Tag: writing prompts (Page 4 of 21)

At first, I thought the noise was thunder. Now that I was out of tornado land, I could enjoy storms again, and I did. The gentle, soaking rains, the kind the Irish called soft, those were my favorites. But every thunderstorm found me in my beloved padded window seat, breathing in the fresh sharp scent of new growth and watching the flickers of lightning above the mountains. I might have vowed against using my powers, but every flash had me wondering what wild message they sent from the gods, feeling the sizzling pressure of being so humanly alive.

Hell, I enjoyed the rains so much, I even named the German Shepherd pups — currently cowering in the corner and chewing nervously on a resigned-looking stuffed hedgehog with one ear missing, respectively — Dark and Stormy.

That night was different. Dark didn’t normally mind the storms, but had spent the last hour pacing before huddling onto his pillow. Stormy was the first of us to notice the real change, not that we knew what her alerting to a trespasser meant at the time.

I made my way to the security monitors and the stashed .40, wondering who’d be out in this weather, or this far out into the middle of nowhere. My storms were best enjoyed with privacy, and I liked it that way.

Only a few knew where I’d gone, and most of them you didn’t turn away.

It was a reluctant meander down the hallway to let in the cloaked stranger. The wind was howling and rain was pounding down by the time I finally heard the knock at my door.

In the six months I’d been at peace here, I’d not had a single visitor, but suspected only this one would knock with such a ringing, hollow boom. Well, if I could call the lightning, stands to reason someone else could call thunder. Though I’d not thought to guard against such powers when I’d laid the salt and built my defenses.

Stormy whined, and bolted for wherever Dark had hidden. If I lived the night, some retraining was in order, but I couldn’t blame her. Not with this particular guest.

My hand moved with aching slowness to grasp the cold doorknob and wrench the door open.

A hooded figure greeted me under the dripping shelter of a porch designed for storms, shadowed against clouded mountain and wisps of fog, highlighted not with breath but flickering lightning that made my blood sing with the urge to strike first.

“Hello.” I didn’t step back from the entrance. Superstition, of course, as this guest didn’t need an invitation, nor would the allium in the kitchen save any of us from his penetrating gaze.

“Hello, Coruscatio,” Death greeted me, and deep within the depths of the fortified farmhouse, I heard Dark howl in response to the crackling tones. “It’s been a long time.”

I nodded, filtering a trickle of forbidden power that made my palms itch.

“I’ve come to barter for your aid.”

***

This week’s prompt was inspired by Becky Jones: The wind was howling and rain was pounding down when I finally heard the knock at my door.

My prompt went to Cedar Sanderson- and I wound up with a tarot-themed art style!

Check out more over at MOTE!

“Two tablespoons of newt scales,” Liza read.

Mikhail held the scoop a bare millimeter away from the layer of pale orange powder. “Are you sure? Aren’t we supposed to eat this pie?”

She shrugged and tossed the recipe card toward him. “I trust Chef.”

“But the tetrodotoxins…” He dropped the scoop into the jar of dust and felt his hands stick damply to the leather gloves as his fingers flexed. “We just covered this in magical zoology. I want to check.”

“Non,” Chef said in response to Liza’s frantically waving hand and Mikhail’s stuttered explanation. His eyebrows waggled as he talked, nearly obscuring his eyes. “You have the proper ingredients, oui?”

“The ones that were on the list,” Mikhail answered hesitantly. “The shop clerk fulfilled the order. Mom said she checked it before accepting the order.”

“And you checked as well?” The beaky nose pointed directly at his own from inches above his forehead.

He kicked a stray claw that had fallen onto the kitchen’s stone floor with a sneaker that continued to fight its laces, feeling his face heat at the admonition. “It was pretty overwhelming. I didn’t know anyone sold newts then. Maybe pet stores. Not types of newts.”

“But you would have noticed this. The shop gave you space lizards, oui?” Chef paused for dramatic effect, then twisted his lips into a frown when the partners failed to reach. “The lizards taken into space? By the Americans? Are space lizards no longer worthy of adolescent attention?”

