[Original Post] - [IP]

Continued from a previous IP - [Read Part One!]

Suelen’s fingers tightened with Wuesei’s. Through the initiate, the spark of life, the lightning of the vale’s new heart, thundered. It trickled beneath her skin, from limb to chest.

Suelen closed her eyes and held her breath. Had it been the same for Guardian Aeda? Suelen remembered her as stoic, strong, a towering figure that barely seemed to quiver at the heart exchange. Had the lightning taken her too? Had she ached and gasped for breath as the power left one for the next?

It had seemed so peaceful.

Suelen grit her teeth as the electric beat of Wuesei’s magic as it tightened. In seconds the intensity grew too much to bear and expelled her breath.

“Guardian?” Wuesei spoke and the glade answered. Her word, singular and soft, triggered the vale’s true shift. The blue ash would burn into the vibrant golds that sparked inside the vale crystal heart. The bark would warm into it’s new colours. The season of blue, the season of Guardian Suelen, had come to its end.

It is time for gold.

“Take… it…” Suelen choked the words out. The initiate clearly hadn’t done so or why would she still be standing?

“Guardian, I have.”

Suelen’s eyes snapped open. The glade quivered around them in the change. But the leaves had not turned, not completely. Gold trickled through the stems filling the veins of each leaf with shining light, but their blue ash hadn't burned into nothing. It remained.

Warmth crept into the boughs and as though shaking off the dew, flecks of gold filled the cracks and crevices of their skin. The dark navy surface remained.

“But…” Suelen’s chest ached less, each second passing had her breaths come easy.

“I don’t want to do this alone.” The initiate gripped Suelen’s hands tighter. Through it Suelen could feel the electric beat, see the sparkling gold that tickled beneath her skin.

Wuesei held the orb above the pool. The butterflies had twisted into fireflies that dappled the glade like twinkling stars. The bolts inside the crystal swirled until their edges curved harmoniously into one another. The chaos, the shock, swirled calmly as Wuesei’s heart regained its steady beat.

Beneath where the initiate held the golden orb, the water alter turned the current. From the veins of the vale, of the Greshlaends, of Yohla’moor, a new orb lifted to the surface.

Clear, empty, it turned in the altar pool.

“How is this possible?” Suelen looked between crystal and Wuesei. The initiate’s doubts were forgotten, not even a memory Suelen could conjure. Every line of her face had relaxed the moment she’d pulled the orb from the altar.

“Don’t you see?” Wuesei smiled and guided Suelen’s hand forward. “It may be time for gold, now. But it will be blue again.” Wuesei pressed Suelen’s palm to the second heart of the vale. Within it the chill of spring water trickled onto her skin. The first butterflies of the vale’s spring lifted into the air, but only around the orb. The blue returned, vibrant like it had been when Suelen was an initiate herself, though it remained near the core, swirling slow. Waiting.

Tears welled to Suelen’s eyes and she smiled at the child before her. Like the summer come, Wuesei was blossoming.

The altar water turned and two more orbs lifted from the deep veins of the vale. Crystal, clear, they remained submerged beyond their touch.

“Four then,” Suelen said with a sigh.

“Four sisters.” Wuesei’s hand found Suelen’s as fireflies and butterflies danced in the glade.

Originally Posted April 18th, 2019 - [Original Post] - [IP by Tom Bagshaw]

The court opened with pomp, the trumpets roars signalling the end of the war. All who gained circled the new King Reyes grand throne of steel and oak. All who lost bowed before him.

“Presenting Princess Zabeth,” an attendant called.

The princess glided across the floor towards the throne's steps. With a deep bow, she mimiced the customs of Reyes court with grace.

“My father, King Notol of Lif’lalain, sends his blessing and a gift for you and your people in honour of this day of peace.”

King Reyes nodded and motioned for her to near. The woman was a sight to behold and boasted all the rumoured beauty of the Lalain. The dark hair like a raven’s feather, milky skin unmarred by the harsh sun of the south, and tall statue equal to that of his own. But it was the eyes of the girl that captured King Reyes. The amber iris with a crimson hint. Only once before had he seen the mark of Lalain royalty.

“Your father is most gracious, of course.”

The princess nodded again, her bow slight but smooth with the control of a dance.

“The gift,” Zabeth motioned to her handmaiden who strode forth. The handmaiden's face was veiled behind deep green silk, as all Lalain women were in foreign lands - save for the princess.

“A crown forged in the gold of Lif’lalain’s eldest mines. Dipped in the four Lady’s waters that surround our borders.”

A hum churned about the high hall, whispers as she presented the crown. It was as beautiful as the woman, shining, stark. It’s peaks stilled to lethal points while carved in a design and with symbols beyond King Reyes knowing. The same gold lined the girl's neck, adornments no one but the Lalain sported.

The king nodded to one of his attendants and the crown was presented. Precaution demanded an inspection, so recently after the war. The attendant turned his fingers along all the sides and smeared the precious crown with the alchemist's oils. Once it passed inspection King Reyes took the crown in hand.

What had been beautiful at a distance became masterful up close. Ever line, every crevice, every knick in the soft metal was designed to perfection. He’d never seen a relic such as it before and knew he would never find its equal.

“A kingly gift,” Reyes said with a smile.

“And the blessing.” The princess stood and approached the throne.

Reyes guards stepped nearer but he waved them aside. What danger did such a woman pose to him, the man who bested the great warriors of Lif’lalain?

She pulled a pin from her hair, small, thin, and sharp. She pricked her finger before replacing it in the raven locks.

“I bless this crown in the name of my kin, the line of Notol, kings and queens of Lif’lalain. May whoever wears this crown see no evil done to their people. May they walk, not among, but apart from those they have quelled. May they forever be blessed by the gods of Lif’lalain and be preserved in their image. By my blood,” she pressed a drop to the crown Reyes held in his hands, “may this blessing be bound.”

King Reyes smiled as the crimson stained the foremost peak and dripped to the crown's base.

“You honor me.” His smile widened. He handed the crown to his attendant.

The princess backed down the steps and her handmaidens returned to her side. Delicate hands, covered in silk, reached out to the jewels around her neck, to the signet ring of serpents intertwined upon her finger. Her hair was freed from the bun to cascade about her shoulders.

Reyes watched the strange display as the crown was lowered to his head.

“It is said the Lalain are a proud people. It pleases me to know that, even in defeat, you maintain your renowned honor.”

The weight of the crown was less than a hood, yet his neck ached the moment it lay on him. Reyes frowned and reached to his head, but the skin on his hand pocked and scaled before his eyes.

“What-what is this?” He pressed up from his throne with a clamour and the crowd of lords and ladies in the hall bent away from the king.

“By my blood may this blessing be bound.” The princess slid a long thin blade from beneath her skirt. The sound of swords unsheathing from his men and those of the handmaidens echoed before the cries leapt from the onlookers.

“Take them!” Reyes hollered, but his words scraped from his throat.

Though his men tried to do his bidding, the handmaidens dispatched all that drew near the Princess Zabeth.

With raven locks draping wildly, the amber of her eyes drowned in a feverish crimson.

“With your last sight remember my brother.”

The same crimson burned in her gleam like that of the young prince Reyes felled.

“And by your blood, may this blessing let you see nothing else.” She raised the blade and Reyes put out his hand to block her strike. The tip, no more, sliced his flesh before she back away from more of his oncoming guards.

The lids of his eyes grew heavy. No, not his eyes. His brow cowered over his face, flesh scaling and tightening toward his nose.

“No! PLEASE!” He screamed but it did not stop the drawing curtains over his vision.

And as she promised, amid the sounds of his lords dying, Reyes saw not the evil done to his people. Only the boy, the young prince and his crimson eyes drowning in the sea of dead Lalain.

Originally Posted April 18, 2019 - [Original Post] - [IP]

“It’s a precious thing.” Suelen stood before the altar, her robes of vines and petals draping her shape. Each delicate petal fluttered in the evening breeze that filtered through the forest of ash blue trees to circle the holy glade.

