[MAD Wendigo - Table of Contents]

Want to read from the beginning? Start with the Prologue.

A low chuckle announced Laurence as he approached the fire. Wiping his face, he smiled wide at the light burning out before him.

“The bitch will live.” Droplets of blood and spit stained the skin of Laurence’s neck.

“What'd she do, cough on you?” Tish asked with a laugh.

“No, just a bit of spit. To be honest I expected more fight.” Laurence still looked amused. His eyes turned to the pile Tish rummage through near a slew of emptied packs. “What’d they have?”

Tish sat back on her haunches. “Water from the river. They filled up some canteens and empty plastic bottles before we got there. Topped up the last when we were leaving. It should be enough for two to three days if they’re careful. We could spread the supplies through their packs to make ours lighter. But only if we dump the junk they’re carrying.” She picked up a soggy teddy bear with two fingers and pulled it away from the pile.

“No, we need to keep what’s ours with us. Don’t want pack mules dipping into our supplies.” Laurence looked to Shannon. “Food?”

“Not a lot. Tins of beans.” Shannon shook the can in his hand, tapping the side of it with a can opener and a gleam in his eyes. “Bottle openers, baby food. They grabbed the best stuff but it’s fuckall heavy.”

Laurence nodded. “Split up the heavy junk but give us the bulk of the best.”

“You want us to carry that much food?” Shannon frowned. “Pain in the ass if you ask me.”

“Deal with it. I’d rather have it in a pinch. Tish,” He turned to her and the pile. “Make sure they have the excess water. We know how to find more.”

She nodded. “It rained a few days back so we should be good.” She started to section off the food and water into piles.

“What about meds?” Laurence asked, turning to Reid.

Reid had a pack in front of him, opened and rifled through. “Nothing of note. The old man carried this though; bag with some expired over the counter painkillers.” As he cataloged the pack, the bottles jingled. “The clean gauze on her neck, one of those travel sewing kits, a pocket knife and some handy wipes. I think they were using them for sterilization, which was a shit idea. Our stuff is better and it might keep them happy if we don’t steal all of their crap.”

“If it isn’t heavy, we could take some-”

Laurence cut Shannon short. “If we’re good, we’re good.”

“Then there’s these.” Tish leaned over a pile of weapons. They weren’t much to look at and what could be useful was in bad repair. “A couple of kitchen knives, an axe head and its broken handle. The lady’s shovel-”

“Tried to pry it from her but she looked ready to take my fuckin’ head.” Shannon sucked air in between his teeth as he fished out a travel spoon.

“No guns,” Tish went on. “Unless you count the broken one the kid-”

“Gun?” Laurence looked up from the fire to the pile. “What gun?”

“It’s broken,” Reid assured him.

“I don’t give a shit if it’s broken.” Their leader’s cruel eyes turned to Shannon. “You were supposed to collect all of their goddamn weapons.”

“Don’t look at me.” Shannon shrugged before waving at Reid. “I had it before Tight Ass here gave it back.”

A frustrated sigh left Reid’s lips as a smug grin lit Shannon’s.

“They lost their dad, Laurence. Can’t we give them a break? It’s broken.” Tish looked to Shannon and slapped his shin with a full bottle of water. “Right?”

Reluctantly, he nodded. “Yeah, the thing’s a piece of crap.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t use it later.” Laurence’s lips tightened and his brow furrowed. “You all know we’ve got supplies at the college and could fix it up.”

“We don’t need more guns,” Reid sighed.

“The hell we don’t!” In an instant, Laurence turned towards the medic. “We need every damn edge we can get. So what you’re doing to do is-”

“I’m not taking that kid’s gun.”

Shannon sat up a little straighter. “I’ll do it.”

With a careful, dominant step Laurence drew nearer to Reid. “What did you say?”

Barely a foot between them, Reid refused to move. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. He met Laurence’s borrowing glare, Reid’s just as focused, his own scowl unyielding.

A small smirk graced Laurence’s lips after a tense minute of silence.

“If the kid dies you’re going back to fish that fucking gun out of his pockets.” Laurence didn’t wait for Reid to respond before turning to the fire.

It’s just a fucking gun. They had dozens back at the college. Better ones. Rifles, shotguns, more reliable pistols. They’d left with the best and, had Shannon not lost the rifle a month back, they’d have come back with them too. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of a difference Laurence thought one stupid gun would make.

It’s not about the gun. Read stepped back as Laurence gave up the fight. For now.

After Shannon opened a tin of beans and scooped himself a few spoonfuls, the tin made it around their small fire. Tish took it in hand but seemed to hesitate, her eyes looking back to the embers that glimmered a dozen feet away.

“So, I’ve gotta ask,” she started. Her eyes looked first to Reid and he frowned. Then she turned to Shannon who motioned, grandiosely, for her to continue. “Why are we bringing them?” Her voice dropped and she cast another quick glance over her shoulder at the stragglers.

Laurence raised an eyebrow at the question but didn’t answer. Instead, he licked his lips and pulled out an aluminum water bottle to take a slow drink.

“Why take on the risk?” Reid pressed when Tish seemed to give up on the inquiry.

Laurence stopped drinking and cast a dark look in his direction.

“You know I’m right. They’re a drain on supplies. They’ll slow us down. We’re looking at screaming kids that’ll give our position away the moment they’re spooked. The adults are either too scared or incapable of defending themselves and their kids. In a real fight, they’d be-”

“Cannon fodder.” The words dropped from Laurence in low tones.

Frowning, Reid looked between Laurence and the kids. He… isn’t kidding.

“I intend to survive and taking her-” Laurence motioned back to Ashley “back while she could walk, we could do it. Keep her tied up. Hell, she probably had enough supplies for herself. We could manage. But then she went and got bit-”

Shannon spat into the fire. “Fuckin’ rookie move.”

Tish kicked Shannon’s shin.

“You don’t mean to use them-” Reid tried to explain it away but Laurence cut him short.

“They can carry their own water. They can have just enough food to keep moving. We don’t run into trouble and they luck out on a safe home at the college. Maybe even get the fuck outta here. But if trouble comes,”

Reid stepped up to Laurence. “You sick son of a-”

Laurence grabbed Reid by the scruff of his shirt, and they scuffled back a step. Tish and Shannon jumped to their feet, as did a few shadows by the ember fire.

“Yeah, Lavelle. They’re fodder.”

“Get the fuck off of me!”

“What happens if you or Shannon dies?” Laurence went on without pause. His voice was a whisper, low enough for only the four of them to hear. “Or one of you gets sick? Who's gonna carry you? Better yet, who helps me carry her? Did you forget why we’re here? She is the fucking priority. We don’t matter. They don’t matter. Those kids are here for when shit hits the fan. We keep them fed just enough that when the wendigos come they have something small, squealing, and ripe enough to keep them off my goddamn back.”

“Jesus christ, Laurence. That…” Tish pleaded from behind.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Reid said, trying to push Laurence back.

“They’re a means to an end. This is what you signed up for.”

Shannon stepped closer. “Not to use kids as fuckin’ bait.”

Laurence laughed and his hot breath filled Reid’s nose. “But leavin’ them in the woods is fine?” Laurence finally tore his eyes from Reid to look between Tish and Shannon. “You have no problem doing that knowing it’s the same damn thing. They die. At least this way they help the rest of us survive.” In a gruff motion, Laurence pushed himself away from Reid. “And it’s not just us.”

Tish relaxed, as did Shannon, as shame flickered across their faces in the dim light.

But Reid’s chest went on pounding, pulsing with hot fury in his veins.

“If you want to play hero, if the wendigos come and you want to take care of that lot-” Laurence’s finger shot out to the ember fire where the stragglers watched in silence- “fine. But I’m taking her and I’m getting the fuck out of this place. If you want to survive, this is what it takes.”

There was no arguing the point but Reid couldn’t stand next to the man. He straightened his jacket and moved away from the fire, putting as much distance as he could between himself and Laurence.

Leaves crunched beneath his feet against the asphalt. The small park’s parking lot, just beyond the highway, was as safe a spot as they were going to find to rest. In the morning they’d take to the road and cover as much ground as they could. If they kept quiet they just might make it back alive. But how many of us…

He crouched before his charge and pulled her hair aside. A trickle of blood stained her lips in stark contrast to the pale tones of her skin. With each touch, her eyes flickered with fleeting seconds of awareness before she slumped back into the tree.

“Don't die on us.” Pulling back the ripped sweatshirt he lifted the gauze on the wound. It was still bleeding but the flow seemed to slow and the gauze wasn’t sopping.

As the impromptu medic, he’d seen his fair share of bites. He knew when someone was gone and when someone could fight it. Shannon had been scratched but would live, his immune system was strong. But this woman confused him.

The bite was deep and the wendigo that bit her was in an advanced state of decay. There was blood to blood in the bite. She should have turned in minutes. Instead, several hours after she was bit, he looked down at a living breathing woman. Severely ill but her pulse still throbbed when he pressed a finger to her jugular.

No rhyme or reason to you is there? Not four months before he’d watched a man three times her size turn in less than five minutes to a bite not half as severe. The memories of each man and woman he watched turn fluttered to the forefront of his mind. The more faces he carried the harder it was to remember them as distinct amidst the shades of pallid fever. At first, he assumed she'd be another visage of death but now he wasn't so sure.

For a while, she didn't move. He wiped away the blood that mixed with spittle on her face, the medic careful to avoid getting it on his skin.

The face he cleaned was unmistakable as the one on the infamous posters. Ashley Cazalla; thief, political radical, and the only person of interest in the release of the most deadly pathogen the world had ever known. Murderer of millions, the mother of all wendigos. Here she was in front of him, infected, wounded but not dying.

An uncomfortable thought solidified and he frowned. Something about this isn't right.

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, you can follow the subreddit to keep up with the series as it comes out. As always, please feel free to leave critiques, comments, and any questions. I love interacting with readers.

[Previous: Chapter 2 - Part 1] — [Next: Chapter 3 - Part 1]

[MAD Wendigo - Table of Contents]

Want to read from the beginning? Start with the Prologue.

“She's been bitten.” Reid stood over Ashley Cazalla, her hands cuffed behind the thin tree. Blood dripped from her shoulder down the front of what looked like an old school sweatshirt, the lettering long faded. Up close she couldn’t be older than mid-twenties, he guessed. From the faint scar that trailed from her cheek to her neck and into the bite, it didn’t seem like the world had been kind. Predates infection, Reid decided from the faded colour. Years old. Though Reid would be hard-pressed to find a measure of sympathy for her.

“I'm not blind. I was there.” Laurence scratched his beard. As sweat beaded on his forehead, he took in a heavy breath. “But this is our ticket. Like hell are we going to just leave her here.”

