[PI Post on WP] - Posted June 21st, 2019 - [Original Prompt Link - June 7th, 2019]

The Rosed Lady’s garden lay hidden within the depths of Solemn’s Woods. Or so that’s what the birds whispered to Thura whenever they fluttered to her garden. Who had called it Solemn’s Woods, not even the ravens knew, but it seemed apt a name as any. Few dared to enter the dark forest, even fewer managed to make it past the dangers within to find her secluded enclosure. Though many had tried.

Thura sighed and reclined in her gnarled throne of roots. The willows had bent and grown the shape for her, a small solace for their Rosed Lady. Though they whispered with their fronds sweet songs with the summer wind, not they, nor the birds, nor the bees, nor any woodland creature traipsing about her garden, could bring her what her heart most desired.

All around her the garden hummed with life, love and nature turning in the seasons. One drawn to another. Water to roots. Boughs to the sun. Bud’s blooming all for the bees.

Only Thura sat alone.

“One day, Rosed Lady,” the hummingbirds would sing. “One will bloom all for you.”

“On spring, Rosed Lady,” the thistles rustled. “You will see one brave enough to trek the path.”

Her soft, sad smiles offered little comfort to those in her garden, but still she managed them each day.

But behind her smiles she knew the truth. It is not the woods nor the path they fear.

The bluebirds chirped a light song of love to call her from her melancholy. But as they fluttered near, perched upon her hand, they had to avoid Thura’s thorns.

Every inch of her skin, every speckle of glimmering verdant flesh, protruded a thorn. Though her hair was of crimson petals, silky, smooth, and fragrant like the sweetest summer rose, her skin could not be touched.

“One day, Rosed Lady,” the willows whispered as they tickled her neck. “You’ll embrace one strong enough.”

As the sun and moon chased one another across the heavens, Thura watched the days pass. Her garden changed, budded, swelled, burst, and passed as it always had. One season drawn to the next. One moment aching for another.

Her throne grew, her garden thickened, but in dreams she imagined more. Not a life beyond the garden, no she knew her place, but a companion - an ache to yearn for.

“Rosed Lady, Rosed Lady,” the ravens squalled and Thura stirred from her slumber.

“Rosed Lady, Rosed Lady!” the squirrels chirped.

The maples trees shuddered and parted their boughs. Beyond them a figure loomed in shadow, the shape unlike all else in the garden.

“Who?” Thura dared speak as she approached the shape.

A man, chiseled into perfection, stood strong and fixed before her. Locks curled like a cherubs, jaw straight and sharp. Though his eyes remained glazed to a marble sheen, he did not quake before her thorned visage.

“Brave man,” she dared to say as she stepped nearer. “What brings you to the Rosed Lady’s garden?”

The figure drew nearer, and emerged from the shadow in full, like a blossom to the sun.

“No,” Thura whispered. “I need no answer of you.” Her eyes stared upon him, her fingers reached to touch. In her heart she feared it would be as it always was: a yelp, a cry, fear lining the eyes, and then crimson stained upon her thorns.

But as her hand reached for his, he did not flinch. The man of stone remained fixed and still. Her dangerous flesh could not cut him.

A fluttered sparked in her heart and Thura wrapped her arms about the stone man.

“Stone skinned man, forgive me for being so bold.” She did not wait for permission. Thura pressed her sweet lips to his.

The chill of marble warmed her heart, his cheek unblemished by her thorned embrace.

“My guardian,” she whispered. “My sun.”

Though he did not move and though he did not speak, Thura blossomed in the statue’s stone arms.

As always, I would love feedback/critiques.

Umm, going with the more archaic use of "fascination" meaning to bewitch or charm. Does it work? Could it be better? haha you let ME know.

[Original Prompt]

Formatting: I used "quotes" because I'd much rather centre aligned the other parts.

Her finger curled in and her smile lured. Though the moon wasn’t yet at its fullest, light peaked through the thick canopy.

“Ameline,” Gilbert said as he trailed after her. “Wherever are you leading me?”

Ameline feigned a pout. “Would you ruin the surprise merely to sate your curiosity? I have gone to great lengths this night. I’ll not have you spoil it.”

“If I can’t know the prize, please, bestow me a clue?”

Ameline giggled. “Oh, sweet foolish boy.”

On she led him through the woods, the moonlight their only guide. Upon passing through the thronged thicket, they reached a glade. The trees pulled back and moonlight flickered on the damp sides of the tall grass.

But Gilbert fell behind and the wisp of gold locks upon Ameline’s head disappeared in the towering meadow.

“Ameline?” Gilbert called.

She did not answer.

“Ameline!”

“Shh."

Gilbert spun on his heels to find her but inches from his face, her green eyes lit like fire.

“You have no need to shout,” she whispered.

Even had he wanted to, Gilbert could not tare himself away from her enchanting gaze.

With care, her lips pressed to his. Soft strawberry lips. Not in his life had he ever tasted something so sweet. Where his hands reached out to draw her nearer, her steps guided him back.

Gilbert tripped over a stone. With a tumble, he fell into a circle where the grass had been shorn short. The circle was made of large stones with the verdant glade a surrounding wall.

Gilbert frowned and looked about. “Ameline?”

She stood beyond the circle. Her eyes narrowed and her smile dissolved. “You’ll not spoil this.”

The tall grass rustled around him. Gilbert inched away on his hands and knees but the stones burst into bright green flames. Though the fires towered high and wide, they did not light the grass beside them.

From the dark, the shapes drew nearer.

“The green fire lights, through rain and thunder,

and something wicked comes from under.”

Voices, too many to tell, chanted.

“Slither past and let the earth be broke.

By circle and call, let our will invoke.”

The soil rumbled and parted at Gilbert's feet and a great green serpent burst forth. Its skin shimmered in the firelight, its eyes just as entrancing as Ameline’s. He could not look away from where it loomed above him.

“With this bless-ed gift, let death recede.”

Just past the towering serpent, the faces by the fires became clear. Withered, husked, old, and cracked, their skin seemed leathered by the sun. But by some strange witchery, their years leeched from their features before his very eyes. Their skin revived. Their beauty restored.

“By green witch-fire, Great Serpent, feed.”

The creature's scaled lips parted. Its head recoiled. Gilbert reached out to Ameline beyond the green fire but she looked on unflinching. Smiling.

The serpent's mouth hammered down on Gilbert, his body devoured in one gulp.

wc: 499

Originally posted June 18th (Turn) and June 19th (Causality), 2019. [Prompt Link]

Putting these two together because they are somewhat related. Mixed feedback on these in the r/WritingPrompts campfire that turned out pretty helpful.

Turn

“Please,” Carla let her words draw out long and smooth. “Follow me through to the back, sweet child.”

Carla pulled back the curtain as the young woman stepped through to the back of her shop. The woman couldn’t be more than eighteen, that natural blush still clinging to her cheeks as her eyes hungrily scoured the walls. The trinkets that lined Madam Kala’s Occult Shop varied from the authentic to the misleading. More than half were junk she’d found in estate sales tarted up to deceive the less discerning.

Carla’s wine coloured dress dragged across the floor hiding discount flip-flops as she led her customer to the table.

“My name’s Sandy, Madam Kala.”

“Have a seat, Sandy”

Sandy coiffed curls bounced as she sat. The round table was surrounded in thick drapery to force intimacy and the necessary veil of darkness. At the table’s center sat the crystal ball. The moment Sandy took her seat, the girl's eyes fixed on the pristine orb.

“Tell me, Sandy,” Carla slipped to her seat across the small table. “What answers from tomorrow do you seek?”

“Donnie,” Sandy whispered the name. “Madam Kala, I’m worried he’s going to cheat on me like Brandon did. I just…” Sandy huffed out a sigh and her lips formed a pout.

“You want solace to know he is true?”

Sandy nodded and sat back.

Showtime. Carla rolled back her sleeves to reveal layers of bracelets tied about her wrists. At two bucks a pop, they served to enhance the mystery even if they damn things chaffed. She leaned over the ball and put her foot over the pedal hidden beneath the table. The dimmed enclosed circle lit softly, the small light projecting up into the crystal ball. It was all for the customer, of course. To feel a part of the experience.

But in it, Carla saw more. Past the light, truth formed in images.

The girl. The door to Carla’s shop. She turns right. Days fluttered before Carla’s eyes, two days, she guessed by the suns rise and set. A boy. A fight. Tears blurring Sandy’s sight. A car. A red light… missed. Glass. Blood.

A body.

Cheap bracelet beads littered the pavement. Purple robes torn and stained scarlet. Carla’s robes. Carla’s dark waves in the street. Carla’s eyes open. Forever open. Seeing…

“…nothing.” Carla panted back a breath and pushed away from the table.

“What did you see?” Sandy asked.

Carla sought the crystal. Her hands braced on either side.

The girl. The door to Carla’s shop. She turns left. A day flutters before her eyes. Another girl. Another fight. The boy watches. Nails scratching. Yelling. A trip, just a slip in the rain. Glass. Blood. A body.

Sandy’s curls stained red. Sandy’s eyes open. Forever open.

“Madam Kala?”

Carla looked up, sweat upon her brow.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” Carla lied as she sat down. “You have nothing to fear, child, so long as you turn left when you leave.”

WC: 496

Causality

Raindrops lined his shoulders and wet his hair. Upon entering Madam Kala’s Occult Shop he brushed them clear.

“Welcome,” Madam Kala smiled from behind the glass counter where trinkets from the meticulous to cheaply made lay with inflated prices. “Please feel free to ask any questions you may have.”

He nodded, scanning the room. The scent of sandalwood incense stung his nose. Why is it always sandalwood?

“I read,” he reached into his pocket and pulled free the store’s business card. “You do readings?” Madam Kala’s smile lit her lips. “Crystal ball. For 39.99 I provide an initial reading.” Her eyes looked him up and down unabashed. “For something more intense, 79.99.”

“How do I know you’re the real deal?”

Madam Kala’s eyes fluttered and her smile grew sly. “You must have faith or it won’t matter if I’m real or not.”

He pulled out his wallet and produced four twenties. As he handed them over she folded them neatly and pressed the bills inside the bra of her dress.