The mumbled French that followed made Liza gasp, but all Mikhail followed were a few words of the rolling flow. Something about video games, the next generation, and — petri dishes of fun? Did Chef mean an arcade?

“Chef, look,” Liza said urgently. She pointed a long finger at the ingredient card. “The recipe for gravity pie doesn’t call for space lizards. Just regular newts.”

“Mais non. C’est impossible.” Chef took off his white hat to reveal a mass of salt and pepper curls, digging among the tufts until a clear pair of reading glasses emerged. “Let me see that.”

Mikhail watched Chef’s eyes flicker back and forth, paling with every line of the recipe.

“Mais non,” Chef whispered. “Without space lizards, this is not anti-gravity pie.”

Mikhail twitched. Magical life skills class had been pretty boring so far…

“Out!” Chef shouted. “Everyone out! Drop everything and get out!”

A girl across the room giggled and reached for her bag. “Chef’s in a temper again,” she informed her partner snidely and at full volume. “Time for some real magic instead.”

“Out! Now!” Red lights flashed into view as sirens followed Chef’s words, bursting with ruby sparks above each kitchen station before screaming wildly around the room to chase the students into the hallway.

Mikhail managed to snag his satchel on as the class hurried toward the lawn. He and Liza had been in the corner furthest from the door, so they pulled up the rear of the small herd. A faded pale pink spark wheezed gently at him before dissipating as the massive doors came into sight over the shoulders of their classmates.

“Wonder what’ll happen?” He murmured to Liza, before realizing one of her floating fire extinguishers was missing. “Hey, where’s Lefty?”

“He stayed behind to help Chef clean up,” she said brusquely, reaching for the open door.

BOOM!

The explosion shook the castle floor and sent Mikhail tumbling onto the sun-warmed stone steps. He peeked up at Liza from where he lay sprawled.

“Well, that was unexpected.”

***

This week’s prompt was from Leigh Kimmel, exploring the unexpected, while my challenge to Cedar Sanderson suggested a travel system gone wrong. Check out more or play along over at MOTE!

“I don’t get it,” Jan said with a grunt. He slammed his booted foot onto the shovel until it scraped past whatever rock he’d hit this time. “Mars was first inhabited by robots.”

Sonny snagged the rag out of his back pocket and wiped his forehead. It left a dirt-streaked path of mud across his bald pate before he tucked the bandana carefully away. He leaned on his own shovel, taking a deep breath of the bubble’s UV-sanitized air that never stopped smelling like hospitals. “So?”

Jan kicked his shovel again, but this time left it stuck in the dirt. “So why’re we doing the hard work? We have borer machines. My secondary on the trip here was manifest master. They broke already, when my crew’s barely here a year? All dozen? A dozen borers, gone missing? Didn’t the first two crews bring any?”

He received shrewd concern in reply. “You just came here from engineering late last week. You know why we’re tunneling?”

“‘Course.” Jan looked away from his partner’s gaze. “Cancer rays. We stay underground, it eases the burden on the bubble. Good habits when the electric’s good enough we don’t need to worry.”

“Mmm.” Sonny sliced through some dirt with the ease of long practice. “Used to do this back on Earth, you know. Gardening. Thought I’d be part of the gardens, selling Mars-grown veggies at the weekly market.”

“All hydroponics now,” Jan mumbled.

“Mostly cared for by ‘bots,” Sonny agreed. “You know what use humans have on Mars?”

Jan waited for the answer in shadowed light flickering with the buzz of fluorescents. It didn’t come.

“First colonizers,” he ventured. “I guess we set things ready for the next crews. Test the path. Might make things seem worth it when Bubble Two’s open and we can talk to some new faces. When’s the next shuttle get here again?”

“Preparing the way,” Sonny said, and smacked his fist on top of the shovel. “Guinea pigs.” His smile grew grotesque. “Canaries in the tunnel, you could say.”

Pushing his shovel away, Jan spun in a dusty circle. “We’re more use dead?”