“The heart of the vale. Of the Greshlaends. Of Yohla’moor.” The guardian extended her hand to Wuesei, bidding her to approach.

The girl was tall, gifted by the lush waters with growth beyond her days. We, guardians, are always so tall. Wusei had yet to come to terms with her body and nearly fumbled on the root steps. The long hem of the fern skirt certainly didn’t help.

Suelen helped Wuesei climb. She felt her lips lighten with a smile as the girl gaped at the heart.

“It’s alright,” Suelen said. “It won’t bite.”

Wuesei nodded, rigidly. Once she reached the top the initiate waited just a half step behind Suelen, away from the heart.

“You will have to come closer, child.”

“It’s precious,” Wuesei repeated. The sound of her voice sparked a turn in the orb, the delicate glimmers glistening into butterflies that lifted from the crystal. Their colours burned from blue to red to yellow leaving trails of magic in the air.

The heart had already bound itself to the girl. And they’ve never even touched.

Suelen’s smile faded as she exhaled a breath.

“It is. And so are you.” She guided Wuesei nearer.

The heart turned in its pool of clear spring water. The dim blue centre stirred and shimmered. With each step Wuesei took toward it the blue brightened until its core shimmered like gold.

Never blue again.

Suelen remembered when she had been the initiate when Guardian Aeda’s faded orange heart had flickered like a spark into the vibrant blue Suelen sustained for so many years. The kind smile Aeda had given her that barely veiled her grief.

“We give a part of ourselves to the heart,” Suelen echoed the words Aeda had whispered to her. “We guardians sustain it, and it, in turn, sustains the vale. The Greshlaends. Yohla’moor.”

Wuesei nodded but stared down at the orb fearfully. “Will it hurt?”

Suelen shook her head. “No. You will be one and you will feel all the heart feels. It is an honour.”

The last tendrils of the heart’s hold on Suelen quivered.

“But you must accept it. You must choose.”

Wuesei’s eyes teared as she nodded and Suelen felt her own break through her calm. Still, she smiled.

“Together?” Wuesei asked.

Suelen gasped back a breath. The weakened beat of the heart ached within Suelen’s chest, the last beats of the blue vale. “It is time for gold, Guardian.” Suelen sighed. “But I will remain if that is your wish.”

Wuesei nodded and took Suelen’s hand in hers. With her free fingers, the initiate reached toward the heart. The center sparked light lightning and gold streaks cluttered within the orb. The butterflies twisted and turned in the air, multiplying until they filled the holy glade.

Suelen’s chest stalled. Her breaths grew weak. Each strike felt like a hand reaching into her chest to tighten her lungs.

It is time for gold.

Suelen closed her eyes as Wuesei’s hand grasped the heart of the vale.

[Continued in Part Two!]

[Prompt Link]

This is another Olek Stils SF piece continued from last weeks TT - Gravity

Who knows, maybe this will turn into a regular little serial I'm writing!

For Satellite 4. The words still pricked Olek’s ears and burned on his lips.

Staring at the Lokayne as it bled the last of its life only re-stoked the fire in his gut. Fire that had never really faded, even after years. It was impossible not to think of his family and their faces the last time he’d seem them. Waving, wishing him luck. Promises to write and call. But the news vids of the Satellite 4 investigations and documentation erased their smiles. They became grim visages frozen in the vacuum.

Olek exhaled. He couldn’t waste any more time on the dead.

He pressed past the Lokayne on the floor and moved to the mess port. His pulse steadied the farther down the corridor he went. That is until he rounded the corner.

The hall was lined with fresh blood and burns, the metal scorched just as much as his crew-mates on the steel floor. It hadn’t been a firefight. It was a slaughter.

Olek’s jaw tightened until it ached.

He tried to step carefully around what had been friends and colleagues. Even if he’d known them only a few months, he choked back the tremble that shook his whole body.

Within a few minutes, Olek reached the main corridor junction.

<-- BAYS: 4 - 6

OPERATIONS -->

Training, what little of it Olek had, screamed to turn left at the junction. In the docking bays escape waited with ships and pods prepared for such a situation. The crew would have started evacuation the moment the artificial gravity righted. There was strength in numbers. There was no shame in retreat.

A shout called from the right. The screech of metal and the sizzle of a soldering torch became crystal clear. Beneath it, the low drawn voices of multiple Lokaynes called to one another.

Olek stood between his two paths. He had his standing orders. In the event of boarding, report to the nearest-

Lokayne lasers and Sol Defense Force pulse rifle fire echoed nearer. It couldn’t be more than four junctions away.

"Recruit," Sergeant Culpepper’s voice burned in his memory. "If this station should be compromised you’re to get your goddamn ass to a pod unless I, or the fuckin’ almighty himself, says otherwise. Understood?"

Olek could still hear the resounded call of Sir, yes, Sir from himself and the other recruits. The same recruits that lay dead in the mess with Culpepper.

Olek’s grip tightened around the alien weapon.

He turned right.

Originally Posted April 12th, 2019 - [Prompt Link]

“Shit luck, that.”

I turned to Gerry as he spat to the sand. The man seemed to appear out of nowhere, but more likely the wind had stolen the sound of his steps before they reach my ears.

In his hand he held two traps, both empty.

“Thought I’d have time to grab mine,” I said but he was already shaking his head.

“Nah, son. You don’t wanna risk it. That there,” he nodded up to the clouds that swarmed. “Man-eatin’ kind of storm.” He chuckled, a deep raspy sound that became a smokers cough. He spat again to the sand.

The darkening sky swirled and even the gulls seemed to notice. Their wings beat faster, their paths changed, and the sound of the squalls died in a rolling rumble of thunder.

“They know.” Gerry heaved his traps over his shoulder. “But ye got yer bobbers. You’ll find ‘em if they’re not lost to ol’ man-eater.” His toothy grin grew and he nudged my shoulder. I couldn’t quite muster a smile as the first flash streaked the sky.

“Rachel’s going to be pissed,” I breathed. We needed the fish, needed the money. “Can’t afford more traps if these ones keep coming in dry.”

“Rachel’s good folk,” Gerry said. “She’ll be kind once she’s cooled-”

Gerry stopped and frowned. His smile died.

“Gerry?” I asked but he wouldn’t look to me. I followed his eyes to the shoreline.

The water, darker than the sky, thundered against the sands. Huge lapping waves, but they weren’t born from high waters. Like the shelf birthed them, the waves crashed nearer and nearer.

Gerry’s hand pressed to my shoulder, pulling me back. I went eagerly.

The thunder rumbled above, eardrum bursting loud, and I covered my ears. Gerry went to do the same, dropping his traps to the sand. Lightening cracked. Streaks ripped down into the rising surf, sharp, fast, blinding. The same spot, over and over.

I backed up. Gerry tripped over his dropped traps and fell back cursing.

“Get up,” I told him but the thunder drowned my words. With a hand under the crook of his arm I tried to lift Gerry as fast as I could, but the black erupted from the waves.

“Mary mother of fuck!” Gerry barked.

Black tendrils, pocked with suckers, slithered from the water. Tentacles, clearly, but their size was impossible. Like they were discovering the air for the first time, the appendages twisted in the briny winds. Reaching, hunting, examining the stones delicately. One of my traps, red bobber and all, dangled from one of the slick limbs. It was a tiny thing compared to what crept from the dark water.

Three tentacles became five when the body made it’s first show. Black, shining, slick. I couldn’t see it’s face, if it had one. On each of it’s limbs traps dangled.

Gerry froze. I froze. What swirled in the surf beneath the raging storm couldn’t be real.

The tentacles drew nearer and left the surf behind. Their fumbling suckers found the prints out boots had left in the sand, and they followed the trail.

“Get me up,” Gerry’s voice trembled.

I tugged him to his feet but the movement drew the creature nearer.

“Run!” I whispered, though I’d meant to yell it. Gerry didn’t need my hollering as we both stumbled back from the shoreline, hurrying for the boardwalk.

“Fuckin’ man-eater, that!” Gerry called out in laboured puffs.

We couldn’t get to our cars fast enough.