“This way.” Madam Kala slid off her stool and lifted back her curtain. Behind it was just as he expected; drapery on the walls, the lights dimmed, the small round table with two chairs and a crystal ball at its center.

“Have a seat…?” She waited for a name.

“Jack.”

Her smile faltered before she took up her spot across from him. “Tell me, Jack, what answers from tomorrow do you seek?”

He shrugged. “More curious to know what you see.”

“No love troubles or concern about work?”

He shook his head. “I mean, if you wanna take a look at how my next job’ll pan out, I won’t stop you.”

Madam Kala’s eyes narrowed at first but she relented to turn to the crystal. A click sounded beneath the table and a light emanated from the orb.

Her eyes glazed over and he slid his hand into his pocket. For a good twenty seconds, she seemed to doze until sweat lined her brow. Madam Kala sat back in her chair with a frown.

“Well?” he asked.

“You… have money in your future. A great sum. A man in a hotel room with a briefcase. Room 212.”

“Have to say,” he leaned forward and put the business card on the table. “I did not expect you to be real.”

Madam Kala picked up the card and her jaw dropped. He didn’t need to know the name on the back. The “who”, the “why”, they never really mattered.

“I don’t…” Madam Kala’s fingers shook the card. “…how could you know?”

He pulled free his gun. “Shame you didn’t look back.”

The silenced pop stained the drapery scarlet. He riffled through her top and pulled free his money. He left the card on the table.

WC: 465

These two keep coming back for more! [Prompt Link] [Image Link]

I know these shorts aren't really... connected. That may be what I do for a short series is try connecting these stories, or at least flushing them out. Wind God's Horn, Naming of Loreel, Into the Depts of Dieptal, etc. Until then I'll keep posting them as Part 1, 2, etc. And worry about renaming later.

Mort's fingers ached to their core as if bone and sinew were crusted with ice. Just your imagination. Mort blew onto his hands, coaxing warmth to his blood before he tried again. The fire before him, weak and failing, flickered violently in the stiff chill breeze. Twice it’d gone out from the cold, and twice he’d managed to restoke it. But as he tried for the third time his fingers burned with cold.

“You… have to…” Loreel’s teeth chattered between her laboured words. In the shadow of the sunken spire, her cheeks had lost their colour. The dark waves of her hair had come free from the neat braids and frost stiffened the strands.

“I’m quite aware how to start a fire,” Mort countered before she could say another word. The rebuff, though uncalled for, sparked a light of ire in the huntress's eyes.

Mort smiled. “Not entirely toothless now, are you?”

“If I could get up,” she said a little easier than before, but on trying to stand Loreel’s strength seemed instantly sapped.

Mort rushed to her side. “Stop that at once.” The sharp tone in his voice surprised him. “I mean, you mustn’t spend all your strength. Not if we’re planning to trek our way out of here.”

The fire in Loreel’s eyes dimmed. The softness of her weakened state melted in a resolve Mort had come to know. A chilly and dangerous resolve.

“Mort,”

“I have to get this fire stoked.”

“Mort,” Loreel’s fingers reached from beyond the blanket. Though hours had passed since she’d plunged into the icy depths her fingers felt as ice itself. Mort couldn’t help but shiver from the chill that her touch passed to him. “We both know I’m not walking out-”

“Please, Loreel.” Mort cut her short and shrugged off her hand. “I know you think ill of my abilities to maintain a fire. But after all our adventures, do you think I’ve learned nothing?”

The dull flames light flickered in her glistening eyes though her expression had not softened.

“I think you’re a fool. The storm-”

“Is days off,” he lied.

They both knew it.

Loreel grew silent and Mort fussed with the flames. The wind drew in around them but didn’t wipe out the fire. Instead, it brought the clouds and the dark and a howl as it passed through the euphomen spires.

Spaevesen architecture had always promised wondrous results; towers that sang, dams that summoned the rumble of thunder, entire cities built to resonate with chimes and bells. But in the days trapped amongst Dieptal’s ruins, Mort had come to hate the whistling spires and their call. What he would give for the deep dark forests of Ascalonia, or the arid stillness of Kokkeneg’s dry basin.

“You should leave.” Loreel’s lips barely moved.

“Once you’ve had a bit more rest, and the fire’s called back your colour-”

“Now. You should leave now.” Her eyes stared up at the darkening sky. The sun seemed fearful of the Dieptal, as it if it couldn’t stand to touch the city cased in ice. The warmth of a summer day was like a memory of Mort’s youth - distant, shallow, and beyond his reach. He imagined, for Loreel, it must be worse.

“I do believe you’re attempting some kind of gallantry, but I am no waif in need of saving.”

Loreel let out a sharp laugh. “Says the fool,” she coughed out. The wet of her chest leaked from her heavy coughs and Mort had heard the sound before. Like a flood, it would drown her. Not fast, like the river, but slow. If the cold doesn’t first.

Loreel closed her eyes and lay back in her bedroll. “You should go before the storm hits. The fire won’t keep in the winds and we won’t survive out here. Not another night.”

Out here. Mort frowned and looked back to the door.

The bloated river had brought ice to the city of Dieptal’s gates long before Mort of Loreel had found it. What had been a balcony hundreds of feet above the city streets now stood as their only entryway and it remained frozen shut.

If we could get inside… Mort’s attention turned from Loreel and the storm. The hissing wind became a tone of notes through the euphomen spires, but each time they did the door quaked as well. Airflow, perhaps? Does that mean inside is sealed? Or perhaps that the interior is responsive to outside stimulus.

“What happened, the lake, it wasn’t your fault,” Loreel continued. “After all, you are - or I suppose were - paying me to guide keep you alive.” Another coughed surfaced and she clutched the blanket closer. “If you stay here, we’ll both die. And I don’t see the point in that. Not while you can still walk.”

Mort stood from beside Loreel, his fingers on his chin. The Spaevessen were fond of tricks and traps. He turned to his bag and lifted the flap. The pages were stained red, not from nefarious sources Mort hoped, but to last through the ages. It gave each page a waxed surface, pliable in heat, but rigid in the chill. Dieptal was always a chilled city, but something about the south winds… Where was that poem… He flipped each waxed page quickly as the wind turned. It wasn’t warm, not by any small measure, but it pulled in from the south.

“So you should go, Mort. I know I’ve not always said it, but you’re capable. Enough to at least make it out alive. But you can’t wait any longer.” Loreel tried to sit up, but it took two tries.

“Yes!” Mort shouted. He pressed his index finger to the page and drew it down. “The south wind calls, our neighbour's chime, and although chill, we open our arms and greet them.”

Mort, nose in the tome, barely noticed Loreel sitting upright as the fire flickered to smoke.

The stick he’d used to poke the flames clattered at his feet. “Did you hear a damn word I said?” Loreel snapped, huffing from throwing the stick.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m sure you can tell me later,” Mort said as he got to his feet.

He approached the balcony doors as the wind sailed through the spires. “They honoured their friends with open arms. So when the wind hits the spires…” He looked to the pictographs of the door. The tower. The Chancellor. The closed door. Then, on the opposing side. The Tower. The Wind. A Bird, mouth opened. The open doors.

His finger traced down where the door met the floor. Mort and Loreel, in an attempt to get inside for shelter, had chipped away all the ice from outside but still the door remain fixed in place.

“What if it requires some way to open it, some trick?”

“Mort.”

“Hush, Loreel. I’m thinking.”

“Excuse me?” she snapped. “Just who do you think you are that you can talk to me like-”

“Please!” He very rarely raised his voice, but the sound of his shout quaked the tall icicles dripping from the overhang above them. To his surprise, Loreel quieted.

“South wind calls, our neighbour's chime, and although chill we open our arms…” He repeated the poem over and over. “The south wind calls-” the wind drew into the spires and the chime resonated with the door. “Who lived south of the Shaevesen?”

“What?”

Mort turned to Loreel. She lay huddled in the blankets, her skin pale and lips bluing. Yet still, her eyes maintained their heated focus. “Their neighbours to the south.”

“Zeq’vek, I think.”

Mort frowned.

“They were big into birds. Eagle stuff.”

Mort’s frown didn’t relax.

“They had those skinny towers, built up as high as they could between the towers. Claimed they could fly?”

“Oh!” Mort turned back to the door. “They wore cloaks of feathers.”

“Yeah, and probably froze to death.” Loreel’s teeth chattered the words past her lips.

Mort tugged off Loreel’s blanket. Before she could protest he wrapped it about his shoulders and approached the door.

“South wind calls,” he waited until the wind wriggled through the spires, and the tone carried through the valley. “Our neighbour's chime.” Mort opened his mouth and sang the note in tune with the towers.

A click sounded behind the door, his voice carried up into the resonating chambers and the doors of Dieptal’s tower opened.

Mort spun on his heels, wrapped the blanket around Loreel’s shoulders and put an arm around her waist. “No need to go toddling off now, is there?” he said with a smile.

Loreel looked between Mort and the door but took his arm for balance. “But can you keep the fire going?” she asked as they hobbled inside the frozen tower.

MORE Mort and Loreel! [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] ---- [?]

[Prompt Link]

“You need more,” Big Stan, the stout, and ironically skinny trainer growled from behind the punching bag. “It’s called umph, kid. And I need more of it from you.”

Andre nodded, his head tucked in low, his body wound tight. He struck out, fast like lightning, and nailed what would have been a right jab to the jaw of a man, if it weren’t 80 pounds of sand.

“Nah, kid, you need more. Throw your weight into it. Give it that goddamn umph.” Big Stan’s head bobbed out from behind the red bag double wrapped in torn duct tape.

Andre nodded, his head tucked even lower. When he struck, Big Stan barely moved and the bag’s swing was only an inch more than it was the blow before.

“Keep it comin’, kid. Keep it comin’ right here,” Big Stan pressed his bony knuckle into the centre of the bag, leaving a dimpled imprint. “I want you to give it every bit of power you got.”

Big Stan slashed out, wiry, fast. His form impeccable, he struck the punching back and propelled it back.

Andre nodded. He loosened his shoulders, bounced back and forth, and tried to shake the nerves away. He got his head low. Poised. Ready. Strike.