“As long as the scientists learn from our deaths.” Sonny contemplated the path that was marked out for them, even though it led into darkness. “Thing is, they did use borers for a while. And before that, they built an overland path between Bubbles One and Two overland.”

Jan dropped his shovel. “What?”

“I came with the first crew,” the balding man said. “The very first. Last left, too.” He tilted the blade, carefully letting the loose grains trickle into the container on the floater that held similar discards, piled high with reddish powder and hard-cracked dirt. “We laid track, even. Two lanes, enough for a rover each way.”

The shovel lay abandoned, Jan ignoring Sonny’s outreached finger. “Why’re we bothering then? We didn’t sign up for this.”

“Didn’t we?” Sonny leaned down and picked up Jan’s shovel, pressing it into the man’s unwilling gloves. “We signed up to colonize Mars, whatever that meant would come.”

“I don’t get it.” Jan leaned the shovel against his chest and shoved his hands into his overall pockets. “What happened?”

“Wrath,” Sonny said. “Havoc marked its path, no matter where we laid track. We tried five times. Radiation bursts, dust storms, the commander gone mad and stabbed his second. We stopped after we lost the doctor when he hallucinated he was inside the bubble and detached his helmet.”

Jan swallowed, then tucked his shovel into its nook on the floater and ran a hand through the containerized dirt piles. “That’s horrible. I saw the graves, but no one would talk about what happened. I didn’t want to pry.”

“We tunneled after that,” Sonny continued, as if he hadn’t heard the other man. He clicked his own shovel into place. “Got the basics with the borers, or mostly, but we’re left to clean up the loose debris and set the path for tracks. We’ll leave the rovers topside. A tram gives more protection.”

“Protection?”

Sonny hauled himself into the floater’s seat and flicked the switch three times, then pressed the orange button twice. The floater hummed to life, and the bald man turned to look at Jan.

“Why, from whatever ate the borers, of course.”

***

Inspired by this week’s havoc-filled prompt from Cedar Sanderson and this image. My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel – check it out over at MOTE!

Madge let out a slow whistle. “Big group this time.”

Emon rolled his eyes and hitched his uniform pants up before slapping his hat on, and never mind that they were still indoors. “All five, boss?”

“New recruits are new recruits,” she said firmly, and tucked her graying braid back over her shoulder before marching through the door, hat properly in hand. “You. Come with me.”

The brunette with spiked hair stared blankly at Madge’s pointed finger, then swiveled her head around the dusty room with its empty desks and industrial tile floors. “Who? Are you? Why?”

“Hmm.” Lips pressed firmly together, she reconsidered briefly. “Nope. You’ll do. I’m Madge, I’m your mentor, and this is the last time you come along unquestioningly, because normally I want you to ask.”

“Ask what?”

“What’d I say about questions?” Madge tossed over her shoulder, already heading out of the stifling stale air and back into the real world.

Only her own boots squeaked on the linoleum.

“Brianna. Come on. You’ll see the others when we get back.”

“As long as we come back,” came a sullen mutter.

Madge increased her patter to match her pace. “Bathroom over there, you sure? We’ll be gone a while, okay, water bottle full? Hat? Good.”

She wrenched the door open past the sticky lock. Arizona air, hotter than Dante’d ever dreamed, blasted them in the face.

They were the only visible creatures on the hike up sandy scrub.

“I’m not used to this,” Brianna said quietly. “I’m not from around here.”

“So say we all,” Madge quipped, but the other woman didn’t get the joke. She let herself take a moment for a purely internal sigh. “We all start somewhere. You get used to it eventually.” She glanced down at the dust on her boots. “Sort of.”

The clank of a water bottle cap unscrewing carried. “Why do I get a mentor and the others don’t?”

Early questions were a good indicator. “The others get Emon. And Greg, when he’s back from leave.”

“And the extra pin on your uniform? Because you’re the boss?”

Observation was another indicator. Still, she dared not hope, not after all this time.

Instead she changed the subject. “Why’d you join? Border patrol’s a tough gig these days. Everybody hates us, no matter what side they’re on, politics or wall.”

