Writer of Fantasy. Wielder of Red Pens.

Tag: writing prompts (Page 9 of 21)

Star-Crossed Lovers

“You know I love you, John,” the hologram began, and the look on her recorded face was so earnest he knife-handed the replay. The woman he loved stilled, a sad apology still frozen upon her lips.

“I’ll be damned if you Dear John me on our anniversary, Fedora.” He yanked shirts out without looking and slammed the drawer, so close it caught the tip of his finger. It throbbed as he continued packing with hands grown awkward. “Your happiness was worth the risk of going to space. But if you won’t come to me, then I’ll have to head to you.”

The tabby on the bed flicked her tail in response. Fedora, her hair unnaturally short for the days spent in zero-grav, watched it all with an unblinking stare, even as yawning fangs emerged from her chest with a yowl.

“Fine,” he snapped, and dug in the closet until he found the carrier he’d bought half as a joke, the one with the sturdy viewing bubble and its own emergency oxygen supply. “But you’re lucky the station even allows you to come with me.”

Fedora watched it all, until he left her silent and still, in the empty, grief-shattered home they’d once shared.

He regretted the decision to bring the cat as he argued with the spaceport’s ticket salesbot. “How much extra for this rat catcher?”

“Rodents are not yet an on-station problem, sir. Cats are therefore permitted as a luxury item of baggage and subject to additional fees. It’s quite clear on our website.”

The robot’s bland enunciation was somehow a condescending snub.

“The policy may be revised once the station is fully inhabited and functional terraforming has begun. Do you still wish to purchase a ticket at this time?”

He smacked a fist onto the counter. “It’s this or retirement.”

“I’m sorry, but that is not an answer.”

“Yes, blast it.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, then unzipped his jacket to access his spacepass. “Retirement wouldn’t be right without her anyway.”

“John?”

That voice – dulcet, surprised tones he’d heard only this morning, leaving the void of a fractured heart. John turned, disbelief and hope warring in his throat. “Dora. My Fedora.”

She rushed him then, duffle bag slung over one shoulder, wrapping him in arms grown fragile from months on station.

He spun her around, ignoring the bleating bot and irritated passengers dodging her long legs swung wide.

The cat’s squall from the specialty backpack brought him to a slow halt.

“What are you doing here?” Her laugh was casual, confused. “Did you come to pick me up? How did you know I’d be on this flight?”

He dropped a kiss on her forehead, rescued his bag with one hand from the slow approach of a security bot, and hugged her close. “I came to get you back.”

“What?” She started to laugh again, then sobered. “Did you get my message?”

“Yes.” The word was terse, dropping into the mix of announcements and happy reunions.

Fedora looked at him, patted his stubble with one hand, and tugged on his jacket. “Come on. Let’s go find one of those outside benches. I want to feel sunlight on my face again.”

They sat in silence, waving off taxis, his arm wrapped around her frail figure. The tabby rested at their feet in her bubble, watching traffic and travelers with alert ears and whiskers.

“Why?”

She snuggled into his shoulder, burying her face into leather and flannel.

“Two days ago, there was an accident.” Dora rubbed a thin hand over her eyes. “At least, it looked like one. I suppose it could have been clever sabotage. Space does strange things to people.”

He hadn’t thought it was possible to pull her closer.

“The matériels mix was wrong, and just as we pressurized and thought we were safe…Suddenly, there’s a damn hole in the wall. The one we spent a week building. Just crumbled away.” She shuddered. “Air rushing through, and I’m just standing there, in space with my helmet off, wondering why there’s a hole in the damn wall.”

The sun’s comforting warmth was incongruous with the sobs wracking her body.

“Kayla and Bob didn’t make it.” A security announcement in four languages nearly drowned out her words. “Bob, you know he has – had – a thing for her, and I knew he wanted to go to her. But our training is clear. You help who’s closest. And that was me.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “I saw his eyes flicker, and once I’d snapped out of shock and got moving, I pushed him aside. Got my helmet back on and oxygen flowing.” She pushed her short hair back, a habit space hadn’t broken of her even after years. “The rest of the wall had collapsed on both of them.”