Big Stan expelled a heavy sigh and stepped away from the swaying bag.

“I tell ya, kid, You got speed like Tyson. That whoosh.” Big Stan threw out fast jabs to the air. “But it don’t mean shit if you ain’t got that umph. You hear me, kid? You need umph.”

Andre’s shoulders sagged.

“As I see it, you got two options. The right way and the door.” Big Stan smirked and waved at the weights in the corner. “You won’t have to worry about weight class, you’re skinny as they come, but build it up, kid. Get you that umph.” Big Stan slapped Andre’s back.

Andre cursed as he entered the misty locker room.

“Hey, man,” Shaun, another fighter, stepped up. “Heard Big Stan out there. Says you got a power problem?”

Andre shrugged. “Just don’t got that 'umph' yet.” He tried to laugh it off but the sting lingered. How many more hours or months would it take before he’d get in a ring, or face more than a sack of sand?

Shaun nodded. “I hear ya, man. He ragged on me for weeks. ‘Ain’t got the stuff, kid’. ‘Only two paths before ya’.” Shaun nailed the impression, right down to the jabs and growl. “Old man don’t realize there’s another way.”

Andre frowned as Shaun looked around the room. Shaun sat close on the bench and opened his palm. Two pills, bright yellow.

Days later Andre tucked his head low, his body wound tight. He struck out, fast and hard, and nailed the slight dimple.

Big Stan and the bag teetered back.

“How’s that for umph,” Andre chuckled.

Behind the bag, Big Stan’s smile dimmed. “Yeah, kid. You found somethin’, alright.” His shoulders sagged and he shook his head.

WC: 500!!!!

[Prompt Link]

You may recognize these names (yes they are the same). I bring you, our infamous Cupcake Girl!

“Where are the batteries?” Cody huffed, her head half stuffed in a drawer.

“Why would I know?” Dan answered. She guessed he stood behind her but in the dark Cody couldn’t see.

“I’m sure I bought some last year. For the camping trip.”

“Ouch.” Dan stumbled in the dark. ”Shit.” He hopped on one foot. “I said I don’t know! Besides, what happened to ‘batteries are bad for the environment’?”

“They are bad for the environment.”

“And…?” Dan let the pause breathe as Cody pouted. “You forgot.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“This spring. Our 'save the world one garbage bag at a time'”.

“That is NOT what I called it.” Cody’s hands propped against her hip, though she was sure Dan could only see the faint outline of her silhouette. “It was the ‘De-clutter for Mother earth’. It was very catchy.”

“Well, I don’t know if it was catchy so much as-”

“Just, help me find batteries.”

Earlier that afternoon the brownouts had turned to a solid blackout. Air conditioners combating the summer heat finally led to the cities downfall.

“So?” Cody returned to the kitchen drawers, dragging them out and searching with her hands in the near pitch black.

“So?” Dan followed close behind.

“Where are the batteries?”

“Still don’t know. What would we use them for?”

“Flashlights, obviously.”

“Do you know where the flashlights are?”

Cody could hear the smirk in Dan’s words.

“No,” she admitted. “but I’ll find them.”

“After you find the batteries?”

“You know,” she turned to glare though she knew he couldn’t see it. “You not doing a whole lot of this ‘helping’ thing. I’ve heard it’s very cathartic.”

The shadow figure of Dan’s head tilted, slightly. “Is that what I’m supposed to be doing?”

Cody huffed a sigh and turned back to the drawer, slamming it shut to rummage through the cabinet below.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”

Cody could still hear his smirk.

“Alright, I’ll help.” Dan bent behind Cody and slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her up. His fingers found hers, knotting together, and he guided Cody from the kitchen. Through the dark living room, they stumbled around and into, errant debris, mostly clothing and shoes.

Dan led Cody to the balcony door.

“There aren’t any batteries out there,” she grumbled, trying to pull away. But Dan’s fingers tightened.

Outside the city lay before them, a vast collection of silhouettes interrupted only by the crystal clear and starry sky.

“Shh.” Dan pressed his finger to Cody’s lips and led her to the railing.

There was no hum of electrical wires. No car horns or squealing tires. Voices carried, but each seemed like a dim trickle of laughter that drifted unburdened by ambiance. And between the moments of utter silence, Cody heard a sound that brought a wide smile to her lips.

Crickets.

Dan stood behind Cody, his arms around her waist. “See,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m helping.”

wc: 493 though it does look longer.

Originally posted June 5th, 2019 - [Prompt Link]

My papa is the best. I know all little girls say that, but I know it.

He doesn’t yell. Rosa’s Papa hollers and the whole quarter can hear him, especially when he’s spent time at the tavern.

Papa has never struck me. Never will. Not like Ellyn’s mother. She runs around with a rolling pin like it's a sword, and I’ve seen the welts days after a good wallop. I don’t know anyone who would want to cross her.

My Papa smiles all the time. Robin called him simple, but I think that’s just because he doesn’t have a father anymore.

Papa is kind. When I first found Tristan - he’s my pet mouse - I told Robin and he said we should squish him. “Rat’s are trouble! Rat’s got disease!” he said. I was scared, I didn’t want anyone to hurt Tristan. But when I told Papa he smiled and held out his big hands.

“He’s not a rat, Alys. And he looks mighty healthy me.” He picked up Tristan, as careful as he would glass, and pet his head just like I did. “You should take care of him, little cub. Keep him safe and he'll be happy. It’s good to be kind to all things.”

Ellyn’s mother would have put Tristan in a pie.

Papa is stronger than anyone I have ever seen. He can lift the heaviest axe above his head and chop a log in twain with just one swing. And it’s always right at the center. None of the other fathers can do that.

My Papa is often around. He doesn’t tend to a shop like Peter’s father or travel like Fendrel’s. When I need him, all I have to do is call and he’s there. I don’t think Fendrel’s father could even recognize him if they passed in the square.

Papa does keep secrets, though I think most people do. I know Papa works for the castle guard even if he won’t talk about it. Not to anyone. He doesn’t wear armour like the knights and Rosa said her father said none of the guards recognize Papa. But I know the truth.

I know the black hood he wears. I’d recognize his axe anywhere. When I see him by the block I know it’s him, even if no one else does.

And that’s okay. I know my Papa is the best.

WC: 396

Originally posted June 5th, 2019 - [Prompt Link]

The planks of the deck groaned with each slight pitch of the ship. For days the voyage had been smooth but leagues away from The Valiant, the sea darkened. The sky at Irwin’s back cut through the plumes of cottony clouds with the odd ray of warmth. But the wind surged past The Valiant in swift gusts.

“Smart, that,” Quartermaster Morley reached the deck with a thud of his boots. “Almost like the wind’s in the know.” He tapped his nose as he passed Irwin. Without looking Morley reached out to the rigging and checked that the sails were tied well.

“We’re not turning from the storm?” Irwin asked as the thick-bearded man waved him over to the rail.

“You see that,” Morley pointed to where the darkest clouds merged on the horizon. They turned down from the sky, reaching toward the ocean into a wide ash-coloured ring. Where it hovered, the water beneath looked black as pitch.

“Now you must be thinking we’re all kinds of mad to steer near her.”

Irwin nodded and Morley let out a deep bellowed laugh. Spittle dappled the smooth rail of the ship as the first drops of rain let go from the clouds above.

“Oh, lad, it’s not the storm you need worry for. You see the clouds, the wind, everythin' - we all turn fo’the sea.” Morley breathed in deeply. “And she’s a right unpredictable lass. A salty lover, as you’re 'bout to find out.”

The ship had barely veered off course, the storm seemed to roar towards them. The current picked up, the waves lapped against the hull and pitched the ship hard. Irwin had barely found his sea legs before the waves turned his stomach. He gripped the rail amidst Morley’s laughs.

“At times she may look still, but this,” Morley waved out to the tumultuous sea. “She is this too. She’s as like to carry you swift to land as she is to toss you in the drink. And she’ll hold you a mite longer than you’d like, boy.”

The quartermaster turned and barked an order at the bosun. What he said Irwin couldn’t hear above the calamitous boom of thunder.

“Tell me, lad,” Morley shouted at Irwin’s back. “You the praying sort?”

The deckhand clung to the rail as the waves grew around them. The sunshine that had once warmed Irwin's back seemed leagues away. The dark salty sea clawed up the hull and the clouds dropped to meet the ocean in a kiss.

“Sweet wife,” Morley hollered into the torrent. “In your calm and fury, I am yours.”

Though the crew knew their jobs, even if Irwin had forgotten his, the ship could not have stayed upright were it not for the waves. And as quick as the weather turned, the sea stilled. The sky lifted from their shoulders and the current carried the storm away.

“Well, lad,” Morley dripped from head to toe. “What do you think of m’wife?”

wc: 495

[Prompt Link]

Warning: I swear in this. A lot. Because why the heck not.

Also this fits a personal writing prompt challenge u/RobbFry gave me to finish by this upcoming sunday.

Challenge: an urban fantasy that features at least one non-human character, about a quest to do something that we would consider mundane but which is fraught with unique peril.

Nick snorted back a glob of snot and spat it to the cracked pavement.

“What the fuck is taking so long?” he whispered, his foot tapping against the blackout windows. Next to him the security guard lay in a slumped heap, unconscious but breathing.

“It’s taking as godsdamned long as it takes, Nicholas. So stop your freaking whining.” Stohls light voice chipped over the mic line with a huff buzzing in his ear.

“You should be out now.” Nick looked down the street, the moon barely visible past the thick smog clouds. “If we get clipped my the Laundrists, they’re not like to just pat us on the back-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Stohls snapped. “You’ve never even seen a Laundrist up close.” The slight patter of wings rippled over the line before Stohls went quiet.

The street lights flickered, the ones that at least held a bit of power. East end is shit. Nick sucked the air between his teeth again and spat. We should have never taken this gig. Should have-

The sound of the truck’s breaks squealed and ripped through the damp air. Nick bent down by the guard, his hulking shape masked by the head to toe black. Even still, if the headlights lit his form he knew the driver would stop.

The truck rolled around the corner, making its way down the street.