She let the silence draw out.

“Stability,” Brianna finally offered. “I needed money. A job that won’t vanish overnight. And I heard it’s easier to transfer when you’re in the system already.”

“Wait until you hear about interdepartmental rivalry and unreasonable levels of bureaucracy,” Madge said as dryly as the dirt beneath her boots. “It’s kept me here for a blissful eighteen years. Two more, and it’ll be time to move on.”

“To what?” Brianna asked.

Madge stopped just before they crested the slope. “That’s what I’m about to show you. Come on. It’s a beautiful view.”

The final two steps brought a dazzling desert vista into sight, with hints of ochre streaking amongst more common browns and subtle yellows, shadowed by stone and pebble and sage.

And in the middle, a glowing violet portal. Madge felt her core tense as she studied Brianna with peripheral vision.

“What the…what is that thing?”

Tears sprang into her eyes. “That, apprentice, is what I hoped you could see that the others couldn’t.” Madge tapped her extra badge, a capital letter M. “This stands for magic, because the government is boring. You’re not hallucinating.”

“I’m not sure that answered my question.”

“It’s the portal,” she said softly. “The real reason we’re here. And in two more years, when you’re ready, I go through it and back home.”

“Aliens?” The word was hesitant. “Like that movie?”

Madge gestured toward a rock, half shaded by a scraggly dead tree. “I suppose, though it’s more like fantasy that sci-fi…let me tell you properly.”

The women found semi-comfortable seats on the overly warmed boulder and stared toward the portal with its spinning edges, where threads of red flickered.

“It all started when border patrol recruited its first witch…”

***

Thanks for the inspiration, nother Mike! When they started recruiting witches for the border patrol, things got magical…

My prompt went to Padre – “Have you ever heard the adage, ‘suffer in silence’? It applies to this situation, my friend.”

Check out more over at MOTE!

The USS Chocolate Chip Cookie had been on a decelerating approach toward the structure for the past month, drawing out the journey of decades spent frozen in stasis.

The astrophysicist who’d discovered the space station had warned the captain to expect a relic. Life was out there, but the anticipation had been tempered with realism. What were the chances alien life would still be alive by the time anyone came to say hello?

The crew had been chosen with the expectation they’d be part archaeologist, part repairman.

But as they’d drawn closer, it had become clear that not only was the station habitable, it was in fact…inhabited.

The silver twinkle of departing and arriving ships had been the first sign, but the sensors had been blaring life form indicators for weeks.

They’d practiced welding a lot more than diplomacy. Wasn’t like the Cookie could turn around at this point to pick up a State Department liaison. Hell, State wouldn’t get their message tentatively confirming life for several years.

No, the Cookie was on her own.

Captain Cassie Berdt’s chest spasmed. She let out a breath and the twinge passed. The tension between her shoulder blades did not.

“Shuttle on approach,” reported the lieutenant whose chair she was gripping hard enough to leave a titanium dent.

Cass sucked in another gulp of stale air. “Steady as she goes.”

A crackle came over the comms. “Port door is opening. Shimmer indicates shield tech.” A pause, followed by another burst of static. “Scanners confirm. Looks like a crowd is gathering at the dock.”

Sergeant Penny broke in over Commander James’ measured tones. “They’re humanoid!”

“Confirmed, majority humanoid,” the commander added, but Cass was probably the only one still paying attention, judging by the murmur on the bridge.

“Two hundred meters to docking,” a cool British voice announced.

“Let Winston take it in,” Cass ordered. “Hold targeting to calculations only. Stay friendly but all systems and crew alert for trouble.”

“Aye, Captain,” the AI responded. “Fifty meters.”

“Shuttle crew, don’t forget to document.”

“Recording logs activated,” Commander James replied.

Sergeant Penny let out a nervous giggle. “Ooo. That one’s cute.”

“Try to avoid local mating rituals until we find out what they are,” Cass stated calmly. She held in her eyeroll and affected a posture of poise and control. Penny was a sharp junior NCO, but she would pull a stunt like this right as the formal logs started.