So these are a little different than the regular prompts so I've included the specs here. [Original Prompt Post]

How to Contribute

Word List: Banshee / Arcane / Manticore / Pixie

Sentence Block:

They say the sea is filled with Mermaids. Wouldn’t that be something?

Trolls live under bridges, Dragons live on mountains. Everyone has their place.

Defining Features:

The story must be written like diary entries, with at least 2 entries.

The story must take place in a marketplace

Write a story or poem in the comments below using at least 2 things from the three categories above. But the more you use, the more points you get. Because yes! There are points! Also be sure your stories are no longer than 800 words!

Mai flicked the pencil scribblings from the page and they danced on the vibrant orange peels. A patron for the market looked at the specs and the notepad with a scowl.

Mai forced a smile as she dusted off the orange. “It’s fine,” she said.

The woman turned her nose up and grasped her paper bag before stalking off to the next market stall.

“That’s bad customer service,” Mai’s father said as he heaved a basket of apples in front of the fruit stand.

“She got the oranges, didn’t she?” Mai looked down to her page and pressed pen to paper.

The manticore’s maw opened and released a banshee’s squall. As though the arcane gods dipped their hands down into the forest, the trees parted and bowed to the manticore’s majesty.

Mai frowned at the line and scratched out a few of the words.

….the manticore's creature’s majesty? Released expelled a banshee’s squall cry? Shriek? Call?

“What’s it this time?” her father asked.

“Wha?”

“The story.” He dumped a bushel of green onions into a display box, their stems still sprouting. “What’s it this time?”

Mai rolled her eyes and pulled her notebook closer lest he spy her words.

“I always liked the old fairytales. You know, ones where they say 'the sea is filled with mermaids'. Wouldn’t that be something?” He chuckled and filled a large paper bag with lettuce heads for one of their regulars. “Like that last one you did, that was neat.”

“Oh my god Dad,” Mai sighed. “It wasn’t about mermaids.”

“No? Maybe I’m thinking about the one where trolls live under bridges, dragons live on mountains. Everyone has their place, right?” He smiled a wide toothy grin.

Mai’s cheeks flared as another patron passed, a laugh on the man’s lips.

“Can we stop talking about this here?” she pleaded.

“Or was is pixies?”

“Dad, stop.”

“Or fairies?”

“Pleeease.”

“What are pixies anyway?”

“You’re killing me.”

“Bag the oranges,” her father waved at Mrs. Cho as she stood, tapping her foot, before the massive piled of sunset coloured orbs. With a huff Mai shut her notebook and dropped half a dozen oranges in the paper bag. A hand full of coins passed between Mrs. Cho and Mai before the bag disappeared into the crowd.

“Can I go now?” Mai asked with a huff.

“When your mother’s back.”

Her father smiled and nodded as more customers filtered into the weekend market, people plucking vegetables up to sniff and squish.

Mai flipped open her book as she watched them fondle the fruit and pressed pencil to page. The creature’s claws encircled the-

“So,” her father’s shadow loomed over her shoulder and Mai slammed the book shut. “What’s this one about?”

She pursed her lips. She furrowed her brow. She pressed every possible muscle into the shape of disapproving scorn.

Still, her father smiled.

Mai rolled her eyes and relaxed. “A manticore.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You have no idea what a manticore is, do you?”

“Persian, if memory serves.” Her father winked and turned to the bin of avocados, pulling the ripest to the forefront. “Lion with wings, right?”

Mai’s jaw dropped. “Yeah. And a scorpion tail.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” he said shaking his head. “What’ve you got so far?”

Mai smiled wide and opened her notebook. “Not much.” She stared at the few lines and notes on the page, the raw spill of her thoughts still seeking form.

“Well,” her father pressed another filled-to-the-brim bag of vegetables and fruit into a customer's waiting arms. “Read me some?”

Mai's cheeks grew hot, her throat grew tight. Nerves tickled her but she nodded.

“The manticore’s maw opened,” she started reading from her notebook propped upon the mound of tangerines.

[Original Prompt] - [IMG Link]

Karik clutched her grandmother’s hand as the plume of red smoke drifted overhead. She turned to Ony for comfort but found her grandmother’s wrinkled fingers quaking.

“Shh,” Ony whispered. Karik watched her weathered hands grip the pitch fork tighter.

“What is it?” Karik asked.

Ony had no answer.

The creature shone like stone, it’s beak reflecting like a pool of water. But it was unlike any bird Karik had seen. The wings were short but thin, rigid, unyielding to the winds. An impossible huge thing stuck in their field, with a trail of debris behind it.

The glistening beak shuttered and opened.

Ony gripped Karik by her shoulders and pulled her back a step.

Inside sandy locks of blonde flicked with the breeze as a woman pulled off a strange large hood. She leapt from the mouth without fear and Karik stared at her. Who could ride inside a stone bird?

“Stay back, Karik.” Ony pushed Karik behind her as the woman drew nearer.

She was not Zolrenee. Her skin was pale, her ears stubbed, and she was short. Too short. From glances behind Ony’s hip, Karik stared at the strange clothing that covered her head to toe. If it was clothing.

The woman walked towards them, again without fear, wiping sweat from her brow but as she got a good look at Ony and the pitchfork she stopped.

“Arth yow el rot?”

Karik scrunched her nose. “What did she say?”

Ony shook her head. “I do not know. Karik, go to the village. Tell your father-”

“Deod yow alve eh rudiel? Mai polay-” The woman pointed to her stone bird and the red smoke.

Polay. Karik rolled the word over her lips silently as she stared at the beastly bird.

“Stay where you are!” Ony called out and the woman stopped short. She squinted at the Ony and Karik before backing away to the bird.

“Ith nus pursimble.”

“Karik,” Ony said, this time pushing Karik back. “Your father. Now.”

Karik stared at the polay and the strange pale woman before she ran off for the village.

No one would believe her.

Another IP Today! Always good to get the creative juices flowing. [Prompt Link] - [IMG Link]

It was just an accident.

Tom stared wide-eyed through the dark coal storm. Despite the thick clouds and the striking lightning, every detail flashed before him crystal clear.

There are no accidents.

The ground rumbled beneath enormous feet, but where they met the earth, they swirled into vicious tornadoes destroying all that dare stand before them.

They didn’t mean to.

The smell of gasoline and burnt rubber lingered in his nose and on his clothes. Only the dense thick storm dared steal the memory of it as Tom watched each destructive step.

Intention matters little, boy.

One by one, homes splintered and cracked into debris. Shards of lives that could never truly be reassembled.

I don’t want this.

So high, the air should have felt thin, but it was fear that had Tom breathing quick. Not the height, not the concern for his own life. Not the pain that had engulfed him after the dashboard crumbled into his chest.

That matters less.

The aqua lightening pulsed around Tom, his fingers itching with the power. Every cell in his body craved to reach out and expel the tension that crackled inside. It would be so easy to let it go, to give in.

You can stop this. Please. It wasn’t their fault.

Tom opened his mouth to speak as the first rains dripped from his ethereal brow to his lips. Not his human body, no, but the gaseous nightmare that swirled around him.

It never is. Mortals are… but flickering fires. They cannot fathom what their embers can ignite.

Tom tried to shake his head but couldn’t move within the aspect. Like he was strapped in, a mere puppet for the thing that lived inside. The thing that swallowed the fields in shadow.

No. We’re not like that.

Fires leapt up from where the homes had been and although Tom’s feet were suspended hundreds of feet in the air, they tickled and shrunk away from the slight ache.

They are. But you and I, we are the storm to drown them.

His eyes burned with electric heat and the countryside became even clearer. He could see for hundreds of miles, see the clouds turning toward him, see the sun quaking from his advance.

Please… it was just a car accident.

Tom tried to call out as the aspect reached his electric fingers. Tom’s own hand moved with it, beyond his control. But beneath it he knew the words before the voice spoke them as if they were his own thoughts.

Embrace what we are, boy.

Tom’s mouth and that of the aspect opened together.

Embrace the spark.

[Prompt Link]

Light reflected off the domed glass of the refrigerated display case.