He didn’t have words, so he stroked her hair.

“The job wasn’t worth the cost anymore. Not if it meant losing you.” She wiped her eyes. “I’d already lost my crew. So I sent you that message and told you I was coming home.”

“I probably should have listened to the whole holo,” he admitted after watching a pigeon peck at the cat’s plexiglass bubble, secure in its taunting in the way only city pigeons had.

“Wait. Why were you here, John?”

“Coming to get you back.” He shrugged, as much as he could without dislodging her from his arms.

“You hate space,” she said in a whisper.

“And I wasn’t about to let it have you permanently,” he answered simply. “Though I’m glad you caught me before I paid for that ticket.”

Her laugh turned into a snort this time. She nudged the pigeon away with an outstretched boot. “Worse, before you paid for your really expensive and angry carry-on.”

“Means I didn’t have to pawn this.” A brilliant rainbow cut through the spring afternoon’s glow. He held the open box toward her. It’d taken some doing, tugging it from his jacket pocket and opening the box one-handed. “What do you say?”

Her kiss cut off his question.

“I say let’s go home. Forever.”

***

MOTE

A Relaxing Spa Day

Ami looked doubtfully at the metal contraption that rested on the tile floor and swiveled her head to gaze at the attendant. “It looks like a coffin.”

She could have chosen the term spaceship instead. The hatch wheel certainly gave that impression, though the clunky box was less than aerodynamic. Or perhaps a refrigerator from the nineties, repurposed for spa use. The metal box was an odd shade of pearlescent eggshell, most popular with government buildings across the world. This contraption and the plain tile room didn’t fit with the spa’s luxury offerings, soothing paintings, and beautiful floral arrangements.

“I don’t know…” Her editor Lisa had sold her on the idea, after hearing about a man who’d written a book in a day after spending a few hours in a sensory deprivation tank. Lisa, who was probably already a pile of blissful mush from a full-body massage two rooms away, and didn’t have to climb into a metal coffin and seal the door behind her to relax.

The woman whose nametag proclaimed she was Skylar laughed and pushed brown curls off her forehead. They bobbed back into place immediately. “I promise you, our sensory deprivation tanks are safe. Like I said earlier, we recommend people test it for an hour first before working their way up, but after that? Quite relaxing once you get used to the lack of stimuli.”

“They’re supposed to have good health benefits.”

“Massive amounts of magnesium salts make you float and give you a nice mood boost.” Skylar’s curls bobbed again. “A lot of people report peacefulness.”

Ami sucked in a breath, feeling her lips pull back in trepidation. Claustrophobia hadn’t been a problem she’d had to deal with before. “Oxygen flow on that end?”

Skylar nodded. “Some people prefer their heads by the door, others want a bit of obvious air flow. I’ve done this plenty of times and find the air currents disruptive.”

Ami didn’t think she’d mind oxygen in her metal coffin. Seemed preferable to the alternative. “I see.”

Skylar walked over to the hatch and rested her hand on the wheel. “If you decide you prefer the door open, just spin so the latch stays out.”

Ami sucked in a deep breath again, so hard it made an odd sound. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to do this.” Skylar gave her a sympathetic wink. “Spas should be fun. If this is popular enough, the owner will invest in a modern version, but I promise, the water’s sanitized and warm. All you have to do is float.”

She shoved her shoulders back and jutted her jaw in the air with a confidence she’d lost years ago. “Change over there?”

“You’ll love it,” Skylar gushed, pointing to the corner Ami had indicated. “I promise.”

The door shut and locked behind the attendant as Ami took her jacket off. “I’d better,” she muttered. “Can’t believe I’m doing this voluntarily.”

She studied the hatch wheel a few moments later, barefoot on the cold tile floor. “In for a penny.”