“Sorry, Captain.” Penny always was.

Winston broke in crisply. “Translator activated and broadcasting to shuttle crew. Docking in five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One.”

The bridge crew had held their breath collectively this time, judging by the exhales after the bump.

“Atmosphere normalized. Breathable air.” Penny was back to business as she focused on her sensor pad.

“No pathogens detected,” Winston added.

“Confirmed. Hatch is safe to open.” Clanking mingled with hydraulic whirs.

“Ooo lá lá,” James murmured.

Cass choked on her stale, cold coffee. “Commander?”

He didn’t answer.

Above the murmur of the alien crowd, Penny’s voice gave a clue. “Do you smell that? It’s beautiful. The scent memories it’s evoking are amazing…”

“We are surrounded,” James said, his baritone dropping to a dreamy bass.

“I don’t think I mind.” Penny giggled coquettishly.

“You should join us, Captain.” The unmistakable sounds of kissing followed.

Cass felt her face redden, suddenly glad she hadn’t given into crew pressure and broadcast the shuttle feed live.

“Abort! About mission! All crew, retreat to the Cookie immediately. Winston, evacuate them by force if necessary. I don’t care if it starts an intergalactic war, we’re not leaving them behind.”

“Apologies, Captain.” Winston sounded…mussed. “All circuits are busy. This station AI is unlike anything I’ve ever analyzed…”

***

Had some fun with the inhabited station – thanks, Becky! My prompt went to nother Mike. Check out more at MOTE!

Jerry studied the white disk a white-gloved waiter had just handed him on a silver-rimmed china plate.

“Wondering what it is?” A cooly amused blonde in a shimmering gown the color of moonlight gave a ghost of a smile and made her way toward him, heels clicking on the marble floor. She lifted her flute of champagne. “Elena.”

He lifted his own glass toward her. “Wondering how to eat it with my hands full and nowhere to set these down.” He peered ostentatiously at the plate, which revealed no secrets to its audience. “But also what it might be, yes, and whether it’s edible.”

The round disk looked like smooth styrofoam, dazzled with either pebbles or the dullest edible confetti he’d ever seen.

“Orphans on the moon,” Elena said with a smile nearly as dazzling as the diamonds circling her neck. “It’s a themed meringue disk. My chef’s creation.”

Jerry softened, lifting his gaze as if to study her for the first time. Other than her curls, she matched her picture. “So you’re the host.”

“First time at one of my fundraisers?” Her words held a bite of irony. “Apologies. That was uncalled for.”

“I gave it away, didn’t I?” He grinned, urging on the charm and grateful his itchy fingers were occupied. Those diamonds were singing to be handled by someone who’d appreciate them more than an evening accessory. “Not knowing how to handle the food or pretend to be all blasé.”

“Perhaps,” she conceded.

“But I’m one of the ones who made it big after being raised in an orphanage on the moon, and it’s time for me to give back as well.”

“Fascinating,” drawled Elena. “The modern version of local boy made good. Mister…”

“Jim,” he said hastily, giving her his code name for the evening. He dropped his champagne on a passing waiter’s tray, untouched.

He tapped two fingers against his lapel pin, the agreed-upon signal for target acquired. A signal that also looked like it was an invitation to move closer.

“Now, would you care to help me test this delectable treat before we orbit into the auction room?”

He held up the lightweight disk, gave her a devil-may-care grin reminiscent of the Apollo program, and knew they’d never make it that far.

***

Did nother Mike expect the unexpected from the moon orphanage to be a gang of orbital thieves? And what did Becky Jones do with terraforming? Find out over at MOTE!

“The Belle Notation is coming into firing position, Captain.” The ensign’s voice squeaked at the end, with a flush to match. He cleared his throat. “Shields remain at sixty-one percent and rising.”

Captain Chiv studied the comm device in her hand, poking at it with a long finger. “Engineering is doing a wonderful job. A pity we can’t increase the shielding further during wormhole travel.”