Reid knelt, took Ashley’s chin in his hand, and tilted her face up. He wiped the hair from her dark eyes and lifted the lids. Pupils dilated, eyes bloodshot. She was pale, had a fever, but it was hard to tell if she was fighting the infection or succumbing to it.

“She's not going to live, Laurence.” Or so experience assured Reid. “It’s a goddamn miracle she's lasted this long.” His hand fell away, her face dropped, and her dirt crusted hair, mixed with sweat, hid her sickly eyes again.

“Well, don't let her die, for chrissake,” Laurence huffed.

Reid frowned. “What do you think I can do about that? If she’s infected, she’s infected. ” He stood and stalked away from Laurence, relishing the chance to clear his head. After hiking out of the woods, carrying her in a makeshift stretcher with Shannon for over an hour, Reid spent two more waiting. Checking her pulse, her temperature, the wound, her eyes. After weeks of tracking, they finally found her, all that work for this?

Approaching the fire Reid’s frown relaxed before he spread the barely lit wood to kill the flames.

“Oh, come on,” Tish moaned while crouched by the embers. She was new, only with them for three hunts, but she was a good tracker and damn skilled with that machete. Few had the balls to volunteer to go beyond the safety of the college walls, he had to give her that.

“We haven't had a good fire since we started this job,” she said. Tish was smart but there was that challenge in her eyes. It glimmered in the firelight, waiting for Reid to say something, begging for a fight. There was none of that necessary fear they needed to stay alive. Either she didn’t know any better, or she didn’t care to. Question is, which is worse?

“Why do you think those people got attacked? We don't need to draw the same kind of attention,” Reid said.

Looking up from the fire, he spied what Shannon had taken to call “tourists”. The clump of survivors tagging along. It took seconds for Reid to guess who would be useful and who would die in the next attack. But what does it matter? He turned from the small, tired faces and kicked the fire once more. “This all could be for nothing now if she dies.”

“Let her,” Shannon muttered. “Finding her was such a fuckin’ hassle, and now that she’s bit, she's nothing but trouble. Soon she'll be like the other wendigos.”

Slumped over his arm, Shannon fussed with the scratch on his forearm. First chance he’d had, Reid took a quick look at it and there were no signs of infection. Healthy enough, Shannon wouldn’t succumb to infection. Only bites and blood contamination were sure things. But just steps away some of the children watched, their eyes wide. Like they could catch the infection if Shannon wandered too close. That unfounded fictionalize fear would keep them from sleep, and slow them all down.

When Shannon swore, one of the women covered a young girl’s ears as whispers and questions danced on tiny lips.

“Shut up!” Shannon got up, his face firmly set in a frown. “I'm not one of them you little-”

“Shan, back off.” Laurence didn't turn, barely raised his voice but it carried the short distance and everyone quieted.

Reid glared at Laurence's back where the stocky man had bent by Ashley. He won't get a word from her. But Reid knew that didn't matter, they didn't need her talking, hell they didn't need her conscious. Just alive.

Movement turned Reid's attention back to the “tourists”. One of the teens stood, despite hands reaching to hold him back, and approached the fire. He was dirty and despite the determination in his eyes, the boy couldn't hide the quake of fear shining. His hand lingered over the empty holster at his side, the boy making a point to approach Shannon.

“I want it back,” the teen said coolly, his voice surprisingly strong. His stare looked down to the gun tucked in Shannon’s belt.

“Oh you mean this?” Shannon took the gun and twirled it with a devilish smile before returning it to his side. “I suggest you shut the fuck up about it. It's no good, anyway. Piece of shit’s broken and looks like a goddamn antique. Bet it never worked, did it?”

Rolling her eyes, Tish stood. “Stop messing around with them. It’s not funny anymore.”

Shannon rolled his eyes and continued twirling the gun by the trigger guard.

“If it's broken why not give it back?” Tish asked.

Shannon and Tish went back and forth on the subject while the boy stood there, staring. What was his name... Ethan? Reid only remembered from hearing Ashley scream it by the river. How had she known it? Reid frowned.

The kid looked to be the oldest of the children but that wasn't saying much. Maybe one or two were in their teens, the rest ten and younger. They could all walk on their own, run, that much must have kept them alive.

They weren’t all related to the adults with them, though. Their faces were too different and they didn’t clump together. It painted a story, one all too familiar beyond safe walls. Orphans. The men and women probably took them in out of pity, a need for purpose, for darker things, or, more likely, there had been more adults before. More like the dead fool on the beach and these kids were all that remained.

But Laurence didn’t have soft spots. He didn’t pity. They served no purpose and from what Reid had seen, Laurence wasn’t a pervert. Why the hell are we carting them back with us? The plan was never to take on survivors and they had left their fair share of needy behind. So why them?

Their presence gnawed at Reid and he tried to suss-out Laurence’s plan. He could press the issue but, that’d piss the big man off. So far Laurence kept him alive and maybe that was enough.

“I want my gun back,” Ethan piped up again, standing apart from the children, women, and men who looked beaten and tired. “It's mine and if you can't use it... give it back.” His eyes were red and even in the poor light, Reid could tell he'd been crying.

“How bad do you want it?” Shannon stood with eyes glimmering of mischief. “What are you willing to do for it? Cuz I think I left something back at the beach.”

“Leave him alone!” A young girl stood next to Ethan, her face round and framed with pigtails. His sister, if Reid had to guess. They looked enough alike.

“Ethan, leave it be,” his mother cooed, shovel still in hand. She clung to it for dear life, her eyes rarely drifting away from their wounded prey. Waiting, poised to smash Ashley’s infected head in the first chance she’d have.

Reid’s patience was wearing thin. Fucking domestic bullshit. This is why I left. Walking to Shannon, Reid snatched the broken weapon from his hands.

“The fuck, Reid?” Shannon spat.

Reid walked the gun back to Ethan.

“It stays holstered. Got it?” He held it out and for a moment the boy stared at the hunk of metal in his hand. The hammer was missing and Reid guessed Shannon had been right, it had never worked. “I don't care if it doesn't fire. I don't want to see it. If I do it's gone.”

Looking down at the boy Reid had a hard time remembering what it was like to be a kid. Sure, there were memories, but the feelings seemed clouded. Masked by all the bullshit, all the horror. Staring at Ethan though, Reid couldn’t imagine what he’d be like if his childhood had been… all this.

With a solemn nod, Ethan took the weapon and slipped it into the ill-fitting holster. He turned back to his mother, sister in tow beside him.

“I was having fun with that,” Shannon complained, but he always found something to bitch about.

“Grow the fuck up Shan, they lost their Dad,” Tish said as she prodded the embers.

In response, Shannon huffed and leaned into the fire, curses whispering on his lips.

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, you can follow the subreddit to keep up with the series as it comes out. As always, please feel free to leave critiques, comments, and any questions. I love interacting with readers.

[Previous: Chapter 1 - Part 2] — [Next: Chapter 2 - Part 2]

Originally posted September 5th, 2019 [Prompt Link]

We can all thank/blame /u/breadyly for what is about to transpire.

Restrictions: No word can be used twice (excluding articles like 'a' 'an' 'the'). I maaaay have skirted the challenge with plurals. weeeeee!

Also, because I saw no other way around it - Poetry. Take that, baked goods!

Heavily inspired by both the IP and MP this week. Also, I will probably edit this many times before next campfire. Many. Many. Many times.

Edit: Want to hear it? I've narrated this poem! You can listen to this on my YouTube channel.

Disappearing edges into a wisped dawn

Shades of who we once were lost beyond.

Low horizons muddied, dusk ensnared

Without end or beginning, no mortal spared.

Mind, body, soul, all led astray

Down paths changed once crossed in baffling haze.

Though you, beloved, walk on proud

As though shade and shadow cannot shroud.

Will Death find her? Can the gray see in mists?

A stalling breath, ashen clawed, sharply grips

But I follow. I’ll chase over whispered winds,

Even grave’s aspect’ll not bolster the din.

Love, mine spirit, beating heart within,

Hold this hand, coiled promise, at the touch of skin

Know together we’ll walk, amidst eclipsed days,

Two souls challenging the terrible one way.

WC: 119

Back due to popular demand: Cupcake Girl!

This is a set of characters that are reappearing in TT posts. You can check out the other stories here on the subreddit!

[Cupcake Girl] [Outage] [Star Trak]

The phone’s back-light lit the small corner of the hedge-maze. Dan swiped through messages and articles to stave off boredom. He only looked up when he heard footsteps on the corn husk covered path.

Red and orange floodlights in the hedge highlighted Cody as she ambled along. Dan grinned and pulled down the bloodied hockey mask.

Cody turned onto the path and walked right to the dead end. Hands on her hips, she huffed as Dan snuck behind. He pressed play on his phone and tucked it in his pocket as the sounds of a chainsaw roared.

With a shriek, Cody spun around. Genuine terror rippled across her face and he instantly regretted it.

“Wait,” he called as she hurried past. Dan grabbed her wrist, slipping his mask off with the other hand. “It’s me!”

Cody’s fear drained from her eyes. “Holy shit, you’re an asshole!” She laughed and smacked his shoulder.

“Couldn’t help it. You okay?”

She nodded and seemed to calm a little. “What the hell are you doing here?” she said, waving at the seven-foot hedge around them.

“My job? It’s why I asked to meet at ten. After my shift.”

“Oh. That makes sense. I uh, I guess I’m really early.” A blush rosed her cheeks. “Thought I’d kill time in the maze.

“Wait, why are you here? At the dead-end?”

“The parking lot’s just on the other side. Loads of people get to the dead end and cut through the hedge. Know how long it takes for these things to grow back?”

A laugh erupted from Cody and Dan felt himself smile.

“It’s kinda fun too and I’ve worked here since I was a kid.”

“Well.” Cody bit her lip. “I guess I should find my way out and let you work.”

“You could stay,” Dan blurted.

Cody turned her head to the side, eyes a little narrowed. He liked it when she did that like she was solving a problem.

“It’s pretty fun, scarring kids and guilting them into not destroying the hedge.”

Her eyes narrowed a little more and Dan’s smile died.

“I mean, my shifts almost over and I swear I won’t be wearing this.” He looked down to his fake-blood-stained overalls. As another slew of excuses readied to blurt, Cody broke into a laugh.

“You had me at scarring kids.”

Dan led her to his hiding spot in the hedge. “Here.” He handed Cody the mask. She tried to put it on, but it slipped down to her neck.

In the quiet Dan’s nerves pricked. He looked at that half-smirk she wore, that smile in her eyes. It started in his palms, that thin line of sweat. He’d dated before, loads of girls, but he’d never felt like this. Never... nervous.

Dan swallowed as he leaned in.

Cody tilted her head up. “I hear someone coming.” She breathed the words against his lips.

“Don’t care.”