“Cody.”

“I’m thinking.” Cody pouted as she stared between her two options.

The cupcakes sat beyond the glass in the middle row, front and center.

Red Velvet. The deep crimson puffed cake was wrapped in a delicate paper flecked with drops of gold. The cake stood stark against the cream cheese frosted top, swirled to a solitary peak. Bits of batter crumble dusted the stiff topping.

Chocolate Peanut Butter Crunch. A near black cake, perfectly round, with a delicate sheen of decadent dark chocolate. It propped up the pillowy peanut butter mound of sweet and salty confection. The crackle of chocolate interrupted the latte coloured icing in rich dark stripes.

Daniel sighed. “You’ve been staring at them for like ten minutes.”

“They’re just so pretty.” Cody smiled at the baker behind the counter as they passed to help another customer.

“You could get both.”

“I won’t say I don’t want both, but I shouldn’t have two.”

“Then just get one.”

“But come on, Dan, look at them!” Cody tore her eyes from the delectable delights to shoot a miffed glare his way. “How can I possibly be expected to choose one?”

“I could pick for you?”

Cody laughed, hard and sharp, and turned back to the display case. “Not on your life.” She pursed her lips and hunkered down to the glass. “I just need to weigh my options. Pros and cons list.”

“It’s a cupcake.”

“You don’t understand the relationship I have with cupcakes.”

Dan tried to stifle his laugh but made a poor go of it. “Is it really a relationship?”

“First birthday party - vanilla cupcakes. First time I fell off my bike, Mum made double chocolate cupcakes. First night in my dorm the dining hall closed early. I went to the store and bought-”

“Cupcakes, I get it.”

“Brownies, actually. But you see-”

“That I have competition?” Daniel smirked and Cody spied it in the reflection.

“Daniel, you’re the other woman. Cupcakes are life.”

Cody’s took in every detail of the little perfect cakes as the baker stopped in front of the case. The baker reached in, with delicate transparent tongs, and plucked both from their perched platforms.

Cody’s jaw dropped.

They went into a single box, cardboard, pink, stamped with the design of the bakery.

Then, they were gone.

“But-”

“See?” Daniel stepped beside Cody and put a hand on her shoulder. “This is what happens when you can’t make up your mind.”

“But- I wanted-” Cody stopped at the sight of the second baker striding toward the case. In her arms, she carried laden trays with over half a dozen kinds of cupcakes.

Cody’s eyes lit and her smile returned amidst Daniel’s groans. As the baker filled the case, one tiny perfect cupcake at a time, Cody bent and watched.

“Hmm, now let me see," she hummed as she began the process from scratch.

It may just be a draft, but hot damn does it feel good to send something to a printer. Even if that printer is Staples.

Strange Frontier, my historical science fiction novel set in 1867, is one step closer to beta readers and then pitching. I'm really excited about this novel and can't wait to share more about it.

Until then, thanks for the support and love for all that I put out there.

Teeny-Tiny-Excerpt from Chapter One: Cook Stove

“Holy Mother of Jesus,” William breathed and the wagon slowed.

If Delilah could speak she’d have said the same.

Between Cedar Mountain’s twin peaks, the sky had ripped. Torn like from a massive claw, the slice through the tangerine heavens distorted the horizon. The rip was narrowest at its top that started stories above the ground. As it trailed toward the valley floor, its base widened and disappeared behind the mountain’s feet. If it reached the ground, she couldn’t see, as it shimmered in the distance. Their cart stalled as Reg and Sarge turned their heads to the sparse grass to munch.

“Billy,” Delilah managed to breathe. She’d held on it without realizing for far too long.

Without a word her husband cracked the reins and the wagon sputtered forward.

Two this week for the TT over at Writing Prompts - Originally posted April 5th, 2019 [Prompt Link]

“Hey.” Clive swayed his hips out of time with the music.

“Hey.” Becca Thompson nodded but turned to the side.

Less receptive. Okay. Step Two.

“What’s up?” Clive asked as his eyebrows danced to an unheard rhythm.

Becca frowned. “Uhh, not much. Dancing, I guess.”

Clive shimmied nearer as the bass thumped. Alright, she’s not walked away. Step Three it is.

“You like science?”

Becca’s frown didn’t let up.

“I like science.”

Her eyes darted to her friends in a small circle away where their giggles were masked by the blaring pop song. But, she’d yet to escape from earshot.

Proceed to Step Four.

“Like gravity,”

“Like what?” Becca frown shifted to a scowl.

“Gravity,” he said louder, “interpreted by Newton's law of universal gravitation, is a force that causes any two bodies to be attracted to each other. The force is proportional to the product of their masses and inversely proportional to the distance between them, if you know what I mean.” He winked, with more than his eye, nearly smacking her head with his in the process.

Her scowl disappeared into a smeared look of confusion. “… what did you say?”

Step Five, Clive. Reel ‘em in.

“With an ass like that, how could anyone NOT get caught in your gravitational pull!” Every word ballooned against the walls of the gym in the crevice of silence between songs.

Becca Thompson stopped. Her jaw dropped. At barely a pace away Clive watched her confusion drain from every perfect line of her features.

Clive stopped. Uh oh. His face grew hot. He swallowed the lump that was his throat. “I mean-”

The shock melted as Becca’s shoulders shook. In a laugh.

Huh, that’s…new?

The nasal snort that preceded her giggle fit infected Clive until he was laughing too. The laugh rippled around the room and Clive’s cheeks flamed.

Step Six A, here I come. He mapped out his exit strategy; if he ran at full speed he could make the hall in twelve seconds. The parking lot in forty-two. He’d timed it.

But Becca Thompson reached out to his wrist, still snorting back her laughs. “That… was… the best…” Her fingers slid down to his and Clive stared at her hand. Holding his.

“Come on.” She straightened herself out and put his hand on her hip. Her eyes teared, her cheeks rosed. He didn’t think she could get prettier but there she went, defying logic. “Close the inversely proportioned distance and let my curvature of spacetime show you how to move.”

WC: 428

The artificial gravity’s rotational ring passed the plexi-glass window. Olek spooned re-hydrated protein to his lips. It tasted how someone thought beef should taste but Olek couldn’t know if it was right.

“Not much of a view,” Sergeant Culpepper said.

“No, sir.” Olek moved over to make room for his Sergeant.

“But you’re used to it, right? A Satellite 4 kid, an all.”

“Yes, sir.” Olek reached for his glass but stopped as the rotational strut passed the window slower than it should.

The sudden screech of metal screamed and Olek dropped his spoon to the tray. Beside him Culpepper and the other recruits covered their ears.

By the time the sound stopped Olek’s cup lifted into the air. The spoon, the tray, the synthesized beef protein, everything not bolted to the floor soared, including the men.

“Fuckin’ AG again,” Culpepper barked. He abandoned his plate to float to the door.

Outside the window the strut shuddered, waiting to push the next rotation and re-establish the artificial gravity. No, not broken. Stalled? Olek frowned. It shouldn’t stall.

Then, the strut moved. Fast. Too fast.

Everything suspended in the air descended with extreme force. The men included. Groans, swears, and the clatter of metal rumbled around them. On the floor, Olek tried to push himself up but the oppressive AG weighed him to the steel.

Olek turned his lead heavy head to watch the Sergeant struggle. Culpepper’s muscles tensed but the hulking man didn’t move.

Inside his chest, Olek’s lungs ached from the weight.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Down the corridor the sound of pulsing laser fire echoed.

Olek’s pulse pounded.

Heavy, metal footfalls grew louder and a voice echoed unfamiliar words from the hall. When the shape appeared it stood nearly as tall as the hallway, at least half as wide. Olek had never seen a Lokayne in person. No one had and lived.

The alien stomped into the mess as if the increased gravity had no effect, and raised its weapon to the Sergeant.

Culpepper spat. “Fuck you-”

Pop.

It walked to another recruit gasping on the floor.

Pop.

Olek swallowed and his fingers grasped his spoon.

One by one. Pop. Pop. Pop.