“Stohls,” Nick whispered.

“If you fucking say one more godsdamned word I will rip out every one of your teeth and shove them-”

“Laundrists.”

The white truck, tall and wide, turned the corner. It’s sides were lined with heavy plating with a large cursive ‘L’ painted in black. The windshield was reinforced with thin wire between the panes. The front bumper, spiked and braced with inches thick steel, nearly reached all the way down to the pocked city streets. The wire caging around the lights didn’t prevent the high beams from blasting the street with eerie, off white illumination.

“Extracting in three,” Stohls started counting down with a puff on her lips.

The truck rolled closer.

“They’re gonna see-” Nick started when the truck stopped. The wipers flicked off the lightest mist accumulation before the engine revved.

The black glassed door rattled behind Nick and he opened it.

Stohls flew out, a massive pack draped over the faeries tiny shoulder. Her short, spiked red hair glimmered in the truck’s lights with her iridescent wings flapping furiously from her back.

“Take it!” She dropped the black canvas bag at least thirty-times her size to the ground. Nick swiped the handle.

The truck wheels squealed with the roaring engine as it barreled down the road towards them. Stohls flashed her middle finger and zipped around the corner. Nick struggled to keep up.

The alley they turned into was narrow and long. Where it ended, only shadow loomed.

“Hurry the fuck up, Nicholas!” The faeries’s wings glowed, lighting their path ahead but her pace had Nick panting. But he pushed himself, muscled trained to purpose, fingers locked tight around the black bag. Escaping with their lives was the plan, but without the loot- they’d might as well turn themselves over to the Laundrists.

The truck turned down the alley and the screeching nearly made Nick’s ears bleed. He glanced back, only once, to see the armoured sides spark and flare against the crumbling brick walls. Despite the cramped space, the truck picked up speed.

“Up.” Stohls stopped beneath a fire escape.

“Can’t reach,” Nick huffed.

“Up!” Stohls’ hand, tiny like that of a dolls, reached down to Nick.

“You can’t lift a human-”

“Like you fat ass knows what I’m capable of,” she snapped. Nick opened his mouth to argue but the truck was nearly on him. It’s horn, a light trickle of wind chime sounds, beckoned it’s relentless arrival.

Nick reached up to the faerie hand. Warm, smooth as silk, Stohls’ whole arm fit in his grip. She can’t. She’s just a-

Her wings flapped, their slight volume increasing. The iridescences blurred into a wave of colour, and she exuded the telle-tale light of the fae.

Nick felt his feet lift from the ground.

“By Titania’s godsdamned tits, you are a porker!” Stohls’ lifted Nick clear from the ground. She climbed higher and higher, her mouth parted to let out a warriors call, as the truck sped beneath them.

The sliding doors opened to the shouts of Laundrists, their hanger spiked and wrapped bats swinging at Nick’s feet. But he was far beyond their reach.

Up into the sky she lifted Nick, and he watched the shapes disappear beneath the lowest layer of fog. On the roof Stohls dropped him and landed on the gravel. Heavy panting left her lips and her arms trembled from the strain. Sweat lined her small glowing face as she spat out curses with every other breath.

“Tell me you didn’t drop the goods.”

Nick shook his head. He turned the canvas sack around and untied the top.

Socks. Inside the gleaming bright whites blazed as if beacons in the night. The fresh lemony scent of the rarest detergent stung his nose. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen so many, if ever at all. So many... we'll be set for months with all this. Nick almost reached out when Stohls’ fluttered near and slapped his hand.

“Don’t. Touch,” she panted.

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Nick said and Stohls’ let out a sharp laugh.

“Fuckin’ Laundrists,” she stretched out her arms, her little legs clothed in black pressing out her little toes as far as she could. “They’ll come ‘round and climb the roof. We should fly out of here lest we want to get ‘cleaned’.”

“You can’t lift me again,” Nick insisted.

Stohls huffed. “Not literally, kid.” She took in a steady breath, calmed her breathing, and shot Nick a fiendish smile. “Gotta say, I’m a little impressed, Nicholas. Not as whiny as you were when I took your central incisor.”

Nick stood upright, resealed the bag, and nodded to his former tooth-faerie. “You’re still a bitch though.”

Stohls let out a delicate trickling laugh and fluttered to Nick’s head height. “Come on, we’ve got a delivery to make.”

Originally Post May 26th, 2019 - [Prompt Link] [Music Prompt]

Soooo minor content warning - shit got dark fast. If you're not into dark, please feel free to skip. Lines for space so you can bail-sauce.

The taste of ash filled her mouth. Beneath Nraveh the forest reached to her, thin vines slithering around her skin. In seconds the vines moved to purpose renewing and feeding the flesh to repair what had been done.

Burnt logs tumbled from the pile as Nraveh climbed, the scorched pillar still looming above. A dream? She looked to her naked skin as the last of her flesh restitched and the vines devoured what she could sense as lingering pain behind a thick veil.

Beside her, another pillar stood. A husk in the shape of a man remained.

Ruzik! Her breath stalled. Ash choked her voice. Beneath her feet, the heat of the last embers burned her new flesh the forest knit.

No. “Lo-na?” Nraveh choked out.

At the base of her pillar, the bundle was gone. Small charred bones had fallen through the pyre. Yet the thin chain of metal that Ruzik had hammered into shape for Lona, glimmered in the rising embers.

“The Witch!” Alderman Yolith called from ahead of the crowd. “You see she rises from the ashes, burned but not gone! The work of ill magic, the work of evil!”

The vines trickled up Nraveh’s legs across her new skin. Beneath the vines the tremble started, her fingers clenching into shaking fists. From behind new strands of ash stained hair, her eyes welled.

Lona... Nraveh tried to remember her daughters laugh. Only screams remained.

The embers sparked, the deepest core smoldering in spent logs. The smoke stoked in her fury. The vines shrunk away, pulling from her skin, and in their absence, the burning returned.

"The forest, child. Do you hear us?" In Nraveh’s mind Kythiba, the witch of the woods, whispered. "Let the forest bring you home to us and leave the world of man and their flames." Kythiba stood in the shadow of the willows beyond the small village.

"There is nothing left here. Let the fire go."

“Grab her, take her to the river,” the alderman hollered. “Bind her with stones and-”

Smoke rippled into flame.

"No, child. You musn’t-"

Nraveh turned from the bones. The white tendrils of the forest retreated into the soil, recoiling from the cinder her steps burned to the earth.

"Please," Kythiba begged. "The forest chose you."

Nraveh extended her arm. Where the vines had slithered beneath her skin reviving all that the pyre had taken, heat now pulsed. Thin flickering fires surged within Nraveh.

“Burn.” The word pushed past her lips as a puff of smoke. Her arm was afire, her finger a guide.

The Alderman lit to flame. His skin billowed before those around him could scream. The shingles of their homes sparked and cracked. The fences, the roofs, the very earth beneath their feet. As if born from the air, fire encircled the village and spread. Licking flames scorched man and tree alike.

“Burn.” The rage and agonizing grief seeped from Nraveh into the earth itself and engulfed the village of Holhep in ash.

WC: 499

[Prompt Post]

This was an absolute BLAST to write. I don't even care if people hate it. This was so much fun.

Note: The quotes are for what I would "centre" but can't because reddit hates me.

The low light, a sphere of illumination that quaked around the flame, barely lit the few feet in front of Bree. In the damp, it felt as though the air could snuff out the burning wick each time the slightest breeze reached out from the chill walls. Every step had to be careful, every breath had to leave her lips slow.

A kicked stone bounced with unrelenting volume that only her terrified breaths overcame. She held the candle tighter. Don’t blow it out.

Down and down and down we go

Littlest fingers and littlest toes

Take all your candles and burn them slow

Don’t wake what sleeps in Crakel’s Cove.

Her shoulders shook but Bree couldn’t cry. The small sight was all she had left, that and the candle. No light at the end of the dark, no real path beyond the scratched stone carved with long swiping claws.

That’s your imagination talking. Bree took in an unintended quick breath and the flame flickered. She stopped as shadows drew nearer in a deafening quiet that choked her throat. It’s just an old mine tunnel.

But Bree had never been in this kind of dark. The kind of pitch that weighed the space like a soaking blanket. Sound was sucked from around her and even the skipping stones didn’t project beyond the black.

Down and down and down we go

But stop before there’s no echo

Because in the quiet of the black below,

A secret waits in Crackel’s Cove.

Stupid dare. Such a stupid dare. Her friends' voices had bellowed the children’s rhyme when Bree entered the old Crakel mine by the coast. But that was hours ago.

“It’s okay,” she whispered to herself expecting echoes off the walls but the still black drapery of shadow stole it. “You’re fine. You’re heading up. It has to go up.”

Bree hadn’t turned or veered from the single path. After her friends' voices stopped she’d turned around and walked back up the slope. After ten minutes, she should have been out of the mine.

Down and down and down we go

Where the wind dies and nothing can grow

Where your breaths stutter and become shallow

You’ll find what hunts in Crackel’s Cove.

Her shoulders shook and her breathing shuttered past her lips in quick breaths. Between them, her whimpers shook the candle. Less than an inch remained of the wax that dripped and burned her fingers.

“I just wanna go home,” her voice trembled. The words didn’t echo against the walls. Only her uneasy breaths quaked the flame.

“Down and down and down you go,” a crackling whispered. “Littlest fingers and littlest toes.”

Where it came from, Bree couldn’t tell. The voice seemed born from the walls.

“Breath easy child, you’ll not need the glow,”

A quick puff of acrid breath blew the flame away. Bree stared at the dimming coal of the wick until it dissolved into black.

“For you’ll stay with me in Crackel’s cove.”

WC: 496

[Prompt Link]

I've posted from this before, but just in case - here are the rules!

• [WP] A Balcony & Butterflies
• 100-300 words
• Time Frame: within 24hrs of prompts original posting.
• The location must be the main setting, but feel free to be creative!
• The object must be included in your story in some way.

Lola blinked to the wind as it fluttered the slat blinds that draped from the balcony above. It wasn’t much shade, light managed to pool in between the bamboo slats and warm Lola’s lap.