Ami reached for the door and yanked, then nearly fell as nothing happened. The hatch was already sealed. “Stupid.”

She spun the wheel and slipped inside – and then slid into the salt water as gravity and physics took over, banging the door shut behind her.

Whether she’d wanted to or not.

Her breath came in pants as she realized the oxygen was on the other side of the coffin, but she couldn’t bring herself to move away from the door. Perhaps – perhaps it would be fine. She had an hour in the tank, and could get out early or spin around to the air flow later.

All Ami had to do was make it through the first five minutes. Then a book would magically pop into her head, the book that was already a month late with barely three chapters written.

Hadn’t Skylar mentioned this end of the tank was supposed to have a floatation pillow on the wall? Ami reached out a hand blindly and encountered something velvety and soft. She gave the slippery pillow a tug.

“Bad enough you interrupt my bath.” The voice burbled like ocean foam on the shore, irritation like waves breaking on rocks. “Would you mind not manhandling me?”

What could only be a tentacle wrapped around Ami’s arm, strong suckers pinning her in place. Her breath came in gasps too rapid to do more than hyperventilate.

***

This week’s More Odds Than Ends prompt came from Cedar Sanderson: That’s when that spa showed up. You know, the one with the cephalopods.

My prompt went to Becky Jones, who has a new author page you should go check out: The everyday purposes of megalithic structures were finally revealed to the modern world when…

Allergies are Everywhere

The clouds drifted slowly over the face of the moon, dust trails reminiscent of the old American west as the bots plowed through dust in order to build the new international space base.

A rumble, and the moon heaved.

Aaaaa-choo!

On Earth, Pierre wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her close. “Shooting stars! Isn’t the sky beautiful? Make a wish, darling.”

***

I’m a bit wrecked, so just a snippet this week, but I still had fun with Becky Jones‘ prompt about clouds drifting over the face of the moon. We traded, so I’m looking forward to seeing what she did with a white tiger using an ATM!

Grrrrrr

Last week kicked off a plethora of changes – I’m leaving an entire ecosystem I’ve known for twenty years, I’m tired and grumpy, and MidJourney’s not working – so just a snippet tonight from something I’ve been playing with.

***

Cheruson twirled the nanoboard with casual grace, muscles flashing in his arms and bare chest. “How do I know you won’t renege on the deal and leave me behind?”

Isolita ignored the samurai and dove into the harbor’s muddied waters, surfacing only to slick her hair back. Her own ‘bots fused her legs together into the powerful tail. She used it to splash him in the face. “I make no promises if you won’t even get in the water.”

A swift crouch, and he was dipping a toe into the water, his tight breeches splashed dark from the sea at the ankle and face dripping. “It’s a reasonable question. My prowess is on land.”

She turned her head and looked toward the Sea Arc, hidden beneath the gnarly waves. “You hired me for a job, and I need what your employer will provide.”

“Ah,” he said softly, barely audible over the rippling rhythm of the tide. “I’ve impugned your honor.”

She flipped her tail and bobbed high in the water, shoulders rolling with apprehension. She’d come to Atlantia to save her sister from the wasting disease, not to sell her soul to corporations or enable the downfall of her king. “I’ve no honor left.”

Lita dove into the waves and surfaced nine feet later, disenchanted and unsurprised to find Cheruson beside her on his nanoboard. “Keep up.”

***

This week’s prompt was from Becky Jones: “Dude! Those waves are gnarly!

My prompt went to Padre: “Don’t worry, it’s just one of our traditional Scottish water ghosts. Enjoy your stay!”

See more at MOTE.


Glimmers of Birthday Magic

June slammed down the spatula. Purple frosting splattered the countertop and echoed onto the backsplash in inky stains that would leave a permanent mark. “Fututus et mori in igni!”

“Swearing in Latin will only cause our daughter to learn Latin faster,” Peter mused, a mug of tea in his hand.

“Medina wanted a fancy cake for her birthday,” she muttered, and contemplated the misshapen, frosted blob in front of her. “Peanut’s shading into deeper colors. I was trying to match the icing to her scales.”