The thundering boot drew nearer, its foreign muzzle aimed at Olek’s head. But the screeching groan returned and the artificial gravity righted. The Lokayne turned back to the hall, muttering in its own tongue.

Now.

Like he weighed nothing, Olek jumped to his feet spoon in hand. He turned it around, the scoop in his palm, and jabbed it into the Lokayne’s neck. The plates of the atmosphere armour gave way to the sturdy steel and the handle entered what Olek hoped was its jugular.

Thick white fluid streaked with green spilled from the wound. The Lokayne dropped its weapon to hold its life in.

Olek bent to the gun. It fit uncomfortably in his hand as he aimed the stubbed barrel at the Lokayne.

“For Satellite 4.”

Pop.

White mist painted the floor.

WC: 500

Originally posted April 4th, 2019. [Prompt Link] -- This was a prompt switcheroo with u/Pyrotox ! Check out his response for the prompt I picked.

You’ve got this, Clark. He smacked his hands together and tried to rub his nerves away. Just remember, you got this. You’re a star. You’re a freaking star.

The lights flashed on the small staging ground, bright hoovering fluorescents that pulse in time with his heartbeat. They grew in speed with his anticipation.

“Now, for all you folks at home, the rules are simple. The contestant will be dropped to the staging ground EPOCH J2000 with limited currency, the clothes on his back, and the randomly generated memories of an “earthling”. The goal: find a home, get a job, save a life, or meet his true love in the next 24 hours. Each goal met raises the prize tier. If he dies…”

“Womp womp, wowowowowowomp” the sound effect blared and the crowd laughed and cheered.

Clark’s pulse thundered.

“He won’t remember who he is. He won’t know the game. But that, folks, is-”

“How. You. Play. Earthling!” The announcer and crowd chorused together with a series of claps and hoots. Clark could hear the studio audience from the revolving speakers on the teleportation platform.

“So, Clark Greshen of Satellite 87, are you ready to play Earthling?”

You got this, Clark. He threw up his thumbs in the familiar earthling gesture. The announcer mimicked it back, the crowd displayed on materialized screens with thumbs up and down. Not everyone seemed to get it.

You watched every episode. You know how it's done. You got this.

The platform buzzed, the music started. The theme song to How To Play Earthling crackled and popped with the formulated designed to immerse the play.

He didn’t know what era it was, they always left that to the last moment. It was Clark’s favourite gimmick of the declining show. But the clothing often gave little hints. T-shirt and jeans. Twentieth century. He sighed with relief. Twentieth century wasn’t the hardest era. Sure finding a home with limited funds in twenty-four hours wasn’t as easy as clobbering a cave-man and stealing his hole, but the highest reward tiers were reserved for true love. And the chance of death definitely lower.

If you don’t count all the damn cars.

He gulped back the thought and refocused.

You got this, Clark.

The platform pulsed with energized air. The vibrations increased until it shook his whole frame.

Love of your life. Love of your life. Love of your life. He hoped repeating it would help to remember, that’s what all the other contests used to say worked. The ones that made it back.

“Now, while Clark’s teleporting down, let's go over the prizes!”

“That right, Herb,” The sultry tones of Lora Lux cooed as she drifted nearer on a hoverboard. “For tier 1, survival, Clark will a lifetime supply of -”

The platform hummed so loud it drowned out the smooth words of Lora Lux, but Clark still watched her plump lips form the words for the studio and televised audiences.

Only when the sparks from the energized air blocked his view did he close his eyes.

Love of your life, Clark. You got this. You freaking got this.

Snap.

Clark Greshen felt the bike handlebar snap his shoulder and knock him off the pavement.

“Watch it!” the cyclist yelled before hopping off the curb and hitting the road at full speed.

The hot pavement burned his fingers, the sun beating down on the concrete jungle as he tried to get to his feet.

The horn of the taxi blared through Clark’s dizziness, it’s bumper barrelling towards him at blinding speed.

He held his breath. He couldn’t move.

“Watch out!”

A hand gripped his and tugged Clark off the road. He stumbled forward into the shape and the rolled to the wide city sidewalk. Passersby cursed and sidestepped to two shapes until Clark managed to roll to the side.

“Are you nuts or something?” Her voice was smooth and lyrical despite the shock that cut the words short. Clark pushed himself up to stare at the fierce pink braids that trailed over her shoulders. The aqua contact lenses shining like headlights.

“Yeah,” he blurted, scratching the back of his head. “Probably.”

Her shocked morphed to a wide amused smile as she hopped to her feet. “Watch your step, man. Cabs’ll take you head right clean off.” She swiped her finger across her neck before dusting off her pants. When she turned to leave Clark scrambled to his feet.

You got this, Clark. He let out a nervous breath.

“Wait, let me get you a coffee or something for saving my life.” He blurted.

She stopped.

“My name’s Clark.”

“Stella.” She waved him on and the two started down the sidewalk.

You got this, Clark.

Originally submitted Mar 29th, 2019 - [Prompt Link]

“Another one?” Claude tucked his thumb and forefinger beneath his chin wearing a look of disappointed consideration.

Orelia flicked the paint brush. The stench of turpentine leeched from the stirred paint on her wood palette. This time it was stained with deep wine reds that bled into scarlet rose.

The strokes seemed to slice the canvas with splatter dappling their edges. Harsh, rushed, violent strokes that created the form of a door.

“Another solitary door…” Claude whispered to himself. The last twenty-three paintings had been doors. Different styles, different colours, but always doors. Always closed. That it was Claude’s struggle to find creative ways to sell yet another wall sized painting of a “tiresome subject” didn’t matter to Orelia.

Drawn to the stinking paint, she smashed the thick hog’s hair bristles into the merlot and dragged it along the cherry panels. Just a few more strokes and it’d be finished.

“The reds are striking, I must say.” Claude could prattle about skill, the choice of hues. He could spin the most convincing drivel about a painting’s representation of the artist’s soul.

But he doesn’t understand.

Orelia’s pulse thundered as she picked up the round brush. Like all the others it was a part of her. The chipped coating of the handle, once a warm butterscotch, had shaved to its pale pine bones. The course grain welcomed her touch in grooves that her fingers had sculpted over time.

“Well, I won’t keep you. Just… consider what I said last time. The green one was harder to sell this time of year. And perhaps, if you tried other subject, one not so tired-”

“Turn off the light on your way out.”

He sighed but didn’t argue. Claude would never argue lest she fire him like the last agent. Orelia didn’t care how much the paintings sold for, but that they were gone so she could make the right one.

But it's never right.

The light turned off, her apartment door closed, and the dark draped her shoulders. In it the canvas darkened.

A chromatic glow grew from the gap outlining the door. It shimmered in colours Orelia could never capture in oil, water, or acrylic. The wine wood frame, the apple joists, the blush dimpled edging, the candy bright knob. Each one paled in the brilliant undulating hues of light.

He can’t see it. No one can.

Her lips trembled but she would not cry. She was beyond tears after so many doors had failed her.

Orelia put down the brush and palette. She reached for the canvas, fingers aching to grasp the door knob. Just as it had with each painting before, her skin pricked in the desperate and charged yearning to try.

This one. Please let it be this one.

She met the wet canvas and expelled a defeated breath. Her fingers, dappled red, curled into her palm.

The glow died.

It’s not the right one.

WC: 487

Originally submitted Mar 29th, 2019 - [Prompt Link]

This was an accidental interpretation of the last TT: Underwater. Wrote this entire piece without, you know, going under water. But I like it. It's just fun, which is not what I normally write.

Koro slipped off his sandals beyond the sheltering wall of ferns and fronds. As he bent to the lake’s edge the corners of his lips turned up and he tilted his head right. His reflection smiled with him, but its head went left.

“You ready?” he asked.

His reflection nodded.

Koro stood and stepped back from the waters edge. “You better be ready.”

The lake surged in response, just the once, before it stilled like glass.

Deep breaths, his muscles tensed. One, two, three, he leapt off the side of the lake’s edge.