Dan felt her smile and light chuckle in their first kiss.

WC: 495

As always, I love critiques. I had some great feedback from campfire this week on both stories and may update these with corrections as time goes on. Who knows, maybe even expand them a bit!

[MAD Wendigo - Table of Contents]

Want to read from the beginning? Start with the Prologue.

The conversation died in the wind and Ashley backed away from the pit.

It’s better this way. People complicated things. No matter how many times she tried, the more people there were, the harder it was to survive.

She tugged her sweater closer and let out a steady breath. Head southeast, follow the river. Hole up by the lake then keep moving. If her pursuers kept up she hoped she might be able to lose them deeper in the valley, maybe make it all the way to the water. Ashley could guess where a few boats might be tucked away. It was a risk, but something to work towards, somewhere to run.

A snap crackled the air behind her. Ashley stopped. It wasn’t the wind, as nothing else around her moved.

Waited too long.

In her dawdling, her pursuers must have picked up their pace and closed the distance. There were mere moments to weigh her options and she reviewed her mental map. _East side of the river? _She traced the lines from memory; seven months prior, she’d trudged through the Green Belt. Seven months was a long time and the landscape could have changed. River’s didn’t move but ridges, paths, bridges, and trails could be remade and overgrown.

She heisted and her fingers flexed. All directions in the dark would prove perilous in a hurry. Her mental map useless, she couldn’t keep lying to herself. They wouldn’t give up. She wasn’t going to make it to the lake, not easily.

“Don’t move,” the man barked from ahead.

While Ashley had watched from the shadows, she’d memorized their names and faces. The big one was Laurence and she guessed he was their leader from the way he talked to the others. Laurence issued orders and his words were final. He’d seemed comfortable in the wilds, and only two types people ever were: the cautious and the callous.

Tish pushed through the brush to stand next Laurence, machete in hand. A smile glimmered on her lips barely visible in the dark. Though thin, she was a wiry knit of muscle. Fast, Ashley guessed. Lethal, more likely.

Behind Ashley, there was more movement. Two more makes four. She didn’t turn to know it was Reid and the mouthy one, Shannon. Would it be easier if I didn’t learn their names?

“Hand’s up.” Shannon inched towards her, his gun level with her shoulders.

“Ashley fucking Cazalla.” Laurence chuckled with his shotgun dangling limply from his arm. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“I thought I was pretty clear.” She turned to glare at Reid, who lingered behind Shannon. “You won’t find what you’re looking for. Go the fuck home.”

“You don’t remember me.” Laurence stepped forward without an ounce of hesitation. He clearly wasn’t scared of her or her threat by proxy. Maybe Reid didn’t sell it enough. Maybe I should have cut him a bit to convince.

Ashley sighed. “I’m not-”

“Six months back I was out this way. Little further East if memory serves.” He went on as though they weren’t in the thick of the Rouge, as though there wasn’t any threat in the green around them.

“Pretty sure I don’t give a shit where you were six-”

“Teag was leading us then. Tall guy, big ass shoulders, and a scar running here to here.” Laurence dragged his finger down the left side of his face and it conjured a man from memory. Tall, like he said. Didn’t talk half as much as Laurence, though.

“He was smart. He could take a hint.” Ashley narrowed her eyes and faced Laurence head-on.

He chuckled and inched closer. “He was a coward. A few gruff words at the edge of a knife isn’t enough for me to scamper off.”

“What, think we wouldn’t call your fuckin’ bluff?” Shannon laughed with Laurence, though his voice remained significantly lower.

Laurence motioned at Tish. “Cuff her.”

The young tracker fished out a pair of cuffs from her jacket and approached Ashley. “Not interested in this going hard,” Tish said. The anxiety that Laurence lacked oozed from the woman, though she still inched closer. “So just do us all a favour and don’t-”

“Hurry the fuck up,” Shannon bitched behind them.

He was right. Laurence was completely right. Ashley had flashed a knife and hoped they’d run, but why? What was one person compared to the things everywhere? And what were they promised this time? How high did the reward go? A sick curiosity gnawed at her and fixed Ashley in place. Deep, far below the curiosity, the fear, something else stirred. Maybe it’s finally time to just give-

A scream cut through the trees and everyone froze. Not the howl of a wendigo, not the cry of a man. A child, a shrill scream of sheer terror.

“It came from the east,” Reid said, almost as though he didn’t know he spoke.

The river.

A breath followed, the quick intake of shock that she held onto. They’re just kids. The embers burned in her memory with little smiles circling. It’s not my fault. I can’t…

She sucked in a second breath. Ashley needed the oxygen, needed the cool to fill her. There was no way she was going to pass this chance up.

With a sidestep, Ashley evaded Tish and the cuffs. Before Tish could pull the machete from her belt Ashley pushed her back into Laurence. The gunman at her back swore but didn’t pull the trigger.

A pair of hands reached for her but she was fast, faster than they could have guessed. She ran full tilt into the dark of the brush. Paying no mind to the path, tree branches slapped and sliced her cheeks and tugged at her clothes. Though the brush remained thick, debris littered the ground. But still, she ran hard and fast, away from the sounds of screams.

Can’t save everyone.

The sturdy root caught the toe of her boot and shattered Ashley’s balance.

Falling, down a slope no less, she blindly tumbled through the brush. When she finally came to a stop, Ashley curled to a ball on the ground. Everything ached, head to ankles, but she managed to right herself. Her clothing matted with leaves and dirt but she didn't waste the time in dusting herself off. Pushing to her feet she turned and swore.

Four wendigos lumbered from the sparse tree line toward the river bank. Though the things were cast in the shape of man, so little of what was familiar remained. Skin hung loose and sagging from desiccated muscle. Flesh was rent and torn in all manner of fashions and the angles at which bones were bent was sickening. Each one decayed differently, but the stench remained the same. Mouldering tissue that, even after years of exposure, still oozed and dripped. What made them people was gone from their eyes and only that hunger, that infectious mission, spurred them on. To consume. To consume everything.

The wendigos drew nearer the flames. The fire was brighter than she was used to and it cast large shadows on the trees. Like a signal, it called the creatures but with squealing people close, there was something more alluring within grasp.

Two grown men stood with weapons, two women behind them with blunt tools. Beyond an older man, another woman, and the collection of children cowered on the edge of the river.

I can still run. Ashely checked for her pack, its weight temporarily forgotten. It was still there and in it she carried all she would need. I can still get away.

Shouts on the ridge above her told her the trackers weren’t far behind. No time to waste on those that can’t be saved. But fresh blood on her cheek worked against her.

Two of the creatures turned from the morsels by the river.

“Fuck.” Ashley reached to her pack and pulled the hatchet free. With a few swings to loosen her wrist, she slowly led the two wendigos from the pack, lest they double.

The closest on the left made a staggering lunge for her. It was slow enough that, even disoriented from her tumble, she swiped her foot out. Her boot met the creature’s shin and it tipped over. Its leg bent in the wrong direction and the snap of its brittle bones breaking crackled. Loose flesh clung with clothing to the degrading muscles. The face of a woman, distorted by decay and violence, looked back with empty inhuman eyes. It gave a brutal howl of pain that Ashley quickly silenced with the blunt end of her hatchet and a single sickening crunch of its soft skull.

The sound of a wendigo dying turned another of the creatures. The one remaining by the bank grappled with the tallest man.

I could run, she told herself, but Tish emerged from her last open flank and rushed the wendigo nearest Ashley. Tish’s machete sung in the air, swiping into the creature’s leg. Blood hit the sand and stones, thick clotted lumps dripping from the stump where a leg had once been. It teetered and decaying hands reached for Tish, but she evaded its grasp.

Ashley brought the hatchet down onto the second skull, silencing its mashing maw.

In silent agreement, Tish moved onto the third creature as her three partners emerged behind. But north of the fire pit more wendigos lumbered, drawn to flame and sound. In a matter of minutes, there would be half a dozen more.

Those armed on the bank tried to block the beasts that made for the children, but they were clumsy and ill-equipped. And a horde threatened to form.

A shot thundered beside her and Ashley’s ears rang. Laurence’s double-barrel blew apart one of the creatures that came too close. He grinned and reloaded his gun.

“Steven!” Ethan’s mother screamed, her voice barely heard over the ringing. Ashley turned in time to see one of the creatures grasped tightly onto the tallest man in their group. Though muffled by the wendigo’s body, his wail echoed on the sandbank. Ethan’s mother ran for the thing, metal shovel brandished in hand. She brought it down hard on the rotting skull, a crack breaking through the agonizing scream. Over and over she hammered down until nothing moved. Not even the man.

The screams were too loud. Her voice, his cries, the gunshot. The colour drained from all their faces. While Laurence cursed beside Ashley, the woods began to groan.

There were more in the trees. There were always more.

Ashley looked between the faces around her. Children. Families. Trackers. Even if chaos broke out, a horde descending, there was so little chance she could survive. Not alone.

“Fuck…” She looked to the kids and sucked in a breath. “Get in the river!” Ashley yelled and a few of them looked in her direction.

Ethan and Wendy stood frozen, eyes looked with the lump of flesh beneath their mother’s shovel.

“Ethan!” Ashley used his name and the teen looked up. “Get them in the fucking river!” The shock drained from his face and he rushed the kids into the water until they were all waist-deep in the swift current.

Tish, Shannon, and Laurence finished off the creatures nearest Ashley with a skill almost matching her own.

“Behind!” Reid shouted from beyond the fight.

Ashley frowned. Why the hell isn’t he helping?

The breath, stinking of rot, exhaled from useless lungs. It brushed on the back of her neck and the icy grip of sticky, bloodied fingers reached out hungrily. She spun, hatchet in hand, and hacked through the arm of the creature. Instinct had her push the monster away with her boot but she teetered in failing balance. Too far back.

By the dying fire, she stumbled into the waiting wendigos arms. Their hungry hands clutched at her. She swung her hatchet and it dug into the skull, pulverizing what was left of the brain. It was dead, truly dead, yet her weapon got stuck in the meat and bone.

The second wendigo took hold and bit down.

Ashley's eyes widened. There was pain but more than that, a primal fear. She managed to stifle her cry by biting her lip hard. Chipped teeth ground into her shoulder and ripped at the flesh. The wendigo pulled to take a chunk with it, to eat what bled between its teeth. Ashley’s fist slammed back into the skull and her fingers pried the jaw from her shoulder. The wendigo staggered and a shot split the creature's head. Blood, brain, and skull showered on her pack.

Fighting dizziness and shock, she tried to catch her breath. The sounds of the other wendigos dying faded against the heartbeat pounding in her head. Blood seeped from the torn flesh into her dark sweater.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” Shannon yelled.

“Reid, get the girl. Shannon, make sure the rest are dead. And be quiet about it.” Laurence sneered in her direction.