“Most children ask for a pony,” he said calmly, and took a sip of tea. “Ours already exceeded expectations with a dragon.”

“It’s her birthday,” June said desperately. She snaked an arm around him and pulled him close, heedless of the frosting splotches on her sleeve that transferred to his sweater. “This is a mess.”

He hugged her back and set down his tea. “June, darling, what were you even doing in the kitchen?”

The last time she’d tried to cook, they’d had to hide the baby dragon from the fire department.

She rubbed her face against the pattern of his sweater, small bumps of the weave a reassuring nudge across her nose. “I wanted to do it myself, not just buy it.”

Peter reached out and swiped a finger through the mess resting in chaotic glory atop the countertop. “Tastes good. Why don’t you do what you do best?”

She bonked her forehead against his shoulder. “Go back to teaching at the university?”

“What? No.” His chin settled on her head, chest rumbling in a laugh that was nearly a purr. “Magic it.”

“Huh.” Craning her neck, she contemplated the mess of crumbs buried under inches of thick frosting. “I guess the base is there.”

“Under more sugar than is healthy for anyone. Medina will love it. You’re just making it fancy with the skills you have. Not the ones you don’t.” He snagged his rapidly cooling tea and dropped a kiss atop her forehead. “You’ve got this.”

Ten minutes later, a squeal of delight drew him back to the kitchen.

This time, he choked on the last of his tea. “Bit overboard, don’t you think?”

The cake had morphed from an unidentifiable mess into an exquisite fantasy landscape with amethyst swirls and deep oceanic blues. Whirling gumdrop trees covered with sparkly lights danced atop the surface in flickering glimmers that rendered candles unnecessary.

June glared.

Peter cleared his throat. “She’ll love it.”

***

This week’s prompt came from Leigh Kimmel: Whirling gumdrop trees covered with sparkly lights.

My prompt went to nother Mike: The lamp curled out an arm and tapped her on the shoulder.

Check these and more out at MOTE!

Octopus Tentacles

Lisse perched on what used to be a concrete wall – more accurately termed rubble, after the last hour – the weariness soaking through her bones until she felt glued to the pointed orb poking through her battle gear into her right buttock. Cold seeped through her fatigues, soaked with blood and ichor from a thousand arms of swarming foes. Her fingers were clenched in a frozen grip on her rifle’s stock.

Her back twitched in a failed automatic response as she recognized the footprints approaching. “Sarge.”

He kicked a small boulder to the side, where it bounced off a pile of tentacles and wobbled to a stop on the dusty ground covered in sticky, drying goo. He settled his bulk in beside her. “There a reason you’re lollygagging when the cleanup’s not verified yet?”

It took several minutes. Her voice didn’t want to work. “You’re here too.” Her words were slurred, almost drunken. “This is what I know, Sarge.”

In the distance, the white flare went up that meant the thirteen klick sphere zone had been verified clear. A shower of sparks fell onto the lake the space octopi had swarmed from, a sizzle filling the air with the sound of frying bacon.

“Doesn’t have to be,” he mused. “You’ve done this twenty years, eh? Mayhap it’s time for something new.”

She hissed in speechless aversion.

“There’s more to life than octopus tentacles,” Sarge insisted. He leaned forward and picked one up, pale pink with red suckers, waved it in her direction. “You knew to look in the lake, didn’t you?”

She nodded, her breath coming more steadily as she slipped into automatic habits. “Piss-poor location for a colony, if you don’t look for alien threats in the water. Can’t make assumptions.”

“Can always use more people who understand threats,” he mused, and threw the tentacle back into the pile. “Back on the battle station. Lots of options for those who keep their eyes open.”

She stared at him, eyes wide with shock. Her body rocked back and forth slightly. “I don’t know how to start over.”

“And…?”

The drawled question had an automatic answer in this unit, though her words came reluctantly.