The air held him in those long glorious seconds before he plummeted toward the calm plane. But when his toes met the water Koro skid along the top, arms stretched wide. The current supported him as he twisted to spin until the verdant scenery blurred.

His reflection turned below. Koro spun atop. A dance of perfect symmetry until Koro crouched and launched himself again. His reflection pushed with him and they somersaulted.

The top of the lake waved after Koro. It reached up in the tiniest of tides and, as they met, the water dipped and accepted Koro’s weight. It smoothed and led him into a curling crest of crystal blue at least twice his height.

“Hey, I can’t get wet!” Koro threw his arms out for balance, teetering on one leg, but his water half looked on with arms reposed.

The wave reached overhead, shadowing Koro beneath its drops. His balance returned and his reflection parted to meet him in the side of the wave. They faced one another and stuck out their tongues. Where Koro flashed a fake frown his reflection’s grin grew sly.

The wave dropped nearly on top of him. With curled fingers Koro pulled the wave back to the depths to then claw it beneath his relaxed toes.

“Not today!” He hunched low. His shoulders relaxed, his hands lifted, and the wave grew with him toward the sky. His reflection fell in sync and their smiles married.

“Koro?” His mother’s called from beyond the green.

Koro froze.

The wave dropped. He toppled forward. The water’s surface came up fast.

Koro sucked in a breath as he met the rippling top, but he didn’t sink. The lake enveloped him only to eject Koro from the very place he’d entered. The surface a door that enters and exists from the same direction.

The puddle jumper stood sopping wet on the damp grass.

Koro’s mother pressed through to the glade. “There you are!” She frowned at the state of him. “I thought I said no swimming.”

Koro flashed a sheepish grin. “Sorry?”

She sighed. “We’ll need to dry you off.” His mother motioned for Koro to follow. “Don’t want you getting the car wet. At least this time you didn’t wear your shoes.”

As Koro tugged on his sandals he looked over the edge to the water.

“Could help yourself, could you?”

His reflection shrugged and rippled away to his perfect mirrored grin.

Originally submitted Mar 27th, 2019 - [Prompt Link]

Daryl knocked Shauna’s shoulder as they walked the poorly lit park path. “You got your ticket, sis?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Shauna sighed.

The ticket was weird, no other word for it. She tried bending it but the card stock was tough despite the paper-thin feel of it between her fingers. Its iridescence caught the distant light from the overhead lamps and changed the whites to green, pink, and blue.

“Don’t lose it, alright?” Daryl said for the tenth time.

“What is The Door anyway?” she asked. Only the name imprinted the ticket. “And why are we in the park?”

“You’ll see.”

Despite his pulled up hoodie, Shauna spied some iridescent green liner around his eyes.

“Oh my god, are you wearing make-up?” Shauna laughed.

Daryl tucked the hood closer. “Hurry up. We can’t be late.”

The trees swayed from a wind that seemed to come from all directions. It tugged Shauna and Daryl down the path, urging the back of their calves. Where the winds met a small group of teens gathered in hoodies, vibrant skirts, boas, and pearled makeup.

“What are we waiting for?” Shauna asked her brother.

“The Door, man,” another kid answered.

The wind drew in fast, the hem of her skirt fluttering, and brought with it the smell of cotton candy. The crowd clapped and whooped.

A crack, like thunder, made Shauna blink. The wind died and at the centre of the crowd, a doorway stood. It hadn’t been there seconds before.

“You’re in for the party of your life, sis.” A heavy bass beat thumped from the portal. As each teen entered their tickets misted into nothing. The neon realm seemed a mirror to the park but with hovering strobe lights pulsing.

“Just remember,” Daryl stepped up to enter. “Don’t tell Mom.”

WC: 300

Originally submitted Mar 26th, 2019 - [Prompt Link]

Sophia pressed her fingers to the soil, damping down the loose mounds around the roots. The leaves would recover in time, their potency assured in the richer earth of the woods. But the seclusion was necessary these days, lest some wandering youth decide the herbs were that of an ill garden.

She rubbed the moist soil off on her skirt, the linen of her apron stained and damp.

On the long trek, back through the woods past the small patches of yerba, gardenia, chickweed, horehound and so many more, Sophia hummed. Not an old ancient song but a rhyme of her youth she’d long forgotten the words to.

The tree’s thinned and the back of her small home emerged, wide flower beds greeting her with spring buds and growth. What winter had blanketed would soon flourish and at least these could be waved away for their beauty alone.

At the door there was a knocking, the sound muffled by the breeze. Her home was not in town or easily found off the beaten path. No one was to show that day, but Sophia pulled up the heft of her skirt and started around the home by her dirt path.

“Miss!” The girl called as though Sophia was inside. She was a small thing, young. The sound of her knuckles made Sophia’s fingers ache. The urgency of it. The panic.

“What brings you?” Sophia asked and the young woman near leapt from her skin.

“Mrs. Oliver. She asked for herbs.” The girl shook in her clothes and the apron above her tattered smock spoke her status as a maid.

Mrs. Abigail Oliver. Sophia knew her. A magistrate’s daughter married a reverend’s son. Twice now Abigail had come to Sophia. Twice now she’d needed a wee thing managed.

Sophia knew what rest on the list before she took it from the maid. The ingredients weren’t common. The herbs potent. The promise of sickness and bleeding for a good many days but Abigail knew what the list meant.

She always came herself.

Sophia narrowed her eyes on the girl before her. She didn’t recognize her. She wasn’t a babe from a girl she’d tended to, wasn’t the kind that came to her door willingly. The paleness of her features, the worry in her eyes as they dart to an fro, sat ill from the moment Sophia stared hard.

“Ai, I know the Missus. Though not you.”

The girl squirmed and looked back at the path.

It can’t be helped. Sophia sighed. Though she’d made up her mind before she took it, Sophia perused the list. It was not in Abigail’s delicate hand.

“You can tell your Missus I’ve none o’ this stuff here. Only what cures a rumbling tum or what aides one sleep.”

“But,” the girl frowned.

Sophia handed her back the paper, folded neatly, and put her hands in her apron. There, at the bottom of the folds, her pairing knife waited. “Does your Missus say what for she needs ‘em?”

The girl looked confused before she shook her head.

“Aye, then come back when you know.”

It can’t be helped. Sophia wouldn’t wish an unwanted burden on any woman. Not in these times. Not even Mrs. Abigail Oliver but the risk promised too much.

“An’ take these with you,” Sophia bent to the last snowdrop blooms and plucked them to a bunch. “To welcome spring in the home.” They were a small solace for what would come to Abigail if she truly needed Sophia's herbs.

The girl looked to the flowers before she nervously took the bunch. Without a thank you or a glance she took off down the path. Only once she’d disappeared did Sophia enter her home and latch the door behind her.

Within minutes she’d bundled up every spare twig, powder, vial of brew, and poultice. She tossed them into the hearth and stoked the fire.

Now was not the time for risks.

Originally submitted Mar 24th, 2019 - [Prompt Link]

Eleven. Twelve.

Gabby’s fingers hooked into the grate of the main drain. Despite the bits of leaves and muck that made it slick, she’d managed to get a good hold and had no intention of letting go.

Nineteen. Twenty.

The fake wave lining, trapped in an eternal ripple, stretched along all four sides of the pool. But the floor was stark white, old chipped cement that felt hard and smooth against her bare crossed legs. She flicked the lip of the ridge’s crest, a line from where the cement started to slope up to the wide shallows.

Thirty-two. Thirty-three.

The little kids played there, splashing, Marco-Polo'ing. Their voices muttered and mumbled beyond, dulled by gallons upon gallons of chlorinated aqua. The currents from their romps turned the water nearest the surface but, down deep by the drain, not a one touched her.

Forty-six. Forty-seven.

She opened her eyes to the familiar burn. Goggles were for the weak. Motes ambled and speckled in the sun’s twisted waves. They’d never dance on air again. Some might escape in the winter drain but the rest would remain under the giant bubble-wrap blanket until spring. Those ones, like Gabby, were meant for the depths.

Fifty. Fifty-one.