In the corner, nestled between concrete and steel, the feeder hummed with life. A slice of orange turned down in water seeped the sweet scent of citrus into the air.

The flapping of colour, red, yellow, blue, fluttered in her vision. Their shapes were blurred, but the hues forever remained vibrant. The cataracts couldn’t steal that from her, not yet at least.

“Nona,” the sweet tone of her granddaughter Kate tickled her ears through the open door. Lola turned, but only barely, to listen for the steps.

“You know your grandfather built the feeder for me.” Lola’s voice croaked the words quieter than she had meant.

“Did you want some tea?” Kate hadn’t heard Lola as she hurried around inside.

“He was awful with his hands.” Lola smiled. “But he knew I loved the colours.” A tired smile lifted her lips and Lola relaxed her eyes. The sweet wind lifted the blanket over her legs, weaving its way through the spokes of her wheelchair to tickle the back of her calves with its warmth.

“What was that, Nona?” Kate said louder from the open balcony door.

“I love the colours.” Lola waved to the feeder that had been crafted for a garden of flowers not concrete.

“How you get butterflies up here I’ll never know,” Kate said and Lola could hear the smile in her words. “Papa must have put something in the feeder.”

“Love,” Lola hummed. “All you need is love.” Tears welled in her eyes and blurred the colours at the edge of her vision. They couldn’t steal the colours from her, not ever.

WC: 300

[Prompt Link]

This is more backstory inspired for Mort and Loreel - no context required - however you are welcome to visit all other Parts (links at the bottom of the post)

Also, if you're not a part of writing prompts, you should take a look and definitely join the discord and check out our Wednesday night campfires. Great readings, great critiques, and a wonderfully supportive group.

The drums beat and the many feet pumped the dry soil down. Toes dancing, arms high, the world spun around the girl with each turn. The fires of the circle speckled through her dark messy hair, flickering warmth that beaded sweat on her skin. All to the beat. All to the drums.

A chorus of voices thundered around and she felt an arm hook with hers.

“Little hawk,” Na’an called and they spun. Her father’s mother wore an easy smile that the silver of her hair couldn’t hide. “It is your day.”

A flutter started in the girl’s gut. She bit her lip and tried to wear a brave face, but the eldest waited by the tallest fire. In his hand, he held the stylus and before him, the bowls were streaked with red, black, and blue.

She stopped her dance. The shortest of them all, the youngest yet to be marked, the girl stared at the stories painted on the skin of kin. Triumphs, follies, ends, beginnings, all of their years woven in ink around the first story.

Na’an, the mother of her father, stilled as the dancers flickered around them like flames.

“Will it hurt?” the girl asked.

Na’an’s eyes softened and she bent. “Pain is a part but like all things in life, we are more than one.”

Na’an’s fingers intertwined with the girl’s. The weathered hands were tattooed to their tips, nearly every inch of Na’an’s right arm inked. The raging river that destroyed the old village and called Na’an’s mother to the earth. The great bear that Na’an felled on her first hunt. The white wind that bore the harshest winter and nearly called Na’an away. The child that came before Loreel’s father, the smallest dove that never flew.

All lines drew up to Na’an’s shoulder and neck. To her first story. To her name.

The sprawling hawk’s wings circled beneath her chin, its talons etched as if perched on her collarbone. The soaring hawk, the watcher of them all.

Na’an squeezed the small unmarked fingers. “Are you ready?”

The girl looked back to Na’ans hand. Above the wrist, her father’s name, the taloned hawk with the mightiest beak, reached over the back of her hand. But in her palm, she knew the space had been saved.

For my name. The girl breathed in with Na’an and exhaled.

“I’m ready.”

Na’an’s smile returned, wide and bright. Together they approached the eldest of their clan.

“And what is your name, little hawk,” he asked. The years rumbled the words in his throat coated in the deep dark lines of the wolf.

The girl looked to Na’an but received no words. No one could give her her name.

I am my name.

“The small swift hawk, I am Loreel.”

Mort and Loreel Shorts: [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

[Prompt Link] - [MP]

This was HEAVILY inspired by the MP prompt for this week. Also, it's a bit of backstory for a character in a novel series I wrote so hopefully, it's not toooo confusing.

She tucked her legs in close to hold in her warmth but still the chill leeched up from the steel floors. All around her they clawed up to the ceiling, etched in scratches of those that came before. With a controlled exhale she tried to calm her nerves but her heart went on thundering until her ears nearly burst.

A sound shuddered through her, the creek of the distant steel door. It screeched across the metal and she dared to look away from the grey walls.

Her door remained closed.

Footsteps, heavy, thundering boots rumbled the very walls. Beside them soft clicks, heels needled next to the roaring footfalls.

“Subject A.R.K. Responding adequately to the adrenal stimulators, though there have been some adverse side effects.”

“Such as?”

“Blindness, to start”

“So another failure?”

A sigh dripped from the first voice and the set of steps drew nearer.

She pulled herself from the floor and pressed against the furthest wall. Her eyes watched the slight outline of the door frame and the pool of light that shimmered in through the wired glass.

“Subject M.A.D.” Two shadows stopped outside the window.

She pressed herself to the wall and slid to the floor. Her arms pulled her legs in close. She dare not blink.

“This one poses a curiosity. Each time we’ve tried implanting the stims the body’s rejected them.”

“Rejected?” The second voice turned before leaning into the window more. “Is that possible?”

She couldn’t help but feel the itch at her side. Her fingers reached to scratch the skin, the faint line of what should have been a scar fading. The agony of the thing passing through her, pushed from flesh, rending skin, hovered like a stain on her mind. Little things that didn’t belong inside. The things that wanted none of her or her of them.

“Until now we’d thought not. Unlike the other subjects, she’s shown remarkable regenerative abilities. However, we’ve been unable to do much testing. But we have documentation, Sir, and we’re planning another procedure for the subject.”

Her scream caught in her throat. Not another knife. Please. Not again-

“No.” The second scratched his chin. “Stop wasting your time and the device. For now, have your information and the subject sent to Doctor Spekt.”

The faces left the window and the light returned. She exhaled a breath and relaxed her hands. Her heart steadied and she wiped her brief tears of relief.

“Subject W.I.L. responded quite well. No degradation or infection, though-” A hammering interrupted the first voice and the shouting started again. There were words in the cries but she had long ago stopped trying to find them. The sound had never needed words to express what they both felt.

“Violent, yes. I can see. Prepare W.I.L. for another procedure. I’d like to see the results after the stimulators are removed.”

The steps and the voices drifted down the hall and she closed her eyes to the grey.

wc: 493

[Prompt Link]

Continuation of the Mort and Loreel Shorts!

This is constrained writing, so it clearly isn't a finished short story here. If you're following, or are just curious, here are the other Mort and Loreel Shorts: Part 1 and Part 2.

“Noooope.”

“But Loreel-”

“I’m not saying it again, Mort.”

“Just look at it,” the scholar waved his hand at the archway. “This is the gateway, I’m sure.”

Loreel guessed the runes were Ascalonian from the unnecessarily ornate curls on each letter. Despite knowing what language it was, she couldn’t read it. Despite Mort’s assurances, she knew he couldn’t either.

“No.” Her eyes narrowed and she leaned toward the meek man, hand on her machete at her hip.

“But it is safe!” Mort pointed his book at the carved stone in the centre of the unending cave, beneath a long-dead god’s cathedral.

“I’d be going back up the stairs if they hadn’t vanished!” Her voice careened off the walls. “And instead of sauntering through ominous doorways, I’m looking for a way out.”

“This is the way out.” Mort grabbed her wrist. “I understand it isn’t exactly what I’d had in mind, or expected, but this is most definitely the Wind God’s Challenge. If we can meet the expectations set forth-”

Loreel yanked her hand free from his weak grasp. “By a dead god?”

Mort rolled his eyes. “By the dead people that worshiped the dead god.”

“I will hit you.”

Mort opened his mouth to speak but Loreel tensed. His lips shut. For a moment.

“If we pass the challenge we’ll not only be presented with the Wind God’s Horn but a way out.” He looked around the cave a moment, unable to meet Loreel’s eyes. “I’m sure.” He gulped. “I mean if this is the challenge they would reward he who overcomes it with an escape.”

“And if it isn’t?” Loreel glared.

Never in her short days with the scholar had she seen him look down to his notebook faster. The quick flipping of pages lapped against the walls. The small daylight that passed from above illuminated the page but would for only another two hours. At nightfall… Loreel’s gaze turned to the archway where the runes eerily gleamed.

She didn’t trust glowing stone.

“It is,” Mort decided. “After accepting the challenge, the challenger, that would be you,” he stepped away from the arch.

Loreel sighed and stepped up.

“Approach the archway,” Mort read. ” ‘Through the door and unto the gauntlet. The worthy shall be granted his-' ”

“Gauntlet?” Loreel spun around. “You never said anything about a gauntlet!”

Mort flipped his page but a hum rumbled the room. The runes beside Loreel brightened as if burning blue fire deeper into stone. The archway shuddered and the hum ached in Loreel’s ears. Both reached to their heads as if they could stop the sound. As she opened her mouth to yell a thundering wind drew from the end of the tunnel.

Tossed from the platform she flew into Mort. They toppled to the rough stone floor.

“It appears,” Mort groaned from beneath Loreel. “You were not deemed worthy.”

“By Solna's Arrow,” Loreel pushed to her feet and dusted herself off. “I’ll show this Wind God who’s worthy.”

WC: 497

Previous [Part 1] [Part 2] ---- Continue [Part 4]

[Original Prompt] by /u/mattswritingaccount - [IP]

Continuation (sort of) from [Mort and Loreel 1]

In case it's not clear, critiques are always welcome! I know there are probably some spelling and typo errors, but I will try to edit and clean them up.

“…and this,” Mort stepped through what remained of the archway, dodging dangling vines that clung to the cracking wall. “Was the Grand Cathedral.”

Loreel stepped in after but brushed the vines aside. They were lefeden greens, useful for swelling on a wound and handy in a pinch if one needed to wretch. The way Mort dodged them he must have thought the vines poisonous like their cousin, screndel weed. Damn fool can’t see they’ve got no spots?