“Try it and find out.” She coughed, then repeated the words above a whisper. “Try it and find out.”

“More than one way to serve.” He stood and clapped her on the shoulder. “Back to the ship, soldier. Sleep, then grieve. Then you keep living. Red-rimmed eyes don’t suit you.”

***

I’m not happy with this one, because I just went through what felt like an impossible dilemma – and I guarantee that the deep wells of emotion that come with making a lifechanging decision are insufficiently captured here. Perhaps it’s too soon.

Read more at MOTE.

Rose-Colored Dragons

“Hold,” Miranda commanded, smacking a claw into Greystone’s furred chest. She whipped her head around and ducked low. “Ugh. Sorry. I’m not trying to give you orders. Old habits, in this environment. But look down.”

Greystone snorted and gazed up at the crimson dragon he’d known for twenty years now. He wasn’t used to seeing his partner with gold filigree patterns painted around her eye ridges and snout, or the multi-faceted diamond that indicated her rank. “You are the princess,” he said dryly, and looked at the garden mulch at his paws. “Oh!”

A baby dragon, no more than six inches long, whipped a rose-colored tail at his paw and tried to gnaw on one of his claws.

“I forgot it’s that time of year,” Miranda said. “She’s no more than two hours old. The palace kitchen garden’s popular as a hatchery.”

He dangled the claw above the gleaming, darting scales for the tiny creature to chase. “I thought mothers carried the babies in their mouths.”

She shrugged. “They get tired toward the end, and it’s warm enough they can leave the eggs for a bit. Meanwhile, the eggs blend with the cabbages, the litters find the cabbages hysterical for some reason, and if they hatch here, they have a food source.”

He planted his paw, toes spread wide. “Of cabbages.”

“Well.” She blew a tiny flame for the dragon, who gurgled in glee and fell onto her back. “Yes, technically, but also the chickens that used to free-range through here. Because no self-respecting dragon noble eats cabbage. That’s a baby baroness we’re entertaining, after all.”

“Obviously,” Greystone drawled. The snow leopard watched the miniature, paler version of his friend dart toward a rocking egg the same color as the purple cabbages planted in a neat row. “I take it we should find a different place to take a walk.”

“Indeed,” Miranda agreed. “Anything on the grounds except the hedge maze. We can’t talk freely there.”

“Not where the murderer might be hiding behind the shrubberies.”

***

I forgot to send a prompt into MOTE this week and grabbed a spare: There were dragons in the cabbages again this week…

Professor Porter update: Book two is back on track!

Advice from SANTA

“Looking good.” Pax practically gave himself whiplash looking at the crowded barroom and the swirl of coeds on a dance floor covered in the stickiness of stale hops.

“You’re too old for them,” Nick said gruffly. “They’re just kids.”

“You tell me I’m a kid every day,” Pax reminded him gleefully. “I’m the youngest on the team.”

Frost slung a heavily muscled arm over each man’s shoulder. “You do remind him of both facts every day. What are you going to do the next time we hire?”

Nick tensed and turned his head away from the others. The last three new employees to the S.A.N.T.A. do-gooder had been after the team had lost members. “Pretty casual for someone who spent the last month in the hospital.”

“Sorry, man.” He gave an awkward pat that was more like a shove and headed for the bar. “First round’s on me.”

Nick gave a sharp nod and wedged his wiry body in at the bar, using pointed elbows for leverage as he negotiated with the bartender.

Pax leaned against a pillar and craned his head backwards.

“First, stop drooling, kid.” Frost reached over Pax’s head and snagged the proffered stouts, passing one to the demolitions expert. “Second, you already know the rule. Aim small, miss small.”

Beer foamed as Pax choked. “This isn’t an op, dude. You want me to what?”

Frost smacked his arm. “It’s a metaphor. Stop being dazzled by all the pretty girls and pick one.”

“Oh.” He narrowed his eyes with renewed interest.

***

This week’s MOTE prompt was from Cedar Sanderson: Aim small, miss small. It felt like a great opportunity for the SANTA crew.