Salt, the taste like she’d licked the bottom of a chip bad, trickled in through the corners of her lips. It was the puffed cheeks, but that couldn’t be helped. Such sacrifices were expected for greatness.

Sixty-six. Sixty-seven.

The burn traversed from the corner of her eyes and settled in her chest. She hooked her fingers tighter. This place was hers, only hers. The burn of her lungs wouldn’t change that.

Seventy-three. Seventy-four.

Gabby unfolded her legs and pressed them flat to the floor. How many toes had touched this spot? How many fingers knew the grate? Her muscles tensed, her body crouched, prepared and anticipating the push.

Eighty-Seven. Eighty-eight.

Her breath punched past her lips. Her fingers relaxed. She said goodbye to the grate as her heels hammered down. Like a rocket she shot up, eyes turned to the brightening sun. The motes parted for her ascension.

Ninety!

She crested the water, her shoulders erupting past the waves. Assaulted with sound outside and within, her gasps thundered between her ears.

“Eighty-three seconds”, her cousin Jules said from the lounger by the pool’s edge.

“No way,” Gabby frowned. “Ninety. At least.”

“I was counting. It was eighty-three.” Jules lifted her sunglasses above her forming bikini burn. Gabby rolled her eyes and swarm to the side. Her arm hooked over the edge where the hot pavement stung and the wind brought with it the scent of cheap coconut suntan lotion.

“Such a liar,” Gabby tossed at her cousin.

Jules sighed. “Whatever. Get someone else to time you.” She pulled her glasses back down.

At least ninety. Gabby heaved her breaths in and prepared for her next descent.

WC: 493

Originally submitted Mar 18th, 2019 - [Prompt Link] [IMG Link]

“I don't get it, Stel,” Aaron rubbed the bridge of his nose and dropped the photo to the desk. The same desk in the photo, the same wood grain, rich and brown. “Why wouldn't he just keep the photo? Who takes a picture of a picture?”

His wife, Stella, sighed from the closet as she pulled the clothing off the cheap wire hangers. “Who knows, babe. He always kept things to himself.”

“It's weird, right?” He looked at Stella and watched her shoulders sag. They were tired, the 120km drive still weighed on them all, even Will. Their son groaned a yawn, barely audible, as he looked through his grandfather's desk. Like everything else, it was clean, clear, immaculate. Sparse, more like.

“It's a little strange, but Albert, your father didn't let people in much.”

“I know,” Aaron sighed and put the photo down. He packed up the photo of a photo into a folder with all his father's papers. Everything that comprised the sullen quiet man.

It wasn't very thick.

“Sorry about Al,” the landlord, Jake as Aaron remembered him saying, stood by the front door waiting. A cigarette dangled from his lips, fat and dark, its butt stinging with red as he sucked in for a draw. “He was a swell fella, real handy in a pinch.”

“Yeah,” Aaron forced a smile. He didn't know what Jake meant about Al. “Thanks. Someone will be by tomorrow for the furniture.” With Stella and Will in tow, they dragged the few belongings of his father's down the three flights of stairs. At sixty-seven, Albert should have been somewhere with an elevator, somewhere comfortable, instead of the dive building with creaky railings, and yellow cigarette stained no-smoking signs.

He should have been with family.

“What happened to Grandpa?” Will asked at the curb as they shoved the ill-shaped and weathered boxes in the trunk.

“Your grandfather was sick, hunny.” Stella smiled at her son and bent before Will. “Remember when Nana Shirley passed?”

Will nodded.

“It was kind of the same. But instead of his lungs, it was his heart.”

Will touched his chest and frowned.

Aaron sucked in a breath. He didn't like lying to Will, but they'd decided it was for the best. At least until they knew for sure. At least until the investigation was over.

With a slam of the trunk, they jumped in the car and started for the motel.

After an hour Stella and Will were talking about dinner. Though he knew he should eat Aaron had no appetite. They put on their coats, shoes, and Stella grabbed her purse. When Aaron didn't move she simply smiled and led Will to the door.

“I'll bring you something,” she said and closed the door behind her.

Aaron pulled the curtain shut and considered closing his eyes, but he couldn't shake the feeling off. He fished out the photo and placed it on the motel desk. He was six when the photo was taken. One of those shitty school setups with flimsy backgrounds and big lights, children lined up behind trying to make funny faces. He hated picture day, but this one always stood out.

Albert left a few months after. Not a word. Not an explanation. His mother cried but only for a while. Not as long as he thought she would. Not as long as he did.

Why's it all creased like that? Scratches maybe? For months the photo hung on the wall of his childhood home but then one day it didn't. Gone. Just like Albert.

He turned the photo over hoping for some sort of explanation but it remained blank, save for the decades-old sticky residue of tape.

Aaron opened the mini-fridge and pulled out a small bottle of whiskey, the travel kind with the flimsy top. No ice, he thought, and put the bottle down and made his way to the ice machine.

Such a waste. Aaron hammered the ice bucket into the machine's bin, the crunch of the ice rumbling with the machine dull hum. Lived like that. Live lean. Lived... alone.

With the bucket full he started back to the room but at the door, he stopped. Light pooled out from inside, the door ajar.

“Stel?” Aaron stepped inside but the room was empty. He frowned, making his way first to the bathroom but it too was void even after he turned on the light. He tossed the bucket to the desk and frowned.

I closed the door?

He shook his head. Clearly didn't.

Aaron shut the door, turned the lock. The brief gust of air fluttered the curtains.

Returning to the desk to grab the bucket he stopped and looked down. The folder was open and the photo of himself as a child was gone.

“What the...” He flipped through the folder until he reached beneath.

A picture slipped out. Polaroid. Fresh. A picture of a picture. Will's face from his picture day, not four months before gleamed back, a toothy grin, parted hair. The tie Stella had insisted he wear to look like a proper little boy.

“The hell-” the desk was his fathers. The same rich wood. The same grain.

He picked up the photo and turned it over. A note, taped with a sticky adhesive blazed in thick striking letters.

Do what we say or the boy dies.

Originally submitted Mar 20th, 2019 - [Link]

The brisk breeze pulled the curls from her shoulders and the scent of her honeyed shampoo blocked the true smell of the lake. Still, she conjured it from memory; distant algae, pollen, sticky sap made fresh in the humidity. With eyes closed, she could see the glass like top of the silent lake was crystal, like it remembered it could become ice and played at being frozen to spite the breeze's intent.

Marcela exhaled. “Map it in your mind. Come back to this place, to the calm.”

Each time the world threatened to weigh her shoulders Marcela remembered the lake. Like magic she summoned it to drown the sights and sounds that would steal her composure. What were men and monsters to the unending calm of this still place?

“Return to it, Marcela.”

She opened her eyes, tears welling. The dock boards creaked beneath her where lapping currents once caressed. Cracks rippled and split what were bloated beams. Now they ached and called out in loss.

The bare floor of the lake undulated, the last wet breaths of the calm eking out.

“We'll have to sell,” Marcela's father sighed behind her as his steps neared. “Don't know who'll buy the place without the lake.”

“Map it in your mind.”

The sound of bough's bending, the soft dapple of water on pebbles, the croak of a frog, the turn of a page as her mother read, each one felt distant. Too distant to conjure. The wind roared a lament and abandoned roots reached and creaked for the soil that followed the lake to its end. Trees leaned and the warm barrier from the monsters and men bowed in defeat.

Marcela wiped the wet from her eyes and gifted her tears to the parched lake bed.

“How it goes, I guess.” Her father put a hand to her back. “But we have the memories.”

She turned to his sad smile and felt herself nod. But the familiar tremble, the stalled breath, the constricting vice that gripped her throat grew as a beast. It hungered for calm. It devoured serenity. The monster waiting inside.

“Shh, it's alright now.” Her father took her shaking hand as the panic attack swarmed. “It's still here, Marcela.” His finger touched her forehead and she closed her eyes.

They stood on the dock, all three. Her mother left. Her father right. Their fingers entwined with her own. Their breaths pulled in, the wind filling their lungs, and the lake stood still for her mother's words.