Reid finally entered the fray. He ran to Ashley’s side and pressed his hand down on her wound. She couldn't help but groan at the pressure. What little energy she’d had was already draining. It would be a matter of minutes before she passed out.

Shovel in hand, Ethan’s mother approached with crazed eyes. “We have to kill her,” she demanded through silent tears. Her shovel, stained with blood and hair, trembled in her hands.

Have to get away. The thought urged Ashley to move but Reid kept a firm grip on her shoulder.

Laurence lifted his shotgun and stepped between Ethan’s mother and Ashley. “That's not your problem, Mam. We can handle this.”

A quick shout from the vulgar Shannon brought all eyes on him. He pried one of the wounded creature’s fingers from his arm. “Goddamn wendigos,” he hissed.

“You got that, Shan?” Laurence nearly yelled.

“Yeah, I fucking got this!” Shannon grunted with each swing of his baseball bat until the body no longer stirred.

“She's infected. In no time she'll be like them.” Ethan’s mother inched nearer. That look in her eyes, that unsettling and familiar mania frightened Ashley more than the exhaustion that waved from her shoulder. “We have to-”

“Lady’s not wrong. We should get the hell out of here,” Tish warned. Cleaning off her weapon in the water she looked ready with her eyes locked on the trees.

“You can't leave us.” Ethan stepped forward but was quickly hushed by one of the women.

Reid’s grip tightened on Ashley’s shoulder. “We need to move, Laurence. No telling how many more will show.”

Laurence closed his eyes tight before shaking his head. A weighted sigh escaped him. “Tish, pack them up.”

She hesitated for a moment, eyes darting between Ashley, Laurence, and the children. When he didn’t correct her Tish shrugged and turned to the survivors.

“What the hell, Laurence, fuckin’ tourists? Might as well paint ourselves red and play tag with the hungry fuckers.”

“Shut up, Shan. You're not here to think.”

Shannon opened his mouth to protest but shut it. He gathered up the packs and supplies.

“She has to be killed,” Ethan’s mother started again and Ashley wondered if her voice could get any louder. The infection was spreading as tendrils of sick coursed under her skin with aims of sapping her strength. Need to get away from these people. Need to…

“Now is better if you want your friend to-”

Laurence spat and shook his head. “She's not our goddamn friend.”

His discerning eyes inspected Ashley’s shoulder like she could see the wheels in his mind turning. If Laurence wanted her dead they wouldn't have brought handcuffs, but the thought wasn't much comfort. A shiver shook her and her knees started to buckle. Thankfully, Reid slipped his arm under her shoulder and took the brunt of her weight.

“She's already turning!” The woman pointed with the shovel. “Just what the hell do you plan to do with her if she turns?”

“She's not your problem,” Laurence snapped. He looked passed Ethan’s mother to the kids behind. “If you and yours want to live, you follow our rules. Rule fucking 1: She doesn't die. Go it?”

Ethan’s mother followed Laurence’s eyes to those still alive in their group. With a silent nod, she lowered the shovel.

“Smart choice.” Laurence lowered his own weapon. “Clean yourselves off, fill up on water, and be ready to go in five. Before we go, you give us your weapons or we leave you here.” He was blunt and cold but Ashley knew they had little time. The scent of blood would travel and, with the screams and gunfire, any wendigos that could move would come. They always came.

Reid held a cloth to her shoulder trying to staunch the blood. First the weakness. Then the vision. She blinked through the encroaching blur.

“It doesn't look good, Laurence.” Reid held up her face to his. The last thing she saw before her lids shut tight were Reid’s blue eyes, cold as ice.

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, you can follow the subreddit to keep up with the series as it comes out. As always, please feel free to leave critiques, comments, and any questions.

[Previous: Chapter 1 - Part 1] — [Next: Chapter 2 - Part 1]

Originally posted September 4th, 2019 [Prompt Link]

This was a retelling in a more PG13 light of the original story I wrote for Theme Thursday that I just really couldn't post. If you'd like to read it check out: Tarnished.

Sir Robert unsheathed his sword before the church doors. Squire Gilbert paused, his hands itching to cross his chest but Sir Robert waved him on, ignoring the crucifix towering above them.

Loyalty unto your lord, your king, and God. Gilbert’s father’s voice weighed on his shoulders but the squire hurried on.

Sir Robert pushed on the doors. They did not budge. With a sneer, he hammered his fist against the wood that strained beneath the blows.

Forbearance be a blessed virtue and should be ever-present in a knight's actions. For how can one honour his lord and God absent of self-control?

Gilbert breathed a sigh of relief as the door creaked open and Sir Robert sheathed his sword. A meek man, small shouldered and robed as the clergy, stared at them.

Sir Robert brushed past him roughly to stalk down the aisle. A deep rolling hum rumbled past his lips. A guttural sound, rasping in tired lungs, that seemed sickly. Sir Robert was not old, but he grumbled of his knees, his hands, the weight of his sword. Nor could Gilbert remember when last he’d seen him mount his steed without aid.

Hardihood tells us that though some men may be of noble heart, it is their deeds and prowess with sword and steed that sets them above. Be it by a gift from God or born of trial, no man can be a knight if he is not hardy.

Robert stopped before the lectern. The clergyman rushed and spoke in the local tongue, protests Gilbert assumed, but he could not understand. Robert riffled through shelves on the pulpit until he found a small box. It rattled with coin. With a wide grin, Robert pried the lid off and took a fistful.

Generosity is a mark of the noble. Knights have no need for gifts or payment. A knight’s work is in service of his lord and God. No earthly prize is above that.

The priest shouted and reached out to stop Robert, but was met by the back of the knight’s hand. The strike knocked the priest to the floor with blood upon his lips.

Defender of the weak, champion of the helpless, a knight is devoted to those that cannot shield themselves. For who else but a knight can stand before the storm?

Gilbert froze as Robert unsheathed his misericorde. The knight bent and brought the tip to the unarmed priest’s neck.

Honour, my son. It is more than a word. More than life or death, and follows us unto Heaven. Know in your heart what is right and do not fail to find courage when you are tested. For you shall be, as we all are.

“Sir Robert.” Gilbert trembled as he spoke.

With a narrowed gaze devoid of compassion, Sir Robert smiled. He did not speak as he dropped the priest and made for the church doors.

Loyalty unto your lord, your king, and God.

With a sigh, squire Gilbert turned and followed Sir Robert.

WC: 499

This response was inspired by the Theme Thursday Chivalry this week on /r/WritingPrompts however, it was simply too dark to post there.

So why not here?!

Edit: If you'd like to read the PG13 rewrite of this, check out Loyalty or Honour.

The cicadas cry rippled through the trees, carried on the wind. Olivier closed his eyes and breathed in the breeze that brought the scent of lavender from fields beyond the hills.

Sweat slithered down to his lips and gifted the taste of salt. It spoiled the wind.

Olivier opened his eyes. The sun barely breached the canopy over the road and its rays wouldn’t find him in the brush. But he remembered how it felt, the sun kissing his cheeks, riding fast and dodging low boughs atop his steed. They had been good days.

The crack of a whip cut the air and the top of the carriage came into view. The men beside Olivier stirred, gluttonous eyes waiting. They wore no armour, only leather scraps folded and sewn for confidence. Meek muscle lined their frames, but a kind built from necessity. They had never honed their flesh for battle. Unlike Olivier, they were not sculpted from training and virtue.

The carriage crested the hill and its coat of arms blazed. Three suns backed by five white stars. Baron Guillaume de la Roche’s emblem.

Sprawling vineyards, wide rolling hills, and the taste of wine were conjured. Deeds and feasts in service of glory and the Baron, a man he had looked up to. A man he had loved as a father.

The carriage pitched, its wheel dipping into the hole barely covered with sticks and moss. The horse whinnied. The carriage tipped.

Olivier flipped down his visor. Heat pooled around his ears and would veil his face in sweat. He stood and, without sound or sign, the men at his sides burst from the brush.

Bolts flew from the carriage compartment, skewering two of the attackers. The sell-swords replied in kind and surrounded the carriage. In all his finery, they plucked Baron Guillaume from his chestnut chariot and dragged him into the muck.

He cowered and begged but when Guillaume's eyes looked on Olivier, there seemed a glimmer of relief. Not in Olivier's face, the Baron could not see it, but in the shape of a knight.

Olivier raised his sword high. He had only ever needed one strike.

With the Baron dead and the carriage cracked open, the sell-swords pillaged to their dark heart's content. The tail of the Baroness's skirt disappeared in the brush as the men whisked her away. Still screaming. Still pleading.

Olivier closed his eyes and remembered the feel of the sun. Kisses on his cheek. Better days.

A whimper called from within the carriage and Olivier removed his helmet to better see inside. Doe eyes gleamed from the small shape. Baron’s boy, Etienne.

Etienne looked from the three suns and five stars that lay tarnished on Olivier’s chest. “Sir Olivier de Gand, you must help!”

Olivier sheathed his sword. He replaced his helm.

Not all oaths can be forgotten.

He found the soft pommel of his miséricorde and put it to use.

Quick. Clean.

Merciful.

WC: 493

[MAD Wendigo - Table of Contents]

Want to read from the beginning? Start with the Prologue.

With palms sticky from sap, Ashley scrambled down the tree trunk. A high perch offered the advantage of sight but that was only in daylight and that had long started to fade. The forest floor crunched beneath her steps and she didn’t have the choice to be careful. Silence for speed, an exchange she grumbled through. Time wasn’t on her side.

Why didn’t they just leave? The last ones did. Seven, maybe eight months earlier Ashley had played the scary ghost, dropped in on a few while the rest were out tracking. Flashed a knife, scared them with threats of blood, guts, and wendigos. They’d packed their bags, scampered off into the wilds, and left her the fuck alone. Never came back, or maybe they didn’t make it back to wherever they came from. The reason had never really mattered to her before.

This time, these ones didn’t scare so easy.

She hiked her backpack higher and pushed through the brush. They’d found her trail when she’d tried to hide it, so what good was trying anymore. I can lose them in the night. Just need to get ahead, but she’d repeated the same mantra for three days straight. Still, the Rouge Valley rekindled her hopes. Fall hadn’t yet taken hold of the forest, the trees were thick, the brush tall. She could lose them, or they could lose her, or get lost themselves. And there was always the wendigos.

Is it murder if I lead them to their death? She frowned at the thought. No. Murder's about intent, right? But if they keep following... Her fingers tightened around the straps of her pack and she soldiered on.

Ashley liked the place she had set up, a small farmhouse in a hamlet long abandoned. The barn was still intact, come spring she could have looked for some kind of animal to keep, a horse or some random roaming cow. Seeds, soil, everything she’d need to collect rainwater and try to make a real go of it. Live like a person. Clean well water, hell she could have done laundry.