My prompt went to Becky Jones: The virus made her a living prison.

A Moment in SpaceTime

Izz hit the button to release her helmet and pushed the facemask up. Faded colors burst into life in front of her eyes. No matter how much she upgraded her spacesuit, or how much she believed in the promises of the latest marketing, colors never looked the same as when the plas-glass wasn’t covering her eyes.

Greaves buzzed disapprovingly in her ear. “You know I haven’t finished the analysis of the air quality here.”

“It’s breathable.” Izz reached into her carrying pouch and unwrapped the waxed fabric that covered her lunch. She took a bite of hamspread wrapped in tortilla. “That’s enough.”

“Not to prevent viruses, bacteria, or keep you from smelling the sulfur fields.”

She rolled her eyes. “Those are fifty klicks away.”

“Molecules in the air.” Greaves sniffed ostentatiously.

Izz winced at the sudden noise, brushing her chin over the rubber shoulder of her suit. “Air’s fine. We both know it. You just want me to start investigating those ruins.”

“Please?” The voice in her ear turned pleading. “All you do is study the situation. I already analyzed it for you. I want to know what you’ll find that we can sell. I’m busy building your empire.”

Izz pointed, knowing Greaves saw through her recorder. “You see that?” She paused as the egret – well, this planet’s equivalent, anyway – flew gracefully away from the shore of the shining purple salt lake. Vines and small ground creatures crept over the ruins of an abandoned colony in the background. “Look how beautiful.”

“Birds,” Greaves grumbled, but left her alone to study her next target.

***

This week’s prompt came from Becky Jones: The egret flew gracefully away from the shore. My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: The gnome crept off the holiday card and stepped carefully onto the mantle. Check out more at MOTE!

The Miracle Egg

This week, I mentally mangled Padre’s prompt of “The manger scene doesn’t normally look like that…” and remembered it as “the unusual manger scene.” And that’s when I wondered, what if the Christmas Star had been a dragon, stretched across the sky? Which brings us back to the postwar world of the dragon Princess Miranda, recently returned from intentional self-exile to unwilling court life after her father’s untimely death, along with her stalwart shapeshifting companion of catlike curiosity.

“What on earth is that?” Greystone’s fur spiked as he planted his paws and halted just as they reached the entrance to the Lesser Hall. His tail lashed violently across the hallway.

Miranda nearly planted her claws into his spotted back as she stumbled to an unexpected halt. “What is what?” She regained her balance and peered her long neck around the corner. “It’s the same castle it’s always been, even if we’ve been gone for a few years.”

“Or a decade,” Greystone muttered. “Give or take a year or two.”

She frowned. “You meant the display?”

“Tiny creatures.” He lifted each paw, shaking it as he went, fur still floofed. He sniffed at the display, where several figures rested  “Fake, inedible tiny creatures, made of wood. Birch, I think. What a waste of syrup.”

“Your sweet tooth will not help us solve this puzzle.” The dragon tapped a finger against her fangs. “Oh, I know. It looks different from what I remember. This is called a barn scene. No, a manger display. This time of year, there is a religious story that goes with it. You only visited in the summer when it snowed, so you never saw the celebrations.”

Greystone’s white and grey fur sleeked itself with another cautious sniff at the intricately carved figurines. “What’s the story?”

“Er –” She felt her wings twitch. “Well, understand this isn’t my celebration. I won’t do the story justice.”

“But you know the highlights?” Greystone persisted.

She took another step closer. The carvings were exquisite, clearly the result of significant time and expertise in bringing life from dead wood. Miranda winced at the mess she was about to verbalize. “Um. Well, you can see the three main figures. The dark blue is the papa dragon. He’s not the father, but he agreed to be because the egg needed one. The light blue dragon is the mama, who birthed a miracle egg.”

They both stared at the smooth wooden egg that rested in a crib filled with straw. Greystone broke the silence. “Why’s it a miracle egg?”