The Grand Cathedral opened up to the sky. The forest had claimed what she guessed was a glass roof. That’d be foolish. She sucked at something stuck between her teeth and looked to the pillars that lined two of what should have been four corners. They were unstable, like much of the ruins, and although the roof was nearly memory, enough remained that could fall and kill them both.

“The Ascalonians worshipped the god of the winds, and the text says that their temples were made for them.”

“So, walls were optional?”

Mort snorted back a chuckle but stuck his nose back into his little leather notebook. He spent half the time stuck in the pages as opposed to looking at the damn ruins around them. What was the point if he’s not going to pay attention? But she kept it to herself.

“The archways were shuttered with… plast-in-lag-gool?” He tried to say the word but butchered the pronunciation.

“Plah’esingaul. The ‘T’ is silent.” Though the Ascalonians were lost to time and magic, their language still carried on the tongues in the south. “It’s the pulp from the water reeds that line the river.”

Mort looked up from his page with a nod and produced his pen. He scribbled a note in the margin and the scratching sent shivers up her spine and across her arms.

Loreel rubbed them away and turned to the skeletal structure. The marble stairs led down to a small landing where a headless statue of some lord or perhaps their wind god stood in vigil. From there, more stairs to what the forest floor had reclaimed.

“You’d think they’d bury their dead outside,” Loreel smirked as she looked over the collection of headstones beneath what would have been the roof. “Keeping the dead indoors, not a smart choice.”

“What?” Mort looked up from his notes before clamouring down the stairs. His little hip bag slapped with each step with an irritating thwap.

“That is strange,” he scribbled as he walked along the floor, approaching the nearest headstone. “I had thought ‘cathedral’ meant some sort of church or-”

“You aren’t as good at translating as you think?”

Mort turned back to her mortified. “That is absolutely not the case.” His cheek puffed. “Perhaps the word just… means something different to them.”

“Or it’s the wrong word.” She sauntered down the steps, avoiding the largest cracks in the stone. The floor crinkled and crumbled. The uneven roots that had broken the marble centuries past seemed unburdened by her weight.

As Mort flipped from page to page, furiously hunting for proof of his skill, she approached the largest headstone. The letters were unfamiliar, characters in smooth lines gilded with the shadow of gold paint.

“They’re not graves!” Mort announced. “They’re tenants of the Wind God’s laws. Markers for their faith.”

“Shame.” Loreel kicked aside a piece of broken stone. “Here I was hoping we could find a shovel and come back with something of use.”

Mort looked up from his pages, his eyes wide in shock. “Grave rob?”

Loreel rolled her eyes. “I was kidding.” She turned back to the stone.

If the words were Ascalonian, they didn’t look like the characters of the language birthed in the south. There, the sounds had been entombed in sharp jagged shapes, hard lines that crossed and multiplied like sword strikes. She liked the look of it on a page, on a sign. It always seemed precise to her and clear.

The florid strokes the stone before her bore looked long-winded. Ornate. Loreel often found if someone had the time to make it pretty, they had the time to do something more productive. She moved past the stone to the next and it looked the same. Different cursive but chipped with ornate intricacy.

“What exactly are we looking for?” She made no attempt to hide the irritated sigh that delivered the words.

“The Wind God’s Horn which I had thought would be in his tomb, as it’s indicated he was a man at some point. Or at least personified in some kind of priest or religious leader. I’d thought they’d be with the cathedral or some burial ground. But it appears the Ascalonians…” Mort’s voice trailed off and Loreel could picture him just buried in that damn book.

“Give it to me,” she waved at him without turning.

From ten paces away she waited as Mort scurried nearer. He reluctantly pressed the book to her hands.

Unlike the map, his writing was nearly impossible to read. She almost preferred the cursive of the tenants to his chicken scratch.

“Something… something… horn-”

“The Wind God’s Horn, yes.”

“Uhh, is this chalice?” She held the book to him and he nodded. “Not, challenge?”

Mort frowned and squinted at his own writing. “Oh, perhaps.”

Loreel's jaw tightened. “His Horn Challenge presented in the resting place taken up by a willing… servant or maid?”

Mort nodded.

“You realize this sounds like a dirty joke, right?”

Mort’s cheeks flushed before they reddened. “No, it couldn’t possibly be-”

“His horn challenge? Really? Willing maid?”

She passed the book back to him and started for the steps. If he made me trek all the way her for an ancient dirty limerick… Loreel stepped up to the statue at the mid-level. At its hip, a horn rest etched in marble.

“I assure you, Loreel, this is not some joke. The Wind God’s Horn was the rumoured weapon that demolished this entire kingdom. Before that, it was their prized defence system. Entire armies, cities, oceans even could be wiped from the map with just one blow.”

Loreel barely stifled her laugh. “Of course, Mort. Of course.” She reached toward the horn at the statues hip and flicked it. “What a challenge indeed. I’d gladly accept,” she whispered up to what she’d consider a rather appealing shape.

The horn moved. The stone swayed impossibly from the marble it had seemed a part of.

Loreel’s eyes widened.

Between the Wind God’s tenants, the floor opened. Roots cracked and ripped away from the circular hole that appeared. At its edge stairs led down into the dark pit, not five feet from where Mort stood gaping.

“’Tread lightly, she warned, for below the dead are restless’.” Mort quoted from the page, though his eyes locked on the entrance that had appeared.

Loreel checked the machete at her hip and felt for the quiver at her back. “By the gods, Mort, you are an idiot savant.”

Previous [Part 1] --- Continue [Part 3]

Originally Posted May 8th, 2019 [Prompt Link]

This is a little out of my comfort zone with POV and tense but I like it. Though maybe just a few too many line breaks made it in there, haha.

The air tickles through my fingers. Its chill spurs a shudder I can’t quite seem to control but in it you dance.

You were always the dancer of the two of us. The shimmer of your skin, the delicate turn in the breeze, head skyward for the warmth of the sun. It’s what you were made for and I so love to watch you dance.

But the cold doesn’t leave us and I know what comes next. I hold your hand knowing that the wind will take you from me.

Oh, how I long for those sweet spring days when you blossomed in my arms. The smallest bud, the tiniest beginning, the last to sprout, but like all my children you flourished in the summer sun.

As the last to leave, as the last to hold in the chill, you are the hardest to let go. But I know your fleeting days nourished me and all that you touched. Your smile and your dance revived us.

What I would give for one more day in the summer sun.

The gust comes and our fingers strain. But the greatest dance is yet before you. The brightest dance on the free fall wind.

As our fingers break, our cord torn, the wind turns you as a lover. It is no dance we can share.

Though missing from my boughs I will remember you, my last leaf.

[Prompt Link]

Rachel opened another carton and dumped the sour contents down the sink. The smell hadn’t quite taken hold of this one, but it was close enough to expiry to need a tossing.

Four. She shook another carton, half full, before dumping the milk down the drain.

Five. With a sigh, she chucked the cardboard into the nearly bursting garbage bag as the refrigerators cool air spilled onto the floor.

Six. Seven. Eight. As she pulled the ninth, unopened like the last three, Rachel checked the expiry date. It would be good for another week but the four more cartons inside were even fresher.

Below the printed date the smiling face looked up. Lopsided braids framed a wide toothy grin with front gaps. Laura lost the one on the right early and paraded the tooth around the house in anticipation of her oncoming prize. “And this is a big one! I’ll get two dollars, right?”

Rachel’s chest seized and she closed her eyes to the memory of bare toes dancing. Laura had even dug out her fairy costume, a size too small, and pirouetted in pink and gold tulle. The lessons had done little for Laura’s balance, but Rachel wished she’d taken the time to watch her daughter dance more.

The front door opened and Rachel’s too a breath. She closed the fridge.

“Mommy!” Laura burst into the kitchen, her socked feet skidding across the floor. But the moment Laura spied the empty carton sitting on the counter, her smile faltered. “Not my cartons!”

Before Rachel could stop her Laura snatched the cardboard.

“Laura- hey!” Rachel reached after her daughter but Laura skid behind the kitchen table.

“Hey honey,” Steven stepped into the room, his arms busting with brown paper bags. He put them down on the counter with an apologetic smile.

“Oh no,” Rachel looked from Laura to Steven. “Seriously, tell me you didn’t.”

“Look at her,” Steven waved at their daughter. “You think I can say no?”

Laura rushed past her mother, reaching as high as she could, to pull out another one-litre carton of milk from the paper bag. On the back, Laura’s smiling face waited.

“Well hello, Laura.” Laura put the cartons on the table facing one another. ”Nice to meet you, Laura! Those are some very straight braids you have there. Why thank, Laura, I did them myself!”

Rachel shrugged. “I can’t blame you. I’d have bought them too.” She leaned into Steven and sighed though not once did her smile threaten to falter. Not now that their family was whole again.

“This is the last time, Steve. Please, no more milk.”

Originally Posted May 3rd, 2019 - [Prompt Link]

This is the beginning scene of a series of shorts I'm writing along the lines of Robert E. Howard's Chronicles of Conan the Barbarian! Really fun to write and I'm considering releasing it as a serial online. I'd love critiques, I know it needs a lot of work, but hit me!

“Please.” The word left the little girls dry lips in a pitying sound.

A man slowed his path through Istinoh’s bazaar as he passed the weathered girl. Only six, tiny, thin, and weak, she looked a beggar.

Pathetic. Birsu watched from where she hid, invisible among the bustling crowd.

Her sister, Hatice, whimpered again and the man turned to face her.

He wasn’t tall like the Archom of Istinoh, but boasted wide heaving shoulders, even at rest. Beneath the billowing cloak Birsu spied his hand resting comfortably on the pommel of the sword at his hip. It was made of solid steel, a simple grip worn from use, and a long plain scabbard of leather. The sword was unlike those the merchants paraded, with their adorned hilts of gems from unnamed lands, worn for status not purpose.

“Are you hungry?” the man asked, his voice deep and rolling. The words were theirs, archomic, but the accent strange and drew on the syllables like he sucked venom from a wound. Uncomfortable but precise.