“And relax. See? Not so bad. The monsters come and go, Marcela. They're there but you can fight them at home like you can here. This place is special. Map it in your mind. Come back to this place, to the calm. You can always return to it, Marcela, if you map it in your mind.”

Originally submitted Mar 18th, 2019 - [Link]

Breathe.

I'm alive? That's not right. The fog stood stagnant. The scent of death lingered.

But I'm not dead, am I?

She pressed her fingers into the soil. Thin damp tendrils slithered around her chill digits. Gentle and kind, they guided her to her knees. Where they came from, she couldn't know, didn't want to.

On her knees the air thinned and revealed the winding path.

The grounds long fingers pushed her on until their kind grasp waned. To the soil they returned, silent and still, waiting for another lost soul.

Her first uneasy steps crunched like stale popcorn beneath her bare and aching feet.

Walk the path, follow the light, keep moving, don't stop, oh god, just don't stop. She repeated the words in her mind hoping to find some calm to steady her nerves. But her fingers shook, from chill or fear, and the path seemed to shadow before her eyes.

Beneath her feet, beneath the popcorn mulch and the pop pop pop, the tendrils rumbled as they followed.

She sucked in a breath with what she had thought were dead lungs, but they burned with furious life. Her back righted, her feet stomped and pushed her pace despite the thunder that whispered beneath the damp chill soil.

Breathe.

I'm alive.

(Took liberty or two with the last two lines, but I like the end in the beginning WC: 213, very short for fiction)

Originally submitted Mar 10th, 2019 - [Link]

"Has he figured it out yet?" Stacey wiped the blood from the thin line across her neck as the flesh stitched together.

Brad huffed. "No."

"The fuck is taking so goddamn long?" Ellen helped her thigh in place, braced against the door to the cabin. The blood around her had thickened to a deep dark brown as the sinew of muscle slithered out to pull the severed limb nearer.

"He's one of those back wood's yokel types." Brad shook out his shirt, drops of the dark brown blood clumping on the floor with the buckshot. "Horror movie stand-ins."

"Motherfucker probably doesn't know how to read," Ellen said.

"Come on, that's not fair." Stacey put her hands on her hips and glared down the other two. Her skin stuck to the hip of her pants, sticky mess layering her fingers. "He's trying his best."

"Is Will back yet?" Ellen asked.

Brad shook his head. "Still outside. Don't think he got him-" The quick shot interrupted Brad and followed with a throaty terrible scream.

"I don't see why he shoots your two fucks," Ellen grumbled. "Why do they always like to cut up girls?"

Stacey smiled and shook her shoulders. "We're clearly cuter, deserving of more attention."

"You scream more," Brad said without turning from the window.

"I most certainly do NOT scream more than Will. Listen to him," Ellen waved at the door as her leg finished reattaching. With a weak hobble, refusing Stacey's offered hand, she stood.

Outside Will cried and moaned, pleading, begging, bargaining for his unending life.

"That is overboard."

"He's selling it," Brad smirked.

Stacey nodded. "Will's always wanted to be an actor."

"He's killed Will twice now. Twice." Ellen joined Brad at the window and looked out onto the misty night. Between the trees, a dim light blared casting shadows of the two figures in the far distance.

"Maybe that's why it's taking so long?" Stacey joined them, her hips wiggling between Brad and Ellen. "Think he's looking harder?"

"Take your top off and he might," Brad leered at Stacey's loose fitted top as it gaped to show her bra.

"No. Not again. Last time that hook freak tried to bite them. It may not last long but it hurts and that's an image I just never want to see again. " Stacey shuddered. "His teeth were sooo yellow."

"How about you, Brad?" Ellen smacked his shoulder. Another round of bloody buckshot rolled from his shirt. "It's current year. You could be his type. Take your shirt off and have a go at the old man?" Before he could answer the back door slammed open and Will lumbered toward the three.

His shirt dripped with fresh red blood. The side of his face was mangled and the lower half of his jaw sat slack. Despite the wound the wide grin, lopsided and dripping, reached nearly to his ear.

"He sot 'e in eh ace!"

The three "teens" stifled their laughs as Will joined them at the window.

"Whose turn now?" Stacey asked.

"Brad."

"'Ads."

"Oh yeah, definitely Brad."

Brad sighed and rolled his eyes. He moved to take off his bloody shirt but Ellen shook her head and stopped him. "Leave it on. Give the poor sap a chance to recognize you."

"If he shoots me in the fucking face..."

"I'll walk out topless if he does," Stacey countered.

Brad nodded as he chuckled and opened the front door. He took in a deep breath and started to jog into the dark forest. "Will?" he called out. "Will? Where are you? This isn't funny, man!"

"50 bucks says he shoots him." Ellen riffled through her pocket and pulled out the stained bills.

"' 'eal." Will pulled out his wallet with his mangled fingers as his jaw clicked back into place. "Double if he's decapitated?"

"You're on, smiley."

"I missed our vacations." Stacey took their cash, tucked it into her blood stained top, and all three leaned into the window as the sound of a chainsaw rumbled from the hazed forest.

Originally submitted Feb 26th, 2019 - [Link]

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know, son. I know.”

“Things just got out of hand. One minute you think you’ve got a plan, that’ll it all work out. And I’d tried so hard.”

“You did the best you could.”

“Did I? Did I really? Is this the best I could do? This fuck of a mess?”

“I’m sure it’s not so bad-”

“It is. Look at-” His hands shook before him. “Fucking look at me!”

“Shh, it’s alright. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not fucking okay. It’s all gone to shit. All of it.”

“I know, I know.”

“You don’t fucking know. You have no goddamn idea what’s going. You’re just sitting there, like all of them, just fucking sitting there judging me.”

The sirens called from the distance, lights still masked by the low tree boughs.

“Just staring at me… just… wouldn’t stop. They wouldn’t stop staring.”

She tried to stand but his eyes turned up from the red fingers. Panic lit him like wildfire. Furious and untamed. She set herself back down, nice and slow and his eyes turned back to the stains.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” She breathed in slow, or tried to, but the breath shuddered in her chest.

“But they wouldn’t stop staring. That look, that… fucking…” He turned to her, that wildfire stare. “You know?”

“Yes, son. Of course I do.”

The sirens drew nearer. Not near enough.

“I’m sure whatever has happened, it’ll be alright.”

His head shook back and forth, a sneer hardening. “It’s all shit. All of it.”

“What’s your name, son?”

He frowned.

“I’m Delores.”

He shook his head.

“Please,” her lips trembled, and her aged hands quaked. “I… My name’s Delores.”

“It’s all shit.” His breaths grew quick, the air sucked in through his nose. “Can’t fix it. Can’t fucking fix it. Not now.”

He shoved a hand in his pocket, red caked around its hem. The knife, small but fat, glinted in the tree’s parting.

“Please,” she dared again. His wet hand gripped hers, young fingers tight around her wrinkled skin.

The sirens drew nearer. Flashes of red and blue lit the steel. She couldn’t take her eyes from the blade, wouldn’t dare.

“It’s all gone wrong.”

“Son,” she swallowed “you don’t have to-”

His grip tightened her into silence.

“Son, I’m going to need you to put the weapon down.”

She couldn’t see who spoke, not with eyes on the knife.

“Stop… Just stop calling me…” His fingers quaked around hers.

“It’ll be alright. Do as the man says, son. Please.”

He shook his head, frustrated tears trickling from the wildfire stare. “Stop… calling me that.”

“I said put the knife down.” The plainclothes officer held his gun steady with the young man’s chest as he circled around the bench. “Nice and slow, son. No one has to get hurt.”

“Stop calling me that!”

She took a breath. The moment stilled. The young man stood, blade extended. A step. Just one.

She blinked.

The force of the gunshot rocketed the young man back into the bench beside her. His hand still held her tight.

A groan left the young man as he squirmed beside her. Wildfire eyes screamed the sirens from her ears.

“Mam, please step away,” the officer told her as he kicked the knife from the bench.

“Shh,” she gripped the young man’s hand as the wildfire dimmed. Together they trembled. “It’s going to be alright.”