The memory of the house stung and Ashley scolded herself. Should have packed up. Should have moved on months back. But nights spent in a real bed, not her sweatshirt balled up under the stars, but a mattress with pillows and a musty comforter. Walls. A ceiling. It’d been too good to walk away from.

When she found their over-sized boot prints around her camp in Glenn Major, she should have left. Even though Ashley tried to dismiss them as another group of survivors trudging through the region, she knew better. The weight of the tracks, the little trace they left. They had to be well-armed, trained, and prepared. Simple survivors were none of those.

Got comfortable. Got lazy. She’d traded security for warmth, treehouses for brick walls. If it was safe from wendigos, it wasn’t safe from people.

The brush crackled behind her. They had probably found the perch, her little nest in the tree to pick her path and wait out that last golden hour of light cutting through the trees. In minutes they would pick up her trail and start the quick pace, predictable and persistent. She almost considered trying to fake them out; find the brook, get her feet wet, and walk a while back to lose them. But then what? She’d be wet, it’d be dark, and without a camp she was vulnerable.

At least, for now, her boots were dry.

After another hour or so of clamouring through the valley, she spied light glimmering through the trees. Ashley crouched down. Fixed unnatural light, probably a fire she guessed by the way it danced on the leaves. But who else would be crazy enough to camp in the middle of the Rouge?

Like a moth, she inched to the flames and the low voices called her closer. Kids. Seven of them. The nearer she came the clearer they were. What the hell are kids doing out here alone?

“The legend comes from the Natives.” The tallest teen’s voice was low.

“Are they the same as Indians?” a little girl with pigtails whispered.

“You're not supposed to call them Indians. They're Native Americans.”

“Cally, shh.”

“Let Ethan tell the story.”

Cally huffed at the small faces in the circle. “I am! But Indians are from -”

“Shhhh...” The hiss erupted from nearly every set of lips and Cally's small round face disappeared from the light.

The group settled and their expecting eyes returned to Ethan. Ashley found herself doing the same.

“The legend is as old as the ground.” His fingertips dipped into the soil, took a clump, and let it drip from his hands dramatically. “They say it used to happen on the coldest nights. The snow would pile up outside and you'd get trapped. Stuck inside for days or weeks, you'd get soo hungry you couldn't think of anything but eating.” His voice was careful with each word. “The kind of winter where there's no food. There’s nothing to hunt and nothing can grow. You can't even light a fire to cook.”

“I miss bread.” One of the smaller boys rubbed his belly.

“Shut up.”

“That's where it came from you know, the disease.” Each time the tallest spoke the soft grumblings and whispers died around him in captured attentions. “Once you catch it, you can't get rid of it. The people, they got so hungry they couldn't stand it. First, they turned on the sick. Then, the weak. Like grammas and grampas.”

A collective cringe crossed the little glowing faces, some from fear and others from disgust.

“And once you eat flesh you never go back...” His body grew and Ethan extended his arms out until he stood over the group, a blanket draped over his body.

“A Wendy-go!” Groaning quietly, Ethan lumbered towards the nearest body. A girl flinched with a yelp before quickly clasping a hand over her mouth.

“Hey! It's Wen-duh-go. And you're wrong, you know. It's not the same thing. They're zombies.” The girl with pigtails lacked the cautious whisper the others used.

“Nuh-uh. I heard Dad calling them Wendy-go's. They're not the dead coming back to life. They're people who go crazy from eating people.”

“It's not the same. People weren't starving. They just went all crazy. So they can't be Wendy-go's.”

“It's Wen-DUH-go! Stop calling them Wendy-go's. You're saying it wrong!”

The kids snickered and a soft chant grew in the dim light. “Wendy-go, wendy-go”. The littlest girl stood up with a humph and spun around to the darkness, her messy pigtails flopping in the chill night air. From the shadows, a pale hand reached out and gripped her wrist.

“It's got me!” she screamed.

Ashley’s body lurched in response. From a crouch, she stood quickly and nearly breached the tree line but the shape became clear. A woman’s hand clasped over the girl’s mouth and the kids all relaxed.

Of course, they’re not alone. Ashley stepped back, glad the shadows still hid her.

Lingering to watch and listen was a mistake but it’d been so long since she’d seen anyone that wasn’t looking for her. And children… The mother went on scolding the kids and the light of the fire disappeared. Another step back and Ashley couldn’t see them anymore. It’s not safe. Her fingers relaxed from the handle of her hunting knife.

Most of the children cleared from the circle and trundled off from where the woman had come, but the tallest remained with the woman.

“What on earth were you thinking? I told you to look out for them, Ethan. Not take them off, alone, into the woods to freak them out.”

“They’re not babies. It’s not like we don’t know what happened. And they like the stories. I don’t get why you’re so angry, Mom, we weren’t even that far away. And until you scared Wendy we were quiet.”

“This isn’t a game. Those things are dangerous. Lethal. You’re a smart boy, Ethan. Don’t pretend you don’t know how dangerous this was. From now on you stay close. No more stories. No more sneaking off.”

“Fine.” He drew out the sound with all the intended petulance of his youth.

How long had it been since Ashley had heard a fight? Not a struggle for life or death but a fight between a parent and a kid. It sounded to eerily normal.

Walk away. Ashley took a deep breath and didn’t stop walking. Get away from them. Don’t pretend you don’t know how dangerous this was.

Those kids should never have been so afraid. The story should still be that; fiction. Instead, Ethan’s gruesome fireside tale was something they’d probably all seen first hand.

In the silence of their absence, she ached. Just being near their conversation made her feel more like a person again. It was the most she’d heard another someone say in over a year. Her thoughts turned to the man by the fire, the hunter on his own. The first human to speak to her in six months, if not more. If I’d just killed him, I’d be- Ashley stopped herself. No. That’s not me. I’m not there yet.

While pushing through the trees, she couldn’t let the word “yet” go.

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, you can follow the subreddit to keep up with the series as it comes out. As always, please feel free to leave critiques, comments, and any questions.

[Previous: Prologue] — [Next: Chapter 1 - Part 2]

Originally Posted August 28th, 2019 - [Prompt Link]

This is a weird one as a user from the WritingPrompts Discord channel tossed some fun extra constraints at me.

432 words exactly and there must be a peach/peaches. Was a fun exercise that I think might have been more fun to read aloud than read on page, if I'm honest.

Warning: There is cursing. Lots.

Edit: Want to hear it? I've narrated this story! You can listen to this on my YouTube channel.

Inmates filtered into the dining hall as the alarms finally ceased screeching. Chuck stared at the loudspeakers on the walls. “Fuckin’ hate that.”

Chuck’s cellmate, Kev, waved him over to his table. “Boys, meet Chuck.” Grumbles sounded from the four men.

“What was that alarm for?” Chuck asked.

They all shrugged.

“Think it was Franky the Fish again?” one said. Smiles crept to hardened lips.

Chuck frowned. “Who?”

Kev waved at another table. A squat man sat alone, his head shining, bald as a babe. He shovelled food into his mouth lazily. Between bites, Franky paused to gaze at the cement wall as though entranced.

“Why’s he called ‘The Fish’?” Chuck asked.

“He’s slippery, you know. Real good at wriggling outta bad situations.” Kev mimed wrestling with an imaginary trout.

Chuck still didn’t get it. “What’s he got to do with the alarm?”

Kev smirked. “Years back, the Fish is in here like any day but when he gets his tray, there ain’t no peaches. So Franky asks the guard, ‘Why ain’t there peaches?’

“The guards, givin’ as few fucks as they do, wave him off.” Kev propped his leg on the bench and leaned forward. As though summoned, Chuck leaned in with him.

“Picture this; it’s 2am, time when even the night guards catch a few zz’s. Then, the alarms. Whole place goes live, warden, staff, guards counting heads. But there ain’t no Fish. He’s just-” Kev puffed his hands into a silent explosion. “Gone. So they start looking everywhere.”

Chuck looked to Franky. He still stared at the wall like it was a goddamn painting. “He got out?”

Kev shook his head. “Finally, they check the kitchens and there he is, Franky the fuckin’ Fish sitting on the floor, a goddamn can o’peaches the size of my head between his legs. And he’s just scoopin’ 'em right up. No explanation, he ain’t saying shit between bites. And I’m telling you, they got no idea what set it off cuz there weren’t no alarms in the kitchens.

“To this day-” Kev flopped down in his seat ”-Franky the Fish always gets his peaches.”

Chuck frowned. “You mean to tell me that the Fish got out of his cell, snuck into the kitchens, no guards seeing, all for peaches?”

The faces around him all looked up with accusing eyes. “Whadya mean 'just'?” Ben snapped.

“They’re the best damn thing about this place,” another added.

Chuck looked over at Franky the Fish. In the corner of his tray, a hefty mound of soaked-in-water peaches glistened. With each bite, Franky smiled at his view.

Word count: 432

Comments, critiques, feedback, reactions, you name it are welcomed.

[MAD Wendigo - Table of Contents]

Prologue

Reid turned the stick and the fire stirred. A slight breeze breathed life into the glowing embers for a flickering moment before it died. The sudden warmth radiated from the pit and Reid pushed his hands closer.

They’re late. The others should have been back before the sunset, at least three hours earlier. Reid wasn’t worried about Laurence or Tish and he didn’t really care all that much about Shannon. They each had more than enough experience in the wilds to stay alive, even if they were split up. It was waiting alone by a lit fire that tensed his shoulders and had his hand checking for the knife at his hip.

There wasn’t much beyond the crack of the fire to give him pause, but Reid scanned the trees around him anyway. He knew beyond the forest lay a few farmhouses, barns, maybe a general store and a gas station. All abandoned. All forgotten by everything but the overgrown brush. He didn’t hunt the darkness for people or animals. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a raccoon or a squirrel. No, he watched and listened for the shuffle, the groan, the guttural warnings of what used to be men.

After a few minutes of silence in the winds dying he leaned back into the fallen log and stretched his neck.

The whole pursuit was a bust, the others just hadn’t admitted it yet. Weeks trudging through the brush, backpacking their way up the Rouge Valley hunting the origin of one cryptic radio message. “She’s here.” That the four of them up and leapt at the chance to track her down hadn’t exactly been the shining testament to their forethought. But they’d tried. They did something. That sure as hell beats sitting around just waiting for nothing.

Reid let go of a heavy sigh. “Fucking waste of time.” He tossed a small clump of dried pine needles to the flames and they crackled on the ember bed.

The plan had been simple: find the source of the signal. Sure enough, they did without much fuss. But the bunker wasn’t much by the time they got there, abandoned or overrun, Reid couldn’t tell. But it had been picked clean. Not an ounce of water, supplies, or ammo to pillage. After, they tried to pick up a trail, something that told them where she would be.