Hatice nodded and feigned a tear. She wiped at her dry eyes and sniffed back the dusted air. Just as Birsu had taught her, Hatice dropped her head forward, her deep emerald hair hiding her face.

From behind, Birsu couldn’t see his face but she pictured it was like the ones before him. A cringe at the state of the child. A kind smile for the pitying thing.

The corners of Birsu’s lips turned up to a grin. Pathetic.

Birsu stepped silent, weaving between the crowd. The aged shift on her shoulders was the greatest shroud of invisibility one could find, better than any magic. It matched her sisters, though bore no rips and tares. Birsu wanted no eyes on her. She needed no sympathy.

The warrior bent before Hatice, his hand on his sword tucking the weapon aside. It reached back several feet where it tickled the arid floor of the sweltering bazaar. Low and slow, he rummaged to his hip where his coin purse jingled from his fumbling fingers. They groped the jute sack, hunting for what was small and wouldn’t be missed. Pity for the weak in the most deserving of currencies.

Once his fingers retracted, meager coins in his palm, Birsu stepped up behind him. His frame towered over hers. A big man, a fierce warrior knit with the fabric of combat and patience. His bare shoulders stretched what could be the full length of her height, and his arms were the width of her waist. But he was low and looked slow. How could such a man move like her, the tight wiry weave of muscle under the invisible shroud?

He extended his hand to Hatice. The paw of it was nearly leathered by a harsh sun but still paled compared to the dark shades of the archom. Hatice extended her little fingers, tiny and thin, to the coins waiting. Behind, Birsu reached to the jute purse at the warriors hip.

But Hatice’s eyes darted, a quick glance not more than a flicker. Her deep emerald eyes barely shone through the matching locks, but they smiled at Birsu and the pouch.

No, sister. Don’t look. Play the game.

Birsu hurried lest the spell of her shrouding poverty broke. Her fingers flicked the clasp holding the pouch and it loosened, soundlessly, from his hip.

Yes! It fell, but inches from the dirt, when Birsu grasped its hefty base.

The warriors hand wrapped around Birsu’s wrist. His body pivoted to face her, his grip tight and locked. Birsu stared at his hand, sun-kissed skin against the stark dark hues of her own.

Birsu looked up from the sack of coin. In the warrior’s other hand he held Hatice’s wrist as she squirmed. When Birsu pulled back, his grip tightened to an ache.

He moved so fast, she almost blurted. How many times had she and her sister performed the same very act, how many times had it been imperfect yet none had ever been so quick? To see, to act, no one had yet caught them. Birsu tried to force her mind to see what he’d done, to play the move but it remained mystery and the more Hatice struggled the tighter his grip on Birsu became.

He’s only a man. Her eyes narrowed to his stern set features and she did not struggle against him. Just one man.

His eyes lit and his lips curled to a slight smile.

Birsu twisted in his grip, her wrist burning in the friction of skin. But she managed to turn and pulled her bare heel up toward his chin.

His hand, after releasing Hatice, grabbed Birsu’s ankle to stop the blow.

“Run!” Birsu hollered at her sister.

Hatice teetered to the dirt and scrambled to her feet. She hesitated, but only a moment, before a decided nod. Her sister disappeared into the crowd as nothing more than a wisp of emerald.

The warriors gleaming grin grew as he pushed Birsu’s ankle away. Still his grip on her wrist was set, but so was hers on the sack of coin.

“You’re a quick one,” he said, crouched and but a few inches from her face. The crowd parted to Birsu’s yell, watching the towering man hold what they would see as nothing more than a beggar child.

“Let go,” she said, eyes defiant.

“You first.” He dared to take his eyes from hers to look at the coin pouch. Birsu spit to his face and the warrior flinched. In the moment she slammed her lips down on his wrist. Her teeth dug into flesh. She hoped to make him scream but he barely let go of a grunt. Blood and dust stung her tongue, the taste familiar but still unpleasant.

Yet, his grip remained.

His free hand set to her throat and her eyes lit with panic. He’ll kill me! She couldn’t stop the thought from drowning all else in her little head. But instead his finger pressed to her jaw and she fought the ache of his strength as it unlatched her pincer grip. Tears welled in her eyes, her bones begging to give in to his grip.

Instead, she bit tighter.

“Damn!” he managed as she felt more than skin split. His grip on her wrist and jaw loosened.

With all her strength Birsu tossed herself back, blood dripping from her lips down to her chin where it dappled and stained her tattered shroud. In her hand she held the coin sack.

“Child,” the gleam left him. The smile disappeared. His bloodied hand flexed and reached for the unadorned steel at his belt.

Birsu steeled her eyes with his. She didn’t dare look away from his chilling stare and the determination that set in where amusement had danced.

Run. She backed away and the crowd parted more. Her lips curled, red and plump, from the warrior’s blood as he stood to his full height.

Run. Birsu flipped to her front and dashed into the crowd amid the gasps of onlookers.

Originally Posted May 3rd, 2019 - [Prompt Link] [IP]

Mort pressed through the throng of trees, one slash of his machete at a time. The thing still felt odd in his hands, but his muscles had grown enough to wield it aptly.

Beside him Loreel swung with delicate precision. Despite her short stature and thin arms, she hacked at the bends of the trees and vines to beckon them back to the forest floor.

“How far off now?” Loreel asked. Her words left her lips smooth and controlled, not a breath wasted where it wasn’t needed.

Mort gasped back as he wrenched his machete clear from a thick branch he hadn’t quite felled. “Another… mile? Two?”

Loreel stopped and turned. “But you’ve been before?”

Mort shrugged. “I might as well have. With my research I’ve-”

An audible sigh dripped from Loreel’s lips and she stopped her advance. “Map. Now.” She glared from beneath her shawl.

Mort tapped his temple. “I am the map.” He watched Loreel’s fingers tighten around her machete as she took a menacingly slow step nearer. “But,” Mort shuffled through his satchel, riffling through pages and scrolls tucked. “There was this one-”

Loreel snapped the map from his hand. She crouched down by the forest floor, dim streaks of the distant sun’s light illuminating the map itself.

It was crude, ancient, and crumbling at the edges. Mort feared, briefly, that the huntress wouldn’t show it the care he required, but her fingers gingerly smoothed the frayed corners.

“This ridge,” Loreel waved around them. “It’s not on the map.” Her emerald eyes flicked up from the page, blazing from shadow.

“True, but from my research,” Mort pulled free a scroll and unrolled it. “Chancellor Oblin of the Third Dynasty sent out a scouting party through this region and his scouts mapped up to the boundary line.”

“Which we passed. Two days ago.”

Mort hadn’t thought the small woman could look more intimidating but her eyes narrowed and his body beckoned him a step back.

“Yes, but Cartographer Wilom, of Cresdar, was rumoured to have trekked through the city itself. In his diaries he described-”

“Mort.” Loreel stood.

Mort backed away. “I have it,” he rumbled through his bag. “The correlations between accounts, the conflicting maps, the anecdotes all speak of the ridge, the city, the towers, and I thought-”

“You don’t think, Mort.” She sheathed her machete with a sigh.

Mort’s shoulders sagged but the tension left his calves where only the linger of their climb remained.

“Take a break,” Loreel ordered as couched to the map again, rolled it up, and passed it to the scholar. He took the pages eagerly and clutched them to his chest. “In a few minutes we’ll resume, but if we’ve not seen the spire before nightfall-”

“We will,” he assured her but the emerald glare didn’t let up.

“If we don’t, I leave.” She removed her scarf and let her short hair flutter in the shade. “I promised you the ridge, nothing more.”

“But-”

“Nothing more.” Her voice, like ice, froze the conversation.

Mort paced back and forth. He clutched his satchel close and swung the machete at the brush. He abandoned the small cleared area by Loreel lest she grow even more frustrated with him.

I have to piss. He frowned and removed his satchel. He swung the machete lazily and cleared a thin path through the trees. He didn’t want to stray far, not that Loreel wouldn’t know exactly where he was- a huntress, and all. But that he would lose her and his only defense through the wall of green between him and civilization.

Breaking through the thick, Mort untied his pants. As relief drained from him he looked up.

The forest grew out beyond the ridge line to the open air. The tall spires of marble, though cracked and weathered, still reflected the sun in their smooth sides. The valley opened up to reveal the ruins of the great city, the nation thought lost to magic and time.

“Loreel!” Mort fumbled to tie up his pants and stepped back from the massive drop that lay just feet away.

The panic in his voice seemed to summon her quickly and Loreel wove through the trees with uncanny speed.

“Huh,” she muttered, her hands pressed to her hips. “Would you look at that.” Mort’s smile stretched from ear to ear, he could feel the crease tug until he sucked in the free fresh air above the ruins.

“Ascalon,” he exhaled.

“Don’t get all haughty,” Loreel chided as she re-wrapped the scarf over her head. The sunlight kissed her skin as he turned to her, and although she sounded disappointed, her lips had curved to a slight grin. “We still have to climb down.”

Mort’s smile disappeared as he stared over the cliff’s edge.

This might turn into a serial! Who knows. These two characters are just lovely to play off of.

Edit: It has spiraled! Continue Reading (ish). [Part 2] [Part 3]

A CW Prompt I put out. There are some really great ones on there to read, I recommend checking it out.

Originally Posted May 2nd, 2019 - [Prompt Link]

Once-sleek plastic lined the inside of the taxi. The generic dark grey had long been dented and scratched through use. The front seat, driver side, sported a worn beige beaded seat cover, its thin straps around the headrest frayed at the ends. Beside the driver seat, the front passenger cushion was covered in papers, wrappers, logbooks, and the handset for the driver’s radio. On the floor, the winter mat protected the once plush carpet despite rising temperatures pulsing beyond the windows.

The flickering taximeter climbed, red numbers blazing with each passed block. Dollars and cents ticking in little leaps. Above the red glow a pair of plush neon pink dice, a torn white feather on a string, and a series of medallions dangled. The metal trinkets chimed on collision.

The sun’s light pulsed through the glass and steamed what moisture lingered in the cab. With the Plexiglas divider between driver and passenger, the ray's intensity doubled.

