coughed, and looked away. “About that.”

The hairbrush landed on the bed with a distinct thump. Choi braced herself against the edge of the bed, ready to launch herself across the hall. “What’s wrong?”

“We’ll be able to tell them apart now,” Adam replied. His tone was measured and reasonable. “Their personalities aren’t developed enough to be helpful otherwise.”

She glared at him, her mouth twisted. “I told you to keep them out of the sunlight!”

“They’re fine, dear. We just also might want to boost whichever one faded with a little paint. As long as neither fades entirely, right?”

“Paint.” She spat the word as if he’d suggested poison.

“Oils, maybe, or acrylics. Not watercolors. Something more permanent than mimeograph ink.”

His eyes were filled with the hope of a child who knows he won’t get a treat, but still can’t resist asking.

It was a long few minutes before Choi sighed. “But I did so love the smell.”

As a bonus, here’s some more Thesis Cat!

Homicide Clearance Rate, 99%

In this week’s Odd Prompts challenge, I charged ‘Nother Mike with “No one escapes the Wild Hunt.”

Mine was from Misha Burnett. ” A forensic necromancer interviews a murder victim. Unfortunately, the testimony of the deceased is inadmissible in court. What information could the victim provide that would give the police a lead on finding evidence that could be used to convict the killer?”

Before we get to that, Thesis Cat continues to do her job in guilt-tripping me to get back to work.

Guarding toaster pastries is important work.

Onto the story!

I stared down at my body and blew out a frustrated sigh of non-existent air. Guess I didn’t need oxygen anymore, but automatic habits die hard.

It still annoyed me further. Counting to ten didn’t help. It was all I could do not to stamp my foot like a toddler in the midst of being denied a cookie.

Yeah, realizing I’d never have a cookie again didn’t help the urge.

I tried again. “Hey. HEY. Heeeeeyyyyy.” I waved my hand in front of the cop’s nose. “Look, dude, I know you can see me. Ever since that asteroid hit, everyone can see ghosts until they cross over.”

He’d blinked at the word “dude.” Good. I’d been trying for a reaction. Maybe offending him wouldn’t help my case, but I’d been pleading and begging for help for twenty minutes, ever since the cops showed up.

Let me tell you, it’s really weird to walk into your neighbor’s house, uninvited, through the wall, and ask them to call the cops because you’ve just been murdered.

Walked right through a whole cabinet of creepy china figurines, too. The memory made me shudder. I guess ghosts can do that, still.

“C’mon, man. I can give you a name, a description, even the reason why and where he works. I thought I was getting out of the guy’s way. He wanted to back into the parking space.”

I kicked my own ribcage, but my foot just passed through. The cop put up his hand like he was trying to block me. I hoped it made him feel freezing cold. Serves him right for ignoring me.

“I was meeting a friend for lunch and told him about what happened. I figured at worst parking lot guy would have spit in my food. Gave me a look and a shake of the head every time he walked past the table.”

The uniform studiously continued to study my dead body, placing evidence markers by blood splatter. He looked everywhere but at me.

“Nametag said Devon, from Mika’s Diner. Over on Greene street.”

A throat cleared behind me. Tall, stubble, greying brown hair, sharp blue eyes that missed nothing but looked exhausted. He wore a rumpled suit and a faded black trench, with a badge slung around his neck on a cheap chain. He jerked his head at me, and I heard the officer first on scene breathe his own sigh of relief.

Lucky bastard, his exhalation had real air in it.

I followed what had to be the homicide detective into what until an hour ago had been my living room. He sat on the couch and waved at hand at my favorite chair like he owned the place.

I raised an eyebrow.

“You want someone to talk to you or not?” His voice reminded me of rusty barbed wire, quick with a comeback and ready to give you tetanus if you were too much of an idiot.

I sat.

“No one will listen,” I started. “I know exactly who did it.”

“Yeah, but don’t you watch the news, kid?” He slumped back against the cushions, leaning on the armrest and studying me as he settled in.

I blinked. “What?”

“I’m saying Fiddler v. Tennessee,” he said. “I’m Joe, by the way. Joe Brighton. Homicide detective. Fourth Precinct.”

“What the hell is Fiddler v. Tennessee?” I asked, frowning. I didn’t like where this conversation was going.

“Supreme Court case. We’ve been watching it for the past couple years. Right after the asteroid hit a decade ago and everything changed, right? This guy says ghosts are no longer humans, therefore they’re no longer sentient.”

I snorted.

He nodded. “Yeah, I agree. But it’s got an impact. Means ghost testimony doesn’t hold up in court.”

“We’re not in court,” I pointed out. “We’re in my living room. Next to my dead body.”

“Yeah, but that uniform in there? Steve’s a good guy. He’s wearing a body cam that records everything, all right? Means he can’t talk to you without it getting caught on camera. That’s a problem.”