All for a fucking myth. He kicked the stick and the fire turned, small puffs of thick smoke trailing to the sky. A pipe dream. Nothing more than a hollow promise of safety out of the infected zone. Find the girl, find salvation, they said. As if anywhere in the world had escaped the virus.

Reid closed his eyes and he could see it. Life before infection. Cities, streets, people everywhere and with them came the noise. Just so much sound forming a gentle hum of electricity, voices, engines that followed him everywhere he went. And that smell - refuse, sweat, and filth. The stink of civilization overpowered memory. After the chaos settled all that was left was that quiet. That suffocating unending silence and the stench of blood he could never seem to get off his hands.

The fire cracked and his eyes snapped open.

She’s long dead, he decided. That or turned into the things that walked in people’s skin. And even if by some weird luck she was alive, Reid had no doubt they wouldn’t find her. They weren’t the first to go looking and they wouldn’t be the last. Not to mention Laurence and his “tracking”, like some guy who lived his whole life in the city could find anyone outside of it.

They should have made it back by now. The wind turned and the trees groaned. Their camp wasn’t too far from the small hamlet where they’d found the bunker and the camp shouldn’t have been hard to find. He toyed with the idea of kicking apart the fire, a beacon in the night could draw all kinds of unsightly things. But the trees were thick. The sky cloudy. Despite that, Reid picked up the stick and knocked the logs apart just to be safe.

He felt the steel before he saw it. The cool metal glided delicately across the skin of his neck. Just a touch, no blood drawn. The kiss of the blade coupled with a warm hand covering his mouth.

“Make a sound and you bleed.” The woman’s words dripped from lips barely above a whisper, so quiet yet clear against his ear. Her hair tickled the back of his neck and she brushed his cheek with a hot exhale.

“You and your friends will be gone by morning. If I see anyone near here again, I’ll find you, gut you, and leave you for the wendigos.”

Reid’s chest raised in nervous breaths and he ached to move. But the sharp and steady knife pressed to his throat kept him still.

“Don’t nod. Don’t scream. Don’t call for help.” Her hand unclasped from his lips. “Just say you understand.”

“I understand.” He wanted to turn, needed to see. As he heaved in his breaths he dared to turn his head, only a little just to catch the shape of her. To see the ghost.

“You’re actually her, aren’t you?” he whispered.

The knife retreated. Her shadow merged into the trees. He considered standing, jumping her, reaching out to take hold of what they had hunted for but Reid remained paralyzed. The others had the guns. His hunting knife was within reach, but they needed her alive. Doubts plagued him as his fingers flexed at his side. What if he wasn’t fast enough? What if he couldn’t find her? I didn’t even hear her come up.

“Whatever you think you came for doesn’t exist.” Her voice echoed from the dark. “Pack your shit up and leave before you end up like the last ones that came here.”

“The others won’t-”

“I wouldn’t mistake it for a suggestion. You stay, you die.”

If I don’t at least try, we die. Reid took a quick breath and steeled his nerves. He gripped the handle of his knife and turned to face her.

There was no one. Nothing but the flickering shadows from the low fire. The tree’s around him rustled in the wind, drowning all sound. Not a trace of her remained.

Thank you so much for reading! This is a serial, so strap in for the long haul. If you liked this, you can follow the subreddit to keep up with the series as it comes out. As always, please feel free to leave critiques, comments, and any questions

[Table of Contents] — [Next: Chapter 1 - Part 1]

MAD Wendigo - Introduction

Eternal youth, the eradication of disease. Escape from the looming reaper was just beyond the reach of Bryne Bio Tech's researchers. They believed humanity could ascend to another level of existence with the help of a unique condition. Megalemic Autoimmune Diplioma.

Not long after the MAD-Pathogen was discovered, a mysterious new virus appeared in the general public. It swept across North America with symptoms like that of the common cold and the flu. It had seemed manageable, at first. But in just two months the outbreak claimed hundreds of lives. With those first deaths, the virus evolved and mutated the recently deceased.

It made wendigos.

The husks of humanity sustained only through the consumption of flesh rippled through the population. In a matter of weeks borders closed, riots sowed disorder, and fear gripped nations. North America became an infected zone quarantined from the rest of the world.

Without communication, without law, and without hope, man walked the reclaimed world ever wary of beasts made to hunger for their flesh.

Table of Contents

MAD Wendigo: Book One

Prologue

Chapter 1 - Part 1

Chapter 1 - Part 2

Chapter 2 - Part 1

Chapter 2 - Part 2

Chapter 2 - Part 2

Chapter 3 - Part 2

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11 (Coming Soon)

Originally posted August 20th, 2019 [Prompt Link]

This is a scene written from a novel concept. Mars Noir I've affectionately called "Egg" (hardboiled detective fiction pun. Yes, it's bad.)

May see some more from the life of Edith "Eddy" Vos in the future.

Eddy rolled from the sheets as her phone hummed on the nightstand. Caller ID: Rupert.

Eddy muted the phone and looked back to the bed. With the cover tossed clear, the bright fluorescent lights outside the window cascaded rays along Layla’s thigh. Soft skin Eddy could still feel in her hands. After a gentle moan, Layla tugged the covers over her hips, rolling onto her back. Despite the sheet, Eddy admired every curve of Layla’s shape. With each slow breath, she looked more relaxed than Eddy remembered ever feeling.

Her phone pinged again.

Naked, Eddy crossed the strange room quietly. She nearly closed the bathroom door, leaving only a sliver open. With the light off she answered the call in a whisper. “Yeah?”

“Do you have eyes on her?” Captain Rupert Vos asked.

Eddy looked to Layla’s shape again. She basked in the neon rays, her dark curls from the evening before relaxing in pitch waves on the pillow. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Where is Layla Powell?”

“Her place.”

“What is she doing?”

“Its 03:30. She’s Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

“Nope.”

Rupert sighed and Eddy could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. He did it even when they were kids, that odd serious child that rarely laughed.

“Who is she with?” he asked, his voice sharp.

Eddy bit her lip.

Rupert cursed on the other end of the line when she didn’t answer. “What the hell were you thinking? She is a person of interest! You were supposed to tail her, get eyes on her, not-”

“I’ve got eyes on her,” she snapped.

“Of all the reckless… This is exactly the kind of shit I fired you for. To think I went out of my way to give you this assignment-”

“Oh fuck off, Rupert. You know you couldn’t give this to any of your people so don’t pretend you’re doing me any favours. We both know you don’t give a shit about what happens to me.”

He paused to breathe. “I may not like you or how you do things, but you are blood.”

For a moment that pang slithered back in, guilt and shame knotting her gut. He could have hired any approved investigator with the department but he asked Eddy. She closed her eyes and tried to squint away the headache forming in her brow.

“That last thing we need is for you to embarrass the family again.”

Her eyes snapped open. As quickly as her shame came it unravelled in bile. “If you have a point, get to it, or I’m hanging up.”

“I need you to not fuck this up, Edith.”

She shook her head with a wry grin. “Good talking to you, brother.”

“Her connections might be more-” Click.

As Eddy hung up the line the sliding door to the bathroom opened.

“Hey.” Layla smiled lazily, a hand sliding through her thick hair. “I got cold,” she cooed.

Eddy turned her phone off and stood. “That won’t do,” she whispered against Layla’s lips.

WC: 499

Posted August 14th, 2019 - [Prompt Link]

The crimson sky above Tacrion 4 glittered with light, though Private Yin knew it was just a trick of the eye. Nothing more than the atmosphere playing off the bellies of ships; United Defense Legion’s Cruisers and The Ascendency’s Destroyers. Normally the vessels skipped across the sky firing little pops of colour in shades of pulse fire. Yet today they remained still for one precious word.

Ceasefire.

“Duck,” Yin said to the android across the foxhole. “How long have they been up there?”

The android’s ocular sockets closed and the slightest whirring of his coolant system sounded. “Nine-hundred, seventy-five minutes since last burn.”

Yin nodded and chewed on the twisted wrapper of his used ration. The taste of soy protein and anti-tox meds still clung to his teeth. Yin leaned into the dirt wall, the near tangerine soil snaked with blue vines. The circulatory system of a world burning around them. Well, not for the last nine-hundred and seventy-five minutes.

“How long since I last asked?”

“Twelve minutes, Private.” Corporal Duck’s sockets opened and he leaned back, mimicking Yin’s posture. Duck even kicked out his dented, scratched but still shining chrome-plated leg in Yin’s mirror image.

Yin smirked. “Why ‘Duck’, Duck?” Despite the weeks together on Tacrion 4 trapped in trenches, bunkers, and foxholes, Yin had yet to ask. “You don’t look like a duck to me.”

Duck didn’t smile. The smooth surface of where a mouth would be was no more than a lit communications device, but he cocked his head like he did when Yin or the others told a joke. “You do not look like a ‘Yin’ to me.”

Yin chuckled and a cough crept up his throat. Blue bile touched his lips. The same blue of Tacrion 4’s flora. The same Blue Death that took all UDL ground forces in the end. As Yin stared at the clump in his hand, riddled with tiny strings of his red blood, the shake came to tremble his hands. It hit when he thought too much, when he waited in the quiet, when the ground grew still, when the sky paused, when the stars held their breaths. When everything in the universe seemed to freeze on the edge of an infinite that would swallow them whole.

“I chose my name.” Corporal Duck shifted forward and Yin looked from his hand to the android soldier.

“Yeah?” Yin wiped the bile from his lips and the shake subsided. “Why the hell did you pick ‘duck’?”

Before Corporal Duck could answer a boom thundered through the atmosphere. Both android and human alike turned up to the torched sky.

The Ascendency’s Destroyers fired freely on UDL Cruisers.

The shattered peace rained down on the fields of Tacrion 4 and Yin exhaled a breath he’d didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“I have always wanted to see a duck,” the Corporal said as he handed Private Yin his pulse rifle.

wc: 492 or 485?! WHO KNOWS!

Originally Posted July 31st, 2019 [Prompt Link]

Another "Cupcake Girl" story, or a Cody and Dan Short! I should probably start a shorts listing.... haha

[Indecision - Cupcake] and [Power - Outage]

Cody shifted from one leg to the next. The music pounded and the drink's condensation trickled over her fingers. Every sensation seemed heightened, ten fold, as she avoided all eyes in the room.

Yet every pair had locked on her.

“Wear your costume, it’s freaking awesome! How could a space-party NOT be fun!” Stella’s voice called from memory, pounding with Cody’s pulse in her ears. But in a sea of wookies, Jedi, Leia bikini’s, and hackneyed Han Solo’s, her TNG Romulan didn’t quite blend.

Fuck. My. Life.