“Why do you have to ask hard questions?” She pursed her snout. “I’m thinking.”

“These are your people, Princess,” Greystone said softly. “You need to know.”

“I left that life behind,” she snapped, and felt the tension in her flattened wings.

“And yet here we are again.”

She closed her eyes and thought back to her favorite tutor, killed during the Nemali attack so many years ago, during the opening salvos of the war. “The Miracle Egg will save the world once he hatches. He is a great dragon wizard, and kind. He teaches other people to be kind, too.”

The words were simple, appropriate as her tutor had taught the child she once was. She blinked away a tear before it could crystalize and ruin the glittering scale art her lady’s maid had spent so much time designing. It would be an insult to destroy her work for the sake of a memory, beloved though Erris had been.

“The miracle egg was prophesied by other great magicians of the age. The kings at the time were unhappy, because it meant they were less important. Some tried to smash the egg. The parental dragons were no match by themselves for the armies brought to stop the Miracle Egg from changing the world, so they fled.”

“What’s this around her neck?” 

“The mother dragon carried the egg in a pouch full of warm sand, but it grew cold by the time they landed each evening. She despaired of ever hatching the Miracle Egg, because they were forced to take shelter in drafty barns along the way, and it was already a risk just to have fire-breathers around hay and straw, let alone light a fire for extra warmth.”

The barn looked cramped to her. Perhaps it was intentional, given the artist’s otherwise detailed care. “Most inns aren’t made for dragonic sizes, obviously.”

Miranda pointed to the backdrop attached to the back of the miniature barn. Here, the painted wood was less skilled, though still reflective of the same style. “Only the Great Dragon in the sky could find them. The constellation pointed the way. It was part of the prophecy that the sky flamed, and the Dragon’s Eye dimmed since.”

Greystone sniffed derisively. “A miracle they survived at all. I’ve seen less obvious meteor showers. Though I suppose I’ve never tried to follow one to its landing. Nor a constellation.”

Miranda let her nictating membranes slide closed for a moment in a slow blink. “Ah. Right. The Miracle Egg could be more easily hidden from his enemies once he became the Miracle Hatchling. It was so cold, he was one of the last eggs left from the season, and that made him easy to track. This barn was the one that was warm enough for the hatching to begin.”

Greystone lifted his lip to display fangs nearly as large as her own. “Hatching can take a while. Especially cold starters. Days, even. Right?”

She nodded, and traced the face of the pale blue dragon, wondering if the artist had known her mother. There was something in the snout, and the tilt of her eye ridges, that seemed this side of familiar. “Long enough the three least hostile magicians were able to catch up. These mages were more curious than anything else.” 

“Well, don’t stop there. Those figures in the distance look like cats.” 

She looked down to discover Greystone had settled in front of the manger scene with crossed paws and an expectantly twitching tail. 

“Curiosity loves a cat, you know.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much more, you insatiable, inquisitive fiend. Maybe they were in the cat family. Maybe” – she booped his nose – “they were camels. Whatever they were, the three mages warmed the barn with their magic. The innkeeper’s barn didn’t burn, and the hatching was successful. Plus, they knew the armies were still coming, and did concealment magic to hide the Miracle Hatchling. It worked until he grew old enough to control his own powers and start working his kindness miracles.”

“Seems an odd thing to protest,” Greystone grumbled, and settled his head atop enormous paws. “Silly kings.”

“They caught up to him later,” Miranda admitted. “In a darker tale. This story is about hope.”

A noise caused her head to turn, and she found a kitchen wench in a dark dress with white cap and apron standing in the doorway to the Lesser Hall.

The girl’s mouth and neck twitched with poorly stifled giggles. She raised a hand to her mouth and smoothed over her expression, though her amber eyes continued to dance. “I’m Sass, and if you’d like to hear the proper…er, the full story, please let me know. In the meantime, lunch is served, Princess. Sir Greystone. If you’ll come with me.”

Read more Odd Prompts over at MOTE.

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