“How come you can talk to me?” I asked, stiffening with belligerence.

He crossed his legs in a figure four. “To answer your question, what conversation?” he asked, looking around.

“I’m just getting a sense of what you were like as a person. Talk to myself all the time, you know. Part of my detecting process.”

“I’m no longer a forensic necromancer, after all. No specializing in talking to dead people and getting their testimony, not anymore. I’m just a homicide detective now.”

He tapped slender fingers together, then pressed two fingers to his mouth like he wished they were holding a cigarette.

Snarling, I leapt up. “You mean you can just ignore me and that’s somehow okay?”

Joe didn’t bother making eye contact. “Exactly. And Steve and the other uniforms have to, or they get in trouble.”

Pacing, I struggled with my options. “This is so unfair. I should fight this in court.”

“Good luck finding a lawyer who’ll take that on,” Joe said. “Non-person, remember? Did you add a provision in your will for hiring a lawyer to represent your ghost’s interests posthumously?”

I choked, then remembered I didn’t have to care about that. “Did I what?!”

He leaned back against the couch even further, like the weight on his shoulders was real and tangible. “I see you were a reader. Mysteries.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” I asked, starting to feel the fight drain from me. “You can’t use anything I tell you.”

“Unless you find a way to get me something I can use that’s not your direct testimony.” Joe made eye contact at last. “Don’t suppose you’ve got anything that would help with that, do you?”

I stood firm, feet planted, and whistled high and loud. Joe winced, but I didn’t care. I knew Wilbur would come to our whistle, no matter how afraid he was of the strange man on the couch, or how traumatized he’d been after seeing me stabbed.

I glared at Joe. “I do this, you take care of my dog. You take him in or find him a nice warm home. Not some shelter that’ll put him down, not some terrible owner that’ll make him fight.”

He nodded, once, short and sharp. “Everybody’s got a bargain.”

Studying him with new eyes, I realized his relaxed posture was studied tension, held to contain a tightly wound spring. “You’ve done this before.”

A shoulder shrugged inside the trench.

I turned away at the sound of slow feet and a slight whimper. There he was, my 155-pound bundle of oversized bloodhound joy. Covered in my blood splatter, and maybe some attacker DNA.

“Wilbur, sit.” I gave his head a caress, trying not to notice that I couldn’t feel his fur, that I had to hold my hand just above his ears to keep from sticking my hand through his brain. Poor guy’d been through enough tonight.

I looked at Joe. “He’ll sit for you if you swab his teeth. And fur, I guess.”

He nodded, and waved over a tech I hadn’t noticed in the door.

“Bloodhound got a nose on him?” He gave Wilbur the pet I couldn’t, scratching gently around the ears. Joe looked at me briefly over the tech’s head, but there was compassion in the look. He knew what I wanted, but could never have again.

“He does,” I said sadly. “He trained for it before I got him, but his temperament was never quite right. The nose is there. But he’s a bit of a scaredy-cat.”

The tech stood up, avoiding looking at me as she packed away her samples from my dog.

“Wilbur,” I said. “Time to get to work.”

Joe nodded in approval, and got up to follow my bloodhound.

It was three hours later when they came back. I’d apologized to Steve the uniform by then, who made a few random nods and commented out loud to his partner what a shame it was that I’d ended like this.

I was sitting on the front porch when Joe arrived, Wilbur bounding up behind him. He sat down on the stoop next to me, stroking the dog’s head.

“He was a very good boy,” Joe said softly, mumbling a little. I guess outside, he tried to keep up appearances more.

“He always is,” I said sadly, holding out a hand for Wilbur to sniff. He didn’t seem to mind that I wasn’t corporeal.

“Led us straight to one Devon Nelson, who works at Mika’s Diner. Idiot still had the knife in his hand, smeared with your blood. He’d tried to wipe it off on his own shirt, thinking it would blend in since it was a dark color.”

I leaned back and kicked my legs down the steps. “All over a parking spot?”

“Yeah. Confessed and everything.” Joe kept his head bent over Wilbur.

I sighed. “Feels pretty dumb. Now what?”

Joe grimaced, his face contorting on the side I could see. “Now you either move on, or hang out and do whatever you didn’t get a chance to do in this life.”

“I thought I’d know what to do,” I said. My voice must have been sad, because he looked up finally.

“Nobody really does,” he said.

He stood up, and Wilbur looked at me, tongue lolling and ready to give me a good lick.

I reached out and cupped my hand around his long, droopy ear, wishing I could feel the warmth.

He turned to walk away and paused halfway down the cracked concrete walk. “Come visit Wilbur anytime.”

Couldn’t argue. It wasn’t like I could feed the dog, or walk him through the wall when he needed to go out. I watched as Joe rolled the dark sedan’s window down for Wilbur, who loved to let his ears flop in the wind.

I wondered what it took for someone to talk to the dead each day, and what more it cost to have to hide it.

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