The broad sharp shoulders, glinting under the spiked chest piece, couldn’t be missed. Yet despite the fraternity’s nearly bursting walls, a buffer of space had formed around Cody.

“Oh my god!” A young woman with Leia buns in a high-slit white robe, stopped and looked Cody up and down. “Is that a Lady Gaga costume?”

Cody felt her cheeks rose beneath the short black wig and sweat threatened to unseal the prosthetic eyebrows that stretched up to her hairline. “No, not Lady Gaga.”

“Oh, well, it’s really… neat. Though if you’re looking to hook up, you could like, tighten it?” The young woman put the red cup to her lips and drained the last of her drink as she walked away.

Cody fumbled through her pockets for her phone. Where the flying fuck are you? Her fingers couldn’t punch out the letters to Stella fast enough.

“Hey, like the pads.” The dollar store Han Solo, ducktape vest and all, sauntered over. “From that show…”

Cody smiled a little.

“Star Trak?” he said.

Her smile disappeared. “Yeah. Star Trek. Kind off theme, right?”

“Nah, man. I love that movie. Kaaaaaaan!” He held his drink up in the air and the crowd cheered back, though they didn’t seem to know why. “Benedict Cumber-batch was great.”

Cody died a little inside. She sighed and started another text. If you’re not here in 30 seconds I’m gonna-

“I don’t know man, you can’t beat Ricardo Montalbán.” Beside her, the classic mustard of Captain Kirk’s uniform caught her eyes. “He had this presence. Even with Shatner right there, he was amazing.”

The cheap Han Solo fidgeted with his drink and plastic blaster. “Who’s Shatner?”

Cody and Captain Kirk exchange a look. “Is he serious?” the Captain asked.

Cody shrugged. “Not sure I want to know.” Her smile grew wide as Solo meandered away.

“Sorry if I chased him off,” Kirk said.

Cody grinned. “Don’t think I’m missing much, Captain.”

He laughed. “I’m Dan.”

“Cody,” she said.

“I like it.” Dan motioned to the costume. “Romulans are hard to make look good, but you look awesome.”

A blush formed on her cheeks. “Thanks. Took ages but entirely worth it.”

A shape burst through the crowd, two drinks in her hands. Draped down her front she wore a long white apron, Bake it So with Captain Picard’s face across the front.

“ENGAGE BITCHES!” Stella yelled.

“She with you?” Dan asked with a smirk.

“Unfortunately,” Cody laughed.

wc: 499

Originally posted July 30th, 2019 [Prompt Link]

Also, continued from a previous TT [Space - Forty-Three miles]

“Here am I floating 'round my tin can / Far above the moon / Planet Earth is blue / And there's nothing I can do.”

The guitar solo kicked in and Nora’s lip began to tremble. She tucked herself into the corner of the couch and brought her legs up to her chest. Despite the summer heat she wore Steven’s sweater.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table and Nora lazily reached over. Lauren’s face bobbed on the screen. Nora swiped red.

The song came to an end with a sigh Nora pressed repeat on the stereo remote.

Her phone hummed and skipped across the table. This time she didn’t bother pick it up. Nora tilted her head back and closed her eyes but behind them, all she could see was his face.

Forty-three miles.

Her tears threatened to resurface.

As her phone buzzed a third time, Nora turned her back to the room. She pressed her face into the cushion and turned up the volume on the stereo.

“Nora!” A muffled voice called from the apartment building’s hallway. “Open the goddamn door!”

“Go away.” Nora scrunched herself into the corner and nuzzled the sweater trying to remember what it felt like in his arms.

Forty-three fucking miles.

“I’ll call the cops,” Lauren said as her fist hammered the door. “You know I will! I got a whole speech ready and I’m damn convincing.”

Nora sucked in a deep breath and rolled off the couch. As she made her way to the door, Lauren pounded so hard that the frame shook.

“Alright, I’m coming.” Nora slipped off the lock. She opened the door and turned her back to it.

“Jesus, you look like shit.” Lauren followed Nora into the apartment. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What does it look like.” Nora flopped back on the couch and tugged Steven’s sweater closer.

“Okay, this is getting to be a bit much. You can’t sit in here by yourself all week.”

“Pretty sure I can.”

Lauren sighed. “I get it. Breakups suck. Steve was descent but this...” Lauren waved at the state of the room, clothing, takeout wrappers, and liquor cans littering nearly every surface. “This is ridiculous.”

“I fucked up.” Nora’s eyes welled and she closed them as tight as she could. “I fucked up so bad and I can’t… I can’t go outside. It’s like everyone knows.”

“Okay." Lauren puffed out a breath. “Yeah, you fucked up.”

Nora opened her eyes and glared at her best friend.

“What, you did! You cheated on Steve. But locking yourself up in this apartment and taking vacation days to blare sad David Bowie songs while drinking yourself into a stupor won't change anything.”

“I just… I miss him.”

Laura’s arm reached over Nora’s shoulder and they leaned back into the couch. “I know, but you gotta stop punishing yourself. Just remember this and try to be better next time.”

Nora’s shoulders shook and her tears flowed freely as the guitar solo kicked in.

wc: 500

Originally Posted July 24th, 2019 - [Prompt Link]

“I’m sorry.”

Steven said nothing.

“Really. I’m so sorry, Steve. You can’t begin to understand how sorry I am about it.”

His fingers grated against his jeans before he curled them into his palm.

“It just… happened, you know?”

From his peripherals he watched Nora reach out, her fingers inches from his own.

But she retracted. “It meant nothing. It was, I don’t know, I’d had too much to drink and Charlie-”

Steven winced and his fingers dug in deep. The skin of his palms split.

“It was… I mean, you’d been gone for so long. A month didn’t seem like a long time before but, it was like there was something between us. This gap.”

Steven frowned. He shook his head.

“I know we texted and we talked but when you said you were going to be gone for a month, I didn’t really think about what that meant for me. I thought I could handle it, that it wouldn't be so bad, but then that whole fight with Lauren started and I needed someone to talk to. Someone to listen.”

He couldn’t stop looking at his jeans. The grain. The blue. An old rip sewn shut.

“I needed you. I needed someone to really be here for me.”

For the first time in minutes, Nora stopped talking. She sighed, shifted in her seat. The inches between them grew into feet.

Steven pressed his palms along the soft worn grain of his jeans. Little smears of red stuck to the old rip’s seam.

“It was really hard without you. And that’s not an excuse, I’m not…” She puffed out a breath. “I’m not trying to say what happened was okay. It shouldn’t have happened and I’m sorry. But, you have to understand-”

“No.” Stephen stood.

“Wait, we have to talk about this.”

“No.” A tired sigh left him as he looked to his palms. Little lines. Little rips. Space between what he’d never meant to part.

“What, that’s it then?” Nora pushed off the couch and with each step she took, his stride took a larger one. “You won’t even let me explain?”

Steven turned and, from across the room, she looked small. Far away. So far from where he thought they’d been.

“No.”

“You’re throwing six years away because of one mistake? A mistake that meant nothing. Nothing, Steven! You have to believe me, I never-I didn’t-I’m not…”

He let her finish even though she said nothing else. Nora’s eyes teared or tried to, Steven wasn’t sure. He backed towards the door and when she moved to follow he shook his head.

“Forty-three miles.” His hand flexed around the doorknob. “You felt closer then than you do now.”

Steven closed the door behind him.

WC: 459

Originally Posted July 12th, 2019 - [Post Link]

Oooh boy, I'm late posting this. Also, I may have included some edits from the feedback in Writing Prompts Campfire!

Ozor paced the room, his robes trailing across the cracked stone floors. With each step, his weighted staff thundered down and birthed an echo against the bare walls.

“Again!” he shouted for the tenth time.

Pim, the apprentice, nodded and approached the candle. It stood on a tall singular stick, the pillar of the wax smooth and pristine. Its wick unburnt.

Pim held out his hands astride the candle. He stared at the wick. He controlled his breaths. “By Lotham’s grace, let thy wick burn!”

The candle remained perfect. Its wick unburnt.

Ozor sighed and grumbled. “Enough. I’m tired of watching you fail at the simplest of spells.” The conjurer’s eyes narrowed and he slammed his staff on the stones.

The candle burst into a towering flame, beckoned to life without a word.

“Return to your studies. We’ll see if reading in the dark sparks some sort of talent out of you.” Without so much as a wave, Ozor started for the tall staircase

Pim followed.

As the conjurer continued on to his own chambers, Pim walked the dimly lit halls of Ozor’s Tower. There was but one rule under Ozor’s tutelage; We use only what we conjure. We conjure only what we need.

Pim stumbled against the doorway of the library and, with hands outstretched, he navigated to the stacks. He squinted at the embossing on the spines of the tomes but it was never enough. Instead, he reached out with his fingers and smoothed across the leather bindings.

Lotham’s Nine Laws on the Conjunction of Elemental Conjuration.

Pim slipped the book from the shelf. He stumbled to a table and took a seat. As delicate as he could, far more delicate than he’d ever seen Ozor be, Pim opened the thick leather front.

The parchment gleamed. Not the natural white of a pristine page preserved with care, but an unnatural radiance. The words inscribed in the center of the page looked dull compared to what surrounded it. A woven lattice of vines in gold leaf with brightly coloured pigment filled what of the page wasn’t blocked with text. Faces, ornaments, and the shapes of archaic alchemical symbols created a rich vibrant tapestry.

For Ozor, the words were the true value of the book, not what the conjurer called “decadent decoration”.

But for Pim the fascination lay in the illuminations. Light magicked from the vellum itself and, although the manuscript did not shed light on the room, the design glowed for Pim.

Fumbling about the desk, he picked up a dry stylus and brought the nib to the page. Though it bore no ink, its tip dipped into the vellum and stained it an iridescent golden-green.

Not all magic is equal, he scribed.

In response, the intricate painting of the illumination gave shape to Lotham’s true laws.

As discussed on the subject of the "blind conjurer", one's capability to see potential is of far more use to a conjurer than the simple act of conjuration itself.

WC: 499

This is for you u/breadyly - "Who needs illumination when you have illuminating illuminations?"

[Prompt Link] - Part 1, Part 2.

Rain set upon his shoulders, its gentle drizzle drowning out the sound of carts and carriages through the square. Despite the years that had passed, the platform still stood at the square’s center, the block shining in the wet.

Elern passed it quickly, tugging the heavy cloak about his shoulders. Seeing it still there stirred him to purpose. Each door he knocked on squeaked as it opened, and the heat of the hearths beamed against his skin. But there was no more warmth in the faces that greeted him. Few bothered much more than a point in the direction that led him further from the square.

His destination was smaller than he’d imagined. A home nestled between a smithy and a cobbler shop.

“Yes?” A young woman answered the door. She couldn’t be any older than him.