“Yes, Mum,” and this time the tension kept his voice high. “In the meantime, shall we maneuver? Or perhaps you have other orders you wish to provide?”

She quirked an eyebrow. “First time in space, Ensign Aubring?”

He stiffened. “Graduated the academy last month, Captain.”

The XO drifted past, slapping the ensign lightly on the shoulder. “Everything gon’ be okay. Cop’tin will take care ov us.”

“Gimeson knows what he’s about. Grew up on Mars, you know. He’s a good role model.”

“If I live, Mum.”

Chiv tapped her comm again. “There’s always a doomsayer aboard the watch. Next tour, it’ll be someone else. You’ll get there. Enjoy the view. Io’s beautiful this time of year.”

“Captain,” he begged. “I’d like to point out that the Belle is now warming up her torpedo tubes.”

“Shields at seventy,” called the XO.

“Thanks, Gimeson.” Chiv extracted her draped legs from the Captain’s chair and stood with her feet shoulder width apart, easy with long practice in limited grav. She leaned forward slightly to study the display. “There they are, right on time.”

“Neutral signal, Mum.”

A crackle emerged from the console radio. “Neutral party with deliveries for parties on the Belle Notation and the Grammatically Incorrect. Please spin down for Galactic Delivery Services.”

Aubring groaned. “Deliveries always come at inconvenient times, don’t they? That poor tug will be toast in thirty seconds.”

“Law ov the galaxy,” Gimeson said laconically.

“Neutral party,” Chiv said with a slight smile, and held up her comm for Aubring to inspect. “As long as the tug avoids pirates – which he will, in this area, with two of us squaring off, not even they’re that daring – he’ll make it here. And we’re obliged to let him take as long as he likes to deliver.”

Gimeson slid toward the viewport. “Stalls the conflict until we’re ready. Maybe stops it a’tall.”

“Don’t suppose it’s pizza this time, Captain?” came a hopeful voice over the internal intercom. “Engineering could use a morale boost.”

“Kebabs,” Chiv answered absently. “They were faster. And bubbles, for the other crew, because I want them distracted, not unhappy if the food’s cold again.”

She headed for the hatch. “Diplomacy, Ensign. It’s got its quirks.”

***

This week, AC Young prompted me with: Mankind had colonised the solar system, but delivery companies still delivered stuff at the most inconvenient of times.

My prompt went to nother Mike: Still pools marred the dusty path, gleaming crystal-blue with reflected sky.

Check out more, over at MOTE!

The downpour blocked her view and trickled icy down her neck from where she huddled under the tiny awning. Sierra could barely see across the parking lot, let alone study the graffitied mural she’d watched the hooded artist create last year.

Last year, when she’d been able to afford the one-bedroom and she hadn’t minded sleeping on the couch. Not when Mama needed the bed after another round of poison that shrank her very bones, no matter that the doctors said it would save her.

Now…the baker’s wife had already tapped on the glass twice, and her arms ached from the stack of heavy books. She’d wasted the last of her funds unknowing, blithely secure in job and student status.

And now, the scent of damp pages rose from the precious art books in a thick technicolor miasma that blended with the fog and did nothing to blur the salt from her tears.

The next rap made her bolt across the street, heedless of the further damage to her shattered dreams. The one thing her mama had made her promise was not let go, and tonight her dreams flew on wings far above her reach.

Best she leave her mourning in the street with the last of the rain.

Tomorrow she’d search for a new job and settle into trudging dreariness.

Only she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere, the remnant of swollen eyes and years she’d spent in hospitals rather than learning her way.

From the darkness came a golden, neon glow from an open door, and she was chilled enough now to dash for friendly lights and get her bearings.

And within the blur of falling water and glinting light arose wings bigger than any eagle she’d ever seen, rippling open and stretching beyond the wooden doors…

***

Leigh Kimmel prompted: The downpour had become so heavy you could barely see across parking lot. And then you glimpsed…

My prompt – The scheduling bot was the perfect assistant, until… – also went to Leigh this week. Check it out over at MOTE!