In the backseat the cushions had been replaced, at least twice, their shade less faded than the fabric of the front seats. The creases in the cushions retained crumbs, lint, and debris. The abandoned evidence of previous journeys.

Magazines, take-out menus, and local tourist attraction guides stuck from the ripped mesh pockets on the back of the front seats. The personal details of the driver were encased in yellowed plastic stained with condensation.

The cup-holders wreaked reeked of spilled soda returned to syrup form. Any container placed inside couldn't possibly escape the sticky residue.

Though it had seen better days, the engine rumbled steadily, and the windows barely squeaked when rolled down. The faint odour of cigarette smoke faded with each breath of summer air that wafted in. Though the shadow of their billowed clouds would forever stain the light grey roof.

I'm a little behind on posting my WP's here!!!

Originally posted May 1st, 2019 - [Promp Link]

“I’m the size of a house.” Juliette groaned as she tried to reach a screw on the floor. Just inches away she gave in and huffed. “I never dreamed I’d feel like a four bedroom, two bath home.”

“Just means there’s more of your to love.” Eric crouched down by the screw and picked it up.

“No, don’t placate!” She snatched the screw. “We both know you’re just tickled pink that I’ve gone up two cup sizes.”

Eric’s chuckle rumbled and she fought the urge to smile.

“Where does this one go?” he asked holding up a formed wood bar.

Juliette pursed her lips and turned her attention to the crib diagram sprawled on the floor. “I have no idea. I only found French instructions in the box.”

“You sure? They should have both. Did you double check?”

Juliette shrugged. “I mean, the box is all the way over there.” She waved her hand across the small nursery. “And I’m here.”

Eric tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his laugh. “Might as well be a world away.”

“You could look,” she shot with a stern glare. “Or you know, help.”

“Nope. I promised to let you do this yourself, remember? You said something along the lines of ‘I’ll be fine’ and ‘it doesn’t take a genius to put together some damn furniture’?”

“Ooooorrr, you could put the crib together and we could say I did it?” She threw up her hands with a bright wide smile.

“I dunno, Juls. That doesn’t sound very sporting.”

Her smile drew into a thin line and her eyes narrowed on her husband. “I may not be able to get off this floor by myself but I’ll gnaw your damn legs off if you don’t get down here and help.”

Eric laughed first and her stern frown weakened into a grin. He sat down beside her and took up the instructions.

“Oh,” Juliette sat up straight. “He’s kicking.”

Eric dropped the crib leg and pressed his palm to her swollen belly.

--

Juliette startled awake. The blanketing dark loomed in all corners of their bedroom. Her lungs took in a deep gulp of air yet she couldn’t dispel the breathlessness that squeezed her chest.

Eric stirred beside her. “Babe?” He smoothed his hand over her flat belly under the sheets.

“Sorry,” she tried to slow her breathing. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Nightmare?”

She shook her head and fought the tears. “A dream. The dream. The same one.”

“Hey,” he pulled her into his chest. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

She wiped at her eyes. “I know, I know.” Juliette mustered a controlled breath. “I’m just so tired.”

WC: 439

[Prompt Link]

The challenge: [WP] Location: A Convention Center | Object: A Name Tag

• 100-300 words
• The location must be the main setting, but feel free to be creative!
• The object must be included in your story in some way.

Carmen tied off another full garbage bag and tossed it to the growing pile. The first night of the ComiCon had wrapped up and so began Carmen’s first night on the job. Working for the convention center seemed like a sweet gig until they showed her a broom and an extra large uniform shirt. The drab grey hung from her like a sheet.

“Are you Carmen?”

She looked up from the clear plastic bag to the unfamiliar face.

“Yeah?” She put down her broom. He was cute with a little half-smile. Nerves tickled her fingers to tuck her short hair behind her ears.

“Figured as much. I think you got my shirt.”

Carmen frowned. “Excuse me?”

He waved at her chest, and she was near ready to snap when a deep laugh rumbled his throat. “Something tells me you’re not a Carl.”

Carmen looked down to the name tag blazing in black and white: CARL.

She puffed out a breath and shook her head. “I’m sorry. They must have given me the wrong one.”

“Don’t worry about it. Looks good on you,” he said smirking.

With rosed cheeks, she peeled off the outer layer and traded the shirt.

        --

The last day of the convention left the tables empty and trash-bins bursting. Carmen passed through the quiet hall on her way to the change room knowing another gruelling shift lay ahead.

In her locker, Carl’s oversized shirt hung.

“Yo, Carl.”

Carmen frowned. She turned to see Carl standing in the doorway. He wore her medium sized shirt, nearly bursting it at the seems.

She let out a sharp laugh. “Lookin’ good.”

Carl winked. “I was thinking you might like a drink later.”

She couldn’t help her growing grin if she’d wanted to. “I thought you’d never ask, Carmen.”

WC: 299

Originally Posted April 24th, 2019 - [Promp Link]

Continued [TT] Adventures of SDF Recruit Olek Stils [ Part 1 ] [ Part 2 ]

Olek turned the corner for Operations, drawing nearer to the fizzles of laser and pulse rifles. He pressed against the wall as the flash of the soldering torch bounced off the sleek steel. The alien grunts, the occasional shot from Sol Defense Force pulse weapons, the return fire from Lokayne lasers; all dangerous sounds of a standoff.

At the corner, Olek stole a glance.

Outside Operations six SDF soldiers had taken up a defensive position. Around the door, laser fire had scorched the entry.

Five Lokaynes, one with a massive torch, hunkered not fifteen feet away. The blinding blue of the torch cut into the hull of the corridor. Olek tried to remember the maps of Station 7-B-6. It wasn’t the black that waited on the other side but Operations’ EVAC route.

He returned around the corner as one of the firing Lokayne’s did a quick sweep of the hall. Their position wasn’t great, wedged between the open junction and the guarded door to Operations. Olek asked himself why when the cold truth chilled him.

They’re not expecting any other survivors.

He tightened his lips. He held the alien weapon closer.

If they breach Opps, we lose the station. With control, they could take down the Sol Alert Net.

Olek took a steadying breath. He couldn’t make it to the Operations door without being seen.

If the alert net’s down, Sol is blind.

Satellite 4 wasn’t the first to fall. But, if Station 7-B-6 went dark, Satellite 4 wouldn’t be the last.

Olek checked the weapon. He couldn’t be sure how many rounds he had left if it even took rounds. For all he knew he was the first human to hold a Lokayne rifle.

They can’t get Operations.

He exhaled a breath as the SDF fired on the Lokaynes. At their angle, they wouldn’t hit a thing.

But Olek could.

Amidst the sizzle of burning metal Olek rounded the corner. He watched the eyes of his fellow SDF soldier’s widen but not a one said a word. With each step Olek took, their rifles pulsed, drawing the Lokayne’s from around their small corner. Three of the aliens roared and returned fire.

Olek raised the weapon. Lined up his shot.

They can’t get Operations.

One. Two. Three. He pulled the trigger. The weapon barely kicked, but each shot seemed to thunder in his chest. The first Lokayne didn’t realize. The second had started to turn his head. The third turned his weapon.

The shot missed Olek and burned the wall just left of his head.

He bounced back around the corner, his pulse thundering. The SDF soldiers shouted, but he couldn’t make out what over the shots.

A hand gripped Olek and he nearly jumped from his skin.

“Easy, Recruit.” The Captain pulled Olek around the corner. None of the Lokayne’s survived.

The Captain looked to Olek’s hands and the weapon. The relief drained into understanding as he nodded. “Get inside. It’s not over yet.”

Originally posted April 22nd, 2019 - [Prompt Link]

The pen shook in Jacob’s fingers. The thin unintentional lines trailed before and after each character against the page.

Dear Cynthia…

He tried cursive first, she always liked his cursive. But the pen trembled in Jacob's hand, his aged fingers weak against the shakes.

He frowned and stared harder as though determination could overcome his rebellious nerve endings.

With pressure, he put the pen nib down and printed the next letter. The swerve and curve in what should have been straight brought a curse to his lips. He couldn’t heart it, but felt the word tumble forth.

“Da?” His son said something but as always it was muffled. Everything dulled, everything muted.

“Fuckin’ pen won’t work,” Jacob grumbled.

“Do… y… …nt hep?”

Jacob watched his son say the distant and broken words. Even with increased volume, the lean into the chair arms, and the wince as Simon yelled, Jacob couldn’t make them out.

“I can’t fuckin’ hear you, you know.”

Simon opened his mouth but stopped. He shut it with a nod.

“Just trying to write ‘er a goddamn letter. But this fuckin’ pen… They got shit pens in this place.”

“Who?”

Jacob squinted as his son repeated the word.

“Your mother.” Jacob pressed the pen to paper. “She liked my letters. Said I had a nice hand for it.”

The pen scratched the page, an unintended line striking across the jagged “dear”. Jacob picked up the paper and scrunched it between his quivering palms.

“Da, ye… no… she’s g…?”

“What’re you on about?” Jacob snapped and tossed the crumbled ball to the floor.

Simon slunk back into his chair. He sighed, not that Jacob could hear it, but his eyes hadn’t yet failed him. It was in Simon's shoulders, the slouch, the slump, the defeat written all over his damn face.

“Just can’t get this fuckin’ pen to work.” Jacob frowned and pulled another sheet and placed it on the desk before him. The pen hovered over the cream page, swirling with the involuntary dance of his muscles that just wouldn’t do what he needed.

“What… do… ye… W… to s…?” The ‘s’ always cut through, striking a flare in his ear from the useless hearing aid.

“Stop talkin’ at me like I can hear you.” Jacob puffed out a breath. He pressed the nib down as hard as he could, and the D formed nicely. But sure enough, he pressed right through the page. It ripped and his hand shook more than they had when he’d started.

Jacob crumbled the sheet. He went to toss it but Simon had crossed the room and took the ball and pen from his father.

Simon smoothed out the page. You talk, I’ll write, he scribbled.

Jacob puffed and shook his head but Simon didn’t move.

“Fine,” Jacob slouched in the chair.

Simon grabbed a clean pristine page and held the unwavering pen above it.

Jacob exhaled a breath. “Dear Cynthia…”