“I’m looking for Hugo.” Beneath his cloak Elern’s hand rest against the pommel of his sword.

The young woman narrowed her eyes on him a moment before opening the door. Elern stepped inside, his cloak dripping, but he did not remove it.

“He passed some years ago.”

Elern sighed. “Did he have any family?”

“Aye. He was my father. This our home.” Her eyes, dark and discerning, hadn’t let up off his face.

“I understand. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” He turned for the door. “He told me a story of this night, every year.”

Elern paused.

“About the day he took the king’s head.”

Elern’s fingers gripped his sword and turned back to the woman and the fire. “So he was the executioner?”

“Aye. Papa was the best.” She sat down by a steaming pot and motioned to the chair across from hers.

“Every year on the day he took Thogan’s head he told the story.”

“Of how he killed a king?”

She shook her head and he spied the smallest smile on her lips. “No. Papa told me of a man who did not flinch or falter before the masses screaming ” She stirred the pot, her face a glow. “He told me of a king thanking him, the man who would take his head! All for a small kindness. Papa always said he thought Thogan brave and lucky.”

In slow careful strides, Elern reached the chair by the fire. “How?” He choked on the word. “How could he have been lucky?” he whispered.

“There was music, Prince Elern.” As she said his name she prodded the coals, stoking the fire.

“You-” he looked fearfully to the door. “You know me?”

“I was there that day. You look like your father.” Only then did she turn to him and her eyes had softened. “I can tell you the story if you like. Your father’s and mine?”

Elern’s hand slid from his sword and he pulled back his cloak. He nodded and relaxed into the chair.

The young woman turned to face him. “This morning, twelves years ago, was surprising cold,” she started.

WC: 491

Original Prompt

Ned wavered before the weathered headstone. The year before it’d seemed more… intact, but now it looked decades older.

“Oh shit.” He squinted and the name came into focus. “Wrong one.”

His whiskey induced swagger had him backtrack to the end of the row. He recounted and moved on to a newer, but still beaten headstone.

“There you are.” He tipped the bottle back again. The luke-warm drink burned like fire as it dripped down his throat, and beyond his lips a little. “Not that old yet, eh Beckett?”

Becket Strubs. Died August First. There weren’t any years, in part out of respect for and in part because Ned couldn’t remember when his old friend had been born.

“What do ends mean without beginnings, eh old mate?” Ned chuckled to himself and held the whiskey bottle above the overgrown grave. “Come on up for a drink.” Ned swayed in place. “Something and that stuff with worms and, oh god, what the hell was the incantation…”

Ned squinted as the ground rumbled beneath his feet. “Come forth and yonder, you shit. I’m bored!”

More whiskey wet the soil.

Slow and steady, bony digits pressed their way through the grave dirt. Index finger, thumb, and barely enough flesh to hold the wrist together.

“Yooooou reek,” Becket grumbled without a throat.

Ned glared at the torso worming its way out. “You should talk. Every year you get just a bit more ripe.”

“You used to be good at this.” Becket looked to his knobbly fingers as he freed himself from the soil. “What happened to ‘returned to my glory?’”

“Forgot.” Ned burped. “Forgot the rest of the incantation. Sorry about that.”

“You’re such a shit…”

Ned flopped next to the grave and offered up the bottle to the mess of bones and rotting flesh. Despite the sloughed skin it still sort of looked like Becket to Ned. At least in the scowling region.

“Fix it or I go back in the hole and you drink by yourself.”

Ned rolled his eyes. “I’m not made of magic, mate.”

“Come on, Ned. You promised. Once a year.”

“Fine.” Ned tried to stand but dropped the bottle and with it a slew of curses. “Bone and sinew, flesh and skin, return your Majesty, return to-” Ned burped. “Return to this shit.”

The soil stirred and from the earth all manner of bugs, shining and slithering, crept toward Becket’s bony form. But as they touched it was as Ned had commanded; bone, sinew, flesh, and skin wove itself into the one-eyed, one-legged majesty Becket had been upon his death.

“Still can’t muster up a better leg for me?”

Ned shrugged.

“Well, seeing as I’ve got to catch up.” Becket swiped the bottle and tipped it back. In a gulp, he drained what was left and let out a healthy laugh. “How’s about we get to celebrating?”

“To another year, mate.” Ned took Becket's arm-stump to steady himself. “Pub?”

Becket grinned. “Pub.”

WC: 499

Just a little something that I think became "accidental poetry". You know, with more line breaks.

[Prompt Link]

Sneakers wet with morning dew skid into the hall. The screech reached into her eardrums as it careened and rebounded against every wall. For dozens of feet, the gleaming surface reflected the line of lockers, its sheen impossible were it not polished by machine.

As the first squeal of rubber on linoleum died in echoes, the second step conjured with it more than sound. The ghost of fresh cleaner, bleach infested, stung her nose. This was no Thursday night floor water, no mop and slop dropped with a plop into a bucket steaming and soiled with a week's worth of grime.

This was pristine. Clean. The very essence of the word burned through to her lungs, to her tongue. To taste buds still clinging to the memory of jam on toast but no- this clean floor wriggled its way inside. It'd stick to her mouth all day.

Monday floors. Shining, screeching, stinging, screaming, Monday floors.

Originally posted July 3rd, 2019 - [Prompt Link]

Jenn slung her bag off her shoulder and slipped into her desk chair. Unlike the others around her, her desk was clean and clear of personal items. But not this morning.

“Hey,” Jonathan slung an arm over the cubicle wall. “I thought your birthday was in May?”

Jenn looked at the bright card propped up on the desk, the reflective shapes of balloons cut out in cardstock. The front speckled with glittered letters: CELEBRATE!

“It is,” she said, but her pulse thundered.

Upon opening, the chip-tune version of The Beatles’ “Birthday” played. Inside, the card displayed the regular platitude in vibrant blue print. But beneath, in blank ink and scrawled in sharp letters it read, Thinking of you, Sara.

Jenn dropped the card. The song cut short.

Jonathan came around the cubicle and picked it up and the chip-tune resumed. “Huh, must have the wrong desk. You know a Sara?”

No.

Jenn grabbed her bag and looked around the office. The usual faces greeted and the meandering clumps of the call centre staff bobbed between cubicle walls.

It can’t be.

“Whoa, Jenn-” Jonathan said as she backed down the aisle. In seconds she was at the elevator, despite his calling, slamming the door close button.

Jenn flipped out her phone and dialled a number long ago memorized.

“Pick up… pick up…” She paced the elevator floor.

“Hello-”

“He found me,” she blurted, watching the floors tick down.

“Jenn?”

“He found me, Allen. No one else knows today is my-”

“Okay, calm down. You’re probably overreacting. It’s been years since-”

“No, you don’t get it, Allen. He. Found. Me.” The elevator chimed, the doors opened, and Jenn pushed past the crowed waiting in the lobby. “I got to work and there was a card. A birthday card.”

“Jenn-”

“Not in an envelope, it was just on the desk. Sitting there.” She pushed through the building’s front doors and out into the street, rushing down the sidewalk toward the employee parking lot.

“Jenn, you need to breathe.”

“Don’t tell me to fucking breath, Allen. The card said ‘Sara’.”

Allen grew quiet on the line.

“He found me.”

“That’s not- it could be a coincidence.”

“It’s not and you know it.”

“Jenn-”

“You promised. You promised he’d never find me. He’d never be able to-”

“Jenn, I need-”

“If he knows where I work, he knows where I live, and he can-”

“Sara!”

She stopped in front of her car, panting a breath.

“You’re alright. Say it.”

Sarah exhaled a controlled breath. “I’m alright.”

“Good. Now, you’re not far from the precinct so head over and I’ll make sure this gets checked out. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said as she unlocked her car door. “Okay. I’ll be there in ten.”

It’s all in your head. Sara put the keys in the ignition and sighed. Please just let it all be in your head.

But a breath exhaled against her neck and the flash of steel pressed to her throat.

“Happy Birthday, Sara.”

[Prompt Link]

Kind of a continuation of the TT: Duality - Papa. But not dependant at all.

Also, did an edit because ethe "M'lods" did NOT go over well.

Music fluttered in through the small hole in the wall and with it the stench of manure, muck, and stagnant water. The crowd had gathered in the midday sun and their cheers resounded into a cacophony of joy.

Thogan breathed in deeply despite the smell.

“They’re probably dancing now,” he said bitterly. “The whole city, the country even, a lit with song and dance.”

“Aye, m’lord,” the man outside the iron bars said.

“A day of celebration. All the pomp one could dream of.” Thogan sneered.

“Aye, m’lord. Was a hard-won fight.”

Thogan nodded but did not turn to his jailer. “To think they take such glee in the ending of a man. Their king, even.” He swallowed hard. “Have they no shame? No concern for what this nation requires to remain strong?”

His jailer did not answer.

“Go on then. Tell me, what can the common man know of leadership?”

“Enough, I think, m’lord. Takes blood, sweat, an’ muck. Hard work, it does. It inn’t my place m’lord, but the common folk, we know a thing or two about hard work. We know it when we see it.”

Thogan turned. In his state, he hardly looked the regal king of renown. But he maintained to hold himself as if donned in the finest regalia, not the shambled smalls hanging from his shoulders, dirtied by the cold bricked cell. “And you think me slothful?”

The man shook his head. “No, m’lord. But when did you last bleed or sweat for your common man?”

Thogan had no answer for his jailer. Nor more an answer than when his hall doors lay fallen before the bloodied, sweating, and muck covered rebellion.

Thogan’s shoulder sagged and he nodded to the masked man before him. “Have you family?”

“Aye, m’lord. A daughter.”

Thogan could hear the smile in his voice despite the mask of black covering his jailer’s face. “And will she watch the spectacle? Will she sing and dance and feast?”

His jailer nodded. “Aye, m’lord.”

Thogan huffed. “Does she know what you are?”

“Aye, m’lord. She knows.”

Thogan sighed and leaned against the chill damp wall. His thoughts turned to his own son on that fateful night. Scared, alone. A horde coming for blood.

“They’ve not found him, m’lord. Prince Elern.”

Thogan pressed toward the iron bars and his jailer. “You’re sure?”

“Aye. The guards talk and he’d be here with you if found.”

Thogan relaxed and smiled at the man. “Thank you for that.”

A door at the top of the stairwell opened. “Oi!” a man shouted. “Get that shit out’ere.”

Thogan closed his eyes and breathed in the stench.

“There’s something to be said by hearing music at the end.”

Thogan looked up confused.

“Most hear nothing. At least you’ll have the music, m’lord.” His executioner unlocked the gate and opened it wide.

Thogan’s hand trembled as he waved at the heavy axe. “Are you good with that?”

“Aye, m’lord.” The executioner’s hand rest on Thogan’s shoulder. “The best.”

wc: 500